Chapter 6

If I had thought living with Uncle Bob would be a smooth, bumpless slide along the path of sexual ecstasy, I thought wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t soak in both his love and his semen. I did that in spades. But actually working as an architect was grueling. I was good with CAD (computer aided design) and I used it with an ease that was almost eerie, to everyone else but me. Uncle Bob had been one of the senior staff at his firm, before he went out on his own, and he hadn’t actually used CAD on a daily basis for years. He was good, but for me, making the lines go where they were supposed to go, in the exact scale, was like putting strokes of paint on a canvas with a brush. I spent hours and hours making little pictures in the computer, creating and placing tens of thousands of lines and symbols for this, that, and dozens of other things. The amount of work he wanted me to get done on my first day seemed like I’d been given a hand chisel and told to make a new doorway through the Great Wall in China.

It turned out he was pretty highly sought after when he opened his own business.

I got used to it, though. He wasn’t a slave driver, and whenever I had a question he always had an answer. He spent most of his time with clients and builders, bringing to life in brick and mortar the designs he came up with to serve his customers.

I thought it was funny that I was eye candy in the office. Whenever people came in (almost always men) their eyes lingered on me. I always dressed professionally, in skirts and blouses. I even wore bras and hosiery, though that usually consisted of thigh-highs, held up by a garter belt. Uncle Bob loved garter belts. I loved to tease him with them, too. Whenever there were no customers in the office and we were both there, I’d approach his desk, lift my skirt to show my panties (or, if I was trying to seduce him away from work, the fact that I wasn’t wearing any) and say, “I think I have a run in my stockings. It’s on the back of my leg, where I can’t see it. Could you please take a look? I have some nail polish you could fix it with.”

This is to say it wasn’t all work and no play. I almost always spread my legs for Uncle Bob at least once a day. And that didn’t count nights, where my bed sat in the bedroom I’d been assigned, forlorn and empty, while I lay in Uncle Bob’s arms in his bed.

Actually, it was our bed. Even on the first night I was there, we both knew I’d sleep in “his” bed. The one in my room was just for show. I had to change the sheets, occasionally, because my mother came to visit fairly often and she always inspected my room. I left clothes lying around just for her and I kept my dirty clothes hamper in there. I also used the attached bathroom to store and put on my makeup. It was easier than doing that in the master bath and my room needed to look lived in. Mom would have grown suspicious instantly if she’d have seen any of my girly preparations in his bathroom. You may be wondering why, if she was there and needed a powder room, she didn’t use the guest bathroom in the hallway. Easy. She was nosy. Mothers have a kind of radar when it comes to their daughters, and she knew I’d been very close to him while I grew up. Now I was living with him. And I had no boyfriend to bring to family dinners we routinely got invited to. To her radar, there kept coming this mysterious blip, sometimes there and sometimes not, a ghostly little dot of light on her mental radar screen.

So she snooped.

We both knew she was doing it. I even went out with a few guys Uncle Bob met in his business. I never dated actual clients. That would have been unprofessional. But he was in contact with dozens of builders and probably hundreds of men in the construction business. I’d go on a date and then tell my mom I was “dating Dennis” for a while. Then I’d “break up with Dennis” and start “dating Steve”. Why, you ask, did I go to the trouble when I could have just invented men to claim I was dating? Well, Uncle Bob said I couldn’t lie to my mother. And I kind of felt the same way.

I was honest with the guys I did go out with, in terms of telling them up front that there wouldn’t be any hanky panky. They all knew I lived with Bob Covington. They didn’t know he was my uncle – my last name was Baldwin – and I’m sure it was a bit confusing to the ones who thought I was sleeping with my boss. Why would I go out on dates with them if I was sleeping with my boss?

Well, I had an answer for that, too, even if it never came up in our dating conversation. While I loved my job and I loved my life with Uncle Bob, there has to be more to one’s life than job and great sex. We all need extra-curricular activities in our lives so things don’t get monotonous. Mine was the local rescue shelter. It was called “Puppy Love” and it was a no-kill shelter that rescued animals, primarily cats and dogs, but sometimes other animals, as well. They were well-connected in terms of knowing people who would come rescue a horse, say, if the local authorities found one being starved, or abused.

