Brothers And Sisters Ch 03 2

Aunt Rita is, well, an "interesting" woman is probably the best adjective. She's short, right at 5'2", and a perfect tube of a woman. You know, the four basic shapes of the female body? Hourglass, apple, pear, and tube? Well, Aunt Rita's a tube.

After she and Uncle John, dead now for a decade after managing to get himself electrocuted pretending he was still good enough to be a lineman for the electric utility he ran, had their swimming pool installed I had spent a lot of summer days at their house so I knew she was flat chested with a muffin top, pudgy arms and legs and, as some character in an old sitcom had described, "cankles," thick ankles making a smaller tube involving her calves and ankles.

She's cute rather than pretty in that round-faced way of plump women. Her most striking feature is that flaming red hair that no set of human genes ever produced without chemical assistance.

"Aunt Rita," I said as she led, well, kind of pulled, me along to Mom and Dad's, no, to

MY

bedroom, "this is..." and I kind of wound down.

"Aunt Rita," I started again but she stopped me with a kiss.

It was possibly the most tender, loving, gentle kiss I have ever received, and that includes three wives and two kids.

"Shhhh," she said softly, breaking the kiss and reaching for the hem of my T-shirt.

When I lifted my arms to allow her to pull the shirt up and off I realized that I slept in these clothes and pretty desperately needed a shower.

"Aunt Rita," I started again and she stopped me with another of those delicate kisses.

"Later, David," she said, "but first we celebrate life on this terrible day."

Her kisses covered my face and my 19-year-old body responded.

She knew, the three decades of experience she had on me making it impossible to hide anything from her even supposing I had wanted to, what I needed. But I didn't want to hide anything. I realized, way down below the level of thinking, that she was right. I needed this, desperately.

When I grabbed her arms and tried to kiss her harder she got her hands between us.

"No, Davey," she said in that soft voice, "Easy. No hurrying today. We're celebrating life, not fucking."

I think it was the crudity of that last phrase that brought me back from the lust I had started to feel.

I started on her buttons then, slowly, one button at a time, enjoying the look of her pale, heavily freckled skin as I exposed it. I remembered from seeing her at the swimming pool that she's a true ginger with that red hair, pale skin, and freckles.

"That's better," she said, her lips finding soft skin on my chest.

I wanted to feel skin against skin, not in lust but for comfort, so I reached around her and unhooked her bra, pulled it free over her arms, and then embraced her.

She's beyond flat-chested. Aunt Rita's breasts look like she started puberty and then, somehow, was frozen. Her pink nipples are puffy, slightly bigger than a boy's, and her breasts are small teacups. They felt firm and warm against my skin as I pulled her to me and started crying.

"That's right, Davey," she said, holding me to her, "let it out."

A dam broke. I was bawling, sobbing like I hadn't since I fell off my bike and skinned my knee, a scar I still bear, when I was seven.

She was comforting me, her hand stroking my hair, telling me, over and over, to "let it out."

I don't know how long I cried like that.

As soon as I was down to, well, weeping, she reached down to my belt. She undid the belt and then the button and unzipped, her eyes never leaving mine. She kissed me as I reached for the button of her jeans and said, very softly, "No, Davey, let me do the work."

I stepped out of my jeans and shorts while she held and kissed me again.

She stepped back, making enough space between us for her to unbutton, unzip, and push down before she was back in my arms again.

As I look back through the lens of, well, never mind how many, years I realize that this was the first time I made love as an adult. Oh, I had been reasonably successful with girls. I had managed to separate five of them from their panties, and that is exactly how I thought of it, getting into their pants.

But this was different.

This was so far beyond just fucking it was a wholly different act.

When I said, "I love you, Aunt Rita," a phrase I had been taught by my cousin was the key to a girl's panties, I meant it, and when she said, "I love you, Davey," I believed her.

Oh, don't get me wrong, there was passion. But it was a loving passion. This was far beyond the passion of lust, the animal need to drain the old dragon and spray that DNA.

For the first time with a woman, it felt, well, "special."

And her scent, that wonderful perfume of womanscent, of womanneed, filled the air. It made me harder but, oddly, didn't fill me with a sense of urgency.

