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Aunt Edna's Needs

by David Witheld 6 days ago in relationships / fetishes / erotic
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The Final Chapter

Chapter Twelve

We spent the last two days of our extended weekend-turned-honeymoon in and around Salida. I showed her off at our “regular” restaurant and the hot springs pool each day and we found interesting places to see, and to make love. We returned to that beautiful valley for a picnic, we followed a little county road until it just petered out and then walked a few hundred more yards to make love while admiring the view. We fucked, as opposed to making love, doggie fashion in an aspen grove with her barking and howling like a bitch wolf in heat and me with both hands wrapped in her hair, holding her head bent back, telling her she was a good dog. That night she rode me, cowgirl style, and called me Silver, crying out “Hi Ho Silver, AWAY!” We slept and woke and made love and slept and woke and made love.

It was a delightful couple of days.

But, as they will, they came to an end. As we loaded up to head home she said she wanted to take highway 50 along the Arkansas River. We followed that canyon and then out onto the plains east of Canon City, through Pueblo West, and to Pueblo.

She surprised me by saying “pull over here.” She was pointing at the sign, and you’ve seen them along Interstate highways. It was a plain yellow rectangle with red letters - Adult Toys and Gifts.

So I pulled in, like a good husband.

She surprised me again by saying, with one of those feral grins she showed from time to time, “You wait right here, honey. It’s a surprise.”

She was giggling and walking with that odd light, almost skipping step she showed sometimes when she was feeling particularly girlish.

I found an oldies station on the radio and sat back to wait.

It was the best part of half an hour before she came out. I had to chuckle. The small bag she carried was plain brown paper making me think of the line I had read once when, I think it was when Playboy magazine was young in the early1950s and was delivered to subscribers in a “plain brown wrapper.”

“So,” I said, opening the door for her, “whadja get?”

She giggled and said, “nuh uh. A wedding present but for later.”

We made one more stop, this time in Limon, where we stopped at a jewelry store where she bought me a wedding ring, a simple gold band.

At the house I carried her across the threshold, making her giggle.

We went to a local restaurant for dinner, her looking pretty modest except that I insisted she wear one of her new sleeveless blouses.

I’m not sure if the looks we drew were for her new look or for the rings we wore.

Or maybe for the way we were hanging on each other, always touching, clearly in love.

Back home we watched the TV, Fox News, and then some silly sitcom before going to bed.

The next morning we padded, naked, down to the kitchen where she made coffee and breakfast. I enjoyed watching her cook, naked, with the apron (“bacon pops” she had told me, putting it on).

Breakfast done, and I could tell she had something going on. She was so excited she looked like a child needing to go to the bathroom. She walked me into the living room, turned on the television, brought me a fresh cup of coffee, and said, “stay.”

I watched the news, grumbling and chuckling in turns depending on what was being reported, as ten minutes or so passed.

“Well,” she said.

I turned and looked.

And stared.

She giggled and did a slow turn.

And I just stared.

She was pregnant.

Well, obviously she wasn’t pregnant, but she LOOKED pregnant. Not hugely, ready-for-the-water-to-break pregnant, but a clean six months pregnant with a very distinct rounding of her belly.

“Well,” she said again, “do you like?”

I got up and closed the distance between us and took her in my arms, enjoying the feeling of her round belly against me, and kissed her.

“You’re are GORGEOUS!” I said, “but, well, how?”

She giggled and took my hand, leading me to bed.

Couldn’t look away. Her center of gravity was slightly different, making her walk a little different as well.

I liked it.

I just couldn’t keep my hands off the swell of her belly.

At the bed, she was giggling as she crawled in.

“I take it you like,” she said, laying back.

I laughed softly.

“I love it,” I said, kissing her, running my hand over the roundness of her belly, “but how?”

She giggled and pushed.

There was a pink tube coming out of her uterus through her cervix. Her uterus was distended.

She reached over into the little drawer on the bedstand and pulled out a little pink bulb, looking for all the world like the bulb on the thing, the sphygmomanometer if you want the real name, a doctor uses to check your blood pressure. It hooked to the pink tube with a little twist coupler.

Then she did that thing she does to, well, “retract” is as good a word as any, but it was swollen and didn’t want to fit.

She giggled and said, “help me, honey.”

So I pushed, very gently, loving the way she stretched. When the larger part of the pear shape was inside the rest suddenly slipped back in.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“It ain’t childbirth,” she said, “but it IS a bit of work.”

We spent the rest of the morning in bed, playing with her new toy, my wedding present.

