Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft, Consensual, Reluctant, Incest, Uncle, Niece, First, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Petting, Pregnancy, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - When Cindy comes to Uncle Bob, asking to learn some things before she starts dating, he doesn't intend to teach her a lot. But things seem to take on a life of their own, and pretty soon Cindy has mastered the entry level classes. They say education only whets the appetite for knowledge. Turns out that's true with sex too!
When I was much younger and in college, my sociology professor said, in one of his lectures, that it wasn’t at all odd for toddlers to masturbate. That got a rise out of the class, which I’m sure it was supposed to. But he went on to explain that they didn’t know they were masturbating. They were just doing what felt good. And, he said, it felt good to rub the genitals against something hard ... like your leg. Yes, my sociology professor basically compared human toddlers to humping dogs.
I hung out at my brother’s house in those days, because he fed me sometimes, and I was a poor college kid. So when they had twin boys, I was there to see diapers changed and all that sort of thing. And I had noticed that Jill, their mother, played with their little penises sometimes. I don’t mean she molested them or anything. She’d laugh when one of them had an erection (which I didn’t know baby boys could have until I saw it for myself) and she’d pull on it every now and then and say something silly, like “Look at the big penis on my little boy!” like he had gotten straight A’s in school or had actually tried to have that erection.
So when my professor talked about little ones rubbing, I asked Jill about it.
“Oh sure,” she said. “They’ve both done it to me. They love to play horsy with their father and personally, I think it’s because it feels good on their little peckers.”
Then they had a daughter, and when she was about two, she loved to play horsy too, meaning she straddled somebody’s leg and they bounced her up and down. And I remembered what the professor had said, and it was kind of odd, you know?
So during this stage of her life there was this one time when she needed a diaper change, and everybody else was busy with something or other, so I got assigned the task.
I know this will sound perverted, but it wasn’t. Not really. It was honestly just curiosity. And I was changing this diaper right on the couch, where anybody could see me. You see, I had seen the genital regions of a number of adult women, but had never seen what that looked like when it was all just starting out. And you have to clean all the girly parts pretty carefully to avoid germ problems. Even I knew that.
So I sort of took a look as I changed her. I was amazed to find that she had a miniature clitoris hidden by those pouting little lips. So I experimentally touched it and moved my fingertip back and forth a couple of times. I thought of it as being like when her mother tugged on her brothers’ penises sometimes when she changed them.
Well, the upshot is that when I did that, she laughed and kicked her legs.
Suffice it to say I was shocked at how early the sexual organs can produce pleasure.
But that was it. I didn’t continue to fondle her, or anything like that. My curiosity had been assuaged. At the same time, I suspect that brief five second interval affected the rest of our lives, because as Cindy grew up, we were always very close.
Again, I don’t mean close in a sexual way. Sure, she sat on my lap, but I didn’t get hardons or any of that crap. I didn’t see her as a sexual being. Not then. She was just a cute little girl who loved having her Uncle Bob read her a book, or play a game with her or whatever.
And yes, I admit that when she was in that coltish ten and eleven age range she was beautiful in a way that stirred my insides, but it was more like looking at a rose bud. It was beautiful, and you never wanted it to change, except you knew it would be so much more beautiful when it opened fully. This kind of relationship is complicated, particularly since the society in which we live frowns mightily on appreciating certain women for their potential as sexual partners. What turned me on about her then was her potential for being a sexual being, later on.
And no, I did not plan on being her sexual partner later on. She just had potential, and I appreciated that. It’s like when you see a good looking woman walking confidently down the street, and you think, “Some lucky bastard will get to mount her tonight, and hear her squeal.” You don’t go up to her and say “Hey, you know I can probably make you squeal too!” But your mind might toy with the idea. I mean ... really ... maybe you could make her squeal. If she was willing to give you a chance, that is.
I don’t want you to think I’m making up excuses here. I’ll even give you an example. I went camping with the family when Cindy was twelve. We had gone swimming in the lake for a couple of hours, and I laid out on the dock for half an hour in the sun to dry off and get a little tan. I heard the rest of them take off on a hike, after which we planned to have supper. I was the assigned cook that night, so I didn’t go on the hike. What I didn’t know was that Cindy had stayed behind too, to help me cook. So when I got up and went into the big cabin tent to change clothes, I didn’t know Cindy was in there changing too. She was stark naked, bent over, getting ready to step into a pair of panties when I threw back the flap and walked in. She looked up at me, stood up automatically, and squeaked as she tried to cover all parts of her naked body at the same time.
