Here's part one of three of the Thanksgiving story. If you haven't read Halloween, you might find it fun as this all takes place in the same year. There's a lot more to come with this one. Hope you enjoy! xo

"Ana, we forgot to stuff your turkey!" I call out as I walk the length of our long, dark hallway, worried about the fate of our un-full fowl.

The seasonal smells of sage and cinnamon and freshly sapped maple fill my nostrils and instantly thoughts of stuffing- or lack thereof- are lost as the aromatic lure of a Thanksgiving feast pulls me toward the dining room. I'm starved; my gut twisting in knot and want as I get closer to the promise of bounty. But, I don't think it's solely food I'm after. The warm yearning I'm feeling is in places potatoes and pie can't satisfy a man.

"You're right, Mr. Grey..." I hear Ana's seductive voice calling to me from the end of the hallway. "But, you're not having turkey this year..." Her words float in the air as a flicker of flame catches my eye. There's candlelight at the end of this tunnel.

As I round the corner at the hallway's end, I see my sexy as hell wife stretched out naked in the center of our Thanksgiving table on a silver platter garnished with phallic shaped root vegetables, an odd potato, and an obscenely long, bumpy squash. Oh, the things I could do with that squash. Julia Child would turn in her grave.

"No turkey? What will I eat?"

She parts her knees to give me a view of the five star cuisine

"Are you hungry?" she asks, sitting up on her elbows and pushing her breasts forward.

"Famished." I look down and my erection bobs in agreement. If he could smile, he would and I have to look twice because I could swear that he just did.

I catch a glimpse of myself in a long wall mirror and discover that I, too am buck naked. Well, not completely. I'm wearing a pilgrim hat. Why am I walking around the dark house in the buff looking to stuff a turkey in pilgrim hat? Where the hell is everyone else? Why am I asking these questions when my wife is served up naked on a platter in front of me?

"First course," she purrs, dipping her toes in a bowl of mashed potatoes, swirling them around until she scoops a bite out, lifts her foot to my mouth and smears my lips with fluffy starch. "Why don't you have a taste," she smiles.

I nip the piggy that went to market and she squeals like the one who went all the way home. Exactly where I'm planning to go. I slide her big toe in and out of my mouth, licking the whipped buttery goodness off, then move to another, sucking little piggies one by one until I can see her ruby pedicure again. She slides her foot away from my mouth, parting my lips as she goes, running her toe tips from my chin to my chest, all the way down to my erection. She then slides my most favorite part of my body between her two feet, giving me one helluva job. If he wasn't smiling before, he certainly is now.

"What about the gravy?" she asks, her feet leaving me as she points to a full boat beside her. She reaches for it, then slides it to me along the slick finish of the cherry wood.

"Oh yes, Mrs. Grey. I like my Thanksgiving dinner dripping in gravy."

I ladle the bubbling liquid and dribble it from her cleavage down her stomach, letting it pool in her navel. She flinches as it heats and pinks her flesh. What a lovely color it is. My cock concurs. There's a reason pink is the color of sweet love.

My tongue laps up the goodness, devouring the flesh between her breasts, then licking my way down her belly, enjoying every succulent drop against her skin.

"Why don't you taste my cranberries?" she asks, running her fingers over her nipples.

"Oh yes, Mrs. Grey." I slide myself up her body and take a nibble of her nipple.

"No, the real cranberries." She points to a bowl of sauce beside her. Her peaks are so aroused, they're bigger and redder than any berries in that bowl.

I spoon the sauce onto her, tasting my way up her right breast. She bucks and mewls.

"Sweet and tart at the same time." I suckle her peak. "Just like you, Mrs. Grey," I murmur against her flesh with a smile and she gives me a lip biting one in return.

"Do you want more?" she asks, as I finish the last drop; only a crimson stain left in the wake of my tongue bathing.

"Always with you," I say, looking up, gray gazing into sky blue. It's always a bright new morning in her eyes.

"What's for dessert?" she asks.

