A few years ago, on holiday in the Canaries, where I have had several pleasant interludes, I met and had a few enjoyable days with a man I will call Ted. He was a fine raconteur, and claimed that his aunt had initiated him sexually. Noting that some Literotica readers have a taste for tales of incest, if auntiepussy is taboo, I offer what I can recall of Ted's story.
Ted was in his seventies, but claimed that his libido was not much diminished by age, which I can confirm. He could no longer come five times in an hour, as he could in his twenties, and couldn't stay hard all night as he still could in his fifties, but his pussy-relish remained. He retained the cult of the cunt, though nowadays most of his activity was with older women. These, he asserted, were often more orgasmic than when younger and were also appreciative. Clits and nips respond, he said, with wondrous readiness, and though the vagina might require more lubricant sometimes it was as sweetly slippery as ever.
Now the word 'vagina' has been used, I recall that one of the foibles of Ted's auntie Cynthia (not her name, I'm sure) was to play tricks with words, having her own names for sexual appurtenances, as you will see. Nipples were 'nibbles,' for instance, and she loved having them nibbled. She had a dozen words for clitoris, 'clittermiss' being one of them.
Cynthia and Ted's mother, Julia, were identical twins, physically, as he had plenty of opportunities of confirming as a young boy, because, when his father was conscripted in the Second World War, they set up house together. They were not shy about wandering about nude, and he could go and talk to them in the bath. Actually, they weren't quite identical, because, thanks to breast-feeding him, Julia's breasts were a little larger and sagged a bit more, and her nibbles were bigger and darker. Cynthia also had a large mole just to the east of her fussy-pussy, which was, as was Julia's, dense and dark. What struck him most was how abundant and fleshy they were, their bums especially. Which accounted for his lifelong appreciation of big-bottomed women, including me, though mine was not, he told me, in the premier league.
Although matched physically, they differed in temperament and way of life. While Julia had fallen in love with his father before the War and had taken happily to married life. Cynthia was an artist and a free spirit, repudiating all domesticity. He learned from Julia that Cynthia had intercourse with men as and when she pleased, without their being allowed to stay in her flat more than a day or two, which regime she returned to after the War.
She was a little less inhibited than her sister, too, in that she would admit Ted to the bathroom while she was on the lavatory, and change her tampons in full view. She instructed him in matters sexual when he was eight or so, and even at that early age he experienced desire, a hankering after an experience that he felt was available but which he could not yet enjoy.
Julia and Cynthia shared a bed, and since that country cottage had only two bedrooms this seemed necessary. But he was aware, through the lath-and-plaster walls, on the long double-summertime evenings, of a good deal of laughter, gasping, and crying out next door. And when he crept into their bed of a morning there was a rich, fishy, salty, sweaty smell, which was strangely disturbing.
After the War and the return of his father, Cynthia returned to London from the quiet Sussex village and set up her studio again. His mother became more restrained, her attention naturally occupied more with his father, as they re-established their relationship. She was less likely to be caught naked and life was altogether quieter. He realised that Auntie Cynthia was not invited to stay, largely because, he understood, of his father's attitude to her loose living.
Sometimes Julia went to London and stayed a night with her sister, against the unstated but evident disapproval of his father.
Time passed and his school days ended, without his sex-life having progressed beyond a great deal of self-relief and the investigation of schoolgirl bosoms. With one girl, repeated mutual masturbation had been achieved, lending him great pride that he had been able to bring her off with judicious fingerwork, after which his digits carried an echo of that exciting scent from Cynthia's and Julia's bed.
And now, in 1956, he was to be called up for army service, which for some obscure reason, prompted Julia to want his portrait painted by Cynthia. He joshed her that she wanted the picture in case he was sent on active service and killed, but he suspected there was a deeper reason she would not formulate even to herself. Thus, he found himself a guest in Cynthia's little flat and was sitting still for a couple of hours a day while she sketched and daubed.
