My teenage years were fraught with doubts and desires, but what if my dreams could come true?
What if I could be a ‘Chick With A Dick?’
**EDITED AND REPOSTED AFTER FLAG 'AGE'. REFERENCES REMOVED**
Becoming Auntie Joan
I think it must have started in my late teens, about 1986, when I knew about Auntie Joan.
Its funny, I always thought I was straight, you know, heterosexual, but as time went on I sort of drifted between girlfriends and my fantasies. The girlfriends sort of fitted a type, a pattern if you will, long dark hair and big tits.. the bigger the better. I loved sucking on them and later tit-fucking, and the nipples had to stick out, not be just flat.
My earliest recollection of sexual fantasies, and I’m going back a while now, was my mother’s mail-order catalogues. I’d sneak a look at the lingerie sections, and think how nice it would be to have huge boobs myself, and not just that, to be fully bound up in a pantie-corselet with just a hole at the front for my ever growing cock. Even at 17 years old I had a 6” erect penis and I added a couple more inches later into manhood.
I started wearing my mothers mediocre undies, always placing them back carefully so as not to arose suspicions and even went as far as stealing some underwear, a red satin suspender and bra set from a neighbour. Poor Shirley never knew what happened to them. I’ll tell you what happened to them, I wore them and wanked myself silly, thinking about her rubbing her tits in my face, that’s what happened to them! My aunt Margaret’s undies suffered the same fate, her extra large bosoms on a petite 5ft figure needed quite a bit of support, and her elasticated all-in-one bodysuits got a hammering from my cock when I stayed over for parties or family gatherings.
It was about this time that I discovered something special, that if I tried hard enough I could just lick my own cock if I threw my legs over my head, propped up with a pillow. After a good few months practicing this progressed to a much more satisfying being able to suck a good 2”, and cumming in my own mouth was amazing.
And so it went on, but in a slightly different direction......
I got married but it didn’t last, an older woman and she wanted different things to me. I worked several jobs over the years and rented a small but nice flat with it’s own front door, not a communal entrance, and it came in handy more than once if I wanted some company without the neighbours seeing who was coming and going. But in the back of my mind I wanted something else, something different, something exciting...
Mum and dad died just a few years apart, never seeing me settle down with anyone for long, and my dad often asked me about those girls; “I don’t know why you have so much trouble staying with anyone” he'd say.
There wasn’t anything to stay there for after that, no family, few real friends and not much talent about so I decided to move out into the country a bit, closer to the sea but away from the big towns.
I had an idea, but no idea of how to make it happen. In the nearest big town there was a sex-shop, you know, the old style Private Shop with blacked out windows and dodgy looking blokes walking out with bulges under their coats. I plucked up the courage to go in one Saturday and looked around at the very tacky goods and the vast collection of VHS pornography, cheap and nasty underwear in cellophane wrappers and an enormous variety of magazines. I browsed for a while, drawn to the Busen and 40+ mags with mature busty women emblazoned across the covers, Candy Samples, Titanic Toni and Chessie Moore really got my heart pumping, when at the end of the shelf I spotted something I never knew existed. ‘Chicks With Dicks'. I picked it up, flipped through and decided it was for me. There was another one, in German but the big blonde tart with the big cock sticking out from her panties was enough for me. The next stop was the CO-OP supermarket, a lettuce, some celery and a big thick cucumber. The lettuce and the celery went in the fridge as soon as I got home, the cucumber went into a basin of warm water, as I’d discovered that if you warmed it up it felt so much nicer up my arse than a cold one straight out of the fridge! The weekend went by quickly and dressed in a E-cup black bra and thick black tights with the crotch cut out, I came over myself and into my mouth probably 6 times over the two days. Relaxing on Sunday evening with a large whisky I thumbed through the magazines and something caught my eye. A black transsexual had scars under her tits; it was a boob-job that had produced this sultry vixen. The following weekend I went back to the Private Shop. This time I got into conversation with the bloke behind the counter when paying for another two magazines. He didn’t bat an eyelid when I mentioned boob-jobs and ‘Chicks With Dicks' and we must have spent 20 minutes talking about them. He said it was pretty commonplace practice in places like Brazil but he'd heard of some botched operations that had been done ‘on the cheap'. He said there was a reputable place in Turkey, not regulated but they did a good job but it wasn’t cheap, about £1000 for the procedure. For someone who sold dirty books he seemed quite knowledgeable about these things. “Trust me, over the last 20 years I’ve seen everything, and some stuff you wouldn’t believe!” Not wishing to doubt him I pressed him about the Turkish doctor and where it was. So there I was, head full of fantasies, carrier-bag full of porn, sitting on the Greenline bus back home.
