A step-mother is a MILF you live with

I’m 36, once divorced, now remarried since last year. Bradley (my ex-) and I chose not to have children, and now that I’m a step-mom to Jason’s children I can see we were right. Being a parent is really hard work. His kids take him for granted and have a tremendous sense of entitlement. Jason always did well professionally and his family never wanted for material things. Bradley and I were – are – social workers, and never had a lot of material things.

Dating a middle-age man with children was everything I had heard – bad. They always tended to pull his attention away from me. Jason cancelled several dates we had arranged when one of his kids suddenly “didn’t feel well”. While we were dating they were generally cool and distant with me, but never outright impolite. I thought I understood them – me this new person who wanted to take some of their only parent’s attention from them. I loved him so much I wanted to make it work as a new family.

I knew better than to try to be “their new Mommy”. Their biological Mom would always be their only mother. I set out to be more like a new aunt or something. I invited them to call me by my name, Rebecca, instead of Mom. They were teenagers, 14 and 18, doing well in high school. Maybe this would work.

Within weeks of moving in Michael, the eldest, began to flirt with me. I was very slow to see it for what it was, mostly because he was so open about his compliments and other grooming behaviors. At the dinner table, with his Dad and little brother with us, he would rave about what I was wearing, or had worn the day before. How well I cooked, how nice I looked. Daniel, the youngest, tuned us all out at meals, worked his phone.

Jason just agreed with any kind thing Michael said, and I seemed to be the only one feeling it was a little creepy. There were hugs, too, again both alone or with the others present. A hug when left for school and when he came home. The hugs were only a second too long, the accompanying embrace only a bit too tight. Jason never seemed to notice. I mentioned the hugs to him alone in our bed at night. He said I was maybe misunderstanding, and that all teenagers have a crush on a pretty older woman. The younger boy had spent the previous year crushing on a teacher. I hadn’t thought of it that way, as a sincere crush, as opposed to willful misbehavior. For the first time that night, in bed, I marveled that old me might be sexually attractive to a high school boy. The sex that night with my husband was better than usual, and I knew why, and was slightly ashamed.

Michael started to call me Becky, a diminutive I hated. I told him I preferred my full name, and thought Becky was a young girl’s name. Michael began to use both. He referred to me as Rebecca when speaking to the others, such as “Rebecca said dinner will be ready soon.” But speaking to me, he called me Becky, and I bristled but didn’t make a big deal about it. “Becky is hot”, he told me. “Rebecca is a teacher; Becky is the hot cheerleader.”

I no longer thought of his previously unwanted attentions as disrespectful, or hostile. I realized that contrary to resenting me, he was thinking of me as a sexual being, and it was flattering. I no longer cringed when he hugged me, or kissed me on the cheek. And one day I realized that I had begun to primp a bit, check my hair and clothing, mid-afternoon just before the boys arrived from school. One day, looking in the mirror as I adjusted my brassiere “just so”, I had the thought “who is this woman?” Why was I now looking forward to the positive attention that radiated from the oldest boy? I had just never before paid much attention to how I looked. Years working alongside men for whom I never preened. A first husband who never cared what I wore, or how it fit my body. “Look at you now, Rebecca” I said to the smiling, perfectly made-up wife in the mirror.

Michael knew. I don’t know how a young man with so little experience with women could tell, but he knew I now welcomed his attentions even though I did nothing to provoke them. His hugs became a bit longer, a bit tighter. He gave me footrubs when we all couched in front of the TV. Short-lived but tender neck massages if I complained at the dinner table of tight shoulders.

In the kitchen, he would come up behind me as I worked at a counter, or the sink, and hug me in his arms. “How is Becky today?” he would ask softly next to my ear. I could often now feel his hips pressed into mine from behind. I periodically checked in with Jason, told him most of what was happening. He brightened and smiled. His greatest fear about a second marriage, he said, was the sons resenting and rejecting “the new ‘Mom'”. He was thrilled that the boys liked me.

One of the boys, I never knew which, was hamper diving, stealing my panties from the laundry hamper. The garment would return to the hamper the next day, crusty with cum. As a trained social worker I knew all about boys’ fascination with women’s underwear, and was not a bit surprised. Well, not surprised that somebody was curious. I was surprised that I felt vaguely honored to be someone’s masturbation fantasy.

The next time Michael hugged me from behind I reached up from the sink and gently held his wrists in my hands. He couldn’t release me the way he usually did. I held him tightly, and when I felt his pelvis press into my rear I pressed back against him. A few seconds later, I released his hands and he promptly left the room, trying to hide his erection from his father and brother. I felt a delicious naughty thrill. The old girl still had it in her, huh? When my panties went into the hamper later, they were soaking wet from me, not one of the boys.

Months before the Senior Prom, Michael asked his dad if he could take dance lessons. On impulse I told the two of them that I was a pretty good dancer when I was young and could show Michael most of the basic steps. Jason moved a chair while Michael fired up a playlist of old-fashioned songs and we were soon busy dancing. The first few nights it was clumsy and all at arm’s length, Michael mostly watching his own feet as he learned one step after another. Two weeks later we were dancing more normally, and Jason had lost interest and left us alone. Michael was a strong young man, and I became quite comfortable in his arms as we swayed and danced.

Then he began whispering things in my ear, and nuzzling my neck as we danced. “Becky, you are so beautiful.” Being called Becky gave me a little thrill, like I was one of the girls. “You are so graceful, Becky.” I was prettier than the girls he knew. Rebecca was his step-mother; Becky was the girl in his arms, swaying and rubbing against his hardness. Then one night the nuzzles became a kiss, and I held it too long, and his tongue touched my lips, and I was lost.

We were making out like teenagers when his little brother interrupted us. I ran out of the room and down the hall, ashamed, humiliated, and aroused. I masturbated in the shower and had the biggest orgasm I’d had in months. Then I squatted down and broke out crying, broken and disgusted with myself. Fifteen minutes later I emerged, resolved never to do anything like that again. I stayed in my room the rest of the night, and did not get up with my husband the next morning, pleading a headache. I waited until the house was empty to come out for coffee and self-recrimination.

I found a note on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry if I hurt you somehow. I just love you, and don’t know how to behave. M.” I sat there alone and cried again, this time maybe for him, too. But I pulled myself together and got on with the day.

There was music playing when he got home that afternoon. He looked at me sheepishly when he entered the living room where I was dancing with myself, a set-up, having heard him come in.

“Dance with me, Michael,” I said, and his smile lit up the room. He came to me, and we put our arms in place to dance, and I kissed him. We pulled at each other’s clothes and were soon almost naked on the carpet. He was inside me in seconds, raw, and almost immediately climaxed. He remained hard and we soon had an orgasm almost together.

Michael is away at university now and has a girlfriend his own age.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ilnby5/a_stepmother_is_a_milf_you_live_with