Keeping it in the Family
© Bad Hobbit 2025
Family reunions, eh? I guess I didn't mind them when I was a kid. I'd get together with my cousins and we'd run riot in the local woods around my aunt's big house in Lincolnshire. The woods weren't really that extensive, but they seemed huge to me when I was seven. My cousins were all older, so I was almost like a mascot to them.
Then, when I was in my teens, I got the hots for my cousin Christina - sometimes Chrissy, sometimes Tina, depending on how she was feeling. And I wished I could have been feeling her. She seemed to have grown tits overnight, but she was three years older than me and I was of no interest to her.
But that all seemed a long time ago. I was twenty-one, and now we were off for this year's annual jamboree, Mum and me; the first I'd attended in nearly five years. What with 'A'-Levels and then university exams, May was never a great time to be taking a break, so I'd stayed away, revising or sweating over a fiendishly hard paper. But, after quite a gap, surprisingly, I was actually looking forward to it.
Of course, Granddad and Grandma wouldn't be there. Granddad had been one of the first casualties of Covid in early 2020, and Grandma lasted a year without him before a stroke carried her off too. They were great people and I still miss them.
And this time it was also just Mum and me. My parents had told me after I'd finished my first-year exams that they were divorcing. They didn't want to shock me into missing my grades but I'd already guessed it was coming. Dad was spending more and more time on his boat, Mum was performing with her semi-pro band and they were taking separate holidays. So Mum and I were living in the family home while Dad moved to our holiday cottage near Penzance and spent a lot of time at sea. "On the good ship Venus," my mum said one day. I didn't understand the reference and she didn't explain.
The last weekend in May was when we always got together with the wider family. And that meant Mum's family; Dad's were never that sociable. Mum had three sisters. Samantha - Aunt Sam - was three years older than my mother - Angela, or Angie - and her twin sister Zoe. (My gran must've had some private joke in mind by giving her twin daughters names from the opposite ends of the alphabet, as if she wanted them to be radically different. Except that seemed to make them want to be even more alike). Then, sixteen years later, came Joanna - Auntie Jo. She was what was euphemistically referred to as 'a mistake'. It wasn't uncommon for women to think they'd reached the menopause, give up contraception, and then suddenly discover that they were pregnant again. Some terminated, but Gran went through with the pregnancy. By then, Sam and the twins were in their late teens, so a baby sister was something of a novelty, and the girls helped with the childcare.
And Jo didn't look a lot like her sisters, growing up. She still didn't. Mum, Zoe and Sam are all quite tall for their generation - around a metre seventy-five - (naturally) blonde, fit and sophisticated looking. For three women in their mid-forties, they could pass for five or even ten years younger. Mum runs half marathons, Sam is a real tennis addict, while Zoe's in a cycling club with Ray, her husband. But Jo is small - petite, even; around a metre sixty, dark and with a cute, pixie face. Tongues inevitably wagged as to whether my granddad was her father, but he always treated her as his daughter and seemed to adore her.
Back in the day, Zoe and Ray's place - huge, because this was Lincolnshire and property has always been cheaper there - was alive with cousins. Auntie Sam had had two - James and Fiona - who were both now living and working in Australia. Apart from Christina, Zoe had another daughter, Sally, who was off on a world tour with a couple of friends. So this time it would be just me and Christina, and I was hoping to finally persuade her to pay me some attention.
At uni, I'd had a couple of on-off girlfriends as well as a steady stream of one-night stands and short-lived fuckathons. I'm not being smug when I say that I'm an attractive guy. I stay very fit - I have since school - and I guess I'm lucky to have a face that girls find attractive. Some guys would brand me an 'alpha male', but I hate that term. Arseholes like Andrew Tate use it as a way to encourage men to despise women, treat them like shit, even rape them. Me, I respect women and I enjoy their company - especially when they're naked and part of them is wrapped around my cock - but I try to give as much as I receive. The girls I've dated - if that's the word for an often-blatant pick-up and fuck - are usually in the upper ten percent of attractiveness, but some of them have been happy to treat
me
as a sex object. One flashed me with a cheeky no-knickers upskirt from a bar stool in the Student Union bar before coming up to me with the immortal pickup line, "Wanna fuck?" I did, and we did. She was hot.
