Footlong Pt. 03

Footlong (Part 3)

Kathryn M. Burke

"You know, Samantha, that your Aunt Clara is coming by tomorrow."

Samantha slapped her forehead. "Omigod, I totally forgot!" She gazed plangently at her mother. "Mom, what are we going to do?"

"What do you mean, dear?"

"Oh, come on, Mom! Aunt Clara is—well, the word 'prude' wouldn't even begin to cover it."

"You exaggerate, dear."

"I don't think so. I'm half inclined to think she's a virgin!"

"She's not a virgin." Florence's voice was tight.

"Have you ever seen her with a man?"

"N-no."

"And I don't suppose she's a lesbian."

"No, she's not a lesbian. No problem if she was, but I'm quite sure she isn't."

"So I repeat: what we are going to do? I mean, about Julius."

"Don't worry, dear, we'll manage."

Clara was Florence's sister, two years her elder. Ever since Samantha had known her, Clara had come across as some kind of gorgon, disapproving of just about anything that by the wildest stretch of the imagination could have been called sexual: women's clothes (tank tops, miniskirts, low-cut blouses, even tight-fitting jeans—and don't even mention lingerie), cosmetics, bad language (even "damn" and "hell" were verboten in her presence), and on and on. On those rare occasions when Samantha had brought a boyfriend over to the house when Clara was there, the poor boy was made to feel as if he were a mix between Charles Manson and a Playgirl model.

So there was a real concern as to how Clara would respond to Julius's presence, especially as Clara was planning to spend a full week at the house. She wouldn't give a damn (oops!) that Julius was black; but the fact that he was occupying Samantha's bedroom would surely elicit a towering condemnation of her niece's utter spiritual degradation. And if Clara ever found that he occasionally occupied her sister's bedroom—oh, man, would there be fireworks!

For all Florence's apparent lack of concern, it was clear she too was apprehensive of what Clara would do or say. Florence had felt the need, in a phone call just before Clara arrived, to clue her sister in—quickly and hesitantly—on Julius's presence, and the frigid silence that had met Florence upon the delivery of this news was not encouraging.

So when Clara finally arrived one morning, both Florence and Samantha received her as if their executioner had come to the house. They both knew that Clara wasn't big on demonstrations of emotion, so they each gave her a tiny little peck on the cheek after she'd entered and doffed her coat.

Julius, poor man, hadn't been warned at all of the potentially hostile reception he might get. Thinking well of everyone as he customarily did, he sauntered out of the kitchen—where he had been finishing a big breakfast he'd prepared for himself and the two women—to greet this new female. As he caught sight of her, he extended a hand and said, "Hello, ma'am, I'm Julius."

And that's when something strange happened.

Clara, rising up to her full stature (she was a robust five foot ten, although quite slender), suddenly seemed to stumble as Julius approached her. In fact, her knees buckled, and she would have fallen to the floor if the ever-resourceful Julius hadn't leaped forward and caught her by the waist, holding her upright by drawing her close to himself.

Samantha clapped a hand to her mouth as she saw the spectacle. Omigod! Aunt Clara is going to chew his face off at this unwelcome intimacy, even if it was meant to save her from injury.

But Clara did nothing of the sort. Instead, after her initial surprise she snaked her arms around Julius's neck and clung to him even more tightly than he was holding her. Samantha could see Julius's puzzled expression as he clutched his girlfriend's aunt—and both of them were even more astonished when they caught Clara giving Julius little kisses on his neck that she somehow hoped wouldn't be noticed by anyone.

After more than a minute, Clara reluctantly pried herself out of Julius's grasp.

"I'm so sorry, Julius," she said in a subdued and almost submissive tone, "I must have tripped over my feet. Thank you for coming to my aid."

"My pleasure, ma'am," he said, a bit dazed. "Didn't want you to hurt yourself."

Everyone tried to pretend that this little incident had never happened, but over the next few days it became clear that Clara was—at least as far as this impressive young man was concerned—a changed woman.

Even more than Florence before she'd welcomed Julius to her bed, Clara now began fawning all over him in every possible way. As a forty-seven-year-old woman with apparently little experience in romance, her actions were occasionally awkward and even embarrassing, but to Samantha, at least, the overall message Clara was sending was unmistakable.

