Dagmar's Diary
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2018 by Levi Charon

Humor Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Young attorney, Marty Brenner, has an aunt who seems to have more than one personality. She's been arrested for sexually abusing teenage boys, and Marty is determined to come to her rescue and prove her innocent. Dealing with his aunt's alternative self brings lots of interesting challenges and rewards.

Caution: This Humor Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   mt/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Incest   Aunt   Nephew  

A few weeks ago, when my cousin Freddy came rushing into my office all bent out of shape about what he overheard that fat-ass Burt McCann saying down at the Sonic drive-in, I told him he must have been hearing things, having auditory hallucinations. There was just no way in hell the cops would have any reason to march our Aunt Margie out of her house in handcuffs!

But he insisted, “I ain’t shittin’ ya, Marty. That’s what he said. I swear!”

The mere idea was completely absurd. Aunt Margie!?

“Freddy,” I reasoned, “even if he did say it, you know as well as I do that Burt can’t put together two sentences without one of ‘em being a lie. It’s in his blood.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, at first, but just now, not ten minutes ago, I ran into Harley over at the Quick-E-Mart buyin’ a can o’ Skoal, and I asked him straight out. He told me it was official police business and that he couldn’t talk about it, even if I was a relative. And you know Harley. He ain’t one for spreadin’ stories or lettin’ false rumors fly around all over town.”

Well, Freddy had me there. In my experience, old Harley, Police Chief of our fair city ever since I could remember, was one of the few cops in our neck of the woods that actually had anything resembling integrity, and if he said something was official police business, then there had to be something to it. But Aunt Margie? Arrested? That’s just crazy!

Still trying to make it not true, I argued, “Look, if there’s anything to it, then why hasn’t she called me? Am I not the only lawyer in the family? Seems to me, if she’s gotten herself hauled in on some kind of a legal charge, I’d be the first person she called.”

That sentence was hardly out of my mouth when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket, and I wondered if I somehow missed her call because I forgot to turn on the ringer when I left court an hour earlier. I pulled it out and saw that, sure as hell, it was from Aunt Margie’s cell phone. I got that sinking feeling.

I connected, and before I even said hello, I started dispensing lawyerly advice. “Whatever is going on, Aunt Margie, don’t you say a single word to the police before I get there! I’m on my way ... What? ... Your winter coat? Whatever for, Aunt Margie? Lord, it must be ninety degrees outside! ... They WHAT? ... Okay, okay! I’ll bring it! ... Alright, Aunt Margie, I’ll be there in just a few minutes. Remember what I said, now. Not a word! ... Yeah, bye-bye, Aunt Margie.”

“Well fuck me with a broomstick!” (I tend to be a real potty-mouth when I’m upset.)

I grabbed my keys off the desk and headed out the door, yelling at Charlene, my secretary (also my second cousin), to clear my appointments for the rest of the afternoon. She said I didn’t have any, and I told her to quit pestering me with details and clear them anyway.

I drove my very cool, refurbished, teal-green ‘95 S10 pickup to Aunt Margie’s house, ran in and grabbed the only long winter coat I could find in her hall closet, then headed downtown to the police station.

I stormed into the cop shop, trying my best to appear righteously indignant, which I was, but before I could get a single word out of my mouth about travesties of justice and so on, Harley leaned out his office door and pointed down the hall. “Second cell, Marty. And before you ask, no, she hasn’t been interrogated, and yes, she has been read her rights.”

He looked at the coat I was carrying and asked, “That for Margie?”

“It is.”

“Good. So, I guess she told you we had to take her clothes as evidence.”

My mind flashed on a mental image of Aunt Margie walking around that cell bare-butt naked ... an image that might get me stirred up if I dwelled on it for very long because she had such a fine body. Not that I’ve ever seen her naked, but she fills out her clothes very nicely, if you get my meaning. If you were thinking in terms of an Aunt Margie being a frail, white-haired little old lady, you’d be off by a mile.

Then I remembered I was on a mission.

“Jesus, Harley, you didn’t strip her, did you? And evidence of what?”

