Friendsgiving Blizzard

My shoulders and legs ached, and my lungs burned as I mounted the final flight of stairs. The heavy grocery bags scraped law across the hallway carpet as I hurried towards my door. In my coat pocket, I could feel the vibration of my ringing phone, frantically juggling bags and directing my keys into the lock. I set a couple bags down in the hall and felt the latch mercifully give way, then I pushed the door open with my hip, dropping the remaining parcels on the floor of the entryway and snatching my phone just in time to catch my mother's call.

"Sarah?" My mom sounded surprised that I had answered.

"Hey mom! Sorry, just getting home from the store." The door swung shut with an unrestrained *BANG* in the background as I spoke between heavy sucks of air. With my free hand, I started moving bags from the hallway to the kitchen as we talked.

"Honey, you sound out of breath! Is everything alright? Would you like me to call you back?"

"Yeah, no, I'm fine. It's just that eighteen-pound turkeys... uh, weigh eighteen pounds, ya know?" I rotated my throbbing arm in its socket to emphasize my point. I heard her collecting her breath on the other end and winced in anticipation of inevitable bad news.

"Sarah, I really hope you didn't go to too much trouble... Umm, I don't know if you've been paying attention to the weather..." I hung my head, standing in my kitchen amongst the grocery bags. The looming winter storm that threatened to cripple the region had been front page news since the weekend. "With that blizzard coming through tonight, your father and I aren't going to be able to make it. They canceled our flight half an hour ago... we're really sorry, honey."

I surveyed the aborted holiday feast lying at my feet. My parents were supposed to celebrate Thanksgiving at my place, their first visit since I'd moved into this apartment. However, with the forecast for a "once in a century blizzard", their flight had joined the growing list of casualties across the region. Worse still, John was marooned on the West Coast after the same storm had canceled his return flight from a business trip.

"God... That stinks, but I understand, Mom. It's just... you know, I was really looking forward to seeing you guys. It's been so long since we got to spend Thanksgiving together, and I just bought all this food." I paused to steady my voice. "And with John stranded, too, now I'm worried I'll be all alone for the holiday."

"Oh honey, you have so many nice friends there. I'm sure you know people in a similar pickle." My exaggerated descriptions of my social circle gave my mother comfort, but I was still concerned. "Do you want to talk to your father? Oh! Never mind, he just walked out to the garage. Honey, I have to let you go. The dog needs to go out and I'm sure you're very busy. Love you!"

"Love you too, mom." I hung up and nudged a sack of red-skinned potatoes with the toe of my ballet flat. I hadn't even gotten to take my coat off in the time it took my holiday plans to disintegrate. Letting out a shallow sigh, I began putting away the boxes, bags, and cans of a meal that might have no one to eat it. A solid knock at my door stirred me from the kitchen and I hurried through the living room to the entrance.

I peered through the peephole and spied the large, handsome, black form of my neighbor, Malcolm. He spied my shadow behind the glass and greeted me through the door. "Hey! Sarah! It's Malcolm! Either you forgot some groceries out here, or a secret admirer left you a huge turkey." He radiated his always friendly smile as I opened the door, realizing I hadn't locked it when I rushed in minutes earlier.

"Oh my God, thank you!" I took the bag containing the heavy frozen bird from him as I explained. "My mom called me right as I was getting home and I couldn't carry everything, open the door, and answer the phone at the same time." Malcolm's broad frame filled my doorway as he read my expression; my disappointment over my parents' cancelation showed through my bogus cheer as I spoke.

"Everything cool with your parents? They aren't having trouble with the storm, are they?"

I sniffed away a stray, frustrated tear. "Yeah... no, she was actually calling to let me know that their flight was canceled so they can't make it."

"Damn! That sucks, I'm sorry!"

"And John told me earlier today that he's stuck in San Diego. And that's after he decided not to take a flight Monday because he wanted to visit with some college friends who live out there. So... I guess I'll have to donate all this food I just bought, because I won't eat it, and I don't want it to go to waste." I was babbling, dumping the full weight of my afternoon's emotional toll onto poor, friendly Malcolm. He smiled considerately as he listened, then, when I was done, shared his own tale of holiday weather-woe.

"No, really, this storm is super serious. It sucks about your parents and John; I actually had my flight home canceled earlier today." He cast a diagnostic glance at the bird in my bag. "Donating food would obviously be really nice, but if you wanted, it could be fun to do our own 'Friendsgiving' for blizzard exiles, you know?"

