Chapter 1

My Uncle Bob was married for a short time, but his wife, Donna, said that she just didn’t like being married to a satyr and left him. How do I know this? Because she said that to my mother in the kitchen one day when I was just outside the doorway, and I heard it. They were using that voice adults use that announces to kids that they don’t want to be overheard. So, naturally, I stayed hidden and listened. The very next day she left him and they eventually got a divorce.

I was fourteen, at that time, and had no idea what a satyr was, but I had a laptop so I Googled it. Of course Uncle Bob didn’t have a horse’s ears, or cloven feet or any of that, so I knew his wife must be referring to the satyr’s permanent erection. I wondered if she just didn’t like sex or whether Uncle Bob was insatiable. I had always thought he was kind of hunky so I had a few fantasies about finding out, just for my own knowledge, if you get my meaning. But like I said, I was only fourteen, and in no position to find out. He didn’t date a lot after the divorce, or at least not that I could see. I know that because he hung around at our house a lot, including Friday and Saturday nights. As it turned out, that was a little thing (in my life) that led to big things ... in my life.

My Uncle Bob was a gymnast in high school, and then competed in gymnastics in college. He was an architect, which is a pretty sedentary life, and he was really into keeping his body in shape. I already admitted that, even though he was my uncle, I got tingles when I looked at him. And even back then I knew that “tingles” had to do with my very own libido. My very own libido, of course, subsisted only on imagination and a few dreams; that kind of stuff. So I never thought seriously about how tingly Uncle Bob made me feel.

About halfway through my fifteenth year we all watched the Olympics at our house and I had some short-lived dreams of being like the girls who seemed to be able to fly over the mat and do incredible things. Uncle Bob gave a kind of running commentary on the girls and the moves they executed. So as he was leaving that night I asked him if he’d teach me to do some of that stuff.

“I’d love to, Sweetheart,” he said, “but don’t set your expectations too high. In the first place, you’re getting started kind of late, and in the second place I don’t think you’ll be willing to give up the time it would take to become really good.”

I started working out with him three times a week and he was right. It didn’t take long for the glitter to wear off and I really didn’t have the time to spend getting good. I did get healthier, however, and I got addicted to the burn. If you don’t love being sweaty and weak from a hard workout, then you don’t understand what I mean. Suffice it to say I loved working out with him and I was willing to spend roughly six hours a week doing it.

I have to admit, though, that one reason I loved working out with him was that he didn’t wear anything under his loose running shorts. The first few dozen times I got a quick peek at a man’s equipment, up the legs of his shorts, I thought about Donna. Not because he was a satyr; quite the opposite. It was obvious he didn’t have a permanent erection.

This is not to say he never got an erection at all. The first time was after we’d been work-out partners for about six months. I had turned sixteen, though I don’t think that had anything to do with it. I was holding his ankles while he did sit-ups and each time he went down I got a quick look at his penis. I couldn’t see a whole lot, but I didn’t care. Seeing anything at all was huge fun. What I didn’t think about was that each time he came up, he could see down my loose T shirt. I never wore a bra back then, unless my mother made me. The bras she bought me were 34 B sized and my boobs didn’t shake or shimmy, even when I jumped up and down.

Anyway, he was doing sit-ups and I observed the front of his shorts bulge out. His penis was hard and it held the cloth away from his body so much I could actually see his balls! He didn’t say a word. He just kept doing sit-ups. I glanced up at his face at one point and saw his eyes looking down the front of my T shirt as he sat up. Since I wasn’t wearing a bra, I knew he could probably see everything I had. It wasn’t much, but it was everything I had. When he was finished he stood up and didn’t do anything to hide the fact that something was poking his shorts out away from his body. He just pretended it wasn’t there. I didn’t say anything, either, but I know I blushed.

So, after that, every once in a while, he’d get boners in his shorts. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out they were because of me.

Then there was one time I exercised with him and we were working on flexibility and balance. He had me lying on the floor, spreading my legs wide as I stretched and he watched. I looked at the bulge in his shorts. I knew he wasn’t wearing anything under them. And, as I glanced at the front of them, it became obvious he was getting a hard-on while he watched me.

Once again he said nothing and didn’t try to hide the fact that he had an erection. He just ignored it. I, however, couldn’t ignore it. I’d seen this happen enough times by now that I had little fantasies about what he was thinking about when his penis got stiff. By this time in my life I was used to masturbating, occasionally, though I wouldn’t have admitted that under torture. This was important, though, because I could tell when I was getting fired up and might need to indulge in what my grandmother would have called “self abuse”. And Uncle Bob was at the center of a number of the times I self-abused. As I did those stretches and looked at his bulge I felt my nipples tingle and itch and I knew they were beginning to stick out. I had on a crop top shirt that day and I had to actually stop my hands from going up under it to squeeze my nipples.

