The Devil In Aunt Dee - Seduction

In hindsight, the path of seduction had been clearly marked by bright lights along the road. There was an orange sign that said, "Dangerous Curves Ahead". The door of the house on Walnut Street had a neon "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter" sign blinking over it. But sometimes the lure of transgression is strong. To strong. We can blame curiosity. We can blame lust. The secret, silent, thrill of the forbidden and the taboo has sirens call that draws us in. It starts innocently enough, a lingering gaze, a casual touch, a forbidden picture. It ends in screams of pleasure, regardless of who seduces who. It ends in a question. Who is the Devil in Aunt Dee?

Aunt Dee was his mother's younger sister, younger by three years. She'd moved east from their small midwestern town in Illinois in her late teens following some indescribable scandal, and so was a distant figure through his youth, spoken of, seen in pictures, heard on the phone. When the relatives gathered and talked of Aunt Dee, at some point in the conversation someone would say, "Well, she had a devil inside her, that's for sure."

He'd always wondered what that meant. When he'd left home, he'd gone to a private college just outside of Boston. Aunt Dee lived three small towns over, an hour's bus ride away, and she made it a point to invite him over for lunch or dinner on weekends, or to spend the night when his roommates were away, so he wouldn't be lonely or homesick. He'd grown to love those weekends.

Aunt Dee was a physical force, from the sweet scent of her honey blond hair on down. She stood just a hair over five foot four inches, all feminine grace. Her body was full and sensuous, always well-dressed, always moving in small, graceful ways that draw the eye and fire the imagination. Her shirt was always open that one extra button, showing a few inches of warm and inviting cleavage.

When she hugged him in greeting the embrace was always tight, enveloping him in her scent and the warmth of her body. When she walked beside him, she would loop her arm through his, so that she was pressed against him, her body bumping into him, or sliding along his. When she sat opposite him, she would watch him speaking, giving him her full attention, seemingly basking in his presence. When she sat next to him, she would sit close, sometimes leaning into him, so her softness was always present. When they were together, she would always find an excuse to touch him, to place her hand upon his knee or his thigh, to pat his chest, to rub his stomach, to caress his hands.

She was a gracious host. On one of the early visits, she'd given him an album of family photos. It was mostly innocent. Pictures of her and his mother growing up, pictures of the extended family, pictures of small-town life. One night, back in his dorm room, as he sat watching TV and casually looking through the album, he discovered a lone picture. It was tucked in behind another picture, as if it was left behind accidentally when the album was loaded with family images.

It was a picture of Aunt Dee standing there, head tilted down and to the side, a sly look on her face. She was gazing directly into the camera, as if she was challenging the unseen photographer. She was wearing a faded blue denim shirt, tied at the waist, otherwise open down the front. The full curve of her right breast could be seen, a beautiful globe, tanned and luxurious. Her left breast was similar, but more exposed. The hard point of her brown nipple peeked out from the open front of denim. The smooth and muscular planes of her abdomen were taut, the ridges of muscle slightly shadowed. She was wearing a pair of simple white lace panties. The dark shadow of pubic hair visible, the faintest outline of her pussy lips a tantalizing promise of sexuality.

It was the sort of picture taken by and shared with a lover. The pose was sexual and defiant. That night, in the quiet darkness of his college dorm room, he masturbated to the picture. As he lay there stroking his cock, long, thick, and hard, he imagined himself fucking his Aunt, his mother's sister, in the missionary position. In his imagination he could heard her voice, moaning in pleasure as he impaled her, pumping in and out, his cock slick with her juices. When he came, he shot streams of white sperm across the planes of his own abdomen, a thick load, creamy and full.

For three nights, the picture of Aunt Dee was his last night companion. Each night he would masturbate before he fell asleep, imagining her body as revealed in the picture, twisting, and turning under him. He would imagine her voice, whispering "Fuck me." softly in his ear, or moaning into the night. He would imagine the feel of her nipple, the softness of her breast under his hand, or her taste upon his tongue.