"My favorite pie." I move my fingers down her body, teasing her clit, then sliding two in and out of her until she's near her edge. "And I always like my pie with ice cream."

A carton of Ben and Jerry's vanilla appears out of nowhere on the wood next to my own. I stop the finger fucking- much to Ana's chagrin- to lift a spoon from the place setting at the head of the table and dig in. I drop a spoonful onto her navel causing her to shiver and groan in ecstasy, then spread the cream down her belly to her clitoris where the freeze makes her sweet bud pulsate. Following my milky trail, I use my tongue to devour every inch of her until I reach the promised land. Now, I know how the pilgrims felt when they hit Plymouth Rock.

I lick her nub, teasing and taunting it with my soft, but firm tongue. She squirms and I take hold of her hips, pinning them down so she has to take all of the pleasure. Her whole body vibrates as she cries out and comes gloriously and I taste the cream of Ben and Jerry's and Ana all at once.

"Forget the turkey, I think it's time to stuff you now, Mrs. Grey."

I move my body up hers and position myself at her entrance, about to take her, when I hear the strangest noise. It's a high pitched whistle. At first I thought it came from Ana's vagina, but upon further review, I think it's coming from somewhere in the dark.

"Is that a kazoo?" I ask as the sound grows louder and angrier. No, it's not a kazoo; it's like a bird call, but not from one that's fully alive or sane. Where the hell is it coming from?

Then, out of nowhere my dick feels like it was struck with a frying pan. Something pounds down on it again and again. The agony all too much...

"Ahhhh!" I scream out in pain, waking up in our bed to Phoebe, who's dressed in some Native American Indian princess getup, blowing a whistle in my face as she jumps on top of me like I'm a trampoline. "What the?"

"Wake up, Daddy!" She bounces higher, further crushing my dick that's buried under a comforter, blankets and flannel pajama pants that offer no real cushion from the assault. Finally, she lands with a dick-sparing knee to my gut.

"Okay, calm down," I say, attempting to hold her back before she can take out the Grey family dynasty with a sharp kick to the jewels. I look over to Ana, who's just waking up and laughing at me, scrunching her nose into the pillow.

"What time is it?" I ask, searching for the clock. It's so dark in here. Oh no, that's just because my eyes refuse to open all the way.

"It's turkey tooting time!" Phoebe screams and whistles some more, this time directly into my right eardrum. They're wide open now.

"It's 5:56 am," Ana says with a yawn, holding up the clock from her nightstand.

I used to wake a lot earlier than that in my youth, plagued with insomnia. Now, since the kids, I don't have the luxury of needing to stay awake.

"Phoebe, Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Plus, the turkeys aren't even up yet." Although, I most certainly was in my dream.

"Birdies get up early, Daddy. Teacher says that's how they catch the worms to feed their babies."

"Well, maybe we're the worms and we should sleep so the birds don't get us."

She thinks about that for a second.

"I think you're more like a turkey than a worm, Daddy."

"Thank you." I think.

"Teacher says that the turkeys love Thanks and Giver's day, because it's a holiday for them."

I guess they celebrate by sticking their head in the oven. Doesn't sound like a bad idea right about now.

"Who is this teacher? Did Miss Tippy tell you that?"

"Tilly!" Ana says. I always forget that sex crazed hippy's name. It should be Miss Tell-me-when-you're-a-coming-so-I-can-be-a-going.

Phoebe starts with the whistle again. This time in my left ear. At least she's even with the sides, so I can be equally deaf in both ears, instead of lopsided in my hearing impairment.

"What is that thing you're blowing?" I ask. It's long and tubular and the end is like a gigantic yellow beak. For a moment I fear she's been in the playroom at Escala.

"It's the turkey whistle. I'm in charge of making all of the turkey sounds in the play!"

"That's right, Daddy," Ana says. "Your big show is today."

