My Nephew Got into My Knickers

INTRODUCTION & DISCLAIMER - As sisters growing up in Melbourne Australia, Emily and Rhonda were close in age but had little in common, Rhonda resenting younger sister Emily as a result. Now years later with the sisters now middle aged mothers, Emily only hears from Rhonda when her older sister wants something, and with her own kids away on holiday with their father, Emily finds her nephew Cody staying with her after the latest falling out with his mother, father and sister. Liking spending time together, Emily and Cody perhaps enjoy themselves a little too more than an aunt and nephew should in this sexy story that takes political correctness and woke culture and smashes it to pieces.

All characters engaging in sex are aged 18 and older and they and the events of this story are fictional, with any similarity to real persons living or dead coincidental and unintentional. For North American readers, the slang term fanny is used for vagina on a number of occasions.

Please enjoy 'My Nephew Got Into My Knickers' and rate and comment. If you've read some of my other stories set in Australia, then you might notice a few Easter Eggs in this one. If you find them, let me know in the comments below.

***

On the Friday afternoon when school ended for Term 1 2019 I worked my schedule so I could leave the office early and drive my son Ben aged 17 and my 15-year-old daughter Katie to the airport to catch a flight to Queensland where they would be enjoying a ten day holiday on the Gold Coast and Brisbane with their father, my ex-husband Mark along with his second wife Rachel and her two kids from her first marriage.

As I said goodbye at the airport part of me wished I was going to Queensland with them enjoying the sun and beaches and having fun at all the theme parks and other attractions, but it would be pretty weird me being there too, even though Mark and I had a very amicable separation and divorce and matters such as shared custody and child support were never an issue. Mark and I were still good friends despite our marriage ultimately not working out, and Rachel and I got along well too. But the ex-wife going on holidays with her teenage kids, her former husband and his kids? Definitely weird. Just as it would have been strange if Mark and Rachel and her kids had tagged along when I took the kids to Adelaide for a holiday the previous year. So definitely best I stayed back in Melbourne.

The drive back from Tullamarine to the suburb in south eastern Melbourne where I lived with Ben and Katie was quite a long one and the freeway and other major roads congested. On the way back from the airport towards Melbourne city I could see the tall buildings that dominated the skyline - the Eureka Tower, the Rialto, Bourke Place, the distinctive black Melbourne Central building and the tall art deco towers at the eastern end of Collins Street among many others - but the skyscrapers seemed to get no closer as I got caught in the traffic, never getting higher than third gear before stopping again.

Finally though I got through the traffic jam on the Tullamarine Freeway and back to my house, where my cat greeted me with a concerned meow and looked for the kids. She had seen them leaving with their bags and was most put out, not liking any changes to her routine. "Come on puss, let's get you some tea," I said, getting out a can of cat food and scooping some into her bowl, the cat's impatient calls indicating that I wasn't performing this task to the speed and efficiency required.

I had regretted my decision not go visit the ladies room at the busy airport as I was busting now. Kicking off the white sandals I had been wearing, I made my way to the toilet, closing and locking the door behind me, a habit even though alone in the house tonight aside from the cat, and this would be the way until the kids got back.

It was quite a warm day across Victoria therefore my attire of a short little summer dress with a pink and purple floral pattern. Despite being 43-years-old and turning 44 later in the year and having had two pregnancies when younger, I still had the figure to carry off clothes like this. Standing in front of the toilet, I lifted my dress to show that my knickers also had a floral pattern - white bikini style panties with lots of different colored flowers - I definitely was a girly girl given my tastes in clothes and underwear.

Sliding my knickers down to my ankles, I sat down on the toilet with my knees slightly open, and if any voyeur was taking a peek at me while I was on the toilet he would have seen that the curls of hair on my female mound proved that my long red hair was definitely my natural color. I immediately began messing around with my phone - playing games like Candy Crush, checking a social media account and watching cat videos on Youtube. In the late 2000s as mobile phones changed from flip phones to smart phones with technology we couldn't even have imagined in the 1990s I swore that I would never be one of those people who was constantly on their phone, yet here I was a decade later sitting on the loo with my knickers around my ankles unable to look away from my phone.