When he first went to visit her after the discovery of the picture, he'd found himself acutely aware of her sensuousness. He found himself blushing without warning. She caught him once and asked him about it. He never could remember what he told her, but he made some innocent excuse and blushed deeper. She thought it was cute. He couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination, but he thought she started teasing him a bit more. More lingering touches. More casual brushes of her body when she moved past him, lingering a bit longer when she hugged him.

She did his laundry over the weekend. While she did, he imagined her finding his fitted cotton boxer shorts and found himself blushing again, imagining her holding them and raising them to her face to smell them before throwing them in the washing machine. He wondered if he was going crazy as his sexual obsession with her took hold. He still hadn't seen or met the Devil in Aunt Dee, but her sexuality was like her perfume, always present, always a beautiful distraction.

On the bus ride home after the weekend he convinced himself it was all his fevered mind working overtime, that he was becoming obsessed with her because he was a young man and the tangle of lust and desire was never far from the forefront of his imagination. He managed to chuckle at his own folly when he unpacked his bag, placing his clothes back into the dresser and wardrobe in his college dorm room.

Something small and delicate and pink fell from his laundry bag. He bent over and picked it up. It was a pair of soft pink French cut panties, with a tiny rose at the front. He was instantly hard. He glanced nervously around to make sure no one was watching. Then he unfolded them and held them up to inspect them closely. How had they ended up with his laundry? Had they been in the washer or dryer and inadvertently become tangled with his clothes when she repacked his bag?

He held them to his face and drew in the scent. They smelled of Aunt Dee, faintly, her perfume and some other, muskier scent. He imagined her standing in the laundry room, glancing out to make sure he was still in the living room, and then swiftly pulling them down and stepping out of them before slipping them in amongst his clothes.

That night, as he lay in bed, stroking his cock, he imagined that scenario, over and over, her peeling her panties down, slipping them into his bag, until he neared his orgasm. Then, holding them to his face, inhaling that faint scent, he came and he came hard. His cum was a jet of warmth that shot up across his chest before pulsing again and again onto his stomach.

It was three or four weeks of preparing for spring finals before he made it back over to see her. During that time, he thought of her almost constantly, so much so it distracted him from his studies. It took all his willpower to put the panties and the picture away and focus on the upcoming tests. With finals week fast approaching she invited him over for the long weekend before they started. He almost didn't go, but convinced himself he needed the break. When he called her to confirm he was coming, she told him to bring a pair of swim trunks because, with spring unfolding, she'd opened her pool. She told him that she'd enjoyed doing laundry for him on the previous visit, so to be sure and bring his dirty laundry.

He spent that night imagining her, in a variety of swimsuits, swimming and lounging about. The mental images distracted him and aroused him. At near midnight he found himself laying on top of his sheets, naked, his lean body trembling, panties in his fist and his fist wrapped around his cock, again, slowly stroking it, feeling the silk slide over his cock, just barely grazing it in his loose grip.

So engrossed in the sensation was he that when he came, he came with little or no warning. One moment lost in the feel of her panties, the next pulsating waves of cum pouring from his cock. Without intending to, he came on the panties, accidentally staining them with a healthy spurt of sperm.

The next morning, as he packed his overnight bag and his laundry bag, he remembered to slip his swim trunks in and, on impulse, a pair of his competition speedos. He stood over his laundry bag for a long time, holding the cum-stained panties. Part of him wanted to slip them back into his drawer. Part of him said it was an innocent mistake and she'd see what he had done to them, find it weird and creepy, and cast him out of her life. Another part of him said no, it wasn't a mistake, she'd wanted him to find the panties, she'd deliberately slipped them into his bag. Returning them in their cum-stained condition would tell her he'd found them and used them to pleasure himself.

He'd managed to convince himself to leave them behind. Then, at the last moment, impulsively, he neatly tucked them into the corner of the laundry bag, zipped it shut, and headed out the door for the short walk to the university bus depot. On the hour-long ride over he obsessed about the panties and at the last minute, pulled them discretely out of his laundry bag and slipped them into his jacket pocket.

