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Cotton Dresses




From the day I reached puberty, I've always loved cotton dresses. All
of the women wore them where I grew up. Soft clingy dresses that molded
around the thighs when they walked and swished with the movement of their
hips. You could never tell whether they had pants on or not because the
cotton kept their secret.
The first time I copped a feel from a classmate she had on a cotton
dress. It was summer and the square top was cut low for comfort in the
July heat. The dress was far from new and she was almost grown out of it.
Her tits were like fresh, golden dinner rolls swelling over the top of the
soft material. She bent forward to let my hand invade the top but balked
when I tried to undo the buttons. The feel of her firm young boobs was
wonderful and the dress, stretched tight across the back of my hand, a
sensory bonus. Later that evening, she had second thoughts and told her
mother what had happened. They arrived at my house, resplendent in their
cotton dresses, adamant that I was to be punished for my heinous act.
I stood mortified as the woman castigated me to my aunt, characterizing
me as the vulgar little letch who had pawed her daughter. The girl sat
quietly embarrassed by the tirade, clearly wishing she had said nothing
about it. In spite of my predicament, my eyes wandered to her bosom. I
remembered the silken skin of her breasts and the way her nipple had
hardened to my touch. There was never any doubt in my mind that it had
been worth it. The girl sat nervously hunched over, with her hands
pressed together and squeezed between her legs. Folds of the cotton dress
were pulled tight around her thighs and the material crept a few inches
above her knees. A tent was forming at the front of my jeans and I felt
powerless to stop it. The denim felt rough rubbing against my fidgeting
glans and I was soon sporting a full erection.
The girl's mother noticed it first. She reacted with classic
indignation calling upon my aunt to take the necessary steps to curb my
perverted behavior before the police would have to be involved. My aunt
assured her that she would and the two complainants marched smugly to the
door. I marveled at the way the cotton dresses pulled tight across their
buttocks with every step. There was a smell to them that floated in the
air as they passed and my impertinent member jerked to attention as it
wafted past my nose. I pictured them both naked under their dresses and
longed to compare the feel of the mother's tits to that of her daughter's.

