Chapter 2: And Aunty makes Three

Peter Balfour finished work early and decided to head to the creek and take a swim. He stripped naked and dove into the cool, clear water. His twenty-year-old body was well muscled and developed from working hard on the farm; he was fit, tanned, healthy and very well endowed. His eight-inch penis swayed from side to side between his legs when he climbed out of the creek and onto the bank, it had a good girth and swelled to ten inches of solid meat when tumescent.

Peter pulled his watch from his shirt pocket, it was five-thirty and he had an appointment at six in the afternoon that he always kept. He had plenty of time today because he was out and about in his brand new 1967 Chevrolet pickup. It was painted a practical light olive green for working the farm but the new chrome glistened in the afternoon sun. It was his pride and joy, he and his mother had looked at the farm’s books and figured they could afford to buy it to replace the rusty old pickup in which his father had run away.

William Balfour, Peter’s father, had been missing for over a year now. A hardworking farmer who had descended into drunkenness and become a degenerate alcoholic, William was last seen driving away from the farm in his old pickup. He was listed as a missing person but no one was looking for him. It was assumed that by now he was probably an itinerant bum in a nearby city or more likely a John Doe buried in a pauper’s grave somewhere.

Peter let the sun dry his body and then he dressed and climbed into the cab of his truck and drove the five miles home at a steady twenty miles per hour. This gave him time to park the truck in the barn and pick some flowers for his mother from her garden out front of the farmhouse.

At thirty-six-years-old Margaret Balfour, nee Ryan, was a stunning woman. She was wearing full makeup, earrings and a necklace and her black hair was worn in a bob with bangs cut just above her big blue eyes. Meg preferred the conservative fashions of the fifties rather than the modern bright-coloured shifts and skirts, patterned tights and low-block heels that were now popular. She was big-breasted and long-legged and liked to dress to show off her attributes. She was wearing a navy-blue, knee-length pencil-skirt, a white fitted satin blouse, black four-inch high heels and seamed flesh-toned stockings. Not farm attire at all.

On the few occasions that she went into town she would dress in modern garb but Meg liked the nostalgic look of her early womanhood in the nineteen-fifties. Besides, her son like his mother dressed this way too, it reminded him of the hours they had spent together each day when he was home-schooled by her. But Peter was now the man of the house.

Meg had spent the day working in her garden and doing housework. At five o’clock she started dinner and then went upstairs to her bedroom to get changed, fix her makeup, and came had down just before six o’clock sprayed liberally with perfume.

Meg heard the door slam and immediately became excited. There was one chore that she and Peter always took care of at six o’clock, a chore they both fully enjoyed. Meg leaned over the kitchen bench pretending to fiddle with some condiments, she kicked up a heel, opening up the kick-pleat in the back of her skirt to expose the seams on her stockings running up the back of her long legs.

Peter inhaled the appetising smell of dinner mingled with his mother’s perfume and strode across the dining room, smiling. He pressed himself against his mother, pushing his hard cock against her buttocks and cupping her breasts, he could feel that her nipples were hard. He nuzzled her neck and shoulders.

“Hard day in the fields Petey?” Meg asked bearing back against him with her buttocks.

“Yes mom, it was a hard day,” Peter, nipped her earlobe playfully.

“As hard as you feel against your mother right now?” her bright-red lipsticked-lips parted in a grin.

“Maybe not that hard,” Peter chuckled and smelled her hair.

“Shall I help you with that?” Meg turned around in her son’s embrace and stared at him with her pretty blue eyes.

Peter pressed his lips to hers and kissed her hungrily and held her tight against him. Meg opened her mouth so that he could put his tongue inside her. Peter squeezed her buttocks and moaned with lust.

“Yes mom, you can help me,” Peter moaned.

“Like this son?” Meg took a half-step back and reached for the bulge in his pants.

Meg traced the outline of her son’s hard cock through his jeans and was not surprised when a wet-patch appeared. Her nylon panties were wet from her own juices afterall.

She unzipped him and extracted his engorged phallus with some difficulty. She was always amazed at the heftiness of her son’s penis in her small hands. She used her red-nailpolished fingertip to dab at the globule of pre-ejaculate that exuded from the eye of his cock. She bought the finger to her lips and put out the tip of tongue and lapped at it.

“Mmm Petey, you taste good,” Meg grinned.

“Perhaps you had better get a larger sample,” Peter smiled back at her.

“But first let see how good you taste mom,” Peter slipped his hand under his mother’s skirt.

Meg shuddered as Peter slipped his fingertip across the front of his mother’s translucent white nylon panties. Her knees began to buckle when he pressed the silky material into her vulva and caressed her labia with it. He deliberately kept his fingers away from his mother’s clitoris, he would make her beg for him to touch it but she had duties to perform first.