I was desperate for the toilet when I got home and a surprise awaited me. I wiped my arse and there was blood on the paper. I put it down to the cucumber, maybe a stretch too far, or maybe piles, but it didn’t stop. The doctor wasn’t sure so off to the hospital I went. It wasn’t good news, it was cancer.
A small operation, a week in hospital and chemotherapy took its toll on me. I had to have a month off work but found I could make my living from home, the trusty typewriter and fax machine were invaluable, and as the Information Superhighway and Internet were still in their infancy they were essential tools.
A few weeks later at the doctor’s, he had a strange look on his face. Apparently my condition was not curable but it was manageable, but it meant being on chemotherapy pills indefinitely. And another thing, my hair wasn’t growing back, I had no eyebrows, no pubic hair, nothing. I was bald all over, even my beard wasn’t growing, which was a bonus because I bloody hated shaving. It was the drugs they gave me, I felt fine, I was eating and drinking ok, my life was pretty normal but I was as smooth as glass all over. That evening I decided to move away, I’d got bored with my surroundings and I needed a change of scene.
Standing naked on the scales after a bath I looked down and saw that I’d put on nearly 12 pounds. I opened the wardrobe door and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. TITS. I was growing tits. The next week I was back at the doctors. It was a side effect of the drugs, gynecomastia caused by the pills. Short of stopping the drugs the only other solution was surgery to remove the breast tissue. I felt pretty low on the bus on the way home. I ate a takeaway curry, drank far too much whisky and sat on the sofa with a transsexual magazine next to me, rubbing baby oil onto my hard cock. My greasy hands made their way up to my swollen chest and I found myself rubbing oil into my man-boobs, squeezing and pulling at the nipples and gasping at the sensation of my erect nipples sliding between my fingers and thumbs like tiny penises. Suddenly I spurted cum over myself, up and over my stomach, onto my oily boobs and onto my face. I rubbed it hard into my nipples and felt a wave of pleasure running through my nipples and my cock, still stiff and ready for a good wanking.
I awoke about 3am, the TV long finished and the night-time seemed empty. I sat up, my head ached, I was covered in spunk and baby oil and I crawled off to bed. I woke up at about 9am and dragged my sorry self to the kitchen and made a pot of tea, with real loose leaf tea leaves which I’d bought from a market stall back in the summer. It was the 5th of November and it was dark in the evenings which were crisp and cold at the moment. I nursed the first cup as I usually did, I made it hot so I couldn’t drink it fast and sat looking out of the patio door windows at the bird table. It was busy this morning, chaffinches, siskins, the odd robin hopping in and out of the garden, when from nowhere there appeared a great tit. I watched it pick up a sunflower seed and then fly off to the nearby rowan tree to devour it in peace. Tit. Tits. Great Tits. My mind was wandering and suddenly it hit me, like discovering you could do calculus without thinking about it. I can’t, but I can only imagine what that must feel like.
After a shower and getting dressed I thumbed through the TV Times and at the back I found what I was looking for. I picked up the phone and called the numbers one after the other. Kays, Freemans, Littlewoods, all the big glossy mail-order catalogues and gave my name as J.Collins. Well, I thought of the most glamorous woman of the time, Joan Collins, and considering my surname was Collins it was a good fit. A few days later they arrived, packaged in big cardboard wrappers which I took great delight in tearing off to reveal the heavy paper volumes.
