All characters in this tale are of legal, consenting adults.
Mario sat on his aunt's massive sofa in her equally massive living room, legs crossed, and hands clasped in his lap. He kept his eyes focused on the hardwood floor, noticing the fresh coat of wax that shone dully beneath beams of sunlight filtering through the living room windows. His aunt sat primly on a loveseat across from him, and when he dared to look up he caught her smiling at him. He nervously smiled back, then quickly averted his eyes.
The way his aunt tended to look at him made him feel like prey. He felt as though she'd pounce and eviscerate him any second now, and feast on his entrails. He'd let her, too.
Aunt Dominique was the shining example of beauty. Years of strict organic dieting and exercise kept her looking impossibly young. Her skin was chocolate and perfect, face heart-shaped and gorgeous, and her shoulder-length hair was thick and curly and untouched by chemicals. Also, she was terribly voluptuous, and abysmally difficult not to ogle.
"Tell me something, Mario," Dominique said, words passing through a predatory smile, "do I make you nervous?"
Mario looked up, using every ounce of discipline he had to keep his eyes on hers, and not on the immense cleavage flaunted by her low-cut top.
"I, uh..." he began, "I'm not sure what you mean, Domi."
"Come on, now," she said. "I've been on this earth fifty-four years. I think I know a nervous teenager when I see one."
"Oh, I almost forgot!" Mario said, clumsily attempting to change the subject. "Mom sent me over to pick up her casserole pan."
Aunt Dominique's brow rose, her delectably juicy mouth twisting some. His transparency was all too obvious.
"It's in the dish washer. Should be ready in a bit," she said.
"Great..."
"You know, hon, it's perfectly natural to want to fuck me."
Mario started, eyes becoming dinner plates. He struggled to wrap his head around the statement. Who just says something like that? he thought, anxiously bouncing his knee.
"Where did that come from?"
"You're pretty conspicuous, you know," Aunt Dominique said. "The crossing of the legs, the hands resting in your crotch for insurance—it's cute."
She was giving him that look again. He imagined he looked like easy prey; a limping zebra spotted by a lioness prowling in tall grass. Mario shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts.
"I couldn't," he said with newfound resolve.
Aunt Dominique tipped her head to the side like a curious wolf. "Oh? And why is that?"
"Because it's wrong, that's why!" Mario said.
"Says who?" Aunt Dominique asked, leaning forward so that her ample cleavage was in plain sight. If she was trying to distract him from forming a cogent argument it was definitely working.
"Says...like," he struggled, "says everyone!" It was all his eighteen year old wisdom could muster.
"Aw, that's cute," she said, laughter in her tone.
Aunt Dominique slid off the loveseat and onto ground upon all fours. She crawled—stalked—toward him, her large, pendulous breasts jouncing. He froze, watching her ass, large and magnificently round, shift behind black yoga pants that seemed painted on. Her smile was wolfish, sinister, sensual. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but the pain of his erection straining against his boxers let him know he was very awake.
Reaching him, she sat on her haunches and uncrossed his legs, then separated his hands to lie either side of him on the sofa cushions, his bulge exposed. He could do nothing, hypnotized by her unwavering, ravenous gaze. A shiver rolled through him, mind hazed by desire and anticipation and fear.
Aunt Dominique said nothing. She simply undid his denim jeans, then slipped a slender manicured hand into his boxer briefs, fingers wrapping his throbbing shaft. Mario's pulse raced in her palm, and his aunt made a delighted little sound.
Releasing him, she stood, hips cocked to the side. She looked like a super villainess. "Let's lose those jeans, nephew," she said. "Undies too."
He unhesitatingly did as instructed, slipping denim and underwear down to his ankles. Aunt Dominique stripped as well, peeling off those impossibly tight yoga pants, then freeing her breasts from their cotton and lace confines. Mario was thankful he was still sitting, otherwise he'd have buckled at the sight of her hourglass frame that sported curves as dangerous as her smile. Prominent nipples lay in the center of large, dark brown areolas, and her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, showing off her fat, supple pussy. Mario's cock throbbed and ached. Cellulite seemed to have never touched her. She probably didn't know the meaning of the word.
