Here's anothet hot, sexy one by my special friend Marie B that got lost with the crash of the board. As I had a stepmother myself, whom I didn't get along with well for some time, this one had more special meaning than usual - winks!
Hope you enjoy (& comment)!
Hugs
Kayla
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The Stepmother Chronicles
By Marie B
How could Dad have married this woman? How could he have done this to me?
She hates me, she bullies me, she wants to control my life……and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. Worst of all, Dad doesn’t see it. He believes everything the bitch says about me. Greta is not my mother but acts like she is.
Now, she’s standing in front of me, holding a marijuana joint in my face. We were in my bedroom, where I was trying on my new bikini in front of the mirror, when I saw her reflection appear behind me. And she was holding the roach up for me to see.
“Donna, if you think you’re going to wear that filthy, revealing bathing suit outside of this house, you’re crazy.” threatened Greta.
I turned to face my stepmother. Standing 6’1 and weighing 200 well-proportioned pounds, Greta was a terrifying vision to behold. She wasn’t thin, but she certainly wasn’t fat either….there was just so damn much of her. She was way taller than my 5’4, and she was nearly 80 pounds heavier than me. When she thought I was misbehaving, she never hesitated to get physical with me. She hadn’t used her fists on me yet, but I figured that was coming, because each time she confronted me about something, she got more and more aggressive. At first, she just used her size and strength to push me around. Lately, though, she had taken to slapping my face and yanking my hair.
Understand this: although I’m not set to enter a convent or anything, I’ve been a good girl, especially since Mom died. I promised her that I would be, and I’ve followed through. I’m 18, a good student and a member of the National Honor Society as a senior in high school. I live clean and have a group of friends who do the same.
And now, I had bought this bikini, and it had brought all of Greta’s anger down on me.
“There’s nothing wrong with this bathing suit, Greta,” I protested.
“I’ve told you not to call me Greta,” she said. “You are to call me Mom. And if you dare to wear that thing outside the house, I’ll tell your father that this marijuana is yours.”
“I didn’t bring drugs into this house and you know that it’s not mine.”
“Yes, Donna,” Greta said, “I brought it into the house, but if I tell your father that it’s yours, who is he going to believe. You or me?”
See, my Dad is the world’s biggest objector to drugs and alcohol. I know he loves me, but he thinks that all teenagers abuse substances. I knew that if Greta showed him the roach and claimed that it was mine, he would believe her. He accepted everything she said as the truth. I knew she was slowly but surely turning him against me with tales of my “bad behavior,” even though I hadn’t been doing wrong. I had tried to explain my problem to him, but he was enamored with Greta and always took her side.
Up to now, I had given into her on every issue that she raised. I had wanted to date a certain guy whom she disapproved of….. so I had to drop him. I had wanted to go on a ski trip that she objected to….so I didn’t go. I had wanted to join a certain after-school club and she said no….so I didn’t join.
And now, she was threatening to lie to my father and tell him that I was using drugs that she had brought into the house. I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted to wear this bikini to the beach. There was nothing indecent about it. But I didn’t know what to do.
Standing in front of Greta, I felt so vulnerable. For one thing, it was the way we both were dressed. I was wearing the swimsuit and nothing else, while she stood so tall and imposing, wearing a sweatsuit and high-top running shoes. Her hair was tied back severely in a bun and her eyes were cold and cruel. She looked dangerous.
I was so scared of her, but still I said;
“No, Greta. This is one thing I will have. I will wear this suit to the beach and I will not call you Mom. You aren’t my Mom and never could be.”
I figured she would get angry at that, but she just smiled. Taking a step closer to me, she placed her heavy shoe atop my bare foot and slowly stepped down on it. As she applied the pressure, the pain forced tears to my eyes. She saw this and her grin widened.
My hand instinctively went to her shoulder. She gave the hand a disdainful glance and said;
“Go ahead, missy. Push me away.”
So I tried, but I couldn’t budge her. I pushed harder but couldn’t even get her to back up one step. She kept the shark-like grin on her face as she looked challengingly into my eyes. She was in total control and she knew it.
“Get back into your regular clothes and throw that filthy rag in the trash bin,” warned Greta.
So my moment of decision had arrived. I couldn’t take it any longer. I was ready to defy her, but what were my options if I did? To fight her? The concept seemed ridiculous. I had seen her tremendous strength already when she pushed me around. If she finally started punching me, I was sure to kick the habit of living.
Then, the decision was taken out of my hands.
Greta said, “I’ve waited long enough. If you don’t get rid of that bathing suit, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you.”
