SIMON SAYS

by Downing Street

Comments always welcome: dowstreet@yahoo.com

Amanda stepped into the walk-in closet and regarded her new
wardrobe with dismay.  There must be something there she could
wear.  It was a weekend, so the rules became rather more
restrictive.  At least during the week she could dress properly,
as befitted a corporate executive, albeit lately a rather sexy
one.  But on the weekends, Simon said she had to be a lot more
revealing.

Simon said....

Well, she didn't have to do everything her step-son said.  It
wasn't like he had threatened force, or had anything to hold over
her.  She reached tentatively for a long, comfortable dress in
blue cotton.  She fingered it for a moment.  She let it go. 
Simon said she couldn't wear that kind of dress any more.

Simon said.....

Ever since he had returned from the trip to India and the Middle
East, Simon had been different somehow.  Amanda had been
concerned, almost panicked, when his letters stopped, but when
she picked him up at the airport he acted like nothing
exceptional had happened.  When pressed, he admitted that he had
abandoned the packaged tour after a few days, and fallen in with
a rag-tag group of pilgrims looking for some sort of
enlightenment.  He spoke of wandering the desert for weeks, of
getting lost and sick in the monsoonal jungles, of losing track
of time and place, and finally, high on a mountain top somewhere
in the Himalayas, meeting an old, drug-addled man who claimed to
be able to see into the depths of the human spirit.

He told her all this over the next few days in response to her
relentless questions.  How could he just disappear for more than
six months?  He had lost track of time; it didn't seem important
in the desert.  Why hadn't he written to her, or called or
something?  Didn't he realize how worried she had been?  A shrug. 
He had been sick.  Did he see a doctor?  Get medical attention? 
Another shrug.  He claimed not to need doctors any more.

Eventually, Amanda gave up trying to pump more information out of
him.  She figured he would come around on his own time, once he
got his strength back.  He had lost a great deal of weight, and
now seemed wan and thin.  Over the next few weeks he spoke
little, but spent a long time each day sitting in his room
repeating strange chants in a foreign language.  Amanda decided
not to push it.  Whatever happened to him over there had
obviously affected him deeply.  Besides, she was a busy executive
with lots of other things to occupy her mind.  

And then one morning, out of the blue, he told her she was
wearing the wrong suit.  She looked at him.  He was dressed in
his usual style since the trip, black jeans and a black T-shirt. 
The clothes made his thin frame seem insubstantial, like a
collection of shadows.  The dark goatee he now wore only enhanced
his gaunt, vaguely sinister look.  "What's wrong with it?" she
asked, looking down.  It was the suit she liked to wear for
meetings, a crisp, tailored brown pantsuit that looked both
flattering and professional.

"Pants are all wrong," he said decisively.  "Not you at all, Mandy. 
Try something with a skirt."

Amanda opened her mouth to say something, then stopped.  What was
he talking about?  Since when did he care what she wore to work? 
And when did a twenty-year-old university drop-out become an
expert on office fashion?  This suit would do just fine.  

Still....

After a moment's hesitation she turned and trotted back up to the
bedroom.  

She emerged a few minutes later in a dark blue wool suit with a
calf-length skirt.  She felt a little silly for indulging Simon's
whim.  She told herself it was a good sign that he was interested
in what was going on around him.  He had been very distant
lately.

"OK, how's this?"  she said cheerfully, bustling into the
livingroom.  

Her step-son regarded her appraisingly.  "It will do," he
pronounced, unsmiling.  "For now."

Amanda's cheerful mood wilted.  She started to say something, to
reproach him for his ill manners, but Simon had already turned
away and was staring blankly out the window.  It was as if he saw
something else there than the green lawn and neatly trimmed
shrubbery of their suburban yard.  After a long moment Amanda
turned and marched out the door.  Discussion could wait.  She was
late for work.

They never did discuss the incident.  Simon remained withdrawn
and uncommunicative and Amanda could never find the right moment
to bring it up.  The next morning, however, Simon again objected
to her clothing.  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Simon, what's wrong
with this one?" Amanda cried.  She was wearing a white blouse and
navy blue slacks with a matching blue blazer.

"It's like I told you, Mandy.  Pants are all wrong for you.  Wear a
dress.  You look much better in a dress."

