My married aunt (30F) asked for my help to get pregnant [Update 7]

I stretched on the couch, cracking my neck.

My father shuffled through the kitchen in khakis and a polo. Golf bag already by the door. He poured himself a coffee, black, drank half of it standing at the counter, and poured the rest down the sink.

"Heading to the club," he announced to no one in particular. "Tee time's at nine. Back by dinner."

"Have fun," I said from the couch.

He grunted. Grabbed his bag. The front door opened, closed. His car started in the driveway and pulled away.

I got up. Followed the sound of my mother's voice down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The door was open. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in a silk camisole. Her phone was pressed to her ear.

She saw me in the doorway and smiled.

I crossed the room. Stood behind her. Slid my hands over her shoulders and down the front of her camisole, pulling the straps aside, letting the silk pool at her waist. Her breasts spilled free, the bite marks from Saturday still visible, yellowing now at the edges, purple at the center.

She swatted at my hand. I ignored her.

"—I'm just saying, you're already four months, honey," Mom was saying into the phone. "You can't keep wearing the same three dresses. You need real maternity clothes. Good ones. Things that actually fit."

I could hear Helen's voice on the other end. Reluctant.

"No, Helen, listen to me. I already know the perfect place. That boutique on Madison. Remember the one I told you about? They have those gorgeous Italian fabrics, the wrap dresses with the adjustable waists. You'll love it."

More muffled resistance.

I cupped my mother's left breast from behind. Rolled the nipple between my thumb and forefinger. She inhaled sharply through her nose but kept her voice steady.

"Robert's driving us. He offered this morning before he left. We'll pick you up at one, spend the afternoon, just us girls. Sister time."

She lied without blinking.

Helen's voice came through the speaker again. Something about not wanting to impose.

"You're not imposing. You're my baby sister and you're pregnant and I want to spoil you. That's final." Mom paused. Her free hand found mine on her breast and pressed it harder. "Besides, you need someone with taste to tell you what looks good. Richard's mother picks out your clothes half the time, and I love the woman, but she dresses like she's attending her own funeral."

A small laugh from the other end. The resistance cracking.

I pinched the nipple. Mom bit her lower lip. A flush crept up her neck.

"So it's settled. One o'clock. Wear something comfortable." She paused. "And Helen? This is going to be fun. I promise."

Mom hung up. Set the phone on the nightstand.

Then she turned and looked at me. Her eyes were hungry. Her nipples were hard and swollen from my fingers, jutting out from the purple-ringed bruises like they were begging for more.

"She'll be ready at one," she said.

"Good girl."

"She tried to say no three times. She can't say no to me. Never could."

I leaned down and kissed her. My tongue finding hers while my hands worked both breasts—squeezing, lifting, pinching the nipples until she whimpered into my mouth.

I pulled back. Left her there on the edge of the bed, panting, her thighs pressing together under the camisole.

"James," she breathed. "Don't leave me like this."

"You're going to stay exactly like this."

"What?"

"Wet. All morning. All afternoon." I backed toward the door. "Think of it as motivation."

"That's cruel."

"That's foreplay. The day hasn't even started yet."

She groaned. Her hand slid between her thighs. I snapped my fingers.

"Don't touch yourself."

Her hand froze.

"Not until I say."

She stared at me. The flush on her chest deepened. "Yes, baby," she whispered.

The sun was high, baking the asphalt. I pulled the car out of the driveway and turned toward Richard's side of town.

My mother sat in the backseat. She'd changed into a fitted cream blouse and high-waisted linen pants that hugged her hips. Her hair was down, her makeup fresh. She looked composed. The picture of a woman going shopping with her sister.

Only I knew that beneath the linen pants was a black lace thong already damp from six hours of enforced denial. Only I knew that her nipples were still tender from my fingers that morning, aching behind the thin padding of a bra I'd picked out myself.

"Remember the plan?" I said, adjusting the rearview mirror so I could see her face.

"I remember."

"She's going to bolt the second she sees me. You need to keep her calm."

"I know my sister, James." Mom crossed her legs in the backseat, the linen pulling tight across her thighs. "Just let me handle it."

We pulled up to Richard's house at 1:07.

Helen was already outside. Standing on the front steps in a loose floral dress with a cardigan draped over her shoulders despite the heat. Her hair was in a ponytail. Those thick glasses. No makeup.

She looked small. Like a woman who'd been talked into something she already regretted.

She walked down the steps toward the car. Reached for the rear door.

Opened it.

Saw me behind the wheel.

Froze.

"What—" Her eyes snapped to the backseat, where Mom was waving. Then back to me. "James? What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Aunty."

"Mom said Robert was driving."

