Sharon island excursion 🍆❤️

I was staring out to sea, wondering if what had happened at breakfast was my fault, when my uncle came out of the hotel and asked me to go with him.
"No chance," I said, doing my best to sound firm as I pulled my wrap tighter round my shoulders. Not only had I no wish to go on a jet ski, they scared me. Probably down to a motorcycle accident I'd had as a kid. Twelve years old, fooling about with the guy next door. Grandma was not well pleased. I'd been terrified. He'd hit the curb, I'd fallen off and grazed my knees and elbow.
Why do older men want me to sit on things with them? First the guy next door -- he was always pestering me to try out this bike, or that bike -- he was always buying motorbikes. Retarded juvenile. Must have been close to forty! Now my uncle was doing the same thing. I didn't like them. I felt uncomfortable just looking at them, never mind sitting astride them. When things are between my legs I like to feel in control... sorry, that didn't come out quite as intended, though I guess it was basically true. I had just turned 19. Still a virgin. But no longer quite as proud of it as I had once been.
(Was something wrong with me?)
"Don't be a wuss. You'll love it," said my uncle, striding past, paying no attention to my objections.
He was paying a beach boy from a thick wad of cash he had in his shirt pocket, evil looking jet ski glistening in the shallows beyond -- as if I was going with him and that was that.
Fat chance!
"Take me!" chanted my youngest cousins in unison, now either side of him. Yeah, I thought, take them! So he did. One on the front and one on the back. I watched them go. They loved it!
I wandered back up the beach, took off my wrap, put it on the grass, stretched out to work on my tan ... and thought about breakfast again.
'The youngsters' -- as my uncle calls us -- were first down to breakfast. I was in charge, as the oldest. A breakfast buffet. Thick-leaved tropical plants surrounded the sides of the open restaurant. Tile on the floors, potted plants between the tables, beach and sea beyond. It was warm. The four of us wore swim suits. Mine was a yellow bikini, first time I'd worn it. I'd bought it especially for this trip. Yellow. French. When I put it on in front of the mirror this morning, it looked more brief than I'd thought, but compared to the tiny outfits worn by the young Thai girls also staying in the hotel -- most with Westerners twice their age -- it was modest!
Over my bikini I wore a diaphanous beach wrap my uncle bought me last night in the hotel shop as we were checking in. The boys each got a toy. Sylvia, a Barbie Doll in a tropical outfit. My uncle was generous that way.
We were in Pattaya, Thailand. Palm trees and sun and girls in tiny bikinis, and an endless blue sea dotted with islands and boats and tinged all over -- or was this my imagination -- with the sexual undercurrent of what was said to be Bangkok's weekend playground. (I had read the guide books. And over the past couple of years I had developed a pretty fair imagination where sexual undercurrents were concerned -- a rampant hormones thing!)
My aunt and uncle arrived at breakfast five minutes after us. We were pretty much done but happy to go and get more. Uncle took the seat next to me at the end of the table. Auntie the other end, flanked by the boys. It was a table for four but we'd grabbed two extra chairs so's we all could sit together. That's when it happened, or rather, one minute in is when it happened -- or maybe 'started' is a better way to put it.
"Let me rub some sunscreen on you," my aunt called out, interrupting my memory of breakfast. It was the second offer this morning. Her husband had offered, ten minutes back, before she came out, but I'd declined, covered myself with the parrot wrap to show I wasn't going to expose myself to the sun. Actually I was reluctant to expose myself to him.
My last two years it's been like that. Since I started to become aware that I was... how should I put it... 'grown up.' At least in places! Added to which, I'm not used to having a man around. I never knew my dad, and my mother passed away when I was young so it was always just Grandma and me. My grandmother brought me up. 'Properly' as she puts it. Meaning church twice a week and prayers every night. The only 'man' who ever got close, ever seen me in my bedroom for example, is my Uncle.
Has this made me touchy on the subject?
"There, that's better," said my Aunt, putting the finishing touches to rubbing sunscreen on my back, then patting my shoulder. "We don't want to burn that gorgeous body of yours, now do we?"
There had always been a bit of the slut in my aunt. Grandma would not have approved of a comment like that! But I was used to it by now. Besides, it went with the perv in my uncle, who never missed an opportunity to look, or touch, or kiss, of hug.
Me.
Back to my wrap, and work on my tan, and think about breakfast some more... Uncle got himself a plate of pastries. Bald head, red face, poor shave, huge shirt with tropical flowers, huge shorts the size of a tent, hairy knees, broad calves, and sandals the size of fishing boats. He plonked himself down at the end of the table next to me, legs spread as always, and I suddenly found I had an uninvited knee planted against the side of my leg...
What to do?
Trips anywhere were a rarity when I was growing up. Grandma didn't have that sort of money. My Uncle, so he says, had sold a block of condos somewhere upstate, so he and my Aunt wanted to bring me with them on this holiday, partly to celebrate my birthday -- I'd just turned eighteen -- and partly as a reward for getting into college -- I started next month -- and partly because Uncle Marv, as he boastfully put it, was 'rolling in cash.'
How he'd come to sell a condo when he ran a used car lot, no-one had explained, and as Grandma had brought me up not to question my elders, I hadn't asked. When he phoned to put the invitation to Grandma she had missed the name of where we were going, but he said it was 'somewhere warm' and that I should 'buy a bikini.' (He sent money for that too.) So I bought a bikini. It was only when we reached Baltimore airport that I discovered we were going overseas.
All that money spent on me entitled him to... what, exactly?
Did it entitle him to expect that should his bare knee come into contact with the outside of my bare leg, that I would snatch my leg away, as if he repulsed me? That hardly showed gratitude. Was this all in my mind? Was I so self-absorbed that I believed every man who came close wanted into my pants? (And what did I know about that in any case?)
Which is when he got up to fetch toast he'd put in the toaster.
I sat there with a leg turned numb. A leg I hadn't snatched away from contact with his... hadn't moved at all. I wondered whether I should leave it where it was NOW, to show I didn't find his touch repulsive. I didn't for a moment want him to think that. Do I move it to safety to avoid the embarrassment of not being able to make up my mind?
I left it where it was.
He returned. His bare knee returned to the side of my leg, though lower down this time... or so it seemed. I continued my breakfast. Didn't react. His knee beneath the table dropped further until it was practically under my leg, as if he wanted to lift it. I think I had decided at this stage that although such skin to skin contact might be unpleasant, to move my leg away in an obvious manner would be ungrateful, or impolite, or even an overreaction -- around our table there were plenty of heavily-built and balding Westerners, in much more obvious contact with scantily clad Thai girls ... and they were not complaining. So I stretched my toes, lifted my knee, and let his knee beneath my leg. I then relaxed my leg so it spread over his knee. This seemed to make him happy. I got a lovely smile.
A little later, when I wanted to go to the buffet for more juice and fruit, I wondered what the protocol was. My right leg was over his left knee. His left hand was laid casually on my knee as he listed, with a passion unusual for him, what he loved about the Orient. When a gap appeared in his delivery I said, polite as I'd been taught,
"Can you excuse me a second, Uncle. I want to get more fruit."
