Living with Great Aunt Helen

Great Aunt Helen

This story concerns a young man's relationship with his maternal great aunt, Helen. A central aspect of the plot is the discovery, by Helen, that Peter is using her soiled underwear whilst masturbating. I recognise that this is a bit of a tired plot vehicle but I hope you enjoy the story anyway. Comments etc always welcome.

Sylviafan

When I went to university at the tender age of eighteen, it was suggested, by my mother, that I could live with Great Aunt Helen for the duration; she lived about five miles from the campus and it was an easy cycle ride or jog from one to the other. She even approached her aunt and reported back that she was very willing to put me up for the full three years.

I resisted the suggestion with some vigour claiming, with justification, that the university experience is not just about the academics; it's also about living away from home and learning to live independently. My mother argued, again quite reasonably, that by living with my great aunt I would be saving many thousands of pounds in accommodation fees; money which, she said, they could ill afford.

The truth of the matter is that Great Aunt Helen, my maternal grandmother's younger sister, was a lonely and insular old lady who behaved more as if she'd been born in the eighteen fifties, rather than the nineteen fifties. When we were children my older sister and I were forced, practically at gunpoint, to spend a week with her during the school holidays. It was a trial: the house was big and gloomy and joyless; clean to the point of sterility. Furthermore, Aunt Helen had little idea of how to entertain two inquisitive and boisterous children. Her idea of a fun afternoon appeared to be doing crochet work while Suzie and I sat quietly, reading improving books -- like Struwwelpeter. The sort of thing where gruesome tragedies befell children who didn't do as they were told. It was almost comic, if you didn't have to live through it.

Not that she was deliberately unkind, far from it. I always had the feeling that she was a very nice person underneath the faux Victorian façade of sternness. She'd apparently had two or three romantic attachments in her life but nobody had ever taken her to the altar and she had been alone for the best part of two decades at the time of this story. So if she was sometimes a little withdrawn and cranky, you could just put that down to the allotropes of loneliness.

Oddly enough my protestations met with support from an unexpected quarter; my dad, normally pretty close with his money, agreed that it was unreasonable to deprive me of the full university experience and said that he'd pay the accommodation costs. Mum was cross but dad was adamant; he didn't get on with Aunt Helen.

Three riotous years as an undergraduate followed, although I was grounded enough to attend lectures, study hard and not go completely off the rails, like some of my contemporaries. In fact I did rather well, coming out with a First in astrophysics and a strong recommendation from my tutor to carry on and get my doctorate. The idea of a further two years in academia, and putting off getting a real job, was very appealing but there were the costs to be considered. My parents agreed, after some discussion, to fund the fees, but only on the condition that I went to live with Great Aunt Helen to save the spiralling costs of accommodation. I didn't have much choice, really.

This story starts with my arrival at Great Aunt Helen's house, a few days before the start of the autumn term. It was, and is, a big, Victorian semi-detached villa on a quiet residential avenue. Most of the houses in the street had had loft conversions and conservatories but Aunt Helen's was still pretty much in its original condition, inside as well as out. Most of the rooms still had their polished wooden floorboards on display, covered in places by thick rugs. There was only one bathroom and it was vast and high-ceilinged and unashamedly old-fashioned. Downstairs there was a lot of big, heavy furniture and occasional tables with lace doilies. The kitchen was the one concession to modernity; my great aunt was a keen cook.

She welcomed me in the porch with an unexpected hug and a peck on the cheek; unusually demonstrative. Then she stepped back and looked at me and I looked at her. I hadn't seen her for at least five years; not since I was old enough to successfully refuse to be sent to her during the summer holidays. Mum thought she was sixty-five and dad thought sixty-six. Whatever; she was about five years younger than my grandmother. Standing in front of me in the doorway I saw a tall, very upright lady, lean and strong looking. Her face was narrow and pale, surprisingly unlined, with clear blue eyes and a straight nose and firm mouth. Her black hair, which was teased through with grey strands, was pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing a drab, nondescript blouse and skirt and flat shoes, but if you looked past this, which I did, she had a pleasant, feminine figure: well defined hips and the hint of a decent bust under the loose-fitting top. The other thing I noticed was her hands -- she had very long fingers with big nails, cut close.

