I was raised the youngest of eleven in a small, rural community in the middle of the US of A. As the smallest girl, my chores were to milk the cows, feed the chickens and set the table... all before school. My name is Roberta, though everyone calls me Bobbi. I believed I was brought-up in idyllic times.
As I was growing up, the world was changing and introducing new ideas to our little corner of the state. I have siblings who are twenty years my senior. They rode horses to school and on stormy winter nights, when the small black and white Philco was all static, they huddled around the radio and played cards or charades. We really didn't care about what we were missing. Now with cable TV, cell-phones and computers, the world has become a more intimate, well-connected global village.
Many of my brothers and sisters have moved away, some to other states, one out of the country. My next oldest, Sarah took-off a few years ago. She chased a dream and a man, not catching either one, and left a young son behind. Alex was my nephew and since he was only four years younger than I; we were playmates, schoolmates, and best friends.
He had a white-blonde crew-cut, said "shucks" and "dang" a lot, and was forever adopting stray dogs and cats. My hair grew darker in my teens and puberty turned this skinny tomboy into a rather shapely farmer's daughter.
Through high school and afterwards, I was a good student. I helped my nephew with his French and Algebra, and was a cheerleader and volleyball player, but I knew that after graduation I would stay at home to care after Mama and Papa in their senior years. It was just something the youngest should do. Eventually the house would be mine and I would market small crops and livestock, while centering my life around the church and PTA.
Alex was changing daily. Farm chores and exercise had filed-out his body to a solid two-hundred pounds. He was an All-State half-back and third baseman, and colleges were now flying him in for recruiting visits. He came back each time with wilder tales of hookers and lap-dances. There were envelopes stuffed with cash, new shoes, and promises of cars and grades.
He also changed physically. His muscular chest and arms sported tribal tattoos. His hair was now spiked and dyed. And his language got much cruder and sexually oriented. I was still his aunt closest confidante but we were preparing for a life-altering separation. Neither of us was a virgin; though I had had only two serious boyfriends and as much as he bragged, I think Alex wanted a stay-at-home girl with small town values.
Then things changed for us both. In the course of a year, both of my parents passed away. My last remaining siblings gathered for the funerals, settled the estate, and said their goodbyes. I was left in a big, empty farmhouse with only an electronic connection to my far-flung family, and not much reason to leave home. At twenty-six years of age, I was a virtual spinster without a career, living in an isolated home, three miles from even a hint of civilization.
For Alex, the year was even worse. An orphan who had now lost his grandparents; he would soon be leaving behind his home for a new city, a university and a new social structure. Though he put on a brave face and a happy-go-lucky demeanor; I could see that he was still a scared, little boy underneath. And then came The Play.
In the last game before the State Football Playoffs, he ruptured the discs in his back and developed a series of dangerous blood clots. Tuition offers disappeared and his lack-luster grades confined him to the local community college where he lasted two terms. Jobs as a mechanic and short-order cook followed, but by age 21 he was back on the farm living with me. A disheartening fall back to Earth.
A transition took hold. Still related, but now two adults with hormones and pent-up feelings bubbling to the surface. It started slow but it was all new and portentious to me. Summer days on the farm were hot and dusty with a lot of hard work thrown in. I usually wore cut-off jeans over bare legs and a cropped top or swim suit bra. My long, dark hair, which did not often get to a beauty parlor, laid in thick, sweaty sheets on my shoulders. I wiped my dusty face with the back of my hand and sat in unladylike repose to catch whatever breeze there was. We waited until nightfall to eat supper but at around five, I would clang the bell and serve biscuits and lemonade to Alex, while he took a small break from the heat.
He would trudge up to the enclosed porch and we sat on the swing. He wore denim pants and work boots, both filthy and sweat stained. His tanned chest and back glistened with perspiration and wisps of hay clung to his torso. His hair was again cut short and bleached white from the powerful sun. A bandana crowned his sun-burned face and rivulets of sweat ran down his frame and darkened the waist of his pants.
I sometimes could not avoid noticing the obvious bulge in his pants, outlined by the few dry spots of fabric especially when he stood over me. This image triggered a tortured response in my head. He was my nephew but he could be darned sexy. My own nipples invariably responded to the situation, not helped at all by the wet, clingy material of my top brushing against their straining tips. At these times, I needed to cover my ample bossum with my hands or excuse myself to run inside and change clothes. Alex had grown used to us living in close, semi-private quarters; but he still chuckled deeply and lewdly commented on my anatomy.
I was continually subjected to crude remarks about my "gigantic tits", or was offered suggestions for stripping, nude sunbathing, or just going around naked, since there was no one else to see. My face reddened at each instance and I readily blushed at every obscene reference. But after awhile, I shrugged it off and sometimes found myself flaunting my figure for him or teasing him with a sultry look or a tantalizing gesture.
It seemed like harmless banter and an exciting way to pass the days, but it didn't stop. It seemed to only add layers of sexual tension to the already charged atmosphere. Because summer nights on the farm could be just as long and lonely.
After dark, when the dishes were done and we had each taken a cooling shower, the strained pressure continued to lay heavily on us. Alex had recently started driving into town at night, going to strip clubs and drinking. When he returned home at night he wasn't drunk but he was certainly less inhibited and obviously horny. He liked to regale me with descriptions of the dancers or the lewd offers. Some nights he would watch xmovies and insist that I join him for a night-cap or to listen to his graphic accounts of their many contortions or techniques. I think he enjoyed the power to make me blush and squirm in my seat. I would occasionally take a second or even third drink and secretly pretend to place myself in the scene. A few times I had to feign a yawn or reach for a magazine, to hide my amazement and wonder at the proceedings. But truly, when I didn't think he was watching, I memorized the actors movements and devotion to detail.
The nasty images whirled in my mind. There were blowjobs, gangbangs and anal sex. Each one more perverted than the last, and to my upbringing, obscene beyond belief. Yet oddly mesmerizing and seductive. It appeared that people were having great sex, great fun and not hurting anybody. It started me wondering. There may be better sex out there.
I observed that women fingered their own vaginas when they rubbed a man's cock, or that a guy pointed or flattened his tongue when he licked a clit. I discerned true pleasure when a fellow came in a girls mouth and I saw many women shudder and moan when they were getting fucked from behind. Soon, I could not take a bath, fall asleep or spend any time alone without images of naked, elated people writhing about and screaming out all of their deviant desires.
As much as I tried to hide my interest in front of him, Alex always noticed and commented on my rapt attention. He'd remark that I was better-looking and sexier than most of the women and would probably be great in bed. Instead of storming away insulted, I continued to watch and even critique their efforts. It became more apparent that I enjoyed the videos and I also developed my favorite "stars" and sexual situations. Once, I let slip an eighty-proof confession that I prefer the more mature, submissive types that were blackmailed or forced into degrading circumstances. I must have mentioned it too many times because Alex seemed to find an opening in my conservative defences. He started spending more time with me, plying me with drinks and hinting that I should wear more revealing clothes or talk dirtier to him.
