This story explores the developing emotional and sexual relationship between a young man in his mid-twenties and his Aunt Angela, an impoverished widow in her late fifties, living in Merthyr Tydfil in the Welsh valleys of Great Britain.
The build-up is a little slow but I hope you enjoy it and, as always, would appreciate any feedback.
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It all started with my cousin’s wedding. He’s called Huw, a Welsh name, and a very Welsh family, going back generations. My mother’s parents, Grandad and Grandma Williams, lived in Tredegar, a coal mining town at the head of one of the mining valleys to the south of the Brecon Beacons. Solid, chapel-going folk who worked hard and expected little out of this life, their reward, presumably, coming to them afterwards. Angela, the eldest daughter, married a coal miner from Merthyr Tydfil, a couple of valleys to the west. Katie, the middle one, married a car dealer from Ebbw Vale, next door to Tredegar; he was considered to be a bit flash: they owned their own house, on the outskirts of the town, and went to Marbella for their holidays instead of Barry Island. My mother went a few steps further, she left the valleys and went to university in England, London in fact, and got a degree in history. Grandad and Grandma Williams were thrilled that a daughter of theirs had achieved so much and disappointed that she’d not chosen Swansea or University College Aberystwyth. She compounded this misdemeanour by marrying my father, an Englishman, and settling in the capital, where I was born in 1954
This story starts in the spring of 1978, when I was just twenty-four and living in my own (rented) flat in Notting Hill and loving every minute of it. I’d got a first from LSE in maths and statistics and was working for a big insurance company as an actuary. If you don’t already know, an actuary assesses insurance risks based on statistical data, so it’s the backbone of the business and they pay accordingly. So I guess I was a bit flash too, or thought I was. I dressed well (in the now excruciating fashions of the mid-seventies), drove a two-year-old Ford Capri — the three-litre version — and took the firm’s unattached secretaries and admin girls to expensive restaurants. So I wasn’t that thrilled when Cousin Huw’s wedding invitation landed on the doormat. The celebrations started with a family get-together on the Friday and continued with the ceremony and reception on the Saturday. That meant a whole weekend away from London with its bars and buzz and glittering people. I did start a conversation with my mother about not going but she was firm.
‘Your aunt and uncle would be offended if you didn’t turn up. And you’ve always got on well with Huw and Brenda.’ Brenda was Huw’s sister, also my cousin. ‘And I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you took your girlfriend.’
‘I’m sort of between girlfriends at the moment,’ I said. That wasn’t strictly true, the truth was that I was a bit embarrassed by my provincial relations, which is much more of a reflection on me and my post-adolescent snobbery than it is on them. But somehow I couldn’t imagine introducing Suzie to Uncle Hubert and Aunt Katie. Mum was right, I did get on with Huw and Brenda but for the past five years my contact had been limited to an annual visit to Tredegar just before Christmas to exchange presents and listen to Aunt Katie exclaim how much I’d grown. The upshot of all this is that I did go, otherwise there would be no story.
Huw and his fiancé, Sonia, lived in Merthyr, so that was where all the wedding celebrations were being held. They had a place on a new estate on the eastern edge of the town. Merthyr Tydfil in those days was a bit limited, especially if you were used to London. But it did have a few hotels and Huw’s invitation had stated that a room would be booked for me and all I had to do was settle the bill on departure. A week before the wedding another note from Huw arrived. This one said that they had been unable to find hotels for the majority of guests as there was a Welsh folk festival in the town that weekend. He apologised but said that room would be found for everybody with friends or family although this might entail a bit of driving. Having already accepted the invitation six weeks before, I was now obliged to go. Had that not been the case, the balls-up with the accommodation might have been reasonable grounds for refusal. Typical bloody Huw, I thought. Bags of misplaced confidence. In this case confidence that there would be hotel rooms available for fifty-odd guests in a provincial Welsh town whenever he chose to call them and book.
I left London mid-afternoon on the Friday and drove west along the M4 towards Cardiff for about three hours then turned north. In those days South Wales was still an active coal mining area and the green valleys were dotted with slag heaps and the headframes for the pit lifts.
The family celebration was being held in a working men’s club in the centre of town. I parked up and found the place and found Cousin Huw and Sonia inside, helping set out tables and ferry crates of booze from the pub next door. As soon as I walked in he came straight over and hugged me. He’s a typical Welshman: Celtic black hair and pale skin, and not over-tall. People say we look the same, though I’m an inch or two taller.
‘Great to see you, David,’ he said in the sing-song accent of South Wales. And if you’re not familiar with that accent I urge you to go on U-Tube and listen because it’s the most beautiful accent in the world. Precise and melodious and with a small but enchanting stretching of the first syllable. ‘And this is Sonia.’ We shook hands and I pecked her on the cheek and she excused herself and went back to the preparations.
‘Sorry about the cock-up with the hotels,’ began Huw. Never thought about the bloody folk festival. Why’d they want to hold it in this dump anyway?’
‘So where am I staying?’
‘Ah, you’re alright boyo. I’ve got you staying with Aunt Angela. And she’s walking distance from here so you can leave the car and have a drink or two.’
I’d forgotten that Angela, my mother’s oldest sister, lived in Merthyr. Her husband had died about ten years ago of miners’ lung — pneumonoconiosis. I’d gone to his funeral, under duress. She had no children and lived alone in a tiny, rented bungalow on the less fashionable side of town. In those days the National Coal Board hadn’t got round to taking responsibility for killing its employees, unless they were directly involved in a pit accident, and she had to subsist on a tiny pension, eked out by mending and altering clothes for her equally impecunious neighbours. Of my two maternal aunts, she was the one I knew least well, although we’d always got along ok when we met, which hadn’t been for a few years. She still sent me birthday and Christmas presents which I guess she could ill afford. I remembered a tall, thin, rather shy woman with a permanently worried look. Not surprising, really, given her circumstances.
‘She’s got a spare bed?’ I said, surprised. ‘I thought her place was tiny.’
‘She’s got a bed-settee,’ replied my cousin. ‘I slept on it once. It’s a bit uncomfortable but after a skin full you’ll never know the difference.’
‘Well, that’ll be something to look forward to.’
Huw laughed and punched me on the arm. ‘Not what you’re used to in the big city eh?’
Family and friends were dribbling in by this time and I was much taken up with meeting relatives and explaining what it was I did at work and seeing their faces go blank with incomprehension, or more likely boredom. My mum and dad arrived then and I got us all a drink and we bagged a table in a quiet corner of the room.
‘Where are you staying tonight?’ I asked.
‘The Central Hotel,’ said mum, with a trace of smugness. ‘Huw managed to get rooms for us and his parents. What about you?’
‘With Aunty Angela, apparently. On her uncomfortable bed-settee.’
‘Well you’d better go and say hello then, she’s just arrived.’
I went over to the entrance lobby where she was hanging up her coat, a non-descript tweed affair with a faded felt collar.
‘Hello Aunty Angela’ — I’d always called her aunty instead of aunt, for some reason.
