Stuffed by My Stepdad

Chapter 1

The screen door creaked open just like it used to, long and low, the sound stretching into the quiet house like a breath held too long. I stepped into the foyer, the air warm and familiar, thick with the scent of something slow-roasted garlic, maybe butter, definitely meat. My stomach stirred.
I dropped my bag by the stairs and called out, “Hello?”
No answer. Just the soft hum of a ceiling fan somewhere overhead and the muted clink of something coming from the kitchen.
I took a few steps forward.
And then there he was my step father, Matt.
He stepped into view slowly, drying his hands on a dish towel. His shoulders looked broader than I remembered. The T-shirt clinging to his chest stretched in places it hadn’t before, and his beard was a little fuller, a little more salt than pepper now. There was something quieter about him too. Still. Solid.
“You’re late,” he said, voice low and smooth, like he’d been expecting me for hours.
I smiled automatically, trying not to stare. “Traffic. Plus I stopped for gas and snacks.”
He didn’t smile back, not quite. But there was something in his eyes warm, unreadable, that held me in place.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “Dinner’s still warm.”
I blinked. “You made dinner?”
“Figured you’d be hungry.”
He turned back toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer. I followed, feeling a strange twist in my stomach, not hunger exactly, more like nerves or anticipation. Something I didn’t want to look at too closely.
The dining table had been set for two. Plates, silverware, cloth napkins. There were even candles, not lit, but still. And in the center: a platter of roasted chicken, bowls of potatoes, green beans, and a basket of what looked like freshly baked rolls. The scent alone made my mouth water.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, hovering behind the chair like I wasn’t sure I was allowed to sit.
“I wanted to.” Matt motioned for me to take a seat.
I did, slowly, watching him as he moved through the kitchen—calm, deliberate. Not in a rush. He served me first, spooning food onto my plate with a focus that felt… oddly intimate.
Chicken breast, crisp-edged and golden. A heap of creamy mashed potatoes. Vegetables glistening with butter and almonds.
He didn’t ask how much I wanted. He just kept going until the plate was full.
Then he sat across from me and said, simply, “Eat.”
I hesitated. Something in his tone wasn’t quite playful, but it wasn’t a joke either. Just a single word, said like it mattered. Like he expected to be obeyed.
So, I did.
The first bite was warm, tender, perfectly seasoned. The kind of food that wrapped around you from the inside, soothing and heavy.
“This is amazing,” I murmured.
Matt only nodded, cutting into his own food. “Good.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the occasional clink of silverware and the faint ticking of the old wall clock above the sink.
“Your mom left this morning,” he said eventually, like it was nothing.
I paused mid-bite. “Really?”
“Early flight to Atlanta. She said she texted you.”
“She did, but I thought she meant tomorrow.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at me and then nodded toward my plate.
“You haven’t touched the bread.”
I blinked. “I’m getting there.”
“While it’s warm,” he said.
It wasn’t a suggestion. And again, I obeyed. I reached for a roll, still soft, and tore off a piece. The scent of butter and herbs rose immediately, rich and comforting.
Matt passed me the dish of softened butter, watching closely as I spread it on.
“You’ve always been a picky eater,” he said.
I looked up, startled. “What?”
He shrugged. “When you were younger. You used to push your food around and nibble like a rabbit.”
I gave a breathy laugh. “You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot more than you think.”
I didn’t know how to answer that. So I ate. Slowly, carefully, suddenly aware of how each bite made my stomach feel heavier, fuller.
It was a lot of food. And I’d barely eaten since breakfast.
Matt finished before I did, leaning back in his chair to sip from a glass of water. His eyes didn’t stray far from me.
“You should eat more while it’s hot.”
“I’m trying,” I said, shifting in my seat.
“Don’t rush. Just finish.”
My fork paused in the mashed potatoes. I shouldn’t have been so affected by his voice—low, calm, sure, but I was. It made me feel... exposed. Like I was being watched, not in a creepy way, but studied. Noticed.
By the time I finished the plate, I was full. Really full. I pushed it back slightly and let out a soft breath, resisting the urge to unbutton my shorts.
Matt stood slowly and began clearing the dishes.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said again.
“I wanted to,” he repeated. “You’ve been gone. I figured you’d come home tired. Hungry.”
He paused as he took my plate and looked down at it. “You cleaned it.”
I blushed. “Yeah, well… it was good.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then carried the plates to the sink.
I froze.
The words slipped past me like a whisper, but they landed sharp and hot in my chest. I swallowed hard.
“I’m gonna go unpack,” I said quickly, pushing back from the table.
Matt glanced over his shoulder. “You should lie down. Let that settle.”
“That?”
“All that food,” he said, and smiled, just a hint of it. “You’re stuffed, aren’t you?”
My stomach gave a traitorous lurch at the word. I forced a laugh. “Maybe a little.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Go rest. I’ll clean up.”
I hesitated, then turned and climbed the stairs slowly, my belly heavy and warm with food and something else I couldn’t name.

My bedroom hadn’t changed. Same faded posters, same too-soft mattress. But I had. I wasn’t the girl who used to sneak out to parties or slam doors when my mom got too loud.
And Matt wasn’t the man I remembered either.
He used to keep to himself. Quiet. Background noise. Safe. But now…
Now he was watching me.
And not the way a stepdad should.

The next morning, I woke late to the smell of bacon and maple syrup. My stomach flipped, confused, still vaguely full from the night before, but also eager. Aching.
I padded downstairs in my sleep shirt and socks, rubbing my eyes.
Matt was already in the kitchen. This time he was in lounge pants and a plain gray T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower. His back was to me as he flipped pancakes.
“You sleep in?” he asked, not turning around.
“Is it still morning?”
He glanced at the clock. “Barely.”
“I haven’t slept that well in weeks,” I admitted, stretching.
“Food coma,” he said over his shoulder.
I laughed softly. “Guess so.”
When I sat at the table, a plate was already waiting: three golden pancakes, stacked high, thick-cut bacon, a pile of scrambled eggs. Syrup glistened across the top like a glossy sheen of indulgence.
“Matt…” I said, staring at the mountain in front of me. “This is a lot.”
“You didn’t eat all day yesterday.”
“I had dinner—”
“That was one meal.”
He sat across from me, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and gave me a look that quieted any protest.
“Go ahead. You need it.”
There was that tone again. That low, calm certainty.
I took a bite of pancake. Fluffy. Light. Sweet in a way that felt a little decadent.
“This is amazing,” I mumbled, licking syrup from my lip.
“I used real buttermilk this time,” he said. “Makes a difference.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
That line again. His voice didn’t change. But the way he watched me eat, that did.

By the end of breakfast, I was bloated and sluggish, warm all over and dizzy with the sensation of being full. Not just fed. Filled.
I slumped back in the chair with a soft sigh.
Matt took a long sip of coffee, eyes still on me.
“You look like you needed that.”
I nodded, unsure what to say. I felt heavy. Comfortable. Exposed.
“You’ll eat again at noon,” he added casually, rising to take the plates.
“Wait. What?”
“Lunch. I’ve got something planned.”
I blinked. “You’re… planning my meals now?”
His mouth quirked. “Someone has to make sure you’re taken care of.”
I watched his back as he moved to the sink, stomach churning, not from the food, but from the strange, growing ache between my legs.
He didn’t ask.
He told.
And worse. I liked it.