My Stepson

It's been some months since I posted a story. I want to thank all who have taken the time to write and post comments while I was gone.

As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.

* * * * *

One Friday afternoon, about a month before his high school prom, my step-son burst through the front door and headed for his room, nary a nod or hello. Not like him, and wasn't he supposed to be with Katie? Half-an-hour later I went upstairs, heard him crying through his door, silently backed down the hall, and re-entered it making noise more than sufficient to announce my presence. I tapped on his door and asked if he'd join me for a cup of tea.

Eyes red, trying to hold himself together, he appeared about twenty minutes later. I suggested dinner at his favorite neighborhood Uzbek restaurant There it came out. Katie, his girlfriend of eighteen months, had dumped him. She was going to the prom with an old boyfriend just returned from a year in Europe.

I wasn't surprised; things had been rocky and, other than the pain it caused him, wasn't upset. I didn't like Katie. I don't know whether it was conscious manipulation or just that she was an insecure young woman with limited tools stumbling through a relationship, but her constant condescension and criticism, penchant for blaming Ryan for her own bad behavior, and incessant discounting of his feelings had battered my step-son's confidence and self-esteem.

I'd wanted to say something, to do something, but hadn't. This was something he had to do on his own and, in any case, his friends had already tried to intervene. So while I, the good step-mother, had always been ready to listen, I'd gotten out of the way and let the relationship run its course.

* * * * *

A bit of background. Ann, Ryan's mother, and I met in medical school. We became friends, roommates, and served our residency -- Ann in neurology, I an internist -- at the same hospital. I was with her - we were eating lunch on a lovely spring day -- when she was introduced to John, the brilliant young eye surgeon and rising star of the hospital's staff.

Choosing stability and family, Ann married John a year later. Ryan arrived soon thereafter. Their marriage, despite John's growing reputation, had been successful. As John, consumed by work, became increasingly unavailable, independent Ann volunteered here, championed a cause there, was active everywhere. There were drawbacks. Husband and wife had more electronic than face-to-face communications and John, always at work, became an interloper in a family ever more centered on Ann and Ryan. And on those nights she needed to be held, she and I, like we had in medical school, would turn down the lights, split a bottle of wine, snuggle, touch, strip, make love.

I stayed single. A successful attractive doctor, I dated important men, went to the right parties, ate at the best restaurants. Unfortunately my important men were far too often self-obsessed blowhards and mediocrities in the sack. So if once in a while I envied my friend and if once in a while a good-looking visiting resident -- I was careful, they were always from another department -- was invited to share this doctor's bed, what was the harm? I showed them a good time.

And yes, maybe John and I married too soon after Ann passed. I knew of the talk, that it was hasty, that I married John for the prestige, that he married me, a semi-trophy wife, to be twelve year old Ryan's mother. And so what if the talk wasn't wholly inaccurate. John and I weren't smitten teenagers who couldn't live without each other. But I wanted a family, it was clear I couldn't have children, and I'd concluded there was no Mr. Right. If John was less than perfect, so was I. So I became Ryan's mom and, as he entered his teenaged years, his co-conspirator, acting as the cushion between him and his by-the-book father.

* * * * *

After the break-up I kept a close eye on my step-son, letting him mope when wanted to, listening when he wanted to talk. I noticed something else. Several times a day Ryan would say he had check his computer or take a nap, disappear into his room, and appear shortly thereafter, face flushed and smelling of sweat and sex. I mean, Ryan was a teen-aged boy, but still.... Had he always masturbated this much? Had I not noticed? Did this explain his attraction to Katie? My step-son had a robust sexual appetite. Did Katie's match?

Over the next weeks, the depth of my step-son's gloom lifting, we'd hang, go to the gym -- it's amazing how quickly a testosterone infused teen-ager muscles up -- jog in the park, chit-chat while I made dinner, watch television. On Fridays, knowing my husband would work late, concerned my step-son would spend the evening brooding over Katie and her new/old squeeze, we'd return to that Uzbek restaurant for what my step-son called our "date." It was nice. After the alienation of his early teen-aged years, after his eighteen month obsession with Katie, I was reconnecting with my step-son on a more adult level.

