Aunt Nancy
Vol 1 / Ch 30-B
More Ado About Nothing
In early October, Indian summer hit New England. The days were shorter, but it seemed warmer still. At the same time, Uncle Rich had to fly to the Outer Banks in the Carolinas for a weeklong business conference. My aunt decided it'd be an excellent time for us, just us two, to go visit the cabin, do some more cleaning and furbishing, enjoy the good weather, and shore the place up for the winter.
And so it was, that on a Sunday morning, I watched my aunt and uncle kiss and hug goodbye at the door, as my uncle was set to leave. It was good to see them doing that - it warmed my heart and made me feel secure for some reason, though, from my position standing some feet behind my aunt, I couldn't help but notice how her loose little top had had to stretch up some during her hug, exposing to me a large side swatch of her big unbra'ed right tit. After the hug, I shook hands with Uncle Rich, wished him a good trip, and as he opened the door to leave, I saw my aunt pull her top down to cover herself again. Really, since she'd taken total control over her choice of tops when at home, and since Gordon wasn't around to leer, it actually became a somewhat common occurrence for her breasts to show inadvertently, for brief periods of time, until she realized it, and would adjust the article of clothing back again to where it was so as to once again cover her burgeoning breasts. I was wondering if she'd ever buy bigger tops to account for her unusually large juggdom, or if she instead thought that it was only a temporary thing and would go away in time, so why bother buying new tops?
We left, she and I, in my aunt's off-white Volvo, later in the morning, having packed the car with clothes and camping and cleaning gear, all in a few canvas suitcases and a couple of duffel bags, with a stop to be made along the North Shore first, where a company-wide picnic was being held. The plan was we'd spend a few hours at the company picnic, and then make our way farther out west, to the cabin, where we'd spend the rest of the week, including our first night ever for us there, the latter of which the two of us were all giddy and excited about. It was to be an adventure on our own, without the help of Uncle Rich, nor the burden of Gordon.
My aunt had to write a note to the school so that homework assignments and the like could wait till my return. To say the least, oh, how excited I was, to be going out to the cabin, to be out of school for a week, and to be with my loving, beautiful, voluptuously adorned aunt, the woman I'd been in love with when she'd first come to visit me when I was 8.
My uncle of course knew about the trip and was worried we'd probably have no cell phone coverage out there. I also detected in his personna some slight misgivings about the trip, though I wasn't sure why, unless it was out of jealousy on his part, but then, my aunt and I'd be alone together in the house, anyway, but for Emjay and Pele, which he knew my aunt would likely dismiss for the week, so how could it be any different out at the cabin, I wondered. But then I remembered how it was, particularly at the cabin, more so than I'd ever seen her at home, where she'd become so erotically and powerfully aroused, that, after only a few hours there, the only way to finally quell the blossoming and overwhelming swell of her mammary prowess was to finally allow her body's energy to explode and disintegrate into heaving orgasmic stigmations.
And so I had secret hopes that that would happen again out there at the cabin, on this trip. I also wanted to fondle and feast on her massive, ripe, melons. Of late over the past few months, she'd seemingly been minimizing my access to the same, no doubt due to the fact that I was, after all, 18, and so, becoming a man, though I hardly looked the part. True, at five ten I was tall enough to be one, but my small square innocent unmarked face, with clear brown eyes, and short ruddy hair, combined with my natural innocence in most, I say most, but not all, matters of life, as readers know, rendered me looking more like a 15 year old, than 18. And amazingly so, I still hadn't discovered self-satisfaction, as in, whacking off, and hadn't yet either put myself in any gal. I knew it went in her, somewhere down there, but I felt no overwhelming need to try it. The one who I'd supposed I might try it with - Jane - was off to France, though she being a tad older than me, I suspected had, both in the past and present, other boyfriends, and I suspected as well, was no longer a virgin, though we never discussed it directly.
The air was cool that morning as we drove out to the North Shore, it being early October, and my aunt wore a thick, dark blue, button-down chunky-knit sweater, over pretty snug jeans, with cute buckskin-colored summer hiking boots for footwear. It appeared she had a bra on - I expected as much, it being a social gathering, and she looked very cute and quite fetching in her outdoor semi-rugged fall getup.
