Chapter 2: Aunt Nicole

It took me a while before I was convinced that Karen meant what she'd said. I kept my word about not spreading the word about what had happened. And I leaned on Matt and Andy, and as far as I could tell, they zipped their lips too.

I had my baseball season looming in several weeks, and a dance recital that weekend. With regard to baseball, I played first base and pitched in the Pony League, at the higher, competitive level. So between baseball and the pending dance recital, my mind was not on Karen all the time.

There were two girls that I kind of lusted after at dance, Erin, and Summer, but they were older, around fifteen or so, and they hardly ever looked at me, unless we were dancing together.

Dance was something I enjoyed, for it brought a freedom of expression one does not experience in many other subjects. It helped that I was good at it, having both a certain amount of grace, and athleticism to carry it off. I had been taking dance since I was eight years old, and was fairly proficient at it, especially ballet and modern dance. It was common to see me cavorting around the studio dressed in black sweat pants, black t-shirt, black convertible tights, and black jazz oxfords.

The girls wore black camisole leotards, black convertible tights, and either black jazz oxfords, or tie or slip-ons. And they had to wear their hair in a pony tail.

I had just entered the upper level student division class. Essentially this involved a concentration on the coordination of body movements in jumps, turns, and leaps. For the uninitiated, my ballet classes taught all of the basic positions, proper execution of the turn out of the leg, correct use of the feet, arms, and head, and the French Ballet vocabulary. I was just beginning to understand that dance, especially ballet, helped develop strength, flexibility, and grace, as well as my musicality. The modern classes I was taking complemented the ballet program and expanded my movement with a free and expressive style of dance. The boys training ran parallel with that of the girls; however boys have the option to take an additional class specially designed to engage their physical energy. I tied this in with some Karate lessons that I dropped after a short time.

With baseball, the team played at a more competitive level, and that involved a certain amount of travel to other nearby and some not so near cities. My play seemed to improve with each passing week. I fell in love with the statistics of the major leaguers, and threw myself into the game itself. I had not played much Little League at all, and had to catch up with my peers. But thanks to Tommy Daily, Georgie Tiedemann, and "Bone" Cleary, I managed to do so, and the coaches began spending more time with me, and my batting average kept climbing until I had the second best average on the team. The high school coach even stopped by to watch us play against a good team from Columbus, and I went three for four with two doubles. But almost every night I lay in bed and pictured Karen's mouth around my sizzling hard-on, and I found myself jerking off.

After the baseball season ended my masturbation was no longer confined to bedtime, but during daylight hours in the bathroom, causing other family members, my mother and even my two-year-old sister, to pound on the door, demanding that I finish and let them relieve their bladders. When not in the bathroom, I used my bedroom and the stall in the boy's room at school; and of course, I returned to that spot in the woods, hoping that Karen would show up, and when she didn't, I whipped it out and unabashedly masturbated under the leafy elm trees.

A year passed, and I found myself whacking off seven or eight times a day; always with one face in mind. During this period only school, dance class, and baseball, in that order sufficed to divert my mind and dick from sex. In school I had to concentrate ... well, pay attention to some extent in order to attain a passing grade. Karen's disinterest helped as much as it hindered, or so it seems today. But Irene Philipuk's swan-like neck gave me a boner on a daily basis. And one fleeting glimpse up Barbara Becker's skirt revealed her pussy lips exposed to my view, and brought about my personal masturbation record of twelve times in one day.

It wasn't long, of course, until my mother took note of the sticky sheets and other seminal residue I left like spoor tracks wherever I dallied; and God knows why, but she consulted her sister about the matter. I can only guess that she was unable to bring herself to talk to me about it, and since my father had been killed overseas, that eliminated the "man" of the house.

My Aunt Nicole was three years older than my mother, and twice married ... and divorced.

I guess my mother felt that she knew more about men than she did, and so I was shipped off to spend a week at my aunt's. I was utterly distraught over being "shipped off" as it were, but this would undoubtedly prove to be the most exhilarating learning experience of my life.

