Auntie and I Ch. 01

Auntie and I have a secret. It's a secret shared with eight other women, women who live quiet lives up in Toad Harbor, Maine. It happened the summer of my nineteenth year, but, I should start at the beginning...

My father died before I was born, shipped off to the Gulf War not long after what I can only hope was a beautiful night of loving sex with my mother. I've had inklings over the years that make me think maybe it wasn't such a beautiful night, and wasn't such loving sex, but I still like to think of it that way, my mother the beautiful peasant girl, my father the handsome prince, just like in the movies.

My Aunt Pamela helped raise me. She's my father's little sister, just eighteen at the time of his death. A talented artist with no money to go to college, she stayed home and freelanced for a local advertising company, sold her own paintings at art fairs, and helped my mother with me, the baby. Mom named me Jonathon, the same as my father. Most everybody calls me Jon.

As soon as I learned to talk I started calling Pamela "Auntie". I still like the ring of it, the way it rolls off the tongue. Mom and Auntie, they raised me into a boy, and eventually, a man. From day one there was a strong emphasis on respecting women, treating them the way a man should, with love and reverence for their womanhood. Maybe it wasn't quite that sappy, but you get the idea. I learned over the years that my dad probably never got those lessons when he was growing up. There were quiet whispers of abuse, whispers I tried to close my ears to. It all made sense in a way, clarifying the reasons why I was taught the way I was, the reasons why I think of women as Mother Nature's greatest triumph.

I'm twenty-six now, married, with a boy of my own, living the good life in Southern California. I wouldn't be here without my father and his family. His parents passed away when I was seventeen, one from cancer and the other from a broken heart. The inheritance went to my mother and Auntie, my mother's half financing my college education at a prominent design school. Freshman year I took an automotive design class and that gave me my direction — I minored in drawing and painting, but designing cars became my passion. Now, I happily spend my days working on top secret projects at a Japanese car company's American design studio, and my weekends are full of laughter at the beach with my beautiful wife and child.

But this story isn't about all that. It's about the summer of my nineteenth year, a summer burned into my memory. The smell of spruce, and low tide. The smell of fishing boats, and oil paint on freshly stretched canvas. The sound of charcoal pencils on rough artist's paper. The taste of woman.

You see, Auntie Pamela had taken her inheritance and ran. That's how it seemed at the time, to me. Mom seemed to understand, but she was saddened when her sister-in-law, her best friend, moved away. Auntie had long been in love with the coast of Maine. It seems to be an almost universal affliction among artists, drawn to the haunting light and the rocky, watery scenes like moths to a flame. Auntie used her money to buy a small storefront with an apartment upstairs, in a small coastal fishing community that was starting to developing into a haven for artists. A few art galleries had already opened on Main Street and Auntie sensed a real opportunity, a chance to buy-in before real estate values started going up. Mom and I visited her soon after she moved up there. We stayed for two weeks the summer before I started college. The old store didn't look like much at that point, having been empty for over a decade. We spent part of our vacation helping her rip out horrid looking wall-to-wall carpeting, dirty orange and faded green, probably installed in the sixties, and smelling at least that old.

"Oh, I love this concrete!" Auntie said, excited when she saw what lay beneath the old carpet. "I can stain it and make it look like leather."

My mother smiled and said, "You could make mud look pretty if you put your mind to it."

By the end of the day we'd deposited every scrap of the old carpet in a dumpster out behind the marine supply store across the road, thanks to Auntie sweet-talking the owner. Her big breasts might have had something to do with it. Did I mention she has big breasts? They were sweaty and braless under a dirty white t-shirt when she went over to talk to the man. She was smiling when she came back. "We're in," she said. "He said we can use it for some other things, too, as long as I give him all my marine business. He knows I don't have a boat!" she said, smiling.

When I think back on those two weeks I realize that was when I started to get an inkling of the power that women hold over men. Sexual power. I shouldn't say they hold it over us, because they don't for the most part, but it's always there, always playing a roll. Auntie Pamela is a beautiful woman with a million dollar smile. She doesn't look like a model or a magazine girl, more like the girl next door with the big bazoombas and the hourglass hips, full bodied in the voluptuous sense, with soft but not unpleasant bulges where she probably didn't want them. Muffin tops, I've heard them called. To me, looking at her with the hormonal eyes of an adolescent young man, she looked like a wonderful playground. They were emotions I hadn't felt at home before she'd moved away, but not seeing her for a while made her look new. It was all me, I realize now, the adolescent pathways in my brain rearranging, changing females from back-lot-baseball partners to something so much more. Did I mention Auntie has big breasts?