He grinned widely while I considered his idea. I had been craving turkey and sides (and even more, the leftovers!) for weeks since my family had made our plans. My apartment was filled with all the makings of a holiday feast, and Malcolm was in a similarly tough and lonely spot due to the weather.

"That actually sounds really nice! But you'll need to pull your own weight and bring pie! That's all I'm missing."

Malcolm's grin widened. "Pie is my specialty... as long as I can get someone else to do the baking." He winked. "So, another question: can I bring my coworker, Anthony? He's a model who works with our magazine and he mentioned today that his family canceled; they can't to drive up. Same deal, the storm is shutting down the interstate and screwed up their plans."

The eighteen-pound turkey in my bag tugged at my arm as a reminder of its surplus. "Yes, of course! The more the merrier, right?" I smiled invitingly, happy to be bonding with new friends in the face of a region-wide crisis. "But another guest means you have to bring another pie!"

Malcolm nodded his thanks and headed home. Shutting the door, I hauled the enormous turkey into the fridge, then set about putting away the rest of my groceries. Spotting a text flash on my phone screen, I was distracted and caught the lip of a jar on the edge of a shelf. The glass slipped from my fingers, and I watched in slow motion as it fell to the counter. Shielding my body with my outstretched hands and arms, I felt the spray of glass shards and gravy splatter across my palms and the stomach of my yellow button-down.

"Fuck!" I shouted, automatically ripping off the soiled shirt in the middle of my kitchen. This was not the first time I had stripped on impulse in my kitchen after dirtying a shirt or pants. "Clearly, I've lived alone for too long," I thought to myself with a laugh as I mopped up the mess in my white lace bra. I reminded myself not to repeat that involuntary action tomorrow while guests were around; John would joke that such a slip-up was inevitable.

Determining that I needed to chill out, I poured a glass of wine and started cleaning my apartment for company. Relieved at finding substitute plans, I barely got annoyed when John ended our text conversation later that night by saying he had to leave to meet 'Jennifer'.

Thanksgiving morning, I awoke and went to the gym, as I would on any morning of a day-off. I was feeling slightly anxious at my hostess tasks, and as was often the case, my stress was manifesting itself as a tingling excitement in the pit of my stomach and a naughty warming between my legs. 'If John were here, I'd give him a special wake-up and treat myself to a post-workout protein shake!' I thought dirtily. Nibbling my bottom lip, I texted him that thought, trying to kickstart a quick sexting session, but his responses were groggy and unenthusiastic. He blamed a late night and the time difference; I tersely told him to get some rest, and that I needed to get ready for my company without elaborating. Dissatisfied, I got in the shower, switching on the cold water at the end trying to quell the bustle in my loins. I needed to concentrate; the monstrous bird on my kitchen counter beckoned, and as the holiday morning lapsed towards one, I finally slid the teeming roasting pan into the oven.

Outside, the snowstorm continued to intensify, whipping at my windows and whiting-out my view until I could barely see the office building across the street. Inside my warm apartment, I was dressed in only a pair of tiny cotton shorts and a thin white t-shirt, feeling my perky tits bounce as I rearranged my living room furniture to accommodate a small folding table and chairs. I made certain that the lines-of-sight from the couches to the TV were clear, since, aside from going back for seconds, the best Thanksgiving tradition is, of course, football.

As the one o'clock hour grew old, I tossed my flimsy cleaning outfit in the hamper. With polite company coming over, I corralled my peppy D-cups into a red bra, then pulled on a matching lace thong. Over the lingerie ensemble, I slithered into a form-fitting navy knit skirt, then ducked into a white v-neck sweater. I completed the outfit stepping into a dangerously high pair of glossy red high heels. "Tall company; tall shoes." I smiled at the mirror as I flattened the soft fabric of the sweater along my trim tummy, rearranging the scooping neckline to conceal the scalloped lace of my bra. Satisfied, I returned to the kitchen to set out glasses and arrange trays of appetizers.

Promptly at two o'clock, a knock sounded at my door. Tossing my apron on the counter, I gave my wavy red hair one last tousle as I assessed my reflection in the living room mirror, then went to receive my guests. I was greeted by Malcolm's wide, friendly grin, a second magazine-handsome black man who was the expected guest, Anthony, and a surprise third addition to the party, bearing a stack of boxed pies and a gracious toothy smile. I was introduced to Thomas, another friend of Malcolm and Anthony's who had woken up that morning to find his flight added to the nearly universal list of cancelations.

