"Uncle Tim?"

"Yes, Sweetheart?"

"I bet you can't make me say 'uncle'!"

My niece Hannah — technically, my wife's niece, her older sister's daughter — had finally picked our little game up where we had long since left it off. The last time she had stayed with us — two years earlier — we'd played variations of the chase-catch-tickle game under the approving eye of both my wife — her aunt — and my sister-in-law — her mother — for the entire two-week visit.

At the time, we had all thought it especially cute that as Hannah's actual uncle, I always made her say "uncle," the classic good-humored expression of submission, before I would let her go.

Two summers ago, when Hannah had been an immature twelve years old, she was always up for a round. I would no sooner catch her, tickle her playfully, obtain the "uncle!" and release her, but she would be back within a quarter-hour with her challenge: "I bet you can't make me say 'uncle!'"

This year, I had expected things to be different. And I suppose they were different, in some very important ways.

First, at fourteen, a much more "mature" Hannah was supposed to no longer be entertained by "kid stuff" like the "say 'uncle'" game. I suppose that is why, instead of fifteen minutes, it took her almost twenty-four hours before she issued the first challenge and started it all up again.

Second, this time the visit was going to last much longer than two weeks. Hannah's mom was with the State Department and had just been posted to Egypt. With all the turmoil in that part of the world, it was decided that Hannah would be better off living with us, here in Pennsylvania, for the next two years. So our little game, which had successfully whiled away a brief vacation visit in the past, would probably grow old pretty fast now that we were, for all intents and purposes, a full-time family.

Third, the last time I had seen Hanna in person, she had been a rail-thin, cute little kid. Today, she was still thin — svelte might be a better term now — and she certainly was still a cutie, although now in a distinctly sassy, post-pubescent sort of way — but "little kid" was no longer an apt descriptor.

Her waist was still narrow, as a fourteen-year-old's can so easily be, but her hips had widened. Her pelvis had reached that "sweet spot" in the maturation trajectory, distinctly mid-way between child and woman.

Her rump had always shelved out a bit in back — I remember that even as a little girl, her cousins had teased her, saying that she looked and walked like a duck. Now it had grown even more outthrust, tauntingly, and had further swelled in roundness and nubility. Don't get me wrong — she still had a tight little ass — it's just that it now had a more pronounced shape, especially in profile.

Her attitudes had grown up, too — maybe a little too fast, in fact. When my wife and I picked her up at the airport, she was wearing a little bit of make-up. My wife hadn't said anything, but I could tell she thought Hannah was too young for that just yet. Hannah must have picked up on that wavelength, since she wasn't wearing any the next day. Personally, I didn't see any harm in it, and neither had her own mother, I presume, since she had sent her off that way, but never mind. Hannah had plenty of time yet to grow up, with or without makeup.

On the other hand, ... there was the little matter of her breasts. Well, not too little a matter, if you see what I mean. The former rail-thin twelve-year-old was now a relatively well-endowed fourteener. I would have to guess her ta-tas, displayed unashamedly in a low-necked, skin-tight top, had swelled from the walnuts I remembered into an impressively full B-cup. That might not sound that large, but if you can accurately picture those breasts jutting out from their high perch on a very petite eighty-pound frame, I think you'll call them impressive, too.

One thing was not debatable: Hannah at fourteen already had bigger tits than either her own mother or my wife, her aunt. Hannah's mom had always kept the details of Hanna's paternity to herself, but she conceived our niece while posted as a junior consular officer in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. It had always been obvious that this mystery father must have been of a slightly darker complexion than my wife's family, because while Hannah's mom was blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned, Hannah herself had big, dark brown eyes, beautiful black hair (worn straight and long), and a perpetual tan. Now, from the evidence of her straining top, I concluded that this biological father also came from a family of busty women. If Hannah had this rack at fourteen, I could only imagine what the women of her father's side sported when full grown. Wow.

So between her specious new sophistication, the more permanent nature of her stay, and her obvious physical development, I had pretty much assumed that the days of the "say 'uncle'" game were long gone. That assumption survived for less than twenty-four hours.

"Uncle Tim?"

"Yes, Sweetheart?"

