The Stepmother
written by:
Joshua

My parents divorced when I was eleven years old. Today, I'm twenty-eight and the only child of my parent's union, but let me tell you, I'm not bitter at all about how or why my parents decided they simply could not live together. You see, unlike most adults who decide to end their marriage, my parents were the exception to the rule. That's right. See, just after my tenth birthday, my mother Diane, and my father, Dan, decided that they still liked each other enough, but just were no longer in love. Neither mom nor dad was sure what caused the change in their feelings for each other, but they both realized their true feelings at the same time. Not once did they argue about the house or who would retain custody of me, or, anything really. Their split was amicable and easy. In fact, when mom moved out, she bought a house three blocks away from where I lived with my father, making it easy for me to see either parent. When I was with dad, whom I lived with only because it was easier to keep my stuff in the same house, he never once spoke badly about my mother. Mom never spoke badly about dad, either. No arguments over money, property, or custody of me. Just two people mature enough to know that their time had come to an end. When they decided to split, mom and dad took me to dinner and in gentle and clear terms, explained how they felt. Neither attempted to convince me to live with them only, and I was free to choose who I spent time with. Even today, seventeen years after their divorce, mom and dad are still pretty good friends, they're just not lovers. Oh, sure, they loved each other once, but it was in a more platonic sense rather than one based on romance. Because they were honest and able to treat each other with the greatest respect after the divorce, they gained my utmost admiration. No one I knew had two parents quite like mine.

Mom never remarried and in fact, passed away two years ago. Breast cancer claimed my dear mother, and my father not only served as one of her pall bearers, he also wept openly at the loss of his best friend. There were a few in-laws who criticized my father for being at mom's funeral, but my old man is an ex-Marine. When he told them - quietly of course, and off to the side - to shut the hell up or face his wrath, well, let's just say they listened. Even at age seventy-five, dad was still one tough old bird, and I pitied the man who thought wrongly that they could take my old man. I really did pity them.

Dad too remained single for a number of years, but he eventually returned to dating. It was my own mother, in fact who introduced my father to the woman who calls herself my stepmother. That's right. You see, by the time dad reached sixty, he'd grown tired of dating and coming home to an empty house. He explained to my mother that if he could find another woman like her, he'd entertain the idea of remarrying, but only - and he stressed "only" - if he found a woman who had the same honest, kind, and caring characteristics as his former wife, my mom. Since she still loved him in a special way, mom arranged a blind date for my dad with Joanne, a woman who taught at the same school as my mother.

Joanne had suffered badly at the hands of an abusive husband, and so, was a bit apprehensive about not only dating a man who'd fought in wars and protected his country, but, foremost, was the ex-husband of her best friend. That's right, again. Joanne and my mom were best friends before my mother died. I remember how deeply Joanne wept at mom's funeral: she was inconsolable for weeks afterward. Perhaps my mom knew her time was up and that's why she introduced Joanne to my dad: she wanted to make her last significant act on Earth one where her two best friends - my dad and Joanne- and her son could grow old together. Besides, I heard mom once say to another friend of hers before her death, "Dan and Joanne should have gotten married: they are so great for each other."

And they were. Dad and Joanne fell in love almost immediately and, like many older couples who know when something feels right that you make the most of it, married less than three months after their first blind date. My mom served as Joanne's maid of honor, and I was dad's best man. The whole affair was one very happy occasion, with everyone having a great time. After the wedding, Joanne insisted that I call her by her first name, not as a matter of establishing who was in charge, but because, as she put it, "you only have one mother, and that's Sally, your mom." When my mother passed away, I began to address Joanne as "mom," a term she grew to enjoy greatly. I enjoyed Joanne's company, always finding her warm and understanding. Not once did she yell at me. Between then and now, Joanne and I have grown exceedingly close, and I love her dearly. She's the best stepmother a man could have.

This isn't to say that dad and Joanne haven't had their differences. They don't really fight, actually: no, what my dad and Joanne do is to understand that anger is a natural reaction to things we don't understand and so, might need some time to blow off steam. Dad never cursed at Joanne, nor she at him. And despite their difference in age - a matter of fifteen years, actually - Joanne and my father were the second perfect couple in my life. I find it admirable, actually, that Joanne could marry a man who was already in his mid-fifties when she was only thirty-five. The twenty year gap between them affected neither my father nor Joanne. They were just happy to be together.

It was Joanne and dad who came together to tell me of mom's death. They found me at football practice and let me know my mother was gone. Through it all, Joanne was a pillar of support for me, and it was then that I grew closer to her. Dad did the best he could with mom's death, but it was clear that his grief had hit him hard. Joanne understood, and never criticized my father for the way he felt about my mother's death. She understood when dad said he needed a week of fishing in the mountains to, as he put it, "set the world straight again." When he returned, my father and Joanne lived a happy life together.

But dad passed away last year. His death, like that of my mother's, slammed into me like a freight train. Everynight for the last three months of his life, either myself or Joanne stayed with him in the hospital, day and night, as cancer presented itself as the only battle the old former Marine could not win. Dad had been to several wars and back, but there was no way he could win against that deadly disease. On those nights when Joanne stayed with Dad, I drove the short distance back to my childhood home and spent the night in my old bed. Dad slipped away peacefully, but he damn sure gave cancer one hell of a fight.

I'd lost two of my best friends now, and I was determined not to lose Joanne. Even at age twenty-eight I own my own company, so taking time away was not a problem. I needed the time away to reload, so to speak, to come to terms with the deaths of my parents. I guess that's why, as Joanne and I walked to the funeral home's family car after my father's graveside services, she laced her right arm in mine and suggested that I move back into their old house and stay with her. "I know it's where you grew up, Ben, but perhaps being there will help you to purge some of your grief." I told Joanne I'd consider her offer and let her know. I moved in two days later.