My God, I think my aunt wants to go to bed with my boyfriend.

It is difficult to convey the cognitive dissonance that this thought—which Florence had come to also—was causing. One afternoon when they were alone, mother and daughter tentatively worked their way around to the subject.

"So . . . what is it with Aunt Clara?" Samantha said.

"I wish I could tell you," Florence replied. "I've never seen her this way—almost never."

"You really don't think . . .?"

"Think what?"

Samantha shook her head, saying largely to herself, "No, it's impossible."

Florence knew what her daughter was thinking. "I don't know that it is."

"Mom, you can't possibly believe that after all this time—"

"What do you mean, 'all this time'?"

"You know what I mean! I'm still not sure she's ever had a man—but I can't imagine she's had one for, what? twenty years or more."

"How could you possibly know that, dear?"

"Okay, I've obviously not lived with her. But the way she's always behaved—"

"There may be a reason for that."

"What reason?"

"I don't think I should say."

Samantha glared at her mother. "Mom, what do you know that you're not telling me?"

"I don't know anything. I have my suspicions, that's all."

"Suspicions that she's gone to bed with a man—or more than one?" Samantha laughed incredulously. "I literally can't even conceive of such a thing."

"People are always surprising you, dear. Don't think you know them, or know everything about them."

"Fine, I get that. But what are we going to do about this?"

"About what?"

"You know what! The way she's cuddling up to Julius. God, did you see her yesterday? How she came up behind him as he was sitting at the dining table, and just took his head in her hands and pressed it against her chest? What a display! The funny thing was that she showed she had quite a nice rack. I wouldn't have thought—"

"Samantha, you shouldn't speak of your aunt that way. It's disrespectful."

"Okay, sorry. But now that I'm thinking of her 'that way,' I have to admit that she actually has a nice body. She even has a pretty face if she'd just use some lipstick and eye shadow."

"You'll never get her to do that."

"Anyway, the point is that we need to do something."

"What, exactly?"

"I don't know! Maybe"—Samantha chuckled obscenely—"we should just let her go to bed with him!"

"Samantha! The idea!"

"Well, it's what she wants! That much is obvious."

Florence suddenly was lost in thought. Samantha waited for her mother to say something, and was about to prod her when Florence whispered:

"I guess I could ask her."

Samantha thought she would faint. "Are you serious?"

"Well, why not? She's only going to be here a few more days. Let's just get it out into the open."

"And I suppose I could ask Julius." She shook her head. "Jesus, what sort of harem do we have here?"

"Samantha! That's pretty offensive."

"Well, isn't that exactly what's going on?"

Florence suddenly giggled. "Maybe it is." She put a hand over her mouth. "Okay, that's it. I'll ask her. All she can do is say I'm a piece of filth and never speak to me again."

"I'm sure she wouldn't do that."

"No, I don't think she would."

Later that day Florence had it out with her sister.

"Clara," she said, "can I talk to you about something?"

"Certainly, Florence."

When they sat down on the sofa in the living room, Florence already noticed something odd. First of all, Clara wasn't her usual severe, intimidating self. There was an unusual glow in her cheeks and a strange light in her eyes—a sense of excited anticipation that her sister had never seen before. What's more, Florence thought she detected—no, it couldn't be!—some of her own lipstick on Clara's lips; and the hair that she ordinarily kept in a tight bun seemed on the verge of being loosened.

"Clara," Florence said, "are you all right?"

"I'm just fine, dear. Why do you ask?"

"You just look . . . funny."

"Funny? What exactly do you mean?"

"Nothing, I guess." She tried to focus on the hugely embarrassing subject at hand. "About Julius—"

Clara smiled slowly. "What about him?" she interposed.

"You—you seem to be . . . fond of him."

"He's quite a remarkable young man."

"Yes, of course he is, but—"

"Listen, Florence," Clara said, extending a hand and placing it gently on her sister's arm, "you might as well know. He's going to be in my bed tonight."

A kind of choking gasp came out of Florence's throat. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," Clara said pointedly.

"You asked him?"

"Let's just say I persuaded him."

"But what about Samantha? Don't you need her permission?"

"Oh, I figured if he could do you, he could do me also."

Florence was on the verge of passing out. "How—how did you know that?"

Clara smiled cynically. "I got it out of him. But that was needless: I've always been able to read you like a book."

