Twin Aunt Ch. 01

"Sure."

"If that is too personal or makes you uncomfortable, I will understand."

Uncomfortable is not the word I'd use. "No trouble at all."

My parents bought a book on massage to teach my sisters and I the proper techniques. I can still recite the 5 basic principles: 1. warm up—basically, start light and build pressure gradually; 2. know your client's pain tolerance; 3. flush tissues after deeper work—i.e.: cool down like you warmed up; 4. slow, rhythmic massage relaxes, and 5. faster, painful massage builds muscle tone.

Under Principle 4 are many really fun techniques, including one our mother insisted on: the hands must touch skin—preferably lubed with oil—not clothing. By puberty, I often imagined using those techniques on someone other than my Mom.

While I chopped, casually as possible, I chatted about these techniques. Mom says she can always tell when I am nervous by how chatty I get. The more I babble, the more nervous I am. Oddly, Aunt Cassie hung on every word. "I definitely want slow and rhythmic because these poor muscles need to relax. Oil sounds great, but that probably takes more time than we have. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, just working out some of these kinks before I start making the cornbread will be fine."

"Sure. If this does not cure you, we can always step it up next time."

With the chili simmering, Aunt Cassie sat Indian style on the couch; I leaned against the arm behind her. "Is it okay if I lift your shirt a little?"

"If that's what the book says." Seriously, I am not making it up. Skin on skin—look it up if you don't believe me! I lifted enough to reveal her low back and warmed her up. Up under her shirt, too, to warm her middle back, and then started digging my thumbs in, gradually harder and harder.

"The muscles on the right are very tight."

"That's where it hurts!" Obviously impressed by my expertise, her body rocked with my thumbs and she moaned occasionally, leaning forward to give me purchase. "That's good. Maybe a little higher?"

Pressing my second knuckles through her shirt, she flinched when I found the spot. "On the right, there, too. Can I lift your shirt a little higher?"

"Whatever you need for those magical hands of yours to find the spot." Those magical hands that located the spot also felt no bra strap across her back. Sliding her shirt higher revealed another foot or so of freckles, but it got hung up there. A quick tilt to the side revealed the fabric was caught under her boobs. Damn! Soon, though, my thumbs had her rocking and grunting with pleasure and pain. Gentle motions up and down cooled her down.

"Did I get it?"

"Can you go a little higher? Right beside the shoulder blade?"

"Sure, just need to lift your shirt up..." Before I got it out, she lifted it to her underarms, obviously realizing why I stopped where I did. Arms tight to her side blocked my view, even with a good side lean. Damn! Still, just knowing she sat bare-breasted while I rubbed her back produced the now-familiar, inappropriate physical response in my pants.

"Oh, that's good," she sighed, then leaned forward, hands braced on her knees. This new position opened up a terrific viewing opportunity. A little tilt my head to the side and there was side-boob! Like her cleavage, the side and the curve of the bottom of her breasts were also covered with delightful freckles, and each flex of my thumbs moved her whole body forward and sent her boobs swaying with the same slow rhythm that relaxes muscles.

Leaning over to the side caused a crick in my neck that might need her to return the favor, but the display was worth the effort. The deeper I dug my thumbs, the deeper she moaned and the more her boobs swayed.

Noise at the front door made us jump and turn together. The deadbolt turned from outside. Only Mom could be unlocking the door at this hour. Aunt Cassie yanked her shirt down over her boobs and I swung my feet onto the floor just as the door opened.

I started to speak, to come up with some cover story to explain us sitting together on the couch, but my aunt beat me to the punch. "Your son was just giving me a back rub."

"He was what?"

"It's been tight since the accident, and the star student of your massage school offered his services."

"Well, I am glad he can put his skills to good use. He's good, isn't he?"

"Good? He's amazing!"

And that's how we got my mother's blessing for me to massage my aunt.

* * * * *

Because of our lousy season and last-place position, maybe 50 people showed up to watch. It was pathetic. Families of all the seniors were there to cheer on their last game, except mine. Aunt Cassie was my only family member in attendance, wearing my mom's borrowed shirt with our school mascot to show her support.

In the first half, I scored a goal on a long-range shot from outside the penalty box. Aunt Cassie cheered loud enough for me to hear all the way across the field, but at halftime, we were losing 2-1. By the second half, I was having my best game of the season. The goalkeeper blocked a shot by our striker, and it rebounded right to me for an easy tap-in. 2-2. Then the other team scored, and our striker headed one of my crosses in to tie us at 3-all.