Since my return, I've obviously come to learn more about Joanne. Let me tell you, she is the kindest woman I have ever known outside of my biological mother, of course. I couldn't ask any more of Joanne, really: I mean she launders my clothes, she cooks dinner, and she keeps the house clean. She respects my opinions, as I do hers, and listens when I speak, always seeming to be interested in what I have to say. Over time, I grew close to Joanne, and found that living with her, even if only temporarily, was a joy to behold. I moved into the second floor, just down the hall from my father and Joanne's bedroom.

Even with only two adults living in the house, the small structure was still somewhat cramped. That was when, at breakfast one morning, I came up with an idea I thought would improve our living conditions. Soon after Joanne arrived at the breakfast table, I threw out the possibility of tearing down a few walls on the second floor and remodeling everything. Joanne sat beside me in the small, cramped breakfast nook with a cup of coffee in her hand and listened patiently while I described, in rough terms, my ideas for how the second floor could look with updated fixtures, repainted and relocated walls, new windows, the whole deal. I, of course, offered to pay for the entire remodeling. What pleased me about describing my plans to Joanne was that she had several excellent ideas of her own and within minutes, she and I had a rough drawing on a paper napkin that outlined how we envisioned the space appearing after the construction. It was as if two kids were in a science class drawing out plans for a monster they wanted to create to scare their friends.

Halfway between the beginning and end of our conversation, Joanne rose from her seat on the bench beside me to refill our coffee cups. By now, my heart was beating with great and eager anticipation as I scanned the rough drawing and considered more ways to not only redo the second floor, but perhaps the entire house as well. All the while, I called out every idea to Joanne across the room, who also squealed with delight at the coming improvements to the home. Joanne by this time had returned to the opposite side of the table and had bent over slightly at the waist to refill the cups with steaming hot coffee. What happened next was purely by chance and never planned, but the impact of it left me startled for several hours afterward.

"Let me see the plans for this floor," Joanne said. I'd just finished putting the final pen adjustment to an idea I had for the front interior of the home when Joanne mentioned something about needing her glasses. With the coffee pot still in her left hand, and squinting her beautiful blue eyes to gain a better picture, my sixty-two year old stepmother bent even farther over the table. And as she did, the front of her loose fitting robe opened almost entirely, exposing two tits that seemed excessively large and firm to me. While Joanne innocently peered at the paper napkin blueprint, her tits hung suspended from her chest inside the light-colored robe, her nipples larger that quarters. "Jeez, Ben, I never considered what you've drawn," she said, her tits swaying perfectly to every word she spoke. As loud as the voice in my head was screaming for me to avert my eyes, there was just no way I could do so. I suppose that if someone had been standing to the side and witnessing this scene, they'd have seen a young, twenty-eight year old man sitting in a breakfast nook with his eyes wide as plates, staring intently at his stepmother's huge tits swaying like a cow's udder inside her robe. But if they looked closer, they'd have seen a large, conspicuous bulge growing under the table. To my disbelief, I discovered that my seven-inch cock was growing as I openly stared at Joanne's tits and nipples. To make matters worse, the only garment covering my lower torso was a thin pair of pajamas: if I rose from the nook, there was no way I'd be able to conceal the obvious bulge, and certainly no way Joanne could miss it.

But the dilemma was that I simply could not take my eyes off Joanne's tits. Because my job requires that I be very attentive at all times, even the smallest details about her massive tits reached my brain. There were no tan lines to mark the area where she might have worn a bathing suit, despite the fact that her skin was a golden, healthy brown. Each tit seemed as if it had won the fight against sagging, a battle so many older women lose. The nipples were extended, but I was certain that they were that way because of Joanne's happiness over the proposed modifications to the home. And when they jiggled, they swung only so far in either direction, convincing me they were firmer than I would have expected from a woman in her early sixties.

And while I'm normally very attentive, on this occasion I failed to notice that Joanne had ceased studying the paper drawing and was now looking directly at me. When my brain finally broke through and I realized she was no longer asking questions or making comments, and that Joanne had, effectively, caught me staring wide-eyed at her tits, there was no use denying what I'd done. When Joanne dipped her chin to verify that her robe had indeed fallen open, she slowly placed the coffee pot on the table and stood erect, closing the robe with both hands. And here's where matters became strange. I fully expected Joanne to berate me, to scold me for taking advantage of a situation that called for me being more of a gentleman as my father had taught me. But instead, it was Joanne who apologized.

"Oh, excuse me, Ben," she said as she attempted to close the robe with buttons that obviously no longer worked well enough to keep the upper portion of the robe closed. "I suppose I should throw this old thing away, you know?" With her robe closing task completed as best as she could, Joanne slid into the breakfast nook again, and said, "I'm sorry, Ben. I never should have embarrassed you like that." She immediately returned her attention to the paper drawing. Imagine my surprise when I heard her say, "You know, I bet we could turn these into real blueprints for hardly any cost."

What? It was as if Joanne catching me staring openly - and perhaps lasciviously - at her sixty-three year old tits had never happened. It was as if she expected her tits to be in view, and now was worried that I might be the one who was offended. It was then, as my cock began to tame down, that I realized the quality of woman my father had married and my mother had chosen as a best friend. To show Joanne I was okay, I slipped my right arm around her shoulder and kept it there for the next half hour as we finalized the ideas for the house. "Well, I have some shopping to do, Ben," Joanne finally said as she rose from the seated position beside me and began to clean the kitchen and its breakfast dishes. I stopped her, telling her I'd complete the task and that she could go about and enjoy her day. "Well, aren't you just like your father?" Joanne said warmly before kissing me gently on the cheek. She turned and on bare feet, padded her way out of the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom.

