Ann Griffin - Skin summer

He stood in the open doorway, smiling at her, though the smile was frozen in place. He was young, not quite thirty. She had always had a crush on him, had always been his favorite niece. He looked so handsome now, so grown up and intelligent and knowing, that she felt ridiculous, standing bare before him. She blushed.

To her surprise, Uncle Leonard closed the door and stood inside, still looking at her. "Well, I didn't know my little Brenda was getting so big," he said.

She relaxed. She had thought he would make fun of her, and she could not have borne that. Now, knowing he appreciated her budding sexuality, she thrust her hips forward a bit, a supremely innocent gesture, the mark of a child wanting praise.

"I didn't know you wore a bra," he said.

"I'm almost twelve. I been wearing one for a year or so." She was conscious of her pink nipples. They had grown turgid, were straining as if to launch themselves off her breasts.

"You don't say."

She made a face, wondering if he was about to tease her. "I need a bra!" she said defensively. "I really need one. I'm not like the girls who wear them and have nothing."

He came across to where she stood and looked down at her breasts. "I can see that," he said.

"You aren't kidding me, are you, Uncle Leo?"

He touched her breasts with his fingers, gently, softly. "No," he said.

As he moved his fingers on her nipples, she felt chills sweeping up her back. Her knees went soft, like jelly. She had always wondered what it would be like to be touched by an admirer. Now she knew. Her sex lips grew wet, and the inside of her cunny was creamy now. She was a little frightened, but more curious than anything else.

"And you're growing up other places," he said, looking down to her golden fur.

"Not many of the other girls have any hair yet," she said.

"A really big girl," he said. He dropped a hand to the bottom of her round belly, tangled his fingers in her pubic hair.

"You make me feel funny," she said, shivering. Her little tits bobbled enticingly.

"You want me to stop."

She hesitated. "I – I don't – think so."

"Good," he said, sighing heavily. "'Cause Uncle Leo doesn't want to stop either." He lifted her quickly, as he had when she was even a much smaller child, laid her on the bed. He sat beside her, alternately caressing her breasts and her fur, sliding his hands over the thrilling smoothness of her body.

She purred for him.

"Have you ever seen between a boy's legs?" he asked, his voice thick now, his words slightly slurred. His hand trembled on her fabulous child-flesh.

"Yes," she said. "A boy who came here for a party. My birthday party. Down on the south lawn, we were playing hide and seek, and he and I hid together. He took his thing out of his pants and let me touch it."

He moaned slightly, caressing her faster. "Would you like to touch mine?" he asked.

"Sure, Uncle Leo!" she cried, excited now.

He unbuckled his trousers, pulled down the zipper. He dropped his trouser and shorts around his ankles. His ramrod was huge, bigger than even he had ever seen it. "There," he said, holding it in his hand, feeling the beat of his blood in it.

She sat up, reached out a tiny-fingered hand to take hold of it. When her fingers laced about the base, the beast jumped and kicked in her hand. She giggled. "His wasn't anywhere near this big, Uncle Leo."

"No," he said. "It wouldn't be."

"Can I touch it all over."

He was breathing very heavily now. "Yes," he said. "Anywhere you want, kitten."

She ran her hands over the staff, pulled at the red knob, spread the meatus as if secrets were contained in the tube beyond. She let her fingers wander down to his balls. "He hardly had any hair here," she said.

"Who?"

"The boy who let me touch his thing."

He moved onto the bed, laid down beside her. He moved into a sixty-nine position and fingered her. She gasped, squeezed his prick. For a moment, he thought he would explode, but he managed to fend off the climax. He fingered her more and more, until her little body was twisting through wild gyrations. When she came, he shot into her hands, made her fingers sticky with his cream.

He had not lost his hard. It beat as solidly as ever. The sensations of the situation were enough to keep him perpetually erect. He moved down to give the delicious child a good job of cunnilingus. She was writhing, kicking as his tongue probed her slit, clutching her own little tits with her sperm-slimed hands. Her nipples were milky with his cream. She bucked, bounced, was near to a second orgasm, when the door opened and her mother entered the room with a package that had come for Brenda in the mail.

Her mother had screamed. Her father had thrown his brother out of the house after nearly killing him with a series of horrid blows to the face that left Leo black and blue for weeks. Then she was beaten until welts raised on her plump little behind. They called her names and made her understand what a slut she had been. For six months afterwards, she spent an hour every evening, after supper, with their parish priest. He instilled in her a loathing for the things she had done, an understanding of her lewdness.

Yet she continued to have sex. There was no way her priest or her parents could convince her that it was not fun. She liked the feel of the organ pumping her, of all the other ways it could be done. All that the priest achieved was a trauma that left her a warped young woman. She could not give up sex, for she enjoyed it too much. Yet she had a tremendous backlog of guilt building in her, more with each orgasm she experienced. Eventually, she came to realize that she would not feel too guilty if her sex partner humiliated her. If he made her crawl and grovel, it was like a penance for the sin of intercourse. Thus the masochism developed.

The Puritanical parents and the narrow-minded priest had failed to make her a morally acceptable young lady and had, instead, ruined any chance she had at a healthy sex life. Of course, her Uncle Leo had not been laudable in trying to have sex with his own niece. Yet if they had not been disturbed by the accidental appearance of Brenda's mother, he would probably have treated her gently, would have introduced her into the world of sex in much better fashion than most girls are initiated. His crime, in one way, was less heinous than that of her mother and father.

But now, Brenda could remember none of this. It was there, down in her Id, buried in her subconscious. She would be an extremely lucky girl if she ever managed to ferret it out and solve her problems. At least, she had come to grips with her perversions and had learned to live with them. Even now, she was a healthier girl than her mother had ever been.

Susan was waiting beside the rugged dirt road that led up to the reservoir, back among the trees he could not see her. When the jeep was about a hundred yards off, she stepped into the open and waved.

He pulled up alongside her, reached over and opened the door for her. She clambored in, leaned over and kissed him. It was a mildly passionate kiss, but it was enough to start his muscles aching in all the proper places. She was dressed in shorts, white and very tight. He could make out her Mound of Venus, straining against the cotton. She wore a halter top out of which half of her moonlike breasts peeped. She was as stunning as he had remembered her yesterday. The greatest knockout he had ever seen.

"Do I turn you on?" she asked.

He squeezed the breast nearest him, bulged it even farther put of the blue and white check halter. "Even your voice turns me on," he said. When she laughed, he shifted gears, let out on the clutch, and took the jeep up the bumpy mountain trail toward the camp reservoir.