"Jesus Christ!"

"Don't be profane, dear."

"But—but Clara, you've never had a man . . ."

"I wouldn't use the word 'never,' dear. I think you know what I mean."

Florence hung her head. "Yes, I think I do."

"It's been a while—a long while. But that doesn't mean the desire hasn't been there."

And with that, Clara removed the pins that were keeping her bun in place, and her dark hair fell down, cascading all around her face and shoulders.

"My God!" Florence said. "Clara, you—you're beautiful!"

"Thank you, dear," Clara said a little smugly. "I only display my assets to those who will appreciate them."

"I—I have to tell you something," Florence said.

"About what?"

"About Julius."

And Florence bent her head toward her sister's ear and whispered something.

For the first time during this remarkable conversation, Clara seemed taken aback.

"Are you sure?" she said weakly.

"Yes."

"And you—manage?"

"Barely."

"Then I guess I can."

"He also likes it front . . . and back."

"Oh, he does?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's fine. I did that for . . ." But she trailed off.

Dinner was a largely silent affair. Florence and told her daughter the incredible news, and as a result the two women—and Julius too—could hardly speak over the meal, even though Clara was unusually voluble. After dinner the four of them played a card game for a while, three of the participants acting as if they'd never seen a deck of cards in their lives. Finally, Clara got up from the table decisively and said to Julius, "Okay, my man, it's time."

Julius stood up uncertainly. He looked down at his girlfriend, who nodded briefly.

Clara led him by the hand upstairs to the guest bedroom. Closing the door, she looked upon him almost greedily, her eyes glinting.

"You're quite a specimen of masculinity," she said in a low voice.

"Thank you, ma'am," Julius said, unable to look her in the face.

But when Clara slipped out of the shapeless dress she was wearing, followed by her bra and panties, Julius did more than look.

His jaw dropped as he saw her robust, firm breasts, her flat stomach, her slender but elegant hips, her strong thighs, and (so far as he could tell from this angle) her round, curvy bottom. And the glossy hair that framed her face, now shorn of its harshness and enlivened by carnality, completed the picture of ripe but tempting femininity.

She stalked over to him as he stood stunned and motionless. With care and precision she stripped him. Taller than her sister and niece, she was almost able to look him in the face, and Julius felt like a little boy under the thumb of his dictatorial mother.

It took her only a minute or so to remove his clothes. And when she peeled off his briefs and revealed that footlong cock, she couldn't resist inhaling in amazement. She hadn't quite believed her sister when Florence had told her of the size of his appendage, but seeing it now in the flesh—and hardening before her eyes like a balloon being filled—she lost just a little of her self-command.

Without being fully aware of it, she fell to her knees. She didn't know why she felt the need to abase herself in front of this monumental phallus, but she did. Just a natural female instinct, I suppose.

Like Samantha and Florence, Clara seized the cock with both hands, one over the other, and pulled it down to the level of her mouth. She was surprised how much effort that took. At first she just tentatively licked the tip and a little bit of the shaft; then she plunged as much of it into her mouth as she could. That was only about half its length, but it was all she could manage. Julius stared down at the bobbing head and seemed for the first time to gain a sense of superiority over this otherwise imposing woman.

He lifted her up and held her close, and both of them felt the ecstasy of flesh on flesh—her breasts pressing up against his chest, the long, hard cock poking her in the stomach, and their pubic hair entwining as their groins met. Julius cast his hands all over her shoulders and back and bottom, while Clara was not shy in exploring his strong, muscular bottom too.

The next hour and a half was filled with copulation of all sorts—vaginal, anal, and oral. Clara skillfully coaxed three orgasms out of him, and he managed to get at least four out of her. As they rested in languorous dissipation afterwards, Clara resting against his side as he lay on his back, Julius chuckled to himself.

"What is it, dear?" she said.

"Oh, it's nothing. It's just that Samantha actually thought you were—"

"I was what?"

"Well, a virgin."

"I'm clearly not, as you can tell."

"No, you sure aren't."

"Which is not to say I've had a whole trainload of men plowing into me."

"Samantha says she's never seen you with a man."

"She's right about that."

"So . . . when exactly did you—?"

"Lose my virginity?"

"Yeah."

"It happened when I was twenty."

"Was it some college boy?"

