House Sitting for Aunty Jean

"Paul, would you like to go and house-sit for Aunty Jean on Friday evening?" his mother asked.

Engaged in trying to write a tutorial paper on the computer for next morning – a paper he should have been prepared two days before – Paul asked suspiciously, "Why?"

"Oh well, the girl she usually has can't make it, and Jean's booked a seat for the opera, and as she'll probably be home late she says you can stay overnight."

He had always been wary of Aunt Jean. She had seemed to him very serious and imperious. Nevertheless, as Paul had reached that age when he was very conscious of females, he was reluctantly prepared to at least concede that at thirty two Aunt Jean was a handsome woman in a statuesque and stately manner.

Tall and always elegantly dressed, she had a fine figure. Her face with its clearly defined features was framed in a mass of dark hair, but it was her bright emerald coloured eyes that disturbed him the most. When, with her eyelids partially masking those green orbs, she focused on him, he felt as if they were not so much looking at him, as dissecting him.

She wasn't even really his aunt, but had been a friend of his mother's before she got married and they had worked together. He'd heard that Jean had once got married, and in short order had then got divorced.

"If she looked at him like she looks at me," thought Paul, "I'll bet it was him who divorced her."

Apart from the honorary title of "Aunt" she was also Paul's godmother, and although she had never given him the religious instruction that in theory godmothers were supposed to give, she always remembered the anniversary of his baptism, plus birthdays and Christmas. Her gifts had always been lavish, so despite his wariness he had always tried to keep on the good side of Jean.

He had tentatively made an arrangement to go out with a girl on Friday evening, but his mother added the magic words, "She's willing to pay."

"Pay;" Paul, as a student was always in need of extra money so he suddenly decided that perhaps the girl wasn't really important after all and he could house-sit.

"Okay, I'll do it."

He returned to his work on the computer, and was dimly aware of his father asking his mother, "Who's she got in tow at the moment?"

"No one as far as I know," his mother replied, "She told me she'd given up on men."

His father's response was, "Humph; or they've given up on her," and then he returned to reading a magazine and his mother to her ironing, and there was silence.

On Friday evening, Paul, carrying a small case containing his weekend study work, a change of underwear and the bottom half of his summer pyjamas, rang Jean's doorbell.

Always well dressed, when she opened the door Paul was momentarily captivated. She was wearing a slack suit the colour of which matched the green of her eyes and at the same time it seemed to enhance the gleam of her dark hair.

The suit was very simple in its lines and moulded nicely to her figure. She wore no jewellery and very little makeup, and Paul, despite his slightly jaundiced view of Jean, decided that she was about to turn a few male heads at the opera that night, that is, until she focused those penetrating eyes on one of them, in which case the admiring male would probably wither up.

She said, Hello Paul," and then silently motioned for him to enter.

He'd been inside her house before but always in his mother's company. Typical of Jean the place was tastefully furnished, but in a style a few decades behind the times. He'd heard his mother refer to it as "The Scandinavian style" – the plain pinewood design.

On the walls were paintings by what Paul later learned was called the Impressionist School. He also learned that they weren't "the real thing" because even well-off Aunt Jean could never have afforded the originals; she was in fact quite comfortable financially, but not quite as comfortable as that.

Since she and her mother first got to know each other Jean had climbed the public service promotional ladder with considerable ease, and was what people referred to as, "A tough negotiator" and "A high flyer." Paul could readily agree with the "Tough" bit.

In her usual concise manner Jean told him – or rather instructed – where food and drink were to be found, where he was to sleep, and showed him the computer in her study. She also told him how to use the television and DVD, but added, "I suppose you'll be too busy with your studies to be bothered with those."

"Dream on," he thought, but smiled ingenuously and said, "Yes, I suppose I will."

"Then I'll leave you to it; I'll be back about half past eleven." With that she departed.

Although Paul had been in the house before he had never seen the bedrooms or even the kitchen. Since he had the place to himself he decided to satisfy youthful curiosity and take a look around; his look around included poking into drawers and cupboards.

