Like he said, we settled into a routine that was fine, until that day when I thought, incorrectly, that he’d be late for class if I didn’t wake him. I went down the hall to his room (erstwhile my grown daughter’s, but she wasn’t fru-fru, so it was fine with him, so he said). I stopped at the door and listened to hear if the shower was going or if there were other sounds that would indicate he was up.
Nothing heard, it didn’t occur to me at the time to just bang on the door and yell at him through it. I silently opened it, expecting to tiptoe over, nudge his shoulder and say softly, “Steve, you’re late for that morning call – you need to get up and tune in, even if it’s late,” or something similar.
Instead, I was greeted with the view of my nephew, sprawled spread-eagle on the bed, the covers kicked off onto the floor, and him with not a stitch on! I started to back out, but one detail caught my eye, immediately. He had an erection – “morning wood,” my George used to call it. It had been years since I’d seen an erection, but I’ve seen a few in my time, and Steve’s was a beaut!
He was straight as an arrow – no curve at all, the head was nicely bell-shaped, the shaft nicely proportioned to the length, and the length was impressive, which meant it was thick as well as long. I quickly estimated a good 7″, maybe more – the view from the door wasn’t the best, but was quite enough for the moment.
My George was an average 5, maybe and a half, inches, no more, and while we had a nice sex life, having a “nice sex life” isn’t exactly the earth-shattering kind that you read about. It was a fine life, and I still miss my love, don’t get me wrong – but I didn’t miss him for the passion, much more like for the companionship and mutual team approach to things.
Back to the bedroom, I stood for a moment, just taking in that magnificent specimen attached to my nephew in his innocent sleep. Still thinking he was late for his call, I tiptoed over, and took a long gaze at that appendage. It wasn’t lying flat on his stomach, but was elevated a couple of inches, confirming that it was hard, not merely really long and really thick.
I wondered how much it changed from soft to this glorious state, then I sort of snapped out of it, gently pulled the sheet up, and laid it over him. There was no way to disguise the tent his erection made in the sheet, but he was late and I needed to help him out. I touched his shoulder and told him to wake up. He did, slowly at first, his bleary eyes opening, then quickly he rolled to his side, almost startling me, but managing to hide the evidence of his erection. We quickly cleared up the confusion, and I left him, heading downstairs to the safety of my kitchen. –
During all that, my mind was racing, reflecting the growing conflict between helping my nephew and gazing at the first hard penis I’d seen in years. Outside of pornography, that is. As a single female of the heterosexual persuasion, I admit I’ve indulged from time to time, knowing that whatever you see in that industry’s output is outrageously out of the ordinary. Steve wasn’t as large as some I’d seen, but I’d found that the really big ones were usually expoitative in some way, and that I got more excited when I saw an above-average one than when I saw a huge one. Steve was above average plus, thankfully not huge. When he did come around, I realized that he might have realized what I’d seen, sheet or not. I was embarrassed, not knowing how to handle it, so I fled.
By the time I’d gotten him his coffee and we’d moved outside and were seated on the patio, it finally dawned on me that I was wearing my usual nightshirt, which was just an old long mid-thigh cotton thing that was thin from years of laundry – and that I hadn’t put on a bra that morning, expecting not to be involved in any of that episode.
When the thought occurred to me, we were sitting together, and I looked up to see that Steve was pretty much staring at my breasts, which in the thinking still of the nude viewing and subsequent self-realization of my attire, had hardened my nipples. I was “pointing” through the nightdress, and he was watching me do it!
I froze, figuring out my next step, and in the process of looking downward to avoid his gaze, I saw that there was a tent formed in his sweat pants – was he getting turned on by my nipples? It had been so long since any man had been turned on by me, much less by as little as an indentation in cloth, I was flattered and realizing I was getting turned on, and had no good options. My nipples probably betrayed me even more at that point, since they are indeed sensitive to that sort of thing. I practically jumped out of the chair, mumbled something about something, and ran away to my bedroom, leaving Steve, the unfinished breakfast dishes and all, sitting there, all speechless.
Steve again:
Again, I wondered if I’d offended her by leering, or if her exit had nothing to do with that. I did notice that with the loose sweat pants, my erection had started to return, spurred on by the lovely sight of that t-shirt night shirt thing.
