My Stepmother Is Younger Than Me and Can’t Stand Me

I came back to my father’s house after a year backpacking around Southeast Asia. The last thing I expected when I crossed the garden at eleven in the morning, my hangover clawing at my temples and my throat ruined from yelling all night with my old friends, was to find two strangers in bikinis filming themselves by the pool.

One was Camila, my father’s new wife. I’d known her for three days—just long enough to know she was twenty-five, had had three surgeries, and ran a social-media channel where she advised girls her age about creams, diets, and vacations in Bali. My father, Hugo, had pulled her out of a club in Marbella six months earlier and married her in Las Vegas. I turned thirty-three in June. There were eight years between us. And she was my stepmother.

The other girl was her friend Brenda, identical in build and mentality. She held the phone with her very long nails and laughed with a laugh that bounced off the concrete walls of the house my father had ordered built when my mother was still alive.

“We look hot as hell, Cami!” Brenda said without taking her eyes off the screen.

“No doubt about it!” my stepmother replied, brushing her bangs aside with one finger.

Like Narcissus leaning over the pond, they admired their beauty not in the clear water of a lake, but in the polished screen of a fifteen-hundred-euro phone. And there I was right behind them, in the shot, barefoot, shirtless, wearing frayed jeans hanging low on my hips and a beer bottle in my right hand.

The sun hit me like a slap as I emerged from the cave of the bedroom. I lifted the bottle and pressed it to my forehead, trying to get the cold glass to give me something close to my senses.

“And who’s that?” I heard Brenda say from across the garden.

“My son,” Camila answered without turning around, with a disgust the camera caught perfectly.

“Hey, you! Yeah, you,” Brenda insisted, raising the phone. “Would you mind moving aside? You’re ruining the shot.”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” I growled, my voice in tatters. “This is my house.”

I walked over to the sun lounger in the shade and collapsed onto it like a sack. One leg hanging off, the other stretched out, my feet black with garden dirt. I closed my eyes. The ice-cold beer slid down my throat and for an instant returned me to a less miserable version of myself.

“What an asshole,” Brenda said, not bothering to lower her voice. “And we looked so cute, Cami. Look at the house, look at the pool. And there’s that guy lying there like a dog.”

I opened one eye. Camila looked at her with that soft little censuring expression they teach good girls to wear.

“Ignore him. Get in the water, come on.”

They got in. Brenda yelped at the cold and Camila laughed. The water was icy at that hour of the morning, and the sudden plunge raised gooseflesh over their shoulders as if they were chickens. I saw, despite not wanting to see, how their nipples outlined themselves through the thin bikini fabric. My stepmother’s were red. Her friend’s were electric blue. Neither of them covered up. On the contrary: they settled against the pool edge and turned back toward the phone.

I laughed to myself. I knew perfectly well what they were doing. That video would be viral before noon. Two hot babes with their nipples showing, a designer pool, and a glass-and-concrete house in the background. It was gold. They knew it, wanted it, and would monetize it as if they were the ones who had worked thirty years to get all of it.

My father was killing himself on construction sites five hundred kilometers away, closing a development of villas in the mountains. And the girl who signed with his surname was showing her tits for free to ten thousand middle-school followers belonging to her best friend.

Be nice to him, Cami, please, my father had told her the night before he left. I’d heard him from the hallway. He’s my son and he hasn’t set foot in the house for a year.

But her friendship with Brenda was not exactly going in that direction.

“Sorry, handsome,” the friend said again from the water. “Are you going to stand there much longer?”

Camila tugged Brenda by the shoulder. Her friend laughed with that laugh of a rich girl who thinks she’s terribly clever. I took another swig of beer and, when the air in my stomach rose, let it out in a clean, shameless burp that reverberated against the house wall.

“Gross,” Brenda spat.

“Brenda, enough,” Camila whispered, and for a moment I thought she was really going to take charge. But her friend wasn’t in the mood for orders.

“Such a shame, girl. With this pool and this house, and having the ogre behind us. We can’t even get one decent shot.”

Something inside me broke right there. Not for me. For the way my father got up every morning at five so a couple of shitty girls could treat my house like a backdrop. I got up. I walked to the edge of the pool, right in front of them. I put my hand on my belt and started unbuckling it.