I always enjoyed when riding with her in the car when she drove for I'd usually be sitting in the front passenger seat, and every time she spoke or I spoke, it was an excuse to look over and see the large accumulation of breastmeat she had going on, resting fulsomely down low between her tummy and the steering wheel. With the thick sweater she wore that morning she looked so mind boggling full and voluminous, I had to be careful not to linger my eyes there too long. Still, by this time I was certain she knew I treasured gazing nuttily at her chest, clothed or not, and I was certain that she not only allowed it, but in some vague amorphous mysteriously feminine way, without ever outright showing it, she encouraged my visually taking into my soul the physical ramifications of her increasing breastial development. And I believe this started at least as early as the first night I moved in, when in the kitchen she'd greeted me and Uncle Rich having just driven back from Logan, my aunt wearing a light satin robe for the occasion, which couldn't help but easily permit her protruding nipples to vociferously poke into the robe's lapels.
By the time we arrived at the meeting place - a state park along a long sandy beach shore - the air had warmed up considerably, and so when we exited the Volvo in the gravel lot to walk over to where about 60 or so people were congregated on the grass adjacent to the beach, my aunt unbuttoned the dark blue sweater and tossed it into the back seat.
As we walked the 100 yards over to the gathering, we talked of mundane matters, and in so doing I tried to check out her previously covered top, which I observed, was a snug V-necked short sleeved pullover, white, with a pinkish hue. It went past her belt line a few inches, and gripped her snugly around her trim hips. The V neck was not deep, and too high to show any cleavage.
Her bust, however, looked larger than usual to me, which, as I've written previously, was already getting to be quite developed, but I supposed it was because I'd been seeing her most of the time, braless, at home, and so seeing her in civilian clothes, suddenly, with a full cupped bra on (I presumed), accented my already confirmed observations of the rather large quantity of titmeat which she'd developed lately.
The problem for me further became compounded however as we mingled amongst the employees of the company, for I soon noticed after our arrival, that of the women there - who were all in their 20s, 30s and 40s - sweet, happy, somewhat carefree long-haired girls - almost all of them, except for a few heavy ones, had busts of normal variance among women, mainly B and C cups, and not a D that I could see - not that I was an expert at age 18. The truth was I'd been around my aunt so much lately, without seeing her contemporaneously among groups of other women, I'd lost sight of how unusually developed she'd become compared to most other women.
At one point the entire group of everyone - except for me and the photographer, whom I'd been buddying around with to check out his photography equipment - posed as a group, on the sandy beach, with Boston Bay and the city skyline behind them. My aunt stood at the far right end of the group. To her left was a curly haired redhead who could not've been more than a B, to my aunt's right a girl leaning over to another girl, either of whom couldn't've been more than a C cup, and a number of girls on down the line, of B and C stature, and a couple of girls behind my aunt to her left, one an A, and the other probably a B... .
My aunt gloriously stood with them, her hands by her side, her palms flat on her thighs, part of her upper arms impossibly but nevertheless blocked from view by the massive width of her bust, the fulness and development of her chest most firmly larger and quite more pervasive than that of any other woman or girl at the gathering - her friendly open-mouthed smile, her flaxen hair wistfully curled down to her shoulders, her dark sunglasses hiding her warm, sweet, eyes - I couldn't stop staring, or comparing, or noticing her easy and potent bustial supremacy over all other women.
As they were all setting up and waiting for the pictures to be taken, my knees were feeling wobbly and my groin had hardened. The 20-something photographer intern by my side from Tufts noticed, and asked, "Hey kid, you okay?"
"Yeah," I said, weakly, still staring loopy-eyed, at my aunt, off in the distance, amongst the group of women and men, my eyes and heart only seeing her, she being the only woman I cared about.
By mid-afternoon increasing clouds blotted out the sun. A north wind blew and temperatures dropped. Some people left. Many of those who stayed slowly made their way to a wooden beach house about a hundred yards down shore.
"Honey," my aunt said to me as we stood on the beach with those who hadn't gone over to the beach house, "be a dear and run to the car and get my sweater and small canvas bag, will you please?"
