I was a damn near high school grad when my paranoid parents decided that I no longer needed to be babysat. By then, the damage had been done.

I don’t blame mom and dad for entrusting me in my aunt’s care. She was a charismatic bitch who meant business, although never striking anyone as a lady who liked kids. She wore a dainty white cowboy hat and a big bedazzled belt buckle, made a living renting out the dank unfinished basement in her single-story shack, held the tri-state Boggle champion title from ‘91 to ‘98, and was only ever mean to men, which included myself, and my dad. Dad was her younger, shorter brother who she spoke to only in insults. Veggietales, she’d call him at family reunions, much to the confusion of our extended family who didn’t understand the Christian vegetarian reference. And you call yourself a man, she’d often interrupt his lame stories with, to which my mother would sheepishly laugh and I would visibly cringe. The site of that big-boned, beef-fed woman towering over my shrimpy father, who would cower under her gaze, embarrassed me.

Despite this, there was no money for reference-backed sitters in those days, so of course, they’d send me to stay with the only stay-at-home relative we had.

I had a love-hate relationship with Aunt Peg’s house. Loved the Nintendo Entertainment System hooked up to the big forty-inch living room TV. Hated the cigarette stench on the ‘70s shag carpet that I was forced to sit on since there was no sofa and I didn’t dare take the old bag’s recliner. Loved when Peg would play two-player with me and I’d smoke her ass. Hated when I lost, and she called me a pathetic twerp and banished me to the kitchen to do my homework alone.

The years went by, but my after-school routine at Peg’s stayed the same. Daytime TV, start homework on the floor, ignore the dude who lived downstairs that would occasionally come up to microwave an early dinner, play the odd video game with Peg, and walk the fifteen minutes back home once she started cooking. Aunt Peg would fry steaks in a pan, sweating in grease. The smell would spoil my dinner, which was usually a bowl of overcooked, under-seasoned lentils.

It was the last year that I spent under Aunt Peg’s care where my relationship with her became less black and white. To this day, I still don’t know how I feel about the events that transpired. I hate her, but I still jerk off to the twisted memories.

It started with Dr. Mario and a lost bet.

"Put your books away," she commanded as she lit up a menthol. "Got us a game at the flea market."

She threw a cartridge down onto the shag carpet beside me.

I was thrilled. It was Dr. Mario - a game I had only ever demoed at Toys R Us. I was a loser in high school and had no friends to game with, and my parents got rid of our NES that winter after we attended a sermon about how the Mario Brothers were Satan's servants.

I asked for permission to pop it in. Peg's pins were loose - the cartridge easily slid in and out and didn’t jam up like in our old system. It was a delight.

Aunt Peg was the only older adult I knew that played video games, and she didn’t just play them - her competitive ass was good at them. I should have known better than to take her up on that sick bet.

Peg set the game level to four. She changed the "Chill" music mode to "Fever" before announcing the terms, "You lose, you give me a foot rub."

She threw her bare feet up on the footrest. Peg was usually barefoot in her house. It must have felt good, the old shag carpet between her toes. Toes that were always pointed and painted red. My aunt reminded me of a deadly falcon in a denim skirt.

I didn’t know how to talk to this woman. Although we played games together, she was not my friend, and I was still better seen than heard, so I responded with a compliant “Okay” and didn’t bother negotiating my terms.

Peg negotiated them for me. "If I lose," she chimed in, "what the hell, I’ll give you a rub."

I remember shuddering at the thought of this woman giving me a foot rub. Oddly enough, that visual grossed me out more than the thought of me rubbing her.

She tapped the back of my head with her bare foot. I was caught off guard, surprised at how long her legs stretched from that recliner.

"You got that?"

I nodded and handed her the first player controller.

What felt like seconds later, my screen filled with pills and I lost by submission.

She took a drag and muttered, "Pathetic."

I looked down at the shag. I was probably fidgeting with the coarse carpet hairs, as I normally did. Despite how that carpet grossed me out, I couldn’t keep my hands off of it.

