Double Booked
"An Airbnb mistake puts two strangers in the same cabin for the weekend. Neither wants to leave. They both know where this is going."
The cabin is supposed to be empty.
That's the whole point—a weekend alone in the mountains, no cell service, no distractions. Just me, a stack of books, and enough whiskey to forget why I needed to get away in the first place. I pull up the gravel driveway at 4 PM, grab my bag, and punch in the lockbox code.
The door swings open.
A woman is standing in the kitchen.
She's holding a wine glass, wearing a loose sundress, and staring at me like I'm the intruder. Which, technically, I might be.
"Who the hell are you?" she asks.
"I was about to ask you the same thing."
We figure it out in twenty minutes.
Double booking. The host's mistake. Some glitch in the system that let both of us reserve the same cabin for the same weekend. I show her my confirmation. She shows me hers. Same dates. Same address. Same cabin.
One bed.
"Well." She sets down her phone. "This is awkward."
"I can leave. Find a hotel."
"There's no hotel for forty miles." She tops off her wine glass. "And no cell service to find one anyway."
"Then you could—"
"I drove six hours to get here." Her eyes meet mine, steady and unapologetic. "I'm not leaving."
I should argue. Should insist. Should be a gentleman about this.
Instead, I drop my bag on the couch.
"Neither am I."
Her name is Diane.
Forty-three. Divorced. Two kids, both just left for college, and she's here to "figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with myself now." Her words. She says them while pouring me a glass of wine I didn't ask for, standing close enough that I can smell her perfume.
She's beautiful.
Not model beautiful. Not Instagram beautiful. Real beautiful—the kind that comes from a woman who's lived, who's earned every curve and line. She's big, probably two-forty, two-fifty, with hips that strain the thin fabric of her sundress and breasts that threaten to spill out of the low neckline. Her belly is soft and round, visible through the dress when she moves a certain way. Her arms are thick. Her thighs, when she sits, spread wide on the kitchen chair.
She catches me looking.
"See something you like?"
I don't look away. "Just taking in the situation."
"Mmm." She sips her wine. "The situation."
The air between us changes. Thickens. She knows what I was looking at. I know she knows. And neither of us is pretending otherwise.
"There's only one bed," she says.
"I noticed."
"I'm not sleeping on the couch."
"Neither am I."
Her lips curl. "Then I guess we're sharing."
She says it like a challenge. Like she's daring me to back down.
I don't.
Evening
We make dinner together.
Or she makes dinner while I watch, because she insists. "You're a guest now," she says. "Sit. Drink."
So I sit at the kitchen island and drink, and I watch her move around the cabin's small kitchen. The sundress clings to her when she reaches for things. I see the outline of her bra. The dimples at the base of her spine. The way her ass shifts when she stirs the pasta.
"You're staring again," she says without turning around.
"You're worth staring at."
She glances over her shoulder. "Flatterer."
"Honest."
She turns fully, leaning back against the counter. The sundress pulls tight across her belly, her breasts. She's not hiding anything. Not trying to look smaller or stand straighter. She's just there, all two-hundred-and-something pounds of her, watching me watch her.
"My ex-husband," she says, "thought I was too fat."
"Your ex-husband was an idiot."
"He wanted me to lose weight. Said I'd 'let myself go' after the kids."
"Did you?"
"No." She pushes off the counter, walks toward me. "I finally let myself be. There's a difference."
She stops right in front of me. Close enough to touch. Her perfume is stronger now, mixed with the wine on her breath.
"I spent twenty years trying to be smaller for him," she says. "Trying to take up less space. And you know what I realized when he left?"
"What?"
"I'm done shrinking."
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she turns back to the stove like nothing happened.
My hands are shaking when I lift my wine glass.
Night
The bed is a queen.
Too small for two people who are trying to keep their distance. Too big for whatever's building between us.
Diane comes out of the bathroom in a silk nightgown. Short. Thin. It barely reaches mid-thigh, and it shows everything—the full hang of her breasts, nipples visible through the fabric, the round swell of her belly, the thickness of her upper arms. She's not wearing a bra. Probably not wearing anything underneath.
"Problem?" she asks.
I'm lying on my side of the bed in boxers and a t-shirt. Trying very hard not to look at her. Failing completely.
"No problem."
"Good." She climbs in beside me. The mattress dips under her weight, and I feel myself roll slightly toward her. "Goodnight, stranger."
"Goodnight."
She turns off the lamp.
In the darkness, I can hear her breathing. Feel the heat radiating off her body. Smell her perfume and something else—something warmer, earthier. She shifts, and her thigh brushes mine.
Neither of us moves away.
"You're not sleeping," she murmurs.