"Sure," I said, taking the keys from my aunt.
"Meet me in the beach house!" she said.
When I walked into the beach house, which was an octagonal building of windowed walls up on a wooden platform about 5 feet off the sand of the beach, there were about 30 of us inside there, in a large open room of pine, cedar, and window, the room elevated above the beach by pillars and two sets of wooden stairs. Included were me, my aunt, her co-workers and a few kids my age. Music was paying, and behind a makeshift bar a young man served beer, wine and mixed.
My aunt meanwhile had disappeared into the ladies room with the duffel bag and returned wearing the thick button down dark blue sweater she'd worn earlier in the car. She'd replaced the t-shirt she'd had on, with a long sleeve broadcloth button down shirt with a small collar and thin vertical stripes of various fall colors on off-white. She'd buttoned up all but the top 3 of the sweater buttons, allowing some of the broadcloth shirt to show. Something had changed in the shape of her bosom bust. It wasn't quite as high or as pointed as it was before she'd sent me to the car for the duffel bag.
Her eyes were alive with excitement, as the second phase of the get-together seemed to be taking hold, inside that rustic raised beach house, sheltering us all from the cold offshore north wind, warming everyone with drinks and snacks and music on an early fall day on the beach.
My aunt handed me the duffel bag to return it then to the car. I peeked inside it as I approached the car, well away from the beach house. Inside I could see the overly large pink cups of her bra, and the t-shirt she'd just previously worn. The cups were just huge. One sat in the other so that the large circle they made could fit all the way into the duffel bag
I felt too conspicuous, out there in the open, and too easily seen, to pull it out and look for the tag to check the size. I still felt too self conscious to even check it as I tossed it into the back seat of the Volvo.
It was getting to be late afternoon as I walked on the sand, approaching the beach house; the light was waning, the air had taken on a slight chill, and I had the feeling unusual happenings were soon to occur. Seeing the diaphonally large pink bra cups occupying all that space in the large duffel bag had given me a hard-on, and I tried to think of anything but that so that I'd be settled down by the time I got to the wooden steps of the beach house.
Vol 1 / Ch 30-B
More Ado About Nothing
In early October, Indian summer hit New England. The days were shorter, but it seemed warmer still. At the same time, Uncle Rich had to fly to the Outer Banks in the Carolinas for a weeklong business conference. My aunt decided it'd be an excellent time for us, just us two, to go visit the cabin, do some more cleaning and furbishing, enjoy the good weather, and shore the place up for the winter.
And so it was, that on a Sunday morning, I watched my aunt and uncle kiss and hug goodbye at the door, as my uncle was set to leave. It was good to see them doing that - it warmed my heart and made me feel secure for some reason, though, from my position standing some feet behind my aunt, I couldn't help but notice how her loose little top had had to stretch up some during her hug, exposing to me a large side swatch of her big unbra'ed right tit. After the hug, I shook hands with Uncle Rich, wished him a good trip, and as he opened the door to leave, I saw my aunt pull her top down to cover herself again. Really, since she'd taken total control over her choice of tops when at home, and since Gordon wasn't around to leer, it actually became a somewhat common occurrence for her breasts to show inadvertently, for brief periods of time, until she realized it, and would adjust the article of clothing back again to where it was so as to once again cover her burgeoning breasts. I was wondering if she'd ever buy bigger tops to account for her unusually large juggdom, or if she instead thought that it was only a temporary thing and would go away in time, so why bother buying new tops?
We left, she and I, in my aunt's off-white Volvo, later in the morning, having packed the car with clothes and camping and cleaning gear, all in a few canvas suitcases and a couple of duffel bags, with a stop to be made along the North Shore first, where a company-wide picnic was being held. The plan was we'd spend a few hours at the company picnic, and then make our way farther out west, to the cabin, where we'd spend the rest of the week, including our first night ever for us there, the latter of which the two of us were all giddy and excited about. It was to be an adventure on our own, without the help of Uncle Rich, nor the burden of Gordon.
My aunt had to write a note to the school so that homework assignments and the like could wait till my return. To say the least, oh, how excited I was, to be going out to the cabin, to be out of school for a week, and to be with my loving, beautiful, voluptuously adorned aunt, the woman I'd been in love with when she'd first come to visit me when I was 8.
