Before applying to college in 1963, I spent a number of weekends visiting prospective schools in Ohio and Pennsylvania. I had already heard a lot about Smithson College from my first cousin, Fred who was then in his senior year and full of stories about wild parties, road trips, and other mayhem. As a scholarship kid, he lived inexpensively off campus by renting a room from a widow who worked as a children’s librarian in the public library. In exchange for a modest rent and help around the house and yard, Fred enjoyed the benefits of a normal home. Mrs. Fellani did all the cooking and even took care of his laundry. In contrast to dorm life with its tiny rooms, bad food, and noise at all hours,

Fred had it pretty good, especially since Mrs. Fellani was a great cook. The only downside was the need to observe basic household rules. Fred had to be in by 10:30 on weekdays and 12:30 on weekends. He also had to keep his place neat, do his chores on time, and not bring liquor into the house. Though he sometimes missed the freedom of dorm life, he saved a thousand dollars a year over the costs of campus room and board. And since he was a scholarship kid, he didn’t really have much of a choice. Living on campus was simply out of the question.

In the summer before my senior year, I made plans to visit prospective colleges including Smithson. Fred asked Mrs. Fellani if I could stay with them and she readily agreed. Hoping Fred would be too busy to meet me at the train station in midweek and that Mrs. Fellani would come instead, I arrived on Wednesday and was indeed met by Mrs. Fellani. On the basis of Fred’s descriptions, I had no trouble recognizing her and waved as I stepped off the train.

To my wonderment, she was even more beautiful than I had imagined. In her late thirties, she had lustrous black hair which cascaded thickly around her face and over her shoulders and set off her smooth, pearly white skin. Her eyes matched her hair and flashed like dark jewels in her lively face. In a period when voluptuous women were still widely appreciated, Mrs. Fellani had a heart-stopping hourglass figure. Her hips swept out from her relatively narrow waist with large, full curves which rolled sensuously back and forth with each step. As if in musical counterpoint, her lush, tightly sweatered breasts accented these larger movements with their own swaying. No doubt, most people at the train station that day saw only a plump woman greeting a relative or friend and gave it no notice. In contrast, I was almost mesmerized by Mrs. Fellani’s ripe, jiggling, womanhood which seemed heightened with every ordinary movement.

Greeting me as if I was a family member, she swept me into her arms for a big hug and a kiss. Though it lasted no more than a few seconds, my head spun as her heavy breasts pressed against my chest and a wave of strong perfume engulfed me. I even began to tremble and wondered if she noticed. As we walked down the platform, I tried to make small talk but my mind was completely absorbed in her wonderful scent and sight. I was particularly fascinated by the regular swishing sound of her nylons rubbing against each other. After reaching the end of the platform, we had to go single file to get up the narrow stairs. By politely inviting her to go first, I took my place directly behind her where I could gaze more openly. Her cotton summer dress clung to her revealing a fat bottom and the lines of a pair of bikini panties which called additional attention to the lush curves they failed to contain.

As she climbed the stairs, her heavy bottom cheeks bobbled and wagged with a fleshy life of their own. And with each step came the wonderful silky swishing noise from beneath her dress. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, I had to conceal a throbbing erection by holding my bag in front of me. Already my mind raced with fantasies of attending Smithson and renting Mrs. Fellani’s room.

Though I was off touring the college campus for most of the following three days, I did see a lot of Mrs. Fellani in the evenings. Her cooking was indeed delicious and her manner warm and inviting. By the end of the weekend, it was clear she liked me and I did nothing to conceal my warm feelings toward her (though I tried to keep from staring too much lest she think me vulgar). Only once did I give myself away. It was on my last day – Sunday afternoon – and Fred was outside mowing the grass. Following Mrs. Fellani’s instructions, I took three glasses from the kitchen into the living room and placed them on the coffee table while she made lemonade. I then sat on the sofa and waited.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Fellani came in holding a pitcher full of iced lemonade and sat in a chair across the table from me. Since it was quite hot that day, she was wearing a loose- fitting sun dress which left her shoulders and upper torso bare. And because the coffee table was so low, she had to lean forward and bend way down to pour the lemonade. When she did, I suddenly found myself looking directly at two enormous, pillowy white breasts nestled snugly against each other in a pink brassierre which was so low cut I could only see it primarily where it crossed between and underneath her breasts and along the lacey edges.