It’s a funny thing about businesses like that. They tend to draw, mostly as volunteers like me, young, exuberant, healthy, and, quite often, good looking people to help them in their mission. I knew twenty or thirty girls and young women who volunteered at the shelter. Some were regulars, and some only came in once every month or two. It depended on their home life. Uncle Bob had no problem with me spending Saturdays at the Shelter, but that might not have worked for Marge, who had a husband and two kids. But there were plenty of young women who I was friends with – single young women.

One day, while Julie and I were cleaning pens, I mentioned that I was surrounded by hot construction workers every day (not true, but a good story) and she said, “Why don’t you get one of them to ask me out? The only men I meet seem to be gay or married.”

So that’s what I did. I went out with a guy, now and then, and if he was nice, and good at conversation and, most importantly, still interested in going on the date when he found out he wasn’t getting into my panties, I’d talk him up to my friends at the shelter. If somebody said, “I’d go out with a guy like that,” I’d come back with, “You want me to give him your number?”

I didn’t keep count, or anything, but I did this at least eight or ten times. I only know of one situation in which the people I introduced to each other stayed together, but I also lost touch with most of the other women. The volunteer business waxes and wanes, in terms of how long volunteers hang around. It’s also stressful working in the rescue business. Sometimes your rescues fail, and it’s always heart-breaking if the animal you tried to save dies anyway, or has to be put down. “No kill” doesn’t mean they’ll let a desperately sick or injured animal suffer. Some people just aren’t cut out for that kind of thing, and they stop coming. We had a dog and two cats I’d adopted, and they were happy and healthy. That was part of what kept me going, at the shelter.

Anyway, there were men in my life I could talk to my mother about, so life went on in what I felt like was a normal way. I worked, and then walked thirty feet to where I could drop my clothes and stand there in just a garter belt and thigh-highs. Sometimes I’d put on high heels. I never worked in them. I wasn’t crazy. But I owned a few pair. I wore them on dates, sometimes, and if Bob (I had to call him Bob, these days, instead of Uncle Bob) took me out someplace fancy, I might wear heels then, too. I knew it turned him on when I was in heels, though, so I’d tease him after a long day.

Most days I got ravished within half an hour of closing shop and “going home”. Then, because he still wasn’t much of a cook, I’d prepare us a meal. We might watch some TV together but we also read and I liked doing crossword puzzles and jigsaw puzzles on my laptop. Around ten we’d usually take a shower together and then go to bed, where we’d get all sweaty again, straining and grunting and groaning as we rolled around, making love.

This went on for two years and our business (he called it ours) flourished. There’s money in garbage. If you don’t believe me, find out where the owner of your local garbage service lives and go see it. It will be more than nice. He’ll also drive an expensive car. In terms of us, the “garbage” we took care of were the jobs the big firms weren’t interested in. We didn’t have the staff to take on big jobs. In a big architectural firm each project will be assigned to a team of as many as thirty people. You’ll have someone who’ll do the drawings for plumbing, and someone else will take care of interior walls. Another will design the load-bearing part of the building. They even have someone who will determine what exterior materials need to be used for decoration, so they support the rest of the structure. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Uncle Bob and I did all of that by ourselves, so we couldn’t take on really big projects.

But we didn’t need to. We were doing fine. I worked on my masters degree online and we kept busy.

Then my biological clock kicked in. That’s the only reason I can think of that I started to think seriously about something that had just been a fantasy before this.

It happened one night while I was riding him, just exulting in the feel of his penis in me, rocking gently, just enough to keep my clit fired up.

“I want to have a baby,” I said. It surprised even me. It just came out.

“Okay,” he said, as he fondled my breasts. He knew exactly how to treat my nipples, to work with me towards achieving orgasm.

“Okay?” I said, as I stopped. My orgasm was forgotten. The world seemed to tilt.

“You want me to spell it?” he teased. He started. “First you have an O, a capital O. That’s followed in close succession by a K and then an –”

“Do you mean that?” I asked, leaning forward until most of the weight of my upper torso was in his hands. My breasts didn’t complain at all. “Don’t tease me about this!” I warned.

“I’m not teasing. If you want to have a baby, then I think you should have a baby. You’re ready. You’d make a great mom.”

