7 comments/ 129752 views/ 8 favorites My Mother's Older Sister By: exwyz When I heard that we were being treated to a rare visit from my mother's sister, I wasn't exactly overjoyed. In fact I positively dreaded the prospect, even though Aunt Doreen was just passing through, on her way to stay with a friend in Canada, and we would only have to put up with her for some twelve hours or so. She was catching an early-morning flight, and we lived quite close to the airport. It wasn't my mother's suggestion that Aunt Doreen come down on the train the day before and stay over; characteristically, she had invited herself, phoning up to inform my mother of her imminent arrival. That was Aunt Doreen for you. Undeniably, for ordinary people like us back in the early 1970s, in many respects more innocent and less clued-up than today, Aunt Doreen's life did seem glamorous. Childless, husbandless, she was the closest thing we knew to the sort of people you saw on glossy TV shows, seemingly never doing an honest day's work but still, from somewhere, finding the money to buy expensive coats, jet off abroad, eat elaborate foreign food and sip fine wines in fancy restaurants. But this aura of high living served only to exacerbate my parents' disdain for Aunt Doreen. Every mention of her name brought forth dark murmurings, censorious looks, primly pursed lips. My mother more than once referred to Aunt Doreen as a "man-eater", a term which, to my eighteen-year-old mind, had certain sinister connotations. Particularly since Aunt Doreen had a disconcerting way of looking at you as though she could see right into your mind and read off all your deepest secrets. She seemed to possess some kind of scary, unsavoury power. Yet I couldn't for the life of me see how she had earned this reputation for snaring helpless males at every turn, and concluded that her man-eating days were well and truly behind her. A good decade older than my mother, and taller even than my father, with a thin-lipped slash of a mouth, suspiciously white and even teeth that, I felt sure, were dentures, hard little eyes forever crinkling up in private amusement, half a ton of inexpertly-applied makeup and brutally short-cropped jet-black hair, grey at the roots, Aunt Doreen wasn't exactly your Lamb's Navy Rum calendar girl. She drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney and her laugh wasn't merely unladylike, it was downright obscene. She would invariably inquire whether I had a girlfriend and then relish my embarrassment, laughing as she stared right into my soul. A previous visit, at Christmas several years ago, had left me with the unpleasant memory of the worst so far of her habitual goodbye kisses, which had left me in a queasy haze of alcohol and dirt-cheap scent. No, Aunt Doreen didn't figure at all in my fantasy life. I was a timid, virginal kid, small and scrawny - "sensitive", according to my mother - always buried in a book, or ensconced in the bathroom with the door securely bolted, masturbating to invented scenarios involving the most physically spectacular of the sixth-form's female contingent, or my modestly sexy Latin teacher, Miss Dunham. I was drawn to older women as I felt they would be more forgiving of my multitudinous inadequacies. But I firmly drew the line at my formidable aunt. So it was with considerable foreboding that I came home from school that Monday afternoon, knowing Aunt Doreen would be there. I'd worked out a strategy of avoidance, aimed at reducing contact with this unwelcome relative to an absolute minimum. I would take my evening meal up to my room, pleading a homework backlog. With luck, I would even find a way of ducking out of the dreaded goodbye kiss. Approaching the open kitchen window I heard voices, and immediately recognised my mother's soft tones, along with the hoarse, inelegant rasp that was Aunt Doreen's vocal trademark. Instinctively, I halted. I have never been able to resist an opportunity to eavesdrop. "Say what else you like about me, but you can't deny I've got a decent pair of tits." Aunt Doreen's words rooted me to the spot. Had I heard her correctly? I peeked through the bamboo blind. They were sitting at the table, nursing cups of tea. My mother sat with her back to me. Aunt Doreen sat opposite, cigarette in mouth. Her blouse was partially unbuttoned, displaying breasts which more than lived up to their owner's boast. Her white bra could barely contain them. Amazingly, I had never before noticed how blessed she was in that department. How could I have missed them? But then, I hadn't seen Aunt Abigail since I was ten or eleven, and at that time, the contents of women's bras hadn't featured anything like so prominently among my interests. My mother was nodding her head. Being supportive, as usual. Her antipathy toward Aunt Doreen, as with most of her dislikes, was reluctant, erratic and continually subject to revision. In an ideal world, my mother would be good, solid friends with just about everyone. My heart was thumping. Aunt Doreen was looking straight at me. A cold shiver ran down my spine. For it was as though, with that preternatural vision of hers, she had spotted me there at the window. She didn't appear startled, or shocked, or offended. I even thought I saw her eyes crinkle with amusement. Taking the cigarette from her mouth, she yawned and stretched, raising her arms, and as she did so one large, rosy