Stepmother’s Smorgasburg of Sex, #1

Stepmother's Smorgasburg of Sex, #1

Billionaire boss is sexually inappropriate with my stepmother, Vanessa.

New York has more than 130 billionaires, second only to California's more than 180 billionaires. Vanessa, my stepmother, is the executive personal assistant for a billionaire in New York. She loved her job.

She does everything for her boss short of wiping his ass. With her booking all his appointments, keeping him on schedule, and plying him with pertinent information, she's his right arm. With him preferring to work from home, she instructs his employees what to do on his behalf when he's not at the office. Having grown dependent on her, seemingly, he's lost without her.

Only, she knows that she's not irreplaceable. She needed this job more than he needed her. With the money that he paid her and the benefits that he provided; he had his pick of the best executive assistants in New York. To keep her job, she's at his beck and call. Available twenty-four-hours a day, she must do whatever is his whim or whimsy without question or complaint.

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Author's Note:

This story is dedicated to Vanessa for allowing me to write her story. She's brave to have revealed all that happened between her stepson, Brett, and her billionaire boss, John. Unless it happened to her, she never would have believed it.

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Stepmother's Smorgasburg of Sex, #1

My name is Vanessa. I'm a 46-year-old college graduate with a master's degree in business. I have 20-years of professional, business experience. With men still more important than women, I've always been a glorified secretary, now more aptly called, an executive, personal assistant.

My 24-year-old stepson, Brett, is my best friend. As if we're husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend, we do everything together except having sex. I love him as much as he loves me.

Hard for me to resist but with him tall, dark, and handsome, he works out and has a lot of muscles. With me physically fit, too, I like men who are physically fit. I like a man with muscles, the bigger the better, and he certainly has big ones.

Something that's as awkward as it is sexually exciting to admit, never having told anyone, not even my friends, keeping my secret to myself, I'd love to have sex with my stepson. With him reminding myself so much of his deceased father, I'd love to seduce him. Unable to control myself, nothing more than my masturbation fantasy, I imagine him naked and having sex with me whenever I rub my clit and finger my nipples.

When I play with my pussy with my vibrator, I imagine him making slow and sweet love to me. I visualize him kissing me, French kissing me, and making out with me while slowly and lovingly humping me. Then, when I fuck myself with my dildo, I envision him fucking me fast and hard enough to give me a sexual orgasm with his cock. With me unable to get pregnant, I'd love him to cum in my pussy.

'Cum, Brett. Cum. Cum in mommy's pussy,' I imagine saying.

Before we make love and fuck, I visualize him eating me. I envision him fingering my pussy while licking my cunt. I imagine him giving me a sexual orgasm with his fingers and with his tongue.

Then, returning the favor of him giving me sex with me giving him sex, I picture myself stroking his cock and sucking his cock. I imagined blowing him and him cumming in my mouth. I'd even allow him to cum all of my face, in my hair, and across my naked breasts.

'How hot would that be for Brett to give me a cum bath,' I thought?

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Yet, something that will never happen, nothing more than a sexual fantasy that I have when masturbating myself with my pink bunny vibrator or Mr. Big, my big, black dildo, I'd have sex with him if he'd have sex with me. Nevertheless, even though I've visualized having sex with Brett. I can't go there. I'd feel like such an irrational whore if ever I had sex with him. Forever feeling guilty, I could never face my friends, my neighbors, and/or my relatives while knowing that I had sex with my stepson.

Instead of dwelling on having sex with him, I find whatever I want and need while reading my romance novels. When reading about illicit affairs of love, sex, intrigue, and adventure that sparks my imagination enough for me to masturbate without thinking of my stepson. As if I'm a testosterone filled, teenage boy, I'm hornier now than I've ever been. In the way that men are horniest in their teens and twenties, women are horniest in their forties and fifties. Masturbation is my way to relieve my stress and tensions.

A church going woman, I'm Brett's morally modest stepmother. I'm not an incestuous whore. Nothing more than my imagination when masturbating myself, with him not making a move to bed me, he'd never have sex with me. Even though it's sexually arousing to think about having sex with him in private, with me not making a move to bed him, I'd never have sex with him. Not wanting to ruin our close, stepmother and stepson relationship, never coming close to crossing the line, we maintain our boundaries.