“I’m talking about your baby,” I wheezed.

“I would hope so,” he said. “If you had some other guy’s baby I’d get really jealous.”

“I thought you were convinced there was no future for us,” I said.

“Sweetheart, we’ve been living the future for the last two years. I didn’t think it could happen, but it has.”

“So you’ll do it? You’ll get me pregnant?”

“I can’t wait,” he said.

What was odd about this wasn’t that we could talk about it. What was odd was that the way we talked about it was probably very similar to the way a married couple talks about having a baby. I have no idea what the actual percentage is, but for the sake of argument, let’s say thirty percent of people get pregnant without talking about it at all. They don’t intend to get pregnant. They just have sex. And since the purpose of sex, biologically speaking, is to make babies, a lot of unplanned babies get made.

When you actually talk about it, though, and make plans, and go to the doctor to get your IUD removed, it changes the dynamic of things. In one sense, Mother Nature likes those 30 percenters because they just do what she wants them to and babies result.

Of course it’s entirely possible for those who talk about it first to then stop talking about it and fuck like bunnies as often as possible. That would probably work, too.

That’s not what Uncle Bob and I did. We talked about it and planned things out. The IUD I’d been using had stopped my periods, so I had to get used to having them again. Then I had to try to track when I’d be most fertile. I didn’t want to wait for “Mom” Nature to let things happen. I wanted to be in control. The problem was that, when I did start having periods again, they weren’t as regular as they’d been before I started using birth control. So identifying my fertile times wasn’t as easy as I wanted it to be.

Then there’s the fact that, when a woman goes to her mate and says, “I’m fertile, Honey. We need to make love,” it puts pressure on him to basically perform on command. The spontaneity of things isn’t there. And, as every sexually experienced person is aware, the most fun times are the spontaneous times.

Basically, what I’m getting at, is deciding to have a baby... trying to have a baby ... can end up being a downer in your sex life.

It only took me three months to realize that this was fucking up what had been a delightful, happy, if abnormal sexual relationship.

I was riding him again one night, just enjoying the feel of his beautiful penis up inside me, when I said, “I changed my mind. I’m not going to try to have a baby anymore.”

“What?” He lifted his head to stare at me.

“Trying to plan it is affecting how we make love,” I said.

“Of course it is,” he said.

“I like the way things used to be, better,” I said.

“So you don’t want to get pregnant anymore?” he asked.

“That’s not what I said,” I said. “I’m just saying we don’t have to try so hard.”

“So you don’t want to make love as often?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” I said. “I just want to make love, like we used to. And if that gets me pregnant, then great. But if it doesn’t, I’m not going to stress out about it.”

“Okay,” he said. “I get it. I’m still going to try to knock you up, though.”

“Do your worst,” I sneered. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He rolled and I flailed, trying to maintain my balance while being thrown off of him. He got to his knees and fell on top of me. I spread my legs and let him mount me. I even reached for his penis and helped him get it back in me.

Then he pounded me. He hadn’t done that in a while. I don’t know why. But I liked it a lot when he got that crazy.

“I love you!” he gasped.

“You better,” I said.

“I’m gonna cum,” he grunted.

“Yes!” I said. “Cum in me!” I put my hands on his back, right by his hips, and pulled.

He hit it four or five more times and then drove deep and froze. I could feel the muscles in his lower back flex as he pushed. Then I felt the warm wash of his offering.

I hadn’t had an orgasm.

But I couldn’t have cared less.

It felt like things were back to normal.

Two months later I stopped having periods again.

Now you’d think, what with all the “I want a baby” talk I’d been doing, that when I suspected I was pregnant, I’d have been dancing with joy. I’d have thought that, too.

Nope. I panicked.

I think it finally hit me that there was (possibly – I hadn’t taken a pregnancy test, yet) a little human being growing inside me, in my womb, attached to my body. I was going to have to protect and feed this little human being as it got bigger ... and bigger ... and bigger. My life choices would affect its development and health. I was responsible for its welfare.

And I didn’t think I was up to the task.

Of course I went sobbing to Uncle Bob that I was pregnant, and shouldn’t be, and everything was going to go wrong. He could barely understand what I was saying, I was crying so much.

