Hi, Welcome to Dear Nikki. My name is Nikki. And on today's show, a divorce hostess gets absolutely wrecked in her own pantry while the entire family argues over pie just a few feet away. An engaged woman lets her fiance's cousin finger her to a silent shaking orgasm beside a roaring fireplace while her future mother in law hums carols. And in a small town girl finally gets railed against an apple tree under the harvest moon by the crush she's wanted since high school. That and so so much more.
Are you ready to spice things up? Here's a sneak pink of the steamy audio content a waiting for you on Patreon. This is your utmost desire. Allow me to come over and over without having the need to yourself. This is total control. This is how I rule your mind and body. Join now for ad free access to the Wednesday Show, an exclusive Friday episode packed with erotic role play and pleasurable audio experience. Treat yourself to something naughty you deserve it. Join Patreon today and indulge in
your fantasies. If you're new here, welcome to my show where people can share their deepest sexual secrets in Fantasies anonymously. Each week, I read out letters and emails from listeners who have bravely shared their intimate experiences with me. The show is a safe space for people to confess their hidden desires and encounters, free from judgment or repercussions. By sharing these stories, we're creating a community that acknowledges and
accepts the diversity of human experience. If you're looking for place to explore your own desires or simply listen to other experiences, you're in the right place. Tune in for some raw, honest, unapologetic accounts of the human intimacy and connections. If you have a secret story or experience you've been dying to share, now's your chance. You can write to me directly at Nikki in Ikky at dear Niki dot com, or submit your confession anonymously at dear Nikki dot com
under the confessions tab. Perhaps you have an erotic fantasy that's been burning inside you, or maybe you just want to say hello, whatever it is, I really want to hear from you, And just remember, if you decide to write in for confessions, questions, or anything else, you certify the following are true. You are the sole creator of the submission. You're eighteen years of age or older legally
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bloord of minds like yourself. Connect with us on social media Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook and stay up to date and be part of our vibrant community. Also check out our partnership pages for exclusive discounts and learn about the amazing businesses I work with. But first, because I love watching you squirm, Here's Tonight's filthy little riddle to thrive your legs while we feast. I'm long and firm and always rising. On Thanksgiving Day, the hostess beats me hard
until I'm light and fluffy. She spreads her legs wide open, just to me deep inside. Then she bakes me till I'm golden, and the whole house smells my pride. For hours, I get stuffed and basted, poked and prodded too. Every guest can't wait to pull me apart and savor all my goo. By the end, I'm moist and steaming, torn to pieces on the tray. Now tell me, darling, what am I that makes you groan this way? Keep thy dirty thought warm. I'll give you the answer later in
the show. The table's groaning under the weight of desire. The air is heavy with anticipation, and these stories, all tied to Thanksgiving, will leave you hungry for more. Suppour your glass of something bold, sink into your softest seat, and let's savor the forbidden bite of these tails. Dear Nikki, Thanksgiving has always been my sanctuary, the one day where my sprawling family crams into my house, fills it with laughter, and leaves me glowing with the chaos of it all.