She turned and her face broke into a big smile. ‘David! It’s been such a long time since I saw you. My goodness you’re looking well!’ Her accent was pure Welsh valleys. She stood and regarded me for a minute, which, I suppose, is a convenient time to describe her. She was largely as I remembered: as tall as me in her one-inch heels and thin without being skinny. Not much in the way of hips or bust but with pleasant legs, what I could see of them below the knee-length tweed skirt and encased as they were in thick, black tights. I think she was fifty-six, or fifty-seven though she could have passed for sixty. Lank, collar-length brown hair, streaked with grey, framed a narrow face with a sharp nose and slightly oriental looking brown eyes. Goodness knows where she got those. The somewhat severe features were softened by surprisingly full, well-defined lips and a round chin; she also had quite large front teeth that ever so slightly protruded and came into focus when she smiled. Perhaps that’s why she did it only rarely. Age and worry had also given her crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes, faint vertical lines above her upper lip and the beginnings of looseness in the skin of her throat. She wore little make-up and no jewellery apart from a plain wedding ring.
‘I’m well. How about you?’
‘Oh, you know. Can’t complain,’ she replied. Her generation rarely did.
‘I’m staying with you tonight and tomorrow night, right?’
‘Of course it’s alright. I’ve only got a bed-settee I’m afraid, well you know my place, can’t swing a cat, let alone put in another bed. So I’m taking the bed-settee and you’ll have my bed. No, no arguments.’ — I had actually opened my mouth to thank her — ‘you’re my guest and that’s that. Now tell me all about London and your job. Are you still with the Prudential?’
I was surprised and pleased that she knew who I worked for and I started to tell her about the job and she asked about life in London and what films I’d seen and which museums I’d visited and whether I’d met anyone famous and I got us both a drink and we went and sat down at mum and dad’s table. My parents were embarrassing themselves on the dance floor with all the other mums and dads so Aunty Angela and I sat and chatted for ages about all sorts of things — mainly about me, although I did ask her some questions about herself. I think it was the longest conversation I’d ever had with her and I found that I really liked talking to this unassuming lady who showed such an interest in her nephew. She had a gentle sense of humour too and she laughed as I recounted anecdotes from work and about friends and acquaintances.
‘I expect we’ll all be getting invitations to your wedding in the not-too-distant future,’ she said at one point, giving me a mock-coy smile, and I laughed and went for more drinks then we had some food from the buffet that was laid out on trestle tables against one wall and we talked on about the family and what it had been like in the valleys during the war and before I knew it, it was ten o’clock and the music was slowing down for the final few numbers.
‘Would you like to dance, Aunty Angela?’ I asked, on the spur of the moment.
‘Well I’m not much of a dancer nowadays,’ she hesitated. ‘But this slow stuff’s easy enough I suppose. Sorry, that doesn’t sound very grateful. Yes! Thank you, David. I’d be honoured. And please drop the “Aunty,” you make me feel even older than I really am, and that’s old enough,’ she smiled, her teeth very big and white in the gloom of the place.
We stood and walked to the dance floor which was packed by this time. She faced me and I put my right arm around her waist and she put her left hand on my shoulder and we clasped our free hands together and started a slow shuffle around the floor, keeping about five inches apart. She had lovely hands — slim, with long, slender fingers and perfect oval nails. The noise and heat were tremendous and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. I smiled at Angela and she smiled back and another couple cannoned into us and we moved awkwardly towards a clear space but by the time we got there it was full and then someone trod on Angela’s toe so I steered her to the edge of the dance floor and we stopped moving but stayed in our loose embrace. I could feel the dampness on the small of her back and there were beads of sweat on her forehead. I too felt hot, stifling in fact.
‘This isn’t much fun, is it?’ I mouthed at her, over the racket.
‘I was thinking of heading home,’ Angela admitted. ‘You don’t have to though,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I’ll still be up until you get there.’
‘I’ve no idea of how to get to your house, Angela. I was about twelve the last time I visited. And anyway, I’m about ready to go. It’s been a long day. It’s nearly a hundred and seventy miles from London, and I was at work at eight o’clock this morning.’ She seemed relieved by this and we said our goodbyes, which weren’t extensive because we’d be seeing everyone for round two the next day and I got her coat from the lobby and helped her on with it, which seemed to please her disproportionately.
‘Where’s your car?’ she asked as we passed out into the comparatively fresh air of night-time Merthyr.
‘In a car park in the centre of town. I’ve had way too much to drive.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled. ‘There’s no way I’d have let my little sister’s boy get behind the wheel tonight. It’s not far to my place. About half a mile, I suppose. We’ll go via the car park and pick up your bag.’
We set off, side by side and after a few minutes she slipped her arm through mine. It was a perfectly innocent move for those times. I’d have held my arm out for her if it had occurred to me; it would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. But innocent or not, it had, for me, the first stirrings of intimacy. Five hours ago the thought of any such feelings about my Aunt Angela would have been ludicrous. Distasteful even. But I’d had such a lovely time talking and laughing with her that it seemed natural rather than the opposite. If I didn’t turn sideways to look at her I could imagine that I was walking one of the typists home after a disco.
Her house was in a cul-de-sac of similar properties: semi-detached one-bedroom bungalows, built as retirement homes for miners — those that reached retirement age. Inside it was neat and tidy. Spartan was probably the word. The television set looked like one of John Logie-Baird’s earlier attempts and there was no phone. The floors were bare tiles apart from a tatty carpet on the living room floor and a rug in the bathroom. There were a few knick-knacks on the mantelpiece in the living room and some framed photographs on a table by the window. One of them, I noticed, was my school photograph, aged about seven. Furniture-wise there was a half-height bookcase and a single easy chair opposite the television. And there was the bed-settee, and that was about it. For the first time, probably, I realised just how impoverished Aunty Angela was and a wave of compassion broke over me.
‘There’s no way you’re sleeping on the sofa-bed,’ I began.
‘My house, my rules,’ she replied, firmly. ‘Now I’ll get a couple of glasses and you get that bottle of red wine out of your jacket pocket that I saw you stuff in there before we left the club.’
I laughed and pulled it out and Angela came back with two mis-matched wineglasses and I poured us drinks and we sat and chatted about the evening and about tomorrow’s wedding and the time passed and it was fun. Then, with the bottle empty, I removed the throw from the bed-settee and grasped the strap between the cushions and pulled. The base of the settee rose about a foot, until it was at an angle of about thirty degrees, then there was a graunching noise and it stuck, solid. I tugged and pushed but it wouldn’t budge and I felt ashamed that my aunt had so little and of what she had got I’d now broken a substantial part.
‘Well neither of us can sleep on that,’ she said, looking dispassionately at the jammed sofa-bed. ‘So that settles that argument.’
‘I’ll sleep on the floor,’ I said, quickly. ‘I’ll use the cushions from the sofa.’
‘Nonsense. They’re tiny.’
‘Well I’ll just sleep on the floor then. Have you got a spare duvet?’
‘I haven’t got a duvet at all,’ she replied. ‘Just sheets and blankets.’
We stood there staring at the floor for a few seconds then Angela seemed to come to a decision.
‘You’ll have to sleep in my bed. There’ll be plenty of room. Neither of us has got much meat on our bones, as my mother used to say. You have got pyjamas haven’t you?’
