My Horny Aunt and Her Amazing Nipples

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This is tale, like all tales, is of the cautionary variety. I can only tell you what I’ve observed and what I’ve heard about my horny aunt.

“You can’t choose your family,” my uncle often joked kiddingly at family functions. And it’s true, you can’t. I didn’t choose my aunt, she was just there. And there, often times was everywhere.

She was in her time, a cutie, and like all cuties, knew it, and yearned for other people to know the same. She was the type that sparkled in every picture; posed in each like she was a Greek sculpture; and hurried to develop every roll of film she knew she was in.

She married a rich man– a descent man of morals and philosophy, a traditionalist who believed in bread winning, and financial appeasements– out of love as she acclaimed when retelling their story. For reasons left undiscussed, she decided not to have kids, and he agreed. This barrenness was the reason why we believed she gravitated towards our family much more often than a normal aunt would.

She visited our family twice to three times a week, often spending the night. Although, I had thought that it was our game room that made me popular among my friends, it was in fact, her visitations. More accurately, her tits.

She was many things: loud, condescending, and even vindictive at times, but she was never shy. She had a nice natural rack, and at almost every chance, made sure everyone knew. I didn’t know how to feel, on one important hand, she was my aunt, a blood relative, but still that fact alone did not make me shut my eyes when her tits were bouncing around threatening to escape from whatever garment she loosely called a top.

I tried, half-heartedly, to look away those down-blouse moments, but most times, I couldn’t. Even when I found the will to look else where, she held one more attention-hogging weapons– her ever-hard nipples. She peaked, always, braless or not, she always peaked. This as it turns out, and not the game room with the table tennis table, the 50 inch tv, and the array of gaming systems, was the reason that the game room was always packed with friends those hot summer days.

Table tennis was the only game she played. She was not good at table tennis, in fact I remember her begin quite horrible at it, but that nonetheless, did not stop her from trying.

One particular hot summer day, as she was attempting to hit balls with some friends, she stopped, called a time out, and removed her top to reveal a wife-beater tee shirt underneath. She waved the paddled like a fan, stuck out her tongue to the side of her mouth, panted, and said, “it’s hot in here.” She then continued with her the game as the room fell into a state of silence and stares. She would until the end of summer, only play ping pong wearing an undershirt like that. Her nipples raged against the fabric each and every time, her tits bounced as if in slow motion with every swing.

I guess I should have known, but I was too naïve at the time to make sense of it all. I thought maybe she didn’t know; that she was ignorant to her own physic; that she was a creature who couldn’t understand the tendencies of college boys.

As I was observing the frequencies of her physical gloating among my friends, and the unusual giddiness which was hardly ever present with her husband, I should have seen the signs, but like them, I was too distracted by the sights. Sights which were focused on places it shouldn’t have been. Sights which she provided with frequent regularity. Sights that clearly displayed not just an aunt, but that of a really horny women.

On one morning, after a previous night of heavy drinking with the friends, she walked into the game room wearing one of my baby blue dress shirt. It was the shirt I used when applying for internships. She held in her hand a tape.

“Does any one want to watch chilly chilly bang bang?” she asked, quite enthusiastically.

Perhaps it was the morning haze, or the every present nipples, but the room consisting of me and two buddies were relatively silent. One of my friend moaned. She made room on the floor by pushing some stuff to the side, laid a blanket on the ground, and crawled her way to the vcr.

Anyone in the position to view the TV (which was everyone), saw her crawling, exposing her undies. They were pink, and held shapely to her firm ass. From my view on the floor, I saw her tits as they swayed rhythmically to each crawl.

This, no doubt, let to a lot of razzing from the friends, and even cause the ending of a few. But like my uncle said, you can’t choose your family. This acceptance is perhaps the something you can only learn with time. Everyone, the family, her friends, my uncle knew she was the way she was, and had accepted it blindly.