I'm thirty four, divorced, and I've made the hosting holiday my thing, turning my modest dining room into a stage for a roasted turkey, candid yams, and my grandmother's pecan pie recipe. But last year, the heat of my kitchen came from more than just the oven, and I'm still reeling from the memory. My brother's best friend, Marcust was a wild card at the table. He's thirty six, a firefighter with a body carved from years of hauling hoses
and a grin that could set kindling a blaze. He'd been to our Thanksgiving before, but this time he showed up in a fitted black, buttoned down sleeves rolled up to show off four arms that made me forget how to hold a ladle. When he hugged me hello, his hands lingered on my lower back. His dark eyes held mine just long enough to make my breath catch. I chalked it up to pre dinner chaos, too many bodies, little to air, but the spark was undeniable. The day
was a blur of cooking and corraling the relatives. I was in my elements, stirring gravy, checking the bird, dodging my aunt's questions about my love life. Marcus kept drifting into the kitchen, offering to help with a voice like warm molasses. He peeled potatoes, his fingers deft and sure, and every time our elbows brushed or our eyes met over the cutting board, my skin tingled. By the time we sat down to eat, I was flustered, my cheeks flushed from more than the wine. Dinner was a triumph,
but the real story started after. When the house settled into the post feast haze. My cousins were sprawled on the couch, my parents dozing from the hum of football on the TV. I slipped in the kitchen to tackle the mountain of dishes, craving a moment of quiet. Marcus followed, carrying a stack of plates, his presence filling the room
like smoke. You're a superhero, you know that, he said, setting the flights down and leaning against the counter, close enough that I could smell his scent, clean sweat, a hint of cedar, and something dangerously male. I laughed, told him to grab a towel, but the air was thick with something unspoken. We worked side by side, the clink of dishes mingling with the thumb of my pulse. Then as I reached for the serving spoon, his hand caught mine, his thumb brushing my wrist in a way that scent
the heat pooling low in my belly. I froze, looking up and his eyes were dark, hungry, like he'd been waiting for this all day. Tell me stop, he murmured. But I didn't. I couldn't. Instead, I stepped closer, and that was all the permission he needed. His lips crafted, mind, hot and demanding, tasting of cranberry and desire. The kiss was like wildfire, consuming every rational thought. He backed me against the pantry door, his hands sliding under my sweater,
his fingers rough and warm against my skin. I gasped as he cut my breast, his thumbs teasing my nipples through my lace, braw sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. My hands were just as greedy, tugging in his shirt, finding the hard plains of his chest, the heat of him searing my palms. The pandry door creaked open behind us, and we stumbled insides surrounded by shelves of can goods and spices. The space was tight, forcing us closer. Our bodies pressed together in a delicious crush.
His mouth found my neck, sucking gently, then harder as I arched against him, my nails digging into his shoulders. I could hear the faint murmur of voices from the living room. The clink of glasses, and the danger of it only made me bolder. My fingers fumbled with his belt, the lover giving away to reveal a hard length of him, straining against his jeans. He groaned low and guttural as I touched him, my hands stroking with a rhythm that
matched the pounding of my heart. He hiked up my skirt, his fingers slipping beneath my panties, Finding me slick and ready, I bit my lip to stifle my moan as he teased me, his touch, slow and deliberate, driving me to the edge. Marcus, I whispered, half a plea half a prayer. He answered, being by lifting me, my legs wrapping round his waist as I pressed himself against me. The shelves rattled as he entered me, slow at first, and deeper,
each thrust a pulse of raw need. We moved together, frantic and silent, the pantry a cocoon of heat and risk. When I came, it was like a wave of crashing, my body shuddering against his as he followed, his breath, racket against my ear. We stayed there, tangled and breathless, until a shout from the living room stamped us back. We straightened our clothes and slipped out of the pantry and rejoined the chaos. My heart's still racing. No one noticed, thank God, and Marcus left with a wink that it
promised more. We haven't spoken of it since, but every time I open that pantry, I taste him again. Yours Louise, Hello Louise. I hope you're not a pecan girl or a pecan girl. It drives me nuts. It's the one thing. There's so many things in my life that set my teeth on fire. This is not sexy, but it's pecan, and there's a big history of it, and this isn't place for it, but it's Pocan. Sorry, ah Yah, Souther's its Pecan. I honestly can say that I've never had
