Stranded with the Hot MILFs

Stranded With My Mom & Aunts [M/F, incest, age gap]
Fiction
When I joined my mom and her four sisters on a party boat, the last thing I expected was to be stranded on a desert island.

But at least I’m not on my own. I’m surrounded by five hot MILFs.

Sure, we’re related. But things like that don’t matter as much when you’re this far away from civilization.

+++

When Aunt Brigitte declared that she was getting married and she was taking us on a chartered boat to celebrate, the last thing I expected was to end up stranded on an uninhabited island.

It was supposed to be a fun, intimate bachelorette party. Just me, my mom, and my four aunts.

Yes, I was the odd one out. That was normal for me. Being the only offspring of a mom with four single sisters, I was used to it.

The seaborne bachelorette party was a blast at first.

Aunt Hilda dragged me to the tip of the boat and made me hug her from behind while she shouted, “I’m the queen of the world!”

I didn’t know what that meant. She told me it was a reference to some old movie about a ship that sank.

Maybe that was a sign that things were going to go wrong, but all I could think of was how crisp the outline of Aunt Hilda’s fit, mature body looked with the sun shining through her thin sundress, and how soft her toned flesh actually was, and how good her hair smelled.

Seeing this, Aunt Pepper called out my name. When I turned to look at her, she was lying on her side on one of the sun lounges on the deck, the exaggerated curve of her hip highlighted by her position.

In a sultry voice, she said, “Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack.”

Again, I had no idea what that meant.

Apparently, it was another reference to the same movie. I don’t know why they expected me to get the joke when I was only in my early twenties and the movie had come out years before I was born.

And then, Mom joined in.

“Put your hands on me, Jack,” she said in a low, seductive tone I’d never heard from her before, accompanied with bedroom eyes that most mothers would never direct at their son.

I could only swallow my nerves in response. In general, my mom didn’t make me nervous, but something about the way she said the line made my heart jump in my chest.

My pants suddenly felt a little too tight, too, but luckily Mom and her sisters were too busy exploding into laughter to notice my growing bulge. They mentioned something about a steamy car, whatever that meant.

I remember thinking, “We’re only ten minutes into the party. They haven’t even started drinking yet. What have I gotten myself into?”

As it turns out, what I’d gotten myself into was a disaster. I’m not even exaggerating. By any definition of the word, getting shipwrecked is a literal disaster.

The crash itself was a blur—rain, waves, screaming, a wall of spray that battered us sideways and dumped us onto the sand like trash.

I remember waking up sprawled over Aunt Pepper’s legs, the taste of salt and blood in my mouth, and the sky above so white-hot and featureless I thought I’d died and gone to hell.

The wrecked hull of our pleasure craft glared nearby, bared ribs of it sticking out of the sand like a beached whale.

For the first hour, everyone cried, or cursed, or both.

Mom was the first to get herself together, marching up and down the shoreline in her torn camisole and bikini bottoms, barking orders.

“Inventory! We need everything: food, water, medical supplies!” Her voice cracked, and for a second I thought she might break too. But she just pressed her lips into a line and pretended to be okay, which was more than I managed.

Aunt Hilda had a gash on her thigh that looked mean, but she acted like it was nothing. She just tied a length of sarong around it and limped around camp, squeezing my shoulder every time she passed like I was her emotional support animal.

Aunt Pepper cried for a solid hour, clinging to me and Mom like a kid at a funeral, her mascara streaking black rivers down her cheeks.

Aunt Brigitte was catatonic, curled up under a beached paddleboard and shivering despite the heat.

Aunt Robin, the youngest and the only one who smoked, looked pissed off at the universe and chain-smoked her way through a pack of waterlogged cigarettes, then immediately started collecting driftwood and debris as if she’d spent her childhood prepping for this moment.

We built a lean-to from what was left of the boat—bent aluminum, splintered planks, tarp. It was barely enough for shade, but it kept us huddled together, six bodies pressed in humid, unwashed intimacy.

That first night, none of us slept.

I lay on my side, sand stuck to my skin, staring at the shadowy shapes of my mom and aunts, listening to their labored breathing and the soft, helpless noises they made in their sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw the wave again, felt the boat tip and the world turn upside down.

The next morning, we scavenged the contents of the cooler and emergency kit. Three protein bars, two bottles of cheap chardonnay, a half-case of diet cola, six packs of trail mix, a bunch of bruised fruit, and a single emergency flare.

That was it.

There was not even a lighter for the flare, so Aunt Robin had to make a fire with sticks and a broken sunglasses lens. She managed, though, and the look of satisfaction on her face was almost enough to make me laugh.

