The morning sun attacked my eyes like a laser through a crack in the blinds. A vague ache in my head and the stale taste of red wine in my throat told me I had probably drunk too much the night before. I was trying to clear the brain fog and get my memory working, when a sweet voice sang in my ear, “Do you still love me … this morning?”
I was not alone. This realization came to me first from the voice, and then from the feeling of warm flesh pressed against my back. As things began to crystallize in my muddled mind, I was overcome by a sudden feeling of remorse. I was in bed. Naked. And the warm flesh belonged to my eighteen-year-old niece, Sarah.
My thoughts slowly coalesced into a mental video of what had happened between us only hours earlier. It had been Sarah’s birthday, and somehow I had lost all sense of propriety and allowed her to talk me into ending her virginity.
“If I’m allowed to speculate,” the voice whispered, “I would imagine you’re feeling a bit hung-over, and maybe even a little regretful right now. Am I right?”
“Uh-huh,” I managed, wondering how she knew about the regret. And then, like a soft blanket being drawn across my confused mind, I felt a wave of love overtake my fear and remorse, drowning out everything but the thought of her.
Sarah’s parents, my brother and his wife, had sent her home from Saudi Arabia, where Phil was winding up a contract job that had kept the family away for over four years. Sarah had been granted a lucrative scholarship here in the States, and they wanted her to be home in time to prepare for her college career. I was charged with seeing to her well being for a couple of weeks while her parents tied up all the loose ends, and I realized I had taken advantage of the situation by letting myself succumb to my long-standing sexual attraction to this lovely young woman.
As the events of the night before came into focus, I began to relive one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Despite the 20-year difference in our ages, our union and the affection that grew from it had convinced me I was hopelessly in love with my niece. At her urging, I had deflowered her with great care, after which I had allowed myself to confess my love and she had reciprocated with equal sincerity. The experience had, at first, been painful for her, but over a period of hours, during which we made love several times, the pain had given way to incredible passion and pleasure for both of us, the residuals of which were evident in my aching desire to have her again.
“Uncle Dave?” she said in a quiet, urging voice. “Please don’t feel bad about what happened last night. I know you’re worried about Dad and all, but it was me who talked you into it, and it was the most spiritual and loving experience I’ve ever had. You told me you loved me then, and I don’t think you meant it like an uncle to a niece, so let’s just go from there and forget about all the silly rules and societal taboos. Whatever the future holds for us, I will never, ever, regret what happened, and I want you remember it the same way.”
I thought for a moment, and when that wave of love enveloped me, I turned to her. With tears threatening to break though my normally stoic façade, I let myself go and smothered her face and neck with kisses. As my desire for her grew, I frantically climbed on top and drew her legs up, but she stopped me with a sniff of regret. “I … uh, I’m a little sore, Uncle Dave,” she whispered. “Do you think we could wait a while before we … you know?”
Realizing I had acted with no regard for her comfort or desires, I caught myself just as I began to enter her. She had not protested or tried to move away, and another wave of love swept over me at the thought that she would have willingly let me continue, even though she was probably rubbed raw from the night before. I drew back then, silently berating myself for being so callous.
“Oh, honey,” I said. “I’m sorry. I got carried away there for a moment.” As I lay back down beside her, I felt her hand encircle me and begin to slide up and down in a gentle caress, as if she were worried I, too, might be sore.
“Is this okay,” she said as she increased the speed of her hand movement until I was near bursting.
“Yes,” I managed to gurgle through mounting pleasure. I relaxed then, allowing her to take control until her hand became a blur of flesh on flesh. And when her other hand began to fondle my aching testicles, I came in a burst so powerful it shot all the way to my chin. As if she knew exactly the right thing to do, she slowed down a little at a time, until she was gently milking the last few drops from my waning erection. When I finally regained a small measure of control over my senses, I put my arm around her and pulled her close.
“Uncle Dave,” she said in a soft yearning voice. “I do want you. In fact, I want to feel you inside me again so bad I can hardly stand it. But we nearly screwed each other to death last night, and I bahis firmaları don’t want to do anything that will change my memories of this weekend for the worse. We’ve got all day, and I know I’m going to feel better before long, so maybe we could try some other things first. Okay?”
