Living with Great Aunt Helen Ch. 02

I felt like a test dummy in a car, headed at speed towards a brick wall. 'Ok,' I said at last. 'It's a deal. But you're driving.'

Giulia's, on the High Street, was one of a chain of Italian restaurants in our area. It provided well prepared and authentic Italian cuisine at prices only moderately less than what it would have cost to fly to Italy and sample the real thing. But hey, mum was paying.

She had taken some trouble with her appearance and I was flattered. She was wearing a dark-green sleeveless dress and a little black jacket with short sleeves, the sort of thing you might see a matador wearing. The dress was tight fitting and highlighted what there was of her narrow hips and shallow breasts. She'd washed her hair and applied the full suite of make-up, her cupid lips -- probably her best feature -- a glossy red. And she was wearing three-inch heels which elevated her from a modest five feet three to closer to my height. I can't remember seeing her in heels before. Come to think of it the last time I saw her in a dress was probably my graduation dinner. She wasn't going to turn many heads but I thought she looked very nice and I was proud to be her dinner companion for the evening.

We got settled in a table in an alcove, which mum admitted she'd booked especially so that we could have "a private conversation", and she ordered drinks: an alcohol-free cocktail for her and a gin and tonic for me. 'Better make it a double,' she told the waitress, who tripped off before I could protest.

'Are you trying to get me drunk?'

'Well,' she smiled at me, 'it wouldn't be a bad starting point.' I was inclined to agree and I'd finished my G&T before the antipasto arrived, accompanied by a bottle of dark red wine from the Amalfi coast. We ate slowly and talked about mum's divorce and what Suzie was doing in the North-East and the main courses arrived and the level in the bottle went down although it was only me drinking it; mum's half-glass remained untouched on the table while she sipped iced water.

So,' she asked as the remains of our main courses were cleared away, 'how did it all start with you and your great aunt?'

As a starting point it was a tough one. Although the bottle of red was now empty and mum had got me a large glass of dessert wine, I hadn't had nearly enough alcohol to describe to my mother how my great aunt had discovered that I was using her soiled knickers to masturbate with. I wasn't sure I ever could. I looked around guiltily but there was a fair hubbub in the restaurant and our table was quite private; there was no chance of being overheard. All the same, I prevaricated.

'Can we just enjoy the meal, Mum? This is really embarrassing for me.' To my surprise she accepted this and we ate our desserts and had our coffee and talked about friends and family and what was going on in the town and in the world at large and it was pleasant and relaxing and mum smiled and laughed and looked much happier than she had earlier in the day.

Back at home my mother produced another bottle of red from the rack in the kitchen. 'I've barely had a drink this evening,' she said, popping the cork, 'so I've got some catching up to do.'

But again it seemed to be just me who was drinking the stuff; mum topped my glass up as soon as the level looked like dropping below the half-way mark and just took tiny sips of her own glass. The result of this, coupled with the double G&T and the bottle of Amalfi red and the dessert wine was that I became very drunk, which was of course what mum had been aiming for. She'd been sitting in the single chair but now she came over to the big settee, where I was half lying in a drunken stupor, and sat down next to me.

'Go on then, Peter, what happened with you and Helen?' and she put her hand on my knee. If she hadn't done that I don't think I'd have told her, or at least not the full story. But the pressure of her hand suddenly felt delicious and intimate and I felt an unexpected warm rush of desire for my mother, something which I think had been building up since she'd come round and found out about us and kissed me on the lips and said, "Lucky old Helen, I say". I managed one last prevarication before my barriers were swept away.

'You said you'd suspected what was going on for months. Why was that?'

'Oh come on, Peter! I'm surprised nobody else noticed. You move in with her and the next thing she's dolled up to the nines and wearing make-up and nail varnish but there's no sign of a man on the horizon, except you. And then you stopped coming home at weekends. What possible other conclusion could I draw?'

'Did anybody else say anything?'

'No. Your dad was too busy with his wretched games console and Suzie was mooning around because Kyle had just dumped her.' She squeezed my knee again and my stomach did a little flip. 'Now you can tell me what happened. I won't judge either of you and I certainly won't be telling anybody else.' So what could I do? My inhibitions were broken down and lying in the dregs of the wine and the feeling of my mother's hand on my leg was making my viscera tingle.

