Summer was always a magical time, my home life was difficult, and when summer came I was saved. Summer didn’t just give me relief from school work, it gave me a break from my life in the city, and my parents.
Both of my parents worked, and had very little time for me. With the exception of our evening meals, we hardly saw one another. They were not bad parents, they just didn’t want to be parents.
Mom was a very renowned french photographer, sometimes she would travel and be gone for weeks at a time. She was, and always will be absolutely stunning. She had an eye for beauty, whether in other women, or in nature, and she was able to capture it with a lense.
Father was one of those types that always had a Bluetooth in his ear. You could never tell if he was on a call or talking to you. Sometimes I would answer him, only to receive a motion of dismissal, as he put his other hand to his ear. He was in real estate, and it consumed his life.
When summer arrived, it was bliss. I got to put my school books down, and spend the summer at my aunts, at my Tante Belle’s.
Mom and her sister Isabelle were born in northern France, both of them made a career of modeling, eventually coming to the States. They could have been twins, with their blonde hair, and fair complexions. Both of them shared dazzling green eyes that sometimes changed to blue. I shared these features myself, though I never grew as tall as either Mom or Tante Belle. In every other aspect the sisters were polar opposites.
Tante is French, like Aunt, pronounced like taant. It is almost like english stole the name and just removed the t in front of it. I guess english steals a lot of words from other languages. Tante, I suppose, is more like auntie, a nickname, she is my Auntie Belle.
Tante Belle, unlike Mom, despised city life. She chose to escape from the busy life, and purchased a large piece of land, some 70 acres in Oregon. There was a small cabin in a clearing, surrounded by dense trees. A creek ran behind the cabin, and across the creek the woods began. If you sat on the back porch on a clear summer day you could see Mt. Hood over the top of the conifer trees.
My aunt lived a very simple life, her spare bedroom was her art studio. She spent many hours in there painting and was very talented.
I remember the smell of her old jeep as clear as day. The memories of it rattling and jostling me about, on the way home from the airport, are fond memories. It was just over a couple hours from the Portland Airport to her place.
The greatest thing about visiting my Aunt was spending time with her. She was free spirited and had a very childlike energy and excitement for life. She would laugh and play, and giggle conspiratorially, as if the 15 years difference in age didn’t separate us at all. We spent hours, days and even nights, doing nothing more than spending time with one another.
We would play in the creek, or ruisseau, as my aunt called it. I would build dams, and she would roll big rocks into place. The dams would flood into giant sparkling pools that we would play in. Splashing around, we played all sorts of games. Sometimes a fish would get trapped and we would dive and splash as if in fear, and ultimately we tried catching it.
She would make us lunches and we would sit on the banks of the creek and eat together. My Aunt was the mother I never had. Her laughter was like music, mezzo-soprano notes that rang like bells, and echoed through the trees. It was contagious, her excitement for life. Everything we did was full of zest and passion. Even our lunches were full of her exclamations and loud groans of approval for the food she had prepared.
She had a northern French accent and the edge of her vowels lilted, sometimes with a throaty sound, and other times with emphasis, dragging them out. It was beautiful. Mom worked hard at overcoming her accent, but Tante Belle embraced hers.
Often, my Aunt would ask things like, “How you say…?” And make hand gestures or mime an action. She would scratch at the dirt and pretend to peck like a bird, and I would yell out, “Chicken!”
She would say “Oui! Yes! Chicken!” dragging out the e in chicken. She was beautiful, and my best friend. I adore her.
I could never outrun her, she had these long legs that simply propelled her across the meadow as she chased me. Always when she’d catch me, we would go down in a tangle of elbows and knees. We would wrestle around, and lay back and stare at the clouds, pointing out fantastical visions and shapes. Sometimes we would build tunnels through the high grass, making forts and trails that led to our favorite pools in the creek.
She seemed to always wear men’s white t-shirts and boxy narrow jeans. It was a style that just fit her relaxed lifestyle, and when she wasn’t covered in paint, she had grass stains, from our frolics in the tall grasses.
In the late evenings after dinner, we sometimes would make our trek through the cool dampness of the forest. It was a long hike from the cabin, almost 45 minutes. Long, especially in the dark, every noise compelled us to move faster.. Eventually we would make it to the small lake. Where our clothes would go flying as we made a mad dash in the dark to the safety of the water. We would plunge in to escape the heat and enjoy the swim in the moonlight.
