An incest stroker I hope you'll enjoy.
In this one, Carl can't keep away from his sexy aunt. He visits her house on any excuse, turned on because he saw her in her bikini one afternoon. Carl lusts after his mother's sister, but does he get her?
I hope you enjoy the piece. It's one I actually forgot about, and which I only rediscovered after looking through the folder marked up for edits on the laptop.
Feedback would be appreciated if you have time and/or inclination.
Thanks for reading.
GA -- Da Nang, Vietnam -- 26th July 2014.
My Aunt Jean looked good in the denim skirt; her fantastic legs made even better because of the cork-soled wedge shoes giving her calves that extra tension. She was wearing a light, button-fronted cotton blouse with ruffed gypsy sleeves; her thick blonde hair -- a dyed job -- neatly brushed fell close to her shoulders. A petite lady, a good head shorter than my six-one, Aunt Jean had a damn good figure on her. Her boobs swelled against the baggy blouse, their weighty sway discernable when she moved. At forty-two years old her prettiness in youth had matured to a calm beauty, with the light crow's feet a sign of much laughter in her life.
I knew my aunt enjoyed a night out, and being divorced, why shouldn't she? I'd known her have a boyfriend or two, a fact which made me jealous as hell, but the afternoon it happened she was between relationships.
When I analysed the events of that day later, I realised Jean's lack of male company over the preceding weeks had worked in my favour.
It had been an incident during the hot summer that triggered the feelings inside me. I'd gone round to her house a few doors down the road from our place with a message for her. The detail of the message isn't important, but when I casually unlatched the gate at the side of the house, the one where the path runs up towards the back garden, I had no clue that I would find my mother's sister face down on a beach towel.
She was lying there on her front, her feet towards me, legs parted so I could see right up to the cleft of her pussy outlined in her bikini briefs. I stood transfixed by the sight, my heart a sudden jackhammer inside the rack of my ribs, the organ bouncing around like it was trying to burst free of its cage.
It was involuntary, an instinctive response, but as I stood and gawped at my aunt, my cock thickened and grew. I experienced an abrupt and near overwhelming urge to touch myself. It was either wank my cock or launch myself at my aunt. Yearning yawed all hollow in the pit of my stomach while lust boiled inside me.
That was the beginning. That was when the incestuous craving for her lush curves hit me.
Perhaps sensing my presence, my aunt hefted herself onto her elbows and leaned to one side, face turning towards me, a hand going up in a salute to shield her eyes from the sun.
She blinked and said, "Oh, Carl, I didn't hear you."
Or at least I think that's what she said. I heard the sound of her voice and saw her mouth moving; I just didn't comprehend the meaning of her words because I was staring at her round breasts, which barely concealed in a hot-pink bikini bra to match the briefs.
"Carl?" she asked, the sharp tone focussing my attention, or part of it since I couldn't drag my gaze from my aunt's body. "Are you all right?"
The truthful answer was I was far from all right, but I could hardly blurt out that I wanted my aunt to take that bikini off so I could see her naked. Decorum prevented me from hauling my erection into view and simply tugging at it until the thing spat a heavy rain of semen over my mother's sister. Imagine the furore if I'd knelt and grabbed two handfuls of those tits, my fingers yanking the cloth aside so I could suck her nipples.
So I shrugged and blinked and stuttered, "I ... Uh ... Mum sent me over, Aunt Jean ... She ... Ah, that is..."
I stumbled through the message, my face burning and my cock an insistent throb.
My aunt nodded, giving no indication she noticed my discomfit. "Okay," she replied, rolling onto her back, supporting herself on her elbows and forearms.
I could have groaned with sexual frustration as she lay there looking up at me. Her legs were straight out, her soft tummy concave with the rack of her brisket outlined clearly. But it was her breasts I couldn't stop staring at -- Jesus, they were so round and firm, not huge but a fair old size all the same.
There was some more conversation, the detail of which is all hazy, and I was soon on my way. Albeit it with some reluctance I recall. With hindsight it was for the best, me leaving my aunt to her dishabille. It would only have ended badly if I'd had my way and stayed. I would have done or said something which would have ended in tears for sure. So, instead of blurting out I wanted to fuck my aunt, and instead of lunging for her and slobbering a kiss over her face, I went home, told my mother the gist of Jean's reply, went up to my bedroom, and wanked myself off while fantasising about my sexy aunt.
