"I have to go pee," she said apologetically.
"I'll go with you," I said, making to rise.
She made a sound of startled horror. "No!" she almost squealed. I accompanied her anyway, Bonnie protesting every step of the way.
She had on something, though what I don't remember. I have no memory of seeing her nude, or having made love to her. I had been searching for my sister's lost youngster, Brad, gone missing at a family outing at Carlton Regional Park. We'd found him hiding in the corner of a shelter and packed him off to his mom and dad via my wife. To my knowledge, Bonnie hadn't been around through that point. Where she came from, or how we ended up in bed is a mystery.
"Oh, sorry," Bonnie muttered apologetically. She'd pushed open the bathroom door and surprised a woman hulking in the darkness. "Matty?" she asked, closing the door again. I knew Matty, though neither Bonnie nor I realized that she was Bonnie's mother in the dream. Dreams are strange that wasy.
We retreated to the bedroom and Bonnie quickly dressed, both of us aware the danger we were in of discovery. My wife should be home any minute now, I knew, and Matty was a snoopy somebody, sure to pursue the mystery of Bonnie and her Uncle Jack.
"Help me with this," Bonnie pleaded. She was in jeans and a button down cotton shirt. She had backed to me with her shirt pulled up in the back. I eyed the waistband of her pink panties, peeking out the top of her blue jeans. I misinterpreted her plea and asked if she wanted the back of her jeans yanked up to cover her panties.
"No!" she complained in exasperation. "My bra!" Shaking the bottom of her shirt brought the ends of her bra straps to my attention.
"Oh," I said stupidly. The dimples in her lower back just above the top of her panties caused distraction, and I wanted to remove her clothing, not help her into it again. Instead, I grabbed the loose bra straps and used them to raise the rear of her shirt up to her shoulder blades, exposing her bare back.
"Uncle Jack!" she hissed, twisting and trying to reclaim her modesty.
"I want to see. I haven't seen them yet, Bonnie."
Instead of spinning her around, I cupped her small but perfectly formed breasts; hers nipples, erect and hard as fingertips, tickled my palms. She squirmed and made a protesting mewling sound, which made me laugh. I nuzzled the back of her neck, thought momentarily about sliding my hand down the front of her jeans, but she put a stop to that idea by rotating to face me. Keeping her arms up and out of the way, I bent and kissed each of her pea-sized nipples.
"Uncle Jack! No!" she protested, shivering. We both sensed the presence of Matty outside the bedroom door. We were moments away from discovery. The door behind me began to push open, and then I awoke.
"Well, fuck!" I muttered disgustedly. It was a dream, nothing more. Arousal had me hard as a railroad spike, but luckily, I hadn't come. I was close to it, but waking prematurely had spiked my ejaculation, saving me the chagrin of having to clean up, and the embarrassment of explaining why to my wife. She remained asleep, breathing softly through her open mouth. Nothing worse than having a wet dream right next to your wife.
I waited out my erection and went into the bathroom to go pee. Janice stirred, but only shouldered the covers closer to her jaw, murmuring unintelligibly. Standing at the toilet, I savored the extent of the dream still captured in memory. Five minutes after waking, the best I could do was the roughly page worth of details noted above. Snippets resurfaced here and there over the next few hours, such as holding a naked Bonnie against me, her bare back and rear end warm against my chest and crotch, while I urged her to take me in hand and stroke me between her spread thighs. In the dream, my cock was quite a bit thicker and longer than in reality. In the end, it was me that took the monster in hand and did the dead. Other, less clear and pertinent details of the earlier dream are not worth recalling.
I fantasized over Bonnie the next couple of days and then let it go. A week later, I unexpectedly found her at the in-laws house, visiting along with her new boyfriend, whose name is Ted.
"Bonnie!" my wife exclaimed, grabbing her for a big hug. We'd commented on the cream colored Toyota Highlander in the driveway, but hadn't connected it with Bonnie. My recollection was that she drove a KIA Sedona; it turned out she'd traded it in for the Highlander just last week.
Bonnie introduced us all around. I shook hands with Ted whom I immediately disliked. Tall and blonde and preppy and full of himself, his handshake was of the "crush the opponent" variety. I refused the bait, letting him wring my grip to his heart's content. He made a point of not letting go for three or four seconds beyond what decorum allowed. I ignored the glint in his eye and the upturned corner of his mouth, giving my attention to Bonnie.
