Chapter 2: Summer Continues

The first week bled into the second, and somewhere in between, Mason stopped counting days. But he couldn't get enough of his aunt.

It wasn't a conscious decision, more like the way you stop noticing the sound of the ocean when you live near it. The strangeness of what they were doing just became the norm of his life. Wake up, coffee, fuck, breakfast, talk, swim, fuck again, dinner, wine, fuck again. Lather rinse repeat except the lathering sometimes happened together in the shower, and the repeating never got old.

Mornings were Valerie's favorite. She told him that on maybe day four, lying next to him with his cum still wet on her stomach, tracing lazy patterns in it with her fingertip like she was writing something with it before putting it in her mouth to taste her nephew.

"There's something about morning sex," she said. "Before your brain turns on and starts telling you all the reasons you shouldn't be doing what you're doing. Your body's just honest in the morning, you know?"

Her body was honest at all hours from what he could tell, but mornings were different; she was right about that. She'd slip into his room at dawn, sometimes wearing silk, sometimes wearing nothing, and she'd pull the sheet down and take him in her mouth before he was fully conscious. Those first few seconds when he was surfacing from sleep, when her lips closed around him, and her tongue started doing that slow drag from base to tip, it was like dreaming and being awake simultaneously. Every nerve ending raw and exposed, no defenses, no overthinking. Just her mouth, hot and wet, working him with this patient devotion that no girl his age had ever come close to.

She'd keep it slow on those mornings. Lazy. Like she had nowhere to be and nothing to do except make him fall apart. Which was not true because she owned her own Interior Designing firm. She'd pull off and lick him like something she wanted to savor, long strokes with the flat of her tongue, circling the head, dipping into the slit where he was already leaking, and he'd fist his hands in the sheets and make sounds he didn't know he was capable of.

"Morning," she'd say afterward, wiping her bottom lip with her thumb. Casual. Like she'd just handed him a cup of coffee.

Other mornings, he'd wake to find her already in bed beside him, her back pressed to his chest, his arm draped over her waist, and his morning erection nestled against the curve of her ass. Those mornings turned into slow, half-asleep sex, him pushing into her from behind while they both faced the window. She'd reach back and grip his hip, adjusting the angle, pulling him deeper, and whisper instructions to better his understanding of what sex could be.

"Don't rush it... feel that? When you go slow like that, I can feel every inch of you... right there, just stay right there and rock into me... god, that's perfect..."

He learned more about pacing and patience from those mornings than from every fumbling hookup he'd had in college combined.

But the thing that really got under his skin, the thing that kept him up some nights turning it over in his head, wasn't the sex. It was everything else.

Because between the fuckings, they were just...well, just normal. He was her nephew, and she was his aunt, and they talked like it. Breakfast on the porch, eggs and toast, talking about the news. She asked about his classes, what he planned to do with his finance degree, whether he actually liked it or just chose it because his mother told him to. He asked about her work, the interior design clients who wanted everything to look like a Pinterest board. Mason had an internship and went thrice a week to the office. He played video games, Val did gardening. 

She told him stories about growing up with his mother. How Lisa was the good one, the straight A student, the rule follower, while Valerie smoked behind the gymnasium and snuck out at night and kissed boys she shouldn't have. "Well, not just kissed, but fucked," she said with a wink. How their parents held Lisa up as the standard and used Valerie as the cautionary tale.

"Your mom and I were close once," she said one afternoon. They were on the porch, her feet in his lap, his thumbs working the arch of her foot while she drank iced tea and stared at the ocean. "Really close. Closer than most sisters."

Something in her voice when she said it. 

"What happened?"

"She got married. Decided to be respectable." Valerie pulled her sunglasses down and looked at him over the rims. "Respectability is a cage, Mason. People climb into it voluntarily and then act surprised when they can't get out."

He wanted to ask more, but she redirected the conversation the way she always did when she got close to something she wasn't ready to share, she redirected it with her body. Pulled her feet from his lap and climbed into it instead, straddling him on the porch chair, and kissed him until he forgot the question.

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"Get dressed," she said one Tuesday evening, leaning in his doorway in a black dress that made Mason do a double-take. "We're going out."

"Out where?"

"Into the world. Among people. I want to sit across a table from you in a restaurant and get wet thinking about what I'm going to do to you when we get home."

So they went. She picked a place in town, candlelit, the kind of spot where couples leaned toward each other over small tables and shared dessert. The hostess seated them by the window without a second glance. Why would she? An attractive woman with a younger guy—nothing unusual about that—and Mason realized with a strange thrill that they were invisible. Hidden in plain sight. Nobody looking at them would ever guess.

