I shouldn't be writing this. I really shouldn't. If anyone recognised me from this or worked out who I was there would be Hell to pay. But I have to write this. What I've done is going round and round in my head and I have to let it out somehow. I can't talk about it to anyone - at least not anyone who actually knows me - so I suppose this is what I have to do.
My name is Zoë. I am thirty-five years old. I got married when I was twenty-seven to Mark and we moved into a nice little semi-detached house about thirty miles from where we grew up. We were both earning, at first, so we could afford a decent mortgage and lots of the little extras life can offer - holidays; nice cars and so forth. We were in love and our sex life was great. We were happy. After a few years I became pregnant and my daughter Emily was born. At first this made us the happiest people alive - and yes, I know, most parents say that. And don't get me wrong; when you have read what follows it may sound otherwise, but I love Emily to bits. After she was born things, though, started to go wrong for us. We had decided that I should stop work and that we could get by on Mark's salary. Then he lost his job. There were money troubles. The pressures of looking after a small child exhausted me and our relationship suffered. He had an affair. We shouted. We hit each other. Eventually we separated about three years ago.
Long story short I moved back, with Emily, to where I had come from. I thought it would help having family not too far away. I got a small two-bedroomed house a few streets away from my sister, Sharon, and her family and about a mile away from my brother. I started working again. Sharon helps out with the childcare when Emily is sick and can't go to primary school and her son, my nephew Sam, occasionally babysat for me when I had a night out. Not that that happened very often. The love-life of a thirty-five year old divorceé with a five year old child is not the endless round of sexual fulfilment you might imagine. Yes, I have toys. Yes I've had a few brief flings and a couple of one night stands. Still, though, I grew more than a little horny over about a year and really very frustrated.
Those are my excuses. I'm not at all sure they are adequate. The thing is that moving back to living near my sister and her family meant that I had support from them when I needed it. It also meant I had Sam to do a bit of babysitting. And not just babysitting. He had just completed his last year at school and he often dropped in to see if I need anything or if there were any jobs I want done. I suspect his Mum put him up to it, but he's a good lad. He's also a good-looking young man. He's tall and dark like his father but has the piercing blue eyes that his mother and I share. In the last couple of years he has taken an interest in his appearance and has been going to the gym. He's been developing a fine set of muscles. I found myself wondering about other things about his development. I once walked in on Sharon and Steve, her husband, at my parents' house back in the days when they were engaged but not yet married. Our parents were out and they were taking advantage of that and I noticed - before I mumbled my apologies and took myself off - that Steve's cock was really quite magnificent. 'Like father, like son?' You see where this is going, don't you? I started to fancy him. I started to think about him in bed at night when I reached into my bedside cabinet for my rabbit or my egg. I don't know. Maybe other aunts sometimes look at their nephews that way. I'm pretty sure most don't do anything about it.
I'd like to plead that things happened 'by accident' or that "things got out of hand" or that he seduced me. None of those things would be true. His eighteenth birthday was coming up. Emily was going to be with her father - we have always been sticklers for the idea that she sees us both regularly. I phoned Sharon and told her that I had a present for Sam but that he would have to come to my house to collect it. I made up some story about having a hot date that would mean that I would miss his party. After all, I said, he wouldn't mind his aunt being absent when he has all his friends there.
Then I started to get ready. After I had showered and shaved myself down below I walked through to my bedroom and stood naked in front of my bedroom mirror. I have a good body. I'm five foot-six inches tall and have long blonde hair. These are attractive features, I thought to myself. I have fantastic boobs. OK - That's bigging myself up. But that's what I was doing. They are 34E with big aureoles around my nipples and I count that as fantastic. My skin is white, bordering on albino, but a little make-up helps. I have a nice arse but am carrying a few pounds around the waist. So. A black silky thong that would contrast with my skin. A black bra that lifts my breasts and enhances my cleavage. I considered stockings but I wasn't sure they had the same pulling power for someone of - and here's where I actually thought about it - someone of Sam's age. Rejecting stockings I went for a dark brown skirt that was knee length but with a slit up the side that went all the way to my hip. Then I picked a low-cut tan-brown top. I looked at myself and said "You look gorgeous." By the time I had put on my make-up I seriously believed I was the sexiest woman on the planet.
About half an hour later I heard the back door open and Sam's voice, "Auntie Zoë!". I shouted back that I was in the living room. A few moments later Sam came in and I rose from my chair to greet him at the door. I embraced him, kissing his cheek and holding him for a few seconds longer than I normally would, letting him take in the scent I had put on and feel my breasts against his firm well-developed chest.
"Come on in, birthday boy!" I said, releasing him and gesturing toward the two-seater sofa. "How's your day been going? I hope you've been having a good time."
"It's been great." he replied, sitting on the sofa. "I'm looking forward to my party tonight. I'm sorry to hear you won't be there." He smiled at me and I sat in the chair opposite him, crossing my legs so that the slit in my skirt offered him a fine view of my leg all the way up, pretty much, to my arse.
"I'm sorry too, Sam," I replied watching how his gaze kept flickering from my face to my boobs and to my thigh and back again. "Maybe I'll be able to get there later. Or maybe I'll be able to make it up to you some other way." I smiled at him and I swear he blushed. I wondered whether he had been thinking about me the way I had been thinking about him, despite my being nearly twice his age.
"A big day!" I said. "You only get to be eighteen once. You're a man now and I think that calls for a celebration." I got up again from my chair and went out to the kitchen, consciously swaying as I walked and imagining my nephew's eyes fixed on my buttocks. I returned a few moments later with a bottle of champagne from the fridge - well, Prosecco - two champagne flutes and a towel. "So," I said. You can legally have your first alcoholic drink outside your parents' home. I'd like to raise a glass to your manhood." I placed the glasses on the table in front of the sofa and unwound the wire cork-holder from the bottle, kneeling on the floor a few feet away from Sam. Then I pushed the cork free from the bottle. I know that's not the right way to do it, but the cork shot from the bottle and white foam flooded, for a moment or two, from the mouth of the bottle. I mopped it up and said "That reminds me of something...." then I mopped up the spilt champagne and poured some of what was left into the glasses. I handed one to Sam and took the other back with me as I sat back down in my chair, again crossing my legs to reveal as much of my thigh as possible. I raised my glass and toasted his birthday. "To manhood!".
