This is a series of exchanges written by an aunt and her eighteen year old nephew following them having sex. It looks at that incestuous relationship from both party's perspectives, examining their doubts and concerns and their pleasure and thrills.
It is a complicated story and will be told in numerous parts. It is obviously advisable to start at Part 1 and read through each part savouring how their relationship develops and changes. However, for those unwilling to go back, each part does stand alone.
****
Fuck it; look where your hand is. Your fucking hand is on my leg. YOUR FUCKING HAND IS ON MY FUCKING LEG AND MOVING UP, was screaming in my mind!
I was acutely aware of its movement. But was it deliberate? Obviously it was fucking deliberate that you had got you hand on my leg, but did it mean anything? Fuck knows. Did you know what you were doing? Did you have any idea how this confused me? I had gone from my boyish world filled with silly fantasies through seeing my first naked woman, who was not only naked, but also provided me with a sight and experience never to be forgotten. My fun aunty, who until this visit used to laugh and joke with me, Now you were not aunty, you were Cat. Aunty was family, Cat was a woman, a woman who I had seen naked, who I had seen in the shower, a woman who I had seen masturbating, and now a woman who had seen, acknowledged and was acutely aware of her nephew's hard cock.
I still wasn't sure whether I wanted to run, cry or... well I didn't know. All I did know was that my heart was pounding and my pulses were racing as I had never experienced them before, well other than when we went shoplifting. Funny that two such diverse actions should create such similar sensations; I even got a hard on when pinching stuff!
"It's alright, it's perfectly ok," your voice was saying breaking through the fog of confusion within me. You know how sometimes your mind is elsewhere and you then become aware, I suppose it is a narrowing of perception, I was no longer aware of the sounds of the city before me or the lights across the river, I was aware of you, nothing else.
I looked at you, your head tilted slightly to one side as if contemplating something. I took in your grey hair. 'Grey?' I asked myself, 'She can't be grey, not real, old person grey. It must be dyed. Yes that what is was, it was grey blonde, maybe champagne blonde as I had heard film stars described.' It was framing your face down to your shoulders emphasising the creamy complexion of your skin. I noticed how your green eyes had both a look of comfort but also something else, possibly mischief? They were kind and smiling but with a shine. Your full lips were slightly parted and your head was bent forward a little. I was acutely aware of your slender shoulders covered in a light weight, dark material, probably silk, giving way to the pale skin of your chest and then on down to your tits. I could still make out your nipples through the material. I could still the creamy swells of each tit and the dark, deep cleavage between them. I could still see the black edging, possibly lace, of your bra. And I could still bring back the image of those gorgeous lumps of flesh being moulded and kneaded in your hands as you masturbated; a vision I knew would never be erased from my memory.
All this was going through my mind as your hand continued to stroke, higher and higher.
And then there was a touch, the lightest touch, I felt your nails. They did touch me there didn't they? Or did I imagine that they brushed the end of my cock bunched up tightly inside my jeans. But through the thick denim it felt as if an electric shock went through me. I felt it twitch, but with just a couple of millimetres of cloth between your nails and my scrunched up hardness it couldn't grow any more, it was too restricted by my clothing, fuck it, or was that a good thing? Who the hell knows? But I felt it swell just a little more. It felt like it was on fire, it was almost painful how hard it had become and I could feel it straining to stand upright, to rear majestically up my flat, taught stomach.
Gone was any idea you were my aunt, you were barely Cat, you were all woman. Your nails had brushed my cock; I thought I was going to cum there and then, my balls felt full, overfull really. It was an experience I'd had whilst with my mates watching porn with a cushion across my lap, then having to go home with no opportunity to relieve any tension, an enormous desire to cum, to pull my cock out and furiously wank, fast and hard until the thick white cream shot from the end. My knees would go weak and I'd feel my balls expanding and contracting as each jet spewed from the deep reddened end of my cock. It was a full and uncomfortable ache like that I had now.