"I bet you can't make me say 'uncle'!"

"Are you sure you even want to try? The way I remember it, it doesn't take much to get you to surrender. A few tickles or spanks, and you're shouting 'uncle.' Why even start a game you're sure to lose?"

"Aw, Uncle Tim, I was just a little kid back then. And a wimp, like all kids. I'm fourteen now. I got lots more control. I can take anything you can dish out, and still not give up."

"Is that so?"

"Only one way to find out!"

"Well, I don't know... ," I drawled, attempting to lull the wary teen through feigned indecision. When she glanced away for just a moment, I grabbed her, hooked an arm around her waist, and declared, "... Gotcha!"

"Oh! No fair!" she cried, as I pulled her down across my lap. I gave her cute little butt, encased in its tight denim, a quick swat. I had intended to move on to tickling from there, but frankly, I was surprised by my own reaction to that spank. Instead of immediately abandoning that activity, my open palm struck again. And then a third time. What surprised me in this was that the decision to continue after the first spank had not been made by me; rather, it had clearly been made by my prick alone!

My prick obviously enjoyed the close contact, despite the layers of clothing, with the firm, thin fourteen-year-old torso lying against it.

My prick had also obviously enjoyed the display of the young teen's rear-end, and image seemingly forwarded to it directly from my eyes, at the command of a primal brainstem unwilling to await permission from my reasoning faculties.

And just as obviously, my prick had clearly received an instantaneous telegraph, along the wiring of my nervous system, conveying to it the tactile pleasure of my open palm striking my niece's firm but yielding buttocks.

So what was it, you may ask, that made this all so "obvious?" Well, the fact that, before my conscious mind even had time to process all the information in this situation, my penis had already begun to swell in delight, and had managed to insubordinately direct my hand in administering not one, but two unauthorized, solid schoolgirl spankings. Once my brain caught up, I was able to take back control. There was no fourth spank.

Now, before I continue with my story, I feel I have to clarify something. I am neither a prude nor a hypocrite.

I am fully aware that adolescent girls are attractive to men. In my opinion, Nature has ordained this very thing. Only the blessings of civilization, modern educational opportunities, and the emancipation of the female — all very good things — have made the pairing of older men and young teenaged girls no longer acceptable.

Nor have I ever felt myself immune to that hebephilic attraction. Many a reluctant shopping trip with my wife — a pastime most tedious to me, in itself — has been redeemed through my careful but avid observation of the packs of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old cuties patrolling the mall circuit. Watching their half-intentional, half-innocent little displays, swishing and swaying their way through the food court, I have unambiguously experienced sexual attraction; sometimes to the point of tumescent reaction. So it could not have surprised me in this instance that I was capable of being stimulated sexually by an adolescent as much as by — or sometimes even more than by — a fully mature woman. No, that was no surprise.

And I am sure that some readers would suggest — and I am in no position to dispute — that in our past horseplay, when Hannah had been twelve, there had been a subconscious undercurrent of sexuality in the activity, albeit sublimated, on both our parts. In fact, I'm sure there must have been; after all, I doubt very much that either of us would have played the game had she been my twelve-year-old nephew.

Lastly, I have already demonstrated my ability to appraise my niece's developing physical charms, and to notice that she was now quite "sexy;" Hell, her own mother would have made the same objective appraisal.

But the discovery that it all fit together — that I was attracted, as are most men, to teenaged girls, that my niece was a very attractive teenaged girl, and that our silly little game was, in its way, pseudo-sexual — was a surprise.

The result was that my penis had decided, and my conscious mind had concurred, that together they both really wanted me to fuck the living shit out of fourteen-year old Hannah — my own niece!

The conscious mind, however, is aware of things like consequences, and so it took control of the situation and overruled my prick, staying my hand from a fourth spank, in order to prevent Hannah herself from figuring out just what it was that my prick had decided.

No, a fourth spanking by itself would not itself have given it away — she'd received more than three — many more — in some of our previous games. However, the rapidly hardening cock poking up into her side might just have let the cat out of the bag. So rather than continue with the spanking, I hoisted her up, into a sitting position facing me, making sure that her exquisite ass rested astride one of my thighs, and not atop my tell-tale crotch.

