Chapter 1

My name is Bob, and I'm six-three, with dark, wavy hair and a six pack you could rest marbles in if I was lying down. I have a foot long dick, and more pussy than I can find the time to keep happy.

You buying any of this?

I don't blame you. It's all lies. That's how most of these stories start, but they're probably all lies too.

So why am I starting out with an outrageous lie? Well ... in my case, the truth is just as crazy. And I can't tell anybody I know about it. Hell, if I did, they wouldn't believe me anyway. So I'm going to tell you, because if I don't tell somebody, I'm going to go crazy.

My name isn't Bob, but we'll stick with that for now. You'll understand why I don't want to be identified later. I'm not six foot, three inches tall. I'm a shade under seventy inches. My hair is short, because it's easier to take care, and because I got used to having it that way while I was in the Army. I can still do a hundred sit-ups, but marbles would roll right off of me. Sorry, it's just the way things are.

And, as for women, there have been a few, but there isn't one right now and hasn't been one for quite some time. The last two relationships I was in were based on lust, rather than love. On their part. I fall in love easily, like my sister, who you'll hear about in a minute. My track record with women, unfortunately, is about like hers with men. That's just a fact too.

There's really nothing special about me, in fact. I got hurt while I was on active duty, in what would be called an "industrial accident" in the civilian world. The Army called it dereliction of duty, in terms of the specialist operating the combat forklift that ran over me. They had to put a steel pin in my right femur, and had to rebuild both the tibia and fibula in my left leg. That got me the "golden ticket" of being medically retired at a 90% disability rating. It's only a thousand bucks a month, but the GI Bill also got me a degree in data systems engineering. I formed my own company and I do all right. I never wanted to be rich anyway.

Actually, other than a slight limp, it's hard for anyone to tell I was injured. I can tell when it's going to rain or snow, but that's more of an annoyance than actual discomfort.

Okay, enough about me. I'm just an ordinary guy. The story actually started on an ordinary day, a Monday, in fact, when I opened my email and found, among the dozens of work related things, one from my niece. She's much more interesting than I am, and since all these stories describe the girl too, I will. But in this case, I'll give you the real scoop.

Elizabeth, who I just call Lizzy most of the time, is just shy of ... well never mind how old she is ... she's a healthy young woman who usually presents with a long, blond pony tail, that reaches just past her shoulder blades when up, and to the middle of her back when it's down. It's that golden blond color that looks like it has brown highlights in it in the sun, except you can't find them if you look closely. She's slim, but only because she's active. Her mother is tending toward heavy these days, and the same is in Lizzy's future if she doesn't keep up her active lifestyle. She also has her mother's breasts, which are, shall we say ... generous. They developed early, and the scamp learned to use them on men early as well. She practiced by pushing them and rubbing them against me during hello and goodbye hugs. There was even a time when I accused her of doing it on purpose, just to tease me.

Her response? "It's what girls do, Uncle Bob. I have to practice on somebody. If not you, then who should it be?"

That sounds like she was coming on to me, but that wasn't the case. Not really. It's not like every time we were together she threw herself at me, or anything like that. She was just unabashedly friendly and intimate with me on a level that might exceed the usual uncle/niece relationship.

The other thing is that, along with her upper body, her bottom developed nicely, too. She has that typical hourglass shape that you see on the Victoria's Secret models, who actually look like women, instead of sticks with clothes draped on them.

She looks delicious in a bikini, and yes, I've had inappropriate thoughts about her on many occasions. I never did anything about them, of course ... but I had them.

Lizzy lives two blocks from me with my sister, Monica, who finally gave up men after she dumped her third husband. Number one was Lizzy's father, who somehow got the idea that Monica was a punching bag instead of a good woman. That was when I was still in the Army, and I beat him bloody one time when I went over and found her all bruised up. I let him hit me a few times, so there would be evidence that I had to defend myself. He decided giving her a divorce was in his best interests. Number two was a cowboy she met in a roadhouse one night when she went looking for trouble and found it. He did the Rodeo circuit, trying to strike it big as a bull rider. When she gave him the ultimatum that it was either her or the Rodeo, he chose the bulls. Lizzy was twelve when he showed up on the scene, and fifteen when he left and he's the one who got her hooked on barrel racing. Number three was a stock broker who she caught cheating on her with her former best friend. Number three is why she only has to work part time.

Without going into boring details surrounding birthdays and Thanksgiving and so on, suffice it to say I got along with husbands two and three as well as any in-law does. They didn't beat up my sister, so that was a plus. But I suspect the, shall we say transient nature, of Monica's relationships with men might have been responsible for Lizzy fixating on me as perhaps the only stable male relationship in her life. I mean there was all that hugging, and rubbing her precious teenage titties against my chest while she murmured how good my aftershave smelled, and all that.

Of course I never took any of that seriously. It was good for a fantasy and all, but she was a girl, and I was old enough to be her father, and the world just doesn't work that way anyway ... right?

Well that's what I thought too, until I got an email from her one day that had photos attached.

Lizzy was a member of 4-H, and had friends related to husband number two. One of them, in fact, was who boarded her horse, a birthday present from number two after he actually did ride a series of bulls long enough to win some money. She rode that horse in barrel races at various events, such as the rodeo at the county fair, and 4-H rodeos. She also rode in parades, either with groups of her 4-H friends, or even the mounted sheriff's patrol, which was ceremonial only. Everybody loved to have Lizzy mounted in a parade with them.

