The Summer I Discovered My Aunt’s Feet

The beach house always smelled the same: of salt, old wood, and the sunscreen my family bought by the case every July. We inherited it from my grandparents and, although it’s only two streets from the sea, it’s big, cool, and has a dim living room where the ceiling fan turns slowly all day. I arrived on a Friday afternoon, backpack over my shoulder and T-shirt stuck to my back from the bus ride.

I thought I’d be alone for the first couple of days. I was wrong.

When I opened the door and let my eyes adjust to the shadows, I saw her. My aunt Rosa was lying on one of the two sofas, a magazine open on her chest and her legs stretched out along the cushion. She was wearing a light cotton dress and thin-strapped sandals that left her feet almost bare.

“Look who showed up,” she said, sitting up a little. “I thought you were arriving tomorrow.”

“I moved the trip up. It was unbearable in the city.”

I left my backpack by the entrance and sat on the other sofa, the one opposite hers. Rosa is my mother’s sister, quite a bit younger than her, and one of those people who seem completely unaware of the effect they have on everyone around them. She reclined again, crossed her ankles, and went back to reading as if nothing.

But I couldn’t go on as if nothing. Because from where I was sitting, the only thing I could clearly see were her feet.

The sandals held her instep with two crossed straps, but her toes were free, neat, and a little tanned from afternoons in the sand. Her nails were painted a worn red, as if the polish had been on for days already. She moved her foot up and down, slowly, to the rhythm of something only she could hear, and every time she did the sandal slipped a little from her heel.

I swallowed and tried to look elsewhere.

Not again. Not with her.

I’ve known for years what I like and, above all, how hard it is for me to admit it. I’ve never told anyone. A woman’s feet do more for me than anything else, and not in some funny or passing way: they’re the first thing I look at, what stays burned into my head, what follows me afterward. And there, three meters away, I had my aunt’s feet rocking in the air as if they wanted to test me. I could already feel my dick waking up inside my pants, hardening against the seam without me being able to stop it.

“You look awful,” she said all of a sudden, without looking up from the magazine. “Tired from the trip?”

“A little. And stiff. The bus doesn’t exactly forgive you.”

“You and me both. I’ve had a knot in my neck all day.”

I don’t know where I found the nerve. Maybe from the heat, maybe because we were alone in a huge, silent house. I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and blurted out the sentence before I had fully thought it through.

“Want me to give you a massage? I’m good with necks.”

I said it as firmly as I could manage, even though everything inside me was shaking. Rosa lowered the magazine just enough to look at me over the pages. She took a second too long to answer.

“Go on, then. My neck is in terrible shape.”

“Your neck,” I repeated, as if I needed to confirm it for myself.

I stood up, walked around the sofa, and knelt behind her head. She swept her hair to one side with a lazy gesture and let me have clear access to her neck. I placed my thumbs at the base of her nape and began pressing in slow circles, gradually moving up toward the line where her hair grew.

Rosa let out a long sigh, the kind you can’t fake.

“Ah, there, right there. What hands.”

I kept working her shoulders, her traps, the exact point where tension had gathered. Every time I pressed a little harder, she threw her head back and let out a low sound, almost a purr. The fan turned above us. Through the window came the distant murmur of the waves and the shout of some child in the street. And I, while kneading her shoulders, couldn’t stop thinking about her feet, still shod, still swaying a little at the edge of the sofa.

“You’re very quiet,” she murmured.

“I’m concentrating.”

“Liar.”

She was right, but she didn’t push it.

***

When her shoulders had loosened up, I had no excuse to stay where I was. I went back around the sofa and, instead of sitting opposite her, I sank to the floor beside the armrest, level with her legs. It was a calculated move that I tried to disguise as exhaustion.

“And what are you doing down there now?” she asked, amused.

“Recovering my strength.” I paused, looked at her sandals, and went for it. “Want me to massage your feet too? If you’ve been on them all day, I’m sure you’d appreciate it.”

The sentence hung in the air for a moment that was far too long. Rosa watched me with a half smile I couldn’t read. She didn’t look surprised. More like she was deciding something.

“Of course you can,” she said at last, in a low voice. “Go ahead.”

She leaned forward, unbuckled her sandals one by one, and let them drop to the floor with a dull thud. Then she stretched out her legs and placed her feet on the edge of the sofa, right in front of me, bare, offered.

