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.

The vacuum stopped. Aaron heard the plug pulled from the wall, the cord recoiling with a snap. He opened the fridge, stared at nothing, closed it. His phone buzzed again: a single emoji of a moon. He typed back the clock symbol. Agreement made.

They met at 21:30, not in her room but in the narrow box of the utility space where the washing machine lived. It smelled of detergent and warm rubber. Kirsty wore a plain black slip, the kind that ended mid-thigh, arms bare, feet cold against the tile. She had folded a towel and placed it on the lid of the dryer, a small courtesy.

Aaron shut the door. The light was a single bulb behind wire, humming. “Hands on the machine,” he said. “Bend.”

She did. The slip rode up, exposing the lower curve of her arse, skin mottled from the chill. He kept his jeans on, liking the restriction, liking the way the denim pressed against him when he stepped closer. He ran a palm over her back, counting vertebrae through fabric, stopping just above the waistband of her knickers. She shivered but stayed still.

“Tell me what you want.”

She hesitated. The rules said she could answer direct questions.

“I want to come without touching myself,” she whispered.

He smiled, though she couldn’t see. “Hold the edge.”

He eased her pants down to mid-thigh, enough to trap her legs, then slid two fingers along her seam, barely entering. She was already slick, heat meeting cool air. He kept the touch feather-light, tracing, retreating, never staying. Each time her hips chased him he withdrew entirely, waited, started again. The dryer beneath her palms vibrated faintly as the house water pump kicked in somewhere else; the tremor travelled through metal into her arms, a second tease.

Minutes passed measured in breath. He watched the blush spread down her thighs, watched her toes curl against the floor. When her legs began to tremble he pressed his thumb hard over her clit, not moving, just pressure. She came with a stifled grunt, forehead knocking the wall, inner thighs clenching around nothing.

He stepped back, wiped his fingers on the towel, let her stand. Colour mottled her chest; her pupils swallowed the brown of her eyes. She looked drunk. He felt taller.

“Bed,” he said. “Same time tomorrow.”

She nodded, pulled her underwear up, and slipped past him, fingers brushing his hip—an accident or gratitude, impossible to tell. The door clicked shut behind her.

Aaron stayed in the humming light, listening to the house settle, to the faint tick of the cooling dryer element. He realised he had not removed a single item of his own clothing, yet the taste of control sat metallic and bright on his tongue, more potent than any orgasm he could remember.

The next night he chose the sitting room because the curtains were already drawn and the bulb in the ceiling fitting had blown, leaving only the lamp on the side table. Kirsty stepped inside at twenty-two past nine, wearing the white cotton again, the fabric so thin he could see the dark blur of nipples through it. She stopped just past the doorway, hands loose at her sides, waiting.

Aaron stayed on the couch, legs spread, jeans unbuttoned but still on. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Touch yourself the way you did the first night, exactly the same speed.”

She obeyed. Her right hand slipped under the hem, fingers parting folds he knew were already wet; her left hand cupped her breast, thumb grazing the tip through cotton. The lamp painted a half-circle of light across her throat, rising and falling with each breath.

He didn’t touch himself. He watched, and spoke.

“Slower.”

Her wrist paused, then circled again, languid.

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Hot,” she whispered. “Like I’m swelling shut.”

“Keep the pace.”

A tremor ran up her thighs. He could see the moment the edge gathered, the way her knees softened inward.

“Stop.”

She froze, fingers motionless against her flesh, pulse visible in the hollow of her collarbone. A small sound escaped, almost a protest.

“Count to ten. Out loud.”

She did, voice cracking on seven, eight. When she reached ten he said, “Again. From the beginning.”

The second count was ragged; by six her legs shook. On ten he let her resume, faster this time, and her hips jerked forward like they’d been pulled by string.

“Look at me.”

Her eyes opened, glazed, pupils blown wide. He held her gaze and said, “Come.”

