I ditched the last two periods that day because I knew that with the pep rally
going on, there would be plenty of opportunities to disappear without getting
caught. I had no use for pep rallies; if they weren’t going to teach me
anything, then they had no business keeping me. I figured I had better things
to do with my time, and as I slipped away, I had no idea how right I was. Even before I reached the front door, I could hear music blaring within. My
Aunt Jennie was staying with us for a couple of weeks, since she had just
returned from France and was looking for a place of her own. She was probably
partying now. She was Mom’s youngest sister, somewhere in her twenties, and she was the
free-spirit of the family, always moving around (like to France or Costa Rica),
and Mom and my other aunts were always angry at her or rolling their eyes about
her. But she was the coolest in my family, and I always secretly rooted for
her when everyone gossiped, because she would always sit down and talk to me,
or take me to the movies, or take me out to eat when I was little. And even
though my name is Jim, she always, always called me Buddy, like I was her
buddy. So it did not surprise or bug me when I stepped in with the tunes cranked from
upstairs. Some old song–soul, I think. I bounded up the steps two at a time
to see what was up. The bathroom light was on. I giggled thinking about Mom getting pissed about
someone changing the station on her bathroom radio again, and I prepared to
surprise Aunt Jennie. Instead, I froze. She stood facing the huge mirror, nude, eyes closed, singing into the hairbrush
and shaking a bathrobe in her clenched fist. I knew I should have ducked into
my bedroom before she saw me. But I just stood there staring, stupidly taking
it all in. As I gawked at her beautiful body, what struck me the most was her skin. So
fair and smooth, unblemished by clothes, as my eyes traced her lovely shoulders
and the sides of her breasts, down to the small of her shapely, feminine back,
her smooth hips and ass cheeks blending into her slightly muscled thighs, her
calves, her thin, stretched toes. I glanced to the mirror, surrendering like a
good pervert, trying to get a frontal view of her–I had never seen a real
woman naked–and as I did, her eyes opened and met mine in the mirror. She pushed aside the wet strands of her hair and squealed a high-pitched “Ooh!”
The door banged shut in my face. Oh shit. “I’m sorry,” I called weakly through the door, though I doubt she heard me over
the radio. Feeling like an ass, I slunk to my room, closed the door, and threw
myself on my bed. The radio’s blaring ceased, and I was left alone with my
thoughts and my guilty conscience. Guilty, yet I tried to think about what I had just seen, to remember the
details of her beautiful body. It happened too fast. All I could do was wince
and bury my head in my arms, like I do whenever I recall any extremely
embarrassing situation. It was all the worse because I had always thought
about how pretty Aunt Jennie was, and even fantasized about her, especially
since she had been back from France. And she was pretty–not foxy, like in some Playboy video, but really
attractive, especially the more you knew her. She had long, straight blondish
hair, which was shorter when she returned from abroad, and I didn’t like that
at first. But soon I thought she looked even better that way, because her eyes
stood out more. She had big grey-blue eyes that were so expressive they could
almost speak aloud. She could say anything with her eyes. Aunt Jennie also had a great body. She was tall (I’d say about 5-9 or 5-10),
thin and strong, a perfect cyclist’s body which she got from riding a couple of
hours each day. She also had a great rack, which I know is probably a
disgusting way to talk about my aunt, but it was true. Her tits were large and
full, and firm for their size. More and more often I would found myself
staring at them: the round curves beneath her arms; the slight jiggle as she
sat; or, on occasion, the definite hint of her nipples stiffening beneath shirt
and bra. And more than once I know she caught me eyeing her before I looked
quickly away. I lay in bed trying to remember what those succulent breasts looked like just
moments before, bare and only inches away, but my mind was clouded by the shame
I felt. There was a light rapping at the door, and my heart nearly stopped. “Can I come in?” she called. “Sure,” I said so weakly that I had to swallow and repeat it louder. The door
creaked open, and she sat beside me. “I’m sorry,” I said without looking up. “Hey,” she said tenderly, lifting my head by my chin, “you didn’t do anything
wrong. Don’t be sorry.” Not only was she not angry, for which I was relieved,
but she was sitting next to me wearing her short robe. (I know. I couldn’t
help it, OK?) My eyes touched on hers, then looked down again, conveniently
affording me a look at her long, bare legs, which led into the darkness only
inches away beneath the robe. “Okay?” her voice broke in. “It was only an accident. Don’t be sorry.
