Your Ex's Stepmother Texts

The notification lights up your dark bedroom. It’s a text from Sabrina. You haven’t spoken since the breakup, and seeing her name sends a jolt through you. You open it. There are no words, just a picture. It’s her, in what looks like soft lamplight, lying back against pillows. Her face is a little blurry, caught in a shy, flustered smile. Below that smile, her breasts are completely bare, full and soft. A simple, breathtaking image sent at midnight. Then another text bubble pops up beneath it: “hey, how are you?” You stare. Your mouth goes dry. You remember her—always a little clumsy, always warm, always watching you with a curious, quiet smile at family dinners. You remember thinking she was too young to be anyone’s stepmother. You type back.

You don’t trust yourself to type anything clever. You just send: “Sabrina?” The three dots appear immediately. They bounce for a long, tense moment. Then her reply comes.

“Oh my god. Oh no. I am SO sorry. That was for… someone else. I’m so clumsy with this phone.” You stare at the words. The picture is still on your screen. It’s very clearly her in her bedroom. You type again.

“For someone else?” you write. The three dots bounce again, longer this time. A full minute passes. You watch them, your heart thumping against your ribs. The picture is still there. Her reply finally comes. “Yes. A… a painting reference. For an artist friend. It’s a long story. I’m mortified. Please delete it.” You don’t delete it. You look at it again. Her skin looks so soft in the lamplight. You write, “It doesn’t look like a painting reference.”

“What does it look like?” she sends back, almost instantly. The question hangs in the air, charged and dangerous. She’s calling your bluff. You can play it safe, or you can step onto the thin ice she’s laid out. You take a breath and type. “It looks like you’re in bed. And you’re not wearing any clothes.” You hit send. The silence that follows is deafening. You wait, your thumb hovering over the screen.

Her reply is slower this time. “It’s late. I was just… checking on you. After everything. And then I fumbled. I really am sorry.” “Checking on me?” you write. “At midnight? With that?” “I told you, it was an accident!” she writes. Then, a second later: “Unless you don’t think it was.” There it is. The line, dangling between you. You can either drop it and let the awkwardness swallow you both, or you can pick it up.

You decide to pull the line. “I don’t think it was an accident, Sabrina.” You wait. The silence stretches. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, scared her off. Then your phone buzzes, not with a text, but with a call. Her name flashes on the screen.

You answer. “Hello?” Her voice is soft, a little breathless. “Hi.” A pause. “So you think I’m a liar?”

“I think you know what you’re doing,” you say, your own voice lower than you intended. She lets out a small, flustered laugh. “Maybe I do. Maybe I’ve been thinking about you. Is that so terrible? Two weeks is a long time to wonder if someone’s okay.” “You could have just asked,” you say.

“I did,” she whispers. “You saw how I asked.” The image flashes in your mind again. You’re hard now, just from her voice and the memory of that picture. “Sabrina…” “Come over,” she says, the words rushed and warm. “Come over and you can ask me in person if it was an accident.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing outside her townhouse. The porch light is on. You ring the bell. The door opens almost immediately. She’s there, wrapped in a silky robe, her hair slightly mussed. She looks younger than you remember, her cheeks flushed. She gives you a shy, nervous smile. “You came.”

“You invited me,” you say, stepping inside. The hallway is warm and smells like her perfume—something light and floral. She closes the door and leans back against it, looking up at you. “I did. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“You sent that picture,” you say, your voice quiet in the hall. “How could I not?” She bites her lower lip, a gesture that’s equal parts innocent and knowingly seductive. “It really was a little bit of an accident. I was trying to take a normal picture to send you, and then I… I don’t know. I got bold.” “You got very bold,” you say, taking a step closer. You can see the deep V of her robe where it’s loosely tied.

“Are you mad?” she asks, her eyes wide. You shake your head. “No. I’m not mad at all.”

“Good,” she breathes out. Then she seems to remember herself. “Can I get you a drink? Wine? Something stronger?” “I’m okay,” you say. You don’t want a drink. You want to know what’s under the robe.

“Okay,” she says. She pushes off from the door and walks past you toward the living room, her bare feet quiet on the floor. You follow. The robe sways with her hips. She turns to face you by the sofa. The lamplight from the picture is the same one lighting the room now. “So,” she says. “Ask me.”

“Was it an accident?” you ask, your gaze dropping to the tie of her robe.

