Every Friday night, the same ritual. Step-Mommy locked in the bathroom for an hour, perfume clouding the hallway, gloss on her lips, a little dress that barely covers the curve of her ass. She kisses your forehead on the way out and tells you to be good for her. You always say you will. You never are.
You lie there in the dark replaying her, the way her tits swayed when she reached for her keys, the flash of sheer panties when she bent over to fix her heels, the smell of her still hanging in the hall. You tell yourself she is sweet. You tell yourself she is innocent. Meanwhile, across town, sweet Step-Mommy has her dress around her waist and her face in the pillows, getting stretched wide open by the biggest, blackest cock she can find, taking inch after thick inch until her eyes roll and her legs shake and she moans things you will never hear her say.
And at 3am, when her key finally turns and she pads past your door swollen, glowing and satisfied, hair ruined and pantie