Looking back at my mother and her slightly older sister, it was hard to imagine that they were actually related. My aunt, recently divorced from her second, work-addicted husband, was exceptionally youthful, in both looks and actions. In fact she was only thirty-three years old, an eternity to a thirteen and a half-year-old, but actually it was a perfect age difference for what was about to occur.

I had had no idea whatsoever just how nasty the divorce had been. Years later Aunt Nicole confided in me, and I learned that her ex had screwed twenty-two different women in their home. Half of them with her present, but incapable of taking any action. For he had secured her wrists to the bedposts with handcuffs, and forced her to watch, hoping that she would be aroused enough to join in to the sex taking place on her own bed.

Aunt Nicole was undergoing analysis for this treatment but, again, I knew nothing of it. What her shrink had advised her to do, among other things, was to have a relationship with someone that she was certain would not be a dominating partner. And, strangely enough, that's where I came into the picture.

My aunt and I had always been friendly, in an aunt/nephew sort of way. I mean, think of the twenty year age difference, and I'm sure you'll agree that's all it could have been. But I had no inkling at the time of the reasons behind her divorce. That, of course, changed a lot of things.

Shortly after my arrival at Aunt Nicole's in Cincinnati -- about 150 miles from home — I found I couldn't take my eyes off the swing of my aunt's hips, and how erotic the sweetly circular motion of her shapely cheeks, and the way they coiled and uncoiled with the climbing rhythm of her long, sleek legs as she led me into her home.

Later that afternoon, Aunt Nicole prepared a picnic lunch and hustled me off to a nearby lake. On arriving, I ran into the cold water, pretended it was fine, and stayed in. We had the place to ourselves, and some minutes later, to my surprise, Aunt Nicole removed the top of her two-piece bathing suit, pushing it down over her pointy breasts, and left it draped over her waist.

"Aren't you cold, Aubrey?" I recall her asking a few minutes later.

"No," I called out, but seeing her nipples exposed from a distance made me want to come out of the water for a better view, and after a minute or so, I did just that, trotting through the hot sand to stand over her, trying to cover my unmistakable erection. (I had not had an opportunity to jerk off that day, and the urge to do so could not have been stronger than the moment I was standing over her, staring at her twin peaks.)

Aunt Nicole was looking at me too, although I was too engrossed in her tits to notice. Her next words jarred me back to reality.

"Aubrey, do you know the reason you're here, visiting me?"

"Um, no, not exactly. Is it because you need some company after the ... err, divorce?"

"Aubrey, I'm going to be blunt with you. I won't lie to you, about anything. If you ask me a question, I'll do my utmost to give you an honest answer. I expect the same from you, is that understood?"

"Yes, Aunt Nicole."

"Good. Now the reason you're here with me instead of home with your mother and sister is that," she paused having realized that I was staring incomprehensively at her breasts.

"Do you like them?" she asked, wanting to get my attention back on track, but understanding that she was the cause of my inattentiveness.

"Err, yes, yes, I do, Aunt Nicole."

"That's nice to hear. You may keep looking at them, but I want you to listen to me and what I have to say to you."

"Yes, Aunt Nicole."

"Why are you here with me, Aubrey?"

"I don't know, really," I said, still intent on looking at the first pair of tits I'd ever seen outside of a magazine. Karen's come to mind, but she had yet to develop and hers were no bigger than my own and therefore not a matter of curiosity.

"You have been playing with your 'willy, ' Aubrey. Not that playing with one's 'willy' is all that bad, but you have been playing with it incessantly."

"Who told you?" I asked, not having the foggiest idea that anyone was aware of my masturbating proclivities.

"Your mother told me. She despairs for you, Aubrey. I tried to reason with her over the phone. I told her that all boys do it. For that matter, so do almost all girls as well, your mother being an exception to the norm. And that's why she cannot understand why you do it."