Even if she hadn’t been preoccupied in pouring lemonade, it would have been hard not to stare. Her milky globes bulged up and out of her brassiere, spilling over generously at the tops into unconstrained patties wobbling gently like mounds of jelly. With my heart pounding and my senses dazed, I forgot about all else and stared shamelessly. Fortunately, Mrs Fellani was absorbed in pouring the lemonade, using a spoon to keep ice cubes from tumbling out of the pitcher and splashing into the glasses. And because she had to pour slowly to avoid spilling or splashing on the antique table, I had almost a full minute to feast on the view she unwittingly presented.

Even as she poured, a little voice told me to stop staring before she looked up and caught me but I ignored it, glued to the sight of so much naked, womanly flesh. By the time I looked up, I found her dark eyes looking directly into mine. Instead of sitting up abruptly in shock or embarrassment, she held her position for a moment as if to use her breasts, now knowingly exposed a few inches below our connected gaze, to remind me of what she had caught me doing. And as she straightened up, a little knowing smile crept into her expression which only heightened my embarrassment.

Turning bright red, I mumbled a thanks about the lemonade, looked out the window, and wondered aloud if Fred had finished the mowing. To my great surprise, she only gave me a warmer smile before hoisting her glass and toasting to the success of my college search.

Then looking me straight in the eye, she said, “As you know, Peter, I will be needing a new tenant next fall now that Fred is graduating. You seem like just the kind of polite, young man I am looking for. If you get accepted at Smithson and decide to come, you should consider renting Fred’s room. It’s a lot cheaper than the dormitory and Fred tells me I’m a great cook.”

I could not believe my ears? Here was a woman who had just caught me staring fixedly at her breasts inviting me to be her new tenant. It was as if she were flattered by my attention. With my insides churning even more, I managed to stammer that Fred had really enjoyed renting from her and that I would certainly think about it, especially since I was also looking for ways to reduce costs. After promising to let her know when I heard from the admissions office, I looked up with relief to see Fred entering. An hour later, Mrs. Fellani drove me to the train station and gave me an even longer hug which fueled masturbation sessions for at least he next month.

My senior high school year passed slowly. I counted the days till the college letters went out in the spring. When my acceptance letter came from Smithson, I gave out a loud cry of excitement knowing I would be seeing Mrs. Fellani every day for the next four years. And so it was that I found myself moving into her house that August, little more than a year after our first meeting.

On the very first night, after I had finished the dishes, she sat me down in the living room to explain the house rules and my chores. I was to do the dishes every other night or set the dinner table on alternate nights (sharing that job with Tommy). My room was to be kept clean as well as the single bathroom which everyone shared. In the summers, I was responsible for weekly mowing. Weekday curfew was 10:00, weekends were 12:30. I was not to bring any alcohol into the house or to come home drunk. She then explained that she used a monthly lease so that she could evict any tenant who failed to follow these rules, something which had happened twice in ten years. I assured her she could count on me and that I would treat her house like my own. In turn, she insisted I call her Aunt Sylvia.

After only one month of living with Aunt Sylvia, I felt almost like it was my own home, except this sexy Venus was decidedly not my mother. Not that she didn’t mother me at times. In the third week when I got a bad cold and stay home for two days from school with a high fever, she made me stay in bed and took care of me as if I was her own son, bringing me my meals, lots of liquids, and giving me aspirin and cough syrup every four hours. She even sat with me in the afternoon and played cards and various board games to ease my boredom.

By the middle of my second month, she used to tease me all the time about anything she could, knowing I was easy to fluster. And sometimes, just because she know how embarrassed I got, she would ask me to do something for her around the house and then wait for me to walk by unaware before smacking me on the seat of my pants playfully while asking, “Have you done the dishes yet?” or “Did you take out the garbage yet?” She really was starting to behave like an aunt.

Toward the end of the second month, I got stomach cramps one afternoon in the middle of homework and tried to go to the bathroom without success. When I went downstairs to the kitchen to get a soda, Aunt Silvia noticed I seemed out of sorts and asked what the problem was.

“Nothing, Aunt Silvia … it’s just some sort of stomach cramp. It’s probably pass in a few minutes.” I returned to my room and tried to continue my homework but the discomfort continued and made it hard to concentrate. Once again, I went out into the hall bathroom, closed the door behind me, and tried to solve the problem only to find I was too constipated. I went back to my room, and sat on the bed, wondering what to do when I heard Sylvia come upstairs.

After she knocked and I told her to come in, she said, “I couldn’t help hear you trying to use the bathroom twice in the last five minutes. Are you by any chance having constipation troubles?”