"Simon, don't be ridiculous," Amanda replied.  "I can't wear--" 
She stopped, momentarily confused.  She liked slacks, wore them
almost every day, knew they looked professional, stylish, and
comfortable.  So why, suddenly, did it seem so odd to be
wearing them today?  Why did a dress seem so powerfully,
undeniably right as soon as Simon suggested it?  

She knew she didn't want to wear a dress. She certainly wasn't
about to change clothes twice in two days just because her
stressed-out step-son told her too.  Yet....  

There was something else too, another feeling that Amanda found
most distracting.  She ignored it resolutely.  

"Simon, I--" she began again.  "I, uhm.... do you really
think..."   She couldn't understand why she was so hesitant. 

Simon spoke firmly.  "Yes, Mandy, I do.  Those pants aren't
attractive.  Go put on a dress."  It was more like an order this
time.

"All right, Simon.  Just this once."  She turned and headed back
upstairs to the bedroom.  The feeling in her belly was getting
stronger.

By the time Amanda climbed into her BMW a few minutes later,
sporting a conservative black-and-white dress and low black
pumps, she had identified the unexpected feeling in her gut.  

Arousal.  

It was preposterous, yet somehow her step-son was turning her on. 
No, not quite.  It was obeying her son that was turning her on. 
As soon as she agreed to change her clothes she felt a delicious
pulse of sexual excitement that lingered still.  She squeezed her
thighs together and felt the moisture in her panties.  

What was going on here?

On the third morning, when Simon again instructed her to change
her clothes, Amanda rebelled.  "Look, young man," she pronounced,
glowering at him.  "You back off and remember your station.  I
don't know what little game you're playing and I don't care.  I
will wear what I feel like wearing, and you will keep your
opinions to yourself!  Unless you would like to add living on the
streets to your list of travel adventures.  Do you understand me,
Simon?"

Her step-son looked taken aback by the outburst.  He started to
say something but Amanda cut him off.  "Not another word out of
you!" she shouted.  "Not another word.  We'll discuss this
further when I get home.  Right now get out of my way, I have to
go to work."  And with that she stormed out the door, slamming it
behind her.  

There, that was better.  A good temper tantrum to put an end to
this foolishness.  Adopted or not, Simon was still her son, and
he'd better remember to act accordingly.

As the day wore on, Amanda found she couldn't put the incident
out of her mind.  She kept looking at her slacks and feeling the
inexplicable wrongness of them.  Were people looking at her
funny?  Every time one of her co-workers smiled she wondered if
they were secretly laughing at her slacks.  They were perfectly
good pants, she told herself a dozen times.  Heaven knows they
cost enough.  I wear these all the time.  But Simon said....

By noon she couldn't stand it any longer.  Growling at her
secretary she marched out of the office and went shopping,
something she never did during the workday.  The feeling of
sexual excitement returned as she walked into one of her
favourite, upscale shops, and grew stronger when she slipped into
the expensive floral-on-black outfit she finally bought.

Simon noticed the change of clothing when she arrived home from
work that evening, and he smiled for the first time in weeks. 
Amanda never asked what he did during the day, but he seemed to
have regained the aloof composure he had temporarily lost during
their setto that morning.  While making supper, she found
something weird in the garbage, a mixture of kitchen scraps and
animal bones.  Simon said he had already eaten.

"Simon, we have to talk," Amanda said, later that evening. 
"About this morning."

"We certainly do," Simon said.  "For one thing, I think you owe
me an apology."

Amanda exploded again.  "I owe you an apology!  Just what
makes you think--"

"You spoke sharply to me this morning.  I didn't like that. 
Apologize."  He looked at her calmly.

For a moment Amanda stood unmoving, too shocked to speak.  Then,
to her astonishment, she heard herself say: "Simon, I, I'm sorry. 
I shouldn't have raised my voice at you this morning.  It was
wrong; it was cruel and unfeeling and I'm very, very sorry."  Was
she really sorry?  Why was she saying this?  And why did it feel
so incredibly good to say it?

"And you were wrong to object to my suggestions about your
clothes."

She gulped.  "Yes.  Yes, Simon.  I was w-wrong to object when
you, uh, suggested that I, um, choose a different outfit.  I, uh,
I apologize to you for that too."  Her face felt flushed.