“You wouldn’t dare, Iván,” Camila said, and for the first time I heard something different in her voice: real fear.

“Dare to do what?” I replied.

I undid the buckle. Pulled down the zipper. Brenda covered her mouth, unable to believe it. I pulled my cock into the sun in front of my stepmother and her friend, without shame, without theatrics, as if I were in front of the toilet in a roadside bar.

“Is that all, handsome?” Brenda managed, recovering a flicker of bravado. “I thought you’d have something more impressive in there.”

I didn’t answer. I focused for a second, held Camila’s gaze, and the piss shot out in an arc, thick, long, yellowed from a night of excess. It hit the water a meter from them. It broke the surface of the pool and dispersed in swirls.

“Pig! Disgusting! Revolting!” Brenda screamed, backing away as if a snake were chasing her.

“Iván, how dare you!” Camila clung to the pool edge, eyes wide as if she were seeing me for the first time. “I’m calling your father right now!”

“Call him,” I said, and laughed. I really laughed, folding forward with my cock still out, shaking off the last drops. “Call him. Tell him what you were doing in bikinis with your nipples showing, filming for your fifteen-year-old little friends.”

The two of them climbed out of the water like wet rats. Brenda grabbed her towel and wrapped herself in it with trembling fingers.

“Let me know when this ugly piece of shit leaves your house,” she snapped at Camila without looking at me. “I’m not coming back. I’m not coming back, do you hear me?”

Brenda disappeared toward the hall. The car door slammed a minute later, the engine started, and the tires squealed over the gravel drive.

And we were left alone.

***

Camila approached wrapped in her towel, her feet leaving wet prints on the tiles. I had already tucked everything away and was slowly refastening my belt. I watched her come with that fury of people who don’t know how to shout, who instead of shouting walk slowly and let the rage tighten their jaw.

“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” she said in a rough whisper barely coming out. “You had to provoke her in the only way possible so she’d leave.”

“It’s my house,” I repeated. “And I’m not going to let two little sluts like you turn it into a set.”

The word crossed her face like a whip crack. She raised her hand and slapped me, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls and coming back doubled. My jaw burned. I clenched my fists and breathed. Be gentle with the girls, Ivan, my mother used to say when I was little. I clenched harder. I wasn’t going to hit her back.

“Who do you think you are?” I spat instead. “Because my father paid for your tits and you spread your legs three times a week, you’re nobody here. Nobody, do you hear me? And you tell your little friend that as long as I’m in this house, she’s never setting foot in it again.”

She lifted her hand again. This time I caught it in the air. I held her by the wrist, not hard, just enough to stop her, and she lost balance until she nearly fell onto me. I grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her upright and held her there, a handspan from my face, breathing hard, eyes huge.

And then, for half a second, something shifted.

I felt it. I felt the rough towel between us, against my bare chest. I felt the cold water from her hair dripping onto my forearm. I smelled her sunscreen, and beneath it, fainter, the expensive shampoo my father used. And I felt her jaw loosen as she stared at me with an expression that was no longer rage or fear, but pure, absolute confusion.

The towel slipped a finger’s width. Her surgically enhanced tits pressed flat against my chest, the hard nipples from the cold water digging into my skin through the wet bikini fabric. I looked down. She looked down too. And both of us saw at the same time the bulge building in my jeans, pressed against her flat stomach, against the wet waistband of the red bikini.

She was twenty-five. I was thirty-three. She was my father’s wife. And for half a second, all three facts stopped existing at once.

“Let go of me,” she whispered.

But she didn’t pull away. On the contrary: her hips made the tiniest movement, almost involuntary, a brush against my zipper that drew a low gasp from her own mouth.

I let go of her shoulders. I ran one hand down her back, over the wet skin, until I found the curve of her ass beneath the edge of the towel. I squeezed it. Hard. She closed her eyes and let the air out through her parted lips.

“This isn’t happening,” she murmured, more to herself than to me.

“It is happening, Cami,” I whispered in her ear, and bit her earlobe. “It’s happening because you’ve been married for six months to a guy who could be your father and because you’ve just seen that his son has a bigger cock than he does.”

I yanked the towel off and it dropped to the ground between us. The red bikini, wet, clung to her big, firm tits, to the little triangle of fabric between her legs. I ran my hand down the front, rubbed her cunt through the bikini with two fingers. It was soaked, and it wasn’t pool water. It was her own slick, hot, mixed with the cold from the chlorine.