I didn’t know, until much later, my aunt had been in the French cinema, and had acquired a lot of money. She never let on that she was loaded, in fact she lived in a bare two bedroom cabin. Years later she “sold” her cabin to her American cousin John, he had lost his wife to cancer. Having subdivided the land, she built another home. This one buried deep in the woods near our favorite lake that the creek ran into.
It rarely rained for long in the summer, but when it did, we would hang out together in the cabin. Tante Belle would make us coffee with her “cafetiere a piston”, a device known as a French press. She would walk me through the process, as it was very important to her.
“Premier” she said in French, then corrected herself. “First… you bring water to almost boil.” Her eyes would lock onto mine. “Almost, presque, do not boil” her accent was intoxicating.
She would stir the water into the hand ground coffee, and press it into the most bitter concoction you ever tasted in your life. But after she added steamed milk, foam, and sprinkled cocoa on the top, it was divine. Her cafe creme is still the best I have ever tasted in my life.
We would spend the rainy afternoons doing whatever we could find to do. She didn’t have television, but she did have a radio. When the right song came on, she would often swoop me up in dance. I was taught to bow, and she would curtsy. Together we would dance.
I think every moment was meaningful to me. It was magical and unlike any other experiences in my life. She taught me to paint, and crochet, embroider and sew. I learned a great many things from her in my youth. I learned to garden, and cook. Everything we did was together. Every moment was about her and I. Even work became a game. Carrots became swords and wet fingers became water launching weapon turrets. We laughed and played, and over the years I grew.
I don’t know at which point my aunt became less important to me, but I became obsessed with a young lady at my school, while in my teens. Summer’s at my Tante Belles ceased, as separation from my beloved girlfriend was horrific to imagine.
Dating was all consuming to me. Having only had one person in my life, to hug, and love, and shower me with attention. My girlfriend quickly became the substitute. I needed her attention, craved it. I desired her love and affections to the point of pure obsession. I admit today that looking back, I was weak, and needy. I was definitely not boyfriend material, and she wasn’t girlfriend material.
Things took off fast between Rachel and I. She was my first girlfriend, and we were infatuated with one another. We were beyond having any rational thoughts and reasonings. Her affections for me made me complete and whole, or so I thought.
It was rocky, our relationship. We had extreme highs and lows, fighting almost daily. She would flirt with other boys just to tease me, and she began to hold back her affection to control me. It worked. I pined after her, chased her, I was wrapped around her little finger. Rachel would tell me what to do, how to think and how I should feel. And I did anything to make her happy.
The only class we had together was choir, and Rachel sang like an angel. She had a cherub face and her cheeks were always rosy. Her lips were round and full, and when she opened her mouth to sing, every boy around her stared at her with lust. Rachel would look into my eyes and bat her long lashes and my heart would melt. She led, and I chased, always trying to get past second base, but never succeeding. I was her plaything.
During passing time we would hang out at her locker, and she would tease me by looking at other boys as they passed. She enjoyed flaunting her looks, and the attention she received. Looking back I realise how shallow she was, but at the time I thought I was in love. And nestled between her legs was the intimacy I craved. I wanted more than anything to establish that intimate connection that only two bodies could achieve sexually.
When I graduated high-school and turned 18, our relationship became long distance. Rachel moved to the east coast for college. A college I did not have the grades for.
In the beginning she would tell me how she missed me. Send me topless photos of herself, and I would masturbate to them furiously. We would spend long hours on the phone, arguing over who would hang up first. But the phone calls came less frequently, and my calls went unanswered.
It wasn’t until I saw a picture of her and some strange guy kissing, that I realised what had happened. Rachel had been tagged in the photo on Facebook by one of her friends. I was crushed, I was fucking crushed. Fuck my life.
I spent days moping around at home. I had become an adult and lost all that was important to me. I felt used, abused and hurt, like my very soul had been ripped out of me. All my dreams of the future had been destroyed.
A year passed by since we broke up, and still I had no friends, and nobody to talk to. I was alone. That’s when I tried to kill myself.
