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"There...," she whispered. "Sleep, hon." The shivers made a brief pass through me as I fell asleepagainst her softness. ...A week or so later I was standing in Martha Jane's kitchenas her mother, a thin lady who looked much older than my own andwho resembled her darker brunette daughter more than her fair,auburn-haired Martha Jane, carefully handed me a large tablespoonfilled with dark green syrup. Her mother always spoke slowly andwith a slight rasp, having never completely overcome the lungproblems that she developed from the long and severe illness fol-lowing her husband's death in the war. "There," she told me, "now go in the bedroom and give that toMartha Jane. And be certain she takes every drop of it." "Yes, ma'am," I said. Holding the filled tablespoon face-highbefore me, I walked carefully through their living room and intoMartha Jane's bedroom. She sat up in bed, a pink wool blanket upto her waist, the place littered with used kleenex and her school-books. Her eyes and nose. This was my first time masturbating since I had turned eighteen. It was bound to be a memorable experience. And it was, only not in the way I had hoped. Soft moans toppled from my mouth as my fingers slid in and out of my wet slit. My free hand traveled to my breasts and began teasing my nipples. They were stiff with excitement. Each touch sent a shiver of delight rippling through me. My breathing quickened as I felt the familiar feel of nearing climax. It was only a matter of time before&hellip, That was the last thing I remembered. One second I was pleasuring myself and the next I was asleep. Instantly, I started to dream. I stood on a wooden porch. The planks creaked beneath me as I turned to study my surroundings. I instantly recognized the neighborhood. It belonged in my memories. Two houses down stood my childhood home. As thrilled as I was to see it, I was even more excited by the house that stood behind me. I whipped around and my suspicions were confirmed. It was my aunts.
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