I Was Their Only Solution

The summer heat had settled over the valley like a thick, wet blanket, turning the old farmhouse into a sweltering cage that trapped every breath of stagnant air. I'd just turned twenty-one, home from my sophomore year at state college, and the humidity had already begun to work its particular magic on the women in my family. By magic, I mean that peculiar looseness that came over them when the thermometer climbed past ninety degrees—a casualness about clothing, about boundaries, about the things that were supposed to keep us civilized and separate.

I was in the kitchen, shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of worn basketball shorts that hung low on my hips, when Aunt Bernice let herself in through the back screen door. The slam of the wood frame against the jamb made me turn from the refrigerator, where I'd been contemplating the last of the iced tea.

"Marcus, honey, is your mama home?" she asked, her voice carrying that honeyed drawl she'd never lost despite living in the North for twenty years.

Bernice was my mother's older sister by three years, fifty-two and widowed for the past eighteen months after Uncle Ray's heart finally gave out. Where my mother had kept her figure trim and athletic through daily walks and yoga videos, Bernice had embraced the softness that middle age offered. She was what the online forums I'd been visiting called a BBW—a big beautiful woman—with hips that spread wide and heavy, thighs that rubbed together when she walked, and breasts that had long since surrendered to gravity's persistent pull.

She wore a sundress today, thin cotton in a faded floral pattern, and I could see the dark circles of her areolas pressing against the fabric, unsubtle as punctuation marks. She wasn't wearing a bra. In this heat, none of the women in my family bothered with such formalities.

"She's out at the garden center, Aunt Bernie," I said, closing the refrigerator and turning to face her fully. "Said something about needing mulch before the afternoon storms roll in. Should be back in an hour or so."

Bernice fanned herself with a folded envelope she'd pulled from her purse, her ample chest rising and falling with each exaggerated breath. "Lord, it's hot as Hades out there. I walked over from my place thinking the exercise would do me good, but I'm about melted into a puddle."

I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice from the freezer dispenser, then poured the tea over the cubes. "Here, drink this. You look like you need cooling down."

She took the glass with a grateful smile, her fingers brushing mine in a way that might have been accidental or might not. Bernice had always been tactile, a toucher and a hugger, but since Ray's death, there'd been something different in the way she looked at me. Something that lingered a beat too long, that assessed and calculated in ways that made my skin feel tight.

"You're a sweet boy, Marcus," she said, draining half the glass in one long swallow. A drop of condensation ran down the side and dripped onto her cleavage, disappearing into the valley between her heavy breasts. I tried not to watch it, and failed. "A real sweet boy. Your mama raised you right."

"I'm not a boy anymore, Aunt Bernie," I said, and immediately wished I hadn't. The words hung in the air between us, charged and crackling like the electricity before a thunderstorm.

Her eyes met mine, and there was no mistaking the heat in them now. "No," she said softly. "No, I suppose you're not. Twenty-one years old. All grown up and filled out." Her gaze traveled down my bare chest, lingering on the definition of my abs, the trail of dark hair that disappeared below the waistband of my shorts. "Ray was about your age when I married him. Did you know that? Twenty-two. I was twenty-five, and I thought I was so much older, so much wiser. But I knew what I wanted."

The kitchen seemed to have grown smaller, the air thicker. I could smell her perfume, something floral and musky, mixed now with the honest scent of her sweat. "What did you want?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I'd intended.

Bernice set the glass down on the counter with a deliberate click. She took a step toward me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off her skin, could see the individual beads of perspiration on her upper lip. "I wanted a man who knew how to take care of a woman," she said. "A man who understood that sometimes a woman gets lonely, Marcus. Sometimes she gets so lonely she aches with it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I understood. God help me, I understood perfectly. I'd been reading the signals for months now—the way she'd started finding reasons to be alone with me, the accidental brushes against my arm or my thigh, the way she'd started dressing more revealingly when she knew I'd be around. It was a language older than words, the dialect of desire spoken by women who'd been denied too long.

"My shoulder's been killing me," she said abruptly, changing the subject but not the temperature of the room. "I think I slept on it wrong, or maybe it's just old age catching up with me. Your mama mentioned you've been learning massage therapy at school. That true?"

I had been. It was part of my sports medicine curriculum, learning to work out the knots and tensions that athletes accumulated. I'd given my mother a few shoulder rubs after her long days, nothing inappropriate, just filial duty and developing skill. But looking at Bernice now, I knew this wouldn't be the same.

"I know some techniques," I said carefully. "I could try to help."

Her smile was slow and knowing, the smile of a woman who'd played this game before and knew exactly how it ended. "I'd be so grateful, honey. So very grateful. Is there somewhere we could go? Somewhere comfortable?"