She had aged a little since last seen, much as Julia had done, though unlike Julia she was not dyeing the grey hairs, nor wearing the roll-on garment intended to squeeze hips and buttocks into smaller compass. It was, in fact, difficult to remain motionless when the artist was plainly wearing very little, if anything, beneath the loose, paint-spattered smock. He also suspected that she was well aware that he was well aware, as she bent over and the garment rode up, of the lower reaches of those glorious 'bottups,' in her word. And when she came close to check a detail of his face, she knew very well that between the few buttons her nibbles were liable to pop into view.
On the third day, the conversation as she worked turned to sex, when she asked him if he had a girl-friend, and it was not long before she had teased out of him the nature and extent of his experience. Tremblingly, hoping that this was leading somewhere, he was ready enough to explain everything, such as it was.
'So,' she said eventually, 'Here you are, a young man, about to go into the army and be sent to some distant outpost, without having tested or tasted the pleasures of a woman's body?'
'Yes,' I said, the yearning hope clear in that one word.
'Do you think Auntie Cynthia might help you with that?'
'Yes,' he said, hardly able to utter at all.
'You certainly wanted that when you were smaller,' she said. 'Your little pinnace used to stand and say so.'
'It did?'
'Oh yes. Little boys can have eructions, you know, even before they can have eruptions.'
She put down her easel, placed her brushes in a glass of turps and wiped her hands on the smock. 'Shall we, then?'
She took his hand and led him into her bedroom. 'You've seen it all before, and it's a bit baggier now, but here it is.' She pulled the smock over her head and revealed that she was, indeed, naked. And, naturally, it was not long before he had shed his clothes.
She lay on the bed, opened her legs wide, and said, 'Has this mastribution partner of yours shown you her volvular, like this? No, I thought not. All fingers and thumbs inside her knick-knacks, I suspect. But, then, you were never going to be let in, were you? Well, you don't have to worry about that with Auntie Cynthia. You are definitely going into her vangina, and I can see you're ready. In you go, and we'll think about the finer points later.'
He could scarcely believe this was happening, but was not slow in joining her on the bed and lifting himself between those spreading legs. At which point she reached down and took hold of his cock gently, and said, 'Either all that rubbing off has made you less sensitive, so you'll take a little while, or the feel of hot, wet honey-cunny will bring you off quickly. Whichever, don't worry about me for the moment. Just enjoy your first jacklation inside.'
She guided him in, and for the first time he had that sense of his whole being entering heaven, concentrated in his cock but spread throughout his body. There is no describing that supreme experience of being engulfed in perfection. And that oceanic ecstasy was just as intense and fulfilling for Ted all those years later, after thousands of repetitions. His appreciation of my vangina confirmed that. That moment of entry is almost enough in itself, and indeed that first time he slid in, shuddering and exclaiming and held still to undergo the joy to the uttermost. He then laid his bead on one of those beautiful breasts and awaited what came next.
She said, 'Sweet, isn't it? Nothing like it, I know. Nature and evolution have fitted the cork and the botty-neck. Now instinct will tell you what to do next. That's right, move in and out. Not all the way out necessarily. That's the way. Don't hurry. Oh yes, I think it'll be quick. You're getting harder. It's coming, isn't it? Push home. That's the way. Right up to the cerbox. Here it comes! Yes, oh yes. I can feel it pouring out.'
If course it certainly was, in spasms and jerkings and gaspings from Ted and a rich humming sound from her, as if celebrating this first immersion in that wondrous well of loveliness. She said, 'So now you know. You know so now. So you know now. That was your verging-inity.' She stroked his bottom as his erection slowly subsided and eventually slid out.
'I've wanted to do that since I was eight,' he said. 'You told me then what was involved, but of course I couldn't do it then. I imagined it a million times, though, especially after my first ejaculation.'
'You aren't troubled that I'm your aunt, and so like your mother, are you? Everyone knows, since Freund, that boys want to fugle their mummies, of course, but there's the drawback they tend to feel ashamed or guilty about it.'
He lay on her breasts, utterly relaxed. He said, 'You know, you and Julia swanning about naked cured me of any worries. I wanted to go into her, too, and when I got to thirteen or so I thought about doing that so often it lost all idea of it being wrong, and I didn't feel guilty any more. Of course, I thought of you, too, and imagined it ten million times.'
'Well, we can't chalk up that many before you have to go home, but we can manage a fair few.'
