His Dark Secret – A Stepbrother Romance

by Vanessa Wilde

James couldn't think of much to reply with. In fact, it would be fair to say that, in that moment, he wasn't thinking anything at all. Maybe he had inhaled too much of the punch he had thrown down the kitchen sink, or perhaps it was just the aftermath of seeing what lay underneath the prim and proper surface of suburbia once you gave it a little push, but he didn't feel quite right. He was a little dizzy, and thoughts seemed to droop through his usually crisply clean mind like molasses.

  All he could notice at the moment was the flush on Brenda's cheeks... the way her lipstick was ever so slightly smeared in one corner... the way her shirt was undone maybe one more button than it really should be...

  Brenda was a full-figured woman, with large breasts for a woman her height and in her state of physical shape. But in this moment, it seemed to him as if he had never really looked at them until now.

  He saw how her shirt seemed to strain against the woman it held within it, as if it didn't really want to be there covering her at all. He saw the hint of black bra, just barely visible through it. But most of all, he saw her skin – really saw her skin – in the gentle valley of her cleavage.

  It was a tanned a light, comfortable brown, with minute freckles or discolorations on the inner swells of her bosom like little kiss marks left on her by the sun. But it was to the space between her breasts where his gaze was inexorably drawn. It seemed so soft, there. The skin was darker, slightly creased, with visible pores. From where he stood, almost across the room from her, he thought he could almost smell that place. It was the smell of a woman. He thought he could hear the triumphant thumping of her heart.

  All of a sudden, James noticed that a long time had passed – maybe ten seconds? A minute? – and he hadn't said a word. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he realized he had been staring silently at her breasts this whole time.

  He slowly looked up to make eye contact.

  Brenda had an eyebrow cocked as high as it could go. Her mouth was only slightly tilted upwards in one corner, but you could tell from her eyes that she was barely holding her laughter.

  “I... I... I'm sorry, I should go clean my room.”

  “Clean my room”, he thought to himself. “I just said I had to clean my room. Oh god.”

  “Wait one minute there, bud.”

  He had tried to walk past Brenda to the hallway, but she had grabbed his arm, and turned him around.

  “Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to, I just... sorry, Reverend Williams was in my room, and I think he might've spilled something, so...”

  Brenda's grip tightened on his arm.

  “James... James, please calm down.”

  “Oh, um, sure, OK, Brenda, I'm calm, anyway, I need to go...”

  “James, please. Stop trying to get away. Just look me in the eye, for one second.”

  He had been staring at his feet. When he tried to comply, he got as far as Brenda's breasts. That made him embarrassed again, and he looked back down.

  Brenda took her other hand, placed it on his chin, and forced his gaze reluctantly upwards.

  After a panicky few seconds where his eyes darted left and right, trying to find anywhere else to set themselves, they finally gave up, and met hers.

  She was staring at him, searchingly. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he wasn't expecting that. She didn't seem to be angry, and she didn't seem to be laughing at him. Instead, she was staring piercingly into his eyes, with full and utter earnestness.

  After a minute, she spoke.

  “James... how old are you?”

  Her voice was surprisingly gentle. Doubtful, even. In his surprise, he forgot to be quite so nervous.

  “I'm... I'm 19.” He gulped. “I'll be 20 in November.” Ugh. He kicked himself inwardly for that. It was something a 9-year-old would have said.

  “Nine... teen...”

  Brenda seemed to tremble for a second, her eyebrows knitting in some form of consternation. Then, all of a sudden, her face cleared. She sighed, and the worry seemed to be banished from her face. She let out a little laugh, and shrugged.

  James noticed her hand wasn't gripping his arm anymore. He looked down to see it drift across his chest, before delicately gathering a fistful of his shirt.

  Next thing he knew, he was being pulled downward.

  Before he could react, his lips were locked with Brenda's.

  It took him some time to realize this was a kiss. It was so much... so much more than he had ever imagined. He had thought it would be something like kissing someone on the cheek – like he had used to do to his mother, when was a kid.

  He hadn't known that, unlike cheeks, lips kiss you back.

  He had barely adjusted to this new world when, suddenly, but somehow also gracefully, Brenda slipped her tongue into his mouth. It slid past his – a revelation – before retracing its path along it, in, and out. Then she circled herself through his mouth – languidly, taking her deep, slow pleasure.

  Her grip at first tightened on his shirt, then clutched at his chest through it, creating little lines of pain and promise.

  Slowly – so slowly – her knee rubbed against his, then up along his thigh, and at last – with the force of salvation – between his legs.

  BZZZZT.

  The electric doorbell rang, following by three light knocks, and a voice drifted in through the open window.