He got a disgusted look on his face and snarled, “Don’t be an idiot, Marty. Of course, we didn’t strip her! This ain’t the goddam FBI! She took her own clothes off in the lady’s room and wrapped herself up in a blanket. I already sent someone to get her something to wear to court. Now, you best go talk to her, then come see me. I gotta walk her over to the courthouse in an hour for arraignment. Got no idea what Judge Wilmer is gonna have in mind for bail, but bein’ it’s Margie, I reckon there’s a good chance it’ll be ROR.”

That calmed me down some. “Um, thanks, Harley. And I didn’t mean any offence with that stripping remark.”

Aunt Margie was sitting on the lower bunk wrapped in a gray, institutional blanket; you know, one of those blankets that looks like it was woven from recycled dryer lint. The poor woman was looking all sad and woebegone. The cell door wasn’t locked, so I let myself in and sat next to her, sliding my arm around her shoulders and giving her a little hug.

I handed her the coat and turned my head away as she let the blanket slip off her shoulders and pulled it on.

She looked sideways at me, tried for a little smile and sighed, “I’m so sorry about all this fuss, Marty. It’s just a big misunderstanding. It has to be!”

“Well, of course it is, Aunt Margie. Did Harley tell you specifically what the charge is?”

She nodded her head and dropped her voice to almost a whisper. “He said I’ve been charged with multiple counts of sexual assault on a minor. Three boys, he said.”

I jumped to my feet and screeched, “WHAT?! Jesus, fucking, Christ!!”

“Marty Brenner!” Aunt Margie scolded, shaking her finger at me, “You mind your language!”

“Oh, uh, sorry, Aunt Margie. That just slipped out.”

The poor woman was fighting back tears as she continued, “Well anyhow, that’s what Harley said. He told me the County Attorney filed the charges this morning and ordered my arrest.”

I was seething as I started pacing the floor. “Why, that pompous, two-bit, braying jackass! He must be thinking about running for Attorney General again. He always goes for the biggest splash he can make in the newspaper whenever his damned political ambitions get stirred up.”

I came to a halt in front of her and asked, “Where the hell did these charges come from, anyway? What minors are you supposed to have assaulted?”

Margie shrugged and said, “I have no idea. The only young boys I’ve had anything to do with recently are a couple of my piano students. I can’t for the life of me believe either one of them would accuse me of doing anything improper. In fact, I was giving Dennis Leary a lesson when the officers came banging on my door. I guess he got scared from all the fuss they were making and took off out the back door. I yelled at him to go straight home.”

I took out my notebook and pen. “Well, give me the other one’s name, too, and I’ll start looking into it. Can you think of anyone else, any boys in particular you’ve had anything to do with in, say, the last six months or so?”

“Hmmm, let me think.” She knitted her brows and squinted her eyes like she was trying to force something out of her brain. “Well, aside from my cub scout meetings on Saturday mornings, there’s Benny Frank, the boy that does my lawn. He comes every Thursday, and Foster, the paper boy ... I don’t know his last name. Oh, and that nice young man that delivers groceries from time to time. His name is Jeremy Wilson. I can’t think of anyone else. Well, except for Franklin Markowitz. He helped me with some garden work once, but that was ages ago, way back last spring.”

I wrote down their names and asked, “And you can’t think of any reason why any of these kids would accuse you of this awful crime? None of them are angry or upset with you for any reason?”

“Why, of course not, Marty! You know I would never do such a thing!”

I bent over to give Aunt Margie a little kiss on the cheek, and tried to reassure her. “So far, it looks like a case of ‘he said, she said’.” (Except the charge said multiple counts.) “Unless they have something very specific by way of hard evidence, I can’t see this going anywhere. I think it’s gonna wind up being a frivolous complaint. I’m gonna walk down the hall to talk to Harley and try to get some details, then I’ll meet you across the street at the courthouse for the arraignment.”

I looked down at her bundled up in that heavy wool coat, and said, “Maybe I should bring you some other clothes. You still got your cell phone?”

“No, Harley has it, but he said I could use it whenever I want. He’s been real nice about all of this. And I don’t think I need any clothes because he sent one of the officers over to the county jail to get one of those orange jumpsuits for me to wear to court. Well, maybe some underwear would be nice, but I wouldn’t ask you to go rummaging through my undies drawer.”

“Those jumpsuits aren’t especially flattering. They make you look like you’ve already been convicted of something. Well, call me if you can think of anything else before the arraignment.”


