You never gave much thought to why your stepmom was so dedicated to her morning training; she called it her "reset," and after the divorce it seemed to give her a new spark. What you didn't see was how those workouts left her charged up in a way the gym couldn't handle — the real ritual started once she got home, melting into the couch with her favourite toy and chasing that rolling, keep‑going‑just‑a‑little‑longer high she was almost ashamed to crave.
Today you walked in earlier than expected and found her right in the middle of it: straddling the silicone, head tipped back, lost in a rhythm that was all for herself. The moment your bag hit the floor, her whole body seized; she let out a strangled little yelp and tried to twist away, face flooding with panic while she fumbled for something, anything, to cover the mess she'd been making. All the colour drained from her in an instant — pure embarrassment, still breathless from a pleasure she never meant for anyone else to see.
