My Auntie Claire:

A Story of Discovery

It is difficult for me to say, with any degree of certainty or accuracy, exactly when I might have first begun to consciously perceive that my Auntie Claire was anything more than just the generic entity I had always known as my Mother’s sister. Certainly, my earliest perceptions and recollections of her were distinctly platonic and familial. We were never especially close, she and my Uncle Charles lived several hundred miles away and, in my formative years, our families visited only once or twice a year. In my youth, I knew her essentially as a very amiable and personable woman who always remembered me fondly with a thoughtful gift on my birthdays and at Christmas. Whenever I thought of her, in those years, it was always with the same reserved warmth and affection that I had for any and all of my other Aunties and Uncles.

It was shortly after my Father’s untimely passing and the coincidental, but unrelated, death of my Uncle Charles that Auntie Claire came to live with my Mother and me and the three of us became kind of a second family.

At first glance, it was often difficult for anyone to discern that Auntie Claire and my Mother were related at all, let alone sisters. They were quite a study in contrasts. While my Mother, in her early thirties at that time, was petite and slight of build with blue eyes and blond hair, her sister, Claire, six years her senior, was several inches taller with a generously full figure, auburn hair and hazel eyes. My Mother, a proud housekeeper and homemaker, was almost always dressed comfortably casual in jeans or sweatpants with a tee-shirt or pullover sweater, while Claire, a professional woman with her own real estate business, always radiated a distinctly feminine demeanor by favoring dresses or skirts.

As I began to mature and reach the age of adolescence, I am sure that it was unquestionably because of my Auntie’s penchant for dressing so distinctly feminine that I, quite naturally, began to take notice of, recognize and appreciate her very appealing, physically feminine presence in the household.

In retrospect, I think I had always been aware, however innocently, of my Auntie’s legs. Even as a very young boy, I was able to recognize and appreciate the fact that she was blessed with very shapely and attractive legs. Perhaps the point could somehow be made that, because of my Mother’s disinclination for dresses and skirts, my Auntie’s exposed legs were, for me, somehow more appealing simply by being something new and different to my experience. I suppose there might even be some truth to that. But, regardless of how or why, suffice it to say that I had always, on one level or another, been aware of, and admired, the inherent beauty of Auntie Claire’s legs. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that, as I began to mature and reach puberty, my naïve and innocent admiration would, quite naturally, begin to transform into a different kind of admiration, as well as feelings that were decidedly less than platonic.

I can vividly recall one profoundly poignant incident that rather dramatically exemplified my blossoming sexual awareness. On a typically quiet Sunday afternoon, I was reclined, in my favorite position, on the floor in front of the television while my Mother and Auntie bustled about the kitchen preparing dinner and chatting amiably. From my position, I was able to see into the dining room where Auntie was setting the table. I watched her as she moved from the cupboards to the table, her high-heeled shoes clicking softly on the tile flooring. She wore a skirt I had never seen her wear before. It was navy, matching her shoes, and fully pleated, flaring to just above her knees. As she walked, her skirt seemed to spring and sway in a provocatively appealing manner. As she would turn quickly on her heel, her skirt would lightly swish in such a way so as to occasionally reveal a glimpse of her legs that was well above the hem of her skirt.

I stared in complete fascination. While I had always been cognizant of, and admired the shape and symmetry of my Auntie’s legs, I had never seen her legs looking quite as lovely as they did at that moment. It was almost as though I was seeing her for the first time. The late afternoon sunlight glinted alluringly from her hosiery and seemed to accentuate and highlight ever curve and swell of her shapely calves to the soft turn of her ankle. To my complete mortification and embarrassment, I received an almost instant erection, which tented the front of my jeans obscenely, and I was forced to quickly turn away before she might notice.

Even if that particular incident was not my very first perception of physical, sexual attraction expressed specifically for my Auntie, it was certainly, at the very least, the most profound. It was, essentially, the very first occasion, I can recall, when my innocent admiration had manifested itself in a form of sexual desire.

