Aunt Max Comes Home Pt. 02

They cruised up a couple of country roads, then hit the main highway, and Billy gunned the motorcycle, accelerating up to nearly a hundred miles per hour in a few seconds before backing down to a more sane speed. It was terrifying and exhilarating. It made her glad to be able to cling tightly to Billy's back, to become comfortable and comforted there, to forget for a second how terrifying and exhilarating it was to simply be so close to him, her breasts crushed against him and her thighs open around him.

And the vibrations between her legs! Maxine suddenly understood why some people found motorcycles sexy. What was that song that her son was always singing? Heavy metal thunder indeed. She had never thought of herself as Born to Be Wild, but... talk about Get your motor runnin'...

After a few miles he pulled off the highway, and headed toward a curving road that hugged the bank of the river. Here they rode at a more leisurely pace, although he would still accelerate through curves and make the bike lean frighteningly to one side, making her press her body into his with greater urgency.

Eventually he slowed down and pulled off the road, and parked the bike at a little clearing with a view down to the bank of the river. He suggested they get off and walk down to the pebbly beach and watch the water for a while. Maxine was ready for the break, and surprised at how wobbly she was on her feet.

He actually had a little towel in the storage compartment under the seat, and carried it down to the bank for her to sit on, which she found pleasingly gallant. Whether he was just being polite or something more, it felt like he was courting her. Which was sweet and a little exciting and a whole lot wrong, because Billy was twenty years old and Maxine was thirty-five, and his mother's baby sister. His aunt.

"So, are you looking forward to the new life?" he asked, referring to her impending relocation, her husband's new job.

"I don't know. I suppose. I keep having to make new friends."

"Well, at any rate, it's gotta be better than here."

"I love coming back here," she protested. "I grew up here. This is home."

"You're so smart, though. You'd be bored here."

"You think I'm smart?" she asked, blushing.

"Yeah. Mom says so. And she shows me your letters, or some of them, sometimes. I've never known anyone who could write like that."

"Hmmm," she said. "Well, I have a lot of time to practice."

"And you read a lot, too," he continued. "And not just Argosy." She chuckled. He was right, of course. But she wondered if he imagined that she read The Sensuous Woman..

"Are you bored here, Billy?"

"Me? Nah. I like it here. But, you know. The kids who go to college... or even join the Army... never come back."

"Well, the important thing is, if you're happy."

She paused, hoping he wouldn't ask if she was happy.

She wondered what else he might wonder about her life. She didn't really have to wonder about his. She knew it backwards and forwards. You graduate from high school, you get a job, you work fifty weeks a year for fifty years, the men hunt and fish on the weekends; you have kids and watch them play Little League and high school football and then you raise your grandkids. It wasn't the life she wanted for herself, but she realized she didn't really know what kind of life she did want. At least Billy seemed to know what he wanted.

She asked him about work, about his brothers and sisters. She avoided asking him about Roxanne. She was curious, but she realized... she didn't want to remind him of her right now.

He started looking for flat rocks within reach, to skip across the water while still sitting beside her. She watched his powerful muscles ripple under his simple cotton shirt, a size too small, like Li'l Abner. Li'l Abner and Elvis had the same hair. And, she realized when he got up to find more rocks, the same impossibly tight rear end.

How did he get to be so damn handsome, she wondered? He sure didn't get it from his father; she had never found George very attractive, even when Peggy was dating him in high school. Of course, Max had always thought Peggy was prettier than she was herself back then, before Peggy had five kids and twenty years of being worn down. And Peggy's daughters were certainly good looking. Maybe good genes ran in her family. Maybe she wasn't the ugly duckling she had always felt like when she was younger. Maybe she had more going for her than just a comfortable life with a good provider who bought her tennis lessons and salon appointments.

She watched him skip rocks and thought about how much she wanted to see more of the body she had been gripping for the past twenty minutes, how much she had been fantasizing about intimate activities with him. The river bank was private for the moment, but certainly not remote enough for any al fresco sexual encounter. A stolen kiss, perhaps; a brief grope of her breast. She would pretend to act shocked, she knew, but she would accept either. But he didn't seem inclined to pursue it, and she found herself vaguely disappointed at that.