nipple popped into view. Aunt Doreen's eyes continued to bore into me, and it took an effort to free myself and step back out of sight. Going into the kitchen as though nothing had happened was out of the question. One look from Aunt Doreen and I would be blushing furiously. As it was, my cheeks already felt hot. I stood outside the house, wondering what to do. Should I go to a friend's for the night? I thought of waiting till it was likely that Aunt Doreen had gone to bed, phoning my mother in the meantime so she wouldn't get worried, shinning up the drainpipe and climbing in through my bedroom window, or even sleeping out in the garden shed if necessary. Anything to avoid the embarrassment and humiliation of coming face to face with my aunt. I started violently as the phone on the kitchen wall began to ring. What should I do? I stood there, in a quandary. Had Aunt Doreen intended to shame me? If so, she had succeeded. I felt terrible. Yet also wildly excited. I almost jumped out of my skin when the back door swung open and my mother emerged from the house. I made as though I had just this moment entered the gateway and was walking up the path. My mother was in a rush. A midwife, she was responding to an emergency call. Hurriedly, she explained that my father had had to extend his business trip and wouldn't be back until Friday. For dinner there was the remainder of yesterday's shepherd's pie, which should easily be sufficient for myself and Aunt Doreen. I was also warned not to stay up too late - school tomorrow, remember. My mother then made some kind of joke about trusting me to entertain my aunt. She waved a hurried goodbye and good luck to Aunt Doreen through the kitchen window, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then ran across the gravel to her car. Horror of horrors, I had been left alone with Aunt Doreen for the entire evening. And I had no choice now but to go in and face her. Feeling in grave danger of fainting, I stepped into the hallway, and told myself to take the evening hour by hour, minute by minute, to postpone the inevitable confrontation with my aunt for as long as was humanly possible. I would just have to play it by ear and hope for the best, pray for some miracle to deliver me from death by embarrassment. To the best of my knowledge, she was still in the kitchen. I hadn't looked in through the window while walking past for fear of finding her staring back at me. I tiptoed past the closed kitchen door and was halfway up the stairs when Aunt Doreen's nicotine-ravaged voice stopped me dead in my tracks. "Well ain't you going to say hello to your favourite old aunty?" It was always startling to hear her speak so fondly, with such softness, a lioness mewing like a kitten. I came back down the stairs and mumbled a greeting. My cheeks were burning. I didn't dare meet her eyes. She stood in the living-room doorway, puffing on her cigarette. All those acres of cleavage were still on display. She wore a black skirt, inadvisably short. Her big long chunky legs were bluish-white. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted vivid red. Something else my mother had mentioned more than once about Aunt Doreen: she liked to go around barefoot. My mother had made it sound almost like leaving off your knickers. "Come here." Aunt Doreen stepped up to me, stooped down - she was several inches taller than me, even without shoes - and planted a kiss on the tip of my nose. "Happy birthday, my love. Not till tomorrow, I know, but don't know if I'll see you. Got to be leaving really early, before five. Now would you like a cup of tea? Let me make you a nice cup of tea. Had a good day at school?" So she'd decided to spare my blushes. For the time being, at least. But I knew I couldn't keep the guilt and fear out of my face. I considered taking the bull by the horns and mentioning the incident myself, alluding to it in a casual, jokey fashion, then delivering a sober apology. Struggling to summon the courage, I followed Aunt Doreen into the kitchen. She filled the kettle, then turned and leant against the draining-board. "So you're what? Eighteen? Can't believe how time flies." She flicked her cigarette butt into the sink. "Only seems like a couple of years ago I was bumping you up and down on me knee and helping your mum with you, giving you a bath, washing your little bits and pieces." I gritted my teeth. So much for sparing blushes. This was going to be every bit the ordeal I had anticipated. It had always tickled Aunt Doreen no end, seeing me blush. She was toying with me, and enjoying herself immensely. "Tell you what, why don't we forget about the cup of tea and just have our dinner. I'm starved. How about you?" She bent down, the black skirt taut across her broad behind, and opened the oven, slid out the shepherd's pie, scooped up a bit with her finger, tasted it, nodded approvingly, shoved it back inside, slammed the door and switched on the gas. "You could always rely on your mum in the kitchen." Her tone was faintly disparaging, as though, in her book, domestic prowess was scarcely the measure of a woman. "As for me, well, I did try to whip up an omelette once. Ended up having to chuck it away." Another thing I knew about Aunt Doreen: she hated to cook. She also hated cleaning, washing clothes and ironing, if my mother were to be believed. And I could well believe her. I think that was