My sudden jerk as you touched me made you stop. I saw a different look in your eyes, but I wasn't overly drawn to it and did not realise what it meant. No, instead I watched as if almost outside of my body, my right hand reached out. My mind was screaming "No, this is not right" to me, but I didn't listen, I couldn't listen, I didn't want to listen. I just watched as my right hand reached out toward and then slowly cupped your left breast, your beautiful, full and available and big left tit.
Involuntarily I held my breath. I didn't know what to expect or what to do next. Maybe you would push me away, maybe say 'No Matt,' maybe you would be annoyed, maybe pleased, I just didn't know. My mind was on other things, this was a tit, a breast. It was your tit and was the first I'd ever held. In one second I felt its weight in my palm, so heavy, so big and then I felt your nipple pushing against the base of my index finger. It was the most amazing sensation I had ever experienced and I thought to myself 'If it's like that when covered, what will it be like when I feel it naked?' I shuddered at the prospect.
At that moment, that very second you let out a slight throaty noise as I felt a familiar tingling in my balls and knew I was about to cum.
It was your voice that brought me back to attention as you said.
"Matt, this is so very wrong, you do realise that don't you?"
Not surprisingly, you could hardly speak; you couldn't compose a sentence or find the correct words. But then, are there any correct words when a forty three year old woman is touching a boy's erection and he is holding her breast? None that come to mind easily or that I can conjure up.
****
You just looked at me. Partly with lust, partly with fear and partly with tenderness in your eyes and on your face. You didn't move. Your hand was on my black silk shirt holding my left breast. I didn't move either. I stayed leaning forward from my seated position on the table, the back of my white, varnished at the tips, fingernails touching the cylinder of flesh inside the harsh denim. It was an awkward position, a clumsy one, a pose that no film-maker or photographer would have chosen in a million years. But it was a natural pose, an impromptu position, a spontaneous couple of gestures.
As I looked at you, I knew we had crossed a bridge; well we were half-way across it at least. The decision was whether we should go on or go back.
My mind, my alter ego, my sensible, mother, business woman and middle class, golf club member self was screaming 'Stop. Go back be sensible.'
My womanly needs, my body, my sexual persona were not so sure. They were not confident enough to tell me to go ahead and undo your jeans and plunge my hand inside. They were not sure enough of the situation and us, I suppose, to urge me to undress you, maybe masturbate you or, unthinkably, go even further with you.
We were in a cul de sac, a quandary, we were almost up shit creek and definitely I was without a paddle.
So we stayed like that for what seemed an age. My hand was on your most evident erection, yours on my breast inside the black, silk blouse. Again my mind was working feverishly like a computer, analysing and organising data, which at that moment were my thoughts and desires, fears and wishes.
Of course it was wrong. There is no defence for an older woman 'sexually assaulting' as it would be termed, a young man, even if he has grabbed her breast. But how wrong? That was the question.
Was it wrong that I was your aunt, a blood relative? Who better, in some ways, to ease a youngster through the horrendously difficult, emotionally and physically complicated induction into sex?
In some cultures that was an aunt's duty, alright they do inhabit the jungles and live in huts, but they consider it normal. Was our civilisation so different? Wasn't incest being considered wrong more a religious convention? Wasn't the point of banning it to stop the mixing of similar bloods and thus avoid the proliferation of webbed feet and six fingers? Wasn't that why it had become a taboo? But now, with advanced birth control and enlightened thinking did it need to be taboo? Certainly not in several European countries and parts of the US where it had been decriminalised.
In any case who was thinking of having full sex? That hadn't entered my mind that probably was a bridge too far.
On top of all that, I also fed some further data into my mind to compute. What did you want? At first my computer rejected that data on the grounds that it was too obvious a question; it couldn't be bothered considering it, after all you are male and are holding my left tit. I inputted more data. You were so young and so inexperienced. I may have been leading you on, inadvertently showing out to you, flaunting myself. Maybe I had scared you into what you were doing? Maybe, if I intimated that we should go further, you would reject me. That, I couldn't take. Rejection always hurts, but to be turned down by an eighteen-year-old kid, would devastate me. Perhaps I shouldn't take the risk?