Simon smiled again. "Good," he said.  "Excellent.  Listen Mandy, to
save time, don't bother wearing slacks to work any more, OK? 
Stick to skirts and dresses, and we'll work from there.  Got
that?"

"Yes, Simon," Amanda said contritely.  "Will you excuse me, for a
m-moment!"  She bolted from the room and hurried upstairs to the
privacy of her bedroom.  Barely pausing to close the door behind
her, she shucked off her clothes and collapsed on the bed.  Her
pussy was wet, ready and eager to receive her stroking fingers. 
Her first orgasm overwhelmed her in minutes.  The second and
third took a little longer.

So, the next morning, and every workday morning after that,
Amanda got dressed in a dress or a skirted suit and presented
herself for Simon's inspection before she left for work. 
Sometimes he was up already, but if not, he insisted that she
come into his bedroom and pose for him by his bedside.  Quite
often he sent her back for a change, always to something shorter,
or brighter or less staid.  Amanda complied, telling herself that
she didn't have to do the things that Simon said.  It was
simply the easiest way to keep peace in the house.  Her panties
were generally wet by the time she got to the office.

Now, standing in her overflowing closet in just her stockings and
high-high heels, Amanda contemplated just how much her wardrobe
had changed.  She glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch, the only
watch Simon would let her wear.  Almost nine.  Simon would be
impatient for breakfast soon.

She walked down the rows of sexy clothing, managing her dramatic
platform heels with practised ease.  Soon after he began vetting
her wardrobe, Simon announced that he had a bit of a thing for
high heels, and therefore Amanda should wear them as high as
possible, as often as possible.  She had been in her bedroom,
changing after a long day at work, and Simon had just walked
right in.

"What are you doing here?" Amanda blazed. "What do you mean by
barging into my room like this?  Now you just turn around and
walk right back--"

"Mandy, be quiet," Simon said, and Amanda lapsed into glowering
silence.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken.  "High heels are the most
attractive shoes any woman can wear, always have been.  They
change appearance in some very basic way, you know.  I think it
sends signals right to the base of a man's brain.  See these"  --
he held up the pair of functional, low-heeled shoes Amanda had
worn to work that day -- "these are boring.  They're for tight-
assed old spinsters that work in the library and scowl all the
time."  He tossed them contemptuously in the direction of a trash
bin.  

Amanda demurred, "But those shoes cost almost --"

"Then you've been wasting money, Mandy," Simon said, interrupting
her again.  "Man, look at all these dullsville shoes.  You have
got like a serious image problem, Mandy.  I think it is time for
a major closet purge."  He tossed another pair of shoes, Italian
imports that she had bought just last month, into the waste bin.

"Simon, stop that!" Amanda cried.  "What are you doing?  You c-
can't just throw away my shoes."  She shook her head in
confusion.  Simon was spouting nonsense, she knew that, but
somehow it just seemed so sensible.  As soon as he said so.

He turned to face her squarely.  "Look, Mandy, here is how it is
going to be.  Since you are obviously too dim to know how a woman
should dress, I will have to help you.  To start with, I don't
want to see you in any shoes with less than four inches of heel,
got that?  You can count to four, can't you?"

Amanda felt the insults like a slap in the face.  Her step-son
had never spoken to her so rudely before, not even after his
return from overseas.  She struggled to respond, to shout at him
angrily that he couldn't talk to her that way.  Unexpectedly, the
feeling of sexual arousal had returned, and stronger than ever. 
She suppressed a moan as shimmers of pleasure lanced through her. 
"Simon, please, I-" she stammered.

"Get my approval for any new shoes you buy.  Don't waste your
time on anything but hey-heys.  Right now, go through this pile
of shit and get rid of all the old-fart shoes."

"But, but I don't have..."

"Yeah, I know, you have to wear something.  Look, for now you can
keep the medium heels, just until you get something better."

"Simon, no," Amanda said weakly.  She didn't have to do what he
said.     

"Don't come down to make supper until the job is finished."  He
turned and left the room.

Dejectedly, Amanda surveyed the neat rows of shoes lining the
rack in her closet.  She didn't have to do what Simon told her,
she decided, setting her jaw.  But she was so horny.....