As I reached for some toilet paper my phone demonstrated one of its many other uses - receiving and making telephone calls - when the ring tone sounded. My attention going back to the phone's screen, I frowned as it was my older sister Rhonda's caller ID that came up. I considered just ignoring the call, let Rhonda leave a message and call her back when I had been to the toilet and washed my hands, but that probably wasn't an option. Rhonda, as she had proven many times in the past, was not the type of person to leave messages, she would just ring back over and over again until I answered. Maybe tonight she just had a quick query and the call would be over soon? From knowing my sister I doubted this, but I answered the phone anyway.

"Hello Rhonda?" I asked.

"Emily, is that you?" came my sister's response, her voice sounding harried.

Rhonda could have seen that my name - Emily Jane Ridley - would have been showing on the screen of her phone and being sisters she should have recognized my voice after more than 40 years - but she clarified who she was speaking to as she always did.

"Yes, it's me Rhonda."

"Emily, are you okay to speak now?"

I looked down at my bare feet and lowered knickers. "Um, actually Rhonda it's not really ..."

"Good then." My sister never listened to me anyway, and soon I was subjected to what seemed like an endless monologue of doom and disaster from Rhonda, during which she never took so much of a breath of air. All I could do was sit on the toilet and listen to the melodrama that had befallen my sister that day, glancing at the toilet roll while all the time wishing that I could be left alone to do the obvious in peace and privacy.

But getting weird phone calls while I was on the toilet was not a first for me. Last year, a very upset and extremely effeminate sounding male teacher who taught my son English in school called me, horrified that Ben had written a report on a book the class were studying in which he referred to a gay male character as a poof or poofter throughout. The pedantic and prissy English teacher was up on his high horse, clearly blaming me for the unfortunate choice of terms used by my son, obviously thinking I taught him that and therefore was a contender for Victoria's worst mother. He had no idea that as he was speaking to me that I was sitting on the toilet with my knickers down around my ankles, and in fact the toilet was probably the best place for me as he gave me the shits.

Lucky he didn't teach my daughter's social studies class in primary school some years before that, when the kids had to write a report on an obscure country for geography and read it out in front of the class. Katie had chosen the Central African country of Niger and had done a pretty good job of writing the assignment, but what nobody knew until too late was that Katie didn't know that the I in Niger was pronounced how one would pronounce the I in tiger, lion or iron; but thought it was pronounced like the I in digger, bigger or rigger. When I got that call from the school however I was not on the loo, but rather sitting at my desk at work, colleagues overhearing me say, "What do you mean my daughter is a racist?" on my way out of the office talking on my phone.

Rhonda kept going on and on and on in her usual melodramatic way. The way she was carrying on it was like there was some terrible pandemic wreaking havoc upon Melbourne. I tried to get a few words in edgeways but as usual was not successful as trying to interject upon my sister when she was speaking was like trying to swim against a tsunami.

Finally though, the 95 to 5 percent conversation with Rhonda wrapped up and I was able to get off the phone. Finishing on the toilet, I stood up and flushed it, then pulled up my knickers, smoothed down my dress and left the lavatory. While washing my hands in the adjacent bathroom, I thought about how my situation had changed so quickly. I had thought I would be spending ten days at home alone while my kids were away with their father. Now, I would be playing host to the party responsible for causing my sister so much anxiety in the form of her 18-year-old black sheep son, my nephew Cody and he would be arriving very soon.

*

I finished making up the spare bedroom when I heard the ride share car pull up, and Cody's voice as he got out and the door closed. Walking towards the front door, I thought about my sister, her son and how the odd way genetics worked in our family.

In my immediate family, we were a very diverse group genetically. Mum was a blonde with blue eyes and this had been passed on to Rhonda, while my tall father had dark brown hair and brown eyes that had been passed on to our very tall younger brother Paul. I had picked up the recessive genes for red hair and green eyes that floated around in Mum's family. So despite us being close in age, with Rhonda being born in 1974, me in 1975 and Paul in 1976, we looked nothing alike as siblings, with all of us having different colored hair, eyes, and height with Rhonda and I both of average height but Paul much taller. Our complexions also varied; Paul was tanned and had an olive complexion like Dad, Rhonda normal Caucasian skin tone like Mum and as a redhead I was very fair skinned.

