Aunt Jade - Ch.01 Morning Ritual

I sipped my coffee, the bitter warmth a poor distraction from my anticipation. Seven days straight now. Would today make eight?

The stairs creaked right on schedule. I kept my eyes locked on the staircase, pretending to scroll through my phone while secretly waiting for Ben to make his appearance. My nephew, all nineteen years of him, had taken up his usual spot in my guest bedroom staying over for the summer break--same as every year--but this time was... different.

"Morning, Aunt Jade." Ben's voice carried down before he did, still groggy with sleep.

"Hey, sleepyhead." I kept my tone casual, though my heart rate picked up.

He rounded the corner in those gray sweatpants--the thin ones that hid absolutely nothing. And sure enough, there it was, the prominent bulge pushing against the fabric. Morning wood, standing proud and completely obvious... except to him. Just like the past seven mornings.

Perhaps it was simply a late growth spurt this year making it more pronounced, or more likely he'd started sleeping without underwear. The first time it happened, I nearly choked on my coffee. I'd been sitting exactly where I was now when he'd walked down in basketball shorts, his erection making a tent so obvious it was impossible to miss. I'd quickly averted my eyes, feeling a rush of embarrassment for him. But he'd acted so normal, so oblivious, grabbing cereal and chatting about his plans for the day.

This past week had been uncharted territory. Ben had been staying with me for a few weeks practically every summer. The "cool aunt" duty had fallen to me naturally, being the youngest of my siblings. I remembered when he was just a gangly teen with braces, asking me to teach him how to talk to girls at the mall.

He'd never missed a summer visit--except that one year when he fractured his leg during soccer practice. I'd actually driven four hours to visit him instead, bringing his favorite homemade cookies and a stack of video games. We'd spent the weekend with him propped up on the couch while I destroyed him in Mario Kart.

That was our relationship. I taught him how to change oil in his first car. I taught him the sacred rites of boiling, chopping, and seasoning--just enough so he wouldn't starve in his dorm room. I explained how condoms worked when my sister was too embarrassed to have "the talk" with him--though this ended with us seeing who could blow one up like a balloon faster and making condom poodles while laughing like idiots. We swore freely around each other and joked about things that would make his mother faint.

But this... this was different.

He'd grown taller, more attractive, carved out some muscle from soccer, but I never looked at him in that way. If someone had told me even a year ago that I'd be sitting here, secretly waiting for my nephew to parade his morning wood in front of me, I'd have assumed they were drunk off their ass. Yet here I was, pretending to scroll through my phone till he walked down those stairs.

"Coffee smells amazing," Ben said, stretching his arms overhead, which only served to push his hips forward slightly, making his situation even more prominent.

"Help yourself." I took another sip, stealing glances when he turned toward the cabinet. The outline was impressive--thick and curved slightly upward against the thin material. Each day I'd gotten bolder with my looks, realizing he genuinely had no idea what he was displaying.

"Any plans today?" he asked, pouring cereal.

"Just work stuff." What I didn't mention about this whole ritual was how I'd been locking my bedroom door each night, slipping my hand between my thighs while replaying these morning sightings in vivid detail. How I'd bite my pillow to keep from making noise as I came thinking about the size and shape of my nephew's cock, perfectly outlined in those thin pants.

It started as an intrusive thought in the middle of my usual nightly 'stress relief' sessions, and became a part of my daily routine. For some reason it felt more... intense, picturing it while... you know. By day 3 even the guilt that usually lingered at the end of these sessions faded. Years ago my ex once defined that wave of shame for me. 'Post-nut clarity,' he'd called it, before adding, "Trust me, it's a guy thing". I can't tell if he was right about that last part or just full of shit anymore. It was wrong. Completely inappropriate. And yet, here I was again, eyes drawn to his crotch like a magnet, wondering if tomorrow would make day nine.

This inner debate vanished the moment I saw it up close and noticed something different--my mug nearly slipped from my hand. These weren't his usual shorts--just the same dull gray color that had fooled me at first glance. These were thinner, maybe older, worn soft from too many washes. And they revealed everything.... and I mean 'everything' more clearly

"Jesus," I whispered under my breath as he turned to grab the milk from the fridge. The outline was unmistakable--I could make out the defined ridge of the head pressing against the fabric, the slight curve to the left. Both his family jewels, which were equally substantial. My mouth went dry instantly.

"You say something, Aunt Jade?" Ben asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Just... burned my tongue," I lied, taking another sip to sell it.