Personally, I think that's because pretty much everybody wanted to mount Lizzy.

So it wasn't unusual for me to get an email with a set of pictures of her racing from one end of an arena to the other, cutting her horse around barrels, pony tail flying, an intense look on her face. And I loved getting those, because she was the quintessential image of a healthy young cowgirl, ripe and ready. The form-fitting western shirts, and skin tight jeans, which were tucked into tooled boots covered her body, true, but they also showcased it as well. Her wide, leather belt, with a huge buckle made of old nickels soldered together, gave some scale as her breasts bounced up and down in time with the horse's gait. You couldn't watch Lizzy on a horse, without wishing you were the guy whose bedroll she'd climb into by the campfire that night.

As I said. I was used to getting photos like that. She had a whole crew of friends who loved to take them.

But what I was not used to getting, along with them, was a picture of her lying on her stomach on her bed, knees bent, toes in the air while she manipulated the PS3 controller in her hands, staring at the little TV I knew to be in her room.

Sounds domestic enough ... right?

Except for the fact she was stark naked.

Well, not stark naked, technically. She did have on knee socks. They were rainbow colored, striped, and that splash of color on both lower legs was perfectly placed to frame her moist, juicy-looking, pouting pussy lips, clearly visible between thighs that were spread just enough to give her balance as she leaned left and right, using unconscious body movements against the game.

I stared. I could only see part of her face in profile. Whoever had taken the picture had been behind her. I could even see the blurry image of the game she was playing, because the TV was only a couple of feet from her bed, on a chair. But it was undeniably her. That dark blond pony tail I mentioned was lying on her back, carelessly falling to one side. If her arm hadn't been as close to her side as it was, that hair would have been caressing the side of her breast. And it was her bed, and her things in the background. I had been in that bedroom before.

Which brought up the primary question: Who the fuck took that picture?!

There were no clues as to that. The flash had been used, so there were no shadows thrown by the taker. There were also no mirrors, or shiny things I could see reflections in.

I looked at the file name of the picture. It was 100-0764.jpg. I looked at the fourteen other pictures that were of her barrel racing, or sitting on her horse, smiling brilliantly, or standing by her horse, or talking to some of her equally gorgeous cowgirl friends. The file names for those were 100-0765.jpg through 100-0778.jpg. The one of her on the bed had been taken before the Rodeo shots. But obviously not at the rodeo. She must have either clicked and dragged a list to attach the pictures to her email, or individually selected them as a group. And in the process ... she included one she hadn't meant to include.

I went back and stared at the photo itself. It wasn't my imagination. Her pussy lips did look moist. I couldn't help but wonder if any penis had split those delicious looking lips, sliding between them to plumb her dark and steamy depths.

I became aware that I was stiff as a board.

And yes, I confess ... I took out my cock and stroked it, staring at that picture, imagining mounting her from behind, until I spurted all over the floor under my desk.

I was sure it had been a mistake. She had not meant to send me that picture. The text of the email was standard stuff. "uncle bob omg i actually got second place at the regional trials i only got a ribbon but it was so much fun i wish you could come to these i love you bye" Like I assume is typical in today's texting environment, she never used capitals or punctuation. I never get mail from any other teenager, but I assume that's normal too. Only that one extra picture was abnormal.

I have to admit I was obsessed with that photograph. The shot itself was horrifyingly beautiful. I say horrifying because it bothered me on so many levels. First off, because of that picture, I now wanted to fuck my niece. There was no getting around that. Not that I was going to do anything about that desire, but it was a lot stronger than the mere "innocent" fantasies I'd had of her in the past. Second, I just couldn't stand the thought that it was some punk boy, some kid her age who had taken that picture. I had awful images in my mind of this kid with no face, who was playing video games with my niece, taking a break only to climb on top of her and fill her pussy with his little prick and her belly with his spend.

It drove me a little crazy.

I'm not exaggerating here. I was so upset by this that I planned and executed a secret mission to try to learn more.

Seriously!

What I did was call my sister, and tell her it had been much too long since I'd tasted her cooking, or sat and watched a movie with her.

That was actually true, and since she and I had been pretty close, growing up, she was always up for spending some time with me. The only fight I could ever remember having with her was the one after I beat the piss out of number one and threatened his life if he ever touched her again. Basically he got frustrated, yelled "Mother fucker!" and stomped out of the house. First she hugged me, sobbing and clinging to me. Then she raged at me for butting in, asking me what the hell she was going to do now. I told her find a better fucking husband and we yelled at each other for another ten minutes. Then Lizzy toddled in and started crying because we were yelling. We made up and she confessed that this wasn't the first time he'd done it.

Anyway, Monica said "Come on over. Bring pizza and beer," so that's what I did.

My plan was to get Lizzy to choose the movie. That way she'd be engaged, and I'd have time to snoop. And it worked perfectly too.

Well, almost.

She picked something called "The Color of Magic," which was this ridiculous science fiction kind of sort of thing with a flat world perched on the back of four elephants, who were standing on the shell of a huge turtle, swimming through space. But I didn't care. I said I'd already seen it, and recommended it highly, and they told Netflix to stream the thing. It was silly, but actually interesting too. I let it get half an hour into things, when the plot was beginning to unfold, and then said "Potty break. I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me. I might be a while. Don't stop it for me. I remember what happens."