Those two weeks in Maine were a revelation. I'd never seen the ocean before, and what a spectacular place to see it! We spent part of a day on the rocks at Pemaquid, in the shadow of the iconic lighthouse, Auntie and I with our sketch pads, Mom happily reading a book.

One day we drove to Acadia National Park. We walked the carriage roads, hiked some trails, listened to the waves at Thunder Hole. We had lunch at a restaurant in Bar Harbor and I fell in love. A Japanese girl was eating at a nearby table with her parents. They didn't speak much English, but she was fluent. She saw me sketching and came over to look. I blushed, my face bright pink, when she saw the drawing was of her. Some sort of electricity shot through both of us. I could see it in her eyes and hear it in her soft voice. I would have married her on the spot, the way they did in the old days, but, alas, I was seventeen and she was gone from my life as quick as she'd appeared.

By the end of the two weeks, Auntie's gallery was stripped of its former ugliness, the nice man across the road's dumpster was overflowing, and the small upstairs apartment felt like home. The Japanese girl was still on my mind. I was very sad to leave Maine, nearly in tears, deeply unhappy to leave Auntie behind and terrified about my upcoming move to college. 

"You're going to love it!" she said, hugging me tight against the warmth of her bosom. "I would have given anything to be in your shoes. Love it for me, will you, Jon? Love it for me."

As we were leaving, walking though the empty old store, Auntie said something that made my heart dance. "You know, by next summer this place will be busy. I'll need help during the tourist season, otherwise I won't have time to work on my paintings. And I want to give classes, too. Jon, would you be at all interested in spending part of your summer here? I'll pay you. It'll be a real job."

I looked at my mother and she looked neutral. I found out later that she was disappointed I wouldn't be home with her, but she knew it was a good opportunity for me to grow. College was one thing, but it wasn't real life. Living in a small village, working at a gallery, it sounded perfect in a lot of ways. She signed off on it quickly, and I was over the moon. I suddenly couldn't wait until next summer.

My first year at college was a watershed year. The virginity I was starting to worry about ended with a bang, an after-party coupling in my dorm room with a cute Asian girl. I'd developed an attraction to the dark-haired beauties after the fleeting encounter in that Bar Harbor restaurant. The girl in my dorm room wasn't even a student, she was a local girl who'd wandered into the party with some of her friends. It turned out they were more than a little slutty, seen in previous years prowling the dorms looking for fresh boyfriends who had money. I wasn't one of those, and it ended up being a one night stand, but I didn't care. My aching cock had found its real purpose in life, and I was a happy guy.

The other thing I learned that night was that sex didn't have to be a private event. My two roommates and I all had girls wrapped around us, all in the same room. There was no swapping, but there was plenty of visuals and exciting sounds. Six naked people having a serious go at it. An end to my virginity that truly opened my eyes.

A more serious relationship came and went. In looks, she was the opposite of an Asian girl, a crystal-blue-eyed natural blonde with long legs. She had the same muffin-top softness that Auntie has, and breasts almost as big. Her sexual appetite was voracious, much to my delight. My roommates were delighted, too, because she wasn't shy. I'm sort of surprised she didn't take us all on at least one time, after a drink or two too many, but she never did. The relationship ended fairly amicably, right before summer break. She left me horny, and a whole lot more experienced.

And then it was summer, and I was nineteen. I went home and spent a week with my mother and her new dog, a kindly, bear-like Newfoundland that had replaced me in her somewhat lonely life. I packed the things I thought I'd need in Maine and I got on a bus. Auntie met me in Portland.

"You've changed," were the first words out of her mouth. Her eyes twinkled as she scanned me, head to toe, settling on my face, which she scanned even deeper. "Girls," she said. "Am I right?"

To this day I don't know how she knew so quickly, but she did.

We had dinner in Portland, near the waterfront. It was wonderful to see Auntie looking so full of life. We fell into easy conversation just like we always seemed to do, talking about my mother, my classes, drawing, painting, the gallery and her new life in Maine. She seemed truly happy.

It was a three hour drive up the coast to Toad Harbor, the final leg a narrow two-lane down a long peninsula, over a few bridges, ending at the small village on the rocky harbor I remembered, some of the rocks as big as islands. The oddly sweet smell of low tide was in the air, and a fog was rolling in.

"Did you bring flannel shirts and a jacket like I told you?" she asked. "Summer's different up here."

