Chương 779: JUST THE TIP, AUNT RHONDA
When you're young, everything matters. Everything leaves an impression. You may not realize it at the time, but each new experience leaves its mark on you, and those marks can last into adulthood, even your whole life.
Say you're playing in the yard with a neighbor kid, and she steps on a bumblebee in the grass. You've never been stung before, but she screams and cries and carries on so much, you figure getting stung must be the worst agony a person can experience. And so you're secretly terrified of bees, always alert when you're outside, on the lookout for nests, going tense and pale at the sensation of anything landing on your skin. Until you finally put your hand where you shouldn't one day when you're sixteen and doing yardwork for your elderly neighbor, and ZAP! It's not so bad after all. You feel silly.
Or maybe, one day in school, you have to write a story. Afterward, nobody volunteers to read their assignment aloud for the class, and the teacher picks you, a normally shy kid, at random. You get up and read your story, and have them rolling in the aisles, the teacher frowning because you didn't follow the directions. And you realize you have this ability, this talent, for entertaining people. You learn how to use that talent, maybe to draw people to you, or maybe to keep them away, to wriggle out of uncomfortable situations. And all of it because one day you wrote a story from the perspective of a booger.
And then there's sex.
When you're young, sex is shrouded and mysterious. You hear people talking, just not talking to you. Sex. Having sex. That's sexy. Sexual healing. Sexual abuse. What does it mean? What is sex, how do you have it? Even when you learn the Facts Of Life, it only deepens the mystery. The man inserts his penis into the woman's vagina and releases sperm, which swim into the uterus in search of the egg to fertilize. Well, yeah, but what else? But you know not to ask.
And so, because of this not knowing, but wanting to know, when you do stumble onto something that quickens your pulse and makes your eyes pop, you remember. Maybe you don't realize it, but your subconscious does.
It is said that our sexual identity is formed in the earliest stages of puberty. Whether we become tit-men or ass-men. Whether we like skinny girls, tall girls, short girls, Italians, Asians. That first stack of dirty magazines we come across. The first porn video we "accidentally" access online. If it's something hardcore, fisting or watersports or a gang-bang, our wiring may be fried for life. The time we walk into the master bedroom on a Sunday morning because we need a fresh tube of toothpaste, and find Mom straddling Dad's hips, bouncing up and down, and they both try not to act mad but tell you firmly to leave. We're just wrestling, go on now.
It all adds up.
Summertime, sunshine and swimming pools have always been my triggers. I've made love on a bearskin rug next to a roaring fire, had sex in the parking lot outside a rock concert, gotten a blowjob in an airplane lavatory, gotten laid during violent thunderstorms, blizzards, and once in an unused conference room at work. All great experiences. But get me around a swimming pool, and my motor gets running without fail.
And it all has to do with my Aunt Rhonda.
Rhonda was fourteen years older than me. She married my mom's older brother Jim, when she was barely twenty, and he was already in his mid-thirties. Right away, she was my favorite aunt. She was the fun aunt, who took you places your parents didn't want to go: to the state fair to ride the rides, out for ice cream just because, out of school early to do some secret Christmas shopping. She was young, cool, less of an authority figure.
And Rhonda was good-looking, in a strawberry-blonde country-girl kind of way. She was short, about five-foot-two, and a little on the plump side, so when you got a hug, it felt like a real hug. Her breasts squished against you, and there was that awkward phase when I was just the right height to bury my face between them when we hugged. Which I thought nothing of at the time, of course.
Uncle Jim and Aunt Rhonda had a pool in their backyard. Not a big one, but big enough. Summer days, Mom off work from the high school where she taught math, we would often find ourselves over at Jim and Rhonda's, in the pool. Mom had helped Rhonda get a job in the school system too, so it would usually be just the three of us, while Jim was at work, or off on one of his many fishing or hunting trips. He and Rhonda never had children.
Mom would float around on a raft with her eyes closed. Rhonda would splash around with me, race me to the other side and back, knock a beach ball around. But eventually, she'd get up on a raft too, and she and Mom would float and talk about stuff I didn't understand or care about.
You probably did it too, when you were young. There'd be grown-ups in the pool, drifting along on their inflatable rafts, while you swam around them. And the devil would get hold of you eventually, you couldn't stand it anymore, and so you would creep up on them and flip the raft over, dumping the unsuspecting adult into the water. Women worked best. They weighed less, so it was easier for a kid to flip them. Uncle Jim was a big bear of a guy; you had to work to capsize his raft, and it was at your own risk too, because he played rough right back at you. A woman would shriek and flail and scold you, "You've messed my hair up!"
