Chapter 1

Bob Chaffin looked at the last stack of mail on his desk and sighed. Everyone who subscribed to the Andersonville Enquirer looked forward to their daily dose of Dear, Uncle Bob and he was having trouble finding something appropriate for tomorrow's column.

Feeling tightness over his right eye he knew he was in for a headache if he didn't get up and stretch a few minutes. Before he did anything else, though, he needed something to drink.

As he walked down the hall to the lounge, he muddled over the success of the column he'd suggested to his editor six months earlier. The first week after they'd introduced the Dear, Uncle Bob advice column, close to a hundred letters poured into the office. The count now was up to two hundred a week. Of course, he couldn't respond to every letter that came in, but he paid particular attention to the letters from kids. They needed guidance and he made sure they got it from somewhere. He also made sure anyone who sounded as though they were in serious trouble got help.

Getting back to his office, he placed his bottle of orange juice on his desk, and did a few stretching exercises. He was in the middle of one of these stretches when he noticed the color pink among the more ordinary white envelopes in the remaining stack.

Curious, he reached for the pink and pulled out an ivory colored envelope decorated with pink roses. There was no return address on the envelope which wasn't unusual. The stationery was the oddity. This was the first time he had received a letter seeking advice on such fancy paper.

Excited at the possibility of completing his search, he sat down in his chair and opened the envelope with his letter opener. Then, carefully removing the folded pages, he began to read. At the first sentence he dropped the letter, the pages scattering on the floor.

Pinching himself, he confirmed he was not dreaming and bent down to gather up the sheets of paper. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and began reading again.

Dear, Uncle Bob,

This afternoon my thoughts drifted toward you and I pictured us together in ways that I know I shouldn't because you're my uncle and I'm your niece.

I saw me there with you and I was unbuttoning that red shirt you bought for me, the one that's silky and a bit frillier than what I usually wear; and has the black glass butterfly buttons.

Anyway, I kept unbuttoning the blouse one button at a time until you could see my black lace bra that barely covers anything. You could see my hard nipples pressing against the thin layer of cloth. The nipples I dream of having you touch, and lick, and suck until I absolutely can't stand it anymore. Where I'm gasping and moaning and calling your name and pleading with you to not stop.

By the time I pulled my blue jeans down, revealing that I wasn't wearing panties, my nectar was dripping down the insides of my thighs and my clit felt like it was swollen ten times its size and it was beating in such a way I thought surely you could hear it along with my heart.

Then, I kissed you, Uncle Bob – smack dab on the lips – long and hard – running my tongue across your mouth until you moaned and opened up so that I could taste your tongue, while my fingers were busy between my thighs.

I was planning on taking my time, but something just came over me and I dropped to my knees, unsnapped your jeans, pulled down the zipper, and guided your pounding, swollen cock into my mouth.

I know it's not right, with us being related like we are, but, Uncle Bob, sucking you and drinking your baby juice would almost be the most exquisite thing in all the world to me. The only thing more heavenly, would be for you to fill my womb with that baby juice and give me your baby.

I hope I haven't made you mad at me or embarrassed you by sharing this with you.

Your Loving Niece,

Chrissy

Embarrassed wasn't really the right word for what Bob felt as he hastily folded the rose print pages covered in elegant script and shoved the note inside his briefcase to take home. He was puzzled as hell.

Robert Paul Chaffin didn't have any nieces.

For that matter he didn't have any nephews, either. He was an only child and still single. Furthermore, nobody had ever written him a note anything remotely like what was currently in his briefcase. The last time he'd read anything like that he had to pay $3.95 for the magazine it was printed in.

His mind whirled as he tried to decide whether some lovely young lass was fantasizing about him being her uncle, or whether he had a long lost brother or sister he knew nothing about, except that they knew about him, and had told the niece he didn't know he had about him, too, and somehow she fell madly in love with him despite never having seen or talked with him. He took a mental breath. That thought process was as difficult to get through as the run-on sentence you just read was for you.

He had to go with the fantasy angle. Somebody he knew had a crush on him. She was apparently too shy to say anything face to face, so she wrote to him instead. Kind of an anonymous love note, like kids wrote in school all the time. He thought about the contents of the note. No way was the girl who wrote that shy ... in any way, shape or form. She was also literate. There were no misspellings or grammatical errors in it.

He smiled a wry smile. Only a columnist would notice that, at the same time his dick was getting stiff because of what was written.

So, it was someone he knew. She wasn't shy. She was educated. She had a thing for him, and there was every indication that, if he figured out who she was, he was going to get his dick very, very wet.

The only problem was that he couldn't think of any women he knew who fit that bill, and who were in any kind of position to lust after him.

He was going to have to examine that letter again. There had to be more clues in it as to who she was. And he just had to figure that out. Whoever this lovely woman was, she had already committed him to having to beat his meat like a woman tenderizing a piece of cheap steak when he got home. If he could find her, she might actually go through with what she had, thus far, only fantasized about.

It was certainly worth the trouble to try.

Content as any cat getting a belly rub, Bob went through the remaining letters, chose two, and began working on his responses.

The following morning, most of Bob's readers, including his mystery woman, arose early to get a start on their work day. She had met Bob when he came to visit her fifth grade class. As she had done in her former hometown, Miss Ryan set aside time one day a week for her students to meet three adults from various backgrounds and careers. She wanted them to understand the scope of differences in people and to realize that everyone, no matter who they are, has an important part to play in life.

The Friday Bob Chaffin came to her class, Miss Ryan discovered for the first time that she had physical ailments of which she was not aware. She could barely breathe, her mouth was dry, her stomach queasy and squishy, and she was having difficulty speaking. She considered leaving school and going straight to her doctor, but after going to the school nurse who declared there was no temperature to be found, and with most of her symptoms seemingly to have disappeared, Miss Ryan decided to finish out the day.