She showed me up to my bedroom, which was spacious and comfortable and old fashioned with a brass bedstead and an enormous oak wardrobe and matching chest of drawers. There was also a desk in the bow window and a bookcase and I knew Aunt Helen had arranged this specially for my stay. I unpacked and went downstairs where she was baking bread, the smell filling the kitchen. She gave me a warm slice with butter and cup of tea and I sat at the kitchen table and we chatted for an hour about university and family and suchlike.

Aunt Helen was more animated that afternoon than I remember; a couple of times she even laughed at my stories of university life. Over the next few weeks I began to realise why: she was very lonely and my visit was a temporary respite from that loneliness and isolation. She threw herself into looking after me in a way that was touching without being stifling; she had a horror of appearing to intrude on my studies and she never asked where I was going or what I was doing in the evenings. Not that there was much to ask about. I usually went out on Saturday night and occasionally during the week, the rest of the time my head was in a book or I was online, doing research. Saturday or Sunday afternoons we'd often go out together to a local attraction like a castle or stately home. She looked forward to these trips out and she was good company: well-informed, humorous and quite unlike the old Aunt Helen that I'd known as a child. I had to admit, after the first month, that the arrangement was perfect. I was excellently fed, all my laundry was done and Aunt Helen never disturbed me in my bedroom, although she did come in and tidy and clean when I was out during the day. Therein lay my downfall.

It started when I came back from one of the local pubs at about midnight one Saturday having drunk more than usual; in fact I was quite inebriated, otherwise I probably wouldn't have gone poking through the laundry basket on the landing. It was a big wicker affair with a hinged lid. I put my dirty stuff in it in the morning and a couple of days later the stuff re-appeared on my bed, clean and pressed. Of course I'd seen my great aunt's clothes in there too, including underwear: big, utilitarian knickers and stockings, and occasionally corsets. At twenty-two I was a big fan of more mature women; not crazy-old, but ladies in their forties or fifties. These were the ones I fantasised about during my nightly masturbatory activities; I had serious crushes on several of the older female academic staff on campus. But I hadn't thought about my great aunt in that context, until that Saturday night.

It was silent and dark on the landing. Aunt Helen went to bed at ten o'clock sharp and was asleep thirty minutes later. The only light came from the moon, peeping in through the landing window. Enough for me to see, on the top of the pile, a pair of her panties. I little thrill ran through me as I reached in and picked them up. They were pale coloured, white or cream, and in the French knickers style -- quite racy for my great aunt. I held them to my nose and smelt her talcum powder, and the scent of something deeper and muskier. The effect was immediate, my cock began swelling in my underpants and that thrill ran through me again as I contemplated taking the knickers back to my bedroom and holding them up to my nose while I tossed myself off. I'd need to make sure I put them back straight afterwards; I was bound to sleep late and Aunt Helen was usually up by eight am. Alcohol aided my decision and I closed the laundry basket lid and scuttled into my bedroom clutching my booty.

Pissed as I was, maintaining an erection might have been difficult, but not that night. Holding the crotch of the panties under my nose I inhaled deeply, my cock like glass. The scent was tangy, part dried urine and part a meatier, muskier smell. This smell and the sheer taboo nature of what I was doing kept me rigid until I came with a stifled groan, shooting powerful jets of hot spunk onto my abdomen and chest. I had the sense not to clean myself up with her underwear; instead I used the roll of toilet paper I kept in my bedside cabinet for that purpose. Then I slipped back out onto the landing and replaced the knickers in the basket.

I went back to bed thoughtfully. After my climax, what I'd done seemed a bit tawdry. Worse still, I'd thought about my aunt as I came. A sudden vision of what she might look like naked. What her breasts would be like. What her old pussy would look like. Was her pubic bush black too? Were her labia big and loose and meaty?

