Behind the Rocks

He looked at her smooth behind. It was round, large and firm. And brown all over, indicating she had been sunbathing nude, a lot. She was on all fours on the floor of the bathroom, the shower curtain pulled back and the water splaying both of them. He was on his knees.

Go on, Terry, she said. Put it in.

Mrs. Jefferies…he started, nervously. I…

She reached round and guided his dick to her arsehole. She pushed it encouragingly at her sphincter, now wet with the soft, warm water.

His mouth dust-dry despite the wetness surrounding them and pattering on the tiled hotel bathroom, Terry shoved his stiffness at the tight but welcoming hole. With Terry gathering courage – or at least more fear of turning back now – and Mrs Jefferies’ firm pushes, the trembling, engorged penis somehow, slowly, but deeper with each shove, entered the anus. Both of them groaned heavily with each motion, the groans louder with each sudden increase in speed. But it was not to last.

Mrs Jefferies! I…Mrs Jefferies! I…I…

Fran. It’s Fran.

Fran…Mrs Jefferies…Mrs Fran…NNNGGGHHHAAAAAAAA!

It had lasted all of a minute, but it was the most intense minute of Terry’s young life. His first anal fuck. And his second only fuck. All in the same day. And in a hotel in Casablanca with his mother’s elder sister.

They had been on a car tour of the Atlas Mountains in eastern Morocco, Fran Jefferies and her sister — Terry’s mother — and Terry. When they got as far east as they could go, Terry’s mother Nina was urgently called back to Paris, where she was working with Doctors Without Borders. Something in the Sudan. So she caught a feeder flight from Fez and left sister Fran and Terry to get the car back to Casablanca.

This was extremely bad for all three, but especially for the two left in each other’s company. Fran had been jealous of Terry from when he was a baby. And as he grew up, he in turn grew to despise his feisty but unfriendly aunt. They headed back, but the first half day wasn’t fun. They would drive, stop at marketplaces and go through the motions of taking pictures, stop for water and melons but close to lunchtime they were getting sick of each other. But then Fran noticed something arresting when they made an off-road piss stop.

Fran had peed audibly and with a great, audible sigh of pleasure, with Terry within earshot. Holding lookout, in fact. She sensed that it had some kind of effect on him. The boy went very quiet, for a long while when they got back in the car, and she believed he was even struggling with an erection in his shorts.

After lunch, Fran decided to confirm. After only a short while, she made the pretence of needing a piss stop. She kept him close, again on the pretext of guarding her. It was true; the boy got hot at the sound of pissing. Couldn’t-catch-his-breath hot.

Deliberately, Fran tormented him through the day. She would drink lots of bottled water, then call for a piss stop. She would drive a little way off the road, not too far as to be foolhardy, then she would ask for Terry to stand watch while she relieved herself.

By the second time, Fran realised that he was taking his dick out as she gushed. So she fed the urine out slowly, to hear him heavily panting behind the nearest big bush.

By evening, they were both so horny they could toss matadors. But confused and unable to understand what to do. They checked into a hotel only a last day’s drive from their destination, Casablanca, and a shared flight home. Fran bitterly regretted the advance booking that gave them separate rooms.

But Fran was hatching a plan, and, as she slammed the door, throwing herself on the bed and kicking her Samsonite away from the door in the same motion, she lifted her thin dress and spread her legs wide on the bed to let the air conditioning fan her hot, middle-aged pussy. Hotter between her legs and hornier than she could remember. She spread her legs wider. Lying there, her heavy breasts heaving, she wanted cock like she had never wanted before. These aren’t bad tits, she pondered, stroking the twin tits that even when she was lying flat made succulent mounds; there was muscle in her boobs and muscle in her steaming cunt, ready to clamp on somebody’s rigid appendage. Fran was the older sister, and had filled out some, but had never been jealous of her sibling. And though never married, Fran knew that men who happened to come her way, while seldom staying, always left satisfied. Now, her hand went to her hairy twat, stroking the bush that the fan was slowly drying from its pearly sweat. Oooh! Oooh! As she stroked, her back arched. Her skin felt tighter all over. There was already blood in the vulva, making it tender, so tender and hungry for that stiff little boy’s stiff little man. She accepted it now. She knew it. She wanted that boy’s prick in her pussy, wanted to squeeze tight her nephew’s rod in her aching cunt. And the way there was piss. Pee. She would get him with bladder liquid .