Harley, a giant of a man at six-foot-eight, sixty-something with thick, silver-gray hair, was leaning back in his chair with his size fourteen clodhoppers on his desk and sipping on a big mug of coffee when I tapped on his door.

He waved me in. “Take a load off, Marty. Did Margie tell you what the charges were?”

I plopped down in the only available chair and snorted, “Hell’s bells, Harley, you don’t actually believe Aunt Margie could do something like that, do you? We’re talking about Margie Brenner, for Christ sake!”

He took a sip and dropped his feet to the floor. “Don’t matter what I think. Old Bullock has issued a warrant and I have to do my duty. It ain’t like it’s my investigation. Hell, I haven’t even had a chance to talked to the little shit that’s accusing her.”

“Well, who is accusing her? And what kind of evidence does he have?”

“The who is Jeremy Wilson, or more likely, that evil-tempered witch who claims to be his mother, although I’ve always suspected she’s actually the devil in drag. On a good day, that woman has all the charm of a wounded, pissed-off rattlesnake. Anyhow, Bullock’s office called over here this morning and said he had it from a reliable source that Margie was having sex with a young boy at her house, and to get some officers over there right away. That’s why we had to take her clothes and send them over to the county lab to be tested for bodily fluids. As for any other evidence, I guess it’s up to old Bullock to share that with you.”

“What did your officers see when they got there?”

“They said they heard someone playin’ the piano when they knocked on the screen door, and when she let ‘em in, there was a kid, Denis something, sittin’ there lookin’ like he was scared shitless. He and Margie were both fully clothed, so nothin’ sexual was goin’ on at the time. I guess the kid took off out the back door like a scalded dog when they told him he was gonna have to come down to the station and make a statement.”

“So,” I pointed out, “the complaint was obviously false! All they found was Aunt Margie giving Denis Leary a piano lesson, just like she said. Why in hell did they handcuff her and bring her in?”

“Because the warrant says she had sex with multiple boys on multiple occasions. It accuses her of being a sexual predator and a threat to society.”

“Oh hell, Harley! Now that’s just plain bullshit and you know it!”

Harley spread his hands, shrugged in a hopeless gesture and said, “You might be right about that, Marty, but I still have to follow procedure. There’s been an official warrant issued for her arrest on these charges, and I have to carry it out. Like I said, you need to talk to Bullock about what kind of evidence he’s got to back it up.”

“Yeah, but you know him. The old bastard will keep everything he has locked up tight as a drum ‘til the very last minute.”

I heaved a big sigh and stood to go. “Well, I guess I better head on over to his office and get all my threats in early; see if I can’t move ‘em along a bit. Thanks for the info, Harley.”

“Any time, Marty.”

“Oh, and Harley, please don’t walk her over to the courthouse in handcuffs. It’s bad enough that she gonna be dressed in that orange clown suit.”

Harley grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.


The Brenner clan is one of the biggest and oldest families in the county. The patriarch, Jeremiah Brenner, claimed a stretch of land along the Cumberland River in 1806 and immediately started clearing it for his farm. Being as how it was such rich bottom land, he could and did raise just about anything he had a mind to, along with small herds of beef and dairy cattle on his lush upper pasture lands. By the time a few hundred other settlers had arrived in the area and built the town, Brenner was doing pretty well for himself as the main supplier of root crops, grains, beef, butter and milk.

He and his wife, Dolly (she was a first cousin, so there was a bit of inbreeding going on there) had seven children, five of them boys, and every one of them strong and healthy (no idiots), and thus began the Brenner family’s expansion throughout the area. You’d think they would have been well on their way to dominating the region’s social and financial hierarchy, but while Jeremiah was prosperous enough, none of his progeny ever managed to contribute anything worthwhile to the family fortune. Not a one of them seemed to have their father’s ambition and drive, and one by one, they drifted away from the farm and went their separate ways.

When Jeremiah died in 1844, he left his extensive holdings to his eldest son, Jacob, but the irresponsible nitwit let it run to ruin within a decade, finally selling off the last of his father’s hard-earned assets to pay off some gambling debts. So, within a generation, a family name that should have been honored and plastered on roads, bridges, buildings and schools, was ultimately, just another family name. The Brenner clan members still maintained a few small farms scattered around the county, but nothing like it should have been.

