Mike's eyes fluttered open, he awoke relaxed and comfortable in the crisp morning, his mind racing with yesterday's events.
Mike stretched his arms above his head, the worn flannel sheets rustling as he took in the unfamiliar ceiling of his aunt's guest room. Morning light filtered through lace curtains, dust motes dancing in the weak December sunbeam that cut across the foot of the bed. He could hear the distant clatter of dishes downstairs, the low murmur of voices, and the faint, tinny melody of a Christmas carol playing somewhere. The scent of pine needles and cinnamon hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of the season. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the events of yesterday – the long drive, the boisterous family dinner, the slightly-too-warm welcome from his cousins – replaying in a pleasant, drowsy haze, but most of all the sensual blowjob from his sexy aunt Julie.
A sharp, rhythmic knock shattered the quiet. Before Mike could even call out, the door creaked open. Riley stood silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the brighter hallway light. "Mike? Are you awake?" she asked, her voice a soft, melodic chime that seemed to resonate in the stillness of the room. She stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her with a soft click.
The thick, cable-knit Christmas sweater she wore was a vibrant red, adorned with festive patterns, its oversized sleeves swallowing her slender hands almost entirely. It hung long, brushing mid-thigh, creating an immediate, jarring contrast to what lay below. From the waist down, she seemed startlingly bare. The weak morning light caught the smooth, pale skin of her legs, all the way down to her bare feet on the cool wooden floor. There were no leggings, no shorts, just the soft curve of her hips and the long, elegant lines of her legs starkly visible beneath the bulky sweater’s hem. She moved with an unnerving fluidity, the sweater swaying slightly with each step as she flowed towards his bed, a vision of festive innocence jarringly juxtaposed with undeniable, almost illicit exposure.
Mike’s gaze snapped from the hemline of the oversized sweater back up to her face, his voice catching slightly, roughened by sleep and sudden, unwelcome awareness. "Are you wearing any pants?" he asked, the words tumbling out before he could filter them, his tone a mixture of disbelief and a forced attempt at casualness. He propped himself higher on his elbows, the worn flannel sheets pooling around his waist. The question hung in the air, thick and awkward, amplifying the intimacy of the quiet room. He could see the faint flush creeping up her neck now, visible even in the soft light, but her expression remained composed, almost serene, her large eyes fixed on him with unnerving directness.
"Of course, silly," Riley murmured, her melodic voice a low, intimate counterpoint to the muffled Christmas carols drifting from downstairs. A small, knowing smile played at the corners of her lips as her hands slid slowly, deliberately, up the bulky fabric of the red sweater. She gathered it inch by inch, revealing a sliver of toned, pale stomach, smooth and taut. The sweater climbed higher, exposing the subtle indent of her navel, the faint curve of her lower ribs, and then, just beneath the swell of her breasts, the stark black waistband of impossibly short shorts. The fabric was so minimal it seemed like little more than a dark ribbon against her skin, the cut high on her hips, leaving the long lines of her thighs completely bare. Her movements were unhurried, almost languid, a deliberate unveiling that held him transfixed.
"Satisfied?" she asked, the word laced with mischief, her eyes sparkling with an unnerving blend of innocence and something far more knowing. The flush on her neck had deepened, blooming into a delicate pink that dusted her cheeks, yet her gaze remained locked on his, unwavering. Before he could formulate a response, she dropped the hem abruptly, the thick sweater falling back into place, instantly restoring the illusion of cozy modesty. "Come on," she chirped, the shift in tone jarringly swift. "Breakfast is almost ready. Aunt Julie made her famous cinnamon rolls." She leaned forward, placing her hands flat on the mattress beside his hip, the oversized sleeves swallowing her arms again. Her face was suddenly inches from his, the scent of vanilla and something uniquely her filling the space between them. "You wouldn't want them to get cold, would you?"
