A Mother and Aunt Story Ch. 01

This two-part story concerns the sexual relationship between Oliver, a thirty-year-old bachelor, his mother, Christine and, in Chapter 2, his Aunt Laura, Christine's older sister.

My apologies if you are offended by anal sex as this story contains quite a lot of it.

Comments welcome as always and please be assured that I do take readers' views into consideration in future stories, where appropriate.

Sylviafan

Part 1 - Seduced by my Mother (Willingly)

I wonder sometimes if there's a gene associated with incest, some inherited characteristic that not only attracts you physically to members of your family but does so with sufficient strength that you will do something about it if the occasion arises.

For me, the occasion arose twice; once when I was eighteen, and I didn't do anything about it, and again when I was thirty, and that time I did. This is the story of what happened when I took the second opportunity. I've included a bit of history too, for completeness.

I'd better start by introducing myself. I'm Oliver and I'm a thirty-year-old junior lecturer in applied agronomics at the college of further education in a market town in southern England. Agronomics is the science of soil management and crop production and most of my students are associated with the farming industry. I own (well, pay a mortgage on) a small property near the college, though it's big enough that I can rent a bedroom to a paying lodger. This enables me to pay my mortgage and eat too, which is good. The downside is that it cramps your style a bit when it comes to inviting girlfriends back to your house; my lodger's a nice guy but he's always in. Maybe that's why I don't seem to be able to date a girl long enough to build a proper relationship. Or maybe there are other reasons, like that incest gene. Maybe subconsciously I don't want anybody who's not closely related to me. Interesting thought.

Because after all, I'm a personable enough sort of guy. I've got lots of friends and I'm not bad looking, if you don't look too closely. In fact facially I look a lot like my mum, you couldn't fail to see a family connection, but we'll get to a description of her in due course. Body wise I'm a bit above average height and I'm lean and physically fit from hours in the gym and summer breaks spent working on farms to supplement my pittance of a lecturing salary.

Because my lodger always seems to be around, especially in the evenings and at weekends, I spend quite a bit of time at my mother's house, especially at weekends. She lives on the other side of town, on the outskirts, where the housing developments give way to farmland. She lives in a decent sized detached, four-bedroom house, the same one that I grew up in, and I still maintain a bedroom there, which I use quite a lot. For one thing, mum's a great cook so I tend to turn up on a Sunday morning and stay for lunch and sometimes dinner too and often we'll watch a film together in the evening. Mum's glad of the company; I don't have any siblings and she and dad divorced years ago. She's dated guys occasionally but there hasn't been anything serious. The only other person she sees regularly, outside work, is her older sister, Laura. Aunt Laura lives in the next town, about five miles away.

My mum's called Christine, by the way. She's a physiotherapist and she's just turned fifty-six. She's got a nice figure for her age, as I suppose you'd expect from someone whose career is all about the human body, though she's a bit heavier than she was when I was a kid; heavier hips and a bigger arse. She's tall, about five feet nine inches, and curvy, rather than slender. She's got long, straight dark hair, which she dyes to hide the grey, and lovely high cheekbones and hazel eyes, but her face is a bit too heavy-jawed to be considered attractive. Her best feature, I think, is her mouth, which is wide and full-lipped and she's got a really sexy smile. In fact although she's not particularly pretty, I think she's sexually attractive, in a slightly sluttish way. And I know that probably sounds like a horrible description of your own mother but I'm trying to be as objective as I can. She wears a lot of make-up and paints her nails and dresses a bit young for her age in short skirts and tight tops that show off her tits, which are quite big.

And if you think I've included a sexual interpretation of her appearance then you're dead right, because ever since that first occasion, where I didn't do anything, I've always seen my mother in a sexual light. Always been attracted to her, I suppose, although I never did anything about it except think about her and Aunt Laura when I masturbated. That incest gene again, I guess.

It happened when I was eighteen and still living at home, waiting for the summer break to finish to start university. Dad had been gone a year or so by then and, being the only other occupant of the house, I'd got the second biggest bedroom and I'd got a desk in there and my computer and I spent a lot of time up there in my teens, playing computer games and, later, looking at porn and wanking myself stupid.

