After that cursed day when John didn’t get off even once—balls blue and aching from Tammy’s gagging blows and Vivian’s wild ride—a few days dragged by in a haze of pent-up heat. The academy was off, no csses to kill time, so he stayed holed up at home. He texted Britt, tossing out a casual “hey, you good?”—nothing, dead silence, like she’d ghosted him cold. Did I fuck up somehow? he wondered, scratching his head. He thought about hitting up Miko, but she’d been dodging him too—acting like something nasty was chewing her up inside, yet cmming up whenever he pried, just muttering, “I’ve got a thing to handle.” So here he was, stuck indoors, stewing in his own juices, feeling like his dick was about to cw its way out or shrivel up from sheer neglect—he was damn near sick with it.

  More precisely, he figured if he stayed cooped up any longer, that woman prancing around the house—barely ever leaving, always in his damn face—his stepmom, Catherine, was gonna catch the full brunt of his horny wrath.

  He’d pictured it plenty—especially when she sprawled out on the couch for her afternoon nap in that purple ce slip of a nightie, so short and skimpy it was basically a come-at-me invitation. The flimsy fabric clung to her like a second skin, barely covering her massive, jiggling tits—spilling out the sides, nipples teasing the edges like they’d poke through any second—and riding up her thick, juicy ass, a ripe, round sb that begged to be grabbed, framed by a tiny thong that vanished between her cheeks, leaving her creamy thighs and the plump swell of her ass on full, shameless dispy. Napping like that, she didn’t give a damn—legs spyed zy, the hem slipping higher, fshing glimpses of ce and flesh that hit John like a punch to the gut, blood roaring south so fast he could feel his dick throb under his pants.

  He’d fantasized it—pinning her down right there on the couch, flipping her over ‘til that fat, luscious ass arched high, one foot stomping her head into the cushions, her short wavy purple hair fanning out messy as he ripped that thong aside and smmed his cock into her dripping pussy from behind—pounding her senseless, relentless, watching her eyes roll back, drool leaking from her sck mouth, her face twisting into a drooling, fucked-out ahegao mess. He’d grind her deep, making her choke on her own moans—payback for all the times she’d sneered down at him, that cold “you’re nothing” face—‘til she was his, another notch on his belt, tamed and panting under him.

  But John didn’t do it—going straight for the kill was never his game—he despised it, kind of. Sure, the raw plunge felt good, but what got him off—really got him off—was the whole damn dance: worming into their heads, their hearts, their hot little bodies, that slow burn of conquest, the rush of bending them to his will. That’s the shit he craved.

  Still, these past few days, John felt his grip slipping—and he couldn’t take all the bme. Catherine was a walking wet dream for any guy—curves that could stop traffic, a body built to adore—and letting a stepmom that spicy just sit there untouched? Felt like a damn crime against nature. Worse, tely she seemed to feel the horny vibes rolling off him in waves. She still pegged him as that limp-dick log, harmless as a neutered pup, but those looks he shot her now? She was starting to clock them—okay, he stares—and did something she thought would throw him off. She’d swapped her bare-leg zy look for a pair of sheer bck pantyhose, the thin fabric hugging her thighs and ass like a tease, figuring it’d block his greedy eyes from zeroing in on that thong’s juicy outline. She didn’t know—fuck, she had no clue—that silky shimmer just stoked his fire higher, turning her into a leggy, pantyhose-wrapped fantasy that made his dick ache like a beast cwing to break free.

  Oh, great—there she was, napping on that fucking couch again. John rolled his eyes, half-amused, half-baffled at this woman—his stepmom, Catherine—sprawling around like she owned the damn world. He couldn’t figure out what went on in that head of hers to always nap like that, but today, his patience was shot to hell. Even if he didn’t want to dive straight into the main event, he needed something—a little progress to quench the fire roaring in his gut. And he had the perfect angle: those feet.

  To her, a hand on her feet might be odd but no big deal—especially through those sheer bck pantyhose—but for John, a full-blown foot freak, it was a wet dream handed on a silver ptter. He was done waiting—time to get his horny paws on those silk-wrapped beauties and py.

