The air conditioner in the main room of the cabin rattled with the steady, protesting rhythm of a dying man’s last breaths. It was a sound I’d known every summer for the last decade, the soundtrack to our family’s annual escape to Sol Perdido. The resort’s name was a joke, The Lost Sun, in a place where the sun was a relentless, oppressive entity, beating down on the Costa Rican coastline. From my cool, dim perch on the worn rattan sofa, the world outside the sliding glass door was a bleached-out panorama of white sun, green jungle, and the impossibly blue Pacific.
I was supposed to be reading about post-colonial economic theory, a summer assignment that felt especially absurd in a place that seemed to exist outside of time. The textbook lay open in my lap, its pages dense and impenetrable. My father, Richard, would have quizzed me on it. But he wasn’t here. A last-minute merger, a conference in Singapore—the reasons were always different, but the result was the same. It was just me and my stepmother, Elle, rattling around in this oversized cabin that smelled of old wood, salt, and the faint, floral scent of her expensive perfume that lingered in every room.
Sol Perdido was our habit. We could have afforded the sleek, modern resorts further up the coast, the ones with infinity pools and Michelin-starred chefs. But we came here, to the slightly peeling paint and the tiki bar with the leaky thatched roof, because it was familiar. It was our comfortable, respectable version of slumming it. And today, like most days, the stale familiarity and the drone of the air conditioner were losing their battle against the magnetic pull of the scene just beyond the glass.
And then there was my stepmother.
She was lying on her stomach on one of the sun-bleached lounge chairs on the deck, a still life of meticulously crafted nonchalance. She was a vision rendered in shades of gold and green. The green was her bikini, a slash of vibrant emerald against her deeply tanned skin. It was an impossible piece of clothing, a testament to the power of string and wishful thinking. The top was two small, sharp triangles of fabric, the strings tied so tight across her back they pressed into her oiled skin. The bottom was even more audacious, a thong that did little more than bisect the perfect, heavy globes of her ass, a thin green line disappearing into the shadowed valley between them.
Her skin, already golden from the first week of our stay, glistened with a sheen of the coconut and tiare flower oil she favored. I could practically smell it from inside, a cloyingly sweet and luxurious scent that was purely her. It highlighted the elegant musculature of her back, the taut lines of a body honed by five-day-a-week pilates sessions and the quiet determination to defy age. Her legs were long and powerful, ending in perfectly pedicured feet, the nails painted a demure, pearly white that seemed almost laughably innocent in contrast to the rest of the display.
But my eyes, as always, were drawn to her ass. It was her masterpiece, the undeniable focal point of her physique. It was large, high, and flawlessly round—a perfect, shelf-like creation that seemed to defy the very laws of gravity and anatomy. Even as she lay on her stomach, it retained its incredible shape, two perfect, heavy hemispheres of taut flesh barely restrained by that disappearing emerald string. It was the kind of ass that made men stupid, that stopped conversations, that you saw in pornography but rarely encountered in the wild. And it belonged to my stepmother.
Even from here, I could picture her face, probably tilted down toward a magazine, framed by the medium length straight dark brunette hair she kept meticulously colored and styled. I knew the subtle, tasteful work she’d had done had erased the lines a forty-five-year-old woman should have, leaving her with high, sculpted cheekbones and skin that looked perpetually smooth and rested. I knew the startling, intelligent green of her eyes, eyes that could be warm and maternal one moment and hold a sharp, mischievous glint the next. And I knew that if she were on her back, the emerald top would be fighting a losing battle against the twin masterpieces of her breasts—large, flawlessly round, and sitting high on her chest with a defiance of gravity that only the best plastic surgeon in Miami could provide. It was that combination—the perfect ass, the perfect breasts, the ageless face—that made men lose their minds. I'd seen it my whole life: my father’s business partners staring a little too long at her cleavage over dinner, my own high school friends suddenly becoming stammering idiots when she’d answer the door, the way waiters and valets fawned over her. It was a constant, a toxic cocktail of pride, embarrassment, and a deep, churning arousal I had spent years trying to ignore.