During that split second, I saw budding little breasts, with puffy nipples. I was almost amused to see that her adolescent vulva looked almost the same as when I had last seen them, a decade previously, and a few sparse dark hairs scattered across her mons.
And do you know what I thought? I thought she was cute. Not sexy. Not ready for sex. She was just cute and adorable and I was really sorry I had scared her, and hoped it wouldn’t ruin anything between us. So I said something to try to make it less traumatizing.
“Oops. Sorry. No big deal, though. I’ve seen it before. After all ... I used to change your diapers.”
Then I turned around and left. I got the fire going, and got the pans out and then she came out dressed. All she said was “You’re supposed to knock!” and then it was over. I took my turn in the tent, getting dressed, and we cooked supper and everything was just like it had always been.
That’s what makes all this stuff complicated. It’s like shifting sand. Sometimes it changes right under your feet.
It got more complicated when her father, who worked for the university in the nuclear radiation lab, somehow got exposed to enough radiation that it fried his bone marrow, or whatever it is that causes leukemia. They didn’t catch it soon enough. There was a big scandal, because none of his radiation badges showed the contamination, which meant either one was defective, or he hadn’t been wearing it when it happened. Plus they never found the leak. I only tell you this because all that made it even harder on his family when we lost him.
So my role changed a bit, and I went from being a once a week visitor, to missing a night or two a week. Dennis and Mark, the twins, traded off being the man of the house. For a month, whenever I showed up, Cindy burst into tears and hugged me, not wanting to let go for an hour or more. Then she’d wipe her nose and dry her eyes and ignore me for the rest of the night. I offered to stop coming, but Jill said it was actually helpful, and that they’d work through it all.
So I got used to being on that shifting sand, where my role changed a bit, depending on what the family needed.
Which is what happened, I suppose, when she was fifteen.
Of course, by then, I didn’t read her books any more, or let her serve me tea in tiny cups, or play dragon to her princess or any of that sort of thing. By then, the way I supported her was by going to her softball games and track meets and the plays she was in and that kind of thing.
I had been to her last softball game of the season. Her team had a seven and eight season. And, while most of the girls were in it for love of the game, not winning, the fact that they won that last game was exciting for them, and they partied hard at the pizza place afterwards. There was lots of improvised singing along with the songs coming from the speakers in the joint, and dancing and the like.
Did you ever notice how sexy healthy young women who are singing and dancing look?
Of course you have. What am I thinking?
Anyway, Cindy had volunteered me as taxi driver, to take some of the girls home whose parents hadn’t come to the game or whatever, so after a long and exhausting celebration, I made the rounds, dropping girls off until finally Cindy was the only one left in the car. It was after nine, but the next day was a Saturday, so it wasn’t a problem.
We got to her house and, don’t ask me why, I went in with her. There were balloons on the table and a card that congratulated her. It was from her mom, who had been at the game, but had not gone to the pizza place, seeing as how parents, in that situation, were embarrassing to girls of that age.
“Awww,” she said, as she read the card. Then she bounded off to find her and thank her. She came back a few minutes later and said “My mom is a geezer! She’s already in bed!”
“You have to cut her some slack,” I said. “She’s raised you, and that’s a terrifying and exhausting job.”
She stuck out her tongue at me.
I have no idea why her sticking her tongue out at me caused me to drop my eyes to her breasts, but it did. She had big ones, for a fifteen year old. I admit I had watched them flopping around a bit as she ran the bases. Of course I had watched all the other girls’ breasts doing the same thing, some more, some less. I mean ... I’m a guy.
It probably would have helped if I hadn’t been between girlfriends. I have this problem where my upbringing kind of made me believe that sexual intercourse is a very serious and important thing, and you don’t just hop in the sack with any old body. If it gets to the point where sex is involved, then it’s time to start thinking about commitment. Serious commitment. The marriage kind of commitment.
Unfortunately, a lot of other people my age weren’t raised the same way, and some women are looking for “uncomplicated, casual sex.”
Of course very few women come right out and say “Let’s just fuck for fun, with no strings attached.” In my case, I learn that’s how they feel when I propose to them. That’s why I’m often between girlfriends.
Anyway, when I realized I was staring at Cindy’s breasts, I looked away. Up, as it turned out. And there were her eyes, full of the knowledge that Uncle Bob had been staring at her precious teenage titties.
It was an awkward moment. At least for me. But she just licked her lips and said “Hey. Don’t leave yet. I have to pee like crazy, but I want to ask you a question.”
And off she bounded, like a deer, spooked by a tiger.