Years later, as I was killing time at the urban outfitter waiting for friends, I noticed a book in their stuff section hilariously titled, “Nude Pix of my X’s.” Needless to say I picked it up.

It was one of a kind, a man had somehow published a book of pictures he had taken of all his previous girlfriends, naked. That in and of itself is a ballzy task. The lawsuits, the risks, it was spectacular. Mostly it showed pictures of girls taken in bed in the 70s. You could tell, the girls had real tits, thick shrubs, and a much different sense of sexiness.

On the side page to each picture, there were captions of the writer’s thought and history with the ex-girlfriend. Some of short, some where long. Most were written with a true sense of honesty.

It was with quasi-shock and denial that when I turned my eyes on page 45, I saw what looked like a picture of my young aunt. It stopped me immediately. I had to take a closer look. The face was an exact match but much younger than I was used to. The nipples were damning evidence as well. They were erect and long, a freakish looking volcano peak standing out in the horizon. They were thick and redish in color. They were amazing.

She was on her knees leaned way back, on a green couch. Her tits firmly pointed in the air, and head leaned as if she was looking skyward, moaning.

I wanted to reach into that page and pick up that picture of a Polaroid to get a closer look. I wasn’t sure. But the evidence matched. She was a horny girl.

The caption read:

Mimi,

She was by far the craziest of my Xs. We would make love for hours, and first thing in the morning, she would want more. She did everything, and wasn’t afraid of a making a mess. It was short lived, she wanted more zest than I could offer. Mimi, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for her.

The evidence was mounting. I wrote to the writer, because the name used on the pictures was not hers, but it was understandable I figured for publication and privacy reasons.

I still gave her the benefit of the doubt, even if it was her, who’s to said that in the wild 70s that I wouldn’t have been caught up myself in the love, purposefulness, and reckless joy of a cultural revolution. So she took nude pictures, who hasn’t? right? Especially, beautiful shapely girls with recklessly long nipples.

She was young in the picture. But as the years came, she aged. Fortunately for her husband, in a matter that was physically graceful. Unfortunately for her husband, not in a way that was emotional stable. She was by no means ugly at the age of fifty, but had plumped up, acquired slight wrinkles, and developed saggy tits. This happens to everyone. You can’t pick when you age. It just happens. But perhaps because of this fading of her much accustomed to beauty and all the insecurities that comes along with it, she began to up her level of… exposures.

During another hot summer evening, we had decided that the beach was the best place to cool down and liquor up. Since they lived near the beach, I called her up and told her that we were stopping by to pick up firewood. My uncle had cut down a tree, and for many years held a surplus of firewood which he insisted to give away to anyone who would take it. He was giving that way. We drove in three different cars, but all the friends wanted to come by to help out with loading the firewood onto the truck.

Pulling up in front of the house, I could see that she was outside watering the plants, but I couldn’t believe that she was only wearing her night gown, which as they say, left nothing to the imagination.

She was bent over again, her ass sticking defiantly in the air, the dark region of her womanhood shining through with the help of the setting sun. I yelled to get her attention.

She turned around, looked up and smiled wickedly. “Hi honey,” she greeted me, and with rehearsed insincerity, looked over at the other cars and said, “I didn’t know you were coming so early. And look you brought her friends. Oh my!” I had in the phone conversation, mentioned that a group was coming by.

I thought of two questions I wanted to ask her: How often does someone go build a bond fire at the beach alone? And why was she gardening, when they had always paid a gardener? It was embarrassing to say the least. I could hear the girls that were with us snickering in the background.

“Is that Thomas? Thomas?,” she cheered, “I haven’t seen you in years, how are you? My lord, how you have grown. Come here, gimme a hug.” She proceeded to give him an affectioned hug, and continued with the others, some in which she met years ago, and some who she was meeting for the first time.

As old as she was, she still had nipples that defied gravity. They stood promptly out, and along with her see through clothing and complete lack of under garments gave her the attention that she held easily years ago by simply choosing to wear skimpy clothes.

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