Like a perfect gentleman he gave me another lovely smile, lowered his knee from under my leg, and helped by moving my leg with his hand, before taking that too from my knee. I was free to go.
In fact it didn't help, I realized, when at the fruit bar. Now I was left with the dilemma of what to do on my return. As I chose some pineapple slices and mango, I began to wish I'd simply said I was finished and wanted to go to the beach. But I hadn't done that so I had to return to the table. What would he expect when I returned? If I sat well away from him -- I could take one of my cousins' seats as the boys had left and gone to the beach -- then what would he think? That I was ungrateful? That simple physical contact was something I had a problem with? (A teenage Thai girl just three tables away was sitting on fat red German man's lap feeding him a banana for goodness sake!) They already thought of me as a bit of a nerd -- sheltered upbringing, many of Grandma staid opinions -- so this would just support that opinion.
GET A LIFE!
I returned to the table with my fruit and sat where I had before, chair much closer than it needed to be now that there were just the four of us at the table. Despite that, I sat in the chair in the position I'd left it and put my leg back where it had been. His knee was still there so I stretched my toes, lifted my knee and upper leg, and made it... how do I put this... 'available' to him, should he wish to return to our previous position.
Which he did.
He listed a few more things about Thailand that were better than his Baltimore home. My knee was eased further over his. His broad hand patted my knee now and then, whenever he emphasized a point. Once or twice the pat was a little further up my leg, or so it seemed. But again this was merely, it seemed, his way of emphasizing a point. And sometimes the squeezes were more generous than they needed to be. But they were gentle. And I got a greater number of smiles from my uncle that I can ever remember having received in the past, so I let it be, and smiled back.
At one point his knee lifted my leg so high my toes came off the floor -- and my legs are longer than his by more than a couple of inches! Then Auntie said we were finished and it was time to go. So we went. He didn't complain. Nothing about his demeanor suggested he wanted to keep the contact going, or that the contact had been anything more than him being friendly.
"Okay cupcake, you're next."
My Uncle was back.
I opened my eyes. The round red face; the close-set black-currants of his eyes; the hair on his chest -- I don't think I'd realized how hairy he was, although I'd seen him in his shorts before. His shirt hung open. He was big. Not just his pot belly, but all over. Even his shoulders were big. There was nothing 'ripped' about my uncle, he was just big, in a lumbering water-buffalo way.
He'd never called me 'cupcake' before. No-one had. Was this the result of breakfast? The result of me letting him lift my leg off the floor and letting him casually touch me? The fact that I would permit such things -- hadn't I? Yet out of the corner of my eye, not 20 feet away, the fat German from breakfast had his pretty Thai Girl laid out on top of him, actually lying on top of him, front to front. He on his back, she on his front. Not something you'd see in Baltimore! Was this the norm in this part of the world? Was my uptight reaction to physical contact... childish... backward... naïve?
"I don't really like those things," I said, leaning up on my elbows, looking at the jetski in the shallows, one of my cousins restraining the beast.
"Come on, get a move on!" my cousin shouted from the shallows.
At me. As if I was the one holding things up, as if he wanted to go again but his father said they must share the fun with their cousin, as if I would be mean if I didn't 'hurry up.' Was I being mean to all of them if I didn't join the fun? Grandma always taught me that if you're about to react in a way someone else may find unpleasant then you should count to ten, and then be pleasant instead.
So I did. I smiled up at my Uncle and said, "Just a quick run round the bay?"
Another happy smile from my uncle. His eyes had come to mine by way of my breasts, but that was just his way. I was used to that. He was always looking at me. I'd got used to it over the years. And it was nothing compared to what was going on between the nearby German and Thai girl. (German was one of my languages at school. I'd heard him speak German to the girl, who'd replied half in German, half in English, though her giggles were clearly Thai!)
What happened next surprised me. My uncle reached a hand down to help me up. It made me feel good to be treated this way. To be treated like a lady. Had my approval rating soared since breakfast? I took his hand. Stood up. I am taller than he is, so I looked down on him slightly, and my weight is distributed differently - I have a good figure - but as my Aunt was quick to point out, most girls my age have.
"C'mon," said my uncle, still with my hand in his, taking me off down the beach. There sat the jet ski. Yamaha written large on its purple flank.
"Take me. Take me," said his daughter, catching up with us. The boys were back up the beach chattering away to each other, filled with excitement from their ride. Why did they like it so much?
"I'll take you next, sweetie," my uncle said to his daughter, pulling me into the shallows. "First your grown up cousin wants to see the island out there." He pointed at the island I'd admired from the breakfast table. I said it would be nice to go there but I'd meant in a boat, not on the back of a jetski.
Once next to the jetski, he asked if I wanted to drive, which was probably the last thing on earth I wanted. No, I said. Did I want to sit in front or behind, at which my mind did the uncharitable thing: Where would I be safest from his touch?
Grandma always taught me not to think bad of people. My uncle was keen to take me to the island, that was clear. So surely I should accept graciously as Grandma had taught me. My eyes were on the jet-black jetski. It could hardly be dangerous, after all my two young cousins had just been out -- though I don't think they went as far as the island. They'd obviously enjoyed it. And he was right, I had said I wanted to go to the island. I thought he may have wanted me along on the trip merely to babysit the cousins -- which I was happy to do anyway -- but maybe he was just being kind. If I was a generous person couldn't I give him the benefit of the doubt and stop being such a tight-ass?
I sat behind.
Once he was astride the beast I swung my leg over the saddle behind him, as instructed.
"Wrap your arms around my waist," he said.
He gave it a little gas to show me that if I didn't hang on round his waist I'd fall off the back. I put my arms round him, my body angled back, away from his ample ass.
Whoooom!
Jeeesus!
The wind was something else, charging into the waves like this. Which is when I realized I'd left my wrap on the beach, and my groin had my uncle's ass pressed hard against it -- but I could do nothing about it. I had to hang on for dear life. I rested my cheek against his back and said a cautionary prayer.
How would God feel, I wondered, about me praying not to die in the next half hour when I was pressed, half naked, against my uncle's broad back with my hands inside his shirt around the front, holding on to his skin for dear life... and becoming aware of the vibration against my pussy, and the fact that what I had between my legs was warm and male, and that the smooth inside of my legs was pressed against the hair on the outside of his?
More than a few Hail Marys.
The trip to the island couldn't have taken more than ten minutes but it seemed to take a lifetime. I'd become hugely aware of the fact that it was my uncle between my legs. The machine's vibration, the feel of him in front of me, and the bench vibrating seat beneath me, the heat and hair of his legs against the inside of mine, the cold wind and spray whipping round me, the warmth and broadness of his back against my shoulders and cheek, and the fact that my arms were wrapped around him... complicated!