A familiar, hot flush crept up my neck, a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the tropical sun. It was the deep, shameful throb of arousal, an unwanted and insistent pulse in my groin. And just as quickly, it was followed by its shadow twin: a cold, gripping shame that twisted my stomach into a knot. I was twenty-five years old, a college student, a man by any definition. And I was sitting in the dark, getting a hard-on while staring at my own stepmother’s ass.
The thought was vile. It made me want to slam my textbook shut and retreat to my room, to punish myself with economic theory until the feeling went away. But I couldn't move. My gaze was fixed, locked on the scene. A part of me, a dark and possessive part, became consumed with a different kind of heat: anger. The deck wasn’t private. Our cabin was one of a hundred, arranged in terraced rows slanting down to the beach. From my window, I could see the decks of at least three other cabins. I could see the path where the resort’s groundskeepers—local guys my age, or younger—pushed their wheelbarrows of mulch and dead leaves. Anyone could look over and see her.
And she had to know that. There was no way she didn't. This wasn't the innocent sunbathing of a woman lost in a book. This was a performance. She was presenting herself, an offering to the sun, to the sky, to any pair of eyes that happened to drift her way. Was she just oblivious, wrapped up in her own world of luxury and comfort? Or was it deliberate? Was there a quiet thrill she got from it, from knowing that men were watching, that their wives or girlfriends were watching, that the whole damn resort could be captivated by the sheer, unapologetic spectacle of her body?
The question was a special kind of poison. I didn't know which answer was worse. The idea of her being so naive seemed impossible for a woman so sharp, so socially aware. But the idea of her doing it on purpose, of my respectable, upper-class stepmother consciously curating this pornographic display for an unseen audience… that was a thought both monstrous and intoxicating. It made my possessive anger burn hotter, even as the traitorous pulse in my groin grew stronger, more demanding. I remained frozen at the window, a prisoner in the cool dark, watching my stepmother bake in the lost sun.
The sound came first, a crunch of sandals on the gravel path that led to our cabin, followed by the low murmur of familiar voices. Then they emerged from the treeline, walking into the punishing afternoon sun: Marco and Javier. They were a study in contrasts, my two local friends, the anchors of my summer life here. Marco was lean and wiry, his body a corded bundle of muscle from surfing and working maintenance at the resort. He moved with a slick, predatory confidence. Javier was softer, a little chubby around the middle, his energy eager and boyish, his movements less calculated. They were both shirtless, their skin baked to a deep, permanent brown that made my own carefully managed tan look pale and academic.
They were laughing about something, Javier slapping Marco on the back, when they rounded the corner of the deck. And then they saw her. The laughter died in their throats, cut off as if by a switch. Their entire posture changed. They straightened up, puffing out their chests, their casual slouch replaced by a slow, masculine swagger. It was a primal, unconscious display, two young bucks stumbling upon the territory of a lioness. I watched from my cool, dark observation post, my fingers tightening on the edge of my textbook.
“Señora Elle!” Javier’s voice was too loud, booming into the quiet afternoon air with a false cheerfulness that was almost comical. He had a wide, dopey grin on his face, but his eyes weren’t looking at her face. They were locked on the glistening, oiled expanse of her body, wide and hungry.
Marco was smoother, as always. He let Javier’s loud greeting break the ice, then followed up with a cool, charming smile. “We were just heading to the beach. Thought we would see if Liam wanted to come.” His excuse was plausible, but his gaze was just as ravenous as Javier’s, though he was better at masking it, letting his eyes sweep over her in a slow, appreciative appraisal rather than a fixed stare.
Elle didn’t even flinch. She didn’t lift her head from the towel it was resting on. “Liam’s inside, boys. Studying, I think.” Her voice was a low, drowsy purr, muffled slightly by the towel. “Being so serious, as usual.”
Javier, emboldened, took a step closer, right to the edge of her lounge chair. He held up a plastic water bottle. “It is so hot today, Señora. You must be thirsty.” As he leaned in to place it on the small table beside her, his hand seemed to spasm. The bottle slipped, clattering onto the deck and rolling under her chair. “¡Ay, que tonto soy!” he exclaimed, slapping his own forehead. “I am so clumsy. Forgive me.”