He had come to the conclusion that there was nothing exceptional to be found until he opened some drawers in Jean's bedroom. First to come into view were some items of underwear that he had never imagined Jean wearing; not that he'd thought much about her underwear, but if he did he had always imagined it to be made of knitted barbed wire.

The bras and panties were of the flimsiest and definitely see-through. He tried to picture Jean wearing these delicate items, and after a minute or two of straining his imagination he discovered that he'd got a modified image of her. "Yes, I suppose with her figure she'd look fairly good," he managed to grudgingly concede.

He went on to open the drawers in her bedside table. First to catch his eye was something that was obviously a length of solid plastic shaped like a penis. He knew what it was and exclaimed out loud, "My God, she uses a dildo!"

Next to capture his attention was an electrical implement. It had a small rounded head and he noted that it had different speed settings. He plugged it in and switched it on to its slowest setting. It emitted a low buzzing sound and the head started to vibrate. He tried the other speed settings and noticed the head vibrated with ever increasing rapidity.

A dildo he knew about, but what this strange devise was he had no idea. "Wonder what she uses that for," he meditated.

Failing to find an answer he shrugged and put the implement back in the drawer. His research into Jean's drawers had at least given him a modified, more human view of Jean, especially in the light of the dildo. "She actually has sexual feelings," he concluded, "Amazing!"

He ended his exploring and made a tentative decision to get on with the work assignment he had brought with him on as floppy disc. He took the floppy disc out of its case, but still trying to delay the evil moment when he must start work, he wandered round the lounge looking idly at the paintings. It was then his attention was drawn to one he couldn't remember seeing before.

The painting was of a nude woman. She seemed to be standing in a bedroom. Behind her was a dressing table and to one side a bed with the covers drawn partially back. She was a tall woman with a superb figure. Her arms were upraised, her hands behind her head, and she seemed to be doing something with her luxuriant dark hair.

The raised arms had the effect of lifting her breasts to make them more prominent. They were not large, "About the size of a couple of half grapefruits," Paul decided, but they were a delectable ivory colour and capped by very delicious nipples looking rather like knolls of strawberry ice cream.

"Wouldn't mind getting a taste of those," he muttered.

Paul, whose knowledge of the female anatomy was limited to the occasional fumbling and groping with the girls when he had been in high school, was mesmerised by this naked woman.

He had already been stirred by Jean's underwear and dildo, and now he started to get an incipient erection.

He had a feeling that he had seen this woman and the room somewhere before, but no matter how he trawled his memory he could not remember where.

Finally he gave up, and now, with his erection close to full-blown, his choice lay between homework and masturbating. Probably to his amazement, and certainly to anyone else who knew him had they been present, study won.

Having arrived at this momentous decision, he went so far as to enter the study and insert the floppy disc in the computer. The study was a rather forbidding place as far as Paul was concerned; it was lined with bookshelves containing works that ranged through art, history, literature and law.

Surveying this alarming environment he found another reason to delay the moment when he would commence work.

"I'll have a shower and change into my pyjamas," he decided; "Might as well be comfortable."

For some reason he could not define, he found that during the course of the shower he contemplated naked Jean standing there caressing her body with fragrant unguents from the Mystic East. He had read that phrase somewhere but really had little idea what fragrant unguents might be, and was fairly shaky about the location of the Mystic East, but it sounded tantalising.

Showered and clad in his pyjama shorts, he at last settled in front of the computer, booted it up, clicked in the floppy and sat staring at the task in front of him.

It was a tutorial assignment on the subject, "Creation versus Evolution." Certainly they had covered the subject in lectures, but of late his attention had been focused on a pretty girl with dark curly hair and large breasts called Judy. She was not the girl he'd had the tentative arrangement with; had she been even the magic word "Pay" might not have lured him to house-sit for Jean. But the problem was, with Judy present in the lecture theatre, the words of the lecturer had failed to penetrate Paul's lubricious contemplations.

Now he sat staring at the single four lined paragraph he had already spent two hours at home on. He sighed and tried to recall any fragment of the lecturer's discourse that might have penetrated his lust barrier. Nothing emerged from his grey cells, and after ten minutes of increasing desperation he went into the room set aside as his bedroom for the night, opened his case and took out a small book on the subject.