I'd moved my hands up so they were not on his shorts, which didn't seem the best place to put them -- knowing what was in them as it were! I'd spread them on his middle, just below his ribs. But owing to the bumping and jumping of the craft -- and wanting something more substantial to hold -- my right hand had climbed higher. My fingers were now tangled in the thatch of hair covering his chest. It was instinctive. A larger than usual wave caused the craft to buck and rear, but once we were level and I realized where my hand was, I found I was faced with a question similar to the one I'd faced during breakfast -- if I moved it away, would I in effect be signalling displeasure? Disapproval? Disgust? That was hardly justified. What, after all, had he done wrong?
Perhaps for the same reasons I left my leg where it was beneath the breakfast table, I left my hand on his chest. I doubt he even noticed. Judging from the running commentary he gave me over his shoulder -- about the jet ski, the island, the state of the sea, how pleased he was I was with them on their holiday -- there was no sign he even noticed. Which seemed to confirm I'd done the right thing in leaving it there. After all, I hadn't put it there so I could feel the hair on his chest.
We approached the island and slowed, then stopped. I hesitated, faced with the same problem, again: I was pressed against him, arms around him, cheek against his shirt collar, yet now that we were stopped I didn't need to be this close, but to what degree could I move away? My position against him was not his fault. If I broke contact would he be offended? Would it suggest I disliked him?
I didn't.
"It's a lovely island but I thought there'd be a beach," he said, seemingly unaware I was as close as I was, and pressed so tight against him. I lifted my head to look over his shoulder. I left my hands where they were, my arms around him. Resisted the temptation to draw my groin back from his butt or open my legs. If he was unaware of my proximity then I shouldn't draw his attention to it. Pulling away surely would.
We were getting on fine -- don't spoil it!
"Maybe there's one around the other side?" I suggested, for there was certainly no beach on this side. But no sooner had I said it than I realized that might not have been too clever. Did I want him to go around the other side? Out of sight of the hotel?
"You're right," he said, delighted at the suggestion. "Let's go take look!"
Whoooom!
Jeeesus!
I grabbed a tighter hold of him and felt bad about my miserable opinion of my uncle -- all men perhaps. Why couldn't I just accept people did things for good reasons? What evidence did I have he wanted to take me out of view of the hotel for bad things? Absolutely none! It was all in my head. He was being kind, including me in the fun, going out of his way to make sure I was involved to the same degree his family was, that was all!
Get that through your thick skull, sharon!
As we rounded the island I pressed myself harder against him to show him, I think -- and perhaps show myself -- that this proximity thing was no big deal; that I was as okay with it as he was ... even if perhaps, deep down, I wasn't
There was a beach the other side. And our German friend from the hotel and his childlike girlfriend, whose bikini made mine look like a burka! How did they get here so fast? I looked away.
"They seem pretty friendly," said my uncle with a chuckle.
They were in the shallows, he on a similar jet ski to ours, she on his lap, astride him, facing him, delicate arms round his neck.
Whether it was the fact that there was no-one here but us, the four of us, two 'couples' you might say, and the females were both young, and both showing a lot more flesh than clothes, and the males were exhibiting a need to touch the females -- breakfast surely suggested that my uncle wanted to feel me -- there was a sexual undercurrent present that was hard to miss. One could argue that I was at an age where hormones tended to zing much more than loll, but the musky scent of sex was in the air in this tiny bay. The man between my legs moved left, rotating against my crotch.
Zing!
"You wanna go?" my uncle said over his shoulder.
"To drive?" I stared at him.
"Sure. Piece of cake."
But it wasn't the piece of cake bit that worried me, it was the hardness of hip now settled in my groin, and the side of his leg against the inside of mine. I was astride and the movement... warm, male, muscular, hairy, combined with the gentle vibration of the idling beast beneath made it a potent mix.
"Okay," I said, needing to get him out of there, needing to close my legs, even if only for a moment or two.
"Climb around me."
How?
"C'mon, round this way, take my hand, hold onto my shoulders."
"What if I fall?"
"You won't. I have my arm around your waist."
Which he had. I stood just behind him, both feet on the running board, legs straight, tensed, giving my pussy a much needed squeeze. My hand was on his shoulder, his arm around my waist, hand spread on the skin, holding me against him, his cheek not a million miles from my left boob.
Which is when a breaking wave and our dumb jetski collided.
Was that my fault?
Whoever's fault it was, I lost my balance and fell against him. Next thing I know I'm draped over him, one arm around his neck the other round his head, a wayward boob against his face. His other hand had reached up to steady me and ended up gripping my other boob.
"Don't drop me," was all I could think to say, as the toes of my right foot slipped off the heaving craft's running board and into the water. The hand on my waist slipped to my butt, catching my fall. He swung towards me, broad knee almost knocking my other foot into the water.
I scrabbled for a grip, grabbed at his shoulders and head as my second foot slipped from the violently rocking jetski. Then I was flat against him, holding on for dear life. His knee between my legs kept me from falling in the water. A hand round my butt held me up. I held onto him equally tight. One of my feet, stretched left, had found the rail of the ski and held on then my other, wide right, did the same. Fall averted, I let out my breath. Then breathed in. And out.
A snapshot moment: heartrate no doubt heightened by the prospect of a fall -- though thinking about it later, it hardly would have been disastrous. I can swim, so can my uncle, and the water was warm -- but there had been an instinctive reaction to prevent the fall by both of us, and now that we'd succeeded -- a joint effort as it were -- in averting the 'disaster', we took a moment to relax (and thank our lucky stars!) It was the center core of this moment that offered the snapshot and caused the 'zing.'
I was astride my uncle's thigh, one toe right, the other foot left. Both knees bent. Putting the weight of my groin onto the top of his thigh, the front of me pressed hard against him. My arms were round his neck. My chest had slipped roughly from the level of his face, past his urgently turning shoulder and settled against his hairy chest. His arms were round me one hand cupping a buttock the other on the center of my back, fingertips where the strap of my top should have been, which is where a problem lay. A problem fighting for attention.
It was fighting with a bunch of other stuff: the effect of a broad, warm, hard and unexpectedly hairy thigh -- belonging to my uncle -- lodged firmly between my legs. The sensation of muscle and hair crushed pretty aggressively against my much more tender breasts. The feel of his rough unshaven cheek against my smoother version. The gasps from his mouth into on my ear. The knowledge of where his hands were and that they were spread around me.
But the problem won through in time.
Mainly through my nipples it has to be said. Nipples that tend to be sensitive. The top of my bra had slipped off. It was now round my throat. Which meant that what was pressed against my uncle's chest hair was his niece's naked breasts. Which meant I had to stay as I was, pressed against him, until I figured out what to do next. After all, I could hardly sit back and expose my breasts? Although I don't think he would have objected. He was always trying to catch me in the shower, or just coming out of it -- and once or twice had -- but I usually had a towel to throw over myself. This time I didn't.
"You okay, honey," he said softly into my ear, keeping his arms around me, pressing me hard against him -- though this was probably in response to the force with which I held onto him! His head eased back. I did the same. Our faces an inch apart. He said it again, "You okay, honey?" He'd never called me 'honey' before.
I nodded, half smile, "Yeah," I said.