I held her tightly, with hands grasping either side of her slender waist, and she took hold of my forearms, trying to push herself away and free. That was the point of the game, but there was really only one way for her to get free.

"Have you had enough? Just say 'uncle' and I'll stop."

"No way!" she retorted, and tried even harder to push herself clear.

"Okay, then!" I squeezed the fingers of both hands into her slender waist, and sure enough, she shrieked with laughter. She was still ticklish, I was happy to see.

"Enough?"

"Hah!"

I squeezed in again, this time wriggling the fingertips independently. She gasped, and cried "Stop!"

"Did you say 'stop'? You'll have to say 'uncle' if you want me to stop. You have to surrender. Are you ready to say it?"

"No, I'm not surrendering. I'm going to get away from you on my own, Unc ... I mean, Tim."

I tickled her sides again, and she squirmed and twisted, both in response to the digital assault and in a valiant effort to escape and end the game without having to submit. In order to maintain control of her wiry little body, I slipped an arm around waist, and then redoubled my tickling efforts with the other hand, this time centered on her belly, trying to quickly bring about her capitulation. My newfound realization of the sexiness of this wrestling match had me very hard, and I really wanted to "win" before Hannah accidentally discovered my arousal.

Targeting her navel looked like it might work, because as soon as I made contact, she convulsed in reaction. But then the unexpected happened, and as she twisted and turned to escape this new torment, she slipped off my knee, and almost got free, before I was able to yank her back into my clutches. This time, as she slid back into my lap, she faced away from me.

Her sweet little can pressed right up against my upright, straining prick, already struggling against its confinement within my jeans. I froze, and Hannah was also apparently taken unawares by the contact, for she took a good three heartbeats, in near silence but for her panting breath, before she recovered her wits enough to try to leap out of my lap in escape.

I spent those same three heartbeats in shock and bedazzlement. Sure, I reveled in the sensation of her eighth-grader ass pressing against my denim-covered cock. But I also felt a terror in the pit of my belly that I had been found out as a "pervert." Together these contending experiences had me temporarily stupefied. However, when she tried to jump out of my lap, obviously trying to take advantage of my passing paralysis, my competitive nature took over and told me what to do. I grabbed for the young teen, and pulled her back into me.

I succeeded in preventing her escape, for I now had a firm grip on her with both my hands. I had pulled her into me once more, her back now held firmly against my chest, her ass again upon my crotch, although now situated with a little less impropriety.

Yes, I had a firm grip. I had succeeded in wrapping my left arm around her belly, and with it, I held her in a tight bear hug.

Yes, I had a firm grip. My right hand had gone for her right shoulder, but had overshot its mark. Nonetheless, I had gained a solid purchase with it on her struggling form. The handhold I had found — and still held — was none other than her succulent right breast.

Again, we both froze, and I was torn between apologetically removing my hand — and acknowledging that I had overstepped the obvious bounds of our relationship — or leaving it there in order to play the "innocent ignorance card." Not surprisingly, given such an impasse, my penis broke the tie, and my hand continued to grip the firm, precious flesh.

I didn't know what to do, but Hannah did.

"Okay, okay, I give up: Uncle."

I let her go, of course, and tried to play the game off as I usually did, by taunting her good-naturedly for submitting. I think my efforts at this sounded hollow, and feeble. Hannah's tan face was darkened by an under-welling red blush; with a wan smile she darted from the room.

And so that was that. You can't go back again. A fourteen-year-old is not a twelve-year-old, and if there had been any doubt of that before, I had put my finger on the truth for the both of us. Well, actually, I had put my entire hand upon it.

Naturally, the "say 'uncle'" game was history. I was a little embarrassed by my "overreach", but I knew that it had been an accident and that there would likely be no lasting effect on my relationship with Hannah. Terminating the pastime was probably for the best anyway; my newly discovered sexual response to the game and her now-nubile body had demonstrated that there was a good reason such activities are usually sidelined when young girls grow up. Given the opportunity to reflect, I was almost frightened with how easily I had become aroused.