Besides,” and she shifted her bent knees away from me, as if she were going to
leave, “nudity is nothing to be ashamed of.” She grabbed my chin again. “Look at me,” she ordered. “Haven’t you ever seen a naked woman?” I shook my
head, my eyes fixed on hers. “Not even your mother?” she asked, and snickered
knowingly when I signaled No. She turned away for several long moments, then stroked my cheek once and said,
“Look.” Jennie abruptly stood up before me. She grinned coyly down at me, and then
slowly parted her robe, revealing her chest between her breasts, then her
tummy, and then . . . oh my god! She let it fall from her shoulders, and
draped it behind her back from her elbows. The most beautiful woman in my
world was standing in front of me, showing me her nude body. Her eyes asked,
“Do you like?” My own were too shocked to answer back. My gaze moved down, attempting the impossible task of taking it all in. Her
breasts jutted firmly from her chest above me, each so large that both of my
hands together would barely fit around them. They were capped by wide, pale
nipples, ringed by tiny goosebumps. Her tummy looked improbably small and flat
beneath her breasts, so that her bellybutton was only like a small, dark chasm
that I so wanted to explore with my tongue. Beneath her navel, the slender
tummy merged into that most mysterious of places, the slight feminine bulge,
crowned by her brown pussyhairs, shaven short and narrow. I grew dizzy with
excitement as I examined her sexy pussy, so obviously pampered and cared-for,
to the hint of her pouty lips below, in that sweet area where her thin,
muscular legs met her shapely hips and smooth torso. Oh God. Her voice, thin and soft, broke the awkward silence. “You can touch me if you
like.” I looked up, quizzingly. “Go on,” she whispered. I stared down at her navel again, and slowly, hesitantly brought my shaking
hand to her tummy. My fingertips lightly brushed her smooth skin, tracing down
and over her bellybutton, then back up again in an arc, until I felt the bottom
of her ribs, and I quickly drew my hand away. I looked down again to the bed,
conscious more than anything of my volatile erection, which she couldn’t have
seen, as I was still lying on my stomach and leaning up, so that my hard-on was
grinding into the bed. But still, at any moment, I might lose it. . . . “Interesting choice,” she giggled. “Sit up.” I did. She whispered, “I want you to touch my breasts.” I sat dazed, blankly staring
up. She reached down to take my hand in hers, and drew it up to the bottom of
her right tit, pressing my fingers into the smooth meat curving down below her
nipple. She guided my fingers along the side of her boob, gently releasing my
hand and letting me feel for myself. With my fingertips, then my whole hand, then with both hands, I brushed the
full shape of her luscious tits, discovering, kneeding, lifting them. They
were new and soft. I loved them. I wanted to feel every inch, but I also
desperately needed to caress her and give her pleasure, to demonstrate my
“technique,” of which I had none but what I’d read from Penthouse letters.
Instead, I could not restrain myself; I was groping awkwardly, and my fingers
were drawn to her nipples. She sighed deeply, but whether from boredom or
disapproval or arousal, I did not know. “Why don’t you slip off your clothes and lie down,” she told me softly. The
scene was so dreamy, but I quickly complied, tetherless in her control, but
also eager–to please her, and in hoping against hope that what I thought might
happen, would. Prone, I stared up, waiting. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. So
naked, all I felt was the constriction in my hardened cock, arched across my
belly, touching it with only the tip of its head. She lay on her side, her head by my knees, sidling against me. “Scoot down.” I did, a little at a time. My penis throbbed with my movement.
