Marcus Faber - another highschooler

The story will have a slow start. The first two chapters can probably be skipped if you are an impatient reader (or just currently really horny).

Chapter 1 sets up some unimportant backstory with his sexy stepmom Karen and his popular-girl stepsister Lily. Chapter 2 sets up what his life is like for him at school.

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I woke up with the kind of groan only a Monday deserves, feeling the weekend's freedom slipping through my fingers. The morning light fought its way through the blinds, serving as a less-than-gentle reminder that the sanctuary of my bed was a temporary one. I shuffled to my feet, the carpet feeling oddly cold against them, and headed over to the mirror.

As I brushed my teeth, staring at the reflection of what society deemed an 'average high schooler,' my mind wandered to the usual: a pop quiz in calculus I didn't study for, a book report on some dusty old novel I barely read, and the cafeteria's mystery meat special waiting to test my digestive fortitude.

The shower did little to wash away the anticipation of mundanity. School was an endless loop of lectures, notes, and the occasional spark of teenage drama that seemed as predictable as a rerun of a bad sitcom. Yet, there was this small flicker of excitement at the idea of outsmarting the day—finding those little loopholes in the mundane to make life more interesting.

Dressed in the unofficial high school uniform of jeans and a somewhat clean t-shirt, I slung my backpack over one shoulder. The weight of textbooks and notepads felt like carrying a knight's armor into a battle of wits and popularity.

Heading downstairs, the smells of breakfast cooked filled the air—a comforting routine in the chaotic world of high school politics. As I entered the kitchen, Karen was draped over the kitchen island like some kind of glamorous cat, effortlessly flipping pancakes. She was all ease and grace, the kind of woman who could stir a pot of oatmeal and make it look like an art. "Want some?" she asked, without looking up from her task. The question was casual, as if she were offering a piece of gum rather than a homemade breakfast feast.

She was my mom, but she wasn't Mom. Not in the way that mattered, anyway. She had just filled the silence of the house after Dad passed a year ago. They had only gotten married about a year before that. The rest of my family, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, had marked me as an afterthought. The kinship we shared was now tainted by the legacy of suspicion they held against my stepmom. They believed she married Dad for his money, and with his untimely passing and her subsequent inheritance, their suspicions turned into a silent verdict. They saw her as nothing more than a gold digger, a sentiment that seemed to extend to me by association.

My stomach grumbled and I shook away the discontent, focusing back on the food. Grunting in acknowledgment, I grabbed a pancake off of the plate, offering a half-smile to the woman who had become a permanent fixture in my home.

I moved to the kitchen table, my chair scraping against the tiled floor. My stepsister, Lily, was already at the table, her eyes glued to her phone. She was a year older than me and carried herself with an air of superiority that only an older sister could manage. Self-assured. Smug. Cocky. I tried not to let it get to me, but I'd be lying if I said that it didn't sometimes.

They were both gorgeous, and it wasn't lost on me—the way they moved, the way they laughed together. They were vibrant, full of life, and it seemed to underscore my own sense of displacement. While they chatted about plans for the day and the latest school gossip, I noted the ease in their conversation, the way it flowed like a melody I could hum but not quite sing. Their laughter was a shared secret to which I wasn't privy, and their bodies—fit, attractive, and sexy—seemed to only highlight the invisible barrier between us. But it wasn't just her effortless poise that set their tongues wagging; it was the way she didn't seem to mourn as they thought a widow should. There was a lightness to her, a sexy confidence that didn't fit the somber widow's weeds. She laughed too loudly, dressed too sharply, and didn’t seem to have a single hair out of place since the day of Dad's funeral.

At least the pancakes were perfect—golden and fluffy, the way Dad liked them. It was one of the many things Karen had picked up from him, an echo of a happier time. She moved around the kitchen with a kind of lazy elegance, wearing her wealth like a second skin. It was easy to see why my relatives whispered behind her back at the funeral, their words laced with venom and envy. She did give off those vibes—the kind that spelled out in bold, italic letters: gold digger.

Amidst the clinking of cutlery and the soft hum of the refrigerator, my mind, traitorous and untamed, wandered down that forbidden path. It was a path lined with the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’ that plague a teenage mind, especially one as starved for affection as mine felt in this house. The fantasy was simple yet vivid: Karen, with her effortless charm and too-warm smiles, would be more than just the aloof matriarch. In this daydream, she was attentive, her laughter genuine and meant for me, her gestures lacking the polished distance that she maintained in reality.

In this imagined world, Lily and I would banter over breakfast, her teasing not the barbed kind but the playful, affectionate ribbing you'd expect between siblings who actually cared for each other. She'd ask for my help with her homework, and I'd grudgingly oblige, leading to study sessions that weren't defined by silence but by shared jokes and the occasional food fight.

I even let the fantasy take a more risqué turn, allowing the typical teenage cocktail of hormones and curiosity to color the edges of my daydream. Karen would be wearing something revealing, her beauty not a barrier but a bridge, her gaze not dismissive but inviting. Lily, too, in this imaginary scenario, would be less guarded, her figure, which I couldn't help but notice despite my best efforts, a subject of an adolescent admiration that was far from brotherly.

It was these moments that I hated myself for entertaining. The fact that such thoughts even occurred to me felt like a betrayal of some unspoken code. It was a mental dance on the line of decency, and I was all too aware of the music I was letting play in my head.

But the pang of conscience was swift, a sharp jab to my morality. I chastised myself, the internal rebuke loud and clear. They were my family, albeit step, and these fleeting fantasies were nothing but a normal, if uncomfortable, part of growing up in such an odd family dynamic. With a shake of my head, as if to physically dispel the images, I my mind back to the neutral territory, to the