I thought of my mother's bed, but that seemed wrong somehow. The living room couch was too exposed, too public. "My room's in the basement," I said. "It's cooler down there. I have a fan."

"Lead the way," Bernice said.

The basement had been converted into a small apartment for me when I'd started college, giving me privacy while keeping me under my mother's roof. I had a bed, a desk, a mini-fridge, and an old massage table I'd picked up at a garage sale for practice. It sat folded in the corner, waiting for exactly this moment or one like it.

Bernice took in the space with a practiced eye, noting the made bed, the tidy desk, the closed blinds that kept the afternoon sun at bay. "Cozy," she pronounced. "Very cozy. Is that what I think it is?"

She was looking at the massage table. I nodded. "For practice. School requirement."

"Well," she said, setting her purse on my desk chair, "I suppose I'm your practice dummy today. Where do you want me?"

I unfolded the table, locking the legs into place, spreading the clean sheet I'd kept over the vinyl surface. "On your stomach to start," I said, trying to sound professional, trying to pretend this was clinical and not something else entirely. "We can work the shoulder from there."

Bernice didn't move to the table immediately. Instead, she reached behind her neck and unzipped her sundress in one smooth motion. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her standing in nothing but a pair of white cotton panties, the kind that rode high on her hips and cut into the flesh just enough to create a tantalizing line of demarcation between pale and tanned skin.

Her body was a map of womanhood, of time and gravity and life. Her breasts hung heavy and pendulous, the nipples large and dark and pointing slightly downward, resting against the swell of her belly. That belly was soft and rounded, marked with the silver lines of pregnancies long past, and below it, her hips flared wide and welcoming. She was magnificent in her nakedness, unashamed and unapologetic.

"Better?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"Better," I managed, my throat dry despite the iced tea I'd been drinking.

She climbed onto the table with surprising grace for a woman of her size, arranging herself on her stomach, her face turned to one side in the cradle, her arms at her sides. I approached with the bottle of almond oil I'd bought for practice, warming it between my palms before I touched her.

Her skin was hot under my hands, slightly damp with perspiration. I started at her neck, working the oil into the tense muscles there, finding the knots that had formed along her spine and pressing into them with my thumbs. She moaned softly, a sound that vibrated through her body and into mine.

"Oh, Marcus," she breathed. "That's heavenly. You have magic hands, baby."

I worked my way down her shoulders, kneading the dense tissue, feeling her relax under my touch. Her back was broad and strong, the flesh yielding but firm beneath the surface. I poured more oil and worked lower, to the small of her back, to the upper swell of her buttocks where her panties cut across the pale flesh.

"Your auntie's been so tense," she murmured. "So wound up. Ray used to help me relax, you know. He knew what I needed."

I said nothing, just continued my work, my hands sliding lower, my thumbs pressing into the crease where back became buttocks. Her panties were soaked through with sweat and something else, I realized, the cotton darkening as my fingers brushed the edges of the fabric.

"Marcus," she said, and there was a new quality to her voice now, husky and urgent. "I think you should take those off. The panties. They're in the way."

My hands stilled. "Aunt Bernie—"

"Don't 'Aunt Bernie' me," she said, lifting her head to look back at me. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with desire. "I'm a woman, Marcus. A woman who's been starving for touch for eighteen months. A woman who sees a beautiful young man standing over her with hands that know exactly what they're doing, and I'm asking—no, I'm begging—for you to help me. Please, baby. Please help your auntie feel good again."

There was no refusing that plea. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulled them down over her hips, over her thighs, letting them drop to the floor. She spread her legs slightly, just enough to give me a view of her most private place, and what I saw made my cock strain painfully against my shorts.

She was hairy, gloriously and unapologetically so. A thick thatch of dark curls covered her mound, spreading down to frame her lips, which were already swollen and glistening with arousal. This was a woman in her prime, in her power, offering herself without shame or reservation.

"Touch me," she whispered. "Please, Marcus. Touch me there."

I poured oil directly onto her lower back, letting it run down into the cleft of her ass, watching it pool and drip down to coat her hairy pussy. My hands followed the oil, sliding down to cup her buttocks, spreading them slightly to reveal the dark star of her anus, then moving lower to where she was wettest and neediest.

She groaned as my fingers found her folds, parting them to expose the slick pink flesh within. She was soaked, her arousal coating my fingers as I stroked her, finding her clit and circling it with deliberate pressure.

"Yes," she hissed, pushing back against my hand. "Yes, baby. Right there. Oh god, right there."

I worked her with one hand while the other continued to massage her ass, kneading the flesh in time with the strokes against her clit. She was panting now, her hips bucking against the table, her heavy breasts swaying beneath her with each movement.