The flare went off with a loud pop, accompanied by shouts of celebration. Then came the silence as we waited, holding our breaths, staring at the unchanging horizon.

By the third day, the water was gone and we were eating trail mix by the handful, sucking on the dregs of chardonnay for moisture.

Mom sent me and Aunt Robin to explore the island, which turned out to be two miles of scrub jungle and limestone cliffs, ringed by sharp rock and a tidal lagoon.

We found a freshwater stream—really just a trickle, but it tasted clean, and we drank until we almost puked, wiped our mouths, and laughed at the bugs crawling on our hands.

The panic faded a little. There was still hope. It was during that hike, with Aunt Robin, that I realized how fucking hot my mom’s youngest sister was.

She was half a generation younger than the other aunts, only ten years older than me. Long-legged, tanned, her cut-off shorts painted onto her ass, and the tank top so clinging it was basically a second skin. The fabric was thin from years of wear, showing the dark edge of her nipples if she caught the light right.

Her hair was a wild, sun-bleached mess that she kept tying and untying as we walked, drawing my attention to the long neck that begged to be kissed.

She was rough, not delicate like my mom or Aunt Brigitte. She was wiry and strong, with scrapes up and down her shins, and the kind of dirty bare feet that said she’d been barefoot her whole life.

But it was her attitude that turned me on more than anything: that constant, unfiltered sarcasm, the way she’d light a cigarette and then immediately offer it to me with a wink like we were equals, not nephew and aunt.

We must have circled the island twice, getting hopelessly lost in the maze of thorny scrub and jagged coral, before we realized we couldn’t find our way back before dark.

The sky went from white to purple to black, and suddenly it was just me and Aunt Robin standing in a clearing, breathless, not even pretending we weren’t scared.

“Shit,” she said, kicking a stone. “Looks like we’re stuck out here tonight.”

We didn’t say much after that. We just built a fire from driftwood and wrapped ourselves in the shitty emergency blanket from the kit, huddled together for warmth as the wind started to howl off the ocean.

The cold made my teeth chatter, but it was her body pressed against me that made me shiver.

I tried not to think about her thighs touching mine, or the way the thin blanket had hiked up to expose the curve of her hip, or how her bare arm was draped across my chest, her hand splayed just above my nipple.

I tried not to think about the smell of her, the combination of sweat and campfire and whatever sweet, musky perfume she’d been wearing before the wreck.

But I couldn’t help it. My cock was hard as a rock, and it was taking everything I had to keep her from noticing.

Except she did notice… I think.

Around midnight, I woke up to find her hand had drifted lower, her fingers creeping down my torso, warm and heavy. She was half-asleep, muttering nonsense, her breath hot on my neck.

“Fuck, I’m thirsty,” she mumbled, then started giggling. “I want a margarita the size of my head. Extra salt. Maybe a hot guy to make it for me.”

She pressed her face into my shoulder, her hand landing squarely on my crotch.

I sucked in a breath and tried to shift away, but she just squeezed me through my shorts, then let out a low, throaty laugh.

“Damn, you’re packing,” she said, her voice slurred, probably from the dehydration.

I tried to laugh it off, but my dick was already pulsing in her hand.

She was gripping me tight through the thin nylon. I could smell the salt and sweat on her skin, feel every micro-movement of her palm as she adjusted in her sleep, unconsciously kneading at my shaft.

“What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here? Give the bartender a handjob?” she asked, giggling weakly.

Her breathing was ragged, shallow. She must have been dreaming.

For a few seconds I lay there, paralyzed, heart pounding so loud I thought it would wake her up.

I tried to inch away, to gently guide her hand somewhere less dangerous without waking her, but as soon as I moved, her grip tightened.

She mumbled something again—something that sounded like my name, but slurred to a barely intelligible “Jaaack”—and started stroking.

I bit my lip, squeezing my eyes shut.

This was wrong. This was so fucking wrong.

But it felt so good my brain short-circuited.

I’d never been touched like this by anyone, let alone someone who looked like Aunt Robin. I wanted to die, or at least teleport a thousand miles away from my own body, but I couldn’t stop my hips from jerking into her hand.

Her thumb found the head of my cock through the mesh, rubbing it with slow, lazy circles.

I was throbbing, leaking through the fabric, and she must have felt it because she let out a soft, contented sigh and pressed her body even closer.

She was burning up—her skin hot and flushed, her breath coming in gasps.

I realized suddenly that she was sick, maybe feverish from the sun. She had no clue what she was doing.

