John Douglas - Stepmother Lover

"God!" she breathed. "If I'd only had a real man during those years!"

She bent her head forward, one hand cupping a pliant mound and contorting its roundness to lift the succulent nipple to where her wet tongue could caress its rounded tip. The other hand splayed slender fingers over the red hairs of her bush, the middle digit disappearing into her red corridor. Her neck arched, and her red lips fastened about the swollen nipple, sucking avidly. Her finger probed and wiggled, and her luscious ass bucked excitedly.

Pleasure welled in her grinding belly, becoming a hot slippery flow that coated the dancing finger and spread to the other digits, enabling her thumb to slide delightfully over the throbbing bud of her expanding clit.

It was never necessary for Dorothy to fantasize during her masturbatory sessions. Her own body was the only image required to create a swirling desire in her easily aroused loins and she could quench that surging lust with skillful fingers and a knowing mouth.

Her hand and wrist were wet from the flood of vaginal nectar, and it trickled sluggishly down the inner curves of her quivering thighs as her finger plunged and retreated, frictioning the labial lips and the pulsating walls of her convulsing pussy.

The saliva-covered tit slipped from her mouth as the ecstatic shivers of climax tightened her muscles, pulling her grinding hips forward, and arching her torso backward. The tendons in her slender neck rose to become writhing blue worms beneath the flawless skin, throbbing to the accelerated rhythm of her pulse and the repeated stabs of orgasmic pleasure.

For a few fleeting moments, Dorothy was able to forget the injustice of her late husband's will. As her vagina contracted with a force that made her whole body jerk and tremble, she gave herself over to the familiar, yet always incredible pleasure. It was one thing that Bruce had been unable to take away from her.

Her legs were still weak when, showered and dressed in a white blouse and skirt that accentuated her breasts and hips, she went downstairs to talk with her stepson.

Ted was in the study, seated behind the massive desk talking on the phone. He had pulled one of the lower drawers open and propped a foot on it, leaning back and swinging his elevated knee from side to side in a way that drew the fabric of his tan slacks tightly against the obviously large contents of the crotch.

He murmured something into the phone as Dorothy entered, then replaced it, keeping his knees spread, and sliding farther down in the swivel chair. The position shoved his bulging crotch forward. He watched her cross the floor, his eyes sliding up and down her body, insolent and appraising.

"Well," he drawled, matching voice to expression. "If it isn't my darling stepmother. Have you decided to be more reasonable?"

Dorothy sank onto a straight-backed chair, the skirt baring dimpled knees and the beginning of perfectly rounded thighs. She took a deep breath, forcing back the anger and bitterness.

"I acted childishly, Ted," she murmured. "I was blaming you for something your father did. It isn't your fault."

The handsome face showed no expression, merely watched her, the eyes flicking down, now and then, to caress the curve of her thighs. She found his stare disconcerting.

"You haven't said what you want me to do," she continued. "I have nowhere else to go, and the money won't be available for several weeks." Her voice trembled, then steadied. "Even then, I'll have just enough to see me through the year."

Ted's voice was gentle as he said, "What makes you think I want you to leave? Linda would be lost without you."

She watched his eyes trying to read them. Failing, she said, "I've always felt you didn't approve of my marriage to your father."

The eyes hardened, hatred flickering in their depths. "My father is dead." The voice was flat. "Whatever I may have felt about him no longer matters." He was silent for a moment, still moving his knee in that metronomic cadence. "Do you want to stay here?"

"I have nowhere else," she repeated, unable to keep her eyes from his bulging crotch. It seemed larger than before. It suddenly dawned on her that she had never seen Ted naked. He had been almost thirteen when she married Bruce, and already showing signs of maturity.

"That wasn't the question," he reminded her, his lips curving. "Do you want to stay?"

Wordless, defeated by the prospect of near-poverty after the five years of luxury, she exclaimed, "Yes! You know I do!"

His broad shoulders rose and fell. "Why don't we discuss it tonight?" he suggested, the lashes masking his eyes. "After Linda has gone to bed."

"What is there to discuss?" she countered, failing to read anything unusual in the remark.

"There are several changes I plan to make," Ted said, lowering his foot from the drawer. "I just called Aunt Joyce, and invited her to bring the kids for an extended visit."

Dorothy tried to hide the sudden frown as she said, "She never liked me. There'll be trouble between us."

The handsome face hardened perceptibly. "You still remember that they are my relatives," he said in a flat voice. "Aunt Joyce was my mother's sister."

"That's why she hates me," Dorothy ventured. "She felt that I was trying to take your mother's place with Bruce."

The slight frown faded, replaced by a curious tilting of the wide mouth. "Would it make you feel better if I called you Mother?"

It was her turn to frown, with a confused knitting of her brow. "I…

I don't know. Both of you have always called me Dorothy."

"Yes." The grin broadened. "But, like I told you, there are going to be some changes made."

Linda's entrance halted their conversation, and Dorothy retreated to the kitchen, checking with the cook on the preparation of dinner. She had no chance to be alone with Ted until after ten o'clock, when Linda yawned and excused herself for the night.

Slumped in his late father's chair, watching the news without any real interest, Ted reminded her of his previous remark. "We'll talk in your room, Mother." The last word was emphasized, Dorothy was unable to determine its meaning.

"Why can't we talk down here?" she asked.

His eyes flickered from the TV to her face, then back again. "We're going to talk," he replied coldly. "Not argue. I don't like arguments."

Dorothy felt a surge of anger, but forced it aside, keeping her voice even as she said, "Are you ready to go up?"

"You go ahead," he answered, not looking at her. "Just leave your door unlocked."

Dorothy's mind sought for some explanation of the lad's conduct as she ascended the stairs, entering her room and closing the door. She had known Ted for five years. But, she realized, she didn't really know him at all.

A creature of habit, she found herself selecting a gown from the closet, carrying it into the adjoining bath and changing into it before considering the implications of Ted's presence in her bedroom. Quickly, she tugged a robe from the closet and shrugged it on over the thin gown.

She had hardly drawn the fabric about her narrow waist when Ted opened the door without knocking, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.

"You could have knocked!" she said forcefully. "I might have been dressing."

He leaned casually against the door, his eyes lazy and humorous as they drifted up and down her body, its lush curves challenging the robe with their prominence.

"You seem to forget, Mother, dear," he drawled. "This is now my house.

I can go anywhere in it, at any time."

"You can show a little common courtesy!" she exclaimed.

His lips curved. "Oh, I'll show more than that!"

Dorothy stared in disbelief as he reached for the zipper of his slacks, drawing it downward with a gesture of boldness. His hand dipped into the gaping fly to emerge with his cock, huge, even in flaccidity. His fingers tugged the loose skin back from the meaty glans.