Home for the Holidays

The snow starts falling at noon.

By three, it's a blizzard. By five, Marcus is calling from his car, stuck on the highway, saying he'll spend the night at a motel with his girlfriend and be back tomorrow.

"Keep Mom and Amy company," he says. "Don't let them drive each other crazy."

"I'll do my best."

I hang up and find myself alone in the Patterson house with the two women I've been trying not to think about for a decade.

Mrs. Patterson—Gloria—finds me staring out the window at the whiteout.

"Marcus isn't coming?"

"Stuck near the turnpike. Back tomorrow."

"Hmm." She moves beside me, close enough that I can feel her warmth. At fifty, she's everything her husband wasn't smart enough to appreciate—voluptuous, warm, with curves that her holiday sweater can't hide. "That's unfortunate. For him."

Something in her voice makes me turn.

"Fortunate for us, though." Amy appears in the doorway, Marcus's younger sister, twenty-four and built like her mother. Same heavy breasts, same wide hips, same knowing smile. "Wouldn't you say, Mom?"

"Very fortunate."

They're looking at me like I'm Christmas dinner.

"I don't understand what's happening," I say.

Gloria laughs, low and throaty. "Yes you do, baby. You've always understood. You've just been pretending you don't."

"We've been watching you since high school," Amy adds, moving closer. "The way you look at mom when she bends over. The way you stare at me in my swimsuit every summer."

"I don't—"

"Shh." Gloria presses a finger to my lips. "We've had time to discuss this. Years, actually. Ever since I caught Amy with your picture, doing things a sister shouldn't do while thinking about her brother's best friend."

"Mom!" Amy blushes but doesn't deny it.

"And I've been lonely since the divorce," Gloria continues. "Lonely and thinking about you. The way you carry yourself. The way you respect women. The way you look at curves like ours and don't try to hide your appreciation."

Her hand slides from my lips to my chest.

"It's Christmas Eve, Darius. We're snowed in. No one is coming home until tomorrow." Her hand slides lower. "Let us give you our gift."

They lead me to the master bedroom.

The bed is huge, covered in a plush comforter. Gloria lights candles while Amy pulls me down onto the mattress, kissing me before I can protest.

Her mouth is eager, hungry, tasting like the wine we had with dinner. Her hands are already working at my belt.

"I've wanted this so long," she breathes. "Every time you stayed over. Every time I heard you in Marcus's room, talking, laughing. I would lie in bed and imagine you coming to find me."

"Amy—"

"Let her, baby." Gloria settles on the bed beside us, already unbuttoning her blouse. "She's been patient. We both have."

Amy frees my cock and gasps.

"Holy shit, Mom. Look at him."

Gloria leans in, her blouse open to reveal a bra straining to contain breasts the size of my head. "Beautiful. Even better than I imagined."

They take turns—Amy's mouth first, young and eager; then Gloria's, skilled and savoring. They pass me back and forth like a treat, comparing notes, coaching each other.

"Use more tongue at the tip," Gloria murmurs.

"Like this?"

"Mmm, just like that. See how he twitches?"

I'm going to die. I'm going to die in my best friend's house with his mother and sister sharing my cock, and I can't think of a better way to go.

"Who goes first?" Amy asks, pulling off her dress. Her body is young, lush, heavy breasts with dark nipples, soft belly, thick thighs.

"Guest's choice." Gloria finishes undressing, revealing a body that's her daughter's but more—softer, fuller, marked by time and childbirth and absolutely magnificent.

They kneel on either side of me, waiting.

"Both of you," I hear myself say. "I want both of you. At once."

Gloria smiles. "We were hoping you'd say that."

Gloria straddles my face while Amy takes my cock.

I eat my best friend's mother while his sister rides me, and I don't feel a single ounce of guilt. Gloria's pussy is soft, wet, tasting of something sweet I can't name. Amy is tight, hot, bouncing on me with the enthusiasm of someone fulfilling a long-held fantasy.

"That's it, baby," Gloria moans above me. "Right there—don't stop—"

"He's so deep, Mom. He's filling me up—"

"I know, baby. I know. Doesn't he feel good?"

"So good—I'm gonna—already—"

Amy comes with a scream, clenching around me. Gloria follows seconds later, flooding my mouth, her thick thighs clamping against my ears.

We switch.

Gloria takes my cock—slower, deeper, more deliberate. Amy straddles my face, lighter than her mother, her pussy trimmed and eager.

"I've thought about this every night," Amy confesses as I lick her. "Touching myself, thinking about you. Wondering what you'd taste like. What you'd feel like inside me."

"She wasn't the only one." Gloria is riding me with a rhythm that speaks to experience. "I'd hear her through the wall and think the same things. Sometimes we'd talk about it after. Compare fantasies."

"You talked about me? Together?"

"Constantly." Gloria squeezes around me. "How big you might be. How you might like it. Whether you'd choose one of us or want us both."

"And now you know."

"Now we know." She comes, shuddering, pulling me over the edge with her.

I come inside Gloria while eating her daughter to orgasm.

It's the most intense thing I've ever experienced—being emptied and filled at once, giving and taking. When it's over, we collapse in a heap of sweaty limbs.

"Merry Christmas," Amy murmurs against my chest.

"Merry Christmas," I echo.

Gloria just laughs, satisfied and sleepy.

The snow keeps falling.

We order pizza (the one place still delivering in this weather). We watch Christmas movies on the couch, naked under blankets. We fuck twice more before midnight—once in the shower, once in Amy's childhood bed.

By morning, the roads are still impassable.

Marcus texts: Maybe another day. Snow is crazy.

Take your time, I text back. We're keeping busy.

He comes home two days later to find us eating breakfast like nothing happened.

"Everything okay here?" he asks, shaking snow from his coat.

"Perfect," his mother says.

"Great," his sister agrees.

"Really great," I confirm.

He doesn't ask why we're all smiling.

Some things are better left unexplained.

We start a tradition after that.

Every Christmas, I come to the Patterson house. Marcus brings his girlfriend, now wife. We do the normal family things—dinner, presents, games.

And late at night, when everyone else is asleep, I slip into the master bedroom where Gloria and Amy are waiting.

"Merry Christmas," they whisper.

"Merry Christmas," I whisper back.

The best gifts come in pairs.