My Stepson Took Me Out on His Motorcycle That Forbidden Night

Carla came downstairs barefoot, her heels dangling from two fingers and her hair still damp from the shower. Mateo had been waiting for her in the living room for over an hour, sprawled on the sofa, pretending not to hear every step she took upstairs.

—Ready, I’m here —she said, stopping on the last step.

Mateo looked up from his phone and, for a second, didn’t know what to say. Carla had put on black leather pants that hugged her thighs, a white shirt with two too many buttons undone, and a matching cropped jacket. Her hair was swept to one side, leaving one shoulder bare and a thin chain falling across her collarbone. She looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion editorial, but there was something in her eyes tonight, a mix of curiosity and defiance, that made her far more dangerous than any magazine cover.

—What? Is it too much? —she asked, mistaking his silence.

—No. It’s exactly what you wear to get on a motorcycle.

—I watched a tutorial —she admitted, shrugging—. I wasn’t going to put on a dress if you were planning to carve corners.

Mateo stood up from the sofa. He was wearing dark jeans, a leather jacket with hidden protection in the elbows and back, and black biker boots. He towered over her by ten centimeters, broad-shouldered, with that neatly kept beard of a man well past thirty-five. Carla looked at him a little longer than she should have, then quickly dropped her gaze to the heels still hanging from her fingers.

He’s your husband’s son. Just your husband’s son.

—Ready to climb on the beast? —he asked, with that half-smile that carved out a dimple on the left side of his face.

—I hope so —she answered, trying to sound confident.

The garage smelled of oil, gasoline, and something darker Carla couldn’t quite identify. Mateo pulled the cover off the bike and revealed a black-and-red Yamaha, low-slung, with lines that looked more like a weapon than a vehicle. He mounted it first, turned the key, and the engine roared against the garage walls. Carla felt the vibration in the floor, in the soles of her feet, and in her stomach, as if something inside her had awakened without asking permission.

—Get on —he ordered, with a calm that admitted no argument.

He handed her a helmet. Carla held it for a few seconds before putting it on, thinking of her two-hour hairstyle and accepting, with almost amused resignation, that the hair wasn’t going to survive the night. She swung her leg over the seat, trying not to brush against him too much, and sat behind him. The leather of her pants creaked against the padding.

—Hold on tight —Mateo said, looking back over his shoulder—. I don’t want to lose you on the first curve.

—Don’t worry about me.

—I’m not worrying. I’m warning you.

Carla put her hands at his sides, still keeping a prudent distance. Mateo gave a low laugh, shifted into first, and eased the throttle to roll out of the garage. The streetlights filtered through the helmet visor. The housing development slept. Only the engine broke the night’s silence.

—Last chance to hug me properly —he warned.

—I’m fine like this.

—Suit yourself.

***

The road dropped in tight bends toward the city. On the first one, Mateo leaned the bike into an angle Carla thought impossible. She felt the air fleeing her lungs, her heart jumping against her ribs, and her thighs instinctively clamping against his. On the second curve, when the bike tilted the other way, she had already decided dignity was a luxury. She pressed against his back, wrapped her arms around his waist, and interlaced her fingers over his abdomen. Beneath the jacket, she felt the firm muscles contract with every turn.

—You said you were going slow! —she shouted in his ear through the helmet.

—I am. Trust me.

Mateo let out a laugh she could feel vibrating in her own chest. The next few bends were a mix of panic and pleasure. Every burst of speed lifted her body from the seat and threw her against him. The bike roared between her thighs, the velocity pushed her onward, the wind slipped into her jacket and raised goosebumps along her stomach. She closed her eyes. Rested her cheek against his back. And, without meaning to, a smile spread beneath the helmet.

I’m soaking wet, she thought, and immediately felt how her cunt tightened against the seam of her leather pants, swollen and throbbing, leaving a hot stain that the leather itself returned to her magnified. It’s the bike. Only the bike. But every vibration of the engine climbed straight to her clit, and when Mateo accelerated, she had to bite her lip inside the helmet to keep from moaning out loud.

When they reached the harbor, her legs were shaking. Mateo parked near the promenade, cut the engine, and got off. He offered her his hand to help her dismount. Carla took it, stepped down, and her knees went soft. He caught her by the waist without thinking, fingers spread over the leather of her pants.

—Easy. That’s normal the first time —he told her, still not letting go—. You have to let your body get used to it.

—I’m fine —she lied, though she was still clinging to his arm.

Mateo let go slowly, making sure she wouldn’t fall. Carla took off the helmet, smoothed her hair as best she could, and let out a sigh that was equal parts complaint and surrender.

—That was insane —she admitted—. Insane.

—Let me know if you get hooked.

—Too late.

***

They walked toward the harbor promenade. The night was warm, carrying the smell of sea and wine drifting from the terraces. Carla hesitated over whether to take his arm or walk beside him, and before she could decide, Mateo offered his elbow with an almost old-fashioned gesture. She slipped her wrist through his arm and let it rest there.