That should have been my cue to stop, to pull her hand away and try to cool her down, but instead I just lay there, frozen, letting her use me like a stuffed animal.

My cock was trapped between her palm and my thigh, and every motion of her hand sent lightning up my spine. It was like my body had been waiting for this its whole life, and now that it had finally happened, I was helpless.

I lasted maybe a minute before I felt it—white heat building in my balls, my whole body tensing up like a bowstring.

I tried, desperately, to think about anything else, but all I could picture was Aunt Robin, naked and smiling, sliding her hand down my cock and telling me I was a “good boy.”

I came in my shorts, hard, biting down on my own arm so I wouldn’t scream.

A wet spot spread instantly, the fabric sticking to my skin, and Aunt Robin just kept stroking, oblivious, milking me through the aftershocks until I was whimpering.

She finally let go, her hand slipping away to rest against my stomach, and she fell into a deeper sleep, breathing evenly.

I was left there, sticky and embarrassed and more turned on than I’d ever been in my life.

I didn’t sleep at all after that. I just stared up at the stars, counting every second until sunrise, trying not to think about what had just happened.

When morning came, Aunt Robin woke up groggy and pale, her fever broken but her memory apparently wiped clean.

She stretched, yawned, and gave no sign that she remembered squeezing her nephew’s cock all night.

If anything, she seemed embarrassed by how close we’d slept, and kept her distance on the hike back, barely saying a word until we reached camp.

The others were waiting, all five of them clustered under the tarp and shouting at once.

Mom threw herself at me, hugging me so hard I thought she’d break my ribs, then started yelling about how stupid I was for getting lost.

Aunt Hilda limped over and wrapped us both in a group hug, crying openly.

Aunt Brigitte just stared at us with red, haunted eyes.

Aunt Pepper made a joke about “young lovebirds” and playfully punched my arm.

If Robin was weird about it, she hid it well. She just shrugged, dropped her backpack, and said, “Kid’s a fuckin’ survivalist. Couldn’t have made it back without him.”

She didn’t look at me as she said it, and when I caught her eyes later, there was no sign that anything had happened between us.

The days started to blur together after that. Time on the island didn’t mean much. We scavenged, fished, kept the fire going. The only clock was the sun, and the only entertainment was each other.

I tried to pretend nothing strange had happened, but it wasn’t easy. Not with all six of us basically living on top of each other, bathing in the lagoon, shitting in the same hole behind a bush, sleeping in a tangle of limbs every night to ward off the damp and the wind.

I started noticing things. Little things.

The way Mom would change her shirt right in front of me, not bothering to turn away anymore, letting her tits bounce free and then smile when she caught me staring.

The way Aunt Hilda’s sarong kept riding up her thigh, exposing more of her muscular legs and the whitened scar on her hip.

The way Aunt Pepper, who’d never had a boyfriend in her life, started making dirty jokes and wiggling her ass at me every time she bent over to pick something up.

It was like something had shifted, some unspoken rule burned away by trauma and sun and desperation.

They were all hotter than I’d ever noticed before, and I was the only dick on the island.

Aunt Pepper was the first to cross the line. It was day six or seven—I’d lost count—and we were alone at the stream, filling up bottles.

She crouched in the mud, her ass sticking out, dark hair falling in her face.

I was staring, lost in thought, when she turned around and caught me.

“See something you like?” she said, voice low, teasing. A smile curved her full lips, her eyes focused intensely on me.

I looked away, face burning. “Sorry. I wasn’t—”

“Bullshit,” she said, straightening up and walking over, hands on hips. “You were totally checking me out. I’m flattered, really.” She leaned in, so close I could smell her skin, and whispered, “You know, when I was your age, I used to have the hots for my uncle.

Never did anything about it, though. Didn’t have the guts.”

She let that hang, lips parted, eyes flicking down for a split second to my shorts.

I felt my cock twitch and hated, absolutely hated, how eager I was for her to go further.

The moment stretched between us, silent except for the bugs and our ragged breathing.

Then, with a shrug, she turned away, and for a second I felt more desperate than I had in the days after the crash.

But she didn’t leave it there.

As we walked back, she stayed close enough for our fingers to graze, and she kept looking sideways at me with this catlike, knowing grin.

My mind looped her words—“I used to have the hots for my uncle”—over and over until I nearly tripped over a root.

When we made camp, Aunt Pepper plopped down next to me, so close her thigh pressed against mine.

She opened her water bottle and took a long, slow swig, eyes never leaving my face.

“Want a sip?” she said.