the really scary thing about Aunt Doreen: it was all too easy to tell precisely where her enthusiasm did lie, to guess her favourite activity. Perhaps, if my mother had had more time to think about it, she would have balked at leaving me alone with this sister of hers. Aunt Doreen picked up a bottle from the worktop. Red wine. She must have brought it with her. My parents never had alcohol in the house, even at Christmas. I'd never even tasted the stuff and, to be honest, found it a little scary. "Special occasion." Aunt Doreen smiled, showing me her implausibly flawless teeth. Her sharp little eyes dissected me like scalpels. "Don't tell me - you never had it before?" Sheepishly, I shook my head. "Well I'm in charge tonight and I'll take full responsibility if you end up drunk and disorderly, all right? After all, my love, it's your birthday tomorrow. Special occasion like this calls for a tipple." Maybe it was just me, but there was something about the way she enunciated that last word, emphasising it and deliberately catching my eye as she did so. I almost expected her to ask: "Can you think of a word that rhymes with that? Begins with N." I felt unsteady on my feet. Much more of this and I would be either fleeing or fainting. We ate at the kitchen table. I had very little appetite. Not because the shepherd's pie was poor - my mother's cooking is invariably excellent - but on account of my increasing trepidation. My stomach felt horribly queasy. I decided that the best thing to do would be to retreat to my room as soon as possible, pleading homework as my alibi. Aunt Doreen ate hungrily, pausing every now and then to sip at her wine. For the moment, at least, she had lapsed into merciful silence. And then finally it came, out of the blue. The inevitable question: "So have you got yourself a girlfriend yet?" I resorted to my prepared answer. "Don't get the time." It was weak, but it was all I could come up with. I knew that it I tried to say something more elaborate or clever I would probably start stammering, or my voice would cut out on me. I drank more of the wine. I wasn't sure if I liked it, or whether it was good wine or bad. It was certainly a taste that took some getting used to. But I liked the way it warmed me, going down. "All that schoolwork, you mean?" Aunt Doreen chose, as always, to humour me, and to make me squirm by making it so obvious. "But there must be times when you see a nice-looking girl and start wishing..." She pulled a face. "Shit! 'Scuse my language, but I've only just this minute realised: Here I am, turning up on the night before your birthday with no present, not even so much as a card. I'd give you some money, but all I've got spare's about six bob - what'd that be in decimal? Be an insult nowadays, offering that to a fella your age. All the rest I've had changed into Canadian." She heaved a sigh, downed the remainder of her wine, got up, dropped the empty bottle into the bin, took another from the rack and grabbed the corkscrew. "No, no, we can't have this, me going off without giving you a present. Now drink up. And then, if you're a good boy, your old aunty might just let you have some more." She pulled out the cork, refilled her glass and put the bottle down on the table. "Where's your loo, my love? Never manage to remember." I gave her directions to the bathroom and, while she was gone, dumped a substantial portion of my dinner in the bin. I took a big sip of wine, and then another, hoping it would steady my nerves. Aunt Doreen returned. She eyed my half-cleared plate with approval. "That's good. Fella needs his food at your age." I was sure she knew full well what I'd done. Picking up her wineglass, she glanced at the kitchen clock. "Mind if I watch the news? Heard something about a baggage-handlers' strike. Be just my kind of luck for it to happen now." We went into the living-room. Aunt Doreen sank down onto the sofa and switched on the TV. "I've ... got a lot of homework," I told her. "I'll ... be up in my room." "OK, my love." She looked up at me. "But just seems a bit of a shame if it's going to take you all evening, though. Don't get to see you that often, do I?" She smiled. "And I got no kids of me own to spoil." I assured her that it wouldn't take me all evening, and left her sitting there in front of the news, cradling her wine, her bare feet up on the coffee table, her hefty, unhealthily white thighs shamelessly exposed. I topped up my wineglass, took it with me to my room and tried to focus my attenption on an essay comparing and contrasting Adolf Hitler with Napoleon. But it was impossible to concentrate, and an hour's effort resulted in one short, poorly constructed paragraph. A ludicrous idea had taken root in my mind, and, try as I might, I could not prevent it from smothering every other thought with a ruthlessness that Fuhrers and Emperors would have envied. I suspected Aunt Doreen of intending to seduce me. And yet I couldn't believe that a woman of Aunt Doreen's vintage would go chasing after he eighteen-year-old nephew. That was pure adolescent fantasy. Aunt Doreen was merely having some fun at my expense. If I'd been brave enough to call her bluff, she would have backed off long ago. Only I let it continue, because I was shy. And because a part of me wanted to see just how far she would go. I kept thinking of that nipple, big and red and rude. Those great vulgar