This two-part story concerns the sexual relationship between Oliver, a thirty-year-old bachelor, his mother, Christine and, in Chapter 2, his Aunt Laura, Christine's older sister.
My apologies if you are offended by anal sex as this story contains quite a lot of it.
Comments welcome as always and please be assured that I do take readers' views into consideration in future stories, where appropriate.
Sylviafan
Part 1 - Seduced by my Mother (Willingly)
I wonder sometimes if there's a gene associated with incest, some inherited characteristic that not only attracts you physically to members of your family but does so with sufficient strength that you will do something about it if the occasion arises.
For me, the occasion arose twice; once when I was eighteen, and I didn't do anything about it, and again when I was thirty, and that time I did. This is the story of what happened when I took the second opportunity. I've included a bit of history too, for completeness.
I'd better start by introducing myself. I'm Oliver and I'm a thirty-year-old junior lecturer in applied agronomics at the college of further education in a market town in southern England. Agronomics is the science of soil management and crop production and most of my students are associated with the farming industry. I own (well, pay a mortgage on) a small property near the college, though it's big enough that I can rent a bedroom to a paying lodger. This enables me to pay my mortgage and eat too, which is good. The downside is that it cramps your style a bit when it comes to inviting girlfriends back to your house; my lodger's a nice guy but he's always in. Maybe that's why I don't seem to be able to date a girl long enough to build a proper relationship. Or maybe there are other reasons, like that incest gene. Maybe subconsciously I don't want anybody who's not closely related to me. Interesting thought.
Because after all, I'm a personable enough sort of guy. I've got lots of friends and I'm not bad looking, if you don't look too closely. In fact facially I look a lot like my mum, you couldn't fail to see a family connection, but we'll get to a description of her in due course. Body wise I'm a bit above average height and I'm lean and physically fit from hours in the gym and summer breaks spent working on farms to supplement my pittance of a lecturing salary.
Because my lodger always seems to be around, especially in the evenings and at weekends, I spend quite a bit of time at my mother's house, especially at weekends. She lives on the other side of town, on the outskirts, where the housing developments give way to farmland. She lives in a decent sized detached, four-bedroom house, the same one that I grew up in, and I still maintain a bedroom there, which I use quite a lot. For one thing, mum's a great cook so I tend to turn up on a Sunday morning and stay for lunch and sometimes dinner too and often we'll watch a film together in the evening. Mum's glad of the company; I don't have any siblings and she and dad divorced years ago. She's dated guys occasionally but there hasn't been anything serious. The only other person she sees regularly, outside work, is her older sister, Laura. Aunt Laura lives in the next town, about five miles away.
My mum's called Christine, by the way. She's a physiotherapist and she's just turned fifty-six. She's got a nice figure for her age, as I suppose you'd expect from someone whose career is all about the human body, though she's a bit heavier than she was when I was a kid; heavier hips and a bigger arse. She's tall, about five feet nine inches, and curvy, rather than slender. She's got long, straight dark hair, which she dyes to hide the grey, and lovely high cheekbones and hazel eyes, but her face is a bit too heavy-jawed to be considered attractive. Her best feature, I think, is her mouth, which is wide and full-lipped and she's got a really sexy smile. In fact although she's not particularly pretty, I think she's sexually attractive, in a slightly sluttish way. And I know that probably sounds like a horrible description of your own mother but I'm trying to be as objective as I can. She wears a lot of make-up and paints her nails and dresses a bit young for her age in short skirts and tight tops that show off her tits, which are quite big.
And if you think I've included a sexual interpretation of her appearance then you're dead right, because ever since that first occasion, where I didn't do anything, I've always seen my mother in a sexual light. Always been attracted to her, I suppose, although I never did anything about it except think about her and Aunt Laura when I masturbated. That incest gene again, I guess.
It happened when I was eighteen and still living at home, waiting for the summer break to finish to start university. Dad had been gone a year or so by then and, being the only other occupant of the house, I'd got the second biggest bedroom and I'd got a desk in there and my computer and I spent a lot of time up there in my teens, playing computer games and, later, looking at porn and wanking myself stupid.
