Just The Tip, Aunt Rhonda


Her skin was still cool from the water, and wonderfully smooth. Her breasts were heavy and pliant in my hands. I squeezed gently and lifted them, feeling their weight. Rhonda bit her lower lip, not sure she wanted this. But there was no stopping me now, as I ran my fingertips across her bumpy areolas, tweaking er nipples, her sharp intake of breath saying maybe she did want this. She reached through the water to the front of my trunks. "Do I get to touch, too?" she asked. I jumped when she squeezed my shaft through the fabric. It now felt as if I had been hard for hours, my cock throbbing almost painfully.

"I think we better stop," she said, even as she was fumbling withthe drawstring at my waist.

And then my trunks were floating around my knees, her hand closing around my cock, "Hey, look at this guy here!"

"Oh, Ronnie," I moaned as she began to stroke. I leaned down and took her right nipple in my mouth, her fingers gripping me a little tighter. Soon I was sucking hungrily on a mouthful of boob. My hands glided up her thighs, began rubbing at the firm mound under the crotch of her swimsuit.

Just when it was all getting to be too much, and I thought I might be about to come in the water, she pushed me away. "Okay, that's enough," she said roughly. I tried to grab her, but she pushed me aside and walked across the shallow end toward the steps leading up to the patio.

My mind was in a whirlwind. I felt disappointment, shame, relief, confusion. What had we been doing? Were we crazy? Was it a good thing she had finally put the brakes on? What next? How would we go on after this? I ducked under the water, the coolness soothing my burning face. I tried to swim a lap, get my head clear. But swimming with an erection is awkward, even a little painful.

When I came to the surface, Rhonda was lying on a chaise longue, the bottoms of her swimsuit on the concrete next to her. Lying there naked. I could see a neatly trimmed triangle of matted hair, darker and more red than the hair on her head.

I was out of the pool in seconds, walking toward her chair as if in a dream, like I was watching someone else. My cock bobbed before me, leading the way, dark with blood. I reached her chair and straddled her legs, leaned over onto her, and took her nipple back into my mouth. I raised my head, gently pulling her breast up into a cone as I sucked, then slowly letting it drop back to its normal shape. My fingers were already busy at her crotch, stroking the hair, massaging her lips, finding her clit, her hips convulsing as I began to rub with one finger in a slow, circular motion.

"Get up here!" she said fiercely, her fingers in my hair.

She brought my face up to hers and we kissed for the first time, deeply. Of course I had kissed Rhonda before, on the lips even. I had gone through a phase when I was about seven of wanting to kiss women. Amazingly, everybody thought it was cute and hilarious, this kissing bandit. But this was obviously different. Way different.

I knew what my motivations were, but what were hers? What was missing in her life that she had allowed things to come to this point? Had she been playing a part in this all along? Had she woken up one morning, today, years ago, with this in mind? All this, I would wonder about later, but not then. Because right then, I was kissing her with a passion I'd never felt before, almost in a fever, and she was stroking my cock again, tickling the sensitive tip, and I was playing with her nipples, the only thought in my mind the dim wondering of how far this would go.

And then, as I felt myself getting close again, I pulled back, not wanting that, not yet, not this way. I slid backward, then leaned over, Rhonda already lifting her thighs, knowing what I was going to do before I buried my face in her muff.

I wasn't the world's most accomplished eater of pussy, but I gave it my best shot, munching my lips up and down her slit, probing with my tongue, before concentrating my efforts on her clit, licking and pressing and flicking and swirling with my tongue, sucking lightly, nibbling just a bit here and there. Rhonda squirmed and wriggled her hips, pushing herself against my face. I could feel her breathing hard, her belly rising and falling rapidly, her fingers twined around mine.

When she came, it was with a loud, whooshing exhalation, her muscles tensing, then going slack. I stayed with her until she nudged me aside with one hand. She was still panting, almost laughing, her chest and face a deep pink.

Before she could say anything, I slid up over her, my shaft trapped, pulsing, in the crease between her crotch and thigh. Her legs were still up and spread.

"Please, Ronnie," I whispered.

"We can't," she whispered back.

"We have to," I pleaded.

"I'm sorry," she said, but she was reaching for me. Her hand rapped around me, and she began to stroke quickly. "Here, I'll make you come."

But that wasn't what I wanted. It was too late for a handjob. I pressed against her, forcing her to let go. I took hold of it myself, began rubbing the head against her labia.

"We have to stop," she whispered.

"Just the tip, Aunt Rhonda," I whispered.

"Just the tip," she sighed. "Just for a minute."

