The Matriarch
"She's 68, massive, and rules the family with absolute authority. Every nephew who wants inheritance must 'pay respects' on their 25th birthday. His turn has come."
Great-Aunt Marguerite rules the Beaumont family from her estate in Louisiana.
She's sixty-eight years old, has buried three husbands, controls forty million dollars in family money, and weighs somewhere north of three hundred and fifty pounds.
And today is my twenty-fifth birthday.
The tradition goes back three generations.
My grandfather established it before he died—or maybe Marguerite established it and claimed he did. No one really knows. But the rules are simple:
Every male heir must "pay respects" to the matriarch on his twenty-fifth birthday. The respects take place at the estate, behind closed doors. No one discusses what happens. And afterward, the heir receives his inheritance—a trust fund worth roughly two million dollars.
My older cousins went through it.
Marcus came back pale and shaking but two million dollars richer. Thomas wouldn't meet anyone's eyes for a month. Daniel moved to Europe immediately after and rarely visits.
None of them talk about it.
Today, I find out why.
The estate is magnificent.
Antebellum architecture, columns and galleries, Spanish moss dripping from ancient oaks. It looks like a movie set. Like something from another era.
Marguerite built it after her third husband died. She calls it "The Grove." The family calls it "The Court."
I park in the circular drive and check my reflection. Twenty-five years old. Reasonably fit. About to do something that will change my life, one way or another.
The door opens before I can knock.
A servant—there's no other word for him—gestures inside.
"The Matriarch is expecting you."
She receives me in the Great Hall.
That's actually what it's called. A room the size of a basketball court, furnished with antiques worth more than most houses. At the far end, in a chair that's more throne than furniture, sits Marguerite.
She's enormous.
Three hundred and fifty pounds is my guess, but it could be more. Her body fills the throne completely—hips pressing against the armrests, belly cascading down in layers, breasts resting on the shelf of that belly. She's wearing what can only be described as a gown—crimson silk, flowing, hiding nothing of her shape while revealing nothing of her skin.
Her face is still beautiful. Sharp eyes, high cheekbones, silver hair swept back from a commanding brow. The beauty of a woman who was stunning at twenty and refused to believe anything had changed.
"William." Her voice is rich, smooth. "Come closer."
I approach the throne. Stop at a respectful distance.
"Closer."
I move closer.
"Kneel."
I kneel.
There's no decision to make. This is the ritual. This is what all the others did. This is what I must do to receive my inheritance.
"You know why you're here," she says. It's not a question.
"To pay respects."
"To pay tribute." She leans forward slightly. The movement makes her breasts shift, heavy and liquid beneath silk. "There is a difference."
"Yes, Matriarch."
"Tell me what you know of the tradition."
"Every male heir—"
"Not the rules. The purpose."
I hesitate. This isn't what Marcus prepared me for. What little he said was practical—go, do what she says, collect the money, never speak of it again.
"I... don't know the purpose."
"No. You wouldn't." She settles back. Studies me with those sharp eyes. "Your grandfather understood that money corrupts. That wealth given freely breeds weakness. So he established this ritual. Every heir must earn his inheritance. Must prove himself worthy of Beaumont money."
"By paying respects?"
"By submitting." Her smile is slow, predatory. "By offering himself to the family. To me."
My blood runs cold. Or maybe hot. I'm not sure anymore.
"What exactly—"
"You know what." She gestures to a servant. He approaches, offers her a glass of wine. She sips. "Your cousins talked, didn't they? Not directly, but in their silences. In the way they can't look at me during holidays. You've pieced it together."
I have. I've suspected for years.
"You want me to—"
"I want you to worship me." She sets down the wine. "Tonight. In my chambers. And then, if you please me, you'll receive your inheritance."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you're free to leave." She waves a hand. "Nothing happens. You simply... don't receive your money. And you're no longer considered part of this family."
The choice isn't really a choice.
I've known that since I walked in the door.
Her chambers are larger than my apartment.
A massive bed dominates the center—king-sized seems inadequate, emperor-sized might be closer. Candles provide the only light. The air smells like jasmine and something older, muskier.
Marguerite enters behind me. She's removed the gown.
Christ.
Three hundred and fifty pounds of naked flesh, illuminated by candlelight. Her breasts are enormous—each one bigger than my head, nipples dark and wide. Her belly cascades in three distinct rolls, the lowest reaching her thighs. Her hips are monumental, her ass a landscape unto itself.
She moves toward the bed with surprising grace.
"You may undress," she says. "Then you will worship. Beginning with my feet."
I undress.
I worship.
Her feet are large, soft. I kiss them, as instructed. Work my way up her calves—thick, pillowy. Her thighs—massive, warm, enveloping.
"Good." Her voice is calm, evaluating. "You show reverence. Not everyone does."
I reach her center. She spreads her legs—an act that must be deliberate, given the effort required. Her pussy is shaved, wet, surrounded by soft flesh.
"Worship," she commands.
I worship.
She tastes like the wine she was drinking. Sweet, dark, complex.
Her thighs clamp around my head as I work. Three hundred and fifty pounds of flesh surrounding me, suffocating me, demanding my devotion. I tongue her clit, her folds, dive as deep as I can go.
"Yes." Her hand finds my hair. "Your cousin Marcus cried at this point. Thomas nearly fled. But you... you're different."
I don't stop. I can't stop. I'm lost in her—in her weight, her warmth, her overwhelming presence.
"Make me come," she demands. "Prove you're worthy of Beaumont blood."
I prove it.
She comes like an earthquake.
Her whole body shakes—layers of flesh rippling, thighs crushing, voice filling the room with a cry that's half pleasure, half triumph. I stay where I am, tongue still working, until she pushes me away.
"Acceptable." She's breathing hard. "Now. The true tribute."
She gestures to the bed.
"Take me. As a man takes his queen. Show me what you offer this family."
I climb onto the bed.
She arranges herself—on her back, legs spread, breasts pooling to either side. I position myself above her, and for a moment I hesitate.
This is my great-aunt. Sixty-eight years old. Three hundred and fifty pounds.
This is wrong.
This is the most powerful I've ever felt.
I push inside her.
She's tighter than I expected.
Wet, hot, gripping. She moans when I enter her—not the calculating sound of before, but something genuine, surprised.
"Yes—" Her hands find my back. "That's it. That's what I need—"
I thrust deeper. Harder. Her body absorbs me—flesh surrounding me on all sides, warmth radiating into my bones. She's everywhere. She's everything.
"Claim me," she demands. "Claim your birthright—"
I claim her.
When I come inside her, she holds me there.
Legs wrapped around my waist—barely, given her size. Arms around my shoulders. Face against my neck, breathing hard.
"Worthy," she whispers. "You're worthy."
She releases me. I collapse beside her on the bed.
"Your inheritance will be transferred by morning," she says. Her voice is back to normal—commanding, controlled. "You've done well, William. Better than the others."
"Thank you, Matriarch."
"Marguerite." She turns her head to look at me. "In this room, you've earned my name."
I don't know what to say.
"There is one more thing," she continues.
"What?"
"The tradition doesn't end with one night." She smiles. "It begins."
One Year Later
I visit the estate once a month.
Not because I have to. My inheritance is secure, my place in the family confirmed. I visit because I want to.
Because Marguerite calls me her favorite.
Because no one else in the family knows that I've become more than an heir.
I've become her consort.
And when she dies—in ten years, or twenty, or thirty—I'll become the patriarch.
The one who receives the tributes.
The one who rules the family.
She's already started training me.
And I'm a devoted student.