  His heart hammered like a jackrabbit on a bender—thump-thump-thump—a sneaky, tingling thrill snaking through him, hotter and kinkier than just pinning her down and banging her pussy raw. This sneaky shit? It was electric, a forbidden buzz that had his dick twitching already. He crouched by the couch’s armrest, right where her feet dangled, toes peeking out like a tease. Leaning in slow, he hovered his face an inch from her soles—close enough to feel the heat radiating off them—sucking in a quiet, shaky breath, terrified his greedy gasps might wake her. The musky silk of her pantyhose, the faint, earthy scent of her feet, a whiff of floral body wash, and that sharp, tangy hint of sweat—it danced up his nose, teasing his nerves like a stripper grinding his p. Every cell in him lit up, his cock swelling hard, practically begging as he stole gnces at her sck, napping face—no twitch, no flutter. Emboldened, he inhaled deeper, steady and greedy, nose brushing the silky arches now, just a whisper shy of full contact—fuck, this is heaven.

  But he couldn’t risk it—too far, too fast, he warned himself. This was safe ground; any closer and he’d be toast. No way could he let his face graze those legs, or—God forbid—wrap his lips around her toes and suck ‘em sloppy, no matter how bad he craved it, drool pooling at the thought. He stared—those long, killer legs, her hefty tits heaving under that ce, that fat, juicy ass, and the shadowy tease of her pussy peeking through the pantyhose like a swamp begging to be plowed. Can’t fuck this up—I’ll have her, body and soul, but slow, he schemed, licking his lips.

  The safest py? Hands-on foot massage—perfect cover if she woke, just a “helpful son” excuse. He’d even tapped the system for a legit foot massage course—all for this moment, he smirked—mastering the art not for therapy, but to fondle women’s feet with a straight face. He slid his fingers over her soles, feather-light, testing for a flinch—nothing, she was out cold. Then he dug in—slow, sensual kneads, thumbs tracing her arches with a lover’s touch, rolling over her heels, fingertips grazing the silk-sheathed toes like he was worshipping a damn goddess. She didn’t stir, but a soft, breathy “mmh” slipped from her lips—pure, zy pleasure humming out. John froze—his throat went dry, gulping hard as his dick jumped, rock-hard and leaking under his pants. One hand stayed on her foot, the other slipped down, rubbing his bulge through the fabric, a low groan catching in his chest. He pressed harder, thumbs sinking into her sole—just a little more—when her eyes fluttered open.

  Catherine blinked awake, groggy and confused, but not that pissed—those sleepy paws felt too good to spark a fight. “What’re you doing, John?” she mumbled, voice thick with nap haze.

  John rolled out his rehearsed line smooth as silk. “You’re always so beat around here—thought I’d give you a foot massage. Took a whole course for it—pretty good, huh, Mom? Not comfy enough?” he chirped, fshing a puppy-dog look, all innocent and wide-eyed.

  Catherine squinted—what’s with this kid?—something off about this John. “Mom”? He never called her that, barely spoke to her most days, and now he’s kneading her feet? But then—eh, it’s just John, useless little log—no point fussing. “Don’t do this again,” she brushed off, tone ft.

  John’s gut twisted—no way she’s shutting this down that easy. “Mom, you’re worn out all the time—those feet running around? I just wanna help you feel good,” he pressed, leaning in with a soft plea.

  Catherine’s patience frayed, her eyes narrowing as she squirmed under his lingering touch, her voice snapping like a whip soaked in irritation. “My feet aren’t that tired—I’m not tottering around in heels all day!” she huffed, kicking her legs free from his grip, the pantyhose whispering against her skin with a soft shhh that made John’s cock twitch harder. Her toes flexed, shiny with a faint sheen of sweat, the air around them thick with that musky, floral tang that’d been teasing his nose all damn afternoon.

  Heels? John’s brain sparked like a live wire—jackpot, fucking jackpot. He rewound fast—those designer stilettos littering the house, Chloe’s prized hoard, all sharp points and glossy leather stacked in the hall like a taunt. He’d caught Catherine eyeing them once, her lips pursed in a sulky pout—“They’re gorgeous—why can’t I have a pair?”—only for Chloe to shoot her down with a smug sneer: “You don’t work, Mom—no point strutting in heels when you’re just loafing around.” The memory hit him like a shot of cheap whiskey—hot, bitter, and oh-so-sweet.