On his way back to the computer he stepped aside to the fridge to help himself to a bowl of ice cream. It happened that there was both vanilla and strawberry ice cream. With the picture of the nude woman in mind, and in a frivolous frame of mind, he put a large dollop of vanilla into the bowl and with a spoon moulded it into the rough image of a female breast. On top of this mammary mound he placed a small lump of strawberry ice cream and facetiously entitled it, "Strawberry Nipple," which he carried back to the work station.

While spooning ice cream into his mouth he started to read the book, and when he had scraped out from the bowl the last dregs of Strawberry Nipple he attempted to type out what he hoped was a paraphrase of some of the book's contents.

The purpose of the paraphrasing was of course to try and persuade the tutor that the work was his own, but after scanning the two further brief paragraphs he had written he felt that his subterfuge was unlikely to go undetected.

Having reached this point he gave up, telling himself, "I'll get down to it at home over the weekend." After all, it was Friday night, and he was entitled to some recreation.

Negligently leaving the computer screen still glowing, he retired to the lounge and switching on the television set he settled back on the capacious cushion strewn divan to view the TV offerings.

Over the course of half an hour he switched from channel to channel desperately seeking some programme that would meet his needs. He passed over an evangelist who promised financial prosperity to those who were "Born again," and even more speedily turned off a documentary allegedly explaining Einstein's theory of relativity.

Advertisement riddled soapies and sit-coms momentarily caught his attention, especially if they concerned nubile and full-breasted young women; but despite his flippant frame of mind these lowest common denominator inanities began to pall.

"What's the use of looking if you can't touch," he thought, "it's like trying to eat chocolate with the paper still wrapped round it, or," he added grinning to himself, "like having Strawberry Nipple in a carton you can't get open."

It was about nine thirty by then and for want of something better to do he got up and wandered over to the picture of the nude. She certainly was a very desirable looking female in a Junoesque way; "Better than most of those on television," he thought, as he gazed at the delectable breasts and nipples.

He did however feel somewhat cheated by the fact that at her groin only a suggestion of pubic hair could be seen. He had never seen a female sex organ, although he had felt one that belonged to a girl when he was still at school. He had wanted to look then, but by dint of some shyness on her part and the signal that the lunch break was over, he never got to view the mystery of the female.

As he stood captivated by the painting he strove again to recall where he had seen her, or someone like her before. Not, of course, that he would have seen her naked, but the hair and face, they....

"Do you like the picture?" It was Jean's voice, and he spun round in fright. She had entered quietly and since he was so engrossed in the painting he hadn't heard her come up behind him.

"God you gave me a fright," he gasped.

"She smiled ominously and said "Sorry," then repeated her question, "Do you like the picture?"

Paul felt himself to be at a double disadvantage; first because he had been so startled by Jean's return, and secondly, and perhaps more embarrassingly, his contemplation of the painting had given him another erection. He had been thinking about going to bed to masturbate. Unfortunately his skimpy pyjamas could do little to hide the protuberance that now jutted out from his groin.

Jean had a slightly mocking look on her face as she asked yet again, "Do you like it?"

"I...er...yes, she's...ah...she's very beautiful."

"You think so?"

"Yes...yes...she's lovely."

Recovering slightly Paul said, "I thought you weren't coming home until after eleven."

Jean shrugged her slender shoulders and replied, "The performance was lousy so I left at the interval. I thought I might as well come and chat with you. After all, we've never talked much, and we might get to know each other better."

It was true they had never talked much, and when they did it had been Jean asking questions, usually about progress in his studies. If his answers were satisfactory, that was where their talk usually ended; if, however, Jean decided his answers weren't acceptable she wasn't averse to instructing him on how he might mend his ways.

Not wishing to engage in one of these question and answer sessions, and not being very much in favour of the idea of "getting to know each other better," Paul said, "I was just going to bed."

"Oh, surely not, it's early yet. I'll just go and change and we can have a little talk."