  “Hello? Um... he–llo? Sorry, but may I ask if my husband's here? He said he was just going to come for ten minutes, but he hasn't come back home yet, and...”

  Only now did Brenda let go her grip on James' neck, where she'd held him clamped to her for every second of his life that was worth remembering.

  “I think you'd better get that, bud.”

  James was rooted there, stock still, his mind completely blank. Brenda let out a little snort of laughter, and pushed him in the direction of the front door.

  “Oh, and James?”

  He turned around mechanically, having automatically shambled a few steps to his destination.

  Brenda was in the doorway to the kitchen, where she could easily let herself out through the back door, and into her own home, unnoticed. The vulnerability which he thought he could remember glimpsing a few seconds (minutes? hours?) ago was gone; she was her back to her confident, seemingly all-knowing self.

  “If you want to continue our discussion, you can come around my place tomorrow. Early afternoon.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  \\////

  The door to 18 Meridian Lane swung open, and James quickly stuffed the tie (which he had so agonized over whether or not to wear) into his back pocket.

  “Ah, hey James. Come in.”

  Before he knew it, he was standing in Brenda's house, having just closed the front door behind him, and watching Brenda walk back over to the kitchen table, sit down at a laptop, and start typing.

  James was completely confused.

  He couldn't have admitted it to himself, but he really had imagined that she'd be dressed more or less as she had the previous night – or at least, that she'd somehow act more as if she'd just invited him to her house for an illicit liaison… which is, he reassured himself, the only thing this could be... right?

  But instead, Brenda was dressed in a plain white t-shirt and well-worn, light-blue jeans. She wasn't wearing any make-up, and her thick, luscious hair was swirled casually up, with a pencil stuck through to hold it in place. And she was wearing what appeared to be reading glasses. James hadn't even known she needed them.

  Brenda flicked her eyes up at him from over the laptop.

  “I've nothing against you standing there at the entrance, but I'm also not going to stop you if you feel you want to sit down at any point.”

  James awkwardly ambled over to the sofa, and gingerly took a seat, at the very edge.

  Brenda was already typing on her laptop, and when she next looked up, she laughed to herself lightly, but didn't say anything before starting typing again.

  Minutes passed. James' legs started to
hurt from the uncomfortable position. He coughed awkwardly, but Brenda didn't seem to notice.

  His heart had finally stopped revving at a hundred miles per hour – enough to leave room inside him for a growing flicker of self-doubt.

  Had he completely misunderstood what she meant, yesterday? Surely not... he had spent the entire morning thinking about it, until he finally stopped frantically trying to choose between different white shirts, made sure his mother had a fresh bottle of water and a clean bucket by her bedside, and started the long walk over from 16 Meridian Lane. Whatever else could she have meant, by “discussion”...?

  “Um, Brenda...”

  “Mmm?”

  “Oh, uh, nothing.”

  The typing stopped. A cocked eyebrow.

  “If it's nothing, why'd you say 'Um, Brenda?'”

  “Oh, uh, nothing... sorry, no, it's just... Sorry, I just thought... I mean, I was wondering...”

  “You were wondering...?”

  “Oh, uh, no, I was just wondering... that is, I um... I guess I was just wondering if you wanted to continue the discussion we were having yesterday... about um... about... um... yeah.”

  The typing, which had started again, stopped again.

  “The discussion?” Brenda looked up at him. “Alright, then. Why don't you start?”

  “S... start?”

  “Well, why don't you?”

  “I, umm... it's just... I guess I don't know what to say...”

  “Heh... no, I suppose you wouldn't. Well then. Why don't you try taking off your shirt?”

  James blanched.

  “Huh?”

  “Your shirt. As in, the thing you're wearing that isn't your shoes, your socks, your slacks, your glasses, or your lucky underwear. Oh, for that matter – take your glasses off too.”

  James hesitated for a long moment (long enough for Brenda to start typing again)... but ultimately, there was nothing he could think to do other than to comply. He certainly couldn't be expected to think of anything remotely intelligent to say, at this juncture...

  Apprehensively, he started to unbutton his shirt.

  “Hold on a second.”

  Without looking up, Brenda extended a palm towards him.

  “On second thought, don't take off your glasses. Do, however, take off your shoes.”

  The typing resumed. It didn't even stop while Brenda said:

  “And for god's sake, that means take your socks off too...”

  A minute later, and James was sitting, uncomfortably as ever, on Brenda's sofa, watching her ignore him – seemingly oblivious to his existence. Only now, he was shirtless, and his socks were neatly folded and stuffed inside his shoes, on the carpet beside him.

  “Belt.”

  The shoes and socks were joined by a carefully rolled belt. A few minutes passed. James took the opportunity to put both socks into one shoe, and slip the belt into the other. Wouldn't do to misplace them, after all.