Her fingers, surprisingly strong beneath the soft wool, closed around his forearm. She tugged, not hard, but with a relentless, playful insistence. "Up, up, sleepyhead! The day waits for no one!" Her laughter was light, melodic, but there was an undercurrent of determination in her pull, a refusal to be ignored. The thin strap of the absurdly short black shorts peeked out again as she shifted her weight, bracing one bare knee against the edge of the bed frame for leverage. The warmth of her hand seeped through his pajama sleeve. He could feel the faint tremor in her grip, a subtle counterpoint to her bright tone, betraying a tension she otherwise masked perfectly.
"Okay, okay, stop pulling so hard." Mike surrendered to her assault, a reluctant grin spreading across his face despite the awkward thrum of awareness in his chest. He let her haul him upright, the flannel sheets falling away as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The cool air of the room hit his bare feet. Riley didn’t immediately let go. She stood close, her vanilla scent mingling with the pine and cinnamon, her eyes searching his face with that unnerving directness. Her thumb brushed lightly against the inside of his wrist, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt straight through him. "Much better," she murmured, her voice dropping lower, losing its chirpiness. For a heartbeat, the playful cousin vanished, replaced by something far more complex, a look that held a challenge and an invitation he wasn’t sure how to answer. The flush on her cheeks deepened.
He stood, intending to head towards the dresser where his clothes were folded. Riley took a small step back, but her gaze didn’t waver. It dipped, just for a fraction of a second, lower than his face. A flicker of something unreadable – surprise? Amusement? – crossed her features before her eyes snapped back up to meet his, wide and suddenly a little too innocent. Mike froze, a cold prickle of dread washing over him. He glanced down. The thin cotton of his pajama pants did little to conceal the prominent, rigid outline tenting the fabric at his groin, a stark testament to the confusing mix of her presence, the lingering memory of Aunt Julie, and the abrupt awakening. He hadn’t even registered it, cocooned in the warmth of the bed moments before. Heat flooded his face, hotter and fiercer than Riley’s blush. He instinctively angled his hips away, grabbing a discarded pillow from the bed and clutching it awkwardly in front of him, a flimsy shield against her knowing look.
"Seems like you had a good dream," Riley said, her voice low and smooth as velvet, a world away from her earlier chirpiness. There was no mockery in her tone, only a deep, impressed curiosity that made his skin prickle. Her eyes, dark and intense, held his, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to. The implication hung thickly in the cinnamon-scented air, charged with the intimacy of the closed door and the undeniable evidence pressed against the pillow. She took another deliberate step back towards the door, her movements fluid and unhurried. "I’ll see you downstairs," she continued, her voice regaining a fraction of its lightness, though the knowing glint remained firmly in her eyes. She turned, the bulky red sweater swirling around her bare legs, and slipped out of the room, pulling the door closed with a soft, final click.
Mike stood frozen, the rough texture of the pillowcase digging into his knuckles. Heat radiated from his face, down his neck, flooding his chest. It was a burning shame, hot and prickly, that made the cheerful Christmas carols filtering up from downstairs sound like a cruel joke. He wanted the floor to swallow him whole, to vanish into the worn flannel sheets and never resurface. How could he face her now? Face any of them? The memory of her thumb brushing his wrist, the deliberate hike of her sweater, the unwavering gaze that had dropped and seen everything – it replayed in a mortifying loop. He was trapped, cornered by his own body’s traitorous reaction. The cozy guest room felt suddenly claustrophobic, the festive decorations garish and accusatory.
He took a shuddering breath, forcing his grip on the pillow to relax. Shame coiled tight in his gut, but beneath it, a stubborn defiance flickered. Okay, so he wasn't exactly... average. So what? It wasn't like he'd planned this. It was biology, amplified by the surreal tension Riley radiated and the lingering phantom sensation of Aunt Julie’s mouth from yesterday. He clenched his jaw, pushing the vivid memory away. Dwelling on it now was gasoline on the fire. He needed to get dressed. He needed to act normal. He needed to breathe. He dropped the pillow onto the rumpled bed, refusing to look down again, and strode towards the dresser with stiff, deliberate movements.