When they had left, my aunt clearly didn't know what to do. She was my
aunt by marriage and didn't feel it was her place to discipline me with my
uncle out of town. The issue hung between us for days, muting our usual
conversation and making us both feel awkward.
The girl's mother had phoned twice to ask what punishment I'd received
and my aunt was feeling the pressure. It finally came to a head when she
found that I'd been sneaking out at night to watch her through her bedroom
window while she undressed. For months, it had been a nightly ritual. Each
day I had studied her in a different cotton dress anticipating how she
would look pulling it over her head or slipping the straps from her
shoulders. There was never a missed opportunity to hug her or be close
enough to feel her warmth through the comfortable cloth. Lately, disgraced
as I was, I had only been able to watch from afar.
My aunt was waiting in my room when I climbed back through the window.
Her hair was combed out and tied with rags, ready for bed. It hung halfway
down her back. No makeup remained on her pretty features, but her cheeks
were flushed with pink. My uncle's bathrobe swathed her from neck to ankle
in thick folds of blue terry covering everything but the troubled look on
her face. Her voice was very soft when she spoke. She told me how I had
embarrassed her; how she had been trying to recall everything that she had
done, worrying about what I might have seen through the window. She told
me that my uncle would be angry that she had been so careless, and asked
me not to tell. We talked for a long time about the girl and her mother.
She laughed when I described the cotton dress in such detail. Not a mean
laugh but one full of compassion and understanding. 'Women like the feel
of the cloth against their skin,' she told me honestly. 'Clothes are meant
to be attractive, so there is no need to be ashamed if you're attracted.'
Buoyed by the generosity of her attitude, I felt relieved and answered
her questions easily, as if talking to a close friend. Several times I saw
her blush at my candor especially when I told her how many times I had
watched her.
Very tentatively she approached the subject of masturbation. She
chuckled about 'young men with their hormones raging' and asked what I was
doing for relief. It was my turn to blush and at first I lied to her
disbelieving smile.
'I wash your sheets,' she reminded me, squeezing my hand.
Faced with no option, I confessed to her that I had masturbated.
'Everybody does,' she comforted. 'How often do you do it?'
I wanted to say not often but remembering the sheets I said 'Every day.'
'Just once a day?' she persisted. 'Or do you sometimes jerk off more
than once?' 'Sometimes,' I admitted. 'Sometimes when I've been looking
at you a lot.'
A troubled look crossed her face and she averted her eyes to ask 'Have
you ever seen me doing anything?'
In truth, I hadn't. But I knew enough to say 'yes' to keep her talking.
Her face turned scarlet and she nibbled on her lips. 'Your uncle would
be so upset,' she whispered half to herself. 'Most people do it. It's just
that they don't admit it.' Her glance fell on the hardon straining the
front of my pajamas. I could feel the tip nudging the opening. When it
poked into view I made no move to cover myself. She looked away several
times but her eyes kept coming back to it.
'Boys', she snickered nervously. 'They're always so horny.'
I undid the tie on my pajamas and let them slide over my knees. My cock
was standing straight and it wobbled back and forth when I moved. My aunt
watched without saying anything, and I began to touch myself. It seemed so
erotic to have her looking and I drank in every change of expression that
crossed her crimson face.
'I think about you when I do this. And I think about what I've seen you
doing,' I whispered mysteriously.
'Your uncle ...' she began, before I interjected.
'I won't tell him anything if you do it for me now.'
Her hand felt cool and deliciously foreign as it circled my penis. She
had to lean forward to reach me, and the robe gaped exposing her breast.
The nipple was raised with her excitement.
'Take the robe off so I can see you the way you were tonight,' I pleaded.
She knelt beside me, beating my meat, while I watched her firm tits
jiggle with the pulse of her hand. There was a scent around us, familiar,
but stronger than I had ever smelled before. From that night on I would
recognize it. At the time I thought of it only as earthy and intoxicating.
It seemed to emanate from her loins and linger on her skin. It grew
stronger as her nipples grew larger and her knees no longer clamped
together. Lying back, I had a clear view between them. The hair on her
mound was auburn, darker than the deep reddish blond above. Between the
dense curls I could see the damp furrow of her sex. My aunt saw me looking
there and moaned at the indecency of her exposure. She jumped as my touch
grazed over her thighs and let out a little agitated cry when my fingers
found her cleft. There was no stopping now. Her juices quickly coated my
fingers and her free hand was busy trying to guide my inexperienced touch.
Whimpers of shame and lust mingled with her frenzied coaching until she
neared her peak. Then urgency infused her need. Her own hand delivered the
last few feather strokes to her tortured clit. I watched her flat belly
tense, rolling her cunt to and fro in a struggle against her fingers. Her
gasps turned into shrieks of delight as she brought herself to a powerful
orgasm, toppling her backwards onto the bed with hips flailing and legs
thrown wide apart. I reached over and kissed her hand. The musky scent was
strong on her skin and the kiss had a faintly salty taste.
Afterwards, my aunt cried at her own depravity, making me swear never
to reveal it. We sat facing each other, cross-legged on the bed. She
watched while I fondled my cock. A drop of clear fluid formed in the
sightless eye and she dipped her finger into it smearing it onto my
cockhead.
` 'Can you come?' she asked after a few minutes, and I nodded.
'I've never watched a young guy jerk off,' she confided. Her soft hand
slid beneath my balls, holding them like fragile crystal. 'Is that what
the guys call it now? Jerking off?' 'Yes,' I hissed.
Her hands brushed mine away and took over the beat. 'And what do they
call this?' 'A hand job.'
She smiled at my frankness.
The sight of her tits bouncing lightly while her hand diligently pumped
my prick, set off a rush deep in my groin. I knew I was going to come and
so did she. Her head dipped down and her pink tongue licked my belly. Her
freshly brushed hair swirled around my balls while her ovaled lips
enveloped my cockhead. The soft, wet, sucking of her mouth unleashed a
rushing tide of come from the very root of my being. It was so intense
that I cried out as if in agony. Her tongue and lips nursed greedily on my
spouting member catching and swallowing every drop. Her head never stopped
bobbing and sucking until the last spasm had long passed and my cock began
to soften in her mouth.
It was the first blow job I'd ever had, and the first of many from my
beloved aunt. Under her tutelage I came to know the intricacies of a
woman's body and the delights it can bring to my own. Often, she indulged
my love of her fine cotton dresses, letting me crouch beneath them to
nuzzle her bare belly and taste the salty essence of her passion. In
return, she asked only that I tell know one.

End of Story