He gave me a peck on the tip of my nose. I blinked. I'd seen him do that to his wife. It made me feel ... adult, I think. I smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine," I said again. But as I said it, I wondered how I could be. I was still sitting astride his leg, pressed hard against him, my thigh between his legs, naked breasts pancaked flat against a much more muscular chest than I expected. This was hardly an uncle and niece embrace. Too much holding, and pressing, and nakedness, and open legs.
But how could I break it when I was topless?
He was looking at me. Eyes an inch away. The tips of our noses touched. I could sense the wheels turning in his brain: 'I have,' he might have been thinking, 'a soft young female in my arms, intimately close, and I am...'
The family joke was how my uncle always tried to seduce other women, especially young, good looking ones... well, that was him. So I realized that the position I was in -- the position he had me in -- would no doubt cause a response. How could it not?
I had to break free.
I had to face the problem of my naked breasts, expose them if necessary, but I had to get out of his grasp.
While I was steeling myself for the inevitable -- baring breasts to my uncle -- although my breasts are quite nice -- but still, baring them to my uncle didn't seem right. He kissed me on the lips. Not a hard kiss. Not particularly urgent. The sort of peck he'd given my nose earlier. And the kind of kiss he gives Grandma on the cheek when he sees her. It was over before it started. He gazed at me kindly.
"Didn't mean to frighten you," he said, as if he were talking to my young cousins. I smiled back. He kissed me again. On the lips. A little longer this time. Long enough for me to feel I had to do something. So I pursed my lips a little against his. Eyes again on mine.
"But we saved you," It was almost a whisper. I'd rarely seen him look so loving, not even with his wife. Then he kissed me again.
I felt I had to kiss him back. Not really 'had to' so much as... should, I suppose. He was being so kind and thoughtful. And he'd stopped me from falling into the sea. His hand on my back was so gentle as it moved over my skin. The strong hand that cupped my buttock eased me gently into him some more. I could feel the hardness in his shorts against my thigh, between his legs, knee bent, foot trailing in the water. Another break from a kiss. Another loving look from one or two inches away.
"You're so sweet," he said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe how sweet I was, though he'd never suggested it before. And before I could put my plan of withdrawal into action -- did I have a plan? -- his face came close again and I knew he was going to kiss me again. I think I told myself I should be doing something, about these kisses -- what was this, his fourth? I was also telling myself I had to break away from him, even though I was topless. And the two sort of got... tangled up.
This time his mouth was open over my lips. Then I felt his tongue against my lips. Not pushy or anything, but softly stroking the lips. Especially where they came together; the cleft between the top lip and the bottom. 'Open your lips,' the action seemed to say, then his lips eased back, and he did say that, and before I could reply, or object, or suggest we should go back to the hotel, his mouth was back on mine and his tongue was slipped in the cleft between my lips, and I let my lips drift apart.
Thinking about it later I wondered why I did that.
Parted my lips.
Let in his tongue.
I think it was because he was being so caring. He'd stopped me falling in the sea. And knowing my Uncle's attraction to women I was -- was I not? -- surely tempting him by staying in the position I was in. I had my arms around him. It was my breasts that were pressed against his naked chest, shirt wide. It was my indecision on how I could draw away, my embarrassment at the thought of exposing my breasts that put my body so intimately close. What else could he do? What else could he think, but that I wanted him to do what he was doing.
I'd had a man's tongue in my mouth before. School play. The drama teacher showed me how I should react to being kissed. Saying that he wanted to shock me into action. It had certainly done that. But my uncle's tongue was not trying to shock me into anything. I felt it slip under my tongue and lift it gently. I felt he might well be trying to 'encourage' me to do... something else. He certainly wasn't trying to 'shock' me. In fact he was going very slowly. I suddenly wondered if he could feel that my breasts against his chest were bare? There was a bump as our jet ski grounded on the sand. I didn't see it coming, my eyes were closed. My uncle knew how to kiss!
So this was French kissing, I thought, a little absently, closing my eyes again once I'd seen what had caused the soft bump, aware that my tongue was now flattened under my uncle's. I was gently sucking it into my mouth. He sensed what I was doing and had gently drawn it out a ways then slowly pushed it back in. It was at this point that I sucked, as if granting some approval to the move, recognizing we were friends, woman to man sort of friends. And yes, still uncle and niece, but more... maturely ... connected than we had been. Had been this morning, for example.
We came up for air.
"Wow, sharon, sweetie. You make a man feel young!" His look was part smile, part wow, part awe.
The last two hit the button!
But enough. That was definitely enough. So I stepped back into the shallows, swept my hands up to cover my breasts -- fingertips seeking the top -- and tripped and fell backwards onto the sand. Flat on my back, arms out to each side, hair in the sea, breasts high and naked for the world to see -- where had the other couple gone?
My uncle smiled. Stepped off the beast. Reached down a hand to help me up. My face was beet red and felt hot. Boy had I made a mess of that! I resisted the temptation to cover my breasts as I let him help me up. My breasts are okay. Get used to it. No, in fact they're nice. I have good breasts. I pulled my bikini top over the parts of my breasts they could cover, to find the clasp at the back wouldn't close
"Here, let me help," my uncle said, still smiling. But the smile was kind.
I turned around and let him help, holding the front part in place.
I waited.
"Sweetie," he said. He'd called me that a lot today, never before, but here we were obviously friends. "The fastener's broken. A little bit's come out." More fumbling, the feel of his fingers against the skin of my back. "I can probably fix it..." it felt strange to have my uncle concerned about my clothing, I stayed still. I couldn't see the other two at their end of the beach. Perhaps they'd left. Would I have heard them?
"Nope ... can't. It'll have to wait until we get back to the hotel."
The contact went.
I turned around, still holding the top against my breasts with my hands.
There were the others. The girl on top... Jeeeeez.
I turned away.
"Yeah, I know," my uncle chuckled.
The fat middle-aged German was on his back on the sand not far from the water line, waves lapped around his feet. She sat astride him and, judging from their expressions and the way she moved her pelvis against him, he was fucking her. Or she was fucking him.
Was it legal to do it in public like that?
"So what'll I do?" I asked, staring down the beach the other way.
"Do without the top for a while," suggested my uncle.
WHAT?
But he moved past me, heading up the beach away from the rutting pair, as if it was really unimportant.
I watched him go then closed my mouth. I thought about the pair not far down the beach at behind me. Her top was off. The older man's hand was at one breast, kneading it roughly in time with his grunts. Maybe the rules were different here?
I released my nervous hold of my boobs, looked down and lifted the material away from my breasts. What was wrong with them? Nothing that I could see. I glanced at my uncle's departing figure. If the most important thing in his life right now was to see his niece's boobs, then he was disguising it well. I went over to the leering jet ski and draped the bikini top over its leering eyes.
Stupid machine!
That I had done the right thing was confirmed as soon as I caught up with my uncle. When he heard me, he turned and showed me what he'd found. He didn't even glance at my chest. I could have been dressed for church. Why was I making such a fuss about this? I resolved to stop behaving like a child. And I think it worked. I even stuck my chest out, just a little, and actually think I quite enjoyed being in the company of a man -- my uncle -- on an exotic beach like this, where another couple were happily... fucking... wearing nothing but a bikini bottom! If my bible class could see me now!