I started a list, and it was quite extensive. Shoes, stilettos with 4” heels, and as I only had size 6 feet there was plenty of choice. Red. Definitely red and some black ones too. On the next page there were some cream leather stiletto knee boots, and black ones too. One pair of each. Tights and stockings and hold-up with lacy tops. Lots. A suspender belt, or two. Knickers... now that was awkward, sizes were different and a big cock would easily fall out of tiny g-string types, so some sensible types were the choice. I turned the page and my cock sprang to attention. Oh my god, I’d forgotten.... corselets, pantie and open styles, roll-on and under-crotch fastenings, long-line bras with cup sizes up to an F-cup. Oh my heavens. Black, white, ivory, peach, but which one? It didn’t take me long... all of them. I’d have to spread the orders out across the catalogues as you only got a couple of hundred pounds credit on each one. Bras. Black, white, red.... hang on a minute. My man-boobs weren’t going to fill those without a lot of padding out. Ok, later, later.
Turning the pages the list got longer and longer. Modest skirts with small side slits or back slits. Blouses, white and black satin secretary types with bow-tie necks and the list continued. A few pages later and there were some long raincoats and a few more pages on there was the crowning glory. Wigs of all colours, lengths, styles and I wanted them all, from the platinum blonde bob and the blonde curly shoulder length to the dark brown wavy ones like Wonder Woman and even the short grey grandma style which I was strangely drawn towards. Just one more thing, makeup. Rimmel, No.7, Revlon, that’ll do nicely, lipstick and eyeshadow and false eyelashes and some face powder and blusher. Sorted.
It took a few weeks to all come through and it took me ages to get the look right, and even longer to walk well in the shoes and boots, but what a show I put on for myself. I even bought two more full-length mirrors to parade in front of. But despite all the wanking, the self-sucking-off and the prancing about, there seemed to be something missing. It came about in the strangest way.
On a Tuesday morning I got a letter from a solicitor informing me that they’d like to see me regarding a relative whom I’d never heard of. I phoned up and spoke to a Mr. Callaghan-Curtis who said I’d need to come to his office with some proof of identity so they may confirm my status in regard to an inheritance. A couple of days later I took the train up to London and exiting the station I went to a phone box. The walls of the booth were littered with cards advertising call-girls, prostitutes, escorts, BDSM services, sissy maids and much to my delight ‘Auntie gives strict discipline to naughty boys'.
I tucked that one into my top pocket and phoned the solicitor for directions, not trusting the cabbies to take me on the shortest route. I’d walk, thank you very much.
So, who was Geraldine Falkner and why was I in her will? It turned out that she was the only surviving relative on my father’s side of the family, his aunt who’d moved to America in the 60s and had never returned. I’d been traced by the solicitors as the only beneficiary of her estate which was modestly large, a fair £700,000 after duties and fees. I was rich. So the formalities were completed and the money would be transferred to my bank in a few days.
On the train back I pulled the card from my pocket and in the quiet of the near-empty carriage my mind was churning over. I looked at the card, it was a drawing of a mature woman, curvy and voluptuous with her large exposed bosom hanging over what appeared to be someone bent over with their shorts around their ankles. The school-masters cane held above her head showed what fate was about to befall the helpless victim, even if he had paid to be spanked or whipped.
The next morning I phoned around my clients and told them all I was no longer able to continue working for them, I said it was due to my ill-health as that seemed to be the best excuse. I couldn’t really tell them what the real reason was, could I? Joan was about to be born.
I gave notice on the flat and found a small cottage nearer the coast with three bedrooms, lots of built-in wardrobes for storage and a garage for the car, when I’d bought one. The ringing phone was picked up and a husky feminine voice announced ‘Hello, are you looking for Auntie?’ The conversation that followed detailed all the services available, the hourly rate and the do’s and don’ts. I certainly got some ideas from her.
Next stop, Turkey. The passport was turned out for the second time in as many months and my searches in adult magazines had provided all the information I needed to make several phone calls to arrange the appointment and the accommodation afterwards for two weeks recovery.
The taxi pulled up outside of a shining and modern clinic and I was greeted by a very attractive and obviously enhanced beauty who showed me to a waiting room. The surgeon followed just a few minutes later and in his room I was examined for suitability for the implants. The best option was to insert from under the arm and place them under the existing breast tissue to give the best look and best chance of being stable, as underneath they’d be held in place by the surrounding tissue. My chest measured 37” and due to the gynecomastia there was plenty of room for my preferred option, an E or F-cup. He suggested a fuller lift so they’d be almost self-supporting and a gathering around the areole to make the nipples more pronounced, as the skin would stretch them out due to the ballooning effect of the implants.
