Mom, Aunt Clara & My Wandering Mind Pt. 01

Author's Note: Please take note of this story's category and tags, in case the subject matter might not be to your liking. Also, note this is Part 1 of a multi-part series and the heat will go up from Parts 2 onward which, by the way, have (mostly) already been written/planned out and will follow every few days until the series is complete. Thanks to NaughtySouthernGent for beta reading this first installment.

This is a work of fiction. The plot is fictional. The characters are fictional. It's not real life. Any resemblance to person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental. All fictional characters in this fictional story involved in fictional sexual activities are 18+ in their completely fictional lives. If you think you recognize a real-life someone in this story, you lead a more colorful life than the author. :-)

Lastly, and most importantly, I hope you enjoy the story!

-BizMe

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Mom, Aunt Clara & My Wandering Mind: Part 1

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"Aren't you forgetting something?"

That's how it began, with four simple words that pretty much described my entire life up to that point.

The first time I heard them was about as far back as I could remember when I was a kid. And since I was often forgetful, easily distracted, and sometimes a little spacey, I heard it a lot.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" I'd look down at my untied shoes.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" I'd left my lunch on the counter.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" I was about to walk out without kissing my stepmom on the cheek.

"You know how much it means when you give your mom a good-bye kiss, don't you?" She insisted I call her 'Mom' since she couldn't have kids herself and my biological birth mother had abandoned me at birth.

My stepmom said we were meant for each other. Otherwise, she'd never have had a child and I'd never have had a mom.

"I swear, Andrew. If your head wasn't screwed on, you'd forget that, too," she often teased.

"Sorry, Mom," I always replied in embarrassment. I said 'sorry' a lot. I guess my brain was so concerned about whatever came next that it kind of lost track of the here and now. That was my theory anyway. I always appreciated Mom's compassionate ability to laugh it off without making me feel stupid.

"You'll grow out of it," she'd said through my elementary years. But after I finished middle school and I still hadn't, I could tell she was starting to worry.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" My fly was open.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" She'd wrinkle her nose, her subtle way of telling me I should go take a shower.

Well into high school, it continued.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

If I stared blankly long enough, she'd let me off the hook and mercifully clue me in.

"Your shoes," she'd remind me for the thousandth time.

"Sorry, Mom," I'd mutter then slide off my shoes and set them by the front door which, by the way, I'd left open, letting out precious conditioned air into the wild outdoors. I knew Mom had noticed that, too; she was just too kind to mention it, with the hopes I'd noticed it, and, that time, I did.

Even I started to worry the older I got. I didn't want to end up a real-life 'absent-minded professor' or something like that—book-smart, but street-stupid. Able to solve complex math problems, but incapable of making toast.

When my Aunt Clara moved to town and started visiting us more often, my angst only increased. Had she been a 'regular' aunt, it probably wouldn't have been a big deal, but Aunt Clara was a practicing psychotherapist. My 'normal' aunts pinched my cheeks. Aunt Clara analyzed, chastised, and therapized me.

She was very well educated and liked to flaunt the fact. She was stern and flaunted that, too, as if it was a badge of honor to be condescendingly bitchy. She was hoity-toity—nearly the mirror opposite of her sister, except that they looked so similar.

One particular day, Mom was helping me with college applications, when Aunt Clara came by. I'd forgotten to submit them like I was supposed to my junior year and was scrambling now as a senior to find a college—any college—to accept me for the fall semester.

While Mom and I answered the same questions, over and over, just for different potential schools, Aunt Clara sat in the living room. She was quiet and, as they say in the movies, too quiet. I could see her out the corner of my eye if I turned my head just a tiny bit.

Why does she always wear such revealing outfits? I wondered silently. She must have just come here from her work. That's the kind of thing she wears in her office.

In my mind, I pictured her sitting in her posh old leather office chair, one scantily-clad leg crossed over the other with a clipboard in her hand and her reading glasses perched halfway down the bridge of her nose. She liked them there, I imagined, so she could look over them at some hapless, hormone-flummoxed young man she was counseling, himself lying flat on his back on her therapy couch, probably with a hard-on and trying desperately not to get caught looking at her long slender legs.

