The Adventures of a Step-Mom

[Miranda arrives in Mexico with her husband and step-daughters, ready to enjoy -- and be enjoyed]

*

The suite at the Playa del Mar in Cancun is spectacular! Three large bedrooms, all of them overlooking the pool two stories below; an enormous living room and kitchen; a private bath for each of us. We arrive after dark and the sliding glass doors were open onto the balcony, the warm, humid tropical breeze making the sheer white drapes billow in the glow of the pool below. The girls are ecstatic - they're downstairs swimming while Brent and I unpack. I can hear their laughter and splashing echo up to us; it's been a while since any of us sounded so happy.

Brent and I are in the master room stowing our things. We are silent. Things have become increasingly strained over the last year. Issues, issues. And the heat we felt when we married has all but vanished. I am loading the dresser drawers: boxers, socks, shorts, and tee shirts in his; camisoles, bras, thongs, and a pair of stockings in mine. The silk rustles between my fingers and gives me a tingle. I realize with a sudden shock that I need a shower after my adventure at the airport.

Brent's voice floats from the bathroom, where he is unpacking our toiletries. "Miranda?" His tone is flat, expressionless. This more than anything else puts me on guard.

"Yes?"

"Miranda, you didn't pack your pills."

I sigh. He isn't talking about antidepressants or laxatives or anything so simple. He's talking about my birth control pills. I really had just simply forgotten about them; it really was an innocent mistake. But, given the particular friction that has been building between us for months, there is no way this oversight could look anything less than devious. He steps out of the bathroom, his hands spread to emphasize their emptiness. "What the hell, Miranda?"

With nothing to say except the truth, I hold my peace and simply return his gaze. Brent is a tall, dark, and handsome man of 50. There are slashes of gray at his temples, but his hair, like the rest of him, is thick and vigorous. He tans easily, moves gracefully, and still exudes the same power that first drew me to him five years before when we first met.

I had just landed a paralegal job - my first - at his firm, a very proper, well-established office in the heart of downtown. I had just turned 30 and, having realized that my clock was definitely ticking, decided to advertise not only my analytical skills to my new employers, but also my availability. I wore snug, tailored skirts tapered to the knee to emphasize the roundness of my ass and the length of my shapely legs; silk blouses that clung seductively to my breasts below plunging necklines; sheer stockings in eye-catching floral or geometric patterns; heels never less that four inches in length. I swept my hair into new and exciting coifs, found jewelry that was both tasteful and exotic, and dabbed a variety of harem scents behind my ears and in my cleavage every morning. I was decidedly on the make, and the men in their $2000 suits and predatory power jobs responded in kind. I had any number of offers, from the respectful and sincere to the bluntly carnal.

But I held out, playing the field, biding my time. I knew what I wanted: a leader, a confident older man who would dominate me and cherish me in a grown-up parallel to my old camp director, the older man who had broken me in so gently and firmly and taught me so much. Most of the men who circled me in that office, pressing against me in the hallways and copping feels in the elevator, were too young, too insecure, and too untested. I wanted a mature alpha male and, in that office, Brent soon emerged as the obvious choice.

For months I lay siege, smiling, chatting with him, standing straight and tall so he would notice the swell of my breasts against my blouse, turning so he could enjoy the swing of my hips in my close-fitting skirts. I knew he noticed me, even found small excuses to be in my company, but he was never warm or any more than the remote senior partner he was. I had just about given him up for lost until the annual office New Year's party.

The office was packed with lawyers, their wives and lovers. The reception area hosted an open bar, and the uniformed waiters scrambled to keep up with the demand for Stoli, Chivas, Bombay Sapphire. I was alone and drinking pretty heavily, enjoying the swirl of attentive men around me. Brent was there as well, conspicuously single, and as the evening progressed we exchanged appreciative glances, longer stares, and finally looks of frank desire.

Without any preamble he approached me during a lull in the music and took my elbow. "Miranda," he said, "I need you in my office."

