Spring Visit
"He crashes at his aunt's place during spring break and finds her recently divorced and eager for company. Some wounds need a specific kind of healing."
My aunt's divorce finalized three weeks ago.
I know this because my mom told me, in that voice she uses when she's gossiping but pretending not to. "Your Aunt Rosie's finally free of that bastard. Twenty-three years of marriage, and he leaves her for a woman half her age. Can you believe it?"
I couldn't. Uncle Marcus always seemed like a solid guy—boring, maybe, but solid. The idea of him leaving Aunt Rosie for a younger woman seemed absurd.
Until I remember that Aunt Rosie is fifty-one now.
And "younger women" can be thirty. Or twenty-five. Or my age.
Spring break was supposed to be Cabo.
Then Jake got mono, Carlos's credit card got declined, and suddenly the whole trip imploded. Two days before departure, I'm left with a week off from school and nowhere to go.
"Why don't you visit your aunt?" Mom suggests. "She could use the company. Big empty house all by herself now."
"I don't want to impose—"
"It's not imposing. She loves you. And honestly, I'd feel better knowing someone's checking on her."
So I call Aunt Rosie. She answers on the second ring, sounding tired but happy to hear from me. And before I know it, I'm driving three hours to her place in the suburbs, wondering what exactly I'm walking into.
She meets me at the door.
And I almost don't recognize her.
The Aunt Rosie I remember from family gatherings was always perfectly put together—hair styled, makeup done, dressed in clothes that Uncle Marcus probably picked out. Conservative. Proper. Hidden.
This Aunt Rosie is wearing yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and she looks... different. Younger, somehow. More herself.
Also bigger.
She's always been heavy—wide hips, thick thighs, the kind of body that made my teenage self look away guiltily during summer barbecues. But she's gained weight since the separation. Maybe thirty pounds, maybe more. Her breasts strain against the t-shirt fabric. Her belly rounds beneath it. Her ass, when she turns to lead me inside, is massive in those yoga pants.
I try not to stare.
I fail.
"Sorry about the mess." She gestures at the living room, which is spotless. "Marcus took half the furniture when he left. I haven't gotten around to replacing it."
"It looks fine, Aunt Rosie."
"Rosie." She turns to me, smiles. "Just Rosie. 'Aunt' makes me feel ancient."
"You're not ancient."
"I'm fifty-one." She laughs, but it's hollow. "In the divorce papers, Marcus cited 'irreconcilable differences.' Do you know what that actually means? It means I got old and fat and he wanted someone who wasn't."
"That's bullshit."
"Language." But she's smiling. "And thank you. That's sweet. Even if it's not true."
"It is true. You're beautiful."
The words come out before I can stop them. She stares at me, eyebrows raised.
"I mean—" I scramble. "You look great. Really. The weight looks good on you."
"The weight looks good on me." She repeats it flatly. "Did my sister tell you to say that?"
"No. I'm just—" I take a breath. "I'm just being honest."
She studies me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe. Or curiosity.
"Huh." She turns away. "Come on. I'll show you the guest room."
The first two days are normal.
We eat meals together. Watch TV. She asks about school; I ask about her plans. She's thinking about going back to work—she was a nurse before Marcus convinced her to be a stay-at-home wife—or maybe traveling, or maybe just "figuring out who the hell I am without a husband."
"Twenty-three years," she says one night, both of us on the couch with glasses of wine. "I was twenty-eight when we got married. I don't know who I am as a single person. I've never been a single person."
"What do you want to be?"
"I don't know." She drinks. "Someone who matters, maybe. Someone who's wanted for more than just... being there."
"You're wanted."
"By who? My sister calls out of pity. My friends—our friends—mostly took Marcus's side. And my son—" She stops. "Well. You know how Josh is."
I do. Cousin Josh is a Wall Street asshole who hasn't called his mom in six months.
"I want you around," I offer.
She laughs. "You're here because your spring break plans fell through."
"I'm here because you're my favorite person in this family and I wanted to make sure you were okay."
She goes quiet. When she looks at me, her eyes are wet.
"That's..." She wipes her face. "That's really sweet, Dylan."
"I mean it."
"I know you do." She reaches over, squeezes my hand. "You've always been the good one. Even when you were little—always so thoughtful. So kind."
Her hand is warm on mine. Soft. She doesn't let go.
Neither do I.
Day three.
I wake up late, stumble to the kitchen for coffee, and freeze in the doorway.
Rosie is doing yoga in the living room.
On a mat. In the sunlight from the windows. Wearing nothing but a sports bra and those goddamn yoga pants.
She's bent over in some kind of forward fold, and her ass is right there—round and massive and straining against the fabric. I can see every dimple, every curve, the way the pants disappear between her cheeks. Her belly hangs toward the floor, soft and round. Her breasts are barely contained by the sports bra.
I watch for way too long before I make myself move.
"Morning," I manage, voice cracking.
She straightens, turns, and smiles. "Morning! Coffee's on. I'm just finishing up."
She moves into another pose. This one involves her on all fours.
I retreat to the kitchen and grip the counter until my knuckles go white.
"Can I ask you something?"
We're on the back patio. Evening. Wine again. Stars overhead.
"Sure," I say.