So, there it was. I could do what she commanded and maintain the peace until the next time she interfered in my life. Now that she had the roach to threaten me with, she would use it any time I wanted to do something that went against her wishes.
Or, I could fight her. Yes, she would hurt me, and probably hurt me badly, but obeying her every whim was unbearable. Plus, if she marked me up badly enough, maybe I could go to the police and have her arrested for assault. Not a very desirable choice, but I saw few options. I made my decision, knowing that there was no turning back after I said;
“Greta, I’m keeping the bikini. If I take it off, it will be to shove it up your fat ass.”
Greta’s eyes widened comically and she took an instinctive step backward. Then, an expression of anger and hatred appeared on her face and she stepped forward, extending both arms straight toward me. Grasping my shoulders, she thrust me against the dresser and pushed as hard as she could.
Her strength was incredible. I was pinned against the dresser, with the hard wood gouging my back. It hurt like mad. I tried to push back with my arms, but I couldn’t even budge her. It was like trying to push a ’49 Hudson. I was straining with all my might and could see that Greta loved my being helpless before her. She smiled widely, then decided to try another maneuver. She took one hand from my shoulder and placed it under my crotch. To my utter surprise, she lifted me in the air while simultaneously turning me upside down! She moved her other hand beneath my chin and thrust my entire body upward. She was bench-pressing me, for God’s sake, and with her arms outstretched, she began banging my body off the ceiling. Greta would slam me upward, lower me slightly, then repeat the slamming move.
I was screaming with fear and pain. How could I have hoped to compete with her amazing power? What had I expected to accomplish? More to the point, how could I go to the police if she killed me? I thought she might actually do it.
Then, she decided to body slam me. From my position with my butt pressed against the ceiling, she tipped me to the side and threw me away from her. By sheer luck, I landed on the bed instead of the floor. Lying there, I came to a realization…..to survive, I had to go after her, not wait for her to initiate the moves.
Bouncing to my feet, I turned quickly to her and launched a sidekick to her stomach. It came too fast for her to move out of the way. It was a hard kick and it caught her solidly……but she didn’t seem to feel it. Instead, she smiled and threw a right-handed punch at my face. But you know what? I was able to easily move aside before the punch reached me. She tried a left hand and I nimbly stepped aside as her fist sailed over my right shoulder. The impetus of her movement had caused her to turn slightly to the side. Seeing this, I kicked her again….this time aiming for her crotch with my foot. And again, I struck my target; she wasn’t quick enough to get out of the way. I could see one encouraging thing…..I was three times as fast as she. Unfortunately, my kick, though a hard shot, did no damage. Greta took the blow but registered no pain.
My tactics did serve to anger her, though. She had stopped smiling and her eyes had turned mean. She came after me with her arms extended. She moved as fast as she could, but I was able to move aside again. Greta then brought her hands closer together and came toward me again, obviously intending to grab me by the throat. I swiftly dropped to one knee before she could get hold of me, pivoted to my left and quickly rose again, aiming an open-handed slap at her head as I did so.
The slap caught her flush on the face. It did no appreciable damage, but I had made a couple of very happy discoveries. (1) Her huge body gave her great strength, but it had cost her speed; she was as slow as molasses. I was so much quicker than her that it was almost ridiculous. (2) Her punches would be very hard if they landed…..but I figured I could easily avoid them (3) she wasn’t a puncher, anyway….she liked to grab and clutch and squeeze (4) the angrier she became, the less effective her bull-like rushes were. I felt I could use her weaknesses to my advantage. What I needed to do was to anticipate her movements and avoid her charges, counter her moves…..and strike back hard!
No more slapping. I planned to use my countermoves to hit her as hard as I could, trusting that I could escape without her reaching me. If my attack wasn’t sufficient to hurt her, then I would probably lose, anyway.
So I stood still and beckoned with my hands, inviting her to come get me. Her face flushed anger at this taunt and she clumsily moved toward me. Again, I stepped to the right and aimed another sidekick at her….this time at her face, and with as much power as I could muster.
It worked! The kick caught her solidly in the mouth and staggered her. For the first time, uncertainty clouded Greta’s eyes as she ran her hand over her mouth and discovered that her lip was bleeding. My spirits soared, but I still had to be careful.
Greta came forward again, hesitating just before she reached me. Obviously, she thought I was going to sidestep again. But I didn’t move until she was just about on top of me……and then I shot a knee to her groin with all the power available in my body. She let out a sickening grunt and stood straight up. I saw that she was vulnerable to anything I might try, so I smashed my knee into her stomach. She doubled over forward as the breath whooshed out of her. Her hands were clutching her midsection, so I threw an uppercut that cracked against her jaw and straightened her up again. Seeing that she was offering no defense, I drew my fist back…..so far back that my elbow touched the wall behind me….. and let it fly. It was the hardest punch I had ever thrown in my life and it connected solidly with her left eye. At long last, she went down.
