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Subject: Title story: "[inc] story:" Author: INCESTOR 117058969
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Date: Wed, 12 Sep 2007 02:59:51 +0000
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Aunt Peg Looking at my mother and her younger sister, it was hard to imagine
that they were separated in age by ten years. My aunt, recently divorced from
her very successful and work-addicted attorney husband, was an exceptionally youthful-
appearing 34-years-old woman.
My mother, soon to be 44, had the same tawny hair and blue eyes, the same slim
feminine figure, toned by tennis and aerobics. The family resemblance was
striking. That they were sisters was not questioned, but that they were ten-
years apart was remarkable. We'd picked up Aunt Peg at the United Terminal at
SFO this morning. While my aunt and my mother were emotionally close, they'd not
had the chance to spend much time together in recent years, each pursuing
separate careers on opposite sides of the country. In some abstract way, mostly
from snapshots, I knew Aunt Peg as a good-looking woman but I wasn't prepared
for the vivacious lady who walked with us to the Baggage Claim area. After the
crashing greeting Mom and Aunt Peg gave each other in the Arrivals Area, she'd
turned to me and, grabbing both my hands, held them out and looked me up and
down frankly for a moment before saying, "Bobby! God, you're a grown-up man!" I
heard my mother comment, almost as an aside, "They rarely ever grow *smaller*."
Draping one arm over my shoulder and sliding the other under my arm, she gave me
a full-body hug . . . a long one. I was acutely aware of her body. I could feel
her breasts against my chest and her pelvis against mine. I looked over her
shoulder and saw my mother watching us with a broad, approving smile on her
face. If Mom only knew! She'd probably not be so approving if she could read my
mind. My thoughts were anything but innocent. Quite the contrary, my thoughts
were mostly lewd and lascivious. Looking into my mom's eyes - as I felt the slim
body of her younger sister, a near-carbon copy - I was remembering that I had
been secretly turned on by my mother for several years and this was the closest
I'd come to feeling her body. Embarrassed at the sudden lurch in my groin at
feeling my aunt's body, I pulled back. Aunt Peg held to me a moment longer and
almost stumbled forward when I stepped away. I could feel the heat in my face
and hoped that neither of them would notice my blush or my tumescence. Jezz . .
. this was my deep, dark secret and my body was betraying me. Mom and Aunt Peg
were beaming at each other and appeared not to notice my discomfort. Yet, I knew
my mom. She missed little, but in her kindness and sensitivity, often chose to
ignore it for the moment. Later, however, she'd let me know that she'd noted
whatever it was I was wishing she hadn't noticed. She always shared with me her
thoughts and insights, both of herself and me, and always in a gentle, loving
manner and never with moral judgement. She was a particularly accepting woman
who loved me without qualification. Still, I was capable of being embarrassed at
my own thoughts. They'd turned to a strong sexual interest in Mom in the past
few years, ever since I was fifteen or so. And now, with the added closeness of
these weeks of vacation before my last year of college, I was even more aware of
her. In the five or six years since their divorce, I'd spent time with both my
parents without need to choose between them. Because my dad traveled so much,
there was never any debate where I'd stay finishing high school or, more
recently, college. Mom's house was the natural choice. We became good friends .
. . even buddies.
Our relationship changed. It matured. She had gradually shared much of the
emotional feelings about my dad. It was clear that she still loved him on some
levels, but had come to accept their diverging paths. She dated infrequently . .
. obviously, her choice. I was aware that Mom accepted my sexuality as well as
her own in a forthright manner that I didn't think my buddies had experienced
with their mothers. For instance, when I first started having wet-dreams, I was
mortified that she'd find out, but it was inevitable. She didn't ignore the
soiled sheets and pretend nothing was going on. Rather, she found ways to let me
know that she knew and that it was normal. I can't recall how she did it, but in
oblique ways she let me know that it was a desirable masculine trait. Once,
holding up a cum-stained sheet, she smiled at me and said, "Aren't you lucky?" I
didn't really know what she meant, but I got the message that it was okay to
have sexy dreams. And another time, picking up the Jockeys that I'd forgotten,
she fingered the stiff crotch and observed, "I understand, Billy. I used to have
the same problem." That gave me a jolt! What problem had she had? I'd been aware
of her sexy body since I was a young teenager ...
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