I was 19 and had nobody to even talk to. My Mom was so distant she felt like a stranger. My father was judgemental and only talked to me when he felt like punishing me. I had no one, and spent day after day in my home, alone. Rachel had left me, and because of her I had spurned all my friends. How could she do this to me? Why was I so worthless that she could just discard me? Why was I so alone? The feeling of hopelessness and emptiness consumed me, eating me alive from the inside.
It was with those embittered feelings that I decided to cut my wrists. I would show them. I would show them all, and then they would fucking feel sorry for me.
My suicide had to be theatrical, as only a dramatic 19 year old can envision. I filled the tub until it was overflowing, imagining my blood pouring over the edges, and onto the white tiles, tarnishing their perfect bathroom. I hoped my parents would find me. Naked, dead, and soaking in my own blood, in their pristine master bath. The idea made me want to cry for myself. I could imagine the shock and horror of my parents. I wanted them to suffer, I wanted them all to fucking suffer. I felt so fucking alone. I hurt so bad. Why didn’t anyone love me?
It wasn’t the lacerations to my wrists that made me pass out, it was the bottle of my moms Xanax that I swallowed. In the end I suppose it was a bit theatrical after all. I was found, not by my parents, but by Lucille, our maid. Apparently she saved my life, and that’s how I came to be strapped to a hospital bed on suicide watch.
My parents did come visit me, a couple days later, but it wasn’t out of concern. They expressed their outrage at my lack of consideration for them. I was told how selfish I am, and how I never think about others. They told me I should be grateful for everything they’ve done for me, and that they wished they had been tougher on me. I was filled with shame.
A week after my hospitalization my Tante showed up. I hadn’t seen her in 5 years, and had forgotten how beautiful she was. Her hair was cut short, and small waves and curls had sprung to life. Her hair had gotten darker. The youthful looks had fled from her face, leaving behind a mature and sultry face. I was stunned into silence when she appeared in the doorway.
She stood there, and for a brief moment her face lit up with a warm beauty that I had never seen before in a woman. One that I had never noticed as a child. If I could put Rachel and my aunt, side by side, she would make Rachel look dull, lifeless, and plain.
I instantly felt a flush of emotions when I realised how silly I must look. But instead of criticizing me, or pointing out my foolish and childlike behavior, tears began to stream down her face.
“Jesse, my little friend… you are not so little now… oui?” Tante said.
My aunt’s english had improved greatly, her words offering just a hint of accent. She sounded more refined, though it brought back a flood of memories, things I had forgotten.
“I …” my words were broken “Tante Belle-” tears streamed down my own face.
“It is okay… my souer, I mean sister, she should never had kids, you must know this by now eh?” She said with a tremble to her lower lip.
Tante moved up close to me and caressed my face, wiping away my tears with her thumb. She cupped my face and kissed my forehead.
“I’m so sorry…” she said in a near whisper.
I stared at her, as I lay there strapped to a bed with my wrists bandaged, and knew everything would be alright.
It didn’t take long to get me discharged, only a couple more days, my parents never contacted or visited me again. My aunt stayed with me day and night, and took me home with her.
I think it was at that point in time, that I realised she had been the only real mother that I had ever had. We spent a lot of time making small talk, during the trip. I confessed to her my love for Rachel and the heartbreak that had come of said love.
She comforted me, and told me it was important to be able to laugh at yourself. It had been silly, she was right, and so we laughed.
When we arrived at her place I was surprised to see a road going past the cabin.
“Had a new house put up.” She said with a bit of mystery.
My intrigue piqued, I noticed that the cabin was being lived in. I arched my eyebrows.
“Our cousin John.” She said simply.
We kept driving for another 15 minutes, her old Jeep making good progress on the gravel road. We passed the lake and went up the hill, and then I saw it.
It was about 4 times the size of her cabin, though it was plain and unadorned, it was on a slope above the lake. It was log built, from her own timber, she told me. The front was all windows, they looked down over the lake, and across the tops of the trees. The landscape rolled and rose all around it, giving it a very earthlike feel. It was natural, and elegant, just like my aunt. She didn’t require makeup, or fancy clothes, she was just beautiful, any adornment would have taken away from that.