It was the most transparently obvious move I had ever seen. He got down on one knee, his head disappearing under the lounger as he fumbled for the bottle. But I knew what he was doing. From that angle, he had a perfect, prolonged, intimate view. He was just inches from her hip, looking up at the long, elegant curve of her thigh, the taut swell of her ass cheek, the disappearing emerald green string of her bikini bottom. He was down there for a long time, far longer than it should take to find a water bottle.
When he finally resurfaced, his face was flushed a darker shade of red under his tan, and he was breathing a little too heavily. “Found it,” he announced triumphantly, placing it on the table. Elle just gave a small, amused hum of acknowledgment, a sound that told me she knew exactly what he’d just done.
Marco, meanwhile, had taken a different approach. He didn’t crowd her. He sauntered over to the deck railing and leaned against it, striking a casual pose. But I saw the calculation in it. The position was perfect. From there, he could speak to her while having a clear, unobstructed view down the length of her body, a direct line of sight to the side of her breast, barely contained by its small triangle of green fabric. “Javier is right, Señora Elle. You must stay hydrated.” His voice was smooth as silk. “A woman like you… you cannot let yourself wilt in this sun.”
That was the line that finally made her move. It was a slow, languid, almost cinematic motion. She pushed herself up with her arms, her back arching like a cat’s. The muscles in her back and shoulders rippled under her oiled skin. Then, with a sigh that was pure performance, she rolled over from her stomach onto her back. The movement was a revelation. Her large breasts, freed from the mild compression of lying on them, seemed to swell and settle, straining against the scant fabric of her bikini top. The deep, shadowed valley of her cleavage was now aimed directly at the sky, a decadent offering.
She stretched her arms over her head, a gesture that pushed her chest out even further, tightening the skin over her flat, toned stomach. The emerald green bottoms, now viewed from the front, were cut shockingly high, revealing the sharp, prominent bones of her hips. The thin strip of fabric in the front did little to conceal the perfect, swelling mound beneath it. It was a devastatingly erotic display, all performed under the guise of a simple, natural movement.
“You boys are so sweet to worry about me,” she said, her eyes still closed, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She let her hands fall to her sides. She finally opened her eyes, letting her green gaze drift from Marco’s fixed stare to Javier’s flushed face. The smile on her lips widened, full of pure, confident amusement. “Be careful, boys,” she murmured, her voice a low purr that seemed to vibrate in the humid air. “All this intense heat can make a person dizzy.” She gestured vaguely at the blinding sun, but her eyes never left theirs, holding their gazes for a beat too long. “You wouldn’t want to take a fall.”
Her warning hung in the hot, heavy air, as slick and transparent as the oil on her skin. She wasn't just talking about the sun; she was talking about herself. She was telling them she knew exactly what kind of heat she was giving off, and that looking too long could be dangerous. It was a seductive threat disguised as a piece of friendly advice. She was playing with them, acknowledging their slobbering lust only to remind them that she was the one in complete control, the queen enjoying the fawning, helpless attention of her court. I watched from behind the glass, my knuckles white where I gripped the edge of the textbook. A white-hot spike of jealousy shot through me—jealousy of them, for being the object of this private, sultry performance, for their audacity, for the simple, crude way they were devouring her with their eyes. But beneath the anger, a deeper, darker current pulled me under: a powerful, shameful wave of arousal, so intense it made my breath catch in my chest. I hated them. I couldn’t believe her for allowing it, for encouraging it. And God help me, I had never wanted to be out there more in my entire life.
My hand moved before I had even formed a conscious thought. The textbook slid from my lap, hitting the cool tile floor with a dull, heavy thud. It was the only excuse I had. My feet carried me to the sliding glass door, my heart hammering a frantic, angry rhythm against my ribs. I couldn't stay in the dark. I couldn't be a spectator to this any longer. The possessive, territorial part of my brain, the part that screamed mine, had taken control.
The rattle of the cheap aluminum door sliding open was loud and aggressive in the quiet afternoon. All three heads on the deck snapped in my direction. The effect was instantaneous, like flipping a switch that turned off a vibrant, colorful film and replaced it with a grainy, black-and-white documentary. The charged, electric atmosphere vanished, sucked out into the humid air.
“Hey,” I said, my voice tight, clipped. I let the screen door slam shut behind me, another small act of aggression. “What’s going on?”