That night, in the privacy of my bedroom, I surrendered to the impulse I had felt earlier and I masturbated while fantasizing about my Auntie’s legs. It was, I believe, the very first time I ever directly focused a sexual fantasy upon or toward any one specific person and, doing so, seemed to inspire me to an intensity of pleasure I had never reached previously.

I had, by fortuitous accident, discovered the pleasures of masturbation several years earlier while climbing the support pole of a swing set on the school playground during recess. And, while I liked the sensation very much, I seemed to know instinctively that it was not something I needed to do in front of my classmates. I quickly learned to translate the playground experience to the privacy of my bedroom and, through experimentation and touching I became rather adept at pleasing myself that way. From that first accidental incident, I masturbated over the next several years on a semi-regular basis, but had only, most recently, begun to associate the act, and the pleasure derived from it, with sexual connotations. My primitive female fantasies, to that point, had been primarily generic in nature, relating, more often than not, to the intangible, imaginary women that posed for the catalogue lingerie photos.

By inadvertently employing my Auntie’s legs and, by association, my Auntie, as a focal point of my sexual fantasy lent a new and special element of reality and personalization to the fantasy that I discovered to be tremendously appealing.

Because my fantasy of her had so pleasurably enhanced the experience for me, it is in no way surprising that I would come to repeat the performance many times over and, in doing so over a period of time, would inadvertently allow my Auntie to become the primary focus of all my sexual fantasies. Over the next several weeks and months, it became increasingly more difficult for me to perceive my Auntie with that same kind of childlike innocence and naiveté as I had before. She was no longer just my Auntie, an entity I had taken for granted for so many years. As my fantasies of her continued to expand and escalate, she soon became, in my adolescent eyes, an extremely attractive and desirable woman.

I began to watch for and create other situations and encounters with which I might fuel my growing infatuation for her. Feigning an offhand casual attitude, I began to watch her covertly, paying specific, physical attention to her as a woman. It seemed as if everything she did exuded a sensuality I had never noticed before; the soft whisper of her hosiery as she walked; the way some of her skirts and dresses clung to her and emphasized the swell of her hips and the plushly rounded curve of her buttocks; and her matronly voluptuous bosom which, as she moved, always seemed to sway and bounce in a most delightful way. It seemed almost inconceivable that she and I could have lived together, under the same roof, for so long without my ever noticing her exceptional loveliness.

Every day, when she arrived home from work, Auntie would always relax on the sofa with a glass of wine and read the evening newspaper. I would sit cross-legged on the floor, directly in front of her, and pretend to do my homework at the coffee table. With her face hidden by the newspaper, I took great advantage of my position to steal long revealing looks beneath her skirt and watch in astonished wonderment as she would, so gracefully, cross and uncross her legs. Most often she wore sleek, shiny pantyhose, but occasionally she would wear stockings. It was always especially sensual for me to be able to catch a glimpse of her milky white thigh above the tops of her stockings.

I began to look for any opportunity at all to take advantage of a situation where I might look up her skirt or dress, or catch a glimpse of her cleavage whenever she bent over. Each new and revealing indiscretion seemed to excite and provoke me to increasingly greater heights of arousal. My frequency of masturbation increased dramatically. From once or twice a week, it rapidly became a daily experience for me and, quite often, even more than once a day. And, almost invariably, I employed visions of my Auntie as the quintessential focus of my fantasies.

As the frequency of masturbation increased, so did my desire and need to experiment and enhance the experience. I took every opportunity, when I was alone in the house, to sneak into my Auntie’s bedroom and investigate the contents of her lingerie drawers. I loved the sensory feel of her sleek underthings against my skin and quickly learned, through experimentation, what an exceptionally wonderful experience it could be to employ her lingerie to physically magnify and enhance my fantasies.

I loved to wear her lacy, nylon things. Not as a transvestite, imagining myself as a woman, but more so to physically experience exactly how my Auntie’s body might feel if I was to touch her. I loved the way my legs felt so sleek and sensuous in her pantyhose, or the way the cool, sheer fabric of her nightgowns caressed my body as I moved about.