Twenty minutes later Amanda was sprawled across her king-size
bed, her dress in a heap on the floor.  She was panting and
groaning in naked lust as she played with herself, one hand
thrusting inside her wet panties, the other tweaking and fondling
her hard-nippled breasts.  Shoes and sandals filled the
wastebasket in one corner, spilling over into a big, multicolored
heap on the floor.  "Oh god oh god oh god," Amanda blathered,
pumping her fingers desperately,  "I'll buy some more tomorrow!"
And that delirious thought was enough to push her over the edge
to another blinding orgasm.

Amanda came downstairs eventually.  She walked uneasily in the
only pair of four-inch heels she owned, simple black pumps she
had purchased impulsively one day, but seldom wore.  

That changed soon enough.  Under Simon's abusive guidance her
nearly empty shoe rack soon filled up again, and then overflowed,
with sexy, gaudy, towering heels.  Inspecting her footwear became
part of Simon's morning ritual, and he send her tottering off to
work each day in a different pair of leg-shaping spikes.

Wearing the new shoes to work wasn't all that bad, once she got
used to them.  At least when she was sitting at her desk she
could slip them off and enjoy the feel of stocking feet.  But
evenings were another matter.

"What the hell are you doing?" Simon demanded angrily one
afternoon.  It was just the second day after the incident in
Amanda's bedroom, and she was breaking in a pair of patent black
pumps she had bought the day before. 

Amanda looked up at him dully.  It had been a long day and her
feet hurt.  "I, I'm just taking off my shoes.  I have to get
changed and make din--"

"Mandy, you can be unbelievably stupid sometimes," Simon
interrupted her.  "Look, airhead, why are you wearing high
heels?"

Amanda fumed in anger.  How dare he talk to her like that!  But
with every insult a tidal wave of arousal broke over her, and her
concentration wavered.  Dear god, abuse from her step-son was
such a turn-on!

"Because, because," she sputtered,  "You told me to.  I mean, I
thought you liked--"

"Exactly, Mandy.  Because I like them.  I like to see you in
them.  So put your shoes back on, get your lard-ass butt in gear
and start working on dinner."

Amanda groaned.  "Yes, yes Simon," she said quietly.  She slipped
the high heels back on and made her way upstairs to get out of
her work clothes.  She would have to change her panties again,
too.

Simon insisted that Amanda wear heels all the time, even in the
morning when she was getting dressed.  He ordered her to buy
wobbly, high-heeled mules in place of house slippers -- she had
half a dozen pairs now -- and to put them on the moment she
rolled out of bed.  She wore them every minute she was in the
house, only momentarily slipping them off for a bath or shower.  

Well, she didn't have to wear them, she reminded herself
endlessly.  She could take them off any time.  Really.  But the
heels somehow seemed appropriate now, and the sexy wiggle in her
walk reminded her that she was obeying Simon, which kept her in a
near-constant state of arousal.

Now, as she wandered through her closet trying to find some
outfit that would comply with Simon's elaborate rules and still
preserve a shred of modesty, Amanda wondered why she had found
four-inch heels so difficult.  Nowadays, four-inchers were the
ones she wore to relax.  The open-toed, liquid red slings she was
wearing that morning had heels a full inch higher.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the many full-
length mirrors that surrounded her bedroom.  She was still
surprised at the figure that looked back at her:  the long blonde
hair carefully combed, the sleek, slender figure that could have
belonged to a teenager instead of a woman well into the fourth
decade of life.  Her nipples were erect, as they usually were. 
Amanda was proud of her figure, she had to admit.  She finally
had the fit, toned body she had always dreamed of.  Of course,
there was a price for keeping it that way; she spent every spare
minute at the gymnasium.

It started when Simon started insisting that she show a little
more leg.  "What is with you and these mud-dragging dresses?" he
asked sarcastically one morning.  "You look like a fucking nun. 
Go put on something that doesn't sweep the floor, all right?"

Amanda looked down at the sharp red skirt, that ended an inch or
so above the knee.  "This, uh, this is the shortest skirt I
have..." she said meekly.