"Oh," I said, and must have turned crimson with embarrassment, for Aunt Nicole was quick to follow up with: "What I can't fathom, and please understand, I'm not even close to being well versed on the subject, but how could you manage to do it so often? I mean, I'm told you were doing it seven or eight times a day. And that's at home. God knows what you did at school or elsewhere during your free time."

"Twas seven or eight times," I confessed.

"Every day?"

"Mostly, yes," I said and began to fidget, for the subject had caused my cock to swell, and in the swimming trucks it was most evident.

"And I see you're feeling like doing it right now," she continued, as she looked at my cock that stuck out as proudly as it could on a fourteen-year-old boy. "But you've got to try to control yourself to some degree."

"Um, yes, I understand."

And that was that, for the moment.

But that evening, after dinner, I was in the guest bedroom looking for a missing sock, when I came across a magazine under the middle of the bed. It was a Penthouse! I knew the name all right. I had even seen a dog-eared copy of Playboy, and heard rumors of an even raunchier magazine called Hustler. But to find a Penthouse here was like finding buried treasure in my backyard.

'How did it get there?' I wondered, but not too long, for Aunt Nicole had moved into the house after the divorce. She had put the bed in the room; therefore, she must have placed the Penthouse there as well. But why? My 14 year old brain reasoned the answer out quickly enough. She wanted me to have it. 'But why, ' I asked myself as I thumbed slowly through the pages, stopping to examine and marvel at the loveliest of women ... all bare breasted, and more.

I came to a hairy pussy and could not contain myself. Whipping out my penis I masturbated frenziedly until I shot a load halfway across the room, hitting the wall. I had never thought in terms of distance before, and holding my spent dick in my right hand I was measuring the length of my 'shot, ' when the door flew open and Aunt Nicole burst into the room.

"Oh, my God!" she gasped, taking in the scene before her.

I tried desperately to cover my diminishing erection with my hands. She had both her hands covering her mouth in shock, and then dropped them to her chest. She began to smile, and her hazel eyes got big and round, as she stared at the dick I held in my hand.

"I didn't mean to ... well, interrupt you," she said, and then began laughing. Let me see that," she said, reaching for the Penthouse.

She never told me to put my dick away; instead she sat herself down on the bed, and began looking at the women exposed within the pages.

"Wherever did you get this ... this piece of trash?"

"I think you know where I got it, Aunt Nicole," I said before I could stop myself.

"What?"

"You've only moved in here a month or so ago," I said. "It's your bed. I certainly didn't bring it with me. Don't try to say I did. So either you or someone you know put it there for me to find. And I'm pretty sure you knew what the end result would be."

"Why, are you the cocky young man!" she said, and I noted a flush starting in her neck and spreading upward.

I dropped my hands to my sides. My dick was reviving, and I cursed myself for it, but the flush was a subliminal message, although I didn't know it at the time.

"Tell me; tell me true, Aubrey, how many times today?"

"That was the first time."

"But what were you doing when I came into the room?"

"Between the pictures in the magazine and seeing you topless at the lake, I really had no choice," I said, readily confessing.

"But you had obviously finished..." she began, but remembered approximately where I had been when she burst into the room, and where I must have been while jerking off. She turned and saw the slug-like trail my sperm had left as it trekked down the wall next to the bed.

"Seven or eight times a day," Aunt Nicole said wondrously, as if imagining it happening before her eyes.

"I want to watch you masturbate, to play with yourself," she said calmly.

"Come here," she said, and reached for me with her hand turned upwards. "Come and lay down here with me. "You can do it lying down, can't you?"

"Yes," I said stiffly.

"Or you can sit, whatever is most comfortable for you."

I lay down and worked my cock vigorously, my eyes on hers. It was an enormous turn on having her watching me, and so to impress her I kept up a fast, rapid rhythm, not slowing down and teasing myself as I was wont to do most times.

Every few seconds Aunt Nicole would lick her lips, and I would imagine my cock being licked and caressed by that tongue. Finally I had a great, shivering discharge that landed mostly on my stomach and hand.

