Summer with Sandra

Mom called it a favor.

"Sandra needs help around the house. She's all alone in that big place since the divorce. You need somewhere to stay while you figure out your next move. It's perfect."

Perfect wasn't the word I'd use.

Aunt Sandra was Mom's younger sister—forty-seven to Mom's fifty-three. They looked nothing alike. Mom was thin, nervous, always fussing about something. Sandra was... different.

Sandra was the kind of woman who made rooms go quiet when she walked in.

I hadn't seen her in five years. Not since that Christmas when I was eighteen and she'd hugged me goodbye in that red dress and I'd spent the drive home trying not to think about how soft she felt.

I was thinking about it now.

She met me at the train station.

"There he is!" She waved from the platform, all smiles, and I nearly dropped my bags.

Five years had changed her, but not in the ways I expected. She'd gained weight—twenty, maybe thirty pounds—but it had all gone to the right places. Her hips were wider, straining against her jeans. Her breasts were fuller, barely contained by a V-neck top that showed off dangerous amounts of cleavage. Her ass, when she turned to lead me to her car, was round and thick and hypnotic.

"You look good," she said as we loaded my stuff into the trunk. "All grown up."

"You look—" I caught myself. "Different."

"Fat, you mean." She laughed, but there was an edge to it. "Richard's exact words, before he left me for his secretary. Who, for the record, is twenty-six and weighs about ninety pounds."

"His loss."

She looked at me. Something flickered in her eyes. "Aren't you sweet."

Her house was a sprawling ranch on three acres, half an hour from town. Three bedrooms, a pool, and not another soul for miles.

"I'll show you to your room," she said, leading me down the hallway. Her hips swayed with every step. I tried not to stare.

Failed.

"Bathroom's across the hall. Kitchen's yours to use. I keep wine in the fridge—help yourself." She opened a door. "And this is you."

The guest room was bigger than my last apartment. Queen bed, nice furniture, view of the pool.

"It's great," I said. "Thanks for letting me stay."

"Thank me at the end of the summer." She leaned against the doorframe. The position pushed her breasts together. "Your mother said you needed time to figure things out. Job stuff. Life stuff."

"Something like that."

"Well, I'm not going to pry. You can stay as long as you need. I could use the company." She smiled—soft, a little sad. "It gets lonely out here."

"I can imagine."

"No." Her eyes held mine. "I don't think you can."

Week One

She sunbathed by the pool every afternoon.

I learned this on day three, when I walked into the backyard to find her on a lounge chair in a bikini that should have been classified as a weapon. The top was struggling to contain her breasts. The bottoms disappeared between her thick thighs.

"Tyler!" She didn't bother sitting up. "Come join me."

"I should—"

"There's sunscreen in the basket. Put some on my back?"

She rolled onto her stomach. Her ass was two perfect mounds, barely covered by a strip of fabric. She reached back and unhooked her top.

"Can't get tan lines."

I stood there. My feet refused to move.

"Tyler?" She looked over her shoulder. "The sunscreen?"

I walked over on autopilot. Squeezed lotion into my hands. Touched her back.

She was warm. Smooth. She made a small sound as my hands moved across her shoulder blades.

"Richard never did this," she murmured. "Said it was beneath him. Making his wife feel good."

"That's..." I worked lower, toward the small of her back. "That's crazy."

"That's Richard." She shifted, spreading her legs slightly. The movement pulled her bikini bottoms tighter. "Don't miss the lower back. I burn there."

My hands drifted lower. My thumbs brushed the waistband of her bikini. She didn't stop me.

"Thank you, Tyler." Her voice was different now. Thicker. "That's... that's perfect."

I pulled away. Made some excuse about having to unpack. Practically ran inside.

I could feel her smiling behind me.

Week Two

She started drinking earlier in the day.

Not a lot—a glass of wine at lunch, another at four. But it loosened her up. Made her talk more.

"Richard called me sturdy," she said one night, two bottles in. We were on the couch, some movie playing that neither of us watched. "On our wedding day. He said I was sturdy, like a piece of furniture."

"That's awful."

"I was thinner then. Still curvy, but thinner. He loved it. Couldn't keep his hands off me." She pulled her knees up to her chest. She was wearing a thin sundress, and from my angle I could see up her thighs. "Then I hit forty and my body changed. Hips got wider. Everything got... more. And he stopped touching me."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?" She turned to face me. Her eyes were bright, unfocused. "Or are you just saying that because you're supposed to?"

"I mean it."

"Prove it."

"What?"