As for me, I turned to the kitchen sink and began to clean the breakfast dishes. But my mind wasn't on the task of cleaning: No, it was on the still lingering image in my brain of Joanne's massive titties swinging freely inside her old, needed-to-be-replaced robe. Time after time, I ran the scene through my head, the two fleshy melons swinging inside the flannel robe, the thick, dark-brown nipples pointing downward to the kitchen table. And despite my efforts to prevent it, my cock once again grew in size and girth and in seconds, I stood at the kitchen sink with a hard cock. I quickly completed the task of putting the dishes away then made my way as quickly as possible up the stairs and down the long hallway, hoping beyond hope that Joanne would not leave her bedroom until after I'd passed her door.

Fortunately, that did not happen. But what did happen was that as I passed my deceased father's bedroom, I heard Joanne's voice coming from the shower. Every Sunday, Joanne's presence made our church choir the best in the city because to put it bluntly, she could sing. As I passed by the closed door, I heard her singing some old show tune, one she and my father had seen on Broadway several times. I scampered past the closed door and entered my old bedroom, closing the door securely behind me. I determined I had no more than a few scant minutes to complete my next task, and I certainly did not need anyone watching me.

You see, as I lay on my old bed and removed the t-shirt and pajama bottoms, I grasped my cock and began to jack off. I lay there like I had many nights when I was a teenager, my cock in my tightly closed fist, dreaming about some woman I'd seen on the subway or at the mall. But not this time. No, this time I fantasized about Joanne, imagining her removing the robe, placing her ass on the kitchen table, and spreading her legs to expose what I'm certain was a hairy, thick-lipped cunt. I imagined my stepmother spreading her pussy lips, and begging me to lick her cunt. "Yes, baby, yes, we can finally do this legally," I imagined her saying as my fist traveled the length of my hard cock faster and faster now. "Fuck me, Ben, please fuck me," I dreamed Joanne saying, switching my thoughts now to imagining me standing between Joanne's legs and slamming my twenty-eight year old cock into her aged pussy. "Oh, god, oh, god!" I imagined Joanne saying as I began a series of powerful thrusts that resulted in my cock disappearing to the hilt in Joanne's cunt.

I guess I was surprised when I erupted in what was one of the more powerful orgasms I'd ever experienced in my life. It came on so quickly, and so powerfully, that the small bed's headboard on which I lay shook and vibrated against the wall that separated my bedroom from Joanne's. My entire body vibrated as well, the orgasm causing thick, warm streams of come to eject from my cock and to land on my lower stomach. When it ended, I quickly made my way to the bath attached to my bedroom and showered for thirty minutes as I asked myself what it was I was doing by imagining fucking my stepmother. I simultaneously felt guilty and dirty and admonished myself by saying, this isn't like you fucking your girlfriend, Ben. I mean, yes, I'd always had a thing for older women, as many only male children will do. But damn, Ben, I said to myself: This is your stepmother, the woman who married your dad. The woman who was your mom's best friend. You really need to get a grip. As expected, guilt and anger were the two primary emotions I felt for the remainder of the day.

After toweling the water from my body and dressing in a button down shirt and khaki shorts, I made my way downstairs again, expecting to be alone. I was wrong. I found Joanne sitting at the kitchen nook table, making notes on a small pad. "Shopping list," was all she said as she looked up at me and smiled. The paper napkin blueprint remained on the table where we'd left it earlier. "So, enjoy the shower?" Joanne asked as she peered over her glasses at me. When I stated that yes, the shower was a welcome relief - a bad choice of words, it turned out - Joanne laughed and said, "Oh, so you must have used cold water?" It took me several seconds to understand what she was referring to but when I did, I shared the laugh with Joanne. I sat, but rather than sit beside my stepmother, I placed my body on the opposite side of the table and studied the paper drawing I'd made at breakfast. I informed Joanne that I had a buddy who was an architect and that I planned to take the drawing to him for a more formal representation of our ideas. I offered to drive Joanne to the mall, but she declined my offer. "I'll just take the subway, dear," Joanne said. My stepmother and I agreed to meet for lunch at midday at one of our favorite restaurants. "Okay, dear," Joanne said as she again placed her warm lips on my cheek. "I'll see you then."

I spent the morning with Dave, my architect friend, discussing the plans for what Joanne and I wanted. He promised to get the drawings back to me within a week, and I departed his office. As I drove across town, I again reran not only the scene of Joanne's tits hanging suspended within easy reach of my hand, but also the fact that I'd jacked off while fantasizing of fucking her. Stop this, Ben, I said to myself: She's your stepmother. But if there's anything I've learned in my life, it's that forbidden thoughts are the most difficult to get out of your head once they enter. It's as if they have a cement bond and attach themselves to the inside of your consciousness. And the more you try to get rid of them, they tighter their hold and the more difficult it is not to imagine the dreaded events from happening. Fortunately for me, my attention was diverted when I found Joanne at the restaurant holding a series of shopping bags from her favorite dress store. "Lunch is on me," Joanne stated as I sat at the table. "I want to do this for coming up with the idea of remodeling the house," she said.

