My stepson

Marcus POV

“Oh fuck fuck!!” A deep groan escaped my lips as I rested my forehead against the wet tile, water dripping down my body as my hand frantically stroked my cock. “Fuck, just like that Elias.”

The shower had been running so long the bathroom was thick with steam, mirrors fogged to white, but it didn’t matter. I could still see him perfectly in my head—every filthy detail burned into me like a brand.

Elias on his knees in Gloria’s closet. Those dark curls from the wig spilling over his shoulders, fake lashes framing wide, hungry eyes. Red lipstick smeared around the head of my cock as he took me deeper than Gloria ever had, throat relaxing like he’d practiced for years. The way his cheeks hollowed when he sucked, the soft, needy hum vibrating up my shaft every time I hit the back of his throat. He hadn’t gagged once. Not once. Just swallowed around me like he needed my cum more than air.

I groaned again, louder this time, the sound bouncing off the tiles. My hand sped up—tight, slick with soap and pre-cum—twisting at the head the way his tongue had swirled. Fuck. That tongue. Flat and broad when he licked up the underside, then pointed and teasing at the slit, collecting every drop before he plunged back down.

I braced one forearm against the wall, hips snapping forward into my fist like I was fucking his mouth again. Water pounded my back, hot and punishing, but it couldn’t wash away the memory. The little whimper he’d made when I gripped the wig—when I thought I was holding Gloria’s hair but it was his. The way his own cock had strained against those stolen panties, leaking through the silk, untouched but so hard it had to hurt.

“Goddamn it, Elias,” I hissed between clenched teeth. My balls drew up tight. I slowed my strokes deliberately, edging myself, wanting to drag it out. Wanting to pretend he was here—kneeling on the shower floor, water streaming over his face, lips parted, begging for it.

I pictured him looking up at me with those big eyes, mascara running in black streaks down his cheeks, lipstick ruined, chin shiny with spit and pre-cum. “Please, Daddy,” he’d whisper—because I knew he’d say it if I let him. That word had been right there on the tip of my tongue earlier at dinner, when he’d leaned in so close I could smell the faint trace of my cologne on his skin. When his fingers brushed mine and my whole body lit up like a live wire.

I groaned, low and wrecked, thumb circling the head. “Take it, baby. Take every inch.”

In my mind he did. Swallowed me to the root, nose pressed to my groin, throat fluttering around me. I could almost feel the tight heat, the way he’d moaned around my length, vibrations shooting straight to my balls. The way his hands had gripped my thighs—not pushing away, but pulling me deeper. Eager. Desperate.

My hips bucked harder. Water sluiced down my chest, over my abs, dripping from my cock as I jerked faster. I was so close—teetering on the edge—but I forced myself to slow again. Not yet. Not until I pictured the moment he’d looked up at me, eyes watering, pupils blown, silently begging for my load.

That was what did it every time. The surrender in his gaze. The way he’d swallowed greedily when I finally came—thick ropes pulsing down his throat, and he hadn’t spilled a drop. Licked me clean after, soft kitten licks, like he couldn’t get enough of the taste.

“Fuck—Elias—” My voice cracked. My hand flew now, slick and frantic. Balls tight, pressure building unbearable. I imagined pulling out at the last second, painting his pretty face—those smeared lips, those tear-streaked cheeks—marking him as mine.

The orgasm hit like a freight train. I slammed my palm against the tile, body locking up as I came hard—spurts hitting the wall, mixing with the shower spray, running down the drain. My knees almost buckled. Wave after wave ripped through me until I was shaking, panting, forehead pressed to the cool tile while the hot water kept pounding my back.

I stayed like that for a long minute, chest heaving, cock still twitching in my hand. Slowly the haze cleared. Slowly reality crept back in.

Gloria.

The thought of her hit like ice water. My soon-to-be ex-wife. She still haven’t messaged me yet.

But what if this was all some sick setup?

The idea had been gnawing at me since dinner. What if Gloria knew? What if she’d suspected something, planted Elias here like bait, waiting for me to slip up so she could file for divorce on grounds of… fuck. Sleeping with her son. Statutory anything didn’t apply—Elias was nineteen—but the scandal alone would destroy me. My job, my reputation, my savings. She’d take everything in court. Call me a predator. Make sure Elias hated me too.

I turned off the shower with shaking hands. Stepped out, dripping, and wrapped a towel around my waist. The mirror was still fogged; I swiped a hand across it and stared at my reflection. Eyes hollow. Jaw clenched. Cock still half-hard even after coming like that.

I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Even now—knowing the risk, knowing how catastrophic this could be—my mind went right back to Elias on his knees. The soft, eager sounds he’d made. The way his throat had worked around me. The look in his eyes when he swallowed—like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

I groaned, low and frustrated, and pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead.

This wasn’t just lust. It was worse. It was want. Real, bone-deep want. The kind that made me want to lock the doors, pull him into my bed, and never let him leave. Dress him in lace every night. Call him pretty while I fucked him slow and deep. Hear him whisper “Daddy” while he came apart under me.

But if Gloria found out…

I pictured her walking in tomorrow—suitcase in hand, ready to collect the last of her things—and seeing Elias in lingerie, lipstick smeared, my cum dripping down his thighs. The scream. The accusations. The police. The headlines: Prominent Executive in Scandal with Step-Son.

My stomach twisted. I could lose everything. My career. My freedom. Elias. Because no court would let him stay with me after that. They’d paint me as the monster, and he’d be taken away—counseling, guardians, the whole system deciding what was “best” for him.

And yet.

Even with all that terror clawing at my chest, my cock twitched again under the towel. Still sensitive. Still aching. Still thinking about Elias’s mouth.

I leaned against the sink, head bowed, water dripping from my hair onto the marble.

I should end this. Send him away. Move out. File for divorce first and disappear before Gloria could weaponize any of it.

But the thought of never touching him again—of never hearing that soft, broken moan when I called him beautiful—felt worse than any courtroom.

I straightened. Wrapped the towel tighter. Stepped out to check if he was still at the dinning table.

The hallway was dark. Elias’s door was closed, light off. He was probably asleep. Or pretending to be.

I paused outside his room, hand hovering over the knob. One turn and I could be inside. I could wake him with my mouth between his legs. I could pull him into my arms and fuck him slow and quiet, swallowing every sound he made so no one would hear.

I could ruin both our lives.

I let my hand drop.

Instead I walked to my own room, closed the door, locked it. Stripped the towel and climbed into bed naked. My cock was already hardening again—traitorous, insatiable.

I wrapped my hand around it. Closed my eyes.

And let myself picture Elias one more time—on his knees, pretty and wrecked and mine.

Just for tonight.

Just one more time.