Tech Support
"His aunt needs help with her laptop. But the real problem is the tension that's been building since he became a man."
The text comes at 2 PM on a Thursday.
Mijo, my laptop is acting strange again. Can you come look at it? I'll make you dinner.
I stare at my phone. Aunt Renata has never needed help with technology—she worked as a paralegal for twenty-three years, handled databases and document management systems that would make most IT guys weep. But I haven't seen her since Uncle Victor's funeral three years ago, and the guilt of that sits heavy in my chest.
Be there at six, I type back.
Perfect. Door's unlocked.
Her house smells like garlic and something sweeter—vanilla, maybe, or cinnamon. The kind of warmth that wraps around you the moment you step inside.
"In the kitchen, Marcus!"
I follow her voice through the living room, past photos I remember from childhood—me and my cousins at the beach, holiday dinners, Uncle Victor with his arm around her waist. And then I round the corner and stop breathing.
Aunt Renata stands at the stove, stirring something in a pot, and she's... different than I remember.
Not different. More.
She's wearing a sundress—pale yellow, thin straps, hem hitting mid-thigh. The fabric clings to every curve, and there are so many curves. She's always been a big woman, but I was a kid the last time I really looked. Now I'm twenty-four, and now I see her.
She's maybe five-four, but she fills the space like someone twice her size. Her hips are wide—the kind of wide that sways when she walks, that would overflow any chair, that makes you think about gripping them. Her ass is massive, round, straining against the thin yellow cotton. And when she turns to greet me—
Her breasts.
Jesus Christ, her breasts.
They're enormous. Heavy. Hanging low without a bra, nipples visible through the fabric, swaying as she moves toward me with her arms outstretched.
"Mijo! Look at you!" She pulls me into a hug, and I'm enveloped. Soft arms around my back, those breasts pressing against my chest, her belly warm and round against mine. She smells like vanilla and something muskier—something that makes my pulse stutter.
"Hi, Tía." My voice comes out strange. Thick.
She pulls back, holds me at arm's length. Her eyes move over me—up and down, slow—and something flickers in them. Something I've never seen before.
"You've grown up," she says. Her voice is lower than I remember. Huskier. "Last time I saw you, you were still a boy."
"I was twenty-one."
"Like I said." She smiles, and her whole face changes. "A boy. Now look at you."
She's still holding my arms. Still looking. And I realize I'm still looking too—at the deep V of her neckline, at the dark canyon of cleavage, at the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
I force my eyes up.
She's already watching me. Caught me.
Her smile widens.
"The laptop's in my bedroom," she says. "Let me finish dinner, then you can take a look. Drink?"
"Yeah. Please."
She turns back to the stove, and I watch her walk. That ass. The way her thick thighs rub together with each step. The dimples at the backs of her knees.
I'm half-hard already.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Dinner is arroz con pollo, her mother's recipe, and we eat at her small kitchen table with our knees almost touching. She's poured us both wine—a red that goes down too easy—and she keeps refilling my glass.
"So." She leans forward, and her breasts settle on the table like they own it. "No girlfriend? A handsome boy like you?"
"Broke up six months ago."
"Her loss." Her foot brushes mine under the table. "Some women don't know what they have."
"What about you, Tía? Anyone since...?"
"Since Victor?" She shakes her head. "No. Three years alone in this house." Her eyes find mine. "Three years without anyone touching me."
The air changes. Thickens. I take a long drink of wine.
"That's... that must be hard."
"You have no idea." She stands, starts gathering plates, and when she leans across me to grab my glass, her breast drags across my shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Deliberate.
"Come," she says. "Let me show you my laptop."
Her bedroom is all soft lighting and dark furniture. The bed is king-sized, covered in burgundy sheets. And there on the desk, open and glowing, is her laptop.
"It's been running slow," she says, closing the door behind us. "And sometimes it makes this... clicking sound."
I sit in her desk chair. The laptop is a high-end model, less than a year old. I run a quick diagnostic. Everything is fine. Better than fine.
"Tía, there's nothing wrong with this."
"No?" She appears beside me. Pulls a chair so close that when she sits, her thigh presses against mine. All that soft, warm flesh through thin cotton. "Are you sure? Maybe you should look harder."
She leans in to see the screen, and her breast crushes against my arm. I can feel her nipple through the dress—stiff, pressing into my bicep. Her perfume fills my head. Her breath is warm on my neck.
"See?" She points at something random. "Right there. Doesn't that look strange?"
"That's just... the settings menu."
"Mm." She doesn't move. If anything, she presses closer. "Show me."
My hand is shaking on the touchpad. Her breast is still on my arm. Her thigh is a furnace against mine. And when I turn my head to answer, her face is inches away.
Her eyes are dark. Hungry. Waiting.
"Tía—"
"I've thought about you," she whispers. "More than I should. More than an aunt should think about her nephew." Her hand finds my thigh. Squeezes. "You've thought about me too. I saw you looking. In the kitchen. At dinner. Don't lie to me, mijo."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." Her hand slides higher. "And I'm glad. Because I didn't call you about the laptop."
My cock is fully hard now. Straining. Her hand stops just short of it.
"Why did you call me?"
"Because I'm fifty-two years old. Because I haven't been fucked in three years. Because I used to change your diapers, and now you're a man, and I can't stop thinking about—" She squeezes my thigh. "Tell me to stop. Tell me this is wrong and you'll leave, and I'll never mention it again."
I should. Every part of me knows I should.
Instead, I put my hand over hers and slide it onto my cock.
"Dios mío," she breathes. "You're so hard."
"For you." I cup her face, turn her toward me. "Since I walked in. Since I saw you in that dress."
The dam breaks.
She kisses like she's starving.
