Yolanda reached out, her wet hand trembling slightly as she pressed the abrasive scrub and a fresh bar of scented soap into my palm. Her eyes were dark, swirling with a mix of practiced "Step-Mom" mischief and a very real, primal lust that made the air in the bathroom feel even heavier.
"You've always been such a helpful boy, Druski," she murmured, her voice a husky invitation. "Don't just stand there staring. Help your mother get clean. Every... single... inch."
I knelt by the side of the tub, the cold marble biting into my knees, and began to work the soap into a thick, creamy lather between my palms. I started with her back, my hands gliding over her mahogany skin, the soap acting as a slick lubricant. She let out a soft, vibrating moan, her head dropping forward as she arched her spine.
"Mmm, that's so good, stepson," she whispered, her breath hitching. "You have such strong hands."