The word landed like a slap. She buckled, hand still moving, a low moan tearing out of her that didn’t sound like it belonged inside the house. The cotton between her fingers darkened with a sudden gush; he smelled her, sharp and unmistakable, and something inside him snapped its leash.

He was on his feet without deciding, crossed the rug in two strides, seized her wrist and yanked her forward. She stumbled against him, still pulsing, and he kissed her hard, no preamble, tongue sweeping the taste of her gasp into his mouth. The kiss tasted of salt and copper and shock.

She clawed at his belt while he shoved the soaked cotton up to her waist. Jeans dropped to mid-thigh; he lifted her, thighs spreading around his hips, and sank into her in one thrust, no guidance needed. She was slick, burning, inner muscles fluttering around him like aftershocks. A groan tore out of his chest, raw, unfiltered.

They moved without rhythm, more collision than dance. Her back hit the wall beside the lamp, picture frames rattling. He drove up into her, each stroke bottoming out with a wet sound that filled the room. She bit his shoulder through his T-shirt, teeth blunt, nails digging crescents into his scalp.

The orgasm that ripped through him felt like it started in his spine and emptied every vein. He came deep, hips jerking, her name somewhere in the noise. She followed a breath later, forehead slamming against the wall as she clenched around him, milking the last pulses.

They stayed locked, breathing hard, sweat sealing chest to chest. Neither spoke. After a minute—maybe five—he eased out, let her legs slide to the floor. Semen slipped down her thigh, over the elastic of the bunched knickers. She looked at the mess, then at him, eyes unreadable.

He opened his mouth, closed it. The rules lay in pieces around them like the torn paper from the first night. She reached out, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, the gesture tender and stunned, as if her hand belonged to someone else.

He expected her to leave. The script they had written together—unspoken but absolute—dictated that after the final shudder they would retreat to separate corners of the house and pretend the air between them had not been rearranged. Instead she lowered herself to the rug, knees folding, and rested her cheek against his sternum as if the floor were a place they had always belonged. His shirt was still rucked up from her fingers; her slip remained bunched at her waist, the cotton darkened and clinging. Neither moved to fix it.

The lamp hissed quietly, filament cooling. He could feel her heartbeat through the thin bone of her temple, fast at first, then slower, matching his. Their mingled smell rose around them, sharp and mammalian, impossible to mistake for anything domestic. He waited for the panic to arrive—guilt, recrimination, the inevitable internal lecture about boundaries—but it didn’t come. What arrived was the awareness that her hair, still damp at the roots, smelled of the same supermarket shampoo she had used when he was seventeen and pretending not to watch her bend over the dryer. The continuity unsettled him more than the act.

“I applied for the joinery place in Sheffield,” he said into the dim. His voice sounded scraped, unfamiliar.

She made a small affirmative sound, palm sliding to rest over his ribs. “When would you start?”

“Haven’t got it yet. Interview next week.”

“You’ll get it.” A statement, not encouragement. She traced a circle on his skin, the callus on her thumb catching. “You’re good with your hands.”

A laugh tried to form in his throat, died somewhere between oxygen and memory of her thighs clamping his hips. He let his fingers drift to her shoulder blade, feeling the fine tremor that hadn’t quite stopped. “What will you do with the garden if I’m gone?”

“Potatoes,” she answered immediately. “Proper ones. The ground’s soft since the rain. I’ll dig tomorrow.” She paused. “You could help before you leave.”

He pictured the two of them on their knees in dirt, sun on their backs, the absurd ordinariness of it. The image lodged behind his eyes, warm and painful. “I could come back weekends.”

“Could,” she echoed, non-committal, but her leg slid across his, anchoring.

Silence returned, thicker now, threaded with something that felt like negotiation. He listened to the house: fridge humming, a car passing, the faint tick of the thermostat. All the sounds that had once signalled safety and boredom now seemed precarious, as if they might decide to stop at any moment.

“I don’t want to move out,” he admitted. The words left his mouth before he could weigh them, hanging naked above them both.