Just ten days later the bandages were removed and the stitches taken out. The effect was startling. Sideways on I looked like Rita Hayworth, no not her, Jayne Mansfield. They were beautiful, pert, pointy and huge! I could just cup one in my open hand. The nipples were permanently erect and any touch at that moment was ecstasy, but they were still a little sore. This was £1500 well spent.
My god, daytime TV is boring and I was missing working when the phone rang. An old colleague had passed away and his friend Brian was arranging the funeral. He'd got my number from one of my old clients. That’d have to change. It was just lunchtime and I popped a hat and raincoat on to go down the road to the florist shop. The man behind the counter had his back to me when I walked in and when he turned around I could see that he was perfectly manicured and his hair and short beard were immaculate. Gay? Probably. He was looking me up and down as we discussed flowers for the deceased colleague, and as I was paying him his gaze dropped down the top of my raincoat. He gasped and then laughed out loud. ‘I thought it was funny, you wearing a woman’s raincoat. Where did you get them done then?’ My face flushed and I stammered a half-intelligible answer. His hand rested on mine. It’s alright mate, you’re not my type anyway!’ He laughed, I laughed, we laughed. His name was Justin and he’d seen through me straight away. As the shop was quiet he put the kettle on and over a cup of coffee we chatted. He’d always known he was gay and was bullied all his young life so he moved away, went to college and opened a florist shop, just right for his artistic nature and love of flowers. Also, lots of single men came to buy flowers and he could spot a potential lay anywhere. I told him I was basically straight but had fantasies and loved crossdressing. I kept back my plans for Joan for now. When he asked what I did for a living and I told him I was currently between jobs his answer shocked me. ‘Tell you what, I could do with some help here, and if you want to dress up in the shop I don’t mind at all.’ The idea shocked me at first but later in the evening I decided I could give it a try, at least to become more comfortable around people when dressed, and also to see just how ‘passable’ I was to others. So we arranged to give it a go, I’d work in the back room sorting and helping package and wrap the flowers, and depending on how I felt and how we got on we'd try a few short spells in the shop. As I’d only just moved into the area and no one knew me I thought it would be pretty safe that I wouldn’t be recognised.
It’s a strange feeling, looking at a magazine of these she-males or transsexuals or whatever, and looking at what looks like a woman but has a raging hard-on, and wondering what it would be like to actually hold another person’s cock, never mind sucking it or having them fuck you up the arse. I’d sort of decided that the best course of action was to go slowly, you know, edge my way into this world but also be in complete control. But how to effect the plan? I figured that if the ‘Auntie’ on the card could charge £150 just for an hour in central London, I could get away with £75-£100 being a short train ride away with total anonymity assured to visitors. No one knew me, no one knew anything and there was no one to keep secrets from, which can be the hardest part of all. Domination was the key, appeal to the sissies, the would-be schoolboys, the ones who had been ‘naughty' and needed strict punishment, and always on my terms. I wasn’t going to have anyone telling me what to do in my own, what shall we call it, boudoir!
I went to the nearby town and looked in the furniture and antique shops for suitable items. I’d found it a bit of a bugger trying to hide my new ‘friends' so I went fully dressed. I found that most of the dusty old places were full of dusty old staff, who couldn’t tell the difference between me and some overdressed country type with an upper-crust accent. And you’d be amazed what you can get away with when you’ve got several hundred quid in five pound notes in your handbag. I also discovered that if I spoke in a ‘terribly-terribly’ upper-class voice with clipped speech, much as some Royal people do, I could effect the sort of deference that became a Lady of the Manor, and they fell for it, hook, line and sinker. There was a huge red leather buttoned wing-back chair, and a three-quarter sized rocking horse with an extra long padded leather seat. Just the thing. And also an old-fashioned brass coloured bedstead, the sort you could tie someone to, hand and foot. £550 including delivery.
I had to devise my extra selling points too, and that seedy sex shop wasn’t going to be much help in the way of accessories, so I went off to Ann Summers and looked for the right kind of stuff, uniforms, toys, whips, gags, silk rope, some leather straps for wrists and ankles, all the things I thought I’d need. But how to advertise myself? Another stroke of luck came my way. Whilst I was waiting in the queue I noticed more magazines and one was a ‘contacts' magazine, specifically for people who wanted to either advertise or find sexual services. What a bonus, and it went straight into my basket of goodies.