Oh fuck. I almost forgot. It's the Wednesday before the Thursday, which means it's Thanksgiving day at the school. This year they're putting on a play entitled: Plymouth Rockz the Kidz, which is a rock opera a la Cats, but with pilgrims instead of pussies, that I've agreed to be part of. Agreed is a strong word; more like I was strong armed by my wife, children and the entire parent-teacher association at Kreative Kidz Progressive School. The only reason that school can call itself progressive is because they keep upping the bill.

"Okay," I say, pushing the beak away from my face as she blows. "Let's save the whistle until after Daddy has had his coffee." And possibly a double scotch.

Just then, Teddy barrels through the door wearing a cowboy hat, boots, a t-shirt with Woody from Toy Story on it and the dirtiest, ripped jeans I have ever seen. They look like they met a lawn mower, put up a fight and lost.

"I'm the sheriff and I'm running you out of town," Teddy says with an accent that's more pirate than Wild West as he jumps on the bed, pulling his fluorescent green water pistol from a holster around his waist that's really an old tool belt Taylor gave him, and sprays Phoebe.

"Ahhhh!" Phoebe screams and they run around the bed in circles, water flying and limbs flailing.

"Hey, boots off the bed!"

He ignores me and keeps chasing his sister over my knee caps.

"Kids, calm down!" Ana says, but half-heartedly. She's enjoying this; my suffering.

"Put that gun down right now, Theodore!" I yell. I always use his full name when I'm serious, just like I do with Anastasia. Unfortunately, Phoebe isn't short for anything, so she disregards most all of what I say.

Finally they stop.

"He's attacking me with water bullets," Phoebe says, then throws a hard punch to his arm. She's got a mean right hook, that one. Even Claude was impressed when she showed him. He told her she should be a lady boxer. I docked his pay that round, so he never mentioned it again.

"Ow!" Teddy wails.

"Phoebe!" Ana says. "No fighting!"

"It was self defense," she shrugs, looking all innocent and doe eyed, then winks at me. I taught her that line and that look to use on her teachers when a boy hits on her at school and she kicks him in the balls.

Teddy starts the chase again.

"Both of you, stop running all over our legs!" Jesus, when did our California King turn into the Wild Northwest? Don't answer that, Grey.

I grab Teddy's pistol from him and put it on my nightstand.

"Teddy, you must never point a gun like that," I scold. "Why are you shooting your sister with water?"

"Just playing Cowboys and Indians."

"Why?"

"It's Thanksgiving."

"There are no Cowboys in Thanksgiving," I say. "And where did you get those dirty jeans?

"I took my clean ones out to the yard and rubbed them hard on rocks and then rolled them on the real dirty dirt."

I shake my head. Why does this boy want to be covered in dirt all the time?

"Go change into your costume for the play."

"But, Daddy, my pilgrim costume looks goofy."

"It's Thanksgiving, you're supposed to look goofy. It's part of the tradition."

He frowns, but heads for the door.

I look at Phoebe.

"Chester isn't part of the activities today?" Maybe my neck will be spared from that blood thirsty hamster.

"Sure he is!" She turns around and there's the rodent royalty, dressed as a little Native American baby in a sack on her back.

"What's he supposed to be?"

"My papoose."

Ana laughs.

"Well, take papoose there to see Mrs. Taylor and start on your breakfast. Mommy and I have to discuss something important. Tell Mrs. Taylor we're in a meeting." Gail's been told that "in a meeting" means we're fucking and to keep the kids busy.

"You're having a mommy and daddy meeting again?! You had three ones yesterday." Ana looked particularly hot before and after work. It was those stockings and that hair flip she did. I couldn't keep my dick out of her.

"We had a lot to discuss."

"Am I in trouble?"

"You will be if you don't go eat your breakfast."

"Okay," she says, running out the door. I can see Chester flashing his teeth from her back to me in warning. Little fucker.

"And not toaster waffles with Nutella!" I call after her. "Eat something with less than a bag of sugar in it!" More like Nutella with crumbs of waffle. She thinks I don't know her tricks.

She's not listening to me, she's blowing her turkey whistle again.

I let out a sigh, my head falling back into the pillow.

