The Betrayal
Your stepmother thought her betrayal was hers alone to keep – that girls’ night out where she let strangers touch her on the dancefloor, where she let another man’s hands roam under her dress while her husband is at home. You caught her. You dragged her back. And now you’re standing in this kitchen watching her squirm. She tries to explain. Tries to calm you down. Swears she never went all the way, that she only teases, that the beverages made her careless. But you see it in her eyes – the thrill, the hunger. And she sees it in yours. The moment shifts. She takes back control the only way she knows how: by making you ache. That tight dress rides higher. She bends too far, lets her tits nearly spill free, flashes the damp cotton between her thighs while she makes a cup of tea. She gets filthier with every word, cornering you with what she knows. The way you’ve stared. The way you’ve took her knickers to wank into. The pairs she’s found stained in your room. She lifts her skirt. Shows
