TAKEN ON THANKSGIVING
ANNABELLE WINTERS
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Copyright © 2019 by Annabelle Winters
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TAKEN ON THANKSGIVING
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
AMY
“You can do Thanksgiving with us,” said Mrs. Rafferty when I mentioned that Mom had cancelled her visit because she had a new boyfriend and it was too early in their relationship to let him know about me.
“And what about me is so unmentionable?” I’d demanded over the phone when Mom told me this enlightening (and deeply disturbing, btw . . .) news. “Have you seriously not told your new live-in boyfriend that you have a thirty-three year old daughter?! What, does he think you’re a virgin or something?”
“I’m a born-again virgin for him,” Mom had said, almost making me puke at the thought. “Just like Madonna in that song.”
That conversation did not end well. But I love Mom, and I reminded myself that this was the time of year to be grateful and not pissed off and selfish. So I’d taken several long breaths, trying to breathe through my diaphragm and not my chest, just like I saw in some meditation video. It didn’t work because I don’t think I have a diaphragm. A whole lotta boob and a helluva lotta butt, but no discernible diaphragm. Thanks a lot, Mom. See, I’m grateful!
I’d slammed the door so hard on my way to work that morning that I swear the entire neighborhood shook from the impact. It doesn’t help that my house is on a lot the size of a kiddie-pool, with a rickety wooden frame that shakes every time I use the damned stairs. But it’s a house, and it’s mine. All mine. Mine and the bank’s.
“Wanna talk about it, dear?” Mrs. Rafferty had called out from her front porch across the street, where she sits every morning with a steaming cup of orange-pekoe tea and a long white cigarette in an elegant cigarette-holder that I think was hand-made in like the 1920s. She’d blown a cloud of white smoke into the crisp November air and smiled, showing off those startling white teeth that make no sense given how much tea and nicotine she seems to consume.
“Yes, but I can’t,” I’d called out to her, yanking open the door of my little Honda hatchback and glancing at the time. I’d tried to slam my cup of coffee into the undersized cup-holder (why does everything in my life seem rickety and undersized . . .) but the cup-holder was still holding yesterday’s cup of half-drunk, sickeningly congealed coffee (since I’m so fucking together and organized . . .) and a moment later both cups of coffee spilled all over my empty passenger seat.
“Motherfu—” I started to say, the swear-word catching in my throat when I saw Mrs. Raff watching me like she was amused at the sad state of my life. I’d sighed, shaken my head, and then rolled my ass out of the car and crossed the street. A minute later I called work and told them I’d be late (despite all the chaos and madness in my private life, I’m never late to work, so they were cool with it). And a minute after that I was letting loose to Mrs. Raff about how Mom had basically ditched me for some dude who makes her feel like a virgin again.
“Sex is fundamental to life,” Mrs. Raff had said, dragging on her cigarette and narrowing her gray eyes at me through the smoke like this was the moment in the movie when the Oracle predicts my future. “Even worms have sex, you know.”
“Yes, I’m sure worms have sex,” I’d said with a half-frown, half-smile, glancing down at Mrs. Raff’s teacup and wondering if it was mostly whiskey. “Because they don’t have a mortgage to pay and a time-clock to punch. Speaking of which . . .” I’d looked at my smartwatch and sighed. Pulse-rate too high. Seconds ticking by too fast. It’s like my life is counting down to something . . . to my lonely death maybe.
Or my destiny, came the strangely melancholic thought from somewhere in the back of my frazzled mind as I kept staring at my watch, Mrs. Raff’s cigarette smoke swirling around me like she was casting a spell or something.
“So you’re coming to our house for Thanksgiving,” she’d said out of the blue as I pushed away the strange thought, glanced once more at her teacup, and then turned back to my car, my job, my lonely little life.
“What?” I’d said, blinking and feeling my heart jump in delight. I’ve always gotten along with the Raffs, but they’ve never invited me over. Actually, they’ve never even invited me into their house. Just the porch. Never past the threshold. Maybe they think I’m a vampire. Nah. I’m too curvy to be a vampire. Vampires are skinny as hell, right? That liquid blood-diet. Slurp, slurp, swallow!
Maybe the Raffs are vampires, I’d thought briefly as I turned back and saw Mrs. Raff’s wiry old frame surrounded by white smoke, those startling white teeth still giving me pause. No fangs, though. We’re good.
“Sure,” I’d said before I had a chance to talk myself out of it. A part of me had sorta decided to sit at home and binge on Chinese food and Netflix (just like the Pilgrims . . .), but I couldn’t turn down the invitation. It’s like something inside me wouldn’t let me turn down the invitation. I’d thought about the string of coincidences that morning leading up to that invitation, that strange feeling of destiny, the sense that this Thanksgiving might be about more than just the turkey . . .
“Great,” said Mrs. Raff, taking the last drag of her smoke and flicking it elegantly into a flower-pot that was now an ashtray. “You’ll have to do the turkey, though. I have no fucking idea how to cook one.”
2
ANGUS
“Never saw a fucking turkey before I came to America,” I say to the prison guard as he comes back to the counter with the bin of my meager personal effects—which are ten years old now. “We don’t have those buggers back in Australia.”