"I'm sorry to spring another guest on you, but we followed your rule and got another pie, plus..." Malcolm smiled and held up his offering of a wine caddy loaded with a sextet of bottles. I took the heavy pack of bottles from him and ushered the three of them into my home.

"The more the merrier! I've got plenty to go around, and enough for seconds!" I took Malcolm and Anthony's jackets, brushing the heavy flakes from the shoulders and hanging the coats in the closet as the trio filed into the apartment.

"Mind if I use the restroom?" Thomas asked.

"Huh? Oh, of course not!" I mumbled preoccupiedly. "It's down the hall on the left. I mean, right!"

Malcolm was quick to open the first bottle, making himself at home as he passed out drinks to my (our?) guests, and handed me one as well. I left my glass of wine on the table and ducked into the kitchen to fetch the first batch of hors d'oeuvres.

After some quick assembly for presentation's sake, I returned to the living room and set out a charcutier plate on the table in front of Malcolm and Anthony, who had settled in front of the TV to watch the early game. "I hope you guys are hungry!" I announced in a 'happy housewife' tone. Hurrying to avoid blocking the screen for too long, I bent at the waist to lay down the platter, feeling the plunging neckline of my top droop precipitously. Anthony conspicuously nudged Malcolm.

"Damn, check out the twins! Oh my God! Hurry! Get a pic of them!" I gasped and shot up, pressing an indignant hand to my sternum to close off the gaping V-neck as I stood, mouth hanging agape in my outrage. I couldn't believe that my hospitality could be met with such crudeness! The two continued laughing and pointing, but their focus seemed to be not on my chest, but rather over my shoulder. A strong arm draped around my waist from behind as Thomas stood beside me and addressed the others.

"Uhh, it's a little thing called 'style.' Obviously, something you clowns wouldn't understand." I suddenly realized Thomas was dressed in navy chinos, a white cashmere sweater, and a pair of shockingly bright red penny loafers. Taken together, our outfits were astonishingly similar. "We didn't even call each other ahead of time; fashion this sophisticated is like a 'sixth sense' thing, ya know?" Without removing his arm from my waist, he bent down and triumphantly collected a slice of prosciutto.

Reassured, I joined the group in a toast after -- hoping my misguided outrage had gone unnoticed -- posing for pictures with Thomas. "This year, I'm thankful for new friends." I toasted, met with an enthusiastic "Here, here!" and clinking of glasses. Checking the clock, I returned to the kitchen with my glass of wine, then started chopping potatoes and vegetables. Periodically, Thomas or Anthony would pop in to inquire if they could help in any way, but in the narrow galley kitchen, I insisted that "help" was a four-letter word.

Malcolm appeared as I spread halved brussels sprouts and red potatoes on baking sheets for roasting. I looked up and smiled as he leaned against the counter at my side. "What can I do?" he asked resolutely. Ten feet behind him in the living room, conversation on the couch halted as the others focused on Malcolm and me as we talked. Sensing his assistance wouldn't be turned away as easily as the others, I pointed to the bottle of olive oil with my chin.

"We need to sprinkle these with olive oil before we add the salt, pepper, and seasoning." I said as I wiped my hands on a towel. He squeezed past me, and Anthony and Thomas appeared on my other side, wine glasses in hand, eager to observe Malcolm in his role as sous chef. Reading the others' interest in Malcolm's apparently novel interest in cooking, I smiled and followed up with a lighthearted "Do you think you can handle that on your first time in the kitchen?"

"Listen, Beautiful," he said as he picked up the olive oil. I blushed at his compliment, in jest or not. "Not only can I cook, but I do it with aplomb!" Malcolm vigorously waved the bottle over the tray, whipping oil over the vegetables, but also splashing it across the counter and landing a splattering of drops over the white belly of my sweater.

"Fuck!" I cried and reflexively ripped off the soiled sweater. Forgetting everything else, I rushed to the sink, dousing the affected patch with water, dumping dish soap into a towel, and scouring the stain. My generous tits wobbled in their red lace shell as I frantically scrubbed, bent over the sink. A minute passed before I took scope of my topless condition, crowded with strangers in a cramped kitchen. "Uhhh... if you'll excuse me..." Holding the wet shirt over my heaving chest, I squeezed through the group and scurried to my bedroom.

