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.

Kirsty set her mug down, the ceramic clicking against wood. She folded her hands, knuckles white, and looked at him as though he were a column of figures that refused to balance.

“I haven’t been touched,” she said, “in fourteen months.”

The words were flat, almost administrative. Aaron felt them land in the hollow beneath his ribs. She continued, voice steady, eyes on the salt shaker between them.

“Your father was ill a long time. The last year we slept like siblings—no, like neighbours. I stopped feeling desirable somewhere around his second round of chemo. I thought I could wait it out, that eventually the wanting part of me would die too.” She exhaled through her nose. “It didn’t.”

Aaron’s palms stuck to his jeans. He could still smell her on his fingers, a faint sour trace that felt like evidence.

“I’m not angry,” she added, answering a question he hadn’t asked. “I’m...interested. You took something you wanted without checking if it was offered. That’s generally unacceptable.” She paused, tilted her head. “But it’s also the first time in over a year anyone has looked at me like I’m not furniture.”

The kettle clicked off, cooling. Outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping across the ceiling and vanishing.

“I propose an arrangement,” she said. “Secret. Limited to this house. You may explore whatever impulse led you upstairs. I get to feel wanted again. We keep it transactional so no one confuses it with affection.” She pushed a blank sheet of printer paper across the table, then a biro. “Write the rules. You have control. I retain the right to stop anything at any moment. Agreed?”

Aaron stared at the pen. The plastic was chewed, teeth marks circling the cap. He wondered if they were hers or his father’s. He picked it up; his hand trembled enough that the nib rattled against the paper. He wrote:

1. You undress only when I say.
2. You touch yourself only when I say.
3. I watch. Nothing else—tonight.

He slid the sheet back. Kirsty read, nodded once, the movement small and precise. “Ten minutes,” she said, rising. “I’ll shower. Give you time to change your mind.” She left the kitchen without looking at him, her bare feet silent on the lino.

Aaron sat while the clock above the stove counted down. His heart beat so hard he could see his T-shirt jump at the collar. He thought about packing a bag, climbing out the window, walking to the station. Instead he stood, turned off the lights, and climbed the stairs.

Her bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it fully open. The lamp on the dresser cast a low orange circle. Kirsty stood at the foot of the bed in her robe, belt knotted tight. She met his eyes, waited.

He pointed to the chair in the corner—his old school desk chair, painted white, chipped at the edges. “Sit,” he said, voice cracking. She obeyed, hands on her thighs, robe still closed.

“Open the robe. Keep it on your shoulders. Hands on the arms of the chair.”

Fingers moved to the belt, paused, then tugged. Silk slid apart, revealing the line between her breasts, stomach, the dark hair below. She sat back, palms flat against the wood, robe framing skin.

Aaron exhaled through his mouth. He stayed standing, jeans uncomfortably tight. “Touch your breast,” he said. “Only the left. Slow.”

Her hand rose, fingertips brushing the underside, then cupping, lifting. He watched the nipple tighten. His own hand rested on his fly but he didn’t move it yet; the ache was part of the rules.

“Spread your legs. Heel on the chair edge.”

Knees parted. The robe fell away from her thighs. He could see the shine of her, the way she opened like a split fruit. A pulse of blood surged to his cock; he pressed his palm against the denim seam, relief and torture combined.

“Now yourself,” he said. “Two fingers. Don’t close your eyes.”

She dipped her hand, middle and ring finger sliding along the crease, then circling the top where skin met wet. A small sound escaped her, more air than voice. Her hips lifted, just barely.

Aaron counted seconds—five, ten—watching the rhythm she settled into, the way her chest lifted faster, the flush rising from sternum to throat. He unzipped, freed himself, stroked once, twice, then stopped. The rule was watch, nothing else—tonight. He held his cock at the base, squeezing hard enough to blunt the urgency.

Her breathing fractured. She bit her lower lip, eyes still open, fixed on his face. A tremor started in her thighs, transferred to the chair legs, a faint rattle against the wall. She came with a swallowed cry, neck stretched, tendons sharp.

Silence rushed back in. She let her hand drop to her lap, fingers glistening. Aaron tucked himself away, zipper loud. For a moment neither moved.

He crossed the room, lifted the robe belt, and tied it again, knuckles brushing her stomach. “That’s enough,” he said, voice hoarse. He stepped into the hall, closed the door without waiting for an answer.

Downstairs, he filled a glass of water, drank it in one go, then stared at his reflection in the dark window above the sink. The house felt altered, rooms rearranged by an invisible hand. He heard the shower start upstairs, water drumming faintly through pipes. He wondered if she was washing him off or preparing for round two, then realised he hadn’t decided what tomorrow looked like. The rules had ended at the bedroom door; beyond it, the world remained unwritten.

Morning light came grey through thin curtains. Aaron woke with the taste of copper in his mouth, realising he’d bitten his lip sometime during the night. He checked his phone: 07:12. No messages, no summons. He pulled on yesterday’s jeans and went downstairs.

Kirsty stood at the counter buttering toast. She wore the same robe, belt cinched tighter than before. A plate waited for him. She slid it across without comment, then returned to her own breakfast, chewing slowly, eyes on the garden beyond the glass.