thighs. Her well-rounded behind. That spectacular cleavage, and those tough, tarty eyes, and the surprising tenderness with which she would address me. All of a sudden heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by a soft knock at my bedroom door. Heart thumping, I went across and opened up. She stood there, holding her wineglass in one hand and the bottle in the other. "How you getting on, my love?" "OK... thanks." "Need any help? Not that I could really be of much help, to be honest. Not if it's anything hard." Her eyes caught mine. "I've always been better with practice than theory." She smiled, her eyes crinkling up. "No, a brainy boy like you ain't going to need any help with his book learning, is he?" She held up the wine bottle. "Just wondered if you wanted a refill?" She was looking past me, at my desk, at the empty wineglass. Without realising it, I'd finished my wine. I went to get my glass. Aunt Doreen followed me into the room. "Nice cosy little den. Need a lock on the door, though, if you're going to be bringing girls up here." She filled my glass, topped up her own and sat down on my bed. "Or magazines." The next thing I knew, I was lying on the bed, and my forehead was hurting like hell. Someone was leaning over me. For just a moment, I thought it was my mother. But it was Aunt Doreen. I could smell her cheap perfume. And tobacco smoke and alcohol and sour sweat. "OK, my love?" She peered down into my face. "Nothing to get yourself worried about. Just fainted, that's all. Bumped your head on the floor. If you want my opinion, pet, you've been studying too hard. You know what they say about all work and no play. now you just lay there and have yourself a little rest. I'll be back in a minute." She got up. I felt deeply humiliated. What must she think of me, fainting from embarrassment? I lifted my head. It felt full of concrete. Aunt Doreen returned with a glass of water, a tablet and a bathroom sponge. "Here. Something for your headache." I raised my head again, and she put an arm beneath my shoulders and supported me. I swallowed the offered tablet and washed it down, wondering if this was anything like the correct way to deal with a fainting fit. Aunt Doreen dabbed my face with the sponge. "Feeling better?" "Y... yes .... thanks." "Just a little tiny bruise, not much of one. You'll be all right. Poor love, come here..." Her thin lips puckering, she bent and kissed the bruise. "Poor love." She hesitated, her face inches from mine. "Never did give my favourite nephew a proper birthday kiss, did I? Special occasion deserves more than a peck on the cheek." The tip of her nose brushed against mine, and then she was kissing me full on the lips, at first very gently, and then with more force. I can't say I enjoyed it particularly. After a moment she pulled away, hovering over me. "Want to know what the trick is? You just got to relax." I nodded faintly, which was about all I could manage in the way of communication. She descended on me again, and this time I really did try my best to follow her advice, even parting my lips for her when I felt the tip of her tongue questing between them. I'd never done any serious kissing before, and hoped I wouldn't seem foolishly inept. I kept my eyes shut, and when I opened one, just for half a second, I found Aunt Doreen's eyeball, startlingly close, staring back at me. Her tongue teased mine, and then began a more aggressive invasion, pushing mine back and, to my great embarrassment, causing my penis to stir and twitch and stiffen. Aunt Doreen pulled away again and straightened up, arching her back and taking a theatrically deep breath to compose herself, I felt forced to conclude, with sober resignation, that I had now received my birthday present, my special treat, in its entirety, and all the rest would remain firmly in the realm of fantasy. My Mother's Older Sister "What's wrong, my love? You look worried. Got nothing to go worrying your head about there. You're a good kisser. A born natural." For a moment, she studied me in silence. And then, slowly, her gaze travelled down my body, came to rest at my crotch. "Oh deary me, has your silly old auntie gone and started something?" She grinned. "I suppose it did take your mind off the headache..." Reaching out with delicate fingertips, she patted the bulge, causing me to twitch involuntarily as though I'd been electrocuted. "Oooh my word! Not very fair to leave things in that state, is it now?" With finger and thumb, she tugged the zip down. And then she took hold of my hand and placed it beside my open fly. "Would you like me to leave?" I hesitated, shook my head. She shifted back, leaning against the wall and lit a cigarette, bringing her large, bluish, badly-shaved legs up on to the bed. Resting her chin on her knee, she gazed down at me. "You know, my love, you're not the only one who sometimes gets curious about people's private business." I felt a stab of alarm. Was she referring to my spying at the kitchen window? What else could she mean? Was this my punishment, performing for her, showing her the kind of thing randy young boys got up to when alone? "I'm ... sorry," I managed to mumble. "Do what, lovey?" She gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "No need to apologise, my darling. We all of us get curious. Me, I've always been really curious about seeing ... well, you know. Men. Boys." Perhaps it