My step son

Marcus pov.

I stood outside Elias’s locked door, fist still hovering where I’d pounded it once—hard enough to rattle the frame, but not hard enough to break anything. My knuckles stung. My chest heaved like I’d run ten miles instead of just stalking down this endless hallway.

“Elias,” I said again, quieter this time. My voice cracked on his name. “Open the door. We need to talk.”

Silence.

I pressed my forehead to the wood. The scent of Gloria’s perfume still clung to me—faint jasmine from the closet, mixed with the salty musk of what we’d just done. What I’d just done. My cock twitched traitorously at the memory, still half-hard in my slacks, slick from his mouth. His mouth. Elias’s mouth. My stepson’s mouth wrapped around me, sucking like he’d been born for it, eyes wide and dark behind fake lashes, cheeks hollowed, throat working around every inch I fed him.

I groaned low, hating myself for the sound. Hating how my body refused to register the horror my brain was screaming.

This afternoon Gloria’s text had come like a blade between the ribs.

We need to talk. I want a divorce. I’ve met someone who actually sees me. Don’t call. I’ll have my lawyer contact you.

No warning. No fight. Just cold, clinical words on a screen after months of radio silence—business trips stretching longer each time, excuses piling up, her side of the bed always empty. I’d stared at the message until the screen went dark, then sat in my office until the building emptied, pretending to work while my mind replayed every missed dinner, every curt goodbye, every night I’d jerked off alone imagining her in the black lace set I’d bought six months ago on a desperate whim. A peace offering. A last-ditch attempt to remind her I still wanted her. Still loved her.

I’d come home early tonight because the house felt like a tomb and I couldn’t stand another evening staring at the ceiling. I’d told myself if she was really gone for good, I’d pack up her things tomorrow, donate what she didn’t want, burn the rest. Clean slate.

Then I’d walked into the bedroom.

The closet light was on. Soft music drifted from her old speaker—something slow and sultry she used to play when she wanted me riled. And there she was. Back turned. Long dark curls spilling down her shoulders. That black bustier hugging curves I hadn’t touched in forever, garters framing thighs I’d dreamed about, silk stockings shimmering in the low light. My heart had slammed so hard I thought it would crack a rib.

She’d come back.

She’d put it on.

She wanted to fix us.

I’d crossed the room in three strides, hands on her hips, lips on her bare shoulder, cock already throbbing behind my zipper. “You finally put them on,” I’d rasped. “Damn… you look so fucking sexy.”

She trembled. Nodded. Let me touch her. Let me grind against her ass while I whispered how much I’d missed her, how sorry I was for every late night at the office. Her skin had felt softer than I remembered, hips narrower, but I chalked it up to stress, to time apart. I didn’t question it. I was too starved.

When she’d dropped to her knees and taken me in her mouth—God. The way she’d licked the tip first, tentative then hungry. The way she’d swallowed me down like she knew exactly how I liked it—slow build, then faster, throat relaxing around the head until I hit the back. No gagging. No hesitation. Just perfect, eager suction and those soft, needy sounds vibrating up my shaft. Since when was she this perfect?

I’d come so hard my vision whited out. Pumped down her throat while she swallowed every drop, then licked me clean like she couldn’t get enough.

Best blowjob of my life.

Then the light came on.

The wig came off.

Elias.

My stepson.

Nineteen. Quiet. Always polite, always distant. The kid who barely looked me in the eye during family dinners when Gloria was still around. The kid I’d tried to connect with—offering rides to practice, asking about school, getting one-word answers. I’d told myself he was just shy. That he’d warm up eventually.

Now I knew why he hadn’t.

Because he’d been hiding this.

I dragged a hand down my face, trying to scrub away the image of him on his knees, lipstick smeared, mascara smudged from tears or sweat or both, cock straining against those stolen panties. My cock had never gone fully soft. Even now, standing here with guilt clawing my insides, I was aching again. Hard. Leaking.

Wrong. So fucking wrong.

I should’ve been disgusted. Repulsed. I should’ve stormed out, called a therapist, called the police on myself—anything but stand here with my pulse hammering in my ears and my dick throbbing like it had a mind of its own.

But disgust wasn’t what I felt.

I felt… seen.

Gloria had never sucked me like that. Never looked up at me with that raw, desperate hunger. Never swallowed like she needed it more than air. Elias had. And the shame of admitting that—even in the privacy of my own head—made bile rise in my throat.

I knocked again, softer. “Elias. Please.”

A muffled sound from the other side. A sob? A curse? I couldn’t tell.

“I’m not mad,” I lied. I was mad—at Gloria for leaving, at myself for not seeing the signs, at the universe for twisting something already broken into this jagged, forbidden thing. But not at him. Never at him.

“I just… I need to know you’re okay.”

More silence.

I slid down to sit against the door, knees up, head back against the wood. My slacks were still unzipped, cock heavy and obscene against my thigh. I didn’t bother fixing it. What was the point?

“I thought you were her,” I said to the empty hallway. “When I walked in. The lingerie… the wig… I thought she’d come back to try. That she wanted to fix it. I was so relieved I didn’t think. I just… touched you. Kissed you. Let you—”

My voice broke. I swallowed hard.

“I didn’t know it was you until the light came on. And even then… fuck, Elias. Even then I didn’t stop you right away. I let you finish. I came in your mouth and told you it was the best I’d ever had. Because it was.”

Silence stretched so long I thought he’d fallen asleep or passed out from panic.

Then, quiet, barely audible through the door: “I’m sorry.”

The words hit like a punch. He was sorry. He was sorry.

“No,” I said fiercely. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. This is on me. I’m the adult. I’m supposed to protect you, not—” I gestured uselessly at myself, at the hallway, at the whole fucked-up situation. “Not this.”

Another long pause.

“I liked it,” he whispered.

My heart stopped.

I pressed my palm flat to the door like I could reach through it. “What?”

“I liked it,” he repeated, voice shaking. “I liked… you thinking I was her. I liked your hands on me. Your mouth. Your cock in my throat. I liked making you feel good. I’ve… I’ve thought about it before. About you. Not like this, but… yeah. Like this.”

Jesus Christ.

My cock jerked, pre-cum soaking through my briefs. I hated how much I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe this wasn’t just trauma response, wasn’t just him trying to make the best of a nightmare.

But the way he’d sucked me… that hadn’t been reluctant. That had been practiced fantasy made real.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted. “This is wrong. Illegal. Immoral. All of it. You’re my stepson. You’re eighteen. Barely. I should be calling someone. Getting help. Locking myself in a room until I can look at you without wanting—”

I cut myself off.

“Wanting what?” he asked, so soft I almost missed it.

I closed my eyes. “Wanting to do it again.”

A shaky exhale from the other side.

“I’m scared,” he said.

“Can you… stay there?” he asked. “Just for a little while? I don’t want to be alone.”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m not going anywhere.”