‘Well I’ve got boxers and a T shirt. That’s what I normally sleep in.’ In fact I normally slept in the raw, but Aunty Angela didn’t need to know that.
‘That’s fine then. You use the bathroom first and I’ll tidy up in here and wash the wineglasses.’
I couldn’t imaging the tidying up in the living room taking very long. I felt uncomfortable with the idea of sharing my aunt’s bed. I wasn’t a child any longer. But I could see no way out of it and I did need some sleep. So I scooted into the bedroom, found my washbag in my overnight grip and went and brushed my teeth and rinsed my face. Then I went back into the bedroom and stripped to my boxers and put an old cotton T shirt on. I didn’t know which side of the bed my aunt slept on, but on one of the bedside tables there was a book, so I took the other side. I also took a book out of my grip to cover my embarrassment and started reading.
A few minutes later Aunty Angela appeared and smiled at me. ‘Ok, David?’
‘Yes, fine, Angela.’
She got a winceyette nightdress out of her wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom where I heard the toilet flush and then water being run and the sound of her brushing her teeth. I tried concentrating on the book but all I could think of was my aunt coming back in and getting into bed with me.
She came back in about five minutes later and I pretended to read as she threw back the blankets on her side and climbed in, giving me a glimpse of her legs, bare to the knee and smooth. She picked up her book and put some reading glasses on, which made her seem older. We read in silence for about fifteen minutes before Angela yawned and put her book down.
‘I’m sorry, David, I’m sure it’s way too early for you to go to sleep but I’m all-in. Read as long as you want, it won’t bother me.’
‘Absolutely not. I’m ready to drop.’
We switched out our bedside lights and Angela turned away from me and I turned away from her and shut my eyes and tried to sleep. The room was in semi-darkness with light coming in through the thin curtains from the streetlights outside. I lay still for what felt like an agonisingly long time, listening to Angela’s breathing become slow and regular, a faint whistle discernible like the sound of a distant steam train. Eventually I felt my body relax and sleep start to overcome me. My last conscious thought was of my aunt’s bare legs, and a blurred mental picture of what lay at their confluence.
I don’t know how long I slept but when I was startled out of sleep by a low moan from my aunt. It was very dark in the bedroom; the streetlights went out at midnight, I believe. At first I thought I’d imagined it, but then she groaned again, louder, and muttered something in her sleep. I wasn’t concerned by this apparent dream, although I was wondering how I’d get back to sleep, but then she gave a great scream and shouted: ‘Get out, get out of my house!’ Now she was thrashing around, throwing the sheets and blankets off her, twisting about and crying incoherently.
I leaned over and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Angela, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!’ She didn’t respond to me so I shook her shoulder and repeated my mantra, louder. Suddenly she stopped moving and went silent and I could hear her breath coming in great gasps and her teeth chattering.
‘Are you alright?’ I asked, rather stupidly.
‘David?’ she asked into the blackness of the room.
‘Yes, I’m here. It’s fine, you were having a bad dream.’
‘Oh my goodness, it was horrible. It’s always horrible.’ She started crying softly.
I was horrified, and filled with tenderness, and my male protective instinct took over. ‘Come here,’ I said, raising my arm, though she couldn’t have seen it in the dark. She must have sensed it though because the next thing I knew was that my aunt was lying next to me, her head on my shoulder, her right arm across my chest and I could feel her heart racing and her breath hot on my neck. I put my arm round her and stroked her hair and told her it was all over and it was ok. I pulled the blankets back over her to keep her warm and eventually her teeth stopped chattering and her pulse slowed and her breathing became slow and even again and I realised that my Aunty Angela, dressed only in a ghastly winceyette nightie, had gone back to sleep in my arms.
Well that put me in a tricky situation. It was now obvious she was deeply asleep again and I didn’t feel that I could wake her up, after her traumatic experience, by extricating myself. So I just lay there, my arm around her, my hand on her shoulder feeling her thin body against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, her face nestled into my neck, her hair tickling my cheek.
I did brush her hair away but more than that I didn’t dare. Well, apart from wiggling my toes and waggling the fingers of my free hand.
Time passed and I began to relax. I also began to be more aware of my aunt’s body as something soft and female: I could feel her right breast against my ribcage and I fancied I could feel her nipple through the winceyette. And I could feel the heat of her. I thought of the glimpse I’d had of her calves and ankles and, strangely, a warmth began to creep over me. Not a stifling warmth generated by two bodies pressed together under some blankets, but the warmth of sexual excitement. There were butterflies in my stomach and tendrils of excitement were stealing lower, towards my genitals. I was becoming hard.
Initially I tried to repress these feelings; this was my aunt! She was in her late fifties. She had greying hair and wrinkles for God’s sake! But the feelings persisted. My penis stirred and swelled, stretching and retracting my foreskin. I recalled my last thought before sleep about the top of Aunty Angela’s legs. I began to have dark thoughts about what she might look like down there. What she might smell like. What she might taste like.
My cock was now rigid. A mini baseball bat in my boxer shorts, the glans now fully engorged, lying on my abdomen, free of its protective cover and uncomfortable against the material of my makeshift pyjamas. I desperately wanted to adjust myself but was restrained by the appalling thought that my aunt might wake up and think I was fiddling with myself.
Eventually I could bear it no longer and I snuck my free hand under the waistband of my boxers and made some adjustments. The relief was immense. Except that now I was free to think about what Aunty Angela might look like naked. What would her breasts look like? Was she hairy or did she trim her pubic bush? It was so bizarre I almost laughed.
Eventually my thoughts became more ludicrous and unlikely. And more disjointed. Against the odds I was falling asleep again, Angela still clasped to me.
There was a pre-dawn light in the room when I woke again. Angela was still asleep, but as consciousness returned to me, so it did to her. She mumbled softly and raised her head, her eyes still almost closed. Then she opened them and seemed startled to see me there next to her.
‘David! Oh, goodness. I had one of my nightmares, didn’t I? Oh I am sorry. It must have been horrid for you! And you hugged me and made me feel better. That was very noble of you. Did you get back to sleep?’
‘I did. I’ve only just woken up.’
Angela rolled over and looked at the little alarm clock on her bedside table. ‘it’s only just gone five but I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some?’
She disappeared and I heard the toilet flush and noise from the kitchen and after a while she came back in with two mugs and put one on my bedside table. And while we drank them she told me about her nightmare, which she said she’d been having since her husband, Len, died.
‘I get it about once a month. It’s like a period, except worse! It’s always the same: someone’s trying to get into the house and I’m fighting them off and trying to wake my neighbours. It’s horrible! And it lasts two or three nights.’
‘So you’ll have it again tonight?’ I asked, faintly alarmed.
‘Yes, probably. Although the second night’s not usually so bad. And if there’s a third, that’s milder still.’
‘You poor thing! Have you spoken to anyone about it?’
‘My doctor. But he just prescribed sleeping tablets! I’m not taking drugs just because of a bad dream!’
After we’d had our tea we dozed again until seven when Angela had a bath and I had the water after her. It wasn’t my idea of perfect cleanliness but that’s all that was on offer. Actually I did experience a slight frisson of excitement as I sank into the scented water that had so recently held my naked aunt. I thought about masturbating, my cock was hard enough, but there was no lock on the bathroom door.