On many, many occasions, I would remove a variety of her lingerie items from the laundry hamper and secret them, for a day or two, in my bedroom. I purloined a great many of her bras, panties, hosiery and nightgowns and, after everyone had retired for the night, would wear them to bed to intensify the physical aspects of my fantasies. In this way, I managed never to soil any of my Auntie’s clean lingerie with my semen and would return all of the items to the hamper, for washing, well before any of them could be missed.

And, for any of you readers who are more curious than I was at that time, most of my Auntie’s bras were sized 40DD, a designation and distinction that meant nothing to me then but would, several years later, become a source of understanding and tremendous respect and appreciation.

My Mother, may God rest her soul, was taken from us quite suddenly. She died of cancer about a year and a half after my Auntie came to live with us. She went very quickly and painlessly soon after her diagnosis and, thankfully, passed away in her sleep one night with no suffering or discomfort. In her last Will and testament, she left the house and all her worldly possessions to me, with Auntie Claire as my guardian until I reached legal age. Also in her Will, my mother expressed a fervent desire that Auntie Claire and I continue live together and carry on as a family and look after one another.

Out of love and respect for my Mother, whom I knew would have been deeply hurt had she ever learned of or suspected the physical infatuation I had developed for her sister, I did my level best to keep any and all of my libidinous feelings for her suppressed. And, for several months, I was reasonably successful in those honorable efforts. I say reasonably because, although I persevered greatly and, indeed, managed to greatly diminish the frequency to only once or twice a month, I could not completely stop myself from masturbating. And, in those exquisitely crucial moments just before orgasm, it was almost impossible to keep images of Auntie Claire out of my thoughts. But, as they say, time has a way of healing all wounds and, as my grief abated over the next many months, I could not help but feel my resolve slipping away as well. With only my Auntie and myself alone together in the house, it became increasingly more and more difficult to keep those old, prurient fantasies of her suppressed, and, it was with great difficulty that I managed to maintain any measure of self-control.

One afternoon, about a year after my Mother’s passing, I experienced a surprising revelation that would forever be the undoing of all my good and honorable intentions. Alone in the house while Auntie shopped for groceries, I was going about my weekly chore of vacuuming and dusting. Opening Auntie’s bedroom door, I proceeded inside with the vacuum cleaner to attend to her carpet, which was strewn with bits of thread and snippets of material. Auntie had always been very accomplished with her sewing machine and, indeed, made many of her clothes, so it was not unusual to find her carpet in such disarray.

In the middle of the room, on a metal stand, stood a dress form mannequin to which Auntie had pinned her latest effort, a cream-colored cotton dress. I was just about to move the mannequin out of the way to vacuum beneath it when it suddenly struck me, like a jolt of electricity, that this mannequin’s torso was, undoubtedly, the exact size and proportions as my Auntie’s body. I literally gasped as a plethora of licentious thoughts began to chip away at my moral resolve. With my interest so urgently piqued, I examined the mannequin closer. Headless and without arms, it was composed of a heavy rubberized substance and covered with a cotton material. Seeing that there appeared to be no way to adjust the size, it was apparent that my Auntie must have had it custom made specifically for her.

"Oh, my God!" I whispered almost reverently, stopping the howl of the vacuum cleaner. My mind reeled with the sudden implications of my discovery. I knew I should try to keep those thoughts out of my mind, but the lure of Auntie’s mannequin was just too overwhelmingly powerful. I stepped up to it and slipped my arms about the waist. My erection was immediate and could not be denied.

"Oh, God…Auntie." I sighed, feeling the soft swell of the mannequin’s bosom against my chest as I pressed my hips into the mannequin and tightened my embrace about its waistline. I came in mere seconds, my orgasm sweeping over me in a tremendous rush of emotion that could not be denied. Astonished by the speed and intensity of my orgasm, I ran from her room to quickly attend to my soiled briefs. Almost more astonishing to me was how quickly all my carefully kept and honorable thoughts and intentions had seemingly just evaporated into nothingness at that moment when I realized the poignant significance of the mannequin’s proportions.