Where my uncle got his interest in streams and pools I don't know. It would not have struck me as obvious. But for the past ten minutes we'd been climbing up this stream. Big smooth rocks, pools here and there.
We stopped now and then to peer into crystal clear pools as my uncle talked about 'algae' and 'trout' and 'minerals, and 'maybe gold.' I could have told him you wouldn't find gold here. There was no gold in Thailand. (I'd read the guide book.)
At one point he absently brushed one of my breasts with the back of his hand. "Don't want to get them on you," he said. We were in a small clearing by a larger pool than we'd seen before. About ten yards across. I glanced down at my breasts. Funny how quickly I'd gotten used to having them uncovered. I quite liked it. I knew they looked nice. And it felt... free. Unfettered. Unconstrained.
"Don't want to get what on me?"
I looked up and just as I did, he reached forward a second time and gently brushed the back of his hand down my right breast. When his knuckles grazed my nipple -- boy, I felt it.
"Leaches," he said. "There are leaches here." He did it again, this time brushing his knuckles slowly over my nipple one way, then back the other.
My eyes were on my breast, and his hand, the back of it, ever so gently, brushed this way and that on the tip, where my nipple sat.
Zinging!
I looked at the tree... looking for leaches, or hiding my expression?
Being almost naked like this seemed to constitute a form of... almost 'pride' in exposure... together with the risk inherent in being practically naked so close to a man, especially one who obviously wanted me. I'd always thought he did. Animals in heat must experience something like this, the full zinging pride of arousal set against the imminent, dangerous, risk of attack. Did I want to be attacked? I knew I didn't, but the feelings it aroused, the risk, the po-ten-tial, was a definite turn-on... as was being willingly dressed in so little.
"Can we swim?" I found myself asking, partly to cover my embarrassment at the fact that the back of his hand was still softly brushing my breast, and my nipple, and the fact that I could think of no easy way to make him stop, other than being rude, or unpleasant -- and I didn't want to do that -- and partly because I couldn't think of anything else to say. My mind was off somewhere else, prey to the mood, like playing truant from school, worried you'd be found out, tingling from the risk. I suppose I also wanted him to say we could swim, it would give me an excuse to let me move away form him. I felt I must. Should.
Must.
(See how confused I'd become!)
"Why not?" he said, and smiled.
But I didn't step back from his hand. I didn't feel that would be right, or fair. The fact that I was half naked wasn't his fault. My breasts were free, available, bare, so there could hardly be any objection to his touching them. It was my uncle's way, he liked to touch. So, to remedy the situation, rather than pull away I reached my hand to his, took it, and drew him towards the pool. But it felt a little strange. As if, suddenly, I was in charge. The 19-year-old niece controlling the 40-something-year-old uncle, who was financing this trip. Why? Because I was female and practically naked?
Yes ... I think.
At the water's edge I gave him back his hand. He shrugged off his shirt and laid it on the small patch of grass by the edge then stretched out his hand. What did he want?
For a moment I thought he wanted to touch my breast again, but the hand was held too low... and then I got it! I reached out and retook his hand, and hand-in-hand we walked into the pool. It was cool, crystal clear, and had a perfume of herbs, fresh plants and minerals. I bent my knees, sunk in. It was heavenly. No more than three feet deep but the stones on the bottom were smooth as eggs. I ducked my head beneath the surface. Magical. We were still holding hands. I'd never felt so close to my uncle. All his grossness, rudeness and lecherous ways dissolved in the moment, and in the adult way he was treating me.
Sometime later, relaxed, sated at the peace and quiet and how nice my uncle was being, I lay on my back on his shirt on the grass by the side of the pool. He was stretched out beside me, turned towards me, up on an elbow looking down. He asked all sorts of questions, about me.
"What do you want to do with your life?"
"What do you like at school?"
"What do you look forward to in college?"
"What kind of foods do you like?"
He asked pretty near everything. He had never made so much fuss over me before. I felt as if I was the center of the universe, with a much older man -- my uncle no less -- giving me all his attention.
When he offered me his shirt on the grass to lie on I never thought to it on to cover my nakedness. I no longer thought of it as nakedness. It seemed to go with this place. This secret corner of ours. And this was a secret -- of that I was sure. I didn't think my uncle would tell his wife their niece had been with him here alone, wearing only her bikini bottoms. And I knew I would never tell Grandma. This was between the two of us. So when, as we talked, he casually ran his fingers over my tummy, I didn't think to object. This was a secret moment, why spoil it by being uptight.
Was that what it was in the real world? Being 'uptight?' Taking offense if we were touched by a member of the opposite sex? I could see the obvious objections, the risk of exploitation, worse still... force. So many hideous stories, so many horrible facts. But this was my uncle. And this was... here. So when, while talking about what I wanted to do with my life, his fingertips traced a gentle path from tummy... to belly button... to tummy, higher up... to breast, to nipple, and stayed there, circling it carefully, talking now and then, just an interjections, or a comment, or a smile, I went on with my answers as I had been, leaving him free to amuse himself with me, as he talked about me. It was a quid pro quo situation that seemed about as adult as it could be. Grown up. Comfortable in my own skin. So he wanted to touch me -- liked to touch me -- isn't that good? Isn't that what all girls want... to be wanted, touched, open with members of the opposite sex?
You feel that?" he asked, smiling down at me, his expression suggesting he liked me a lot.
"Yes," I confessed. I'd just thrust my breast -- instinctively, entirely unintended -- into the fingers that tantalized and toyed. My nipples had certainly not got any less sensitive since the last time I stroked them myself. If anything, much more so!
"Yes," I repeated, intending to follow it up with a remark to the effect that perhaps, sensitive as they were, affecting me as his actions were, perhaps it would be better if he stopped. But as he'd gently cupped my breast with his open hand, and softly squeezed, which made me catch my breath, I didn't manage to finish the sentence. But this had to be enough, I decided, or something inside me decided. But he changed the subject again, back to me, the me of the future rather than the bodily me, here and now.
"What do you look for in a man?"
(Not a 'boy', but a 'man')
This made me think. It was not easy to think while my uncle gently fondled, rolled and squeezed my breasts. I tried to let him know this by reaching up and placing my hand over his. But he carried on anyway.
What would I look for in a man?
"Take your time," he said.
He'd never spoken to me so softly before. Our eyes met and he smiled, and I smiled back. What did I look for? Did I know enough to know?
"Can I kiss you?" he said, my mind still churning for the answer to his question. He already had. Nothing had changed since then.
"Of course," I whispered, my smile still there, though 'of course' was not really what I meant. What I really meant, I realized, as his lips met mine with a gentleness that was difficult to believe came from someone as big and bulky as my uncle could possibly achieve. It was more along the lines of 'I think it might be better if you didn't'... but by the time I'd figured this out, my mouth was open and his tongue was with it, in my mouth.
