31 hours ago
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
"Ah… another day working on the farm."
The sun streams through the window as it does every morning. I wake up feeling its warmth on my face, blinking against the light. My name is Stathis Karslidis. I'm fourteen years old and live on a farm northwest of Argyropetra, just outside the Zervohori neighborhood. For once, I actually slept well, a rare event for me.
Downstairs, the familiar voice that usually wakes me calls out.
"Stathi! Get up, my boy! It's six o'clock!"
That's my aunt, Efi. She's forty-five, unmarried, strong, kind, and strikingly beautiful in a way that doesn't quite fit with the quiet farm life. Men often try to win her over, but none succeed. Why she remains single? No one really knows.
"Okay, Auntie, I'm up!" I shout as I sit up.
I go to the bathroom, wash my face, and start getting dressed. As I put on my clothes, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and pause, just like every morning.
I'm not what people would call "easy on the eyes." I weigh about 160 kilograms and am overweight. My belly sags, my legs feel heavy, and my round face is puffier than I'd like. I have brown eyes, wavy brown hair, and full lips. I'm not short (1.70 meters), but my size overshadows any sense of height.
And it hurts, not only how I see myself but also how others see me. At school, the bullying never stops. At home, everything feels even harder. I've tried dieting, exercising, and watching what I eat, but nothing works. Even all the farm work hasn't helped. The weight sticks to me like an unshakable shadow.
Maybe this is just who I am. Maybe this is who I'll always be.
I finish dressing and head down to the kitchen.
When I open the door, I freeze.
Aunt Efi stands by the kitchen counter, bathed in soft morning light. Her robe is loosely tied, the fabric gently clinging to her body as if barely holding on. Her dark brown hair falls over her shoulders in soft, silky waves, framing a face that seems more suited to a painting or a movie than a farmhouse. She has a kind of beauty that feels out of place in this world. Confident, radiant, and untouchable.
Her figure is simply unbelievable.
Her curves are exaggerated to the point of fantasy, as if she stepped out of a novel. Her breasts strain the thin fabric of her robe. Enormous, likely ZZZ-cup or larger. Her hips flare dramatically, and her backside. Massive, easily over 230 centimeters wide. moves with slow, deliberate grace, as if the world bends slightly around her.
I tried not to stare, but I couldn't help it.
"Good morning, nephew. Did you sleep well?" she asks without turning around.
Her voice always affects me. Warm, rich, and just a little too intimate.
"Uh… yeah, I slept fine," I reply, sitting at the table and trying to sound casual.
She keeps her back to me but asks softly, "No pain today? No aches?"
"No… nothing."
She always asks that. Ever since I can remember, I've had strange, unexplained pains. shifting, stabbing sensations, like something deep inside me is trying to break free. Doctors couldn't explain it, and no medication helped.
Then she turns around, her eyes scanning me with a faint, knowing smile.
"Sure? You're blushing. Am I making you nervous?"
My face heats up, and my stomach tightens. I can't answer.
She walks toward me slowly, her hips swaying like waves. I try to ignore how the air around her seems to change, the heat she carries like a second aura.
"Let me check if you have a fever," she says softly.
She gently places her hand behind my head and kisses my forehead, something she's done since I was little. But now… it feels different.
Too different.
"No fever," she whispers. "You must have slept well."
I nod, trying to keep my face neutral while my heart pounds.
"What's for breakfast today?" I ask, eager to change the subject.
English Breakfast.
She lists it like a gourmet chef.
Eggs cooked to your liking: fried with golden yolks, lightly scrambled, or poached with a hint of vinegar.
Country bacon: crispy on the edges, tender inside. Juicy pork sausages, browned perfectly in a cast-iron skillet.
Slow-cooked beans in a rich, flavorful tomato sauce.
Roasted tomatoes, soft and sweet, baked to golden perfection.
Sautéed mountain mushrooms with butter and garlic.
Thick slices of bread—fried or toasted—slathered with pure butter.
Honeycomb for sweetness.
Fresh milk from our cows.
Orange juice.
And her coffee, which was so strong, it could start a tractor.
A few minutes later, breakfast is ready. Aunt Efi and I set the table and begin to eat.
"Today, I have to deliver eggs and milk and run some errands for the bar," she says between bites. "You've got your usual chores, right?"
Besides helping on the farm, Auntie also runs the only bar in the area. It's small but busy, and I sometimes help out there too.
"Yeah," I reply, "but I also have to gather grapes today. It's time."
She makes a face as if she's just remembered something.
"Right. Okay, I'll try to finish my errands early and come help you out."
"Okay, Auntie. But take your time. don't rush," I say with a smile.
She steals a glance at me from the corner of her eye.
"Is something wrong, Auntie?" I ask.
"Oh… no, I just remembered. Don't forget to water the tomatoes behind the shed; you didn't get to it yesterday."
"I will."
She offers a faint smile, then murmurs so quietly that I can barely hear her words.
"Ah, if only I were thirty years younger…"
But I don't catch it.
Or perhaps I choose not to.
I avoid looking at her. I can't. I still feel the warmth of her lips on my forehead. My skin is damp, and my thoughts feel heavy.
As if I've done something wrong.
But I haven't.
I haven't done anything.
I'm just… thinking.
And maybe… that's what frightens me the most.