I finished the rest of the house cleaning quickly and attempted, however feebly, to put the incident behind me and pretend it never happened. But, it was not to be. I seemingly could not help myself. Indeed, over the next several weeks, I employed that mannequin again and again. On several occasions, I went so far as to take it to my bedroom, where I would lay naked with it and masturbate. I quickly found myself, once again, plundering the laundry hamper for Auntie’s lingerie, only this time, I used her underthings to dress the mannequin. I was especially fond of her nightgowns, which felt so sensually exquisite against me as I thrust my hips against it and ejaculated. I lay with the mannequin in a variety of positions while masturbating, most often though, I would take my pleasure simulating the sex act in the traditional missionary position. Very often, if and when I had the luxury of solitude and the time to spend, I would expand my sexual interlude with the mannequin for more than only one orgasm.

And, to my complete and utter misfortune, that is precisely how I was discovered one afternoon when my Auntie arrived home unexpectedly. Thinking myself safely within the time restraints of my endeavors, I was indulging myself with the mannequin long after my first orgasm. I was completely naked and was striving vigorously to reach my second orgasm. As I was so totally self-absorbed with my need and my strenuous exertions, it is little wonder that I did not hear Auntie’s key in the front door. With my body covered in a sheen of perspiration from the energy of my exertions and the bedsprings, creaking their loud rhythmic accompaniment, I had just begun to feel myself reaching the brink of orgasm. So lost was I in my need for release that I simply could not believe or comprehend the reality of my bedroom door suddenly opening. I looked up in horror and total disbelief to see Auntie Claire filling the open doorway, staring at me in wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock. As if jolted with a bolt of lightening, I sprang backward, away from the open doorway, just as my first ejaculation erupted from the tip of my penis and jetted high into the air between us. I cried out in anguished mortification and covered my erection with both my hands.

In speechless incredulity, Auntie’s eyes looked into mine and then down to her mannequin, where an obscenely large semen stain permeated the nightgown, and then back up into my eyes. I gaped at her in silent mortification and shame, feeling the warmth of my semen as, incredibly, it continued to pulse relentlessly into the palms of my hands. Auntie continued to stare at me for what seemed to be a poignantly long moment, but was in reality only a second or two, her eyes still wide with surprise. Then, she blinked and shook her head and then quickly averted her eyes.

"I’m…I’m so sorry." She stammered, keeping her face averted as she backed rapidly out of my room and pulled the door closed behind her.

I lay on my bed stunned and humiliated, almost to the point of nausea, my mind racing, trying desperately to think of something I might be able to say or do to explain away such an impossible predicament. Minutes passed and my mind raced with a plethora of flimsy excuses and explanations. But, there was absolutely no way on earth that the incident could be misinterpreted or painted in a different light. She had seen me naked, on top of her mannequin. She had, not only, seen the vulgarly apparent evidence of my previous masturbation permeating the front of her nightgown so obscenely, but had actually even witnessed my ejaculation as I had tried to roll away. Just the thought of such an unthinkable circumstance sent my heart racing and made me shiver with renewed mortification. Try, as I might, there seem to be no way, I could think of, to bring about an easy resolution to such an impossible situation. It was a little while later when my Auntie, bless her heart, came to my rescue.

While I lay in abject embarrassment, she returned to my door and knocked softly. "Honey…may I come in?" She called softly.

"No." I said apprehensively, pulling the blankets up tightly to my chin and wishing I had someplace to hide the mannequin and the stained evidence on her nightgown, which still lay beside me on the bed.

"I…I think we need to talk about what just happened." She said softly. "All right." She said a moment later when I failed to reply. "I understand if you don’t want to talk to me right now…and I don’t blame you."

She spoke softly and calmly, from the other side of the door, for quite some time. She seemed to understand and even empathize with my embarrassment and reticence to talk to her. To my complete surprise, she apologized profusely for intruding on my privacy. I am not sure exactly what kind of reaction I expected to receive from her, but contrition was completely unanticipated. She said she hoped I would be able to forgive her for her indiscretion and promised, over and over, that she would, thereafter, have the utmost respect for my privacy. She went on to say how the whole incident was completely her fault and how terrible she felt for causing me so much embarrassment. She spoke softly, and at quite some length, about the act of masturbation and how it was a completely normal human expression of sexuality and nothing to ever be embarrassed about.