Ever since dad had gone Aunt Laura had come round once or twice a week to give mum company and support. That was fine by me because I was absolutely smitten by Aunt Laura, although she was a couple of years older than mum. She has a superb figure and long, jet-black hair and her face is slimmer than mum's, a bit gaunt in fact, and she has a sort of sexy presence and when she smiled at me I blushed and melted inside. In retrospect I wonder if she knew the effect she had on me.

So when I looked out of my bedroom window and saw her car pull into the drive I decided to finish my game of dungeons and dragons and go down and say hello. In the event, it was about twenty minutes before I left my bedroom and padded downstairs in my socks.

I should explain that mum's house has a big, open-plan kitchen-diner and when you get halfway down the stairs you can see right across the kitchen and into the dining area and that was where I saw mum and Aunt Laura, in the fiercest, most passionate embrace I'd ever seen outside of a television or computer screen. Aunt Laura's arms were round mum's waist and mum's hands were holding her sister's face and they were working their mouths against each other, their eyes closed, heads turning and weaving, oblivious to their surroundings.

I froze, for about ten seconds, eyes fixed on the spectacle of my mother and my aunt kissing. Then I turned and scooted back upstairs and into my bedroom where I stood staring sightlessly out of the window, my mind numb.

After a while I calmed down and started to process what I'd seen and shortly after that I developed a monster erection and had to masturbate before I could trust myself to go downstairs and say hello. When I did, mum and Aunt Laura were sitting drinking coffee in the conservatory as though nothing had happened, although I couldn't help noticing that mum's lipstick was smudged.

That incident marked a new stage in my sexual development. I became obsessed with my mother and aunt and I masturbated endlessly to mental visions of them making love. I visualised mum's face buried in her sister's hairy crotch; I imagined Aunt Angela licking mum's nipples and, best of all, I imagined myself joining in, having my cock sucked by my mum, penetrating Aunt Angela while she licked mum's cunt. I let my imagination run riot, wanking three or four times a day.

I did consider confronting my mother with what I'd seen. My plan wasn't clear but I thought perhaps I could persuade her that if incest with her sister was ok then it was also ok with her son. But I never mustered the courage; for one thing, I didn't know if kissing was all they did, and did that count as incest or just a bit of sisterly affection? After the summer break I went off to university and had girlfriends and the years went by and the memories of my mother and aunt didn't exactly fade, but they were pushed increasingly into the background. Until just recently, that is.

Looking back with hindsight, I see, or I believe that I can see, a change in my mother in the weeks and months before the second incident. I don't think I was aware of it at the time but she seemed to change, subtly, in the way she spoke to me and behaved around me. She dressed up for me when I came round for Sunday lunch. A skirt and blouse instead of jeans and a top. She started wearing perfume, a light, floral scent that I could smell afterwards on my clothes, after she had hugged me when I arrived and kissed my cheek when I left. She started encouraging me to stay longer, to stay over and watch a film with her. And she started confiding in me about her feelings and emotions; the fact that she was sometimes lonely and that she worried she would never meet the right man. Not that I was aware that she was even searching for the right man; she seemed to lead a particularly insular existence outside her work, only seeing me and her sister.

On the fateful day, a warm Sunday in late spring, I arrived at her house at eleven-thirty, with a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. I didn't usually buy her flowers or bring her wine. Perhaps something of her changing behaviour was subconsciously rubbing off on me.

She was delighted and gave me a big hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Her breasts squashed against me and I smelled the scent of her perfume and felt the faint stickiness of her lipstick. She was dressed in a black, woollen cocktail dress, with black pantyhose. I thought at the time that it was a bit formal for Sunday lunch but I didn't say anything. She was heavily made-up, too, with lots of eyeliner and eyeshadow and glossy red lipstick, making her mouth seem wider and fuller than ever. Her nails were painted a bright scarlet.

We had lunch and chatted for an hour afterwards and then I went out and mowed her front and back lawns. She was quite capable of doing it herself but it gave me a nice warm feeling when I did it for her. Afterwards I did a couple of hours digging and weeding so I was tired and sweaty when I went back indoors and found mum sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a glass of white wine.

'Sorry, love,' she said, 'I just fancied a glass. Why don't you go and have a shower and join me?'

