Aunty Sex Story

The aunty sex story I have to tell belongs to a Sunday morning and a ceiling fan that was not broken, and it took eleven years before either of us said a word about it out loud.

Aunty sex story

Kamini had lived four doors down since before I could read, and she had fed me through my mother’s night shifts in the years my father worked away, without ever once making me feel like a charity case.

She was fifty-four now, and Mr Bhatia had been gone since the spring, and she had stopped pretending to mind the grey at the front of her hair.

It was a Sunday in Delhi and the whole colony was out on the road below, and she rang the bell for me to come and look at the fan, standing in the doorway with one hip against the frame.

“It makes a noise,” she said, “come and hear it — it has been making a noise for a week.”

The fan made no noise at all. I stood under it with one hand on the chain and the blades went round above me without a sound, and she watched me from the kitchen doorway with her weight on one hip.

“It is quiet now,” she said, and looked at me as if the fan had betrayed her personally.

She made tea and I sat at the table because she told me to, and she set the kettle going with one hand flat on the counter and then stood with her back to me and did not pour it for a long time.

“I do not want you to think,” she said, “that I have not thought about this a great deal and decided against it more than once.”

“Thought about what?”

She laughed at me and said I was very clever in a book.

Then she brought the cups over and her hand trembled and the tea went over the rim onto her wrist, and she said, “Oh — look at that,” and set it down and did not move away.

Her dog got up off the mat in the hall and went out through the flap and came back in, and we both watched it do that like two people waiting on a verdict.

She had been on her own for eight months and had not once asked anybody for anything.

Then she turned round and took my face in both hands and kissed me, and she was shaking, and she tasted of tea and kept her eyes shut the whole time.

Her hands came down my shirt and got it open with quick, practical movements, the way she had done up my buttons when I was nine and late for school, and then her hands stopped being practical at all — her palms went flat down my chest and her thumbs found my nipples and pressed, and I made a sound I had not planned on and she said, “Oh,” quiet and delighted, and did it again.

Her hand was on the back of my neck then and her thumb was moving against my skin, and her breath was coming hard and warm against my throat, and I got both hands on her waist and pulled her in and she pressed her whole front against me.

I got the pins out of her sari one at a time, which took far too long, and she stood laughing at me with her hand over her mouth while I fumbled, and then the whole thing came loose at once and she caught it with one hand across her chest and then let it fall and let me look at her.

The softness of her stomach and the weight of her breasts did not trouble her a bit, and when I put my mouth on one she put her hand on the back of my head and held me exactly where she wanted me and said, “There — not so fast.”

She got me onto the sofa — not upstairs, she said she had not had a man in that room and was not going to make a ceremony of it — and it was clumsy at the start, because you cannot do this well with someone you have known for thirty years, and she kept laughing in the wrong places.

She got my trousers open and her hand around me and stroked slowly, her thumb moving over the head on every pull, watching my face with an expression I had never seen on her before, and her other palm stayed flat on my chest as if she needed it there to keep herself up.

Then she stopped, her hand going still on me, and sat back on her heels and said, “No — wait — give me a minute.”

I said nothing, and her dog scratched once at the door and gave up.

“I am not—” she said, and did not finish it, and pressed her palm flat against my thigh and left it there.

“We can stop,” I said.

“No,” she said, and looked at me properly, “we cannot, I think.”

She stood up and turned her back to me and got the blouse the rest of the way off over her head and stepped out of the sari where it lay on the floor, and then she bent forward over the arm of the sofa with both hands flat on the cushion and looked back at me over her shoulder.

“Like this,” she said, “it is easier on my knees.”

I got behind her and put my hand on her hip and her skin was warm and soft, and she reached back herself and guided me in, and I went in slow, all the way, and her whole body let go and her breath came out of her in one long sound against the cushion.

I got both hands on her hips and moved, and the sofa took the rhythm and creaked under us, and her spine curved and her fingers gripped the arm of it and she pushed back into me with every stroke.

“Harder,” she said, “do not treat me like something on a shelf.”

So I gave it to her harder, with my thumb pressed flat on the small of her back, and she took it with her forehead down on the cushion and her knuckles white and a string of small sounds coming out of her mouth that she did not try to stop.

I got my hand round the front of her and my fingers on her while I moved behind her, and she made a sound into the cushion and pushed back harder, and the creak of the sofa went with the rhythm and her thighs trembled against mine.

Her skin was hot under my palm and slick along the back of her neck, and I bent over her and put my mouth on her shoulder, and she reached back and found my wrist and held it down where my hand was, pressing it harder onto her.

Her phone rang on the table beside us.

She did not stop — she reached out and turned it face down without looking, and it rang twice more and then quit, and she said, into the cushion, “My daughter. She calls on Sundays.”

Then her hand came back and found mine on her hip and pulled it round to her front and pressed it down between her thighs, and she came with her whole body going tight and then shaking, almost without a sound, with my fingers on her and my cock still buried in her.

I finished a few strokes after her, inside her, with both hands on her waist and my forehead against her spine, and she stayed bent over the sofa arm with her breath going and did not move for a while.

At the end she pulled the throw off the back of the sofa and put it round her shoulders and said, “Do not tell your mother.”

“I will not,” I said, and she told me that her mother would know anyway, and that I was not to tell her regardless.

She walked me to the door at noon and told me loudly that the fan would hold if I tightened the screws, and Mrs Bansal from number six looked up from her bins the way she does. I tightened the screws. The fan has been quiet for eleven years. More MILF stories.