a Thanksgiving like this. Wish a Thanksgiving like this? Can I have a thing? I am still alive, I can still arrange to have a Thanksgiving like this. I'm just saying, oh my god, I love it when we get a confession that and I know most of them are like this, but there really is or was no verbal communication. It was all just passion and touching, And I mean there's
communication there. It's just not on a verbal level, right Could you if you were at your place being the host or hostess and something happened like this, could you? Could you have an encounter and your spice cabinet, you know, little nook? Absolutely I could in me if I had that many people in my house, I really wouldn't give a damn who heard me that. I'm just laying it out there, because yeah, I really wouldn't because maybe I'm a little sexually frustrated right now. Say one you, Elise,
Dear Nikki. I've always thought of Thanksgiving as a time for family, for gratitude for playing it safe. But last year I threw safe out the window, and it ended up with a memory that still makes my skin burn. I'm twenty nine, engaged and living in a cozened cabin style house in Oregon with my fiance David. We hosted Thanksgiving for the first time in biting his family and a few friends, including his cousin Liam, who I'd never met before. Let's just say Liam turned our holiday into
something I'll never forget. Liam was thirty two, a freelance photographer and with a lean build, tasseled brown hair, and eyes that seemed to see right through you. He arrived with a bottle of Scotch and a story about a recent shoot in Iceland. His voice was low and easy, like he was telling secrets just for me. I noticed him immediately, how his jeans hugged his thighs, how his flannel shirt gaped just enough to show a hint of
collar bone. But I told myself it was nothing. I was happy with David planning a wedding, building a life. This was just a harmless vibe. Dinner was a hit. The table was groaning with turkey stuff and my attempt at homemade rolls. Liam sat across from me, his gaze catching mine every time I looked up, his foot brushing mine under the table, once, then again, until I wasn't sure if it was by accident my dessert. I was flustered,
my laughter too loud, my wine glass too empty. After dinner, David and his parents settled by the fireplace, swapping stories while the others played cards in the dining room. I excuse myself to clean up, needing air kneading space. Liam found me in the kitchen drying wine glasses. His presence like match struck in the dark you're killing it tonight, he said, leaning against the counter, his voice the caress. I thanked him. I tried to keep it light while
he stepped closer, offering to help. The room felt too small. We moved to the living room to gathered stray plates, the fire crackling and casting shadows that danced across his face. Everyone else was distracted. The house was alive with noise, and maybe that's why I didn't stop him. He touched my arm, his fingers lingering, his intent clear. I should
have walked away, but I didn't. Instead, I followed him to the nook by the fireplace, half hidden by a book shelf, where the heat of the flames matched the heat in his eyes. He kissed me, slow and deep, his tongue exploring mine with the hunger that made my knees buckle. His hands rowed, slipping under my dress, tracing the curve of my hips, the sensitive skin under my thighs. I gasped as he pressed himself against me, the hard
evidence of desire unmistakable through his jenes. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as I ground against him, the friction sparking pleasure that curled my toes. The bookshelves shielded us with the risk of being caught. David, just a few feet away, made every touch electric. Liam's hand slid beneath my panties, his fingers finding me wet and aching, teasing until I was trembling, biting my lip to stay quiet.
He whispered my name, his breath at my ear. I was lost, my hands fumbling his zipper, fraying him, stroking him until he groaned softly. We didn't have time for more, not there, but the urgency was enough. His fingers worked me into a shuddering climax, my hands bringing him to the same edge, my breasts mingling as we stifled our gas. We pulled apart, just as David's voice called out, asking for another log for the fire. I smoothed my dress and Liam tucked himself away. We rejoined the group, my
cheeks burning, his smile smug. He left the next day and we never spoke of it. David and I are still together, but that fireside moment is my secret Thanksgiving Ember that I can't extinguish. Clara Well, Hello Clara.
Oh that would be so hard to say, though too. I am just in a naughty mood today. Let me tell you, Oh my goodness. You know, I don't know about anybody else. I am not having these sexy Thanksgivings, and it's quite a shame. I'm gonna have to try to put me in a place where I'm having going to have maybe not this year. That sounds very chickenish, I know, but already have plans sort of to have
a sexy Thanksgiving. What you know, Usually it's and I know that the families what we make, you know, So if you were in a position where you know, and you know, someone else caught your eye and the tension was just right, and you know, could you Yeah, it's a yes for me on this one. I like.