In the morning I felt like shit and my mind was far from visions of my naked aunt. But as the day progressed, and I started to feel more human, the memory of the smell and the feel of the material against my mouth and nose, started to come back, to dominate my thoughts, in fact. I told myself that it was probably perfectly normal behaviour for men of my age and hurt nobody, as long as it remained undiscovered. So I was disappointed that night when, after waiting until Aunt Helen was asleep, I rummaged in the laundry basket but found no underwear, just a pair of tan stockings, which I rejected.

But other nights there were knickers: sometimes the French style, sometimes big, unappealing bloomers and sometimes more feminine briefs. Oddly enough, I rather liked the big bloomers; they seemed more in keeping with mature ladies.

This was the beginning of a couple of months of secret masturbation with the crotch of Great Aunt Helen's knickers pressed to my nose. Sometimes before masturbating I would examine the underwear under the bedside light, seeing the tidemarks of the dried secretions in the crotch and the occasional faint light-brown mark a few inches to the rear. I was enjoying the strongest orgasms of my life, sometimes waking up in the night for round two, or even three. During the week I was up at six, well before my aunt, so that was when I replaced her underwear in the basket. It all worked well and she was none the wiser. Except that one day, almost inevitably, I left her damned knickers on the bedside table when I went off to the university campus. And I didn't realise I'd done it until I came home that evening.

I could tell Aunt Helen was upset as soon as I walked into the kitchen. She normally gave me a big smile and asked me how my day had been. This evening she just gave me a muttered hello and carried on cooking dinner.

We ate that meal in silence and at the end I said: 'What's the matter Aunt Helen? You've hardly said a word since I got in.'

Still saying nothing she cleared our plates away then she back down at the table. 'I cleaned your bedroom this morning, Peter,' she began, staring at the table. 'On your bedside cabinet there was a pair of my panties...' She tailed off as a I broke out in a horrified cold sweat, suddenly remembering what I'd done. 'I'm worldly enough to have a pretty good idea of why they were there, instead of in the laundry basket.' She paused again but I said nothing. Now it was me staring at the table, in mortification. 'I've thought about this all day and I'm very sorry Peter but I'm going to have to ask you to find somewhere else to live. I won't say anything to your mother.' Then she got up and left the kitchen and I heard her going up the stairs. And that was the last I saw of her that evening.

After I'd got over the crucifying embarrassment of it all I began to realise, selfishly, that it could have been worse. I knew people at the university who would put me up and although I'd have to get a part-time job to pay for lodgings that wasn't such a big deal. And I'd spin my parents some yarn about wanting to be closer to the campus. In a way it would be a good thing to get away from this house. It wasn't just when I was masturbating that I thought about my aunt, I thought about her all the time. I stared at her when she wasn't looking and I fantasised about her body and the sex games we could play. Nor was it just sex that I thought about; I imagined us together in the evenings in front of the fire and going for walks in the countryside. In short I had developed a post-adolescent crush on my great aunt that was rapidly turning into a full-blown obsession.

What I wasn't looking forward to was spending the next couple of weeks in that house with my aunt, since presumably there would be some notice period before I had to leave. I broached the question the following evening.

'Oh, I suppose there's no tearing hurry,' she said, twisting the hem of her apron in her hands. 'You'll need to find somewhere suitable. Is four weeks enough or do you need longer?' I assured her that four weeks would be ample and no more was said on the matter.

I'd expected withdrawal and silence until I moved out. I did get silence but over the next couple of weeks she made no effort to avoid me. She seemed terribly sad most of the time and although I tried to engage her in conversation and suggest diversions like going to the theatre, she just moped around and sat at the kitchen table staring into space. The quality of the meals took a nose-dive too.

One afternoon I came back and told her that I'd found a place to live and would be moving out in ten days. She was peeling potatoes at the sink. As I said this she threw down the peeler and rushed from the kitchen and as she went past I thought I could see tears welling in her eyes. I felt terrible. The least I could do was finish off doing dinner. I wasn't a great cook but I did my best; an hour later I tapped on her bedroom door and told her that it was on the table. I half expected her to say she didn't want anything but a few minutes later she appeared and sat down and ate most of the steak pie I'd made.

'I'm really sorry about how things have worked out Aunty,' I started when we'd finished eating. 'I was stupid and thoughtless. It'll be better when I've gone.'

