I watched him from across the kitchen, my stepson—tall, broad-shouldered, with that messy dark hair that always fell into his eyes. At 22, he was a man now, but still so easily swayed by that little vixen he called a girlfriend. Emily, with her tight skirts and painted lips, had wormed her way into his life two years ago, right after his father and I married. From the first dinner we all shared, I saw it: the way she leaned into him, whispering things that made his cheeks flush, her hand disappearing under the table. She was all flash and no substance, a distraction that kept him from his studies, his future. He'd skip classes to sneak off with her, coming home with that dazed, satisfied look that screamed they'd been fucking like rabbits.
But now? Now that I knew they were sleeping together—I'd overheard the moans from his room one night when she stayed over—it was war. He deserved better than some college slut who probably taught him every cheap trick in the book. Blowjobs in the car, quickies in dorm rooms. No finesse, no depth. If she wanted to play dirty, fine. I'd show him what a real woman could do. I'd make him forget her name, her touch, everything. Starting slow, building it until he couldn't resist.
It began innocently enough. Or at least, that's how I'd make it seem. That evening, his father was out late at work, as usual. I was in the living room, sipping a glass of red wine, wearing my favorite silk robe—the one that hugged my curves just right, the deep burgundy color contrasting against my pale skin. At 38, I knew I still had it: full breasts that strained against the fabric, hips that swayed with every step, long legs toned from yoga. My hair cascaded in loose waves down my back, and I'd dabbed on my signature perfume—jasmine and vanilla, sweet and intoxicating.
He came downstairs, probably heading to the kitchen for a snack. "Hey, Mom," he muttered, using that term even though I wasn't his biological mother. It sent a thrill through me every time, a reminder of the forbidden line we danced on.
"Alex," I purred, setting my glass down and patting the couch beside me. "Come sit. You look tense. Rough day?"
He hesitated, his eyes flicking over me before he nodded and sat. Close enough that I could feel the heat from his body. He was wearing those gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the outline of his cock—God, even soft, it looked impressive. I crossed my legs, letting the robe slip just a little, exposing a sliver of thigh.
"Yeah, just... studying," he said, but his voice was distracted. I leaned in, pretending to adjust a pillow, and let my arm brush against his. The contact was electric—his skin warm, slightly rough from the gym.
"You've been so focused lately," I lied smoothly, my breath ghosting over his ear. "But I worry about you. That girlfriend of yours... Emily? She seems to take up all your time."
He shifted, uncomfortable. "She's fine. We're good."
I smiled, tracing a finger along the rim of my wine glass. "Is she? Or is she just... fun? You need someone who challenges you, Alex. Someone who knows how to really take care of a man."
His eyes widened, but he didn't pull away. I could see the twitch in his pants, subtle but there. The air thickened, scented with my perfume and the faint musk of his arousal. I let my hand rest on his knee, just for a second, squeezing gently. "Think about it," I whispered, then stood, letting the robe swish against him as I walked away. My heart pounded—step one, planted.
The next few days, I ramped it up. Mornings in the kitchen, I'd bend over to grab something from the lower cabinet, my yoga pants clinging to my ass like a second skin. I'd catch him staring, his coffee forgotten. "Oops, sorry," I'd say with a wink, straightening up slowly, arching my back just enough to push my breasts forward.
Evenings, when his father was glued to the TV, I'd sit between them, my thigh pressed against Alex's. I'd laugh at something, letting my hand fall onto his leg, fingers inching higher each time. The fabric of his jeans was rough under my palm, but I could feel the heat building, the way his muscles tensed. Once, I let my nails graze the inseam, right up to where his cock strained against the zipper. He sucked in a breath, his eyes darting to mine—dark, hungry.
"Everything okay, sweetie?" I'd ask innocently, my voice low.
"Yeah," he'd croak, shifting to hide the growing bulge.
I knew Emily was noticing. She'd text him constantly, but he'd ignore them when I was around. Good. Let her squirm.
One night, it escalated. His father was asleep upstairs, and Alex was in the home gym, working out his frustrations. I heard the clank of weights, the grunt of effort. Perfect. I changed into a sports bra and shorts—tight, revealing every curve, my nipples hardening against the thin fabric from the cool air. I walked in, the room smelling of sweat and metal.
"Mind if I join?" I asked, stepping onto the treadmill beside him.
He glanced over, mid-rep, and nearly dropped the barbell. His eyes raked down my body—lingering on my cleavage, the sweat already beading between my breasts. "Uh, sure."
