Auntie and I Ch. 03

She got kind of sex crazed and we did it every day her husband was out to sea. She wore her glasses sometimes, instead of her contact lenses. She looked so sexy when she was naked with her glasses on.

When she got real comfortable with me she told me about her past affairs. She'd had quite a few, with various men. The janitor at the school; a welder who lives in a nearby town; a local lobsterman. It was the welder who used to meet her in the parking lot out behind the Cannery. They'd do in the back of his van, amongst all his tools, with her lying on his leather welding jackets. She said they felt like suede.

Auntie found out about us, but she never said much about it. I guess maybe she felt guilty because she knew she was doing wrong, too. So I had two lovers for the last few weeks of the summer of my nineteenth year, both thirty-seven years old, and both of them made me crazy with desire in their own unique way. There were quite a few nights when I woke up dreaming of a threeway, but it was never brought up by any of us. Auntie and Phoebe having to share the same small village made it too risky and complicated, maybe. Or maybe they didn't want to get their hands on each other the way they wanted to get their hands on me.

As my time in Toad Harbor grew short, the art class poses cooled a bit, simmering down from the wild heat of full-on fucking and the shockingly messy facial the night of the sixty-nine. A pose with Auntie on top was slow and delicious, her weight on me nice and relaxed, her body moving fore and aft, my cock warm and cozy in her pussy. It was the way we sometimes did it up in the apartment if the day had been long and we both were tired. I have many memories of that summer, but that may be what's burned the deepest in my mind — Auntie's weight on me, her warm body fucking me slow. There were some beautiful drawings made that night — the curves and shading of the way her big breasts pressed against my chest, the way her hair lay on her shoulders, the sexy curves of her beautiful ass. Neither of us orgasmed in front of the women that evening; we saved it for later, when we were alone. I never asked her but I've wondered if she planned the mellower poses on purpose so she could have me more to herself in those final few weeks.

The next class was a stand up pose, what seemed to me like it must be a classic of erotica — Auntie standing full frontal with me behind her; my hands reaching around, cupping her big breasts; my head tipped one way, hers the other; my lips kissing her neck.

The drawings that evening were just lovely. Auntie's teachings had really taken hold, and nearly every drawing of us in that pose was special. I was particularly taken with Phoebe's. She'd done a lovely job and then smudged a veil of blurry haze over it, turning it into a dream. She gifted it to me the day I left Toad Harbor, and I cherish it. It hangs in my home office amongst a collection of nudes, a genre of art I seem drawn to.

For my final full weekend in Maine, Auntie and I decided to drive up to Acadia National Park again. She closed the gallery and we spent two blissful days and nights in a small cabin she rented for us, tucked privately in the edge of the woods, with a hot tub on a deck and a long view of the distant ocean. We walked some more of the wonderful carriage roads, took some difficult hikes up craggy mountainsides, and ate some incredible meals in wonderful restaurants. She admitted she was trying to spoil me so I'd want to spend the next summer with her, and the next. She needn't have tried so hard. The simple sight of her rising up out of the hot tub, walking dripping wet to our bed was more than enough to make me want to return.

We had lunch in Bar Harbor one day, at the same restaurant were I'd fallen in love-at-first-sight with the Japanese girl. She wasn't there. The day I'd seen her seemed like a lifetime ago, back when I was just a boy with his mother and his aunt. As Auntie and I ate I tried to conjure a vision of what I'd do if the girl walked in the door. There was nothing clear. Even the memory of what she looked like was fading. She was my innocence, and it was gone.

When we were leaving the restaurant, I was standing alone just inside the front door, admiring an old MG sports car parked at the curb. The hostess saw me and scurried over, her face looking confident and nervous all at once.

"Are you staying nearby?" she asked. She put a piece of paper in my hand. Her manager gave her the evil eye because there were customers waiting. "Text me," she said. "I'm just here for another week."