Valerie ordered wine and calamari and put her hand on his across the table and asked about a paper he'd written last semester, some analysis of emerging markets, and her eyes were genuinely interested and her questions were smart, and for twenty minutes they were just two people on a date. Mason loved how well-read and educated she was. She could talk about any subject.

Then her shoe came off under the table. 

Her bare foot traveled up his calf slowly, deliberately, while she maintained eye contact and kept talking about market volatility like her toes weren't currently pressing against his inner thigh. He shifted in his seat, and her foot found what it was looking for and pressed against the hardening length of him through his slacks.

"You okay?" she asked, grinning innocently. 

"Fine."

"You look tense." Her toes traced along him with devastating accuracy, and she picked up her wine glass and sipped it like nothing was happening. "Try the calamari, it's really good."

She kept it up through the entire meal. By the time the check came, he was so hard it ached, and she knew it, and the little smile she wore told him she knew. She paid before he could reach for his wallet.

"Oh dear, no. You don't pay when I am with you. You can pay for it later."

Later turned out to be the parking lot. The car was parked in a dark corner, and she was in his lap before he could unbuckle his seatbelt, dress hiked up to her hips, no underwear because, of course not, and she was wet against him when she rubbed herself along his shaft.

"I've been soaking since the appetizers," she breathed into his mouth. "Sitting across from you pretending you're not the best fuck I've had in years. It makes me insane."

She reached between them and guided him in, and they fucked in the passenger seat, her moans filling the small space like music. Someone walked past the car at one point, footsteps on asphalt, and Valerie didn't slow down. If anything, she got louder.

After that, the dates became routine. Twice a week at least. Different restaurants, a bar with live music where she pressed against him and swayed, and he was inside her thirty seconds after they got through her front door. Once in a movie theater, she unzipped him in the dark and stroked him through the second act with her eyes fixed on the screen like she was deeply invested in the plot while her hand twisted on the upstroke in a way she knew made his toes curl. She sucked him off to finish him and swallowed his cum.

They walked on the boardwalk holding hands, and she'd stop and kiss him, full deep kisses with tongue, right there in front of people all around them. Nobody knew. That was the thing that turned him on almost as much as her body, the secret existing in broad daylight.

"We could be anywhere," she said one night, walking home along the beach with her sandals in one hand and his arm around her waist. "We could run into someone, and they'd just see a woman with her boyfriend. That's the beauty of it."

"Is that what I am? Your boyfriend?"

She stopped walking and turned to him, and the moonlight did something to her face that made her look ten years younger and ancient at the same time. "You're whatever you want to be, Mason."

She kissed him again, and they fucked on the beach, her on top, sand in places sand shouldn't be, and neither of them cared.

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The shower became his favorite place and their shared territory without either of them deciding it would be so.

He was washing his hair one morning, eyes closed under the spray, and the glass door opened and her body pressed against his back. Wet skin on wet skin, her breasts slippery against his shoulder blades, her arms coming around his waist, and her hand finding his cock like it belonged there.

"Room for two?"

"You're already in."

"So I am."

The logistics of shower sex were trickier than he expected. Everything was slippery, the angles were awkward, and the water kept getting in someone's face. But neither cared. Val turned and braced her hands flat against the tile. and arched her back, and looked at him over her shoulder through the steam.

"Don't overthink it. Just fuck me."

He pushed into her, and the combination of hot water cascading over them and her pussy gripping him was sensory overload. He held her hips and thrust into her while steam billowed around them, and she braced against the wall and pushed back to meet him. She reached between her legs with one hand and rubbed her clit in fast, tight circles while he fucked her.

"Harder... god, right there, don't stop..."

He grabbed her shoulder for leverage and drove into her until her moans echoed, and her legs shook, and she came with a sound that was something between a moan and a scream. He followed her over a minute later, pulling out and coming across the small of her back, watching it wash away in the spray.

After that, the shower was theirs. Some mornings it was sex, hard and fast against the wet tile. Other mornings it was just closeness—her washing his hair with her nails scratching gently against his scalp. His soaping her back, running his hands over her body with a tenderness that felt almost more intimate than the fucking. Those quiet moments scared him more than the sex did because they felt like something beyond physical, something he didn't have a name for.

One morning in the shower, she was pressed against his chest under the water, and he was holding her, and she said, very quietly, "I missed this."

"Missed what?"

"Having someone. Not just the sex. The... this." She pressed closer. "I haven't had this in a long time."

He kissed the top of her head and didn't ask who she'd had it with before because something in her voice told him the answer was complicated.

----------------------

That night they'd been fucking for an hour or so, one of those marathon sessions that started as a quickie and kept restarting, and she'd just made him come for the second time and was doing her thing, kissing her way down his body in this slow, possessive way she had, mapping him like territory she was claiming. She moved past his cock, past his balls, and her hands pressed his thighs apart and up, and he propped himself on his elbows and looked down at her.

