My Nephew

I went into the living room, slowly, very slowly.

I settled myself on the couch, quite primly for me, in fact.

It seemed almost ludicrous in retrospect, but I actually was a little nervous. Maybe more than a little nervous.

My nephew, on the other hand, was quite enthusiastic, though I wasn't at all sure it was because of the opportunity to get his hands on my body. Again. The first time hadn't been all that aggressive.

And this time he simply chattered enthusiastically about the great backrubs he gave!

I arranged myself in a very ladylike manner, making sure my skirt was at mid-thigh for maximum impact, but not too high to suggest I was easy!

He began slowly.

And he actually was very, very good on my neck and back.

Too good.

It was almost possible to forget about the fact that I was turned on, that this was my 18-year-old virgin nephew running his hands over my back and neck, that THIS 18-year-old had been looking up my skirt and down my blouse, often with my secret compliance, for several months, that he had been caught using my panties to masturbate and had admitted doing the same with his mother's panties.

And his mother had been the sister-in-law who had once hinted, admittedly after a lot to drink, that she had never slept with another woman, but certainly entertained the thought. Since she knew I was bi-sexual, I thought that message was fairly obvious. But I hadn't acted on it.

Yet.

And this, by the way, would be the sister-in-law who also happened to be a very, very attractive woman, particularly for someone who had an 18-year-old son!

I was OK with all of this, as long as I simply surrendered myself to the pleasure of my nephew's fingers and hands working the muscles and tendons of my neck and upper back.

It was different when I started thinking of all of the naughty sexual possibilities, thoughts that set my juices flowing, created a noticeable wet spot on my panties.

I knew it was there.

I already could feel it.

And it would be obvious to anyone peeking up my skirt later, should anyone happen to do that, since I was wearing navy panties _ and navy should make the wet spot very obvious.

If I started drowning in my own juices from lack of attention later in the evening, I might actually need the navy _ or, at least, a platoon of Marines.

I luxuriated in the feel of his hands.

The massage really felt good.

I suggested he work up, from the small of my back, because that always felt so good.

He immediately complied.

I made his life more interesting.

His fingers were tangling in the material of my top.

I pulled it up, mid-back, like a halter top. I couldn't get it much higher right now, anyway, or at least not without being very obvious, very naughty, since the material of the top was tight against my breasts. To move it higher, I would have to deliberately pull it up, over my boobs.

It might happen.

But it wasn't time yet.

Not even close.

He was still all caught up in the massage.

His hands were minding their own business.

It was almost frustrating.

I wanted to scream: "Act like a normal 18-year-old, damnit! Let your hands roam over my body. See how far you can get me to go."

But no go.

It wasn't happening.

Yet.

And I had the problem with my top, stuck on my boobs.

But just when I really thought this wasn't going well, his hands wandered.

Off my back.

To both sides.

Moving tentatively, but moving.

Closer to my breasts.

Painfully slowly.

But closer.

And closer.

Until I felt both hands, one on each side, cup the fleshy globes of my breasts.

And immediately retreat.

I stayed very still.

No protest from me!

And he moved them both to the small of my back.

They moved up.

And out.

Back to my sides.

Back to the center.

Up, under my top.

If he had been wondering, he now had determined with absolute certainty that I wasn't wearing a bra. No bra strap. Just bare back under my top.

And his hands moved to home, the small of my back.

Then outward.

To my sides.

Slowly up the sides.

Closer to my breasts.

I shivered when they again reached the fleshy sides of my breasts.

Shivered.

And moaned, softly.

He jumped back.

I whispered. "Don't stop. It feels so good ..."

He worked up my sides again.

Again, his hands moved to the sides of my breasts.

This time, he cupped them from the sides.

I didn't protest.

His hands went to my neck, again working those muscles and tendons, then moved slowly back down. This time, though, they never returned to home port at the small of my back.

This time they diverted, back to my breasts. Lower. Almost under them.

My nipples were hardening under me.

I was entering dangerous territory, but there wasn't any part of me sending any but the most positive, encouraging signals in the direction of my nephew.

I said nothing. Nothing intelligible, that is. But an idiot couldn't have mistaken the mewing the next time he cupped my breasts.

