Extra Helping
"He offers to help his thick aunt in the kitchen, but she's hungry for more than turkey. Some appetites can only be satisfied in secret."
Thanksgiving at Aunt Monica's house is a tradition.
Fifteen family members, four pies, one twenty-two-pound turkey. Noise and laughter and wine and chaos. I've been coming here since I was a kid, watching my aunt command her kitchen like a general commanding troops.
This year, though, something's different.
This year, I can't stop staring at her.
Monica Martinez is my mother's younger sister.
Forty-nine years old. Never married. "Too independent," she always says, but I think she just never found anyone who could keep up. She's a force of nature—loud, funny, unapologetically herself.
She's also thick in ways that make my brain short-circuit.
I noticed it last Christmas. The way her holiday sweater strained across her chest. The way her pants hugged her wide hips. The way her belly pressed against the counter when she bent to check the oven.
I tried to un-notice. Failed.
Now it's Thanksgiving, and she's wearing an apron over a tight red dress, and I'm supposed to concentrate on football with my cousins while she's right there, all two-forty of her, humming to herself as she bastes the turkey.
"Ryan!" My mom's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Stop being useless and go help your aunt."
I freeze. "What?"
"She's been cooking all day. Go help her."
The last thing I need is to be alone in a kitchen with Monica.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "No problem."
The kitchen is warm.
Steam from pots on the stove. The smell of turkey and rosemary and something sweet. And Monica, standing at the counter, her back to me, those wide hips swaying as she chops vegetables.
"Your mom sent you?"
"She said you needed help."
"I always need help." She turns, smiles. "But usually, it's the women who volunteer. Not the nephews."
"I can leave—"
"Don't you dare." She nods at the counter beside her. "You can peel potatoes. Think you can handle that?"
I take my position. She hands me a peeler. Our fingers brush.
"So," she says, going back to her chopping. "How's the girlfriend?"
"We broke up."
"Oh?" She doesn't sound surprised. "What happened?"
"She said I was 'emotionally distant.' I said she was 'trying to change everything about me.'" I shrug. "It wasn't working."
"Sounds like most relationships." Her knife moves in quick, precise strokes. "You're young. You've got time."
"What about you? Anyone special?"
She laughs—sharp, a little bitter. "Special how? Special like the last guy who told me I'd be prettier if I lost weight? Or special like the one before who asked if I'd considered gastric bypass?"
"What?"
"Men are trash, mijo." She scrapes vegetables into a bowl. "At my age, in my body? The ones who want me either want to fix me or fetishize me. Neither is appealing."
"That's..." I don't know what to say. "They're idiots."
"Sweet of you." She glances at me. "But you don't have to—"
"I'm not being sweet. I'm being honest." I set down the peeler. "You're beautiful, Aunt Monica. You've always been beautiful. Any man who can't see that doesn't deserve you."
She goes very still.
"Ryan..."
"I know. You're my aunt. I shouldn't—"
"You shouldn't." But she doesn't move away. "We shouldn't."
"I know."
Silence. The pot on the stove bubbles. In the other room, someone cheers at the football game.
"The pantry," she says quietly.
"What?"
"If someone wanted privacy in this house. The pantry locks from the inside."
She doesn't look at me. Just picks up her knife and goes back to chopping.
My heart is pounding.
"I need to get something from the pantry," I say loudly.
"Help yourself," she says, just as loudly.
I walk to the pantry. Open the door. Step inside.
She follows.
The pantry is small.
Shelves of cans and boxes. A single bare bulb. And Monica, closing the door behind her, turning the lock with a click.
"We shouldn't do this," she whispers.
"Tell me to stop."
"I can't." Her voice breaks. "I've been trying all day. Trying not to look at you. Trying not to think about—"
I kiss her.
She melts into me. All that softness, pressing against me in the dark. Her mouth opens, her tongue slides against mine, and she tastes like wine and want.
"Ryan—"
"I know. I know it's wrong." I'm already pulling at her apron, untying the strings. "I don't care."
"Your mother—"
"Is watching football. Everyone is watching football." I push the apron aside, find the zipper of her dress. "We have time."
"We don't have enough time for what I want to do to you."
"Then we'll make do."
The dress falls.