Over the last two centuries, the Brenner name has remained reasonably well respected, most of the families being solid middle-class, church-going folk, although, like other families, they’ve turned out their fair share of low-lives, thieves, and reprobates along the way. Making and consuming moonshine was kind of a Brenner trademark.

There might have been another odd quirk or two in the Brenner gene pool. One notable familial trait was a tendency to be hyper-sexed, or maybe it was just an inability to pronounce the word “no”. Usually, that trait was made manifest as an inclination to indulge in intrafamily and extra-marital dalliances of all descriptions. While rumors of under-the-radar incestuous liaisons have persisted down through the generations as a running joke within the community, the more public transgressions make it unusual for a year to go by without at least a couple of Brenners being embroiled in a divorce action or a paternity suit ... often concurrently.

As for Margaret Brenner, now under arrest for sexually abusing several teenage boys, she was always the one people considered a good girl, never showing any inclination toward promiscuity. As a child, she was, according people who knew her, “just the sweetest little thing”, and pretty as a picture with auburn hair, warm, brown eyes and rosy cheeks. She was the girl in class that the boys fought over as they competed to be her valentine. As she grew into her teens, she had the kind of body and face that turned people’s heads, generating heart palpitations and lustful thoughts among the male population. Yet, with all her obvious physical assets, her behavior was always above reproach, much to the frustration of any number of young men sniffing her trail.

And Margie wasn’t just a pretty child; she was smart and talented, as well. A “B” on her report card was unusual, and she entered her first piano competition at age twelve, choosing selections from Schumann’s “Papillons” to regale the judges and her audience.

Had Margie’s parents been a bit more resourceful, she might have gone on to attend a prestigious musical institute and really make something of herself. As it was, she only managed a BA in music from a nearby college, and upon graduation, decided to make her living by giving private music lessons; once again, a victim of the Brenner’s sad lack of ambition. No one could understand why she didn’t use her God-given talent to move out of town and strive for success, but Margie seemed perfectly content with her life as it was. By the time she was in her mid-twenties and still single, she was just another town fixture, and most people stopped paying her much attention.

Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-seven, Margaret is still a very pretty woman, and there are still any number of men in the area who have the hots for her. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to have the hots for them, and she has never expressed any interest in getting married and raising a family. She’s even been accused of being a closet lesbian, but there’s never been any real evidence of that ... probably some wishful thinking, though.

Some think she chose the single life because so many of the Brenner marriages turn out to be such dismal failures. Whatever the reasons for her solitude, Margaret has apparently chosen the spinster’s life, and she seems at least accepting, if not content with that choice. Any interest in her comings and goings became pretty much a zero as far as the town rumor mill was concerned, because there was simply nothing there worth gossiping about.

She plays piano and organ at the Presbyterian church on Sundays, she gives piano lessons to several children three times a week, she volunteers for just about any charitable event going on in town, and on Saturday mornings, she serves as Den Mother for Cub Scout pack 104. She has no children of her own, but she has scads of nieces and nephews who doted on her.

One of which, Marty Brenner, now an Attorney at Law, was and is her absolute favorite. What’s more, he has secretly carried a more than childhood crush on his aunt for as long as he can remember. The experience of puberty had the effect of supercharging Marty’s fantasies, and there is an invisible but persistent undercurrent of sexual tension between the two of them. Only the fact that his Aunt Margie is related by blood, and is almost ten years his senior, keeps Marty from pressing that adoration more aggressively. He regrets that he is destined to admire her from a distance.

Actually, the blood relationship probably wouldn’t be a deal killer, since, as was already mentioned, clandestine incestuous connections aren’t all that uncommon within the Brenner clan. However, Marty being an attorney and a public figure, an appearance of propriety is called for, and outward displays of affection between Margie and Marty are restricted to the occasional platonic hug or chaste kiss on the cheek.


The bailiff called out, “All rise!” as Judge Bernadette Wilmer entered the courtroom and took her seat on the bench. There was a surprising number of spectators present, undoubtedly due to the rumors already circulating around town about Margaret Brenner, piano teacher and church lady, being brought up on morals charges.