Then one lazy summer afternoon, I discovered the added benefit of choosing female victims for my swashbuckling antics.
Mom had just told me that if I dumped her one more time, she'd make me get out of the pool for ten minutes. Fuck that! So that left Aunt Rhonda as the only available target. I bided my time, practiced crawling along the bottom of the pool. I'd come up for air catch bits of their conversation while reconnoitering her position.
"I told her one of these days, she's gonna need him ..."
"Mmm-hmmm ..."
After what seemed like half an hour, I decided the time was right, and headed for the bottom again. This time, when I sensed the shadow of Rhonda's raft above me, I sprang up, my hands under her, using my momentum to flip the raft and send her splashing and squealing into the drink in one smooth movement.
Only this time, she lost her bathing-suit top. She stood up out of the water, not realizing it, and there they were, two big, round, snow-white breasts, streaming water and capped with erect, pink nipples.
I realized it first, and turned away instinctively. Aquatic shenanigans aside, I was a polite kid, and it was polite to look away from someone without all their clothes. But my mind was reeling, the image etched on my brain, the startling white of her breasts next to her summer tan.
Mom saw it a split second later, and let out a guffaw. "You lost your top!"
Finally, Rhonda looked down at herself. "Oh, shit!" she yelled, but she was laughing in spite of her irritation and embarrassment. Her top was already several feet away.
I was doing my best to pretend I hadn't noticed anything and was engrossed in watching a grasshopper moving along the edge of the concrete. But I was dying for another look. The curtain had been yanked aside on The Mystery just a little bit.
"Whoooo," Mom hooted, "you've got the goods, girl!"
"Thirty-four D's," Rhonda called back, "all natural."
I turned part of the way around, just in time to see Rhonda, standing in the shallow end of the pool, putting her hands behind her neck and shaking those amazing, pale breasts from side to side. She and my mother both laughed again, then Rhonda put her top back on. Passing by on her way to reclaim her raft, she slapped a handful of water at me. "You're rotten!" she said, and gave me a shove. I laughed, and she laughed with me.
Life went on, and that day was buried under the weight of all the ones that followed. I kept on tormenting her in the pool, not so much because I wanted to see her tits again (I knew there was something shadowy and taboo about that), but because it was fun, and also it was expected of me. But even as the larger events of the day faded into obscurity, I never quite forgot the sight of her wet, wobbling boobs in the summer sun. And when I got older, without realizing why, my sweet, fun-loving Aunt Ronnie became an occasional star in my sexual fantasies.
I was smart enough to know that sometimes having sexual thoughts about family members was normal. Even so, after I'd masturbated, I would still feel a little creepy and wrong about it. I would rationalize. It's okay, it's not like she's my mother or something. She's not even a blood relative. And I wasn't the kind of guy who turns to his female relatives because all other women are unattainable, due to some fatal flaw in his game. I had a handful of girlfriends through high school, did my share of fooling around, and lost my virginity at a perfectly respectable seventeen. I didn't even fantasize about older women more than the average guy. I mean, like most guys, I fantasized about pretty much everybody, but I wasn't a milf-lover by any means.
Still, it made me wonder about Rhonda. Uncle Jim was a nice man, but gruff, and much older than her. He made a decent living as a mechanic, but wasn't rich. I couldn't figure how a girl so young and open-hearted would wind up marrying somebody like him. It was hard to imagine the two of them having sex.
All these seeds, planted long ago and germinating for years, finally bloomed one day when I was nineteen. And when they bloomed, the flower was sweet-smelling and beautiful, but poisonous, and surrounded by thorns. And once again, it involved the pool at Jim and Rhonda's house.
I was working part-time at a warehouse that summer, home from my first year of college. On one of my days off, I found myself hanging out at the pool with Rhonda, who had the summer off. Mom was teaching summer school, so it was just the two of us. We had fun, talking and kidding around, listening to music, which always sounds good blaring from a cheap boom-box on a hot, yellow summer day next to a cool blue pool. I felt like it was a last little bit of my childhood that I could still hang onto and enjoy.