She's wearing practical underwear—beige bra, cotton panties—and she's never looked more beautiful. I unhook the bra, and her breasts spill free. Heavy. Soft. Dark nipples hardening in the cool pantry air.
"Touch me," she begs.
I touch.
Her breasts in my hands. Her nipples between my fingers. Her moan, muffled against my shoulder when I pinch just hard enough.
"More—I need—"
I slide my hand into her panties. She's soaked.
"Fuck, Aunt Monica—"
"Don't call me that right now." She's already fumbling with my belt. "Right now I'm just Monica. Just a woman who needs—"
"What do you need?"
"You." She frees my cock, strokes it. "Inside me. Right now. Before someone wonders where we are."
There's no time for finesse.
I spin her around, press her against the shelving. Her hands grip the edge while I pull her panties aside.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for months."
I push inside.
She's tight.
Tight and wet and burning hot. She bites down on her hand to muffle her moan as I fill her, inch by inch, until I'm buried to the hilt.
"Move," she whispers. "Move."
I move.
Hard. Fast. The shelving rattles with each thrust. Cans shift. A box falls. Neither of us cares.
"Yes—yes—don't stop—"
Her ass is massive, soft, rippling every time I slam into her. I grip her hips and pull her back onto my cock, watching myself disappear into her, feeling her clench around me.
"Gonna come—" Her voice is barely a breath. "I'm gonna—"
"Do it. Come for me, Monica—"
She comes with a silent scream, her whole body shaking. And I follow—pulling out at the last second, spilling across her ass and lower back, biting my own hand to stay quiet.
We collapse against the shelving.
Panting. Sweating. Guilty.
Alive.
"That was—"
"Insane," I finish.
"Reckless."
"Stupid."
"The best thing that's happened to me in years." She turns, looks at me. Her makeup is smudged. Her hair is a mess. She's beautiful. "We can't do this again."
"I know."
"I'm your aunt."
"I know."
"Your mother would never speak to me again."
"I know, Monica."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then:
"Come back tonight. After everyone leaves."
"What?"
"I don't want to let you go yet." She cups my face in her hands. "Is that selfish?"
"Probably."
"Do you care?"
I kiss her instead of answering.
Dinner is torture.
Sitting across from her at the table. Watching her smile and laugh and pass the gravy like nothing happened. Every time she looks at me, I feel my cock twitch. Every time she licks her lips, I remember how she tasted.
"Ryan, you're quiet," my mom observes. "Everything okay?"
"Fine. Just tired."
"Too much football," Monica says smoothly. "He should go rest."
"Stay the night," my dad suggests. "Drive back tomorrow."
I glance at Monica. She glances at me.
"Yeah," I say. "Good idea."
They leave around ten.
Hugs and goodbyes and see you at Christmas. My mom hesitates at the door.
"Sure you don't want to come home?"
"I'm exhausted. I'll crash in the guest room."
"Take care of him, Monica."
"I always do."
The door closes. The car pulls away.
Monica locks the deadbolt.
"Finally," she breathes.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
We fuck on the couch where my parents were sitting an hour ago. On the kitchen counter. Against the refrigerator. All the pent-up wanting from years of polite family gatherings exploding in one night.
"I've thought about this so long," she admits afterward. We're in her bed, tangled together, sticky and satisfied. "Since you turned twenty-one and showed up to Christmas looking like that."
"Like what?"
"Like a man. Like someone who could—" She blushes. "Never mind."
"Someone who could handle you?"
"That's arrogant."
"Is it wrong?"
She laughs. "No. It's not wrong."
I pull her closer. Her weight settles against me—soft, warm, hers.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"I don't know. We figure it out."
"It won't be easy."
"I don't want easy. I want you."
She kisses me. Deep and slow and full of promise.
Thanksgiving becomes our holiday.
Every year, I volunteer to "help in the kitchen." Every year, we find moments—pantry, bathroom, her bedroom after everyone leaves. Our family thinks I'm just being a good nephew.
They have no idea.
Maybe they never will. Maybe this stays our secret forever, buried under turkey and tradition and the smell of pumpkin pie.
But when I look at her across the dinner table—when she smiles at me like I'm the only person in the room—
I know it's worth it.
Every forbidden bite.
Every stolen helping.
Every moment with her.