The suds were warm around my wrists, the scent of lemon dish soap cutting through the humid summer air. I hummed softly, swaying my hips to a silent rhythm, the sleek nylon of my nude pantyhose whispering together with every slight movement. The way the little black dress hugged my waist, the way the red thong nestled snugly beneath it, the confident click of my mother’s black heels on the tile—it was a perfect morning. At eighteen, home from my first year of college, these stolen hours were my secret paradise. I was just finishing the last plate, eager to slip into the living room and lose myself in the afternoon’s trashy television, when the front door creaked open.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it plummeted, a cold stone sinking straight down into the lace of my panties. Frozen. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, my polished nails gripping the edge of the sink.

“Good morning,” a man’s voice called out, casual, unfamiliar in this context. Heavy footsteps moved through the living room. “You’re off work early, Mary. Where are you headed?”

Mary. My mom. He thought I was my mom. Of course he did—I’d stolen her favorite auburn wig, her makeup, her entire 5-foot frame replicated in her shoes. I stayed statue-still, praying he’d just go away.

The footsteps returned, growing louder, entering the kitchen behind me. “Hey, where did you put my…” His voice trailed off.

I had to turn. There was no choice. I pivoted slowly on my heel, the floor feeling miles away. My uncle Mark stood there, a duffel bag in his hand, his face a canvas of pure, unadulterated shock. His eyes traveled from the teased waves of the wig, down the dress that clung to my younger, tighter body, over the sheer pantyhose, to the precarious heels. His jaw went slack.

“Ummm… Uncle Mark? Please,” I whispered, my voice a fragile, high-pitched thing I’d been practicing. “Please don’t say anything.”

He blinked, his brow furrowing. He opened his mouth, then closed it, shook his head once, and without another word, turned and vanished down the hall toward the guest room. The door clicked shut.

I fled to my own room, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He saw. He knows. The fear was a cold sweat on my skin, but beneath it… beneath it, a treacherous, thrilling heat was spreading through my belly. Someone saw me. A man saw me like this, and he was… stunned. The memory of his wide eyes, the way they had crawled over every inch of me, sent a jolt straight to my groin, a dampness blooming in the red silk between my legs. I was always horny when dressed, but this was different. This was real.

The thought was insane, reckless, the most dangerous idea I’d ever had. But the alternative—him telling my mother—was unthinkable. And that heat… that needy, pulsing heat demanded action. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

I freshened my lipstick with a trembling hand, fluffed the wig, and practiced a walk—a slow, hip-swaying strut I’d seen in videos. I walked down the hall, each click of my heel a deafening proclamation. I raised a hand to knock on his door, but my knuckles barely grazed the wood before it swung inward, not fully latched.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, but his eyes snapped up as I entered. I didn’t say a word. I simply posed, one hand on my cocked hip, letting him drink me in. I saw the conflict warring on his face—the shock, the disapproval, but underneath it, a dark, hungry curiosity he couldn’t hide.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, but his voice was strained. “Get out. This is… wrong.”

I took another step into the room, my eyes locked on his. And then I saw it. The unmistakable bulge tenting the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants. It was thick, outlined perfectly, and it was growing. A powerful thrill shot through me. I did that.

“I said get out,” he repeated, but it was weaker now, a plea more than a command.

I ignored him, my focus entirely on the evidence of his arousal. I sank to my knees on the carpet before him, the act feeling impossibly natural, right. I looked up at him through my mascara-coated lashes, seeing the panic and the desire battling in his eyes. I didn’t ask. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his sweats and briefs and pulled them down in one firm motion.

His cock sprang free, and my breath caught. It was thick and hard, veined and ruddy, standing at full attention. So this is what one looks like up close. Without thought, driven by a deep, slutty instinct, I finally understood. I reached out and wrapped my fingers around its heat. It twitched violently in my grasp. I began to stroke him, a slow, tentative pump, marveling at the silken skin stretched over the rigid core.

“We can’t…” he groaned, but his hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust into my hand.

That was all the permission I needed. I leaned forward, parting my glossed lips, and took the head into my mouth. The taste was musky, salty, male. I swirled my tongue around the crown, eliciting a sharp, guttural sound from deep in his throat. His hands, which had been clenched on the bedsheet, now came up to tentatively rest on my wig.

I took him deeper, relaxing my jaw, letting him slide into the wet heat of my mouth. I bobbed my head, slowly at first, then with more confidence, one hand working the base of his shaft as the other steadied myself on his muscular thigh. His breathing became ragged, his fingers tangling in the synthetic hair.

“Oh, god… fuck…” he whispered, his pretense of anger completely gone, replaced by raw, stunned pleasure.

I lost myself in the rhythm, in the scent of him, in the power of reducing a strong man to a writhing, desperate mess. I was no longer a boy playing dress-up. I was his secret, I was his slut, and with every suck, every lick, I claimed that identity with a hunger that surprised us both. His hips began to move in time with my bobbing head, a shallow, helpless pumping. His grip on my head tightened, not forcing, but guiding, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“I’m… I’m gonna…” he choked out.

I just looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading, and took him all the way to the back of my throat, my nose pressing into his coarse pubic hair. That was his undoing. With a low, guttural cry that was half protest, half surrender, he came, his release flooding my mouth with a bitter, primal taste I found I craved. I swallowed every last drop, milking him gently with my lips until he shuddered and fell back onto the bed, spent.

I stayed on my knees, panting softly, wiping a stray drop from my chin with a delicate finger. He stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving. After a long moment, he turned his head to look at me, his eyes no longer conflicted, only dark with a new, insatiable hunger.

“You…” he started, then stopped, shaking his head in awe. “You incredible little minx.”

A week later, a plain box arrived for me. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was an outfit that made my stolen dress look like a child’s plaything: a black leather corset that promised to cinch my waist to nothing, a matching scrap of lace panties, and a pair of heels so high and severe they looked like weapons. That night, long after the house fell silent, my door creaked open. He stood there, his silhouette framed in the doorway, his eyes glowing in the dark as they took in the new me, laced into the leather he’d bought for his secret slut. He simply smiled, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.