Aunt Liz's Bitch

Aunt Liz's Bitch.

Chapter 1.

Hi readers. I don't want to write this, but Mistress Donnelly insists. She wants me to describe myself as if seeing my degradation in the picture above isn't enough. I'm about average height at 178 cm (5-ft 10). I weigh a slender 6o kg. My aunt makes me stand on the scales every morning, and if I weigh a gram more than this, I'm punished severely.

My natural hair colour is a mousy blonde, and Mistress has made me grow long. She styled it in a pixie cut because it's currently not long enough to do much more than that, and she dyed it to a bright red. She says when it's long enough, she will make me wear it tousled and off the side of my face.

My face is quite androgynous until Mistress does my makeup, then I look like a sexy Irish chick. I have fair skin with freckles sprinkled across my face and body. When I go out in the sun, my skin turns light brown, emphasising my freckles. Mistress insists that I remain hairless from the chin down. She has taken me to numerous laser and electrolysis (for my face) hair removal appointments to aid this.

My eyes are a bluish-green and quite wide. The corneas are brilliant white and unblemished. My lips are full and pouty and very girlish. Aunt Liz keeps my eyebrows plucked and shaped. My nose, which, as you will read, needed to be repaired. It's, perhaps, the least girlie part of me.

The final thing before Mistress makes me tell you my story: Ms Donnelly insists that I have a womanly shape with wide shoulders, a narrow waist, flaring hips, and a heart-shaped ass. Mistress makes me wear a tightly cinched corset to emphasise my shape daily. Currently, I have the beginnings of small breasts, and my measurements are 32-24-33.

Wait, Mistress Donnelly wants me to describe her. My aunt is a mid-thirties, black-haired, severe-looking woman with the most enormous knockers you've ever seen. They're at least a 32 double-G. You've possibly met her before in The Adventures of a Slut Mommie, although her hair was dyed auburn in that story. She's tall, slender and exquisitely toned. Aunt Liz typically dresses similarly to a school teacher. She wears long pencil skirts that cling to her delicious ass and shapely legs. Beneath her skirt, she wears suspenders and black stockings. On her delicate feet are usually 7-inch strappy heels.

Mistress often wears transparent, tight, button-down blouses on her upper body that adhere to her enormous melons like a second skin. Aunt Liz restrains her gigantic tits in a push-up brassiere, also typically transparent. She has tiny, conical nipples that stand at constant attention as if she's always turned on. Who knows? Maybe she is.

My aunt is always meticulously dressed and presented at any time of night or day. She never seems to have a hair out of place, and her makeup is always on point. Even when she's ready for bed, her face washed clean of the understated makeup she wears, she looks top-model beautiful. Her negligée set is perfect, her eyes crystal clear, and her complexion fresh. In fact, she looks in her early twenties, not that much older than me, and not in her mid-thirties.

She's a teenager's wet dream come to life. Unfortunately, she's also an avowed, man-hating lesbian.

I'm supposed to tell you my story now.

Chapter 2.

My mother would say that I was trouble the moment I was born. I arrived thirteen weeks premature and spent sixty days in an incubator as my body struggled to develop as it should have in Mum's womb.

Apparently, premature babies often develop to have attitude problems. Life for us was a battle from the moment we were born, so we see everything as a fight. I don't know if this is generally true, but it certainly was for me. I fought being swaddled, being fed, and being held. I resisted all attempts to help me walk or talk, making my mum think I had mental development problems.

When I was five, Mum took me to a child psychologist who thought I might have been colour-blind. He placed an open book in front of me and asked, "What numbers do you see here?"

The left page was the number 17, red on a green background. On the right, the number 13, green on a red background. Of course, I wouldn't play the game. I looked blankly at the pages before saying, "I don't know my numbers."

The psychologist turned the pages until two single-digit numbers appeared. "What numbers can you see?" He repeated.

"I told you," I innocently replied. "I don't know my numbers."

"Dylan McMasters, you do so!" Mum exclaimed. "You know how to count to ten!"

"What numbers do you see?" The psychologist asked in what he thought was a soothing tone. Muppet! You'd think a child psychologist would know how to deal with kids better, right?

"I don't know my numbers," I replied stubbornly.

"Okay," he replied. "What colours do you see?"

I took the book out of his hands and shut it. "Oh, I don't know my colours, either," I answered and giggled.