“Kangaroos, right?” says the guard, blinking as he cranes his neck up and smiles at me. Most people have to look up to make eye contact with me. I’m a big motherfucker, and that’s the singular reason I made it through ten years in the slammer. This place is the goddamn jungle, and size wins in the jungle. People leave you alone when you're twice their size, which is just fucking fine with me. Been alone my whole life so far, and probably will be alone the rest of it too.
“Yeah, kangaroos,” I grunt as I squint down at the bin of my crap. A battered leather wallet. A broken metal watch. And the only thing I give a shit about: My grandmother’s ring. Her wedding ring.
“It’s all there, Angus,” says the guard softly, his old eyes warm and almost teary, like he’s sad to see me leave this shithole of a prison. “I make sure no one messes with the inmates’ stuff while they’re doin’ time. For some folks, this is everything they have.”
I nod, pocketing the wallet without bothering to even count the money inside. The watch is gonna get tossed on my way out. But the ring . . .
I nod again as I pick up that old wedding ring and squint at the diamond. It’s a small diamond, but it’s real. The only real thing in my life. Everything else has seemed like a dream. A bad dream. A fucking nightmare.
“Thanks, Gary,” I say with a warmth that surprises me. I’ve always been a cold-hearted motherfucker, but maybe ten years behind bars softened me up a bit. Maybe it even broke me.
I feel a wave of uncertainty pass through me as I walk towards the prison g
ates. Now I understand what “institutionalization” means, when the prospect of facing the outside world scares the fuck out of a man who’s been locked up so long he wouldn’t know what to do with freedom. That fear is what lands most ex-cons back in jail within a year. I know this because I read it in some article in the prison library.
And I’d decided that no way this fucking happens to me.
But the fear is real, and it slithers through me like a snake as I stand motionless, my hard, ripped body tensing up as the second set of gates slides open with a metallic screech that sends shivers up my back. In a few minutes I’ll be a free man. Free after ten years.
Free to eat what I want, drink what I want, go where I want.
And oh yeah: Free to fuck what I want.
I growl under my breath as my fists clench so hard I almost crush that diamond ring I’m still holding. Ten years without a woman. Ten years without feeling a warm cunt around my thick cock. Ten years without feeling like . . . like a fucking man!
My eyes glaze over as a fever rises up in my hard, chiseled frame. I channeled every ounce of my sex-drive back into myself. I worked out like a goddamn beast, a man on a mission, a soldier preparing for battle. And I never fucking pleasured myself. Never jerked off like a goddamn schoolboy. I held it all in when the other inmates were doing whatever they needed to do to get through their time. I don’t know how I had the strength and self-control to stop myself from starching my sheets like a horny teenager—it’s not like I had any self-control before I got locked up. Hell, I was fucking anything with a pussy back then! My Aussie accent and hard jawline would kill at the bars at closing time!
I grin and shake my head as I try to think back to those women in my past. I can’t remember a single face, let alone a name. They were all meaningless, it occurs to me as I sigh and shake my head again. I take a breath as the crisp outside air makes its way to my lungs, and I shudder as I realize this is happening, this is really fucking happening!
I’m free.
I’m free, and it’s scary as hell.
My mind swirls as I step outside the prison gates and stand there alone, almost bewildered. The sky is cloudless, the air cold and dry. I was arrested in summer, and I don’t even have a coat, I realize with a grin. Just a black t-shirt and a thick denim shirt that I’m pretty sure is out of style by now. My boots are still warm, though, and that’s enough. Have boots, will travel.
There’s a bus-stop across from the prison, and I look at my watch as if it actually works. Doesn’t matter. There’s just one bus that stops here, and I got no choice but to wait for it. Good. It’ll give me some time to figure out what the fuck I’m gonna do when I get to town!
My cock moves again as I cross the empty street and get to the bus-stop. I’ve thought a million times about what I’m gonna do when I get out: Get a job, get a place, and then see what shows up in my life.
See who shows up in my life, comes the thought as the needs of my body surge through my rippling frame once again, like stepping out of my prison is awakening those needs that couldn’t be satisfied behind bars. I’m not surprised. And I’m not unprepared.
I grunt as I reach into my pocket for the slip of paper that one of my inmate-buddies gave me last week.
“Best little whorehouse in town,” he’d said with a grin. “They specialize in re-acquainting ex-cons with the outside world. Clean girls, tight pussies, and if you drop my name they’ll give ya ten percent off.”
I grunt again as I reach into my other pocket. I pull out my wallet and count the cash I got left. Enough for a bus ticket and a few meals. Of course, I still got an old bank account with a few hundred dollars in it—enough to get me a few weeks at a shitty motel until I get a job and my first paycheck. Oh yeah, and enough to get my cock “re-acquainted” with a clean, tight, warm pussy.
I look at the address for the whorehouse again as I stuff my wallet back into my jeans. My cock still feels heavy and hard, my balls full and tight, my need rising as the prospect of satisfying it gets closer. But then I feel some more paper in my pocket, and I frown and pull it out.