I'd have to have more than my customary two glasses of wine to allow him to touch me and feel me through my clothes, never mind kissing me on the lips. I'd love to kiss him. I'd love to part his lips with my tongue and French kiss him while allowing him to feel my breasts and finger my erect nipples through my nightgown. Nevertheless, the only way that we'd have sex is if we were both drunk enough not to know what we were doing. Then, nothing but a blur of shame, I doubt if we'd remember having sex.

Yet, by some stretch of my overactive, sexual imagination, if we did have sex, even though that would be so exciting, that would be wrong. That would be nasty. That would be shameful and uncomfortably embarrassing. Even though we're not blood related, nonetheless, with us living under the same roof, sex between us is considered incestuous. Sex would not only change everything but also sex would ruin everything.

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Nevertheless, my boss, a billionaire, since the first day that he hired me a year ago, has always been sexually attracted to me. Easy to tell, in the way that he looked at me and stared at me while undressing me with his eyes, he made me feel uncomfortably self-conscious. Even though I'm a professional and good at my job, I suspect the reason why he hired me was because of my good looks and my shapely body. A strong willed man accustomed to getting whatever he wanted, it's obvious to me that he wanted to have sex with me.

Then, when I saw a photo of an attractive woman on his desk, I wondered if she was his wife or, perhaps, his mother. With him divorced from his cheating wife, I didn't think that he'd keep a photo of his ex-wife prominently displayed on his desk. Knowing that he's an only child, the woman in the photo must be his mother. Nonetheless, what grown man, a billionaire at that, keeps a photo of his mother on his desk?

As if memorizing it, I stared at the photo. If this was a photo of his mother, I looked a lot like her. Now, I surmised why he may be sexually attracted to me.

Perhaps, he had been sexually attracted to his mother, too. Perhaps, he had sex with his mother in the way that he seemingly wanted to have sex with me. Perhaps, he wanted to have sex with her but didn't and, filled with regrets, wished that he had. Perhaps, the reason that he hired me was because I resembled his deceased mother. Perhaps, he wanted to have sex with me while imagining that he was having sex with his mother.

Being realistic about my looks while not being a prude, who wouldn't be sexually attracted to someone who looked like me? Not conceited to admit, only having to look in the mirror, I'm a sex magnet to men. Only, if ever I gave in to him and had sex with him, blaming it all on me, he'd fire me. I can't afford to lose this job because of his incestuous perversions.

I continued staring at the woman's photo. Surprisingly, whoever she was, I looked quite a bit like her. In the way that I looked so much like her, whoever she was, she could have been my mother. Now, I wondered if the reason why he hired me was because I looked so much like the woman in the photo.

'I don't know. I have no idea. It just seemed weird to me that we looked so much alike,' I thought.

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Unable to control what men do, men stare at me. They make passes at me. They whistle at me and make rude sexual comments about me. I can't walk by a construction site with construction workers sitting out front without them yelling out rude and nasty remarks of what they'd love to do to me. It's the same wherever I go, when men aren't trying to look down my blouse at my bra, they're trying to look under my skirt at my panties. Yet, maintaining my appearance is what I must do to keep my job.

I'd never go to work in jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. I'd never go to work without having my hair and makeup done. For men to take me seriously, I must always look professional.

I'm tall, 5' 9", with dark brown, shoulder length, hair, big brown, beautiful eyes, 34, C cup breasts, and a firm and shapely ass. I've been told that I'm a cross between Keira Knightley, Eva Mendes, and Anne Hathaway. With me jogging, cycling, skipping rope, doing yoga, swimming, and weight training, my nickname given to me from my friends in college was, 'The Body.' Not born this way, I earned that nickname by my hard, dedicated work and my strict adherence to diet and exercise.

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My beloved husband, Bob, died from COVID three-years ago. Helping one another through his death, with Brett as devastated as I was, we continued living together as stepmother and stepson. Only, he means more to me than just a stepson. Having raised him since he was a child, when my husband divorced his wife for cheating on him, I'm the only mother that he's known. I think of him more as my real son instead of my stepson.