Aunt Clara had amazing legs—"legs for days," as they say—and she damn well knew what she was doing to the young man I had conjured. She knew he would be on edge, constantly distracted by her long legs, skin bare from her two-inch strappy heeled stilettos to the hem of her too-short black Saint Laurent pencil skirt. Yes, she knew what she was doing. Fucking cocktease.

"Andrew?" I heard a faint voice calling to me from the distance, but I ignored its call, choosing instead to recall how I knew so precisely what she was wearing—namely, the Saint Laurent pinstripe printed mini skirt, designer style: 580279Y127W, size 36, with a wool outer and 100% silk liner.

I knew all this because I had stayed at her house in the country for a week the previous summer helping my cousin Patrick trim some trees on their property. One day, as soon as Aunt Clara got home from work, Patrick left for baseball practice, leaving me alone with Aunt Clara. She stepped out of her black Lexus, one slim, clean-shaven, naked leg at a time.

"Andrew," that annoying voice again, calling faintly. Again, I ignored it, still fixated on Aunt Clara's slender leg in my peripheral vision and my penis inappropriately twitching in my shorts at the improper recollections of my aunt and how I'd learned so much about her sexy designer clothing. The blouse alone cost more than Mom brought home on a paycheck.

On that particular day I was recalling, Aunt Clara was wearing one of her favorite pairs of shoes, her bright red Bottega Veneta slingback kitten heels. Yes, I knew the brand and style of her shoes for the same reason I knew the brand, style, and size of her entire ensemble.

With Patrick gone to practice, I was left high and dry to finish cleaning a brush pile alone. I finished raking and sweeping and went into the house for a quick shower before helping Aunt Clara with supper.

That's when I saw her clothes strewn across her bed. (I was crossing the hall to the main bathroom when I just happened to glance into her bedroom as I passed by. I swear I wasn't creeping on her!) Anyway, just then I heard her bathroom door close and her shower starting. Against better judgment, I slowly inched my way closer to her door and peeked in. Convinced the coast was clear, I tiptoed into her room and touched her expensive, delicate clothing.

That's when I committed to memory the color, the brand, the size, the feel, every bit of information on the tags of her pinstriped pencil skirt, the blouse she had been wearing (a Chloé floral lace pointed collar blouse that was nearly as long as her skirt) and the bright shiny red Bottega Veneta slingback kitten heel shoes. I had a knack for memorizing things, which is not the same thing as remembering things, by the way—something Aunt Clara often reminded me of.

Each garment I handled sent a new surge of arousal through my body. The naughtiness of handling the same articles of clothing that had just recently been pressed against her body triggered shockwaves of desire that crumbled any sense of propriety.

I even handled her delicates, a Black silk Gilda & Pearl floral lace thong, and a matching black silk Rita lace bra. I held her thong to my nose and sniffed—I have no idea why, just instinct, I suppose—then I bolted out of the room when I heard the shower turn off and, a second or two later, her bathroom door open.

I raced down the hallway to the other bathroom, slammed the door shut (probably too loudly), and jumped into the shower. I would be lying if I said I hadn't jerked myself to relief on the spot and several times since over the repeated recollections of black silk and lace.

"Andrew!" that annoying voice finally broke through my reverie, startling me.

"What!?" I snapped back at my stepmom who had been trying to get my attention that entire time.

"We need to get this done, honey. I don't want to spend the rest of the day on this college crap. I've already worked half a shift and I need a nap. Please, try to focus. This was supposed to be my day off."

I glanced at Aunt Clara again, then back at Mom.

Why did Aunt Clara have to be here anyway? I wondered. I wouldn't be so distracted if I didn't know she was sitting there judging me.

I felt her observing me the entire time I sat there with a laser-like intensity that had me squirming in my seat.

Several more times, Mom would ask me a question and I'd be so distracted by the burning sensation I felt in the back of my head that I missed what she'd asked. Of course, I knew Aunt Clara caught every one of my slip-ups when Mom repeated a question.

Finally, we'd had enough of all the paperwork and called it good for the day. I put away all the forms and stacked them neatly in a binder before heading toward my room, relieved to finally get away from Aunt Clara's silent scrutiny.