She lifted her head enough to meet his eyes. “Then don’t.” No demand, simply permission, and something softer he wasn’t ready to name. She settled back down, ear over his heart, and exhaled. “We’ll figure out the rent.”

He stared at the ceiling, pulse slowing under her weight. The stickiness between them cooled, turning tacky, but neither shifted to find a cloth. Instead he closed his hand over her spine, counting vertebrae the way he had counted rules, feeling each one real and alive beneath his palm.

The next afternoon the house felt too bright, too loud with ordinary things: kettle clicking off, a blackbird outside scolding a cat, Kirsty humming something tuneless while she changed the sheets. Aaron lay on his bed trying to read apprenticeship brochures, the paper smelling of ink and distance. Every creak of floorboard made him picture her hands smoothing cotton, the same hands that had gripped his neck two nights ago. He gave up, went to find her.

She was in her room, back to the door, lifting a corner of the mattress to tuck the fitted sheet. The movement pulled her dress tight across her hips; he saw the faint outline of underwear, pale blue today. He stepped inside without asking, closed the door. She glanced over her shoulder, a smile flicking on and off.

“I have to finish this before Brenda comes for coffee,” she said. “She’s bringing the parish raffle tickets.”

Aaron’s stomach contracted. Brenda from two doors down, the woman who spoke in exclamation marks and noticed everything. He had chatted with her once about guttering, stood on the front path while she catalogued every house on the row. Kirsty straightened, smoothed hair behind her ear, already shifting into public face—cheerful, widowed, coping.

He should leave. Instead he stayed, pretending to examine the framed photo on her dresser, the one taken before his father died. Sunlight poured through the thin curtains, striping the bed with gold. Kirsty bent to plump pillows; her dress rode up an inch. He stepped closer, hand sliding under the hem, fingers tracing the back of her thigh. She stilled, let out a small warning breath, but didn’t move away. He pressed closer, mouth to her neck, tasting salt and washing powder.

The doorbell rang.

They froze. Two musical chimes, then silence. Kirsty’s eyes widened, panic flickering. She mouthed, “Closet,” shoving him toward the mirrored wardrobe. He slipped inside among her dresses, the dark smelling of cedar and her skin. She slammed the door; darkness swallowed him.

Through the slats he watched her cross the room, smoothing dress and hair, switching on a smile. Footsteps on the stairs, voices floating up.

“Kirsty, darling! I brought the lemon drizzle you like.”

“Brenda, you’re an angel.”

Their chatter moved into the kitchen below, kettle re-boiled, chairs scraping. Aaron crouched among hanging fabrics, heart hammering. Silk brushed his cheek, a sleeve slipping against his arm like a ghost. He recognised the green print she had worn the first night she let him watch; the hem still carried a faint stain from when she had come too hard and too fast. He clenched fists, irrationally furious that Brenda was drinking from Kirsty’s mugs, sitting at Kirsty’s table, occupying the space he had mapped with his mouth.

Minutes stretched. He heard laughter, the clink of teaspoon against china. Every polite syllable felt like a small betrayal. He pictured Kirsty below, ankles crossed, offering biscuits, the same woman who had begged him to fuck her harder two nights ago. The two images refused to align; they scraped inside his skull.

Finally the front door opened, closed. Car started, drove off. Footsteps back upstairs, slower now. The closet door opened a crack; light fell across his face. Kirsty peered in, apology already forming.

He pushed out, past her, breathing hard. “You were gone twenty minutes.”

“She wanted to show me photos of the flower-show tent.” Kirsty’s voice was soft, cautious. “I couldn’t rush her.”

He wanted to shout, to accuse her of enjoying the normalcy, of forgetting him in the dark. Instead he caught her wrist, fingers digging. “Next time you tell her you’re busy.”

“Aaron—”

“No.” He backed her against the dresser, mouth crushing hers, tasting lemon and guilt. His free hand yanked her dress up, palm sliding between her legs, finding cotton already damp. She gasped into his mouth, protest dissolving. He pressed harder, owning the wetness, marking territory with every stroke.

