Aunt Catherine

Steve here:

It all started with a good night's sleep.

I was a rising college senior, As a freshman, I'd gone out for track - cross country - but quickly found that the coach expected his runners to spend time running more than spend time studying, so I dropped that, still ran, but just for myself to clear my head as much as to stay fit. I was all about the future, hoping to claw my way in a year into a decent job, and thrilled to have been just offered an internship with a big corporation over the summer after my junior year..

The only catch had been that I had little money, my family couldn't afford to help, and if I couldn't manage to move cross-country to their headquarters city for the 3-month stint, I'd have to turn down the opportunity. I could manage the trip, but not the rents once there. The intern pay was meager, but the history of their interns being hired was impressive, and their starting salaries were eye-watering.

Enter my Aunt Catherine, my mom's sister-in-law, my savior! Mom shared the good news of the offer with Catherine, and Catherine, without prompting, insisted I stay with her, free, unless I had a better offer. Mom and I gushed our thanks to the point of embarrassment, I'm sure, but it all came together, I finished exams, took a long low cost airline most of the way across the country to her city, and was met at the airport by Aunt Catherine.

It wasn't as if I didn't recognize her when she pulled her car over at the departures curb - she and my mom visited each other occasionally, despite the distance between, and Catherine's daughter Brianna and I had been good friends - first childhood playmates, then just got along well from time to time over the decade since Catherine had moved away. Catherine's husband, mom's brother, George, had died three years ago from the kind of heart attack that high pressure executives are known to get, leaving her comfortably well off but with an aura of sadness, I thought.

Given all that, Catherine waved me over, I tossed my bags in her trunk, and we drove to her home, a small-looking bungalow in an upscale neighborhood, the other homes in the area much bigger. Catherine had downsized when George died, and stayed there when their daughter Brianna went off to school. Into the garage, then into the house, Aunt Catherine finally turned and hugged me welcome. I raved my thanks, which she tossed aside as "just what families do," then showed me to Brianna's room, where I'd stay. It had a nice bed, its own bathroom, and the decoration of a teen, left in place for no reason except there was no reason to change it.

As she'd directed, I showered after the long flight, changed into fresh, and met her back in the kitchen, where she had poured herself a glass of white wine and offered me whatever. I took what she was having - if university teaches us anything, it's to drink everything.

Finally, as we relaxed, I took a good look at my hostess. Being 20 and healthy, I was aware and appreciative of her looks. She was simply dressed, casual jeans and a button-down shirt, nothing enticing, yet her woman's body was unmistakable. Full, not overblown but full, breasts pressed against the shirt, and the jeans gave no illusion that her hips weren't a girl's, but were a woman's, full and enticing, and from what I could tell, womanly firm as well. Jeans forgive a lot, but they reveal just as much. I sort of internally sighed, appreciating the view as she moved around the kitchen fixing snacks, knowing that she was my aunt, therefore absolutely off limits. She's blonde and wore her hair in a ponytail, just a touch of makeup that I could tell - all very natural and casual.

We settled into an easy routine - I'd get up, dress, have a cup of coffee, leave the pot half full and warming as I went to work before Aunt Catherine got up. After work, I'd come back to her house, shower (so I wouldn't have to the next morning), we'd have supper together, I'd do the dishes and clean up - least I could do. She usually read, which meant I fiddled on my laptop or read as well, and sometimes we'd watch some TV together. I figured if she was reading, I needed to keep silent. Either way, after a while, I'd refill and reset the timer on the coffee, then I'd retire, usually leaving her to do whatever. I knew not and had no business knowing. Rinse and repeat.

I had an online conference with my faculty advisor early every Saturday morning. He was a gem, getting up on Saturdays to keep track of his several interns at various companies. We'd all log in, brief him on how our weeks had gone, he'd give any advice, and we'd wrap up within an hour. I had no trouble tuning in, and Aunt Catherine knew my routine.

About a month after moving in, my advisor let us know that the next Saturday he'd be traveling, so we'd skip that week. I wasn't thinking that Aunt Catherine would be interested, and accordingly failed to let her know - no reason to, right?

Whether to save on the cost of pajamas or to make it easier to roll over had long been lost to history, but I happened to always sleep nude. Those p.m. showers, an electric shaver, and a decent thermostat made me ok to go to work or wherever, and I just made it a habit. At school, if I was fortunate enough to have company for the evening, it also simplified things.

