She whispered, her lips so close I could feel her breath, warm and moist in my ear, "be quiet now, or we'll both be in trouble."
Her hand was busy now, stroking me, slowly, squeezing hard enough that I worried about her hurting me, but she didn't.
"Do you like that, Davey?" she asked in that same soft, warm, moist voice, not really a whisper but so soft and low I knew my great-grandmother wasn't hearing.
"Yessssssss," I managed.
She giggled softly and her hand moved, finding my balls, her palm flat, pushing them back up where they came from. Then her fingertip tickled that soft, almost downy patch of pubic hair, just starting to come in, not yet a man's coarse hair. Still a young man's softness.
I was squirming then and she was giggling, telling me to hold still and be quiet.
And she was kissing me, nice kisses. Not like the girls I had experimented with at school, well, after school. Her lips were parted and soft, not puckered. Very nice kisses.
I came, of course. I had no concept of control and her hand was busy. She giggled when I did and then held me until I softened.
"Be ready tomorrow morning," she said, "we're going swimming."
And just like that she was gone, slipping out the window and heading to her house next door. I shut the window and went back to bed.
I couldn't concentrate on my reading.
I finally got back to sleep, eventually, and dreamt of her.
I woke, as I always did in my summers with my great-gramma, to the sound of her in the kitchen. It wasn't that she was trying to wake me, but she wasn't making any effort to be quiet either. So I walked through the kitchen, it was one of those rambling houses that had been built pre-indoor plumbing so the bathroom was added to the back as an afterthought, in my shorts, what we call tidy whities today.
I peed and washed my hands and then went back into the kitchen. Mame, her name was Mame and she was my Mamie Mama in those days, was standing at the stove, watching her old fashioned clear glass, well, I think the proper name is Pyrex, and she crooked her finger, beckoning me. So I went to her.
It was obvious she had nothing under her robe and it was belted loosely. I could see the sides of her enormous breasts peeking out and got instantly hard.
"Davey," she said, and even at 18 I recognized a different look on her face, "you're growing up now, so you need to start wearing clothes in the house honey." And then she gave me an odd little smile and reached down and patted where I was hard. "Or wear nothing," she added and turned back to making breakfast.
I went into my bedroom, pulled on my cut-off jeans, and then back out for breakfast.
I was surprised that she had set a cup of coffee at my place. When I looked up at her she smiled and said, "you're growing up, honey. Time to start thinking, and acting, like a man." And there it was again, that odd smile.
Breakfast was always a big meal with my Mamie Mama and today was no different. There were scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, and orange juice. We both ate with gusto, as we always did, and I couldn't help but notice that her robe kept falling open. She caught me looking, showed that odd little smile again, and then deliberately, slowly, pulled the robe closed.
After breakfast, I helped her wash dishes, and then we went out to sit on her porch swing, kind of a morning ritual with us for most of my life. We were sitting, swinging gently, when my cousins pulled up in front of the house. Bevvy had a Corvair convertible, a gift when she graduated, and she and Margie had the top down when they honked.
I waved, went inside and grabbed my swimming suit, rolled into its towel, kissed Mamie Mama, and went down and jumped into the back seat.
"You girls be nice now," she called as Bevvy started the car and we pulled away.
"Always," Margie called back over her shoulder.
They were giggling.
We drove down the paved county road, turned off onto a dirt road, went through a gate that I carefully opened and closed, and then followed another road, well, more like a dirt track, for another mile or two before pulling to a stop. The body of water there was more than a pond but couldn't be called a lake. Margie turned in her seat and said, "Welcome to our private swimming hole."
She giggled, got out of the car, opened the "frunk," the trunk in front, pulled out a blanket, and walked down to the swimming hole. Bevvy and I followed. Margie might have been the younger sister, but she was always the more adventurous one.
There was a little copse of trees along the bank of the pond and Margie flipped the blanket, spreading it.
And then she undressed.
She was so casual about it, it took a few seconds for me to realize that she didn't have a swimsuit under the T-shirt and cutoff jeans she was stripping off. It was underwear. I watched, fascinated, hell, let me start that sentence again.
I watched, absolutely captivated, mesmerized, unable to look away, as she did that double-jointed thing only a woman can pull off, unhooked her bra, and dropped it onto the blanket. She was pushing down the cutoffs when Bevvy joined her on the blanket and peeled off her T-shirt and did the double-jointed-unhook-the-bra thing.
They turned then, naked, giggling a little, and said, in unison, "Well, come on."
If you didn't know my aunt and uncle you'd swear these two weren't related. It would be hard to imagine two more different girls. But you could see my uncle in Margie, in the eyes and mouth, and in her height, she was tall and slender. You could see my aunt in Bevvy, in her hair and body type.
Margie was tall and slender, with small breasts and narrow hips reminding the world she had been a gymnast, speed swimmer, and cross-country runner. Her breasts were small, almost boyish, just small bumps on her chest tipped with small nipples. Lower, and I could no more have stopped my eyes from traveling down her body than fly, her navel was a cute little innie, and below that a wonderful thick mat of pale brown hair showed as two thick lines, covering her labia like a furry pelt. Her legs were slender, a runner's legs, and I saw not the slightest hint of a tan line.
Next to her, Bevvy looked positively dumpy. She was thick, much heavier than her sister. She was a brunette, dark, with dark hair thick and curly, almost frizzy, worn short. She was heavy-chested, at 21 her breasts were high and heavy, already sagging under their own weight, with very large and very dark areolas offering a beautiful setting for equally large and even darker nipples. She was young and firm so she didn't have one of those soft belly aprons I have come to enjoy on truly fat women over the years, but she had a distinct roll and her belly button was a deep crease. Her pubic hair was a very dark, very straight, very coarse layer spreading from the crease of her belly button down in a wide delta. Thick thighs with distinct saddle bags tapered to slender calves, the feature that most resembled her sister's.
"Enough looking," Margie said, giggling, and skipping over to me, "now come on."