I could already feel it, the fog bringing an evening chill that felt refrigerated. 

Auntie parked on the street in front of her gallery's big storefront window, and my eyes barely recognized it. A stunning large format painting sat on a wooden easel in the window, lit with soft spotlight that was turned down dim for the nighttime. The lights inside were dim, too, but I could see that the walls were lined with paintings and other framed work, and it looked like there were some sculptures on stands. A professionally painted sign hung over the big window: TOAD HARBOR ARTS

"Oh my God," I said. "It's fantastic!"

Auntie smiled. She was proud, and rightly so. "I'll give you the tour later. Let's go upstairs so you can unpack."

Unpacking led to beer drinking, which led to sitting around talking some more. Auntie was worried about the beer, big trouble, she said, if anyone found out she was giving it to me, but I assured her I wasn't a lightweight.

Halfway though our third bottle, it was getting late. "You're different, too," I said, letting the statement hang there. I scanned her with my eyes the way she'd scanned me, hoping she'd break down and tell me something, but she didn't. "Sorry, I got nothing," I said, my mischievous smile drawing one from her.

"You little stinker," she said. "What, can't tell if your Auntie's gettin' any? Just for that I'm gonna make you tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"About your first time. All the details."

"No way!"

"How long did you last? Was it a quick spurt?"

"Auntie!" I said, my eyes darting between hers. Her face was alive with excitement, different than I'd ever seen it. My cock was acting different than it ever had around her, too, suddenly rock hard in my pants.

"Describe her to me," Auntie said. "Were did you meet her?"

I told her the story of the party and the party girls, me and my roommates getting lucky all at once. Auntie seemed particularly interested in the "all in the same room" aspect, asking how much I could see of the others, how much I watched, if I minded them watching me. It was a little like psychoanalysis. I learned some things about myself from her questions, and I learned some things about her from them, too.

"A one night stand, that kinda sucks," she said, tipping her third empty bottle into her mouth, hoping for more than the last drop. "Got your noodle all interested and then you had nothing. Who was next? Don't tell me that was it for the year."

Auntie liked my girlfriend better, and seemed quietly pleased at my description of her body type. I didn't come right out and say "big tits" and "muffin top", but she got the gist and smiled softly when she realized I like curvy, squishy girls.

"A tit man, huh?" she said, smirking at me. "I have a theory. The only men who don't like big tits are the ones who've never gotten their hands on a pair." 

I could have sworn her arms squeezed her breasts together slightly, making them look even bigger than their normal bigness, but I might have imagined it.

We ended the wonderful evening with a tour of the gallery. I followed her down the creaky back stairs, across the dimly lit back room to the electrical panel. Auntie switched on the lights.

"This is where I teach my classes," she said, walking me between all the easels, showing me the little stage where models pose. "You've seen it all in life drawing class, right? Do you do men and women, both?"

"Yup," I said. "They're students. They get paid a little."

"I haven't told you much about my students, have I?" she said. "They're all married women, fisherman's wives, mostly. This village is so isolated down here, there's not a whole lot for them to do. I have eight, now, and really the only way to get models is for them to do it themselves. It wasn't easy to get them out of their clothes, and they still won't do anything more than topless. There's all types, but definitely a few with...let's call them voluptuous."

Auntie opened the drawer of a flat file and pulled out some drawings. "They all keep the nudes here for the most part. Most of 'em think their husbands wouldn't understand. One thing you'll learn is that most of the men around here are very conservative."

Auntie pulled out drawing after drawing. It felt odd to see all the women bare-breasted before I'd met them clothed, but artists are supposed to be detached when it comes to nudity. That's when the drawings of Maria started coming out of the drawer.

"Whoa!" I said, a little too loudly.

Auntie smiled. "She's a hottie, huh? I knew she was, but oh, man, when she unhooked her bra and let it drop there was a hush from all the other ladies that gave me goosebumps."

Auntie showed me all seven of the drawings of Maria, some of them well done. One of the women had obviously focused her efforts on breasts and nipples, and she'd done pretty well capturing the feel of what I would have seen myself — the sexy essence of soft, firm flesh, the lovely line of the ski-jump curve of them, and the suckable quality of the most sculptural nipples I'd ever seen. Maria appeared to be a rather spectacular looking young woman.

"How's my tit man doin'?" Auntie said, smiling at the mesmerized look on my face. "Gonna make it?"

I suddenly realized I had a throbbing boner, lumping out my pants plain as day. "Should I be...seeing these?" I asked. "What if I meet these women?"