The other team went into full-attack mode, pushing everyone forward trying to score in the final minutes. We hung on for dear life hoping for the consolation of ending the season with a face-saving tie. I loitered at the midfield line in case we got the ball back. Suddenly, a defender kicked the ball my way, and I sprinted for it. Their goalkeeper was way out of the penalty box, and the scoreboard showed we were already 2 minutes into stoppage time, so I kicked the ball hard as I could toward the goal. Backpedaling fast as he could, the keeper tried to get to it, but the ball sailed over his head, and as he fell over backward swatting desperately, it hit the back of the net.

The ref blew the whistle 3 times, ending the game. Aunt Cassie's voice rose above the rest of the crowd—I recognized it because she sounded exactly like Mom. "That was incredible," she said, greeting me on the sidelines with arms wide, offering me a big hug, the first since I sprang a boner on her when she lost her car. A boner in these shorts in front of my team and their parents would be impossible to hide, so I tried to ignore her and think of that damn shot that won the game.

Luckily, that worked.

"Your parents should have been here to see that," she said to my neck.

I pulled away because I felt twitching inside my pants. The team high-fived for a while. One of my teammates congratulated me and said, "I haven't seen your mom in a while, but I don't remember her being such a MILF." I saw no need to correct him.

On the drive back, Aunt Cassie asked, "What do you have planned for your 18^th birthday? It's only a week away."

"Oh, I don't know. I broke up with my girlfriend, so..."

"So I heard."

"Yeah, well, she had been planning the party since January. I'll probably end up eating chips and guac. Mom will bake me a cake."

"A piece of advice?"

"Sure."

"Take it from someone who's spent a few miserable years—have fun. Enjoy yourself. You only turn 18 once, so take a risk. Try something new and exciting. I know, I sound like your mom. Trust me: you won't regret it. And, if you do, you are still young; you'll get over it!"

* * * * *

At school Monday, I ran into Carla in the hall. She said hi, and I reacted badly. I was in a bad place. All I really remember saying was "slut" and "fuck you," but there was more. In hindsight, my lack of creativity was the most embarrassing part. Carla's friends were all pissed at me, and while a couple of my buddies high-fived me, most said I'd gone too far. So did the dean, who threatened to suspend me, but he is a soccer fan, so I suppose my hat-trick on Saturday may have saved me.

But, days before my 18^th birthday, my outburst made me a pariah amongst my friends. Great job, Kev!

Soon after class let out, I got a text.

Is your taxi running?

Sure. Gym?

Yes.

B there in 10

TY <3

<3? WTF?

Surely nothing more than a 47-year-old woman trying to be cool, right? That 47-year-old woman stood outside waiting when I pulled up, wearing the same yoga pants stretched over a 30-year-old's ass. Ok, 25, tops. Still no camel toe, although I made sure to check. This time, she wore a tight workout top that struggled against two pokies.

"How was your day?" She had started smiling again recently.

"Don't ask."

"Oh, it can't be that bad, can it?" I assured her it was and gave her the details to prove it. "Oh, I'm so sorry. At least you did not get suspended.

"Don't tell Mom, okay? She won't understand. I really don't use that kind of language."

"Well, she is a slut, so she deserved it. I say, good for you. But it will be our secret; not a word to your parents."

When we got home, my aunt stretched, twisted and generally hinted at what she wanted.

"Don't I owe you a massage?"

"Now that you mention it... Do you have any oil?"

"Mom does; we'll use hers."

"Give me a few minutes to get ready. Don't forget the oil!"

It was the first time I'd been in the guest room since she'd been there, and it was a mess. Still living out of her suitcase, with a few Amazon boxes delivered since. But that is not what had my attention that day. Aunt Grace lay topless on her bed, crossed forearms a pillow. Breasts bulged deliciously underneath her. I'd put my money on them being C-cups, but perhaps they were Bs.

"Don't be shy," she said. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I rubbed coconut oil between my palms to warm it, then began above the waistline of her jeans, thanking the gods she wore them so I could concentrate. "Mmm. That is much better. Smells like coconuts."

"It's coconut oil."