I had to excuse myself. I went to the bathroom and pulled down my own shorts. I wear cotton panties when I work out because they soak up sweat better than Rayon or Nylon. I pushed those down to my ankles and sat down, spreading my legs wide. If anybody ever saw my clit I’d be embarrassed. It’s the opposite of my boobs. It’s huge and it sticks out all the time. At times like this, though, when I was really turned on, it was fantastic to have a big, bulging clit, because it was almost laughably easy to rub off and cum.

I circled my clit with the tip of my forefinger, once, twice -- and mashed it as I came, my body jerking all over the stool. I pulled up my shorts and went back to the patio, where Uncle Bob was lying on the mat, doing leg rises. The front of his shorts weren’t sticking out any longer, but I could see the long bulge of his still-inflated penis, lying on his abdomen. I moved to his feet to get down and glanced at him. Each time he lifted one leg and left the other down, the legs of his shorts gapped open. I could see huge, hairy balls up in there. I’d seen balls on statues and in pictures and all that, and they all looked about the size of walnuts. Uncle Bob’s, though, were closer to being as big as pool balls.

I took a deep breath. I knew that my face was flushed red from my masturbating. “Wow,” I whispered. He sat up and looked at me.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, blushing even harder.

We did a few more stretches and then he said it was time for strengthening exercises. He said, “Upside down pushups. Try to give me five.”

What he was talking about was me, standing on my hands, with my feet on the wall, and trying to do pushups. I had never managed more than three before.

“I can’t do those in this shirt,” I said. “This top will fall off of me and you’ll see my boobs.”

“Well, you have very pretty breasts,” he said, his voice normal. “I won’t mind seeing them at all.”

“Uncle Bob!” I squealed.

“What?” he asked, sounding innocent. “I’m just telling the truth. You’re a stone fox, Megan.”

“You can’t say stuff like that to a girl, Uncle Bob,” I chastised him.

“I don’t say things like that to any girl except you,” he said. “It’s not my fault that you have great boobs and that you let me see them all the time.”

“I don’t let you see them,” I argued.

“Hmmm,” he said, gripping his chin between his fingers and thumb. “Let’s see. You never wear a bra, and you always wear loose shirts.”

“You’re not supposed to look down my shirts,” I said, trying to sound miffed.

“Why? You look up my shorts on a regular basis.”

“That’s only because you never wear anything under them,” I said.

“And you never wear anything under your shirts,” he said.

I wanted to scream, except I didn’t want to scream. It was confusing. This was the first time any of this kind of thing had been discussed, and I felt electrified. He was talking to me like it was no different than discussing the right technique to do a cartwheel. I felt very grown up, in that moment.

“So what you’re saying is that it’s okay for me to look up your shorts as long as you can look down my shirts,” I said.

“It’s equitable,” he said.

“And why do you even want to see my boobs?” I asked. “I almost don’t have anything at all. Please don’t tell me you’re into boys, Uncle Bob!”

“You look nothing like a boy,” he said, firmly. “And don’t diss your pretty little breasts. Size isn’t what’s important in that department. Trust me. Now, are you going to do those upside down pushups or not?”

I thought about it for a few seconds. My crop top was already short and I knew if I stood on my hands it would fall and expose my boobs. What astonished me was that I realized I wanted him to see them! I hadn’t minded it before when he peeked. I didn’t understand why he’d want to peek, but it didn’t bother me when he did. This, however, was different. Now, for some reason, I wanted to show them to him!

So I did a handstand, and let my feet go past the balancing point and then fall against the wall. I felt my shirt do exactly what I thought it would.

My boobs were bare, right in front of Uncle Bob.

I had such a surge of energy that I got four pushups done before I stopped.

“If I go down I’ll stay down,” I panted.

“I’ll help,” he said.

He knelt beside me and I felt one of his hands on my back and the other on my solar plexus. His hands felt warm and big and rough and all I could think of was that one of them was just inches from my naked breasts.

“Don’t just stand there,” he said. “Down and back up. Come on. You can do it. Just one more.”

I went down and knew there was no way I could push back up. I rested on the top of my head.

“I can’t,” I gasped.

“Sure you can,” he said.

I felt his hands press toward each other and, suddenly, I felt lighter by half. He was lifting me, just by the friction of his hands against my naked skin. I gave a grunt and pushed. His hands slipped, and one ended up on my butt while the other was right on my lower abdomen, just above where I had a little pubic hair. While I was concentrating on the feel of his hands, somehow, I made it back up.

I kicked off the wall, did a back bend and ended up on my knees, panting hard. I looked down and my shirt was still clinging to my upper chest. My boobs were bare. I looked up at him and he was just standing there, ogling me, with a smile on his face. My eyes fell to the front of his shorts.