Being kissed like this -- much of the focus on the interplay of tongues, and the eroticism that comes from knowing someone else's tongue is in your mouth -- takes daily cares away. It takes you somewhere else, somewhere more exciting, perhaps. The fact that it's my uncle's tongue, and that I, his niece, purposely let it in seems to ratchet up the zing-thing even more.
I think for a moment I surrendered. That's not true. It was not for a moment, it was the moment. I surrendered to the moment of my uncle wanting to put his tongue in his mouth while fondling my breast -- a caress intended to arouse. It was his way of trying to arouse me, to turn me on. I knew that, I wasn't a fool. Under normal circumstances, I should've resisted, there was also -- as in now -- the heady recklessness of doing it, even though it shouldn't be done. Of letting him use me as an adult might wish, a grown man might want. The masculine urge, the need to possess... me the object of possession.
Then it was over -- the kiss -- and I remembered his question. I tried to answer it in a way that didn't sound too childish or church-ish.
He continued to caress me as I talked... my breasts, my nipples, my neck, my ears, my throat, over my shoulders, down my arms, back over my shoulders, up my neck, the lobes of my ears, into my hair. We'd kissed, my inner me said. Intimately kissed. He'd already fondled me everywhere. There seemed nothing wrong with letting him continue what I'd already allowed him to do... more than once. So I went on talking, and he went on caressing me, embarrassment magically gone.
It was after a third or fourth circle of my tummy that his fingertips came into contact with the hip band of my briefs. A high alert ran through me, impossible to stop, but possible to ponder... but just as quickly the moment passed, as they slipped past, moving gently down my legs. It was the absentminded, affectionate way my uncle, all his attention on me, caressed me gently as he talked, lightly stroked as he listened, and softly petted his favorite niece as he smiled and asked more questions. As if he couldn't get enough of me. The sun was warm. His touch was deft, and soft, and kind. It moved over my briefs again, out at the side by my hip... his fingers quickly passed.
"What three things could you put your finger on that show you stopped being a girl and started being a woman?" he asked.
What a question! As he asked it, and my expression told him it was a difficult one, he eased closer. Rolled himself slightly against me -- against my hip, and leg -- and his right knee moved over my over my own.
His fingers continued, taking their time, now and then gently toying with the bits of me he knew to be sensitive. I'd stopped disguising my reactions. Why try to hide what he knew. I sighed once or twice, groaned and placed my hand over his. He would smile. I'd smile back. Broad male fingers moved on.
"Can't think of any," I said, a little weakly.
"I can give you one," he said, helping me. "You're much more adult about being touched than you used to be."
"Possibly," I conceded.
"A year or two ago you would have jumped a mile if I touched you," he went on.
"Here for example ..." he gently caressed my breast.
"Or here," his fingers on my nipple, scratching it until I squirmed, continuing until I thrust and groaned then put my hand over his.
"Or here," he said, his eyes on mine, reopened. When my eyes flew wide he didn't smile. Nor did I put my hand over his.
"I ..." I cleared my throat, "I ... suppose you're right," I said, wanting to smile but unable to. I couldn't find a smile. My pelvis caught and pulsed. I closed my eyes and looked away. My hand was over his. His was between my legs.
"So that is one," he said, lightness back into his voice. His hand had turned to mine and holding mine lifted both away. Away from there. That danger spot. Down there between my legs. I turned my head back, looked at him. His smile was there. I had squeezed my thighs together, instinctively. I did it again. He seemed unaware.
"More interested in how I look?" I said, thinking of a second possibility that might fit his question.
"Mmmm, yes," he said, nodding thoughtfully, as if that might work.
"So what about a third?" he asked, hand back at my tummy, fingers stroking gently, eyes full of interest, focused on my face.
"My thinking's more independent," I said, not sure if that was true. Not even sure what that meant.
"In what way?" he asked.
"I'm not sure."
His fingertips ran along the waistband of my bikini bottoms. Out to one hip, back to the middle, then out to the other as if it were a length of string he was testing for breaks.
"In what way is your thinking more independent?" he asked.
He lowered his head and casually kissed my nearest breast. I'd never been kissed there before. He did it softly, but with a slightly open mouth. I felt the brush of his tongue against my skin, just below the nipple. He held my eyes the whole time, and I held his. He raised his head.
"In what way?" he asked again.
I glanced at the trees and the sky overhead. Deeper greens and blues I'd rarely seen before.
"Do you mean that now you are a woman you decide things based on how you feel as a person, rather than looking for what, in all you've been taught, seems most appropriate to the conditions?"
Something like that, I thought, surprised at how well he put it, but I was unsurprised when he leaned down again, while waiting for my answer, and kissed my other breast... this time a little longer. And he suckled my nipple a bit, which made me curl my spine and close my eyes and reach my hand to his head... to let him know it was 'too much.'
"Like how we are now," I said, trying to explain, now that he had risen from my breast, although I was acutely aware of the moisture from his mouth still on my nipple, tingling in the slightest waft of breeze.
I saw he was right. "Yes," I said, gazing straight up. He was right. His fingers still traced the line of the waistband of my bikini bottoms, but from inside. His fingers had snuck underneath the waistband.
"Yes," I said again, looking for the words. They came out strained. "I wouldn't normally let anyone touch me like this." Fingers going wherever they wanted. "All my teachings are against it," I carried on, finding no reason to object to a situation that had taken root. His being permitted to touch me. Me being adult about it.
"Teachings like from your Grandma?" he asked, easing the tips of his fingers further into the waistband of my briefs. I reached down, and put my hand over his. Our accepted sign which meant... enough, it's affecting me.
"Grandma, teachers at school, the pastor at church, bible class... everyone," I said, pretty sure I'd missed some, aware his hand in my briefs was still moving, and mine moving with it, and that his knee had eased much further over my legs.
He was talking again...
"But in matters like this, like us, now -- where we are, how we're dressed, that we kiss now and then, you being caressed, wanted," his voice seemed to catch, "desired ..."
Desired.
He hadn't mentioned that before. Desire.
Did I want my uncle to desire me?
Should I be alarmed?
Could I take the risk of him desiring me, here, in these intimate surroundings? Here, with me already aroused? Him too, from the pressure of his shorts against my thigh, his leg thrown over mine, his chest against the side of my breast, his face very close to my own ... What was the adult thing to do?
"Something like that," I said, less sure than I had been ten seconds ago.
"I am using desire as an example. A perception if you will."
I didn't know what he meant by that. Desire was desire as far as I was concerned. Was he saying desire wasn't present? That he didn't desire me?
"Is that what you mean?" he asked, the tips of worming fingers inside my briefs at the edge of my pubic hair -- mercifully neatly trimmed -- my own hand passive atop them.
Why did I think that?
Why 'mercifully?'
"Is it?" he persisted.
Now I wasn't sure what I had meant. Nor what he meant now.
"Can we change the subject?' I said, without a smile, aware that the touch, down there, in there, was beginning to turn this thing serious. But what could I do -- suddenly grab his writs and yank his hand out? We had a peacefulness here that we'd never had before. How could I dare to shatter it? What adult would? Only a child would do that. But I had to tell him. Didn't I?
"Uncle," I said, not catching his eye. "What you're doing ... is ... is ... it's affecting me."