“Look at you,” I said. “Dripping over your husband’s son.”

“Shut up,” she gasped, but she spread her legs a centimeter to let me get in better.

I yanked the bikini triangle aside. Her cunt was pink, laser-bare, plump, with the outer lips swollen and the clit already peeking out without needing to search for it. I pushed my middle finger into her to the knuckle. She was ridiculously tight and gripped me like a hot glove. She bent forward and dug her long nails into my shoulders.

“Fuck, Iván,” she moaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Is that how my father fucks you?” I whispered, in and out with my finger, using the tip to find her spot up top. “Does he put his finger in this far and curl it? Or does he just shove in his old dick and that’s it?”

“Don’t talk about him,” she panted, and covered my mouth with hers.

Her tongue went deep into me. She tasted of mint, pool water, and underneath that, something animal, the hunger of six months married to a fifty-year-old. I added a second finger to her cunt. Then a third. Her hips climbed my hand on their own, seeking me, fucking my fingers as if they were already a cock.

“Suck me off,” I told her against her lips. “Right now. Here, next to the pool where you just filmed that video for your little schoolgirl fans.”

She dropped to her knees without saying a word. Her hands were trembling when she unfastened my belt for the second time that morning, and this time without an audience. She pulled my jeans down to my knees. My cock sprang free, hard, thick, the vein swelling from base to tip. She stared at it for a second with her mouth open.

“It’s bigger than it looked,” she murmured.

“Take it in your mouth.”

She opened her mouth and wrapped her lips around it. She started with the tip, licking the head in circles, sucking it like a candy. Then she worked it down little by little, centimeter by centimeter, until the head touched the back of her throat and made her gag. She pulled back, spit a line of saliva over the vein, and took me all the way in again.

“That’s it, you slut,” I said, grabbing her by the wet hair and setting the rhythm. “Eat it all. All of it.”

She sucked me with hunger, her cheeks hollowed from the suction, looking up at me with those lined eyes smeared by the water. A strand of spit and precum hung from her chin and dripped between her pressed-together tits. With one hand she grabbed the base of my cock and twisted it gently. With the other she shoved two fingers into her own cunt and pulled them out shining.

I lifted her by the armpits. Turned her around. Pushed her against the lounger I’d been lying on five minutes earlier. She braced herself on the backrest, ass toward me, arched, offering herself. I ripped off the lower part of the bikini in one pull and the fabric gave at the seam.

“You want it?” I asked, rubbing the head up and down over her cunt lips, soaking myself in her juices.

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Say it properly.”

“Fuck me, Iván. Fuck me now.”

I shoved all the way in in one thrust. All of it. Balls deep. She let out a strangled cry and her shoulder blades arched. She was hot, tight, the walls contracting around my cock as if she wanted to suck me all the way to the prostate.

“Fuck, you’re delicious,” I growled, grabbing her waist with both hands. “Fuck, Cami, what a cunt you’ve got.”

I started moving. Slowly at first, going all the way in and all the way out so she could see my cock shining with her juices sliding in and out. Then harder. Every thrust shook her tits against the red bikini fabric, every thrust tore a new moan out of her that bounced off the concrete walls. My father had ordered those walls built. Now the walls were listening to his wife getting fucked by his son.

“Harder,” she panted, gripping the backrest with white knuckles. “Break me, Iván. Break my cunt.”

I grabbed her wet hair, pulled back so her head went up, and started pounding her like a hammer. The sound of my balls slapping against her clit mixed with the hum of the filtration system and her increasingly high moans. I ran my other hand across the front, squeezed one surgically enhanced breast through the bikini, pinched the nipple between two fingers until she cried out.

“So that’s how my father fucks you, huh?” I growled in her ear without stopping. “That’s how the old man puts it in?”

“No,” she moaned, gone. “No, no, no. He doesn’t fuck me like this. He never fucks me like this.”

“Say it.”

“You fuck me better. You, you, you.”

I pulled out. Turned her around again, sat her on the edge of the lounger, spread her legs wide, and drove back in from the front so I could see her face. She grabbed my shoulders, wrapped her legs around my waist, and started bouncing on my cock with a fury I hadn’t seen in her before.

