Replay (1/1)

I woke up to the sound of tennis balls popping in the courtyard out back, plus the rather seductive grunts and groans of my stepmother as she struggled to hit them—a perfect reminder. Today was the day: my birthday, my official entrance into adulthood.           Oh, I’ll find that ‘entrance,’ all right. Damn, woman. Waking me up this way…            I had it all planned. Nothing was going to stop me now—you’ve seen her, right? Are you really gonna bust my balls on this? You’re a guy, aren’t you, officer? Look, at least you gotta give me that. Okay, okay—I’ll keep going: you’ve seen her so I’m sure you understand what it was like. I was all about getting laid that day. I already blew off all my friends; I didn’t have any plans for the day. The only thing I wanted to do was her.            So, I woke up earlier than usual—not “early,” but early-er, hard as a fucking rock. But I resisted the easy way out. “No, my friend,” I said to my hand, “not today.” Today was the day of liberation; today was the day of fillet mignon, not ground beef—and I was gonna eat as many portions as I could get before passing out.            I saw her out the window on the tennis court with the man she hired twice a week to teach her skills she never put to practice, because she never actually played. I slid on my grey sweats, laced my Nikes, slipped into a rugged tee with a faded logo, brushed my teeth and headed downstairs. Put on my ball cap I’d been breaking in for the past few months ’cause I knew she liked it—hey, I couldn’t look too obvious, right? Had to make it look like I just got up. Like I didn’t really care. Yeah. This was how I’d get her; by acting sly as hell. She liked that athletic rugged look. And I was about to put all her experience, both on and off the court, to the test.            “Minho~! You’re up early…” she said once she saw me there, racket in my hand. She seemed genuinely surprised. "Well, for you, I mean."            “Yeah.”            “This is Mr. Steebleman—Gary, this is my stepson, Minho.”                               I saw his nose turn up a bit. “Min-ho?” Even the name seemed like a curse when he said it. “Does he speak English? God forbid you married an immigrant, Emilie… you’re so above that.”            She looked offended, but I didn’t want it to get to her; I jumped in to intercept before she could defend me: “Hey, thanks for coming over,” I said as I shook his hand. “We have a shortage of white pricks around here.”                        I heard her snort in the background, obviously more amused by my comment than offended.             “That’s a fine way to speak to an adult! Emilie, you let your stepson talk like that?”            She shrugged. “One adult to another, I really haven’t much control over what he does.”            I smirked. God, I was gonna bang her so hard. Just you wait, girl. Just you wait.            “He looks more like an oversized Mexican to me...” I heard him rattle under his breath, just low enough to play it off but loud enough to be intentionally overheard.            “He’s not Mexican, Gary. Jesus! You sound like a racist. He’s Korean. And besides, he’s eighteen today.”            The man was clearly unimpressed. No, Mr. Dweebleman and I were like two lions in the Serengeti fighting over the same prize—I could tell. I could tell that horny asshole did this for a living: took advantage of lonely trophy-wives, capitalizing on their neglected emotions and aging insecurities. But I was young and hot, and a far better hunter than this stuck-up old cat. And besides, Emilie was better than that—I knew she wouldn’t go for this loser. The only one she wanted was me…              “You want to learn some moves, Minho? I’m sure Gary can teach you,” she said innocently.            I couldn’t help snicker at the obvious. “Uh, no. But I will take you on, umma. For as much money as you spend on lessons, you should be playing Wimbledon.”            GTFO, ‘coach.’             I threw an unsavory expression his way, one which he translated accurately though Emilie remained oblivious.            “Oh! Okay~ It is his birthday after all,” she said to Coach Dumbass as he backed away, bleached-white teeth and all, in defeat. She seemed excited by my proposition.            I continued to stare that dickhead down with a deceiving smile. He knew what it meant: “I win.” Because, goddamnit, I was going to win everything today. It was my fuckin’ day. My fuckin’ day.            Ironically, we played our first game and I let her win. I can’t tell you how much this pained me—it really went against my competitive nature to throw a game. Just shows you how serious I was about this whole thing.            All things for the end goal…            The second game she won fairly, which only charged me that much more. Third, I smoked her ass. This left her pretty amazed I could tell; she said she didn’t know I even played tennis to begin with. She wasn’t bad herself; I liked to watch her tits bounce as she ran to hit the ball. And when she bent down to pick up my successful serve, I could see up her skirt just a tad…            Meanwhile, Mr. Dumbledorf was trying to give her pointers like the greasy SOB he was—that is, ’till I popped him with a tennis ball “on accident.” He shut up after that.            “Wow, Minho, you’re really good…” said Emilie after I dealt the winning serve.            “I’m good at everything,” I say slyly, watching as she wiped the sweat off her neck with a towel. I imagined a few beads snaking around the curve of her chest before sliding down the crack of her cleavage.            I swear, I’ll make you sweat twice as hard…            “Well, we can’t go out on a tie.”            “Okay.” I continued to play hard-to-get. Meanwhile, Coach Dickhead packed his shit up and left, tired of waiting for me to stop cramping his old-man style. Truth was, when I was around, Emilie didn’t even pay attention to that joker—we all noticed this.            "Adiós, señor~" I called out after him as he left us there. He didn't find it as funny as we did. “One more for the tie-breaker?” I say after we were alone on the court.            I could tell she wanted to win this. I played a hard game but still, ultimately, let her score the deciding point.            “Better luck next time, baby~” she gloated, face beaming. It was glowing from the rush of blood and shine of sweat, and I could not help but watch her chest heaving as she attempted to regain a normal cadence of breath.            I laughed. “ ‘Baby’? Your luck has gone to your head. Got you talking crazy.”            “Well, you are my baby, in a way,” she tried to recover quickly. “I mean… you know what I mean… right? And it's not luck, it's skill~”            I liked that she was squirming here. Her discomfort brought me pleasure. “You’ll just have to owe me then, won’t you?” I meant this in every sense but she was too hyped up by her win to know anything else.             "Owe you for what~! I totally kicked your ass. And I'll do it again, next time..."             "Uh, that's subjective. It was a pretty even match, at least. You talk tougher than you play."             "Meh. You talk like a sore loser. Besides, I already owe you something."             "You do?"            “Yes, I owe you cake, remember? You interested?”            “For breakfast?”            She laughed. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I had a proper breakfast this morning, at a proper time.”            “Umma, you’re trying to sound old again.”            She giggled awkwardly and led me by the hand into the kitchen where she did the whole stupid candle-lighting and singing thing. I liked it though. Even if she couldn’t tell, I liked it. She made me make a wish before I blew out the candles. I would have rather seen her blow something else. And you can be sure as shit that I wished for one thing in particular…            “Happy birthday, my Minho~”            “My?”            “Er—yeah, you’re my son, right?”            “I thought I was your baby~” I teased. God, I loved watching her squirm.            Just you fuckin’ wait…            “I’d rather be ‘your Minho’ than ‘your son,’ ” I said with a shrug of my shoulders, pulling out the candles one by one as I played off these loaded words like they meant nothing.            She didn’t seem to understand—or, if she did, she didn’t let on. “You have a very big year ahead of you,” said Emilie. “The whole world is open to you now…”            As open as your legs, umma?            “You’re a man now. A man…”             I thought it funny that she repeated this. Fuck yeah, I’m a man. And I’m going to show you how right you are.            I watched as she cut a large chunk off with her fork, surprised when she extended her arm in my direction.            Holy shit, is she feeding me?            I opened my mouth and accepted her sugary offering, never once taking my eyes off her.            “Well? How’s it taste, birthday boy?”            I was so ready for her body that even this comment made my groin twinge with expectation. I continued to watch her as I enjoyed every sweet sensation on my tongue, imagining that the white texture was something else. “It tastes… amazing.”            I noticed that her breathing was faster than normal. Dirty, dirty umma… are you getting turned on?            I smirked. “You wanna taste…?”            “Oh, yes, please~”            I took a second fork and cut a smaller piece and slowly fed her in the same way, watching her full lips close around the prongs and pull of the delicate texture into her mouth. Her eyes closed for a split second, obviously pleased. She licked the corner of her mouth then, recapturing a stray bit of frosting that had settled there.            Unknowingly, I folded my lips. I could feel my hardness begging for release. Hang in there, buddy. Just a little bit more…            “It’s good~” she cooed. “I’ll have to use that bakery more often.”            “Bakery? I’m disappointed. I thought you made this yourself.”            She laughed hard. “Me? Bake? Have you ever seen me near an oven? I’d probably burn the house down.”            “I’m just messing with you, old lady.”            She hit my shoulder playfully and I pushed her back before stuffing her mouth with another piece of cake, purposefully smearing the corner of her bottom lip. This time though I didn’t let her lick the excess off—this time I leaned in and did it for her with my thumb, then tasted it.              I could feel her body shaking, even as I pulled back. “Sorry,” I said then. “I just really like this frosting.”            She looked a bit shocked but only for a second before returning another bite to me, duplicating the gesture and placing the iced tip of her forefinger on her tongue to clean away the mess she’d made. “It does taste good, doesn’t it~ the taste of cream?”            Holy fucking hell.             Our bodies were nearly touching now, so it was very easy here for me to lean in and place my mouth on hers, tasting the reminiscent sweetness on her lips—but I didn’t. I got nervous. I don’t know why; it just seemed… well, that next step would be the step that took it either too far or just far enough.            It seemed she was nervous, too. “M-min-ho, I—”            “Yeah? U-mma…?”            “I’m—all sweaty. I need to shower.”            I continued to look in her eyes, gulping through the gaze. “Go ahead.”            “I—I really have to go…”            “Okay.”            “Or maybe…”            “Yeah?”            “A swim instead. It’s hot outside. The pool will feel nice…”            Was this an invitation?            “Yeah. That does sound nice."             She shrugged. “You live here, too. You can do what you like—”            “I always do.”            “Yeah… you always do, Minho. You always do...”            My stomach was turning—not the kind of turning when you’re sick, but the kind when you’re nervous as hell. I felt small then, like a little kid. Like a little kid playing with matches, in danger of burning the whole goddamn house down (the real fire hazard here was clearly not her baking skills). If I crossed this line—Jesus God, if I did it—what if she hated me? Called me a freak? A pervert? Called the fucking cops on me? What if I'd totally misread all her cues; had got it completely wrong?            Somehow, I managed to back away from her, even though my body was drawn to her like a magnet. There was something about her—for as shy as she seemed, I was equally convinced she was a sexual force to reckon with. She was no innocent, blushing flower. Not at all. And this only made me feel more and more like an inexperienced child.            She dragged her index finger through one of the unmarred corners of the cake and sucked on it suggestively. At least I took it as suggestion, even if she hadn’t meant it as one. “You have any plans today…?” she said coolly, trying to compose herself. It was all a game of fronts now.             I had a zillion things running through my brain, but my dick refused to listen to any of them, no matter how rational they might be. “Nope.”            “None at all?”            “Only one.”            “And what is that?”            “To go swimming. With you.”        m style="font-size:11px;font-family:'times new roman', times, serif;color:rgb(178,34,34);">~  ♥ m style="font-size:11px;font-family:'times new roman', times, serif;color:rgb(178,34,34);"> ~m style="font-size:11px;font-family:'times new roman', times, serif;color:rgb(178,34,34);">      it's about to get hot...