I'm on my back on the floor of our pool house. I'm staring at my smoking hot stepmom through the viewfinder of my full-frame mirrorless camera. She is standing over me in a sheer black robe with intricate lace trim and a matching G-string. She looks like the world's best prize with her robe cinched beneath her breasts by a white lace bow.

Her blonde hair falls in ribbons of gold around her soft handfuls, her nipples poking out beneath the paper thin fabric of her robe. She bites down on her plump blowjob lip with a pearly white canine, eyeing me ravenously.

Her eyes shimmer with a radiance that matches her dangly earrings. She shakes off her strappy black heels, unveiling her unblemished feet, her Roman toes aligned in a perfect descending cascade.

She runs one smooth arch over the underside of my cock, forming a striking terrace of ivory skin. She curls her toes around my frenulum and jerks my corona slowly.

“Give me intensity,” I say as I plunge the shutter release, snapping shots of her towering over me like a fifty-foot woman.

She releases my corona and extends her foot. Warm golden liquid trickles down her buttery leg and lands on my dong.

“That's it, baby. Show me fire.”

My stepmom, stone fox that she is, arches an eyebrow and narrows her smokey eyes. She sets her foot down on the floor and advances genteelly until she stands directly overhead, a foot planted on either side of me.

She lets loose, voiding her bladder on my head and chest. I open my mouth and receive her amber fluid zealously, stroking myself as I gulp my mom's scorching fluid.

She squats down as I swallow her salty brine, lowering her freshly shaven grapefruit on my face. I eat her gaping snatch hungrily as she rubs herself raw. My tongue ripples against her walls as she squirts with abandon.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when Cynthia didn't seem to know or care that I existed.

She was my old man's trophy wife, a fact he never failed to flaunt, and he kept her to himself whenever he was at home. In the eight years that she'd lived with us, I hadn't spent more than a few hours in her presence.

When they were together, he was always dragging her to his work mixers, showing her off to his colleagues and clients. And whenever he was busy working, which was often, she spent most of her time behind sunglasses by the pool.

I didn't get to know Cynthia Russo until I was in my twenties. I was living at home again after college, slowly assembling my photography portfolio, and doing my level best to put a dent in my student debt.

It all started with an ill-timed taco order.

I was waiting for a model to show up at a local cafe. She had taken the job after responding to my ad on Smegslist.

I had been waiting for over an hour and was halfway through my second cup of coffee when I realized she was not running fashionably late. I dialed the number she'd given me in email and waited.

It rang. And rang... and rang.

Finally, a young woman answered the phone.

“Yeah,” she said crossly.

“Is this Cheyenne?” I asked.

The young woman laughed.

“Uh-no.”

“I'm sorry, do I have the wrong number?”

“Nah, you got the right number. But you picked the wrong day.”

“We said the fifteenth. It's the fifteenth today.”

She laughed again.

“Cheyenne's got Montezuma's revenge.”

“She what?”

“She's got the squirts, dude. Bitch ate somethin' sketchy off a taco truck. Now she's hugging the bowl and praying for death.”

Fuck me, I thought.

“What am I supposed to do?” I say. “The studio's already booked, the rental's been paid for.”

“Sorry, dude. If you dig plus size riot grrrls with nose rings, I'm happy to sub. But I don't do any weird shit. Unless you got a grand to burn.”

I hung up my phone and panic set in. I'd already paid for the space, the studio was booked up solid for the next two months, and I had eight hundred dollars worth of equipment out on loan from the rental shop. It was then or nothing.

I returned home in a sweat, frantically dialing up every halfway attractive friend I could think to call. Nobody knew where I could find a decent-looking model on such short notice.

“Try a number on the men's room wall at Flanagan's,” one friend suggested.

“No way,” I said. “I need beauty and poise, not crabs and a dope habit.”

I racked my brain for a solution, but nothing came to me. That's when I spotted Cynthia. She was emerging from the hot tub beside the pool house. She was clad in a clingy black bikini, her creamy flesh gleaming beneath the weather-resistant string lights.

Her body was bangin'—she had a flat stomach, long creamy legs, full B cups, and a chiseled, fuckable face. Everything about her was pristine and proportioned. Most impressively, she seemed completely stoic, but not in a conceited way. More like she was simply unaware of her natural beauty.

I crossed the patio as she wrapped herself in a towel.

“What's up?” she asked in her blithely apathetic way. “You need something?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You.”

“Ha. Ha. What's the joke?”

“No joke. I need a hot blonde.”

She pulled the dark sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, fixing me with a stern and suspicious expression.

“For my portfolio,” I was quick to add, holding up my leather-bound presentation album.

“Flattered, I'm sure.” She looked away with an unreadable look that could have been disgust as easily as bashfulness. “I think you need someone more your own age, slick.”

I heard her words, but I was riveted on her lustrous skin. She was in her late forties, but she looked better than half the twenty-five-year-old girls I knew.

It was rare that I found myself in such proximity to my stepmom. Up close, she was a bonafide knockout. Her skin was immaculate, her eyes clear, and her hair voluminous. No split ends. No zits. Just pure sex appeal. Her modesty made her that much sexier.

“No, I want you,” I said before I could choose my words more carefully.

“Why me?” she laughed.

“I told you. I need a hot blonde and you're it.”

“I don't think you