It was late July, and the entire region was sweating through another heat wave. It was ninety-four degrees, but Jim had added climate controls to the pool, so you could keep the water at a comfortable eighty-five. He bitched about how much it cost to run the thing, of course, but it was definitely worth it, the way I saw it. In the old days, after about a week of ninety-plus days, that pool was hardly refreshing.
Rhonda was thirty-three that year, still looking pretty good, her reddish-blonde hair short and curly, her skin clear. Her figure was maybe a little more rounded than it had been, but not in a bad way. She was wearing a two-piece swimsuit, white and lime-green polka-dot. "Want to get my belly baked," she said, patting it. She didn't have the typical body for it, but somehow, she made the suit work for her, and I had to admit, those big boobs didn't hurt.
Even then, there was that faint buzzing in my mind.
After we'd been in the pool for a couple hours, Rhonda got out and fetched us Popsicles from Jim's garage refrigerator. "For old times," she said. We ate them in the pool, the juice running down our wrists into the water. I watched her licking away at her purple Popsicle, and the voice whispered a little louder in my ear, words of lust and lechery.
We finished our Popsicles, and Rhonda got up on an orange inflatable raft, to resume baking, only this time, she was on her stomach, her top unfastened to get her back tanned evenly. "I'm watchin' you," she warned playfully, and then rested her chin on her folded arms, obviously not watching me.
I swam around aimlessly for a while, dusted off all my old favorites. Belly-crawling, handstands, backflips. I swam laps. I floated on my back. The butterfly, the African crawl, the freestyle, all the different strokes Jim had taught me when I was young.
Once, I swam over to where Rhonda was floating near the deep-end ladder, and splashed cool water over her back and legs. "Mmmmm, feels good," she murmured.
And through it all, there was that voice becoming louder in my head.
Dump her. What? Flip her off that raft. Nah. Come on, for old times. That's kid's stuff. She wants you to. I better not. Her top's untied, you might get a good look. I don't want to look. Yes you do.
And so, I slipped quietly through the water, in stealth mode. Watched her there on her raft, her straps untied and trailing in the water, just a hint of pale flesh visible at the sides of her breasts. Saw her generous butt, looking soft and squeezable in the tight, polka-dot fabric of her suit.
Like a shark, I glided through the water toward her. Swerved off, made a wide loop around her. Did a couple more smooth, quiet laps, then swung in for another approach. Stopped using my arms, and coasted up next to the raft.
Held my breath underwater.
It's just kid's stuff. I'm just playing.
Using the trusty old maneuver, I popped up out of the water, my hands reaching, grasping the edge of the raft, lifting and turning at the same motion, Rhonda starting from her semi-doze, "HEY!" rolling her into the water. Her top came loose, a flash of lime-green on the surface in the corner of my eye, and without thinking, I grabbed it and flung it to the other end of the pool.
"You little shit!" Rhonda wailed, but she was laughing. She was hunkered down in the shallow end, the water up to her neck, her hands covering her boobs.
Okay, so no peep show today maybe. I grinned. "It never gets old," I said.
"You little shit," she said again, still smiling. "I bet you thought you were gonna see my tits, didn'tcha?"
I felt my heart begin to beat faster. "Who, me?" I said.
"You know you did," she said. She pointed a finger at me, still holding her hands over her breasts.
I took a deep breath. "As a matter of fact," I began.
"Uh-huh," she said.
"I've already seen 'em," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"I know that's why you dumped me," she said. "Ever since that one time the first year we had this pool."
So there it was. Although the episode in question had popped up frequently in my subconscious, I couldn't remember when I had last actively thought of that day. I shrugged.
"I know how you are," she taunted. "You found out sometimes you can make a woman lose her top flippin' her off a raft."
She had me there. That was pretty much the lesson I had taken away from that long-ago afternoon. At the time, it seemed like just another way to get her goat. I knew better now, and so did she, probably knew it before I did.
"Well," I said, "if it's not such a big deal, then ..."
"Then what?" she smirked.
I shrugged again. "Show me." My voice sounded small, faraway.
She laughed again, pretending to think about it. Then she stood, dropping her hands to her sides.
Her boobs were a little heavier now, hanging a bit on her chest, but still well-shaped and full, still that creamy white contrasting with her golden tan. Her nipples were puckered from the cool water, long and pink. I heard my mom's voice in my head: whoooo, you've got the goods, girl!
I was moving closer to her, hearing my pulse thud in my ears, my chest suddenly tight.