The third bedroom became the boudoir, red walls, wardrobe full of fantasy uniforms, dresses etc, toys on hooks and shelves, gloves – both disposable and for dressing up, and the rocking horse and chair arranged either side of the bed.
“Notice: Auntie Joan is available for giving strict discipline to naughty boys or girls in her comfortable country home . Reasonable rates. Total anonymity assured.” Of course I thought I’d have wait a while, you know, the magazine has to be printed, circulated and the someone has to pick up the phone. I’d got another line installed with an ex-directory number for privacy and a new answerphone machine. I’d barely got the thing plugged in when it arrived from the BT shop when the phone rang. I instinctively answered in my normal voice and whoever had plucked up the courage to call me had immediately put the phone down. Bugger.
I’d now been living in a woman’s world, dressing, making up and practicing my voice for a few months and I felt quite at home in my new surroundings. When I looked in the mirror I didn’t see the Mr. Collins I used to be, I saw the sexually available, busty redhead, blonde, brunette or silver-grey haired woman with added extras, and it turned me on every day. Not a day went by when I’d be in front of the mirrors masturbating, rubbing my cock onto my new and may I say magnificent tits, and throwing my legs over my head on the bed and hooking my feet into the brass railings of the bedstead so I could have both hands free to rub my tits and wank myself off into my mouth, with the added bonus of my straining erection being massaged by oily F-cup breasts. What a fucking treat.
A couple of days went by and I’d begun to think that the advert wasn’t going to work, when again on a Tuesday, things seem to happen to me on Tuesdays, the phone rang. I picked it up....
“Hello, are you calling for Auntie Joan?”
A very young and nervous voice replied with a hint of impatience.
“Yes, I saw your advert and I’ve been naughty. Do you think I could come and visit you Auntie Joan?”
No one had ever called me that, it was a first.
“Of course, when would you like to come to see me? I’m very busy but I’m sure I can make room for a naughty boy. I must tell you that I have expenses to cover, so I’m not cheap.”
“That’s not a problem, Daddy’s very rich. How would tomorrow suit? Maybe around 1pm? My name is Simon.”
This lad had done this sort of thing before, I thought. I gave him the address and we agreed on how long he’d stay for and the price. Cash only on arrival.
“I look forward to seeing you Simon, Auntie is very worried about you and you’d better be honest about what you’ve done or there’ll be trouble. See you tomorrow. Goodbye.”
Bloody hell, my first client, or was it victim?
I sat and had a whisky, it didn’t do much so I had another one, and then I decided to suck myself off again. That helped enormously.
Tomorrow came around quickly and I dressed in a black skirt and cream blouse over my favourite roll-on girdle and thick black stockings, black knee boots and curly platinum blonde shoulder length wig. I’d bought a half-cup bra in a sale and I thought it would be an ideal opportunity to wear it, to see the effect, and I don’t know why but I decided on not wearing any knickers, I really don’t know why. So there I stood, nipples poking out, cock dangling down, ruby lipstick and dark blue eyeshadow, thick false eyelashes and pearl drop earrings and necklace. All i needed was my visitor.
At five to one a convertible jaguar pulled onto the drive and a young man, very slim with blonde hair, stepped out onto the gravel path. Taking a small bag from the back seat he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
Opening the door I greeted him, “Simon, how lovely of you to come and visit your Auntie Joan.”
I could see from the look on his face that he was excited by my appearance and as I closed the door behind him, I stood with my hands behind me, leaning on the now closed exit.
“Have you come to tell me what you have done and are you ready to be punished?”
He looked at the floor and then up at me, and in the light from the hallway windows I could see that he was eyeing me up and down, over and over.
“Yes, I also didn’t go to school today and I hid my uniform in my bag so you could see me in it.”
Frowning, I stepped towards him. “ I think you’d better go upstairs and get changed, put no pants, Auntie Joan doesn’t want to see your horrible underwear. Off you go, down there, third door on the left.”
I gave him a good five minutes before I called out, “Are you ready Simon?”