To my surprise, tears started rolling down her cheeks and she fumbled for her handkerchief. 'I don't want you to leave,' she whispered, through her tears.

'I can't really stay,' I said, gently. 'Not now.' I made a cowardly retreat to my room and tried to work and I heard nothing more from Aunt Helen that evening.

Two awkward days later I was reading in bed when there was an unexpected tap at my bedroom door. I called out: 'come in,' and the door opened and Great Aunt Helen came in. She was wearing slippers and a thick dressing gown over a cotton, knee-length nightdress and her face was set and determined. She sat down on the chair next to my bed and looked at me and I put down my book in puzzlement and wondered what coming.

'There's something I need to say to you, Peter,' she began. 'Since you've been living here I've been very happy. Much happier than I have been for years. That probably sounds silly to you but I've been very lonely for a long time and you being here has been rather wonderful.' She paused, looking at the floor, now. 'I think when I found my panties in here I overreacted. I do know a little bit about young men and their... urges, and I should have made allowance for that. I'm very sorry I behaved the way I did.' She paused again and drew a deep breath and looked up at me. 'And I really don't want you to leave. I know you've made other arrangements but if I can ask you to just think about staying with me...' She stood up suddenly and delved into the pocket of her dressing gown, pulling out a little jiffy bag which she put down on the bedside cabinet. 'I'll say goodnight then,' she said quickly and practically fled the room, closing the door behind her.

Apart from 'come in' I'd said nothing during her visit. Now I stared at the bag she'd left and picked it up. With growing disbelief I opened it and took out a pair of Great Aunt Helen's panties. Lilac coloured nylon with lacy edges. And, from the marks in the fabric of the crotch, very definitely soiled. I couldn't believe it! My great aunt had just presented me with a pair of her dirty panties knowing I was going to masturbate over them! I was hard in seconds. This was the most erotic thing that had ever happened to me!

I think I masturbated four times that night; my prong was getting pretty sore towards the end. And all the time I was wanking I thought about my aunt and imagined what she look like naked and how it would feel to have her long fingers wrapped around my shaft and what it might feel like to kiss her and to penetrate her and make love to her. I was in a frenzy of arousal but common sense returned as dawn started to light the room. She was giving me this gift to keep me from leaving because she was lonely. She wasn't doing it as a prelude to seducing me, however much I might fantasise about it. If I really was interested in taking things further, and I was by no means certain that I was, then I would have to make the next move, I thought.

Four days before I was due to move out, Great Aunt Helen asked me again if I would reconsider. We were sitting at the dining table after Sunday lunch. She looked forlorn. I had spent a lot of time thinking about things and had come to the reluctant conclusion that moving out was the most sensible thing to do. There was no doubt that I was deeply infatuated with my great aunt and the situation was starting to affect my academic work; I was finding it difficult to concentrate and astrophysics is a subject that demands extreme concentration, especially at a doctoral level. I decided to be completely honest with her, she deserved that.

'Look, Aunty,' I began.

'Helen. Call me Helen,' she interrupted, a bit testily.

'Ok, Helen.' I paused, ordering my thoughts. 'Look, this is really difficult... I've become rather obsessed with you,' I began. She said nothing but she was looking at me intently. 'It just started out with the panties and, you know, a bit of a thrill...' I could feel the blood rising to my face but I pressed on. 'but now I think about you all the time and it's starting to affect my work. And it's mostly very inappropriate thoughts. Sexual thoughts,' I added. 'Fantasies.'

Aunt Helen was staring at the tabletop, picking at one of her fingernails. 'Well I don't know whether to be flattered or horrified, but yes, I see that it would affect your work.' She was silent for a few moments. 'You know,' she said at length, 'I'm really not much to look at underneath my clothes. I'm sure if you saw me undressed you wouldn't be attracted to me at all...' The last statement hung in the air for a few seconds before Aunt Helen got up and started to clear the table.

'Would you like to go for a walk this afternoon, Helen,' I asked, as much to fill the void of silence as anything else. It was December now and cold and blustery outside but not raining.