Ever since dad had gone Aunt Laura had come round once or twice a week to give mum company and support. That was fine by me because I was absolutely smitten by Aunt Laura, although she was a couple of years older than mum. She has a superb figure and long, jet-black hair and her face is slimmer than mum's, a bit gaunt in fact, and she has a sort of sexy presence and when she smiled at me I blushed and melted inside. In retrospect I wonder if she knew the effect she had on me.
So when I looked out of my bedroom window and saw her car pull into the drive I decided to finish my game of dungeons and dragons and go down and say hello. In the event, it was about twenty minutes before I left my bedroom and padded downstairs in my socks.
I should explain that mum's house has a big, open-plan kitchen-diner and when you get halfway down the stairs you can see right across the kitchen and into the dining area and that was where I saw mum and Aunt Laura, in the fiercest, most passionate embrace I'd ever seen outside of a television or computer screen. Aunt Laura's arms were round mum's waist and mum's hands were holding her sister's face and they were working their mouths against each other, their eyes closed, heads turning and weaving, oblivious to their surroundings.
I froze, for about ten seconds, eyes fixed on the spectacle of my mother and my aunt kissing. Then I turned and scooted back upstairs and into my bedroom where I stood staring sightlessly out of the window, my mind numb.
After a while I calmed down and started to process what I'd seen and shortly after that I developed a monster erection and had to masturbate before I could trust myself to go downstairs and say hello. When I did, mum and Aunt Laura were sitting drinking coffee in the conservatory as though nothing had happened, although I couldn't help noticing that mum's lipstick was smudged.
That incident marked a new stage in my sexual development. I became obsessed with my mother and aunt and I masturbated endlessly to mental visions of them making love. I visualised mum's face buried in her sister's hairy crotch; I imagined Aunt Angela licking mum's nipples and, best of all, I imagined myself joining in, having my cock sucked by my mum, penetrating Aunt Angela while she licked mum's cunt. I let my imagination run riot, wanking three or four times a day.
I did consider confronting my mother with what I'd seen. My plan wasn't clear but I thought perhaps I could persuade her that if incest with her sister was ok then it was also ok with her son. But I never mustered the courage; for one thing, I didn't know if kissing was all they did, and did that count as incest or just a bit of sisterly affection? After the summer break I went off to university and had girlfriends and the years went by and the memories of my mother and aunt didn't exactly fade, but they were pushed increasingly into the background. Until just recently, that is.
Looking back with hindsight, I see, or I believe that I can see, a change in my mother in the weeks and months before the second incident. I don't think I was aware of it at the time but she seemed to change, subtly, in the way she spoke to me and behaved around me. She dressed up for me when I came round for Sunday lunch. A skirt and blouse instead of jeans and a top. She started wearing perfume, a light, floral scent that I could smell afterwards on my clothes, after she had hugged me when I arrived and kissed my cheek when I left. She started encouraging me to stay longer, to stay over and watch a film with her. And she started confiding in me about her feelings and emotions; the fact that she was sometimes lonely and that she worried she would never meet the right man. Not that I was aware that she was even searching for the right man; she seemed to lead a particularly insular existence outside her work, only seeing me and her sister.
On the fateful day, a warm Sunday in late spring, I arrived at her house at eleven-thirty, with a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. I didn't usually buy her flowers or bring her wine. Perhaps something of her changing behaviour was subconsciously rubbing off on me.
She was delighted and gave me a big hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Her breasts squashed against me and I smelled the scent of her perfume and felt the faint stickiness of her lipstick. She was dressed in a black, woollen cocktail dress, with black pantyhose. I thought at the time that it was a bit formal for Sunday lunch but I didn't say anything. She was heavily made-up, too, with lots of eyeliner and eyeshadow and glossy red lipstick, making her mouth seem wider and fuller than ever. Her nails were painted a bright scarlet.
We had lunch and chatted for an hour afterwards and then I went out and mowed her front and back lawns. She was quite capable of doing it herself but it gave me a nice warm feeling when I did it for her. Afterwards I did a couple of hours digging and weeding so I was tired and sweaty when I went back indoors and found mum sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of white wine.
