You know, guys, being eighteen – nineteen sucks! I know because, until yesterday, I was eighteen. Now I’m nineteen and nothing changes! Old enough that your parents and other so called ‘adults’ expect you to act like them, i.e. ‘mature’ (read: boring!), but your asshole parents won’t let you make any damned decisions for yourself. Of course, being the youngest of four doesn’t help, especially when your three elder siblings are all girls. Luckily, all of them are married now and living with their husbands.

So, that was my life—University in the morning, I was studying to be a Phys-ed/ math teacher, and being treated like a child at night. I even had to do chores. I mean, how demeaning, right? What was worse was that because my parents made so much money, I wasn’t entitled to get any help from the government to study, and my parents refused to give me an allowance.

Then, with doing a double degree, I couldn’t have a regular part-time job because there wouldn’t be enough time to study. I worked at the local takeaway Fri – Sun nights, six hours a night for fifteen bux an hour, so at least I had some money to spend. But working until ten p.m. every weekend night meant that taking a girlfriend out somewhere wasn’t on the cards.

Oh, I do alright with the girls. At high school, I was a jock, in American terms, though we don’t use that here in Australia. I played centre for the school’s rugby league team and was often featured on the top step during the medal ceremonies at the summer swim meets. Therefore, I had my pick of girls to date.

Maggie Johnson relieved me of my virginity at the appropriate time, and I’ve banged her and quite a few other girls since that night. The problem is that girls my age, if you’re dating them, want to be taken out at least one night during the weekend, and I didn’t finish work until ten or later if it was still busy.

So, being the low man on the totem pole meant that I had no say when Mum announced that her sister, Elle, was coming to live with us. Aunty Elle had been in and out of rehab for years. She’d get out and be okay for a time, but then she’d start back on the alcohol, which led to pot and then to harder drugs like cocaine or crack. Mum would eventually hear that she was hooking again, go and find her, and then stick her back in rehab.

Dad had adamantly refused to allow Aunty Elle to live with us before because, as he said, “I like my precious things to stay where they are—in my home. Not pawned for drugs.” But, for some reason, he’d agreed for her to stay with us after she got out of rehab this time. I tried to object but was told that it was ‘none of your business’, and if I didn’t like it, I could always apply to the dorm rooms for somewhere to live.

Anyway, despite my objections, one Friday afternoon, I came home from uni to find Aunty Elle ensconced in our spare room, already smoking up a storm. She hadn’t even bothered shutting the door or opening a window.

I didn’t bother saying anything, even though smoking was banned in our house, because I knew Aunty Elle would just laugh at me and grab her groin or boobs as she always did.

The problem with Aunty Elle doing that was that, despite being skinny from not eating and taking drugs, she was as hot as fuck! Before she fell into a deepening spiral of alcoholism and drug abuse, Aunty Elle was a funny, witty companion to hang out with. My mom is nearing fifty, but Aunty Elle is barely thirty-five, being one of those ‘tail-end-Charlie’ babies you hear about. My grandma, Mom’s mother, was nearly Mom’s age now when she had her. I shook myself as the image of my parents having sex and making a baby played in my mind.

Aunty Elle barely makes 152 cm (5-ft.), but she has massive D-cup breasts that sit surprisingly high on her skinny frame. Then she has a tiny waist that flares to generous hips. Her bottom, like her boobs, is still amazingly firm. Mum says it’s from all the ‘street-walking’ she did.

Look, I’m trying to be sympathetic towards my aunt. I know she had an abusive husband who took delight in sharing her with his friends and beating her if she didn’t do so willingly, enthusiastically, even. Still, I just don’t understand how you go from being abused to self-abuse. I hope one of the courses in my degree covers it. It seems like it should.

So, anyway. Things travelled along reasonably well for a few weeks, and I kind of got used to Aunty Elle being there. Other than her incessant smoking in the house, ignoring Dad and Mum as she did, she wasn’t really a problem. That was true all the way until, unthinkingly, after my afternoon run, I walked past her room to the shower, wearing only a towel.

Aunty Elle gasped as I passed her door and jumped off her bed to stare at me. “Drop the towel, sexy!” She called, and embarrassed, I rushed to the bathroom and locked the door.

From that time on, it seemed every time I walked past Aunty Elle’s room, the door would be open, and she’d be lying on her bed with her knees pulled up. Sometimes, her pussy would be exposed, and other times, she’d be playing with herself. Of course, I’m a teenager, so having an attractive, nearly naked woman who isn’t your mother showing me her ‘bits’ had me in a constant state of arousal. It didn’t help that Aunty Elle resembled that chick from Big Bang Theory. Well, at least in her body shape and dimensions. Aunty Elle has a pretty face, huge tits, a narrow waist, generous hips, and long (for her height), shapely legs with delicate ankles and feet.