Her mouth is hot, wet, tasting of wine and need. Her tongue slides against mine as her hand works my cock through my jeans. I grip her hips—God, those hips, so wide, so soft—and pull her from the chair onto my lap.
The desk chair groans. She's heavy—over two hundred pounds of aunt settling onto me, her ass engulfing my thighs, her belly pressing against mine, her breasts crushed between us. It's overwhelming. It's everything.
"The bed," she gasps against my mouth. "Take me to the bed."
I stand with her—she wraps her thick legs around my waist—and carry her to the mattress. She's heavy in my arms. The weight of her feels like a gift.
I lay her down, and the burgundy sheets pool around her. She reaches for the straps of her sundress.
"Let me," I say.
I slide the straps down her shoulders. Peel the dress lower. And her breasts spill free.
They're massive. Brown, heavy, each one bigger than my head. Her nipples are dark as coffee, wide as poker chips, already stiffening in the cool air. They hang toward her sides with their own weight, soft and pendulous and real in a way that makes my mouth water.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"You're beautiful."
I lean down and take one nipple in my mouth.
She cries out—a sound I'll never forget. Her hand grabs the back of my head, pulling me closer, and I suck like I'm hungry for her. I am hungry. I've been hungry since I walked through her door. I cup her other breast, feel the impossible weight of it, knead the soft flesh while I tongue her nipple.
"Mijo—oh God—yes—"
I kiss my way across to the other breast. Give it the same attention. Her back arches off the mattress, and her hips roll beneath me, searching for friction.
I pull the dress the rest of the way off.
She's not wearing underwear.
Her body is a landscape.
I kneel between her legs and just look. The soft swell of her belly, creased where it folds into itself. The dimples and stretch marks that trace the story of her life. Her hips, flaring wide, leading to thighs so thick they'd smother me if I let them.
And between those thighs—
She's shaved bare. Her pussy is swollen, glistening wet, lips parted like she's already been touched. Her clit peeks out, pink and desperate.
"Three years," she says, spreading her legs wider. "Three years I've been waiting. Don't make me wait anymore."
I lower my head.
The first taste of her explodes on my tongue—salt and musk and something sweeter underneath. She moans, and her thighs close around my ears, soft flesh muffling the world. I don't care. I eat her like I've been starving, tongue lapping at her folds, lips sucking at her clit, face buried in the wet heat of her.
"Fuck—Marcus—right there—"
Her hands grip my hair. Her hips roll against my face. She's grinding on me, using me, taking what she needs, and I give it. I slide two fingers inside her—she's so wet, so hot—and curl them upward while I suck her clit.
She shatters.
Her thighs clamp around my head. Her pussy spasms on my fingers. She screams—actually screams—in Spanish, words I barely understand, my name mixed in with what sounds like prayers. I don't stop. I work her through it, gentler now, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her body.
When she finally releases me, I come up gasping.
"Inside me," she pants. "Right now. I need you inside me."
I strip off my clothes. She watches, her eyes fixed on my cock, and when it springs free, she licks her lips.
"I knew you'd be big," she murmurs. "I knew it."
I crawl over her. She spreads her legs wide—so wide, making room for me—and I settle between her thighs. Her belly presses against mine, soft and warm. Her breasts flatten under my chest.
I position myself at her entrance.
"Are you sure?" I whisper.
"I've never been more sure of anything." She wraps her legs around my waist. "Fuck me, mijo. Make me yours."
I push inside.
She takes me in one stroke—wet, tight, burning hot. Her eyes roll back. Her nails dig into my shoulders. And then I start to move.
It's nothing like I've experienced before.
Her body cushions every thrust. I sink into her—into all that softness, all that warmth—and she wraps around me like she was made for this. Her breasts bounce with each stroke. Her belly ripples. The sounds she makes are obscene: wet, breathless, begging.
"Harder—harder—"
I give her harder. I grip those massive hips and slam into her, the bed frame cracking against the wall, her body quaking beneath me. She's so soft. So much. I can't get enough.
"I've wanted this," she gasps. "Wanted you—since you were old enough—God—"
"I'm here now." I lean down, bite her earlobe. "And I'm not going anywhere."
I feel her clench around me—another orgasm building—and I slide my hand between us to rub her clit. That's all it takes.
She comes screaming my name.
The pressure of her pussy gripping me, the heat, the taboo of it—I can't hold back. I bury myself to the hilt and explode inside her, filling her, marking her, claiming her in a way I know I shouldn't.
I collapse on top of her.
She holds me there, her arms wrapped around my back, her thighs still cradling my hips. We're both panting. Both trembling.
"The laptop," I finally manage.
"Hm?"
"It was fine."
She laughs—a low, satisfied sound. "I know."
"You knew I'd come."
"I hoped." She kisses my forehead. "I've been hoping for years."
I lift myself up, look down at her—this woman who raised me, who held me as a child, who just let me fuck her into the mattress. She's glowing. Sated. Beautiful.
"When do you need tech support again?"
She pretends to think. "Tomorrow. And the day after. And possibly every day for the foreseeable future."
I'm already getting hard inside her.
"I should warn you," I say. "I'm very thorough."
"Good." She pulls me down for another kiss. "I have a lot of problems."
The laptop sits forgotten on the desk.
We don't leave her bedroom until morning—and by then, we've christened every surface. The bed. The dresser. The shower. Her, on top of me, riding me with her full weight, those magnificent breasts swaying above my face while I grip her hips and thrust up into her.
When I finally go home, she stands in the doorway in nothing but a robe, watching me leave.
"Same time tomorrow?" she calls.
"I'll bring my toolkit."
Her laugh follows me to the car.
And as I drive away, I'm already counting the hours until I can touch her again. My aunt. My secret. My beautiful, soft, insatiable woman.
Some tech problems, it turns out, require ongoing support.
I'm happy to provide it.