But there was a problem. While the restaurant was one of our favorites, the air-conditioning system was not working. Although the season was late fall and the outside temperatures were not unseasonably warm, the inside of the restaurant seemed sweltering. Both Joanne and I used menus as fans to cool ourselves, but these makeshift devices helped only so much. Thankfully, my car's air conditioner cooled us as we drove home, and I purposely ensured to keep the topic on the future house plans in a determined effort to keep my mind from wandering to the subject of Joanne's tits. I knew that even the slightest thought about her melons hanging suspended below her chest would set my cock to hardening again, and I just didn't want to put either myself or Joanne in that position again. We arrived at the house a short time later.

Joanne dropped her shopping bags at the foot of the stairs and, as she often did, removed the four inch black patent leather high heels she often wore when shopping. The two shoes lay on the bottom step, their patent black leather reflecting the natural light illuminating the wide hallway. She padded into the kitchen on her bare feet then reemerged a few seconds later with a drink in her hand. I knew from experience that the drink was a vodka tonic, her favorite alcoholic beverage. Back at the bottom of the stairs again, my stepmother announced that because of the heat in the restaurant, she needed another shower. "I'm sorry, Ben, but I feel as if I perspired like a hog in there!" she announced as she took her shopping bags upstairs to her bedroom. Standing at the base of the stairs, I found it difficult not watch Joanne ascend the stairs Even from the kitchen, I heard the soft click of the door closing and locking after my stepmother entered the room where she slept. I set about making dinner, laying the ingredients and necessary tools on the counter while doing my best to avoid thinking about Joanne's tits.

But that was impossible not to think of Joanne's tits as they swayed under her robe, and I paid the price for doing so. I tried as hard as I could, but I just couldn't stop from recalling the sight of Joanne's tits. I recalled how I'd jacked off while thinking of fucking Joanne. It was because my thoughts were so jumbled - a mixture of confusion, anger and guilt - that caused my attention span to wander and I accidently nudged a metal tray holding every ingredient I planned to cook or serve -including two prime steaks - over the counter edge and onto the floor. The noise was horrendous as the metal tray clanged against the floor and the bottles of salad dressing broke, one by one. The steaks joined the mess, sliding several inches away from me to become entangled in the now destroyed lettuce, tomatoes, and the other ingredients that made up the salad. To make matters worse, the floor was also covered with sharp-pointed shards of glass, some large, some small, that made walking on the floor not only hazardous, but dangerous as well. FUCK! I thought to myself: this inability to get Joanne's tits from my mind is starting to affect my day in a bad way.

And if the mess wasn't enough, the sound of Joanne coming down the steps from the upstairs caused me alarm as well. I could see her as she made her way down the steps. But that wasn't what alarmed me about seeing her approaching the kitchen: No, what got my undivided attention was the fact that my stepmother had left the bathroom so hurriedly to discover the source of the noise that she'd wrapped her still damp body in nothing more than a large, white bath towel. Her salty-grey hair clung to her neck and shoulders, and the closer she came to entering the kitchen door, the more detail I noticed as well. Small rivers of shower water ran from her hair and continued over her shoulders, down her back, and, most importantly, following the path of gravity to her tits. When Joanne was but one step away from the kitchen door, I yelled "STOP! Joanne, don't come in here in bare feet!" I knew that if she entered the kitchen with the greasy mess and glass everywhere, she'd surely cut her feet. "Let me get this mess cleared up before you come in," I said, "or you'll cut yourself on the broken glass." To my relief, Joanne turned away from the door and placed her right foot on the lowest step. Grateful that she was going to let me clean the mess, I turned my back to the kitchen door and, grasped a nearby broom and dustpan, and set about cleaning the mess from the floor.

I was able to remove the glass shards rather quickly, but there still remained the issue of the floor being covered with oily salad dressings, steak sauce, mayonnaise, and very other condiment and sauce I'd stacked onto the tray. There was food on the floor as well, most regrettably the two costly steaks. The floor itself was one huge, slick multi-colored mess. Kneeling carefully, I ran the flat of my hand over the floor feeling for any hidden bits of glass and was satisfied after several sweeps of my hand that at least the danger of sharp glass was no longer a threat. But where there was no glass there was plenty more to clean up, and so, I set upon the task of cleaning the floor. With only a small rag to assist me, I began to throw the wasted food into a small garbage can. The going was slow and messy, and I made little progress by myself. I was more pissed at myself because I knew it was inappropriate thoughts about my stepmother that had caused me to spill and waste the food. Slowly, however, I made slow but steady progress across the messy floor. The farther across the floor I moved, however, the dirtier I personally became from the greases and oils left over from the poor job the rag was doing.

I guess I was halfway across the floor when I realized my path was blocked. Somehow, I'd completely forgotten about Joanne, a fact that surprised me considering the fact that it was the thoughts of her mammoth tits that had caused me to create this mess in the first place. But it was here, at the midpoint, that I suddenly found my path blocked by two very tanned lower legs and two well-manicured feet encased in four inch, patent leather high heels. Looking up, I saw Joanne staring down at me, still wrapped in the terry cloth towel.

"You look like you could use some help, Ben," my stepmother said as she knelt on the floor and proceeded to help me clean the mess with a small towel she'd taken from the counter. She joined me in wiping, or, rather, trying to wipe the mess from the floor, but to be honest, this job was going to require more than two small rags to complete the job. But more than that, it was all I could do not to stare at Joanne, still wrapped in the towel, her bare knees becoming as soiled as mine. She's going to need another shower, I said to myself. And just as quickly as that the image of Joanne standing naked under hot water formed in my brain, my cock began to flutter and I knew that unless I did something quickly, my cock would expose itself and my stepmother would see I had a hard cock.