When I admitted I was, she nodded her head sympathetically and said, “Why didn’t you tell me, Peter. I thought that’s what it might be. You have a seat here on this chair and Aunt Sylvia will be right back to fix your problem.” With that, she bustled out of the room before I could even ask what she had in mind. Not knowing what else to do, I rose from the bed and sat back down on my desk chair, wondering why I needed to switch seats. I heard her out in the bathroom running some water for a few minutes and opening and closing the cabinets. Then she reappeared carrying a tray holding a good-sized bowl of soapy water, a jar of Vaseline, and a small bulb syringe I had seen before in the medicine cabinet without knowing what purpose it served.

Placing the tray on the bedside table, she seated herself on the bed, turned to me, and asked, “Young man, Aunt Sylvia has just what you need to take care of your problem right away, a nice, warm, soapy enema.”

“What’s an enema?” I asked, rather naively, still baffled by this equipment and coming from a background where all of this was completely new.

“What child? Your mother never gave you an enema when you were constipated? I just assumed everyone got enemas growing up. I know I did. Well, it’s never too late to learn. Stand up, young man, and let Aunt Sylvia take care of everything. It’s won’t hurt a bit and I promise it will solve your problem within a minute or two at most.

Still not knowing exactly what was going on, I stood up and came forward in response to her gestures. As soon as I got within reach, she took hold of my best and drew me right next to her and started undoing my buckle.

“What are you doing, Aunt Sylvia?”

“Hold still, young man. I’m just going to give you a nice enema. We need to take these pants down and get you over my lap. Now stop fussing.” And with that she gave my bottom another one of those playful smacks I found so disconcerting and distracting. While I was busy blushing and stammering in embarrassment, she finished loosening my pants and slipped them down to my knees before I even knew what was happening.

“Now we need to have these down too, young man,” she said, slipping her hands around my waist and into the back of my white cotton underpants. Stop fussing or you’ll get another smack.”

As if in a dream, I stood there, beet red as she quickly slid her palms downward, each hand momentarily cupping one of my cheeks as they pushed my underwear down to join my pants. Instinctively my hands went forward to cover myself whereupon she delivered another teasing smack, this time to my bare bottom while saying,

“Don’t you think I’ve seen that before, young man?” The teasing voice she used was calculated to inflict out the maximum embarrassment possible without in any way humiliating me. In fact, I was already in a state of early arousal by the whole turn of events and was trying to hide not so much my nudity but by interest in this new experience. To make matters worse, she lifted her skirts well on her thighs before pulling me down all the way across them so that I was lying across her lap, my upper and lower torso comfortably positioned on the bed itself, my loins pressing directly against her soft, bare thighs in a way which made my blood race.

“Now don’t give me any trouble unless you want me to give you something more than an enema.” Despite her playful tone, I decided the best thing was to go along, especially since I was already in heaven lying naked on her warm, full thighs.

I heard her take the top off the jar of Vaseline before I felt her left hand prying my cheeks open. Even though I knew what was coming at that point, I still gasped at the sensation of her finger spreading a thick gob of Vaseline all over my rectum. Although it seemed as if she was applying considerably more than was needed and was taking her sweet time rubbing it everywhere deep between my cheeks, the exquisite pleasure caused by those fingers drowned out any other concern until I realized I was getting very hard against her right thigh.

Though she must have noticed this new development, Aunt Sylvia continued on as if nothing was unusual, making small talk about the usefulness of regular enemas for bouts of constipation. Then, just as I thought nothing could feel better than those Vaselined fingers, one of them slid inside me, causing me to give out a second quiet gasp. And for the next two or three minutes, the only sound in that silent room was my irregular breathing as her finger slid repeatedly in and out of me. I throbbed against her thigh, harder than ever, no longer concerned about what was happening

Without even realizing what I was doing, I found myself rocking ever so slightly back and forth on her thigh as her finger slid in and out in back. True to her usual form, Aunt Sylvia rubbed things in by teasing me some more.

“It seems like you like your first enema, doesn’t it, Peter? I want you to tell Aunt Sylvia the next time you are constipated so she can give you another nice, warm enema. OK, sweetheart”

My increased throbbing and rocking against her thigh must have been answer enough. I don’t remember if I said anything. After a few minutes of this, I was so aroused I worried I was going to come on her thighs. Fortunately, she withdrew her finger at that point, wiped it on a tissue, and dipped the bulb syringe deep into the soapy water. I heard the water gurgling up into the syringe and waited for a moment until her left hand returned to part my cheeks.