When he pulled back her pupils were blown, lips swollen. She didn’t scold him for the bruises blooming on her wrist; she simply rested her forehead against his, breathing hard.

“I’m here,” she whispered, as if reading the jealousy coiled in his chest. “I’m still here.”

The call came while he was sanding the back gate, grit clogging his fingernails. He let the phone ring twice, wiped sweat on his jeans, answered.

“Mr. Dwyer? It’s Sheffield Joinery. We’d like to offer you the apprenticeship, starting September.”

The woman’s voice was brisk, cheerful, already slotting him into rotas and induction days. He listened, nodding at nothing, stomach folding in on itself. When she ended with “Congratulations,” he managed a thank-you and hung up.

Kirsty was at the sink, peeling carrots. She glanced over, saw his face. “Good news?”

He told her. She set the peeler down, water running unnoticed over her fingers. “That’s wonderful,” she said, tone careful, like she was reading a line someone else had written.

He waited for her to add something—how proud she was, how far he’d go. Instead she reached for a tea towel, dried each finger slowly, eyes on the draining board. The silence felt like a slammed door.

Upstairs he stared at the acceptance email, cursor blinking on “Confirm.” One click and the future locked into timetables, rent, lads he didn’t know. Another life where no one knew he’d fucked his landlady on her deceased husband’s side of the bed.

He closed the laptop without clicking.

That night he texted her the usual code—one zero, one one. She knocked at ten-thirty, wearing the grey slip he’d chosen weeks ago. He sat on the chair, jeans still on, shirt half-buttoned. No preamble.

“Take it off. Fast.”

She paused, sensing the edge, then obeyed. The slip pooled. He didn’t let her fold it, didn’t let her keep the blue knickers.

“Knees. Crawl.”

The carpet burned her skin; he watched the pink form and darken. When she reached him he didn’t touch her face, didn’t allow the small kisses she sometimes pressed to his thigh. He unzipped, guided himself into her mouth with one deliberate thrust, deeper than usual, until her throat closed in protest. Tears welled, mascara bleeding.

“Stay.” The word came out flat, angry.

She held, breath hitching, saliva trailing. He counted to ten, pulled out, left her gasping.

“Turn around.”

No preparation, no checking if she was ready. He pushed inside in a single motion, hand pinning her shoulder to the mattress. She cried out, fingers clawing the sheet. He set a brutal pace, hips slapping flesh, the sound raw, wet, merciless. Each thrust carried an unspoken accusation: you’ll leave, you’ll leave.

When she came it was sharp, almost painful, a sob catching in her chest. He followed, grinding deep, spending with a grunt that felt like punishment.

After, she stayed face-down, back rising fast. He pulled out, wiped himself on the sheet, stood.

“Clean up,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’ve got forms to fill.”

He left her there, light still on, door clicking shut.

She didn’t move for a long time. When she finally pushed herself up, the sheet clung to her thigh, damp and wrinkled. Her mascara had run in two faint gray lines toward her chin. She looked older, suddenly, the overhead bulb carving shadows under her eyes.

Aaron watched from the doorway, zipper half-closed, pulse still banging in his ears. He expected her to reach for the robe, to follow him out like she always did, asking whether he wanted tea. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders curved inward, and stared at the carpet as if she’d lost something there.

“Get the light,” he said, already turning.

Her head lifted. “Don’t.”

The single word stopped him more effectively than a slammed door. He faced her, irritation prickling. “What?”

“You don’t get to tell me to clean up.” Her voice was low, scraped raw. “Not after that.”

He exhaled through his nose, impatient. “You safeworded?”

“No.” She swallowed. “I didn’t think I needed a word to be treated like a person.”

Heat flashed up his neck. “You wanted rough. You came.”

She flinched, then steadied. “I came because my body reacts. That doesn’t make it good.”

The room felt smaller, air thinning. He shifted his weight, searching for the familiar script—command, compliance, the neat loop that kept everything in place. It wasn’t there. Her eyes, glassy but unblinking, held him pinned.