As she fell, the sheer force of the blow had twisted her body and she wound up hitting the ground face first. Greta lay still for a moment, then started to rise on her knees, so I jumped on her back and drove her face smack into the wooden floor. Straddling her, I repeatedly lifted her head and smashed it back onto the floor. I could hear her agonized, choking screams and heard a crunch that told me that her nose had broken with the last smash. Still, the primal rage was upon me and I continued to beat her.
I realized that I might be taking the beating too far, but all of my rage, fear and frustration was coming out from all the physical and mental abuse I had been taking from her the past year. Plus, I was loving this feeling of power that surged through my body. I was destroying the “bad guy”… a woman who outweighed me by 80 pounds.
I stopped pounding on her and turned her over onto her back. She was a mess. There was blood spurting from everywhere; her chin, her eye, her broken nose. There was no fight left in her. She was gasping for breath and pleading with me.
“Please, Donna, please,” Greta panted. “Please stop beating me. I won’t bother you again, I swear by all that’s holy I won’t.”
“Yeah,” I sneered, “you won’t bother me until the next time you use that damn reefer to blackmail me, you fuckin’ bitch.”
I stopped and thought about it, realizing that what I had just said was true. I had to get her out of the house and out of my life. But how do I do it?
Suddenly, I smiled as the solution came to me. I had a small errand to run, but before I did, just to make sure the bitch stayed where she was, I proceeded to stomp on her face with my bare foot. I intended to do it just once or twice, but I enjoyed the feeling so much that I must have stomped her twenty times….her mouth, her eyes, her forehead, her shattered nose. It felt great to watch her lying there helpless, choking on her own blood and moaning in pain.
I left her in the room and went outside to a gardening shed we keep in the back yard. From there, I retrieved a bottle of Grey Goose vodka that I was saving for a special occasion. I had never been much of a drinker, but I kept this little treasure out of my Dad’s sight. And, if ever there was a special occasion, this was it. I remembered that he allowed no alcohol in the house and I laughed aloud at what I intended to do.
My room was on the second floor of the house. I climbed the stairs and left the bottle by the staircase. Then, I went to the bedroom, found Greta still totally incapacitated, and proceeded to drag her by her hair to the landing at the top of the stairs. I had her lying on her back and I leaned over her. Placing my left knee over her windpipe to insure that she couldn’t move, I used my other hand to pinch her nose shut. This forced her to open her mouth and when she did…..I started pouring vodka down her miserable throat. She was trying to choke it out, but my knee against her windpipe was forcing to her gasp for air and this was forcing her to swallow. I knew that my Dad was due home in fifteen minutes or so, and I wanted everything to be set up perfectly.
As I held Greta in place, I watched her become drunk. The process was speeded up by her depleted condition. When she was so obviously inebriated that she couldn’t even protest anymore, I grabbed her by the hair again….and threw the bitch down the stairs. She tumbled down head over heels and wound up at the bottom of the staircase, unconscious but still moaning.
Then, I heard my Dad pulling into the driveway. I ran to my room and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I stood at the top of the stairs and waited for him to walk in the front door. When he did, he saw Greta lying there and his eyes widened. At the same moment, I came running down the stairs, screaming;
“Daddy, oh Daddy! Greta fell down the stairs! She’s really hurt! We have to help her!”
Dad ran to her and looked into her eyes, drawing back when he saw the bloody mess that her “fall” had caused.
“What the hell?” he yelled. “I smell booze! Has she been drinking in my house, Donna?”
“Drinking?” I cried. “I don’t know. Where would she have gotten liquor from? I just saw her coming up the stairs when I came out of my room. She fell! I saw her fall! I tried to reach her in time, but she fell! Oh, Daddy, we have to help poor Greta!”
I was so into my performance that tears streamed from my eyes.
“Don’t worry, baby,” soothed my father. “Call 911 and get her an ambulance.”
“Okay Daddy, I hope I can. I’m just so scared!”
“Don’t worry, Donna,” soothed Dad. “Just make the call.”
***********************
We called an ambulance; they loaded the bitch into it and hauled her away. Because she had been “drinking” in the house, I easily convinced my Dad that I was afraid to continue living in the same house as a person who consumed alcohol. He agreed and filed for divorce while she was still in the hospital. We never saw Greta again.
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Oh, and that summer, I thought I looked really good on the beach in my new bikini.