"That first day. When you said the weight looked good on me." She's not looking at me. Looking at the sky. "Did you mean it?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The question hangs there. I could deflect. Lie. Say something safe.
But she's been lied to enough.
"Because I've always thought you were beautiful," I say. "Since I was old enough to notice. And the weight just... makes you more so. More curves. More softness. More you."
She's quiet for a long time.
"Marcus used to tell me I was getting too heavy. That I needed to watch what I ate. That men don't want women who 'let themselves go.'" She takes a shaky breath. "I spent twenty years trying to be small for him. And he left me anyway."
"He's an idiot."
"Maybe." She turns to look at me. Her eyes are dark in the starlight. "Or maybe I'm the idiot. For believing a man could actually want this."
"I want this."
The words escape before I can think. She goes very still.
"Dylan—"
"I know. I know it's wrong. I know you're my aunt. But you asked, and I'm—" I run a hand through my hair. "I'm so fucking tired of pretending. I've wanted you since I was sixteen. I've thought about you every time I've been with someone else. And watching you these past few days, seeing you be yourself for the first time—" I stop. "I've never wanted anyone more."
Silence.
Then she stands. Moves toward me. And stops, close enough that I can smell her—wine and lotion and her.
"Say that again."
"Which part?"
"The part where you want me."
I stand. We're almost touching. I can feel the heat of her body.
"I want you, Rosie. All of you. Every inch."
She kisses me.
It's nothing like I imagined.
It's better.
Her mouth is soft and hungry. Her hands grip my shirt, pull me closer. Her body presses against mine—all those curves, all that softness—and I groan into the kiss.
"Inside," she whispers. "Now."
I follow her.
Her bedroom is half-empty. Marcus took the dresser, the nightstands, most of the decor. What's left is the bed—king-sized, unmade, smelling like her.
She turns to face me. Her hands go to the hem of her shirt.
"Wait." I move closer. "Let me."
I lift the shirt over her head. Her belly comes into view first—round, soft, marked with faint stretch marks. Then her breasts, still in the sports bra, massive and straining. I unclip the bra. They fall free.
"Rosie."
"I know. They're not—"
"They're perfect." I cup them in my hands, feel the weight, the softness. Her nipples harden against my palms. "You're perfect."
"I'm fat."
"You're beautiful." I lean down, take one nipple into my mouth. She gasps, her hands flying to my hair. "So fucking beautiful."
I worship her breasts until she's shaking. Until she's pulling at my clothes, demanding more. I strip for her—shirt, pants, boxers—and when my cock springs free, her eyes go wide.
"That's—"
"Yours. If you want it."
"I want it." She's already pushing down her yoga pants. "God, I want it."
She's bare beneath. Wet. Swollen. Ready.
"On the bed," I tell her.
She goes.
I eat her first.
I need to. Need to taste her, learn her, make her come on my tongue before I do anything else. She spreads her thick thighs for me, and I bury my face in her cunt, and the sound she makes is worth every guilty fantasy I've ever had.
"Dylan—fuck—oh my God—"
I lick. I suck. I slide two fingers inside her and curl them just right. She's so wet I'm drowning, and when she comes—screaming my name, her thighs clamping around my head—I don't stop. I push her through it, then start again.
"I can't—too sensitive—"
"One more." I suck her clit gently. "Give me one more, Rosie."
She gives me three before she begs me to stop.
"Inside me." She's shaking, sweating, beautiful. "Please. I need—"
I climb over her. Position myself. And push.
We both moan.
She's tight—tighter than I expected—and hot and wet and perfect. I sink into her slowly, inch by inch, until I'm buried to the hilt. Her belly presses against mine. Her breasts flatten between us. She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me closer.
"Move. Please—move—"
I move.
Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that make her gasp. Then faster, harder, as her moans get louder and her nails dig into my back. The bed creaks beneath us—the bed she used to share with him—and I fuck her harder just to replace every memory he left behind.
"I'm gonna come—" She's sobbing. "Dylan—I'm—"
"Do it. Come for me, Rosie. Let me feel you."
She comes with a scream. Her pussy clenches around me so hard I can't hold back—I bury myself deep and explode inside her, filling her while she shakes apart in my arms.
We collapse together.
Sweating. Gasping. Alive.
"That was—" She laughs breathlessly. "I've never—not like that."
"Never?"
"Marcus was... efficient." She grimaces. "Five minutes, missionary, done. Twenty-three years and he never once made me come."
"Never?"
"Not once." She looks at me. "You made me come four times. In twenty minutes."
"We're just getting started."
Her eyes darken. "Show me."
I stay for the rest of the week.
I don't sleep in the guest room again.
The last morning, she cries.
"This can't happen again," she says. "You know that. We can't—I'm your aunt—"
"I know."
"If anyone found out—"
"I know."
"So this is goodbye."
I pull her close. Kiss her forehead. Her cheeks. Her lips.
"It's goodbye for now," I say. "But I'm not sorry it happened. And I'm not going to pretend I didn't feel something."
"What did you feel?"
"Alive." I look into her eyes. "I felt alive, Rosie. And I think you did too."
She's quiet. Then:
"Yeah." She smiles through her tears. "Yeah, I did."
I leave that afternoon.
But I save her number.
And three weeks later, when she texts me at 2 AM—I can't stop thinking about you—I know this isn't over.
It's just beginning.