"Reminds me of the beach. Panama Jack. Back when I was your age, we didn't use sunscreen, but when we'd go sunbathing, we'd rub Panama Jack oil all over our bodies. Smelled just like that. Your mother'd rub it on my back and I oiled her up. It's a wonder neither of us has skin cancer."

"You've got very nice skin." Christ, there I go again. Hell, I had her shirt off, and if I kept saying stupid things, she'll have it on again in ten seconds.

"If you like freckles. Most men don't like them."

"I like freckles." What the hell was wrong with me? My face burned again, so deeply I worried she'd look up and see it glowing bright as Rudolph's nose, but her eyes remained closed and she didn't lift her cheek off her arms.

"What can I say—you have impeccable taste."

"It's kinked in the same place." Warm enough, I pressed with a thumb on either side of her spine and she let out her first loin-stirring moan. "Too hard?"

"Don't worry, I'll let you know if it's too hard," she answered, so I dug in deeper

"Does it feel good?"

"Good doesn't begin to cover it." When her moans decreased, I warmed more oil and moved up a few inches. "Do you remember when you were little, your sisters called me Auntie Cassie. Come to think of it, once you started talking, you called me that, too."

"I do remember."

"I always liked that, the way it rhymes."

"If you want, I can call you Auntie Cassie."

"Now that you are a grown man, it doesn't sound quite right. Ow! Oh, there's the spot!"

"Too hard?"

"Not yet."

I could not say the same thing. "This knot is hard as a rock." Hooking my fingers around the side of her rib cage gave more leverage, but sitting beside her did not allow me to put my weight into it. Auntie Cassie must have been reading my mind.

"Your fingers are so strong."

"They need to be to work out this kink." Eventually, I wore down the knot and moved higher. Her body was so thin my hands fit all the way around her rib cage, thumbs along either side of the row of vertebra protruding down her back. Holding her this way not only allowed my thumbs to grind away the spasms but my fingertips were fractions of an inch from those seductive breast bulges on each side.

Once again, she was a mind-reader. "What do you suppose your mother would say if she saw us like this?"

"I don't want to think about it."

"She gave you her seal of approval."

"This probably isn't what she imagined."

It made her laugh. "No, you are right about that." Laughing moved her boob-bulges, requiring my full attention. "Kevin, this does not make you uncomfortable, does it?"

"Not at all. Should it?"

"It might most guys."

"Why? Are we doing anything wrong?"

"It's only a massage, right?"

"Right."

"Nothing wrong with a man giving a woman a massage, is there?"

"No."

"A really, really good massage."

"Is it working?"

"Oh, you have no idea!"

"You might be surprised." The tips of the fingers on one had bumped against her bulging breast. Accidentally, of course. Two or three times—I lost count. Not a flinch or warning side-glance up at me, but I did notice the corner of her lips curl up ever so slightly, and I can't recall that before the little incidental contact.

To cool down, I rubbed my palms and fingers down her back, following the grain of the muscles from top to bottom and lightly pressed the heel of my hands back up. Cool down is the term our massage book uses, but it might not have applied here. It must have affected her the same way. "That was amazing."

"Feel better now?"

A roll of her shoulders and a sensuous wave down her back tested out my handiwork. "Much better."

For reasons I still cannot explain, I lightly slapped her twice with both hands just below the shoulder blades, making a light clapping sound, then stood. "There you go. I should let you..."

"Thank you, Kevin."

"Any time, Aunt Cassie.

* * * * *

Mom and Aunt Cassie cooked birthday dinner for me. After cake, they gave me presents. Aunt Clara picked out a nice shirt she really could not afford, but looked great. A few friends took me out after. Mom called after me, "Have fun, but remember, it's a school night—be home by 10!"

"On my birthday?"

"Yes. 10 sharp."

So, it wasn't actually a party, but several people showed up. I ended up making out with this girl named Maria who wasn't all bad, but was at least 3 quality levels below Carla. Oh, who am I kidding? Maria is a skank, but I really wanted a revenge fuck, until I realized you can't get revenge on one of the hottest girls in your school by screwing a skank. At 10 I went home, and although I didn't get there until almost 10:30, my parents gave me a pass. They were already in bed, so maybe they didn't know.

The whole house was dark and quiet, so I scarfed another piece of cake and went upstairs. Soon as I closed the door, I heard fingernails rapping lightly, and my aunt came in. "I heard you come home. Mind if I come in?"

"No, it's still early."

She sat on the bed. "I remember the night you were born. I was there, you know."