I heard Cody ring the front doorbell, and walked on my bare feet to answer it. If a person had heard Rhonda's conversation with me, they would expect the young man to turn up on my doorstep to be some scrawny, surly bogan kid dressed in an offensive black tee-shirt and dirty jeans, perhaps a mullet hairstyle and tattoos and maybe piercings. However, this was wrong. Cody had zero tattoos or piercings and looked anything like a problem teenager. Standing six feet three with dark hair and brown eyes, Cody had a muscular figure and the intelligent, articulate and popular VCE student was a star at Australian Rules football. With handsome, rustic good looks common on Australian men years ago but diminishing in recent years Cody looked like he would be a source of pride to any family. How could he be a black sheep? The answer - that branch of my dysfunctional family.

Opening the front door, Cody was dressed in a football tee-shirt, jeans and running shoes and carrying two bags containing his clothes and other personal effects, and my nephew gave me a charming smile and polite greeting as I let him in. "Hi Aunty Emily, thanks for letting me stay here."

"That's okay Cody, it's my pleasure," I said, embracing my nephew who towered over me. "I've set up the spare room for you. I'll just give you a hand with your things."

Neither of us discussed the reason for Cody coming to stay with me for a week as we put his things in the spare room. "Would you like a tea or coffee?" I asked as we walked back to the kitchen.

"Tea please," said Cody, staying with me in the kitchen as I made two cups. Again, we did not discuss the reasons for my nephew coming to stay with me at such short notice, but talked about Ben and Katie going to Queensland for a holiday with their father today, and how they would probably be close to Brisbane by now.

The tea made, Cody and I went into the living room, where we sat and again made small talk about the weather and sport, before Cody smiled at me and said, "Well Aunty Emily, I guess you're glad it's me come to stay with you not my sister."

I smiled back. "You were the one who said it not me, Cody."

"Yeah, but you agree you'd rather have me staying than Tamara?" laughed Cody.

Once again I smiled. "I refuse to answer that question on the grounds it might incriminate me."

Cody laughed at my answer, and I thought about Cody's younger sister Tamara, who was 15 turning 16 this year although it seemed she had been alive far longer. I of course loved my own kids, and loved my nephew Cody. My younger brother Paul and his wife Lisa, who now lived in Geelong, and like Rhonda and I had a teenage son and daughter Zac and Laura, who I also loved. But my niece Tamara? Harsh as it was, I never had any time for her. She was the biggest pain in the arse I had ever met in my life. When I was 18 I was walking down the street one day when a paper wasp flew up my skirt and stung me on my bum through my knickers. I thought that was a pain in the arse, but nothing compared to the pain the arse Rhonda would give birth to in 2003.

But why was Tamara such a pain in the bum? Well this could be traced back to her upbringing by her parents Rhonda and her husband Sven, and the story goes back even further to our own childhood growing up in suburban Melbourne in the late 1970s, through the 1980s and into the early 1990s.

As well as our genetics being distributed very differently, so too were our talents and abilities. It wasn't unusual to see two young sisters dancing in front of the TV to songs on kids' shows and other programs, and Rhonda and I were no different when we were really little kids. I just seemed to have a natural ability to pick up the choreography and rhythm of the dances, and dreamed of being a professional dancer when I grew up.

My maternal grandmother, now sadly deceased like all my grandparents, was a professional piano player and singer and would entertain us by playing songs when she took care of us. Coupled with my natural dancing ability, I would sing along with Nanna as she played the piano, seemingly having a gift for singing and an ear for music. I absolutely loved singing and dancing and learning to play the piano with Grandma, and it wasn't long before my parents and grandparents said, "Emily has real talent," and enrolled me in dancing and singing classes from age five, and I couldn't have been happier, counting down the minutes each week until Mum drove me there.