But by now, my thoughts were consumed with and by lust. Lifting my chin, I saw the bottom edge of the towel extended only as far as her mid-thigh region. Because she had placed her body on the floor at an angle to mine, I had a profile view of Joanne. And here's what I saw: A sixty-three year old woman, dressed only in a terry-cloth towel, with four inch, black patent leather high heels on her feet. Some hours before, as you recall, I'd seen her tits and nipples, and had been forced to jack off to find relief. So, I'm sorry, but there was just no way I could prevent my cock from stiffening again. You'll just have to conceal it as best as you can, Ben, I told myself.

Still, the going was slow despite the fact that both Joanne and I worked together to clean the mess. My heart nearly stopped when Joanne turned to her right and I had a better view of her towel-covered ass. The towel hid her ass from me, but the temptation to extend my hand under the towel and finger my stepmother's cunt became so powerful that I decided to move to my left, a move that added another foot of distance between Joanne and myself. Once again, ashamed at my thoughts, I focused on the floor as Joanne and I worked on in almost total silence.

It was when Joanne ceased wiping the floor and positioned herself on her knees that I too decided to take a break. We both swiveled our heads from left to right to appraise our efforts so far and realized that despite how hard we'd worked, we really hadn't made much progress. Lettuce and vegetables and mushrooms and whatever else I had on the tray seemed to have multiplied and reproduced. It was then that Joanne did something that caused a break in the tension. She lifted one of the prime but now ruined steaks from the floor, held the red and raw meat between her red-tipped fingers and said, "So, what's fro dinner?" Joanne held the expensive but now ruined steak between two fingers, waving it around between her fingers until the red meat fell from her hand and made a splatting sound as it made contact with the sauces and oils still covering most of the floor.

Watching the expensive piece of meat I'd planned to prepare for our dinner fall to the floor, and knowing there would now be no dinner, I reacted by laughing. I mean, hard, loud, uncontrollable laughter. The sound escaped from my mouth and echoed forcefully from the ceilings and walls. Perhaps I was so pissed by everything that I decided laughter was better than anger. Perhaps I was so enthralled by my stepmother being within two feet of me and barely dressed that her act of tossing the meat was what I truly needed to ease the tension and frustration I was feeling. It was, in fact, an alternative to the sexual tension that had caused me to create this mess in the first place.

In response to my laughter, Joanne simply stared at me. She half-closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly to the right before she too began to laugh. At first, the only sound she made was a small giggle, but soon, as my laughter grew, so too did Joanne's until we were both laughing so hard that it actually caused pain. The laughter continued on, rising and falling, slowing before gaining speed again. It seemed as if the laughter had taken over my body - and perhaps Joanne's half-dressed body as well - and would not release me. Each time I thought I could stop laughing, I'd look at Joanne and begin laughing all over again, but harder and louder. The same happened to Joanne: Each time her laughter reduced to a simple giggle, she'd look at me and together we'd fill the kitchen again with sounds of uncontrollable laughter.

My body was shaking so much from the laughter that I didn't realize I was actually moving around on the greasy, slipper floor. Each time I bent over to hold onto my knees to try and stop myself from shaking because of the laughter, the motion actually caused me to slip forward a few inches, each time closer and closer to Joanne. But what was unique about the situation was that the same phenomena was also happening to my stepmother. When I think back on it now, it's no wonder that we ended up so close to each other. And there was no way we could prevent it, either.

You see, the forceful motion of laughing so hard not only caused me to move forward, but the same laughter caused Joanne to slide forward until her bare knees and my bare knees touched. I looked over my body and saw what appeared to have been a work of abstract art by a painter: red, green, yellow, red, and any number of assorted colors covered my legs, hands, and arms. I had salad dressing in my hair, ketchup on my legs, and steak sauce on my face. Looking at Joanne, I saw the same pattern of spills and stains, and once more, found myself in another fit of hard, uncontrollable laughter. And just as we'd done for the past several moments, we set again into a deep fit of laughter that caused me to grasp my sides. "I've got to stand up or I believe I'll die!" I said to Joanne as I lifted myself onto my knees. Well, that is, as I attempted to lift myself to my knees. Because the floor was so slippery, I struggled to even bring myself upright, slipping again onto my side.

"Here, let me help you," Joanne said, extending her arms and grasping my wrists in her hands. Because I weigh more than Joanne, when she attempted to pull me upward, all she really did was to pull me through the gooey mess toward her, my body sliding through the multi-colored puddles and staining even more of my clothes. By now, the towel Joanne wore was no longer white, but, instead, resembled the floor with its greens, yellows, reds, and other combined colors. Determined to bring me to a standing position, Joanne laughingly said, "Come here, damn it!" as she tugged with all her might, causing me to finally arrive at her body on bent knees. "Hold onto my shoulders, Ben," Joanne instructed me. "Now, we're going to stand together so that we don't fall: got it?" she asked, looking into my eyes, but still laughing from the memory of the two of us sloshing around in the food-produced muck. "Okay, I'll count to three and we'll stand," she said. My sixty-three year old stepmother, still somehow wrapped in the now stained towel, counted to three, then finally said, "Okay, here we go!"

There was one small flaw in Joanne's plan: she'd evidently forgotten that I was barefoot and that her feet were still encased in four inch stiletto heels. Oh, sure, we tried to stand, and we were halfway there when one of her pencil-thin tips moved forward in the goo and both of my bare heels slid out from under me. The resulting crash caused us to fall to the floor again in a heap, Joanne's body crashing over me as I padded her fall. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed as her body fell onto mine and I wrapped my arms about her shoulders to soften her fall. The falling motion caused both Joanne and I to roll several feet across the muck-covered floor, finally coming to a stop near the refrigerator.