“Sure, honey,” I answered. “In fact, why don’t we act like normal people for a while? You know, get up, do the standard morning bathroom ritual, eat breakfast, read the paper. Stuff like that. And by the way, I think it’s time you dropped the “Uncle” bit, since every time I hear it I get this flash of guilt.”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about Unc—uh, Dave—boy, does that sound weird. Anyway, like I said, it was me who started it all, and I’ve never been happier in my life than I have been over the past twelve hours.” As she said this, she swirled a finger through the glistening puddle on my chest and smiled up at me. “But you’re right about doing some normal things. Like maybe taking a shower?”
I laughed at her obvious reference to the mess I’d made, and when she climbed on top and started smearing it between our bodies, I added to her suggestion: “Yeah, and now we both need one. Are you game?”
“Well,” she said, drawing the word out as if seriously contemplating the suggestion, “I’m not exactly game, so you shouldn’t try to shoot me. Still, it might be nice if we both cleaned up a little. Then maybe we could eat breakfast and relax for a while before you give me another lesson or two in the art of love making. But first, I think we should both take a little private time in the bathroom, don’t you?”
It was about half an hour later when we each came out of separate bathrooms and met in the hall, her wearing a men’s dress shirt, obviously pilfered from her father’s closet, and me in my jockey shorts. We kissed and hugged for a while, but then she suggested breakfast and asked me if I would check outside the front door for the Sunday paper. I stepped back into the bedroom, pulled on my shorts and went to the door, while she headed for the kitchen.
As I sat at the small table in the sun room reading the paper, Sarah once again demonstrated her considerable cooking skills of the night before, preparing a breakfast of Eggs Benedict, crisp bacon, Potatoes Obrien, and the best coffee I had ever tasted, with just a hint of cinnamon and vanilla in it. We didn’t talk as we sat across from each other and ate, though our feet carried on a silent conversation of their own.
When we were finished, I helped with the dishes, occasionally sneaking a kiss and a swipe at her butt, to which she responded with soft sighs and sensual pressure against my hand. But after the dishes were washed and dried, things turned somewhat awkward, as if we were both unsure of what should come next. Finally, she broke the ice.
“You know,” she said in a shy nervous voice, “Mom and Dad’s bathroom is incredible. Would you like to see it?” And with that she took my hand in hers, rubbed the back of my fingers, then turned to lead me toward the master suite.
The light glared as she punched a round rheostat inside the bathroom door, but she quickly adjusted it until the atmosphere was more like twilight. When we turned the corner past the twin sinks, I saw what she had been talking about. Through a wide opening, adorned on either side with floor-length drapes, there was a deep anteroom. Two steps led up to the lip of a huge shower area lined with exotic tiles in pink and gold and lit by subtle indirect lighting that gave it a rosy glow. We stood there for a moment, both oddly self conscious about disrobing, until I finally reached out and started to unbutton her shirt. As the shirt slipped from her shoulders and fluttered to the floor around her feet, memories of the night before flashed across my mind.
She was beautiful. A miniature woman child, looking far younger than her years, with a tiny waste and perfect breasts. She resisted a little when I touched her shoulders urging her to turn around, but she soon relaxed, and when I once again saw those firm round hips that capped her slim, slightly muscular legs, I let out a gasp as if I’d been punched in the stomach. She didn’t let me look for long, however, turning back and undoing the clasp of my shorts. She slowly pulled down the zipper, then slipped both shorts and underwear to the floor. I stepped out of them and she took my hand, tugging me gently behind her as she mounted the steps.
Once inside the cavernous interior, I noticed several water sprayers protruding from the walls. In the center stood a porcelain bench covered with a narrow cushion, and all around the walls were bright gold railings and handholds. In addition to the sprayers, there was one central shower nozzle above a round sunken area, and below that hung the long coils of a flexible tube, at the end of which was an elaborate adjustable spray head. In one corner, a thin tubular fixture rose from the floor tiles to a height of about two kaçak iddaa feet, with odd-looking platforms on either side. These were supported by chrome stands that appeared as though they could be adjusted to change the height and angle, and I assumed it was some sort of Americanized version of a bidet.