"Robert went to play golf." My mother leaned forward, poking her head between the front seats. "He forgot, if you can believe it. Left at the crack of dawn with his golf bag and his hangover. James volunteered to take us instead. Isn't that sweet?"

Helen stood at the open door. Half in, half out. I could see the calculation happening, the cost of refusing, the awkwardness of making a scene, and the impossibility of explaining to her sister why she couldn't share a car with her own nephew.

"Come on, honey." Mom spoke. "Get in. We're burning daylight."

The boutique on Madison was twenty minutes across town. Twenty minutes of my mother filling the car with bright, effortless chatter. Helen responded. Short sentences. Polite laughs. I drove with my left hand. My right rested on my thigh.

At the first red light, I reached her.

My hand found Helen's knee beneath the loose fabric of her floral dress. She stiffened. Her knee jerked.

Mom was mid-sentence about fabric and didn't notice. Or pretended not to.

I let my fingers rest there. Feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric. The slight tremor in the muscle beneath.

The light turned green. I pulled my hand back to the wheel.

Helen exhaled. The breath came out shaky.

Two minutes later, another light. My hand went back. Higher this time. Mid-thigh. My fingers pressing into the soft flesh, squeezing gently through the dress.

"—and I told Richard's mother, if she mentions one more time that the nursery should be yellow, I'm going to scream. Yellow! For a girl! She has the aesthetic sense of a—"

Mom talked. I squeezed. Helen sat rigid, her hands fisted in her lap, her breathing carefully controlled.

The next light. My hand slid higher. Past mid-thigh. Into the warm space where her legs pressed together, the hem of her dress riding up under my fingers.

I pressed my palm flat against her pussy.

Helen made a sound. Like she'd been punched in the stomach and was trying not to react.

"You okay there, honey?" Mom asked, glancing at her sister.

"Fine," Helen managed. "Just… the baby kicked."

"Oh! Already? That's early for four months. Are you sure?"

"I think so. Just a flutter."

My fingers found the edge of her panties. Slipped beneath the elastic. Touched bare skin. The short stubble of her attempted trim prickling against my fingertips.

I slid one finger along her slit.

She was soaked.

The wetness coated my finger instantly. Her body betraying every ounce of resistance her mind was putting up.

"James," she whispered. A plea disguised as a name.

I circled her clit. Barely touching. Just enough pressure to make her thighs clench.

"—honestly, I think lavender would be gorgeous. Or a soft sage green. Something calming. Don't you think, Helen?"

"Mhm." Helen's voice was strained. "Green is nice."

I pressed harder. Two fingers now, bracketing her clit, sliding up and down through the slick folds. Her hips rocked, a micro-movement that she couldn't suppress.

I found her entrance. Pushed one finger inside.

She bit down on her lip so hard I saw it in the mirror. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her hands gripping her own knees, white-knuckled.

"Quiet," I murmured. Barely audible over the engine. "Unless you want Mom to hear."

Her eyes flew open.

In the rearview, I caught my mother's gaze. She was watching. Though not her sister's face. She was watching the space between her sister’s legs.

She knew exactly what was happening.

I fucked Helen with my finger for the next six blocks. I added a second finger. She was so wet there was no resistance. Until I pulled my fingers out.

Just like that. No warning.

Helen's eyes snapped to the mirror. She looked like someone who'd been slapped awake from the best dream of their life.

I wiped my wet fingers on my jeans. Put both hands on the wheel.

"We're here," I said cheerfully.

The boutique was exactly as my mother had described. A renovated brownstone with a sage-green awning and gold lettering: MAISON MÈRE. The windows displayed mannequins in flowing maternity dresses.

Helen was out of the car before I'd fully stopped.

She walked fast up the steps and through the door without looking back. Her cardigan was pulled tight, her face crimson, her legs pressed together with every step.

I killed the engine. Looked at my mother in the rearview.

She was grinning.

"God, that was hot," Mom breathed. "Watching her try not to moan. Watching her squirm. My little sister, getting fingered while I talk about nursery colors."

"She's wound tight."

"Good. That's exactly where I want her." Mom leaned forward. "Don't worry about her running. I know how to bring her back. I've been doing it her whole life."

"How?"

She tilted her head. That conspiratorial smile again.

"Helen has always been insecure. Richard made it worse, but it was there long before him. She's the kind of woman who doesn't believe she's beautiful until someone tells her. And then she blooms."

Mom checked her lipstick in a compact mirror.

"So I tell her. Over and over. Every outfit, every angle, every mirror. I make her feel seen. Wanted. And she melts. She's always melted for that."

"And then?"

"And then, once she's soft enough, I hand her to you."

The interior of Maison Mère was all warm wood and soft lighting. Racks of clothes organized by trimester. A long wall of mirrors. And at the back, a hallway leading to what my mother had promised, individual fitting suites.