He extracted his finger and sniffed his mother’s pungent bouquet and then tasted her vaginal secretions.

“You taste pretty good too mom,” Peter smirked.

Meg was halfway to her knees and Peter pressed down on her shoulders and Meg knelt on the floor before him. She took his cock in her hand and lightly caressed it. Peter was likely to prematurely ejaculate if she stimulated him too much too soon. Not that it mattered too much, he soon recovered, sometimes not even becoming fully flaccid before he was ready to go again. But she wanted his semen in her mouth or her vagina; it would be wasted splattered on her fingers, although she had licked his cum off them plenty of times in the past.

Peter thrust his hips out, he was impatient for his mother to take him in her mouth. She acquiesced and guided his throbbing cock to her lips. She licked the tip of his penis with the tip of her tongue, lapping at the precum. Then she fluttered her tongue on her son’s fraenulum and listened to him groan. Finally she took him in her mouth and began to suck him.

“Oh yes please mom, that is so good!” Peter moaned, putting his hands on her head to guide her.

His cock was too big to take it all in her mouth, but she took as much as she could, working her lips along the shaft, using her tongue on the bottom of it, drinking the efflux of precum that issued from his cock. She cupped his scrotum and gently massaged his testes making him groan louder. She knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

Meg had a hand under her skirt, she had been thrumming her clitoris all the while she was sucking her son’s cock and she was holding off an orgasm. Sensing that Peter was about to cum she spat out his cock.

“Aw mom!” Peter whined.

But not for long.

Meg stood up, hiked up her skirt, turned around, bent over the counter-top and reached behind her for her son’s cock. She guided it inside her panties and positioned it at the sopping entrance of her cunt. It slid past her vulva and into her vagina like a hot knife through butter.

Peter was always amazed at how tight his mother’s cunt was. It gripped his cock like a velvet glove, he could smell her juices and he was ready to orgasm himself.

“Come on son; fuck your mother,” Meg whispered.

“Come inside your mom, fill me with your sperm,” she hissed.

Peter gripped his mother’s hips and plunged his cock all the way inside her making her gasp as he filled his mother with his flesh. He vigorously humped her, making his mother moan with lust. She lewdly pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts and urging him on.

“Ready mom?” Peter gasped.

Meg just nodded, she was too overcome with wantonness to answer him.

Peter pulled his mother hard against him and drove his cock inside her as far as it would go and ejaculated. Meg climaxed at the same time, her cunt quivered and palpitated draining her son of his spend. Peter nibbled his mother’s neck and sucked her flesh, his hands had gone to her breasts, squeezing them, tweaking her nipples through her blouse to increase his mother’s pleasure.

Meg actually collapsed because the force of her orgasm was so strong, she was impaled on Peter’s cock, his strong grip keeping her from falling to the floor while he continued to thrust in and out of her quivering quim.

Finally, after they had both peaked and started to come down from their climax, Meg was able to reach out and hold onto the counter top. Peter pulled his cock out of his mother’s cunt; her vagina clung to his flesh, reluctant to let it go. His glans slipped out of her labia and a torrent of semen and vaginal juices gushed from his mother cunt. Some soaked into her already sodden panties but most of it ran down her legs and soaked into the welts of her stockings.

Peter dropped to his knees and lapped at the salty, sticky secretions and followed the stream up his mother’s milky thighs to her sodden maw where he lapped at her bloated vulva, working his tongue along her labia and finally finding her clitoris.

“No! No! No!” Meg entangled her fingers in her son’s hair trying to pull him away.

Her cunt was too tender from her orgasm to take any further stimulation.

But Peter persisted and his mother couldn’t help but climax again.

She screamed; opening her legs wide and pushing Peter’s face into her quim. He licked her clitoris as his mother shook and moaned; her whole body became a temple of pleasure. She collapsed on the floor shaking and Peter followed her, his mouth glued to her cunt, lapping at her clitoris. Then he mounted his mother and began to fuck her again.

“No! No! No! I can’t!” she cried, but she wrapped her stocking-sheathed legs around his body and held him to her.

Peter came again almost immediately, he smothered his mother’s cries with his lips and drove his tongue into her mouth and he fucked her hard and fast.

This time they were finished. Meg had orgasmed three times already and her cunt was sore. Peter would want to fuck her again at least once tonight, twice more likely. It was no wonder she stayed thin despite her appetite, her son had a ravenous craving for sex and kept her busy satisfying it.

Meg adjusted her clothing and washed her hands at the kitchen sink, her panties were sodden and her thighs sticky. Her husband had insisted that she clean herself down there before she joined him for dinner but Peter liked the aroma of his mother’s cunt at the dinner table. It incensed his appetite for both food and sex.