The house with its pitched roof and wall of windows, beckoned to me with the powerful offer of comfort and relaxation.
Tante Belle fussed over me a lot the first few days, changing my bandages on my wrists, ensuring I was comfortable. She admitted to me that she was nervous leaving me, not wanting me to make another attempt on my life. I assured her that I had outgrown that, as surely as I had outgrown Rachel, and wondered where it was she needed to go.
“I opened a gallery.” She said with an intoxicating grin.
“A gallery for your paintings?” I asked.
She smiled again, “some of them are, some others are not. I open on weekends only, closed for the weekday.”
I smiled at her again “Tante Belle! Thats wonderful!” I watched her in amazement as her face lit up, she performed a curtsey. The grace and elegance in her movements sparked desire deep inside. I instantly thought how beautiful she was, and how sexy she was.
She walked away from me, her movements much like a cat. I watched her hips sway, with her back arched, and shoulders back, her bare feet were delicate and toes neatly painted. My eyes locked onto her ass, and admired how it lilted from side to side with her hips.
Tante Belle looked back at me over her shoulder, at that very moment as I stared at her posterior, and I blushed. Had she seen me staring? If she had, she didn’t let on, she smiled at me, and continued out of the room.
We talked a few more times before the weekend arrived, and I assured her that I would be fine. My wrists itched furiously, and were nearly healed.
I awoke early on Saturday, the log mansion, as I had come to think of it, was empty without her. I wandered around, exploring, running my fingers over surfaces. Exploring drawers and cabinets. The house felt expansive, and I was in awe. Apartments in the city were miniature homes compared to this massive log construction.
When I finally made my way to the master bedroom my jaw dropped. One wall of the room was windows from floor to ceiling and looked over the lake. Opposite the windows was a huge bed with four posts sticking straight up. Some kind of sheer material draped from the top, fastened in a peak to the ceiling. I instantly felt like I was in the bedroom of a queen, or a princess. The sheer white material billowed out, hanging almost like curtains. I nearly bowed in reverence.
One wall to the side of the bed, was solid mirrors, only broken by a door. I had to know what was behind that door, and so I opened it. The closet was huge, and in it hung more clothing than I had ever seen. I found myself wondering what she needed all the clothing for, I’d never seen her wear anything but a white t-shirt and jeans.
I moved to the dresser that sat at the back of the closet. It was massive, and the wooded front looked old and polished. The first drawer I popped open was full of lacy underwear. I pulled one out, and couldn’t figure out what it even was. My palms were sweating and my heart thundered in my ears. I opened drawer after drawer, finding all sorts of lingerie, some easy to identify and others just unrecognizable gossamer.
The last drawer I opened was full of toys. I had never seen such things in person. But I knew them well from porn. My dick began to swell as I ran my fingers over one phallic rubber vibrator, it was tacky and had obviously not been cleaned after it was used. I was curious, and becoming reckless with my arousal, I gripped myself through my pajama bottoms. I throbbed in my hand, and winced as pain shot through my bandaged wrists. I brought the vibrator up to my nose and smelled. It smelled faintly sweet, musty. I tingled with the knowledge that this had been inside of my aunt.
I ran my tongue along it, trying to taste her. I knew this was silly, sick, demented, who knows what else. There was a part of me that just could not hold my inner kink back any longer. I dropped my pajamas around my feet, and ran the pink dildo up the length of me. I massaged the device and my dick together, much like giving myself and another a hand job. Briefly I wondered what it would be like to touch my dick to another. Would it feel fake and oddly fleshy like this?
I touched my head to the device’s head, penis to penis and watched my precum darken the tip. I actually thought of forcing myself away, literally I imagined my other hand stopping my right hand. Like my right hand had a mind of its own, I wanted to force it away, but instead it drew inexplicably closer to my mouth. It reached my tongue, and the salt of my own self blossomed in my mouth, moments later followed by what I hoped was the taste of Tante Belle.
The head of it was large in my mouth, way larger than I expected. I imagined I was Rachel, and had finally consented to giving me a blowjob. I pushed it towards the back of my throat. My tongue extended along the bottom of its length, and it touched the back of my throat. I gagged.
My dick was so hard and throbbing, that precum hung from it in strings, dripping to the carpeted floor.