I came down half an hour later in a fresh polo shirt (I kept spare clothes in my old bedroom) and mum poured me a glass and came over and hugged me again, putting her head on my shoulder. 'Thank you for all your hard work, Oliver,' she whispered in my ear, and I caught the tang of her wine-flavoured breath. 'I don't know what I'd do without you and Laura.' She made no move to disengage. I could feel the warmth of her body and her breasts pressed against me and my cock started to twitch so I gently removed her arms from around me and kissed her on the cheek. 'You're welcome, Mum.'

We sat at the kitchen table again and had another glass of wine and then I helped mum to prepare dinner, which we ate at the rosewood dining table in the big kitchen-diner. Over the meal, which we ate with a glass of red wine, she told me that she'd found a good film for us to watch in the evening.

'The Grifters,' she told me, 'with Anjelica Huston.'

After dinner, and after I'd helped mum clear up, we settled down in the lounge, with the last of the red wine, on the big settee that faces the sixty-five-inch flat-screen TV. Mum slipped off her high heels and curled her hose-clad legs underneath her. I lay back in the cushions, glass in hand, relaxed and looking forward to the film.

I'd never seen The Grifters before. In case you haven't, I'll tell you a bit about it without, hopefully, spoiling it for you. It's about Roy Dillon, played by John Cusack, whose life as a small-time con-artist is disrupted by the appearance of his estranged mother, Lilly, played by Anjelica Huston. Lilly takes an instant dislike to Roy's girlfriend, played by Annette Bening, and they get into a battle for Roy's affections.

There is a hint of incest running through the relationship between Roy and his mother, which surfaces in the final scene. Lilly is desperate to disappear, she has some seriously bad people looking for her, but she needs Roy's money, which he refuses to give her. She uses all her wiles to try to persuade him and, at one point, offers to sleep with him, suggesting that he is not really her son. Roy is disgusted and rejects her.

The ending is powerful, and unexpected and as the credits rolled mum picked up the remote control and muted the sound. It was now after nine and the room was gloomy.

'What did you think?' she asked, softly.

'It was good,' I replied. 'A strong cast and a believable storyline.'

'Mmm,' mused my mum, looking at me. 'I'm not sure how believable that last scene was. Roy's mother offering to sleep with him for money.'

I was suddenly alert. My mother had chosen to comment on the scene alluding to mother/son incest. I won't say it all fell into place then but I began to get a distinct feeling for where my mother was coming from with all the dressing up and make-up and the hugs and kisses. And as a result I started to get very nervous and very excited. Nervous, because if I was reading it wrong the consequences could be very unpleasant indeed, and excited because there was this second opportunity and I hadn't taken the first, but now I was older and more confident and I still desired my mother even in her mid-fifties.

'She was desperate,' I said, carefully. There was silence for a few seconds. My mother was still looking at me.

'What would you have done, Oliver?' she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I thought for a few moments, my head spinning, feeling that what I said now could be a tipping point.

'Well I think I'd have found it hard to turn down Anjelica Huston,' I said, at last, looking at the silent television screen.

'What about me, Oliver,' she murmured, barely audibly, 'would you turn me down?'

I turned to my mother, my guts churning. 'No,' I said softy, 'I wouldn't turn you down if you asked me to sleep with you.'

We looked at each other for long moments in the fading light of that spring evening. Eventually my mother stood up and reached a hand out to me. I got up and we stood, facing each other, a foot apart, still holding hands.

'Is this what you want, Mum?' I asked.

'Yes,' she whispered, drawing me to her. 'This is what I want.'

We came together and she tilted her face up to mine, her eyes closed, her lips parted. I leaned down slowly and touched my lips to hers, feeling their warmth and softness and smelling wine and perfume and the faint odour of perspiration.

Mum gave a little moan and pressed her lips to mine and I felt her tongue slip into my mouth and there was a roaring in my ears and my heart thumped and the blood rushed to my face because this wasn't a young man's unrequited infatuation with his mother anymore. This was the real thing. This was incest; illegal and taboo and so exciting I felt breathless and dizzy.