Marco pushed himself off the railing immediately, his lazy, seductive posture gone. He was just a guy now, clapping me on the shoulder with a forced familiarity. “Liam! Man, we were just coming to get you. Figured we’d hit the waves.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Javier, who had been practically drooling a moment before, suddenly seemed fascinated by a loose thread on his board shorts. “Yeah, man,” he mumbled, not looking at me. “Just saying hi to your stepmom. Keeping her company while she gets her tan.”
The transformation in my stepmother was the most jarring of all. The seductive lioness, the sun-drenched siren, was gone. In her place was Elle, the concerned stepmom. She sat up straighter on the lounger, the movement no longer a slow, sensual stretch but a crisp, efficient motion. She reached for the large, fluffy white towel that lay folded beside her and draped it over her lap, a prim gesture that covered her from her navel to her knees, a sudden act of modesty that felt like a lie.
“Liam, sweetie,” she said, her voice now carrying a bright, maternal tone that grated on my nerves. “I’m glad you’re taking a break. You’ve been cooped up in there all day.” She shaded her eyes with her hand, a picture of wholesome concern. Her emerald green bikini top still strained to contain the heavy swell of her breasts, but the towel acted as a psychological barrier, instantly desexualizing the scene, or at least attempting to. “You should put on some sunscreen before you go out. You know how you burn.”
I ignored her, my gaze dropping to the weathered wood of the deck, unable to look at her or at them. The lie of her sudden modesty was too much. I felt trapped, a weird mix of rage and embarrassment making my skin feel too tight. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the distant squawk of a parrot.
It was Marco who finally broke it, clapping a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of forced camaraderie. "Man, this heat is killer," he said, his voice regaining some of its easygoing charm. He was trying to salvage the moment, to pull us all back from the awkward edge we were teetering on. "We were about to head to the Tiki for a cold one. You should come. Get out of the sun for a bit."
Javier nodded eagerly, seeing a lifeline. "Yeah, dude! Let's go. My treat."
Anything to get away from the thick, cloying tension on the deck felt like a good idea. I needed a beer. I needed to not be standing here next to her, with the memory of their hungry eyes still hanging in the air. And a dark, curious part of me wanted to hear what they would say once we were away from her influence. "Yeah," I mumbled, finally looking up. "Okay. Let's go."
I didn't look at my stepmother as we left, just called a vague "Going out," over my shoulder. I didn't want to see the placid, questioning look I knew would be on her face. The walk to the bar was mostly silent, the three of us navigating the gravel paths under the weight of what had just happened.
The Tiki Bar at Sol Perdido was an exercise in calculated decay. The thatched roof was artfully frayed, the bamboo bar stools were deliberately wobbly, and the air smelled of that specific resort cocktail of stale beer, salt, coconut sunscreen, and fried plantains. We found a sticky table in the corner and slid into the chairs. The class divide was never more apparent than in these moments. Marco leaned back, running a hand through his damp hair, his thin, unbuttoned shirt doing little to combat the humidity. Javier, still smelling faintly of kitchen grease from his earlier shift bussing tables, was already flagging down the bartender. And then there was me, the college kid on vacation, my biggest worry a dense textbook on economic theory.
The first round of beers arrived, and the three of us drank in a tense silence, the awkwardness from the deck having followed us to the bar. We were all processing what had just happened, what had been offered and what had been interrupted. As usual, it was Javier, less skilled in the art of subtlety, who broke the quiet, diving headfirst into the topic we were all avoiding.
“Your stepmom is… really cool, man,” he said, his tone full of a strange, almost reverent awe. He looked down at his beer, swirling it in the bottle. “She’s not like other stepmoms, you know? She’s… generous.”
I knew exactly what he meant by generous. It wasn’t about money or her time. It was about the show she had put on, the effortless way she had commanded their attention and allowed their worship before I stepped in. I felt a hot flush of shame, but it was immediately tangled with a perverse flicker of pride. He was right. She wasn't like other stepmoms. The thought was both my cross to bear and my darkest secret. I just mumbled, “She’s okay,” and took a long pull from my beer, hoping they’d drop it.