Then, one day, not sure why I did but, something that I've never done before, humoring him for fear of losing my job, I played along with my boss's inappropriate, sexual request. With him giving me the rest of the day off, I came home early from work with a pocketbook full of cash, a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills that he gave me for doing what he wanted me to do.

I've never seen as much cash. Counting it several times, I had ten-thousand-dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills. With us not keeping secrets from one another, I showed Brett the money.

"Where'd you get all of that money," asked Brett with a laugh while looking from the money to look up at me? "What did you rob a bank or a gas station," he asked with another laugh.

Unable to forget how I got the money, with it flashing through my mind as if it were a runaway freight train, I felt ashamed. Unable to take a stand for fear of being fired, I felt embarrassed for not holding my ground and not saying no. I felt as used as I felt abused. Yet, had I said no to my boss's lewd request, I'm sure that he would have fired me on the spot.

Feeling like the whore that I'm not. Angry that I submitted to what he wanted me to do, I felt guilty. I wanted to quit but I couldn't. This was the best job that I ever had and, with me no longer a perky twenty-something-year-old, would ever get.

In the way that I'd literally do anything to keep my job, I felt how a prostitute must feel when she must do whatever she needs to do when selling her body to feed her children. Forced to do things that I'd never do, feeling so ashamed, I wanted to cry. Only, with my head held high, not judging him, I did what I had to do to appease my boss, keep my job, and to maintain my standard of living.

"What's the matter, mother," asked Brett while knowing that there was something wrong? "Tell me. What is it," he asked with concern? "You can tell me anything without judgment."

He walked to me and hugged her. Something that we don't do often enough, I loved hugging my stepson. His hard body felt good in my arms. Yet, when he smelled my expensive, French perfume, I felt him become weak in the knees and sexually excited. As if he concealed a tool in his jeans, his erecting cock pressed and throbbed against my tummy.

'I gave Brett an erection,' I thought to myself with a laugh. 'I gave my stepson a boner.'

I was tempted to rub myself against him. I was tempted to reach down and feel his bulging prick through his jeans, I'm glad that I didn't. Nothing but a sexual fantasy, I wish I could have unzipped him, pulled out his stiff prick, and moved to my knees to suck him.

'I'm not the only one who's horny,' I thought.

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Thereafter, hugging one another more, every time he hugged me when I'm on my way to work and wearing my perfume, overwhelming his senses, he looked at me as if he wanted to do more than just hug me. Every time he hugged me, I suspected that he wanted to kiss me in the way that I'd love him to kiss me. I suspected that he wanted to part my lips with his tongue and French kiss me. I'd love to return his French kiss with my long, wet kiss.

Indeed, with me feeling the same way, every time I hugged him, I wanted to do more than just hug him. Again, with him reminding me so much of his father, I wanted to kiss him. While imagining him touching and feeling me everywhere that his father did and everywhere that a stepson should never touch and feel his stepmother, I wanted to make out with him and have sex with him.

As if we were lovers saying goodbye or hello at the airport, he returned my hug with his hug. As if we both needed that hug, we stayed like that for more than a minute. While waiting to feel his big hand slide lower and cup my ass through my short skirt and panties or my nightgown, I loved feeling his pulsating prick against me. It sexually aroused me to know that with just a hug, I had made my stepson hard. It made me wet and my nipples hard to know that he wanted me in the way that I wanted him.

Something that I didn't know before, I knew now. Judging him by his continual erection, especially when hugging me, Brett is as sexually attracted to me as I am to him. Now, every time he hugged me goodbye at the front door when leaving for work or goodnight when going to bed, while I knew that I had sexually excited him, he continued making me wet. No doubt, when alone in his room, he'll be masturbating over me in the way that I'll be masturbating over him.

With it being so long since I kissed a man, as soon as I hugged him, I was tempted to kiss him. Never wanting to kiss him in a romantic way before, I wanted to kiss him in the way that a stepmother should never kiss her stepson now. Curious to know what he'd do if I kissed him, I hoped that he'd make his move and return my kiss. I imagined him parting my lips with his tongue and French kissing me. Yet, that was something that I knew would never happen.