I let go of mum's hand and put one arm around her waist and a hand on the back of her head, pulling her body against mine, pressing her face to mine. She moaned into my mouth and sucked and nibbled my lower lip. A memory of her and her sister kissing flashed through my mind and I became very hot and very hard and I gave a little thrust of my loins, rubbing my erection up against her. Mum rubbed back, kissing me ever harder and I felt her tongue rasp over mine and I tasted her spit and smelled her scent and the blood thundered in my ears.

It was nearly dark by the time we broke for air, my lips were tingling with the fierceness of the kissing and I held her tight and looked down at the face and she looked up at mine.

'Let's go to bed, Oliver,' she whispered.

As if in a dream I followed her out of the lounge and up the stairs and into her bedroom, the big one at the front of the house that she had shared with my father. In the darkness of the room we kissed again and I reached for her fleshy buttocks and ground my erection into her crotch and she rolled her hips to rub herself against me and I nearly swooned with desire.

'Unzip me, Oliver,' she murmured and I found her zip and pulled it down to the small of her back. We broke the kiss and she shrugged herself out of her dress, letting it fall to the bedroom carpet where she stepped out of it and I saw, in the faint orange glow from the streetlights in the road outside, that she was wearing stockings and a suspender belt.

I took her in my arms again and kissed her fiercely, almost savagely. 'God you look good,' I told her, feeling her silky nylon panties with my hands.

Mum laughed softly. 'Well, it is dark.'

She didn't resist as I unclipped her bra, letting her breasts swing free. She didn't resist as I cupped the fleshy, grapefruit-sized orbs and squeezed and massaged them and took her big, thimble-shaped nipples between finger and thumb and squeezed them gently.

'Is that nice, Mum,' I asked, relishing the use of her maternal title.

'Yes,' she breathed. 'Do you like my breasts, Oliver?'

'Mmm,' I replied, leaning down and taking one of her nipples into my mouth and sucking and licking the juicy teat. Mum held my head in her hands as I suckled her, before transferring my mouth to her other breast. Straightening up, we kissed again, urgently and hard, lips mashed against lips, mouths open. Mum pulled my polo shirt out of my waistband and we broke the kiss to allow me to pull it over my head and cast it to the floor. Then she was at my belt buckle, unfastening it, unzipping my fly, pulling my jeans down to my ankles. I steadied myself with a hand on her bare shoulder as she pulled the legs of my trousers down over my feet, peeling my socks off and leaving me in just my boxer shorts, tented out with my erection which was so hard it was almost painful.

Still kneeling my mother grasped my cock through the material of my boxers and smiled up at me, her teeth visible in the gloom. 'Does Oliver want his Mummy?' she whispered, squeezing my shaft. 'I think he does. And Mummy wants this very much.' My stomach contracted as she said the word "Mummy" and I thought of Anjelica Huston and the film. My mother had planned it all, I realised, the meal, the wine, the film and the invitation. She wasn't stepping hesitantly into an incestuous coupling, she was relishing the forbidden act, embracing the ultimate taboo. She didn't just want a man in her bed, she wanted her son.

She got up and crawled languorously onto the bed as I stared mesmerised at her panty-clad buttocks and her stockings and suspenders. She reached the middle of the bed and rolled over onto her back, her breasts falling each side of her sternum, her arms stretched out towards me.

'Come and join me, Oliver darling.' I hesitated for a second before pulling my shorts off and climbing on beside her.

'Mmm,' she cooed, reaching out her hand and circling the veined shaft of my cock. 'that's a nice size.'

When fully erect my penis is nearly seven and a half inches from base to tip and the head is big and the shaft is thick. I've always been rather proud of it and it has bolstered my confidence in physical relationships, until anal sex is mentioned, that is.

Now I lay, frozen with arousal as my mother's red-tipped fingers stroked me lightly, her nails grazing my skin and making me shiver. Sticky fluid was leaking from my cockhead and mum was using a fingertip to smear it around my engorged glans and I was breathing in short, shallow gasps and my pulse was beating in my brain.

'Don't you want to kiss Mummy?' she breathed. 'And explore me.'

I gulped and bent my head to hers and our lips met and mum opened her mouth and I opened mine and she worked her lips and used her tongue and I thought it was the most intimate kiss I'd ever had, as though my mother knew exactly what I wanted, what turned me on.