The things she does, sometimes unknowingly, make me seethe with anger. My petulance gets the better of me, but her ability to work me up into a testy, touchy, and snarky bitch is beyond belief. She’s been home all day and nothing has been done. As I look around the room my brain adds up all the negatives. The dishes left on the countertop even when the dishwasher is empty, not a sliced vegetable in sight for the evening meal, the chicken unprepared lying in its dish next to the cooker, an empty drinks glass left on the edge of the bookshelf, the TV left on with no-one watching.

I know where she is. In the bedroom, masturbating; coating her fingers in sticky juices before sucking greedily on them in her post-orgasmic haze. I’m not going give her the satisfaction of walking in on her – she’d enjoy that too much.

Instead, I put my bag down and start preparing the chicken I had left on the kitchen countertop, following the instructions I left for her. The vegetables followed, and I made as much noise as I could with the knife while slicing the carrots into thin strips. I can’t believe how lazy she is. Shaking my head I conclude that I don’t know why I let her stay. I should throw her out on the street.

The clunking sound indicates my search for the right size pot that I fill with cold water, add a little salt and put it on the stove for the rice. The click-whoosh of the gas igniting can be rather soothing, though my temper is still at an all-time high.

I eventually hear footsteps approaching.

“You’re home?” she chirps.

Yes, of course I’m fucking home and you’ve done fuck all to help. I want to say those things to her face but I know she’ll cry, but this can’t go on much longer, it has to stop. I don’t acknowledge her presence. I know she’s standing off to the side of the kitchen in the doorway but I busy myself with the tasks. I pull the wok off the wall and place it on the centre ring of the cooker, add a little oil; I’m waiting for her next words.

“Don’t be like this.”

There they are – blaming me for my actions, for being angry at her, because she did fuck all. I close my eyes and breathe slowly. Calm. Calm. Calm.

More footsteps behind me and I can see her in my periphery vision but I don’t turn around to confront her. I dare not. My hand, the one with the knife in it, is shaking. I put it down on the counter for fear of using it in the manner for which it was never intended. I’m wondering what she’ll come out with next.

“What time did you get in?”

Ah, the conversational approach. Nice one. She’s got a brain, I’ll give her that. I always get in at the same time – six o’clock, so why ask? I ignore her and gather up the chicken to put into the wok but at the last minute remember that I hadn’t switched the gas on. I look at the pot on the back burner and notice that there are still no bubbles forming in the pan. I put the chicken down.

The one thing that makes me smile is the click-whoosh of the middle gas ring, a double burner that flashes into action. I let the heat build-up.

More footsteps and I’m now aware of her presence; her breath on the back of my neck. I place my hands on the kitchen counter and stare at the cupboard in front of me; letting her know I’m pissed off. I know she’s going to come out with some elegant excuse, she always does.

“Don’t be angry.”

Not an excuse! A whispered ‘don’t be angry.’ Is that it? Don’t be fucking angry. Closing my eyes, I start to shake my head once more and then I feel it. Her hand, her fingertips to be precise, clawing at the hem of my skirt, lifting it. I feel soft tender kisses trail from the back of my neck to my shoulder. Her hand reaches forward, a hand that hasn’t done a day’s work in its entire life, and I can feel her soft skin touching my silky thigh. Her hand slides between my legs.

I have to bite my lip for fear of crying out. I’m still boiling up inside, fired from her inactivity all day and she has the cheek to feel me up. Yet I clench my stomach hard and confine the outburst. Her hand waves from one thigh to the other and my head follows it. I know she’ll win. I know I’ll succumb to her advances; the needy bitch that I am.

The hot oil starts to smell and spit; her other hand reaches around to the cooker to switch the ring that the wok is on to the off position.

I feel her fingertips waver between my stocking tops and my bare skin. They push forward to slip between my thighs and the feeling is excruciatingly wonderful. More kisses cover my shoulder and I want to turn and pound my lips into hers but that would be giving in.

“Is this nice?”

Of course, it’s fucking nice but I’m not giving her the satisfaction of telling her, no matter how futile that seems right now.

She rubs her fingers around my bottom and along the thin gusset towards my snatch.  Her fingers extend forward, two of them, rubbing hard into my sex, pushing the fabric of my knickers ahead of them. What’s left of the g-string is swallowed up by the cleft of my buttocks. The tightness of the string feels lovely.