She watches you look. A slow smile spreads across her face. She reaches up, her fingers finding the silk tie at her waist. With a gentle tug, it comes loose. The robe falls open. She doesn’t shrug it off. She just lets it hang open, revealing everything from her throat down to her thighs. She is exactly as she was in the picture, but real, and here. “What do you think?” she whispers.

You don’t have words. You close the distance between you in two steps, your hands coming up to cradle her face. You kiss her. She melts into it immediately, a soft sound escaping her throat. Her hands come up to your chest, then slide around your neck, pulling you closer. Her mouth is warm and sweet, and she kisses you back with a hunger that surprises you, her tongue meeting yours. When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard. Her robe has slipped off one shoulder. “Definitely not an accident,” she murmurs against your lips.

Your hands slide down from her face, over the smooth skin of her shoulders, pushing the silky fabric away until the robe pools at her feet. She stands before you, completely naked, unashamed. Her breasts are as perfect as they looked in the photo, her nipples hard in the cool air. “You’re beautiful,” you say, the words rough. She smiles, a real, bright smile this time. “You’re still dressed.” Her hands go to the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward. “Let’s fix that.”

You let her pull your shirt over your head. Her hands are on your chest immediately, her touch exploring. Then she unbuckles your belt, her fingers deft. She pushes your pants and boxers down in one motion, freeing your cock, which is already fully hard for her. She wraps her fingers around you, giving you a slow, firm stroke. “I’ve thought about this,” she confesses, looking up at you through her lashes. “How you’d feel.” You groan, your hips pushing forward into her hand. “How do I feel?” “Perfect,” she breathes. Then she sinks to her knees.

She doesn’t tease. She takes you into her mouth, deep and slow, her tongue pressing along the underside of your shaft. Her eyes are closed in concentration, a soft hum of pleasure vibrating through her and into you. You bury your hands in her hair, not pushing, just holding on as she works you with her lips and tongue. It’s wet and hot and so good you see stars. She looks up at you, her mouth full of you, and the sight is almost enough to make you come right there.

You pull her up before you lose control. “My turn,” you growl, guiding her back toward the large, plush sofa. You lay her down on the soft cushions, her body a gorgeous curve against the fabric. You kneel between her legs, spreading her thighs wide. Her pussy is already wet, glistening for you.

You lean down and taste her, your tongue finding her clit. She cries out, her back arching off the sofa. “Oh, god,” she gasps. “Right there.” You lick and suck, drinking her in, until her thighs are shaking and her hands are clenched in your hair.

“Please,” she begs, tugging at your shoulders. “I need you inside me. Now.” You don’t make her wait. You rise up, positioning yourself at her entrance. You look into her eyes, dark with need. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” she says, wrapping her legs around your waist. “Fuck me.” You push into her, and she’s so tight and wet she takes your breath away. You bury yourself to the hilt, a groan tearing from your throat. “Yes,” she hisses, her head falling back. “Just like that. Don’t be gentle.”

You obey. You set a hard, deep rhythm, driving into her with everything you have. The sofa creaks beneath you. Her nails dig into your back. With every thrust, she lets out a sharp, beautiful cry. “You feel so good,” she moans, her eyes locked on yours. “I knew you would. I knew it.”

You kiss her, swallowing her moans. You feel her tightening around you, her body coiling. “Come for me,” you grit out, pounding into her. She shatters, her whole body convulsing, a long, loud cry breaking from her lips as she clenches around your cock.

Her climax triggers yours. You drive into her one last, deep time and let go, your release pulsing into her warmth. You collapse on top of her, both of you panting, slick with sweat.

After a long moment, she strokes your hair. “So,” she says, her voice husky and warm. “Not an accident.” You laugh into the crook of her neck. “Definitely not.” She shifts beneath you, making room for you to lie beside her on the wide sofa. You pull her against you, her back to your chest. You both just breathe for a while, tangled together in the quiet, lamplit room.

You lie there for a long time, her body soft and warm against yours. The world outside her townhouse feels very far away. There’s no past, no ex-girlfriends, no complicated family trees. There’s just this quiet room, her skin under your hands, and the undeniable fact that she wanted you, and she got you. You trace idle circles on her hip. She lets out a contented sigh and snuggles closer. It feels shockingly normal, shockingly right. You realize you’re smiling.