  Thanks, big sis, he smirked inside, licking his lips as his eyes raked over Catherine’s flushed thighs, the ce hem of her nightie riding high, barely hiding the swollen outline of her butt pressed against those sheer bck hose. You just handed me the keys to Mom’s heaven’s door—our Mom.

  He didn’t let up—his hands hovered, itching to dive back in, but he pyed it sly, leaning closer ‘til his breath grazed her ankle, warm and heavy with intent. “Mom, you’re beat all the time—those gorgeous feet deserve some good massage,” he purred, voice dipping low and husky, his fingers “accidentally” brushing her calf with a swift stroke that made her skin prickle under the silk. “I’ve seen you pacing around—hell, even barefoot, they really need it.” His little brother pulsed, hard and heavy, straining under his pants as he pictured those legs spyed wide, toes curling as he worked her into a panting, sloppy mess.

  Catherine’s chest heaved—those massive tits rising and falling fast, nipples poking like twin peaks against the flimsy ce, damn near begging to bust out. She swatted his hand away, her voice a sharp, throaty growl. “Enough, John—I don’t need your damn paws on me!” But her eyes flickered—fuck, is that a flush creeping up her neck?—and her thighs shifted, the pantyhose catching the light, gleaming like a second skin over that juicy sweet spot nestled between them, a damp shadow hinting at the heat pooling beneath.

  John grinned, all teeth and mischief—she’s cracking, and she doesn’t even know it yet. But he pulled back, hands hovering mid-air, itching to dive in but smarter than that. No point pushing too hard now—better to py it smooth, worm his way in slow. “Alright, Mom, just trying to help you unwind,” he said, voice softening into a coaxing drawl, stepping back with a shrug like a kid caught sneaking cookies. I’ll be the golden boy instead—make this foot rub thing look normal, he schemed, eyes glinting with a sly edge.

  From that moment on, he flipped the script with Catherine—no more staying in his room like a hermit. He buzzed around Catherine like a dutiful little bee, all day long—offering to pound her back with a “you look tense, Mom,” then circling back to rub her feet with a “gotta keep you comfy,” even jumping in to grab chores like a damn errand boy—“let me take care of that for you!” Every move was calcuted, yet dripping with sincere sweetness, just to sand down the edges of his foot-grabbing game ‘til it felt routine, painting him as the perfect son with a cherry on top. Keep this up, and she’ll be asking me nicely to knead those pretty toes, he smirked inside, already tasting the slow-burn win.

  But John’s little game hit pause when his phone buzzed—a text from Tammy, the throat-gagging receptionist herself. Truth was, he’d reached out to her first, certainly not to finish their unfinished business from that choke-and-tease day, but for something legit.

  After listening to the conversation between Bryce and Mar, he’d sniffed out a rat in the company. BigMart’s Vigorex prices were always undercutting Hensley’s Haul’s cost—can’t be that precise, can it?—someone inside was screwing them, probably in procurement. Mar, the big boss, knew it too, but she couldn’t pin the bastard down. Tammy, with her shady BigMart email trail, was a mole herself—familiar with Bryce—perfect source to dig out the real snake. John didn’t peg her as the mastermind though—too obvious, too easy, and life wasn’t that generous. Bryce, the puppetmaster, wouldn’t stack all his eggs in one basket anyway.

  So, post-Vivian wall-banging, John had fired off a text to Tammy: Tell me what you know about the spies from Bryce fucking Calhan—everything. Nothing—until now. Her reply was short, sharp: “Come. Now.” Then an address.

  Stepping into Tammy’s pce, John’s gut pinged—something was off, way off. The setup screamed split personality. One room was half corporate cage—desk, files, a cheap office chair—half cssroom fantasy, with school desks lined up like a detention wet dream, chalk dust lingering in the air. The next room? A full-on sex dungeon—dim red lights casting shadows over a king-sized bed smack in the middle, shelves stuffed with toys glinting like a pervert’s candy store, walls practically oozing lube and lust. No mistaking it—this wasn’t a spot for anything but fucking. Weirder still, both rooms had lighting rigs—softboxes and ring lights, primed for action, like she was ready to roll film at any second. Only one room felt human—her bedroom, simple, almost sweet, cluttered with girly stuff: plush dolls, pastel pillows, a teddy bear with a lopsided grin staring at him.