was all the wine I'd drunk, or maybe the knock on the head had something to do with it, but from somewhere, I don't know where, I found the courage to slide my hand inside my open fly, take hold of my penis and squeeze. With my other hand, I fumbled to unfasten my trousers. Aunt Doreen reached over and helped me. I pushed the trousers down, freeing myself, and wriggled my hand into my underpants and gripped myself again. I was almost erect, but something - probably my nervousness - prevented me from getting there completely. I could feel Aunt Doreen's eyes on me, could still smell her perfume, and the alcohol and smoke on her breath. I wondered what my mother and father would think if they came in and saw us like this. Me with my hand in my pants, my penis three-quarters hard. Aunt Doreen sitting there next to me on my bed, smoking and watching. It had to be a dream. Scenes like this just didn't occur in reality. I moved my hand up and down, squeezing, working up into my customary slow rhythm. Could I trust it to quicken of its own accord, as it normally would, as I became more excited? I felt horribly selfconscious. What if it wouldn't get any harder? What if this was the best I could manage? I'd oozed a little lubricant, but it wasn't enough. Soon I started to feel dryness, soreness, discomfort, and a dreadful sense of failure. I was letting Aunt Doreen down. There was a dark spot, slowly spreading, on the front of my underpants, soaking up some of my much-needed natural lubricant. Aunt Doreen lifted her nearest leg, and I noticed, for the first time, a small, quite untouched clump of wild hairs just behind the knee, like a sports field tended by a sloppy groundsman. She stretched out her long foot and positioned it directly above the telltale spot. As my penis thrust upward again it butted against her big toe, and she responded by applying delicious pressure. Rock-hard at last, I let out an inadvertent gasp, and felt strangely proud. I had always been a scrupulously silent masturbator, too fearful of discovery - and beyond that, too inhibited - to vent my pleasure vocally. "Feel nice, does it, my love?" Aunt Doreen murmured, her voice oddly tense and quavery. "Mmm?" I nodded. Was she quite sane? I wondered. Wasn't she letting things get a bit out of hand? As for me, I was only a kid. Could I really be blamed? I was moving my hips now, thrusting more violently. Aunt Doreen shifted her foot, jabbed playfully down at me with her heel, and then, showing the same remarkable deftness with which she had unclipped her bra in the kitchen, she withdrew her foot, stretched it out, burrowed her big toe under the waistband of my underpants and yanked them back, revealing my straining, twitching "manhood" - as old-fashioned writers used to like to call it - in all its rude, rhubarby glory. I heard Aunt Doreen react to the sight with a funny kind of sound, something not unlike a laugh, but also akin to a moan. "My word, now that is a good size," she murmured breathlessly. "Don't expect you'll be getting any complaints there." I thought of her nipple, peeping out at me as she sat at the kitchen table, and I came, explosively, shooting onto my stomach, my school shirt and Aunt Doreen's leg. A glob of sperm slowly followed the curve of her calf, fell and lay there glistening on the candlewick bedspread. I lay there in excruciating silence, my trousers halfway down my legs, my underpants having slipped part of the way back up to cover one testicle. About the only part of me not rigid with embarrassment was my penis, dying in my hand, soft and slumped and sausagey, retreating once again into its foreskin. "Look at him!" Aunt Doreen remarked fondly. "Like a weary old walrus." She reached out and ran a finger along its length, now considerably reduced. "Ain't nature amazing when you think about it?" No one else had ever seen me erect. One or two kids at school would proudly brandish formidable hard-ons in the changing room after football, but I was very much the shy type, in and out of the showers with all possible haste. It was as though, simply with her eyes, my aunt had already taken a portion of my virginity, and I felt satisfied and relieved that one important rite of passage was at last out of the way. But now Aunt Doreen was observing me in a state of flaccidity, hardly a feast for anyone's eyes. I felt an urgent need to get hard again, to make the most of her enthusiastic scrutiny. And I did not feel at all sated. But the physical lagged well behind the mental. In a spirit of scientific curiosity one rainy Sunday, aided and abetted by some photos of, if memory serves, Mary Millington in The News Of The World, I had ascertained the minimum interval my body required between ejeculation and subsequent erection. It was around fifteen to twenty minutes, depending upon the quality of available sensory stimuli. However, I felt quite confident that on this occasion I could beat all previous records by some considerable margin. "We could do with a tissue or something," Aunt Doreen said matter-of-factly. "You just stay there." She got up from the bed, went out, and returned a couple of moments later with some toilet roll and a dampened bathroom sponge. In the clumsy, hesitant manner of one unused to domestic tasks, she set about removing all evidence of sexual activity, while I continued to lie there with my trousers halfway down and my underpants