After breakfast, which was cornflakes and toast, I went and collected my car and parked it outside Angela’s bungalow. It gave me a perverse pleasure to note that it was the newest car on the street. After that Angela pottered in her tiny garden and I fixed her leaking kitchen tap with a bag of tools she found under the sink. After I’d done the tap I had another go at the bed-settee but I couldn’t budge it.
‘Looks like you’re stuck with me again tonight,’ commented Aunty Angela as she came back into the living room just as I was giving up on the blasted thing. I gave her a smile and hoped I wasn’t blushing. There was a faint deliquescence in my stomach and my cock twitched in my underpants. Get a grip, I thought, straightening up.
Then it was time to get into our glad rags: a grey suit for me and a flowery cotton dress for Angela. There was a last-minute panic when she discovered a torn seam under one arm but it was soon fixed.
She looked nice. The dress was cheap but pretty and fitted her thin frame well. She’d put on some makeup, which made her face fuller and softer and she’d rouged her full lips with a deep red lipstick.
I had insisted on paying for a taxi to the church, even though it meant asking to borrow a neighbour’s phone to call one. It dropped us off outside the church where the guests were filing in.
An hour later we were having photographs outside, Huw and Sonia having been formally joined in Holy matrimony. Then the whole party walked the couple of streets to the hotel where the reception was being held in a large function room overlooking the garden and where we had the formal meal, a testament to nineteen-seventies Britain: prawn cocktail followed by roast beef and Black Forest gateau to finish.
Uncle Hubert, Huw’s father, gave the first speech, which was embarrassing but mercifully short. Huw’s speech was a touching tribute to his new wife, depicting her as a sort of cross between Marilyn Monroe and Mother Teresa. The best man’s speech was a touching tribute to effects of drinking four pints of beer and a bottle of red wine during the meal and is best forgotten. Afterwards the tables were cleared to one side and the serious business of drinking and dancing got underway.
I’d had just enough to drink to not care how stupid I looked on the dancefloor and I enjoyed myself for a few hours dancing with all my female relations and catching up on family news, including a conversation with my dad about how I should be thinking of buying a place instead of renting. This lecture went on for some time and I was casting about for an excuse to wind it up when I saw Aunty Angela sitting by herself in a corner of the room. Amid all the buzz of conversation and the music and dancing, she seemed to be the only person on her own. I excused myself and went over to her.
‘Are you ok, Angela?’
She smiled up at me. ‘I’m fine, David. Are you enjoying yourself? You seem to be.’
I got us both a drink and sat with Angela for a few minutes chatting easily about weddings in general and the recent speeches in this one in particular.
‘Come on,’ I said, finishing my drink, ‘let’s dance.’
She made a token protest but allowed me to lead her to the floor where we jigged around to the likes of the Bee Gees, Boney M and Abba. There was more space on the dancefloor in this place than there had been in the working men’s club and we smiled at each other and waved our arms and twisted our bodies to the rhythm of the music and Angela’s face became flushed with pleasure and her smiles became wider and toothier. After four or five numbers the tempo was slowed for a while, I took Aunty Angela in my arms, and we moved around the floor quite gracefully. I was very aware of her warm, slightly damp body close to mine and felt the first stirrings of arousal. What I should have done then was to lead her back to a table and get us another drink while we cooled off, emotionally and physically. What I did do was to pull her slightly closer to me so that we were almost touching and her chin was resting on my shoulder. I put my hand between her shoulders and stroked her gently and discreetly with my thumb.
I could smell her scent and feel her hair against my cheek and I was reminded of holding her in bed the night before and the distinct possibility that I might get to do the same tonight. The thought was intensely pleasurable, my cock grew rigid and uncomfortable in my underpants, and I thought that if we danced any closer she’d be able to feel my hardness pushing against her. At that point the DJ announced that the next slow one would be the last of the set and after that we’d be back to disco stuff. So I took the opportunity to hold Angela that extra and exciting inch closer so that we were touching at practically all points above the waist. I also squeezed her hand a tiny bit tighter. A sort of erotic euphoria was coming over me, clouding my judgment and repressing sensible feelings. I could feel that my erection was pressing lightly into Angela’s abdomen, but she made no move to pull away although she must have realised what it was. What she did do was to squeeze my hand back and grip it more firmly. She also squeezed my upper arm gently so I could feel her nails digging slightly into my skin through my shirt. I was in a state of heightened awareness and pleasure and the three minutes of slow dancing were over all too quickly and as the dying notes of the last slow number were playing I turned my head and kissed Angela on her cheek, leaving my lips there for a few seconds, smelling her scent and the fresh odour of her perspiration. Then the music changed to Gloria Gaynor and we broke apart and looked at each other.
‘Can we get a drink?’ she asked, into my ear. ‘I’m about done in.’
She found a table and I got us both a white wine and we sat and made slightly stilted conversation. I tried to persuade Angela back onto the dancefloor but it was obvious she was finished for the evening. Besides, it was nine-thirty and the taxi was booked for ten. So we sipped our drinks and looked around the hall at our friends and family enjoying themselves and then it was time to say our goodbyes and climb into the battered old Ford that turned up to collect us.
‘I’m sorry if I was a bit of a party poop this evening. I really enjoyed all the dancing we did but I just got so tired.’ We were both in bed, having had the obligatory cup of tea as a nightcap and gone through the same routine with the bathroom as the night before. She was in that dreadful paisley-patterned nightie and I was in my boxers and T shirt. We both had books balanced on our knees.
‘It was fine,’ I reassured her. ‘And the dancing was great,’ I added.
‘And thank you for looking after me. I was feeling a bit out of it until you came over and persuaded me to dance. I’m glad you did. It was lovely. Made me feel a bit younger for a while.’
A little later we put our books down and switched off out bedside lights. I thought about leaning over and kissing Aunty Angela goodnight but I didn’t and the moment passed. After all the erotic thoughts I’d been having about my aunt over the weekend I thought I’d have trouble sleeping. Certainly my penis was wide awake, with the thought of her only a foot away in the bed. But five minutes after turning over I was dead to the world.
It was about an hour later that my aunt had her nightmare again. Like the night before it started with some low-level moaning, which woke me up, followed by loader groans and tossing and turning and finally by the screams of ‘Get out, get out of my house!’ and loud sobbing. I shook her awake and pulled her towards me and she came in under my arm, shivering and sweating at the same time, her heart racing, and nestled up against me, her arm across my chest. I made soothing noises, stroked her hair, and kissed the top of her head and she calmed down and her heartbeat slowed.
‘Oh, David, I’m so sorry I disturbed you.’
‘Well, you warned me there’d be a second night. I’m sorry for you that you have to put up with it.’ I emphasised this by hugging her more tightly, feeling her small breast squash against my chest. She moved her head on my shoulder, finding a more comfortable position and making no move to leave my side. I lay still, enjoying the feel of her and thinking dark thoughts about her naked body under the nightdress. It was pitch black in the room. Aunt Angela said nothing more and I assumed she’d gone back to sleep. I tried to keep awake to savour the experience but it had been a long day, following a broken night, and I’d had a fair bit to drink, so I too fell asleep again.
