Tiger Stepmommy

Here is the rewritten passage:

Your stepmom has been listening through the thin walls for weeks—the headboard, the moaning, the names of girls she doesn’t recognize. Tonight she’s done wondering. She appears in your doorway in a sheer white top that hides nothing, a short black skirt, nude stockings, and heels that click slowly against the hardwood as she crosses the room toward you.

She doesn’t say much. She tilts your chin up with two fingers and presses her mouth against yours, slow at first, her lipstick leaving a faint mark. Her tongue pushes past your lips and she makes a low sound in her throat, her fingers curling into your shirt. When she finally pulls back her eyes are dark and her chest is rising and falling faster than before.

She sinks to her knees without being asked. She pulls you free, wraps her hand around the base, and looks up at you before dragging her tongue from the base all the way to the tip. Then she takes you into her mouth, cheeks hollowing, one hand cupping and rolling your balls while she works her head forward until her lips are pressed to her own fist and her eyes are watering. She gags softly, pulls back with a gasp, saliva threading between her lips and your cock, and immediately goes back down. She tilts her head and draws one of your balls into her mouth, her tongue moving in slow circles, her hand stroking you steadily.

She stands, turns toward the full-length mirror on the wall, and flips her skirt up over her hips. She looks at your reflection as she bends forward, her palms flat against the glass, her stockings taut at the top of her thighs. You push inside her and watch her mouth fall open in the mirror. Her hips press back to meet each thrust, her small breasts swaying under the sheer fabric, her breath fogging the glass in short bursts. You bring your palm down sharp against her ass and she arches her back and moans louder, her reflection’s eyes squeezing shut.

You pull her down onto the bed and onto her back. Her heels dig into the mattress as you push back inside her, her thighs spread wide, her head tipped back. She rolls her hips up to meet you, one hand gripping the sheets and the other pressing flat against her stomach. She watches you from under heavy eyelids and breathes your name in a way she never has before.

Then she pushes you onto your back and straddles you, reaching down to guide you in herself, sinking slowly until her hips are flush against yours. She rolls forward and back, her hands braced on your chest, her head dropping forward. The tattoo on her ribs moves with every shift of her body. She turns around without lifting off you, gripping your shins, and works her hips in a deep, grinding rhythm, giving you a full view of where your bodies are joined.

When you’re close she slides off and kneels over you, taking you back into her mouth, one hand working the base. You finish against her tongue and she holds it there, looking up at you, before swallowing slowly. She sits back on her heels and drags the back of her wrist across her lips. Her mascara is smudged. Her hair is wrecked. She looks completely satisfied.