“Look at me,” I demanded. “Look at me while the husband’s son fucks you.”

She opened her eyes. They were full of water, I don’t know if from tears or the pool, and her black lashes stuck to her cheekbones. She held my gaze. Didn’t look away for a second. And in that look, at the bottom of it, there was an ancient resentment toward my father that wasn’t mine, but I was paying for it in his name, thrust by thrust.

“I’m coming,” she gasped all of a sudden, squeezing her thighs around my hips. “Iván, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Come on my cock.”

She came with a long cry, muffled against my shoulder, biting my skin. Her cunt closed around my cock with regular spasms, one after another, milking me. Her juices ran over my balls and inside my jeans down at my knees. When she finished, she collapsed against my chest, limp, wrecked, breathing through her mouth as if she had just run a marathon.

I wasn’t done.

I lifted her off the lounger still sheathed on my cock, took two steps, and braced her against the edge of the pool, elbows on the coping and ass toward me. I grabbed her hips with both hands. And I fucked her like I had never fucked anyone before: rough, without rhythm, hunting for the bottom, hunting it myself, until I felt the cum rising from the soles of my feet.

“I’m coming,” I growled.

“Not inside,” she gasped between convulsions. “Not inside, please, not inside.”

I pulled out at the last second. Smacked the head against the small hollow at the base of her back and let the first rope go there, thick, white, against her tanned skin. The second landed on her ass. The third slid between her cheeks to her already open cunt. The last few, weaker, stuck to her lower back and beneath the red bikini, mixed with the pool water.

I stayed there a few seconds holding her, my hand pressed to her back, watching my semen slip down the curve of her ass until it dripped onto the edge of the tiles. She was breathing, braced against the coping, head hanging, wet hair dripping onto her forearms.

I let go of her suddenly, as if I were burned.

“I’ve never hit a woman,” I murmured, not really knowing why I was saying it at that moment, stepping back. “And I’d never done something like this to my father.”

She turned around slowly. Her nipples were still standing out through the red bikini, now soaked with sweat and everything else. Her lips parted. Her breathing still heavy. A drop of semen ran down her side, slowly, and disappeared into the torn waistband of the bikini.

“Let go of me,” she said, though I had already let go a long time ago.

She said it in a thread of a voice. Without conviction. As if she were finishing a sentence she had already prepared in her head before what had just happened happened.

Then she turned, grabbed the towel from the floor, wrapped it around her shattered body as best she could, and ran back toward the house. I heard her go up the stairs. I heard her close the bedroom door. I heard the latch click, the only latch on the upper floor, the only lock separating the master bedroom from the rest of the world.

I was left alone by the contaminated pool.

***

I went back to the lounger. Picked up the beer, now warm, and took a long, bitter swig. The bitterness of the hops mixed with the bitterness of what had just happened. I felt the sun beating on my face and my eyelids growing heavy. I sank a little farther down in the chair, my jeans still stained with her juices and my cock soft against my thigh.

How am I supposed to spend the weekend with him after this?, I imagined her asking upstairs, against my father’s pillow, with the son’s semen still drying between her cheeks. I imagined it because I was asking myself exactly the same thing, only with the roles reversed.

I closed my eyes and let the filtration pump do its work. A monotonous, mechanical murmur, almost affectionate. I thought about her wrist. I could still feel it in my palm, the fine tendon, the racing pulse. I thought about her smell of sunscreen. I thought about how she had spread her legs for the husband’s son without resisting any more than a “not inside” said in the last half-second. I thought about how, while she came on my cock, she had fixed her eyes on me and not looked away.

I thought about what my father would never be able to know. And what I wasn’t going to tell anyone either. And how, nonetheless, the two of us already knew it, she and I, separated by a latched door and by the air of an August that was far too hot.

And I fell asleep. Without meaning to, without planning it, with the warm beer between my legs and the sun coming in under the awning. I slept for two deep hours, dreamless, or with a single dream that faded before I woke and from which all that remained was a vibration in my stomach and a half-hard cock against my zipper.

When I opened my eyes, the pool water was clean again. The filtration system had done its job. But the problem wasn’t in the water. The problem was going to be locked away for the rest of the weekend behind the only latch on the upper floor, with the red bikini drying on the balcony rail and a bite mark on the shoulder I wouldn’t be able to explain to my father. And we both knew it.