Aunt Nicole hugged me tightly, and her hand caressed my back, and after a while her hand wormed down between us and closed around my still stiffened cock. She gave it a squeeze and the last remnants of my sperm oozed from the tip.

"That was magnificent," she said soothingly, as I moved a little restlessly, overly embarrassed at the situation.

"May I try?" she whispered, as she began to masturbate my cock, which had not lost the least bit of stiffness. On the contrary, it seemed to grow even harder.

"So it is true then what they say about young boys," she whispered, more to herself than to me. I took it for a rhetorical question and didn't bother answering.

"My God, look at it! It's getting bigger!"

It wasn't, not by my own assessment, but Aunt Nicole had started off seeing it after the fact, as it were. In the meantime, my ejaculate remained in place, with neither of us bothering to clean it up.

"Can I see you again?" I asked hopefully.

"What?" she asked, not having heard my question, being engrossed with my 'willy.'

"Oh," she said, the light having dawned. "My breasts, you want to see them?"

"Yes, please."

"Don't go comparing them to the women in the magazine," she said rebukingly.

"I ... I..." I stuttered, but she was already undoing her blouse.

After tossing the blouse to one side, Aunt Nicole said, "I might as well show you how to unhook a bra. I'm sure it will come in handy in the days ahead."

Somehow, I don't know how, I followed her instructions; she even had me practice a time or two, and then she tossed the bra aside with a flourish, and said, "We'll take things slowly," and then having glanced at my jerking dick, added, "for as long as we can."

My eyes were riveted to her breasts, and I found myself licking my lips, much as Aunt Nicole had hers earlier.

Ignoring my bulging eyeballs, Aunt Nicole said, "I think it's best if I teach you how to make a woman hot, and how to satisfy her. Let's start with the breasts. Tits, knockers, boobs — God, there are a slew of words for them." She laughed and said, "There's even more for your 'willy.' I bet you already know most of them."

I didn't challenge the statement, but filed it away for future investigation, as I only knew of a couple: Cock, dick, prick, and of course, penis.

"To start with," my aunt said, "use words. That's right, words. Imagine that you're on a date, nothing's happened as yet, but you have a certain feeling that she likes you. Compliment her. Her choice of attire would be appropriate for starters. Girls love compliments. I know I do, so don't forget to compliment me from time to time.

"Find some personal attribute that you can honestly say you like and mention it. Like, oh, say, her hair. You admire the color, or the way its set, or even her figure. In this area, keep the comment simple, say, 'Gee Jenny, you have a terrific figure, way nicer than most of the other girls'."

"I think I understand," I told her.

"I sincerely doubt it. You are a male, and in a woman's world, you are considered a lout, a pig, or even a disgusting baboon."

"But women can't seem to do without men, can they?"

"Some manage," Aunt Nicole said, "but on the whole, I expect you are right about that."

"Anyway let's assume this is a first date. It's customary to wait until the end of the evening, and then when she says, 'Thank you for a very nice evening, Aubrey, ' you look to see if her lips pucker up, or if she closes her eyes. If she does, then it is permissible to kiss her chastely on the lips. Once and once only, unless she ... well, if she wants another, you'll know it."

She paused in her love lesson, looked longingly at my erection, and said, "Feel my breasts. Can you feel how hard my nipples are? Like tiny hardons, aren't they?"

I felt of them, luxuriating in their velvety softness.

"That's soooo nice, Aubrey. See? Look how the aureoles wrinkle when you touch them?"

Of course she traced a bright red fingernail over that part to further enlighten me.

After I followed, running my index finger lightly over the pebbled surface, she moaned, and cried out in a whisper, "Suck on them, suck on them, but very lightly."

I sucked a stiff nipple into my mouth, and found that it tasted both sweet and sour. The sweet was the more overpowering of the two. Later I figured out that the sour was her sweat. Well, women will tell you that they don't sweat. I won't argue the point. But they do perspire. At any rate, the nipple got even stiffer in my mouth, and a ragged sigh escaped my aunt's throat.