On the night of prom Ryan decided he'd skip the dance and hook up later with friends at a post-prom party. I suggested dinner at Ceburechnaya, an out-of-the-way sort-of-a-dive hole-in-the-wall with, by reputation, the best Uzbek cuisine in the city. I dressed up a bit, boots, jeans that wrapped around my bit-of-a-jiggle ass, a loose tank top that was not so loose it didn't show off my boobs, and a lacy supportive bra. At home, bending forward for my keys, I noticed Ryan glance down my open top. I knew I shouldn't, but I got a charge out of it -- I still had it. Later, at the restaurant, I dropped my fork, reached for it, saw him look down my shirt, fumbled with the fork, gave him a longer look.

After dinner Ryan headed for his party and I, ready for some action, showered, put on a short nightie that showed off plenty of breast and legs, and waited. John, unfortunately, got delayed at the office and when he got home one glance -- he looked exhausted -- told me there'd be no sex tonight. I fixed him a drink, talked to him about Ryan, the prom, saw he wasn't listening, suggested that he didn't need to entertain his wife on a Friday night or talk about his son, that he should hit the sack. I poured myself another drink, dozed off, woke up when Ryan returned home.

"Hey Mom, I didn't, sorry."

"It's okay son, I fell asleep reading."

"Is it okay if I have a beer, can I get you something?"

"How many have you had?"

He said, "A couple," which meant at least four, and I said, "Yeah, but only one and don't tell your Dad. I'd love a glass of wine."

Back from the kitchen he handed me my wine, sat down, resting his back on the couch's arm rest, his legs sprawled before him. I laid my legs on his, rubbed his knee, told him about my evening -- his dad arriving home late and heading straight to bed -- until, hearing the resentment creep into my voice, changed subjects and asked him about the party. He skimmed over it, omitting the interesting details, then turned the conversation back to me. "You okay?"

Clearly he'd heard the frustration in my voice and deciding what the hell, why avoid the issue, I said, "Yeah, its just that sometimes your Dad takes me for granted."

"He takes us all for granted. You look nice, that's a pretty nightie."

I said, "Thanks, I'm glad you noticed," left unsaid the implication his father hadn't, and added, "I wanted to feel like a woman tonight, pretty, sexy."

Taking a long evaluative look at me -- I became conscious of the amount of cleavage I was showing -- my step-son said, "Why? You don't feel sexy all the time?"

"Y'know, your Dad gets preoccupied. You get married, things change."

"C'mon, Dad's in love with you, in his own way."

"Yeah, I know, but sometimes I wish his way was a little bit more..., well..., different. A little bit more...." I stopped. Right now what I wanted was a man who'd tear my clothes off and fuck me against the wall. Probably shouldn't say that.

My step-son paused, making sure I had nothing to add, and having discerned my meaning said, "I'm sure there are a lot of guys who'd be happy to be a little different with you, to do the unspeakable," then, concerned he'd gone to far, added, "How about we forget I said that and please, don't tell Dad I said that."

"Don't worry I won't, and while we're at it I won't tell your Dad I liked that you said that. It's way past my bedtime, but if you don't mind it's prom night. Dance one with Mom?"

I put on a favorite ballad, and we kinda danced and kinda swayed and held each other and that was the time I first had thoughts I shouldn't.

* * * * *

Our Friday night dates became a fixture on our schedule and the highlight of my week. Our conversation started straying past convention. I'd make jabs at Katie and her new beau; he'd criticize his father. When I asked him about dating he, disguising the pain of his break-up with Katie, said he'd sworn off high school girls, he'd wait till he entered Columbia. The rest of the week my step-son would join me at the gym, we'd go for walks, talk. Finding that Ryan, unlike his father, was always ready with a compliment I took the time to primp myself, choose clothes that showed off my work at the gym. In disputes between father and son I'd side with Ryan and in the face of our united front his normally inflexible father would back down. I liked it.

* * * * *

Ryan was spending the night in Connecticut with friends and that morning I'd made my needs clear. John would come home early. I showered, did my hair and make-up, put on a teddy. When John called to tell me he was on the way home I dialed up some romantic music, poured him a drink, poured me a drink. When he called half-an-hour later to say he'd been delayed I poured myself another drink. When he called an hour later to say he'd been delayed again....