'I got pissed one night,' I began, and laughed. 'Bit like tonight. And when I was putting my dirty clothes in the laundry basked I found a pair of her panties and, well, you know...'

'Oh, I see,' said my mother. 'And she found out?'

'And she found out,' I agreed, 'and she said I had to leave.'

'That seems a bit extreme.'

'Yeah, well afterwards she changed her mind and asked me to stay and when I said it would be better if I left she got really upset and told me she was lonely...' I paused and took an ill-advised sip of my wine. The second bottle was now two-thirds empty. Mum waited quietly, looking at me with a funny sort of expression. 'And then one night she came into my room and said she was sorry she'd overreacted and she gave me a pair of her panties, in a little plastic bag... But I still said it would be better if I left because I was getting obsessed with her in the wrong sort of way -- a sexual way -- and it was affecting my work and then she offered to undress for me, to show me herself, naked. I think she wanted to show me she was just a wrinkly old woman so that I'd stop fantasising about her.'

'And you let her do that?' mum's tone was neutral.

'Yes. Look, I didn't put any pressure on her. These were all her suggestions.'

'So what happened when she stripped off for you? Obviously it didn't turn you off.'

'No, that was the thing. She's got a great body for someone her age. I was just overwhelmed by her. I wanted her even more, Mum!'

'So you had sex?'

'It was just kissing and touching at first. Masturbating each other. Then one night we went all the way. It was inevitable I suppose.'

'And you've been sleeping together ever since?'

'Yes, every night.'

'Every night? Bloody hell! And when did you start tying her down on the bed?'

'Ages ago. She really likes it.'

'And the butt plug that I saw on her bedside table?'

'Yes, we do some of that stuff too. Look Mum, I've told you the sordid details, like you asked. I've betrayed Helen's trust and I'm feeling a bit shitty. Don't ask me to tell you anything else, I think you've got enough details now!'

'I'm sorry, Peter. I said I wouldn't judge you and I'm not. I'm just... fascinated I suppose. It's just such a... such an unusual story. And I'm sorry if you think you've betrayed Helen's trust. I promise you none of this will ever go further from me. I think you can be very proud of the fact that you've clearly made an elderly lady, who's never had much fun in her life, very happy. She radiates happiness now, and you remember what she used to be like.'

'Well I don't feel bad about what's happened. I'd do exactly the same again,' I said with a trace of defiance.

'And what about the fact that it was incest? Did that bother you?'

I was starting to get pissed off with all the questions. 'No, as a matter of fact it made it more exciting. Is that what you wanted to hear?'

My mother stared at me in silence for a few seconds, then she stood up. 'I'm driving to Newcastle in the morning, to see Suzie. I'll probably be gone when you get up.' I stood up too. 'You don't have to go to bed yet, there's a bit more wine left if you want it.' She stepped up to me and kissed me on the lips again, like she'd done before. Maybe a one-second contact. Nothing out of order. 'Goodnight, Peter. I'll see you when I get back.'

I was seized by an urge to grab her and try to kiss her properly but some faint voice of reason told me that this was not the time or place and I sat back down and poured the last of the wine into my glass. 'Goodnight, Mum. Drive safely, and thanks for the meal.'

She turned to me at the lounge door. 'Thank you for your company this evening. It's been... interesting. I feel better than I have for a long time.' Then she was gone and I heard her patter up the stairs to her bedroom.

Left alone in the silent lounge I finished my wine morosely and thought about the consequences of my disclosures. Actually I couldn't see much downside; I knew mum would never say anything. But why had she wanted all the details? I didn't see my mother as the salacious sort. Indeed, I'd never thought of her in any sexual context, until recently. I thought about the hand on my knee and the brief kiss and I got up suddenly and wandered around the room, stopping by the drinks cabinet to pour myself a small whisky.

It was a bad idea. The raw spirit burned my throat and left a nauseous taste in my mouth. Switching out the lights I stumbled up the stairs to the bathroom where I cleaned my teeth and splashed cold water on my face. Mum's bedroom door was shut and the house was quiet. In my bedroom I crashed around in the dark, feeling for the switch on the bedside light and blinding myself when it burst into life.