On the Saturday in question, the one with no seminar call, I vaguely remember being roused from my sleep by Aunt Catherine, shaking my shoulder gently, saying "Steve, Steve, you've overslept your call - you need to get up."

I roused quickly, first alarmed by her alert, then realizing all pretty simultaneously:

that the call had been canceled,

that she was unaware of it,

that she was looking out for me and kept track of me,

that I had my usual morning wood, fully inflated, and

that, thankfully, the sheet was still covering me!

I quickly rolled to my side to conceal my tent, and told her that the call had been canceled. Looking up, I saw her, obviously agitated - was it blushing? - as she stammered something about being sorry to bother me. She turned and stumbled, recovering her balance, as she practically fled out of the room.

Had she seen the tent my erection was making? Had I, inadvertently or not, offended her, and was that going to be a problem in about a thousand ways? I leaped out of bed. My hard-on dwindled immediately as I pulled on some sweats and a t-shirt, and headed downstairs.

I found her in the kitchen, the coffee pot still full. She was puttering at the counter, putting in some bread for toast, I think.

I babbled something like, "Aunt Catherine, I'm so sorry - that call got canceled yesterday, and I didn't think to tell you. I didn't know you would know, much less care. Thanks so much for looking after me, and if it happens again, I'll be sure to let you know," I had no idea why I was apologizing, but she seemed so upset when she fled my room, and still, that I figured it had to be something I'd done, and done poorly, and certainly didn't want to offend her, intentional or not.

"It's nothing - I shouldn't have felt I needed to check up on your schedule, Steve. No reason to apologize. I'll even let you sleep through in the future - I had no right to come into your room without permission."

"Is that it?!" I exclaimed. "Hey, it's your house, I don't have any room rights, and I appreciate everything you're doing for me. Let's call it a learning opportunity. I'll let you know my schedule better, and you can know I have nothing but appreciation for whatever you might do in your own home!

There was a momentary pause, and then we both grinned our embarrassment and agreement.

The moment passed, I offered, "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Yes, thanks - care for toast?" she replied.

"Give me a couple of minutes," I said, as I registered that my bladder was telling me I was up and it was its turn.

I went back out, hit the bathroom for my usual habituals, and returned to the kitchen. Aunt Catherine still seemed a bit on edge, but had my coffee and toast set out. At her suggestion, we took a tray of it out to the covered porch, set it down aside, took our plates in cushioned chairs facing each other, and breakfasted. I was still puzzled on just what had prompted the situation, but was glad the crisis seemed to have passed.

We sat in silence. I noticed she was wearing a knee-length scoop neck t-shirt kind of thing, likely her night wear. I wasn't used to seeing her until after my work, or at least until after my call or sleeping in on the weekends, by which time she was always fully dressed. We munched on toast and sipped coffee silently, which let me check her out further. Sure enough, those breasts that were concealed at the airport and since, were unfettered by a bra and their curves looked great, as well as a hint of cleavage at the scoop. She seemed not to be self-conscious about it, and I was enjoying seeing the slight sway of them when she'd lift her coffee cup or toast. As I sipped, I saw that the outline of a nipple was suddenly apparent, that hadn't been there before. It was amazing.

I guessed that I was staring, because suddenly, she picked up her coffee and plate, still unfinished, and crossed over to the sink, putting them on the counter, then turned and exited the room, calling back over her shoulder to me, "High time I got going - and decent. I haven't even washed my face!"

Hi, I'm Catherine, and I'll be interjecting my own views from time to time here:

Steve's view of things is interesting to me, since I was certainly involved. I think you readers might appreciate just what was going on from the female perspective, so I'll intersperse his story-telling with my recollections.

As Steve said, I got a call from his mom, my sister-in-law, several months ago, telling me about his internship opportunity. I offered, didn't even let her get to asking, to have him stay with me. Since George passed on, I've been leaning toward the hermit side of things. I have my book club and Tai Chi classes, which I tell myself is sufficient social contact. I'm a reader as well, and in good health, so I stay fit. George left me financially comfortable (and debt-free), so I travel a bit, but for the most part am a quiet homebody. Having a nephew around would be a pleasant change, if he weren't the partying type, which I knew he wasn't from other discussions with his mom. I might even get that fence gate fixed and the gardening done! All told, I was happy to offer, and Steve did not disappoint.