"Maybe we'll get a better handle on this little one," I say, rubbing Ana's belly. "Third time's the charm." It's nice to rub a belly with a baby in it again.

"Probably not," she smirks.

"You're right. You and the kids have the measure of me." I smile. "You know, I'd say you are already starting to pop." I run my hand along the curve of her bump.

"No, I'm not. I'm not even three months along."

"Oh, yes. There's a definite bump," I say, lifting her t-shirt, which is actually my t-shirt up to expose her belly bulge. She has a closet of full of silks and satins and all she wears is my old t-shirts. "They say the more babies you have the faster you grow." God, I hope that juicy ass grows fast. I love a ripe pregnancy peach.

"You sound like I'm the old woman in the shoe."

"You're only on number three, you aren't an old shoe woman until six."

"You want six kids?"

"At least." I kiss my way down the slight swell of her belly. "I can't wait to tell everyone tomorrow." There's an odd moment of pride for a man when telling everyone about his wife's pregnancy. It's like an announcement to the world that he used his gun, aimed it right and his bullets were powerful enough to take out the target. Mine are even more powerful; I've beaten birth control. Twice.

"We should tell the kids tonight."

"You're right." Shit, I wonder how they'll react. Teddy was only a year-and-a-half when we told him about Phoebe. I remember we made a big deal of it, consulting Flynn and my mother about the psychological ramifications of a sibling announcement and all he did was fart, laugh at himself for said farting and continue eating his creamed corn. This time, we have two little people with two big personalities to contend with.

"Now, for our meeting, Mrs. Grey." I lean in and kiss her neck.

"Don't you have to practice your lines?"

"Don't worry, it's a kids play. It'll be a piece of cake."

#######

"I have thirty-seven pages of dialogue!" I say, flipping through the script in the dressing room as Taylor fits me with my costume. Dressing room being the art supply closet at the back of the nursery school classroom. We asked to use the office, but that fucker Andy Layman says he has an allergy to latex and the art room is where the gloves are stored, so he nabbed the principal's digs. No wonder he has four kids by four girlfriends, he told them all the same thing about the condoms.

"They've given you a good part, Mr. Grey," Taylor says, attaching some sort of suspenders to my billowing black pants. I'm not sure if they're supposed to be short and they're too long, or they're supposed to be long and they're too short. Whatever the case, they land at shin middle just over a pair of white tube socks that look like I'm channeling the luck of the colorblind Irish. "You're the leader of the Puritanical community, sir."

"Well, isn't that a pisser. Bet you never thought you'd hear that about me."

"No, sir. I did not."

"Don't they know I have a job other than this play?" I pace as I read, forcing Taylor to follow quickly behind me as he adjusts my straps. "This is like dialogue from a Broadway show, except not good."

"I was reading through it. It is quite catchy."

"Catchy as in jingle or disease?"

He looks at me, perplexed.

"It made me hum, sir."

"I've never heard you hum, Taylor."

"I only do it in private situations, sir." I don't want to know any more about what kind of situations Taylor has in private that make him hum.

I open my script to an odd page to practice my dialogue.

"Hear ye, hear ye, pilgrim childz, now we hunt turkeys in the wildz..." I pause. "What, am I supposed to rap this shit?"

"I think it's more like heightened rhyme, sir."

"What the hell is heightened rhyme?"

"Nursery rhymes, but more dramatic." What the fuck is he talking about? Humpty Dumpty is plenty dramatic for me. A guy shaped like an egg falls off a wall and his guts splat all over the place. I still don't know how that was approved for kids. It's right up there with the baby in the treetop cradle with the broken boughs.

Back to the page.

"The woodz is where we find our beast to pluck and serve for thankful feast."

Why the fuck do they end all the words with s's on here with z's? Even my character is named Mylez Standish. Why, just because it's rock-n-roll we have to be illiterate? I guess it goes with the name of the school. I swear if my children score low on their SATs because of spelling inaptitude due to improper z usage, I will blame this place.

