My Mother's Older Sister

I felt like I was floating on a cloud, corny as it may sound. What I was doing to Aunt Doreen was dirty enough. But what she was doing to me, my mother's own sister, was filthy beyond my wildest imaginings. Well, that was how it seemed at the time, back when teenage boys couldn't gain visual access to pretty much the whole gamut of sexual activity at the mere click of a mouse.

"Not hurting, am I?" Aunt Doreen wanted to know.

I shook my head.

"Aaaagh!" she gasped, withdrawing her finger and twisting furiously under me, sending me lurching off to one side, where my head collided with something sharp and brought something

"Sorry, lovey - think I must've pulled a muscle or something." Aunt Doreen stroked my temple, where I'd bumped myself. "Got a bit of a whack, there, didn't you? My fault. Sorry 'bout that." She fumbled around on the bed and her hand reappeared clutching my Captain Crazy Megapistol. "What's this we got here, then?"

For my tenth birthday - or was it the Christmas of that year? I forget - I had asked for that niftiest of gadgets, a Dr Who Sonic Screwdriver, and was crestfallen to receive, instead, this bulbous little water pistol moulded from sickly green semi-translucent plastic. Made in Hong Kong, and stapled into in a cellophane bag with a cheap cardboard label sporting a poorly-rendered astronaut character - presumably Captain Crazy - the weapon had turned out to be far inferior to a humble Fairy Liquid bottle when it came to squirting water. But I had always been a sentimental little soul, loath to dispose of anyting bought as a present, and the gaudy futuristic sidearm had remained, unloved and unplayed-with, on the bookshelf beside my bed for the best part of a decade.

Of course, I didn't bother explaining any of this to Aunt Doreen. I simply responded with a tight, preoccupied smile, impatient for her to reinsert her finger.

Aunt Doreen held up the Captain Crazy Megapistol, subjecting it to thoughtful scrutiny, and all of a sudden her tiny eyes crinkled up. Opening her mouth, she inserted the weapon's rounded muzzle, licking at it, sucking on it, working it in and out as though in imitation of my own thrusts, which had by now ground more or less to a standstill. When she took the toy out, it was shiny, dripping with her saliva, and decidedly obscene looking.

"Going to open up for me, love?"

I did as requested, even going so far as to grab my buttocks and spread my bum cheeks to the point where I felt ready to tear. I felt the muzzle of the Captain Crazy Megapistol nudge against my opening, and I offered all I could by way of assistance as Aunt Doreen eased it into me. At the same time, my penis sprang back into action as if by magic, and two more vigorous thrusts was all it took to do the trick. As though to demonstrate her gratitude - and, no doubt, to mark her relief at the conclusion of what had become something of an uncomfortable ordeal for her - Aunt Doreen sought out my lips and kissed me several times.

I wondered what my mother would say were she to come in at this moment and find me sprawled half-naked atop her sister, my penis in the process of slipping, shrivelled and spent, from Aunt Doreen's "front passage", to use my mum's favoured term for it, my aunt's right breast bared, half squashed beneath me, and my Captain Crazy Megapistol protruding from my rear end.

Aunt Doreen died in 1983.