With him not ready to make his move, with me feeling so horny and sexually frustrated, I was ready to make my move. Controlling myself, again, not wanting to ruin the close relationship that we had, I stepped back from him before I did something stupid. I still hadn't answered his question. I paused while rethinking what I was going to say to tell him how I got the money.

From that moment, always wearing a robe over my short, sheer, low-cut, and sexy nightgowns, a not so subtle change, I never wore a robe again. Instead, sexually teasing him while hoping that he'd touch me and feel me, I deliberately flashed him all that I hoped that he wanted to see. When serving him breakfast or pouring his coffee, I leaned over him while giving him a down nightgown view of my cleavage, my naked breasts, and my erect nipples.

With my knees parted wide open and my nightgown pulled up to my mid thighs, I squatted in front of him to pick up something from the carpet to flash him my brown, naked pussy. Instead of looking away, he stared. It aroused me to know that he wanted to see my naked breasts and my naked pussy as much as I wanted him to see them. When alone in my room, I masturbated over flashing him while I'm sure that he masturbated over seeing all that he saw of me, too.

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After he asked me where I got the money, not wanting to lie, filled with embarrassed shame, unable to tell him, I told him a half truth.

"My boss gave it to me," I said while hoping that he'd leave it at that and not ask me to explain.

He looked at me confused and I looked at him apologetically. Then, when he continued staring into my brown eyes, I knew that I needed to give him an explanation. Not wanting him to think that I had stolen it, I needed to tell him how I got the money. Only, I wasn't sure how to tell him without making myself look like the whore that I've become.

"If I don't do what my boss asked of me, I'll lose my job," I said paraphrasing and looking to Brett for his understanding.

Feeling disappointed in myself, for doing what I had to do to keep my job, all that was good about my job was tainted by all that was bad.

"He doesn't need me. He can hire anyone that he wants," I said with a shrug. "A multitude of women would love to have my job."

While not judging me, he remained silent while listening to me.

"This is the best job that I've ever had in my life. I'm making more than twice the money that I made before," I said while trying to justify what I've done and had to do to remain employed.

Brett continued looking at me while waiting to know why my boss gave me the money. Beating around the bush, I did what I did to save my job. Because he's so wealthy and with that small amount of money meaning nothing to him, while justifying it to myself, he rewarded me with cash for complying with his sexually inappropriate wishes. Yet, how dare I tell my stepson that?

Nevertheless, I continued justifying why I did what I did. Without him thinking less of me, I needed my stepson to understand why I did what I did. It wasn't as if I had sex with the man. In the way that I'd never have sex with my stepson, I'd never have sex with my boss.

Only, while walking a tightrope of my unrequited desire, I needed to keep my boss interested in me. Never saying no, I needed him to want to keep me around working for him by doing all that he asked me to do. Besides, what he asked me to do wasn't all that terrible. Mild compared to having sex with him, glad that he didn't ask me to have sex with him, I didn't know what I'd do.

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With Brett still waiting for me to tell him why my boss gave me ten-thousand-dollars in cash, I stared at him in the way that he stared at me.

"I drive back and forth to work and around town with a company car, a Mercedes, with my own parking space," I said while continuing to justify my actions. "The company's benefits with healthcare, dental, disability insurance, and life insurance, are phenomenal. Along with the huge salary that I'm earning, I'll never get a better job than this," I said.

Unable to fool him, and with me being evasive, he knew that I was hiding something from him. Without pressuring me to explain, he looked at me with patient understanding while waiting for me to completely answer his question instead of giving him just half an answer. Not enough that I told him that my boss gave me the money, he wanted to know why my boss gave me ten-thousand-dollars in tax free cash.

"What did you have to do for the money," he asked?

He looked at me in the way that all men look at me. No doubt, he suspected that I had sex with my boss. Perhaps, he figured that I blew him and allowed him to cum in my mouth while he felt my naked breasts and fingered my erect nipples.

No doubt, he assumed that I allowed my boss to have sex with me. No doubt, he thought that I had sex with my boss for him to give me that much money. Only, if ever he met my boss, he'd know that I'd never have sex with him. Yet, in the way that Brett looked at me, obvious to me now, with him believing that I had sex with my boss, he wanted to have sex with me, too.