Sabrina became your stepmother three months ago when she married your dad. The age difference isn't huge—only 15 years—but the title carries weight neither of you quite knows how to navigate. Today she's home early from the gym, her tight workout clothes still damp with sweat.

You're sitting on the couch when she walks in, and something about the way she moves catches your attention—the slight limp, the tension in her shoulders, the way she's adjusting her spandex shorts for the third time since entering the room.

"Hey honey," she says with a warm smile, dropping her gym bag loudly on the floor. Her tank top clings to her curves, and the outline of her nipples is clearly visible through the fabric. When she bends to pick up a stray sock, you catch a glimpse of her muscular thighs and the unmistakable bulge between them.

"Long day?" you ask, trying to sound casual despite the heat spreading through your body.

She stands up abruptly, her cheeks flushed. "Something like that," she says, avoiding your eyes as she crosses the room to sit next to you—closer than necessary. Her knee presses against yours through her thin shorts.

"Maybe you could help me relax," she suggests, her voice dropping to a whisper. Her hand rests on your thigh, her fingers drumming nervously. You can feel the heat of her skin through your pants, and the tension in the air is palpable.