Aunt Max Comes Home

This is my first submission in the incest/taboo genre. You may notice it is set in 1972 or so (which gives you a clue how old I am), because that's when this kind of thing first occurred to me. This is the first half of a two-parter; part two is already in the queue.

Thirty-five-year-old Maxine Reynolds lay back on the soft, lumpy mattress and reached above her head to weave her hands through the bars of the tarnished brass headboard. She was going to need something to hold on to soon, because the young man on the bed below her with his strong hands on the backs of her thighs, pushing them up and open while he pushed his face into the soft curls around her vagina, knew where her clitoris was, and knew what to do with it. Unlike her husband, it wasn't something he had just learned by reading her copy of

The Sensuous Woman

six months ago. He had been with girls who had shown him how to please them.

She felt her orgasm building and she squeezed her eyes shut, but it hit her faster and harder than she had expected, and she heard herself cry out, so loudly and plaintively that she startled herself. She never came that hard or loudly with her husband; partly of course because the boys were always in the next room, and partly because sex with her husband was never this illicit, forbidden, or exciting.

No one ever held her open like this before, either, she thought, as her climax receded and she became aware that her right knee was pressed against her breast and her left leg was extended at a right angle to her body, both held there by the powerful arms of the young man who was lapping soothingly at her labia, thankfully having pulled out of his oral assault on her clit.

She slowly opened her eyes again, and became aware of the stains on the ceiling from the leaky roof, the threadbare curtains, the faded wallpaper from the 1930s. She never would have dreamed it would happen here. Well, she really had never dreamed about it happening at all; having sex outside of her fifteen-year marriage for the first time. But especially not like this.

She was back in her hometown, in one of those sad, dilapidated little frame houses that hadn't been painted since she had walked to school past them twenty-five years ago. She was on a mattress that probably hadn't been new since then, either; although at least the sheets were clean, if not particularly soft.

And the young man who was probably somewhat proud of those sheets, proud of this dumpy little first-place-of-his-own, was now looking up at her from between her open thighs, grinning at her through the light-brown tuft of her pubic hair, proud of the orgasm he had just jerked out of her like an iridescent bluegill on a line out of the nearby river.

She never planned to break her wedding vows, although for the past couple of years those vows felt more like obligations, promises to herself and to God more than to her husband.

She never expected to agree almost overnight -- no, not almost,

exactly

overnight -- to an audacious and sometimes clumsy pursuit and proposition.

She never expected her first extra-marital lover to be a strikingly fit and attractive twenty-year old, who did indeed, now that it had been brought to her attention, remind her of Elvis Presley. The young, sexy Elvis Presley of her youth, not the bloated Elvis who was singing "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love" in Vegas these days.

And she certainly never expected, she thought, as he released his grip on her thighs and began to crawl up her body, taking one full breast into the firm grasp of his hard right hand and then into the warm wetness of his hungry mouth, and giving her open thighs a lean, smooth torso to encircle...

... she never expected to be opening her legs for her sister's oldest son, her own nephew.

***

The previous day...

It had all started with an innocent hug. Well, not entirely innocent, but not sexual, at any rate; not at first. Bill had simply meant to tease his aunt a little bit. But her reaction had taken them both by surprise.

Bill had pulled his motorcycle into the lane leading to his parents' ramshackle farmhouse, fresh off his shift in the mechanics' bay at the Conoco station, and had been surprised by the number of kids playing in the yard. He had completely forgotten that his Aunt Maxine and her two boys were visiting this week.

He knew that Aunt Max and his mom were close, although in recent years their relationship was maintained mostly by letter and phone, since Uncle Judd's job had started moving their family around the country almost ten years ago. And in fact, "Uncle Judd" didn't really feel like an uncle at all -- he was only an uncle by marriage, and he had so little in common with the man, who, even though he was a product of this same small town, didn't hunt or fish or work on cars.

He had better memories of Aunt Max, though. He had probably been nine or ten when her family had moved away, and before that, she was at his house all the time. He was dimly aware that she had once been his primary baby-sitter, starting in fact when she was still a high school student, although he didn't remember

that.