I took my time finishing in her absence, checked email and such, but was drawn back to the image of those breasts, and feeling the good feeling of my getting harder. Since I was alone, I dropped a hand to my crotch, rearranged my package for more freedom, and gave a few squeezes just because it felt good. My dick appreciated it, and surged accordingly.
Ah well, time to move along, I thought, so took the various dishes in to the kitchen, rinsed them and put them in the drain rack. I didn’t know if she was going to come back and finish her own, so I left them alone.
I was still sort of half-hard, just that feeling nice swell kind of thing, when I turned to go back and get dressed for the day.
Aunt Catherine was just entering the kitchen then, dressed in another shirt and jeans, her hair pinned up in back, her breasts re-bound in whatever was under there resisting any movement.
“I’m free for the day,” I said, not registering my disappointment that she’d changed. “Is there anything I can do for you around the house, or something you need at the store or something?”
“Ah, no… ” she answered, and her hesitation prompted me to see that it seemed to be her turn to stare, and she was staring at my crotch, as unfettered as her breasts had been before. I knew without looking that I’d be tenting out the loose pants just slightly, but just enough to show something of what I had to offer. That she was looking was a thrill, and my cock gave a bit of a surge in reply, which she couldn’t have missed. As far as I knew, Aunt Catherine hadn’t been seeing anyone since her husband George’s death, but for all I knew that was false. On the other hand, if she’d been celibate that long, she had to be either beyond sexual feelings or very much in a frustrated state.
We ended up chatting and finding that there was a movie that we both wanted to see that had just opened, so we spent the afternoon together at the cinema, sharing popcorn, followed by grabbing a burger and discussing the flick. She’d like it more than I did, but it was ok, and our chatting drifted from that movie to movie favorites and on into wholly unrelated areas. It was a fine time, and we got to know each other better, as well as got to feel more relaxed, now as friends, not as aunt-nephew.
When we got back to her house, we had some wine and continued our chatting, then had some more and continued to continue. I relayed my intent on not having a serious relationship at college since I needed to focus on studies and future employment and figured I had plenty of time for that. I was hardly a virgin, but I was a dedicated field player.
Catherine – she had insisted I drop the “Aunt” part, that it made her feel old – shared that she hadn’t dated at all since George had died, and that while she was over the mourning part and was just happy they’d had good years, and Brianna, together, she’d just not gone back “into the pool,” as she phrased it. She was left not needing to work, but she did, part time, at the town library, both because she loved books and reading, and because it gave her some purpose, she said. I thought that a bit sad, but knew that 99% of the world’s widowed women would have been happy in her place, so why not? A bottle of wine finished, on top of beers with the burgers, had me fairly buzzed. She didn’t seem to show the effects, but maybe that comes with age and practice, I figured.
I went to bed early that night, and slept soundly, as I usually do. When I woke up, I realized that I’d kicked off the covers and was naked as well as erect, not an unusual condition for me in the morning. I was lying there, casually stroking my hard-on, not planning on masturbating, but not urgently needing to get to the bathroom either, just basking a bit, when I glanced over and saw that the door to the room was open, just an inch or two. Had I neglected to close it? I usually didn’t leave it open, but I might have, and considering I remembered being somewhat under the influence last night, I chalked it up to the fog of alcohol.
I also realized I was lying there stroking my hard dick and quickly leapt out of bed, closed the door, got on some clothes, and proceeded to the bathroom, for the usual routine.
and Catherine again:
The next day, Steve and I took in a movie together and after that, over wine, got to know each other and relax a bit. He really was a nice boy, and I was happy to have him as a guest. The morning after the movie, I took the opportunity to wake him, and again. I had no excuse like the day before with the misunderstood call, but just felt drawn to do it (carefully quiet this time). I cracked open the door, glad to see he was asleep, and this time without the erection. He was similarly sprawled on his back, sheets on the floor as before, and his penis was just lying, as if sleeping as well, I thought. It was attractive in that state as well, much bigger than Michelangelo had crafted onto his David – thicker and probably 3 or 4 inches long. He was clean shaven down there, in fact, pretty hairless all over, his slim runner’s physique making him look statuesque to me.
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