halfway up. With her last wad of toilet roll, she dabbed teasingly at my penis, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise when it began to swell, shifting and twitching at her touch. "Raring to go again already, is he?" Aunt Doreen chuckled. "Bloke of my age, he'd be out of action for the rest of the week." She took away the toilet roll and sponge, then came back and sat on the edge of my desk, right in front of me, her small eyes shining with dark merriment. She lit another cigarette, dragged deeply at it then looked down at my penis, by now halfway erect again. She parted her thighs a little, then more. Then still more. The gusset of her faded pink knickers was taut across her crotch, dark pubic hairs sprouting richly to either side, intoxicatingly vulgar. "You want the lot, my love, don't you?" she said quietly. Her face hardened. "Well ... Judst as long as nobody ever gets to hear. You don't tell no friends, you don't tell nobody. 'Specially not your mum and dad. OK? Do you understand me, now?" I nodded. "Wouldn't want to go messing you up." Aunt Doreen tapped her temple. "Up here, I mean." She spoke in deadly earnest, and for a moment I feared that self-disgust was finally beginning to rear its head, and that she would come to her senses and dismiss the whole sordid notion. But she didn't close her thighs. In fact she opened her legs still further, and I saw that a long dark narrow patch had formed along the centre of her gusset. Following my eyes, Aunt Doreen smiled. "See? I'd be a hypocrite to say it was just you that wants to." Glancing down at herself, she hooked her forefinger under her gusset and tugged it to one side, revealing what was no demure and discreet little organ, but a raw, red and aggressive-looking thing, with alarmingly prominent lips that brought to mind the ears of a minaiature elephant, and butcher's shops, and some strange alien creature from Star Trek. Aunt Doreen opened her legs still further, as though for a medical examination, causing her labia - as I later learned to call them - to part and reveal, rather alarmingly, a dark little orifice, a hole in her body like the mouth of a tiny cave. Plainly visible above it was what I've since realised was her clitoris. Stroking herself with her fingertip, she remarked, "Dry as a desert, these days, more often than not." She showed me her fingertip. It glistened. "Want to know something, my love? You're the first one who's got me like this in a good long while." It seemed utterly beyond belief that my fifty-year-old aunt had become physically excited by the prospect of being intercourse with me. Shy, skinny, virginal young me. Aunt Doreen got up from the desk and hiked up her skirt. It was tight enough to stay bunched up around her waist. I could smell her arousal, and, despite what passed for received schoolboy wisdom, it wasn't rank. I'd never understood why boys talked about women's bodies with such revulsion. Despite my lack of sexual savoir faire, I'd always felt sure that nine-tenths of what passed for informed comment was ignorant rubbish. My penis was semi-erect again. Aunt Doreen looked down at it, and took a puff at her cigarette. "I know a lot of women like to ... you know, have it in their mouths, and all that, but..." She pulled a face. "Never enjoyed that very much, meself." Her eyes sparkled. "Do like it the other way, though. But most fellas'll never do that for you. Well, most fellas I've known, at any rate." "I ... w...would," I stammered. It had taken an enormous effort, getting the words out. "What's that, my love? Well if you're sure? Because it's not the sort of place to be if you don't want to be there." She climbed up onto the bed, towering over me, and stepped forward and stood directly above my head. "Now are you sure you're sure?" I nodded. "Well then would you like to help me off with me knickers?" Aunt Doreen wriggled the knickers down around her thighs. I reached up and pulled them down the rest of the way, and she helpfully raised each foot in turn. Gripping the headboard with both hands, she slowly squatted down over me, offering as friendly advice: "Think of a cat lapping at a bowl of milk." Resting my elbows on the bed and gripping her buttocks, so that Aunt Doreen was more or less sitting on my hands, I stuck out my tongue as far as it would go and, tentatively, probed at her labia. She flinched and gasped as I made contact. I probed again, and again she flinched. The third time, though, she responded by squishing herself hard against me, and from there, between us, we began to work up a something in the way of a clumsy rhythm, the bed creaking away and Aunt Doreen gasping in time to it. I had no real technique, but plenty of enthusiasm. I lapped, I probed, I licked, sucked, tasted, toyed, revelling in my sexual adventurousness. Who among my schoolfriends had done anything like this? I couldn't even remember this particular form of sexual congress being described within the pages of the dog-eared paperback copy of Confessions Of A Window Cleaner that had been passed around from dufflebag to dufflebag last term. Very soon, though, my tongue began to hurt. Two or three of Aunt Doreens's pubic hairs had become tangled up in my teeth. I wondered how much longer I could keep going. Although disappointed that I'd failed to bring my aunt to a climax - because I knew that women got climaxes too, thanks to another