There it is, that sigh that I hope she didn’t detect. Because then she’d know. Wouldn’t she? The feeling’s exquisite. My nipples ache to be touched. They’re pounding the inside of my lacy bra, desperate to escape into her mouth.

Memories of that first night come flooding back: recalling how she so elegantly slipped her hand down my top to expose my breast, dipped her head and sucked on my exposed nipple. She played with it, tossing and turning it in her mouth, twisting it with her tongue, something my husband had never done. Our drunken stupor did little for my sense and sensibility as she took the lead. By the time she had finished with it, I was a reeling mess of uncertainty and confusion. I didn’t give her the chance to do the other one because if I had it would have been unbearably erotic. I was in shock and needed to think. I still curse myself for not allowing her that freedom to do what she wanted on that first night; something I have looked back on and regretted. But, we are where we are.

Her tongue laps at my neck and slithers along it until her teeth nibble my earlobes. Another sigh, this one audible, even to her. I’m lost now. She has me in her grasp. It feels so dirty, being taken in this way. Her fingers slip and slide past my excuse for scrunched up panties. They slip into my wet and waiting sex before they curl and push inside. I can hear her wanton breath in my ear. She exhales at the same rate her fingers push into me, exciting me further. Bringing me off on her manicured nails.

It surprises me but I can’t help but spread my legs a little further to give her more room for manoeuvre. She quickly takes me up on that offer and I have three fingers working my cunt. My head drops towards the counter, my hair covers my face, an intermittent smile breaks out on my face as I concentrate on the feelings she’s giving me.

“Cum for me.”

Oh, those fucking words are gorgeous. Music to my ears. I love it when someone tells me what to do and I want to cum so badly. I want to flood her fucking hand with my juices before I turn around, push her to the floor and sit on her face. I want to cum!

I can hear a hissing noise from the cooker. They say a watched pot never boils – they may be right. But right now my pot is boiling over and juices are going everywhere. Her fingers are out of my cunt and she’s rubbing furiously over my twat. Fingers scrape past my clit which causes more juice to splash against the cupboards. Her hand cupping my breast did little to slow the onslaught of my orgasm.

“Fuck, I love it when you cum like that.”

Does she now! Because of the euphoria, I’ve calmed down a lot. Forgiven her – maybe. It’s funny what a good orgasm does for you, isn’t it?

I turn around when my breathing slows and composure has regained my senses, and I’m sure that my legs will keep me upright all on their own. I feel her step backwards. Seeing her smiling and biting her lip at me is rather erotic especially as she’s only dressed in a yellow t-shirt that’s just about covering her slit.

I have to smile when she raises her hand to her lips and sucks on her fingers. “Seconds?” I ask. She smiles and nods at me.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll let her stay another week but I point to the vegetables, chicken and cooker as if asking the ultimate question to the Universe. She just shrugs and I realise that we must have that step-mother and step-daughter conversation that I know she’s dreading.

I know it must have been hard for her over the last six months after her father, my husband, died. I’m just as traumatised. Eighteen is too soon to lose an important part of you. We still have trouble believing it happened. But life goes on. In fact, I had double the trouble coming to terms with my sexuality after that first night with her almost three weeks ago. I just didn’t believe I was wired in that way. I didn’t even know she was a lesbian; she hid that very well indeed. But she turned me. I don’t know why she chose me but she did. It has to come to an end. I know that she knows that and University is looming ever higher on the horizon. Neither of us is stupid.

I reach out and turn off the gas to the rapidly boiling pot. The bubbles immediately start to abate, leaving the water fizzing gently; the same state that I believe she’s in.

Turning to her, my hand reaches for the lock of her hair that’s managed to stray too far from her face. I tuck it behind her ear, looking deep into her eyes and wondering what she’s thinking. I take a step forward, lean in and plant a loving kiss on her lips. She tastes of sex juice and lipstick – my favourite combination. My hands come around to her bottom and we mould ourselves to each other, pulling her closer and closer, feeling her hot body pulse in tune to mine. I realise that my bubbles are only starting to reach boiling point.

“Dinner can wait. I’m thirsty,” I whisper, pushing her backwards towards the door.