Matching his pretense at legitimate business, I answered briskly. "Why? Has something come up?"

"It certainly has." His grip was very, very firm, and I was quickly whisked from the light and noise of the party down a quiet corridor and through a heavy oak door. Instead of closing it behind us, he simply drew me to one side of the darkened office, a cavernous corner space lit only by the orange glow of the city through the picture windows. He perched me on the edge of a desk, his hands on my hips as I looked up into his flushed and chiseled face. "I need to do some discovery, Miranda," he breathed, "in a very urgent case."

Then his lips were on mine and my entire body responded, rising to meet him with all its heat. After a long and passionate kiss, I felt his hand take hold of my hair and pull my face away from his. "The client has been displaying themselves in a shameless manner," he said, his free hand curling around my slender throat and then dragging heavily downward. "She has given every indication that she would welcome a forceful, aggressive takeover."

My breath caught in my throat as he enveloped my left breast in one powerful hand. "Well, then," I managed between gasps, "perhaps a hostile bid is in order, sir."

"My thoughts precisely," he breathed into my upturned face, his grip on my hair tightening as he pulled my head back to expose my throat. His hand unbuttoned my blouse quickly and expertly and then plunged under the waistband of my skirt. His head dipped and I felt his lips engulf my nipple above the lace border of my] half-bra. I gripped his broad shoulders for dear life and moaned.

He sucked on me - hard, my nipple engorging instantly and burning now with pain and passion. I heard and felt the button of my skirt pop off and heard it clatter upon the marble floor. His hand swept across my firm, flat belly and down, down, to cup my smooth mound through my silk panties. His middle finger slid flush along my aching slit, and he began to work it into me, almost lifting me by the vulva.

"But before I make my final move," he said gruffly, "I will need to make a thorough inspection of the facility to see if it can ... withstand my ... particular style of ownership." With this, he pressed me back to lie flat upon the desk, pulling the crotch of my panties up and away from my steaming pussy so that the silk bit into the crack of my ass. With his other hand he pinned my upper body to the desk, my left breast squeezed mercilessly in his iron grasp.

As I lifted and spread my knees, he plunged two fingers deep into me, and I gave a cry of pure shock and pleasure. "Yes, sir," I panted. "You need to make sure that your new ... acquisition .... will be a proper fit ... and can accommodate your ... mastery." I moaned again as he slowly rotated his wrist, working his fingers deeply to probe and stretch me to the limit.

The thrusts of his hand came faster and faster. I clutched the underside of my thighs and pulled my knees to my shoulders as he fucked me first with two fingers, then three, and then all four, his thumb tucked against the palm of his strong, wide hand. "The client seems receptive," he said. "But ... is she willing to submit to genuine ownership?"

"Yes," I breathed, "oh, God - YES!" I felt his fist inexorably parting my labia as he thrust ever deeper, pinning me helpless to the polished wood of the desk. He bent his head again and took the nipple of my bouncing, jiggling breast between his teeth in a perfect bite - painful but not enough to do any real harm.

As he fisted my streaming pussy, my ruined skirt bunched around my hips, my thighs slack and yielding, I grabbed blindly for the bulge in his trousers and, finding it, rubbed his cock in short, frantic strokes. Before I could tug his zipper all the way down, however, he suddenly withdrew his fist and, strong hands on my hips, flipped me onto my belly. "She seems ready for a trial run," he said in the darkness. "Nothing too invasive - just an exploratory to gather more data."

I heard his zipper descend the rest of the way and felt his hands pushing my round, soft ass cheeks up and apart. Then I felt his cock - hot, thick, incredibly hard - slap against my pantied ass, sliding between my globes to rest along my crack. He mounted me this way, pulling my hips back now, back and up to meet his cock and cushion it as he slid it up and down over my silk-covered pussy mound and asshole. He put a hand on the back of my neck, forcing my chin and shoulders to the table, my naked breasts mashed against the polished wood. And then came the thrusts - hard, merciless, faster and faster, the hot silk of my panties slick now from his precum and my own copious juices. "Yesssss," he hissed. "Very good....Excellent! I can see she will be a fine acquisition!"