In the next room, a sweating Terry was standing in the bathroom, a tap dripping water insistently and noisily into the hand basin while he whipped his meat like a hygiene fascist brushes teeth: short, sharp, desperate tugs. Either way, the white paste gets spat out, and it hit the hand-towels by the basin with force. Terry was focused, transfixed on his Aunt Fran’s hairy, hairy, dark pussy spraying that sweet piss at the Moroccan sand! He could hear the sound, almost smell the light nectar of piss. As he came with a smothered scream.

Terry had no plan, just a unarticuated desire to get into that soaking vagina. He visualised it wet with piss and with longing.

The next day, their last one, Fran’s plan went into effective action. She brought extra water along so they would not have to stop. She controlled the pissing. She would consent to stop when he needed, but would always pointedly say she didn’t need to pee. I’ll wait in the car and read the map.

In between stops, she would drop piss into the conversation, talking about how the water they were drinking was pure, and how the body purified it even more, adding taste and aroma, and that it could be held in the bladder, but not for long. The incessant water drinking and water talk was making Terry hot and even more confused.

In mid-afternoon, with only a last short haul to Casablanca, Fran found her spot. It was on a rocky slope above a valley village.

Gee, I’d love a pee! Do you mind if we stop? I’ve really got to go.

She found a spot protected by rocks on a rocky road used presumably by carts. She made Terry stand extra close, because of the nearby village. Just turn your back and don’t look while your Auntie has a moment of untaxed pleasure, if you excuse the expression. With Terry’s back turned, she took off her panties, sweaty now from the driver’s seat, wiped them thoroughly on her pussy, then squatted.

Don’t look. Oh, I can hardly wait, she said. As she made him wait. She adjusted her position then let her piss go. The first gush hit the soft sand on the rocky incline, puffing up a cloud of dust and making the sound almost of a garden hose on cement. Getting the expected gasp from Terry, she checked her flow. She pissed slower, down to drops at times, silently thanking her well-exercised pussy muscles. She sprayed and dribbled. Then directed the flow towards reach his sandaled feet.

As the water reached his sandals and the boy shuddered, Fran said: You can take it out. Take it out and turn around. I want to see it.

Terry, dizzy with potency, was a boy becoming a stallion. He obeyed her, and turned, fumbling at his pants, finally producing — or rather releasing with some difficulty — his thick, red, glistening dick. His hammer, or at least the blood in the hammer was beating. Terry was sure that his heart and dick were making equally loud sounds. He looked at the admission of his lust.

Mrs Jefferies, I’m sorry.

Don’t worry dear, she said slowly. But you have been naughty with that little thing of yours. You’ve been pulling at that when I’ve been peeing, all this trip.

No! I didn’t pull while you were…

Peeing? Pissing? Passing water? Tinkling? She paused. You like that, don’t you Terry? Pull it now, then.

She sprayed her water on his sandaled feet. Almost the last she had. Mrs. Jefferies, no! But now his hand was moving faster on his thick javelin. Oh, Mrs. Jefferies… I’m going to…

Fran commanded him to sit. Sit. Sit on that rock. And show me how hard that thing is.

She approached and stood before him. Legs wide, she dribbled one last long dribble of water on the sand. All that stored up Evian. That transparent, almost scentless, string of liquid diamonds. She put her hand down to collect the last drops. She sucked it all up, then dribbled her piss-spit onto Terry’s rigid, shaking pole. It practically sizzled.

Fran lowered herself onto his quivering penis.

All Terry had time to say was: Mrs. Je….NNNNNGGGGHHHHAAAAAAA!

Her plan covered this. Fran had anticipated the five-second fireworks. As Terry both fought for breath and bayed at the sun and the sky, Fran opened her closed fist, producing the moist panties. A nurse with oxygen, she clamped them firmly over Terry’s nose and mouth, stifling his scream but putting new steel into his burning piston.

Fran felt the boy’s heat and power. His face was frozen into disbelieving ecstasy. She rode him with purpose and pleasure — sheer, lustful, dirty, incestuous, perverted joy. And they came like a train collision, she the freight train, Terry the other locomotive.

The orgasm was the greatest they had known — Terry simply because it was his very first, Fran because…well, because his dick was the hardest she had every ridden. As the orgasm peaked, they cried helplessly, then collapsed, rolling helpless in the sand and dirt.

After the briefest second, when they lay there panting, and she could stroke his hip one tender instant, they picked themselves up. Fran said: Let’s get to the hotel and wash this dust off. We’ll take a shower. She thought for a wicked second:

And you can do my back.