"Unbe-fucking-lievable," Simon said.  "Look, you brainless prude,
when will you learn that a woman's job is to show off her body,
not cover it up."  He walked up to her with such energy that for
a moment Amanda thought he was going to hit her.  Instead, he
reached down and roughly grabbed the hem of her skirt.  He hiked
it up several inches.  "Look, this is considered a fashionable
skirt length, even by uptight twits like you."  He yanked it
higher.  "This is a respectable length for work or shopping.  And
this is the length you should be wearing if you're proud of
your body.  It's the length I like."

Amanda grabbed a stair rail to keep her balance.  "I can't wear
my skirts that short!" she gasped.

"Why not?"

"Because, because, for god's sake I'm thirty-five years old.  I'm
an executive.  And besides...." her voice trailed off in
confusion.

"Besides what, Mandy?"

She spoke in a small voice, amazed at her own shyness.  "I, I
haven't got the legs for it.   M-My thighs are too heavy."  Why
did she suddenly feel so inadequate?

Simon smiled without mirth.  It wasn't a pleasant sight.  "Well,
we'll have to do something about that, won't we?"

Amanda joined the health club that very afternoon, and spent a
good hour getting to know the various exercise machines.  She
returned home late and exhausted.  Simon heaped abuse on her for
making him wait for dinner.  Later, Amanda collapsed in bed,
barely managing to get her clothes off, and fell asleep with her
fingers still in her creaming pussy.

Amanda exercised relentlessly now, every single day, and weekends
too.  Amanda spent so much time at the gym that some of the
regulars assumed she worked there.  After a while she joined a
second health club just to cover her embarrassment in spending so
much time working out.  Eventually she bought a bunch of home gym
equipment.  She found herself using it too with the fanatical
devotion that Simon demanded.

There were rules of course.  Simon had a fit when he saw Amanda
in her track suit and made her throw the whole thing away right
then and there.  He ordered her to get herself some "proper"
exercise clothes - bra tops and short shorts and tights and
leotards, not just a few but a suitcase full, so she could wear a
different skimpy outfit every day.  Top of the line shoes too,
always carefully color-matched to whatever shape-defining outfit
she was wearing that day.  She kept her high heels nearby.  Simon
said she had to put them back on again the instant she finished,
even just to walk the few steps to the bathroom for a shower.

Aerobics pretty much pushed aside any other hobbies and interests
Amanda had.  Even reading the newspaper.  She had enjoyed fussing
about in the garden for years, but when she mentioned it Simon
just laughed and said she could hardly dig up weeds in a
miniskirt and high heels, could she.  So a professional gardening
service did the yard now.  The young men gawked in the windows to
try to catch a glimpse of Amanda.  Simon said she must never
close the curtains.

Simon said that only miniskirts were suitable attire, but he
relented somewhat and allowed her to wear them only four inches
above the knee to the office.  At home, however, he insisted on
breathtaking brevity, especially as the relentless exercise toned
up Amanda's muscles and slimmed her thighs.  Simon liked bright,
tight, feminine clothing.  Amanda found her shopping expeditions
broadening to include trendy, youth-oriented shops she had never
frequented before.  She had to pack away more and more of her old
clothes to make room for her ever-expanding wardrobe.  It was
costing more than a little, but nothing Amanda's salary couldn't
handle.

Amanda attempted from time to time to come to grips with her
situation.  She still couldn't figure out why she kept doing what
Simon told her.  The thickening fog of sexual arousal that
enveloped her made rational thought increasingly difficult.  The
workday was tolerable, so long as she remembered to keep a supply
of fresh panties in the office.  She began masturbating in the
washroom a couple of times each day.  Weekends, on the other
hand, were spent in a kind of horny, stupefied daze.  Amanda
tried desperately to retain some fragment of her dignity and
self-control while Simon ordered her about or heaped scorn on her
back.

Amanda regarded her svelte figure in the mirror and resisted,
with some difficulty, the urge to play with herself.  She was
wearing thigh-high stay-ups, her usual legwear these days.  The
stockings were shiny white, with a red seam up the back that
matched her high-heeled sandals.  Simon said she had to wear
stockings, no bare legs, and pantyhose were just too much of a
nuisance when she spent so much time with her fingers under her
skirts.  She had to buy the stay-ups hip-high, or risk flashing
her stocking tops every time she bent over.  