“Huh,” I say, holding up the envelope that I only just remember was the last bit of mail the prison-guard handed me along with my stuff. I usually toss my mail away unopened—it’s all junk mail or old bills that ain’t getting paid. But this has a hand-written address on it, and when I look at the return address my big bushy eyebrows rise as I recognize the name.
“Aunt Raff,” I mutter, blinking as I rip open the envelope and read through the short letter feverishly fast, a strange excitement ripping through me as I shake my head and keep muttering. Aunt Raff is my mom’s sister, and although I’d always known she lived in America, I haven’t seen or heard from her since my Aussie ass landed here a decade ago. How the fuck did she know I was in prison? How the fuck did she know I was getting out?
“And why the fuck would she invite me to her house?” I whisper as that strange feeling takes over my body like a drug, a feeling of anticipation, of optimism, hope for the future. A feeling of fate. Of fucking destiny. “Invite me to her house for . . .”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” comes a voice through my swirling head, and when I look up from the letter I see that the bus is here, the door is open, and the driver is smiling warmly at me from his perch at the wheel. “You got plans for Turkey-Day?”
I glance down at that letter again, and then I just grin and nod. “Yeah, mate,” I say as I step onto the bus, that feeling of destiny somehow combining with the yearning I feel in my goddamn cock, like it’s all rolled into one, like there’s gonna be more than turkey waiting for me at this Thanksgiving table. “Yeah, I got plans.”
And as I take a seat in the empty bus, I smile as I look out the window and see that I’ve dropped the piece of paper with the whorehouse’s address on it. That isn’t for me, comes the thought as I shake my head at this odd feeling of raging excitement that’s making my heart sing like a bird, making my cock dance like a dervish, making my balls thrum between my legs in perfect time to the bumps and bounces of the bus.
Fuck yeah, I got plans, I think as a confident smile breaks on my big face and I stare at the cold blue sky, a solitary bird making its way towards the horizon like it knows exactly where it’s going, where its future lies, where its destiny lives.
3
AMY
“I live across the street,” I say, tugging on my sweater and shifting in my chair as I try not to make eye contact with the strangely silent man who’s apparently Mrs. Raff’s nephew or something. Of course, it’s hard not to make eye contact with him when the guy’s barely stopped staring at me!
I blink and swallow, tugging at my sweater again as I wonder if it’s really hot in here or if it’s just hot in me! I want to take off my sweater, but I don’t want to send this guy any signals. As it is he’s been staring at my boobs like he wants to take them in his mouth and—
“And I had plans for Thanksgiving, but then Mom cancelled on me,” I say, talking fast as I feel the tension rise in me along with the heat. I’m babbling, I know. But I need to keep talking so I don’t lose myself in those deep green eyes of the man across the table from me, a man so big he makes the room feel small, makes me feel small. He’s got thick dark hair, a heavy beard with streaks of silver, high cheekbones that are a sculptor’s dream, full, thick lips that are dark red and fixed in a lazy smile that oozes a confidence that makes my nipples perk up, makes my clit tingle, makes my butt tighten as I swallow hard and try to figure out what’s happening here. “And so I’m here!” I blink and look over at the Raffs. “Thank you so much for inviting me!”
“Yeah, thank you for inviting her, Aunt Raff,” says the giant sitting across the table from me. It’s the first thing he’s said since our brief introduction—though when I think back to it, he didn’t do more than grunt when Mrs. Raff said he was her nephew Angus, visiting from Australia. “Because I know y
ou can’t cook for shit.”
The joke bursts the tension like a balloon being popped, and I snort with laughter, my body leaning forward with a mixture of delight and relief. I don’t know why I’m relieved at first, and it’s only when I see Angus narrow those green eyes and shamelessly glance at my cleavage as I leaned forward that I acknowledge the sexual tension between me and this man. I’ve always been a large woman, with strong curves and the booty to match. I’m confident, and I know I draw looks from men. But sadly it’s mostly men I have no interest in letting into my life. Certainly no interest in letting into my bed.
Or letting between my legs.
I gasp as an image of Angus pushing his big bearded face between my thick thighs pops into my head just as the oven goes “Ding!” in the kitchen! I can barely move as I stare into his eyes, and I’m somehow certain he’s imagining the same thing. I see him lick those red lips, sense his broad shoulders tense up, his massive chest rise and fall as his breathing quickens.
And then it happens.
The table moves.
Yes.
The entire fucking table rises up from Angus’s side, and I almost pass out when I understand why.
“Ohmygod, excuse me!” I say hurriedly, my voice coming out high-pitched and strained as I try to tell myself that there’s no way this man just got so damned erect that he raised the freakin’ dining table with his cock. “The turkey’s done!”
I almost trip over my own feet as I rush to the kitchen. I did the turkey, just like Mrs. Raff asked, and thank heavens it got done just in time to save me from . . . from what?
I’m almost overwhelmed with heat as I take deep breaths, inhaling the aroma of roasted turkey, hot gravy, moist stuffing, and the whispers of the wild rice bubbling on the stove. The smell of comfort-food calms my nerves, but my heat is still flowing through me, and I realize I’m starting to perspire under this dratted sweater.
Taken on Thanksgiving Page 1