—You look like a different person when you laugh —he told her, glancing sideways.

—Different how?

—Like the real thing.

Carla didn’t know what to say. They walked in silence until a huge guy, almost two meters tall, with a shaved head and an impossible smile, intercepted them near a seafood restaurant.

—Mateo! You haven’t even been in town a day and you’re already walking around with that stunner on your arm —he exclaimed, coming in for a bear hug.

Behind the giant appeared a petite woman with Asian features, who smiled with a calm that contrasted with her partner’s energy.

—Sorry, but I’m not his girlfriend —Carla said quickly, stopping herself before adding what she actually was. How was she supposed to explain that the stepmother was ten years younger than the stepson?

—Hernán, this is Carla. A friend —Mateo cut in.

—Of course, of course! A friend —the giant replied, winking at Carla with a brazenness that made her blush.

—Hernán, enough! —the woman scolded him, holding out her hand to Carla—. I’m Mei. Sorry about him. He has no filter.

—Nice to meet you —Carla replied, relieved.

—Want to have dinner with us? —Hernán proposed.

—We just got out, another day —Mei cut in, grabbing her boyfriend’s arm with the firm hand of a woman who knows when to drag him away.

—Then we’ll see you at the pub for a drink later. And Carla, watch out for this one. He’s a textbook heartbreaker.

—I’ll keep that in mind —she answered with a smile that was no longer forced.

When they said goodbye and kept walking, Carla dared to ask.

—They make a… curious couple.

—Hernán’s mother was left paraplegic in an accident. His father abandoned them. He’s taken care of her since he was twenty. No girl can handle that burden. He met Mei in the hospital, where she was with her father, who’s also in a wheelchair. She was the only one who understood him.

Carla fell silent. The giant’s joking demeanor suddenly seemed like a shield. She gripped Mateo’s arm a little tighter, not even realizing she was doing it.

—Do I scare you? —he asked.

—You? Just enough.

***

A tall blonde woman in a dress far too short for the weather intercepted them from across the street. Another woman accompanied her, brunette, with the same endless legs.

—Mateo? Is that you? —the blonde squealed, crossing without looking.

—Renata —he replied, and Carla noticed Mateo’s body tense beside her.

The blonde ignored Carla completely and hung around his neck as if she had every right to. Mateo pulled her off with gentle firmness.

—Renata, this is Carla. A friend.

—Carla, you’re lucky! He’s one of the most coveted bachelors on the harbor —the blonde purred, looking her over for the first time with a quick, contemptuous scan.

—It’s not like that. Renata, we’re going to dinner —he cut in, grabbing Carla’s hand and pulling her along without waiting for an answer.

They walked half a block in silence. Carla could still feel his hand wrapped around hers, their fingers intertwined in a way that had nothing to do with a stepson accompanying his father’s wife.

—“A friend,” huh? —she said, with a light irony that came out shaky—. I suppose that makes me part of a pretty big club.

—Renata was a good person. She got hooked on ecstasy, coke, everything that passed through her hands. I’m no saint, but there came a point when I couldn’t keep watching. Breaking up with her was one of the hardest things I ever did.

Carla fell silent again. Mateo didn’t fit the picture of the “womanizing stepson” her husband had painted for her over the phone. Each word he spoke cracked another fracture in the wall she had built so she wouldn’t look at him.

—And you? —he asked, still holding her hand—. Who is the Carla that doesn’t show up on social media?

—Have you looked for me?

—You married my father. It was inevitable.

She laughed without humor. They reached a bench facing the sea and sat down without either of them suggesting it. The moon shimmered on the water. The lights of the boats blinked in the distance. A kissing couple leaned against the railing, oblivious to them.

—The one who’s here —Carla answered at last—. The one who doesn’t want to burden her mother with her problems. The one who married a man twenty years older because she thought she’d be safe, and now has her stepson looking at her like she’s the dangerous one.

Mateo turned toward her. He looked at her for a long time without saying anything. Carla felt the air between them thicken, as if the sea had stopped breathing.

—I don’t look at you like you’re dangerous —he said slowly—. I look at you like you’re simply you.

—That’s worse.

—I know.

Carla rested her head on his shoulder. She didn’t know why she did it. She didn’t want to think about it. She felt him breathing against her hair, felt him raise a hand and leave it halfway there, not daring to touch her. In the end, he set it on her knee. Over the leather. Warm.

—Take me home —she whispered.

—Dinner first?

—Take me home —she repeated, firmer this time.

Mateo took a moment to answer. Then, without saying anything, he stood and offered her his hand.

***

The ride back was different. There was no rush. The bike climbed slowly through the curves that had earlier come down at full speed. Carla held on to him with an intimacy that was no longer fear. She felt every breath Mateo took, every shift of his body, every gear change. She rested her cheek against his back and didn’t lift it until they reached the garage. Once, at a traffic light, she let her left hand slide down his abdomen, almost without meaning to, to the edge of his belt. Her fingers brushed the hard bulge tightening his fly, and she left them there a second too long, measuring the thickness through his jeans, feeling his cock give a pulse beneath her palm. Mateo didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. The bike’s acceleration on the next straight pushed them together again and she brought her hand back up to his abdomen, trembling, mouth dry and cunt so wet it was running down the inside of her thigh.