  He clocked it instantly—this was a porno pad—and Tammy bounced in, all grins, spping his back hard enough to sting. “There’s my partner—finally! I’ve been waiting!” she chirped, eyes gleaming. John smirked—guess his offhand “upload that clip” jab st time had lit a fire under her ass. He hadn’t figured she’d spin up a whole damn smut studio this fast though. She dragged him in, buzzing. “That st video? You have no idea—total fucking wildfire. I set the sub at twenty-five bucks a month—bam, over a thousand suckers hooked already!” She cackled, loud and proud, her whole body shaking with it. “Gotta hand it to you, John Nobody—you’ve got a nose for cash.”

  She blinked, smacking her forehead. “Shit, where’s my manners? Sorry.” Hopping up, she grabbed him a gss of water, tossing over her shoulder, “Hungry? I’ll order takeout—my treat.”

  John raised an eyebrow—money had flipped her switch big time. The old Tammy, all sharp edges and venom, was gone; this one was warm, almost cute, buzzing like a kid with a new toy. Still, he couldn’t resist poking the bear. “Where’s your boyfriend—Anthony? He cool with your little ‘side gig’ now?”

  Tammy waved it off, scoffing. “Why bring up that limp mutt?” John cracked up—fair enough.

  But his mind flicked back to that text he’d sent days ago, unanswered ‘til now. “Hey, you get my message? Why no answer?” he prodded, leaning back. Tammy’s grin widened, while turning sly. “I’ve got something big for you, John—but only after you finish today’s ‘work.’” If he couldn’t guess what “work” meant by now, he’d be dumber than a bag of hammers. Still, he fixed her with a hard stare, voice low and dead serious. “If we’re going down this path, Tammy, it’s just you and me—no other guys, strictly. You want some career boost with random dicks, I’m out—right now.”

  She froze for half a second, then burst out ughing, clutching her sides. “Oh, I knew it—you’re fucking in love with me, John! Too shy to admit it, huh?” She wheezed, doubled over. John’s brows knitted—here we go, that self-absorbed bullshit again. Not that bad anymore though.

  Still, he rolled his eyes, standing up like he was done, boots scuffing the floor. Tammy lunged, grabbing his arm. “Wait, wait—rex! No one else, promise. No touching, no filming, no nothing with anybody but you, okay? Happy now, you control freak?”

  John nodded, easing back down.

  She spun away, humming, and started peeling off her casual gear—tossing a faded tee and jeans aside—revealing a JK uniform straight out of some anime nerd’s fantasy. Think Japanese schoolgirl vibes: a crisp white sailor blouse with a navy colr, pleated skirt so short it barely skimmed her thighs, hugging her tight little frame like a second skin. Tammy was mostly girl-next-door charm—soft, pale face dotted with freckles, golden hair so light it glowed, tied up into twin buns bouncing like pom-poms, nailing that My Hero Academia Uravity vibe. She slipped on knee-high white socks, tugging them up slow, toes wiggling as she worked them over her smooth, hairless calves—zero sign she was pushing twenty-four. Her body? Petite but packing heat—B-to-C-cup tits perky under the blouse, nipples teasing the fabric, and an ass not huge but firm, popping out round and tight as the skirt fred. Every move—unbuttoning, stretching, bending—fshed her creamy skin, that rebel spark in her eyes cutting through the innocent getup.

  John watched, leaning back, arms crossed—not exactly drooling, but tempted enough. JK wasn’t his jam though; he was a hardcore MILF chaser—give him curves and experience over this schoolgirl shit any day. “So, what’s the script today?” he tossed out, bored-like.

  Tammy smirked, twirling a bun with a flick of her wrist. “Told my sensei I’ve got a boyfriend—but he did it anyway.”

  That lit a spark—John’s zy interest fred into a full-on bze.

  Game fucking on.