Newly Single
"Her divorce just finalized. She hasn't felt desirable in years. When her nephew tells her she's beautiful, she decides to believe him—and show him what that belief unlocks."
The papers came yesterday.
I find her in the kitchen, staring at nothing. A glass of wine sits untouched in front of her. The divorce decree is on the counter, her signature still fresh.
"Aunt Rita?"
She looks up. Her eyes are dry but distant.
"It's done," she says. "Twenty-three years. And now it's done."
I sit across from her. I don't know what to say. I'm twenty-five, never married, no idea what this feels like.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She picks up the wine, takes a long drink. "He'd been cheating for the last five years. I knew. I just... couldn't face it."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" She laughs, bitter. "Look at me, Eli. I'm fifty-one years old and two hundred and eighty pounds. Can you blame him for wanting something younger? Thinner?"
"Yes." The word comes out harder than I intended. "I absolutely can."
She looks at me. Really looks.
"You're sweet."
"I'm honest." I reach across the table, take her hand. "You're beautiful, Aunt Rita. You've always been beautiful. And anyone who makes you feel otherwise is a goddamn fool."
Her eyes get wet. She blinks, and a tear falls.
"You really think that?"
"I know it."
She stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her face—grief giving way to something else. Something like hope.
"Prove it," she says.
"I need to feel wanted."
We're in her bedroom now. The door is closed. She's standing by the window, backlit by the afternoon sun.
"I haven't felt wanted in years. Maybe decades." She turns to face me. "Charles stopped touching me when I hit two-fifty. That was eight years ago."
"I don't understand how—"
"Can you make me feel wanted?" She interrupts. "Not just words. I need... I need to believe it."
"You're my aunt."
"I know what I am." She steps closer. "And I know what I'm asking. If you can't—if this is too much—I understand. But I'm asking anyway."
I look at her. Really look.
She's big, yes. Her body strains against her dress, soft and abundant. Her face shows her age—lines around her eyes, silver in her hair. But there's something about her. There's always been something.
"Show me," I say.
She undresses slowly.
Pulls the dress over her head. Unhooks her bra. Lets her breasts fall free—heavy, pendulous, dark nipples hard in the cool air. Pushes her underwear down thick thighs.
She stands there naked, vulnerable, watching my face.
"Well?"
I cross the room. Cup her face in my hands.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," I tell her. "And I'm going to prove it to you."
I kiss her.
I worship her.
There's no other word for it. I kiss every inch of her—her neck, her shoulders, her chest. I bury my face in her breasts, lick her nipples until she moans. I kneel before her and kiss her belly, her thighs, the soft flesh she's been taught to hate.
"You're beautiful here," I murmur against her hip. "And here." I kiss lower. "And here."
"Eli—"
"Let me show you."
I bury my face between her thighs. She cries out, grabs my head, and I lick her like she's sacred. Because she is. Because every part of her deserves to be loved.
"Oh God—" Her legs shake. "I can't—it's been so long—"
"Let go. I've got you."
She lets go.
She comes on my tongue, shaking, crying, my name on her lips like a prayer. I hold her through it, keep licking, make her come again before she can catch her breath.
"Please," she gasps. "I need—I need you inside me—"
I stand. Strip. My cock is harder than it's ever been.
"Lie down," I tell her.
She lies down.
I enter her slowly.
Inch by inch, watching her face, watching her body accept me. She's tight—it's been years since she's had this—and wet, and burning hot.
"Eli—" Her hands find my back. Pull me deeper. "You feel so good—"
I start to move. Slow at first, gentle. This isn't about fucking. This is about showing her what she's worth.
"You're beautiful," I tell her with every thrust. "You're wanted." I kiss her neck. "You're desired." I cup her breast. "You're perfect."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I thrust deeper. "Every inch of you. Every pound. Every curve and roll and part of you that you've been taught to hate."
She's crying now. Not from sadness—something else. Something that looks like healing.
"Harder," she whispers. "Please."
I go harder. I fuck her like she deserves to be fucked—with passion, with hunger, with complete and total focus on her pleasure. I feel her build beneath me, feel her body tense.
"Come for me," I say. "Show me how beautiful you are when you let go."
She lets go.
She screams my name and arches off the bed and clenches around me so hard I see stars. I follow her over the edge, filling her, holding her, whispering beautiful and wanted and perfect until the words lose meaning.
Afterward, we lie tangled together. Her head on my chest. Her body soft and warm against mine.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"For what?"
"For making me feel like... like I matter."
"You do matter." I tilt her chin up. Kiss her softly. "You matter to me."
"We can't tell anyone about this."
"I know."
"And it can't happen again."
I look at her. She doesn't sound like she believes it.
"Are you sure about that?"
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she climbs on top of me—straddles me, her weight settling onto my hips, my cock already stirring against her.
"No," she admits. "I'm not sure at all."
She sinks down onto me.
It happens again. That night, and the next morning, and every time I visit for the next three months.
By then, she's stopped calling it a mistake.
By then, she's stopped pretending she doesn't want me to stay forever.