Most of the girls I've had were pretty, fit and had a strong sexual appetite. One or two were a little outside the bell curve; one rather muscular female field athlete I spent a few weeks with was overly curvy for my normal preferences, but proved she was worth it by deep-throating my rather large cock and then inviting me into the opposite end of her alimentary canal. On several occasions, we both came with my cock deep in her arse.
Latterly, I'd been with a steady girlfriend, Gemma, for about six months, and I felt it had been going well. The sex was - well, spectacular. We were both very fit - I was on the uni sports team in heptathlon and was trying out at national level, and she was a pretty classy gymnast - and quite adventurous. But then, at a party, I let Gemma's best friend Abi seduce me. I'd had too much to drink, Gemma was visiting her family and Abi was very persuasive. What I didn't realise was that it was a put-up job. Abi fancied me, sure, but she'd agreed with Gemma that, if she could get me into bed, she'd provide pictures to show that I couldn't be trusted; and, it proved, I couldn't. Whether Abi wanted me for herself or just intended to try out the sex machine that Gemma seemed so smug about, I don't know. But the next time I saw Gemma, she showed me the pictures Abi had taken. We had a blazing row - and that was that, three months before I was due to graduate. So I returned to my previous behaviour with a few rather frantic and, at times, brutal one-night stands, but there was again no long-term girlfriend for Matthew.
So the thought of getting off with Chrissy was fairly prominent in my mind when we arrived. Zoe and Ray came out to meet us, and there were hugs all round. I was struck by how similar Mum and Zoe still looked. They'd both had their hair cut quite short in almost identical styles and even dressed alike. Zoe's always been a bit more 'forward' than Mum and, since her divorce, Sam seems to be following her lead. It's a bit of a family joke that my older aunts would probably be dropping double-entendres and groping handsome waiters if we all went out to a restaurant. And I suspect that a lot of the waiters wouldn't have objected. Zoe and Sam were, as they say, fit, for women in their mid-forties or, indeed, any age. It had never really occurred to me before, perhaps because she was the more demure twin, but my mum was equally fit. But hey, she was my mum.
Inside, the ladies were drinking Prosecco. Aunt Sam got up and hugged and kissed me in a very un-auntie-like manner. She'd dyed her long, wavy, blonde hair a very striking red, and she was wearing a long dress that was tight down to her hips. She looked very good in it. When she broke the kiss - on the mouth - and pulled back so I could no longer feel her rather large and impressive breasts squashed against my chest, she held me at arm's length and looked up into my face - I'm a good 30 cm taller - smiling.
"Wow, look at you, Matthew! What's Angie been feeding you? You've grown since I last saw you. My, how you've grown!"
"Well, Aunt Sam, it's..."
"Oh come on, Matthew. How old are you now? Twenty-one? Drop the Auntie stuff. It makes us all feel old."
"Ok, er, Sam. Last time I was here, I was sixteen."
"And very sweet you were too. But you've blossomed. Oh my! How tall are you?"
"Around two metres."
"What's that in old money? Around six-eight?"
"Yes, around that. But you're still looking as glamorous as ever. What's your secret? There can't be that many virgins around to provide blood."
"Cheeky sod! No, my boy - or should I say, gorgeous young man - your dear aunt indulges in youth transference. I find younger men can help women of a certain age avoid the worst ravages of time by transferring their energy to us - in so many ways." She winked at her sisters, who all laughed loudly. "So I make use of that and ensure I'm open to receiving that energy."
"Yes, Sam, but which specific parts of you are open?" Zoe said, and they all hooted and laughed again. Except, I noticed, Chrissy.
Sam's husband had left her for, of all things, another man, some ten years earlier. I was aware that she'd since developed a reputation for having a series of younger partners, but it had been five years since I'd seen her, and she looked good on a diet of whatever they were feeding her.
