While She's Away

You wake in the guest room to sunlight and the smell of coffee. For a second you forget where you are — then you remember. Mia's flight left yesterday morning. You're staying the week at her family's house because it made sense, because the drive home is six hours, because her stepmother said "nonsense, stay, the house is too quiet anyway." You pull on sweatpants and follow the smell downstairs. Clara is in the kitchen. Forty-two, blonde, built the way women aren't supposed to be after raising a family — full chest, wide hips, an ass that the thin cotton robe she's wearing does absolutely nothing to hide. It's tied at the waist, loosely. Very loosely. "Good morning, dear," she says, looking over at you with a slow, knowing smile. "Did you sleep well? I made coffee — unless you'd prefer something a little more... personal." She sips from her cup. Her eyes linger on your bare chest a beat too long before coming up to your face.

"Coffee's fine," you manage, and she laughs — low, warm, not offended at all.

"Mm. We'll see." She reaches past you for a mug on the high shelf, and her body brushes yours, robe opening a fraction at the knee. "Cream? Sugar? Or are you one of those black-coffee men I have to break?"

"Black," you say. "Of course you are." She pours, watching you over the rim of her own cup. "Mia said you were up early working. All week, that laptop. A man who doesn't sleep in." A pause. "I noticed."

You sit at the island and she doesn't sit across from you — she takes the stool beside yours, angled toward you, knees almost touching yours. Her robe has slipped off one shoulder. She makes no move to fix it.

"So. A whole week," she says. "You, me, and a very empty house. I should warn you, I get bored. I get into trouble when I'm bored." "I'll try to keep you entertained." "Oh, dear." She smiles into her cup. "Careful what you offer."

She asks about your work, and you talk, and she listens — really listens, which is disarming — but her foot has found yours under the island and stays there. Not pressing. Just there.

When you stumble over a sentence, she grins. "Sorry. Am I distracting you?" "A little."

"Good. That's the idea." She swirls her coffee. "You know, Mia told me you're very loyal. Very proper. She said it like a compliment." "It is one." "Mm." Her eyes flick down and back up. "I've always found proper men the most fun. So much... pressure behind the wall."

She stands to refill your cup, and on the way back her hand lands on your shoulder — a light touch, motherly in theory, nothing else about it motherly — and stays there while she sets the mug down. "You have tension right here," she says, thumb pressing the muscle at the base of your neck. "All week at a desk. You should let me take care of that sometime."

"Take care of it?" "I give a devastating shoulder rub. Ask anyone. Well—" she laughs, "don't ask anyone."

You escape to shower, telling yourself you're imagining it. She's friendly. She's European-friendly. Mia's whole family is touchy. When you come down in a t-shirt, she's on the couch with her legs tucked under her, reading glasses on, a novel in her lap. The robe has ridden up her thighs. She looks at you over the glasses.

"There you are. I was starting to think you were hiding from me." "I wasn't hiding." "No?" She pats the cushion beside her. "Then come sit. Tell me what Mia's missing this week."

You sit. It's a mistake. She turns toward you and the robe gaps and you can see the inner curve of her breast, no bra, and you look away too late. "Mm," she says softly. "I didn't—"

"You did. It's all right." She closes her book. "I'm going to say something honest, and you can pretend I didn't if you want. I've been looking forward to this week since Mia booked her flight. That's terrible, isn't it?" Your heart is pounding. "Clara—" "Shh. I'm not asking for anything. I'm just being honest. It's been a long time since a man looked at me the way you're trying not to right now."

The room is very quiet. She reaches over and takes your coffee mug out of your hands and sets it on the table, unhurried, deliberate. "This is a bad idea," you say.

"Probably the worst," she agrees. "She's my stepdaughter. You're her boyfriend. We'd both be monsters." Her fingers find your jaw and turn your face to hers. "And you're still sitting here. And your pulse is going like a rabbit's. Tell me to stop, dear. Mean it." You don't say anything. She smiles. "That's what I thought."