We both knew neither of us meant it, as nobody has ever meant it. But still, I made a show of it, pressing the head of my cock against her until just the tip slipped inside of her. We hung there for what seemed like a long time, our bodies motionless.

Then, as the sun beat down on us out of a summer sky gone nearly white with haze, I began rocking my hips, barely perceptible thrusts at first, easing myself millimeter by millimeter into her body. And she began to respond, her movements just as infinitesimal as mine. At first. Then I was an inch past the ridge inside her, then two inches. Then three. And she didn't say a word. No "I thought we said just the tip," no "Okay, that's enough," nothing

And finally I was fully inside her. Tightness is the thing to crave in a pussy, but I found myself marveling at Rhonda's not-quite-so-tightness. It made it easier to move. And move I did, my cock shuttling in and out of her, long strokes, steady, her legs up around my waist. The world seemed to have gone silent around us, even the droning of the pool filter momentarily cycled off. The only sound was our heavy breathing. The chair we were using must have had one leg just a bit short, or else was set on a slightly uneven patch of cement, because as my thrusts grew more urgent, the chair began to rock, one rear leg thunking rhythmically against the patio, the metal strips under the cushion creaking.

I felt like I was losing my mind, literally. It was crazy, what we were doing. Some tiny pinprick of rationality left in me knew that. I was having sex with my aunt! Blood relative orr not, she was still my aunt! But I didn't want to stop, couldn't stop. I didn't care. I just kept on pumping, caressing herb boobs, panting into her hair. My hips worked like a machine, my ass going up and down, my ballls pulled tight to my body.

Rhonda was bucking against me now, causing the chair-leg to thump more loudly on the ground. Her hands clenched around my shoulders, her breath hot against my face.

And now here it came again, that familiar, tickly sensation at the base of my cock. "Ronnie," I tried to say, "I think I ... I'm getting ... I'm gonna ... oh Ronnie ..."

And my dear, sweet aunt Rhonda squeezed her thighs around me and said, "Go for it, baby." But I was already going for it, pounding into her, wildly, the chair leg banging, my semen on its way, burning through my shaft, calling her name one last time, "Ronnieeeee!"

I exploded inside her with a violent shudder, coming harder than I ever had before it seemed. The spasms slowed, but remained intense. Rhonda wrapped her arms around me, held me close while I moaned and spurted and thrashed.

And as I released the last drops of cum into her, I turned my face to kiss her.

And the pool filter whirred to life again.

The sound jolted me back to reality.

Oh my God.

I had just had sex with my aunt. Fucked her, in fact. Fucked my aunt royally. The girl who came into my life as a fresh-faced barely-legal girlfriend of Uncle Jim's, who'd been one of my closest relatives and friends ever since. And things had gotten away from us. I had lost my mind, acted like a sex-crazed animal, treated her like a Mardi Gras skank. And now here we lay on this chair, my cock still softening inside her, after just shooting what felt like a massive load into her.

I felt so disgusted and ashamed. I almost wanted to cry, beg her forgiveness, pray out loud to erase this incident from the record.

I couldn't speak or move, and neither did Rhonda.

We both knew nothing could ever be the same after this.

I don't remember anything about getting up, putting on my clothes, driving off. I don't remember what was said, if anything. I think I may have apologized, and Rhonda may have tried to comfort me. I hope that's what happened. It would have been the decent thing, for both of us. But I can't say for sure.

I moped around in a daze for the next week, could barely bring myself to look at people when I talked. I dreaded seeing Rhonda again. How could you act normal after what we'd done?

You act normal, as it turns out, by simply acting normal. Even if it kills you. Which it will at first. But slowly, eventually, things start to seem all right again.

We never said a word about what happened that day. As time goes by, it seems nothing needed to be said.

Rhonda and I have had sex several more times over the years, even as she remains married to Uncle Jim, and I've had a few relationships. Okay, more than "several more times." You can't set your watch by our encounters, but it seems like they happen a few times a year. We don't plan them, but neither do we try to stop them. After the first time, it just doesn't seem worth it.

Each time, we start out nearly crazed with lust, and the sex is electric, almost frenzied. But even as I'm thrusting madly into her body, or as Rhonda bounces on top of me (my favorite--God, those tits!), I can already feel the dread creeping in. And afterward, though not as strong as the first time, there is that feeling of shame and guilt and self-loathing. What kind of man fucks his aunt? I have loved Rhonda since I was a child, and I know it's no way to treat her. But I just can't seem to help myself.

Once, I tried to tell her how I felt, as she lay on top of me after another wild round of ride-'em-cowgirl. She only pressed a finger to my lips and whispered in my ear, "It's okay, baby, it's okay."

But I don't know if I'll ever really believe her.

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