But then, finally, he asked her if she would like to see his house. Ah. She gulped and said yes. And fifteen minutes later, they were back in town, parking in the gravel driveway beside a little gothic frame house, with an oil tank beside it and the broken remains of what had once been gingerbread lattice-work around a sagging front porch.

He held the door open for her and she stepped inside. It was hot, even with the windows open -- no air conditioning, of course -- and she could smell a slight mustiness underneath the sharp smell of cleaning solution.

She looked around the room. The walls were badly in need of paint, the furniture was all second-hand and worn; a small TV with rabbit ears sat on a peach crate. But she could see why a young man two years out of high school would be pleased with it. Anyway, she had grown up in houses like this.

"So this is it," he gestured. "Living room, kitchen."

She looked into the kitchen, with its mismatched appliances from the fifties and countertops that were older than that, and could definitely smell the disinfectant. He had cleaned in preparation for her. She liked that.

"Bathroom, if you need it."

"Yes, thank you," she said, and stepped into the tiny room with a pedestal sink and a clawfoot tub; original, she thought, not "retro." And again, recently cleaned. She closed the door and relieved herself, then washed her hands and retrieved a brush from her little handbag and brushed her hair out. And exhaled deeply.

When she came back out, Billy was in the kitchen, with the refrigerator door open.

"Beer?" he asked.

"Sure," she agreed. He took out two bottles and opened them, and came back into the living room as she approached the only other door in the room.

"And what's in here?"

Bill cleared his throat. "Bedroom."

She stood in the doorway, surveying the scene of the potential crime. It was as tired and sad as the rest of the house. A fitting setting for the debauchery that she was ready to experience.

She looked at the bed. Just a double, not a queen, but neatly made, another sign of her nephew's intentions. Or hopes. Ambitions.

It was the bed that she knew Bill surely had recently shared with his girlfriend, this Roxanne, whom she had never met. Young, cute, tiny, strawberry blonde. A keeper. She felt irrationally jealous, and strangely excited to be in competition. Well, she thought, it was only fair. She was about to break her marriage vows. Might as well even the playing field.

She wouldn't, couldn't seduce him. But at this point she wanted to make it as easy as possible for him to make the first move. She stepped into his bedroom.

***

Bill set the beers down on the dresser and stepped behind Maxine, who was looking at herself in the free-standing mirror. It was a gift from his girlfriend, although one she had obviously bought for herself once she started staying here several nights a week.

His aunt was was standing erect and stiff, still not relaxed. Her hands were clasped in front of her thighs, just below the crotch of her sky-blue slacks. Resistant, or compliant? He still couldn't read her.

Their eyes met in the mirror. "You're beautiful, Aunt Max."

She blushed. "Don't... call me that," she whispered.

He placed his hands on her bare upper arms, moved them gently up and down. He understood. It was an acknowledgment that they were past any place that an aunt and nephew should go. But he also always had the same reaction when a woman said, "Don't."

He reached around and undid the top button on her pale blue sleeveless blouse.

"You shouldn't," she murmured.

So he undid another one, revealing the lacy edge of her bra, and the amazing cleavage between her firm breasts, so magnificent on her small frame. She didn't move. He reached a few inches further, his right arm around her now, his fingers slipping inside the cup of the bra. Her breast was so full, soft and warm. He brushed across her nipple, hard and the size of a thimble, which intrigued him. He wanted to see it, to take it into his mouth. He wanted to explore every inch of her, of her forbidden, unattainable thirty-five-year-old body.

He felt her leaning back now against his chest, relaxing, or at least surrendering. He smiled, and undid the last two buttons on her blouse, letting it fall open, revealing the full swell between both breasts. He nudged her forward just enough to ease the blouse over her soft, rounded shoulders and let it fall to the floor between them. Then he reached down and unfastened the button on the hip of her stirrup pants, and began to slowly pull down the zipper.

"Billy..."

"Shhh," he said. It wasn't a no, and at this point he knew it wouldn't matter if it was. In a flash of wicked inspiration, he leaned forward and kissed her neck, right where it met her shoulder. Then he subtly parted his lips and let her feel his teeth close lightly on her flesh. His show of dominance. She moaned, and he felt her knees buckle.

