It only took a minute or two. Now, Bobby can’t get me out of his head, so it’s easy for me to keep his cock in my mouth.
Unless we’re really having fun.
I’d been teasin’ him, knowing we were alone in the house, and things got out of hand. He was just babbling. ”Christ, Trixie, I’m so sorry. Got carried away.” I didn’t say a word, ‘cause I had better things to do with my mouth. It was fun to listen to him. I could tell he wanted to cum again, but his conscience was bugging him.
"I made such a mess."
A hot one. His cock, throbbing against my cheek, told me he was getting off on it.
Nasty looks great on me. And the way he was lickin’ his lips I could tell he wanted a taste, too. So many lovely addictions for me to feed.
He watched for a while as his goo cooled on my tits, then:”I’d loved to …. but damn, we can’t… that’d be.”
It’s been weeks, and we can’t stop, because it is. Oh, yeah.
"God, you’re beautiful." That’s the first time he went all glassy-eyed. His conscience was still whispering in his ear, but my tongue was caressing his prick. Guess who won?
"If only we weren’t …"
It wouldn’t be so filthy, I thought. I craved filthy. Now he does, too.
"But, fuck, I owe you." See how good I was with my mouth? And he did all the talking: ”Do you want to hold it?”
That’s when his training started. Saved me a lotta time.
"Say something, please."
Nah. He was doing a great job talking himself into it. Such a good boy.
"It’s only fair ….so I can make you feel good, too." Guess he realized he had to cum. Funny how he got smarter as I got him harder. He’s gotten to be brilliant.
All the time.
"But we can’t let Mom find out."
She didn’t — not that night — but that’s another story.
You have to understand about my brother and me: the kitchen was our special place when we were teenagers. We ate there, all the time. In fact, we did everything together, but we never crossed the line. We maintained our distance and, slowly, that distance grew, and he went away.
When he came back, he was very damaged, never left the house, didn’t bother to dress. I hardly recognized him.
And he was always probing. I tried to set boundaries. So much friction between us.
Tuesday he was waiting for me after work, eager, wild, beyond words.
Right there in the kitchen.
I was kinda shocked. His blood was pumping, he was steaming. I didn’t want to lose him, but he scared me.
Invaded my space. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He came at me, pressed me, harder and harder.
Crossed the line.
I couldn’t breathe.
Friction, pressure, heat. Air unbearable.
Melting my resistance. And I crossed the line, too — let his ache touch an emptiness deep inside.
So I succumbed, oh, god, every part of me, succumbed, totally.
Right there in the kitchen.
And his love flowed into me, and I was filled, completely.
It brought me to my knees. And all I could do was bare myself to him. And then I knew what I had to do: tame him, all over again.
Sure, I teased him a little, but just to soothe his tantrums. And I brought him back him back home to me.
Just like old times, right there in the kitchen, but with new appetites.
Now it’s so much fun to have him around the house — we’re going to do everything together.
So, you see, I just have to take the rest of the month off.
Day 3, 10:14 am: I don’t think I can wait another minute - my skin is crawling, my brain buzzing.
But here he comes — jerking himself already. Progress.
He notices me, “Uh, hi Aunt Bette.” And stops touching himself.
That will never do. “Don’t stop on my account, dear. If I had a big old cock like that, I’d stroke it all the time.” And the way his hand is trembling, he’s itching, just like I am.
He blushes, “well, uh, yeah, but at home I’m not …”
"Never you mind those stuffy ‘at home’ rules. Come sit down." He sighs in relief and plops down next to me.
He just looks at me for a moment or two, but then his right hand strays down to his lovely cock. He can’t help himself. He whispers, “Funny — felt so wicked yesterday, but today….”
"It just feels a little weird."
"Give it time, darling. You should be stroking all the time, you know."
"All the time, Aunt Bette?" As if he doesn’t do it for hours already.
"Oh, yes, most boys don’t stroke enough." His pupils widen as I stare into his eyes.
He says, “I’m worried it’s so big.”
"If it bothers you, let me give you a hand." I reach down for his manhood — it is huge, almost burning my hand, fabulous — my new favorite toy.
As I start fondling him, he moans. “Oh, god, that’s awesome.”
I catch him staring at my tits, and he blushes almost crimson. Time for the next step. “We’re family, sweetie — go ahead and squeeze.”
"I can’t touch you there, Aunt Bette. Seems wicked."
"Not for long, dear, not for long."
He hesitates just for a moment, sighs, then cups my tits and leans down to run his tongue roughly all over my nipple. I’m tingling all over, so hot and horny.
He shifts his face to mine, mouth open — he’s such a quick learner. I reach my tongue all the way in to reward him.
In the excitement, my hand twitches and I let go of him.
He hisses, “Don’t stop, Bette, don’t fucking stop. Keep stroking my cock.” And thus wicked becomes weird becomes wonderful.
Darling Bobby is hooked: when I’m not there to take care of him, his right hand will be locked on his fine cock, which will be pulsing and drooling all the time. He’ll be stroking in his sleep.
Time to take it further. I whisper, “Auntie’s cunt needs attention, baby.” He hesitates again, so I roll my fingers around the base of his manhood and stroke up once, twice — and then his fingers are rubbing my slit. Excellent.
Bobby’s my goon boy now. His big prick is the joy stick I’ll use to steer him into my mouth, my bed, my cunt, my world. Just imagine what he’ll think is weird, tomorrow.