Stepmom Almost Caught Us

Okay, so technically she's my stepmom, but the story isn't really about her. It's about him, my stepdad, and what happened in the pantry last Sunday while she was standing ten feet away making a salad.

It was just a normal family dinner. She was cooking, he was setting the table, I was supposed to be helping but I was mostly just drifting around the kitchen in my little skirt and blouse, getting in the way. At some point she sent me to the pantry for the olive oil, and I went, and I was reaching up for the top shelf when he slipped in behind me.

The pantry is tiny. Barely room for two people. He closed the door most of the way, leaving it open just a crack so it wouldn't look suspicious, and suddenly we were pressed together in the dark between the cereal boxes and the canned tomatoes, and my heart was hammering so loud I was sure she could hear it.

His hands went to my waist, then lower, sliding under my skirt to cup my ass, and I gasped. He kissed me to swallow the sound, deep and hungry, and I kissed him back, my hands clutching his shirt. We both knew she was right there. We could hear her chopping vegetables, humming to herself, completely unaware. And that knowledge made everything a thousand times more intense.

His fingers slipped under my panties from behind, sliding between my legs with this slow confidence that told me he'd been imagining this too, and found me already soaked. I whimpered into his mouth, and he pressed his forehead to mine, his breathing ragged and hot against my skin. He worked me slowly, circling and pressing, varying the rhythm until my whole body was trembling, and I had to grip the shelf so hard my knuckles went white to stay upright. My knees were going weak, and the cans rattled softly every time I shifted.

Then we heard it. Her footsteps. Coming toward the pantry. She called out asking if I'd found the olive oil, and I froze, my eyes wide, his fingers still inside me. He didn't pull away. He stayed exactly where he was, his hand moving in slow, tiny circles, and I had to answer her like everything was normal while he touched me.

I managed to say the oil was on the top shelf and I couldn't reach it, my voice only shaking a little. She said she'd come help in a second. A second. We had one second. He pressed harder, faster, and the pressure built so fast I thought I'd scream. I bit down on my own knuckle, hard, and came silently against his hand, my whole body convulsing in the dark pantry while my stepmom rinsed lettuce ten feet away.

She pushed the door open just as the last wave faded. He stepped back smoothly, grabbing a jar of pasta sauce like he'd been looking for it all along, and I held up the olive oil with what I hoped was a normal face. My face was burning. My legs were shaking. She looked at us, smiled, and said dinner was almost ready.

She had no idea. She stood right there and had no idea that her husband's fingers had just been inside me, that I'd just come apart in her pantry surrounded by her groceries. If my stepmom caught us, really caught us, it would destroy everything, and somehow that makes me want it even more.

Dinner was torture. I sat across from him, trying to eat, trying to act like a normal girl at a normal family dinner, while my panties were damp and my body was still humming with aftershocks. Every time our eyes met across the table, I had to look down at my plate before my face gave me away. She kept asking if I was feeling okay because I was so flushed, and I blamed the hot kitchen, and he nearly choked on his water.

That was Sunday. It's been days, and I keep replaying it. The footsteps. The fear. His hand not stopping. The way I came so hard I saw stars, completely silent, with her right there. I've never been that close to getting caught, and I've never wanted anything the way I want a repeat.

I keep volunteering to help in the kitchen now. I keep finding reasons to go to the pantry. And yesterday, when she sent me for the flour, he followed me in again, just for a moment, just long enough to brush his hand across my ass and whisper that next time, he's going to make me come with her in the very next room, and he's not going to let me make a single sound.

I'm counting the minutes until Sunday dinner.