He tried anyway. “Kirsty—”

“It’s over.” She said it quietly, almost politely, the way she might refuse another biscuit. Then louder, finding the floorboards: “This is finished.”

He heard himself laugh, a short sharp sound. “You’re throwing me out?”

“No.” She stood, the slip falling off one shoulder, skin blotched red where his fingers had been. “I’m choosing not to do this anymore. With you. With anyone.”

The silence that followed felt surgical, cutting away every cushion of noise: no hum of traffic, no radiator clicks, only the wet click of her swallow.

Aaron’s hands hung useless at his sides. He wanted to argue logistics—rent, September, the apprenticeship he hadn’t accepted—but the words jammed behind his teeth. She walked past him into the hall, steps measured, and pulled the cord that killed the bulb. Darkness dropped like a lid.

He stayed where he was, listening to her feet on the stairs, the tap running, the soft decisive snick of her bedroom lock. Somewhere inside those sounds he recognised the end, not just of the game but of the version of himself he had been playing. The house settled around him, indifferent, and for the first time since his father died the quiet felt absolute, final, no next sentence waiting on the other side of the page.

The first day he stayed in his room, door locked, blinds down. He listened to her move through the house—kettle, vacuum, the soft thud of the washing machine—each sound a reminder that she was still there, still choosing to exist without him. He tried to sleep but kept seeing her face in the dark, the way her mouth had trembled when she said person. He hadn’t known a word could feel like a slap until then.

He didn’t eat. He scrolled job boards without reading them. At one point he opened the apprenticeship email again, stared at the bright blue “Confirm” button until it blurred. He imagined clicking it, packing a bag, boarding the train. The fantasy felt hollow, like a set he might walk onto and then realise he didn’t know his lines.

The second day the house went quiet. She must have gone out; the car wasn’t in the drive. He stood at her bedroom door, hand hovering an inch from the wood, breathing in the faint trace of her perfume that clung to the varnish. He pictured the room beyond: the unmade bed, the robe hanging on the back of the chair, the bedside drawer where she kept the lube and the spare batteries and the little silver bullet he’d made her hold against her clit until her thighs shook. All of it suddenly off-limits, a museum he wasn’t allowed to visit.

He retreated to the kitchen, filled the kettle, then simply stared at it. The silence was different now—not the charged hush before a storm but the flat calm after. He understood, with a clarity that made his chest ache, that he had used the rules like a fence, keeping her close but still on the other side. Close enough to touch, not close enough to lose. A coward’s geometry.

He kept circling back to her eyes. Not the hurt—he could rationalise that, pretend it was just surprise, overstimulation, anything—but the moment after, when she’d looked at him like he was a stranger who had wandered into her house by mistake. That look had sliced clean through every pretence he’d built. It left him raw, skinned, nothing left but the simple, terrifying fact: he wanted her. Not the game, not the power, not the obedient body. Her. Her terrible jokes, her habit of humming while she chopped onions, the way she always double-checked the locks even when he’d already done it. He wanted the parts she had never offered, the parts that couldn’t be written on a sheet of paper and signed.

The kettle clicked off. He stayed where he was, palms flat on the counter, head bowed like a man in a church he’d forgotten how to enter. Outside, dusk gathered, turning the window into a dark mirror. His reflection looked young, unfinished, someone still waiting for permission to begin.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, heart battering his ribs. Her door was ajar; a stripe of lamplight lay across the carpet. He tapped once, knuckles barely grazing the wood.

“Yeah?” Her voice sounded smaller than he remembered, as if someone had turned the volume down on the whole house.

He pushed the door wider. She sat cross-legged on the bed in an oversized T-shirt, hair damp at the temples, a book open but upside-down. She didn’t close it, only watched him hover on the threshold like a delivery he hadn’t ordered.

“I can’t keep not saying it,” he began, then stopped. The rehearsed apology tangled on his tongue. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, felt the click travel up his arm. “I was cruel the other night. Not rough—cruel. I’m sorry.”