At least that’s what I thought. I mean if your thirty-five-year-old uncle stares at your developing breasts, wouldn’t just about any girl get spooked? That’s what they call an “Ewwwww” moment ... right?
I’ve been around enough women that when one of them goes to the powder room, I settle in and make myself comfortable. That sounds awful, I know, like I’m stereotyping women. But if all women do something in basically the same way, that isn’t stereotyping. It’s just fact. Is it stereotyping to say “All women squat to pee,”? Of course not. It might be inaccurate in .00001% of instances, but you won’t lose a lot of money betting on that.
Anyway, I was sitting on the couch, flipping through 169 cable channels, which is just ridiculous, by the way, when there was movement in my peripheral vision and I glanced up to see Cindy come back into the room. I don’t know if she had peed or not, but she had changed into her “jammies” while she was gone.
There’s a thing I call “The Jammies Curve,” which is based on the quantity of material that it takes to build a pair of jammies during a woman’s life. When they are very young, or very old, there is lots of material involved, relatively speaking. By that I mean that a lot of the body is covered with material. The reason is obvious. Lots of material provides lots of warmth and comfort, which both the very young and very old are interested in. So those are the ends of The Jammies Curve.
In between those ends, though, warmth and comfort sometimes take a back seat to other interests. Let’s just be honest. I’m talking about sex here. Right in the middle of the curve, during a woman’s sexual peak, it’s quite possible that jammies won’t involve any material at all. Or it will involve very little material that is required to cover lots and lots of flesh. I’m talking lace, here.
On either side of the middle, there can be wild fluctuations. A little girl, for example, is used to covering most of her body, and that habit, if you will, can last a decade or two, before “warmth and comfort” begin to take a serious back seat to the stage I call “Making that guy’s eyes pop out of his head.” And later, as having sex becomes old hat, and not such a big deal any more, women learn that exposing too much skin may invite attention they no longer want quite as often. So they begin to camouflage their bodies again.
But there is a special time during a woman’s life, between little girl and eager sexual partner, where jammies take on an experimental kind of aura. Girls stretch the boundaries with their jammies sometimes, experimenting with what it feels like to expose more and more flesh. We’re not talking lace here. An example is a girl who wears a T shirt and panties to bed. Most of her lower body is on display, depending on how long the T shirt is. She might wear one that offers glimpses of her panties, just to see how that feels. It’s a kind of the spreading and flapping of wings, before she actually flies away from the nest, I suppose.
Cindy’s jammies, that night, consisted of a T shirt that went just below her panties. If she’d have lifted her arms, her panties would have showed. All of them.
She didn’t look nervous, but the ambiance in the room felt that way. Do you know what I mean? Maybe it was me. A man can’t see that much leg and not think about where they join.
Anyway, she came and, just like she was half her age, plopped down on my lap. Her panties showed then. They were powder blue. Her face was right in front of mine.
“Can I ask a favor?” she asked.
“Of course,” I responded automatically. My right hand slid up her back, also automatically. No bra. Those shifting sands I mentioned earlier made Mr. John Thomas awaken.
And that was the first time I thought of Cindy as a potential sexual partner. Of her as my potential sexual partner.
Don’t get me wrong. It was just a quick fantasy ... a sort of dream ... one of those “wouldn’t it be nice if...” kinds of things. It’s like looking at Donald Trump’s yacht and saying “That would be cool to own.” You’re not really serious about it.
“Mom says I can start dating when I turn sixteen,” she said. “And the only boy I’ve kissed is Harry Stoltz, when we were both seven, so I was wondering if you’d show me what a real kiss is like.” She wiggled on my lap, as if she was trying to get more comfortable. The state of Mr. John Thomas might have had something to do with that. He was a lump to be proud of at that point. At least if it had been a different girl sitting on my lap.
I know I’m expounding a lot, which is probably irritating my gentle readers, but you really must understand that I didn’t plan on any of this happening. And yet it did. So it could happen to others too, right? So we need to understand how it happened. So bear with me.
There are (at least) two times in a man’s life when he wants to have the capability to become The Hulk.
The first is when he anticipates his daughter (or niece, ) at a tender age, going on her first date, exposed for the first time to the extended lusts of some pimply faced creature who will try to ravish her. You know this is true, because you clearly remember being the pimply faced creature bent on ravishment. And it didn’t matter what girl you were with. You were bent on ravishment. At that age you’re sort of a Junior Hulk, but all you’re bent on ravishing is a little tiny part of the girl you’re with.
The second is when she walks down the aisle, dressed in virginal white, and you know she’s going to get ravished within the next few hours. Never mind that, at least in this day and age, she’s probably not a virgin. Never mind that you’re happy for her and hope she has a gloriously wonderful life. That white dress does something to a man and he wants to protect her from ravishment.