"You'll meet them," Auntie said. "Just don't say anything about it."

My education about the eight wives was slow but steady. It seemed odd that it started with a parade of bare breasts, but I wasn't in a position to complain, and didn't want to anyway. As I remember and contemplate that summer, as I've done for years now, I often wonder if Auntie had a master plan that she carried out to perfection. What I do know for sure is she had me fully aroused within hours of my arrival, the crotch of my pants full of hardness more than once, with her loving eyes more than glancing at it, making me blush. Either Auntie was a sly one, or she innocently fell into the path of the rolling snowball and was carried away by it the same way I was. Even now, seven years later, I'm still not sure which it is.

Tourist season in Maine doesn't really get up to full speed until July, so I had some time to draw and paint and do some poking around before Auntie needed me to man the gallery. My mother made a quick visit, but she didn't want to leave the dog in the kennel too long, so she was gone soon after she'd arrived. Toad Harbor was such a sleepy little village, it was hard for me to believe it would come alive with tourists in the heart of the summer. It turned out I was right. It was pretty much a sleepy little village all year 'round. Oh, there were cars that came into town, many of them art enthusiasts and collectors who'd read about the galleries there, but even in 'high season' it was pretty darn quiet, by my standards anyway. It didn't surprise me at all that some of the local women wanted to take off their tops and draw each other's tits. There just wasn't much else to do.

Personally, I enjoyed the quiet. Freshman year at college had been a whirlwind, so it was nice to spend my days sketching and then go back to the little upstairs apartment for a critique from my favorite artist. I guess I didn't mention yet that the apartment was very small. The entire back half of the upstairs was the office space for the old store, and Auntie used it for storage mostly, with a corner work table set up for matting and framing, and another table for crating and un-crating, packaging, shipping and that kind of thing. That left half of the upstairs for a two bedroom apartment. If you told me it was built with little people in mind I'd say that's about right. Auntie didn't seem to mind. We bumped into each other often, and it always drew a laugh out of her. The narrow hallway wasn't built for two full sized people. There were plenty of times she could have ducked into an open doorway when I needed to pass, but she always chose to flatten herself against the wall as best she could and let me squeeze by. I never knew if she was going to go face to the wall or back to the wall until she did it. She giggled either way, but one time, when I squeezed past her soft, warm ass, with both of us in sweatpants and me half-hard from watching some porn, her giggle turned into a soft moan. I remember it registering in my brain in an odd sort of way. We were two weeks into our cohabitation at that point, and she sort of felt like a college roommate. Sweatpants were our usual uniform. Auntie was braless under her t-shirts in the mornings and evenings, and quite possibly pantyless too. The bathroom door didn't necessarily have to be closed tight and latched. We felt like buds. So the moan in the hallway was no big deal, even though I thought about it for the next few days, wondering if it would happen again.

I started meeting the wives within the first few days, even though I wasn't officially working yet. Meredith and Abigail were the first, stopping into the gallery to say hello when Auntie and I were hanging a huge painting. It wasn't going smoothly and we were both sweating, worried about damaging the expensive frame.

"Oh my God, that looks heavy," Meredith said. "Can we help?"

"Down, down, down," Auntie said to me. We lowered the massive painting to the folded up blanket on the floor. "Damn!" she said, looking at the dents in the soft parts of her fingers. "I need gloves."

"Hi, I'm Jon," I said, extending my hand to the women. I recognized them as two of the art class students from the topless sketches I'd seen — Meredith with the low-hanging handfuls, Abigail flatter chested, with nipples that stuck out like those pegs you put coat hangers on. It was awkward having that information in my mind. I was starting to wish I didn't have such a good memory.

"This is the handsome nephew I told you girls about," Auntie said. "He'll be with us all summer. I'm hoping to persuade him to model for us."

"Oh, wow," I said, flashing a blank stare at my aunt. "We hadn't really...talked about that."

Auntie shrugged her shoulders. "We'll see," she said.

Meredith and Abigail had blank stares, too. I can only guess they were contemplating having me sit naked on the little stage in the back room. I'd only just met them so couldn't be sure, but it appeared all the color drained out of their faces.

"What are you two up to?" Auntie asked them.

"Oh, just out for our walk," Meredith said, still looking a bit stunned. "I need some eggs at the store."

They seemed embarrassed and left a few moments later. Abigail hadn't said a word.