"Turn over," I commanded, my voice rough with my own arousal. "I want to see you."

She rolled onto her back with effort, her body jiggling and settling, her breasts spreading across her chest like warm plates of fresh dough. Her belly rose and fell with her rapid breathing, and between her legs, her hairy cunt was on full display, glistening and open and ready.

I didn't bother with the pretense of massage anymore. I stripped off my shorts, my cock springing free, thick and dark and throbbing with need. Bernice's eyes went wide, then hungry, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

"Oh my," she breathed. "Oh my, Marcus. You're magnificent. Come here, baby. Come let Aunt Bernie take care of you."

I climbed onto the table, straddling her hips, my cock resting against the soft swell of her belly. She reached down and took me in her hand, her grip firm and knowing, stroking me slowly as she looked up at me with eyes that burned.

"So big," she murmured. "So hard. You've been saving this for me, haven't you? Saving this big beautiful cock for your lonely auntie?"

"Yes," I groaned, thrusting into her hand. "God, yes, Bernie."

She guided me lower, positioning me at her entrance, and I pushed forward, sinking into her wet heat with one long, steady thrust. She was tight despite her age and experience, her muscles gripping me as I filled her, her hips lifting to meet me.

"Fuck," I groaned, bottoming out inside her, feeling her cervix kiss the tip of my cock. "Fuck, Bernie, you're so wet."

"For you," she gasped, wrapping her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my ass. "Only for you, baby. Now fuck me. Fuck your auntie like she needs it. Fuck me hard, Marcus. Make me feel alive again."

I did as she asked, pulling back and slamming into her with force that shook the table. Her breasts bounced and swayed with each impact, the sound of our bodies meeting filling the room along with her cries of pleasure. She was loud, uninhibited, her voice rising in pitch as I pounded into her.

"Yes! Yes! Oh god, yes! Harder, baby! Fuck me harder!"

I hammered into her, lost in the sensation of her mature pussy gripping me, the smell of her arousal mixing with the almond oil and sweat, the visual of her soft body yielding to my hardness. She reached up and grabbed her own breasts, pinching her nipples hard, her face contorted in ecstasy.

"Marcus! Oh fuck, Marcus! I'm going to—I'm going to—"

She came with a scream, her body convulsing beneath me, her pussy clamping down on my cock in rhythmic pulses that threatened to milk the cum from me right then. I gritted my teeth and held on, slowing my thrusts to ride out her orgasm, feeling her shake and shudder through the waves of pleasure.

When she finally stilled, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed and satisfied, I was still hard as stone inside her, throbbing with the need for my own release.

"Don't stop," she whispered, reaching up to cup my face. "Don't you dare stop, baby. I want you to cum inside me. I want to feel you fill me up. It's safe, I'm past all that. Just cum, Marcus. Cum deep in your auntie's pussy."

Her words pushed me over the edge. I resumed my thrusting, harder and faster now, chasing my own peak. The table creaked beneath us, the sheet bunching and tearing, but I didn't care. All that mattered was the hot, wet grip of her around me, the sight of her face flushed with pleasure, the knowledge that I was giving this lonely woman exactly what she needed.

"I'm gonna—Bernie, I'm gonna—"

"Do it," she commanded, her legs tightening around me. "Cum inside me, Marcus. Fill your auntie with your hot cum. Give me everything, baby. Everything!"

I exploded, my cock pulsing as I shot rope after rope of thick semen deep into her waiting womb. It seemed to go on forever, my body jerking with each spurt, my vision going white at the edges as pleasure overwhelmed me. She milked me with her muscles, drawing out every drop, her hands roaming my back, my ass, pulling me deeper as I emptied myself into her.

When I finally collapsed onto her, my face buried in her neck, her soft body cushioning me, I felt like I'd run a marathon. Her arms came around me, holding me close, her lips pressing kisses to my sweaty temple.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, baby. Thank you so much."

We lay like that for long minutes, my cock still twitching inside her, our breathing slowly returning to normal. When I finally pulled out, a gush of our combined fluids followed, soaking the sheet beneath her. She didn't seem to care, just smiled up at me with a contentment I hadn't seen on her face since before Uncle Ray died.

"Your mama's going to be home soon," she said eventually, her voice lazy and sated. "We should clean up."

I helped her up, both of us sticky and smelling of sex and oil. She used my shower while I changed the sheets and opened the basement windows to let in fresh air. When she emerged, wrapped in my bathrobe, her hair damp and her face glowing, she looked ten years younger.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, and it was half joke, half serious hope.

"We'll see," I said, though we both knew I wouldn't say no.

She kissed me then, deep and slow, her tongue exploring my mouth with a thoroughness that made my cock stir again despite everything. Then she dressed, gathered her purse, and climbed the stairs with a sway in her step that hadn't been there before.