I worked my hips up and back to give him more, to pleasure his bursting cock. He responded by giving me a resounding slap on my ass, another, and then another. I felt my tender flesh quiver, burning like my ravaged tit. "So obedient!" he panted, approval in his tone. "So pliant, so ... uhhhh." His thrusts were becoming ragged now as he built to his climax, his hips grinding urgently against my ass. Then he convulsed and I felt the lashing of his cum on my hips and back as he came, shooting over me like a fountain. With a quick succession of grunts, he pulled me back against his leaping cock, until at last he was spent.

In the quiet, he labored to catch his breath. He leaned over me until his lips were at my ear and whispered, "Very good, Miranda. I can see that you are just what I have been looking for." He brought his hand - the one he had plunged into my fervent pussy - to my mouth and slid two fingers between my pouting lips. As I sucked and tasted myself, I heard him say, "Congratulations. You are now under new ownership."

And that had been only the beginning.

In the days leading up to our marriage, we spoke of the shape his mastery would take, the many routines I was to learn, the skills and refinements I was to employ. And we spoke of children - he would, he said, be breeding me, and I thrilled at the animalistic finality of the word. This would be my ultimate service to a real master - offering him not only my body and my gifts, but my womb for his use and pleasure. It would mark me as his forever and fulfill my obedient womanhood.

But it never happened. The time was never quite right: there were his daughters to get to know, and they would be upset by our starting a new family too quickly. Then there were pressures at work, and a host of other trivial excuses until it finally dawned on me that he simply didn't want any more children. I reminded him that we were wealthy - there would be nannies and minders and maids to look after them, leaving us free to enjoy and explore our deepening bond. But Brent wouldn't bend, and took to making sure that I stayed on my regimen of birth control pills, even watching me as I snapped them from their container and swallowed them every two weeks like clockwork. This one issue had divided us for more than a year and brought us to the crisis we are living today.

"I didn't forget them on purpose," I say quietly. "You know I wouldn't do that."

"You mean, I wouldn't let you do that." His face is set, unreadable. "I know you hate them and, in all likelihood, me as well."

"No, Brent," I say, moving to him. Reading him carefully, I slowly move to embrace him; he makes no indication this advance is unwelcome, so I press against him, soothing him, trying to lighten the moment. "I'm still all yours, aren't I?" I think I feel the slightest stirring of his manhood against my belly, so I snuggle even more. "Aren't I?"

His hands rove up and down my back, cupping my ass and then stroking my shoulders, up and down as he ponders this. Then: "Yes, Miranda. Yes you are. All mine. And now -" he places his hands on my shoulders and begins to push me down to my knees before him "- now you will offer me your mouth. Yes, that will have to do now that your fertile womb is ... unprotected." He knows the calendar as well as I do: tonight is the time of my next pill, and he isn't about to take a chance.

So I take his cock in my mouth while kneeling, my hands clasped behind my back just as he likes it. And he curls his fingers behind my ears and guides my head back and forth on his swollen cock, gagging me slightly, gently; working his hips to claim every corner of my mouth. And then he cums, tipping my head back so it spurts over my full lips, my pointed chin, my high cheekbones and closed eyelids. Then he lifts me to my feet and points me to the bathroom, a slap on my retreating ass as I go. As I close the door behind me, I hear the girls returning from the pool, their shouts of laughter echoing in the large Spanish-style living room.

And I think to myself, thank God I forgot those pills. Otherwise he might have wanted to use my pussy, and noticed that another man had trespassed on his prize possession mere hours before. I will offer my mouth and nothing else for the next week in Cancun just to avoid his ever discovering that!

For the second time that day, I am keeping something from my husband. And all I feel is thrilled.