"You still like?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips. She inhaled deeply, making her breasts rise as her ribcage expanded.
I let out a low whistle. "You've got the goods, girl."
She winked. "Thirty-four D's," she said.
The sense of deja vu was unsettling. I felt almost as if I were reliving the scene from long ago, only now, it was just me and Rhonda. And my cock, which was beginning to assert itself in my trunks.
Rhonda cupped her hands under her tits, lifting them up toward me. I was now standing about three feet from her, water up to my navel.
"Get a good look?" she asked.
My mouth was dry. "You could say that," I croaked.
A new voice in my head, trying to restore order. This is your aunt! You shouldn't be doing this! This is weird! Go find her top for her.
But the other voice was in control now, and knew it. She's just Jim's wife, not a real aunt. Look at those tits!
We stood there another few seconds.
"I hadn't thought about that day in a long time," I said at last, "but I never forgot it."
"I bet you didn't," Rhonda said. She reached out to brush some hair from my forehead, now damp with sweat, not from swimming. Her touch seemed to encourage me.
"I remember looking away, because it was embarrassing," I said.
"Uh-huh?" she asked, knowing there was more.
"But then I looked back." I swallowed. "I had to."
"I guess you did," she said, her smile softer now, amused. "Wanna go get my top for me now?"
I could've gotten it for her. Part of me wanted to. But another part (you know which one) wouldn't let me. It might have been too late anyway. The die had been cast.
"You know what else I remember about that day?" I asked, still staring from her breasts to her face.
"What's that?" she said.
I was already taking a step away from the crossroads now, my mind made up. "Can you shake for me like you did then?" I asked, barely above a awhisper.
She giggled softly, then lightly shook her boobs back and forth. "Like this?"
I let my breath out. "Oh yes."
She laughed again, gave her tits another shake, bigger this time.
"Oh yes," I gasped again.
She continued swinging her boobs from side to side. "A.J. likes the shakey-shakey," she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.
I could only agree. She put her hands under her tits again, this time flexing her fingers, making them bounce up and down.
I took another step toward her, and she backed up against the edge of the pool. She laughed at my awestruck expression, still bouncing her boobs in her hands.
"That's so good," I breathed.
She gave them a few more bounces, then let her hands fall to her sides again. "Had enough?" she asked.
I laughed, but there was an ache in my chest, in my loins. "Hell no, I haven't had enough," I said sorrowfully. "Shake some more for me?"
She gave them a little jiggle, then poked me in the chest. "Don't you ever go to any strip clubs?" she teased.
"I sure don't," I said, truthfully. I just knew I'd feel weird and pathetic going into one of those places, and no better coming back out.
She started working her shoulders again, swinging her breasts back and forth, starting with small movements and building to larger, sweeping arcs, building speed, until her tits were slapping gently together. "I can make my boobs clap," she said proudly.
My skin felt hot, flushed, my head fulll of fog. It seemed the boom-box had gone silent, and the birds. No breeze, no airplannes flying by, just the soft slap-slap-slap of her boobs.
"Oh my God," I groaned.
She gave them several wide, slow swings, before going back to shaking them rapidly again.
I was moving forward without realizing it, crowding her against the edge of the pool, her swaying flesh just a foot in front of me now.
She put her hands on her breasts and slapped them together twice, then let her hands drop again. "Okay, song's over," she said cheerily. "Go get my top now."
But I couldn't tear myself away. "Please," I begged, "just a little more."
So she started up again, but only for about half a minute. I was breathing heavily by then, my erection straining at my trunks. "More," I panted.
A.J., come on," she said, now a little annoyed. She shimmied her tits back and forth for me again, then clapped me on the shoulder. "Okay," she said, "end of the show. Get my top, hon."
"I think I need to touch them," I said.
"I think you better not," she said softly.
"Please, Ronnie," I said, already reaching.
Her skin was still cool from the water, and wonderfully smooth. Her breasts were heavy and pliant in my hands. I squeezed gently and lifted them, feeling their weight. Rhonda bit her lower lip, not sure she wanted this. But there was no stopping me now, as I ran my fingertips across her bumpy areolas, tweaking er nipples, her sharp intake of breath saying maybe she did want this. She reached through the water to the front of my trunks. "Do I get to touch, too?" she asked. I jumped when she squeezed my shaft through the fabric. It now felt as if I had been hard for hours, my cock throbbing almost painfully.