I don’t remember much about the rest of that first enema except that I rocked backward an inch or two, pushing my bottom up slightly to meet the nozzle. That’s how gone I was after all that fingering. And when I felt the warm water squeezed into my backside for the first time, I lost it and climaxed immediately all over her thighs.

Aunt Sylvia knew when to tease and when to leave well enough alone. Fortunately, she said nothing embarrassing after I exploded and even reassured me with a pat on my bottom and a few kind words.

“That’s quite all right, Peter. That sort of thing happens all the time when males your age get enemas. It’s a normal, healthy response. Now relax and let Aunt Sylvia finish giving you the rest of your enema.”

By then I was more than relaxed. I was off in a dream world of utter contentedness and peace, drifting in the slow sensations of the nozzle gliding in and out of my fanny, squeezing bulb after bulb of warm, soapy water into my tummy. It was a small bulb and it took twenty or more refillings before the bowl of water was finally empty. Though I was hard again, I didn’t care at that point. I was just too relaxed and content to be embarrassed about anything. After letting me lie there for a few minutes, Aunt Sylvia gave my bottom a final playful smack and left her hand lying full across my cheeks while she told me how well I had taken my first enema. Then she pulled up my underpants and pants, and told me to get into the bathroom.

I stumbled up and dashed off, and found that the enema had indeed solved my problem just like she had promised. That was the start of weekly enemas from Aunt Sylvia. She usually waited until Sunday afternoon and would come in when I was doing schoolwork and ask if I was “regular”. Sometimes, I couldn’t wait until Sunday afternoon and would let her know around bedtime on a weeknight that I was “irregular”. That’s all I had to say. It always ended up with me lying over her lap on my bed, or sometimes hers, while she squeezed that wonderful bulb syringe into my bottom, taking plenty of time at every stage so the whole thing lasted a good twenty minutes.

Partly to tease me and partly because she knew what the result would be, she sometimes lifted her skirts up over her thighs even before loosening my belt and taking down my pants and underpants. The higher she lifted her skirts, the more likely I was fully aroused by the time my underpants came down. This was intensely embarrassing the first few times but after a while it only added to the sensual excitement of the whole experience. And at times like that, I knew I would probably climax on her thighs during the preliminary Vaselining. Needless to say, after my first enema, I never gave her a hard time again when it was time for the little tray.

In addition to these weekly enemas, I loved living with “Aunt Sylvia” for the many chances I had to watch her pad around the house in her bathrobe in the morning and late evenings. It was made of thin silk and was usually tightly belted at the waist so that it clung to the curves of her freely moving breasts and fat hips and bottom. She always came in to say good night that way and greeted me in the morning when she came in to wake me and open the drapes as I lay in bed. There were many nights when the sight of her in that silk robe sent me into a frenzy of masturbation after she kissed me good night and left.

One night after she said good night and departed for her bedroom, I climbed onto my bed, put a pillow and towel beneath my loins, took down my pants, and began masturbating as was my usual custom. Suddenly, I froze as I heard a familiar voice say,

“And just what do you think you are doing, young man?”

I turned to see Aunt Sylvia standing in the doorway to my room holding a jacket which I had apparently left downstairs on a chair. (She always insisted I not leave any thing lying around downstairs.)

I yanked up my pants without even pulling up the underwear and twisted around off the pillow.

“Not so fast, young man. Just where do you think you are going? Stay right where you are, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Aunt Sylvia,” I managed to stammer, hanging my head guiltily.

Putting my jacket aside on my desk chair, she closed the door behind her and came over to sit down on the bed beside me.

“Young man, I don’t want to catch you playing with yourself like this again. Do you understand me? If you need release, it would be much healthier if you just asked Aunt Sylvia. She knows all about the needs of young men your age and is more than willing to help you out. Do you understand me?”

I couldn’t believe me ears. Here was my sexy landlady offering to masturbate me on request.

“Are you sure, Aunt Sylvia?”

“I certainly am, young man, as I intend to show you right now. Now get that pillow out of the way and roll over on your back … that’s right. “

I did as I was told while she went into the bathroom and reemerged carrying a towel and some hand lotion. Sitting down beside me, she placed the towel on my stomach and unzipped my pants before tugging them down. She then squirted a generous amount of lotion on her hands and rubbed it all over before taking my throbbing penis in her warm, slippery grasp.

She then began what would be the first of many masturbation sessions at bedtime. It didn’t take long before I began gasping,

“Oh Aunt Sylvia … oh Aunt Sylvia” and climaxed into her hand.