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yeeeessss,” I wailed.

“And you’re worried you won’t be a good mother?”

“Yeeeessss,” I wailed again.

“When did you take the pregnancy test?” he asked.

“I diiidddn’t, yet,” I whined.

“So how do you know you’re actually pregnant?” He just looked at me. “C’mere,” he said, opening his arms to me.

I crashed into him and his arms around me gave me strength.

“I’ve missed a period,” I was able to speak, normally. “Maybe two.”

“Well, before you get all fired up about it, what say we go get you a home pregnancy test and use it,” he suggested.

I think it was the fact that he was acting so normally that caused me to calm down a bit. Now there was something to do, a procedure to follow, a way to take my mind off the terrors that had been assaulting me. It wasn’t until we were halfway to the store that I turned and said, “What if the test is positive?”

“Then we get you to the doctor so they can start your prenatal care,” he said, reasonably. “Prenatal care is important.”

“I can’t have a baby!” I snapped. “I don’t know how to have a baby!”

“There’s an incubation period before you actually have to have the baby,” he said. “You have plenty of time to study up and learn what you need to know.”

“What if I screw things up?” I moaned. “What if I do something wrong while it’s ... incubating?”

“How could you do that?” he said. “Follow the doctor’s orders and you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know about this, Bob,” I groaned. “I’m scared.”

“Good for you,” he said. “That means you’ll think about all this and do things right. I’m not worried about it at all.” He pulled into the parking lot of Walgreens and put the car in park. “Well, I’m a little worried about how your parents are going to react.”

“I don’t care how they react,” I said, suddenly stubborn. “I’m grown up and they don’t get a vote anymore.”

“Now, don’t be that way,” he said, reaching to touch my leg. “Your mom has gone through this three times. And you three turned out pretty well. She has a wealth of knowledge about how to be pregnant and all the rest. Don’t burn any bridges you might wish to cross over some day.”

“She won’t help me,” I pouted. “All she’ll do is yell at me for having a baby out of wedlock.”

“So, let her yell. It won’t last for long. She’ll be worried about you.”

“She’ll be worried about what man did this to me,” I said, patting my stomach. “All she’ll want to know is who he is and why he isn’t going to marry me and take responsibility for his child.”

“Tell her you don’t want to marry him. Tell her it was a mistake and you don’t want the slimeball in your life.”

“So now you want me to tell her I let a slimeball get me pregnant?”

“I see your point,” he said. “We’ll think of something. We have time.”

All this talk had calmed me down. Then I got scared again because there were a jillion kinds of home pregnancy tests and I didn’t know which one to use. I dithered until Uncle Bob pulled two off the rack and said, “Let’s go. If both of these agree, we’ll take their word for it.”

Both agreed. I stood there, looking down at them, lying side by side on the table.

“I’m pregnant,” I said, dully.

“We’ll call Dr. Goersch’s office tomorrow and get you an appointment,” said Uncle Bob. Dr. Andrew Goersch was our doctor. Uncle Bob had set up a health care plan for both of us and we shared the doctor. He’d been Uncle Bob’s doctor before I joined the firm and, when I first went to see him, I’d expected an immigrant kind of person, based on his name. But Andrew Goersch was as American as apple pie. He looked and sounded like any other man his age. If his ancestors were immigrants, they got to America generations before him. I always wanted to ask him where his name came from, but never did.

“I’m still scared,” I said, still dully, still staring at the little windows on the wands that were announcing I was with child.

He pulled me against him and held me.

“This might not be the time to say this, but I’ve wanted to impregnate you since you were fourteen. You were always the chink in my moral armor. I’m conventional in every other way, but the desire to have my niece as my lover has always been something I couldn’t control. It took me years to get over feeling guilty about it, but you helped me do that. Now, this is a dream come true for me and I can’t wait to see your pretty belly get bigger and bigger until you present me with a son or daughter. I’m not scared at all, Megan. You’re going to make a terrific pregnant woman and an even more terrific mom.”

To read this story you need a Registration + Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In or Register (Why register?)

Support the author's future writing by purchasing this book from Bookapy

Exercising With Uncle Bob

Lubrican

$3.25