I wiped the saliva off my chin, wiped off the device and placed it neatly in the drawer. With one last reverie, I stared at it, licking my lips and imagining I had just tasted her. I spasmed. I was ready to cum with no where to release. Hurriedly, I made it back to the bathroom by the room she had shown me to.
Shutting the door, I once again let my PJs drop and grabbed my raging hard dick. I ached with the need for release, I craved it. Stroking myself, I found plenty of opportunity to milk my own lube, until I had a slick coating, which made a satisfying slurping sound. Looking around to find some place for release, and realizing I had no time. I lurched for the bathroom sink, shooting strings of cum all over the counter and sink bowl. I looked myself in the eyes, staring into the mirror, and shuddered with excitement.
Cleaning up took some time, but cumming had not curbed my curiosity. I found, as I snooped, that my arousal knew no bounds, as I once again became erect. Thoughts of my beautiful Tante Belle, teased my imagination. I dared to imagine what she felt like in my arms. Fantasies compounded upon fantasies.
Eventually I found the portfolio. It was from her early modeling days, in her late teens to her twenties. The things she wore in the photos, sent my heart racing. Never in my wildest fantasies had I thought to find such a treasure trove of nude photos or nearly nude photos. She was so free, and confident, so gorgeous. I was captivated. I took one of the photos, it was 8×11 black and white, in it she was on the beach and covered in sand. Her eyes were locked on the camera, and appeared to stare into my soul.
I don’t know how I ended up doing what I did, or continued to do, but I know that my obsession only continued to grow. Every chance I got I would stare at her, imagining what was beneath her clothes. Being the owner of a gallery had in some ways freed her, and in others confined her. I soon found out that her extensive clothing collection was for her weekend attire when her gallery was open. I made special effort to arise in the morning, to see her away on the weekend. My eyes greedily drank in her attire and my imagination created very vivid scenes.
Spring came and went, and summer rolled in lazily. Day after day the lake looked more and more inviting as the heat settled in. One thing my aunt did not have was air conditioning. The living room under her bedroom was one giant glass pane, it rolled out and turned the living area into open door living. It was fantastic, during the evenings she would make me what she called ‘French Blondes’, a citrus alcoholic beverage.
We would sit together and have our drink, the cool evening air coming in off the lake. It was heaven. My ears would grow warm from the alcohol, and sweat would bead on my brow, and everything she would say was perfect. Laughter rolled out of me of its own accord and her face would burn alight with its own rosy hues, rather than it’s normal pallor. This was heaven.
One particular evening, she prepared more than one drink and our conversations turned reminiscent. I spoke of our swims in the lake fondly and laughed that we skinny dipped. Who did that?
Her face came to life and animatedly she grabbed my hand pulling me from the sofa and across the patio. Our bare feet padded through the grass, my hand in hers, as I was dragged along. Looking back at me she winked, right before the darkness enveloped her, and let go of me. I slowed down, bewildered listening to her laugh in the dark. My eyes still had not adjusted yet. Then something hit me in the face.
It was her shirt. I could just barely make out the paleness of her skin, silhouetted in the dark as she struggled to remove her pants. I paused, then followed suit, removing my clothing and running to the lake behind her. In moments she had dove head first and disappeared, breaking the calm surface and quieting the local frogs. Taking a deep breath I jumped in behind her.
My first thought was that it was cold, but I adjusted quickly, it felt good. I floated there for a minute before kicking for the surface. A minute too long, my lungs burned as I reached for the surface, gasping for air, and treading the water with just a little panic. My aunt was on me just like that, her arms around me holding me up. I could hear her voice, pure and musical, telling me to relax. And so I did. I relaxed, realizing that I was just a bit tippy, and that up was still up despite my clouded judgement.
It took a moment for me to realise that her naked flesh was against me, her breasts were pressed into my back, and I could even feel the hardness of her nipples. I felt myself grow, and the heat rushed to my ears.
I pushed away from her, and turned around, treading water. Her hair was plastered to her head and her eyes shown in the moonlight. Her beauty was incredible, I nearly went under again. Her smile was radiant and twinkled in her eyes. I stared.
“Is… just like old times? Oui? Her French accent was thick from drink and she cocked her head to the side when she asked.