"I think we better stop," she said, even as she was fumbling withthe drawstring at my waist.
And then my trunks were floating around my knees, her hand closing around my cock, "Hey, look at this guy here!"
"Oh, Ronnie," I moaned as she began to stroke. I leaned down and took her right nipple in my mouth, her fingers gripping me a little tighter. Soon I was sucking hungrily on a mouthful of boob. My hands glided up her thighs, began rubbing at the firm mound under the crotch of her swimsuit.
Just when it was all getting to be too much, and I thought I might be about to come in the water, she pushed me away. "Okay, that's enough," she said roughly. I tried to grab her, but she pushed me aside and walked across the shallow end toward the steps leading up to the patio.
My mind was in a whirlwind. I felt disappointment, shame, relief, confusion. What had we been doing? Were we crazy? Was it a good thing she had finally put the brakes on? What next? How would we go on after this? I ducked under the water, the coolness soothing my burning face. I tried to swim a lap, get my head clear. But swimming with an erection is awkward, even a little painful.
When I came to the surface, Rhonda was lying on a chaise longue, the bottoms of her swimsuit on the concrete next to her. Lying there naked. I could see a neatly trimmed triangle of matted hair, darker and more red than the hair on her head.
I was out of the pool in seconds, walking toward her chair as if in a dream, like I was watching someone else. My cock bobbed before me, leading the way, dark with blood. I reached her chair and straddled her legs, leaned over onto her, and took her nipple back into my mouth. I raised my head, gently pulling her breast up into a cone as I sucked, then slowly letting it drop back to its normal shape. My fingers were already busy at her crotch, stroking the hair, massaging her lips, finding her clit, her hips convulsing as I began to rub with one finger in a slow, circular motion.
"Get up here!" she said fiercely, her fingers in my hair.
She brought my face up to hers and we kissed for the first time, deeply. Of course I had kissed Rhonda before, on the lips even. I had gone through a phase when I was about seven of wanting to kiss women. Amazingly, everybody thought it was cute and hilarious, this kissing bandit. But this was obviously different. Way different.
I knew what my motivations were, but what were hers? What was missing in her life that she had allowed things to come to this point? Had she been playing a part in this all along? Had she woken up one morning, today, years ago, with this in mind? All this, I would wonder about later, but not then. Because right then, I was kissing her with a passion I'd never felt before, almost in a fever, and she was stroking my cock again, tickling the sensitive tip, and I was playing with her nipples, the only thought in my mind the dim wondering of how far this would go.
And then, as I felt myself getting close again, I pulled back, not wanting that, not yet, not this way. I slid backward, then leaned over, Rhonda already lifting her thighs, knowing what I was going to do before I buried my face in her muff.
I wasn't the world's most accomplished eater of pussy, but I gave it my best shot, munching my lips up and down her slit, probing with my tongue, before concentrating my efforts on her clit, licking and pressing and flicking and swirling with my tongue, sucking lightly, nibbling just a bit here and there. Rhonda squirmed and wriggled her hips, pushing herself against my face. I could feel her breathing hard, her belly rising and falling rapidly, her fingers twined around mine.
When she came, it was with a loud, whooshing exhalation, her muscles tensing, then going slack. I stayed with her until she nudged me aside with one hand. She was still panting, almost laughing, her chest and face a deep pink.
Before she could say anything, I slid up over her, my shaft trapped, pulsing, in the crease between her crotch and thigh. Her legs were still up and spread.
"Please, Ronnie," I whispered.
"We can't," she whispered back.
"We have to," I pleaded.
"I'm sorry," she said, but she was reaching for me. Her hand rapped around me, and she began to stroke quickly. "Here, I'll make you come."
But that wasn't what I wanted. It was too late for a handjob. I pressed against her, forcing her to let go. I took hold of it myself, began rubbing the head against her labia.
"We have to stop," she whispered.
"Just the tip, Aunt Rhonda," I whispered.
"Just the tip," she sighed. "Just for a minute."
We both knew neither of us meant it, as nobody has ever meant it. But still, I made a show of it, pressing the head of my cock against her until just the tip slipped inside of her. We hung there for what seemed like a long time, our bodies motionless.