Or be the man who ravishes her.
That, my friends, is the rub. Because that, my friend, is when all the social conditioning in the world tends to be like luke-warm, weak tea, compared with hot, black coffee. If anybody is going to get that pussy ... you want it to be you who gets that pussy.
Again, though, this is just a normal, knee jerk reaction that nature has engendered in all males. Nature makes us all want to be the alpha male, at least on some level, and the alpha male gets all the females.
Even his daughters, or sisters ... or nieces.
Don’t be so shocked. Watch a pride of lions. They do that. Practically all species do it. And the only reason homo sapiens doesn’t do it routinely is because a bunch of beta males figured out a way to create some rules so that they get some of the females for themselves.
Anyway, that Hulk thing is probably why I responded to her announcement by saying: “That’s too bad.”
“What?” She looked confused, there, four inches from my face ... squirming on my lap.
I realized what had happened. I’ve thought about all this stuff several times in the past.
“Nothing,” I said. “Are you excited about it, or nervous?”
“Why would I be nervous?” she asked.
“Some girls are,” I said, and shrugged.
“You always have been one of the smartest men I know,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I am nervous.”
Well, as you can imagine, I preened a bit. What man wouldn’t? However, it is important to remember that, whenever Mr. John Thomas is raising his head, sniffing around with his single nostril, it can have a deleterious effect on the brain of the owner. Throw in a compliment like that at the same time and you’re quite likely to say something you’ll later regret.
“Not to worry,” I said. “Uncle Bob will help make all that nasty nervousness go away, and ensure that you will be confident and eager to sally forth onto the battlefield of adolescent emotional carnage!”
It was a pretty speech ... don’t you think? Oh woe to we mere men, who dig deep holes for ourselves with only our mouths.
“So you will teach me to kiss!” she yipped, wiggling around on my lap some more.
I admit, there was a much too long delay before I resisted.
“Hold on there,” I said, running my hand up and down her braless back for some reason. “The Lone Ranger can’t be kissing on Tonto.”
“Of course not. They’re both boys,” she said, pragmatically.
“Well so are we,” I said. “As far as your mamma is concerned.” I knew what I meant.
“Oh come on,” she pouted. “It’s not like I’m asking you to have sex with me or anything. It’s just some kisses. I just don’t want him to think I’m all dorky and stupid if I decide to kiss him. That’s all.”
I felt my skin turning green. The girl was fully aware of the “having sex” concept. She was deciding what to let the pimply faced interloper do and not do. I stifled a growl, deep in my throat, by clearing it.
“You don’t need to be kissing anybody,” I tried.
“Oh pooh!” she said, wiggling some more.
“And stop wiggling!” I ordered. Mr. John Thomas was now of a consistency somewhere between alloy steel and diamond, thanks to the images fluttering through my brain. Not to mention all that wiggling.
“Pleeease?” she begged, with those little puppy dog eyes.
“What do you want to kiss an old fogy like me for anyway?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. Not that she was all serious and passionate or anything. But there was no way on Earth she couldn’t know about the boner she was wiggling on now, and I wanted her to think ... hell, I don’t know what I wanted her to think. I just wanted her to stop torturing me.
“You’re not an old fogy,” she snorted. “My friends think you’re a hottie. And we all think all those women are stupid for breaking up with you.” She stared into my eyes. I swear she wiggled on purpose right then. “Please?” she asked, more quietly.
So I kissed her.
I know. I shouldn’t have. I was at the end of my metaphorical rope. Actually, she was sitting on the end of my penis, which is basically the same thing.
And, because I think she was surprised I’d actually do it, her mouth was open a little bit when my lips sealed against hers. So, of course, I french kissed her. It just seemed like the thing to do at the time.
I sort of lost track of how long such a kiss should last. Well, academically, it should have lasted about point two five seconds or something. Assuming anybody would approve at all. But somehow her arms snaked around my neck, and warm, soft breasts, squashed against me, separated from my body only by her T shirt and mine. And my hands explored every inch of her back, confirming that there was no bra strap in there anywhere, neither high, nor low, nor unsnapped and hanging loose.
Oh, I didn’t grab her succulent teenage breasts or anything, but with those elbows by my neck, there wasn’t much to deter my thumbs from straying to the sides of her breasts. It was the second or third time they did that that I finally came to my senses and pushed her away. My thumbs were on the sides of her breasts when I did that, by the way, which is how I know how firm, yet soft, those sweet little titties were.