He was hard.

I thought about Donna’s satyr comment.

“Aunt Donna called you a satyr,” I blurted.

“I know,” he said.

“You’re hard, now,” I commented.

“I know that, too,” he said. “You’re so cute it makes my balls hurt. I don’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared of you,” I scoffed. “I know you’d never hurt me.”

“Well, that’s good,” he said.

There was an awkward silence as I stood there on my knees, looking up at him.

“You should probably cover up your breasts,” he sighed.

I was astonished again when I realized I didn’t want to do that.

But I did, and we went on to the next exercise. When I left that day and went home, I had to rub again.

As I did that, I wondered if he was doing the same thing.

The next time we met it felt different. There had been a frank acknowledgment that he liked looking at me, and that the fact he got erections around me didn’t make me uncomfortable. That little thing changed the dynamic of our relationship. It allowed us to discuss things we’d never discussed before.

“Why don’t you go on dates?” I asked him as we stretched.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess it just seems too complicated.”

“What’s complicated about it?” I asked. “You take a woman out to dinner and have fun with her. Seems simple to me.”

“Having fun, as you put it, is the complicated part,” he said. “The first time or two, you’re trying to get to know each other and basically prying into the other person’s life. It’s never comfortable to be pried at, on either person’s part. You end up spending a lot of time being uncomfortable and then, even if you think things are fine it might turn out they aren’t after all. I’m still a little gun-shy because of Donna, I guess, so I’m not much interested in all the work it takes to establish a relationship that might fall to pieces, later.”

“Unless the date is just for sex,” I said.

“And just what would you know about that?” he asked.

“Nothing. I’ve been allowed to date for three months but nobody has asked me out. You’re the only male I’ve spent any time alone with,” I said.

“And I’m not the best role model, as you have already noticed,” he replied.

“I wouldn’t say that. I see guys at school quite often who have boners. My health teacher said it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” he said. “That doesn’t mean it’s the best thing to base a relationship on.”

“Okay, I get that, but you were married. Isn’t sex a perfectly normal thing for a husband and wife to do?”

“Sure, but the sex drives of two people are almost never the same,” he said. “One person’s sex drive may be higher than the other.”

“So is that why she left you?”

“Yes. At least I think so,” he said. “I didn’t think I wanted sex any more often than any other guy, but she complained that all I ever thought about was sex.”

“How often did you want to do it?” I asked. I was kind of amazed that this conversation was still going on, but it was fascinating, so I just kept talking.

“Every day,” he said. “I didn’t think that was excessive, at least not for newlyweds. She only wanted to have sex once a month, though.”

“Once a month?”

“To have a baby,” he said. “She only wanted to have sex when she was at her most fertile.”

“Surely there was some middle ground,” I said. “I’ve never even had sex but I already know I’d want to do it more than once a month.”

“Explain to me how it is that I’m having this conversation with a sixteen year old girl,” he said.

“Sixteen is old enough to get a driver’s license,” I said. “The great state of Iowa trusts sixteen-year-olds on the roads.”

“You’re deflecting. You’re young and I’m not. I can’t think of a single person who would approve of this conversation.”

“I do,” I said. “I’m a person.”

“You’re a teenager, whose veins are awash with hormones,” he said.

“I’m just curious,” I defended.

“Well, the things you’re curious about are things I investigated long ago,” he said. “My point is that you’re vulnerable right now and I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” I objected.

“Show me your breasts again,” he said.

“What?”

“Show my your pretty teenage titties, Megan. I want to see them again.”

“I can’t do that!” I yipped.

“Do it,” he commanded. “Just lift your shirt and let me see them.”

Do not ask me why I obeyed him, but I did. I lifted my shirt and exposed my mounds.

“Now,” he said. “What just happened was me, using my authority over you to influence your actions. That’s taking advantage of you.”

“I disagree,” I said. I pulled my shirt back down.

“Did you want to show me your breasts?” he asked.

“No,” I said. Something niggled at my mind. “Not exactly,” I amended.

“Come on. The only reason you did it was because I told you to. You did it out of some sense of duty, and because I’m older and you’re used to following the commands of your elders.”

“Okay, maybe that’s true,” I said. “But while I was doing it I was glad I was doing it.”

“That’s those hormones I mentioned,” he said.

“No,” I argued. “You look at them all the time anyway, when you look down my shirt. The only difference is that I made them easier for you to see.”

“So if I dropped my shorts right now, that would be okay, because you look up my shorts all the time anyway, right?”

“Not the same thing,” I said. “You asked me to let you see them. I’ve never asked you to show me yours.”

“I didn’t ask you. I told you to do it,” he insisted. “That’s my whole point. I could use my authority over you as an adult to get you to do things, and that would be taking advantage of you. That’s what I want to avoid. Sure, I love looking at you. You’re gorgeous. But there’s a very thin line between that and molesting you.”

