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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 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 Kıbrıs Escort 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 Magosa Escort 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 Girne Escort 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 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.”

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