Christmas Blizzard

The forecast said six inches.

We got twenty-four.

By the time I realize my car won't make it out of the parking lot, it's Christmas Eve and the snow is still falling. My flight to see my parents was canceled four hours ago. Every hotel in the city is booked. And I'm standing in front of my apartment building, watching the wind whip through drifts that are now waist-high, wondering if I'm going to spend the holiday alone in my studio.

"You look like a lost puppy."

I turn. Mrs. Thornton—my landlady—is bundled in a coat the size of a sleeping bag, only her face visible. She's holding a bag of groceries like it weighs nothing.

"The storm," I manage through chattering teeth. "My flight—"

"Canceled. I heard." She tilts her head. "Come on. I've got hot cocoa and a fireplace. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve."

"Mrs. Thornton, I couldn't—"

"It's Margaret. And you can." She turns, starts trudging through the snow. "Keep up."

I keep up.

Margaret Thornton owns the entire building.

Sixty-one years old. Widow twice over—"I have terrible luck with husbands," she jokes. She lives in the penthouse, which I've never seen, and manages the property with an iron fist wrapped in motherly concern.

She's also the reason I renewed my lease three times even when the rent went up.

Because Margaret Thornton is magnificent.

I don't know her exact weight—it's not polite to ask—but she must be close to two-seventy. All of it curves. Her hips are wide enough to brush doorframes. Her breasts strain against every sweater she wears. Her belly is round and soft and visible even under bulky winter layers.

And now I'm following her into her penthouse apartment, watching her ass sway beneath her coat, trying very hard to think about anything else.

The penthouse is warm.

A fire crackles in the fireplace. Christmas lights twinkle along the windows. A tree in the corner is decorated with what look like antique ornaments, glowing gold and red.

"Coat rack's by the door." She shrugs off her own coat, and I see what's underneath—a green cashmere sweater that clings to every curve, and soft pants that do nothing to hide her figure. "I'll get the cocoa."

I hang my coat. Look around. The apartment is beautiful—high ceilings, real wood floors, art on the walls that looks expensive. It's also decorated for Christmas like something out of a magazine.

"You do all this yourself?"

"Who else would do it?" She returns with two mugs, hands me one. "I've been decorating alone for three years now. Since Harold passed."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He was a bastard." She says it matter-of-factly. "Cheated on me for twenty years. I only found out after he died, going through his papers. So now I decorate how I like, not how he liked. It's very therapeutic."

"He cheated on you?"

"Why the surprise?"

"Because you're—" I stop. Realize what I was about to say.

"I'm what, Nathan?"

"Beautiful." The word escapes before I can catch it. "You're beautiful, Margaret. Anyone who couldn't see that was a fool."

She stares at me. Something shifts in her expression.

"Drink your cocoa," she says finally. "Before it gets cold."

The snow keeps falling.

We sit by the fire, talking. She tells me about her first husband—"Lovely man, terrible driver, died in a car accident at forty-two"—and her second—"Harold the bastard, we've established that." I tell her about my failed engagement, my dead-end job, my parents I should be visiting right now.

"Why'd the engagement fail?"

"She said I was 'obsessed with the wrong things.'"

"What did she mean?"

I take a long drink of cocoa. "She meant I kept looking at... certain types of women. Not her type."

"What type is her type?"

"Thin. Blonde. Instagram-model-looking."

"And what type do you look at?"

The fire crackles. Outside, the wind howls.

"The opposite," I admit. "I've always... preferred women who look like—"

"Like me?"

Her voice is soft. Not accusing. Just curious.

"Like you," I confirm. "Exactly like you."

She's quiet for a long time.

Then she sets down her mug and stands. The firelight flickers across her face.

"I'm sixty-one years old," she says. "I weigh two hundred and seventy-three pounds. I have stretch marks and cellulite and saggy bits everywhere. I haven't been touched by a man in three years, and the last man who touched me was a cheat who made me feel like I should be grateful for his attention."

"Margaret—"

"I'm not finished." She steps closer. "I've watched you for two years, Nathan. Every time you pass me in the lobby, every time you bring your rent check to my door. You look at me the way Harold never did. The way no one has in decades." She stops in front of me. "Am I imagining it?"

"No."

"Then show me."

I stand.

