My Quiet Friend's Stepmom

I’ve been back from college for three weeks and already the summer heat feels like it’s crawling under my skin for reasons that have nothing to do with the weather. I’m nineteen. Ethan’s my best friend—quiet, shy, the kind of guy who still blushes when a girl holds a door open for him. His stepmom Vanessa is forty-two, and I’ve been staring at her like a starving man since I was sixteen. Long dark hair she usually keeps twisted up, full mouth, those heavy tits that move when she walks, the soft curve of her ass in yoga pants. Completely off-limits. Married to Ethan’s dad. My friend’s stepmom. Every dirty thought I’ve ever had about her feels like a betrayal, and I still can’t stop.

Ethan left yesterday for a two-week backpacking trip with some guys from his outdoors club. His dad’s gone on a business trip until the weekend. That left Vanessa alone in the big house and me with no decent excuse to keep my distance. She texted me herself: guest room needs painting before Ethan’s cousins visit, can you help? I said yes before I could talk myself out of it. Now I’m standing in their bright kitchen smelling coffee and her perfume, watching her pour two mugs while the morning light hits the thin white tank top she’s wearing. No bra. Dark nipples faintly visible. Tiny gray shorts that barely cover the bottom curve of her ass.

“You’re a lifesaver, Jake,” she says, handing me a mug. Her fingers brush mine and stay a second too long. “Ethan’s hopeless with a paint roller and I refuse to do this alone. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”

I already changed into an old T-shirt and cutoffs. We head upstairs. The guest room is stripped bare—drop cloths, cans of soft blue paint, two rollers. She bends to pry open a can and those shorts ride up. I see the underside of one cheek, smooth and pale, and my cock twitches hard enough that I have to turn away and pretend to tape the baseboards.

We work for an hour. Accidental contact keeps happening. She reaches past me for the tray and her breast presses warm and soft against my arm. When I climb the ladder she steadies it and her hand lands high on my thigh, thumb stroking once like she doesn’t notice. Every brush of her body against mine crackles. I know she’s off-limits. I know if Ethan ever found out he’d never speak to me again. That only makes my dick harder.

I’m on the ladder cutting in the ceiling line when she moves below me, rolling the wall in long strokes. From this angle I can see straight down the front of her tank—the heavy sway of her tits, the faint sheen of sweat between them. Then she turns to reload and those tiny shorts stretch tight across her ass. I just stare. Thick, round, jiggling a little with every roll of the brush. I forget I’m supposed to be painting. My mouth goes dry. My cock is a stiff ridge against my zipper.

She catches me. Turns her head, looks straight up, and freezes with the roller dripping blue onto the cloth. For one sick second I think she’ll yell. Instead her lips curve slow and wicked.

“Enjoying the view, Jake?”

My face burns. “I—shit, Vanessa, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.” She sets the roller down, wipes her hands on a rag, and walks over until she’s right under the ladder looking up at me. “You’ve been staring at my ass for years. I noticed when you were still in high school. Those hungry little looks when you thought no one was watching. I used to wonder if you’d ever grow balls enough to do something about it.”