The Smith Family

Act 1: The Inciting Spank

I stood at the edge of the Smiths’ driveway, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, staring up at the house that was about to become my home. The place was a goddamn fortress of glass and marble, all sharp angles and gleaming surfaces, like something ripped from an architecture magazine. It screamed money, control, and a kind of sterile perfection that made my stomach twist. I was eighteen, a shy kid from a modest split-level, and now I was moving in with my girlfriend Emily’s family—conservative, reserved, and so far out of my league it wasn’t funny. My palms were sweaty, and not just from the August heat.

Emily bounded out the front door, her petite frame bouncing in a way that made my throat dry. Her big boobs strained against her tank top, and those yoga pants hugged an ass that could stop traffic. She was my first girlfriend, and every time I looked at her, I felt like I’d won the lottery. “Alex!” she squealed, throwing her arms around me. Her scent—vanilla and something faintly floral—hit me hard. “You’re finally here!”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, hugging her back, hyper-aware of the glass walls behind her. Could her parents see us? Were they judging me already? “This place is… intense.”

She giggled, pulling me toward the door. “You’ll get used to it. Come on, meet the fam!”

Inside, the house was even more intimidating. The foyer opened into a massive living room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, marble floors that gleamed like ice, and furniture so pristine it looked like no one ever sat on it. Everything was bright, exposed, like living in a fishbowl. I felt like a smudge on their perfect canvas.

John Smith, Emily’s dad, was at the dining table, buried in a newspaper. He was forty-two, with thinning hair and a face that screamed “overworked office drone.” He glanced up, gave me a curt nod. “Alex. Welcome. Don’t break anything.” His voice was flat, like he was already back to his stock reports.

“Thanks, Mr. Smith,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. Great start, idiot.

Jane, Emily’s stepmom, was in the kitchen, and holy shit, she was a vision. Thirty-eight, with a body that belonged in a dirty magazine, not a conservative household. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and her yoga pants clung to curves that made my brain short-circuit. Her ass was full, round, practically begging for attention, and her fitted top did nothing to hide a rack that rivaled Emily’s. She turned, catching my stare, and smiled—a polite, reserved smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Alex, it’s nice to finally meet you,” she said, her voice smooth but guarded. “Emily’s told us so much.”

“Uh, yeah, nice to meet you too, Mrs. Smith,” I stammered, forcing my eyes to her face. Don’t look at her ass. Don’t look at her ass.

“Call me Jane,” she said, turning back to the smoothie blender. The machine whirred, and I swear her hips swayed just a little as she moved. I swallowed hard, following Emily upstairs to drop my stuff in her room.

Emily’s bedroom was the only part of the house that felt human—posters on the walls, a messy bed, clothes strewn across the floor. She flopped onto the mattress, grinning. “So, what do you think? Not too scary, right?”

“Your dad’s gonna hate me,” I said, sitting next to her. “And your stepmom… she’s, uh, intense.”

Emily laughed, poking my chest. “Jane’s cool, just super proper. Don’t worry, they’ll love you. Especially me.” She leaned in, kissing me softly, her lips warm and teasing. My dick twitched, and I shifted, hoping she wouldn’t notice. Thirteen inches and thick as a baseball bat—it was a blessing and a curse, especially when I was trying to keep things PG in her parents’ house.

That first week was a blur of adjusting. John was barely around, always at the office or glued to his phone. Jane was polite but distant, always bustling around the house in those damn yoga pants, cleaning or cooking or doing yoga in the living room where I couldn’t not see her. Emily was my anchor, dragging me into her world of teasing kisses and late-night whispers, but I was still on edge, like I was one wrong move from getting kicked out.

Then came that morning. It was a Saturday, maybe a week after I’d moved in. I stumbled downstairs, half-asleep, my brain foggy from a night of restless dreams about Emily’s curves. The kitchen smelled like coffee and fresh fruit, and I saw her standing at the counter, her back to me. Those familiar black yoga pants hugged her ass, the kind she always wore, the kind that made my hands itch to touch. Her ponytail swayed as she sliced strawberries, and I grinned, feeling bold for once. Emily loved it when I got a little playful.

I crept up behind her, heart pounding, and raised my hand. “Morning, babe,” I murmured, bringing my palm down with a sharp crack on her right cheek. The sound echoed in the quiet kitchen, louder than I’d expected, and her ass jiggled under the tight fabric, a perfect ripple that sent a jolt straight to my groin. She gasped, a high-pitched sound that was half-shock, half-something else, and spun around.

It wasn’t Emily.

Jane’s blue eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed pink, lips parted in a perfect O. The knife in her hand hovered over the cutting board, forgotten. “Alex!” she squeaked, her voice higher than usual, like she couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

My stomach dropped to the floor. “Oh shit—Mrs. Smith—Jane—I thought—” I stammered, backing up, my hands raised like I was warding off an attack. My face burned, and I was pretty sure I was about to be homeless.