“Wow,” I said. “You weren’t kidding. This is incredible.” She turned toward the wall and pushed a gold button, whereupon the sprayers came alive with tepid streams of water that soon warmed. She pulled me toward the center of the room and leaned over the cushioned bench. I saw her hand disappear behind it, and when it came back into view, it was covered with a pink liquid. She began to spread this across my chest in sensuous circles that raised a bubbly lather. Following her lead, I found the source of the soap, squirting some into my own hand and rubbing it over her breasts and shoulders, then reaching down to massage it into her pubic hair. This raised a mound of lather, which I spread over her hips and down her legs, until she was completely covered with a thin pink foam. She returned the favor, stopping a moment to spend a little extra time sensuously coating my growing erection.
It was odd how, even though I felt I was about to burst, I wanted to hold off and prolong the tactile sensation of our mutual cleansing. I did, however, allow my hand to drift between her legs, whereupon she jerked a little as if in pain. I looked in her eyes, and she answered apologetically.
“It stings a little,” she said. “The soap, I mean. I guess I’m still a little raw down there. But I want you. I really do. I miss the feeling of having you inside me so much. And I can handle it. I promise.”
When she said that, I moved my hand back between her hips, where I began sliding it up and down, gently pressing inward as it passed over the tiny rectal orifice. “Is that okay,” I asked as I felt her push against my fingers.
“Uh-huh,” she managed to squeak. “It’s a little embarrassing, but it feels really nice. Kind of … oh! … uh, exciting, actually. “
“You know,” I said, gently inserting the tip of a finger, “if you want me inside you, there are other ways that can happen.” I felt her tense at the suggestion, and her hips clamped around my hand, but I didn’t stop my movements, and she soon relaxed.
“But … Dave,” she said in strained protest, “It’s so, uh, dirty. I mean, unsanitary. Isn’t it?”
“No, not necessarily. If your morning ritual is like mine, you’re probably empty down there right now, and judging from all these gadgets I see around here, if it still worries you, we could probably clean things up inside until it’s no more unsanitary than your mouth. In fact, since you seem to be enjoying this—” I pushed my finger in a little farther “—I could help that process along in a way that might just be pleasurable for you as well.”
She still seemed reluctant, though I could tell she was considering the idea. And when I turned her around and touched her on the back, she leaned over and placed her hands on the bench. I reached down to get more soap from the dispenser, then returned to continue rubbing up and down. Once I felt she was relaxed enough, I slipped a finger in up to the second knuckle.
“Oh,” she said, as her hips once again clamped on my hand. “That feels weird.” But soon she relaxed again and, holding her steady with my other hand, I inserted my finger as far as I could. She squirmed and her lower body shook, but she didn’t protest, so I swirled it around inside her until I had swiped every centimeter of that tight space. Her response was reserved at first, but when I pressed on her G-spot, I could tell she was enjoying the process. I started to withdraw, stopping before I was all the way out, and pushing in again up to the hilt. She responded with another small jerk, but when I continued to move in and out, she joined in the rhythm, backing into my hand with an ever more rapid and inviting motion.
As with her non-vaginal orgasms of the night before, this thrusting seemed to escalate her excitement, and I began to think she might be on the verge of a climax. Her breathing became sporadic and she let out a low groan as I sped up, driving as deep as I could with each thrust, until she began to squeeze and relax with contractions. I held my finger deep inside her while the contractions receded, then slowly began to remove it, grabbing her around the waist and letting her fall gently forward onto the cushioned bench. As she lay there panting, I went over to retrieve the portable shower head.
On the wall next to the chrome-plated device was a small rack that held several interchangeable nozzles, one of which was a thin tube of about six inches, with a small, egg-shaped bulge at the end. This tip had several spray holes in it, and I decided it would be perfect for what I had in mind. I unscrewed the standard nozzle and installed the new one, then turned the water on, adjusting the speed and pulse of its spray as I made kaçak bahis my way back to where she lay. When I spread her hips and pressed it against her, a shiver went through her body.