My uncle of course knew about the trip and was worried we'd probably have no cell phone coverage out there. I also detected in his personna some slight misgivings about the trip, though I wasn't sure why, unless it was out of jealousy on his part, but then, my aunt and I'd be alone together in the house, anyway, but for Emjay and Pele, which he knew my aunt would likely dismiss for the week, so how could it be any different out at the cabin, I wondered. But then I remembered how it was, particularly at the cabin, more so than I'd ever seen her at home, where she'd become so erotically and powerfully aroused, that, after only a few hours there, the only way to finally quell the blossoming and overwhelming swell of her mammary prowess was to finally allow her body's energy to explode and disintegrate into heaving orgasmic stigmations.
And so I had secret hopes that that would happen again out there at the cabin, on this trip. I also wanted to fondle and feast on her massive, ripe, melons. Of late over the past few months, she'd seemingly been minimizing my access to the same, no doubt due to the fact that I was, after all, 18, and so, becoming a man, though I hardly looked the part. True, at five ten I was tall enough to be one, but my small square innocent unmarked face, with clear brown eyes, and short ruddy hair, combined with my natural innocence in most, I say most, but not all, matters of life, as readers know, rendered me looking more like a 15 year old, than 18. And amazingly so, I still hadn't discovered self-satisfaction, as in, whacking off, and hadn't yet either put myself in any gal. I knew it went in her, somewhere down there, but I felt no overwhelming need to try it. The one who I'd supposed I might try it with - Jane - was off to France, though she being a tad older than me, I suspected had, both in the past and present, other boyfriends, and I suspected as well, was no longer a virgin, though we never discussed it directly.
The air was cool that morning as we drove out to the North Shore, it being early October, and my aunt wore a thick, dark blue, button-down chunky-knit sweater, over pretty snug jeans, with cute buckskin-colored summer hiking boots for footwear. It appeared she had a bra on - I expected as much, it being a social gathering, and she looked very cute and quite fetching in her outdoor semi-rugged fall getup.
I always enjoyed when riding with her in the car when she drove for I'd usually be sitting in the front passenger seat, and every time she spoke or I spoke, it was an excuse to look over and see the large accumulation of breastmeat she had going on, resting fulsomely down low between her tummy and the steering wheel. With the thick sweater she wore that morning she looked so mind boggling full and voluminous, I had to be careful not to linger my eyes there too long. Still, by this time I was certain she knew I treasured gazing nuttily at her chest, clothed or not, and I was certain that she not only allowed it, but in some vague amorphous mysteriously feminine way, without ever outright showing it, she encouraged my visually taking into my soul the physical ramifications of her increasing breastial development. And I believe this started at least as early as the first night I moved in, when in the kitchen she'd greeted me and Uncle Rich having just driven back from Logan, my aunt wearing a light satin robe for the occasion, which couldn't help but easily permit her protruding nipples to vociferously poke into the robe's lapels.
By the time we arrived at the meeting place - a state park along a long sandy beach shore - the air had warmed up considerably, and so when we exited the Volvo in the gravel lot to walk over to where about 60 or so people were congregated on the grass adjacent to the beach, my aunt unbuttoned the dark blue sweater and tossed it into the back seat.
As we walked the 100 yards over to the gathering, we talked of mundane matters, and in so doing I tried to check out her previously covered top, which I observed, was a snug V-necked short sleeved pullover, white, with a pinkish hue. It went past her belt line a few inches, and gripped her snugly around her trim hips. The V neck was not deep, and too high to show any cleavage.
Her bust, however, looked larger than usual to me, which, as I've written previously, was already getting to be quite developed, but I supposed it was because I'd been seeing her most of the time, braless, at home, and so seeing her in civilian clothes, suddenly, with a full cupped bra on (I presumed), accented my already confirmed observations of the rather large quantity of titmeat which she'd developed lately.