A saleswoman greeted us. Tall, blonde, professional. My mother handled her with the practiced ease of a woman who'd spent decades navigating boutiques. Within three minutes, she had the woman pulling specific pieces from the racks—wrap dresses, structured tops, flowing skirts—while Helen stood near the entrance looking like she wanted to dissolve into the floorboards.

"Start with these," Mom said, pressing a stack of hangers into Helen's arms. "Basic stuff. Things you'll actually wear every day."

Helen looked at the clothes. Then at me.

"Does he have to be here?"

"He's carrying our bags, honey. And honestly, you need a man's opinion. Richard dresses you like his mother."

Helen opened her mouth to argue. Mom was already steering her toward the fitting rooms.

"Go. Try the navy wrap dress first. It'll look incredible on you."

Helen disappeared behind a door. The lock clicked.

Mom turned to me. Raised one eyebrow. Then took a seat on the velvet bench opposite the fitting rooms, crossed her legs, and waited.

Two minutes later, the door opened.

Helen stepped out in the navy wrap dress. It was simple—V-neckline, long sleeves, a tie at the waist that gathered above the bump. The fabric was soft and clingy, following the curve of her belly, the swell of her breasts, the width of her hips.

She looked uncertain. Her hands kept tugging at the neckline, adjusting the tie, pulling the hem lower.

"Well?" she asked. Not looking at anyone in particular.

"Turn around," Mom said.

Helen turned. "James? What do you think?"

Helen's eyes snapped to me. A flash of panic.

I let myself look at her. "You look beautiful," I said.

Helen blinked. The tension in her shoulders loosened. "Really?"

"The way it fits your waist. And the color against your skin." I shook my head. "Yeah. Really beautiful."

A blush crept up her neck. She looked at herself in the floor-length mirror. Turned slightly. "It's not too tight?" she asked.

"It's perfect," Mom said, standing behind her, adjusting the tie at her waist. "See how it hugs the bump? You look like a goddess, Helen. A fertility goddess." "Try the sage green one next," Mom said.

The sage green was a loose cotton midi dress with a square neckline. Helen came out and Mom immediately shook her head.

"Too boxy. It hides everything. James?"

"It's okay," I said. "But the other one was better. This one doesn't show your shape."

"My shape isn't exactly—"

"Your shape is incredible," I said. "You're carrying a baby. Your body is doing something amazing. Don't hide that."

Helen stared at me. Something shifted behind those thick lenses. A door opening a crack.

"The cream blouse next," Mom directed. "With the charcoal skirt."

Helen went back in. Came out. This time the blouse was sheer enough to show the outline of her bra. The skirt hugged her hips and fell to her knees.

"Better," Mom said, circling her. "Much better. But that bra is criminal."

"What's wrong with my bra?"

"Everything. It doesn't fit. It doesn't support. Your breasts have grown two sizes since you got pregnant, and you're still wearing the same bra from before."

Helen crossed her arms.

"Look." Mom gently pulled her arms down. Then, casually, she cupped the sides of Helen's breasts through the blouse. "Feel that? The spillage on the sides? The wire is sitting on tissue instead of under it. This bra is working against you."

Helen went rigid for a second. Then relaxed. "We're getting you fitted before we leave," Mom declared. "No arguments."

"Fine."

The next outfit was bolder. A burgundy jersey dress, sleeveless, the neckline lower, the fabric thinner. It clung to Helen's breasts—outlining their full, heavy shape, the nipples faintly visible through the jersey.

"Oh, wow," Mom breathed. "Helen, look at yourself."

Helen looked. In the mirror, the woman staring back was someone she barely recognized. "James?" Mom prompted.

"Stunning," I said. "Absolutely stunning."

Helen's lips parted. The blush was permanent. She turned in the mirror. Looked at her profile. The bump. The breasts. The curve of her ass in the tight jersey.

"That one's a yes," Mom said definitively. "Next."

The outfits escalated.

Slowly. Deliberately. My mother worked it like a conductor—each piece a half-step beyond the last, each one revealing a little more, clinging a little tighter, pushing Helen's comfort zone by increments so small she didn't realize how far she'd traveled until she was already there.

A wrap top with a plunging neckline that showed the full valley of Helen's cleavage, the pale inner curves of her breasts visible almost to the areola. Helen hesitated. Mom adjusted the neckline with deft fingers, pulling it a fraction wider, not narrower.

"Your breasts are one of your best feature," Mom said matter-of-factly. "Stop hiding them."

She turned to me. "Tell her."

"She's right," I said. "You've got an incredible chest. Own it."

Helen looked at the mirror. At the deep V of the neckline. At the heavy, round breasts pressing against the fabric.

