Great Aunt Helen
This story concerns a young man's relationship with his maternal great aunt, Helen. A central aspect of the plot is the discovery, by Helen, that Peter is using her soiled underwear whilst masturbating. I recognise that this is a bit of a tired plot vehicle but I hope you enjoy the story anyway. Comments etc always welcome.
Sylviafan
When I went to university at the tender age of eighteen, it was suggested, by my mother, that I could live with Great Aunt Helen for the duration; she lived about five miles from the campus and it was an easy cycle ride or jog from one to the other. She even approached her aunt and reported back that she was very willing to put me up for the full three years.
I resisted the suggestion with some vigour claiming, with justification, that the university experience is not just about the academics; it's also about living away from home and learning to live independently. My mother argued, again quite reasonably, that by living with my great aunt I would be saving many thousands of pounds in accommodation fees; money which, she said, they could ill afford.
The truth of the matter is that Great Aunt Helen, my maternal grandmother's younger sister, was a lonely and insular old lady who behaved more as if she'd been born in the eighteen fifties, rather than the nineteen fifties. When we were children my older sister and I were forced, practically at gunpoint, to spend a week with her during the school holidays. It was a trial: the house was big and gloomy and joyless; clean to the point of sterility. Furthermore, Aunt Helen had little idea of how to entertain two inquisitive and boisterous children. Her idea of a fun afternoon appeared to be doing crochet work while Suzie and I sat quietly, reading improving books -- like Struwwelpeter. The sort of thing where gruesome tragedies befell children who didn't do as they were told. It was almost comic, if you didn't have to live through it.
Not that she was deliberately unkind, far from it. I always had the feeling that she was a very nice person underneath the faux Victorian façade of sternness. She'd apparently had two or three romantic attachments in her life but nobody had ever taken her to the altar and she had been alone for the best part of two decades at the time of this story. So if she was sometimes a little withdrawn and cranky, you could just put that down to the allotropes of loneliness.
Oddly enough my protestations met with support from an unexpected quarter; my dad, normally pretty close with his money, agreed that it was unreasonable to deprive me of the full university experience and said that he'd pay the accommodation costs. Mum was cross but dad was adamant; he didn't get on with Aunt Helen.
Three riotous years as an undergraduate followed, although I was grounded enough to attend lectures, study hard and not go completely off the rails, like some of my contemporaries. In fact I did rather well, coming out with a First in astrophysics and a strong recommendation from my tutor to carry on and get my doctorate. The idea of a further two years in academia, and putting off getting a real job, was very appealing but there were the costs to be considered. My parents agreed, after some discussion, to fund the fees, but only on the condition that I went to live with Great Aunt Helen to save the spiralling costs of accommodation. I didn't have much choice, really.
This story starts with my arrival at Great Aunt Helen's house, a few days before the start of the autumn term. It was, and is, a big, Victorian semi-detached villa on a quiet residential avenue. Most of the houses in the street had had loft conversions and conservatories but Aunt Helen's was still pretty much in its original condition, inside as well as out. Most of the rooms still had their polished wooden floorboards on display, covered in places by thick rugs. There was only one bathroom and it was vast and high-ceilinged and unashamedly old-fashioned. Downstairs there was a lot of big, heavy furniture and occasional tables with lace doilies. The kitchen was the one concession to modernity; my great aunt was a keen cook.
She welcomed me in the porch with an unexpected hug and a peck on the cheek; unusually demonstrative. Then she stepped back and looked at me and I looked at her. I hadn't seen her for at least five years; not since I was old enough to successfully refuse to be sent to her during the summer holidays. Mum thought she was sixty-five and dad thought sixty-six. Whatever; she was about five years younger than my grandmother. Standing in front of me in the doorway I saw a tall, very upright lady, lean and strong looking. Her face was narrow and pale, surprisingly unlined, with clear blue eyes and a straight nose and firm mouth. Her black hair, which was teased through with grey strands, was pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing a drab, nondescript blouse and skirt and flat shoes, but if you looked past this, which I did, she had a pleasant, feminine figure: well defined hips and the hint of a decent bust under the loose-fitting top. The other thing I noticed was her hands -- she had very long fingers with big nails, cut close.
She showed me up to my bedroom, which was spacious and comfortable and old fashioned with a brass bedstead and an enormous oak wardrobe and matching chest of drawers. There was also a desk in the bow window and a bookcase and I knew Aunt Helen had arranged this specially for my stay. I unpacked and went downstairs where she was baking bread, the smell filling the kitchen. She gave me a warm slice with butter and cup of tea and I sat at the kitchen table and we chatted for an hour about university and family and suchlike.
Aunt Helen was more animated that afternoon than I remember; a couple of times she even laughed at my stories of university life. Over the next few weeks I began to realise why: she was very lonely and my visit was a temporary respite from that loneliness and isolation. She threw herself into looking after me in a way that was touching without being stifling; she had a horror of appearing to intrude on my studies and she never asked where I was going or what I was doing in the evenings. Not that there was much to ask about. I usually went out on Saturday night and occasionally during the week, the rest of the time my head was in a book or I was online, doing research. Saturday or Sunday afternoons we'd often go out together to a local attraction like a castle or stately home. She looked forward to these trips out and she was good company: well-informed, humorous and quite unlike the old Aunt Helen that I'd known as a child. I had to admit, after the first month, that the arrangement was perfect. I was excellently fed, all my laundry was done and Aunt Helen never disturbed me in my bedroom, although she did come in and tidy and clean when I was out during the day. Therein lay my downfall.