Without giving Paul a chance to protest she left him. He turned his attention back to the nude painting. This made his situation even more difficult because looking at her his already swollen male member stretched out another half inch and he could feel a sticky substance oozing out of his urethra. He badly needed to relieve himself of this discomfiting witness to his sexual arousal, and what he didn't need was one of Jean's "little talks."

He was still gazing wretchedly at the painting, but this time Jean did not take him by surprise. He turned as he heard the shish of her feet on the carpet. It was then that he was not so much surprised as stunned.

Jean stood before him clad only in her panties and bras; the ivory breasts seen through the lace of her bras; the pink nipples with their deeper pink aureoles and...and of course Jean's long dark hair; now he knew.

He gestured vaguely at the painting and stammered, "I-I-it's y-you."

"Yes," Jean said in a low voice, "I'm glad you appreciate it."

She was looking at him, her gleaming green eyes narrowed; they seemed to be absorbing every detail of him.

"Well, you are a big boy now aren't you? I hadn't realised."

Neither had Paul realised. For most of his life he had been used to looking up at tall Aunt Jean, now he noted that he was more than eye to eye with her.

"A-a-am I," he stuttered, thinking that Jean was referring to his height. Then trying to pretend that he hadn't noticed Jean's near nudity he plunged on, "The...the...er...the painting m-m-must have c-cost a lot."

She laughed lightly and said, "It depends on what you mean by 'cost a lot'."

"Oh...ah...er...a lot of money."

"Actually it didn't cost me a cent."

"The artist did it for nothing?"

"Not exactly."

Not knowing what else to say Paul blurted out, "Oh."

"You see he wanted to paint me in the nude."

"Oh."

"So we negotiated."

"Negotiated?"

"Yes, he's a good artist and I wanted to recompense him, so we agreed on a mutually satisfying way to pay him.

"Oh?"

"Yes...oh, I see, you don't understand. Do take a careful look at the painting and you'll see what I mean."

Paul obediently turned to look at picture, trying to work out where payment came into it. He couldn't see where it came in, and he turned with a questioning frown on his face.

"You don't understand? No, perhaps you're too inexperienced. Well take a look at the bed and tell me what you see."

He looked again and said, "Well, the covers are partly turned back."

"Does that tell you how I paid him?"

"No... unless...unless you mean...no of course you don't."

"Oh dear, and I thought you young people are supposed to be so sexually sophisticated these days. I had sexual intercourse with him after every sitting you silly boy."

"Y-y-you...you did!"

"Yes, we had to have quite a few sessions to complete the painting; quite gratifying in a way."

Paul was almost goggling at her; "In a way...w-what...?"

"Yes, it was a pity about him because he was such a nice looking man, but he wasn't willing to meet some of my more special needs, so when the painting was finished so was he as far as I was concerned."

The vision of Jean climbing into bed with the artist had further aroused Paul, and his penis was throbbing almost painfully as his pre-cum started to stain his pyjamas.

Jean looked at him shrewdly and said, "Have you ever been with a woman?"

"B-been w-with?"

"Sexually, you silly boy...have you ever had sexual intercourse?"

For a moment Paul considered relating to her his many non-existent sexual exploits, but thought better of it. "Well...I...er...sort of."

Her eyes focused on his now glaringly obvious erection. She stepped close to him, her body almost touching his.

"You know, I think I'd like to make a man of you," Jean said in a low provocative voice.

Jean came even closer and he breathed in a subtle but tantalising perfume. She ran the pink tip of her tongue over her lips, and then kissed him lightly. He felt firm breasts pressing against his bare chest and her naked belly against his.

"You'd like to make love with a woman, a real woman, wouldn't you, Paul?"

"I...er...yes...no...I don't know."

"You don't know? Then you'll have to find out through experience, won't you."

"I...I...." He felt her hand slip into the top of his pyjama shorts and then her fingers round his penis.

She gasped and murmured, "My God, you really are a big boy, let me see."

She tugged down his shorts and they slipped to the floor. She stepped back a little and looked at the man flesh she held in her hand. He heard her intake of breath, then, "Oh yes...yes...darling...so...big...so big..."