The cool air felt like a slap against his skin, momentarily grounding him. He yanked open a drawer, grabbing the first pair of shorts and a thin flannel shirt he found. He pulled the shorts on quickly, the rough fabric providing a welcome barrier, though the persistent length remained. He adjusted himself carefully, shifting the rigid weight to lie as flat as possible against his thigh beneath the heavy fabric. It wasn't perfect, but it was hidden. The flannel shirt came next, buttoned swiftly over his plain white tee. He focused on each mundane task, willing the frantic pulse in his temples to slow. He splashed cold water on his face at the small ensuite sink, the shock helping to dull the heat in his cheeks. He stared at his reflection: damp hair plastered to his forehead, eyes still wide with residual panic. Get it together, Mike, he told himself sternly. Just act like nothing happened.
He took the stairs slowly, deliberately, each creaking step a chance to compose himself. The scent of cinnamon rolls intensified, warm and sugary, mixing with the pine. Laughter drifted from the kitchen. He rounded the corner into the warm, bright space. Aunt Julie stood at the stove, humming along to "Jingle Bell Rock" playing softly on the radio. Riley was already perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, legs crossed, sipping orange juice. She met his eyes immediately, a slow, secretive smile spreading across her face before she deliberately looked away. Mike felt his ears burn.
Then he saw Samantha. She stood near the laden counter, her back to him. She wore an oversized green Christmas sweater, thick and festive. It hung long, brushing mid-thigh, just like Riley’s had. She was bent forward at the waist, reaching for a cinnamon roll on a platter at the far edge of the counter. The movement stretched the bulky green wool taut across her back, then plunged it dramatically upwards as she leaned. The hemline rode high, revealing the backs of her thighs completely. And just like Riley, beneath the festive sweater, she wore only the barest scrap of black shorts – tiny, high-cut things that barely covered the swell of her ass. The smooth skin of her legs, from the backs of her knees all the way up to where the shorts disappeared under the sweater, was fully exposed in the morning light. She held the pose for a beat too long, fingers hovering over the pastry.
Aunt Julie turned from the stove, a steaming mug in hand. She wore a fitted red sweater that hugged her curves and a pair of soft-looking grey leggings. Her gaze swept over Mike, lingering for a fraction of a second before landing on Samantha’s bent form. "Sam, honey, those are for everyone," Julie said, her voice warm but firm. "Leave some for your cousin." Samantha straightened abruptly, the green sweater falling back into place. She turned, holding the cinnamon roll aloft. Her eyes, a startling blue, met Mike’s. There was no flush, no awkwardness. Just a slow, deliberate smile as she took a large bite, her gaze never leaving his face. Powdered sugar dusted her lips.
The kitchen buzzed with the low murmur of Mike’s mother, Uncle Robert, and Aunt Harriet discussing travel plans over coffee. Robert’s deep chuckle rumbled as he recounted a near-miss with holiday traffic. Harriet nodded absently, her eyes flicking between Samantha and Mike with a faint, unreadable tightening around her mouth. Two younger cousins, maybe ten and twelve, darted underfoot chasing a yapping terrier, their laughter sharp counterpoints to the adults’ steady drone. The air thickened with the scent of coffee, caramelized sugar, and pine. Mike hovered near the doorway, feeling like an intruder.
His mother, perched on the edge of the floral armchair near the crackling fireplace, finally noticed his stillness. She tilted her head, her warm brown eyes sweeping over his flannel shirt and shorts. "Mike, honey," she called out, her voice cutting through the kitchen’s symphony. She gestured vaguely at the room – the twinkling lights on the mantel, the garland-draped staircase, the children’s reindeer antlers. "Why aren’t you being festive like the rest of us?" Her tone held gentle chiding, but her gaze was probing, lingering on his tense posture. "You look like you’re waiting for jury duty, not Christmas cinnamon rolls." A small, concerned frown touched her lips as she took in his flushed face, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe.