The rest of the session didn't go any better for the psychologist. In the end, Mum stormed out, dragging me by the hand. "You wait 'til we get home," she threatened. My ass was welted red later that afternoon, but I didn't care because I'd succeeded in my goal of outfoxing the psychologist. It was around that time that Dad took off. I haven't seen him since.

Anyway, Mistress Donnelly said to start moving this along.

Chapter 3.

Let me condense things by saying I had a troubled childhood. My slender, androgynous looks made me the target of every bully in every school I attended. I learnt to be utterly vicious when I fought. The boys were always bigger or older than me, or both. I'd get accused of fighting like 'a girl'. I'd bite, scratch, pull hair, pinch, grab, and squeeze testicles—anything to prevent the bully from besting me.

My problems really began in my first year of high school. A pair of older kids trapped me behind the bicycle sheds, away from where anyone could see us and stop them. The bigger boy punched me in the gut, dropping me to the ground. The smaller, but not that much less big, boy leapt onto my thighs, holding me in place. The bigger boy sat on my chest, slapping my face, yelling, "Bet you're going to cry like a girl! Bet you're going to cry like a girl!"

I lurched up, trying to dislodge him, and the boy's groin was suddenly on my face. I could smell his ball sack sweat and the musky odour of a fresh young man. My cock, unfortunately, throbbed at the smell and began to harden. I'm not sure that I consciously wanted the boy to feed his cock to me, but I'm reasonably sure that was my subconscious desire.

"Ewww!" The boy holding my thighs down said disgustedly. "He's getting a boner! Better get off the fag before he tries to blow you!"

Despite my conscious brain screaming I didn't, but my instinctual brain wanted that cock. I looked at it fascinated, hoping to see it harden and strain against the boy's shorts. It did, and it looked way bigger and thicker than mine.

However, of course, the bigger boy couldn't admit even to himself that having his teenage cock close to an androgynous-looking boy's mouth excited him, so he grimaced, balled his fist and punched me in the face, breaking my nose. They left me there. I lay still, waiting to see if they'd return, and when they didn't, I got to my feet painfully and went home.

Mum freaked out when I got there. Blood had poured from my nose and down my lips, chin and neck before dripping onto my school shirt and drying. She took me up to the hospital, where the resident decided I needed a plastic surgery consult. The operation was booked for the following day, and I was taken up to the ward so they could check for any concussion symptoms overnight.

That procedure gave me the nose I described above. It's definitely not a prominent, manly nose. But it's less than completely girlie, either. There was a strange incident as I sank into my anaesthesia sleep. The surgeon asked if I was male or female. The anaesthesiologist shrugged and said, "I think he's a boy but quite feminine. Give him a girlish nose. Save him having to change it later when he decides to transition."

The fight caused me more problems because the boy, whose name I later discovered was David Meggs, who'd held my legs, spread that I'd got a boner when Grant Bowers had sat on my chest. With my androgynous looks, I'd already fought many battles against bullies. Now, it seemed, I had to fight daily.

What was worse was that Grant clearly struggled with why he got a hard-on when his balls were in my face. At least twice a week, Grant would corner me on my way home. Our fight ended the same every time, with me on my back and Grant straddling my chest. Grant would be breathing heavily and staring down at me. Then he would slide up until his shorts-covered ball sack sat on my chin, and his stiffening cock grew over my face. Grant never did more than that, and neither of us acknowledged the growing need between us. Fortunately, Grant left school before anything happened that would get us both in trouble.

Things continued heading south for me at school. Even though I knew I was intelligent, that intelligence didn't translate to schoolwork. Instead, I spent most of every class either staring out the window, bored, or arguing with the teacher. I was sent to the 'Ice', or isolation room, two or three times a day. I was supposed to study in that classroom, doing the work I should have been doing in class. But the teacher in there was older and close to retiring. He didn't care what I did as long as I was quiet and non-disruptive.

The final straw was when I was suspended for fighting again. The principal threatened to expel me, and Mum threw a total hiss fit, swearing at the principal and questioning his heritage, parentage, what he did and where he went on the weekend, and what his mother did for an occupation. The principal called security to remove us, and I was expelled. Because I was over sixteen, no school was obliged to accept my enrolment. They all took one look at my transcripts and refused even to consider my attendance.

