Becoming “Auntie Joan”

**EDITED AND REPOSTED AFTER FLAG ‘AGE’. REFERENCES REMOVED**

Becoming Auntie Joan

I think it must have started in my late teens, about 1986, when I knew about Auntie Joan.

Its funny, I always thought I was straight, you know, heterosexual, but as time went on I sort of drifted between girlfriends and my fantasies. The girlfriends sort of fitted a type, a pattern if you will, long dark hair and big tits.. the bigger the better. I loved sucking on them and later tit-fucking, and the nipples had to stick out, not be just flat.

My earliest recollection of sexual fantasies, and I’m going back a while now, was my mother’s mail-order catalogues. I’d sneak a look at the lingerie sections, and think how nice it would be to have huge boobs myself, and not just that, to be fully bound up in a pantie-corselet with just a hole at the front for my ever growing cock. Even at 17 years old I had a 6” erect penis and I added a couple more inches later into manhood.

I started wearing my mothers mediocre undies, always placing them back carefully so as not to arose suspicions and even went as far as stealing some underwear, a red satin suspender and bra set from a neighbour. Poor Shirley never knew what happened to them. I’ll tell you what happened to them, I wore them and wanked myself silly, thinking about her rubbing her tits in my face, that’s what happened to them! My aunt Margaret’s undies suffered the same fate, her extra large bosoms on a petite 5ft figure needed quite a bit of support, and her elasticated all-in-one bodysuits got a hammering from my cock when I stayed over for parties or family gatherings.

It was about this time that I discovered something special, that if I tried hard enough I could just lick my own cock if I threw my legs over my head, propped up with a pillow. After a good few months practicing this progressed to a much more satisfying being able to suck a good 2”, and cumming in my own mouth was amazing.

And so it went on, but in a slightly different direction……

I got married but it didn’t last, an older woman and she wanted different things to me. I worked several jobs over the years and rented a small but nice flat with it’s own front door, not a communal entrance, and it came in handy more than once if I wanted some company without the neighbours seeing who was coming and going. But in the back of my mind I wanted something else, something different, something exciting…

Mum and dad died just a few years apart, never seeing me settle down with anyone for long, and my dad often asked me about those girls; “I don’t know why you have so much trouble staying with anyone” he’d say.

There wasn’t anything to stay there for after that, no family, few real friends and not much talent about so I decided to move out into the country a bit, closer to the sea but away from the big towns.

I had an idea, but no idea of how to make it happen. In the nearest big town there was a sex-shop, you know, the old style Private Shop with blacked out windows and dodgy looking blokes walking out with bulges under their coats. I plucked up the courage to go in one Saturday and looked around at the very tacky goods and the vast collection of VHS pornography, cheap and nasty underwear in cellophane wrappers and an enormous variety of magazines. I browsed for a while, drawn to the Busen and 40+ mags with mature busty women emblazoned across the covers, Candy Samples, Titanic Toni and Chessie Moore really got my heart pumping, when at the end of the shelf I spotted something I never knew existed. ‘Chicks With Dicks’. I picked it up, flipped through and decided it was for me. There was another one, in German but the big blonde tart with the big cock sticking out from her panties was enough for me. The next stop was the CO-OP supermarket, a lettuce, some celery and a big thick cucumber. The lettuce and the celery went in the fridge as soon as I got home, the cucumber went into a basin of warm water, as I’d discovered that if you warmed it up it felt so much nicer up my arse than a cold one straight out of the fridge! The weekend went by quickly and dressed in a E-cup black bra and thick black tights with the crotch cut out, I came over myself and into my mouth probably 6 times over the two days. Relaxing on Sunday evening with a large whisky I thumbed through the magazines and something caught my eye. A black transsexual had scars under her tits; it was a boob-job that had produced this sultry vixen. The following weekend I went back to the Private Shop. This time I got into conversation with the bloke behind the counter when paying for another two magazines. He didn’t bat an eyelid when I mentioned boob-jobs and ‘Chicks With Dicks’ and we must have spent 20 minutes talking about them. He said it was pretty commonplace practice in places like Brazil but he’d heard of some botched operations that had been done ‘on the cheap’. He said there was a reputable place in Turkey, not regulated but they did a good job but it wasn’t cheap, about £1000 for the procedure. For someone who sold dirty books he seemed quite knowledgeable about these things. “Trust me, over the last 20 years I’ve seen everything, and some stuff you wouldn’t believe!” Not wishing to doubt him I pressed him about the Turkish doctor and where it was. So there I was, head full of fantasies, carrier-bag full of porn, sitting on the Greenline bus back home.

I was desperate for the toilet when I got home and a surprise awaited me. I wiped my arse and there was blood on the paper. I put it down to the cucumber, maybe a stretch too far, or maybe piles, but it didn’t stop. The doctor wasn’t sure so off to the hospital I went. It wasn’t good news, it was cancer.

A small operation, a week in hospital and chemotherapy took its toll on me. I had to have a month off work but found I could make my living from home, the trusty typewriter and fax machine were invaluable, and as the Information Superhighway and Internet were still in their infancy they were essential tools.

A few weeks later at the doctor’s, he had a strange look on his face. Apparently my condition was not curable but it was manageable, but it meant being on chemotherapy pills indefinitely. And another thing, my hair wasn’t growing back, I had no eyebrows, no pubic hair, nothing. I was bald all over, even my beard wasn’t growing, which was a bonus because I bloody hated shaving. It was the drugs they gave me, I felt fine, I was eating and drinking ok, my life was pretty normal but I was as smooth as glass all over. That evening I decided to move away, I’d got bored with my surroundings and I needed a change of scene.

Standing naked on the scales after a bath I looked down and saw that I’d put on nearly 12 pounds. I opened the wardrobe door and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. TITS. I was growing tits. The next week I was back at the doctors. It was a side effect of the drugs, gynecomastia caused by the pills. Short of stopping the drugs the only other solution was surgery to remove the breast tissue. I felt pretty low on the bus on the way home. I ate a takeaway curry, drank far too much whisky and sat on the sofa with a transsexual magazine next to me, rubbing baby oil onto my hard cock. My greasy hands made their way up to my swollen chest and I found myself rubbing oil into my man-boobs, squeezing and pulling at the nipples and gasping at the sensation of my erect nipples sliding between my fingers and thumbs like tiny penises. Suddenly I spurted cum over myself, up and over my stomach, onto my oily boobs and onto my face. I rubbed it hard into my nipples and felt a wave of pleasure running through my nipples and my cock, still stiff and ready for a good wanking.

I awoke about 3am, the TV long finished and the night-time seemed empty. I sat up, my head ached, I was covered in spunk and baby oil and I crawled off to bed. I woke up at about 9am and dragged my sorry self to the kitchen and made a pot of tea, with real loose leaf tea leaves which I’d bought from a market stall back in the summer. It was the 5th of November and it was dark in the evenings which were crisp and cold at the moment. I nursed the first cup as I usually did, I made it hot so I couldn’t drink it fast and sat looking out of the patio door windows at the bird table. It was busy this morning, chaffinches, siskins, the odd robin hopping in and out of the garden, when from nowhere there appeared a great tit. I watched it pick up a sunflower seed and then fly off to the nearby rowan tree to devour it in peace. Tit. Tits. Great Tits. My mind was wandering and suddenly it hit me, like discovering you could do calculus without thinking about it. I can’t, but I can only imagine what that must feel like.

After a shower and getting dressed I thumbed through the TV Times and at the back I found what I was looking for.