I sipped my coffee, the bitter warmth a poor distraction from my anticipation. Seven days straight now. Would today make eight?
The stairs creaked right on schedule. I kept my eyes locked on the staircase, pretending to scroll through my phone while secretly waiting for Ben to make his appearance. My nephew, all nineteen years of him, had taken up his usual spot in my guest bedroom staying over for the summer break--same as every year--but this time was... different.
"Morning, Aunt Jade." Ben's voice carried down before he did, still groggy with sleep.
"Hey, sleepyhead." I kept my tone casual, though my heart rate picked up.
He rounded the corner in those gray sweatpants--the thin ones that hid absolutely nothing. And sure enough, there it was, the prominent bulge pushing against the fabric. Morning wood, standing proud and completely obvious... except to him. Just like the past seven mornings.
Perhaps it was simply a late growth spurt this year making it more pronounced, or more likely he'd started sleeping without underwear. The first time it happened, I nearly choked on my coffee. I'd been sitting exactly where I was now when he'd walked down in basketball shorts, his erection making a tent so obvious it was impossible to miss. I'd quickly averted my eyes, feeling a rush of embarrassment for him. But he'd acted so normal, so oblivious, grabbing cereal and chatting about his plans for the day.
This past week had been uncharted territory. Ben had been staying with me for a few weeks practically every summer. The "cool aunt" duty had fallen to me naturally, being the youngest of my siblings. I remembered when he was just a gangly teen with braces, asking me to teach him how to talk to girls at the mall.
He'd never missed a summer visit--except that one year when he fractured his leg during soccer practice. I'd actually driven four hours to visit him instead, bringing his favorite homemade cookies and a stack of video games. We'd spent the weekend with him propped up on the couch while I destroyed him in Mario Kart.
That was our relationship. I taught him how to change oil in his first car. I taught him the sacred rites of boiling, chopping, and seasoning--just enough so he wouldn't starve in his dorm room. I explained how condoms worked when my sister was too embarrassed to have "the talk" with him--though this ended with us seeing who could blow one up like a balloon faster and making condom poodles while laughing like idiots. We swore freely around each other and joked about things that would make his mother faint.
But this... this was different.
He'd grown taller, more attractive, carved out some muscle from soccer, but I never looked at him in that way. If someone had told me even a year ago that I'd be sitting here, secretly waiting for my nephew to parade his morning wood in front of me, I'd have assumed they were drunk off their ass. Yet here I was, pretending to scroll through my phone till he walked down those stairs.
"Coffee smells amazing," Ben said, stretching his arms overhead, which only served to push his hips forward slightly, making his situation even more prominent.
"Help yourself." I took another sip, stealing glances when he turned toward the cabinet. The outline was impressive--thick and curved slightly upward against the thin material. Each day I'd gotten bolder with my looks, realizing he genuinely had no idea what he was displaying.
"Any plans today?" he asked, pouring cereal.
"Just work stuff." What I didn't mention about this whole ritual was how I'd been locking my bedroom door each night, slipping my hand between my thighs while replaying these morning sightings in vivid detail. How I'd bite my pillow to keep from making noise as I came thinking about the size and shape of my nephew's cock, perfectly outlined in those thin pants.
It started as an intrusive thought in the middle of my usual nightly 'stress relief' sessions, and became a part of my daily routine. For some reason it felt more...intense, picturing it while...you know. By day 3 even the guilt that usually lingered at the end of these sessions faded. Years ago my ex once defined that wave of shame for me. 'Post-nut clarity,' he'd called it, before adding, "Trust me, it's a guy thing". I can't tell if he was right about that last part or just full of shit anymore. It was wrong. Completely inappropriate. And yet, here I was again, eyes drawn to his crotch like a magnet, wondering if tomorrow would make day nine.