"I like your interpretation, Mr. Grey. You make me want to see what's in the wilderness."

"Thank you, Taylor." It's an odd compliment, but I'll take it.

"How am I supposed to remember all this? There's a two page speech I make before the dinner alone!" Why does this Standish guy talk so fucking much? What a blowhard. Why not let the people eat before the food gets cold? "Is it really necessary for him to carve the turkey for four pages straight?"

"Isn't that when the children sing about the gift of maize?"

I look.

"You're right." Maybe he should play this part, he knows it so well. No, I don't want him to get the praise from Ana and the children. This is my show, damn it.

"I've agreed to stand in as a tree since Mr. Rothchild is ill."

"Ill?" I snicker "He got the clap from a street whore."

"Was he that good?" Is he kidding or serious? I can never tell.

"Gonorrhea, Taylor!" I say, probably a bit too loud for a nursery school environment.

"Well, whatever the case, I'll be taking his place. Why don't I hold the script and feed you the lines you forget, Mr. Grey."

Like all of them...

"Good idea."

"What do you think, sir?"

"I said good idea." Jesus, how much fucking reinforcement does this guy need?

"No, your costume."

Oh.

He points me to a wall mirror where I take in my pilgrim reflection. My face drops.

"This is it?"

"You look traditional, sir."

"I look like what happens when a leprechaun and a witch fuck and the witch convinces an Amish guy he's the father."

Taylor thinks about that one and frankly, so do I.

"This can't be what Myles, or rather Mylez..." I enunciate the z like a bee would. "...Standish looks like."

"This is classic pilgrim attire, sir," he says, straightening the leaning point on my top hat.

"Did that fucker Gunther Imperial do this costume?" I swear, after the Halloween debacle, I'm about ready to burn that idiot at the stake and I'm wearing the right costume for it.

"Yes, but I checked the Internet. This is the correct one."

He pulls out his phone and googles Standish to show me a picture of a real pilgrim. He's right, this is it. No wonder they went extinct.

There's a knock at the door.

"Yoo-hoo! Are you dressed, Mr. Grey?" It's Teach Tilly and she sounds like she hopes I'm not.

"Yes, what is it?" I ask, clipped and perturbed.

She peeks through the door and smiles too brightly when she sees me. She's dressed in a pilgrim getup of her own. God, that woman is atrocious, even in a black drape and a head covering bonnet. Or maybe especially so. With her hair covered, there's no distraction from her face.

"The show is starting shortly. I wanted to make sure you have everything you need." Is she winking at me or did a paint chip fall in her eye from the overhead supply shelf?

"Taylor supplies all my needs, thank you."

"I do." Taylor nods. We share an odd band of brothers-esque moment.

"Very well," Tilly says, adjusting her skirt, then her top area. I think she just squeezed her tits in my direction. "Just know, I'm proud to be your wife."

"My wife?" I'm sure the horror is evident on my face.

"I'm playing Mrs. Standish. I wanted to surprise you," she giggles like a flirting gargoyle.

"Wait, I thought I read somewhere his wife died." Saved by history! I knew I'd thank Harvard someday for something.

"That was Myles, you're Mylez. And you're all mine!" She smiles like the school girl she isn't and walks out.

"Taylor," I turn to him, dramatically. "We don't have a kissing scene, do we?"

"You and I, sir?"

"No, me and that she-wolf!"

"No, but you have seven children and a side hug." I briefly wonder how a side hug got him seven children, but I don't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it's sparing me from Tilly's.

"When does it happen?"

"They're born along the way."

"Not the kids, the side hug."

"I believe it's when when you survive winter."

Kill me now.

"We'd better get you in position, sir. It's almost time."

We walk out the door and head for the stage, I try to memorize my lines along the way.

"Taylor, I think my suspenders are too tight. My lederhosen is up my ass."

"That's German, not Pilgrim, sir."

"Whatever, it's riding half way up the Americas!"

I stop just shy of the stage and he adjusts my straps and my ass can relax its fight with the fabric and breath again.