I’d squeeze the bulb a few times and then she’d say, “let me rest honey, let things stretch.”

And I’d kiss her and tell her how damn beautiful she was and caress the growing swell of her belly and play with her tits.

“If you’re going to be pregnant, then these should be producing too,” I said at one point, playing with her nipples.

She giggled and said, “I had that thought myself.”

“Soooo,” I said, my fingertip tracing the circle of hair around her areola, a hard little cone the way I was playing with it, “How about you make that my other wedding present?”

She giggled and said, “I knew you had mommy issues.”

I gave the squeeze bulb a few pumps making her groan a little.

By then she looked to be hugely pregnant. If you had seen her in the store you’d have expected her water to break. She looked absolutely lovely.

We made love then, missionary position. I loved the feeling of the roundness of her belly against mine, When with her on top and I loved the look of her that way.

She was cumming in waves, as she does when she REALLY gets going, and we were both soaked.

It was a good first morning of wedded bliss.

And bliss it was. She was creative and enjoyed exploring.

One Friday afternoon when I came home, I was back in school by then, I noticed, hell, I couldn’t help but notice, one of our kitchen chairs sitting in the middle of the font room.

She was smiling in the doorway to the kitchen and brought me a beer, led me to that chair, and had me sit. She put away my books carefully and then came to me in the chair.

“Honey, she said, and got to her knees before me, her chin on my knee, looking up at me, “I have a secret fantasy, I guess the word is ‘naughty’ fantasy. But if you think it's too kinky I’ll understand.”

I grinned, thinking I had at least an inkling of what was coming.

“I’m not going to start saying ‘no’ to you at this point,” I said.

She smiled and crawled up to lay across my lap.

“It’s not really a spanking if it doesn’t hurt and I don’t cry,” she said.

I pulled her skirt up and her panties down just enough to expose what needed to be exposed.

I smiled and rubbed the roundness of her ass.

“Have you been a naughty girl?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “this is just because I want it.”

I remembered the story about how to boil a frog (you put him in a pan of cold water and turn on the heat. Before he realizes it, he’ll be too cooked to get out) and so I started slowly. I caressed her ass, tickling, playing with the delta of hair that spread across her tailbone.

When I raised my hand I could feel her tense, see the big muscles I was caressing bunch up. So I waited.

When she relaxed I laid the first stroke, not even a slap, more like a pat, but when I touched her she flinched. Anticipation is a wonderful thing.

That first spanking lasted over an hour. I would caress and lift my hand and wait and then strike, each stroke just a tiny bit harder than the last, alternating cheeks.

I could tell she liked what I was doing. Her womanscent was soon strong, even before the first tears.

And I was liking it too. I liked the feel of her ass under my hand. I liked the sting in my palm as I struck. I liked the way she flinched with each stroke and after about the 25th, when each stroke was a loud SMACK, the way she would writhe as I caressed.

She was crying by then, and with each stroke her back would arch and she would shudder.

She came on stroke 67, her release pouring out of her, spattering onto the floor and making a milky puddle. She came again on stroke 72, and again at 87 when she said, “stop, please, baby, stop.”

So I stopped and caressed while she sobbed.

When the tears stopped she rolled off my lap and onto my knees, her hand almost tearing at my belt and zipper in her rush to get at me.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes still red and swollen as she took me into her mouth, “thank you.”

As blowjobs go, it was world-class. She made it linger, taking me to the edge, allowing me to relax, and then taking me to a slightly higher plateau. When I finished it was explosive, and her face was absolutely covered with a mask of semen.

She smiled and said, “thank you,” again.

Two days later I was the one who put the chair in the middle of the floor. She had been at one of her meetings, something to do with the church, of course, so she was dressed in one of her “modest dresses,” sleeveless but otherwise quite modest. I greeted her, naked, with a screwdriver and a kiss.

She looked around the room, saw the chair, and me naked, and raised one eyebrow, that thing she can do that I am not genetically equipped to do.

“I want to know, too,” I said, leading her to the chair.

She smiled and said, “pervert.”

I grinned as she sat, and laid across her lap.

“If it doesn’t hurt,” I said, mimicking what she had said before, “and I don’t cry it’s not truly a spanking.

She started caressing and tickling my ass, her fingertips drawing forth goosebumps that I could feel.

When she lifted her hand I understood her reaction, I was absolutely incapable of not clenching those muscles.

When I tired, and relaxed, I was just as incapable of not flinching when she touched me, barely a pat, the first time.

I was hard almost instantly.