By the time he got home my husband was tired and my body, in or out of the teddy, insufficient inspiration. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the look he gave me when he walked in the front door, the look that said yeah, he'd kinda promised sex, but my sexual needs were a pain in the ass, a burden he had to endure. Later I lay in bed so pissed I could neither cry nor sleep. Yeah, when I'd married him I expected less sex, but no sex?

The next morning, struggling to be in a better mood, telling myself it wasn't John's fault, it'd been a long stressful work week, I washed my teddy, hung it to dry in my bathroom, forgot about it. Later, after Ryan got home, while fixing my nails I asked him to grab the spare bottle of polish from my bathroom. He did, returning with a big grin on his face.

"It looks you and Dad had fun last night."

At first confused, then, as I understood, embarrassed, my, "Unnhhhh," let him know what happened or, more accurately, what hadn't happened. Ryan, seeing my discomfort, kissed the top of my head and said, "Shit, I bet you looked spectacular."

* * * * *

Later, as I folded my teddy and interred it in it's drawer I thought about Ryan. Did he, unlike his father, appreciate sexy lingerie? I left a basket of laundry at the bottom of the stairs, bicycle shorts on top, bra and panties underneath. When I returned my clothes had shifted position, my underwear was not oriented as I'd left it. Ryan had looked at my lingerie. Women's underwear couldn't be a mystery to him, he'd been intimate with Katie. Of course I doubted Katie, invariably garbed in drab black shirts and jeans, cavorted in lacy undergarments. Did Ryan find sexy underwear enticing? Did Ryan, after thin wan Katie, find his step-mother's underwear, designed for a fuller rounder more buxom figure, interesting?

It became a game for me. I'd wear fun underwear, leave it hanging in the laundry room for him to find.

And yes, I knew it was unhealthy, that I was sublimating my unfulfilled sexual desire into this play, but what was the harm?

* * * * *

And then one day it wasn't a game. Watching Ryan, thinking how attractive he was, how sweet he was, about all that sexual energy going to waste -- he still masturbated several times a day -- I asked myself the question that had been simmering just below the surface of my brain for weeks. And then I answered it: why not? He needed it, I needed it. Why not.

* * * * *

Two weeks remained in our annual summer stay in Cape Cod when I dropped my husband at the airport. He was returning to the mainland for several high profile surgeries then to present the results of a surgical technique he'd been pioneering at a conference in Geneva. He'd not return to the beach. I kissed him good-bye, a peck on the cheek.

On the way back to the cabin I texted Dr. Beverly Hulka, asking for her access code. Beverly, her marriage in tatters and daughter in tow, had chucked the big city practice and relocated to the Cape, living and practicing there year round. We'd met several years ago and, both women doctors in their early thirties with a single child, became friends. I'd asked if I could use her offices -- after hours as not to be in the way — to give Ryan a physical. She'd agreed. The access code appeared on my phone.

Back at the cabin I sat in the driveway, reviewed, re-reviewed my decision. I'd go for it; I'd not chicken out.

Stepping in the front door I called out, "Hey honey, I'm home. Are you ready?"

A voice from upstairs: "Almost Mom, what should I wear?"

"What you always wear: jeans, tee-shirt, sneakers."

A minute later he bounced down the steps, two at a time, and erupted into the kitchen.

"How do I look?"

I turned, my dark red, almost brunette, hair swinging with the motion -- I'd let it grow out, it hung past my shoulders -- ran a hand through his hair straightening it, cleaned a speck of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth, tucked his shirt into his pants, said, "Very handsome."

"Thanks Mom, you look good too."

Looking up at him -- he was half a foot taller than me -- I stepped back, gestured to my blue button-down blouse, knee length skirt, and two inch heels, and said, "Thank you for noticing. Your father never seems to anymore. We have a few minutes before we have to go. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Sure Mom, thanks."

We drank, chatted. Several months ago, having determined in a casual conversation that he liked fingernails on women, I'd let mine grow out, kept them polished and painted. I lay my hand on his, pulled it back, dragging hard nails on his skin.

A happy look in his eyes he said, "Your fingernails look nice."

With a subdued smile I said, "I'm glad you like them. Are you ready for your physical?"

"Mom, is it really necessary?"

"Yes son, it is. Columbia requires incoming freshman to have a physical. And no complaining. Dr. Hulka is very generous to let us use her office after hours," then punctuating my next comment with a faux-dramatic roll of my eyes, continued, "so you'll be spared the embarrassment of being seen getting a physical from your mother. Should I drop you two blocks from the office so no one will know I drove you there?"