Still watching her reflection, Amanda pursed her full lips, red
with lipstick, shaping her mouth into a protruding oval. She
sucked on one finger for a moment.  She knew what she really
needed.

Amanda's new style had not gone unnoticed at the office, and many
an approving look was cast her way as she strode down the
hallways in her brief, clinging suits and sky-high heels.  The
male attention only raised Amanda's sexual thermostat a little
further.  She still managed to get her work done, but the
irresistible arousal from obeying Simon's commands guaranteed
that sex was always on her mind.  More than once Amanda found
herself responding warmly, even flirting, with male co-workers
that eyed her so thirstily.  She knew she must be radiating
sexual signals like a bitch in heat.  

But nobody turned her on quite as much as her own step-son.

She was in particularly rough shape that Friday afternoon as she
stepped off the bus a few blocks from home.  She took the bus to
work now.  Her BMW was reserved for Simon's use.  It was still
Amanda's job to wash it every day and to wax it every weekend. 
She wore a bikini and high heels while she worked on the car.

Amanda's heels clicked against the sidewalk.  She was wearing a
sleeveless white minidress, more suited to a night at the club
than the executive boardroom.  The shiny white pumps with the
ankle straps and five-inch heels accentuated her shapely, nylon-
gilt legs.  She wore a raspberry red bolero jacket with the
dress, drawn closed with three gold chains. The jacket added a
bare touch of modesty to the low-scooped neckline of her dress. 
Simon had sent her back to her room to put on a push-up bra.  I
don't have to do that, she told herself, even as she tottered
back upstairs.

She had been horny by the time she left the house that morning,
and it seemed like men had been staring at her all day long.  To
make matters worse, she had had to make a presentation that day.
Though her data were impeccable, it was obvious that the men in
the room were far more interested in her legs than her sales
projections.  By the time she stepped gingerly off the bus,
ignoring the bus driver's happy stare, she was beside herself. 
Though she had changed them more than once, her panties were wet
again.

Simon was waiting for her when she got in the door.  "About time
you got here, you little tart," he pronounced.  "Why so late? 
Been out showing off on the streets?"

As usual, Simon's abuse hit her like a drug.  "Ohhhhhh.  N-No,
please, Simon, nothing like that.  I, I just missed my first bus,
that's all.  Spent too long at the gym."  She dropped her
briefcase and white purse on the floor.

"I bet," he sneered.  "Mandy you are such a little bimbo.  A sugar
tart, that's you.  Look at that dress.  I bet you enjoyed giving
the guys an eyeful all day.  Is that how you keep your job? 
Doesn't seem to me you have the brains for it."

Electric bolts of sexual need shot through Amanda.  Groaning, she
collapsed against the wall, losing her balance on her tall heels.
"Please, Simon, honey, stop this.  I, I'm oh god I'm so hot!" 
She ran her hands down her tight dress, clinging weakly to self-
control.

"Just how do you keep your job, Mandy?  It's got to be with that
bod of yours, isn't it.  Little airhead sexpot like you can't
possibly be executive material.  Shit, I even have to tell you
what to wear in the morning.  Even then you barely get it right."

"Simmmonnnn, Please, stop it." Amanda wailed, her face flushed. 
She was clenching her fists and grinding her thighs together.  

"Face it Mandy, you're just a sex machine.  A dick receptacle. 
Do you give good blow jobs, Mandy?  Is that how you keep your job? 
I bet you suck cock like a vacuum cleaner."

"Simon, No, no n-ooh, ooooh"  Amanda groaned, helpless with
desire.  She felt like her body was on fire.  Her eyes rolled
backwards and she slid down the wall, collapsing in a quivering
heap at her step-son's feet.

"Jezuz, Mandy," he said, "You are the most over-sexed, cock-hungry
bimbo I've ever met. Hey, you're so hungry for a dick to suck,
why don't you come here and suck on mine."  He took a step
forward and stopped in front of her, spreading his legs into a
domineering stance.  He unzipped his black jeans and fished out
his semi-erect penis, dangling it before the dazed Mandy
like a lure.