It was like the floodgates opened after that, the rest of the wives seemingly coming out of the woodwork. I can only guess it was to have a look at me. Dina and Ginette. Phoebe. Celine and Leah. Everyone but Maria. I was beginning to wonder if she was still one of Auntie's students when she walked in out of a foggy morning, just like a character from a movie. A swirl of fog even followed her in through the door. I was alone in the gallery, holding down the fort while Auntie was out running errands.

"Oh, hello," Maria said. "You must be Jon." She extended a delicate hand that squeezed mine tighter than I expected. "I'm Maria, one of Pamela's students."

"Yes. I mean, she did mention there was one I hadn't met."

"You met all of them already?" she said. "Wow, word travels fast around here."

Maria's amused smile was lovely, and the rest of her, well, I was feeling a little faint as I imagined her sitting topless on the posing stage in the back room. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Dark and exotic, like a gypsy, with a body that was the stuff of a horny man's dreams. My dreams. I was trying to claw myself out of one of them when Auntie walked in.

"Maria! How nice! What brings you out in this fog?"

"I was told I had to get down here and see your new employee," she said, looking right inside me with her black, barely smiling eyes.

"What do you think?" Auntie said. "Will he do? He doesn't clash with the decor, does he?"

"No," Maria said. "He doesn't."

She and Auntie started chatting about the crew on one of the fishing boats; one of the new men had gotten arrested and Maria's husband was hoping to hire a new hand.

"Do you know anything about fishing, Jon?" she asked. "It pays a lot more than working here."

"Don't even think about it!" Auntie said to me. "You're mine this summer!"

"I wasn't thinking about it," I said. "Besides, the pay'll be pretty good here when you give me extra for modeling."

Auntie looked at me funny, and glanced at Maria. I was panicking a little inside. Taking off my clothes in front of the eight wives, in front of Maria, in front of Auntie, seemed out of the question. And yet, I'd just offered it up.

"You'll be modeling for us?" Maria asked, looking excited. "Wow. That'll be...fun."

"Tell the others," Auntie said to her, "but lets all keep this quiet, all right? I don't want a bunch of angry husbands coming down here giving us grief. It's just figure drawing class, but a lot of them wouldn't understand."

"Right," Maria said. "Yes, we'll keep it under wraps."

She smiled, looking happy and a little shy. Her face was intoxicating, and the rest of her more like heroin, dangerous but irresistible. Auntie told me later that Maria was born in Portugal, the daughter of a fisherman. The family had come to Maine when she was ten, which explained the unusual trace of an accent that I couldn't place. She was twenty-eight years old and already firmly entrenched in the life of a fisherman's wife.

The other women were older, ranging from thirty to fifty-six. Five were married to fisherman, one to a mail carrier, and one to a diver who specialized in working on the hulls of the fishing fleet. I didn't think too much about all that. The modeling thing was stuck in my head. It seemed like an okay thing to do. Men modeled nude at school, so it couldn't be all that bad. I was glad Auntie said it would stay quiet, though. That seemed smart. I could already see how news in a small village traveled fast, and bad news probably spread even faster. If I was really going to take my clothes off, I wanted as few people as possible to know about it.

Auntie suggested I call her Pam or Pamela when we were at the gallery. She thought it might be more comfortable for me when the others were around, less childish sounding than "Auntie." I agreed. I'd actually been thinking about doing it, but I didn't know if she'd like it. I was working full time with her, learning the business, and it seemed silly to revert to Auntie in the evenings, so Pamela it was. It seemed more adult than Pam, sexy even, although I wasn't sure why that angle was in my head. 

The first art class with me involved took place on a Tuesday night. I was interested to see how it all worked. It was exciting, really, with a lot of nice energy in the air. I wondered how much of it had to do with me. None of the women had been around to say hello for days and I was a little worried that my willingness to model had disrupted the regular routine, but on Tuesday night at seven o'clock all the ladies were there, most of them dressed in jeans and simple shirts, ready to work. Some looked a little shy, and some looked excited. All of them seemed to have a happy twinkle in their eye.

Auntie had asked me to bring down a box of wine and a bowl of pretzels from the apartment. The women all chipped in to buy the weekly wine. The buzzing conversation quieted when my footsteps on the creaky staircase announced my arrival. It felt odd to be wearing nothing but a bathrobe in the middle of a gathering of women. My hairy legs showed out the bottom, and my newly hairy chest showed out the top. My cock was blessedly soft, only subtly pushing at the front.

"There's our handsome man," Auntie said.

"Where do you want these, Pamela?" I asked.

There were many smiles when they heard me call her Pamela. I blushed a little. Maybe Auntie was the better choice? They probably would have smiled at that, too.