Chapter 4.

I found a job at a local tyre fitting shop, but that became untenable a few months later when the huge, beer-gutted foreman started calling me Amanda. Only he and I worked in the workshop, and although the reception area had a manager and receptionist, they were isolated from the work area. It started with Roger calling me names like faggot and queer boy, etc. However, it quickly degenerated when Roger realised I wouldn't fight back. That wasn't too bad because I'd received the same kind of abuse my entire life, and I was used to it.

The next escalation was because I preferred to wear women's hip-hugger jeans and tight-fitting Hivis polos to work. Men's jeans will not stay on my slender hips. Plus, I had mauve safety boots. I'd seen the ad saying that Steel Blue would donate ten dollars for every pair of pink, blue, or mauve boots bought to a worthy charity. I thought that sounded fair, so I purchased a mauve pair. I didn't want blue and couldn't risk pink.

I felt, more than saw, Roger admiring my ass every time I bent over. He even stood close behind me to see if he could spot what type of underwear I wore when my jeans' waist gaped. I had boxers on, but that didn't prevent him from asking, "So, are you a boy or a girl? I thought you were a boy when you started, but now I'm not so sure."

"What do you mean?" I asked politely, hoping he'd let it go.

"Well, your jeans and polo are pretty girly. You have soft hair like a girl. Your boots are girl boots, and you have a better ass than the receptionist. I think I'll start calling you Amanda."

I laughed it off, but because I didn't deny it or fight back, Roger's harassment increased. He went from trying to peer down my jeans to 'accidentally' bumping his crotch into my ass whenever I was bent over something. Worse was that he was often erect when he bumped me.

One day, Roger went too far. I was squatted down, tightening lug nuts, when Roger knelt behind me. His greasy paws grabbed my nipples through my polo, and he shoved his rampantly erect cock against my ass. "Hmm, baby," he cooed. "You look so sexy squatting down like that. Let me take your jeans off and have some of that tight ass of yours."

My mind exploded in white-hot anger. Unknowing what I was doing, I picked up a tyre iron and clubbed Roger to the ground. "I'm not a fucking fag!" I screamed as I struck him again. "If you want some poofter to take your tiny cock in his ass, I suggest you fuck off to The Beat in The Valley!"

I hit him again, hearing his arm break. That shocking sound brought me back from wherever my rage had taken me. Shuddering, I stepped back and turned. Brent Snow, the manager, stared at me warily, wondering if I'd go him next.

When I just stood there breathing heavily, Brent said, "You're fired. Best you leave right now, although I expect you'll receive a visit from the police sometime soon."

Nodding, I dropped the tyre iron and walked from the workshop. The police didn't turn up at my place, although every time a car went past, I fearfully looked out the window to see if it was them. Brent called that evening to say that Roger wasn't pressing charges because he was embarrassed that he was beaten up by what he described as 'an effeminate, cock sucking fag boy'.

I held many low-paying, menial jobs after that. Always being singled out as being effeminate or gay and subjected to verbal and, sometimes worse, abuse. When the abuse got too bad, I'd leave without handing in my notice.

Then came the final straw: Mum got sick, and died shockingly quickly. I came home from work one day and found her passed out on the lounge. She wouldn't wake, no matter how loud I yelled or how hard I shook her. I called '000' (Australia's equivalent of 911), and an ambulance arrived a few minutes later and took her to hospital. Her exam revealed a massive tumour growing in her brain. It was inoperable, and Mum died four days later.

Chapter 5.

The house we were in was rented, and I had no way of affording the $420/week the landlord wanted. I phoned them and hit what I understand is a common problem. The rental agreement was in Mum's name. That meant I couldn't break it without her approval. I tried to tell them that Mum was dead and couldn't give anyone any permission to do anything. But the person on the phone kept replying that they needed to talk to the rental agreement holder. I got the same response from the power, gas, and water companies that supplied our house. Not knowing what to do and feeling overwhelmed by grief, I curled up in my bed and vowed to stay there until those idiots kicked me out.

Three days later, a woman strode into the house. She was dressed to the nines in a tight-fitting V-necked white minidress that clung to her breasts. She was tall, elegant, massively endowed, stunningly beautiful, cool, calm, and in control. I assumed she was from the real estate agency, but she ripped the covers off my bed and growled, "Get out of bed. You stink, go shower, change, and meet me in the kitchen."