He called out a positive reply and I deliberately stomped my way down the hall to the door.
Simon was standing at the end of the bed in an old fashioned public school uniform, long shorts to the knee, grey knee socks, brogue shoes, shirt, tie and school cap.
“How handsome you look, and how smart too" I cooed and I walked up and wet-kissed his cheek. “How would you like a ride on Neddy, my horse? He’s lots of fun.”
Simon dutifully climbed aboard and began to rock backwards and forwards, and as he did so his shorts rode up his legs so that his cock was visible.
“Simon, you rude, rude boy! I can see your wee wee! Get down, get down at once!”
His face adopted that of a chastised child and that’s when I made my move on him.
“Come here, you dirty little boy.” I made him stand up straight with his hands on his head and ripped the shorts down to the floor. I had never actually seen anyone else’s cock close up, and certainly not a fully grown man’s cock. Of course I’d seen other kids ones when I was at school in the showers but not like this, not long and thick and getting bigger by the moment.
I grabbed him by the arm and made him waddle back to Neddy and bent him over the saddle, and using the leather straps I’d bought I secured his hands down on one side of the horses frame and strapped his ankles to the other side, legs fully astride, arse, balls and dangling cock in full view.
I walked around the other side of the horse, unbuttoned the top of my blouse, lifted his head up, so it was perfectly in line with my heaving bosom and barked my displeasure at him.
“You’re a dirty little boy, and you haven’t even told Auntie Joan what you came here to tell her, have you? Well, tell me or you’ll be in even more trouble!”
His response was pleading but well-rehearsed, as I said, he’d done this sort of thing before.
“Please Auntie Joan, I didn’t mean to, I mean I did but I couldn’t help it, they felt so nice.”
I pushed myself closer, his nose almost in my cleavage, my perfume wafting up between my tits into his face, I think it was making his eyes water.
“What have you done, you filthy, dirty child?”
He was actually sobbing, but again it was all for play.
“Mummy went out for the day and I wore her clothes, not her day clothes, just her underwear. I was all soft and silky. I put on her lacy knickers and her stockings and her bra and lipstick and when I looked in the mirror my sister was watching me. She came over and played with my wee wee and I played with her twinkle and I made a sticky mess on her. But it felt so nice and we’ve been doing it for weeks when Mummy goes out.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You’re telling me that you dress up in ladies underwear and play with your wee wee? And you get your sister to play with your wee wee too? You disgusting little child. I see I’m going to have to teach you what happens to naughty children when Auntie Joan finds ou!”
With that I stood up sharply, pushing my tits into his face and forcing his head upwards.
“Now look what’s happened, my buttons have broken, I’ll have to take this off, you wicked, wicked boy!”
My tits sat on the half-cup bra like rugby balls on a shelf. I knelt down in front of him and showed him the result of his actions. “Look, Aunties had to take off her blouse and it’s all your fault. Your mother shall hear of this!” I stood up again, deliberately rubbing my pointed nipples across his mouth and cheek as I did so. It had the effect I was looking for.
“Please Auntie, please. Don’t tell Mummy, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, please Auntie come back, please.”
I walked slowly around the other side where his arse was facing me. His balls had loosened up and were dangling down further and his cock was dribbling pre-cum over Neddy’s leather seat.
“So, your sister likes to play with your wee wee does she? Does she do this?” I slapped his arse hard but held my hand in place, my little finger touching his balls. I did it again and again I kept my hand there but this time my forefinger was pressing on his anus. I wrapped my right hand over his arse cheek and squeezed my nails into it making him jump. “I’ll show you what Auntie Joan does to boys who make their sister play with their private parts, I’ll show you what grown-ups can do!”
First the disposable glove, then the lube, and a middle finger rubbed the liquid around and around his arsehole. He was pushing back on me, making the tip of my finger slip into his anus. I didn’t disappoint him. I wiggled it up his backside until it couldn’t go any further. Then two fingers, around and around and I finger-fucked his are for a full two minutes.
“”I suppose you think that’s all, do you? Well you’re wrong, you dirty boy. This is what Auntie does to filthy boys like you!” A big black rubber butt-plug with a horses tail on it was unceremoniously pushed up his gaping hole.