"You were?"

"Sure was. You don't think one twin lets the other go through childbirth alone, do you? I was there for your two sisters, too. I'll never forget it. You were late then, too. About 5 'til midnight, I figured you'd be born the next day, when suddenly you were ready, and 2 minutes before midnight, you were screaming and beautiful. Your mother handed you to me before she even gave you to your father—I passed you along to him. So, I guess you can say I've known you longer than anyone other than your Mom."

"That's cool. I never heard that before."

"Yes, 17 years, 22 hours and, what, 16, 15 minutes ago, you opened your eyes, took one look at me and screamed your lungs out!"

"Sorry. I don't remember the incident, but it probably wasn't anything personal."

"Back then, I looked just like your mother, so you were probably just hungry and wondering why I was wearing a shirt." I don't remember Aunt Cassie having a sense of humor, but, then again, she hasn't had a lot to laugh at for the last 5 or 6 years, with Uncle Denny's illness.

"Back when we turned 18, that was the drinking age, so your mother and I went to a bar, showed our real IDs and ordered drinks. Mine was a sloe gin fizz, and your mother ordered a mimosa. Can you imagine, your first legal drink, you can have anything, and you order a mimosa?"

"Sloe gin fizz sounds pretty lame, too, you know."

"Oh, but it is delicious, and pretty strong. I had just started dating your Uncle Denny then, and that night was the first time we... but you don't want to hear about that, do you?"

To be honest, maybe. But I wasn't honest, and treated her question as a hypothetical. "Now I need to wait three years to order my first drink."

"Technically, three years, one hour and twelve minutes. Luckily, they just go by the date, right? It's not fair that you can't celebrate your 18^th the way we did."

"That's okay, Aunt Cassie, I've gotten drunk before. But, don't tell me Mom."

"Your secrets are safe with me. Tell you what: wait right there." She disappeared, and I figured she went to the bathroom or something, but she returned seconds later carrying a bottle of Gin & Juice. "Want some?"
"Where did you get that?"

"What do you think I was doing in my room all that time?"

"Getting hammered?"

"Sometimes. This year's been hard for me. The last several years. Do you have any glasses in here?"

"No; I'll go get some." The moment I started to stand, she put her hand on my wrist.

"Don't, you might wake them. You don't mind drinking from the bottle, do you?"

Fuck it! "Bottle's good."

"Happy birthday!" After holding bottle as a toast, her pink lips wrapped around the open top and she slowly tilted the bottle up. I watched the colorful liquid pass over her lips. She handed me the bottle. "Did you get what you wanted for your birthday?"

"Not quite. Don't get me wrong, I love the shirt you gave me."

"But you wanted something else."

"You can say that."

"What did you want?"

"Remember what you said about taking a risk? Did you mean it?"

"Of course."

"What if I want something the other person doesn't want to give me, or can't give me? Does that include asking for something that might offend or upset someone?"

"I'm sure you would not ask for anything that would offend anyone, Kevin."

"And if I did?"

"Then the person will probably just say sorry and not worry about it. It's your birthday; you are perfectly entitled to ask for a brand-new Ferrari, but you might just get a shirt. You never know until you ask."

"Hmm." I was petrified and my face was on fire. A blind person would have known how much I was blushing. Most people considered me a good kid, and what I wanted to do was so far beyond anything I had ever tried. Even with my girlfriends, I never was this bold. If I had to guess, at best I gave it 25% odds of working, 75% chance she's run screaming to her room. Probably 60/40 she would not tell my Mom.

A shaking hand reached for the fly of my pants and unzipped it.

Okay, she didn't run. Good so far. For like 10 seconds or 10 hours she stared into my eyes, then slowly looked down to my lap and my gaping fly. Without saying a word, she reached inside, her fingers brushing against the stiff rod in my boxers. Following the sides. Searching. Faster and more desperate, her fingers searched around inside my pants.

"Do your boxers have a fly? I can't find it."

"Oh, shit!" How did I forget I put on a pair of boxer briefs without a functioning fly, the only access through the waistband? "These don't."

"Don't worry," she said, her sly grin easing my most recent humiliation in front of her as her hand slipped down inside the waistband of my pants and her fingers pulled open the boxer's elastic enough to slide her fingers between it and my fuzzy lower stomach. Electricity shot through my body the instant her fingertips touched my wood, caressed it, gripped it.