When it was just below her head, she patted my tummy playfully and smiled at
me. “OK.” Jennie lifted my dick and slid her hand slowly upward, running her other hand
through the hair of my pubus and upper thighs. Then she bent her right leg, planted her right foot on the bed and pointed her
knee to the ceiling, brazenly spreading her pussy for me. My eyes were
riveted. “Play with me,” she cooed. Without hesitation, bug-eyed in wonder, I reached for her sex. It looked like
such a complex thing, and to tell the truth, I couldn’t tell exactly where her
hole was, and I didn’t know where to touch her. So I started with the most
familiar part (from pictures, anyway), and brushed my fingertips through her
pussy hair. I trailed tenderly to her lips. They looked so exposed and soft
and pink, a little slick beneath my fingers. Such a turn-on, touching her
femininity. I traced those lips a few more times, when her hips tilted
slightly forward, receptive to my caresses. That’s as far as I got. From the first, Aunt Jennie had a gentle yet surehanded grasp on my dick,
squeezing softly along its length. My cock felt full even before she touched
it, and she could probably tell. But at a certain point while I was touching
her, she really turned up the heat. I felt a second grip around the base of my cock, and she masterfully stroked my
rod with the perfect friction: ascending my shaft, tightening as they reached
my head, and then squeezing the swollen bulb as they slipped off and grabbed
again at the base. After a few of these torturous and increasingly forceful strokes, I had to shut
my eyes and arch my back. I was so close. “Yesss,” she whispered in a tone I had never before heard from her. It was
like a breathless, excited hiss. It made me crazy. Her grip tightened to a fist, and she removed one hand. While she jerked up
and down on my ripened cock, she tickled behind my balls, then lifted and
squeezed my sack up against my penis. Her wild jacking focused more on the
skin around my head. Then her grip on my balls tightened and she pulled me
hard! “Buddy!” she exclaimed in that same breathless tone, but louder, like she was
congratulating me for being a good boy. I lost it there. “Ummm,” she hummed as she pumped the sperm from my penis. I couldn’t believe
the wave that carried me. All thought left me, like I’d blacked out from
ecstacy–my cock and asscheeks tightening, my hips bucking forward then
freezing, my back rigid, the nerves in my cock aflame beneath her hand,
squeezing seemingly endless gushes of cum onto my belly, then through her
fingers and down my pole, trickling between my balls and legs. I was her
puppet, unable to stop. Finally, mercifully, she released me, just as the sensation was becoming too
much. When I opened my eyes, she was sitting up. She looked down with the
sweetest smile, one that I will always remember, while she stroked my leg. Her
eyes. Without a word she rose, then came back with a damp towel. She wiped and
cleaned me while I lay silent and motionless. “Such a mess,” she teased. After she dried me, she pulled the sheet over me and picked up her robe. She
bent down, her face close to mine, and stroked my cheek. “Are you all right?” I nodded. “I love you, Buddy,” she said, and kissed me warmly on the lips. She walked
naked out of my room, closing the door behind her. I remember it all so clearly. That was the last I saw of her, completely
naked. She left unexpectedly early the next morning. Three years ago, today.
Three years of busting my ass at the gym, of saving myself, of thinking about
her, night after night. I grin in the mirror, and rub more mousse into my new
haircut. The shortest I’ve ever had it, but sharp. A man’s haircut. She’ll
like it. Mom calls, “Jimmy, the cab’s here! Let’s go!” “Coming!” I yell. I hope she picks us up at the airport. Wonder if she’ll
make the move on me this evening already. No matter; we’ve got the whole week
before her wedding, and we don’t fly out until the morning after. I sling my wardrobe bag over my shoulder, and look at myself in one last pose,
cocking my head, seeing me as she’ll see me coming off the plane. She’ll be
glad to see her Buddy. I flick the lightswitch behind me.