My fingers twitched against the ceramic mug. I wanted to memorize every detail--the exact shape, the way the fabric strained when he reached for the cereal box on the top shelf. Fuck, I wished I could fast-forward through the whole damn day, skip straight to tonight when I could be alone with these images.

Instead, I was stuck here, maintaining conversation while my mind photographed his every move from different angles. The kitchen suddenly felt ten degrees warmer. At least twelve hours stood between me and locking my bedroom door to truly savor this. Twelve long hours of this delicious agony to endure.

I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs to quell the heat building between them. Eight days of this visual torment had worn down my self-control. The thin gray material of his sweatpants left nothing to the imagination, and I couldn't tear my eyes away.

I gripped my coffee mug tighter, my knuckles turning white. Eight days of this sweet torture had worn me down. Each morning, watching him parade around, completely oblivious to what he was displaying. Each night, locked in my room, finding release to the mental images I'd collected every morning. The cycle was maddening.

But today--seeing him in those thinner sweats, the detail so vivid--something in me snapped, made me... bolder. I was tired of just watching, tired of this one-sided game he didn't even know we were playing.

"So..." I blurted out, desperate for any way to involve him and balance the scales, even slightly. "I need to go shopping today."

Ben looked up from his cereal, milk dripping from his spoon. "Yeah? What for?"

My mind raced for something--anything--that would be believable without weirding him out. "My bras. They're all getting too tight lately. Digging into my sides like crazy."

The moment the words left my mouth, I felt a rush of adrenaline. What the hell was I doing? Talking about my underwear with my nephew while he stood there sporting morning wood?

Ben's eyebrows shot up, a playful smirk forming on his lips. "Damn, Aunt Jade. Trying to make me choke on my Cheerios?" He laughed, not the least bit uncomfortable. "What, you growing or something?"

"Shut up," I laughed, throwing a dish towel at him. "I've just been putting off replacing them forever. They're all stretched out in the wrong places."

"Too much information, but okay." He leaned against the counter, that bulge still prominently on display. "Maybe you should measure yourself properly this time. Isn't that a thing? Mom always complained about wearing the wrong size."

My pulse quickened. Was he actually engaging in this conversation? "Yeah, exactly. I need to get properly fitted."

"Well, good luck with that." He grinned, gesturing with his spoon. "Just don't come home complaining about some handsy saleslady getting too personal with the measuring tape."

"God, you're impossible" I said as I got up to rinse my cup, but my heart was racing. There was something thrilling about discussing something so intimate--even innocently--while secretly fantasizing about what was straining against those thin gray sweatpants.

I locked my bedroom door that night with trembling fingers, already slick with anticipation. This was different. Today wasn't just about what I'd seen--it was about the conversation, the way I'd deliberately pulled him into my orbit, if only by inches.

"Fuck",  I whispered, sliding under the covers.

As my fingers found their familiar path, I closed my eyes and let the scenarios bloom behind my eyelids. Not the ridiculous porn-script fantasies where clothes magically disappeared and boundaries evaporated. No--what made my breath catch was something far more subtle.

I imagined us continuing that conversation about bras, but with me being bolder.

"Actually, the underwire in the one I have on is digging in right here," I'd say, casually running a finger along the underside of my breast through my shirt.  "See how it sits wrong?"

Ben would glance over, then quickly away, but not before I caught the slight darkening of his eyes.  "Maybe you should try those wireless ones," he'd suggest, voice just a touch lower than before. Though in reality I doubt he knows the first thing about bras.

My back arched slightly as my fingers circled faster.

Another scenario formed: us shopping together for something innocent--clothes maybe--and me asking his opinion on a shirt.

"Does this look too tight across the chest?" I'd ask, smoothing the fabric down.  "Be honest."

"It's... fine," he'd stammer, eyes flickering down then quickly up.  "Maybe one size up?"

"You think? I hate when they're baggy around the waist, though." I'd turn sideways, giving him a profile view.  "See what I mean?"

I bit my lip, stifling a moan as the pressure built. The forbidden thrill wasn't about crossing lines--it was about dancing near them, seeing his awareness of me as a woman flicker momentarily to life before propriety shuttered it away.

I imagined us in the kitchen again, but this time I'd need something from the cabinet he was standing in front of. I'd reach past him, my breasts brushing against his arm as I stretched upward. Nothing dramatic--just enough contact that he'd feel the soft weight of them against him, the absence of a bra evident. I'd imagine his sharp intake of breath, the way he'd freeze for just a second, unsure if the contact was intentional.

My hips lifted off the bed as I came harder than I had all week, the image of his gray sweatpants and that perfect outline burned into my mind, made more potent by the knowledge that I'd drawn him--however innocently--into this little secret game.