However, there was a dark cloud on the horizon and that was that my sister Rhonda had the grace and style of a sack of potatoes when dancing, was tone deaf and her singing voice sounded like a cat and a cockatoo having a dispute over which of them got to use a chainsaw. She tried hard to emulate what came so easy to me, but it didn't make any difference and I could feel her resentment growing. I felt really bad for her, and being a child and obviously naïve, thought I could help my sister learn the basic dance moves and how to hold a tune so she could come to dancing and singing classes with me and then she would be happy too.

My young age and that I was obviously no expert in dance and music was one of the reasons this theory was false and the second sadly was the chasm in ability between my sister and I. It failed dismally to my sadness, and to Rhonda's ever-growing envy. Even if Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Donald O'Connor and Ginger Rogers had teamed up and travelled to Melbourne to give my sister dance lessons, they probably would have had to concede defeat and suggest politely, "Hey Rhonda, how about you try sports instead?"

Trying sports for Rhonda should have been a good idea. After all we lived in Melbourne, the sporting capital of Australia and Dad had been a great footballer and cricketer and Mum a good swimmer. I liked sports at school too, my dance training made me fit and I liked athletics. Unfortunately, despite sporting talent running through the family DNA on both sides, none of it seemed to reach Rhonda's genes. She tried several sports, both team and individual, and failed at all of them. As with the dancing and singing, it wouldn't have been so bad if there wasn't a younger sibling very good at sports.

Our brother Paul was an absolute champion young footballer and cricketer, basically good at any sports he tried and he seemed set for stardom. Like with me, he felt bad for Rhonda and made the mistake of trying to help her be good at sports, which was not a success and only led to friction and resentment on Rhonda's part.

There was the hope that perhaps Rhonda might be artistic, as Mum had a wonderful ability to paint in water colors, mainly plants, flowers and animals. That ability was not passed to Rhonda. Nor was academia. She tried hard in class, but was a C average student with rare B's and D's if the subject was one where she had no ability, like PE or art. There was an attempt to get Rhonda into girl guides so she wouldn't feel so bad at being left out, but this didn't work either. She didn't click with the other girls, failed to get a single merit badge and left after less than six months.

So that was life for us growing up, with Paul and I thankful for and working hard towards our talents, and a resentful and jealous older sister sadly with no talents at all, not having any close friends and last picked for teams at school. That our cousins both from Mum and Dad's siblings and their spouses all had interests and talents too was another thing that made Rhonda feel more of an outsider in the family. There were other points of contention as well, Rhonda failed to learn to ride a bike until age nine unlike Paul and I who could do it by age five, and then there was the small matter of looks.

Paul had Dad's handsome looks, and while Rhonda did inherit Mum's blonde hair and blue eyes, Mum was a slim and attractive woman while Rhonda was much as I hated to say it a dumpy girl very plain in looks and I'd heard some mean-spirited boys say she had a 'pudding face'. In contrast people were always telling me how pretty I was and I felt bad for Rhonda. Our paternal grandmother was a dressmaker by profession and she had a productive small business designing and creating children's clothes. She would often get me to me her model when we visited. But she never asked Rhonda.

As I watched Rhonda brood in resentment at the medals and trophies Paul and I had won and for which Dad had to put up extra shelves I would try and cheer her up, but my sister's response was always to snap at me 'go away and stop bothering her', so in the end I didn't bother.

As we approached adolescence, maybe Rhonda's jealousy would have petered out had I not had the most amazing thing ever happen to me in my life. In Victoria there was a popular variety show called 'Melbourne's Rising Stars' which screened every Saturday between 7 and 9 am and was a show that teenagers and adults could also enjoy, not just the kids who were the prime audience for shows televised in that timeslot. It was hosted by a married couple named Phil and Jenny who had started the show in 1975 and it was always a ratings winner for the channel.

Episodes would include interviews with guests, information segments and a clown who did magic tricks and presented an amusing weather report each week. But most of all, it concentrated on developing young performers aged approximately between 10 and 17 and therefore a company of 20 talented youngsters who would perform songs, dance routines and act out comedy sketches. Mostly the show was filmed at the studios, however sometimes it would go to locations in Melbourne and Regional Victoria and film a show, and the kids on the show would also perform at concerts and community events.