"What are you..."

"Shh."

Her tongue touched him there, right against his hole, warm and wet and impossibly soft, and every thought in his head evaporated. Just gone. Replaced by this sensation that he had zero framework for, this deep, radiating pleasure that started at the point of contact and spread outward through his entire pelvis like a shockwave.

"Holy shit," he choked.

She took that as encouragement. She licked him in slow, flat strokes, her tongue dragging over that sensitive ring of muscle, and then circled, and then pressed, and his hands twisted in the sheets so hard he heard something tear. Nobody had ever touched him there. He knew he wasn't gay. The vulnerability of it, the exposure, his legs spread and held up while his aunt worked her tongue against his ass—it should have been mortifying, and instead it was the most intense thing he'd ever felt.

"Val... oh my god, that's..."

She hummed against him, and the vibration traveled through places he didn't know could vibrate. Her hand came up and wrapped around his cock, stroking him in time with her tongue, and the dual sensation was so overwhelming that his eyes actually watered. Tears. From pleasure. He didn't know that was possible.

She ate his ass with the same unhurried devotion she brought to her morning blowjobs, like she had all the time in the world and nowhere she'd rather be. She pressed her tongue inside him and stroked him faster, and he lasted maybe another minute before he came so hard his abs cramped, cum arcing up onto his chest and stomach while she licked him through every convulsion. Then, as an act of complete depravity, she licked his balls, his cock, and then licked everywhere his cum had fallen, swallowing every last drop. 

He lay there afterward, staring at the ceiling. 

"What the fuck," he whispered.

She crawled up beside him, chin propped on his chest, looking pleased with herself. "You're welcome."

"I think you rewired my brain."

"Good. It needed rewiring." She kissed his sternum. "You know what your generation's problem is? You think sex has a menu. Appetizer, main course, dessert, always in the same order. But the best meals are the ones where you throw the menu away."

He laughed weakly. "Where did you... who taught you...?"

"Someone I loved a long time ago," she said, and her voice had that weight again, that depth he couldn't see the bottom of. She didn't elaborate, and he didn't push.

"Do you like this done on you?"

"Yes. But you don't have to, if you don't want to."

It was later that same night, tangled together in the afterglow, that things went somewhere new. They'd been lazily making out, his hand between her legs, fingers slipping through the mess of her, and she was rocking against his hand, and his finger slipped further back than he intended and pressed against her ass, and she gasped and pushed into it instead of pulling away.

He looked at her.

She bit her lip and nodded.

"There's lube in the drawer."

He got it, and she stayed on her back, legs pulled up, watching him with this expression that was half hunger and half trust. He slicked his fingers and circled her gently, the way she'd taught him, without knowing she was teaching him, patient, attentive, and reading her body.

"One first," she whispered.

He pressed a finger inside her ass, and she exhaled slowly through her mouth, her eyes fluttering. She was tight, incredibly tight, and hot, and her body gripped his finger, and he moved it gently in and out, and she started making these sounds, low and guttural, nothing like her usual moans.

"Another... slowly..."

Two fingers, and she groaned, and her hand went to her clit, and she rubbed herself while he stretched her, scissoring gently, and she was so responsive, every movement of his fingers pulling a different sound from her. When she told him she was ready, her voice had gone rough and shaky in a way he'd never heard from her.

"Go slow," she said. "And use a lot. I'm serious, Mason, a lot."

He lathered himself until he was dripping with it and pressed the head of his cock against her and pushed. The resistance was unlike anything, so much tighter than her pussy, and she grabbed his forearm, and her nails dug in.

"Keep going," she breathed through clenched teeth. "Don't stop, just... slow..."

He fed himself into her inch by inch, watching her face cycle through pain and adjustment and then something that was unmistakably pleasure, her eyes going wide and then heavy-lidded and her mouth falling open. When he was fully inside her, she let out this long, trembling exhale that seemed to empty her completely.

"Oh god," she moaned. "I feel every inch of you. You're so deep, baby..."

"Are you okay?"

"I am so far past okay." She moved her hips experimentally, and they both groaned. "Move. Slowly."

He started with shallow strokes, barely pulling out before pushing back in, and the tightness was extraordinary, this gripping heat that made his cock pulse with every movement. She kept one hand on her clit, rubbing in fast circles, and the other gripped the headboard, and her moans were different here, rawer, more desperate, stripped of the playful confidence she usually wore.

"More," she gasped. "I can take more. I want to feel you fuck me. In my ass."

He gave her more. Pulled back further, thrust deeper, and found a rhythm that worked for both. The sounds were obscene, wet, and percussive, and she was loud, louder than usual, these high-pitched keening cries that he felt in his chest....