That evening, once they'd had a simple pasta and chicken dinner, they took a swim. The swimming pool, in the backyard of the house, was small. The water was warm and comfortable. He wore the swimming trunks he'd packed, black and boxer style. Aunt Dee wore a pale blue one piece. They spent the evening around the pool area, laughing, talking, and periodically slipping into the pool to splash around as the evening slowly faded to night.

He tried not to stare at her body. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to imagine her from the picture or imagine her in pink panties. He tried, mostly successfully, not to let his arousal show, though there were times when his cock, half erect, pressed against the front of his swimsuit. When her nipples, hard from the water or the cool breeze, pressed through the front of her one piece he tried not to stare, but when she was looking away, his eyes would roam over the feminine curves of her body.

Aunt Dee complimented him on his form several times. Simple compliments about his muscles, about his overall appearance. As usual, she found multiple excuses to touch him. She had her hand over his biceps, gave them a little squeeze. She admired his shoulders, broad and muscular, running her hands across them. Once, as they sat side by side at the edge of the pool, she seemed to unconsciously drop her hand to his thigh, caress it once or twice, and give it a small squeeze.

In the pool she was even more physical. Swimming up to him and playfully trying to dunk him under the water, her body rising and then sliding down his as she tried to push him down. Coming up behind him and mounting his back, her breasts pressed against him, her thighs wrapped around his waist, asking him, no, commanding him, to give her a ride while swimming. As they mock wrestled in the pool, her hands roamed over his slick form, seeking purchase, and caressing him. Several times she brushed against his erection, hidden under water, but she never mentioned it. Once she lingered, pressed against him, his erection pressed against her ass, and then slowly slipped away.

While they wrestled in the water, she twisted and slipped, trying to pull away, and he ended up with his hand firmly grasping her by her soft left breast. She gasped as he squeezed hard, trying to get a purchase on her, and realizing that he had her full breast tight in his grip, he swiftly let go. She pulled away for a second and, seemingly embarrassed, adjusted her suit and regained her composure, looking slightly flustered.

After the evening of swimming, after they had watched a movie, and both gone to their bedrooms to sleep, he lay awake and quietly, soundlessly, masturbated twice. His imagination was rich with the bodily contact of the swimming session, with images of her, wet in the one piece, her honey blond hair slicked down. He came the first time, found he was still erect, and came a second time.

Later in the night, somewhere around 2:00 AM, something woke him up. Uncertain, he lay there in the darkness, wondering what had pulled him from his sleep, and he swore he heard a single, deep, protracted moan, and then silence. He wasn't sure if he had heard anything or if it had simply been his imagination. He strained against the silence, listening carefully, but no other sounds echoed through the house. He masturbated a third time. This time, when he came, he moaned once, soft, and deep.

Saturday dawned bright and clear. When he woke, showered, and ventured downstairs, Aunt Dee was already up and making breakfast. She was dressed for the sunny day, wearing a light, gauzy, wrap and a two-tone pink bikini, the top cupping her breasts and the bottoms barely visible through the translucent fabric. Breakfast was strawberry waffles, eggs over easy, bacon and toasted English muffins, with butter and jam. He'd dressed that morning in khaki shorts and a faded black T-shirt.

Over breakfast conversation, Aunt Dee mentioned that she had started his laundry and she had a question for him. When he told her to go ahead and ask it, she disappeared into the laundry room for a minute and then came back, holding something behind her.

"Why," she asked, a sly grin crossing her face, "did you not wear these yesterday?"

She pulled her hand from behind her back and held up his competition speedo. She hooked a thumb through each leg and spread them out. She looked from the speedos, to him, and back again with a slow, deliberate expression. Then she quizzically cocked one eyebrow.

He blushed uncontrollably.

"I didn't want to scare you," he replied, unable to look her in the face.

Her laughter was light and musical. "Well," she said, "when we finish breakfast go put them on and let's hit the pool for a morning swim, it won't be the first speedo I've seen."

He nodded in agreement, still blushing.

"You've got a beautiful body," she told him, "Don't be afraid to show it to the world. Trust me when I tell you that, though some women will voice some puritanical displeasure, they're all going to be looking. Besides, you never know when you're going to take a place in some idle, married, bored woman's fantasy line up."

