I can’t stop fantasizing about Aunt

Sure, Aunt Freya was right. I knew that much. It was just… the thought of cumming in my bed (well, technically her bed since I was in her guest room) knowing that she was fully aware of what I was doing… It was mortifying.

But she was right. She was so right. If I hadn’t been trying to stop myself from masturbating to her, I wouldn’t have been so inclined to let my eyes glue themselves to the parts of her body that were arousing me. It wasn’t fair to her, so I had to do what she told me to do, not that my body was resisting. It was begging me to bring myself to an orgasm, so I relented and unzipped my pants.

It didn’t take long. Thinking back on it, I believe the thought that she knew I was touching myself that very second was actually what made me cum so quick. It was only two minutes, maybe three, before I was cumming into a dirty towel I pulled from the hamper in the corner. It was all I could do not to cry out in ecstasy. I wasn’t sure if she would be pleased with the sounds, so I just kept them in.

It was not easy.

Keeping all that cum inside me had brought my lust to a boil, and I thought I would never stop cumming. My cock was pulsing, burning in my hand while it pumped the white hot globs out of me. I lost count of the spurts, but it was definitely one of my longest orgasms. One for the record books, I guess.

When the fog broke, I was lying on my back, the towel to one side, my arms limp against the sheets, and my cock pulsating weakly against my stomach. There were soft vibrations still rolling through my body, but the “worst” has passed.

Now what?

Aunt Freya was waiting for me. She told me to come back to her after I came, but how could I? Was I supposed to waltz down the stairs, look her in the eye and go- “Hey Auntie! I just blew a huge load into one of your towels! What now?”

Do you remember when I said my mind should have been racing with conflicting emotions? Yeah. This was the part where that happened.

It took a while, and I’m not really sure how long, but when I stepped off the last stair and onto the ground floor, Aunt Freya was sitting at the table, her chair turned around so she could face me, a half empty bottle of wine at her side.

Neither of us spoke. My eyes kept flicking to the floor, then back to hers. She was staring at me so intensely, and she never broke contact. Her face was blank, and it was unnerving. There was no way to tell how she felt about me now. Was she disgusted? Was she ashamed of me? I can tell you now with certainty, at that moment, I was ashamed of myself more than enough for the both of us.

I just stood there, breathing softly, my hands pressed together. The fingers on my hands were fidgeting against one another, my anxiety on full display.