She nodded slowly.

A pencil skirt that ended above the knee. Helen's wide hips stretching the fabric, her ass round and prominent, the outline of her panties visible through the material.

"That ass," Mom said, standing behind her, one hand resting on Helen's hip. "When did you get this ass, Helen? You've been holding out on me."

Her hand slid down. Cupped Helen's right cheek through the skirt. Squeezed.

Helen jumped. "Patty!"

"What? I'm your sister. I'm allowed to appreciate." Mom squeezed again. "God, it's firm. James, feel this."

"I'm good from here," I said, smiling. But I was watching my mother's hand on her sister's ass, watching the way her fingers dug into the fabric, the way her eyes darkened with something that wasn't sisterly at all.

A stretchy bodycon dress in black. Nearly indecent. Helen pulled at the hem, trying to force it lower.

"It's too tight. It's—"

"It's perfect," Mom said. She stepped behind Helen and placed both hands on her sister's waist. Slid them upward. Over her ribcage. Until they rested just below Helen's breasts, cupping the heavy undersides through the clingy black fabric. "Feel how they sit in this dress? No bra needed. The fabric does all the work."

Helen's breath hitched. Mom's thumbs moved, almost imperceptible circles on the outer curves of Helen's breasts.

"They're so heavy," Mom murmured. "The pregnancy's really filling you out. You must be going up a cup every few weeks."

"Two cups since the first trimester," Helen whispered. Her eyes were half-closed.

"Does it hurt? When they're this full?"

"Sometimes. The nipples mostly. They're so sensitive I can barely—"

Mom's thumbs shifted. Found the nipples through the dress.

Helen gasped.

"Like that?" Mom asked.

"Y-yes. Like that."

Mom held the pressure for three seconds. Then released. Stepped back. Businesslike again.

"We definitely need to get you better bras. And that dress is a yes. James?"

I was sitting on the velvet bench with my elbows on my knees, watching the two sisters with an expression I hoped looked casual and not like a man witnessing the most erotic thing of his life.

My mother. Touching her sister's breasts. In a fitting room. While I watched.

"Absolutely a yes," I managed.

Mom was brilliant. Every touch was deniable. Every compliment was sincere. Every escalation was cloaked in sisterly warmth—adjusting a strap here, smoothing a seam there, cupping a breast to check fit, squeezing a hip to assess the drape of fabric.

Helen melted. I fed it. Every look, every compliment calibrated to crack her open further. The kind of attention she'd been starving for.

"That color makes your eyes look darker," I said about the emerald wrap dress.

"The way that fabric moves when you walk," I said about the charcoal jersey. "I can't stop watching." Each one landed. I could see it.

Mom caught my eye over Helen's shoulder. Gave me the faintest nod.

She's ready.

The next piece Mom pulled from the rack was different.

A silk slip dress. Deep plum. Spaghetti straps. The fabric so thin it was almost translucent, designed to drape rather than cling, but on a body like Helen's it would cling anyway. "Try this one," Mom said, holding it out.

Helen took it. Looked at the label. Looked at the fabric. Held it up to the light.

"Patty, this is lingerie."

"It's a dress."

"It's see-through."

"It's silk charmeuse. It drapes beautifully. Just try it."

Helen disappeared into the suite. Longer this time. When the door opened, she stood in the threshold looking like she might faint.

The dress was obscene. The silk draped over her body, following every contour, catching in every valley, pooling in the space between her breasts. Her nipples were clearly visible through the fabric, dark and hard, pressing against the plum silk like they were trying to escape. The hem barely covered her ass. The neckline revealed everything.

"I can't wear this in public," Helen said.

"Not in public," Mom agreed. "At home. For yourself. Every woman deserves to feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Like a goddess."

Mom circled her. Her eyes moving over Helen's body with an appreciation that was too focused, too lingering, too hungry to be purely sisterly.

"The silk is catching here," Mom said, reaching out and smoothing the fabric over Helen's right hip. Her hand lingered. Slid down. Over the curve of Helen's ass, the silk whispering under her palm.

Helen's breathing quickened.

"And here." Mom's hand moved to the front. Smoothed the fabric over the bump. Traveled upward. Over the belly, over the ribs, until her palm rested flat against Helen's left breast. "It's bunching. Let me fix it."

She didn't fix it. She cupped. Squeezed gently. Felt the weight through the thin silk, her fingers adjusting the strap with her free hand while her palm pressed the breast, shaped it, held it.

"God, Helen," Mom breathed. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

Helen was trembling. Her eyes were glassy.

"James," Mom said, not taking her hand off her sister's breast. "Come help me with the back. The zipper's catching."

I stood. Walked toward them.

Mom's eyes met mine. In them I read: Fuck her.