She must be joking, I thought. She’s not going to make me rub her feet. I had never so much as hugged this woman before.

"Turn around," she barked.

I did, and was greeted by her big red soles. Recliner engaged, Aunt Peg's size thirteens were already at my face level - dangerously close to my nose, although to my relief, no stench escaped them.

Peg wriggled and spread her long toes, whose talons could have used a trim. No wonder she never wore socks or shoes. "Get to it, boy," she ordered.

Her snappy tone whipped me into submission. I carefully grabbed her left foot, and gently pressed the ball with my thumbs. The skin was soft, almost silky, and warm.

"Oh come now," Peg scoffed.

Here we go, I thought, as I prepared for the barrage of verbal assaults regarding my lack of skill at something I had never in my life ever done before.

"You’re a man now, show me what those man hands can do," Peg said. She cough-laughed as she took another drag from her cigarette. Aunt Peg blurted a word that I wished she hadn't, "Pretend it's your cock."

I felt my face go red. I looked down to hide the blush. This foul-mouthed wench was far from the lady she presented herself to strangers at the market. And to my disservice, the mere word cock, in those days, was enough to give me a raging semi. I was on my knees at that point, so I pressed my crotch against the carpet, thinking that it would quell it.

But the carpet against my cock felt good.

I didn’t want this woman to think that I was getting hard from rubbing her big ugly feet. I didn’t like feet on a good day, let alone my middle-aged aunt’s.

Looking back now, It’s funny how fetish develops. Those long freckled toes and smooth red soles still haunt my wet dreams. Fear and raging teenage hormones make for a dangerous cocktail.

I must have been rubbing my aunt's feet for a minute before she upped the ante. I was struggling to clear my mind of sexual thoughts, but my fantasies were intrusive in nature, and I was a nervous kid. Thoughts of rubbing Clara, my school crush’s feet popped in and out of my mind. She was clothed one second, naked the next. Her perky pink tits hovering above me as I worked her delicate feet. Just as dream Clara was about to spread her legs, Peg stirred. I looked up, thinking that she was ready to relieve me of my chore.

That’s when I saw it. That’s when I saw up my aunt’s denim skirt. She wasn’t wearing underwear. It took me a second before I realized that the long red slit was her labia.

The first live pussy I ever saw.

I instinctively drew an inhale. I suddenly felt the pangs of pussy hunger. I wanted to smell it, and I did.

Peg’s cunt looked alive. Meaty, open, and terrifying. Glistening in its juices, her pussy looked like it was drooling. I salivated with it. I saw her smile from my peripherals. My aunt's pussy was exposed and her face was elated, as if she was dangling a piece of meat in front of a starved vegetarian.

She moaned, and I witnessed her wet hole throb.

It was a deep, dark moan. It wasn’t sexy. It was scary.

Even then, I knew that that noise was not my cue to stop. I closed my eyes and kept rubbing my aunt’s feet, and she kept enjoying herself.

Peg finally spoke, "You like pleasing me, you little pervert?"

I shot my eyes open. I looked down and noticed that I was rhythmically rubbing my crotch against the carpet. My dick was hard in my jeans, pressed up against underwear that was now warm and wet.

My aunt knew that I had come in my pants.

I immediately stopped. I excused myself to the washroom. A request she agreed to, but only after ashing her cigarette on my lowered head. I carefully got up, as if to not disturb the ash in my hair, and shuffled to the washroom, hands over my crotch. There, I confirmed my suspicion. I had cum in my pants. It must have leaked out slowly, since I didn’t remember the all too familiar explosive feeling.

That was my first experience cumming in slow motion like that. From that day forward, I yearned for it.

I damn near tiptoed back into that living room. To my relief, her feet were off of the footrest, and Sylvia Browne was on the TV. I grabbed my backpack and excused myself to the kitchen to finish my homework. We didn’t talk about it for the rest of the evening, and my underwear eventually crusted up dry.

This was the first of a series of sexual encounters I had with my aunt. This was also the least severe of the punishments that were to come.