“Wow,” she said, and then panted quietly.
“Um ... sorry,” I said, feeling convinced to my core that an apology was required.
“I don’t think I’m going to let Jimmy Stricklin kiss me like that,” she sighed. “That made me feel really funny.”
And then she wiggled on my erection some more.
Suave and debonair as I am, I somehow managed to just stand up, dumping her on the floor. She squawked and I said, “Sorry” again, followed by, “I gotta go. I’m really sorry!”
And then I made a hasty exit from the house to my car, where I promptly reclined the seat and beat my meat furiously.
I was pretty sure that was the only way to avoid being pulled over for completely inattentive driving on my way home.
Now, on the face of it, based on what I’ve told you thus far, it should be pretty clear that all she was, was curious ... kind of like way back when, when I changed that diaper and was curious. And there was every indication that she was now satisfied.
Well, to be more nearly correct, I should say I had no reason to believe that there would be any residual curiosity left in her. She’d gotten her kiss, and now knew what that was like. She’d already decided that Jimmy whoever-he-was was not getting even a teensy bit lucky. So I was pretty happy, once I’d had the chance to calm down.
And, once I’d been to the house without everyone pointing at me and screaming “PERVERT!”
In fact, I had to go back the very next morning. When I left that night I wasn’t thinking about how I’d promised to replace the water heater the next day. It was only producing luke warm water and had been in the house when they bought it. That was when the boys were babies. Said boys were going to help me and all that.
When I got there and entered the house quietly, Jill was at the stove, cooking. She heard the hinges squeak and turned to look at me.
“Why didn’t you just pull out the couch?” she asked.
There were a couple of ways of interpreting that, but I decided that since she wasn’t advancing on me with a knife, her daughter hadn’t shared with her what one reason that I might have wanted to pull the couch out was.
“I had some things to do,” I said.
“Well, the boys aren’t up yet, so you may as well have some breakfast. You know them. They’ll stay in bed for another hour, at least.”
I sat down and suddenly realized that the elder woman in the Jenson household apparently got her jammies from the same place the younger one did. The T shirt Jill was wearing was only fractions of an inch from announcing whether or not she was wearing panties herself.
That brought me to reflect on how I hadn’t really examined Jill’s potential as a sexual mate in a long time. I had done so pretty routinely while my brother was still alive. But when he died, I lost interest because it seemed like it dishonored his memory. He’d been gone five years, I realized.
“Do you still miss him?” I asked, without planning on doing so.
She looked over her shoulder. She knew exactly who I was talking about. “Yeah, but it’s not so awful now. I haven’t cried in a long time.” She looked sad.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She was still looking at me. “Yeah. I know. It means a lot to me.”
Then, I swear on Grandma Harker’s grave, she put the spatula down, came and sat sideways on my lap, and put her arms around me, hugging me and kissing my hair.
“You mean a lot to all of us, Bobby.”
Well shit. You can just imagine that if I was feeling guilty already, she basically unmanned me completely. I mean there was no hint that Mr. John Thomas would ever rise again, never mind that she was also braless, and smelled good, and was wearing white panties with little red hearts on them.
But then it was over and she got up and went back to the stove. She didn’t pull her T shirt down, which confused me. But then, pretty much anything a woman does confuses me.
About ten seconds later Cindy came bouncing into the kitchen. She was dressed in shorts and one of those sports bras you can wear as outside clothing, with her running shoes on.
“Hi, Uncle Bob,” she chirped, and then “Save me something, Mom. I’m going running.”
And she was out the door before I could even reflect on how normal everything seemed.
Four hours later I stood back and looked at the new water heater. It should have been a two hour job, max. But plumbing and I have never gotten along well, especially in an old house. But it was in, and in right. The boys had had a good time, and I’d been able to teach them some things, so I was happy. The boys went to clean up while I double checked for leaks. I turned around to find Cindy, arms folded, leaning against the door jamb of the utility room, staring at me. She still had on the running outfit.
Without a word, she walked over to me, slid her arms around me, and kissed me.
French kissed me.
For a long time.
When she slumped, and her lips left mine, I opened my eyes to see hers were still closed. She licked her lips and opened her eyes.
“I just wondered if the second time would be as good as the first.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat rattled. I knew the front of my pants was displaying things I didn’t want displayed.
“It was,” she sighed. She leaned up and kissed me on the lips again. But this time it was just a “Hi, Uncle Bob” kiss, brief and light, more a brushing of the lips than a real kiss. “Thank you,” she said. She frowned. “Oh yeah. Lunch is ready.”
And then she turned around and left.