Chapter 11: Show and Tell

After a short time, Denise got up, stretched (very sexily in her emerald baby doll) and said she might go take a bath.

This left me and Lissa alone together, watching tv. About 5 minutes later, Lissa said, "I don't know why but for some reason I'm more embarrassed with my mom about these panties than with you."

I looked at her, as if surprised she'd brought the subject back up. "Don't worry about it, Lissa. That's sort of understandable -- she's your mom ... she's more in a position to be judgmental, maybe."

Lissa pondered this, as if surprised the situation could have somehow led to a ponderable idea. Or perhaps she was disconcerted by the way that I'd provided a logical rationalization for what was in fact an untruth -- obviously, given what was going on, she certainly did NOT suffer from embarrassment around her mom in actuality. If anything, the opposite -- whatever the opposite of embarrassment is.

"That actually makes sense, uncle Jason," she finally said.

"What, you expected me not to make sense?" I joked.

She grinned, relaxing. "Very funny," she jibed back. Pause. "So do you want to see them?"

I decided there was no point pretending I didn't know what "them" was. I decided to emphasize what was going on ... or whatever was pretending to be going on: "You'd be ok showing me, now, as long as your mom's not here? You really don't have to. It was just a silly idea."

She nodded.

"Regardless, I think you're worried, needlessly. You've got a very cool mom."

Lissa shrugged. "I know ... I just..."

"No big deal."

I saw that the things I'd said had set some wheels turning, in her head, and she was starting to get cold feet again. And ... it occurred to me that that had been my intention ... to give her cold feet again. To make it more difficult for her ... to make her REALLY want it. Maybe it was a strange, indirect way of teasing myself with the situation. But I realized I was being a bit cruel to my niece.

"They really do, like, kinda show a lot," she said in a quiet voice.

"So I saw."

"So it'd be a little like you seeing me naked, down there," she continued.

"I can imagine," I said, just as softly. Gently.

"Would that embarrass you?" she asked, raising her eyes and meeting mine.

"A little, yes," I admitted.

Shy smile. She seemed surprised by this admission, but pleased too.

"I don't have a lot of, like, hair down there, yet," she confessed.

Hmm ... she was insecure about this? She'd flashed the guy at the mall, I recalled. She'd seen how her mom shaved. She'd seen Finn's stories, talking about what a turn on a lightly haired pussy was. Perhaps she was only trying to reflect what she expected her uncle Jason to think she'd be insecure about.

Then again, maybe she was, whether intentionally or not, just trying to build tension ... provide as accurate a verbal picture as possible prior to letting me see. The tension was delicious, I admit.

I stayed quiet, and she continued, "you can sorta see the outline of, like, the labia and everything." One of her little vocabulary words from yesterday. I couldn't resist, and began to recite, as best I could from memory, the definition she'd had written down.

Lissa giggled. Then, taking a deep breath, "so, do you want to see or not?"

I knew I could make it difficult for her, by leaving the choice to her, or resisting. I was tempted, but in the end, I took pity on her, and simply uttered, "sure."

Perhaps the most verisimilar would have been if she'd raised her nightshirt right were she sat, on the couch, several feet away. But she had a second part of this task, I knew, and so I wasn't surprised when she stood up from the couch, and came over to the armchair where I was sitting before raising her nightshirt, a mere arm's length in front of me.

She held the nightshirt above her belly button, revealing her tiny waist and still modest hips. The bikini cut panties were lacy and light blue, but had these almost utterly transparent patches, so that her sparse, black-haired pubic bush was plain against her pale caffe-latte skin. Very few hairs extended to the labia, and thus these were fairly clearly outlined in the tight cloth -- they were more engorged than I'd visualized (though given how she'd spent the day masturbating in restrooms and dressing rooms, not really very surprising).

"Doesn't leave much to the imagination," I finally said. "They're very cute," I added, picking a word I hoped would resonate well with her.

She showed some spark, then. Growing confidence, with blossoming arousal, I suspected. "They're so smooth and silky," she said, running her hand cautiously just below the upper rim, careful not to actually "touch herself" to my view. "Feel it," she suggested, running hand across the other way.

I hesitated. She understood enough to realize this hesitation was a demonstration of my own personal weakness, not some failure of hers. She spun 180 degrees, looked at me over her shoulder, and ran her fingers on the back panel. "I like how they make my butt look," she commented.

"They make it look very nice," I agreed. My heart was leaping. I'm sure hers was, too.

She spun back around and grinned at me, causing me to look away from her crotch to her dark, too-wise eyes. "Do you think they're too tight?" she asked, and slipped a finger under the edge, ran it a few inches and withdrew it, letting the lacy cloth snap back down.

"They're supposed to be tight," I extemporized.

"They give me a bit of a wedgie, though," she commented, and daringly ran a fingertip along the evident valley between her labia.

"That's just your natural shape," I said, reassuringly. Yes, her natural shape when highly aroused and engorged. Not something I felt I should mention. "You wouldn't want them to be baggy," I pointed out.

She giggled briefly at this. "True." Pause. "You really should feel them," she said, running her finger along a sort of diagonal from left inner thigh to right hip bone, right over the mons veneris. "So silky -- but textured."

So -- god -- I relented, and reached out, and traced the path her finger had just taken, but in reverse -- right hip to left inner thigh, right over the little hill of venus, feeling the way her fuzz pooked out the cloth. She shuddered, slightly. Shut her eyes, for a very long 2 seconds. I decided not to point out that I could see a bit of moisture darkening the lacy cloth, at the crotch where the cloth was just barely caught in the cleft of her cunny.

"Nice, huh?" she finally said.

"They're very nice, Lissa."

Without warning, she dropped her nightshirt again. She'd fulfilled her bonus task -- she was done. Though it was evident she was enjoying herself immensely, too, and more than a little aroused -- she appeared to have a sufficient level of ambivalence that she wasn't planning to go one step beyond.

But then, she genuinely surprised me -- she reached up under and scooted them down, stepped out of them: left foot; right foot. And handed them to me, in a little wad.

She was already halfway out of the room by the time I managed to stutter, "hey, why are you giving these to ME?"

She turned from the hall leading to her bedroom, and said, quite flirtatiously, "Oh, I NEVER wear panties to bed, uncle Jason." Like it was the most obvious, self-evident thing in the world. "You can put them in the hamper in the bathroom. They need washing -- feel them."

And with that, she disappeared into her bedroom. I sat with the panties for a little bit, but somehow resisted the urge to raise them to my face or feel the crotch. Finally, I briefly ran the cloth between my fingers, feeling the moisture I knew would be there, then raised them to my nose and inhaled, memorizing the scent forever.

Actually, I never really had been much of a panty fetishist -- but, I reflected that night -- I could be persuaded. Indeed.

The coming day -- tomorrow -- would be Saturday. I wondered which of the girls would do which task, and I daydreamed about seeing either of them naked.