“Auntie Joan, I’ll be good, please Auntie, please, but it feels so good when someone plays with my wee wee.”
I wrapped my hand around his now constantly dribbling cock and worked it up and down, and I was getting a hard-on myself. I pushed the horse-tail on the butt-plug up over his back and pulled his cock backwards between his legs, all the time working my hand up and down the length, slowing down so I could feel his knob swelling in my fingers. I took my glove off to get a better feel and grabbed his balls with my other hand. I was in a trance, not only had I just seen my first mature person’s cock I was wanking them off. I certainly wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass by without enjoying myself and I pushed his now fully hard 6 or 7 inches between my tits, with extra lube for good measure.
“See, see what Auntie Joan does to naughty boys. If you’re naughty you get punished!”
His groaning and panting was getting faster and faster and I made my decision that today was going to be the day, the day I wouldn’t look back from. I dropped down, lifted his cock from between my tits and pushed it between my ruby lips, grabbing his thighs I pulled him my face down onto it, pushing his throbbing cock down my throat, pushing away and pulling back again, again and again, letting go as I got the rhythm and grabbed my tits with both hands, rubbing, squeezing and pulling at my nipples. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. My right hard dropped down to my own hard cock and stroked it hard, but just then Simon let out a cry.
I let go of my own cock and grabbed Simon’s thighs for one last time. I pulled back, felt his swollen knob on my tongue twitching and then I forced my face into his arse and his cock right down my throat. His cock was bucking and throbbing and then I felt it, the jerking, spurting of thick cum going down my throat. I gagged and pulled away, only for huge spurts of semen to cover my tit shelf.
I knelt there for a moment and stood up. Oh my God, what a rush, what a thing, I’d made the best decision of my life. But what about Simon, was he alright?
I knelt down in front of him, tits covered in his cum and looked at him. He was smiling.
“Can I help clean up Auntie Joan, you look like you’ve spilled something.”
I accepted with “Yes Simon, you can help Auntie,” and I offered up my sticky melons to his eager mouth. I think I may have made him lick and suck a lot more than he had to, but the desired effect was achieved, he didn’t seem to mind the taste of his own cum at all, as I didn’t mind my own.
I was about to stand up when Simon whispered something....
“Auntie Joan, I can see your wee wee!”
My skirt had split from the hem to the waistband and my own stiff cock was poking up between my legs. My God, what should I do? This!
“Would you like to suck Aunties wee wee Simon, like a good boy should? Auntie would like that very much and she wouldn’t be cross with you at all.”
“Yes please Auntie Joan, I’d like to very much.”
I undid the straps from his hands and ankles and he rather slowly stood up, well he had been bent over Neddy for a long time. I took off my torn skirt and sat on the armchair, opened my legs and stroked my cock in front of him.
“Be a good boy Simon, come and please your Auntie Joan.”
As he knelt down between my legs he ran his hands over my stockings up to my thighs and couldn’t help but let out a gasp of anticipation. I grabbed my tits hard as he swallowed me, all of me, all at once, bobbing his head up and down he pushed his hands under my arse and pulled me into his mouth, his lips clamped around the base of my cock and he bobbed and sucked for all he was worth.
My head went back in the chair, again and again, the ecstasy of the sucking action, his hands on my arse cheeks, my tits throbbing in my hands, my nipples as hard as rocks, I tried to hold back but I couldn’t.
“Suck me Simon, suck your Auntie, suck me baby, now, now, NOW!”
At the door, Simon now showered and correctly attired kissed me, full on the lips whilst he squeezed my arse.
“There’s a little extra in there for you if that’s ok, I didn’t take out the tail. I want to see what my sister says about it when I get home. Goodbye Auntie, I’ll be in touch. Take care.”
He slipped into the car and reversed away with a wave. I closed the door and staggered to the kitchen. The kettle beckoned but the whisky was closer. I opened the little packet Simon had left me and leafed through the bank notes. £1000. Fucking hell, I was only going to charge him £150 per hour and he’d only stayed two hours. And there was a note....
“Dearest Auntie Joan, I enjoyed my visit. Thank you. I have a few like-minded friends who are happy to cover your expenses also, if you can spare them the time. I’ll give them your number. And my sister Sarah likes horses too....”