We worked out in silence at first, but I made sure to moan softly with each stretch, bending over to touch my toes, my ass in the air. The mirror reflected it all—his gaze fixed on me, his shorts tenting obviously now. The air was thick with tension, our breaths syncing, heavy and ragged.
After, as he toweled off, I approached. "You're getting so strong," I said, running my fingers along his bicep. His skin was slick, hot, the muscle flexing under my touch. I pressed closer, my breasts brushing his chest. My perfume mixed with his sweat—a heady, primal scent. "But strength isn't everything. You need... experience."
His Adam's apple bobbed. "What do you mean?"
I smiled, my lips inches from his. "Let me show you." My hand slid down, cupping the bulge in his shorts. He was rock hard, throbbing against my palm. I squeezed gently, feeling the heat, the pulse. "See? This is what a real woman does. She takes her time."
He groaned, low and guttural. "Mom... we can't—"
"Shh," I whispered, stroking him through the fabric. The material was damp, pre-cum soaking through. I dropped to my knees, the gym mat cool under me, and tugged his shorts down. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, the head glistening. God, it was bigger than I imagined, curving slightly upward.
I looked up at him, eyes locked, and licked my lips. "Emily doesn't do this right, does she? She rushes." I leaned in, inhaling his musky scent, then flicked my tongue over the tip, tasting the saltiness. He shuddered, hands fisting in my hair.
Slowly, I took him in—inch by inch, my mouth stretching around his girth. The vein pulsed on my tongue, hot and alive. I sucked gently at first, swirling my tongue, building the pressure. His hips bucked involuntarily, pushing deeper. I gagged slightly but took it, hollowing my cheeks, my saliva dripping down his shaft.
"Fuck," he gasped, his voice breaking. I hummed around him, the vibration making him twitch. I bobbed my head, slow and deliberate, one hand stroking the base while the other cupped his balls, heavy and full. They tightened under my fingers, and I knew he was close.
But I pulled back, lips shiny with spit. "Not yet. I want you to feel everything."
I stood, peeling off my bra. My breasts bounced free, nipples hard peaks. He stared, transfixed. I guided his hands to them, letting him squeeze—the flesh soft yet firm, overflowing his palms. "Touch me like you mean it," I commanded.
His thumbs circled my nipples, pinching just right, sending jolts to my core. I was soaked, my shorts clinging to my pussy. I ground against his thigh, the friction delicious, my clit throbbing.
We moved to the bench press—me straddling him, his cock pressed against my wetness through the fabric. I rocked slowly, coating him in my juices. The slick slide was torturous, building the ache.
"Take them off," he begged, voice hoarse.
I did, slowly—peeling the shorts down, revealing my shaved pussy, lips swollen and glistening. The cool air hit my heat, making me shiver. I positioned myself over him, the head of his cock nudging my entrance. Teasing, I sank down just an inch, feeling the stretch—burning, exquisite.
"Oh God," he moaned, hands gripping my hips.
I rode him slow—up and down, my walls clenching around his thickness. Every vein dragged against me, filling me completely. The wet sounds echoed—slap of skin, my moans mixing with his grunts. Sweat slicked our bodies, sliding together.
Faster now, but still controlled. I leaned forward, breasts in his face. He sucked a nipple, teeth grazing, sending sparks through me. My clit ground against his pelvis with each thrust, building the pressure.
"I'm gonna come," he warned.
"Do it," I gasped. "Fill me up."
He thrust up hard, once, twice—then exploded, hot spurts deep inside. The sensation pushed me over—my orgasm crashing, pussy pulsing around him, milking every drop.
We collapsed, breathless. But this was just the beginning. Emily was history. He'd crave me now—the real woman who'd shown him everything.
Over the weeks, it became our secret. Stolen moments: in the shower, water cascading over us as I pressed against the tiles, his cock sliding into me from behind, hands soaping my breasts. The steam filled with our scents—soap, sex, desire. He'd pound into me, the slap of wet skin loud, my cries muffled by the spray.
In his bed, late at night, I'd crawl under the sheets, waking him with my mouth—deep throating until he was begging, then flipping him over to ride reverse, my ass bouncing as he watched.
Even in the car, driving him to class—I'd pull over, hike up my skirt, and straddle him in the driver's seat. His fingers would dig into my thighs, leaving marks, as I ground down, the windows fogging from our heat.
Emily faded. He broke up with her, citing "differences." She had no idea it was me—my perfume on his skin, my taste on his lips.
But now, he was mine. Focused, driven—and utterly addicted.