“You dear boy … oh my … you are a dear boy, aren’t you. I can see you like this attention from Aunt Sylvia, don’t you.”

For my part, I continued to repeat,

“Oh Aunt Sylvia, yes I do … Oh yes, Aunt Sylvia” while thrusting convulsively into her hand which was now slippery with semen and sliding up and down like a wet sheath over me. At that point, I was lying back on the pillow with my eyes closed, lost in a dream-like state of exhaustion, pleasure, warmth, security, and love. I may have even fallen asleep for a few minutes

I lost all track of time. The next thing I remember was the gradual sensation of another erection returning in response to her continued squeezes.

“My my … I think I’d better stop here before my virile boarder gets too excited all over again. I think you’ve had enough for one night. . Let’s get you undressed, shall we, and put you to bed.”

With that, Aunt Sylvia undid my shoes and took them off along with my socks while I lay there. Next she tugged down my pants before pulling up my underpants over my new erection. She then got me to stand up while she folded back the covers before tucking me in. As she leaned over to pull the covers up, her bathrobe came loose enough to gape open at the top. And there, a few inches away were the most luscious pair of breasts I had ever seen pressing through the silk. Her nightie both outlined her dangling breasts completely and showed them in their entirety through the translucent fabric. Even the aureoles stood out in slight relief, crowned with stiff, pink nipples. It seemed every moment of her body transmitted itself directly to her breasts where it was magnified into a jiggling dance.

Announcing that my pillow needed attention, Aunt Sylvia bent directly over my face and began to fluff my pillow behind my head. This brought her pendulous breasts directly over my face so that the nipples even brushed me a few times through the thin nylon. Completely overcome, I fastened my mouth around the nearest nipple with a moan and began sucking for dear life. Instead of pulling away, Aunt Sylvia began softly moaning herself and lowered her breasts so they completely enfolded my face.

“Oh you dear, sweet boy … you dear, sweet boy. You need your Aunt Sylvia, don’t you. And she needs you too … yes she does. Wait a second … let’s move this nightie.”

With that, she pulled a wispy sting at her neck and let the filmy garment fall to her waist. In an instant, I buried my face directly in her naked, warm, breast flesh, my hungry mouth darting from one nipple to another while she encouraged me with a steady stream of endearments and soft moans. The more I pressed my face into her breasts, the more she stroked my hair and held my head gently but firmly in place as if I were a nursing child. I let out a little cry as I felt her other hand steal beneath the covers and under my pajamas to grasp my hard penis.

Time stood still once again as I closed my eyes and escaped into a dream of breast suckling and masturbation. At some point. Aunt Sylvia turned off the bedside light so the room was dark and pulled back the covers to climb on top of me. At first I thought this was to allow me even better access to her breasts but as I came up for air, I found a warm, wet mouth kissing me passionately, her tongue hotly exploring my lips. Using my hands to continue giving her breasts the attention they deserved, I enjoyed the sensation of French kissing which was new to me.

Meanwhile, Aunt Sylvia resumed caressing me with her hands and in no time I was standing up stiff as a board in my full nine inches. Much to my delight, she whispered a number of compliments in my ear as she continued to nurse and stroke me to a second climax of the night. As I approached my second orgasm and began shaking beneath her, I cried repeatedly,

“Oh Aunt Sylvia, I love you … I love you, Aunt Sylvia.”

“I love you too, you dear, dear boy. I love you too. And I’m going to make sure you are well loved as long as you are living here with me.”

Guiding a fat breast back into my mouth, she lay down against my side, stroked my face, and continued,

“From now on, I expect you to not to play with yourself. As if to reinforce her request, Aunt Sylvia gently frigged my soft, dripping penis with her hand. Again I nodded into a heavy breast, surprised to find another stream of blood beginning to flow into my loins in response to her hand.

“If I turn back the covers and find you are stiff at bedtime or in the morning, I will take care of the situation.”

“Aunt Sylvia, what if I’m like this every morning when you inspect?”

“Then I will take care of you every morning, young man. Don’t worry about not having enough attention from me. I understand a young man like you needs to have release four or five times a week and I’ll make sure you’re well looked after. You’re also going to learn everything there is to know about how to please a woman. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Aunt Sylvia.”

“Good. Now I think it might be best if you came to my room tonight. You’ll sleep better, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Aunt Sylvia.”

In the end, I didn’t get much sleep that night, but it sure was better.