After seeing Aunty Elle’s naked pussy and her playing with herself, my entire fap fantasies centred on her. I mean, Jaysus! If it were possible to pull your own dick off, I’d have had to have mine reattached many times in the weeks after she began flashing me.

Aunty Elle confined her teasing to when we were home alone for the next few weeks, but when I didn’t respond, she began ramping it up. She started sitting beside me at the dinner table, and when she wanted something, she’d turn so her tits rubbed on my arm to ask me to reach it for her. Of course, that meant that I spent all of our meal having to hide my erection. But as if that wasn’t bad enough, Aunty Elle would stand out of sight of Mum and Dad and cup her tits as if offering them to me. Either that, or she’d turn and shake her barely covered ass at me.

I was in a constant state of unrequited desire, masturbating every chance and anywhere I could. I was so horny that I even had to duck out to the loos during my lectures to rub one out lest my throbbing cock spunked into my trousers. What was worse was that none of my usual go-to girls when I needed some relief, wanted to go out on weeknights or wait until eleven o’clock on a weekend night before I picked them up.

And, lawd, as if all of that wasn’t enough, Aunty Elle started brushing up against me whenever I was in the kitchen making coffee or getting something to eat. I’d be at the sink filling the kettle, and Aunty Elle would ease past as if there wasn’t much room, her large tits rubbing across my back as she did. Then, when at least one of my parents was in view, she began hugging me at every opportunity. Of course, with a parent watching, I couldn’t rudely shove her away and storm off.

Aunty Elle especially began hugging me from behind when my parents were on the other side of the island bench from us. Those times, Aunty Elle would let her hands wander over my bum or surreptitiously, she’d run her hands over my aching knob.

Next, Aunt Elle started wearing low-cut or deep Vee tops and dresses. As if to emphasise her massive cleavage, Aunty Elle would wear necklaces that sat perfectly between her enormous norks, drawing my attention to the deep valley between them. The necklaces always had a double loop—a tight one around her slim neck and then the deeper one nestled between her exaggerated fun bags. It got so bad that all I did was hide in my room and study. I guess it had some benefits because my GPA jumped two points with all the extra study I was doing.

Then came the fateful weekend. Mum, who had just gotten a job promotion, needed to attend a branch manager symposium. It was in Sydney, and Dad and she would be gone for the week. Of course, that meant I’d be alone with Aunt Elle for that week. Thoughts of being mercilessly sexually teased for a week and having rubbed my poor cock off by the time Mum and Dad returned ran through my mind as I tried to think of an excuse to stay elsewhere. However, other than Dad’s brother, my Uncle Kurt, another abusive wanker, there was no one I could conceivably stay with for the week.

Resigned to my fate, I agreed to drive my parents to the airport on Friday afternoon and pick them up on the morning of the following Friday.

All went well for the first two nights because, with my weekend job, I didn’t get home until 11:00 p.m. both nights. But when I woke up Sunday morning, Aunt Elle started. I’d dressed in my running shorts and shoes with a light singlet on, ready for my morning run. It was winter, so swimming was out of the question, and running was good for my aerobic capacity anyway, so now that I wasn’t playing rugby, running was my winter exercise. I was in the kitchen, filling up on water before beginning my run.

“There you are!” Aunt Elle exclaimed, walking around the island bench in my direction. I gulped and gaped, my thick cock immediately straining against my shorts. Aunt Elle was completely starkers, her enormous tits bouncing delectably as she stalked towards me. Plus, her tightly trimmed cunt hairs seemed wet and silky in the early morning light.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, bolting for the bathroom before I lost my load into my nylon silk running shorts. I managed to get my shorts down and I sat on the commode before I ejaculated into it, but it was a close run thing. Of course, Aunt Elle’s mocking laugh from outside the door didn’t help. I waited until I was sure she was gone before I left the loo and went for my run.

When I returned, Aunty Elle was nowhere to be seen. Happy with her absence, I grabbed my towel and went to the bathroom to shower. I’d just stripped when I heard a muffled shout from the laundry. I listened intently, trying to figure out what I’d heard, but the sounds were so distant that I wasn’t sure what they were. Shrugging, I wrapped the towel around my slender hips and followed the sounds.

I opened the laundry door and saw Aunty Elle on her hands and knees with her head in the dryer. “What on earth are you doing?” I asked.

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” She snarled in response.

Sick of her constant taunting and teasing, I snapped back, “Trying to commit suicide, I suppose. But your drug fucked brain hasn’t figured out that’s a clothes dryer and not a gas oven!”