I like them both equally. They're both really hot. That's all I will say. So, yeah, I think I'm gonna have to put myself in some sexy situations for holidays, just saying, Dear Nikki. Growing up in rural Washington Town, Thanksgiving was more of a meal. Was a celebration of the land, the harvest, the people who made our little corner of the world hum. Every year, our community throws a grange feast in an old apple orchard. Bonfires hay
rides and tables stretched across the grass. Last year, I went to the feast single, twenty six and not expecting anything more than a good meal. But then I ran into Nate, and an orchard became the garden of temptation. Nate was thirty, a mechanic could grown up a few towns over, but moved back to help his dad's auto shop. I'd known him in high school and always crushing on him, quietly and tensely, his calloused hands, his blue eyes that
seemed to hold a thousand secrets. At the feast, he was there with friends, wearing a leather jacket and a smile that hit me like a shot of cider. We ended up at the same table, sharing plates of smoke, turkey and corn bread, our knees brushing as we laughed about the old teachers and the bad prom dates. His touch was casual at first, hand on my arm, a nudge, but each one lingered, stoking a fire I hadn't felt in years. After dinner, the bonfires roared and the people
started dancing to a local band's fiddle tunes. Nate grabbed my hand, pulling me into a slow sway, his body close enough that I could feel his heat through my sweater. Wanta walk, he asked, his voice low, and I nodded, my heart already racing. We wandered away from the crowd into the orchard, where the apple trees stood bare under the starry sky, the air sharp with scent of frost and wood smoke. We stopped by a gnarled tree and
a bonfire's glow faint in the distance. Nate leaned against the trunk, pulling me close and kissed me, a slow, searing kiss that tasted of whiskey and pie. His hands were everywhere, rough and sure, sliding under my jacket, finding the soft skin above my jeans. I pressed myself against him, feeling the hard length of him and his denim. The
ache between my thighs grew unbearable. My fingers worked at his jacket off, then his shirt, revealing his top muscles of his chest dusted with hair that I couldn't stop touching. He lifted me against the tree, my legs wrapped around his hips, the bark rough against my back, but forgotten in the heat of him. His mouth trailed down my neck, sucking gently, then lower, teasing my breast through my braw
until I was writhing. I tugged at his belt, desperate, and he helped me, his jeans falling just enough for free him. My hands stroked him, warm and heavy, and he groaned. His fingers slipped beneath my skirt, pushing my panties aside to find slick and ready. The orchard was silent before our breaths. The distant music of a faint pulse and the thrill of being so exposed made every touch sharper. He entered me through a slow, deliberate thrust, feeling me completely, and I clung to him, my nails
biting into his shoulders. We moved together the tree, creaking in our rhythm, urgent but hushed, aware of the feast just beyond the trees. His hands gripped my heaps, guiding me, his mouth on my to muffle my moans as pleasure built, coiling blood. When I came, it was like stars themselves, shattered my body from trembling. As he followed his release, a low growl against my throat. We stayed there, panting until the cold seeped in. We fixed our clothes, shared
a final kiss, and slipped back to the feasts. No one the wiser Nate and I haven't crossed passed since, but that orchard tryst is my Thanksgiving harvest, a memory I carry forever. Sophie, Hello, Sophie, how are you? Maybe it's because I'm not wearing a dress to Thanksgiving? That's it. Because the common denominator in all these stories she's wearing a dress or a skirt. So I'm gonna have to start wearing dresses and skirts and panties. Oh wait, I
already do those. I'm never in an apple orchard either. Are we fucking an apple orchards? Now? Just wow? So Thanksgiving skirt if you want to get fucked, you know, if you're a girl or a lady or divine as one or whatever. So it's male and jeans, button up shirts and girls and dresses and skirts. So if you wear those two factors, according to these three stories, we're all gonna get laid. Thank you. Ronnie Changerfield. Oh my gosh,
this one. Yeah, I would really have to be teased, really really really really really really have to be teased. Sex in public is a little for me. I know, I know, I'm all turned on by the the one where your family's like, right, next, like on the other side of the wall. But this, I'm concerned about this. I know I'm probably about to talk myself into it, just because it seemed like everybody was further away and YadA,
YadA YadA, that kind of thing. So yeah, so maybe could you guys, you know, leave the harvest moon or harvest or whatever and harvest party and we'll have after you've had your pecan pie and whiskey and go fuck somebody against narld tray. Okay, maybe you've got my intention now, Dear Nikki, I'm thirty one, married five years. In last Thanksgiving, my husband's entire family was at our house, twenty three people, three dogs, and one finished basement nobody ever goes into
because the TV down there only gets static. I'd spent all morning cooking in a tight little black dress and an apron. Yes, the apron was intentional. My husband Chris kept smacking my ass every time he passed, whispering he was gonna fuck me in the kitchen island the second everyone got sat down to eat. He never got a chance.