Before Jane could say anything, Emily’s laugh cut through the tension. She was leaning against the kitchen island, a mug of coffee in her hand, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh my God, Alex, did you just spank my stepmom?” She doubled over, giggling so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “That’s hilarious!”

“Emily!” Jane snapped, but her voice lacked conviction. She set the knife down, smoothing her hands over her yoga pants, like she could erase the moment. Her cheeks were still pink, and she wouldn’t meet my eyes. “It was an accident,” she said quickly, turning back to the counter. “Let’s just… forget it.”

But Emily wasn’t letting it go. She skipped over, her own yoga pants matching Jane’s—fuck, that’s why I’d screwed up—and slung an arm around me. “Come on, Jane, it was funny! Alex thought it was me. You’ve got a great ass, though, so I get the mix-up.” She winked at me, and I wanted to die right there.

“Emily, that’s enough,” Jane said, her tone sharper now, but she was still flustered, her hands fumbling with the strawberries. She kept her back to us, and I couldn’t help but notice the way her ass looked in those pants, the faint red mark where my hand had landed. My dick stirred, and I cursed myself. What the hell was wrong with me?

“Sorry, Jane,” I mumbled, grabbing a glass of water to have something to do with my hands. “Won’t happen again.”

“It’s fine,” she said, too quickly, her voice tight. “Just… be more careful.”

Emily dragged me out of the kitchen, still laughing, and I spent the rest of the day avoiding Jane like she was radioactive. Every time I saw her—passing in the hall, setting the table for dinner—my face burned, and she wouldn’t look at me either. John, oblivious as ever, droned on about some office drama over meatloaf, while Emily kept shooting me teasing grins. “You’re so red,” she whispered, squeezing my thigh under the table. “It’s cute.”

That night, I lay in Emily’s bed, her body curled against mine, her soft snores filling the room. The house was quiet, the glass walls reflecting moonlight across the marble floors. I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept replaying that moment in the kitchen—the crack of my hand, the jiggle of Jane’s ass, that gasp. She hadn’t yelled, hadn’t told me to pack my bags. She’d just… let it happen. And Emily thought it was hot.

I shifted, my dick hardening against the boxers I’d worn to bed. Emily was out cold, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Jane’s curves, so similar to Emily’s but fuller, riper. The way her yoga pants had stretched over that perfect ass. The way she’d blushed but hadn’t stopped me. What if I did it again? Not by accident, but on purpose. How many times could I spank her before she told me to stop? Before she told John? Before she… liked it?

My hand drifted down, gripping my shaft through the fabric. Thirteen inches, thick as hell, and it was throbbing just thinking about Jane’s gasp. I imagined her bent over the counter, those yoga pants pulled tight, my hand coming down again and again, her moans replacing that gasp. Emily’s teasing laugh echoed in my head, her voice saying it was hot. Maybe she’d watch. Maybe she’d join in.

I stopped myself, heart racing, guilt and desire slugging it out in my chest. This was insane. Jane was Emily’s stepmom, for fuck’s sake. I was a guest in their house. But the thought wouldn’t leave me alone. I wanted to push it, to see how far I could go. I wanted to hear that gasp again, to feel that ass under my hand, to know I could make her react.

I fell asleep eventually, my dreams a mess of yoga pants, jiggles, and gasps, with Emily’s laughter weaving through it all. Tomorrow was another morning. Another chance to be in the kitchen. Another chance to test the line.

The days after the spank were ****. I kept expecting Jane to say something, to pull me aside and lay into me, but she didn’t. She was polite, distant, like always, but I caught her glancing at me sometimes, her eyes darting away when I looked back. Emily wouldn’t shut up about it, whispering “spank king” in my ear when no one was around, her hands wandering over my chest, my thighs, teasing me until I was hard and begging her to stop. “You’re so bad,” she’d say, grinning, and I’d wonder if she meant it.

The house didn’t help. All that glass, all that marble—it was like living in a spotlight. Every move felt exposed, every glance loaded. I started noticing things I hadn’t before: the way Jane’s hips swayed when she walked, the way her tops clung to her curves, the way she lingered in the kitchen in the mornings, like she was waiting for something. Or someone.

I didn’t know what I was doing, not really. I was eighteen, shy as hell, and Emily was my first everything. But that spank had flipped a switch. I wasn’t just nervous Alex anymore, tiptoeing around the Smiths’ perfect house. I was curious. Hungry. And maybe, just maybe, a little reckless.

By the end of the week, I’d made up my mind. Tomorrow morning, I’d be in the kitchen early. If Jane was there, if she was wearing those yoga pants, I’d do it again. Call it a mistake, play it off like I thought it was Emily. See what she did. See how she reacted.

See how far I could push before she pushed back.