Author's Note:
Please take note of this story's category and tags, in case the subject matter might not be to your liking. Also, note this is Part 1 of a multi-part series and the heat will go up from Parts 2 onward which, by the way, have (mostly) already been written/planned out and will follow every few days until the series is complete. Thanks to
NaughtySouthernGent
for beta reading this first installment.
This is a work of fiction. The plot is fictional. The characters are fictional. It's
not real life
. Any resemblance to person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental. All fictional characters in this fictional story involved in fictional sexual activities are 18+ in their completely fictional lives. If you think you recognize a real-life someone in this story, you lead a more colorful life than the author. :-)
Lastly, and most importantly, I hope you enjoy the story!
-BizMe
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Mom, Aunt Clara & My Wandering Mind: Part 1
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"Aren't you forgetting something?"
That's how it began, with four simple words that pretty much described my entire life up to that point.
The first time I heard them was about as far back as I could remember when I was a kid. And since I was often forgetful, easily distracted, and sometimes a little spacey, I heard it a lot.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I'd look down at my untied shoes.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I'd left my lunch on the counter.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I was about to walk out without kissing my stepmom on the cheek.
"You know how much it means when you give your mom a good-bye kiss, don't you?" She insisted I call her 'Mom' since she couldn't have kids herself and my biological birth mother had abandoned me at birth.
My stepmom said we were meant for each other. Otherwise, she'd never have had a child and I'd never have had a mom.
"I swear, Andrew. If your head wasn't screwed on, you'd forget that, too," she often teased.
"Sorry, Mom," I always replied in embarrassment. I said 'sorry' a lot. I guess my brain was so concerned about whatever came next that it kind of lost track of the here and now. That was my theory anyway. I always appreciated Mom's compassionate ability to laugh it off without making me feel stupid.
"You'll grow out of it," she'd said through my elementary years. But after I finished middle school and I still hadn't, I could tell she was starting to worry.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" My fly was open.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" She'd wrinkle her nose, her subtle way of telling me I should go take a shower.
Well into high school, it continued.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
If I stared blankly long enough, she'd let me off the hook and mercifully clue me in.
"Your shoes," she'd remind me for the thousandth time.
"Sorry, Mom," I'd mutter then slide off my shoes and set them by the front door which, by the way, I'd left open, letting out precious conditioned air into the wild outdoors. I knew Mom had noticed that, too; she was just too kind to mention it, with the hopes I'd noticed it, and, that time, I did.
Even
I
started to worry the older I got. I didn't want to end up a real-life 'absent-minded professor' or something like that—book-smart, but street-stupid. Able to solve complex math problems, but incapable of making toast.
When my Aunt Clara moved to town and started visiting us more often, my angst only increased. Had she been a 'regular' aunt, it probably wouldn't have been a big deal, but Aunt Clara was a practicing psychotherapist. My 'normal' aunts pinched my cheeks. Aunt Clara analyzed, chastised, and
therapized
me.
She was very well educated and liked to flaunt the fact. She was stern and flaunted that, too, as if it was a badge of honor to be condescendingly bitchy. She was hoity-toity—nearly the mirror opposite of her sister, except that they looked so similar.
One particular day, Mom was helping me with college applications, when Aunt Clara came by. I'd forgotten to submit them like I was supposed to my junior year and was scrambling now as a senior to find a college—any college—to accept me for the fall semester.
While Mom and I answered the same questions, over and over, just for different potential schools, Aunt Clara sat in the living room. She was quiet and, as they say in the movies,
too
quiet. I could see her out the corner of my eye if I turned my head just a tiny bit.
Why does she always wear such revealing outfits?
I wondered silently.
She must have just come here from her work. That's the kind of thing she wears in her office.
In my mind, I pictured her sitting in her posh old leather office chair, one scantily-clad leg crossed over the other with a clipboard in her hand and her reading glasses perched halfway down the bridge of her nose. She liked them there, I imagined, so she could look over them at some hapless, hormone-flummoxed young man she was counseling, himself lying flat on his back on her therapy couch, probably with a hard-on and trying desperately not to get caught looking at her long slender legs.
Aunt Clara had amazing legs—"legs for days," as they say—and she damn well knew what she was doing to the young man I had conjured. She knew he would be on edge, constantly distracted by her long legs, skin bare from her two-inch strappy heeled stilettos to the hem of her too-short black Saint Laurent pencil skirt. Yes, she knew what she was doing. Fucking cocktease.
"Andrew?" I heard a faint voice calling to me from the distance, but I ignored its call, choosing instead to recall how I knew so precisely what she was wearing—namely, the Saint Laurent pinstripe printed mini skirt, designer style: 580279Y127W, size 36, with a wool outer and 100% silk liner.
I knew all this because I had stayed at her house in the country for a week the previous summer helping my cousin Patrick trim some trees on their property. One day, as soon as Aunt Clara got home from work, Patrick left for baseball practice, leaving me alone with Aunt Clara. She stepped out of her black Lexus, one slim, clean-shaven, naked leg at a time.
"Andrew," that annoying voice again, calling faintly. Again, I ignored it, still fixated on Aunt Clara's slender leg in my peripheral vision and my penis inappropriately twitching in my shorts at the improper recollections of my aunt and how I'd learned so much about her sexy designer clothing. The blouse alone cost more than Mom brought home on a paycheck.
On that particular day I was recalling, Aunt Clara was wearing one of her favorite pairs of shoes, her bright red Bottega Veneta slingback kitten heels. Yes, I knew the brand and style of her shoes for the same reason I knew the brand, style, and size of her entire ensemble.
With Patrick gone to practice, I was left high and dry to finish cleaning a brush pile alone. I finished raking and sweeping and went into the house for a quick shower before helping Aunt Clara with supper.
That's when I saw her clothes strewn across her bed. (I was crossing the hall to the main bathroom when I
just happened
to glance into her bedroom as I passed by. I swear I wasn't creeping on her!) Anyway, just then I heard her bathroom door close and her shower starting. Against better judgment, I slowly inched my way closer to her door and peeked in. Convinced the coast was clear, I tiptoed into her room and touched her expensive, delicate clothing.
That's when I committed to memory the color, the brand, the size, the feel, every bit of information on the tags of her pinstriped pencil skirt, the blouse she had been wearing (a Chloé floral lace pointed collar blouse that was nearly as long as her skirt) and the bright shiny red Bottega Veneta slingback kitten heel shoes. I had a knack for memorizing things, which is not the same thing as
remembering
things, by the way—something Aunt Clara often reminded me of.
Each garment I handled sent a new surge of arousal through my body. The naughtiness of handling the same articles of clothing that had just recently been pressed against her body triggered shockwaves of desire that crumbled any sense of propriety.
I even handled her delicates, a Black silk Gilda & Pearl floral lace thong, and a matching black silk Rita lace bra. I held her thong to my nose and sniffed—I have no idea why, just instinct, I suppose—then I bolted out of the room when I heard the shower turn off and, a second or two later, her bathroom door open.
I raced down the hallway to the other bathroom, slammed the door shut (probably too loudly), and jumped into the shower. I would be lying if I said I hadn't jerked myself to relief on the spot and several times since over the repeated recollections of black silk and lace.
"
Andrew!
" that annoying voice finally broke through my reverie, startling me.
