Chapter 1

It was the summer of my fifteenth year, a year that had brought the depths of sadness to our lives. Daddy and Mark - he’s my brother - and I were lost without Mom, but life insisted on marching on, whether we wanted it to or not. I was worried about Daddy because he was drinking too much, and when he said we were going to move, to be near Uncle Bob, his brother, I was almost relieved. It meant leaving the house I’d been raised in, but that house was so empty now...

Anyway, I knew it was the right thing to do when Mark simply said, “Okay”. He was the popular one, tall, slim, athletic with that tanned windblown look of sailors who do it for fun, rather than making a living at it. He was a good brother too, offering to teach me to sail and play tennis and all the other things he was into.

But I had other interests. Well, one other interest anyway.

Before she died, my mother had boxes and boxes and boxes of romance novels, and she was always sighing as she read them, and changing positions on the lounger, like she was uncomfortable, but staying there to read more. One day I picked on up to see what she had been reading.

“Marshall swept into the room, her bedroom, where he shouldn’t be, especially since she was in dishabille, a diaphanous gown that revealed too much. She was aghast as he approached her and took her in his arms, pressing her trembling body against his hard, muscled frame. He kissed her and his passion was contagious. She tried to control her baser urges, but the intensity of his lips overcame her breeding and upbringing. His hand cupped her breast and her nipple jumped to meet his strong fingers.”

It went on for a bit, never getting actually pornographic or anything, but it was obvious what they were doing. It made me wet between my legs, and I was hooked.

Mom found me reading one and blew her stack.

“That’s not appropriate literature for a girl of your tender age!” she snapped. I noticed she talked a little bit like the dialogue in the books.

So I was banned from reading what she termed as “adult” literature.

But like I said, she had boxes of them, and couldn’t possibly keep track of them all. So I had my own stash, and when Mark offered to get me out in the wind and sun I quietly demurred and found a quiet place to read and ... well, let’s just say I learned there are places on my body that I can touch that make me feel like the women in those books feel.

And then she was gone. I had all her books now, but I’d have given them all up and my eyes too to have her back.

So leaving the place where everything reminded me of her wasn’t so bad in some ways. And it meant new friends, and even a different culture. Uncle Bob lived in Ireland, amongst what they called the Achill Islands.

They say that if too many important or huge things happen in your life at one time it can affect your judgment. Just about everything changed for me in a space of a couple of months, and it seemed like all of the changes were big ones. Maybe that’s how things ended up the way they did.

Anyway, we got off the plane and my cousins, James and Patrick were there to collect us. That’s how they talk in Scotland and Great Britain and places close to there. They don’t “come and get you” they “collect you”. So they collected us and took us to a 48 foot sailboat that was lots bigger than anything Mark had ever sailed. Of course he was on cloud nine, and started talking sailing with his cousins.

That left Daddy and me to explore the cabin in the middle of the deck. It slept four and had the cutest little kitchen in it. I know I’m supposed to call it a galley, but it looked like a kitchen to me. And there was a bathroom too. I went back up on deck and suddenly got a lot more interested in sailing.

All three of the boys had taken their shirts off. I don’t know what it is about wide shoulders, but they make my pussy get damp. And there were three sets of wide shoulders up there. James and Patrick were wearing Speedos, and it was plain that they were in fabulous shape. They were twins, but you could identify James because he was, for some reason, an inch taller than his brother.

Anyhow, they turned on the motor and we went that way for an hour, maybe more, passing all these little islands, specks of green in the wide blue ocean. Some of them had little huts and cabins on them, but others looked like no one had ever set foot on them.

Then there was a bigger island, across the water from what looked like the mainland, and we docked. We went up a long, winding gravel path to a house that looked like something out of a fairy tale. It had a steep sloped roof, all mossy looking and there were parts that stuck out from the sides of that roof that had little round windows in them. You could see patches of slate tiles and there was a chimney. The sides were whitewashed and there were plants and bushes and growing things positively everywhere. A lot of it turned out to be Aunt Violet’s vegetable garden. And waiting for us there, of course were my Aunt and Uncle, and their daughter, Molly.