His little brother, Tyler did. Tyler is twenty eight, built like a rugby player, and has been eye fucking me at every family gathering since the wedding last year, he showed up in a gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. I swear that outline of his cock was visible every time he reached for the mashed potatoes. By the time we finished dinner, I was so wet my thighs were sliding against each other. People were napping,
arguing over football, and starting dessert. Chris was upstairs referring his drunk uncles. I went down to the basement to find more chairs. Tyler followed two minutes later with the bullshit excuse about needing another bottle of bourbon from the bar down there. The second the door shut behind him, he had me pinning against the pool table, no words, just his mouth crashing into mine, tongue demanding his hands yanking up my dress to my waist. I heard the
rip of my lace thong. He literally tore it off and stuffed it into his pocket like a trophy. His fingers plunged straight into me, two thick ones, uans curling hard while but his thumb worked my clit like he'd studied a map of my body for years. I came quiet under thirty seconds, biting his shoulder through his heady to stay quiet. Then he spun me around, bent me over the green felt and pulled those sweat pans down just enough. Nikki, I've never seen a cock that big
in real life, thick, heavy, the head already slick. He rubbed it up and down my soak slit once twice, then slammed it into the root of the most brutal stroke the pool table rock so hard eight ball rolled into the pocket. He fucked me like he hated me and worshiped beyond at the same time, deep punishing thrust that had my tits spilling out of my braw, nipples
dragging across the feld. With every slam, one hand fisted my hair, pulling my head back so he could growl my ear, You've been dripping for this cock all day. Heaven's you sys. I couldn't even answer, just whimpered yes around the fingers as he shoved them into my mouth. Up Stairs, we could hear Chris's mom calling for more whipped cream. Tyler sped up his lips, slapping against my ass so loud I was sure some one would hear. He reached around, pinched my clit hard and snarled, come
on your brother in law's dick right now. I exploded, legs shaking, a vision, widing out, pussy clinching so tight around him that I had to bite my neck to stay quiet. He unloaded, pumping rope after rope, so deep I felt it in my throat. He pulled out, smacked my ass once, tucked himself away like nothing happened. I was still bent over the table, dress around my waist, come running down my thighs will He leaned down and whispered, happy Thanksgiving, corties, save me some pie. I wobbled upstairs
thirty seconds later, face flushed, hair messy, no panties. Chris kissed my neck and said, babe, you ok, you look rocked. I just smiled, tasting Tyler on my tongue, and said, never better, Still married, still hosting this year, and yes, the basement door now has a lock that only Tyler has a key to. Burning for you every day, Avery, Well, thank you Avery. Not many people say they're burning for me. I mean they might insinuated, but never directly they do think. So, yep,
that's it. That's four for four. I'm gonna have to start wearing dresses and skirts. I have never ever been bittened over a table pool table table, yes, pull table now I do have one in my basement. Maybe I just need the right man to fuck me on it. I wouldn't be the same though, because I'm not having I don't this thinks is not having anybody upstairs. So I need to find three twenty three?
Was it?
Twenty three? Random people have Thanksgiving here? Background checks all that stuff, because you're gonna be strangers, and I need to volunteer to go to the basement with me and so I can be railed on. Well, you guys are watching TV and stuff upstairs. Any volunteers. This one was hot and yeah, I could see this happening, just saying could you Oh what the hell You're gonna say? Yes? But could you that? Yeah? This is this is completely Yeah. I think this is a perfect place to end today.
And all I have to say is fuck me sideways with a turkey baster lover. Ugh Avery took the entire holiday, bended over the pool table, and ruined it for every future Thanksgiving. Four Confessions for dripping wet reminders of why the real family tradition isn't the Cranberry sauce. It's finding out exactly how filthy gratitude can get when nobody's looking. Elise got a pantry pounded with canned goods, rattling like apple sauce. Claire came so hard beside the fireplace she
probably fogged up her future mother in law's glasses. Sophie got harvested against an apple tree like a ripest fruit in an orchard. And Avery, Avery took in law to a whole new illegal level that left us all jealous of a goddamn pool table. More of this Thanksgiving night, Be thankful for stretchy watepands, soundbroof basements, and brother in laws who know exactly how to stuff you better than
a bird. And the riddle still just a dinner roll, darlings, But after tonight, I don't think any of us were ever looking at bread the same way again. Now go touch yourself stupid thinking about which relative you'd let wreck you this Thursday. And inclosing, hello lover, why don't you take me downstairs to that fool table I have down there? I wanted to feel you lose control, want your hand
clapped around my mouth when I scream. I want you filling me up so much that when I sit down for dinner, dripping you onto the chair and smelling like the sweetest angel at the table, what do you think? Doors cracked? Come stuff your favorite turkey and until the next time, Ladies and gentlemen, habby fucking Happy Thanksgiving.