[Author's note: Well, Gentle Reader, I did it again, didn't I? I suffer from a bit of OCD (that's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for those of you who haven't spent any time in a psychologist's office or taken the curriculum to become a teacher) and the next shiny thing can capture my attention to the elimination of everything else. That happened here, and I apologize. The relationship between Aunt Ann and David, the love story that it is, has always been special to me but I got distracted for a while there. But let's check in and see how things are going between Ann and her nephew, shall we?]
I sat, drinking my coffee, the news in the background, and watched my hand as it wandered to touch my breasts, imagining it was his fingers doing that. I rolled my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, imagining it was his fingers doing that. I increased the pressure until it hurt and then pulled, stretching my areolas and the skin of my breast, imagining it was his fingers doing that.
Okay, you show me a woman who says she doesn't have a vibrator tucked in the back of a special box and I'll show you a woman who's lying. But I couldn't remember the last time I simply masturbated with my fingers.
I watched my hand lift the hem of the long T-shirt and then a finger probe under the fatty pad of my clitoral hood to touch where I was desperate to be touched, imagining it was his fingers doing that. I closed my eyes, and the world disappeared. Oh, I was aware of the talking heads still blathering on the TV, but I was focused. The world had been reduced to what was between my legs and that pressure building deep in my belly.
"What have you done to me?" I asked, breathing the words aloud as my fingertip, his fingertip, slowly rolled my clitoris, each little buildup and then release of pressure sending a shudder through me.
While my finger was busy my other hand found my nipple again, rolling it and squeezing hard enough to make me groan. Then I did something I hadn't done in years, hell, in at least a decade. I lifted the hem of the T-shirt I wore and then my breast, used my fingers to guide my nipple, and latched on. At one point I had been kind of hooked on this and found it was called
breasturbtion
.
So I breasturbated and masturbated and did it all slowly. It was HIS fingers and HIS lips and I didn't want it to end.
It didn't.
I could see him with my eyes closed. I could feel him bringing me along. I thought of last night and the way he said, "Push," and sought those muscles down there, deep in my belly.
I pushed and felt movement and I couldn't breathe.
"Like that?" I said, squeezing gently, pushing a little.
And I felt movement, deep in my belly, way down behind my bladder.
"Oh Jesus," I thought, the little motion down there stealing my breath, sending little electric jolts from my nipples where I sucked to my clitoris where I touched.
I felt my mouth wide open, my breathing in little gasps.
"Push," I thought again, and found those muscles. I pushed and this time kept up the pressure.
"Don't stop," he said and I screamed, sitting up, seeing him there, smiling down at me.
"Oh God," I said, covering my face with my hands like a schoolgirl caught in the act.
He was laughing as he bent and kissed me, patting me gently between the legs and then squeezing my right breast before standing again.
"If you need some privacy," he said, that ridiculous grin pasted on his face, "I'm okay with that."
"Oh God," I said, again, feeling as ridiculous as I'm sure I sounded, and reached for him.
"Do you want to watch?" I asked.
He laughed at that and said, "Aunt Ann," giving me that little thrill at those words, "When it comes to watching women enjoy themselves there are two kinds of men in the world. There are those who enjoy it and there are those who lie and say they don't enjoy it."
I laughed, stood, took his hand, and said, "Okay, Buster, you asked for this but you'd better not fumble the catch."