I had them a hand’s breadth from my face and I lost my breath.

They were even prettier up close than I had allowed myself to imagine. The sole was soft, the instep high, the toes long and straight. Where the sandal had pressed, two pale lines crossed the tanned skin. They smelled of cream and, underneath that, of something warmer, more her. My mouth went dry and my dick jerked brutally against my pants.

I took her right foot in both hands, almost reverently, and began pressing the center of the sole with my thumbs.

“Mmm,” she murmured, sinking all the way back against the cushions. “Now that you do know how to do well.”

I went slowly. I pressed my thumbs into the arch of her foot, traced circles on her heel, worked my way across the instep to the base of her toes. Every time I got there, I separated the toes one by one and massaged between them, unhurried. Rosa closed her eyes. Her lips were parted and her breathing had become slower, deeper.

I was trying to keep my head clear, but my body was betraying me. I could feel the blood racing, my throat dry, my cock completely hard pushing the fabric of my pants upward like a stake. A damp spot of pre-cum was already showing at the tip, and I was sure that if she looked down she’d see it. I moved to her left foot. I repeated the whole ritual, attentive to every reaction of hers, to every sigh that escaped her.

And then it happened.

I don’t know whether it was my mistake or a gesture that was far too deliberate, but when I shifted position I let her foot slide from my hands until it rested against me, over the fabric of my pants, exactly where there was no way to hide what was happening. The sole of her foot ended up pressing right over my cock, with her hot heel crushing my balls underneath.

I went ice-cold. I waited for the reproach, the yank, the “what are you doing?”

It didn’t come.

Rosa didn’t pull her foot away. She kept her eyes closed, as if she hadn’t noticed anything, though her breathing betrayed her just as mine betrayed me. I didn’t dare move an inch.

“Wow,” I said, my voice barely a thread. “You’ve got it... right there. Doesn’t it bother you?”

She took her time answering. When she did, it was just one word, spoken very slowly, without opening her eyes.

“No.”

That syllable changed everything.

***

I left her foot where it was. I didn’t dare force anything else, so I stayed still, holding her ankle with one hand, feeling her heel press against my hard cock through the fabric. My heart was pounding in my ears. The fan kept turning, indifferent, and the afternoon light was beginning to turn golden on the living room walls.

Then Rosa moved her foot.

She did it herself, on her own, with calculated slowness. She pressed a little harder, pulled it back a few centimeters, and set it down again, over and over, marking out a rhythm neither of us named out loud. I still wasn’t moving, letting her do it, my eyes fixed on her face to catch the exact moment she decided to stop.

She didn’t decide to stop. On the contrary. She began dragging the sole up and down the full length of my cock, tracing every inch over my pants, rising to the tip and then dropping back down to crush my balls with her heel. A rough gasp slipped out of me that I couldn’t swallow down.

“Keep massaging,” she murmured, her eyelids still closed. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

I obeyed at once. I took her free foot and went back to working it, the toes, the arch, the heel, while the other one kept rubbing me slowly. It was a strange and delicious balance: I gave her pleasure with my hands and she gave it back to me with her foot, neither of us admitting what was really happening. As if we could keep pretending it was just a massage.

“Take your pants off,” she said suddenly, without stopping moving her foot. “You’re going to stain them. And I want to feel you properly.”

The order went through me completely. I let go of her foot for a second, fumbled with my fingers as I unbuckled my belt, and pulled my pants and underwear down to my knees before kneeling again. My cock sprang upward, hard and dripping, red at the tip, the vein beneath it standing out. Rosa half-opened her eyes and looked down at me. A slow smile slipped onto her face.

“Look what you were hiding,” she murmured.

And then yes. She set the sole of her foot back against my bare cock, skin against skin, and began to rub. The softness of her arch slid along the full length of it, pushed by the heat of her foot, and every time she got to the bottom she crushed my balls with her toes. I closed my eyes and let out a groan I couldn’t hold back.

“Fuck, Auntie...” I panted. “Fuck, how do you do that.”

“Shut up and take it.”

She lifted the other foot from the floor and trapped my cock between both soles, her heels crossed underneath. She started jerking me with both feet at once, up and down, squeezing and releasing, setting a slow, perverse rhythm. Every time the tip emerged between her toes, the pre-cum clung to her skin, sliding over her insteps, and she used it to glide better. The wet sound of skin sliding against skin filled the room.