As I've stressed already, I wasn't ashamed of myself because she was so young, but because she was my own niece, a girl I had known since she was five and — more importantly — a girl over whom I now held parental responsibility as guardian and "in loco parentis."

Nor was I particularly worried that she would mention the episode to my wife. Hannah was probably just as embarrassed as I was. Even if she did, she'd almost certainly not mention the hard lump she had detected pressing into her ass. If my wife asked me about the titty feel, I would laugh it off with an "I guess we can't play that game anymore now that Hannah's growing up!" and that would be the end of it. And even if my wife did learn about my hard-on — an extremely unlikely report for a shy fourteen-year-old to make to her aunt — I could of course beg off with an "it's only nature" kind of excuse; my wife isn't such a prude or jealous type that she wouldn't understand how it had happened.

No, my real concern was for my ongoing relationship with Hannah, external to the now-defunct game. I was going to have to serve as one of her parents for the next two years, and for that, I needed her to both trust and respect me. I would have to watch Hannah very closely over the next few days to see whether I had diminished those feelings to any degree.

For the next several days, I kept an eye trained on Hannah's behavior and reaction to me. To my relief, she seemed completely unfazed and unchanged by the event. We didn't mention the game during that time, and it looked to me as though we were on the path to two years of conventional family bliss in our household after all.

One evening a few days later, I was watching a ballgame on the big screen TV in our media room. I was startled when I noticed Hannah was standing next to me.

"Whoa, you scared me there. I didn't hear you come in."

"Sorry, Uncle Tim. I didn't mean to."

"That's all right. What's up?"

"Aunt Cindy went to her bridge club."

"Yeah ... it is Tuesday. So what's the matter? You bored? Want to watch the game with me?"

"Uh-huh. I'm sorta bored. Um ... Uncle Tim?"

"Yes?"

"I bet you can't make me say 'uncle'."

"Umm, gee Honey. Are you sure?"

"What, afraid you can't do it?"

"Well, no, of course I can do it. I can always make you say 'uncle'."

"Don't be so sure. I was just surprised last time. You pulled a fast one, Uncle Tim, and caught me by surprise, so I freaked and gave up. I'm prepared for your trickery now. But..."

"But what, Sweetheart?"

"But no matter what, if I do say 'uncle, ' you'll stop, right?"

"Of course. That's always been the rule. Either that, or you escape."

"I'm not going to try to escape anymore. You can do whatever you want, as long as you SWEAR to stop when I say 'uncle.' I mean, not that you can make me say it."

Now, I'm sure you're thinking exactly what I was thinking — or at least was hoping; Hannah had felt some kind of thrill from our "mischance" of the other day and, instead of revulsion (or perhaps fascinated by her revulsion), she wanted to try it again.

I was game. My prick (as I'm sure you have already assumed) was more than game. Especially after I had had a chance to size up my barefoot niece and observe that she was wearing a tight pair of denim shorts — almost "Daisy Dukes" — and a tight t-shirt stretched across her oversized, underaged tits. Yes, I was game.

Yet I wasn't sure how to start. Now that she claimed that she wasn't going to try to escape or elude me, my usual opening gambit of seizing her seemed a little out of place. She solved the problem by plopping that delicious heart-shaped bottom in my lap, as she faced away and leaned back into me — resuming the precise positioning we had been in the other day, when in alarm she had cried "uncle."

I paused, and listened to her nervous breathing, as I tried to prevent my own respiration from audibly betraying my lust. Then, gently, I placed my hands around her waist, on either side, and slowly squeezed that tender flesh. She squirmed in my lap, but didn't protest. Neither did the penis pressing into her backside.

Encouraged, I traced my right hand slowly around front, towards her navel, and wiggled my fingertips into her firm abdomen. She giggled, and wriggled, again to my gonadal delight.

Emboldened, I slid the other hand, open-palmed, up along her ribs — higher and higher — until it rested under her arm, almost in her armpit, at the exact latitude of her cute tits. I could feel the thickness of her bra strap, and the edge or beginning of her bra-cup, through the intervening cotton of her top.