"Neither are you."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
A pause. Then: "About how I haven't been touched in two years."
My throat goes dry. "Diane—"
"My ex stopped wanting me long before he left. Said I wasn't attractive anymore. Said he couldn't get hard for a woman my size." Her voice is steady. Not sad—angry. "Two years, and I've been trying to convince myself he was right. That no one would want this body."
"He was wrong."
"Was he?"
I turn toward her in the darkness. Find her shoulder with my hand. She doesn't pull away.
"He was wrong," I repeat. "And he was stupid. And if he couldn't appreciate what he had—"
"What did he have?"
I slide my hand down her arm. Feel the soft flesh, the warmth of her skin through the silk. "A woman who knows what she wants."
"And what do I want?"
My hand finds her hip. Squeezes. She inhales sharply.
"I think we both know."
She kisses me first.
Or maybe I kiss her—it happens too fast to tell. One moment we're lying there in the dark, tension crackling between us, and the next her mouth is on mine and her body is pressing against me and I'm drowning in soft, warm flesh.
She tastes like wine. Her lips are full, hungry. Her tongue slides against mine while her hands grab fistfuls of my shirt, pulling me closer. I roll on top of her—or try to—but she's strong, stronger than she looks, and she pushes me onto my back instead.
"Let me," she breathes. "I've been thinking about this since you walked through that door."
She straddles me.
All that weight settles onto my hips, my thighs. Her belly presses against my stomach, soft and warm. Her breasts hang heavy in that silk nightgown, swaying as she moves. I grab her hips—so much to hold, so much flesh overflowing my hands—and she rolls against me.
"Fuck." I'm already hard, straining against my boxers, and she can feel it. She grinds down on me, rubbing herself along my length, and her head falls back.
"God, yes." She's panting. "I forgot what this feels like. Being wanted."
"You're wanted." I sit up, bury my face between her breasts. The silk is damp with sweat, clinging to her skin. I mouth at her nipples through the fabric, and she moans. "You're so fucking wanted."
She pulls the nightgown over her head.
I've never seen anything like her.
Her breasts are massive—each one bigger than my head, heavy and full, with dark nipples the size of silver dollars. They hang to her belly, swaying with every breath. Her stomach is a soft mountain, folding into itself, pale and dimpled and beautiful. Her hips flare wide, her thighs thick enough to crush me.
She doesn't cover herself. Doesn't apologize. She sits on top of me, naked and glorious, and lets me look.
"This is me," she says. "All of me. The parts my husband hated. The parts I've spent years hiding." She takes my hands, places them on her belly. "Do you still want this?"
I dig my fingers into her softness. Pull her down to kiss her.
"I want every inch."
She rides me.
I manage to get my boxers off, and then she's sinking down onto my cock, and the sound she makes—this broken, desperate moan—goes straight to my spine. She's tight despite her size, tight and wet and burning hot, and when she starts to move I lose the ability to think.
"Yes—yes—" She bounces on me, her breasts swaying, her belly rippling. I grab her hips and thrust up to meet her, and she screams. "Right there—don't stop—don't stop—"
I sit up, wrap my arms around her. Pull her close so her breasts crush against my chest, so her belly presses against mine. She's so much bigger than me, so much more, and I want to disappear inside her.
"You feel so good," I groan into her neck. "So fucking good—"
"I needed this." She's crying—actually crying, tears streaming down her face while she rides me. "I needed this so much—"
I kiss her tears. Kiss her mouth. Flip her onto her back—she gasps, surprised by the motion, her legs spreading wide to accommodate me—and drive into her.
"You're beautiful." I thrust hard, watching her breasts bounce. "You're fucking beautiful, Diane—"
"Make me come." Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper. "Please—I haven't come with someone in so long—please—"
I reach between us. Find her clit—swollen, slick—and rub while I fuck her. Her eyes go wide. Her mouth falls open.
"Oh god—oh god—"
She comes.
Her whole body convulses, her pussy clamping down on me so hard I see stars. She screams—loud, primal, the kind of scream that would wake neighbors if we had any—and I feel her gush around my cock.
I follow her over the edge.
I bury myself to the hilt and come inside her, pumping, filling her while she shakes beneath me. Her nails rake down my back. Her heels dig into my ass. And when it's over, I collapse on top of her, and she holds me against her breasts like I'm something precious.
"Stay," she whispers. "Stay inside me."
I stay.
Day Two
We don't talk about it at breakfast.
We don't have to. The air between us is different now—charged, electric. Every time our eyes meet, I remember the sound of her screaming my name. Every time she moves, I watch her body and remember what it felt like beneath me.
She's wearing that sundress again. No bra. Every step, I can see her breasts sway.
"You're staring again," she says.