She kisses you first — slow, soft, her mouth tasting of coffee, her hand sliding into your hair. She pulls back an inch. "Still with me?" "Jesus, Clara."

"That's a yes." She kisses you again, harder, and now she's climbing over you, her knees on either side of your thighs, the robe falling open. Her breasts are full and heavy and bare against your chest, and she presses them there on purpose, watching your face. "You can touch them. I didn't put them on display for the couch cushions."

Your hands are on her and she sighs like she's been holding her breath for days. You weigh her breasts in your palms, thumbs over her nipples, and they harden under you instantly. "There," she breathes. "There, that's it. Squeeze — yes. Like you mean it. I'm not porcelain, dear." She rocks her hips against you and feels exactly how hard you already are. Her eyes go wide and delighted. "Oh. Oh, Mia's a lucky girl. Stand up."

You stand and she sinks to her knees in front of you, tugging your sweatpants down, and your cock springs free right at her face. She wraps a hand around it and looks up at you with those reading glasses still on and it's almost unbearable.

"Look at you," she murmurs. "All week this has been down the hall from me. Wasted." She licks a slow stripe up the underside. "We're fixing that."

She takes you into her mouth hot and slow, working her tongue, one hand stroking what doesn't fit, the other cupping your balls. She's good — unhurried, filthy, moaning around you like it's her favorite thing in the world, and when you groan and your hand tightens in her hair she hums.

"Mmf— that's it, pull. Don't be polite." She comes off you with a wet pop, stroking. "You close already? Good. Then you'll last when I really want you to."

She stands, unties the robe completely, and lets it fall off her shoulders to the floor. Naked, she's spectacular — the wide hips, the soft stomach, the blonde mound, everything her clothes had been promising all week. "Bedroom," she says. "I've made it up nicely. I've been making it up nicely since Tuesday." She takes your hand and leads you up the stairs, her thick ass swaying with every step, and you follow like a man in a trance, because you are one.

She pushes you onto your back on her big bed and straddles you again, this time dragging her wet pussy along your cock, teasing you both, coating you. Her eyes are half shut.

"Condom's in the drawer," she says. "Unless you'd rather just feel me. I can't get pregnant, dear, and I've wanted to feel a man come inside me for about ten years." "Clara—" "I know. I know." She leans down, lips at your ear. "Put it in me. Please. I've been so patient."

You sink into her and you both groan at the same time. She's hot and snug and soaked, and she sits down on you to the root and just stays there for a moment, head back, adjusting, savoring. "Oh, that's—" she laughs breathlessly. "God. Okay. Okay, I've got you." She starts to ride, slow and deep, her tits swaying over you. "Feel how wet that is? That's from watching you eat breakfast, you beautiful idiot."

She builds speed, bracing her hands on your chest, hips rolling, taking exactly what she wants, and her dirty talk comes out between breaths — "yes, there, right there, fuck me, don't you dare stop" — and when you reach down and thumb her clit she shatters. Her whole body seizes, pussy clamping down on you, and she cries out your name — your actual name, the first time she's ever said it — and that's what does you in. "Inside," she gasps, still coming. "Now, now—"

You bury yourself to the hilt and let go, pulsing deep inside her while she milks every last spasm out of you, trembling, swearing softly, kissing your neck over and over.

Afterward she collapses onto your chest, sweaty and boneless, your cock still half inside her, and neither of you moves for a long time. "Well," she says finally, breathless and laughing. "The house isn't quiet anymore."

She makes you both breakfast afterward, wearing your t-shirt and nothing else, and eats hers sitting on the counter with her legs swinging like a girl. There's a hickey below her collarbone she absolutely won't be able to hide, and when you point it out she looks in the hallway mirror and grins. "Good," she says. Mia calls at noon. Clara chats with her warmly — "he's been an angel, we've kept each other company" — while your cum is still drying on the inside of her thigh. She hangs up and looks at you, and the smile is slow and knowing, the same one from this morning. "Six more days, dear," she says. "I do hope you're not tired."