"Laying there as you are, you are very beautiful."
I'd never thought of myself as beautiful.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked, like a child asking an adult for a treat. My mind was still on the idea of his finding me beautiful. It may have been my confusion, or possibly nervousness, that caused me to let out a girlish giggle -- one that I immediately regretted -- and then, to make matters worse I blurted out, "Where?" as if it was a joke.
"On the lips," he said, sounding offended that I should make fun of him like this.
I didn't want him to feel offended.
"Okay," I whispered
What else could I say?
It's funny how the mind works in situations like this... sexual situations. Not that I'm an expert! I noticed it then when my uncle was kissing me, caressing me, pressing me close. I knew he wanted to excite me, arouse me. It added to the mix. Some parts of my mind were intimately involved in what was happening, others on how it was making me feel, others on the urges stirring within, and how they manifested themselves, others still, tinged with nervous concern, wondering when I should stop things, and how precisely I would do that.
Our lips were spread wide against each other. Our tongues were engaged in a dance I was getting better at the more we did it. My pelvis and spine, surprisingly, became integral parts in the exchange -- first stretched, then curled, then thrusting hard. His hand in my bottoms with my own laid on top of it thrust low, as his tongue thrust into my mouth. And just as my lips spread to accept his tongue so my legs spread to accept his fingers but once they were in -- the ease and slurp illustrating how juicy I was -- my pelvis flared, then pulsed and leapt, and I groaned into his mouth and thrust my own tongue deep into it.
He rolled on top of me. His other hand came from beneath him and sought a breast to squeeze. When he found it, my pelvis curled in on itself and my spine snapped straight then thrust all my weight into his chest, I felt his wiry chest hairs against a nipple, the other one molded itself to his hand.
Ngaaar!" I groaned, as both his hands went to work. On me. A breast for one, my pussy for the other. My spine squirmed, hopelessly. My pelvis bucked again.
My uncle wanted me.
I could tell from his touch... from his kiss... from his urgency. The way his legs were over my own had scooped mine up between them. The way he fondled my breast, hard, then started to knead, and press, and squeeze. The way his tongue fought mine, the dance no longer there. The hunger in the other hand, fingers in the juiced up slickness, hot engorged labia lips. Then a finger pushed inwards, aided by the honey oozing from inside.
I pressed, and squirmed, and bucked, and thrust against the varied attacks on my body as I battled with the hormone-driven craziness. I searched my mind for the proper and appropriate response. The 'good girl' response to what was rapidly becoming an unacceptable situation. One I may even, I had to admit, have partly brought upon myself.
And certainly, right now, was hardly helping to bring to a satisfactory conclusion by my enthusiastic reaction to much of what he was doing, or schooling me in. But it was, of course, coming to a conclusion. To an end, if you will. But not the end that Grandma would have wanted, more the end my uncle desired.
The end of his penis. His prick. His 'weapon.' It was out. I could feel it, down there, against my skin. As hot as my skin had become with all that was happening. Where would he want to put it? I'd heard men liked to be sucked -- never done it myself, too prim by far, but I'd seen some porn in my time. (Well, once.) But I knew what they did. And what the girl did.
Would my uncle want that?
Want me to do that... to him?
And if he did would I be any good?
I was sucking his tongue as I thought these things. Sucking it into my mouth. Exerting the pressure to suck it in more. Suck it in stronger.
His penis was bigger than his tongue. Would that be the same ... as this?
His knee was easing my legs apart. But of course, that couldn't happen. His fingers in my pussy were one thing, anything else in there was another matter altogether. Another level of objection. Completely different. The time had come, the line must be drawn. So I drew it... firmly, uncrossable, time to withdraw.
He rolled on top of me and spread my knees out to each side. At some stage he'd pushed the crotch-piece of my bikini briefs to the side. My maidenhood, as Grandma once termed it, lay bare. Bare to an uncle who wanted inside. I already had one of his fingers inside me, a second trying, and the tip of something large and hot fought with the fingers.
It was strange, thinking back on it now, but at the precise moment the conflict was coming to a head -- in my head, between what Grandma would approve of me doing and my uncle wanted me to do, and between my legs, between my uncle's eager fingers, and the equally eager tip of his cock -- the last thing on earth I wanted, the absolute last thing, was for him to stop kissing me. I needed the kiss. I needed to be occupied with the kiss. I needed to be able to keep my eyes closed. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to have to make the decision or carry it through. The stream of events had picked me up and swept me along, and there were many exciting bits.
Keep kissing me, Uncle. Please!
I chanted this to myself, as if in prayer. Because I wanted to be able to say to myself -- later, in the future, when alone -- that I had nothing to do with this! That it was nothing to do with me.
My uncle -- bless him -- same wavelength, clearly -- continued to kiss me. But his breathing was now short and hard. And the noise from his nose was immense. But at least he left me with nothing I HAD to do - except continue to kiss him, and hold my arms around him, and keep my legs wide, and ... when the time came, and the bulbous tip sank into me -- not cry out, or react, or object or revolt -- which I didn't.
Behave like an adult young sharon, I thought to myself when the head of his cock spread me as it worked its way in and I started to think that I might bite his tongue -- but I didn't. Instead I took a deep breath, as the steam train noise of his wheezing and gasping got louder, and faster, and ever more urgent.
I felt my uncle's thick shaft bend slightly as he pushed into me slowly, the large head of his cock pushed determinedly against a thin membrane... against my still-intact hymen.
I wanted it to go the opposite way... I had to stop him from being so hot and bothered. I wanted it to last. I wanted to remember this. I wanted this little chapter of my life to be something I'd never forget. I felt a need to remember the feelings, the cauldron of emotions, the plateau of excitement and arousal that was involved in this... this... this something NEW. These new feelings, and urges, and wants, that had roughly, violently -- because he was my uncle? -- engulfed me, submerged me, swept me along. I needed to stand away from this or be overcome. I needed a semblance of calm, to be outside looking in. Better to be able to record the way the limbs, the legs, the torsos, interplayed. The vulgar hunger we displayed, my uncle's sparking mine. A sensual shimmer, snapping at my core, as his thick shaft pushed against my hymen.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and put my hands on his hips to stop him from pushing into me all the way. To calm him. To give him a chance to enjoy the experience as much as I wanted to enjoy it. His steam train wheezing and gasping slowed but he seemed more focused.
I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he'd gotten the message.
My uncle reached between us and teased and rubbed my clit with his thick thumb. The feelings were electric. The urge to feel his cock sink into me doubled... quadrupled! The feelings of lust-driven desire were indescribable. I cried out with the pure ecstasy of it.
My back arched at the unbelievably pleasurable sensations, and I moaned in surprise when he thrust forward gently and in disappointment when he stopped at my hymen again.
Had he rethought his actions? Is he going to stop fucking me?
Disappointment flooded through me.
It was at this point I felt him draw his hips back again and thrust forward hard and sudden.
My face tightened at the sudden stinging pain and my mouth opened in a wide O of surprise, as my hymen tore, the thin half-moon membrane torn by his desire. For me. To possess me.