And there they were, on my bedside table, next to the lamp and draped across the book I'd been reading: a pair of black satin panties. Suddenly I was much less drunk. I picked them up and examined them. It was obvious to a man of my knicker-sniffing experience that they were soiled, but more than that, the gusset was still wet with fanny juices. I brought them to my nose and inhaled the scent, pushing the damp fabric against my nostrils. It was a less heavy smell than my great aunt, sweet rather than musky.

I stood irresolute, thinking about my mother's bedroom door, firmly shut. There was obviously no question about who had left the panties on my bedside table but that was a far cry from inviting me into her bed. And it was quite possible that my mother had done it simply as a joke. But I didn't think so. Stripping off I climbed under the duvet and reached for my cock which, despite the alcohol, was rising nicely to the occasion. I brought the gusset of the panties up to my face and, for the first time in my life, gave myself completely to erotic fantasies of my mother: naked, underneath me, on top of me, sucking my cock... I wondered what her bush looked like and how it might feel as I penetrated her. Although I was intensely aroused, my cock like glass, my orgasm was delayed by the drink and as I pumped myself furiously I tried to imagine why my mother had done this thing if it wasn't an unspoken invitation. I came eventually, cleaned myself up and fell into a deep and drunken sleep. When I woke in the morning it was eleven o'clock and the house was empty.

I waited until evening before attempting the drive home; I'd had a lot to drink the night before. My aunt was watching television when I arrived. I threw my overnight bag down in the hall and went and sat next to her, putting my arm around her and drawing her head into my shoulder.

'How was your mum?' she asked.

'Oh, I think she'll be fine. We went out for a meal and had a good chat and she seemed quite happy at the end of the evening.' This was close enough to the truth to appease my conscience.

'What about you?' I asked.

'Oh I had a bit of a surprise. Deborah -- the book club lady? -- popped round yesterday afternoon and we had a cup of tea and a bit of cake and a lovely chat. She's asked us round to dinner on Wednesday. Is that ok? She apologised that it's taken her so long to return the invitation. I think she's had a bit of trouble with one of her grandchildren.'

A little later I went up and showered and soon after that I took my great aunt to bed and we made long, slow love with lots of stroking and kissing. I penetrated her gently and took her with slow, deep strokes that made her moan and dig her nails into my back. It was only as my climax became inevitable that I thrust harder and the fireworks started in my brain and I was suddenly swamped by a vision of my mother sitting on the settee next to me, her hand on my leg and then my orgasm was battering my senses and my cock was pumping my jism into Helen's sopping pussy.

I woke in the middle of the night, my great aunt's breathing slow and regular beside me, and I thought about my mother and about Helen and I admitted to myself that I wanted my mother. Something had planted a seed inside me and it had germinated and tendrils of desire were working their way through me and filling me with a yearning for her thin body and those cupid lips that had touched mine so briefly. Then I thought about Helen again and the guilt kept me awake until the light of the weak winter dawn started to filter through the curtains.

We went around to Deborah's house on Wednesday evening. Her house wasn't far from Helen's, walking distance, in fact, but it was bigger and detached and better appointed; Deborah's husband had been a successful lawyer until his death in a car crash a few years ago. She opened the door to us and ushered us through the Victorian tiled hallway to the big kitchen-diner where she'd laid out some pre-prandial nibbles and an opened bottle of wine.

Deborah was in her mid-sixties, I think. A tall, sophisticated lady with long, shapely legs a slim figure and a disappointingly small bust. Her shoulder-length, thick, grey hair framed a face that was a bit horsey but not unattractive: hazel-brown eyes, a thin, straight nose and a full-lips that just covered very white but slightly oversized teeth. This evening she was wearing a dark-green silk dress and had painted her nails to match. I could fancy her myself, I decided, if life wasn't already too complicated.

Helen had made an effort too; in fact I think she'd been out and bought a new dress for the occasion. It was dark-blue and went well with her black hair. She'd spent a lot of time on her make-up and I thought that the two ladies together looked as pretty as a picture, and I told them so. I certainly got plenty of opportunity to look at the pair of them; Deborah always seemed to be sitting next to my great aunt. At the dining table and later in the elegant drawing room where she sat next to Helen on a chintzy two-seater settee while I occupied an enormous three-seater. There seemed to be a lot of excuses for touching, too, by Deborah. She enthused over Helen's jewellery -- she was only wearing a cultured pearl necklace -- and her choice of nail varnish colour -- it was red, so what.