The problem for me further became compounded however as we mingled amongst the employees of the company, for I soon noticed after our arrival, that of the women there - who were all in their 20s, 30s and 40s - sweet, happy, somewhat carefree long-haired girls - almost all of them, except for a few heavy ones, had busts of normal variance among women, mainly B and C cups, and not a D that I could see - not that I was an expert at age 18. The truth was I'd been around my aunt so much lately, without seeing her contemporaneously among groups of other women, I'd lost sight of how unusually developed she'd become compared to most other women.
At one point the entire group of everyone - except for me and the photographer, whom I'd been buddying around with to check out his photography equipment - posed as a group, on the sandy beach, with Boston Bay and the city skyline behind them. My aunt stood at the far right end of the group. To her left was a curly haired redhead who could not've been more than a B, to my aunt's right a girl leaning over to another girl, either of whom couldn't've been more than a C cup, and a number of girls on down the line, of B and C stature, and a couple of girls behind my aunt to her left, one an A, and the other probably a B... .
My aunt gloriously stood with them, her hands by her side, her palms flat on her thighs, part of her upper arms impossibly but nevertheless blocked from view by the massive width of her bust, the fulness and development of her chest most firmly larger and quite more pervasive than that of any other woman or girl at the gathering - her friendly open-mouthed smile, her flaxen hair wistfully curled down to her shoulders, her dark sunglasses hiding her warm, sweet, eyes - I couldn't stop staring, or comparing, or noticing her easy and potent bustial supremacy over all other women.
As they were all setting up and waiting for the pictures to be taken, my knees were feeling wobbly and my groin had hardened. The 20-something photographer intern by my side from Tufts noticed, and asked, "Hey kid, you okay?"
"Yeah," I said, weakly, still staring loopy-eyed, at my aunt, off in the distance, amongst the group of women and men, my eyes and heart only seeing her, she being the only woman I cared about.
By mid-afternoon increasing clouds blotted out the sun. A north wind blew and temperatures dropped. Some people left. Many of those who stayed slowly made their way to a wooden beach house about a hundred yards down shore.
"Honey," my aunt said to me as we stood on the beach with those who hadn't gone over to the beach house, "be a dear and run to the car and get my sweater and small canvas bag, will you please?"
"Sure," I said, taking the keys from my aunt.
"Meet me in the beach house!" she said.
When I walked into the beach house, which was an octagonal building of windowed walls up on a wooden platform about 5 feet off the sand of the beach, there were about 30 of us inside there, in a large open room of pine, cedar, and window, the room elevated above the beach by pillars and two sets of wooden stairs. Included were me, my aunt, her co-workers and a few kids my age. Music was paying, and behind a makeshift bar a young man served beer, wine and mixed.
My aunt meanwhile had disappeared into the ladies room with the duffel bag and returned wearing the thick button down dark blue sweater she'd worn earlier in the car. She'd replaced the t-shirt she'd had on, with a long sleeve broadcloth button down shirt with a small collar and thin vertical stripes of various fall colors on off-white. She'd buttoned up all but the top 3 of the sweater buttons, allowing some of the broadcloth shirt to show. Something had changed in the shape of her bosom bust. It wasn't quite as high or as pointed as it was before she'd sent me to the car for the duffel bag.
Her eyes were alive with excitement, as the second phase of the get-together seemed to be taking hold, inside that rustic raised beach house, sheltering us all from the cold offshore north wind, warming everyone with drinks and snacks and music on an early fall day on the beach.
My aunt handed me the duffel bag to return it then to the car. I peeked inside it as I approached the car, well away from the beach house. Inside I could see the overly large pink cups of her bra, and the t-shirt she'd just previously worn. The cups were just huge. One sat in the other so that the large circle they made could fit all the way into the duffel bag
I felt too conspicuous, out there in the open, and too easily seen, to pull it out and look for the tag to check the size. I still felt too self conscious to even check it as I tossed it into the back seat of the Volvo.
It was getting to be late afternoon as I walked on the sand, approaching the beach house; the light was waning, the air had taken on a slight chill, and I had the feeling unusual happenings were soon to occur. Seeing the diaphonally large pink bra cups occupying all that space in the large duffel bag had given me a hard-on, and I tried to think of anything but that so that I'd be settled down by the time I got to the wooden steps of the beach house.
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