We're inches apart. I can smell her—lavender soap and something warmer. Her eyes are green in the firelight.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"I've been sure since you moved in." She takes my hands, places them on her hips. "I'm just finally brave enough to do something about it."

I pull her close.

She gasps when our bodies meet—my chest against her breasts, my stomach against her belly, my hands finding that incredible ass. I lean in and kiss her, and she melts.

The sweater comes off first.

Underneath, a plain white bra struggling to contain her. I reach around, unhook it, and her breasts fall free—massive, heavy, the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

"They're not—"

"They're perfect." I cup them in my hands, feel the weight. Her nipples harden against my palms. "You're perfect."

"I'm fat."

"You're everything." I lower my mouth to one nipple, suck gently. She cries out. "Every inch of you. Everything I've wanted."

"Nathan—God—"

I worship her breasts until she's shaking. Then I guide her back to the couch—that ridiculous, enormous couch that could seat eight—and lay her down.

"The pants," I say.

She lifts her hips. I pull them off.

She's wearing modest cotton panties.

They're damp.

"May I?" I ask, fingers at the waistband.

"Please—"

I pull them down.

She's beautiful.

Thick thighs spreading for me. A belly that's round and soft and marked with decades of living. And between her legs—bare, swollen, glistening.

"I need to taste you," I whisper.

"Nathan, you don't have to—"

"I need to. Let me. Please."

She nods.

I dive in.

She tastes like heaven.

Sweet and tangy and desperate. Three years without being touched, and I can feel it in how she responds—every lick making her gasp, every suck making her shake. Her thighs clamp around my head. Her hands grip my hair.

"Right there—don't stop—"

I don't stop. I eat her like she's the only meal I'll ever have. When she comes—screaming my name, her whole body convulsing—I don't let up. I push her through it and start again.

By the time she begs me to stop, she's come three times.

"Inside me," she pants. "I need—please—"

I strip. She watches with hungry eyes.

"You're beautiful too," she murmurs when I'm naked. "I've imagined—"

"What have you imagined?"

"This." She reaches for me, strokes my cock. "You. In me. Filling me up."

"Then let me."

I climb over her.

Position myself at her entrance. Look into her eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Margaret."

"Merry Christmas, Nathan."

I push inside.

She's tight.

Impossibly, wonderfully tight, and wet, and hot. I sink into her inch by inch, and she takes all of me, her mouth falling open, her hands gripping my shoulders.

"Yes—"

I start to move.

Slow at first. Savoring every stroke. Her body shifts beneath me—all that softness, all that warmth. Her breasts bounce. Her belly ripples. She's everywhere, surrounding me, consuming me.

"Harder," she begs. "I won't break—harder—"

I give her harder.

The couch groans beneath us. The fire crackles. Outside, the blizzard rages—but in here, the only storm is us.

"I'm gonna come again—" She's sobbing. "Nathan—please—"

"Come for me. Let go, Margaret. I've got you."

She comes.

And I follow—buried deep, pulsing, filling her while she shakes apart in my arms.

We lie tangled together.

The fire is dying. The Christmas lights still twinkle. Outside, the snow has finally stopped.

"The roads will be clear by morning," she says quietly.

"Probably."

"You could leave. Visit your parents late."

"I could."

"Or..." She looks up at me. Her eyes are vulnerable in a way I've never seen. "Or you could stay. Spend Christmas here. With me."

I kiss her forehead. Her nose. Her lips.

"I'm staying."

"You're sure?"

"There's nowhere I'd rather be."

Christmas morning, we exchange gifts.

Hers to me: a new lease with the rent cut in half.

Mine to her: breakfast in bed, and a promise.

"A promise of what?"

"That you'll never spend another Christmas alone. That you'll never feel invisible again. That I'll spend every holiday reminding you how beautiful you are."

She cries. Happy tears this time.

"That's a big promise."

"I'm a big-promises kind of guy."

She laughs through the tears. Pulls me down into the sheets.

"Prove it."

I prove it.

That Christmas. The next. The one after that.

We never do explain to my parents how I ended up living in my landlady's penthouse. They've stopped asking.

Some things don't need explanations.

Some things just need snow, and fire, and two people who finally stopped waiting for permission to want each other.

Snowed in.

Found out.

Home.