Like he said, we settled into a routine that was fine, until that day when I thought, incorrectly, that he'd be late for class if I didn't wake him. I went down the hall to his room (erstwhile my grown daughter's, but she wasn't fru-fru, so it was fine with him, so he said). I stopped at the door and listened to hear if the shower was going or if there were other sounds that would indicate he was up.

Nothing heard, it didn't occur to me at the time to just bang on the door and yell at him through it. I silently opened it, expecting to tiptoe over, nudge his shoulder and say softly, "Steve, you're late for that morning call - you need to get up and tune in, even if it's late," or something similar.

Instead, I was greeted with the view of my nephew, sprawled spread-eagle on the bed, the covers kicked off onto the floor, and him with not a stitch on! I started to back out, but one detail caught my eye, immediately. He had an erection - "morning wood," my George used to call it. It had been years since I'd seen an erection, but I've seen a few in my time, and Steve's was a beaut!

He was straight as an arrow - no curve at all, the head was nicely bell-shaped, the shaft nicely proportioned to the length, and the length was impressive, which meant it was thick as well as long. I quickly estimated a good 7", maybe more - the view from the door wasn't the best, but was quite enough for the moment.

My George was an average 5, maybe and a half, inches, no more, and while we had a nice sex life, having a "nice sex life" isn't exactly the earth-shattering kind that you read about. It was a fine life, and I still miss my love, don't get me wrong - but I didn't miss him for the passion, much more like for the companionship and mutual team approach to things.

Back to the bedroom, I stood for a moment, just taking in that magnificent specimen attached to my nephew in his innocent sleep. Still thinking he was late for his call, I tiptoed over, and took a long gaze at that appendage. It wasn't lying flat on his stomach, but was elevated a couple of inches, confirming that it was hard, not merely really long and really thick.

I wondered how much it changed from soft to this glorious state, then I sort of snapped out of it, gently pulled the sheet up, and laid it over him. There was no way to disguise the tent his erection made in the sheet, but he was late and I needed to help him out. I touched his shoulder and told him to wake up. He did, slowly at first, his bleary eyes opening, then quickly he rolled to his side, almost startling me, but managing to hide the evidence of his erection. We quickly cleared up the confusion, and I left him, heading downstairs to the safety of my kitchen. -

During all that, my mind was racing, reflecting the growing conflict between helping my nephew and gazing at the first hard penis I'd seen in years. Outside of pornography, that is. As a single female of the heterosexual persuasion, I admit I've indulged from time to time, knowing that whatever you see in that industry's output is outrageously out of the ordinary. Steve wasn't as large as some I'd seen, but I'd found that the really big ones were usually expoitative in some way, and that I got more excited when I saw an above-average one than when I saw a huge one. Steve was above average plus, thankfully not huge. When he did come around, I realized that he might have realized what I'd seen, sheet or not. I was embarrassed, not knowing how to handle it, so I fled.

By the time I'd gotten him his coffee and we'd moved outside and were seated on the patio, it finally dawned on me that I was wearing my usual nightshirt, which was just an old long mid-thigh cotton thing that was thin from years of laundry - and that I hadn't put on a bra that morning, expecting not to be involved in any of that episode.

When the thought occurred to me, we were sitting together, and I looked up to see that Steve was pretty much staring at my breasts, which in the thinking still of the nude viewing and subsequent self-realization of my attire, had hardened my nipples. I was "pointing" through the nightdress, and he was watching me do it!

I froze, figuring out my next step, and in the process of looking downward to avoid his gaze, I saw that there was a tent formed in his sweat pants - was he getting turned on by my nipples? It had been so long since any man had been turned on by me, much less by as little as an indentation in cloth, I was flattered and realizing I was getting turned on, and had no good options. My nipples probably betrayed me even more at that point, since they are indeed sensitive to that sort of thing. I practically jumped out of the chair, mumbled something about something, and ran away to my bedroom, leaving Steve, the unfinished breakfast dishes and all, sitting there, all speechless.