"I want you on top, Davey," she said, crawling up onto the big bed and laying back, smiling, and holding her arms out in invitation.

"God, you are beautiful," I said, and it was nothing but the truth.

This wasn't a "target to be scored on," as Bill Cosby put it in one bit, or something to be "made" as my cousin taught me. This was a woman I loved offering to share her body with me.

Her tiny breasts looked sexy and inviting. Her deep slit of an innie belly button begged to be kissed so I kissed it. That thick muff of bright orange hair, proving that she was, indeed, a real redhead even though she did enhance what was on her head, was sexy and I kissed it, not wanting or offering oral sex but wanting to feel that soft hair on my cheek and inhale that sweet scent. The pheromones flooded into me and my erection was throbbing as I moved forward and slipped inside of her in one smooth motion.

"Easy, Davey," she said, "no hurry."

I fought down the demands of my 19-year-old body and slowed down.

And Jesus, it WAS better.

I had never imagined something this perfect. This wasn't fucking. Hell, it wasn't even "making love." This was two people blending, merging, to use the tired cliche, two incomplete bodies becoming one.

Her hands were slowly moving up and down my back, cupping my ass and pulling me into her and then up to my shoulders, tickling and leaving a trail of goosebumps. I pushed myself up onto my arms, caught her hands, pinned them beside her ears, and began covering her face with about a bazillion little kisses.

When she squeezed on me where I was inside of her my control almost failed.

I chuckled softly and whispered, "If you do that again I'll probably be done."

She giggled and whispered, "Wouldn't want that."

I felt her relax, amazed at how wet she was, the way I could feel her flow around me.

I don't know how long we lasted like that. I was barely moving, any quick movements would have probably finished me. I'm pretty sure she felt it too. Her own movements were very limited.

When she came it was sudden and powerful.

We were kissing, soft little butterfly kisses. She kept telling me this was living, that we were celebrating life, and I believed her. I kept thanking her and she would reply "My pleasure," and then giggle softly and add, "literally."

Suddenly she gasped a deep breath and I felt the tension in her body as her fingers dug into my back and she tried to do a situp against me.

I held her, supporting her in that awkward position, as her woman nectar, hot and sticky, flowed. She was breathing out a long sigh, a soft keening sound until I couldn't imagine how she had that much air in her.

She gasped an intake that sounded like something you'd see in a comic strip written as "UNHHHHHH," and then I felt her really bear down, squeezing where I was still inside of her so hard it was almost painful. She was soaking us both and the scent of her release was thick in the air.

"Stay with me, Davey," she gasped.

I stopped my movement, staying with her, in her, lifting myself onto straightened arms so I could look into her eyes.

She smiled.

"Life, Davey," she said.

"Life," I replied, bending to kiss her.

I don't know how long we lay like that, joined, no, merged, our single body teaching me what love was, what sex could be.

"Oh, shit," she cried, laughing as she sat up again, pulling herself against me when the next orgasm took her by surprise.

"Oh, shit," she said, her voice soft in my ear this time, "Finish now, Davey, fill me up, give me that beautiful mangift."

"Huh?" I said. That was a new one for me.

She giggled.

"An old expression, Honey," and I realized just how surreal it was to be having this conversation while I was still balls deep inside of her. "Go ahead and finish, David, cum, fill me up."

"Ahhhh," I said.

Now THAT I understood and I let my hips set up a rhythm.

She came again, hot and wet, squeezing on me, soaking me.

I let my rhythm speed up as she dug her fingernails into my back.

"Yes, Baby, yes, Baby," she was saying, almost a chant.

As the pressure built and I knew my climax was near I slowed down until when I came, even that was gentle and loving. Rather than the hard muscular contractions deep in my belly, evolution's way of sending my seed jetting far into my mate's body, helping my sperm on its terribly long journey through her cervix to find her egg, I flowed into her, holding her eyes as the ecstasy lingered.

"Life," she said softly, pulling me down for a kiss.

"Life," I said, slipping out and then snuggling against her, finding her nipple with my lips and nursing gently, taking her nipple, areola, and some additional tissue into my mouth and, as instinct took over, massaging it against the roof of my mouth. She stroked my hair as I nursed.

The next thing I knew, she was waking me up.