But Marco leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial low. “Generous is one word for it,” he said, a sly grin playing on his lips as he picked up where Javier left off. “She has an incredible body, Liam. For any age.” He said it like a statement of fact, but it felt like a probe, a test to see how I would react, how much I would let them get away with. I knew this was my chance to shut it down, to tell them to back off, to establish a boundary. But the words wouldn't come. A part of me, the part that had been secretly aroused by the whole sordid display, was morbidly curious to hear what they would say next. My silence was a tacit permission, an invitation to continue.
I got up from the table, needing a moment, needing another beer. “I’m getting another round,” I announced, leaving them alone at the table. I walked to the bar, my back to them, but my ears straining to hear. The din of the bar—the blender whirring, a couple arguing in German—was just loud enough to muffle their words. I paid for the beers and turned back. As I approached, I saw them leaning close together, their heads nearly touching, their conversation intense and quiet. They went silent the moment they saw me, their expressions shifting to a strained neutrality.
My stomach clenched. I hadn't heard what they said, but I didn't need to. I could feel it—a thick, conspiratorial energy coming off them in waves. I knew, with a certainty that made the cold beer in my hand feel warm, that they had been talking about her. Plotting. Scheming. The knowledge was a violation. It made me feel sick. It made me feel like an accomplice. And as I sat back down and forced a smile, a dark, thrilling thought bloomed in the back of my mind: I wondered what their plan was.
The rest of the conversation at the bar was a careful dance around the subject. We talked about surfing, about the new bartender who was supposedly giving out free drinks, about everything and nothing. But the real topic, my stepmother, was a silent fourth person at our table, a massive, unspoken presence that made every mundane sentence feel heavy with subtext. They couldn't say what they really wanted to with me sitting right there, and I couldn't bring myself to ask the questions that were burning in my own mind.
I left them there after another beer, walking back to the cabin under a sky thick with stars that offered no clarity. The resort was quieter now, the pathways lit by low, amber lamps that cast long shadows. The air was cooler, but the heat inside me was still raging. When I let myself into the cabin, it was silent. A soft light was on in the kitchen, but her bedroom door was closed. She was likely asleep, completely unaware of the conversations her body had inspired, of the crude plotting and the dark curiosity that now consumed the three men in her orbit.
But as I lay in my bed, staring into the oppressive darkness of my room, there was no peace. My mind was a racetrack, replaying the day’s events on a relentless loop: the impossible green of her bikini against her golden skin, the hungry, possessive looks on my friends’ faces, the unspoken conspiracy at the Tiki Bar. My curiosity about their plan had morphed into something more potent. My own imagination, a traitorous and creative force, began to wonder what that plan could be, what it should be.
Sleep was impossible. The cabin was a tomb, dark and silent except for the frantic, electric hum of the cicadas in the jungle outside. The sound drilled into my skull, a rhythm that matched the frantic, looping reel of images playing behind my eyelids. I saw her arch her back, a silent, sultry offering to the sun and to them.
I threw back the thin sheet that covered me, the fabric suddenly feeling suffocating. The air in my room was cool and damp from the rattling air conditioner, but my skin was hot, feverish. The memories were a brand, searing themselves into my mind, and the shame and anger I’d felt earlier had burned away, leaving behind a purer, more dangerous substance: a thick, undeniable ache of raw need. It was a physical presence in the room, a throbbing in my groin that demanded attention.
My hand, moving with a will of its own, slipped beneath the waistband of my boxers. My cock was already hard, a thick, hot rod of flesh, straining with a painful pressure. I wrapped my fingers around the base, the skin slick and sensitive. A low hiss of breath escaped my lips. It was a surrender. I was done fighting it.
My eyes closed, and I let the fantasy take me. I was on the deck again, but this time I wasn’t watching from behind the glass. I was right there, a ghost in the scene. I watched Javier kneel, his face disappearing under the lounge chair. I heard Marco’s smooth, predatory compliments. But this time, the script changed. My mind, a traitorous and creative director, began to supply the details I hadn't seen, the words I hadn't heard.