  “Pants.”

  He should've really seen that one coming, but for some reason, it gave him a little jolt anyway. His hands trembled as he undid the zipper, and stood awkwardly on one leg, slipping them down.

  “Don't sit back down.”

  And so he stood there. He was thankful it was summer, else he would probably have been a little cold.

  “Your boxers, now.” A quick glance over. “Sorry. Should've known it'd be briefs.”

  James eventually, somehow, got them off. He stood there, perfectly naked, in a married woman's living room. He held his briefs balled up in his hand, not knowing exactly what to do with them. He couldn't exactly leave them on a married woman's living room floor... that clearly would not be appropriate.

  She looked up at him, and her eyes flashed inevitably towards his groin. She smirked when she saw he had it covered with his other hand.

  “Go ahead and toss those over here.”

  “What, my briefs?”

  “No, bud. Your balls.” He stared at her blankly. “Of course your briefs.”

  What else could he do? His briefs arced across the room. She caught them. And then she put them down, and started typing again.

  James started trembling. It wasn't the temperature... but he wasn't sure if it was the confusion, or the growing sense of humiliation. For the first time, it threatened to flicker into the beginnings of rage.

  And then, Brenda took the briefs from the table, where she'd been drumming her fingers on them, and raised them to her face. She inspected them for a second through her reading glasses. Then, she pressed it to her nose, and sniffed them.

  It was only for a second. And her expression hadn't changed at all – it was as casual as if she'd just raised a finger to scratch her nose. It was probably more out of absent-minded curiosity than lust. And yet, that moment changed everything for James. For him, it seemed the first thing she had done today which he could uncomplicatedly read as desire.

  He started to get hard. At first, he barely noticed – he was too busy staring intently at the face which, just a few seconds ago, had been pressed against cloth that had spent the last few hours cradling his cock.

  Then, the hand that had been covering his modesty started to subtly press against it, until he was rubbing himself insistently with his palm.

  Within a minute, he was as hard as he could ever remember being – and something in him cracked... or loosened.

  He moved his hand away.

  Only then did Brenda look over. She saw a young man just entering the prime of his existence, standing stark naked on the rug she brought over from Tehran, his manhood pointing proudly toward the ceiling, hands balled into fists at his side.

  She smiled. And it was not a mocking smile.

  She rose from her seat, leaving her glasses folded on the table, and began to walk over to him, but paused to admire the sight.

  He was just over 6 feet tall, which put him half a head above her. His shoulders were broad, and the tendons on his neck stood out subtly, leading down to the delicious ridges of his collarbones.

  Without his shirt, she saw for the first time that he was exquisitely muscled. He had done the long-jump throughout high school – it's what his mom had called a “valedictorian's sport” – and it had left him a ideally toned body. Taken by surprise by that chiseled physique, she felt a shiver run through her, down her back, up her thighs, to finish with a tweak between her legs. She bit her lip – hard.

  She closed the gap between them until they were barely separated by a finger's breadth. She looked up into his eyes – a heart-aching, robin's eggshell blue. She reached up with both hands, and pulled off his glasses, rendering him beautifully, finally, perfectly nude.

  Then she ran the glasses over her mouth, the lenses squeaking inaudibly against her lips, before letting it slip into her mouth, where she gnawed the thick, plastic frames – gently, insistently, as her whole body grew tense. She did not once break eye contact with him.

  She turned the glasses around with her tongue, and sucked on them, bringing them within her, swirling around them as she had James' tongue the night before. Then she let gravity pull them from her mouth, and drop them to the floor.

  She placed her hands on his hips, and circled back to his buttocks – squeezing them, and pulling him across that finger's breadth, until he was pressed tightly against her. His pulsating flesh dug into her stomach, and he let out a low moan as he arced himself forward.

  She let him rub against her, but leant back her upper body, so she could run her fingers over the crags of his abs, and onto the peaks of his pectorals. She ran her hands over his nipples, felt them stiffen, swirled them between her fingers.

  Then she brusquely pushed against him, catching him totally unawares, and sending him sprawling unceremoniously onto the sofa.

  She was well and truly trembling now, her knees wobbling slightly, her chest constricted painfully, a thrashing ache eating through her from the inside.

  She looked at him, shapely limbs strewn across the couch she had re
ad so many romance stories on over the years, great tuft of pubic hair giving the lie to his cherubic, unstained face... and his glorious cock, straining flat against his fatless stomach, leaving a trail of pre-cum across it.

  OK. That's it. Fuck it. No... fuck him.

  In a flash, she saw she didn't want to string this along any longer. Something about his body had gotten to her, the way something about his innocent passion, disguised so well for so many years by his almost faultless self-repression, had gotten to her last night.