Amanda looked up at him, drunk with desire.  "Simon, oh, Simon
no, I, I can't," she whimpered.  Still, she stared at his exposed
dick, her vision blurry, and felt herself moving.  She climbed up
onto her knees and half fell toward him, bracing herself on his
legs.  She felt insane with need, ready to suck off the boy she
had raised since he was five years old.  "Oh god Simon!" she
gasped.

Her step-son smiled down on her.  "Go ahead Mandy.  You know you
want it."

Amanda made a tiny sound deep in her throat.  She took his cock
tenderly in one hand, raising it toward her waiting lips. 
"Uhmmmmmmm," she murmured as she sucked him deep into her mouth.

She sucked him earnestly, bobbing her head up and down on his
rapidly hardening shaft, using one or sometimes both hands to
caress and hold him.  Blissful waves of pleasure washed over her,
brushing aside guilt and shame and righteousness like so many
dead leaves.  She forgot everything else except the exquisite
feel of her step-son's member in her mouth.  She used her tongue,
her lips, her hands.  She poured herself over him, grunting and
slurping noisily.  

Simon was so pleased with Mandy's efforts he almost
forgot to insult her.  "Yes, Mandy, yes, like that!  God, that
is great, suck me you little airhead sexpot whore!  Suck me. 
Yesss!  Harder.  Harder, you sex-crazy tramp!"  The litany of
imprecations only stimulated Amanda further, and a few moments
later she felt Simon stiffen, and he came jerkily into her mouth,
while Amanda sucked and swallowed and writhed in unbridled
ecstasy.

Blow-jobs became a regular part of the household routine then. 
Amanda generally gave him a quickie before she left for work in
the morning and another when she came home at night.  On weekends
she blew him three or four times every day.  His appetite seemed
insatiable, and after the first time Amanda forgot to even try to
resist.  When they were home together, Simon would walk up to her
any time and simply open his zipper.  Whatever she was doing,
Amanda would stop and give him head right then and there, even if
she was on the telephone or cooking dinner.

The blowjobs left Amanda panting, exhausted, and wanting more. 
Simon didn't use Mandy for ordinary sex, however,
though he surely knew she would let him fuck her in any way
imaginable.  That task fell to a growing line of beautiful,
obedient girlfriends that fawned all over Simon and marvelled
when Mandy served them breakfast in bed.

Standing in the bulging walk-in closet of her bedroom, Amanda
turned her mind away from the memories.  If she didn't keep her
thoughts focused she would never get dressed in time.  At length
she chose a tight-fitting red tube top and a tiny silver
miniskirt, a bright, wrap-around thing barely more than a foot
long.  She seldom wore a bra on weekends.  She stepped out of her
dressing shoes, and after careful consideration decided on the
lace-up red boots with the superthick white soles.

She didn't have to dress this way, she reminded herself, as she
tightened up the slick, high-heeled boots.  But Simon said he
liked platform boots, the gaudier the better, and.... oh god. 
Amanda moaned with lust as she stumbled out of the closet into
her bedroom.  She caught sight of herself in the half dozen full
length mirrors Simon had insisted she hang around her room.  She
looked delectable; she could easily pass for ten years younger
than her actual age.  She was dressed the way Simon said, showing
lots and lots of leg and advertising her tits; her make-up was
done the way Simon said to do it; her hair was growing long the
way Simon said to wear it.  Everything was just the way Simon
said, and the sexual heat Amanda felt was too much to bear.

Standing in the deeply carpeted room, surrounded by mirrors, she
pulled up her micro-skirt, pulled down her damp panties and began
to finger herself furiously.  Thrills of delight pulsed through
her.  "Oh god oh god oh god, I'm so fucking HOT!" she cried,
breathing hard.  Her body trembled.  Beads of perspiration formed
on her perfect brow.  "Uhh! Uhh! Uhh!" she grunted, her hand a
blur beneath her panties.

But yet she could not come.  Not quite.  Not yet.  She needed
something more, one more stimulus to push her over the edge into
the abyss of pleasure.  

"Hey, Mandy!" came Simon's voice from downstairs.  "Get your lazy
sexpot wiggle-ass down here and make breakfast!  I haven't got
all day you fucked-up, brainless, cock-sucking bimbo!"

"I'm coming dear!"  Amanda shouted.  "I'm COMMMMMMING!"

She collapsed, weak-kneed, on the plush carpet as her climax
consumed her.