I detected no response from her to my advance, except perhaps that her breath might have quickened. I know mine did. To lighten the tension, the fingers of my other hand cavorted around her bellybutton again, and she shrieked and twisted with laughter -- a slightly hoarse-voiced laughter. I know that if I had tried to speak myself at that moment, my voice would have been a lust-constricted croak.

Impassioned, I made the move. I slid my left hand around front, from under her arm, and gently took possession of her left tit, while simultaneously lifting my right hand from her tummy to take a similar station on its counterpart. I held my breath, and after an almost inaudible gasp, Hannah held hers. There was no protest. No complaint. No "uncle."

I was feeling up my fourteen-year-old niece's titties!

It was amazing in so many ways. For one thing, although they were hung upon the body of a petite schoolgirl, they filled my hands completely. Bear in mind, that although I often playfully seize my wife in a similar pose, her A-cups are no match for her own niece's sweet B's. The last time I had felt up some "strange" titty — that is, tits belonging to someone other than my wife — had been a couple of years ago at a strip club. Those had been much larger, but fake. I can tell you, this "real" experience was much nicer than that!

I could feel the heavy fabric of her bra cups under her T, but even through that shielding, I detected a pebbly nipple poking into each of my palms. Jesus, these were nice. I leaned back in the couch and "scootched" my ass out along the seat, to further recline my body and, along with it, that of my adolescent ward. In this angle of indecent repose, Hannah relaxed, and rested her head back upon my right shoulder. Now I could see her face: her eyes closed, her lips pursed, her nostrils quivering in time with her speeding breath. She was lovely. As were her boobies, which under the weight of my hands nonetheless thrust heavenward from her chest, monuments both to her genes and to her healthy puberty. Her T-shirt, which previously had stretched tautly from one magnificent peak to the other, now drooped suggestively into the valley between them, as my adoring grasp had apparently pressed the luxurious mounds a bit closer together, and allowed this suggestive catenary to appear in her tight top.

Then, of course, there was her ass! Whereas in our more seated configuration, her rear had rested primarily on the upper thighs of my lap, it now seemed that most of her weight balanced, somewhat precariously, upon the longitudinal hardness of my butt-smothered cock. Those tight denim shorts of hers did a nice job of separating her buns and spreading her sweet crack, so when we finally found equilibrium, it was with my log-like presence nestled securely along its length.

I was in heaven, as I slowly began to caress her vibrant flesh, cupping, stroking, gently squeezing, and so forth. For her part, Hannah's eyes remained closed, but a look of distinct pleasure was evident throughout her visage. I couldn't help myself, but thrust up with my pelvis, grinding my groin into her sweet rump. Like I said, I was in heaven.

In a low voice, engendered by the sexiness of the situation rather than by any need for secrecy in the otherwise unoccupied house, I spoke.

"Are you sure this is all right, sweetheart? You're not afraid or anything, are you?"

Her eyes popped open, and turned towards mine. With a sassy pout and the diction of a too-confident middle-schooler, she replied, "I haven't said that word, have I?"

"No, no you haven't." I was both amused and turned on by her impudence, so I took that as my cue to unambiguously grind my cock up into her as lasciviously as I could. Her cheeks colored more at this, but she said nothing. "And, since the object of this game, from my point of view, is to get you to say 'that word, ' I guess I need to try something else. Sit up and turn around in my lap."

With a pout, Hannah sat up and, guided by my hands, retook a position straddling my semi-supine waist, facing me. I was careful to ensure that her crotch came to rest directly upon my turgid genitalia. Deliciously, her too-tight denim shorts created a perfect split-bulb camel-toe out of her eighth-grade pudenda, so as my niece straddled my hips, her cuntlet straddled my shaft, to my visual and physical delight. Her knees rested on the sofa seat to either side of me, and her hands rested lightly on my reclining shoulders, for balance. There were no closed lids now; her big black eyes stared into mine, widened in what looked to be a combination of sexual arousal and second-thought alarm at her indelicate situation.