It was dawn when I woke and everything was quiet in the bedroom. And I was snuggled up to Aunty Angela’s back, my morning erection hard up against her narrow buttocks. We’d somehow changed to this position in the night whilst still firmly in the arms of Morpheus. I stayed frozen in place while I considered what to do next. My first thought was to stay put. It was a highly enjoyable sensation and I thought my aunt was asleep; I could hear her breathing, slow and regular. Then my conscience told me I should disengage, carefully so as not to wake her. I was considering how to do this when she said:
‘Would you like some tea, David?’
Clearly she’d been awake for some time, probably longer than me. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘that would be lovely.’ I rolled over and away from her and she stretched and rolled over to face me.
‘It’s been a long time since anyone cuddled up to me like that,’ she said, smiling. I wanted to go to the bathroom but I hated to disturb you and it felt so nice.’
She got up and went to the bathroom and I heard the faint tinkle of water; it really was a very small house. The sound further intensified my already sensitised condition and all I could think about was Angela, my aunt, mum’s eldest sister, and how much I’d like to stroke her, hold her, touch her, and explore her body. Tall, thin women had never been my passion but I was becoming fixated with my aunt. And not just with her body. I liked the person that she was, liked being with her and talking with her. I couldn’t understand why such a women was still alone ten years after being widowed.
She came back with the tea and we drank it in a companionable silence. I desperately wanted to urinate but if I got out of bed it would be obvious that I was sporting a raging hard-on. So I stayed put and eventually she got up and went into the kitchen and I dived into the bathroom.
We had a leisurely, if meagre, breakfast and I went out to a newsagent for the papers, which my aunt said was a special treat for her. Then I packed and we moved into the tiny hall while we said our goodbyes.
‘Thank you so much for putting me up, Angela,’ I began.
‘Well it wasn’t much! I couldn’t even offer you your own bed. You had to share with your rickety old aunt. No, it’s me that should be thanking you, for looking after me at Friday’s do and at the wedding and especially for comforting me through my wretched nightmares. I’ll miss you tonight,’ she said, smiling that lovely toothy smile at me.
A feeling of tenderness and desire swept over me and I stepped forward and put my arms around my aunt. ‘It’s been lovely. I feel like I’ve got to know you for the first time as an adult.’
‘It’s been special for me too, David.’
I leaned forward slowly and kissed her gently on the lips. The contact lasted about three seconds before I pulled away and we looked at each other again, her brown eyes calm. My feelings intensified and I knew I had to do something to show her how I felt before I went home, so I leaned forward and kissed her again and this time I held the kiss and applied a tiny pressure and put the tip of my tongue against her full lips and pushed gently. Her mouth opened a fraction and my tongue slid in, finding hers. Then she broke away.
‘I’m not sure, David,’ she said, slightly breathlessly. ‘I’m your aunt.’
And that, for the time being, was enough for me. I knew, because she had acknowledged it, that I had shown her that I wanted to be closer to her than just an aunt-nephew relationship. Now I should leave. I hugged her tightly then picked up my bag and left, waving as I opened the boot of my car to put my grip in. She waved too, from the front door, a forlorn figure in the late spring sunshine.
Driving back along the M4 I tried to rationalise what had happened. Had it really been such a good idea to stick my tongue in my aunt’s mouth? She might be horrified. I might have alienated her completely. But somehow I thought not.
This thought, or rather hope, was confirmed a fortnight later. It was my twenty-fifth birthday and Aunt Angela sent me a book token, which I knew she could ill-afford, and a card. Inside the card she had written the following:
Dear David,
I hope you find something you want with the book token. Life here has been very dull here since the wedding — the biggest excitement in my life for years!! And it was so nice to see you and to chat and to get to know each other. I feel as though I’ve made a new friend. Is that too presumptuous of me? I’m sure you’ve got plenty of friends in London and don’t need an old aunt in a grotty Welsh mining town! It goes without saying that if you do find yourself in the Valleys (or anywhere remotely near) it would be really nice to see you and I promise I’ll get something done about the bed if you stay over!
I’m sorry I’m not on the phone; it would be nice to chat. Maybe you could drop me a line with your news from time to time. I love getting letters, though it doesn’t happen too often.
Love Angela xxxx
I read the card over twice. It certainly appeared that I hadn’t offended her. In fact she was clearly keen to see me again, so it seemed, and was offering to put me up. I pondered for a few days then wrote her a brief letter:
Dear Angela,
Thank you for the book token, it was a very thoughtful gift and I am keeping an eye out for something special to spend it on. Thank you also for your card. I really enjoyed the weekend of the wedding and spending time with you too. Thank you also for your kind offer to put me up if I visit. As it happens my company are sending me to Cardiff for a few days in June and it would be great to see you then. They’re putting me up at a hotel on Wednesday 13th and Thursday 14th but I thought I could drive up to see you on Friday 15th and maybe stay the night. Would this be convenient?’
Look forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes
David xxx
The visit to Cardiff on company business was a total fabrication but Aunty Angela need never know that. She replied by return of post:
Dear David,
I was thrilled to get your letter. Friday 15th of June is perfect and of course you can stay over. I can’t wait to see you!!
Angela xxxx
So three weeks later I left work at lunchtime on the Friday and drove west with a light heart and butterflies in my stomach at the thought of what might happen that evening. I had no firm preconceptions; I certainly didn’t expect to make love to my aunt or anything approaching that, but I wanted to kiss her and touch her and for her to be comfortable doing this.
She must have been watching for me through the window because the door opened as soon as I drew up and she came down the little garden path, hugged me, and carried my grip indoors. I presented her with the flowers I’d picked up round the corner at the grocer’s, a box of truffles and a bottle of a half-decent Merlot. She was thrilled and went off to put the flowers in a vase. I followed her into the kitchen.
‘Did you manage to fix the bed-settee?’ I asked, innocently.
‘Well sort of. Mr Jones from next door had a go at it and he managed to get it fully down as a settee but then he couldn’t budge it. Stuck solid it is.’ She looked at me and smiled a bit ruefully. ‘So one of us sleeps on that thing or we both share my bed again.’
‘I’m happy to share,’ I said.
‘That’s fine, then,’ she replied, and the subject wasn’t raised again.
I took Aunty Angela out for dinner that evening. It was an Italian restaurant in Merthyr and a bit shabby and provincial but she was thrilled. I imagine it had been years since she’d been wined and dined. Even when she was married a coal miner’s wages didn’t run to regular meals out. She found interest and excitement in the most commonplace of things, like the waiter topping up our glasses and having the waiter help her on with her coat at the end of the meal. It was very touching and I felt a rush of warmth for this lonely widow.
Back at her house we chatted over the inevitable cup of tea then Angela declared that she was tired — she was usually in bed by 10pm. As before, I used the bathroom first and was reading in bed when she appeared in a powder blue nylon nightdress, an improvement on the winceyette, but not much. Although I fancied it was partially see-through or would have been if the light in the bedroom had been stronger. Also it rode up as she climbed into bed beside me, exposing a tantalisingly short glimpse of her thighs before she pulled the blankets over her.