If there was one thing my father loved about Joanne, it was her sense of determination. She always finished what she started, and this incident in the kitchen was no exception. Coming to a sitting position, but still laughing uproariously, Joanne directed me to once more grasp her shoulders and we'd make another attempt at standing. "Okay, here we go, Ben," she said as she brought herself to her filthy knees, then, with my hands held tightly in hers, she again stood erect, the thin, pointed heels supporting her weight on the greasy, slipper floor.

But as anyone knows, Joanne should have removed her shoes before attempting to assist me to my feet. I was halfway to the standing position again when Joanne's left heel suddenly began to slide through a puddle of salad dressing and steak sauce, and before I could get to my own two feet, my stepmother began to tumble forward, losing her grip on me and falling forward quickly. "Oh, shit!" I heard Joanne exclaim when she realized she was falling and that she would be unable to stop her forward and downward motion. I did the best I could to dive under Joanne, hoping to cushion the blow and hope against hope that she didn't harm her sixty-three year old body. Our bodies making contact with the floor resulted in a loud, sort of flesh slapping sound, made the instant we landed upon the slick, tiled floor. I rolled to my right with Joanne's body still upon mine, while attempting to wrap my arms around her and soften the blow.

By the time our bodies came to a stop on the grimy floor, several realizations hit both Joanne and myself. When we finally stopped rolling, my body was positioned atop Joanne's, my weight supported by two muck-covered hands situated on either side of her grey-haired head. The first realization was that neither of us was hurt: a few bruises, perhaps, but, fortunately, no broken bones or sprained joints. Next, we realized that unless we removed our shoes, we'd never be able to traverse the slick floor and would once again take the chance of falling. But the most significant realization was that as Joanne had rolled across my body and then onto the floor, the towel she'd been wearing had not only come loose, it had opened entirely and now lay on the floor under her in a jumbled mess. I now hovered over my stepmother and except for the stiletto heels which remained on her feet and had been the cause of our fall, she was completely naked.

Once again, the silence in the room was overwhelming, but the silent communication that existed between Joanne and myself was ten times louder. I felt Joanne shift her legs under me as she lifted her high-heeled feet and locked her ankles behind my back. It was when she extended her arms and placed her hands on the filthy t-shirt I still wore that I knew the moment of no return had arrived. And so, looking down at my stepmother, whose body was covered with a variety of sauces, dressings, bits of food, and whatever else, I lowered my neck and placed my lips squarely on her mouth.

To say that I'd waited for this moment since I was a kid would be an understatement. I knew, as my tongue slipped between Joanne's lips, that kissing her was something I'd secretly harbored for many, many years. As Joanne returned the kiss, as she jostled her naked ass under me, she removed the shirt I was wearing, then slipped her hands between our greasy bodies and began to remove my shorts. I was engrossed in the kissing and the removal of the articles of clothing, but despite the many thousands of now erotic sensations cruising through my body, I realized that I was now lying naked atop the woman who had cared for my father in his last years.

But more than that, my cock had now returned to the same rock-hard state it had been in since the moment I first spied Joanne's tits under her robe. After breaking the seal on her mouth, I began to inch my way down her body, using my tongue to trace a wet path from her mouth to all those body parts below her chin that I was now determined to explore, taste, and probe.

I finally, mercifully, arrived at Joanne's tits, the root cause of my desire for this sixty-three year old woman. Joanne cooed when my lips encircled the right nipple, when I began to tease the small, thimble-shaped tit bud. "Oh, dear god, Ben," she said as she arched her back to bring more of those magnificent tits into my mouth. "Baby, what are we doing?" my stepmother asked. "We shouldn't be doing this." But Joanne made no move to stop me, and so, after sucking both titties and stimulating the nipples with my tongue and mouth, I continued my southern based journey down her body. With each inch my tongue traveled, various tastes entered my mouth and coated my taste buds. I tasted spicy mustard at Joanne's belly button, then the taste of vibrant Italian dressing washed across my tongue when I reached the uppermost fringe of her cunt hair. Now that I was nearing the prize, now that I was within a finger's distance of Joanne's cunt, I increased the speed of my oral journey, impatient to get to that spot between my stepmother's legs where I knew her pussy lay hidden under a thick blanket of cunt hair. By now, it was as if I'd had the privilege of spending a great deal of time alone in one of the world's best restaurants with all the food I could eat. But it was when I arrived at her cunt, and noticed that her bushy mat of hair was coated with sweetened steak sauce that I began to lick off in earnest.

"Oh, Ben, baby," Joanne moaned when she felt me use my fingers to separate the almost impenetrable mass of cunt hair that concealed he pussy lips. When I finally broke through the wiry-haired barrier and discovered two very moist cunt lips, I extended my neck, pushed my tongue between my lips, and for the first time in my life, placed the tip of my tongue on the woman I knew as my sixty-three year old stepmother. At first, I did no more than simply probe the outer regions of Joanne's cunt, teasing her clit, which stood prominently visible, and sucking one or both of the outer lips into my mouth. But it soon became evident that Joanne wanted more of this type of sexual action. Yes, she wanted more indeed.

My stepmother lifted her feet high over her head, her extended legs making a "V" shape with my head centered directly at that point where the two legs came together. In other words, my mouth was securely clamped on Joanne's cunt. "Oh, shit, baby," she moaned again and again as I attacked her pussy with a vengeance. "Eat my pussy, Ben, yes, baby, eat my pussy," she cooed as I used the first two fingers on my left hand to prop the pussy lips open, then plunged my tongue as deeply as possible into the deep, dark cavern. Joanne reacted by sliding her right hand between my face and her cunt and used the tip of her index finger to stimulate the inch-long clit that rested just under the tip of my nose. "Motherfucker," I heard Joanne say, and while the use of that term amused me considering the situation I was in, I decided to mention it to Joanne later, surely after I'd had the pleasure of fucking my stepmother.