"Hmm," she muttered quietly to herself while chewing on one arm of her spectacles just after I'd rounded the corner and into the hallway. "Could be a schizoid personality disorder," she'd said casually as if she was merely trying to think of another word for her crossword puzzle. She'd said it so flippantly. She'd also said it so loud.

"What did you say?" Mom gasped. "Are you serious, right now?"

Funny how Mom knew exactly what she was referring to. It was always on her mind and, obviously, Aunt Clara's, too.

I was shocked, to say the least, and a little bit pissed. Prissy, smart, Aunt Clara always knows everything about everything. And now she thinks I'm crazy? What does 'schizoid' even mean, anyway?

"Oh, damn," Aunt Clara startled just a bit, not realizing that Mom had come within earshot. "I was only thinking out loud, Mary. Don't pay me any mind. I'm sure that's not it. Besides, Andrew shows no other signs of it. I assure you. I was just, like I said, thinking out loud."

Aunt Clara always called me Andrew, despite no one else in my life doing so. I think she thought it made her sound more 'cultured' or 'refined' to not use people's nicknames. What could be more proper than proper names? I knew it was all fake though. I'd caught her slip up with other people's names more than once, so it was definitely for show.

"Yeah, but Clara, what if it is something serious? Do you think it might be... what you said?"

"No, Mary, I don't. I honestly don't think it's as serious as that," she reached for Mom's hand and guided her to sit on the couch before continuing.

"Absent-mindedness, which precisely describes Andrew's behavior, can be caused by several things." Her tone was haughty and slightly condescending, at least, I thought so. She sounded like a professor starting a lecture. 'Now class... open your textbooks to chapter nine... blah blah blah.'

Still, she was a licensed therapist and I was curious what she thought—as a professional only, not as my pretentious, superior aunt. I continued to listen surreptitiously from just around the corner.

"First, a very low level of attention can cause it. That's when he 'blanks out' or 'zones'. His brain essentially gets bored of whatever's happening at the moment and disengages."

"He does that a lot," Mom confirmed.

I couldn't disagree, though it pained me to hear it coming from smarty-pants Aunt Clara.

"Very treatable, Mary. With a bit more discipline, for starters."

Discipline? I thought silently, surprised by her initial assessment. Why would she even say that? I'm not a problem child. I don't get in trouble. I don't have a bad attitude. You know what? Up yours, Aunt Clara! You don't know anything!

"You're way too easy on him. He rarely got punished when his asshole dad was around and you provide almost no corrective guidance for him at all. You never have."

"So, this is my fault?" Mom asked, not defensively but out of concern and self-blame.

"Not at all, Mary," Aunt Clara assured her. "I'm just saying you haven't done him any favors, coddling him instead of correcting."

Coddling? What the hell, you hoity-toity bitch, I accused in my mind, My stepmom loves me, thank you very much. That's all there is to it. She doesn't coddle me. And I get grounded plenty. Hmph... coddling. That's a stupid word, anyway, Aunt Fancy-words. Couldn't think of a better word than that? Coddle. It even sounds funny when you say it. Coddle. Kah... dull... Kah-dull. Peach Coddler... Oh, wait. It's a peach cobbler. That's different.

I snapped out of my internal arguing in time to hear Aunt Clara move on to her next point.

"Another reason is if the subject is so hyper-focused on one thing that he becomes oblivious to everything else happening around him."

"Well," Mom paused, "he kind of does that, too. Sometimes. Like with video games, or tv."

"Normal stuff," Aunt Clara confirmed. "And again, highly treatable. I have some ideas, though I'm not sure you'd like them. And the last one," she continued, "is when the subject gets unreasonably distracted of his attention by random, usually irrelevant, thoughts or environmental stimuli."

English, please? I chastised in my mind before, to my amazement, it was as if she'd heard my thoughts.

"Let me explain. Environmental stimuli are simply things that are present around us. A phone ringing next door. A door closing. A bird flying by. Things happen around us all the time and we, quite appropriately, ignore them. Of course, sometimes we do need to be distracted by them. A fire alarm. A car horn for instance. So, it's a matter of prioritizing our attention to those stimuli that..."

Just then I heard it, as off right on cue, a car horn did honk, right outside our house. I heard it plain as day, though neither Mom, not Aunt Clara seemed to take notice at all.