Judge Wilmer, a larger-than-life black woman with a well-deserved reputation for tough sentences and legal innovation, and also known to not suffer fools lightly, rapped her gavel a couple of times to quiet them down, and read the charges. “This arraignment is to consider the matter of Margaret Brenner, now being held in custody on charges of moral indecency and sexual assault on a minor.”

The judge frowned at the written charges in front of her, then stared daggers at her least favorite officer of the court, an anachronism if ever there was one, Elroy Bullock, County Attorney. “Let’s hear it, Mr. Bullock, and this better be good!”

Elroy T. Bullock, a near-perfect caricature of the “good-ol’-boy” southern lawyer, with his florid, spider-veined face, his big belly, his white suit and red suspenders, stood beside the prosecutor’s table grasping his lapels as he prepared to deliver his oration.

Judge Wilmer, knowing from experience that he was going to try to sneak in some kind of long-winded political speech, cut him off at the pass with, “And keep it short, Elroy!”

He glared at her, deflating visibly, and said, “As you wish, Your Honor. Well, um, my office has had, to date, three – that’s THREE, mind you – complaints from the mothers of young boys from the ages of fourteen to sixteen, accusing this woman,” (he pointed his fat finger at the defendant’s table) “Margaret Brenner, of luring their innocent babes into iniquitous sexual encounters in her home. All three boys, in supervised interviews, have admitted to these, uh, SINFUL liaisons. My office is of the opinion that those admissions are sufficient cause to demand that Ms. Brenner be charged and tried for these, uh, HEINOUS crimes against these blameless children, and against society in general! And may I add, Your Honor, that...”

Judge Wilmer cut him off and cued Marty. “Counselor?”

Marty stood, resting his hand on the orange-clad shoulder of his aunt sitting quietly at the table with her eyes downcast. “Your Honor,” he began, just loud enough to be heard, “how can anyone believe these absurd charges? I wasn’t present for the presumed grilling those three boys underwent to extract these clearly false accusations, but I can well imagine the intimidating atmosphere they were subjected to. My client, Margaret Brenner has been a lifelong pillar of this community, an upstanding member of society, and a true believer in our Lord Jesus and his teachings.”

(Marty wasn’t much of a believer, himself, but invoking the deity always played well.)

His voice was rising in volume and moral indignation by the second, out-speechifying Bullock three ways to Sunday. Everyone believed the young lawyer might have a future in politics.

Judge Wilmer, trying not to appear too obvious in her favoritism, interrupted with, “Wrap it up, Counselor!’

Marty finished dramatically by turning to sneer and point at the County Attorney, contemptuously spitting out, “I can’t begin to fathom what motivation, other than pure politics, Mr. Bullock has to pursue this ridiculous course of action, but I trust Your Honor will put an end to it!”

Composing himself again, he added, as if it were an afterthought, “My client enters a plea of not guilty!”

There was a lot of murmuring as well as a smattering of applause from the gallery. Wilmer rapped the gavel a couple of times and said “Can it, people!”

The people canned.

She turned back to Bullock. “You say the boys accused Miss Brenner in supervised interviews. Supervised by whom, Mr. Bullock?”

“Why, by me, Your Honor.”

“You and who else?”

“Um, just me, Your Honor.”

“Inadequate, Mr. Bullock. And weak!”

Judge Wilmer appeared to be sympathetic to Marty’s exhortations as she explained, “Marty, er, Mr. Brenner, since these are formal charges accompanied by sworn statements, the court is inclined to hold this case open for further investigation to clear up any possible, um, misunderstanding. Given the questionable nature of the boys’ interviews, and given the accused party’s reputation and standing in the community, I order her released from custody on her own recognizance.”

Applause from the gallery.

She turned to Harley sitting behind the railing, and instructed, “Chief Davidson, I’m directing you to further investigate these charges without bias and independent of the County Attorney’s office. Report back to me in two weeks, and I’ll decide if there is sufficient cause to pursue this case further.”

Bullock shot to his feet and protested, “Your Honor, I must object! This is quite irregular! My office is perfectly capable of carrying out any necessary inquiries into this matter. There’s no need to involve the police!”

Wilmer smiled, trying her best not to show her distain for the County Attorney, and ruled, “Your objection is noted and overruled, Counselor. Two weeks, Harley. This court is adjourned.”

The gavel rapped once.

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