We read in silence for about ten minutes and then my aunt put down her book and took off her reading glasses. ‘I’m sorry David, I’m really tired. It must be all the excitement of the day,’ she smiled at me. ‘It’s so nice of you to come all this way to see me and I’ve had a lovely time. Thank you for taking me to a restaurant. It was such a treat.’
We put out our lights and lay down. ‘Have you had your nightmare recently?’ I asked.
‘A couple of weeks ago, so I should be alright tonight.’ She paused. ‘It’s almost a shame.’
‘Why so?’
‘Well, I won’t get a cuddle in the night.’
There was a silence for about five seconds whilst I digested this. ‘Angela, you can have a cuddle anytime you want.’ I held up my arm. ‘Come on, have one now, before we go to sleep.’
She shuffled over and came in under my arm and into the now familiar embrace, her head on my shoulder, her arm over my chest and my right arm around her shoulders, gently stroking between her shoulder blades.
I kissed the top of her head and she gave a little sigh. ‘Comfortable?’ I asked.
‘Very comfortable. It makes me feel so warm and safe, David.’
I kissed the top of her head again and she raised her face to look at me, in the dimness of the street-lit bedroom. So I kissed her on her lips briefly before breaking off, my heart racing with excitement. She kept her face tilted up to mine so I kissed her again, for longer, and with a tiny bit more pressure. She pursed her lips and pressed lightly back against me and so, with my mind whirling, and butterflies in my stomach, I opened my mouth and felt hers open and I slid my tongue into my aunt’s mouth and this time she didn’t break away and I felt her tongue flick against mine. Still kissing her I turned my body to hers, put my free arm around her and pressed my open mouth on hers. She sighed and I felt her hand on my neck, pressing me to her and then we were kissing properly, passionately, mouths mashed together, saliva mingling, tongues darting in and out, feeling her front teeth against my upper lip and tasting her juices, smelling the scent of her talcum powder.
That first proper kiss must have lasted ten minutes or more; she said later that she didn’t want it to end. Not just because she was enjoying it so much but because afterwards she knew we would probably have to have a difficult conversation. But not yet. We broke off and looked at each other in the gloom and then we kissed again, slower and more gently, exploring each other’s lips and tongues and teeth. Carried away by the moment I found her right breast and cupped it with my hand, squeezing and kneading gently. It barely filled my palm though it felt surprisingly firm and the nipple at its centre was rigid. She stiffened slightly as I did this but as I fondled her she relaxed and pressed her hand harder against the back of my neck. Thus encouraged I released her breast and slid my left hand down further, stroking her stomach and thighs before sliding my hand between her legs and cupping her crotch through her nightie. Angela gave a start and broke the kiss, grabbing at my hand.
‘No David! Not there!’
I thought I’d blown it then but I kissed her again and after a minute she relaxed and kissed me back and I made no further attempt on her nether regions.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, eventually. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
I could see her smile in the shadows. ‘We shouldn’t even be kissing like this, David.’
‘No,’ I agreed, ‘we shouldn’t.’ So I kissed her again.
‘Does it feel funny? Kissing me I mean,’ she asked a little later.
‘Yes,’ I said, slowly. ‘A bit funny. But it’s like no other kissing I’ve ever done,’ I went on, truthfully. ‘It’s so… so sensuous. Erotic, I suppose. I’ve never really been turned on by kissing before. Not like this. What about you? How does it feel for you?’
‘Yes, the same for me. Very sensuous. And warm. You made me feel all warm and safe.’
‘I want you, Angela,’ I said as an intense wave of desire for my middle-aged aunt swept through me.
‘I know,’ she replied, quietly. I can feel you against me.’ She paused and I wondered what was coming next. ‘But we mustn’t. I’m your aunt, it would be incest.’ She sighed. ‘What would your mother think if she knew what we were doing,’ she said, half to herself. ‘She’d be horrified.’ She was silent for a few seconds. ‘Kiss me again,’ she said. ‘One last kiss.’
I didn’t know if she meant one last kiss tonight or one last kiss full stop. I suspected the latter, given the context. I certainly kissed her as though it was the last kiss either of us would ever have. I was ragingly aroused, my cock as hard as glass, and I kissed her, devoured her, for long minutes. Eventually she pushed me away, gently but firmly. ‘Oh God, David, the forbidden fruit’s the sweetest but we’ll have to stop, you’re making my lips sore.’
We slept after that and when I awoke at seven-thirty, my aunt was already up and dressed. We had a quick breakfast and I said I’d better get on the road. It was a bit awkward between us but when we came to say goodbye, in the tiny hallway, I put my arms around her and drew her to me and she didn’t resist and I kissed her and she kissed me back, out mouths working against each other. Then it was over and we stepped back.
‘Shall I come down again in a few weeks?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said after a pause. ‘It’s lovely having you come and see me,’ she said in that wonderful Welsh lilt, ‘but I think it might be dangerous if we kept seeing each other. I’m sorry, David, I need to think about it.’
So I left, my disappointment almost palpable, and drove like a maniac back to London where I slammed up to my flat and drank a few glasses of Scotch to numb the pain. So that was that. All the build-up and the sexual tension of the past few weeks was for nothing! It wasn’t just that I was disappointed because I wasn’t going to get to fuck my aunt, I was actually starting to have really strong feelings for her, thirty-year age gap notwithstanding.
What I didn’t appreciate was that when my Aunt Angela said she’d think about it, she didn’t mean “no” she meant she’d think about it. And, four weeks later, when I’d just about stopped thinking about her every five minutes during the day, I got a letter.
Dear David,
Our last parting was a little bit strained, I think, because of the circumstances. It’s all a bit difficult because I was (am) starting to have feelings for you that an aunt shouldn’t have for her nephew and I think that you may be having similar feelings for me, though I may just be deluding myself! I do ask myself what a handsome and successful young man sees in a middle-aged lady who never was much to look at!
I have re-run that night together in my head over and over. I remember saying that your mother, my sister, would be horrified if she knew what we were doing, but I’m not actually so sure. I remember many years ago, when we were children, and Gladys Morgan, who lived across the street, ran off with the lad from the grocer’s. She was fifty-something and widowed and had three grown-up kids and he was only just starting to shave so he couldn’t have been as old as you. There was a right hoo-ha in the district at the time; everyone said it was a disgrace, but your mum said “So what? If they’re happy and they’re not hurting anyone.” She’s a free spirit, your mum, and I think she’d say the same about us, even though we are related. I may be deluding myself again but it’s true, we wouldn’t be hurting anyone.
What I’m trying to say is that I would love you to come down and see me again. Or I could come up to London. And before you panic I’m not suggesting that I’m a modern-day Gladys Morgan and that we should run off together! I’m saying that it would be lovely to see you whenever you can make it down and that the kissing is ok and maybe other things too. There! I’ve said it!
Let me know what you think. I’ll be on tenterhooks until I hear!