A minute ago he still wasn't sure if his aunt was even going to allow him a glimpse of her breasts, and he would have counted that a victory. Now he knew he was going to be getting a lot more.

He eased the open slacks over the curves of her hips, and then dropped to his knees behind her and lowered them down her lovely thighs, as she wriggled her body to assist him, signaling her acquiescence. She kicked off her flats and he helped her step out of her pants, still behind her. She was nearly naked in his bedroom now, wearing only her matching bra and panties -- only beige, not sultry red or black, but still lacy and pretty, and somehow more intimate and real because of their everyday color. He leaned forward and kissed the small of her back, drawing a gasp from her.

Her panty-clad bottom was in front of him now, round and womanly, the only part of her body, he thought, that belied that she was more than maybe twenty-five. There was a tiny gap in the elastic waistband over the small of her back, where her cheeks stretched the fabric away from the indentation of her spine, and he playfully took that between his teeth, causing her to giggle.

He unbuttoned his own cotton shirt, discarding it behind him, still licking at her lower back, drawing pleasing sighs from her. He placed his hands on her hips and turned her around, and when he straightened up, still on his knees but no longer hunched, he was almost at eye level with her breasts.

He looked up at her and she was smiling down at him, gently. She reached out a hand and stroked the back of his head.

"We can't," she whispered, but he knew that her protestations now were for her own benefit, because she was reaching behind herself to unfasten her bra. It fell forward and she subtly squeezed her breasts together with her upper arms, making a presentation of them for him. They were superb. Not overly round, but so firm, standing out so proudly on her chest, topped with those stunning rose-colored nipples, the nubs larger than the surrounding areola. He sucked one into his mouth, and felt her hands again on the back of his head, drawing him in, inviting him to taste her, to devour her.

They may have remained there for several minutes, luxuriating in the sensation, but now Bill needed to continue to explore, to lay claim. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and drew them down. Her pubic bush was thick and curly, the same rich honey-brown as the hair falling over her shoulders, and he inhaled deeply, taking in the womanly scent, rich and thick from an hour on a vibrating motorcycle seat and especially now from her obvious arousal.

He drew his right hand up the length of her right leg, feeling her calf, the back of her knee, how the flesh on the inside of her thigh changed from firm and toned, to impossibly soft at the very top, where his fingertips came into contact with her soft pubic hair and the crease where her thigh met her bottom. He rotated his hand, palm up, and found the opening between her moist labia and teased it open with his middle finger. She gasped and put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

He wriggled his finger up inside her, inside his aunt's body, into the impossible soft wetness of her most intimate place, the place where he suspected no one but her husband had been in fifteen years. It was his now.

He withdrew his hand and stood up, both to remove his own boots and pants, and to take a step back to admire her in her full lovely nakedness. She stood there for him, her arms loose at her sides now, waiting to be taken.

He stepped toward her again, noting that her eyes had darted down at his erection, arching up hard now against his belly, but then he was embracing her, pressing his cock into her belly beneath her soft breasts, running his hands down her back, cupping her delicious bottom, kissing the top of her head.

"I want to go down on you," he said. It was a statement, not a request.

"You shouldn't," she said. But he knew that was more theater. He picked her up and put her on his bed.

***

And that's how Maxine Reynolds ended up on her back on her nephew's bed, grasping the headboard and writhing through a quick explosive little orgasm on her nephew's tongue, and welcoming his naked body on top of hers afterwards.

He was nuzzling her breasts, sucking on the hard nubs of her nipples, nibbling, verging on biting them. She felt gratified, proud of her body, maybe more than at any time in her life.

I know baby you can't lick it, she heard Elvis crooning. I'll make you give in, every minute, every hour you'll be shaken, by the strength and mighty power of my love.

He was so much taller than her that, even with her thighs wrapped around his torso, she couldn't feel his penis. His cock. But she knew it was down there, bobbing around, rigid, dangerous. With nothing between it and her moist, ready, open pussy.