“What a good boy,” she was saying, almost crooning, as she was caressing my ass again.

The lift.

The clench.

Relax.

Smack.

And I understood why it was important for her to submit to this. To trust but also to give up control. It was an intimacy beyond sex.

She didn’t count so I’m not sure how long it took. I know I was crying, my ass was on fire, my nose was running and I could see the puddle of snot and drool on the floor under my face. With each stroke, my body would writhe and I was helpless to stop it.

But I had no desire to make her stop.

When I came it was an odd combination. There was no hard muscular contraction shooting a jet of semen, but I was flowing so freely, I could feel a little ache deep in my belly that I thought must be my prostate.

Mostly, though, it was that pure white blast of ecstasy blowing the pain away that made me realize how easily I could get addicted to this.

So spankings became part of our lovemaking. Not often, maybe three or four times a year. We talked about it, as we talked about everything, and agreed that we could get addicted too easily.

She wasn't the only one willing to put her, well, her "interests," call them fetishes if you will, on display. The second day after our honeymoon I went to the drugstore and got a tube of topical minoxidil, that hair-growing compound that made someone about a bazillion dollars.

That evening she giggled as I worked the cream into the faint ring of fine hair around her areolas and nipples and then had her roll onto her belly and did the same thing down that line of hair that ran the length of her spine before spreading into a delta before disappearing down her gluteal cleft.

Later that week I had an appointment with the doctor she had introduced me to. I pointed out where my hair was thinning (it wasn't) and when he rolled his eyes I spun him a yarn about how my body was so hairless that I wanted to be more, and here I threw in a quick down-at-the-floor look to signal my embarrassment, "masculine."

I'm not sure if he bought the story, but he did write the prescription for oral minoxidil, the strongest dose available.

Edna has been taking them faithfully since, and I can testify that the product works. Her natural body hair is even thicker, more luxuriant, but still so fine since she was never touched by a razor. And that line down her back has turned pure silver, giving a whole new meaning to the term "silverback."

Epilogue

Edna and I have been married for 10 years now. She is coming up on three-quarters of a century, and I’m well into my fourth decade. Her hair is that wonderful silver grey many women aspire to but few achieve. She has been untouched by steel, scissors, or a razor, since I came into her life, and that great mane hangs almost to her ass now when it is free.

The community has accepted us as a couple. Our first time at church was awkward, but she continued her duties and I attended with her on Sundays although I still think it’s all hokum.

The first time her daughters, my cousins, came to town for a school reunion, they both lost it. It was a regular shoutfest. Margie, still blonde and beautiful at 40-something accused me of taking advantage of her mom in the loudest terms. Bevvie, short, stout, not unattractive (sometimes the double negative is necessary) called me a bastard and accused me of, well, of being a bad person. One of them, I forget which, actually threatened to call the police and charge me with elder abuse at which Edna finally exploded making me giggle and, in the end, making us all laugh.

We weathered their storm, holding hands, and before that VERY uncomfortable four-day weekend was over we had reached, if not agreement and loving family status, at least acceptance.

Edna had to take a combination of hormones and vitamins and I don’t know what all, to be honest, to induce lactation. Well, along with pumping every couple of hours, something I enjoyed helping with. It worked and some weekends I live on her milk and I think she enjoys that almost as much as I do.

While she was inducing her body thought it was pregnant and I would hold her hair back during her morning sickness, and she was spectacularly sick, something I found to be a special intimacy.

One side effect, a side benefit from my point-of-view, was that the cocktail of drugs she took to induce also seemed to induce yet more body hair growth. That glorious body hair of hers is even thicker and silkier and longer than ever, and I still love looking at her naked. Hell, I love grooming her, and sometimes, when we have a day off, I’ll spend most of it with a soft hair brush, brushing her body. Her body hair remains that beautiful dark tan color. Except for that sexy silver line down her back, it shows none of the silver of the hair on her head.

We still get to Salida a few times a year. I LOVE pumping her up so she looks nine months pregnant and then watching the looks she draws when she comes into the pool.

I finished college, took a master’s degree in history, and now I teach at the local (well, two towns over) junior college. She’s still the church secretary.

And I am still head over heels, crazy, stupid in love with my bride.

Well, that’s the story. I hope you enjoyed. I enjoyed the reminiscing.

relationshipsfetisheserotic

About the author

David Witheld

College degrees in teaching, history, and economics.

Veteran, Vietnam ERA but I never, EVER, put myself in the same league as those guys who went over there and did it. I was an Air Force analyst.

Retired now, and write for fun and profit.

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