“Suck my fingers,” she ordered, without taking her feet off my cock. “Yours. Spit on them and rub it all over me.”

I obeyed. I brought two fingers to my mouth, coated them well with saliva, and let a thick thread drip over her insteps. She spread it with a gentle motion, sliding one foot against the other, and when she squeezed my cock again between her soles the glide was much longer, much more brutal. My head was spinning. My cock was throbbing between her feet like it was about to explode at any moment.

“Rosa, if you keep going... I’m going to come.”

“Not yet. Hold it.”

She suddenly pulled her feet away. My cock was left in the open, rigid, slick with spit and my own liquid, throbbing from top to bottom with nothing holding it up. I almost came just from the frustration.

Rosa sat up slowly, hiked her dress up to her hips, and showed me what was underneath. She wasn’t wearing panties. Her pussy shone between her thighs, with trimmed hair and swollen lips, and a drop was already sliding down the inside of one thigh. She was as worked up as I was.

“Come here,” she said, pinning me with her gaze. “Eat me first. With your tongue. And don’t stop until I tell you.”

I threw myself onto the sofa without thinking. I lifted her legs, slung them over my shoulders, and buried my face between her thighs. The smell hit me: wet cunt and cream, sweet and salty at once, and when I ran my tongue from bottom to top for the first time I felt her tremble all over. A long moan slipped out of her and she didn’t bother to hide it.

“There, there... slower.”

I licked her lips one by one, parted them with my tongue, slipped the tip in as far as it would go. She was soaked. I found her clit with my lips, trapped it, and began sucking it with a firm rhythm, never letting go, while I slid two fingers into her cunt and curled them upward. Rosa grabbed my hair with both hands and pressed my face against her.

“That’s it, baby, that’s it, don’t stop, don’t stop...”

I sucked her clit until her legs trembled on my shoulders. I could feel her cunt clenching again and again around my fingers, in waves that came faster and faster, and when she finally came she shouted it out, not caring about the empty house or the open window or anything.

“I’m coming, fuck, I’m coming, don’t stop, keep going...”

And she kept coming for what felt like minutes, crushing my head against her pussy, shoving my face with her hips. When she finally let me go, my mouth and chin were soaked, and my breathing scratched at my throat.

Rosa let herself fall back against the sofa, panting, with her dress hiked up to her waist and her bare feet resting again on the edge of the cushions.

“Your turn,” she said, in a hoarse voice I’d never heard from her before. “Back on the floor. And bring your feet back.”

I slid back down to the floor. My cock was still rigid, swollen, begging to be touched. Rosa lifted both feet and trapped it between them again, but this time without mercy. She started jerking me fast, pressing her soles hard against my cock, up and down at a pace that gave me no respite.

“Come,” she said. “Come on my feet. I want to see it.”

I held on as long as I could, but I couldn’t hold out long. I felt the orgasm rising from my balls, burning me, and when it exploded it came in long jets that splashed her insteps, her toes, her red nails. Rosa didn’t move her feet away. She let me empty myself completely over them, and kept moving them slowly, milking the last drop out of me, while I shook with my mouth open, unable even to groan.

When I finally stopped, her feet were covered in semen, white with my load, and she had a satisfied smile she didn’t even try to hide.

“Lick them clean,” she said, bringing them closer to my face. “With your tongue.”

And I did. I licked them one by one, toe by toe, insteps, soles, the entire arch, swallowing my own load without a word, while she looked down at me with that half smile that was no longer a challenge but something worse: ownership.

“Good boy,” she murmured when I finished. “You won’t tell anyone.”

“No one,” I answered, my voice broken.

When she finally pulled her feet away, she did it the same way it had all begun: naturally, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. She sat up, smoothed her dress over her knees, and stood from the sofa.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said, running a hand through her hair.

And she walked off barefoot down the hallway, without picking up her sandals, leaving me on my knees in the living room with my body on fire and my head spinning.

I stayed like that for a long while, staring at the spot on the sofa where her feet had been, aching with want and certain that it hadn’t been an accident.

There are three weeks of summer left in this house. Three weeks of heat, salt, and empty afternoons when it will be just her and me. And I already know what I’m going to do the next time I find her lying on that sofa, rocking her foot in the air as if she were calling me over.

This time I’m not going to wait for her to put it on me. This time I’m going to be the one to ask.