I allowed the pulsating spray to remain against her without moving it for a while, and soon she reached around to spread her hips even further. I adjusted the spray until it was a little stronger, adding the maximum amount of pulse, and when I aimed it carefully and pushed it against the opening, she shrieked. With my other hand I pressed lightly on her back, reassuring her that what I was doing was okay, but I quickly realized this reassurance was unnecessary when she spread her legs wide on either side of the bench and lifted her hips in an obvious invitation for me to continue.
“Oh, God,” she said gruffly when I pushed the nozzle into her and the small tip slipped past the outer tightness. “That hurt a little, but it feels really good now.” And so I continued to insert it, twisting and moving it up and down as I went deeper and deeper. Her lower body began to shudder as I did this and I could tell she was once again yearning to come. But with the soap nearly all rinsed away, the friction of the unlubricated nozzle made it difficult for me to emulate a thrusting motion. So, instead, I began slowly rotating it, while rubbing her back and rocking her gently, until I felt I had done all I could to rinse her clean inside. I knew removing it was going to be a problem, since there was no longer any soap at all, so I continued to rotate it as I pulled back, and when it finally popped out, she gasped and fell forward with a huge sigh.
I turned back to the rack of then, and chose another attachment that offered a circular spray from the edges of a slightly rounded head, in the center of which were three small rotating nozzles. Again, I adjusted the pulse and strength of the spray, then reached out to urge her back toward me, spreading her legs and sweeping the nozzle up and down between them.
“Oh. Oh, Jesus,” she moaned as the water swirled against her vagina. Again she lifted her hips to expose even more of herself, and when she jerked, I knew the spray had found her clitoris. I concentrated on that spot and nearly came myself without being touched, as I mentally shared in the emotion and stimulation of that warm, pulsating fountain. After a while, she began to utter a long, sustained moan, as if her mind had left this world and all that was left was her body and its instinctive responses to the preternatural feeling of flowing water.
I didn’t move for a long time, reveling in her animal-like reactions and pleasure until she finally began to quiet. But when I tried to withdraw the sprayer, she reached back to grab my hand.
“That’s … really soothing,” she said. “It makes the pain—the rawness—go away. Can you hold it there for a little while longer? Please?”
I did, and eventually she seemed satisfied. Then realizing she had probably had enough sex for a while, I pulled her to her feet and hugged her, kissing her neck and eyes and hair, until she was softly weeping on my shoulder. “Oh, Dave,” she whimpered. “That was wonderful. And so was the other—when you put that … thing inside me. I never knew something like that could feel so good. And I do want to do it for real. I mean naturally, with you instead of something artificial. But I’m afraid. I mean, it felt so tight with that … gadget, and it’s not half as big as you are. I’m afraid you might split me wide open if we …” Her voice trailed off into silence.
“I understand, honey. I do. And I’m not going to lie to you. Just like last night, it’s going to hurt at first. But if experience tells me anything, it will be like when your hymen broke, and once we get past the first insertion, it will get better. You’re small now, but so was Jenna. Before we split up she and I did it a lot, and even the first time, after she’d stretched some, she enjoyed it. Plus, unlike her, you are obviously able to have orgasms that way, so it should be even better for you.
“Is it good for you? Do you enjoy it, I mean? It seems so, well, gross. I can’t imagine that you would. And I sure don’t want you doing anything just because I might like it.”
“Listen,” I said, “you may think of it as gross, but you’d be surprised how many couples do it. Maybe part of the thrill—the turn on—is because of the forbidden nature. Who knows? As for me, it turns me on a lot, and the tightness—the friction—makes the sensation really strong.”
“Okay,” she said finally. “I guess it’s alright then. But please be gentle if you can.” With that she turned around and started to lean forward on the bench, but I caught her halfway and pulled her back to her feet.
“We can’t do it in here,” I told her when she turned to look at me. “Soap may seem slick and perfect to use as a lubricant, but it’s not. Jenna and I found that out a long time ago. It dries up too quickly and becomes abrasive, and that can really cause problems for both of us. Let’s rinse off now, and get out of here. We can find something better to use, and the bedroom is the best place to be at first. Though I wouldn’t mind coming back here later to try some other things.”