In my head, Marco didn’t just lean on the railing. He walked over, his shadow falling over my stepmother’s body. He offered her the tanning oil. “You missed a spot, Elle,” he would have murmured, his voice a low thrum of insinuation. Her hand wouldn’t have taken the bottle. She would have simply nodded, giving him permission. I imagined his calloused, rough hands, slick with her expensive oil, rubbing slow, deliberate circles on her lower back, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive dimples just above her ass. I saw his fingers stray lower, “accidentally” brushing against the top curve of her ass cheek, right where the emerald fabric met her skin.
And Elle? In my fantasy, she didn’t just tolerate it. She arched into his touch, a soft, breathy moan escaping her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Right there…” she would have whispered. Javier would have been watching, his eyes wide, his own hand moving to the front of his shorts. I could almost hear their imagined whispers. “Fuck, man, she wants it,” Javier would say. “She’s so wet for this,” Marco would reply, his hands never stopping their worshipful massage.
My own hand moved faster, my breathing becoming a ragged pant. The friction was a sweet, desperate fire. I pictured Elle rolling over, her glistening, heavy breasts aimed at them. I saw Javier, emboldened, reaching out and letting his fingers trail over her knee, then up the inside of her thigh. She wouldn’t have stopped him. She would have parted her legs just slightly, an invitation. They would have crowded her then, one on each side, their hands exploring her, learning the terrain of her body, their faces flushed with a disbelief and lust so potent it was almost tangible.
But as the pressure in my own body built to an unbearable peak, my friends began to fade from the fantasy. They were crude props, a way to get the scene started, but they were no longer necessary. They dissolved into the heat haze, leaving only me and her. My hand was no longer my own; it was Marco’s, it was Javier’s, it was the hand of every man who had ever wanted her.
I saw her breasts, spilling from the tiny emerald cups, her dark nipples hard as pebbles. I saw the taut skin of her stomach, the flare of her hips, the impossibly small strip of fabric that barely concealed. The image was so vivid, so powerful, it shattered the last of my control. My hips began to buck against my own hand, my thrusts becoming frantic, desperate. I was lost, drowning in the taboo, and I didn't want to be saved. A single, choked word, a name, a title, ripped from my throat in a guttural whisper that was swallowed by the dark room.
“Elle…”
The climax hit me like a physical blow, a violent, shuddering spasm that arched my back off the bed. A hot, thick wave of release pulsed from me, flooding my hand and stomach. My mind went white, empty of everything but the raw, blinding sensation. For a single, perfect second, there was no shame, no guilt, only a profound, all-consuming release.
Then, just as quickly, it was over. The heat vanished, and a chilling cold spread through my limbs. The blinding white in my vision faded, replaced by the crushing reality of the dark room. The triumphant roar of the cicadas outside now sounded like a mocking laugh. My body slumped back against the mattress, slick with sweat and the sticky, cooling evidence of my transgression. The smell of my own seed filled my nostrils, suddenly acrid and foul. I felt a wave of self-loathing so intense it was nauseating. I was disgusting. A pervert. I had taken something sacred and defiled it in the privacy of my own mind. Silently, I swung my legs out of bed and went into the bathroom to clean myself up, the sordid reality of my actions a cold, heavy weight in the pit of my stomach.
By next afternoon, the memory of my late-night fantasy was a greasy film coating my thoughts, making the air thick and hard to breathe. Elle was nowhere to be found. A note on the kitchen counter, written in her elegant, looping script, simply said, “Gone for a swim, sweetie. Don’t wait up for lunch. Xo.”
My feet carried me through the resort, my path preordained. I didn't check the secluded beach coves or the quiet, adults-only spa pool. I went straight for the heart of the resort, the main pool, a sprawling, chaotic hub of activity that smelled of chlorine and cheap piña coladas. And that’s where I found them.
They weren't in the center of the action. They had claimed a small, semi-secluded cluster of lounge chairs near a gurgling waterfall feature that was meant to look like a natural rock formation. It was a tableau of casual intimacy. Elle was reclining on a lounger, a pair of oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a book lying unread on her stomach. Marco and Javier were sitting in upright chairs, leaning in, laughing with her. A sweating pitcher of pale pink margaritas and three half-empty, salt-rimmed glasses sat on the table between them. They were their own self-contained world, a private party of three, and the sight of it made me feel like an immediate and unwelcome outsider.