That was the moment my uncle took my virginity. For an instant, it felt as if was doused by a bucket of ice water and then I felt more of him inside me, and the pain was drowned by pleasure of his cock and his rapidly-moving fingers on my clit.
One inch... two.
Three inches, say. Maybe four, no more.
I braced for more.
My uncle stopped with four inches of his thick shaft inside me and held still, trembling. He snatched his hand from between us and braced himself.
I lay still beneath him with my breasts crushed against his chest, watching, waiting, though my body was desperate to thrust up to meet his invading maleness. He lay braced on his hands, about half of his thick cock sunk inside me. I could feel the thick corded muscles of his back and arms tense like iron bands and felt his body shake uncontrollably. His head was stretched out, chin tilted up, and his eyes were clenched tightly shut... in the midst of a superhuman, herculean effort. I closed my own eyes and focused on the pleasure of his scent, the feel of his hard muscles shaking on my own soft body, the hardness of his member inside me.
I felt him gradually stop shaking and relax his muscles, though not completely.
I opened my eyes to see him l looking down at my face. His eyes were filled with tenderness and... could I dare to even conceive of this. Love? Or was it lust? I'm afraid I can't really tell the difference since I have no basis of comparison.
I moaned softly and rotated my hips slowly, drawing our combined attention to our bodies' intimate connection. To the welcome invasion of his thick organ inside my slick wetness.
He leaned down again, and I felt his lips on mine, as soft and tender as I always imagined a lover's kiss should be. My uncle. My lover?
I felt his hips draw back and his hard cock nearly slipped out of me, but before it did, he thrust forward again.
Five inches.
He stopped again. His lips pressed against mine and parted. I felt his tongue lick my lips, demanding entry into my mouth. I was willing. Oh I was so willing. His tongue was hot and wet and firm. I sucked on it, drew it into my mouth, wishing it was his thick hard member. I felt as if I was drowning, and he was my lifeline. Pressure had been building inside me ever since I'd mounted the infernal jetski, driving me to a boiling, seething explosion as my uncle drew back and drove into me again. The thick upper ridge of his cockhead scraped against my inner walls maddeningly.
Six inches.
Again, he drew back... and slammed forward. Driving his cock powerfully into me.
Seven inches.
He stopped again, breaking our kiss. He tilted his head back again and I felt him hold his breath. His body shook again and again I stayed still and waited, my own body shaking and quivering with the need to cum on my uncle's thick cock.
He drew back and thrust forward again.
Eight inches.
This time he didn't stop.
I felt his hips thrust, draw back, thrust... over and over, faster and faster. Driving his enormous cock like a piston inside me. Once again, he started to gasp and wheeze like a chugging train.
A few seconds later he looked down at me again as our bodies crushed together in a driving, sweating, desperate rhythm. A crazed look filled his face. A look of desperation so filled with want and need that it shred my self-control. My body shook as a powerful orgasm tore through me like a lightning bolt.
I exploded.
My uncle exploded.
How long did it take for us to get here? To this point?
To get to the point where lights shattered before my eyes, where I felt my pelvis thrust up to meet him, lifting him several inches as he met me thrust for thrust and his thick cock lanced into my soul.
I cried out his name over and over, like a litany. Like a chant. In time with his powerful thrusts.
"Uncle... Uncle... Uncle... Uncle..."
My thighs quivered. My tummy rippled. My pelvis undulated. My pussy squeezed my uncle, my lover, trying to pull him deeper into me. My toes curled and twisted. My legs wrapped around his waist and my heels pushed down on his clenched ass trying to force more of him into me.
Five minutes? An hour? How long had it been before this supernova went off in my brain and my body?
I wormed my hand between us and, with a sixth sense that came from God only knows where, I forced my uncle's shaft another inch inside me. We abandoned our kiss as we came... as we came TOGETHER. Images of his cock in my mouth lingered in my fried brain. I wanted it, I wanted to suck it. Instead, I sucked hard on his neck.
My hands went to work with everything they could: my uncle's weight, my parted legs, my uncle's broad chest, my pelvis, the inside of my vagina being raked by his thick driving cock, the red-hot heat of my imagination.
The uncle and his niece.
sharon the juicy slut, loving this...
The uncle and his niece.
sharon the juicy slut, loving this...
On and on, like another litany, the words echoed through my head. A scream that went on and on and on.
Somewhere around the tenth invocation, my fingers having stayed down there, working on my clit, my pelvis lifted my uncle's driving weight in the air, and I heard a squelch as our driving bodies pushed out globs of my uncle's cum around the edges of my tightly grasping pussy.
I let out a shriek that came deep from the bottom of my soul.
GOD CHRIST but that was good.
I thrust and shook and thrust and groaned and thrust and gasped and thrust and thrust and sucked on the thick neck leaning snug against my mouth. I squirmed and opened wide and pulled my knees far out. I screamed again as a quake of powerful immensity drove like a shaft of blazing light into my very innards, very breasts, very soul. I gasped then gave, whimpered and shivered and rolled into that tiny central being where nothing matters. Nothing but the feeling of ... mmmmh ... and Wow!
Now THAT was everything I'd hoped it would be!
He stayed where he was for an age. I said nothing. Then he rolled off me and stood. I didn't move. I kept my eyes closed and tried to slow my rapidly beating heart. I heard him at the edge of the pool. Doing something. I felt a stream of soothing water on my breasts, between my legs. I kept my eyes closed. I parted my legs when he prodded me. Let him bathe the very center of my womanhood. Very gently. Just as well. I was suddenly frighteningly sensitive there. Even a feather touch could hurt, I felt. But his touch was light as a feather. Back to the pool. Back over me. Cool water on my brow, my neck. He was washing me. I let him. My eyes stayed closed. Then he sat beside me. I knew he was looking at me. I let him. I wanted him to.
Ten minutes later or so...
"Would you like a dip in the pool? Cool you down," he said softly like a father to a child.
Would I?
He was right, it did cool me down. As I lay in the soothing water he fiddled with the clasp of my top, his brow creased in concentration. I stayed where I was. Watching him, studying his bulk, contemplating what we'd just done. He, the uncle, had just fucked his niece. His niece had let him fuck her. Had even helped him fuck her. It seemed okay. It seemed kinda nice. Kinda... adult. I found I was smiling. What would Grandma say? What would the pastor say? We never mentioned what happened. All the way down to the beach. All the way back to the hotel.
"Where have you two been," asked my aunt as we landed.
"Just talking," I called out. "You know what uncle's like."
"Me!" my uncle joined in, his collar up to hide the hickey I'd given him. "You should hear this little lady when she starts. Talk the hind legs off a donkey."
"What on earth did you find to talk about?" my aunt asked, voice low, as she fell into step beside me.
"Growing up. This and that. Life, I suppose."
"Thanks for standing in for me," she whispered, which made me turn and look at her. But all she did was smile and let me pass.
She patted me on the butt.
I felt her husband's cum drip slowly down my inner thigh and looked through her, wondering when I could "stand in" for her again. Hopefully soon.

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