I was still in the basement, dressed again and trying to focus on coursework, when I heard my mother's car pull into the drive. I went upstairs to help her with the bags of mulch, finding her in the kitchen, flushed from the heat, her tank top clinging to her body.

My mother, Eleanor, was forty-nine and could have passed for a woman fifteen years younger. She kept herself fit with daily yoga and careful eating, her body toned and limber, her skin still smooth and unlined. She wore her dark hair in a practical bob that framed her face, and her eyes—green like mine—sparkled with intelligence and, I was beginning to notice, something else.

"Marcus, you're a lifesaver," she said as I took the heavy bags from her trunk. "It's brutal out there. I think I got heat stroke just loading the car."

She followed me to the garden shed where I stacked the mulch, watching me with an intensity that made the hair on my neck prickle. I'd always been aware that my mother was an attractive woman—I'd heard my friends' comments over the years, seen the way men looked at her when we were out together—but I'd trained myself not to see her that way. After what had just happened with Bernice, though, those walls were crumbling.

"Your aunt called me at the garden center," Mom said casually, leaning against the shed door as I wiped sweat from my forehead. "Said you'd given her a wonderful massage. Said you had real talent."

I froze, my heart hammering. "Did she?"

"Mm-hmm." My mother stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, her deodorant, the faint musk of her own sweat. "Said you knew exactly how to work out her tension. Said she'd never felt so relaxed." Her hand came up, her fingers brushing my bare arm. "I've been so tense lately too, Marcus. So wound up. Do you think you could help your mother the way you helped your aunt?"

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. I looked down at her, at the woman who'd raised me, who'd bandaged my scrapes and cheered at my games, and saw her now as a woman—lonely, hungry, needing the same thing her sister had needed.

"I think I could help you, Mom," I said, my voice steady despite the earthquake happening in my chest. "I think I could help you a lot."

Her smile was radiant, relieved, and full of promise. "Then let's go inside, baby. Let's go inside and see what you can do."

The afternoon storms rolled in as we made our way to her bedroom, the sky darkening, the air electric with the promise of rain. My mother's room was feminine and soft, all pastels and floral patterns, the bed large and inviting with its white comforter and pile of pillows.

She didn't undress immediately. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at me with eyes that were suddenly vulnerable, suddenly young. "I've been alone a long time, Marcus," she said quietly. "Your father... he was a good man, but he wasn't interested in me that way. Not for years before he died. And since then..."

"You've been lonely," I finished, sitting beside her, taking her hand in mine.

"So lonely," she whispered. "And then I see you, my beautiful boy, all grown up and strong and kind, and I think... I think terrible things, Marcus. Things a mother shouldn't think about her son."

"Show me," I said. "Show me what you think about. Let me make it real for you."

She stood then, and with trembling hands, she began to undress. The tank top came off first, revealing a sports bra that flattened her breasts but couldn't hide their shape—high and firm, still defiant against gravity. She peeled off her yoga pants, revealing toned thighs and a pair of bikini panties that left little to the imagination.

"Keep going," I said, my voice thick.

She reached behind her and unhooked the bra, letting it fall away. Her breasts were perfect, I realized, not large like Bernice's but perfectly proportioned, the nipples small and pink and already hard. She pushed down her panties, revealing a neatly trimmed strip of dark hair above her sex, the lips smooth and bare.

"You're beautiful, Mom," I said, and I meant it. She was a vision, a goddess, a woman in her prime offering herself to me.

"Your turn," she said, and her voice had steadied, taken on a note of command.

I stood and stripped, letting her see me fully for the first time since I'd been a child. Her eyes widened as my cock sprang free, already half-hard from watching her, and she licked her lips unconsciously.

"Come here," she whispered, and I went to her, climbing onto the bed, covering her body with mine.

We kissed then, truly kissed, our mouths meeting in a clash of tongues and teeth and need. She tasted like mint and desire, her hands roaming my back, my ass, pulling me closer. I broke the kiss to trail my mouth down her neck, her collarbone, capturing a nipple between my lips and sucking hard.

"Oh god," she moaned, arching into me. "Yes, baby. Suck mommy's tits. Oh god, yes."

I lavished attention on both breasts, marking her skin with my mouth, my hands sliding down to find her wet and ready. She was slick, her arousal coating my fingers as I stroked her, finding her clit and circling it with the same technique that had worked so well on Bernice.

"Marcus! Oh fuck, Marcus!"

She was more vocal than her sister, her cries rising as I worked her, her hips bucking against my hand. I slid a finger inside her, then two, curling them to find the rough patch of her G-spot, stroking her inside while my thumb worked her clit.