Sex is a strange thing – surreal almost at times.
First sex is seldom a cataclysmic opening, rather a build up of various tendrils which will one day flower into full blush...
As a teenager I had scarlet fever. Well perhaps more a virgin than a teenager – 18 or thereabouts. I had to stay home from school, missing important exams in the process. I stayed at my aunt's, my great-aunt really; she was deemed to be the only person able to care for me as the scarlet fever ran its course.
It was awful too. Not just the unbearable itchiness of the spots, but the fever and the feeling of utter weakness – total helplessness.
I was abed for some time, I cannot remember – certainly days, maybe weeks.
I was aware of my aunt's presence and knew I was getting through the malady when I managed to feel embarrassment at her giving me bed baths. The soothing of the cool wet face washers more than made up for the embarrassment however.
Finally a day came where my aunt felt I was well enough to shower with some assistance. She led into the bathroom – me, so weak I had to lean against her for support. I leant against the wall beside the shower stall as she fiddled with the knobs, getting the temperature of the water to her satisfaction. I pressed my aching head against the coolness of the tiles, struggling to stand upright...
From some distance I could hear my aunt's voice, asking me to turn so she could help remove my pyjamas. I was unable to comply and she gently turned me to face her, allowing me to lean against the wall for support.
She unbuttoned the pyjama top and eased it off me – how beautiful the cool of the tiled wall felt on the misery of the spots coating my teenaged body. She then loosed the cord of my pyjama pants allowing them to fall down around my ankles.
After that I have a dim remembrance of her guiding me into the shower – I certainly remember the stinging agony of the water on the scarlet fever spots. She soaped me down very carefully – before her retirement she had been a nurse, so was adept at this sort of thing.
Soon I was out, dried and dressed, the back into bed. Feeling better for the shower, but as weary after this exertion as if I had run a marathon or two.
This showering became a daily routine as my condition slowly started to improve. And, to be honest, I enjoyed the water and the relief. This countered the embarrassment of being naked in front of my great aunt who must have been in her early sixties at the time.
I remember protesting at her careful soaping of my genitals – she simply pooh poohed the idea, insisting that she had washed thousands of men, old and young and that I had absolutely no need to feel embarrassed.
These washes became longer as I gained health, and the concentration on my genitalia more marked. She told me that this was a site where the scarlet fever might recur, and that she needed to make sure that the area was spotless. Similarly she would insist on me turning around and bending over so that she could gain easy access to my anus, washing that carefully as well.
These showers ended with her drying me with very soft fluffy towels, as I stood naked in front of her. Then she would gently rub talcum powder over me, again taking care over my genitals, and round my anus.
One morning I woke with an erection. There was no real reason for this – I had not been musing on anything sexual, did not wake from any erotic dream, nothing at all.
The erection was so strong that it was indeed a little painful. When my aunt came into the room I had turned onto my stomach and was gaining some measure of relief by rubbing my engorged member against the crisp starched whiteness of the sheet.
My aunt knew straightway what was affecting me, and seemed genuinely angry. She herded me unceremoniously to the shower, and stripped me roughly. My pyjama bottoms caught on the upward curve of my cock; for whatever reason my erection refused to go down, even though, by this time I was red not from scarlet fever, but from great embarrassment. She pulled savagely at the cloth and when it dropped away my cock bobbed obscenely up and down in front of her.
She washed me quickly, much more roughly than usual, and when she got to my genitals slapped at the erection still pushing out at her...
No words were spoken through this entire episode and she virtually threw the towel at me, leaving me to dry myself and dress as she exited, slamming the door.
Nothing was said about the incident through the day, although it was quite obvious that she was still put out by the whole thing, in a way I struggled to understand.
When she brought me lunch, I tried to apologise, but she brushed my words away. When I said that I thought I was well capable now of showering unaided she tartly responded, saying that she would be the judge of when that time was right.
Mid afternoon came, finding me sitting – still not all that comfortably, in a chair in the sunroom, desultorily reading a novel from my aunt's considerable collection of books. I was a little surprised when I heard her calling for me. I got up slowly, and headed in the direction of the sound.
I was even more surprised when I realised that she was calling me from the bathroom. The door was ajar, and without opening it I asked her what it was that she wanted. I was told to come in and close the door behind me.
Nothing could have prepared me for the shock of what I beheld, walking through the door. My aunt was naked, totally naked – stretched out in the bath. She was covered by the water, but the water was like crystal – concealing nothing.
I averted my eyes, feeling my face blushing crimson. My aunt asked for a face washer, I fumbled about in the vanity passing one quickly, then making as if to retreat out the door.
"No! Don't go... Sit on the end of the bath – I want to talk to you."
She spoke about frankness, and nudity, about me coming into adulthood – a sort of ad hoc lecture on the birds and the bees.
It was impossible not to sneak glances at her. She was undoubtedly old – her breasts were almost flat sacs against the boniness of her ribcage, but the nipples were large, and erect, pointing up through the water's surface. Her legs were clamped together and at their junction there was a substantial bush of reddish-grey hair. I could see that her buttocks had lost their firmness pressing out flatly from her pelvis.
That said, my aunt was still most definitely a woman. I was shamed to feel my penis thickening in my pants in response to her naked form.
I had to get out.
Muttering some thanks for her words I fled out, leaving her looking somewhat shocked, and the door wide open.
I turned the corner into the hall and the motion allowed my now erect member to spring free, bobbing through the flap of my pyjama bottoms. I turned into the next doorway – the toilet. I closed the door and locked it, sitting down heavily on the seat, my mind a welter of varying emotions.
My cock stood straight out from my pubic hair – its need demanding my attention. I masturbated quickly, roughly dragging my hand up and down its length, hand crushing it fiercely. I came almost straightway, a great gout of semen flying out like a jet stream. A great gobbet landed on the back of the door, its weight dragging it wetly down the painted surface...
I felt humiliated and so very ashamed.
Over the next few days my aunt not only kept showering me, but instituted the practice of getting me to come into the bathroom to watch her bathe. I gradually accustomed myself to this, and small changes became noticeable. In showering me she seemed to take an inordinate amount of time over my penis. She would hold the sac of my scrotum in one cupped hand whilst she stroked my soapy member with the other. The effect was irresistible; I could feel my cock begin to lift in little jerky upward movements. Sometimes the fingertips of the hand cupping my balls would 'accidentally' brush against my anus, and it was as if an electric shock surged through me.
In the late afternoons I would more and more willingly allow myself to be summoned into the room when my aunt bathed. She would wash herself carefully, lifting little upward glances at me, noting where my eyes were straying. Sometimes she would make little movements that seemed directly linked to my ever turgid genitals. Increasingly she would allow her legs to fall open, granting brief glimpses of the ragged line of her vulval lips. On one occasion she lifted her hips so that her entire pubic mound broke surface, and then soaped the exposed thatch of hair slowly and gently, eventually spreading her legs a little, before massaging the foam into her exposed labial lips.
She never allowed these 'sessions' to be prolonged enough for me to achieve a full erection and I found that, more and more, I was in such need afterwards that I would hasten straightway to the toilet, cock hardening and would drag on my engorged member until streams of semen erupted, temporarily allaying my need.