Mateo cut the engine. Silence fell like a slab. Neither of them moved. Carla, still wrapped around him, didn’t dare let go. He didn’t take his hands off her thighs either, where he’d put them when he braked. His palms were hot through the leather.

—Carla.

—Shut up.

—Carla.

—If you say it, tomorrow I’m going back to my mother’s house.

Mateo lowered his head. She felt him nod slowly. His left hand slid from her thigh to cover hers, the ones she had crossed over his abdomen. Carla turned her face and, without thinking any further, kissed the skin of his neck just above the collar of the jacket. Once. Long. Wet. She stuck out her tongue and ran its tip along the edge of his jaw, then bit his skin with her teeth, not enough to mark him, but hard enough to feel his back tense and his breathing quicken, to feel his hand squeeze hers more tightly and, beneath his jeans, his cock harden again like stone.

—Go to bed —he said, in a voice so low she barely heard it.

—Yes —she answered—. Good idea.

She got off the bike without looking at him. She took off the helmet, left it on the seat, and went up the stairs toward the house, still unsteady, though this time it wasn’t from speed. When she reached her bedroom, she closed the door slowly, leaned her back against it, and stayed there for a long while, listening to Mateo’s footsteps two floors below, still not making it all the way upstairs.

He’s your husband’s son, she repeated as she unbuttoned her leather pants with fingers that no longer obeyed her. He’s only your husband’s son.

She shoved the pants down to her knees and couldn’t manage any more: she lay back on the bedspread, boots still on, and ran her hand over her panties. They were soaked, so much that the cotton stuck to her lips like a second skin. When she pulled the fabric aside, a sticky strand stretched from the panties to her cunt until it snapped. She brought her fingers to her mouth, sucked them clean, and took them back down, this time straight to the flesh. Her lips were swollen, hot, slippery. Her clit throbbed, hard, pearl-sized, demanding.

She stroked herself in slow circles at first, breathing through her mouth, and the image of Mateo’s neck came to her right where she had bitten it, the dark shadow of his beard, the smell of leather and gasoline that had clung to his clothes. She slipped her middle finger between her lips and buried it to the knuckles, feeling her cunt close around it with an obscene squelch. She pulled the finger out, spread her lips with the other hand, and slid two inside, curling them upward, searching for that spot only she knew how to find. Her heels dug into the duvet. The leather pants, half lowered, pinched her knees and wouldn’t let her spread her legs all the way, and she liked that, liked being like that, half tied up, half dressed, as if he’d left her half undressed before fucking her.

Imagine he comes up, she thought, and a low moan slipped out of her. Imagine he comes up and opens my legs and puts it in without saying a word.

She pulled her fingers out, brought them to her clit, and started rubbing fast, the tip of her finger slipping in her own slick. With her other hand she slid under her nightdress, grabbed a breast, and pinched her nipple, pulling hard, the way she wanted him to pull it. She imagined Mateo coming into the room without a word, taking off his jacket, lowering his jeans just enough to pull out his cock, thick, hard, the tip already wet. She imagined him opening her cunt with two fingers and spitting on it before pushing in. She imagined his weight on top of her, the beard scraping her neck, the breath in her ear saying filthy things.

Look at me, stepmother. Watch me fuck you. Watch you take it.

Her belly clenched. She slid two fingers in again, with her thumb on her clit, and started fucking her hand with her hips, lifting and lowering her ass on the mattress, squelching, biting her forearm to keep from crying out. Her cunt clamped down suddenly around her fingers, once, twice, three times, and she came in a shudder that arched her whole back. She felt the orgasm pour out in small spurts, wetting her hand, the insides of her thighs, the bedspread beneath her. She bit her lip until it hurt so she wouldn’t call his name.

She stayed there, sprawled out, legs half open and fingers still inside, trembling. She slowly pulled them out, looked at them shining in the dim light, and sucked them clean again without thinking, tasting herself as if the evidence needed to be erased. But she didn’t feel satisfied. She felt worse: hungry, with her cunt still throbbing and empty, knowing perfectly well what it would have needed to be filled.

She rolled onto her side, hugged the pillow, and slipped her hand between her legs again, this time with no desire to come quickly. She stroked herself slowly, stretching it out, imagining Mateo’s cock coming in and out of her to the rhythm of the engine. She came twice more before sleep finally beat her, each time quieter, each time more surrendered. What she felt had nothing to do with her husband, or with rules, or with prudence. What she felt was the roar of the engine between her legs, the leather hugging her thighs, Mateo’s back under her cheek, the hard bulge her fingers had brushed at the stoplight, and the impossible curve where she had decided, without even knowing it, that dignity was a luxury.

That night it took her hours to fall asleep. And she wasn’t the only one.