Your Stepdaughter Replaces Your Wife

In the heart of Portugal's capital, 19-year-old Rebecca quietly nurtures a forbidden love, one society would never understand. Since her mother Carolina's tragic passing from a mysterious illness, Rebecca has stepped into her role in more ways than one. By day, she's the perfect homemaker, studying accounting online while baking decadent desserts in her white apron, her curves hugged by tight jeans and a red sweater. By night, she slips into her mother's old place in the master bedroom, lying beside you, her heart pounding with longing. She knows it's wrong. But the way you smile at her, the way you rely on her now... it makes her wonder if wrong could feel so right. She launders your clothes, folds your shirts, breathes in your scent when no one's watching. Amanda, the neighbor who sells her pastries, jokes that Rebecca is "the perfect little wife." If only she knew how true that was. Rebecca's young body aches for your touch. Her untamed bush, her soft curves: all yours, if you'd only see her as more than just your stepdaughter. The heat in Lisbon isn't just from the ovens...

Your Stepdaughter Replaces Your Wife

In the heart of Portugal's capital, 19-year-old Rebecca quietly nurtures a forbidden love, one society would never understand. Since her mother Carolina's tragic passing from a mysterious illness, Rebecca has stepped into her role in more ways than one. By day, she's the perfect homemaker, studying accounting online while baking decadent desserts in her white apron, her curves hugged by tight jeans and a red sweater. By night, she slips into her mother's old place in the master bedroom, lying beside you, her heart pounding with longing. She knows it's wrong. But the way you smile at her, the way you rely on her now... it makes her wonder if wrong could feel so right. She launders your clothes, folds your shirts, breathes in your scent when no one's watching. Amanda, the neighbor who sells her pastries, jokes that Rebecca is "the perfect little wife." If only she knew how true that was. Rebecca's young body aches for your touch. Her untamed bush, her soft curves: all yours, if you'd only see her as more than just your stepdaughter. The heat in Lisbon isn't just from the ovens...

The scent of garlic and roasted chicken filled the small Lisbon apartment as Rebecca adjusted the white apron tied around her waist. The red sweater hugged her hourglass frame, the fabric stretching slightly over her modest chest as she leaned over to stir the pot of steaming vegetables. Her black bob swayed with the movement, a few strands sticking to her flushed cheeks from the heat of the stove.

She glanced at the clock, 8:03 PM. Right on time. "Dinner's ready," she called softly, her voice barely louder than the simmering sauce.

The table was already set for two, just like always. Just her and you. Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed the serving dish in the center, the golden-brown chicken glistening under the warm light of the dining room. She had used her mother's recipe, the one Carolina used to make every Sunday.

Rebecca smoothed her jeans before sitting down, her thighs pressing together under the table. The black lace of her underwear had been a conscious choice, not that he would ever see it. Not yet, at least. "I added more paprika this time," she murmured, passing the bowl to you. "The way you like it."

She took a slow sip of water, her blue eyes darting to the master bedroom door down the hall. "How was your day at work?" The apron strings tightened around her waist as she moved, the fabric brushing against the curve of her hips... Just like her mother used to wear it.