I cannot believe I let this happen. I cannot believe I allowed my stepson into my bed. I can claim I was drunk, confused, depressed, lonely, or even out of my mind with lust, but there is no excuse for a stepmother doing what I did. I am not here to make excuses, or to claim that there is any excuse. There is none. But please as you read this, please do not condemn me until you understand the events that led up to me committing the one of the gravest of all sins: a sexual relationship with my stepson.
My name is Janet. I am a thirty three year old widow; recently widowed.
I met Bob, Eric's father, when I was twenty one. It was a year after Bob's first wife decided marriage and motherhood were not for her. She left Bob with a three year old son as she accepted a position with a firm in Paris and moved to France.
I was a single mother of a four year old daughter. That's right, I got knocked up in high school. For several years, I struggled to support Elizabeth and myself working as a waitress at Denny's. We managed, but barely.
Bob was a career military officer with the Army. We dated for almost a year when Bob asked me to marry him. I jumped at the chance to be his wife and to be a mother to his adorable son. Elizabeth needed a father and Eric needed a mother, Bob needed a wife, and I needed a husband.
We formed a wonderful little family. And Bob and I had good marriage.
During our nearly twelve years of marriage, I never strayed. I never cheated on Bob despite being left alone for months at a stretch as Bob was deployed overseas. Until the events of a few months ago, Bob was only the second man with whom I'd been intimate, and the only man with whom I had ever had a climax.
Despite what I am about to tell you, I am not a slut. In fact, many people would consider me a bit of a prude. I was a faithful wife who would have remained faithful and relatively wholesome had the events not transpired as they did. Before Bob’s death, I was living a good life, and was generally happy in my role as a mother and a soldier’s wife.
The point is, before you judge me too harshly, realize: 1.) before my husband was killed, I would never have believed myself capable of doing these things, certainly not with my stepson; and 2.) you really cannot be sure what you would or would not do until you are actually faced with a situation.
Here is my story.
Chapter 1: I lose my husband & fall into the bottle:
Even before Bob was killed, it was pretty much just my daughter Elizabeth and my stepson, Eric with me at home most of the time. Bob was a career military officer who spent extended periods of time deployed overseas. Since many of his deployments were to war zone areas, Elizabeth, Eric and I often remained back in the states. We often lived in military housing, either on the base or immediately off the base
Bob was a good man, who loved his country and had a strong sense of duty. He truly believed that the actions of our military served to make the world a better place. Me, I am not so sure. But this story is not about political debates surrounding the U.S. military.
As a military officer, Bob was a stern, complex man, who was difficult to get to know. He would pray to his God one moment; and then drink heavily and cuss at his family the next.
He also had a difficult time showing any vulnerability, emotional or otherwise. I know he loved us; but at times he struggled with precisely how to show that love.
Bob was deployed in the original ‘desert storm’ and ‘desert shield’, and also served during the second Iraq invasion before being deployed to Afghanistan. We received word that Bob was killed shortly before Eric’s seventh birthday, the summer before his senior year in high school. Bob’s vehicle had encountered a road side bomb. He did not survive the attack.
Elizabeth was the only one who managed to stay on track. She was away at college, and continued on her plans to become an engineer despite losing her stepfather at such an inopportune time.
However, Eric and I seemed to truly struggle with this loss.
The news of my husband’s death was a devastating blow to me personally, but Eric seemed to be able to deal with the loss only slightly better. I fell into a bottle, became a heavy drinker, and was ‘passed out drunk’ most nights by eight o'clock.
Eric had been a good student, active in sports, and really never got into any trouble prior to his dad’s death. Before Bob’s death, Eric talked about attending the Air Force Academy and making the military his career, similar to his father. But his plans and his behavior changed significantly that summer.
Eric’s demise coincided with the news of his Dad’s death, and I am convinced was a direct result of it. To be honest, since I was not in any condition to help anyone most nights, Eric was left to guide himself through this grief with little help from me. We were both dealing with our loss and grief in our own way.