She tipped the bottle at my lips, but when I reached for it, she held it steady and forced me to drink from her hand. The water was lukewarm, a little metallic, but it tasted like heaven.

A bead spilled down my chin, and she caught it with her thumb, wiping my mouth with a gentleness that caught me off guard. Her thumb lingered, tracing my lower lip before she pulled away.

Neither of us said anything about it, but that night, as we all huddled under the shelter, Aunt Pepper spooned me.

She was the big spoon, and her whole body seemed to fold around me in a way that was equal parts maternal and obscene.

In the darkness, her hand slipped under my shirt, drawing slow, lazy circles on my stomach. I was so fucking hard I thought I might faint from it.

She didn’t go further—not that time. Maybe she was waiting for me to make a move, or maybe she just liked to torture me.

Either way, I barely slept. My skin tingled with every barely-there brush of her palm.

The next morning, she acted like nothing happened, but the way she peeled fruit for me at breakfast, pressing the wedge between my lips with her own, said everything.

The others noticed.

You’d have to be blind not to.

Mom gave me a look that was half warning, half curiosity, and when Aunt Hilda caught me licking the juice off Aunt Pepper’s fingers, she let out a hoot. “Careful, Pepper,” she said, “he’s at that age where if you bend over, you’re liable to get poked.”

Everyone laughed, even Brigitte, who hadn’t smiled in days.

Mom just shook her head and sipped her coffee.

But that night, I caught Mom staring at me from under her lashes as she did up her hair. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she let the strap of her camisole slip, her tit nearly out, then fixed it with exaggerated slowness.

Was that… a dare?

What was happening to us?

Some days I thought we were going insane; other days, I thought this was the most sane anyone had ever been, stripped of rules, just bodies and hunger.

By the end of week six, everyone was a little insane. Our skin was brown and raw, hair bleached and wild, bodies shrinking from the calorie deficit. We were animals, and the only law was survival, and the only comfort was each other.

It was hot as hell that afternoon.

We’d just finished reinforcing the shelter, and everyone was sprawled under it, panting, limbs tangled, not even pretending to keep personal space.

My aunts had sweat streaming down their bodies, every inch glistening. The wine was gone, but Aunt Hilda had managed to ferment some fruit in a plastic jug, and now we were all a little buzzed, laughing more than we had since the crash.

Aunt Brigitte was the first to strip. She just stood up, pulled off her sarong, and walked buck naked down to the lagoon, not even looking back. Her tits were full and heavy, bouncing as she walked, and her ass had a bounce to it, too, that made my mouth dry.

A moment later, Aunt Hilda whooped and said, “Fuck it, when in Rome!” and peeled off her own top, then her bikini bottoms. Her body was cut and tan, with strong arms and legs and a wild patch of blond pubes between her thighs.

Aunt Pepper followed suit, dropping her shorts and pulling her tank top over her head with an easy, practiced motion. Her tits were smaller than Brigitte’s but high and perky, nipples dark and hard from the breeze. She gave me a wink as she strolled past, tits swaying, her bare pussy trimmed neat and tidy.

Mom just rolled her eyes at the display, but when she caught my stare, she just shrugged and said, “Might as well get comfortable.” Her voice had a rough, hungry edge to it.

She slipped her camisole off, then unhooked her bra, letting her big, soft tits swing free. Her areolas were wide and dark, almost purple, and her nipples thick as gumdrops.

She shimmied her hips out of her bikini bottoms and flung them at my head, laughing. “Don’t get any ideas, Jack.”

I just stared, boner tenting my shorts so hard it was almost painful.

Aunt Robin, who had always been the wildest, didn’t hesitate. She just yanked off her shirt and shorts, ran her hands through her hair, and strutted past me with a smirk.

“You comin’, kid, or you gonna jerk off under the tarp?” she asked.

I flushed, sputtered, but when she grabbed my hand and pulled, I followed.

My cock strained at the fabric, brushing once, twice, against her thigh as we trotted down to the water. I saw her eyes flick down and her mouth twist in a half-smile.

The water was cold, but our bodies were burning. My aunts were splashing, wrestling, floating on their backs, tits bobbing, limbs glistening and slick with salt.

I tried to keep my eyes above water, but it was impossible. They were all so beautiful and wild.

My cock was hidden for now, its shape distorted by the water so they couldn’t see how hard I was, how desperate I was for their attention, how much I craved their gorgeous, mature bodies.

But sooner or later, I’d have to get out, I’d have to emerge from the water and let them see me.

It had been six fucking weeks. How much longer was it going to take for a rescue boat to show up? Would I survive the allure of my mom and aunts until then?