I won’t bore you with all the little details, though everything was old and beautiful and homey looking, which does have something to do with the rest of the story, because I immediately felt at home in this place.

I could go on and on about the island, but I know what you want to hear about. You want to hear about the pictures, which I know many of you have seen, and how things turned into ... well, what they turned into. So I’ll skip all the stuff that happened in the next few months, except to say that my dad got a job on the mainland that he had to go to by boat every day, and I got along well with my cousins, who welcomed my brother and me because we were new faces and new people to talk to. My uncle welcomed me for another reason.

But then, that’s the rest of the story.

I knew my uncle Bob was a photographer, of course. I’d seen his pictures in several famous magazines. But his subject matter was mostly nature, and plants and stuff like that, and I suppose there isn’t all that much call for that sort of thing if you don’t work for National Geographic or something like that. So money was tight. My dad working helped, but when he started he was at the bottom of the totem pole, and didn’t get paid much then.

Anyway, it all started one day when I was reading a particularly well written romance novel - one with pretty explicit descriptions - and my brother was on the internet. I don’t remember the site he’d gone to, but it had pictures of girls dressed in cheerleader outfits. He was ogling them and called James and Patrick in to see. Uncle Bob heard and came too.

Men can be real pigs when they want to. All four of them started rating the girls, talking about how some looked hot and some didn’t and some shouldn’t even have been on the site. You had to buy a membership to get further into the site, but it was clear that, if you did, you’d get to see the girls in a lot less than their cheerleader outfits. So there was a lot of “Man, I’d like to see her tits” and “I bet she’s got a great ass” and “Ten bucks says she shaves her pussy.” Stuff like that.

And little old me, sitting not twenty feet away, curled up in a big soft chair with a hot book that was making my pussy slippery. Which is probably why I didn’t call them all pigs out loud. I was horny, and seeing the men all tied up with the screen led me to believe I might be able to sneak off, find some privacy and ‘rub off’ as my cousin Molly would have said. I didn’t know where she was at that time, and didn’t really care. I didn’t ‘get on well’ with her, but more on that later.

Anyway, it was right then that one of the twins - I don’t remember which one - said “They’re all okay, I guess, but Chrissy would beat them all in my book. She’s just plain hot!“

I’ll never forget the other three voices chiming in with clear and forceful assent. My brother ... and my uncle ... agreeing that I was ‘Hot’. I felt a thrill that I couldn’t explain.

Of course just then Uncle Bob stood up like his back was hurting from bending over peering at the screen, and he turned around and saw me. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stared back at him. His face got all red and his eyes darted around here and there. Then his face sort of froze and he got a glazed look in his eyes, like his mind was somewhere else. He turned, looked at the boys, all gathered around the computer, and then turned and looked back at me and he got this funny look on his face.

He came straight over to me and sat down on another chair next to mine.

“Chrissy, dear, you know how men talk ... right? We ... uh they didn’t mean anything by it ... you understand?”

I tried not to laugh. He was very uncomfortable. “Nice try Uncle Bob,” I said, in as level a voice as I could manage.

He grinned, almost an admission that he was bullshitting. “But they are right about one thing,” he said. “You really are a beautiful young woman.”

Now I blushed. I could tell by his voice that he was completely serious, and that he meant it.

He looked at me with a speculative kind of look. “Take a walk with me?” he asked.

I needed a break from the book if I wasn’t going to be able to put my hand in my pants, so I said okay. I didn’t notice him grab a camera as we left, and when I saw it swinging from the strap in his hand outside I didn’t think anything about it. He almost always had a camera in his hand.

As we walked we talked about this and that, nothing remarkable, just being together and feeling nice.

“Let me take your picture,” he said as we crested a hill and you could see the water. He took me to a twisted old tree and posed me with one hand up on the trunk, looking out at the water. The wind was blowing and it plastered my shirt against my body. I didn’t think about that at the time, but I’m sure he did. He had me undo my pony tail so the wind blew my hair back away from my face.

Then he took a bunch of pictures, moving all around me in a circle. Sometimes he told me to smile and sometimes he told me not to, but he left me in that one pose for all the pictures. We walked on and he took some more at another location, where I was posed beside a boulder, and then we went back to the cottage. It was nice being the center of attention in a way that made me feel beautiful.