"Over here on this table, Jon. We keep the glasses in this cupboard here."

Auntie was setting out the glasses when I got there, bent over in her tie-dyed peasant dress, her heavy bosom hanging braless, opening the low-cut dress like a window to heaven. I fumbled the bowl, almost spilling the pretzels, and I felt my cock double in size. I was in trouble, and class hadn't even started.

Luckily, drinking seemed to be the first order of the day, so I hid my problem behind the wine box and I filled glasses, including one for me.

"No tattlers about underage drinking, okay, girls?" Auntie said. "Jon's only nineteen."

"Nineteen?" Ginette said, looking happily surprised. "Oh my..."

At fifty-six, Ginette was the oldest of the women, old enough to be my grandmother, I suppose. That wasn't something I wanted to think about, so I picked out her best features and thought about how I would draw them. Her lovely eyes were the standout, and the turned up corners of her mouth. She looked quite good in her bluejeans, too, once I started thinking about it.

"Surprising, right?" Auntie said. "I think he looks very mature for nineteen. It's the dark hair and the dark eyes, and all that nice hair on him, I guess. How tall are you, Jon?"

"Six two," I said. "One eighty last time I checked, if we're...doing stats."

"We won't tell you how much we weigh," Auntie said.

All the women chuckled in agreement. There was nervousness in many of their laughs, and on some of their faces.

"There's plenty of wine, girls, and we're all walking home, so drink up. Your sketches will be better if you're loose."

Auntie gave me the bottoms up signal, encouraging me to finish my wine. I guess she thought I looked nervous, and she was right. She refilled my glass and I guzzled it halfway down.

"Fill that up and bring it with you," she said. "Why don't you take your place. Are we ready, girls? Ready to make some art?"

I was relieved that my cock was behaving, and the quickly ingested wine felt warm and mellow. I was suddenly excited to be there, in a room with good energy, with art to be made. I strolled to the little stage, set my glass down, slipped off my robe and took my place on the high, barstool-like chair. You could hear a pin drop in the room, and a couple of audible gasps. 

It wasn't terribly surprising to see some of the women staring at me with open mouths, but seeing Auntie that way did surprise me. I glanced down at myself to make sure everything was all right, and I was greeted by the sight of pretty damn big cock. The boner I'd sprung looking down Auntie's dress had softened, but the length and girth hadn't dissipated much. My cock is funny that way, a grower not a shower, but a very slow shrinker.

"Now that's a male specimen," Auntie finally said. "We can draw that, right girls?"

There were murmurs and nervous nods. More wine was consumed. Charcoal pencils started scratching on art paper. Drawing was underway.

"Pay attention to your basics, girls," Auntie said. "Light and shadow. Don't let the form overwhelm you. Light and shadow. Light and shadow."

She started walking around the room, giving quiet advice. She bent down next to each student, the top of her dress opening each time, her breasts hanging full, moving freely. I was in trouble.

"Jesus!" Maria whispered. Her eyes flared wide when they caught mine. Auntie heard her, and looked up at me.

"Yes," she said. "Like I said, a real male specimen. We can work with this. You might want to start fresh, girls, and go for a different emotion."

Paper hit the floor all around the room. New drawings were started, some with frantic movements, trying to catch lightning in a bottle. My cock was fully hard, throbbing. I could barely breath.

"Can you hold that pose, Jon?" Auntie asked, looking hopeful.

I nodded, unsure.

"Let's go for the erotic, ladies. This is a special moment. Capturing magic is what makes art special."

I started to wilt a little and Auntie walked over to me. She leaned in and spoke quietly. "Can you keep it hard?" she asked. "It's just perfect. So beautiful. You can use your hand if you need to."

"Don't be alarmed, ladies," she said as she walked away from me. "Our model's just going to firm things up so you can keep working on that pose."

My hand went to my cock. My stomach muscles flexed when I felt my touch. I stroked the full length of me, trying to avoid eye contact. The sound of charcoal pencils on paper had fallen silent, my short shallow breaths the only sound.

"That's good, Jon. Very nice. Let's draw ladies. Concentrate. It's perfectly acceptable to add the hand if you like. You could add some motion if you want, the way I've showed you, with smudging or one of the other techniques. Or draw a nice, crisp line. Whatever strikes your fancy." She looked at me again. "Jon?" she said, nodding at my cock. 