"No."

"Then who?"

Clara looked Julius right in the face. "It was my father."

As Julius gaped at her, she told him the story.

My mother died in a car accident just about the time when Florence was set to go to college. She was eighteen, I was twenty. My father was forty-eight. It was a horrible blow to all of us, of course, but my father took it the worst—and why wouldn't he? He'd been devoted to our mother and been married to her for more than two decades.

Well, I felt I had to make a sacrifice for the family. I didn't want to rob my sister of her chance to get a full education, so I decided that she could go off to college as planned and that I'd give up my studies and keep Dad company. There was no way I could fill my mother's shoes, but there was also no way I could allow Dad to stay in that house all by himself. He wasn't exactly skilled at cooking and cleaning and doing the laundry and such, so I figured I could help with things like that. And, in fact, I managed to keep up my studies by taking a class here and there, and I ended up getting a degree after several years.

But my chief focus was to make sure Dad was all right—and that was quite a task. For months he moped around as if the world had ended. I let him grieve, but after a while I became worried that he was becoming permanently depressed. I tried all manner of ways to cheer him up—going with him on picnics or to amusement parks, even to baseball games (which I detested)—but nothing seemed to help.

I of course slept in the bedroom that had been mine before I'd gone to college. One night I noticed some strange sounds coming out of Dad's bedroom—which, of course, had been my parents' bedroom when my mom had been alive. The sounds were like a man struggling hard with something and not quite managing it. Dad was frustrated about something—so frustrated that it was almost making him break down in tears.

I had a feeling what his trouble was.

I got up out of bed and headed to his bedroom. Even though I was an adult, the idea of going into that room was a bit intimidating—I kind of felt like a little girl invading a space that was forbidden to me. I was, of course, wearing only a nightgown.

When I finally got up the courage to open the door and walk in, I saw pretty much what I expected to see.

I saw my father, entirely naked, lying on the bed on his back. His hand was in the area of his penis, but that penis was only semi-erect.

I felt a complex mix of emotions: alarm, almost horror, at seeing my father without any clothes on; fascination at that cock, half-limp as it was; but most of all, a surge of pity that my father wasn't able to achieve that defining act of masculinity—getting hard.

I walked over to the side of the bed and said softly, "Daddy, please let me help."

It was only now that he actually saw me—and after an initial spasm of wide-eyed surprise, he fell back into a state of gloom, looking disconsolately in the area of his groin.

I took quick action. Even then I knew that men react far more to visual stimuli than women do, so I took my nightgown off my shoulders and let it drop to the floor. At the exposing of my naked form to his eyes, he gaped in amazement—and tentatively reached out a hand to take hold of one of my breasts. He squeezed it gently, as if assessing the ripeness of a piece of fruit. But I knew that I would have to be the one to take the lead in stimulating him.

I will admit that I was hesitant to take hold of that member—the thing that had led to my very existence, after all—but after an initial touch, I got over my awe and nervousness. At first I did nothing but stroke it gently all along its length. It was lying flat on his stomach, but almost immediately it began to quiver strangely, as if it had a life of its own entirely apart from the man to whom it was attached. And perhaps it did.

As my father watched in disbelief, his penis began to take shape, swelling in front of our eyes and achieving firmness and heft as the foreskin pulled back from the tip. It was only then that I noticed that, at full length, it must have measured close to ten inches.

Inexperienced as I was—this was the first male member I'd ever seen—I suspected that it was quite out of the ordinary in its length and thickness, and I felt a strange sense of pride that the author of my being was endowed with such a mighty implement.

I now took it with both hands—I had to do that to make it stand upright—and, bending over, placed it in my mouth.

Even though I could only get a few inches of it in, Daddy let out a gasp at the feel of my lips around his organ. I wasn't at all skilled as to what to do. At first I just kept it in my mouth, relishing the peculiar mix of firmness and softness—the incredibly tender skin wrapped around what seemed like a stiff ramrod or pestle. Then I began licking it all along the shaft like a lollipop. I quickly determined that the tip was the most sensitive part of this curious apparatus, so I licked it with my tongue—and was rewarded with groans of pleasure from my father. It seemed to get even harder under my attention—and I couldn't help playing gently with the large sac of testicles hanging below it, something that also seemed to stimulate my father to inexpressible excitement.