Despite my strongest objections, Eric quit the basketball team, where he had been one of the better forwards on the team. He also started drinking and smoking marijuana. Now neither of these are unusual or that horrific for teenage boys, but the change in Eric was clear and evident, and the direction he was heading was not good. Eric also made it clear that he was no longer interested in the military as a college choice or as a career.
In short, despite wanting to help Eric I was lost in my own alcoholic nose dive and grief. I was in no position to help anyone else.
It was after nine o'clock on a Friday night, about eight months after Bob’s death. I had been drinking vodka and orange juice while waiting for Eric to come home. I decided to take a warm bath. I fixed myself another large drink, one that I really did not need. It was in a large plastic tumbler, and although I did not precisely measure its contents, it likely was the equivalent to three shots of vodka. I knew that it would put me well over the edge.
As I prepared my warm bath, I stood naked in front of the mirror, naked holding a large plastic cup of vodka and orange juice. I studied my naked form through my inebriated eyes. Objectively speaking, I was still an attractive woman. I am about five foot, six inches, with a slender figure and small, but perky breasts. I am blonde with green eyes. I have been told, on many occasions, that I resemble Reese Witherspoon. Even slightly drunk, I could appreciate the fact that I was still attractive; my breasts were firm, my nipples erect, my stomach flat and my butt shapely. Although I had not fixed my hair in weeks, I still looked good. I enjoyed the fact that even without make-up, I still could turn heads.
Bob had already been deployed for more than four months when he was killed; so it had been over twelve months since I had a man. That's right, I had been more than a year since I had been fucked. I had to admit that I missed it. I missed the intimacy and closeness as much as I missed the orgasmic pleasure of sex. I was lonely and depressed. I was far too young to be a widow.
I climbed into the warm tub and sipped my drink, trying to reach that magic alcohol level that would allow me to sleep without dealing with my sense of loss and loneliness. I allowed my fingers to visit my clit, just to say hello. I had not been able to masturbate successfully since Bob’s death. That’s right, I had not had an orgasm in over eight months! I did not expect to be succeed tonight. Nonetheless, I touched myself with my right hand as I fed myself my drink with the left. I was already drunk; but not far enough gone to pass out, yet. I expected that to happen soon. I would soon be on the verge of passing out, and I would climb into bed for a short respite from my grief and loneliness.
I finished my drink and felt the vodka taking over my consciousness as I gently massaged my clit. The gentle circles I traced on my erect clitoris felt good, but I was not anywhere near orgasm. I continued to explore myself with my fingers despite not being able to fully respond to my touch.
In my inebriated state, I did not realize I had failed to close the bathroom door completely. Nor did I hear Eric come home. I do not know how long he stood in the dark of the hallway was watching me try to masturbate through the slightly cracked open door, but I suspect it was a while. Something caught my eye, some movement in the door crack. Or maybe I heard a sound. But suddenly, I realized I was not alone. I realized that I was being watched.
“Eric, are you home?” I cried out with obvious panic. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, mom. I just got home,” he replied. His voice also had a level of panic, sounding like he had been caught doing something wrong, reinforcing my fear that he had been watching me for a while.
“Oh shit. I did not know you were there,” I said as I climbed out the tub wanting to cover up. I reached for my robe. But the tile was wet and slippery and in my drunken stupor, my footing was quite unsure. I slipped and fell, hard, right on my naked ass. My flesh made a distinct slapping sound as I crashed against the linoleum floor.
Eric was obviously concerned as I slammed against the floor and side of the tub. Eric burst in. “Mom, are you okay?”
I lay there on the floor for several seconds before I nodded, but could not speak for a moment. The fall stunned me, knocking the wind out of me. It took a moment for me to realize that I had not injured myself seriously, although I would have a noticeable bruise on my hip and ass tomorrow. I tried to gather my senses.