All my love Angela xxxxx
Ps — I think you had better burn this letter…
I read it over about twenty times but it still seemed to say the same thing: Aunty Angela felt the same way as I did. Which was wonderful and scary at the same time. And what did “and maybe other things too” mean? Was she offering to have full sexual intercourse with me? I certainly hoped so but that wasn’t strictly what she’d said. I certainly wanted her; I’d never wanted another woman more, nowhere even close. About time, I thought, to put the old risk analysis skills to use. If Angela was going to yield her all to me then the conditions needed to be right. I thought for a long time, then I made some phone calls. Then I wrote to my aunt.
Dear Angela,
I was thrilled to get your letter and to learn that you have feelings for me too! Including those forbidden feelings… I’m with you all the way. We are both consenting adults and are not hurting anybody. The taboo of incest is irrelevant for us. Naturally of course we should be totally discreet. Imagine the fuss if your parents found out! I do wonder if that doesn’t give our relationship an added spice — the fear of discovery!
I would love to come and see you. I can’t make this weekend but how about the following Saturday? And, as you have been so good as to put me up the last two times, it’s my turn to treat you. I have therefore booked the penthouse suite at the Hilton in Cardiff for the Saturday night. It’s got two bedrooms so it’s entirely appropriate for a nephew treating his aunt. We will go shopping in the afternoon and go to a restaurant for dinner. No arguments. I can perfectly well afford it and it’s the least I can do for you!
I’ll pick you up after ten am on Saturday. Have an overnight bag packed!
All my love, David xxxxx
I got a note back return of post protesting, but not too hard, about the cost of a lavish weekend in Cardiff. I didn’t burn her letters but I did keep them locked in my filing cabinet.
Ten days later saw me leaving London before seven o’clock and knocking on Angela’s door by ten-thirty. She was ready to go, a small suitcase packed and sitting in the hall, so we didn’t stay long. Just long enough for the inevitable cup of tea and a long and lingering kiss. Angela was flushed and excited and I felt good about what I was doing for her which was also good as it suppressed any residual guilt I had about my ultimate motivation. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn to Cousin Huw’s wedding, flowery and simply cut. She’d put some makeup on too and she looked ok. Better than ok.
‘What are we going shopping for?’ she asked me as we drove the twenty-odd miles to the Welsh capital.
‘A new outfit for you,’ I replied. ‘And no arguments.’
There were arguments of course. She protested most of the way to Cardiff that I was spending too much on her already but I refused to listen and eventually she stopped protesting.
We parked up in the centre of the city and wandered around in search of a suitable boutique — classy, without being ruinously expensive was what I was looking for. It wasn’t hard to find and, despite her initial reservations, Angela was obviously delighted to browse at her leisure; she’d possibly never been in such a shop. Eventually we settled on a knee-length black cocktail dress and matching court shoes. Then we had lunch in a city-centre pub and afterwards, at my instigation, she chose some new underwear and stockings from a chain store to go with her cocktail dress. We didn’t say anything as she picked out black satin French Knickers and black, sheer stockings, but there were one or two coy glances between us.
Afterwards, I steered her to a beauty salon and gave her into the charge of a young girl. Angela was a bit bemused by this time by all the nice things that had been happening to her so she didn’t argue, she just smiled at me as she was led away. I went back to the car and dumped the bags and found a coffee bar.
It was a long two hours but eventually I collected her from the salon, paid the bill and we drove to the hotel and booked in. Up on the tenth floor we explored the penthouse suite, Angela marvelling at the enormous beds and the palatial bathroom. Then we went out onto the balcony and she looked out at Cardiff and I looked at her.
I have to say, if I’d passed her in the street I’d hardly have recognised her. Her hair had been tinted a medium chestnut and cut and styled into a fashionable bob. Her make-up was sparingly and carefully applied and made the best of her narrow face and sharp nose. And they’d even painted her fingernails a deep red to match her lipstick.
I took her in my arms and kissed her and her mouth opened and I could taste her lipstick and her scent. I was very aroused, but now was not the time.
‘The restaurant’s booked for seven so if you want to really spoil yourself and have a soak in that enormous bath, now’s the time to do it.’
She smiled and disappeared. I went into the lounge area and watched television and I didn’t see her for over an hour, although I could the noises of water splashing around in the bathroom. About half-past six she appeared and stood self-consciously in front of me.
‘How do I look?’
The new cocktail dress was a good enough fit that it accentuated her slimness without giving away the fact that she hadn’t got much in the way of curves. Her legs, which were always great, looked fabulous in the sheer, black stockings and three-inch high heels, which made her about an inch taller than me. She’d also touched up her make-up, especially the lipstick.
‘You look wonderful,’ I said, truthfully. ‘Absolutely gorgeous!’ She wriggled with pleasure and blushed.
The restaurant was only ok, but Angela was enchanted by the whole experience and she didn’t really notice the indifferent food and hit-and-miss service. She enjoyed herself immensely, savouring each new experience, drinking a couple of glasses of wine on top of a cocktail and chatting animatedly about our day. The stage was set, I couldn’t help thinking, for the end game.
We were back in our suite by ten o’clock. Once inside the door I pulled her to me and our lips met and our mouths opened and we kissed long and languorously, exploring teeth, tongues, gums, and lips. Her hands on my head, mine roving over her back and her buttocks.
‘Whose bed shall we sleep in?’ she asked, surprising me.
‘Yours. Are you ready for bed?’
‘Yes. I just need to do my teeth.’
In her bedroom, with the curtains closed, it was dim and shadowy. And, up on the tenth floor, the noise of the city was muted to almost silence. We stood and kissed again and I put my hands on her bum and pulled her to me, pressing my erection into her crotch.
‘Oh, David,’ she murmured and kissed me, her long, slim fingers on my shoulders, her red nails digging lightly into my shirt.
I found the zip at the back of her new dress and slid it slowly down to her waist, revelling in the soft and intimate noise it made. She stepped back and took her arms out and let it drop to the floor, rustling as it slid over her stockings. I reached for her again but she bent and picked up the dress and went and hung it up in the wardrobe. She might be aroused and ready but this was a new dress, perhaps her first for years and she was going to look after it.
But in the dim light, as she turned from the wardrobe and came back to me by the bed, her long legs encased in their stockings and bare topped apart from her bra and panties, I felt an overwhelming sense of love and passion. Love because this rather plain and unassuming lady was giving herself to me and I wanted to hold her and protect her. Passion because what we were doing was forbidden and because in quietness of this city hotel penthouse, I would explore her body, smell her, taste her, and spend my seed in her.
Aunty Angela stopped in front of me and reached out, pulling my shirt from my waistband and using her long, red-tipped fingers deftly undoing the buttons. My shirt went on the floor without a second thought, then I was kicking off my shoes and socks and undoing my belt. When I was down to my boxer shorts we kissed again and I led her to the bed and we climbed on and sank into an embrace and we kissed again for long minutes, stroking each other’s backs and arms, tasting each other’s saliva, nibbling lips and touching our tongues together.
‘Turn over,’ I said, suddenly and she obeyed, rolling over on to her front, her arms underneath her as if she were doing press-ups. I stroked her hair and caressed her shoulders, running my hands over the smooth skin of her back and over her satin-clad buttocks. Angela’s breathing became a bit heavier and she shivered, although the room was very warm.