I drove on with my tongue, washing the outer edges of her pussy with my saliva. Craning my neck backward a few inches, I watched in complete awe as Joanne set upon her clit, the fingertips alternately sliding over the love button or digging deep into her pussy. It was obvious that Joanne knew how to stimulate her cunt, and so, making a decision based on nothing but pure lust and perhaps my own self-interests, I lifted my naked body to my knees and slid forward, the head of my extremely hard dick leading the way to Joanne's cunt. Grasping the fleshy tool with both hands, I placed the tip of my cock directly below Joanne's hands, still furiously attacking her clit. "Yes, Ben, yes, don't stop now," Joanne begged when she recognized the familiar pressure of a cockhead pressed against her pussy. "Now, baby, now. I've waited too long for this."

And then, it happened. Thrusting my naked ass forward, I eased the head of my cock into and between my stepmother's hairy, aged, and exceedingly damp cunt lips and for what would certainly not be the last time, slid inch after inch of meaty, hard cock into Joanne's cunt. When I'd reached the halfway point, I leaned forward and once again clamped my mouth onto Joanne's, and again, our tongues sought the other. I'd been fairly quiet up to this point, but now that my cock was engaged in an in-and-out motion of entering then leaving Joanne's hairy pussy, I began to emit a series of low moans that fell to Joanne's ears. I guess she'd been waiting for any sign from me that I was enjoying what I was doing to her, and the moans coming from my mouth served as the sign that I had no intention of stopping something that I now realized we'd both secretly wanted for a possibly very long time.

Each time I thrust my hips forward and inched more hard cock into her pussy, Joanne began to cry out in ways I'd never heard her speak before. Oh, sure, there were the typical moans of "Yes, give it to me," or "Baby, that feels so good." But being here on the kitchen floor, fucking in a gooey and sticky mess brought something out of Joanne, and the words she began to utter were like none I'd ever heard from her before. "FUCK ME, YOU COCK SUCKER!" she yelled now, as she began to meet my forward thrusts with powerful, almost violent upward thrusts of her own. Each time she arched her back and thrust her ass upward to meet my cock thrusts, the motion was followed by loud flesh slapping sounds as her bare ass returned to the wet, sticky floor. Joanne's words caused me to counter with just as powerful thrusts so that by now, each time I slammed my cock into her sixty-three year old cunt, our food-coated bodies slid several inches across the floor. Joanne, however, either didn't realize we were moving about the floor, or perhaps simply did not care because she kept up a torrent of curse words that rang in my ears. "MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER!" she repeated time after time, making me unsure if my stepmother was addressing me directly or simply screaming these words in ecstasy. Perhaps, both.

By now, an orgasm had built up in my balls and I was ready to come. Looking down at Joanne, I mentioned this fact to her, and she responded by lifting her high-heeled feet again and locking her ankles across my naked ass. "GO AHEAD, YOU BASTARD!" Joanne screamed. "FUCK YOUR STEPMOTHER, YOU BASTARD!" I knew her words were not based on anger, but, rather, lust and it was perfectly fine with me that she used such terms. I didn't care that the sharp points of her stiletto heels were now pushing against the my naked ass cheeks and causing pain: The erotic stimulation I was feeling through the shaft of my cock more than made up for that. But just as suddenly as Joanne had locked her ankles across my ass, she unlocked them and draped each bare leg over my shoulders. For a sixty-three year old woman, my stepmother was proving to be quite nimble.

But she was also proving to be one incredible fuck. I don't know about the quality of the sex life between her and my dad, but if it was anything like what I was experiencing with her here on the kitchen floor, then I'm sure my father was a happy man to the day he died. Now that an orgasm was boiling in my cock, I selfishly wanted to reach that point where a flood of hot, pearl-tinted crème ejected from my dick and filled Joanne's pussy. But that was the inexperience in me speaking and Joanne would have no part of it. Oh, sure: here we were, a stepmother and her stepson fucking like animals on the mess-covered kitchen floor, our own bodies coated in the goo as well. And yes, my stepmother was screaming words at me I'd never heard her speak in my entire life. But if I had any thought about coming first, Joanne made sure to convince me otherwise.

With the orgasm just seconds away, I leaned downward for another deep, erotic kiss when suddenly, Joanne rolled to her right, breaking the cock-to-cunt bond that was so pleasurable. In an instant, Joanne lifted her body, stepped over me so that she was facing away from me, then slowly and seductively lowered her sauce-stained ass down, down, down until the head of my hungry cock once more touched the outer limits of her sixty-three year old pussy. By now, Joanne was squatting over my cock, sliding her ass back and forth, the pussy lips teasing my cock head. It was when I placed my dirty and goo-covered hands on her bare ass cheeks that she finally slammed her cunt down and several inches of my cock disappeared into the hairy mass that covered her cunt.

It was then that I was fucked as never before. In a torrent of action now, Joanne, my stepmother, began a series of alternating speed, up and down movements. On the down push, she slammed her pussy hard, the old cunt lips swallowing my cock with ease. But here's where her experience came in: Each upward movement was conducted slowly, ever so slowly, so that I felt the sensation of my cock leaving her cunt as much as I did when she slammed it downward and her pussy sucked my prick deeper and deeper into her pussy.