Steve again:

Again, I wondered if I'd offended her by leering, or if her exit had nothing to do with that. I did notice that with the loose sweat pants, my erection had started to return, spurred on by the lovely sight of that t-shirt night shirt thing.

I took my time finishing in her absence, checked email and such, but was drawn back to the image of those breasts, and feeling the good feeling of my getting harder. Since I was alone, I dropped a hand to my crotch, rearranged my package for more freedom, and gave a few squeezes just because it felt good. My dick appreciated it, and surged accordingly.

Ah well, time to move along, I thought, so took the various dishes in to the kitchen, rinsed them and put them in the drain rack. I didn't know if she was going to come back and finish her own, so I left them alone.

I was still sort of half-hard, just that feeling nice swell kind of thing, when I turned to go back and get dressed for the day.

Aunt Catherine was just entering the kitchen then, dressed in another shirt and jeans, her hair pinned up in back, her breasts re-bound in whatever was under there resisting any movement.

"I'm free for the day," I said, not registering my disappointment that she'd changed. "Is there anything I can do for you around the house, or something you need at the store or something?"

"Ah, no... " she answered, and her hesitation prompted me to see that it seemed to be her turn to stare, and she was staring at my crotch, as unfettered as her breasts had been before. I knew without looking that I'd be tenting out the loose pants just slightly, but just enough to show something of what I had to offer. That she was looking was a thrill, and my cock gave a bit of a surge in reply, which she couldn't have missed. As far as I knew, Aunt Catherine hadn't been seeing anyone since her husband George's death, but for all I knew that was false. On the other hand, if she'd been celibate that long, she had to be either beyond sexual feelings or very much in a frustrated state.

We ended up chatting and finding that there was a movie that we both wanted to see that had just opened, so we spent the afternoon together at the cinema, sharing popcorn, followed by grabbing a burger and discussing the flick. She'd like it more than I did, but it was ok, and our chatting drifted from that movie to movie favorites and on into wholly unrelated areas. It was a fine time, and we got to know each other better, as well as got to feel more relaxed, now as friends, not as aunt-nephew.

When we got back to her house, we had some wine and continued our chatting, then had some more and continued to continue. I relayed my intent on not having a serious relationship at college since I needed to focus on studies and future employment and figured I had plenty of time for that. I was hardly a virgin, but I was a dedicated field player.

Catherine - she had insisted I drop the "Aunt" part, that it made her feel old - shared that she hadn't dated at all since George had died, and that while she was over the mourning part and was just happy they'd had good years, and Brianna, together, she'd just not gone back "into the pool," as she phrased it. She was left not needing to work, but she did, part time, at the town library, both because she loved books and reading, and because it gave her some purpose, she said. I thought that a bit sad, but knew that 99% of the world's widowed women would have been happy in her place, so why not? A bottle of wine finished, on top of beers with the burgers, had me fairly buzzed. She didn't seem to show the effects, but maybe that comes with age and practice, I figured.

I went to bed early that night, and slept soundly, as I usually do. When I woke up, I realized that I'd kicked off the covers and was naked as well as erect, not an unusual condition for me in the morning. I was lying there, casually stroking my hard-on, not planning on masturbating, but not urgently needing to get to the bathroom either, just basking a bit, when I glanced over and saw that the door to the room was open, just an inch or two. Had I neglected to close it? I usually didn't leave it open, but I might have, and considering I remembered being somewhat under the influence last night, I chalked it up to the fog of alcohol.

I also realized I was lying there stroking my hard dick and quickly leapt out of bed, closed the door, got on some clothes, and proceeded to the bathroom, for the usual routine.

and Catherine again:

The next day, Steve and I took in a movie together and after that, over wine, got to know each other and relax a bit. He really was a nice boy, and I was happy to have him as a guest. The morning after the movie, I took the opportunity to wake him, and again. I had no excuse like the day before with the misunderstood call, but just felt drawn to do it (carefully quiet this time). I cracked open the door, glad to see he was asleep, and this time without the erection. He was similarly sprawled on his back, sheets on the floor as before, and his penis was just lying, as if sleeping as well, I thought. It was attractive in that state as well, much bigger than Michelangelo had crafted onto his David - thicker and probably 3 or 4 inches long. He was clean shaven down there, in fact, pretty hairless all over, his slim runner's physique making him look statuesque to me.