She set the book aside, fingers smoothing the cover. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He laughed once, breathy. “Kirsty, I fucked your throat and walked out. That’s not okay.”

Her shoulders lifted, fell. “I meant okay, I hear you.”

The distance between them—three metres, maybe four—felt like a country. He crossed it, dropped to his knees beside the mattress so their eyes were level. “I’m scared of that job. I’m scared of leaving. I’m scared of staying and still losing you.” The words came out raw, unordered. “I don’t want the rules anymore. I want you. The real one. The one who burns toast and hogs the remote.”

Colour rose in her cheeks. “You never asked what I wanted.”

“I know. Tell me.”

She studied him, gaze moving over his face like she was mapping damage. “At first I just needed to feel something other than empty. I thought if I gave you the steering wheel, I could coast.” Her voice cracked. “But then I started waiting for your texts. I started saving the bruises like souvenirs. I missed you when you were right here.” She pressed a hand to her chest, as if shoving the admission back in. “I don’t want a tenant who pays rent in orgasms, Aaron. I want—” She stopped, eyes shining. “I want the kettle boiled when I come downstairs. I want your socks in my laundry basket. I want to argue about what’s for dinner and still end up feeding each other ice-cream on the sofa.”

He reached, slow enough she could refuse, and laid his palm over her knee. “I can do socks. I can even do washing-up if you don’t watch too closely.”

A laugh hiccupped out of her, half-sob. She slid her fingers between his. “No contracts this time.”

“No contracts,” he echoed, and felt something unclench inside his chest so completely it hurt.

She tugged the hem of his T-shirt. He lifted his arms, let her peel it away. The cotton landed somewhere behind him; neither looked. Her shirt followed, dropped to the floor. No flourish, no command—just skin meeting skin, the shock of it warm, alive.

He kissed her collarbone first, open-mouthed, tasting shower water and salt. She exhaled into his hair, fingers sliding to the nape of his neck, holding rather than steering. When he brushed the swell of her breast she arched, not in performance but invitation, and he took the nipple gently between his lips, feeling it tighten against his tongue. A soft sound left her, half sigh, half his name.

They eased back onto the duvet. He kicked off his jeans, underwear, everything, then stretched beside her, thigh slipping between hers. The hair at her core was damp—not from arousal yet, just the ordinary leftover of a bath—and he liked that, the lack of theatre. He cupped her there, palm resting, no demand. She rocked once, twice, coating his skin with faint heat, then guided his hand upward to her sternum so she could feel her own heart hammering against his fingertips.

“Stay,” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

He entered her slowly, eyes open, watching the flicker in her pupils as the head of his cock breached her, then the inch-by-inch slide until their hips met. No dirty commentary, no timed pauses—just breath syncing, foreheads touching. She hooked an ankle behind his knee, anchoring. When he drew back the friction dragged a shudder through them both; when he pushed forward she lifted to meet him, inner walls fluttering in welcome.

Sweat gathered at his spine, dropped onto her breast. He licked it away, salt stinging his tongue. Her hands mapped his shoulder blades, nails pressing crescents that would fade by morning instead of blooming into bruises. The rhythm stayed unhurried, a conversation rather than a speech, each stroke asking, still good? answered by the clutch of her thighs, the soft exhale against his jaw.

Pressure built low in his abdomen, sweet and inevitable. He slipped a hand between them, found her clit slick, circled once. She gasped, hips jerking, and he felt the first pulse around him, a silent yes. He followed on the next thrust, come spilling deep, the pulse matching hers, mouths pressed together to swallow the mutual sound.

They stayed joined until he softened, then separated only far enough to share the same pillow. Her leg draped over his hip, his palm cradled the small of her back. Outside, the sky paled to pearl, a thin blade of light sliding across their discarded clothes.

She traced a fingertip along his hairline. “Apprenticeship’s an hour on the train.”

He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I’ll commute.”

Neither spoke again. They watched the room brighten, two bodies warm under cooling sheets, the future unwritten but suddenly breathable.