Over the course of the last ten years, as he had grown through his teen years and into young adulthood, and his aunt's visits were limited to one or two a year, he had become more focused on what a good-looking woman she was.

For her age, anyway. But that was the thing. The older she got, it seemed to him, the more unusual and intriguing she seemed. He knew she was thirty-five by now, and she was still hot. She had to be the oldest hot woman, and the hottest thirty-something woman, he knew.

Of course, he didn't

know

Jane Fonda or Dyan Cannon. But they weren't "real;" at least, there weren't any women like that around here.

He knew that his mother and his aunt had been best friends and favorite sisters since childhood, the youngest children in a family of eight. It was hard to believe today that they were only three years apart. His mom was 38 but looked 50, due in large part, he realized, to having five kids in eight years, starting with him when she had just turned 18.

Aunt Max was 35 but looked 25.

She wasn't movie-star beautiful, to Bill's way of thinking; but she was cute, every bit as cute as she appeared as a high school sophomore in his mom's old high school yearbook. Somehow, she had added twenty years to that picture without looking weathered and worn out like every other woman in her mid-thirties he knew around here.

But what he really found amazing was that she still had the

body

of a much younger woman. She was short but her legs were slim and shapely, still the legs of a high school cheerleader, he thought. Her ass had a bit more of a grown-up spread to it, just enough to give her figure that hourglass shape. Because her waist was narrow and her stomach was flat and her breasts... her breasts were amazing. They weren't "jugs," not double-D's; but they were full and prominent and sat high on her otherwise petite upper body, without a hint of sag. She must not have breast-fed his cousins.

He wondered, as he had every visit for the past six or seven summers, since he had started being obsessed with women's bodies, how much of her look was due to her middle-class suburban lifestyle, to afternoons playing golf or tennis, and trips to the beauty parlor for stylish haircuts; and how much of it was a matter of just getting out of this town where everyone worked and drank hard and got old early. He wasn't one of those people who bad-mouthed his hometown; he

liked

his life of working with engines, hunting and fishing, hanging out with his buddies and fucking around, although he was now dating a girl that he would probably marry as soon as he knocked her up. But he wasn't blind to the lack of opportunity that caused others to talk about leaving.

And maybe all that made Aunt Max different was that she had had the good sense to get knocked up by an older guy who had some prospects. But she was definitely different.

At any rate. He parked his bike and walked around to the back of the house, just as his Aunt Maxine came out the back door. A year had passed but she looked terrific as ever. She had even let her hair grow out again, after a few years of wearing shorter salon styles that had exaggerated her sophistication and affluence. And in particular today because she was dressed from head to toe in a pristine blouse-and-slacks combo, all radiantly white except for some cute nautical details around the neckline and shoulders.

"Hi Aunt Max!" he called out, eliciting a warm "Billy!" in response as he strode across the yard between them, extending his arms to embrace her, which revealed the grease-covered palms and fingers of his widespread hands.

"Billy! No!" Maxine exclaimed, laughing, fully conscious of what those fingers would do to her outfit. "Your hands are filthy!"

As he closed the final couple of steps between them, she turned sideways, still giggling, but instinctively hunching her shoulders and placing her arms over her breasts, elbows over her soft white underbelly.

Her movements registered to him, subconsciously at least, as classic prey behavior, and, equally instinctively, he completed his pounce, enveloping her in his arms.

"Billy!!!!" she protested; and he did take care to avoid using his hands, but that just made the motion with which he enclosed her in his forearms and biceps more clumsy and confining.

In the final instant before his arms wrapped around her to clutch her to his chest, she turned completely away from him, arching her back, which thrust her round bottom back against the top of his thighs. Her vocalization turned into a mild shriek -- half still laughing, but half alarm; and as she bent forward to get away from him, to resist his affectionate embrace, he found himself bending over her, pulling her back up against his chest.