Peter washed up and sat at the table and his mother served dinner. Conversation at dinner usually revolved around farm business, crop prices, the weather, the cost of labour, crop yield and so on. Meg had been forbidden to have anything to do with farm management when her husband was still at home. Peter had emancipated his mother and employed her to keep the books and records which she did both energetically and effectively. The farm was making a good profit.

William had also denied Margaret an income, allocating her a small stipend for household expenses and to buy clothing, lingerie and nylons, over which he had oversight. The farm was still in William’s name, Peter was the sole benefactor in his father’s will but as there was no body and William’s whereabouts remained unknown they would have to wait seven years to have William declared legally dead.

Not that it really mattered. The bank was pragmatic and as the farm had substantial holdings and always paid out the loans on time, with interest, it was to their advantage to allow Margaret and Peter access to the farm’s accounts. So it was business as usual except that Meg now had equal standing in the house.

Peter and his mother enjoyed the isolation of living on a farm far from the nearest town. They enjoyed each other’s company as well enjoying each other’s bodies. They could carry on their incestuous affair unrestrained. Peter slept in the master bedroom with his mother and they had sex whenever the hankering came on them, both in the house and around the farm. The only time they needed to be cautious was when they hired farmhands to assist with reaping the corn.

The farmhand barracks was located well away from the house and was self-contained with its own kitchen and domestic facilities. William Balfour had moved it to its current location when he married his young pretty wife. He didn’t want coarse and licentious farmhands roughhousing and carousing near his bride in case they got any ideas.

During the corn harvest Margaret stayed close to home and she and Peter confined their lascivious activities to the house.

That was all about to change.

Peter arrived home for his six o’clock assignation and was looking forward to it with relish. His mother had dressed provocatively in a basque, fully-fashioned stockings, high heels and full makeup at breakfast, covered only by a flimsy negligee. She had purposely teased her son, brushing against him and allowing the robe to open and reveal her body. Peter had reached for her on numerous occasions during breakfast but she had skilfully eluded him whilst continuing to tantalise him and incite his lust.

“Imagine how wonderful it will be when you get home from work this afternoon Petey,” she had whispered in his ear seductively.

Her perfume was driving him wild when she had nibbled his earlobe. Meg sent him to work unsatisfied having squeezed his hard cock through his jeans when he kissed her farewell.

Peter noticed the Chevrolet Impala parked in the driveway as soon as he crested the ridge above the farmhouse on his horse.

He frowned. He knew that there was only person that the flashy car with its burgundy body and white roof, twin headlights and chrome trim and wheels could belong to.

Millicent Ryan was three years older than her sister and had run away from home to the city as soon as she could. She’d married an advertising executive and had lived the high life, looking down her nose at her family as if they were country hicks and conveniently forgetting where she came from.

Peter had seen her only once, at a family funeral. She was as striking as her sister but with blonde hair which his mother told him she dyed. She was haughty and aloof and had probably said three words to Peter the whole time he was there. It was obvious that she hated being back in the Midwest so Peter wondered why his aunt had returned to the corn-belt.

“This does not bode well,” Peter spat in the dust as he dismounted his horse.

With his aunt ensconced inside the farmhouse there was no need for him to hurry. For the first time in a year he would not be able to meet his six o’clock obligation, and he was not happy.

Peter unbridled his horse and gave it food and water while he groomed it. He led it over to the barn and stabled it for the night. He tended to a few chores in the barn that really didn’t need attending to, anything to delay having to go inside. He was angry and horny.

Peter bit the bullet and strode across the yard, stepped onto the stoop and opened the door. Normally his mother would be there dressed invitingly ready to fuck but today she sat on a stool at the breakfast bar sipping coffee wearing a short-sleeved knee-length, A-line pleated dress. It was red with white polka dots. She wore red four-inch high heels and seamed flesh-toned stockings. Peter admired the seams running up the back of her long legs but was disappointed he would not get to explore them any time soon.

Sitting beside his mother was aunt, she too was sipping coffee. Her dress style was totally different to his mother’s; more modern and very trendy. Millicent, or Milli as she preferred, was wearing a sleeveless solid teal shift micro-mini dress with round neck, sheer taupe hosiery and wedge-heeled Mary-Janes with ankle straps. Her makeup consisted of flicked upper eyeliner, matte green eyeshadow, false eyelashes with heavy mascara, coral-blushed cheeks, and pink lipstick. Her blonde hair was piled in a beehive and a pillbox hat to match her shift sat on the breakfast bar.

Both women were stunning but in different ways. Meg was a model for fifties style and Millie was a model for sixties chic.

“Oh my god! Is this my nephew?” Millie bought her hands to her face, over-exaggerating as usual.

“Yes this is Peter. Come say hello to your aunt Millicent honey,” Meg gave him a cautionary glare.

Peter nodded and walked over to Millicent who was now standing. Peter had caught a flash of pink panty when she alighted from the stool because her dress was so short.