That got a smile from him. "No, but let me drive."

I handed him the keys.

* * * * *

I entered the code in the key pad, opened the door, stepped inside, shouted, "Hello," heard the unanswered echo of my voice.

We were alone. Reaching for his hand I led him to the examination room, pointed to a smock lying across the examination table, told him to change. It was typical hospital issue, hung loosely in the front, open in the back, offering neither protection nor privacy. Ryan held it up, frowned.

"Do I have to?"

"Columbia requires a comprehensive examination. It's either the smock or, except for your socks, you'll have to get naked. I'll leave while you change. Put your clothes on the chair in the corner."

While my role would shift during the examination, I'd start as an authority figure and in Dr. Hulka's office found the white lab coat I needed. Putting it on I noticed a picture of Beverly and her daughter Lauren taken at Lauren's high school graduation. I picked it up. Lauren was the image of her mother: hair bleached light blonde by the sun, skin flawless and tanned, body in bikini-shape. I put the picture down, hung a stethoscope around my neck, looked in the mirror, adjusted my glasses. I was a doctor, in charge.

I returned, knocked on the door of the examination room, said, "Ready?"

"Yeah."

Sitting on the examination table he looked sweet and vulnerable. Of course, it's nigh impossible for such a good-looking young man not to look sweet and vulnerable in a hospital gown.

I sat, studied my I-pad, crossed my legs. One slipped through the slit of my skirt. My step-son's eyes traveled the length of my leg, stopped at my blue heel dangling in the air, and returned to my face when I laid down my I-pad.

"We'll start with a health history. I can answer most of the questions, but there are a few on which I'll need your help."

We moved down the list. I was the doctor, he the patient; I was in control, he compliant. My step-son relaxed as he grew accustomed to wearing the hospital gown.

After finishing the history I took his blood pressure, checked his pulse. Both were excellent and, as I hung the blood pressure collar in place I said, "I'll next examine your chest, heart, and lungs," rubbed my hands together to warm them, and slipped them inside his smock. Moving my fingertips along the back of his upper arms, across his shoulders, down his upper chest, I loved his long supple muscles and strong pecs.

I'm a physician I understand the nervous system, I know how to touch. I can be comforting, soothing, arousing, or all three. As my fingers journeyed across my son's warm skin, his firm delicious musculature, I could feel him responding. I moved to the side of the table, toggled the switch, lowering it so it became a recliner. My step-son stretched and I continued the examination, dragging my thumbs across his chest, stroking his sensitive nipples, his flat muscular stomach, moving down, stopping an inch from his penis.

There was a steady burn in my sex; I needed to slow this down. Pressing my legs together I returned my hands to his upper chest and repeated the examination. His breathing flattened out, his skin quivered.

"Ryan, your time in the gym has paid off Next I'll listen to your heart," and slipping the ear pieces of my stethoscope into my ears moved into his personal space, close enough to feel the heat of his body, and opened his smock. Pleased to see how he was comfortable about exposing his body to me I pressed the stethoscope to his chest, complimented him on his strong regular heartbeat, asked him to breathe, listened to his abdomen, lungs, and neck, palpitated his chest with the thump of two fingers, sent waves of tactile pleasure through him.

He next he sat up and, my left hand on his thigh, I held his eyes open, leaned in, inspected them, let my breath waft on his cheek. He held out his arms and legs. I carefully checked musculature and skin tone with soft knowing fingers. His eyes were glazed, there was a happy smile on his face.

"You're in excellent shape son."

"Thanks."

Leaning into him, pressing my body to him, I inspected the veins on his neck, traced them with the pad of a single delicate finger. Goose bumps erupted on his chest and arms. I caressed his lymph nodes.

"So far, so good son. The neurologic examination is next."

Moving to the foot of the table, standing between his legs, close enough so he'd feel the warmth of my body, I tilted his head back and slid a tongue depressor in his mouth, testing his gag reflex, then had him touch his nose, my finger, administered a sharp knock to his knee, asked him to walk across the room. I was supposed to be evaluating his gait and coordination, but was instead focused on his cute tush, visible through the gap in his gown.