"Hey, bro!" My brother's voice calls from the too close distance.

Speaking of fabric up the ass, Elliot, Kavanagh and the photographer are all coming this way. I had a nightmare like this once.

"I like the pants," my brother says with a laugh that sounds like a donkey who just smoked a joint and remembered a joke he heard last Tuesday. He's dressed like a studly Native American chief in a suede vest with fringe everywhere. Why don't I get fringe?

"I like your moccasins," I say, bitter for my plight in this play. Why the fuck didn't I get the part of the chief? I take that back. These horny hippie mothers wouldn't be able to control themselves if I wore a vest.

"Katherine, Jose," I begrudgingly greet them with a nod.

"Cute hat, Christian," Kavanagh says, twisting her lips in snarky smile.

Jose lifts the camera hanging from a strap on his neck and snaps a photo of me. I wonder if I could accidentally twist that strap and strangle him.

"What's that for?" I ask as he continues the assault with his flash.

"I'm taking pictures. You know, documenting the event for Kate and for Ana." The lilt in his voice when he says Ana irritates me. "I want everyone to remember what you looked like today."

"Fantastic."

He snaps again.

"My father and I are really looking forward to dinner tomorrow."

"As am I." I'm more looking forward to the look on his face when we tell him about baby number three. If that's not the final nail in his snap happy coffin, I don't know what is.

"Christian!" Ana says, coming up behind me. I turn and she gives me a quick kiss, which I immediately deepen for the photographer's benefit. "You look so cute."

I know it's a lie, but she makes me smile.

"And you look so beautiful. I can't wait to get you home to our bed, rip this little dress off you, my wife, and ravage your body all night long." I kiss her again.

"Christian," she pulls away, flushed with embarrassment. "There are people around."

"I know." I look pointedly at the photographer.

"Everyone, take your seats," Tilly says over a muffled loud speaker that screeches and hums as she talks. "The show is about to begin." She's four fucking feet away from everyone. Why is she using a loud speaker when she'd be louder without it?

"We better find our seats," Jose says to Ana.

"No need, I'll find her a seat."

I take an empty folding chair from the end of the front row, move it over a few feet and motion to it for her to sit.

"It's like a box seat at the opera."

"Christian, don't be silly. I'm sitting next to my friends." She gives me a kiss on the cheek and she, Jose and Kavanagh all take off together. How can I concentrate on my lines when the photographer's knee may knock against my wife's out there in the dark?

"Daddy, look!" Phoebe says, coming up behind me, pulling a turkey on a leash.

"Phoebe, be careful!" I grab the leash from her.

"Don't worry, I'm watching them," some fat, really old guy in overalls says on approach. He's got the words Turkey Heaven stitched on his huge front pocket, with smaller words below that read: We send them there so you're dinner tastes like it.

"Is that your tag line?" I point to the wording.

"Yep, thought of it myself." He's actually proud of that fact.

"Who are you and why did you give a turkey to my daughter?"

"He's in the show, Daddy! I make all his sounds." She blows her whistle.

"I'm Del," he reaches out a hand for me to shake that I ignore. "I own the farm this one comes from. Don't worry, he's a tame one." He laughs and leans in to me. "He won't know what's coming tomorrow."

"What's coming tomorrow, Daddy?"

Uh...

"Thanksgiving."

"He doesn't know it's coming?"

"No, it's a surprise."

The lights flicker. I turn to see Tilly just flipping the light switch on and off really fast. I swear that woman missed her calling in the circus or reality television. I hand the leash back to Phoebe.

"Get into position, Phoebe."

"I am."

"Right, well just stand there and wait." I turn to Del. "And you wait back here and keep an eye on this beast." I swear if this thing hurts my Phoebe, Del is deader than a door nail. Although, I don't want him too close to her, either. "Further back than that, Del," I add and he steps aside.

Finally, the lights go off and the recorded music starts. Then stops. Tilly fixes the stereo with two whacks to the woofer and it starts again.

Fuck. It's show time.

To be continued...