How could they not hear that? I wondered. It was almost comical how that happened with such perfect timing. Almost as if it was orchestrated like it was part of a play.

It's probably our neighbor, Mrs. Swenson , I surmised. Locking her car doors remotely as if anyone would want to break into that old minivan she's had forever. When did she first get that thing? Was I in grade school still? Wow! I was! Fifth grade. Man, that was a long time ago. And the thing still doesn't even have any rust on it. She must keep it in the garage all the time. Oh, and she probably washes it a lot since they still use salt on the roads here in winter. I wonder if she washes it herself. Maybe when she's wearing that skimpy bikini and boy shorts I saw her in one time when she was gardening in her back yard.

"Right, Mary. Unreasonable or irrelevant, that's the key," Aunt Clara continued speaking.

Huh? What did I miss?

"Or like when a pretty girl walks by?" Mom asked.

Pretty girl? That phrase caught my attention.

"Of course, that can be another scenario... if the distraction was unreasonable or irrelevant. Is that something you've observed?" Aunt Clara asked.

"Well, he doesn't have a girlfriend," Mom continued, "and he's always a gentleman around women. He's normally pretty good about not fawning all over them..." Mom paused.

"But?" Aunt Clara sensed Mom was holding something back.

"Well... except Nadia Swenson, our next-door neighbor's daughter." Mom chuckled. "He gets all tongue-tied and goofy whenever she's around. I've even seen him walk into a closed-door once, just because she waved at him."

"Ah," Aunt Clara chuckled along with her. "So, he's a virgin still, too," Aunt Clara stated as if Mom had just answered a question that hadn't even been asked.

"Well, I... I have no idea. I mean, we've never discussed... How can you ask me something like that?" Mom questioned.

I wondered the same thing. God, I can't stand you, Aunt Clara. What do you care if I'm still a virgin? It's none of your goddamn business, nosy bitch.

"Oh, you don't have to discuss it with him. I'm sure he's still a virgin—a chaste, untouched, eager little colt who has no idea what to do with that thing dangling in his pants," my meddling aunt said crassly.

"Clara! How you talk!" Mom gasped in shock. "We're talking about my son."

"Technically, your stepson," she corrected. "And he's not also a young man?" Aunt Clara countered, dismissively. "Besides, you're still a woman the last I checked."

"The last you checked?" Mom chuckled uncomfortably. "I assure you; I still am and no one needs to check." This time she outright giggled.

"Well, if it isn't me, someone ought to. Are you even sure your parts are still there?" Aunt Clara pressed.

"Trust me," Mom assured her. "My parts are all there and they work perfectly fine."

Oh Gawd, I don't want to hear this. I so don't need to hear about my stepmom's sex life or her parts.

"I meant an assessment by someone other than yourself," Aunt Clara jabbed mercilessly.

"It's getting regular attention, okay?" Mom defended with a vagueness that, of course, Aunt Clara picked up on.

"I don't mean with that dildo you have hidden in your night table, Mar."

Aunt Clara's prissy tone had faded away unexpectedly as she called Mom by her childhood nickname. It was this version of Aunt Clara that I quite liked. This Aunt Clara was fun and funny. She laughed and her giggle sounded a lot like Mom's. Unfortunately, most of the time, the other Aunt Clara was in charge.

"How do you know about..." Mom gasped, then acted a bit ruffled. "I had that hidden for a reason, Clara! What were you doing snooping around anyway? And when?"

"Snooping? Right. I shouldn't have used the word 'hidden' at all. Because you keep it so hidden away in your nightstand—the same place you told me I'd find some Ibuprofen the other day. Remember that?"

"Oh..." Mom instantly ceded, not wanting to discuss it any further.

"Listen, all I'm saying, Mary, is that Andrew is an eighteen-year-old male virgin."

Back to 'Mary.' Back to 'Andrew.'

"He's a sexually frustrated young man, raging with hormones, who hasn't even dipped his cock yet. It's a fact. He could use some education, maybe a lot of it, as well as some real-life experience. I guarantee you he doesn't know half of what he should, the way you've sheltered him his whole life, so he's experienced practically nothing.

"And you need to make sure you get tended to, too. Or have you decompletely forgotten what that's like? Hm? I'm telling you, Mary, it's amazing what getting laid can do for the psyche."