Bonnie is my favorite niece. I get along better with Bonnie than most other relations of my wife, whose family is generally pretty lame, or pretty obnoxious. I've never shown any sexual interest in Bonnie, nor she in myself. Because of the dream, I kept both my expression and my interest neutral. I wanted to scrutinize every inch of her, though. Down boy, I thought. To my surprise, Bonnie had difficulty meeting my eyes, and was standoffish and anxious, to the extent she reddened slightly and the hug she gave me was perfunctory, at best.
What's that about? I thought. The rest of the visit was just as uncomfortable.
Two nights later, I dreamed of her again.
"Uncle Jack?" she said. "Is this yours?"
I looked at the Sports section in her hand. I ignore that section of the paper completely, being totally uninterested in any team sports. Regardless, I cocked my head to see the picture on the front page: a bunch of Redskins in burgundy and gold caught in intense conflict with the other team. I shook my head.
"You like the Redskins?" I asked.
"I love the Redskins," she admitted. "I don't like them, though," she said, tapping the folded paper with a stubby-nailed fingertip.
I looked more closely at the picture. "The Vikings?" I inquired.
Bonnie shook her head, pointing out the green and white uniforms of the Philadelphia Eagles. I vaguely remembered the Vikings wearing purple and white.
"OK," I said, eyeing the disturbingly plain, dark gray corduroy bib overalls she wore over a flannel shirt. With her mussed hair, shapeless form, dearth of make-up, and masculine posture, she could easily be a boy. Or a tomboy, I thought, distractedly. Her breasts were undetectable under the bib overalls.
"I'd like to go the next time they play at home," she said. "Would you take me, Uncle Jack?"
I shook my head. "Not to the Stadium/Armory." I hated the parking situation downtown, especially the half-collapsed underground garage they kept putting off repairing, and the un-navigable maze of railroad tracks surrounding the complex. Some fool, probably to save money, had located the stadium dead-smack in the middle of the Washington Rail Yard. FedEx Field did not exist in my dream.
She scratched her left underarm. "How about if I drive? Would you take me then?"
I was about to answer that might be better idea than me driving, when my wife elbowed me out of sleep.
"What?" I complained.
"You were talking in your sleep again," she muttered irritably.
"What did I say?"
"I don't know," she grouched. "Something about football tickets." She got up reluctantly to go pee. "Who were you arguing with, anyway?"
I told her the truth. She grumbled something about late-night eating of leftover pizza, stumbled around the foot of the bed and made for the bathroom. She didn't broach the subject of sex-dreams, but why should she? It was an argument she had woken me up from.
There was more to this dream, just like there was more to the family outing dream, but everything other than what I described above was lost. I believe Bonnie had been careless in buttoning the top of her flannel shirt and allowed me tantalizing glimpses of her chest, but that might be wishful thinking. I do remember concentrating unusual attention on the seductive rise of her neck from the confines of her shirt collar though, and that's not wishful thinking, not in the least. Bonnie has the most seductively long, slender and oh-so kissable neck in the world. I drifted off to sleep fantasizing about kissing that exquisite neck and removing her bib overalls.
A month went by with no dreams and no sight of Bonnie. She'd slipped almost entirely from my thoughts by then--during the daylight hours, at least--and the few times I dwelled upon her at night, propriety kept the perusing as vanilla as a Nabisco cookie. It had been two or three days since I'd thought of her at all. Then I awoke with a start at 3:15 AM Saturday morning, grabbing my cock to keep it from spewing liquid fire into my shorts.
Jesus Christ, I thought frantically. I'd been in a mountain cabin way out in the middle of nowhere. There was a snowstorm raging, and Bonnie was down on her hands and knees on the rough timber flooring (not planks, but the same logs as made up the cabin walls), scraping mud from between the boughs with a carpenter's wide-blade drywall knife. She was cursing and frustrated and on the verge of hopelessness. No matter how much she scraped up with the blade, more mud oozed up to take its place. Bizarre as that scenario is, imagine Bonnie on her hands and knees wearing nothing but a kitchen apron.
"Bonnie!" I complained in the dream. "It's useless!"
.... There is more of this story ...