After that I was always at Aunty Jean's house, using any pretext to be in her company. Just being near her would get me going. I'd get this little tickle in my stomach, a frisson of desire for the gorgeous woman. Watching her move, listening to her voice, her scent wafting along in her wake fired up such intense feeling of desire I don't know how I kept control -- the risk of a slap across the face most probably -- and I was always tugging my cock afterwards, fantasies of Jean in the nude getting me there in a rush of cum.
Then, after a couple of weeks, something happened.
*
It was the two of us in her kitchen. I was round there again, using any pretext to be in my aunt's company. She was wearing the denim skirt and gypsy blouse, the wedges on her feet.
"I was just going shopping," she said to me, the evidence of her purse and shopping list on the table.
"I could help," I replied, excitement at the prospect of Aunt Jean's skirt riding high on her thighs as we drove to Tesco mixing in my guts. As usual, my cock was hard in the woman's presence. I felt the tingle of desire and supressed the ever present urge to yank my hard-on.
Jean gave me a funny look, eyeing me with an up and under, peering over her spectacles. She sighed and removed her glasses, placing them carefully on the table next to her purse.
I got an immediate sense of foreboding. There was something off about my Aunt's demeanour. I looked at her but her eyes slid away from contact.
"Carl," my aunt said, the tone of her voice sending a leaden sinker plummeting into my stomach.
Why did I feel there was something wrong?
"I ... I need to talk to you," Aunt Jean said, decidedly awkward, as though not wanting the conversation, but feeling it necessary.
She lifted her knitted shoulder bag from where it hung by its long handle from the back of a wooden, ladder-backed chair, one of four arranged around the table. I watched her rummage in the bag, a souvenir from Jamaica, yellow, black and green stripes in chunky knit.
"Would you like a beer?" she asked me after sparking up a Marlboro Light. "I might postpone the shopping. I could do with a white wine myself."
Ignoring the question about a beverage, I asked, "Is everything okay, Aunt Jean?"
My aunt sucked smoke into her lungs. She looked at me, her gaze impassive, unreadable as she blew the blue smoke towards the ceiling.
"Let's have a drink," she replied. "We can go into the living room. There's something I need to talk to you about, Carl."
She opened the fridge door, cigarette between her fingers. Jean reached in with her other hand and then handed a can of Stella Artois to me before going back in for the wine.
I popped the tab and watched her, my mind racing, stomach heavy with anxiety. Jean poured a hefty measure into a long-stemmed goblet, gulped a mouthful, and took a drag at the cigarette.
"Come on," she said, her head nudging towards the door to the hallway. "Living room."
*
I have since wondered that if the conversation hadn't taken place in the living room, with both of us on the cosy two-seater, then things might have been different.
But it did go that way. We were both on the sofa, Jean's legs crossed, her initial pose all closed in, almost defensive, her thigh a barrier between us. Like I was excluded.
Which is what Jean intended. To exclude me. That was her aim when she initiated that conversation.
But sitting there with her legs crossed, in that skirt...
All I could think of was how I'd love to touch her. I could feel the heat of her body and I could smell her scent, which, that day, was tobacco smoke laced around her usual perfume. I wondered how her legs would feel under my palms. Her thighs were enticing, the smooth calves such a temptation.
Jean's nerve seemed to fail her when we settled down. She smoked and sipped wine while I glugged a few mouthfuls from the can.
Silence for almost a minute.
I somehow resisted the urge to touch my aunt.
Finally she took a deep drag on the cigarette and leaned to the side to take an ashtray from the small table at the side of the sofa. Jean crushed the life out of the thing, smoke like dragon's breath through her nostrils. She gulped wine, placed the glass next to the ashtray, and then swivelled her torso to face me.
She sighed and looked at me with what I interpreted as pity.
I ran my fingers over the embossed pattern on the beer can, swallowing down the anxiety.
"Carl," my aunt said, softly.
I blinked but refused to look at her.
She repeated my name, a hand on my knee forcing me to confront her.
"Yes?" I replied, the word a croak.
"Come on, Carl. I think you know what's wrong."
I shook my head, wishing I was anywhere other than that sofa.
"You've been round here a lot lately," said my aunt, her voice still low. "And I ... I think..." Jean hesitated, muttering a curse under her breath. She sighed and I saw her shake her head through the periphery of my vision. "Have you developed a bit of a crush on me, Carl?"
There it was. The question. The accusation.
Miserable, I nodded and then swigged beer. To my surprise the can came away empty.
I hung my head, ashamed that Jean had divined my interest -- which was hardly surprising since I must have made it plainly obvious: nineteen years old, always visiting my sexy aunt, gawping at her...
Jean must have been able to read me like a book. The thoughts in my head might as well have been banner headlines.