After breakfast, they did dishes side by side. She glided around him, brushing against him, gently pushing him into the counter, bumping him with her hip to move him aside, placing her hand in the small of his back to move him this way or that. He did the same, guiding her body this way and that as they maneuvered around the kitchen sink. For the first time, he let his hands linger on her body, returned the casual caresses of her arms, her shoulders, her back. Once, he brushed a stray strand of her hair out of her eyes and for a long moment stared into their green depths. When they finished dishes she suddenly and playfully slapped him on the ass and told him to go get into his speedo and meet her at the pool.

He took the speedo into the bathroom and changed into it. His cock was three quarters erect and it was a tight fit. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. There was no hiding the prominent bulge. He tried to will it down. His cock did not obey. He took a deep breath, then another. He felt as if he was floating, his mind a tangle of arousal and adrenaline. Several deeper breaths and he was quietly, surreally, floating. He turned and walked through the house, out through the door, and into the pool area. He was immensely conscious of how he was dressed, the skintight swimsuit tightly clinging to his cock and balls.

Aunt Dee was waiting in the pool area, sitting on one of the loungers. Her green eyes watched him carefully as he strode out, crossed the pavers, and stopped in front of her. She looked him up and down slowly, carefully.

"How are you feeling?"

He took a deep breath.

"Exposed," he answered honestly.

She laughed lightly.

"Now you know how a woman feels in a bikini," she said, "That tangle of sexy and exposed. For what it's worth, you're beautiful."

Then, she turned, dropped her wrap, and dove into the pool. He had a brief flash of her round ass and the narrow pink wedge of the bikini bottoms as she disappeared under the water. He took a few steps and dove in after her, the shock of the water embracing him and cascading over him. They surfaced at the same time and she swam toward him, stopping a few feet in front of him. Her eyes were bright, and she gave him a wicked smile.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"It's not the first time I've worn them," he said, "Just the first time I wore them in front of my Aunt."

She treaded water.

"How does that make you feel, knowing that I am your Aunt?"

"Honestly," he replied, "It's a combination of self-conscious and aroused. I know you're my Aunt and it's supposed to be wrong, but at the same time, my body responds to your body, and I don't think our bodies know you're related to me."

"Oh," she said, "do you think my body is responding to yours?"

He started to blush then, aware that under the cover of the water his cock had gone to full erection and was straining against the tight confirms of the swimsuit. She held the silence for a long time, waiting for his answer, her wicked grin of anticipation unchanged. She closed the distance between them and pressed her warm body against him. Her slowly moving thigh brushed against his cock and he nearly came.

She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "I imagine how hard you are right now nephew."

Then she laughed and turned and swam away from him.

They frolicked in the pool for the next hour so, swimming, splashing each other, playing an impromptu game of tag. Finally, she turned, swam a few strokes to the ladder, and climbed out of the pool. He watched her slick body rise from the cover of the pool, the water cascading off it. He watched the slight sway of her breasts, bound by the bikini top, and the curving, flexing, hypnotic sway of her ass as she climbed the ladder onto the deck.

She picked up one of the plush, white, Turkish cotton towels and quickly dried her face, then squeezed some of the water out of her honey blond hair. She gestured to him to come out of the pool, beckoning him.

He swam to the ladder and pulled himself up with a strong flex of his arms and a few quick steps. She held up the towel.

"Help me dry off," she said.

Was it his imagination or was there a change in the tone of her voice? Something slightly deeper and a little husky.

She turned her back on him after she handed him the towel. He hesitated for a moment and then began to wipe the water from her shoulders, all the way down to the small of her back. She held her left arm out. He carefully dried it off, then repeated the process on her raised right arm.

"Left leg," she said. This time he was certain, her voice was different, deeper, huskier with a slight tremelo.

He squatted and, using both hands, slid the thick towel downward to her ankles, and then back up.

"Right leg," she said. He repeated the process, slowing down slightly, making it more of a long, lingering caress.