She realized that she hadn't even touched it, had barely seen it. Only a glimpse, to see that it was hard and smooth and straight. And circumcised. Well, she knew that. Twenty years ago she had changed his diapers. God.

He moved up again, and now she was looking straight up into his dark, smoldering eyes. Yeah, darlin', gonna make it happen. Take your aunt in a love embrace... She was dimly aware that her mind was mixing musical genres, but she wasn't exactly thinking straight right now.

He leaned down to kiss her, and she realized that they hadn't done that yet. She shouldn't kiss him. But then his lips were on hers, full and thick but nonetheless firm, hard, insistent, and she was meeting his with her soft, vulnerable ones, and parting them, and welcoming his probing tongue. God, he could kiss too.

And he was so tall. She still couldn't feel his penis. His cock. His bare cock.

There was no question where this was leading now. She managed to break away from the kiss and breathlessly ask, "Condom?"

"Huh uh." He didn't look as concerned as she thought he might. He hadn't been planning on using one.

She nodded. "It's okay. It'll be okay." She had already mentally checked her calendar. She wondered if she would still be making the same decision if she was at her most fertile time, instead of a week past it.

She still should have put in the diaphragm. Oh well.

And then she felt it, the warm velvety blunt head of his cock, nudging between her labia, parting them as easily as she had parted her lips for his tongue. Neither one of them had to reach down to guide it. He knew what angle to use, she knew how to tilt herself to accept it. They were made for this.

Then it was moving up inside her, soft and spongy at first as his knob squeezed into her, then the shaft, smooth and hot and so, so rigid, moving past the sensitive opening to her vagina, into the place where all she felt was pressure and fabulous fullness.

She heard herself uttering a stifled moan, and then realized that she didn't have to mute herself. So she threw her head back and released a deep and satisfying "UUNNNGGHHHH."

And then Billy was fully inside her, his pelvis flush against hers, the famous Elvis' Pelvis; his full scrotum tickling her bottom, and he held still for a moment.

"You'll have to pull out," she whispered, putting her last token of feigned resistance on the table.

"'kay."

She knew he wouldn't. She didn't want him to. But she had to ask. Now she could just enjoy it.

And there was so much to enjoy. He was pulling back out now, then pushing back in again. His face was too far above hers to continue kissing, so she buried her face in his neck and inhaled his fresh, masculine scent, and luxuriated in the sensations... his arms under hers, one hand tangling into a fist in her long hair; her shoulders under his smooth, hard hairless chest; her thighs embracing his hips; his firm belly slap, slap, slapping against hers.

Time stopped registering to her. There was just rhythm, just pleasure. She had always found intercourse pleasant; it's why she got pregnant when she was just nineteen. But it had always been too brief, the final inevitable flurry of motion leading up to male orgasm. Never like this.

He pushed himself up off of her, sat back on his haunches without disengaging, so they could look at each other in satisfaction and lust. He continued to thrust, and now she felt him moving inside her in a different way, dragging against the inside of her pubic bone. Oh, this was good. But she wanted to feel him on top of her again, and she was glad when he lowered himself, adjusting her legs around him just so, and then settling into another amazing rhythm.

Oh God, she realized. He knew what he was doing. In this position his pelvic bone was hitting her clit on every stroke, his glans massaging her g-spot on every withdrawal. She felt something rising in her that she had never felt before. It's coming closer, the flames are now licking my body. Won't you help me, feel like I'm slipping away. It's hard to breath, and my chest is a-heaving. Lord, have mercy, Burning a hole where I lay.

Oh. Fuck. She was going to Cum. On. His. Cock.

It was the first time in her life she had had an orgasm that didn't come from having her clitoris manipulated, by herself, or her husband's fingers or tongue.

It was glorious. It was spectacular. It was like a summer thunderstorm, building, darkening her world, frightening, menacing; and then it broke, shattering in its power, like hail on a tin roof, long and deafening to her senses. She never wanted it to end.

And when it did, receding the way the storm gives way to a gentle rain afterwards, her body still rocking to his rhythmic thrusts, feeling herself enveloped in his arms and his chest and his lean pistoning torso, she wanted to experience it again.