“It is…” my voice felt heavy and my tongue thick. I ached to reach down and squeeze my erection, but reason prevailed.
“It had been ah… long time since we swim.” She frowned at me. “I have forgotten the joy.” Her smile returned and lit up my soul.
“It’s okay, Tante, I think that I forgot the simple things too.” I said, watching her push back into a backstroke, inadvertently her small breasts floated above the water, glistening in the moonlight. I groaned to myself, thinking how perfect she was. My normal feelings of awkwardness and inadequacies, forgotten for the moment, as alcohol had fogged my brain.
“Ah neveu…” my aunt said wiping lake water from her eyes. “You are young… to forget… why did you give up?” She dove forward then, and her back arched above the water as she dove headfirst. She rolled beneath the water, only creating ripples. I watched, as her dimples in her back gave way to her rounded ass. My dick ached as I watched her lower half gently disappear into the dark water. Silently, fluidly, without a single splash.
I gave a start as she surfaced, barely a foot in front of me. Had she seen my erection? Could she see beneath the water at night? How had she known where to surface? I pushed away the muddy thoughts to find clarity and respond.
“She… Rachel, I thought she… well I thought she loved me… she said she did.” I cringed at how juvenile I sounded. And decided to divulge the truth. “I am alone…” I whispered. “I just wanted someone to love me.” I feel hot tears in my eyes, and clench my teeth to try and force them away.
“Je comprends…” she said thickly, and cupped the side of my face with her hand. She looked me in the eye, and gave me a sad smile.
She gets it? How could she possibly understand? My mind races and my body tingles. Then I think of her isolated lifestyle, out here all alone. I think about her gallery, and suddenly I understand as well. She needed to talk to people, to interact, she was lonely as well. My heart opens up, and for the first time I realised that other people can be lonely too.
I wanted to kiss her, to pull her into an embrace and make love to her. I wanted to hold her. I needed her to hold me. Instead, she let go of my face and stopped treading water, she slipped below the surface without a sound. I stayed there floating, lightly treading water, until she surfaced a few feet away. She splashed me, giggling with glee, and my somber mood broke, just like that. I chased her back to the shore, clumsily we broke from the water, splashing and laughing.
This time my eyes were adjusted to the dark, and I could see her tall, lithe and slender figure, darting and bending to scoop up her clothing. I could see her breasts bouncing, and though I was still aroused, I chased her back to the house, both of us laughing like children. She turned, once inside the living room, facing me and clutching her now wet clothing to her chest and groin.
The smile on her face, nearly brought tears to my eyes, as I was reminded of my youth. This was my Tante Belle, that I remembered. Vivacious and charismatic, completely carefree. Her cheeks were flushed, and shivers ran through her, making her chin and teeth chatter.
“I will return!” She turned and ran up the stairs calling over her shoulder. “Revenir!’
Suddenly embarrassment washed over me. I realised that I stood there nude, with a raging hardon. The nakedness of her backside had me inadvertently clutching my dick. I let go in shame. She had seen, had that been a blush? Had I embarrassed her, or just myself?
The next day I arose early to find her cooking breakfast, she danced lithely around the kitchen, humming to herself. I stood for a moment watching, not sure how to approach her and explain my drunken carelessness from the night before.
She noticed me before I had made up my mind. Her face lit up with a smile and she coaxed me into the kitchen.
“I have been waiting for you!” She exclaimed. “Come! Sit… have cafe… and omelet”
I sat, and said nothing, not sure how to hide my embarrassment. But she put me at ease, placing a folded egg omelet in front of me.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had a real omelet, but my aunt is a pro. She doesn’t put filling in it, simply folds the egg with butter. Simple, but amazing, and the buttery egg compliments her coffee.
The morning departed and with it conversation became easy for me once again. Things were going to be okay.
That late afternoon, she received a phone call. For the first time, I saw in my aunts face, panic, and terror. When she was off the phone, I rushed to her side.
“What is it Tante Belle?!” I asked in a rush, “what’s wrong?”
“Our cousin… he has been shot.” She was as pale as a ghost. “We must go to the hospital.”
We left then, heading for town. I had never met this cousin, but I found myself praying he would be alright. The pain that was so evident in my aunts face, had me worried.