book that had recently done the rounds in school, an informative tome by a writer with the vaguely comical name of Alex Comfort - I was really quite relieved when finally she lifted herself off me. "Getting a bit sore, my love," Aunt Doreen explained. "Very nice, though." She twisted round, reached behind herself and I felt her fingers close tight around my penis. (As she did so I took the opportunity to spit out those stray pubic hairs.) She gave me a squeeze, then let go of it and looked down at me. "So it's the whole lot, my love, mmm? That what you're hoping for?""Aunt Doreen hauled herself up and stood over me, her nether regions raw and red and glistening. "Well let's get these out of the way ..." She tugged at the leg of my trousers. Hastily, I removed them, along with my underpants, and Aunt Doreen unpeeled the socks from my feet. "Can't stand it when fellas leave their socks on. Well shift yourself up a bit, then." I did as asked, scrambling back until my penis was directly below her. In a slow, solemn, ceremonial manner appropriate to the sexual initiation of a nephew, Aunt Doreen lowered herself onto me, taking hold of my penis again and guiding it into position, pausing at the very threshhold. Her eyes were all fierce and slightly scary. But then suddenly they softened. "All right, my love?" It was an unfortunate thing for her to say at that moment, as it happened to be the catchphrase of a certain well-known TV personality, and my thoughts were promptly gatecrashed by my his broadly grining face. I battled furiously to erase this utterly unwelcome vision. "Well here goes..." Aunt Doreen began gently, easing herself down until I nudged against her. And then, fairly vigorously, she impaled herself upon me. I came at once. "Thought that might happen," said Aunt Doreen, not without humour. My embarrassment was acute. I wondered if this still qualified as losing my virginity. Aunt Doreen lifted herself off me, tore herself a length of toilet roll and wiped a thick glob of my sperm from her inner thigh. She smiled down at me. "Took the wind out of your sails, has it?" Thinking myself oh so sophisticated for having grasped her meaning, I tried to think of some witty response, but could come up with nothing better than "Sorry." "Got nothing to apologise for," Aunt Doreen said gently. "Nothing unusual in a young lad of your age. In fact, I could take it as a compliment." With her fingertip, she stroked my now despondent, more than half-flaccid penis, and the magic of her touch promptly threw the process into reverse. "Well bugger me!" She watched in rapt fascination as it set about levitating itself, straining, creeping upward in jerky fits and starts. "Coming back for more, is he?" As if in answer, my penis faltered, twitched, then began to fall back. "Listen, really now, if you've had enough?" Aunt Doreen regarded me quizzically. I shook my head. I still couldn't come up with a witty remark. "I know, you wanted the full thing." She smiled sympathetically. "And that couldn't really be called the full thing, could it? So ... would you like to undo me?" She patted the buttons at the front of her blouse. I reached out and, with trembling fingers, attempted to do as invited. After what must have been about thirty seconds of fruitless fumbling, Aunt Doreen came to my assistance, unbuttoning her blouse down to her waist, scooping her right breast from its cup and offering me the large, erect nipple as though I were eighteen weeks old rather than eighteen years. I sucked on her. Aunt Doreen clambered up and crouched over me on all fours, rucking her skirt up out of the way, and took my penis in her hand, squeezing and pumping. What with this and the sucking, I was erect again almost immediately, and Aunt Doreen lost no time in getting me back inside her. Our rhythm was erratic - I found it tremendously difficult to suck, thrust and stay in sync with her, all at the same time - and when all of a sudden Aunt Doreen began to shudder violently and opened her mouth wide in a frighteningly emphatic gasp, I finally had my suspicions confirmed. Yes, they were dentures. Panting, Aunt Doreen smiled down at me. " Don't feel you got to finish, my love. Nobody could call you a virgin now." But I wanted to finish. I desperately wanted to. To stop now would be to leave the job half done, the test only half-passed. I continued thrusting away, and after a moment Aunt Doreen joined me again, getting back into the swing of it. But for all my exertions I seemed to be getting nowhere. In fact I was beginning to feel unpleasantly numb down there. "Look how about the other way round?" Aunt Doreen finally suggested, and, at her prompting, we switched to what I knew was commonly called the Missionary Position. I'd hoped to accomplish the reinsertion without assistance, but success eluded me, and when Aunt Doreen finally came to the rescue, her fingers lacked a certain finesse, and conveyed a sense of annoyance and/or impatience. Trying not to think of her dentures, and to ignore the smell of her sweat, which was by now very pungent, I thrust away as vigrously as I could, nuzzling into her throat, wondering whether people in general would now easily be able to identify me as sexually experienced, as in an altogether different league to my less fortunate classmates. "I'm starting to get a bit sore, my love." Aunt Doreen was barely reciprocating now. "Go