And this time, his fingers were very, very close to my nipples.

I was anticipating his touch. So much so, that I simply wanted to grab his hands and put them on my breasts, press my nipples into his palms, beg him to tweak them.

But I didn't.

I waited.

And I was rewarded, a short time later, when yet another pass brought his hands, both of them, under my breasts, feeling my hardened nipples though my top. He held them. Pressed his palms up against them.

I heard myself moan. An obviously pleasurable moan.

He retreated slowly.

And worked the small of my back.

Again.

Then my neck.

Again.

And my shoulders.

Again.

And, his bravery recharged, his hands again slipped down my sides, upward, on to the sides of my breast.

I was brazen this time.

I leaned toward my right side, lifting my left breast, just as his hand moved downward.

Suddenly, it was under my top, on my bare breast, my naked nipple pressing against his hand.

He jumped.

Literally.

He started to apologize ...

Before he could get the words out, I slipped my top up, over my breasts, over my head.

His mouth was open.

He hadn't seen a thing. Not the way I removed the top. But he knew certainly knew it was gone.

I told him to get back to work.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

He went right back to the task at hand.

But he obviously hadn't taken my decision to take my top off as a sign to get friskier.

He was a LONG time returning to my breasts.

And again, as he finally got up the nerve for another assault, I turned slightly, as his hand approached my breast, allowing him to slide under and cup it, rock-hard nipple and all.

I was leaning to my side, absolutely certain he knew I was allowing him to explore this part of my anatomy.

And he wasn't shying away, finally, from the opportunity.

His hands were all over my breast, my nipple.

I turned slightly, so he could see it.

I had hoped he would seize the opportunity, and take it in his mouth.

But he wasn't going to mover that fast.

And, frankly, I was beginning to enjoy the pace he was setting.

Slow.

Painfully slow.

But very, very erotic.

I broke the spell.

By suggesting I would enjoy a leg massage.

Opportunity.

All he had to do was take advantage of it.

Providing he didn't cum first.

I could see the bulge in his jeans.

God, was he hard!

But now, I didn't want it to stop. Not too quickly.

I wanted him to continue his slow, steady exploration of my body.

At his pace.

He had fondled my breasts.

He had tweaked my nipples.

And I hadn't stopped him.

Now, I had moved him lower.

The next move was his.

And he started with my feet, removing my shoes, fondling each toe separately.

He took a long time on each foot.

And then he moved to my calf.

First the right one.

Then the left.

Massaging deep, but tenderly.

Back to the right.

Then back to the left.

My legs were fairly close together.

I parted them slightly, not enough to be obvious, not enough to be blatant, but enough so that he easily could work between them.

He moved up, ever so slowly, the back of my left thigh, barely venturing under the hem of my skirt, but deeply kneading the muscle.

Then he moved to the right thigh, repeating the procedure.

Then back to the left, but, this time, almost imperceptibly higher.

I felt a slight thrill, but he stopped on top of the backs of my thigh.

Again, he repeated the same process, venturing no higher.

Then, once more.

But the next time, his fingers inched still higher.

Not much higher.

But higher. Noticeably so.

I began to think that at this rate, it might be New Year's Eve before he reached my butt.

But I was wrong.

Because the next time he moved, I felt his fingers slip down to my inner thighs.

Electricity shot through me. I was sexually charged in an instant. Not that I hadn't already been sexually charged.

I tried to stay very, very still.

I didn't want to spook him.

I wanted to see how far he would go.

And, in the next instant, I felt his hands, under my skirt, on my panties, on my ass, kneading my cheeks ever so lightly before beating a hasty retreat.

I didn't protest.

His hands again ventured under my skirt.

Upward.

Toward my panty-covered ass.

And, ever too quickly, they retreated.

Then they again began their journey, but this time, they moved down the backs of my thighs, toward the center of my thighs, slightly higher than they had been before.

I moved my legs further apart.

I was sure he could see my panties.

I was sure he could see the wet spot.

I was sure he could see something he wanted to touch far more than my ass, or my thighs, or my calves, perhaps even more than my breasts.

And very, very soon, I was going to have to make a critical decision: How far would I let him go tonight?