My Stepmom Caught Me With Her Panties, And Now I'm In Charge

The cursor blinked against the blank field of the application form, a steady pulse that matched the ticking in Aaron’s skull. He had been staring at the same question—Describe a time you demonstrated leadership—for twenty minutes. The words refused to assemble. From the hallway came the soft pad of Kirsty’s bare feet on laminate, then the click of the linen-cupboard door, the hush of fabric being folded. Each sound was precise, ordinary, and still it pulled every nerve in his body toward the thin gap beneath his bedroom door.

He rubbed his palms across his knees. The house smelled faintly of her again—something clean and floral with a sour note of sweat underneath, the way skin smells when you’ve slept in it. His father had died thirteen months ago; the scent had lingered like a stubborn guest, growing fainter, then stronger whenever Kirsty passed. Aaron told himself it was only chemistry, molecules clinging to wallpaper and couch cushions, but the explanation never convinced his body. His body remembered the first time he had noticed it, the summer he turned eighteen, when she leaned across him to reach a glass and the heat off her neck rose against his cheek. He had blamed the ache in his groin on teenage randomness. Five years later the ache was still there, sharpened by proximity and the fact that she was no longer, legally or morally, anything like a parent.

The application glowed on the screen. Salary expectations. He typed a zero, deleted it, typed it again. Outside, the feet moved toward the bathroom. Water rushed, pipes knocking once against the wall they shared. He pictured her bending over the sink, the neckline of her T-shirt falling away, the swing of her breasts inside cotton, the dark space between them. The image arrived fully formed, as it always did, without his permission. He closed the laptop and pressed the heel of his hand against the ridge in his jeans, half pain, half plea.

The house felt smaller every day, yet he could not leave. Rent anywhere else required the job he could not finish applying for. Grief had shrunk their world to these four rooms and an unpaid mortgage. They spoke in whispers of logistics—milk, bins, whose turn to buy toilet paper—polite as strangers sharing a lift. At night he listened for her footsteps through the wall, counting them like a prisoner tracking the guard. When she finally stilled, the silence was worse; it left him alone with the knowledge that she was lying thirty feet away, wearing only the T-shirt she slept in, breathing the same air.

He stood, crossed the room, opened the door a crack. Steam drifted from the bathroom, carrying her scent in warm billows. He inhaled until his lungs pressed against his ribs, then shut the door again, quietly, as if the air itself might testify against him.

He told himself he only wanted to look. The back door had clicked shut—he’d heard it through his own window, heard the squeak of the garden gate, the drag of the recycling bin on gravel. Five minutes, maybe ten. Enough to cross the landing, open her door, breathe the air she slept in, then retreat.

The bedroom was dim, curtains still drawn. The bed was unmade, sheet rucked up to expose the striped mattress protector. On the floor the wicker hamper sat with its lid askew. He lifted it. A tangle of colours: black yoga pants, a grey bra, a balled-up white T-shirt stiff with deodorant. And there, halfway down, a pair of navy silk knickers, the waistband folded inward so the gusset faced up. A faint pale streak marked the centre. His pulse clanged against his ears.

He lifted them between thumb and forefinger. The silk was cool, lighter than he expected. When he unfolded them the scent rose immediately: detergent, yes, but beneath it the unmistakable tang of her—musky, acidic, alive. He brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled so deeply the material suctioned against his nostrils. Blood dropped through his body like a stone through water, landing hard between his legs.

He shoved his track pants down just far enough. His cock sprang up against his stomach, already wet at the tip. He wrapped the knickers around the shaft, silk sliding on skin, and began to stroke. Each pull dragged the gusset across his glans, the dried stiff patch now softening with his own fluid. He imagined her wearing them, the way the seam would split her, press and shift while she moved through the house unaware that hours later he would be jerking into them. The thought tightened his balls. He turned to brace his back against the doorframe, knees bending, rhythm speeding, the hamper lid still balanced against his thigh.

The click was soft but final. The handle turned and the door nudged his shoulder. He jerked sideways, pants tangled at his thighs, cock jutting absurdly, the knickers half wound around it like a flag. Kirsty stepped in, garden gloves still on, a black bin liner in one hand. She stopped two feet away. Her gaze travelled from his face to his erection to the navy silk and back again. No gasp, no scream. Only the small sound of the plastic bag settling against her leg as her grip loosened.

He couldn’t breathe. His heartbeat shook the room. She should shout, throw something, shove him out. Instead she reached behind, shut the door with a soft click, and kept her hand on the knob. The gloves were speckled with soil. A faint breeze of outside air came off her arms.

“Do you need a minute?” she asked. The words were level, almost kind, as if she’d found him struggling with a jar lid rather than her underwear. She didn’t look away from his face. Colour rose in her cheeks but her voice stayed steady. “I can wait outside.”

He couldn’t answer. The pulse in his throat blocked every word. His cock, still rigid, twitched against the bunched silk as if it hadn’t registered the catastrophe. He shoved it back inside his trousers, the waistband snapping against his skin, and let the knickers fall. They landed on the carpet like a scrap of evidence at trial.

Kirsty didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on his face, not on the wet tip that had just disappeared, not on the navy cloth. The silence stretched until the small sounds of the house returned: the fridge humming downstairs, a sparrow outside the window, his own blood roaring.

She took one slow breath, then another. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said, as though she’d simply forgotten why she’d come upstairs. She turned the handle behind her, stepped backward into the hall, and pulled the door until the latch clicked.

Aaron stayed frozen. The air felt thinner, as if she’d carried some of it out with her. He stared at the panties on the floor, unable to decide whether to hide them or put them back in the hamper. Either option seemed to confess again. Finally he kicked them under the bed with the side of his foot, wiped his palms on his thighs, and opened the door.

The landing was empty. He could hear water running now, the kettle filling. Normal, domestic. He descended the stairs one at a time, knees uncertain. When he reached the doorway to the kitchen she was standing at the counter, back to him, spooning coffee into a French press. Her spine was straight, shoulders squared, but her hands moved with deliberate care, the way people handle glass they expect to shatter.

She didn’t turn. “Sit,” she said quietly.

He pulled out a chair. The table between them felt inadequate, a flimsy border. Steam rose from the kettle, clouding the window. When the water boiled she poured, the plunger waiting, and finally faced him. Her colour had settled; the flush was gone. Something else had replaced it—an alert, almost scientific curiosity.

“Do you want to talk first,” she asked, “or shall I?” Her tone was mild, the same she’d used when they discussed electricity bills. It dismantled the last of his anger at himself and left only a raw, vibrating uncertainty, as if the floor might tilt without warning.

He opened his mouth. Nothing arrived. She waited, patient, fingers curled around her mug, and the silence grew electric, humming between them like a wire pulled tight.