I took it in my hand again, not as embarrassed, stroking slowly, more naturally. It felt good, and my eyes went to Maria. She watched as I stroked, and I stroked, and I stroked. I guess I was waiting for Auntie to tell me to stop, but she didn't. My body started spasming and my breathing went ragged.

"Easy, big fella," Auntie said. 

There were nervous giggles. I broke my eye contact with Maria and let go of my cock. It was red, the tip dark purple. My balls were tight. I stood for a moment to get some blood flowing in my ass. Then I was back on the stool, back in my pose. Auntie walked over and handed me my wine. She whispered in my ear. "Awesome, sweetheart. Totally...fucking...awesome."

So that was the first night of modeling. It ended with much awkwardness an hour later — me standing on the stage, my swollen, unsatisfied cock hanging like a sausage between my legs as I pulled my robe around me, hiding it. Auntie made the rounds to her students, guiding them on finishing touches, critiquing their work. I was sitting on the stool, sipping wine, trying to make sense of things. The women starting to mingle, showing surprised looks at each other's creations. I was embarrassed and wanted to leave and I think they could tell. When I stood up to go there was a strange look on all their faces, like they wanted to applaud my crazy, inappropriate performance but were too embarrassed to do so. Maybe it was just my imagination. Auntie could tell I was uncomfortable.

"Thank you, Jon," she announced. "You did wonderfully. We'll see you next week?"

I nodded, waved, and climbed the creaky staircase to some much needed privacy.

The women were downstairs for another hour. I could hear them through the floor, nothing I could make out clearly, but a general murmur of happy conversation. I desperately wanted to masturbate, but I was worried Auntie would appear around the corner at any moment. I thought about doing it in the shower, but that seemed blatantly obvious, and I worried the women would hear the water running and know what I was up to. I don't know why I was so embarrassed about it, I just was.

As I sat and waited I wondered what the women thought of the situation, me living in the apartment with Auntie, me unafraid to be naked, me with the hard cock that she seemed to like to show off. Did they all think it was appropriate? Aunt and nephew, shacking up? Would it become a village scandal? Did it matter?

I heard the women leave, the circuit breakers clicking off, the creak of the back stairs.

"Wow!" Auntie said, her face smiling and luminous. 

The tie-dyed peasant dress she had on looked even more peasanty in the dim light, even more curvy in the shadows. I was sprawled on the couch in my sweatpants, trying to look casual. I suddenly wished I'd put on a shirt, and for some reason my bare feet felt naked.

"Looks like we've got ourselves an erotic art class!" she said. "I love it! Wasn't it fun?"

A smile took over my face and all my nervousness faded away. Auntie was spectacularly happy, and just plain spectacular. There was no way to be unhappy in her presence, a presence that was perfect in every way. 

"I was worried when you first got hard," she said. "But then, it was just perfect. You're just perfect. You should have heard everybody talking about you. Most of them have never seen anything like you. You're special, you know. Most men aren't as...beautiful. I shouldn't admit this, but I happen to know your father had a really big dick, just like yours."

"Auntie! How do you know that!"

"Brothers and sisters see things sometimes. I was oblivious one morning, hungover. Mom and Dad weren't home so there was loud music on, I think. I walked into the bathroom and saw him masturbating. We both screamed, but I got a really good look at it. Seeing you downstairs brought that memory back, I'll tell ya!"

I knew I looked like my father, from all the old pictures of him I'd seen. Finding out my sexual parts were the same made me feel good, connected in a deeper way to the man I'd never known, but it was surprising to learn such a thing from Auntie. 

"It's funny," she said. "Seeing him totally skewed my perceptions. When the first dick you see is eight inches and thick as a post, it sorta ruins you for the little ones. A big cock is a special thing, Jon. You're lucky. I'm surprised that gold-digging slut that took your virginity didn't stick around just to fuck you some more. I would have."

Everything Auntie said was surprising. What she said next surprised me, too.

"Did you relieve the pressure? I thought for sure you were gonna spurt in front of everybody. That would have opened some eyes."

"No," I said. "I though maybe you were coming up."

"What, you're not embarrassed about jerking off, are you? It's not like we haven't heard each other. It's a small apartment."

I just sat there, unsure of what to say, slowly realizing the noises I'd heard through the bedroom wall were just what I'd thought they might be. Auntie's eyes got wide as she contemplated my silence. "Oh," she said. "You mean...you thought I was coming up to...help you?"

"No! That's not what I was thinking about!"

"And?" she said. "Now that you are thinking about it? Now that we're thinking about it? I'd be happy to. Really."