Then, as the sun beat down on us out of a summer sky gone nearly white with haze, I began rocking my hips, barely perceptible thrusts at first, easing myself millimeter by millimeter into her body. And she began to respond, her movements just as infinitesimal as mine. At first. Then I was an inch past the ridge inside her, then two inches. Then three. And she didn't say a word. No "I thought we said just the tip," no "Okay, that's enough," nothing
And finally I was fully inside her. Tightness is the thing to crave in a pussy, but I found myself marveling at Rhonda's not-quite-so-tightness. It made it easier to move. And move I did, my cock shuttling in and out of her, long strokes, steady, her legs up around my waist. The world seemed to have gone silent around us, even the droning of the pool filter momentarily cycled off. The only sound was our heavy breathing. The chair we were using must have had one leg just a bit short, or else was set on a slightly uneven patch of cement, because as my thrusts grew more urgent, the chair began to rock, one rear leg thunking rhythmically against the patio, the metal strips under the cushion creaking.
I felt like I was losing my mind, literally. It was crazy, what we were doing. Some tiny pinprick of rationality left in me knew that. I was having sex with my aunt! Blood relative orr not, she was still my aunt! But I didn't want to stop, couldn't stop. I didn't care. I just kept on pumping, caressing herb boobs, panting into her hair. My hips worked like a machine, my ass going up and down, my ballls pulled tight to my body.
Rhonda was bucking against me now, causing the chair-leg to thump more loudly on the ground. Her hands clenched around my shoulders, her breath hot against my face.
And now here it came again, that familiar, tickly sensation at the base of my cock. "Ronnie," I tried to say, "I think I ... I'm getting ... I'm gonna ... oh Ronnie ..."
And my dear, sweet aunt Rhonda squeezed her thighs around me and said, "Go for it, baby." But I was already going for it, pounding into her, wildly, the chair leg banging, my semen on its way, burning through my shaft, calling her name one last time, "Ronnieeeee!"
I exploded inside her with a violent shudder, coming harder than I ever had before it seemed. The spasms slowed, but remained intense. Rhonda wrapped her arms around me, held me close while I moaned and spurted and thrashed.
And as I released the last drops of cum into her, I turned my face to kiss her.
And the pool filter whirred to life again.
The sound jolted me back to reality.
Oh my God.
I had just had sex with my aunt. Fucked her, in fact. Fucked my aunt royally. The girl who came into my life as a fresh-faced barely-legal girlfriend of Uncle Jim's, who'd been one of my closest relatives and friends ever since. And things had gotten away from us. I had lost my mind, acted like a sex-crazed animal, treated her like a Mardi Gras skank. And now here we lay on this chair, my cock still softening inside her, after just shooting what felt like a massive load into her.
I felt so disgusted and ashamed. I almost wanted to cry, beg her forgiveness, pray out loud to erase this incident from the record.
I couldn't speak or move, and neither did Rhonda.
We both knew nothing could ever be the same after this.
I don't remember anything about getting up, putting on my clothes, driving off. I don't remember what was said, if anything. I think I may have apologized, and Rhonda may have tried to comfort me. I hope that's what happened. It would have been the decent thing, for both of us. But I can't say for sure.
I moped around in a daze for the next week, could barely bring myself to look at people when I talked. I dreaded seeing Rhonda again. How could you act normal after what we'd done?
You act normal, as it turns out, by simply acting normal. Even if it kills you. Which it will at first. But slowly, eventually, things start to seem all right again.
We never said a word about what happened that day. As time goes by, it seems nothing needed to be said.
Rhonda and I have had sex several more times over the years, even as she remains married to Uncle Jim, and I've had a few relationships. Okay, more than "several more times." You can't set your watch by our encounters, but it seems like they happen a few times a year. We don't plan them, but neither do we try to stop them. After the first time, it just doesn't seem worth it.
Each time, we start out nearly crazed with lust, and the sex is electric, almost frenzied. But even as I'm thrusting madly into her body, or as Rhonda bounces on top of me (my favorite--God, those tits!), I can already feel the dread creeping in. And afterward, though not as strong as the first time, there is that feeling of shame and guilt and self-loathing. What kind of man fucks his aunt? I have loved Rhonda since I was a child, and I know it's no way to treat her. But I just can't seem to help myself.
Once, I tried to tell her how I felt, as she lay on top of me after another wild round of ride-'em-cowgirl. She only pressed a finger to my lips and whispered in my ear, "It's okay, baby, it's okay."
But I don't know if I'll ever really believe her.
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