Note from the author: This particular work features heavy bisexual play. Consider yourself warned.
*
My stepmother and I had never gotten along. Dad had brought her home when I was a little more than twelve years old. Some parents can put their differences aside to ensure that their divorce is quick and painless so that it does not affect their child. Mine weren't so thoughtful.
I was a difficult child, I can admit that, lashing out at everyone around me. Mother, father, teachers, no one was safe. Especially not a new addition to the family who wasn't exactly fond of me. Don't get me wrong, though, Bea was far from the perfect stepmother. She married my father, not me.
Hateful, divorced parents and an inattentive and jealous stepmother made for a very tumultuous upbringing. It didn't help that my father had sole custody because my mother decided to move halfway around the world. Anyways, that all changed when I turned twenty-three. I had just graduated from university and moved back into my dad's house. It was a ranch in the middle of the mid-west. Unlike most of my peers, I didn't scorn country life, I loved it. The peaceful, tranquil life that you lead in a small town was much better than the hectic, smog filled existence that one leads in a city. In the concrete jungle you're surrounded by people but are always alone. In my little home town I had more than enough room to breathe and everyone knew my name. I had done a lot of growing up in the few years I had spent away from home and I had resolved, long ago, to bury the hatchet with my stepmother. Enough was enough. There would be no more forced conversations, tense civility or passive aggressive bullshit. If I was going to build my life in that town, in that house, then it would be a proper one. If I had to be the bigger man and make the first move then so be it.
The barn next to the main house was a glorified stable-slash-chicken coop. We weren't a poultry farm, but Bea kept the birds as a sort of hobby. I found her tending to them one chilly Wednesday evening. A lot of emotions washed over me when I saw her bent over tending to her birds. I had wanted to fuck her for a long time. At first it was because I hated her. I spent my early teens viciously stroking myself to the thought of roughly making her mine, pinning her to the barn floor and fucking her raw while her mascara ran down her pretty little face. As I matured, however, I saw things from a different point of view: hers. Bea didn't hate me, she just had no idea what the fuck to do with me. She was twenty-six when she married my father who was thirty-five at the time. His family didn't make things easy for her either. See, my dad was as white as snow while Bea was fully, completely, one-hundred percent Indian. Prejudice can be a terrible thing. At thirteen I hated her, at eighteen I wanted to get away from them both, and at twenty-three I wanted to have a real relationship with her. Sure, she could never take my mother's place and that was probably a good thing because I still wanted her badly. She was far from the most attractive woman in the world. She had a beautiful face with an arrow straight nose, perfectly cared for eyebrows and full, dark lips but her and my dad had had one kid together, my baby brother, and her body had never really recovered. The taut abs and firm breasts of their early married years were long gone. She had prominent love handles, her tits had a slight sag, noticeable when she wore her loose tops, and her wide ass was more fat than fit. None of that mattered to me. I wanted her regardless.
She was wearing a knee length leopard print dress that exposed the back of her dark brown thighs as she bent over. I stood there, leaning against the hard wood, hungrily staring at her lightly exposed form. When she finally noticed my presence, she regarded me with suspicion.
"David," was all she said.
Her voice was determinedly civil. Over the years it seemed like every time the two of us had tried to have a conversation it had resulted in screaming and stupidity. The end result was that when we both spoke to each other it was in a clear, hard tone. That all had to change. I was back in that big ass house permanently and things needed to get better.
"Hey, Bea, how's everything?" Far from making her more at ease, my forced joviality only raised her suspicions.
She cocked an eyebrow, gathered up her things and made to leave without making any further reply. I noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her brown tits swung heavily as she walked toward me. I shook my head, pushing away the lust and anxiety.
"I don't hate you!"
Straight and to the point. Perhaps a bit too blunt. She stopped, staring at me, and, for a moment, I thought that I had made a fool of myself. I said fuck it and let the words flow out of me.
"Let's be adults, alright? You and I have never gotten along. Ever since I was a kid and you married dad we've barely tolerated each other. I know that I was a difficult child and I know that you had to put up with a lot of shit from my dad's family. I just want to say that. . .I don't hate you. We're both here to stay. I figure that it's time for us to have a real relationship, don't you?"
An eternity of silence followed my words. Her mouth open and closed repeatedly, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. I couldn't resist letting my eyes fall to her plunging cleavage. There was a single bead of sweat glistening on her right breast.
"I don't know what brought this on, David, but thank you. I don't hate you either and you're right. It's about time that we both begin acting like adults. I'm going to go get started on dinner. Maybe we can talk more after we eat and I have a shower?"
Shower. Without thinking, I found myself staring at her tits again. My heartbeat quickened when I noticed that the very edge of her dark areola was visible. Bea followed my gaze and cleared her throat, snapping me out of my trance. For a moment I panicked, thinking that I had offended her, but reflected on her face was confusion and amusement, not displeasure and offense.
I smiled like a cad. "A shower. Right. That sounds great, Bea. I'll see you inside."
Bea rolled her eyes and smiled before turning away from me and making her way out of the barn. "See you inside, David."
Bea had been married to my dad for over ten years and that conversation we had after dinner was the first time that I can remember us actually talking to each other like decent human beings. It was a short conversation. My dad sat in the living room watching, but not paying attention to, the television. Mostly she just said that she was sorry for not being able to be a proper mother for me and she agreed that we should start over. We hugged for the first time that night.
The next few months were some of the happiest times I can remember spending in my father's house. The dense cloud of anger and resentment had been lifted, it was as if a huge weight was lifted off of everyone's shoulders. Bea danced around the house, doing her chores with a renewed sense of passion and zeal. My work in town improved as well. In addition to the easier situation at home, Bea proved herself to be an able domestic helper. For the first time, she helped me with my laundry and started making sure I had food. I used to eat her cooking under duress alone. Not that it tasted bad. Like I said, I was a difficult and unbearable teen. The greatest improvement was seen in my father's attitude.
I hadn't given much thought to how much old man Daniel must have been suffering in silence, unable to bring peace to his own house. Thinking back, it must have been an extraordinarily difficult situation for him to be in. It's not like he could pick a side between his wife and his only son. That, for certain, is a decision with no positive outcome. Back in the day, when I thought that adults had life figured out, I resented him for not doing more. Now I know that he did all he could. It was a terrible, fucked up situation all around. As far as he was concerned, he was in heaven. The two most important people in his life had finally started getting along. Despite all of this, however, I was suffering.