Standing topless in front of my dresser, I spread the sweater on the flat wooden top. I spied the framed picture of me and John atop the bureau and flipped it face-down on the wood; I didn't need him looking at my indecency. Scrutinizing the white fabric, I dabbed then scrubbed the spots of oil with the soapy towel. I paused to take scope of my progress, then looked up as an icy gust buffeted the windows. The frosty daylight spilling in through the panes reminded me that my blinds were open, and I blushed and giggled, musing that any worker unlucky enough to be stuck at the office on Thanksgiving deserved my half-naked treat. As my gaze was raised from my work, Anthony walked through the doorway with his eyes cast down at the stomach of his own yellow sweater. He was rubbing and picking at a freckled pattern of oil droplets below his ribs.

"Anthony!" my hiss was low, but sharp enough to draw his attention. He looked up; his mouth gaped at the spectacle of me in my bra. His eyes sparkled with interest, then quickly darted away towards the floor.

"Shit... I thought this was the bathroom; didn't you tell Tom 'left'..." Anthony stammered, then pointed to the stain, "See? Mal got me, too," he tented the front of his shirt towards me to display the damage. His blind progress into the room had frozen at my voice, but now he cautiously inched forward as he tried to show me the stain. I sighed and smiled hospitably, holding up the soaped cloth.

"Here, you should use this on it before the stain sets in." He closed the distance to the dresser, took the towel from my hand, and started wildly scuffing the wool. I stopped him before he stretched out the delicate fabric. "Look, I can help you, but first I have to put on a shirt."

"Aren't stains super time-sensitive?" I nodded. "Because this was, like, super expensive..." He realized my discomfort at my undress. "Don't worry about it," he jutted his chin towards my bra, "I'm around this all the time during shoots; totally used to it."

"Well, I'm not..." I trailed off, noticing that he wasn't listening. Without another word, Anthony peeled his sweater over his head revealing sculpted chest and abs that seemed chiseled from marble. My stomach flipped at the model's physique; the nervous, gentle warmth returned between my legs and abrupt dryness swept into my mouth. He handed me the shirt and I set it on the bed, then bent to carefully scrub out the stain.

I gulped heavily, trying to stifle the butterflies leaping eagerly in my belly. Vigorously dabbing and brushing at the specks, I talked while I worked, trying to sound normal. My boobs jostled and waggled gayly as I toiled, riding my body's motion as they fought against their containment. I sensed Anthony's presence at my shoulder and felt his eyes on me, observing my work... or maybe just observing me.

"See?" I chirped around the nervous lump in my throat. I raised the garment for inspection before returning it to the bed to continue, "It's coming right out. Luckily, he didn't get you too bad." He rumbled acknowledgment and stepped back a stride, beyond the margin of my vision.

Bending over at the waist until my nose almost brushed the wool, I scrutinized the spot as I swept a few final strokes across the affected area. Satisfied, I picked up the sweater by its two upper corners and proudly held it up. "There, perfect!" I celebrated. "Just give it a minute to dry, and it's good as new." As I straightened hurriedly, my D-cups restively sprang and bobbled.

"Groovy." He spoke flatly from behind me, but his deep voice sent a shiver up my spine. "While that dries, how about you take a look at these..." His khakis flopped to the bed in front of me. I sucked in a stunned breath through my clenched teeth; without looking, I guessed he was the type that eschewed underwear.

"Did Malcolm get oil on your pants, too?" I gulped as I bent again to inspect the chinos. Gravity once more towed my tits heavily against the lace and underwire, swaying as they hovered above the pants spread across my quilt. Muscular pressure arrived against my protruding backside for an answer. Strong hands cupped the soft flesh of my bare back, then journeyed north along my spine.

My skin tingled beneath his fingertips as his hands crossed my ribs. I failed to stifle the soft moan provoked by his touch. He reached the red tulle band of my bra; his fingers convened at the middle of my back and nimbly released the clasp. I inhaled sharply as the hook and eye halves parted and dropped away from my body, but I clutched my hands to my bust to hold the bra in place.

"We shouldn't..." I was doing a terrible job of convincing myself of that, and he ignored my feeble protest. "But your friends are right outside." I reasoned in vain. Wordlessly, Anthony wedged his hands under my palms and the bra to cup my bare breasts. My body reacted enthusiastically, and I sighed in blissful assent as I lowered my hands from their protective posture. Keeping his own hands cupped over my tits, Anthony butterflied his elbows to push my bra off my arms until it fell on the pile of his clothes on the bed.