Rear View

Mona's scrubbing the floor on all fours when Tyler drops into the chair like it's any normal afternoon. He says he wants to talk. She smiles, tells him he can stay. Her knees creak against tile. She feels eyes on her, heavy. The sponge slips from her hand once. Tyler doesn't move to help. He watches her skirt ride up each time she stretches forward. The game stretches across days—laundry, dusting, vacuuming. Mona keeps catching him there, smirking, chatting about nothing while his eyes never leave the curve of her ass. She bends for yoga one evening, thighs burning, and feels the heat before she sees it. His stare is greedy. Cock straining against denim. He shoves a pillow over his lap but it's too late. Mona freezes mid-pose. Everything locks into place. Her stepson wants her bent, spread, wet. And she already knows she'll give it to him. Youth like that—hard, impatient—needs somewhere to spend itself. She stands, wipes sweat from her neck, and asks if he wants to burn some of that off. Her voice stays casual, but the air cracks with what's coming.