I'm picturing you now because it's late at night - it's two a.m. and I can't sleep because I'm so horny. I'm full of aches and pangs, and a deep, intense desire to be filled, just picked up and squeezed, slapped, bruised, sucked, filled and fucked till my toes curl and I scream out my pain and pleasure, not caring who hears me any more. I shiver in my bed in a fever, shifting my legs, trying to ignore the spreading wetness my pussy is leaking. There's so much hot, wet, sticky juice leaking from my pussy I'm afraid I'll orgasm if I even touch my clit with just the tip of my finger. I haven't had to reach down yet to spread anything around. I lie in my bed and burn with longing and a shamed blush, knowing that I'm the most horrible, bad, unrepentant slut in the world.
Two birds with one stone, you're my uncle and our neighbor - my daddy's brother and an old family friend. Everyone trusts you, goes to you for advice. You and Aunt Maggie have been together for twenty years, married right out of high school, and everyone talks about how perfect you two are together, how wonderfully life has treated you. I thought you were perfect, too. A tall, dark, handsome football star through school, you didn't let the years ruin your solid, muscular body; you never let your business run you - you run your business with an iron will. And you're so bored. I came to realize that after years of watching you at barbeques, parties. You're so friendly to everyone, so charismatic.
They don't notice how mechanical your motions, your conversation is. You always know what to say, how to flatter without thinking about it. But when you're really interested, your gray eyes - they shine. And the men you talk to - usually underlings invited to your big backyard affairs, they sit in a row on your patio with beers in hand, dull little men hanging on your words, nodding and praying you'll approve of them, that when you speak down to them, mock them, they think they're being distinguished. They lap up your insults and your grinding down, worshipful puppies all of them. I'm disgusted by them, too. I can't believe they can't see what you do to them. But I'm not disgusted by you - I watch you exert your power over those pathetic peons, and I feel my pussy getting wetter.
The powerful heat, the lust is so strong that I look around, afraid that everyone can smell me getting wet in the middle of their nice, civilized party. What would they do if they knew? Do their nostrils flare when they pass by me? Can the old men glancing at me as they pass by with their prattling wives, can they tell, as their eyes slide over me, noticing the boss's niece, and how she's suddenly tall, curvy, something worth noticing, is it more than my looks that make them smile as though they know my darkest secret?
You barely seemed to notice me before, but now I'm nearly nineteen, moving three states over to a very fancy, very expensive college. This is my last summer at home, and Daddy is always saying that, that this is the last summer his little girl will live at home with the family. The last time he said that was at a big family dinner. That time, you caught my eye, and your smile was innocent enough, but I saw the way your eyes lit up. My stomach dropped, I blushed; you still looked at me with that very particular gaze, and I knew you saw me then.
Everyone had somewhere else to be tonight. The others went home, Daddy took Mom to some fancy cultural event, and even Aunt Maggie complained of a headache. She left before everyone else to take a Tylenol and go to bed early. Your parting was touching. I watched you two kiss, and the moment your lips met, I thought in a flash that it was me kissing you. I shifted in my seat, but no one noticed, and I took a sip of iced water to cover the motion. In my short, dusky pink sundress, I still felt like everyone could smell me, that I was a marked whore.
So everyone left, but somehow, you stayed behind. You're good at doing that, just letting things unfold in your favor. No one gave you a second thought, they were just out the door. I had no idea what to do, what to say. You had babysat me before, but now there was no reason for you to stay, and my nerves were so raw I was ready to snap into a thousand pieces. I was clearing the dishes off the table, clattering more than I needed to, but I could still hear your steady, heavy, purposeful step as you came back to the dining room.
"Don't you have someone to do that?" You asked, leaning in the doorway with your arms folded over your chest.
"Usually," I replied, struggling to control my trembling voice. My skin was on fire with self-conscious embarrassment. I was afraid to meet your eyes. I cleared my throat, continuing. "She has the night off."
"Let me help, then," you offered, and you came over to me - not to the edge of the table, but right behind me, and I could feel you inches from me, a wall of heat.
"Honey," you murmured, your deep voice carrying a dark growl that betrayed your real intentions.
Then a small disaster happened. You reached around me, crossing my side with your arm and covering my hand with yours - the hand holding a clear glass dinner plate - and I started so badly that I dropped it. The plate flew out of my hand and there were two strong impressions I still have of that moment: the heat of your huge, strong hand closing over mine, and the sound of the glass shattering into a hundred pieces. I thought then, you could do the same if you wanted to - shatter me into pieces if you squeezed hard enough. Would you have passed it off if I hadn't let that plate fly, if I'd make a joke and moved on to the kitchen?
In any case, you didn't give a shit about the plate. Your hand trailed up to my wrist and held me in a vise. You buried your head in my loose hair and breathed in. You wrapped your other arm around my waist; all I felt then was self-conscious of my curvy hips. I'd gotten an hour-glass figure straight from the 40s, and I'd always been pitied by my girlfriends in school for being genetically fat.
"Don't turn away from me," you said. You caressed my curves, following them down as far as you could reach till you were rubbing my bare thigh in slow circles with your thumb. As close as you held me against you, I knew I could never get away from you until you let me, but I didn't really want you to let me go.
And then, as though you'd read my mind, you said, "You smell like a horny little bitch." The lust in your voice made my knees weak. I moaned as I sank against your chest. You released my wrist so you could fully appreciate my curves, then, with one hand caressing my left breast, teasing up the nipple until it sprang, aching against my thin sundress, you worked up the short skirt with the other hand, and slid it over my mound, curling your fingers over my swollen clit. Slowly, you stroked my pussy through my cotton panties - I couldn't believe I'd worn those. They were something a girl would wear. I was so wet that the fabric was sopping in the center. Your laughter made me turn away in shame.
"I knew it. You are a horny little bitch. I could smell your cunt all evening - you weren't even that close to me, were you?"