I had no such second thoughts. I reached for her cute boobies once again, now from a front-facing vantage, and returned to caressing and cuddling the adorable cupcakes through her T-shirt and bra. At the crotch level, I think I was the one to start the motion, but Hannah soon followed, and her young hips began to slide forwards and backwards in a tentative dry-hump motion all their own. It felt so wonderful -- her jeans-clad crotch sliding along my length -- that after a minute or so of this I abandoned her tits, to grab an ass-cheek in each hand and help the motion along.

Hannah had trouble looking me in the eye, shamed, I think, by what probably seemed to her to be slutty behavior, behavior that despite its "nastiness" she couldn't bring herself to stop. Her little pelvis started getting ahead of my guiding hands, and her immature lovebox must have been heating up from the action, because the rut became more natural and urgent for her with practice. As far as I was concerned, I was getting an almost perfect lap dance, and was beginning to feel the early warning of an orgasm. Fine with me — I'd happily shoot off in my pants if it were induced by the frantic grinding of a beautiful fourteen-year-old's crotch all over my cock!

All thoughts of the "say 'uncle'" game were dismissed, as I climbed that metaphorical hill towards my ejaculation. Seeing as my hands were no longer needed on Hannah's ass to encourage her pelvic rhythm, I returned them to her tits. After about thirty seconds of feeling her up through her clothing, I cursed myself for a dullard and pushed up her T-shirt. This was a bit of a struggle, as it was so tight on her precocious upper body. Hannah seemed to know what I was about, because she raised her arms and in a few moments, we had managed to remove and discard the obstructing T-shirt.

Before my eyes lay the lacy cups of her straining bra, obviously a little too small for her still-growing chest. As I clutched at her now nearly nude breasts, practically mauling them in my enthusiasm, I reveled in the tan beauty of her newly uncovered tit-tops, which her bra left exposed. I also enjoyed the bare, flat tummy visible below the snow-white garment. Hannah was obviously of a naturally athletic, if slender, build, for her toned abdominal muscles rippled as she continued to gyrate in my lap.

When I focused my dizzy and dazzled gaze, for just a moment interrupting my avid and active scanning of these various treasures, I noticed that the clasp to her bra was in front, right between her wonderful, oscillating breasts. Fumbling as quickly as I could, burdened by my lust and her unceasing motion, I managed finally to release the catch and throw the offending cups aside, to reveal, at long last, her glorious fourteen-year-young tits.

They were firm enough, I can attest, to obviate any support purpose for that bra; light brown enough, without a single distracting tan-line, to evoke worshipful devotion to her natural butterscotch coloring; and capped proudly enough, by protruding, dark-brown gumdrop nipples, to instantly flood my mouth with Pavlovian saliva. I was stunned by their beauty, but I was stunned even more by what happened next.

Unexpectedly, Hannah threw herself back, pushing off from my shoulders, and hugged her arms across her naked breasts, hiding them and removing their divine glory from the sacrilegious gaze of man. All pelvic service — and all progress towards my climax — immediately halted. Staring down, not meeting my eyes, her hair covering her face, Hannah "lost" the game I had thought we were no longer playing.

"No! Er, stop ... I mean, 'Uncle'!"

She jumped off my lap, clutched the flaps of her bra-cups against her exquisite chest, leaned over to scoop up her T-shirt from the floor, and scampered out of the room with an apologetic, "You win again, Uncle Tim."

I was flummoxed; disappointed; and above all else, sexually frustrated. I had half a mind to hunt Hannah down and ask her to explain herself. Hell, I had a fragment of a mind — maybe only one or two percent, mind you -- to hunt Hannah down and force myself upon her; I was that worked up.

However, I recalled my promise. I had affirmed to my delectable young wrestling partner that if she said the word, I would stop. I couldn't go back on that word. Not to mention, I had very authentic affection for Hannah the person.

Instead, I took my frustrations out on — and my well-earned pleasures in — my wife's own hot cunt later that evening. She, of course, had no idea where my appetite or energies had suddenly come from, and I imagine she was a little puzzled when I led her to the couch in our bedroom suite, hoisted her into my lap, astraddle me, and fucked up into her ferociously while she bounced up and down along my impaling cockshaft. She was probably also surprised with the attention I paid — mauling, pinching and squeezing -- to her now-too-small tits throughout the frenzied session. Surprised, but not displeased.