It was the moment. The big one. The moment that unleashed a torrent. It started slowly, though, with a trickle, or more accurately, a spurt. As I sat there reclined on the couch, it was obvious I was hard again. I did nothing to hide it. Auntie waited for an answer, but my silence seemed to make her happy. She smiled and my heart melted. I lifted my ass and pushed my sweatpants down around my thighs. Auntie got them down the rest of the way, leaving them around my ankles. She sat down next to me, eyeing the hard hunk of meat that had lifted above my thighs.

"I've been told I give good handjobs," she said, glancing at my eyes. "You can tell me if its true."

The next few minutes aren't the clearest in my mind, but I'm sure you'd like to know what happened, and I'd like to remember it better, so I'll see if I can separate the memory from the psychedelic swirl that's still alive in my mind when I think of that evening.

Auntie's fingers wrapped around my throbbing girth, slowly, like she was picking up an injured bird from the forest floor. Her touch sent shivers through me and goosebumps rose on my skin. Her open lips flashed a smile when she saw my reaction, her eyes seeming to flare with an inner light.

"Look, sweetheart," she said. "Your goosebumps gave me goosebumps." Her face lit up like it was wonderful news, and it was. Her hand moved on me, gentle, with a touch like velvet. "Fuck you're big," she said, her voice breathy and soft.

The next part surprised me. For a moment I thought she was going to take me into her mouth, but instead her head hovered over me and a shimmering drop of spit fell on my hard shaft, spit that was still connected to her luscious lips by a thread-like string of saliva. She worked the slippery lube with her hand, moving more deliberately, squeezing my throbbing cock a little tighter. And then another drop fell from her lips, bigger, bubbly, and then another. Her hand was sliding over slick, slippery skin.

"How's that feel, baby? Hmm?" she asked, her voice a sexy whisper.

I couldn't speak. My muscles were locking up and doing things on their own. I didn't feel an orgasm yet, but Auntie had me floating in another, similar place, my mind detached, my body swimming in warm, tingly energy.

Auntie let some more lube drop from her lips, and then her other hand joined the party, sometimes working my cock two-handed, sometimes massaging my balls in a way that should have been too rough but felt so good I cried out in blissful joy.

Auntie smiled, her hands working in well-oiled rhythm. "Huh?" she said, a tiny, strange little word that seemed perfect. Her eyes asked the question along with her mouth, and I gave her the answer I think she was hoping for. I came in a gusher, spurting high in the air in a hot, splattering mess. My voice went free with a deep, moaning bellow. It's still, to this day, the most extraordinary orgasm of my life. There was so much behind it — the women of the art class, Maria, the unexpected exhibitionism in front of them, even the Japanese girl was in there somewhere — but it was Auntie, dear sweet sexy Auntie, she was the one with her hands on me. She was the one I dreamt of. The emotional aspect of it took it to a whole 'nother place. A place of heavenly rapture and drug-like intoxication.

"Wow!" Auntie said, her eyes wide as she stroked spurt after spurt out of me. "Big cocks don't always have a lot in 'em, but yikes, honey, you got some reserves! You been saving it up for me?" 

Auntie winked at me, and my blurry mind melted even more. Where was this expertise coming from? My sweet aunt had played with enough big cocks to know their differences? And she thought mine was worthy of being in that category? And oh my God that felt good! She's a fucking expert! Will she do it again another day?

She wiped up the considerable mess with the bottom part of her dress, and then she took it off over her head. She wore only panties, her spectacularly firm, amazingly soft-looking tits bare before my eyes for the first time. "So messy," she said, winking again as she casually folded the dress to keep the slippery goo inside. "I'm going to soak this in the sink and go to bed. We've had a long day. Sweet dreams, Jon."

And then I was alone. I lay there for quite a while, sweatpants still down around my ankles, a film of stickiness all over my stomach and thighs from Auntie's quick wipe-up of the mess. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to touch myself. I could still feel Auntie's hand, like a phantom, and I didn't want it to go away.

I gathered my senses and went to my room. Toad Harbor was a ghost town at night, and the apartment was as quiet as death. I stood in the shadowy light of my bedside lamp and I heard her. Auntie. It was nothing but breath, and the barely perceptible sound of her mattress moving. She was trying to be quiet and doing a good job of it. I put my ear to the wall. Her breath was short. She was close. Her breathing went silent and the mattress jerked, a little bit louder, to a new rhythm. Finally an exhale, deep, with a soft, sweet moan. Toad Harbor was silent again, and people were dreaming.

18:16 Gepost door Pé de Cenoura | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |

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