"William!!!" This time it was an all-out hiss. His hug had barely lasted a second, no doubt, but her unexpected position -- part resistance, part submission -- combined with the softness and warmth of her body, had triggered his sexual response. His natural reaction, when a woman feigned resistance to his advances, was to go into dominance mode. The way his dad's male hound dogs would bite a bitch in heat on the back of the neck while mating with her.

He realized that he had frozen in this position, a moment too long. And that she had remained there, too, as if also frozen, or trapped.

He realized it had only taken him two seconds to get hard, pressed against his aunt's lower back.

Shocked a bit at his own reaction, he let her go, and she spun away from him and took a couple of steps backwards. Her eyes were darting around the yard, as if to make sure that the younger kids had not observed. She probably wasn't even aware that she was clutching one arm across her breasts, the other covering her crotch, as if she were naked in front of him. Then her gaze returned to his eyes, and now she was scowling in reproach, and anger, and... maybe something else.

"God damn it, Billy," she muttered. He knew he should apologize, but his pride and his arousal made him resist doing so. He stood up straight and smirked, in spite of himself; and noticed that her eyes had dropped down to where his budding erection was making itself known in the front of his navy twill work pants. He noticed that her lips parted briefly, as if her breath had caught, then she looked away.

And then when she pulled herself erect and planted her hands on her hips in defiance, he saw where her struggles had brought her body into contact with his greasy hands. She had a partial paw print on one breast, and a black streak from her belly to her upper thigh. He should have felt guilty, but he couldn't help feeling amusement and excitement instead. When she saw where he had been looking, she looked down at herself, and gasped, and fled back into the house.

Well, shit, he thought; that wasn't what he had intended. He finally felt a surge of guilt, and he glanced toward the kitchen window, suddenly alarmed that his mother might have watched that entire brief exchange, but the window was empty; and his feelings of shame dissipated as quickly as they had risen.

He followed his aunt through the back door, although she had already disappeared into one of the bedrooms. He called out a greeting to his mother, who was thankfully occupied at the range with her back to the room, then popped into the downstairs bathroom to wash his hands.

A minute later he came back out. The door to his sisters' room, where his aunt was no doubt staying this week, was closed. The adjoining door to the bedroom he had recently shared with his younger brothers was still open, and he slipped into it. It was empty; all the younger cousins were outside, no doubt stomping around in the woods.

He opened the door to the closet, and quietly pushed the hanging clothes aside to get to the peep hole that he had long ago created, through which to spy on his sisters.

Aunt Max was standing in the other bedroom, already stripped down to her simple ivory bra and panties, standing with her back to him, staring at herself in the floor-length standing mirror.

God, she was hot. He had seen her in a two-piece bathing suit before, and her underwear was no more revealing than that, but oh so much more intimate. Her ass was so nicely shaped, and she had two exquisite little dimples in the small of her back. Beyond her, in the mirror, he could get a partial glimpse of the front of her body. One breast, encased in the cup of her demure bra; just the suggestion of cleavage. And, was he imagining a flush across her chest above the bra?

No, he didn't think he was imagining. Because as his eyes drifted down to where the waistband of her panties dipped below the gentle swell of her tummy, below her adorable little belly-button, he could tell that she had one hand down inside those panties, between her legs.

***

Maxine stood in front of the mirror, transfixed with her own image, and with the forbidden thoughts racing through her mind. She wasn't used to thinking of herself as the object of lust, but as she replayed the shocking encounter from a few minutes ago, that is exactly what she was trying to imagine. She felt like she should hate herself for thinking this way, and she was already beginning to feel guilty, as if she had brought that unwanted attention on herself. She closed her eyes as she actually allowed herself to reach down, to touch herself, to realize that she was, indeed, wet. Jesus.

She stayed there for a long moment, listening to her breathing return to normal, then begin to quicken again, this time in response to the feeling of her middle finger reaching inside herself, then pulling back out to twirl over her clitoris. She bit her lip.