She was beautiful and luminous, a girl my age. When Auntie rejoined me the girl said, loud enough for her manager to hear, "I hope you enjoyed your lunch," and then she was gone, ushering another couple to an empty table. I felt a powerful jolt. Was it the strange coincidence of two stunningly attractive girls talking to me in the same restaurant, or was it something more?

The drive back to Toad Harbor was bittersweet. Phoebe's husband was in town. The last art class and saying goodbye to the women was looming. The warm comfort of Auntie's apartment was ahead of us, but most of all I just wanted to hole up in that cabin in the woods forever. No more school, no more pressure to succeed, no more search for the perfect woman. I'd already found her and her name was Pamela. I pictured a quiet life, running the gallery together, making art. Being art.

Back at the apartment we fell into our old routines, just like an old married couple. A happy old married couple. We did laundry, and we fucked. We cleaned the kitchen, and we fucked. We worked in the gallery, and we fucked. We drew each other, and we fucked. I'd never felt so happy, so fulfilled.

Tuesday came too quickly. I was hoping Monday would happen over and over again, like Groundhog Day. At the wine table there were gifts, wrapped in nice paper, like my birthday when I was a kid. The women must have spread the word, because each of them brought me something. A bottle of my favorite wine, a box of my favorite drawing paper, a book about Ferrari's. Dina made me a beaded necklace. Leah gave me three jars of jam she made from wild blueberries she picked by the shore. All the gifts were heartfelt and I had tears in my eyes looking at all the beautiful happy faces surrounding me. Auntie was misty-eyed, too.

My robe came off one last time and Auntie surprised me. She put a chair in front of the bed and asked me to sit, all alone, for the final session. She pulled an easel over next to the women and got herself set up. I sat there for almost an hour, relaxed and comfortable, my cock just a soft penis. The drawings amazed me. There was life in all of them. I was real.

—

My last days with Auntie didn't register in my memory. It's just as well. I do remember helping her frame that final drawing she did of me. It still hangs in her gallery, but it's not for sale. She told me she's had many offers to buy it, one of them from Phoebe. Phoebe is divorced now, living alone and doing well. Auntie tells me she's got two boyfriends and both of them are crazy about her. I'm not surprised.

According to Auntie, Ginette's got some new action, too. She talked her husband Frank into watching porn with her and their sex life has blossomed again. She even draws him nude. Auntie's seen some of the drawings, but Frank doesn't know it.

I sometimes think of the quiet drive with Auntie to the airport in Portland. While we cruised down the highway with the city almost in view, I texted the hostess from the Bar Harbor restaurant. She was packing up to leave Maine, too. Auntie glanced over at me, silently, as my thumbs typed out messages.

The hostess's name was Tara, a student at a college a hundred miles away from my school. We agreed to meet halfway between for pizza. We were married three years later, right after graduation.

I never did go back to Maine, until after I was married. The temptations would have been too great, and I didn't want to cheat on Tara. Auntie understood. I saw her at my Mom's house a few times in those ensuing years, and we fell right back into our perfect friendship, without the sex. She loves Tara as much as I do.

Auntie visited us in California recently. I gave her a tour of the house, and we spent quite a bit of time looking at the collection of female nudes that hang in my office, paintings and drawings and etchings I've collected over the years. They're all quite good, some of them very expensive works by well known artists, but I could see her eyes drift back to Phoebe's drawing, the one of Auntie standing full frontal, with me behind her, holding her breasts in my cupping hands, my lips kissing her neck. It still looks like a dream.

—

Memories well up in me once in a while. Memories of a tiny apartment in Maine. No air-conditioning. Sweaty, shiny skin. Big tits slapping me on the chin. Auntie is on top, her beautiful, blissful face hovering over mine. Her body is alive, moving in primal ways. Rhythmic. Athletic. Exclamations are grunted and moaned. She's fucking like a woman fucks. Strong and experienced, no holds barred. A woman with a lust for life who shepherded me into the life of a man. I can still hear her breathy, urgent, insistent voice, "Oh yeah! Fuck me! Fuck me harder!", and her orgasmic scream still rings out from time to time, deep inside my memory. Every time I hear it, I smile.