Before Mike could formulate a response – a mumbled excuse about needing coffee, perhaps – Samantha moved. She was beside him in two fluid strides, her bare legs silent on the hardwood. Her fingers closed around his forearm, cool and firm, just above his wrist. Her touch was startlingly direct, a contrast to Riley’s earlier playful tugging. "Aunt Demi is right," Samantha declared, her voice bright and carrying easily over the kitchen din. Her blue eyes locked onto his, holding an unnerving steadiness. "You need proper Christmas spirit." Her other hand gestured dismissively at his flannel shirt. "And that," she stated with a playful smirk, "is not it." There was a challenge in her gaze, a spark that dared him to resist.
"Come," she insisted, her grip tightening just enough to pull him off-balance. She didn't wait for agreement, already turning and leading him towards the hallway, away from the warmth and noise of the kitchen. "I’ve got the best sweater for you." She threw the words over her shoulder, her voice dropping slightly, becoming conspiratorial. "Found it in the attic yesterday. Vintage. Totally your style." Her bare thigh brushed against his pajama pants as she steered him, a fleeting, electric contact. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo – something citrusy – mixed with the lingering sweetness of the cinnamon roll. The bulky green sweater swayed with her movements, the hem riding up again in the back, revealing the stark black shorts and the smooth curve beneath.
They reached her room, the door already ajar. Samantha released his arm and slipped inside, leaving him hovering on the threshold. Her room was a chaotic blend of teenage clutter and festive cheer – clothes draped over a chair, posters on the wall, strings of fairy lights twinkling over the headboard. Near the foot of her unmade bed sat an open cardboard box overflowing with tangled Christmas decorations and folded sweaters.
"It’s in here somewhere," she announced, bending forward at the waist, her back to him as she rummaged through the box. The oversized green sweater stretched taut across her shoulders, then plunged dramatically upwards as she leaned deep. The hem rode impossibly high, exposing the full, perfect swell of her ass barely contained by the minuscule black shorts. The fabric dug into the soft flesh, creating a stark contrast against the pale skin of her upper thighs and the smooth curve below. Mike’s breath hitched. The sight was deliberate, vulnerable, and utterly captivating. His hands twitched at his sides, a primal urge to reach out and grasp that tempting curve warring violently with every shred of self-control he possessed. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, forcing his gaze upwards to the fairy lights, the posters – anything but the hypnotic display.
She stood back up abruptly, holding a thick, folded bundle. “Here.” Samantha shook it out with a flourish, revealing a chunky, cable-knit sweater in a vibrant royal blue. Embroidered across the chest was Santa Claus in his sleigh, pulled by all eight reindeer rendered in slightly garish, fuzzy yarn. "Vintage," she declared, her eyes sparkling with amusement and something else – a challenge. "Totally your style." She held it out towards him, the bulky wool dwarfing her slender frame. Her gaze dropped pointedly, lingering for a fraction of a second on the front of his shorts before snapping back up to his face. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips, echoing Riley’s earlier look. "You should try it on. Right now." Her tone was light, playful, but the command beneath it was unmistakable. The air crackled, thick with the scent of dust from the box, her citrus shampoo, and the unspoken tension.
Mike hesitated, acutely aware of the persistent rigidity beneath his shorts. Taking off the flannel shirt felt like stripping away a shield. But Samantha’s expectant gaze pinned him. Refusing would draw more attention, make the moment heavier. He forced a casual shrug. "Sure, why not?" His voice sounded rough. He removed the flannel shirt slowly, deliberately, keeping his movements measured. He shrugged it off, revealing the plain white tee underneath. The cool air of the room hit his bare arms, raising goosebumps. He felt Samantha’s eyes tracing...