"How do you like this position, Ben, baby?" Joanne asked. I looked at the backside of my stepmother's body and found the fact that she was covered in different sauces and pastes so very stimulating. Ketchup covered the right ass cheek, but some undefined brown liquid covered the left. As I watched my cock disappear into her pussy, I couldn't help but marvel at the bright yellow - possibly mustard? - stain running down the crack of her wide ass. My eyes caught the sight of Joanne's weight being supported by the four inch heels, one of the sexiest sights I've ever seen. And when my sexy stepmother leaned backward and pressed her naked and stained back against my chest, the sensation of my cock diving even deeper into her pussy drove me that much closer to orgasm. I wrapped my arms around her body and once again found each massive titty, the nipples fitting perfectly in the palms of my hands.

"Can you believe I'm riding your cock, baby?" Joanne asked. "Can you believe you're fucking your stepmother?" She sat again, the change in position once more driving me closer and closer to exploding in her cunt. Now, the sound of Joanne's ass slapping off my upper thighs increased and I sensed that she too was nearing orgasm. And as before, my stepmother again surprised me when, without breaking the cock-to-cunt connection, she swiveled her body to the right and now faced downward at me. To my delight, my stepmother leaned forward again just enough for her massive tits to dangle in my face. I seized the opportunity and grasped each tit in my messy hands and as I had before, began to alternately suck the extended nipples. "OH, FUCK, THAT FEELS SO GODDAMN GOOD!" Joanne screamed again. "SUCK THOSE TITTIESS, COCK SUCKER, SUCK THOSE TITTIES!" It was clearly evident now that the louder Joanne screamed, and the more profane her words, the more she was enjoying fucking her stepson on the kitchen floor. I increased the tempo of my upward thrusts and together, my stepmother and I neared mutual and simultaneous orgasms.

It was Joanne who came first, much to my surprise. I'd anticipated that it would be me who exploded first, my belief based mainly on my knowledge of how much I enjoyed spewing a load of come into a woman's cunt. But when Joanne suddenly reared herself backward and grasped her tits in her own hands, I knew she was there, she was coming. ‘YES, YES, OH, HELL FUCKING YES!" my sixty-three year old stepmother screamed as she mangled her tits against her chest. Her handhold on the titties was so severe, so twisting, that I momentarily asked myself if she planned to rip the fleshy melons from her body.

But I say "momentarily" because while I watched my stepmother flay at her tits, my cock exploded, and a steady and thick stream of hot goo filled Joanne's pussy. We each acted as if a series of terrible seizures had overtaken us, our bodies working together to prolong the orgasm, but also working separately to ensure the sexual explosion we were both experiencing was as intense as possible. Every nerve and muscle in my body shook and shivered as ounce after ounce of come ejected from my cock and coated the insides of my stepmother's wonderful, inviting pussy. It was when I wrapped my hands around her waist and palmed her ass cheeks that she leaned forward and pressed the right tit squarely into my mouth. "SUCK ON THAT, BABY!" I heard her scream as her back-and-forth rocking motion took the full length of my cock into her hairy and hungry cunt. Joanne continued to moan loudly while I sucked first one nipple, then switched to the fleshy, thimble-shaped tit button.

It was clear, however, by the decreasing speed of her ass lifts that Joanne's orgasm was either ending, or had already come to an end and she was trying to milk every last burst of pleasure out of it. When our orgasms did end - entirely too soon, in my book - Joanne leaned over me, breathing heavily, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. I wrapped my arms around her naked and stained back, and began to give my stepmother a series of small, erotic kisses, my lips traveling from her lips to her neck to her ear lobes, then back to her mouth before repeating the process over again. Together, for several long moments, my stepmother and I lay on the ruined floor, my cock still embedded inside her sixty-three year old cunt, slowly regaining our strength. Joanne began to return my kisses before simply laying her tussled-hair head on my shoulder and making murmuring sounds I could not understand. Amazingly, Joanne and I fell asleep there on the kitchen floor, and despite the hardness of the floor, slept long and well.

I awoke to the sound of stiletto heels clicking on the floor beside me. Joanne had found the ability to stand, and by holding onto the kitchen counter, was able to draw me to my feet as well. We did not fall this time, but if we had, I have a feeling we'd have repeated the same floor-fuck as before. No, what my stepmother and I did was to make our way to the kitchen sink where we rinsed our bodies just enough to not stain the carpet outside the kitchen. From there, we proceeded to her bedroom, further finding our way to her large shower stall. As I walked behind my stepmother, hand in hand, I couldn't help but stare at her naked ass and the way her legs looked in the high heels. My cock was rock hard before we even reached the shower. And for that reason, I prevented Joanne from removing her high heels, and with my support, she stood under the hot, running water, soaking her body for the third time that day, but now wearing four inch high heels under the hot, cleansing water. Once I was cleansed of the food and sauces, I turned my stepmother toward the shower wall and fucked her from behind, the added height of her high heels assisting me in reaching her cunt without having to bend my knees. She squealed with pure erotic delight when I used the long, twelve-inch shower brush handle on her, gently inserting the white, plastic handle in and out of her pussy, as a make-shift dildo. Because she begged me to, I dropped the long-handled brush after several moments and replaced it with my now aching cock. Once again, we came in torrents as streams of hot water ran down my back but as streams of hot come once again filled Joanne's pussy.

And so it went for the next several days, neither Joanne nor I leaving the house. There was no reason to leave, actually, because I had everything I needed right there: a sixty-three year old pussy that my stepmother willing provided to me every time I asked. When I left two days later, I drove away with a wide smile on my face, the smile staying there for the four hour drive to my new home.

Thinking the time with my stepmother was now over, I found that I was happily mistaken. A message awaited me on the home phone, left there by Joanne. "I'm flying to your home Tuesday," Joanne's voice said. "And I plan to fix dinner like you've grown accustomed to."