Oily Massage Leads to Stepmom Sex

I have to confess this now, while the guilt is still fresh and my hands won't stop shaking. I'm Jake, twenty-two, home from college for the summer break, and what happened in my childhood bedroom with my stepmom Lisa still burns behind my eyes every time I close them. She was thirty-eight, all soft curves and that low husky voice that always made my stomach flip even when I was a teenager pretending not to notice. No blood between us—Dad married her when I was sixteen—but the forbidden pull had been simmering for years, and that afternoon it finally boiled over.

I walked in the front door after the long drive, duffel bag over my shoulder, and heard the familiar wet slap of oil on skin coming from the living room. Lisa was straddling my stepdad on the massage table she'd set up, her thick thighs gripping his hips as she worked deep tissue into his shoulders. She wore those tight black yoga pants that clung to every inch of her round ass and a sports bra that barely contained her heavy tits, the thin fabric stretched tight across nipples that were already a little hard from the effort. Oil gleamed on her arms and the deep valley of her cleavage. Dad groaned under her hands, half-asleep already. My stepsister was away at school, the house quiet except for the soft sounds of Lisa's palms gliding.

She looked up when she heard me, dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a little smile curving her full lips. "Jake, baby. You're early. How was the drive?" Her eyes flicked down my body for half a second too long, taking in the sweat-damp t-shirt clinging to my chest from the workout I'd squeezed in at the campus gym before leaving. I felt it then—the old heat, the thing we both pretended wasn't there whenever she hugged me hello or bent over in the kitchen.

Dad mumbled something about his lower back and drifted off completely. Lisa finished with him, wiped her hands, and helped him shuffle off to their bedroom for a nap. When she came back she found me still standing there, bag forgotten, staring at the leftover oil bottle on the table. "You look tense," she said, voice softer now. "That long drive plus lifting weights? Come on. Let me work on you. Your bed's freer than the table right now." She said it casually, like it was nothing, but we both knew. The air between us had always crackled with the knowledge of how many times I'd jerked off thinking about her hands, her mouth, the way those yoga pants would peel down.

I followed her upstairs like a man walking to his own damnation. My room still smelled faintly of the cologne I used in high school. Lisa closed the door halfway—not all the way, just enough—and told me to strip to my boxers and lie face-down. I did it with my heart hammering so hard I was sure she could hear it. The mattress dipped when she climbed on, straddling the backs of my thighs. Warm oil poured in a slow stream along my spine. Then her hands.