She uncurled. Moved closer. Put her hand on my thigh.

"Tell me I'm still desirable. That a man would still want me. That you would still want me."

"Sandra—"

"I know it's wrong." Her hand moved higher. "I know you're my nephew. But Richard took everything from me—my confidence, my self-worth, my belief that anyone could want this body." She gestured at herself. "I need to know. Just once. Would you want me, if I wasn't your aunt? If we were just... two people?"

I looked at her. At her full lips, her heavy breasts, her wide hips, her desperate eyes.

"Yes," I said. "I would want you."

"Show me."

I kissed her.

She tasted like Merlot and bad decisions.

Her hands went to my hair, pulling me closer. Mine went to her hips—those impossibly wide hips—and I pulled her onto my lap. She straddled me, her dress riding up, her thick thighs squeezing my waist.

"God, yes," she breathed into my mouth. "Yes, Tyler, yes—"

I grabbed her ass. Both cheeks, overflowing in my hands. She ground against me, and I could feel how wet she was through our clothes.

"We shouldn't—" I tried.

"I don't care." She reached down, fumbling with my jeans. "I've been thinking about this since you got here. Maybe longer. Maybe since that Christmas when you hugged me and I felt you—"

"You felt that?"

"I felt everything." She pulled me free of my pants. Stroked me. "I told myself it was wrong. That I was imagining it. But you looked at me the way Richard used to, before he forgot how."

"I've never stopped looking at you like that."

"Then stop talking."

She pulled her dress over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra—her breasts spilled free, heavy and full, nipples hard and dark. Her panties came next, and then she was naked on top of me, all curves and softness and heat.

"Richard said I was too much," she whispered, positioning me at her entrance. "Prove him wrong."

She sank down.

I saw stars.

She was tight—impossibly tight—and wet, and hot. Her thick body surrounded me. Her breasts swayed inches from my face. She started to move, rising and falling, using me.

"Yes—fuck—yes—" Her hands gripped my shoulders. "This is what I needed—a hard cock and someone who appreciates me—"

I grabbed her hips. Took control. Thrust up into her while pulling her down, fucking her with everything I had.

"Fuck!" She threw her head back. "Yes, Tyler, like that—don't stop—don't you dare stop—"

She came twice on top of me.

The first time she shook and cried my name. The second time she collapsed against my chest, trembling, her walls clenching around me.

"More," she panted. "I need more."

I flipped her onto her back. She spread her legs wide—so wide—and I drove into her. The couch creaked under us. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. She was loud now, moaning and screaming, no one to hear for miles.

"Tell me I'm beautiful," she begged.

"You're beautiful."

"Tell me I'm desirable."

"You're the most desirable woman I've ever seen."

"Tell me you want me—all of me—"

"I want every inch of you, Sandra. Every curve. Every pound. Every—fuck—"

I came inside her. Couldn't have stopped if I tried. She pulled me close and held me there, legs locked around my waist, taking everything I gave her.

We stayed like that for a long time.

The Rest of the Summer

I never did find a job.

Instead, I spent three months in that house with Sandra. Days by the pool. Nights in her bed. Sometimes mornings in the shower, afternoons in the kitchen, evenings wherever we happened to be when the need hit.

She gained confidence with every passing week. Started wearing less around the house—not to tease me, just because she finally felt comfortable in her body.

"You fixed me," she said one night, wrapped in my arms. "I know that sounds dramatic, but it's true. Richard broke something, and you put it back together."

"I just showed you what he was too stupid to see."

"You did more than that." She kissed my chest. "You worshiped me. Like I was something sacred. I haven't felt that way since I was a girl."

"You deserve it."

"So do you." She looked up at me. "What happens when summer ends?"

"I don't know."

"Will you come back?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I want you to stay." Her voice was small. "I know it's impossible. I know your mother would—God, she'd kill us both. But I don't want this to end."

"It doesn't have to." I pulled her closer. "I can get an apartment in town. Visit on weekends. We can figure it out."

"People will talk."

"Let them."

She laughed—bright, happy. "When did you get so brave?"

"When I realized what I was risking losing."

I did get an apartment. And I do visit on weekends.

Mom thinks I'm helping Sandra with the house. Which is technically true. I just help with other things too.

Richard tried to come back last month. Said he'd made a mistake. Sandra met him at the door in her sundress—the thin one—and told him to go fuck himself.

He asked who was in the house. She smiled and said no one.

I was watching from the bedroom window. She waved at me when he left.

That night, I made her come six times.

Richard doesn't know what he lost.

I do.