He couldn’t taste the bread. Every sound—the scrape of the knife, the clink of her mug—felt amplified, as though the kitchen had become a recording studio. He cleared his throat. “About last night—”

She lifted a hand, palm out. “We don’t review during daylight.” The sentence was soft but final. She rinsed her plate, left it in the rack, and walked out.

Aaron sat there until the butter hardened on the crust. Then he opened a job site, scrolled without reading, and closed the laptop again.

At 19:43 his phone buzzed.

<Ready when you are.>

He stared at the letters until they blurred. A second message appeared.

<Bring the paper.>

He tore a fresh sheet from the printer tray, carried it upstairs. Her door was already open. The lamp glowed; the chair waited in the same spot. Kirsty stood barefoot at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, robe closed. She looked like someone waiting for instructions at a railway counter.

Aaron closed the door. The click echoed. He set the paper on the dresser, wrote two new lines below yesterday’s rules:

4. You speak only if I ask.
5. You finish when I do.

She read upside-down, nodded once. He sat, spread his knees to make space, and unzipped. The sound ripped the quiet.

“Robe off. Kneel facing me, knees apart.”

Silk slid from her shoulders, pooled on the carpet. She lowered herself, spine straight, breasts shifting with the descent. Her hands rested on her thighs, palms up. The posture looked almost devotional.

He wrapped his fist around his cock, still soft enough to bend. “Touch yourself. Same pace as me.”

Her right hand moved, two fingers stroking through damp hair, then lower, parting. She mirrored his rhythm—slow pulls, slow circles—breath hitching each time he tightened his grip. Colour rose in her chest, a flush that climbed toward her throat. She kept her eyes on his hand, not his face, tracking every stroke.

Minutes stretched, elastic. The room filled with small wet sounds, his breathing, hers. When he sped up, she followed; when he paused, she stilled, fingers resting lightly, waiting. A bead of sweat slid down his ribs.

He felt the moment approach like a door opening somewhere inside his skull. “Now,” he said, voice rough. He came across his fist, pulses striped across knuckles. She gasped, thighs trembling, and followed, forehead dropping to the carpet as her own orgasm rolled through her.

Silence returned, heavier. He wiped his hand on his T-shirt, tucked himself away. She stayed kneeling, chest rising fast, skin shining.

He tore the paper in half, then again, letting the pieces fall around her like confetti. “Tomorrow,” he said, not a question. He left without waiting, pulse hammering against the inside of his wrists, unsure whether the rules were expanding or dissolving entirely.

The next morning the kettle clicked off at 07:04, four minutes earlier than yesterday. Aaron noticed because he had been counting seconds again, the way he used to count them on the starting blocks back in school. He sat at the table with his laptop open to a listing for an apprenticeship in Leeds—£4.81 an hour, relocation not covered—and watched Kirsty move between counter and fridge in the same grey T-shirt she slept in. The hem rode up when she reached for the milk, exposing the band of her knickers, pale blue with a frayed elastic edge. She didn’t adjust it. She didn’t look at him either. The silence felt engineered, like a pane of glass you could press your hand against without ever quite touching the other side.

He typed “team player” and deleted it. His phone buzzed: a mate asking about football later. He answered maybe, thumb hovering, then locked the screen. The air carried a faint metallic taste, the way it does before snow, though the forecast said nothing about it. Every atom in the room seemed to know what they had done and refused to comment.

Kirsty set her mug down exactly one centimetre from yesterday’s ring mark. Steam curled between them. She opened the back door to shake the teabag into the bin and cool morning air rushed in, lifting the hairs on his forearms. A normal Thursday. A normal woman disposing of evidence. When she turned, her nipples showed stiff against cotton; either the chill or last night still running underneath her skin. She didn’t cross her arms. She simply walked past him, close enough that the fabric brushed his shoulder, and climbed the stairs. He listened to her footfalls fade, bathroom door latch, shower start. The water pipes gave their small metallic moan, same as they had for years, but now it sounded like a password.

He rubbed his eyes until sparks appeared. The laptop screen had timed out; his reflection stared back, mouth swollen from biting it. He closed the lid, carried it to the lounge, set it on the coffee table, opened it again. A job site refreshed itself: Do you have the right to work in the UK? He clicked yes, though it felt like perjury. Upstairs, the shower stopped. A drawer opened, shut. He imagined her bending for underwear, deciding whether to choose the white cotton he had watched her soak or something new he hadn’t yet earned. His pulse thudded in the fork of his legs, half arousal, half panic.

He texted his mate: can’t make it, got interview prep. The lie sat sour on his tongue but the idea of leaving the house felt impossible, like stepping outside a film set and breaking the scene. He opened another listing—apprentice joiner, Sheffield—and read the requirements three times without absorbing a word. Footsteps descended, slower than necessary. Kirsty appeared in the doorway towelling her hair, wearing jeans and nothing else. The towel covered her face; her breasts swayed with each rub, nipples still peaked. She lowered the towel, met his eyes, said nothing. The message was clear: daylight belonged to ordinary life, but the ordinary had already curdled.

She disappeared into the hall. A moment later the vacuum started, its drone filling the house like white noise designed to drown out confession. Aaron stared at the screen, cursor blinking in an empty text box labelled “Why do you want this position?” He typed: Because I need to know I can still want something that doesn’t end in silence. He deleted it, shut the laptop, and went to the kitchen where the kettle had boiled again, water evaporating into the same air they breathed, the same air that carried her scent every time she passed.