"I don't plan to stop."
She smiles. "Good."
By noon, she's wearing less.
The sundress comes off around ten—"It's hot," she says, even though it's not—replaced by a thin tank top and shorts that barely contain her thighs. By noon, the shorts are gone, and she's padding around the cabin in panties and that tank top, her belly visible below the hem, her ass jiggling with every step.
She's testing me. I know she's testing me. And I'm failing gloriously.
"Come here," I say.
She turns from the window where she was pretending to look at the view. "What?"
"Come here."
She walks toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Each step makes her body move in ways I can't stop watching. When she reaches me, I pull her down onto my lap.
"Impatient," she murmurs.
"Hungry."
I kiss her neck while my hands slide under her tank top. Find the heavy weight of her breasts, lift them, squeeze. She moans against my ear.
"Again?"
"Again."
I pull off her top. Fill my hands with her breasts—so much flesh, warm and soft, nipples hardening against my palms. I suck one into my mouth while she grinds on my lap, and the sound she makes is pure need.
"Bedroom?" she gasps.
"Here."
I push her panties aside. Slide two fingers inside her, and she's already soaked—wet and ready, like she's been waiting for this since we woke up.
"You're drenched."
"I've been thinking about you all morning." She rocks against my hand. "About your cock. About the way you felt inside me—"
I free myself from my jeans. Position her. And pull her down onto me.
She rides me on the couch, her breasts bouncing in my face.
I grab her ass—two massive handfuls, soft and dimpled, flesh overflowing my grip—and help her move. She's vocal this time, moaning and cursing, telling me how good I feel, how much she's been waiting for this.
"Harder," she pants. "Fuck me harder—"
I flip her onto her back. Hook her legs over my shoulders. She's folded nearly in half, her belly pressing against her breasts, and in this position I can go so deep.
"Yes—right there—oh fuck—"
I pound into her while she screams. Watch her entire body ripple with each thrust. Her belly shakes. Her breasts bounce toward her chin. She's so wet I can hear it—the obscene slap of flesh on flesh, the squelch of her pussy taking me.
"Gonna come—" She grabs the couch cushions. "Gonna come on your cock—"
"Do it. Come for me."
She does—clenching, gushing, screaming my name. And I don't stop. I keep fucking her through it, chasing my own release, until I bury myself deep and fill her for the second time.
We lie there afterward, tangled together on the too-small couch.
"I don't want to leave tomorrow," she says quietly.
"Neither do I."
"So don't."
Day Three
She walks around naked now.
No pretense. No excuses. Just Diane—two hundred and fifty pounds of confident, unapologetic woman—padding around the cabin bare, cooking breakfast without clothes, reading on the porch with her breasts on full display.
And I can't keep my hands off her.
I take her in the shower—pressed against the tile, her belly against the cold surface, while I fuck her from behind. I take her on the kitchen counter—her legs spread wide, her back arched, while I eat her until she screams. I take her on the porch, bent over the railing, both of us too far gone to care if anyone's watching.
"How many times is that?" she gasps after the third round.
"I've lost count."
"Me too." She pulls me down for a kiss. "Don't stop counting."
That Night
We're in bed—where we've spent most of the weekend—when she says it.
"I don't want this to end."
I'm lying between her thighs, my head resting on her soft belly, tracing patterns on her skin. I can still taste her.
"It doesn't have to."
"We live four hours apart."
"I can drive."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "You'd really want that? This wasn't just... a weekend thing?"
I prop myself up. Look at her—really look at her. At this beautiful, wounded woman who's spent years being told she wasn't enough.
"I knew where this was going the moment I walked through that door," I say. "I think you did too."
"I did."
"Then you know this isn't just a weekend." I crawl up her body, settle my weight on her. She wraps her arms around me, her breasts soft against my chest. "This is whatever we want it to be."
"I want more." Her voice breaks slightly. "I want so much more."
"Then take it."
She kisses me. And then she's pulling me inside her again, slow and deep, and we make love like we have all the time in the world.
The Last Morning
We pack slowly.
Neither of us wants to leave. We keep finding excuses to touch—a hand on a hip, a kiss on the shoulder, a full-body press against the bedroom wall that turns into a frantic last fuck on the stripped mattress.
"Same time next month?" she asks as we load our cars.
"I was thinking sooner."
She smiles. It lights up her whole face.
"My place is closer than this cabin."
"Then your place."
"Next weekend?"
"Next weekend."
She kisses me one last time—long, deep, full of promise—and then climbs into her car.
I watch her drive away. Then I look back at the cabin, at this place where everything changed.
A booking mistake. A stranger. A woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.
I knew where this was going from the first hour.
And I'm so fucking glad I didn't leave.