“I think I am okay,” I said, trying not to slur my words, but there was little doubt I had been drinking, as I had every night for months.
For a moment concern about my safety blinded both of us to my nakedness. But quickly, both Eric and I were aware of how very exposed I was. It was the look in his eyes as he glanced directly at my breasts and the light blonde wisps of hair covering my vagina that made me fully aware of my nudity. I was embarrassed but tried not to show it. I could feel myself blush under his gaze. At the same time, something inside of me liked this look of admiration and lust from my stepson.
I started to sit up, and Eric helped me to me feet. I caught a quick glance of us in the bathroom mirror. I was taken by the contrast of my petite, but naked stature next to my tall, muscular stepson. I realized we made an erotic sight, and then purged that thought from my mind.
I saw my robe hanging on the door hook. I quickly grabbed and donned it, covering my nakedness.
The robe was white terry cloth and came down to my mid thigh. It was not revealing, but it was also not matronly, I knew that I still looked pretty good under this robe. I could feel my head spinning from the multiple shots of vodka I had consumed over the past couple of hours.
I know the alcohol played a role in the next events. I looked at Eric and could not help noticing the strong resemblance he had to his father. He was a strikingly good looking young man. I must admit that I glanced at Eric’s crotch and I could discern a noticeable bulge. I ashamed to admit it, but seeing Eric’s bulging crotch, and knowing I was the cause of it, pleased me. I wondered momentarily if Eric was endowed as well as his father had been.
The sexual tension was immense. Eric had seen me naked, and his penis had responded. His response, coupled with the alcohol and my prior unsuccessful attempt at masturbation, all combined to cause a reaction I had not had between my thighs in many months. I felt myself growing aroused. I felt my pulse in my clitoris for the first time in a very long time. I admit, I liked the feeling. I liked feeling alive and aroused.
“Eric, I think I am okay. I just need to go to bed," I said, slurring my words slightly. I was drunk, and Eric knew I was drunk. I was not thinking too clearly; and some very inappropriate and unnatural thoughts were spinning in my head. I knew I should separate myself from this temptation that I knew was so inappropriate.
I started to walk past Eric, towards the bathroom door, but stumbled slightly. Eric grabbed my waist and steadied me and said, “Here mom, let me help you.”
I leaned into him and could not help but enjoy his strong arm around my waist. I also noticed that his hand seemed to move up around my back and rest on the side of my breast. I could not tell if it was an intentional move or not, but he was getting a good feel of the side of my sized B-cup breast. I pretended not to notice; but I enjoyed his hand copping this ‘innocent’ feel. I enjoyed it a lot. I knew it was wrong, but I was beginning to feel like a woman again for the first time in many months.
Eric walked me to my bedroom.
I do not know why I did this. I know it was terribly wrong. I should have just climbed into bed wearing my robe. But I did not do that. As I approached my bed, I took off my robe and tossed it on the chair near my bed, and climbed into bed naked in front of my stepson. I wanted him to see his stepmother naked one last time. I remember thinking briefly, I want him to go back to his room and jack off tonight thinking about his stepmommy’s naked body.
As I climbed under the covers, naked, I glanced to see his penis forming a large tent in front of his pants. His reaction pleased me to no end. I liked knowing that I could arouse a young man, even if that young man was my stepson. Maybe I liked it a bit more because it was my stepson. I simply do not know. But I was very pleased I could make his penis grow and stiffen like that.
Then I shocked myself, and Eric. I do not know why I said this. The words were out before I even thought about the implications.
“Eric, I don’t want to be alone right now. Would you snuggle with me for a little while?” The words sounded innocent, but I knew this was terribly wrong.
What was I thinking? How could I invite my seventeen year old stepson into my bed with me naked beneath the covers? I do not know how, or why I suggested it; but I did.
Eric’s face conveyed shock, uncertainty and excitement.
