Back Home
"He left for college a boy. He's back five years later—broke, jobless, sleeping in his old room. His stepmother hasn't forgotten what she saw the night before he left."
The Uber drops me at the curb with two suitcases and the remains of my dignity.
Twenty-seven years old. MBA from Northwestern. Eighteen months at a consulting firm that just imploded in a fraud scandal. Not my fraud, but my resume doesn't know the difference.
And now I'm standing in front of my father's house, about to ask if I can move back into my childhood bedroom.
Fucking pathetic.
The door opens before I can knock.
"There he is." Patricia steps onto the porch, and five years collapse into nothing.
She's bigger than I remember.
That's my first thought—the one I hate myself for, the one that makes my pulse stutter. She was heavy when Dad married her, maybe two-fifty, but now she's easily three hundred pounds. Maybe more. Her hips fill the doorway. Her breasts strain against a floral blouse that wasn't designed for breasts that size. Her belly rounds out in front of her, soft and massive, and her thighs are so thick they press together all the way down to her knees.
She's fifty-three years old, Black, beautiful, and she's looking at me like I'm a meal.
"Hey, Patricia."
"Boy, get over here."
She pulls me into a hug, and I disappear. Soft arms, softer chest, the warm pillow of her stomach against mine. She smells like cocoa butter and something baking. Her hands press into my back, holding me there, and I feel her breasts flatten against my chest.
"Five years," she murmurs into my shoulder. "You couldn't visit once?"
"I was busy."
"Busy avoiding me." She pulls back, keeps her hands on my arms. Her eyes move down my body, slow and obvious. "I know why."
My throat tightens. "Patricia—"
"Your father's at a conference until Friday." She picks up one of my suitcases like it weighs nothing. "That gives us four days to talk about what happened."
She walks inside. Her ass is two planets shifting beneath her skirt, each cheek bigger than my head, swaying with every step.
I follow her.
What else can I do?
What happened.
It was the night before I left for college. Dad was asleep—he's always asleep by nine, up at four, the rhythm of a man who married his work decades ago. I was in the kitchen getting water, and Patricia came downstairs in a robe.
Just a robe. Silk. Barely tied.
She didn't see me at first. She opened the fridge, bent over to grab something from the bottom shelf, and the robe rode up. I saw everything—the vast expanse of her thighs, the dark shadow between them, the fact that she wasn't wearing anything underneath.
I made a sound. A small one. But enough.
She turned. Saw me standing there in my boxers, eighteen years old, hard as a rock and too frozen to hide it.
She looked at my face. Then she looked at my cock, tenting the thin fabric, pointing directly at her.
She didn't fix her robe.
"Your father can't do that anymore," she said softly. "Hasn't been able to in two years." Her eyes stayed on my bulge. "It's been... difficult."
"I should—I should go—"
"Marcus." My name in her mouth stopped me cold. "If you weren't leaving tomorrow, I'd do something we'd both regret."
She walked past me. Close. Her belly brushed my cock through my boxers, just for a second, and I almost came right there.
"Have a good time at college," she said from the stairs. "Try not to think about me."
I thought about her every single night for four years.
"Your old room." She opens the door. "I kept it the same."
It's exactly as I left it—posters on the walls, trophies on the shelf, a twin bed that suddenly looks very small. She sets my suitcase down, and when she turns, we're close. Too close. Her belly almost touches mine.
"You've been thinking about that night," she says. Not a question.
"Patricia, I—"
"I've been thinking about it too." She reaches up, touches my cheek. Her hand is warm and soft. "Five years. Your father still can't get hard. Still goes to bed at nine. Still leaves me alone in this big house with nothing but my thoughts."
"We can't."
"Why not?" She steps closer. Now her belly is touching me—pressing against me, soft and warm through my shirt. "You're not a child anymore. I'm not your mother. And your father..." She laughs, quiet and bitter. "Your father doesn't touch me. Doesn't look at me. Doesn't even see me."
"He'd—"
"He won't know." Her other hand finds my hip. Pulls me closer. My cock is hardening against her belly, and she has to feel it. "He never knows anything that happens in this house after nine o'clock."
Her lips brush my ear.
"I've been waiting five years, Marcus. Don't make me wait any longer."
I should stop her.
I should walk away, find a hotel, sleep in my car—anything but this. She's my father's wife. She's twenty-six years older than me. She's—
She's pulling her blouse over her head.
Her bra is industrial-grade, white, struggling to contain breasts that look bigger than my head. She reaches back, unclasps it, and they fall free. Heavy. Pendulous. Hanging to her waist, nipples thick and dark, each one the size of a cork.
"Touch them," she says.
I don't move.
She takes my hands. Places them on her breasts. They overflow my palms—so much flesh, so soft, so warm. Her nipples harden against my fingers.
"Five years," she whispers. "I've touched myself thinking about you. Thinking about this moment. Imagining your hands on me, your cock inside me—"
I squeeze. Can't help it. Her flesh molds around my fingers, and she makes a sound—low, hungry, desperate.
"The bed," she says. "Now."
She pushes me down onto the twin mattress, and it groans under our combined weight. Then she's straddling me, her massive thighs pinning me in place, her belly resting on my stomach, her breasts swaying above my face.
"I'm going to take what I need," she says, unbuckling my belt. "You're going to give it to me. And when your father comes home Friday, you're going to smile and shake his hand and never, ever tell him what we did in his house while he was gone."
She pulls my cock free. Strokes it once. Her hand is soft and sure.
"Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good boy."
She rises up, pulls her skirt to her waist—no panties, just thick thighs and a wet, waiting cunt—and sinks down onto me.
I groan. Can't help it. She's tight, impossibly tight for her size, and hot and wet and clenching. Her weight settles onto my hips, pinning me to the bed. I couldn't move if I wanted to.
I don't want to.
"Fuck," she hisses. "Oh, fuck, you're big—your father was never this big—"
She starts to move. Slow at first, rolling her hips, getting used to my size. Her belly ripples with each motion. Her breasts sway and bounce, slapping against her stomach, and I reach up to grab them—to hold onto something, anything.
"That's it." She speeds up. The bed creaks dangerously beneath us. "Grab my tits. Squeeze them. God, I've needed this—"
I squeeze. I thrust. I do everything I've imagined for five years, and it's better than any fantasy—her weight on me, her heat around me, her voice in my ear telling me harder, deeper, more.
"I'm gonna—Patricia, I'm—"
"Inside me." She slams down, takes me to the hilt. "I want to feel it. Give me everything."
I explode.
She comes at the same time, her whole body shaking, her cunt milking me dry. The bed frame cracks—actually cracks—and neither of us cares.
Afterward, she lies beside me, one massive thigh thrown over my legs, her head on my chest. The twin bed barely holds us both.
"Four days," she says. "Four days until your father comes home."
"And then?"
She laughs. Soft. Satisfied.
"And then we figure out how to do this every time he leaves. Every time he falls asleep. Every moment we can steal." She props herself up, looks down at me. "You're not going anywhere, Marcus. Not anymore."
I think about my ruined career. My empty bank account. The life I'm supposed to rebuild.
Then I think about her body, her heat, her need.
"No," I say. "I'm not."
She smiles and kisses me, and I know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.