"Fuck you," I responded. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you can't come waltzing in here and demand I do a fucking thing!"

She slapped me across the face and hauled me from the bed by my hair. "I'm your dad's sister, Liz Donnelly, and your last remaining relative. Your mother composed a letter to me years ago, asking me to look after you if she ever died. So, pack a few clothes, you won't need many, and get your lazy ass in the shower."

"I'm eighteen, nineteen next month," I protested. "I don't need a babysitter!"

"No, you don't," Liz snarled. "You need a kick in the ass and some motivation to escape from the cesspit your mind and body wallows in. Your mother allowed you to underachieve and put up with your behaviour because she was afraid the only one she knew would love her regardless would leave her. Every man in her life left—her father, her first few boyfriends, her brother, who was killed when she was a child, and your father. She couldn't face you leaving, too."

She leaned down and slapped me again. "Now, move! If I have to, I'll drag you into the shower by your hair."

I stood and looked into the woman's eyes. "I never knew my father had a sister," I stated angrily. "He never mentioned you even once."

"You were five when he left, and you wouldn't have remembered, anyway."

"Mum never mentioned you."

"She and I didn't exactly get along. I'm sure you'll discover why soon enough. However, I promised your mother I'd take care of you until I was sure you could take care of yourself, however long that is. Now, do I have to drag you to the shower? Or ...?"

I mumbled something and walked to the bathroom.

"Good girl," Aunty Liz responded.

I didn't react to her label but did wonder if she'd simply misspoken or what. I wore only boxers and was pretty sure my aunt studied my slender yet shapely ass avidly as I walked from the bedroom.

"Hurry up," she called after me. "We've got quite a drive to get to my place in Albany Creek. I'll pack you some clothes, but you won't need much because I'll refresh your wardrobe for you. Don't worry about anything else because the cleaning crew is coming in in the morning, and there's nothing in here worth keeping."

I could hear the derision in her voice as she talked, but she was right. My clothes were all from The Sallies (The Salvation Army Thrift Shop). The furnishings belonged to the landlord, including the fridge, kitchen table and chairs, beds, and lounge suite.

I showered and shaved before returning to my room. Aunt Liz perched on the bed's edge, looking at me expectantly. She'd laid out a pair of my hip-hugger jeans and a tight T-shirt I thought I hadn't seen before, then realised it was one of Mum's. In hindsight, that should have been my first warning, and I should have fled immediately.

I waited for Liz to move but quickly figured out she wouldn't. "Can I have the room so I can get dressed, please?" I asked.

"No," Aunt Liz replied. "I need to see if you have any potential at all to change."

I realised she wasn't leaving, so, sighing, I picked up the jeans. I looked around for a pair of boxers that weren't too rank to put on first but couldn't see a single one.

"I've already tossed out your reeking underwear," Aunty Liz stated calmly. She handed me a pair of my mother's panties. "Don't worry," she chuckled throatily. "They're boy-cut panties. Besides, only you and I will know you're wearing them. Now, put them on."

That was warning number two ignored.

I tried turning away and put on the panties keeping the towel around my waist. Aunty Liz was having none of it, though. She waited until I held the panties and had one foot in the air, then she grabbed the towel and exposed my skinny ass.

"Hmm, nice," she said, reaching for it as I tried to hop away. "Slender, but almost heart-shaped, just like a girl's really."

"Whatever," I muttered as I embarrassedly pulled my mother's panties on. The feeling of stretch cotton panties moulding snugly to my ass, cock and balls was indescribable, but I liked it a lot! 'Damn,' I thought, that feels hot!' Despite being slender like the rest of me, my cock was a little over 6 inches long. It began stiffening in my underwear. I bashfully spun, grabbed my jeans, and turned back, hastily pulling them up my long, slender legs before my erection became noticeable.

I got myself zipped and buttoned up and turned to get my T-shirt, turning directly into my aunt's extensive bosom. I'm shorter than my aunt, and my shoulders brushed across her tiny, diamond-tipped nipples. I blushed and tried to turn away, but Liz grabbed my shoulders and held me in place. Then she pushed me away, still holding my shoulders. Her eyes examined my face before falling to my narrow shoulders and chest. Her gaze lingered on my conical nipples and slid down to my smoothly flat stomach.