She sensed Billy behind her, but kept her eyes closed. She could smell him now, fresh cologne not quite masking his day's sweat, and she detected the heat from his body a second before she felt his calloused hands closing around each of her bare arms, slowly tracing down toward each wrist; toward where her left hand was pressed flat against one thigh, toward where her right hand was still inside her panties.

She felt the elastic waistband stretch to accommodate a second hand, felt his fingers covering hers, then deftly moving them to the side, to take their place over her pubic mound. "Let me help you with that," she heard him whisper into her ear.

She felt his palm covering her bush, pressing it back against her body, and felt fingers reaching down between her legs, two fingers expertly parting her lips, two others penetrating into her shameful wetness. She kept her eyes closed and let it happen; felt the fingers pushing up inside her, pushing into her g-spot, practically lifting her off the floor by the pubic bone, massaging her from the inside while the thick of his palm ground against her clit. She stifled a moan as the orgasm mounted and raced through her body.

Then she opened her eyes and confirmed that she was alone in the room, and felt the shame wash over the same synapses that were still coming down from her climax. She still always felt guilty after masturbating; but that was nothing compared to the mortification of masturbating to the thought of being manhandled by her twenty-year-old nephew.

She went to her suitcase and got out a fresh blouse and a loose, floral, knee-length skirt. It was hot out; no one was going to take notice of a late-afternoon change of clothing.

The kids were out playing and her sister Peggy was busy with dinner prep and she wasn't quite prepared to face Billy yet, so she decided to sit down and give herself a few minutes to gather her thoughts.

She thought back to last night, when the six younger cousins were sprawled in front of the black and white TV, watching an old Elvis Presley film. Her own older son had been showing his disdain for the movie.

"I

like

Elvis," her youngest nephew had proclaimed, defiantly. "He reminds me of my big brother."

Her sister Peggy had looked over at Maxine and grinned. "That's what they all say. Billy looks like Elvis, and Robbie looks like Bobby Kennedy."

Robbie, who had just graduated from high school, looked at his mom and scowled. But Maxine could see the resemblance.

"They're good looking... young men," Maxine had agreed.

That was last night. Last night, the comparison hadn't made her wet. She had never made the connection before, but she could see it now, especially Billy, now that he was no longer a boy but a young man. Actually, the last couple of summers, she had thought her oldest nephew had begun to resemble Li'l Abner. Tall, lithe and lean, other than the cartoonishly large shoulders and biceps; still wearing his hair in an outdated style, with sideburns and a naughty little kisscurl dangling over his forehead, over his smoldering eyes. But, yeah, Elvis worked, too. Better, really.

She sighed and continued to marinate in the guilt over fantasizing about her nephew.

She had been thinking about sex a lot more lately, and not necessarily in a good way. Her husband didn't really deserve for her to be thinking about other men. He was a good man, hard-working and presumably loyal, always congenial; but he was boring. It didn't help that in his commitment to being a good provider, he had compliantly allowed his company to transfer him around the country, always taking her away from her new friends, and usually further away from her best friend, her sister.

She appreciated the middle-class lifestyle, the better life for her boys; although she never felt as disdainful of the dead-end small town where they had both grown up as Judd seemed to be. It was still home to her.

Now he was off scouting out housing for yet another move, while she and the boys spent a week with family. Soon they would move again, and she would make new casual and interchangeable and shallow friendships with other stay-at-home moms who played bridge and golf and sipped martinis and talked about scandalous things like that new book,

The Sensuous Woman

.

She had eventually bought the book for herself, and then eventually let her husband read it too, which he did with some apparent interest. In his early forties, he hadn't lost interest in sex, but it seemed he was increasingly addressing that interest by reading risque Harold Robbins novels and buying Playboy magazines. He was willing, even eager, to try some of the positions and techniques in the sex manual, but their encounters continued to be brief and unsatisfying for her. In fact, the more she read about women actually enjoying sex, the more dissatisfied she became.

And she didn't really have confidence in her own attractiveness. She knew she had gained fifteen pounds since they had married, when she had become pregnant after their fourth date. She knew her legs were still slender, but she thought her knees were knobby. She could see the lines in her face that didn't used to be there.