I ducked behind a large, leafy potted palm, the rough ceramic cool against my back. From my hiding spot, I had a perfect, unobstructed view. Elle had changed her bikini. Today, she was wearing a stark, clean white. It was a classic string bikini, but I could tell, even from a distance, that the fabric was expensive. It was a suit that projected an image of class and decorum, a stark contrast to yesterday's brazen emerald thong.
And yet, watching them, I felt a new kind of jealousy burn in my gut. It wasn’t just the raw, sexual jealousy of the day before. This was something more complex. This was a social betrayal. They were sharing jokes, sipping drinks, enveloped in a bubble of easy familiarity. They were his friends, and they were laughing with his stepmother in a way that felt far too comfortable, far too intimate. He was the odd one out, a peeping tom spying on his own life.
“It’s too hot, Señora Elle!” Javier’s voice carried over the din of the pool. He stood up, stretching theatrically. “You have to cool off. A woman as hot as you will catch on fire!”
Elle laughed, a full, throaty sound that was deeper and richer than her usual polite chuckle. “Oh, you’re terrible, Javier. Such a flatterer.”
“He is right,” Marco chimed in, his voice a low, smooth purr. “You must join us.”
With a playful grin, Javier scooped a handful of water from the pool and flicked it in her direction. The droplets arced through the bright, sunny air, landing on her chest and stomach. She let out a theatrical gasp, feigning shock, though her laughter gave her away. “Alright, alright! You win!” she cried, getting to her feet with a fluid, athletic grace that made my mouth go dry. “You’ve convinced me.” She walked to the Roman steps at the shallow end and descended into the water slowly, engaging them in a small, laughing splash fight that was the picture of innocent, harmless fun.
I watched, my heart a dull thud in my chest, as they played for a minute. Then, she turned to get out. She walked up the steps, her body emerging from the turquoise water like a modern-day Venus. Water streamed from her, plastering the white fabric of her bikini to her skin. And then I saw it. The effect I had been dreading—and secretly craving.
The water darkened the material, causing it to cling to every curve and contour of her body like a second skin. The powerful, round shape of her breasts was perfectly sculpted, the fabric pulling taut over their heavy undersides. And most devastatingly, where the suit covered her nipples, the wet cloth created a faint, shadowed outline of her pink areolas. They were barely visible, the impression of them was definitely there, a ghostly, undeniable hint of the dark, sensitive flesh that lay just beneath the thin, clinging barrier.
My mind started to race, tumbling over itself in a frantic effort to understand. Was this an accident? Was it possible she didn't know the suit would do this? Or was this the most calculated, high-level form of exhibitionism imaginable? To choose a suit that appeared modest, only to have it reveal its secret when wet, offered her the perfect alibi. It was a masterful stroke of plausible deniability. The ambiguity of it was a special kind of psychological torture, more potent than any overt display.
She reached her lounge chair and grabbed a towel. Marco’s eyes were fixed on her chest, his gaze hungry and intense. He tried to sound casual, but his voice was thick, husky. “Careful, Elle,” he said. He had dropped the formal "Señora," a deliberate step over a line. “That suit is… very flattering when wet.”
Javier just sat there, a stupid, slack-jawed grin on his face, his eyes wide as saucers.
And then came the moment that confirmed everything. Elle looked down at her own chest, her expression one of perfect, innocent surprise, as if she were seeing the effect for the very first time. “Oh, my goodness,” she said, her voice light and airy, putting a hand to her mouth in a flawless gesture of mild embarrassment. “Look at that. I had no idea.”
But then she looked up. Her eyes met Marco’s, and for a single, fleeting second, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her lips. Her eyes held a flicker of deep, private amusement, a flash of pure, triumphant power. It was there and then it was gone, replaced instantly by her mask of benign surprise as she wrapped the towel primly around her torso.
But I saw it. From my hiding place, I saw that flicker of a smile. And in that instant, I knew. It wasn't an accident. None of it was. This was a game, a complex and dangerous one, and my beautiful, sophisticated stepmother was a grandmaster. A cold dread washed over me, immediately followed by a hot, undeniable surge of lust so powerful it made me dizzy. My hand moved on its own, a desperate, unconscious reflex, cupping the thick, hard bulge that strained against the front of my shorts as I continued to watch the most dangerous woman I had ever known.
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