on too long, and it after a while it's not any fun. For the woman, at any rate." Placing my hands on her shoulders, she gently eased me up off her. I was bitterly disappointed, and Aunt Doreen must have read this from my face, for she kissed the tip of my nose, smiled sympathetically and said: "Well there's one little thing I could try, if you want? Seems to go down a treat with most blokes." I nodded eagerly. I was prepared for her to try anything, anything instead of leaving it at this. Aunt Doreen brought her hand up to her mouth, extended her forefinger and, slowly and lasciviously, proceeded to suck on it. Was this simple, suggestive act, I wondered, meant to furnish all the necessary stimulation? Was it intended as a substitute for that other act she had confessed to disliking? Whatever the case, it was falling on stony ground. I still felt like I could go on thrusting forever to no avail. She withdrew the finger from her mouth. Strings of spit dangled from it, and I came close to retching. With her other hand, Aunt Doreen pushed my head down toward her right breast, still exposed, the hard, jutting nipple big an thick as a pink wax crayon. I took it in my mouth and sucked hard. "Open your legs, my love," Aunt Doreen instructed. What she had in mind, I couldn't for the life of me imagine. But I did as asked. To my horror, a small fart, mercifully silent and, I prayed - odourless - seized the opportunity to escape. Aunt Doreen kissed my forehead. "Now lovey just relax." I tried my best to, but it was diffiult, for I could feel her finger toying with my anus. Although I'd long since discovered the pleasure that could be had from sticking my finger up my bum, it was a totally new - not to mention rather disturbing - experience, having someone else down there, probing and poking and smearing their spit around. "Ready?" Aunt Doreen asked. Ready for what? I wondered, vaguely alarmed, yet at the same time almost unbearably excited. I nodded. Gently but firmly, Aunt Doreen penetrated me. My Mother's Older Sister I felt like I was floating on a cloud, corny as it may sound. What I was doing to Aunt Doreen was dirty enough. But what she was doing to me, my mother's own sister, was filthy beyond my wildest imaginings. Well, that was how it seemed at the time, back when teenage boys couldn't gain visual access to pretty much the whole gamut of sexual activity at the mere click of a mouse. "Not hurting, am I?" Aunt Doreen wanted to know. I shook my head. "Aaaagh!" she gasped, withdrawing her finger and twisting furiously under me, sending me lurching off to one side, where my head collided with something sharp and brought something "Sorry, lovey - think I must've pulled a muscle or something." Aunt Doreen stroked my temple, where I'd bumped myself. "Got a bit of a whack, there, didn't you? My fault. Sorry 'bout that." She fumbled around on the bed and her hand reappeared clutching my Captain Crazy Megapistol. "What's this we got here, then?" For my tenth birthday - or was it the Christmas of that year? I forget - I had asked for that niftiest of gadgets, a Dr Who Sonic Screwdriver, and was crestfallen to receive, instead, this bulbous little water pistol moulded from sickly green semi-translucent plastic. Made in Hong Kong, and stapled into in a cellophane bag with a cheap cardboard label sporting a poorly-rendered astronaut character - presumably Captain Crazy - the weapon had turned out to be far inferior to a humble Fairy Liquid bottle when it came to squirting water. But I had always been a sentimental little soul, loath to dispose of anyting bought as a present, and the gaudy futuristic sidearm had remained, unloved and unplayed-with, on the bookshelf beside my bed for the best part of a decade. Of course, I didn't bother explaining any of this to Aunt Doreen. I simply responded with a tight, preoccupied smile, impatient for her to reinsert her finger. Aunt Doreen held up the Captain Crazy Megapistol, subjecting it to thoughtful scrutiny, and all of a sudden her tiny eyes crinkled up. Opening her mouth, she inserted the weapon's rounded muzzle, licking at it, sucking on it, working it in and out as though in imitation of my own thrusts, which had by now ground more or less to a standstill. When she took the toy out, it was shiny, dripping with her saliva, and decidedly obscene looking. "Going to open up for me, love?" I did as requested, even going so far as to grab my buttocks and spread my bum cheeks to the point where I felt ready to tear. I felt the muzzle of the Captain Crazy Megapistol nudge against my opening, and I offered all I could by way of assistance as Aunt Doreen eased it into me. At the same time, my penis sprang back into action as if by magic, and two more vigorous thrusts was all it took to do the trick. As though to demonstrate her gratitude - and, no doubt, to mark her relief at the conclusion of what had become something of an uncomfortable ordeal for her - Aunt Doreen sought out my lips and kissed me several times. I wondered what my mother would say were she to come in at this moment and find me sprawled half-naked atop her sister, my penis in the process of slipping, shrivelled and spent, from Aunt Doreen's "front passage", to use my mum's favoured term for it, my aunt's right breast bared, half squashed beneath me, and my Captain Crazy Megapistol protruding from my rear end. Aunt Doreen died in 1983.