But Deborah was a good host. The food was excellent and the conversation flowed and the time flew and almost before we knew it, it was midnight and we were putting our coats on in the hall and thanking our hostess for an excellent evening. I knew that Helen had enjoyed herself: her face was flushed and her eyes were sparkling. I was watching Deborah carefully and noted that she kissed my great aunt goodbye full on the mouth. But then she did the same to me and I had a fleeting sensation of her teeth against my lips before we were saying our final goodbyes and going down the short flight of stone steps to the gravelled driveway.

Back home we went straight to bed and Helen snuggled into my arms and we lay together, naked in the darkness.

'Well if I didn't know better I'd say that your friend Deborah fancies you,' I said, kissing the top of her head.

'Nonsense,' she retorted. 'Deborah's not like that. She was married. To a man.'

'So was Virginia Woolf,' I replied and there was silence for a while.

'She was quite attentive, wasn't she?'

'Yes, to you.'

'Are you jealous?' I could hear the smile in her voice.

'Mm, a bit.'

'Don't be. Even if I had a naughty little fling with her there'd still be plenty left for you.'

'Are you serious? You'd sleep with Deborah?' My voice must have been rising.

'Hush, darling. I don't know. Maybe.' I was thunderstruck. It just hadn't crossed my mind when I started teasing Helen about Deborah that she might actually respond to her friend's flirting. 'I told you right from the start, Peter, you've let the genie out of the bottle. Who knows where it might end?'

'Bloody hell, darling.'

'Would you mind if Deborah and I did... become intimate?'

'No,' I said, slowly. 'I suppose not.' The truth was that now I thought about it the idea seemed rather attractive. As Helen had said: "Who knows where it might end?". 'Would you tell Deborah about us?' I teased her.

'No! Of course not. For one thing we're breaking the law!'

The other thought that occurred to me that night as I lay awake, thinking about Helen and Deborah, was that if my great aunt was ok with a non-exclusive sexual relationship, then she could hardly complain if I too treated it as non-exclusive. Which meant that I shouldn't feel guilty about anything that might happen with my mother. Because I was starting to develop a burning desire to pursue a sexual relationship with her. The moral wrongness of it didn't bother me; I'd already committed incest with my great aunt. The stronger blood relationship with my mother made the prospect more exciting, not less. What I found more difficult to explain to myself was that I found my mother so physically desirable. She was thin and rather plain but I'd rather take her to bed than Deborah who was sexy and feminine and probably available. It was a puzzle.

A few weeks later mum phoned and said she'd be dropping in on Saturday lunchtime on her way to London. We'd had a few phone calls since the episode with her soiled panties but that topic hadn't been raised over the phone, although it was clearly the elephant in the room. No, it was bigger than that. The brontosaurus in the room perhaps.

Great Aunt Helen was still at her book club when mum arrived, though I was expecting her back at any moment. I made mum some lunch and we ate it at the kitchen table and chatted about this and that but not about black satin panties with damp gussets. An hour and a half later Helen had still not arrived and mum got up from the table and put her coat on.

'I can't wait any longer. Give your great aunt my best wishes.' We walked to the front door and mum turned and faced me. 'You must come over again one weekend,' she said, neutrally. I'll take you out for a meal again.'

'I'd like that.' Mum stepped forward and kissed me goodbye, that fleeting mouth to mouth contact again. I felt the blood thunder in my ears and I put my hands on her shoulders. 'I used your panties,' I said, trying not to stutter.

'She looked at me with her clear blue eyes. 'Yes,' she said, 'I thought you might.'

'Why did you leave them in my bedroom?'

She looked away, suddenly embarrassed. 'It's complicated. I was feeling lonely. Vulnerable.'

'Did you want me to come to your bed that night?' I asked, quietly.

She licked her lips. 'I don't know. It was all that talk about you and Helen. It made me feel isolated.'

I leaned forward and kissed her, pressing my mouth to hers and trying to open her lips. They parted only fractionally and I broke the kiss. 'I want you,' I said.

'Do you?'

'Yes. Is that too shocking?'

'It's frightening,' she said softly. 'It's incest, Peter.'