Two weeks later I was sitting in that same chair and he came into the room with some of the pictures in his hand that he’d taken of me and developed in his darkroom. He was excited. I just looked up from my book, waiting for him to tell me whatever he was going to.

“Hey, guess what?” he asked.

I shrugged and he showed me one of the pictures. “I sent that picture to a friend of mine who publishes a magazine.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

“He wants to buy it,” he said.

“What?” I couldn’t quite get my mind wrapped around someone wanting to buy a picture of me standing by a boulder.

“He wants to hire us to do a shoot for his magazine. You and me,” he said.

“Why?” I was still having trouble understanding. I’d forgotten all about the guys ogling the cheerleaders.

“Chrissy, I told you, you’re a beautiful young woman. This is a ... men’s magazine.” He looked at me expectantly, like that would explain everything.

It did, in one sense. I knew that men liked looking at me. They did it all the time. But, like most teenage girls, I didn’t really believe they were looking at me. I mean I thought I was reminding them of someone else, or whatever. But men wouldn’t look at me ... right? I mean there are girls out there who think they’re hot and desirable and all that stuff, but they’re the exception, rather than the rule. Most of us feel pretty plain most of the time. Then the term “men’s magazine” caught up with my mind.

“What kind of pictures?” I said, warily.

He was like a used car salesman, assuring me that everything was going to be just fine. “Well, for now just swimsuit shots ... you know ... nothing too daring. He has all kinds of pictures in his magazine. Maybe a few costumes. You know ... things like that.”

I didn’t know, but he was persuasive and I was young, and it all seemed so exciting.

So I said I’d do it.

He was ecstatic. Well, he was pretty happy about it anyway. I later found out that he wasn’t selling too many photographs of ‘gilded ferns’ and ‘mossy oaks’ and stuff like that, and the prospect of being able to get some cash flowing in had taken a burden off his shoulders. But he was happy for another reason, and that, too, is the rest of the story.

I had a swim suit, of course, but it had been approved by my mother, so it wasn’t suitable for a men’s magazine.

Uncle Bob took me shopping.

We had to take the pictures where no one could see us. That’s because the swim suit he bought me was pretty daring. It was a bikini and while the top supported my growing breasts, and covered the nipples, that’s about all it did. The bottom was a thong.

He would have been a really good used car salesman. I wore it under my clothes, and I actually felt like I was stripping naked when I took them off.

He put me in all kinds of poses I was pretty stiff at first, but his obvious appreciation of my form soon had me feeling like maybe I was pretty. I have to say that the longer we went, the more relaxed I got, until I didn’t mind him touching me as he put me in this or that position, some of which showed my bare bottom as I looked over my shoulder at him.

It was in one of those poses that I started getting in trouble. I was trying to make my face look like all those supermodels who look so sexy. I sort of puckered up my lips, like I was blowing a kiss, and I noticed that he had a big bulge in the front of his pants. It made me tingle in places I knew I shouldn’t be tingling. He didn’t try to hide it, but he also didn’t make it obvious either. It was like he didn’t know it was there, though I know he had to.

He had two cameras, one with film and another that was digital. He used them both until he couldn’t take any more.

The next day he took me in a little motor boat around the curve of the island. This time I didn’t feel so awkward disrobing in front of him, and he photographed that part too. Then he took what he called “wet” pictures, with me in the surf, and standing in calm water, and wet on the beach, with sand all over me, or just on some parts of me. He spent a lot of time taking close-ups of my breasts and buttocks, and it made me squirmy, but I liked it.

We had a picnic lunch and were sitting on a blanket when he said, “Chrissy, I know this might sound crazy, but you’re so beautiful ... would you let me take a picture of you ... for me, not for the magazine ... without your top on?”

I almost choked on my sandwich. And I felt warmth and damp invade my pussy. I knew it was naughty, but I said, “okay.”

It was a good thing the bottom of my suit was already wet with sea water, because when I took off the bra I felt my pussy positively gush! It was so exciting to parade in front of a man almost naked. Even if he was my uncle. Maybe even because he was my uncle. I mean I loved him and was comfortable with him. I felt safe with him. This shows you how naive I was.