‘Are you ok?’ I asked, quietly.
‘I’m excited,’ she whispered. ‘I can hardly believe this is happening.’
I stroked her for a while longer then undid the clasp of her brassiere and told her to roll over again, allowing me to lift her bra clear and to see her unclad breasts for the first time, albeit in the dimness of the bedroom. I have never been a fan of enormous tits, anything more than a handful is superfluous, in my view, and Aunty Angela’s breasts were everything I had hoped and imagined: small, about the size of half an orange, but pert and firm with upturned nipples, the areolae dark and wrinkled. I bent my head and took one of her nipples in my mouth and she shuddered and ran her fingers through my hair and grasped clumps of it. The nipple was large, rubbery, and engorged and I sucked it and licked it, and took it between my teeth, gently biting down. She squealed and pulled my hair and raked her nails across my back and I transferred my attention to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, leaving it covered in my spit and shining in the faint light from the bedside table.
And then we kissed again, slowly and deeply, running our mouths over each other’s faces and kissing cheeks and noses and ears. And as we did this my hand went slowly down Angela’s prominent ribcage and abdomen and across her satin knickers where I cupped her vulva in my palm and gently squeezed and stroked and squeezed. I could feel her pubic bush and labia through the silky material and I could feel her hot breath on my cheek.
‘Don’t stop,’ she choked out and I responded by slipping my hand under the waistband of her knickers and stroking her hairy cunt, slipping a finger between her outer labia and sliding into the sopping velvet depths. I had worried about lubrication. Some women, I knew, don’t lubricate well after the menopause and I had come prepared with a jar of Vaseline in my wash bag. But that clearly wasn’t required. My aunt arched her back as my middle finger entered her and placed one of her hands over mine, pressing down, urging me further inside. I added another finger and she moaned and bucked her hips. Her vagina was soaking with juices and she was clenching her muscles against my intruding fingers. The experience was erotic in the extreme and I was aware of my erection, uncomfortable in my boxers, and leaking fluid into them.
Taking my hand from inside her knickers and rolling away from her, I stripped off my shorts and my erection, unfettered, sprang into the air. I knelt up and took the waistband of her panties in both hands and Aunty Angela raised her bum off the bed so that I could pull them down past her stockings and discard them on the floor. She stated at me from the bed, her legs parted and her hands on her breasts, ready and willing. I parted her legs further and knelt between them, lowering my head to her juicy, hairy snatch. The scent of bath salts mingled with her musky, meaty secretions and I lapped her juices up and sucked on her labia and drove my tongue as far into her as I could get. Angela was almost crying, her fingers tweaking her breasts, her hips moving up and down, pressing her cunt against my face and sliding it up and down. I sought her clitoris, licking her inner lips and finding the little nub in its delicate hood. I touched my tongue to it, then gently rasped my tongue up and down and Angela came, her head thrown back, her mouth open, trying to suppress a great scream of pleasure.
I didn’t wait for her orgasm to subside: taking my cock in one hand and supporting myself over her with the other, I found her vagina and thrust all seven inches of my rigid meat inside my aunt’s cunt. She screamed again, her breath ragged, saliva at the corner of her mouth.
‘How does that feel?’ I asked, softly, looking down at her.
‘It’s big, David’ she gasped.
I started a slow in and out movement, going down on my elbows and kissing my lover’s lips and neck. She hooked her calves over mine and flexed her hips to meet my thrusts, her hands on my shoulders, the nails digging in harder than ever.
I could have slowed right down and made it last longer but we had the whole night ahead of us so I kept up my rhythm and felt the tendrils of climax snake through my testicles and creep up my spine. The orgasm, when it hit, was so intense I almost forgot where I was and what day it was. Wave after wave of almost excruciating pleasure wracked me and I spurted my hot spunk five, six, seven, eight jets into my aunt’s sopping pussy. Then I was done.
I lay on top of her for a while, still on my elbows, getting my breath back and regaining my senses.
‘Was that ok, David?’ she asked, quietly.
I took a deep breath. ‘That was the most intense sex I’ve ever had,’ I said, simply. ‘It was unbelievable.’
‘You made me come twice,’ Angela said, shyly.
‘Twice?’
‘Yes, I came when you did but I don’t think you noticed. I didn’t scream or anything that time. Oh God, you don’t think anyone heard us do you? We’re supposed to be an aunt and his nephew. Goodness knows what people will think if they hear me screaming like that.’
‘Nobody can hear us up here,’ I reassured her.
‘Was it really that good?’ My aunt was touchingly insecure. It was an hour or so later and we’d had a nightcap from the mini-bar and got under the duvet together.
‘Yes, really.’ She snuggled up to me and we kissed and I felt my penis harden and after a few minutes I said: ‘I want you again, Angela.’
And she said: ‘You can have me again, David.’ So we made love again, slowly and tenderly, stroking and exploring each other as I penetrated her and slid my rock-hard cock in and out of her. My Aunty Angela had a remarkably tight cunt for a woman of her years, at least, I assumed it was remarkable, one experience doesn’t make me an expert in middle-aged lady’s vaginas. So I didn’t last very long the second time either and that was a recurring theme in our future lovemaking: unless I slowed down to a crawl, the whole thing was over in a couple of minutes. Not that Angela complained. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We didn’t make love for the whole night, as might have been reported in a lurid novel. We both slept, and Angela didn’t have her nightmare either. We did make love in the morning and that was wonderful because as I fucked her I could look down on her thin face in the early morning light with its full lips and protruding teeth and feel a great wave of love sweep over me, just in advance of my third orgasm.
Later that morning I drove Angela home and we spent Sunday afternoon in bed, aunty surprising me by taking me into her mouth and sucking me until I was close to a climax. She was showing signs of an insatiable sexual appetite which both thrilled and intrigued me. Why hadn’t she found herself a bloke in the last ten years? When I asked, she didn’t really have any answer for that. Lucky for me, I suppose. And that’s about the end of the story, really.
Epilogue
This all happened in the late seventies. I’m sixty-five now, and a proud grandfather of five. Rightly or wrongly (and it’s pretty certainly wrongly, from a moral standpoint) Angela and I continued our physical affair until she was seventy-nine and sex became a bit uncomfortable for her. We had more than twenty years of the most fulfilling and breath-taking sex imaginable. We tried everything! Well, almost everything. Angela never found anal sex very comfortable so we didn’t indulge, but she adored bondage and spanking! It’s amazing that no one ever found out about us, or even suspected; I was just the devoted nephew. And it wasn’t just sex. We were both very much in love with each other. A couple of years after the events in this story I used two of my obscene annual bonuses to buy Aunty Angela’s bungalow and gift it to her. I also paid for the utilities and had a phone installed. So for the first time in her life Angela had a bit of money to spend on herself. And the nightmares stopped, suggesting that they were linked to financial insecurity. And in case you’re wondering, yes, Angela’s still around. She’s ninety-five now and in a care home but she’s still pretty sprightly and she’s got every one of her marbles. I still visit once or twice a month and we chat and I take her out for coffee. And looking back, over the years, if I had my time again, I wouldn’t change a thing!
The End