A Thousand and One Submissives

A tip: Always lock your computer with a password, especially if you leave it lying around. I got my hands on love chats and dirty videos of my stepmom Charlotte banging other guys, proving she was cheating, no doubt about it. A huge chunk of her life came crashing down right then; the slut was even getting it on with multiple dudes in some of those files.

That day, I went down to the living room to play my video game. The place was empty, no one home. Charlotte’s laptop was sitting there, open, unlocked. Out of respect for her privacy, I told myself I’d ignore it and fired up my PS4.

But when I hit the main menu of Call of Duty, I heard “ding” sounds. WhatsApp notifications, unmistakable. Couldn’t help myself—I peeked.

“BrattShit: Hey babe! You good?”

“BrattShit: You coming soon?”

“Charlotte: Yeah, sweetie, hope you’re ready for me [peach emoji]”

“BrattShit: 3x [eggplant emoji] [horny emoji]”  

I was freaking shocked. This “BrattShit” wasn’t Dad, no question. I scrolled up the chat and found videos of their hookups, swapped like prizes. That’s when I dropped the controller and started digging. I grabbed an app to find the big files—boom, “worksArchive,” 200 GB of stuff.

Her computer was stuffed, everything neatly sorted. One folder per year, subfolders by month. I flipped out: since 2011, Charlotte’s been screwing guys every month. I opened pics, played videos… some were shot with pro cameras.  

And there, watching one where she’s getting pounded—her green eyes sparkling, big tits spilling out, ass bouncing—damn, I got rock hard. At forty, she was still a total babe, skin tight, wide hips. I got why Dad was into her. And me? I wanted to bang her too.

How’d she not get caught all these years? Probably ‘cause Dad was busy with his business and trusted her blindly. I clenched my fists—bitch! She’d pay big for screwing us over. No way I’d tell Dad her secret. Poor guy would break… He’d already suffered so much when Mom died. For a year, he was a zombie—skinny, wrecked, stuck at work. Charlotte was the light that pulled him out of that hole. Gotta give her that much, at least…

But what she’s doing? Unforgivable. So I planned a revenge to make that dirty slut pay like she deserves. After copying all that damning proof onto my hard drive, we had a heated talk where I laid out the terms of my silence.

Dad was loaded, and Charlotte got fat off his cash, just messing around with charity stuff. I had insane power over her: a divorce with this dirt would leave her on the street, her reputation trashed to bits.

To bring it up, I asked her to check something on my phone, then hit play on a video: her, selfie-style, taking cum from three guys at once, mouth wide, tongue out, eyes lit up with excitement.  

I loved watching her face go from smug and happy to pure panic and horror. She realized right then her cozy life was toast—and it was all in my hands.

I jumped in, saying Dad didn’t need to know this dark side of her, but she’d owe me big. She asked what I wanted, and I dodged at first, saying I just wanted to play a little role-game with her.

I’d prepped a box with props for her part. Told her to open it and see. When she did, Charlotte froze, hands shaking a bit. Her eyes went wide with terror, breathing fast, cheeks flushing red with rage. Inside: a collar with a leash, a headband with floppy dog ears, and a butt plug with a tail.

She stared at me like she needed me to say it was a joke. I just grinned wide. Something broke in her then. The red anger turned into a mask of fury—eyes narrowed, lips pressed thin. Out of nowhere, she grabbed the box and smashed it on the floor, stuff flying everywhere with a loud thud. She cussed me out, screaming to delete the videos.

Her sudden fire threw me off, but I fought to look calm, not letting on she’d rattled me. I’d expected this—it was part of my plan. I told her coolly that if she didn’t play along, those videos would hit porn sites, and I’d send Dad a link to one. He’d find out she’s cheating, plus she’d be a worldwide slut.

The threat hit her like a punch—her breathing sped up again, but now it was fear, not anger. In her silence, she got it: she had no leverage. I finished her off, saying next time I’d text her to start our game—she’d crawl in on all fours, leash in her mouth, wearing only the gear. I promised I’d pick the right moment and keep her secrets safe.

I walked over, picked up the box, calmly packed it back up, then set it on her lap. She grabbed it but just sat there, stunned. Happy with how it went, I left the living room, climbed the stairs to my room, leaving Charlotte alone to stew in her mess.

Six months later…

I pushed through the door, my heavy suitcase scraping the concrete. Paul’s 28th birthday party was already rocking. I kissed cheeks all around, grabbed a punch glass, and jumped into a chat. Hours later, it was gift time. My turn came, so I dragged the suitcase to the middle, laid it flat, and unzipped it, showing what’s inside. Everyone froze, jaws dropped: a chick, gagged and tied up, curled inside. I stepped up to Paul with a smirk: “Happy birthday, dude. Here’s mommy Charlotte, all yours!”