“I think I’d know if you were molesting me,” I scoffed.

“How?” he asked. “What do you think your mother would say if she found out I asked you to show me your tits and you did it?”

“She’d kill me,” I said. “Then she’d ground me until I’m eighteen.”

“Exactly. In her eyes, it would be molestation.”

“Okay, I get that,” I conceded. “However, I think some weight should be given to the fact that I don’t feel abused or molested. I should get a say in this, too.”

“If you were twenty-one I would agree,” he said. “Right now you’re a little young to be making life-changing decisions without any experience to rely on.”

“So, what you’re saying is I need to go out with a bunch of boys and mess around with them to get some experience, so I’ll know if how I feel about all this is legit,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” he said.

“So how do I get the experience needed to be able to make what you call life-changing decisions?”

He didn’t answer. He looked frustrated. I was afraid he’d say we couldn’t talk about this anymore.

“I love talking about all this stuff with you,” he said, “but we’ve stretched enough. We have a workout to do. We can talk more, later.”

“Okay,” I said. He looked relieved.

We spent another hour working out.

He got a boner and it just stayed there, poking his shorts out, the whole time.

Neither of us said anything about it.

The next time we met he wanted to work on strengthening again. He had a machine that could be changed around to work every muscle in the body and he put me on that. He increased the weight five pounds from what I had been working out with and laid his hand on the muscle being worked. He said it was to teach me how to feel individual muscles, but some of them were way up high between my legs and I knew he was being naughty. At the same time, his hands or fingers did help me feel the muscle being worked. It was very instructive at the same time it got me going.

By now the fact that my uncle got me going felt normal. The fact that I got him going felt normal, too. I knew his intentions were noble, or at least that he didn’t want either of us to feel like he was Chester the Molester, but I never felt even a twinge of discomfort, even when his fingers moved inside my loose shorts to identify the five different adductors in that area. What I thought was funny was that I wished I’d left my panties off, like he left his underwear off.

Later, I would decide to stop wearing panties when we worked out together, but that’s jumping ahead.

He moved me to leg spreads, where the weight made my legs spread wide and I had to use my muscles to bring my knees together. There was a slight pause each time the weights pulled my legs apart and he stood to one side, leaning over me with his hands on the insides of my thighs. I noticed he was hard, again.

“What about you?” I asked, at one point. “You’re not working on your own muscles.”

“My muscles are fine,” he said.

“I know one of them is fine,” I said. I looked at the front of his shorts.

He sighed.

“Men have hormones, too. That’s just a man reacting to a beautiful woman. That particular muscle isn’t used for gymnastics. It’s used to help the man relax if he’s full of tension.”

“I see,” I said. It was so satisfying being treated like an adult, instead the way most other grownups treated me. Everybody at home treated me like I was twelve, even my brothers, who were only one and two years older than me, respectively. “So, does a woman have muscles like that? You know ... muscles that help her relax if she’s full of tension?”

He stared at me for a good fifteen seconds. I could actually see him come to a decision as his eyes bored into mine.

“She does,” he finally said. “Do you want to learn about them?”

It didn’t take me nearly as long to make up my mind.

“I think I do,” I said.

I was still on the leg-spreader machine and his hand came to cup my pussy.

Just like that! With no warning at all!

“Those muscles are inside you,” he said, as I pulled in a lungful of air. “Can you feel them working as you close your legs?”

“Oh yes,” I gasped, with his hand trapped between my closed legs.

“Of course the nerves in this area play an even bigger role in things,” he said, as he rubbed, gently.

“They do?” I wheezed as he kept stroking my cooch.

He stopped and moved me to the machine that did the same thing for my arms that the previous machine had done for my legs. He set the weight and had me close my arms several times. When I was in the “rest” position, with my arms spread wide, he we went behind the machine and reached around to slide his hands up inside my crop top. Again I gasped as he cupped my little titties and squeezed them.

“Your breasts aren’t technically muscles,” he said in my ear. His hot breath in my ear made me shiver. “But you have muscles under them that are important. Can you feel those muscles working?”

As I operated the machine he kept mauling my breasts, paying particular attention to the nipples. I wanted to squeal, but kept it inside.

“I think so,” I panted.

He moved me to the place where I could hook my ankles while I did sit ups and crunches. His hand stroked my abdomen, just above the waistband of my shorts. I’ve touched myself there countless times, but it never felt like his hand did.

“These muscles are what help during child birth,” he said. “It’s important for them to be well toned and strong. They are called upon for literally hours while you push a baby out of your womb.”

“I’m not having a baby,” I gasped, as he continued to stroke the area over my uterus.

“You will some day,” he said.

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Exercising With Uncle Bob

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