“Don’t you dare call me aunty or even Millicent, I’m Millie,” she leaned into Peter and kissed his cheek.

She smelled like flowers and bubblegum.

Millie held Peter at arms-length and studied him.

“He’s his father’s son that’s for sure. Handsome, strapping, and stoic. What about Willie’s other attribute Meg? Has he got that too?” Millie raised a brow knowingly.

Meg blushed and slapped her sister gently on the arm. Peter just looked confused.

“Has a cat got your tongue Petey? You haven’t said a word,” Millie was very loud.

“Hello aunt ... err Millie,” Peter said dispassionately.

Peter did not like this at all. His mother looked obviously distraught and he figured it was not just because they hadn’t had their six o’clock liaison. His aunt was loud and boisterous and he hoped that she would not be staying for long.

“Go and get washed-up and change for dinner Petey,” his mother gave him another knowing look and directed her eyes towards the stairs.

Peter climbed the stairs and was about to use the bathroom when he noticed the door to his old bedroom was ajar. He opened it and saw that his mother had put all his possessions back in his old room. Of greater concern was the four matching Venetian-red Samsonite Silhouette suitcases in the spare bedroom next the master bedroom. It looked liked aunt Millicent was going to be here a while.

“Shithouse mouse!” Peter growled as he went back to the bathroom to clean up.

“So you want to tell me again why you were dressed like some nineteen-fifties floozy when I arrived?” Millicent fitted a cigarette into her cigarette-holder.

Millicent had arrived mid-afternoon and found her sister dressed in the basque, fully-fashioned stockings, high heels and flimsy negligee wearing full makeup and jewellery.

Meg had lied of course and said that she was simply dressed in her underwear, doing some housework and didn’t want to get her dress dirty. She would dress properly before her son came home for the fields.

“Look Meg, I know you like all that fifties jitterbug and Lindy shit and that your husband had a thing for you being dressed in a hooker’s lingerie but really? You expect me to believe you were dressed like that for a husband who has been missing for over a year?” Millie lit her cigarette with a gold lighter.

Meg was so nervous. She had been able to throw all of her son’s accoutrements out of her bedroom and into his old room. She had been able to accomplish this by taking advantage of Millie needing a long bathroom break as soon as she arrived, but she still wondered if her sister was suspicious of her and Peter.

She was so nervous that she snatched up her sister’s cigarettes and lit one herself. She seldom smoked, sometimes with Peter if they’d had a particularly torrid session or were having a drink.

“You know what I think?” Millie said.

Meg began to shake with worry.

“I think you have a boyfriend. And I think your boyfriend visits the house while your son is out working the farm and that way you keep it secret from him,” Millie smirked.

“Yes! Of course! I can never hide anything from you Millie,” Meg sighed with relief.

Millie had provided Meg with the perfect alibi. A fictitious lover that she could blame for any discretions that Millie may uncover.

Dinner that night was a chore for Peter, his aunt talked incessantly about boring subjects that interested Peter not one bit. He found her big-city adventures a chore to listen to. The only compensation was that her micro-mini dress had ridden up right to the top of her thighs. Peter had never seen pantyhose before and was fascinated by them, the way she sheer nylon continued all the way to the top of her thighs under her panties which was very captivating. It was obviously the only sort of hosiery that could be worn with a dress that short but he still preferred the look of his mother’s fully-fashioned stockings.

Millie saw her nephew peeking at her legs. It’s not like she wasn’t used to men ogling her legs, as well as her tits and ass, that’s what men did. But Peter was a lot younger than the old farts that her husband called friends and colleagues. Friends indeed, nearly every one of them had felt her up or propositioned her. Not that she could sling mud.

The day of the family funeral William Balfour had taken his wife Margaret and young son Peter back to the farm and made an excuse to drive all the way back into town. He’d knocked on the door to her room at the town’s only crummy motel.

“What do you want Billy?” Millie stood leaning on the door smoking a cigarette.

She was still wearing her funeral attire, a black long-sleeved dress with a hem that rode ridiculously high on her thighs, fully-fashioned black stockings, black pumps and full makeup.

“You know you show contempt for your family coming to your uncle’s funeral dressed like that,” he growled.

“Oh I think he would have liked it Billy. The old coot used to chase me around the room and when he caught me he’d sit me in his lap and panty-pop me Billy, he’d have likely loved to have done it to me dressed like this,” she said disparagingly.

“That’s no way to talk about your deceased uncle,” William was red-faced.

“You mean the man who liked to rub his cock on me until he ejaculated on my panty-clad ass while I sat in his lap pretending to watch TV?” she replied.

“You were probably asking for it you slut,” William balled his fists.

“Oh come in Billy. I know the real reason you came to see me. You haven’t taken your eyes off me all day. Whatever would my sister think?” Millie turned her back on him and walked over to the bed and crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand.