"Which bedroom do I use?"

That was the question that I had originally intended to use as the title for this story. But this new title is not the answer to the above question. Here's why.

My cock had been at half mast for hours as I had debated with myself how she would react to the words that I had been trying to properly phrase for most of those hours. Should I use subtle seduction or should I just plain hit on her, you know, 'I'd like to fuck you? Would her eyes pop open or would they narrow? Might she smile or would she frown? Would she step back or move toward me? Will she inhale or gasp? Slap my face or caress it gently? Would she run away? Was she really the virgin that I had presumed?

But all of a sudden I no longer had to worry about framing a question, for she had asked me just what I had intended to ask her. Rather, I had to decide on an answer. And that required me to consider a different question. Was she asking me which of the two guest rooms she should head for or was she including the master bedroom in her inquiry? Or was she daring enough to want to use a different bedroom every night for as long as she would spend with me here in the City where damn near every street was named Peachtree? I knew instantly the answer that I wanted to give, but that of course would take me back to the prior paragraph. In my mind, alas, I could neither decide nor delay. I chickened out. I stared at her for as long as I dared, and then evaded the issue.

"Which bedroom would you like to use, Alison?"

Then it was her turn to stare at me, at my eyes. Was I simply like a good Uncle Doug offering her to choose between A and B or was I inviting her to if she wished choose option C, the master bedroom? How would I react if she chose C and I had not intended that one? Would she be flattered or afraid? How much, if at all, did she want to be kissed, fondled, licked? And yes, fucked? I held my breath. The silence was broken only by the soft hum of an electric clock in my head. Yet it sounded as though I were listening to Giuseppe Verdi's Anvil Chorus.

From where she stood, Alison could see all three open doors. She glanced to the left, option A. Her face showed nothing, gave no clue. The second guest room, to the right, choice B, yielded the same result. And then, straight ahead, she looked at my bedroom, the master suite.

Silently, without her even glancing my way, the corners of her mouth raised in a coquettish smile. Equally silently, my cock leaped to attention, drawing all of the available blood from my brain. The Anvil Chorus was replaced by the exploding, booming cannons of the 1812 Overture, that masterpiece by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky celebrating Russia's victory over the invading French. I leave it to you to guess in what year that took place. Yet after years of fantasy, months of planning, days and hours of both hope and indecision, at that delicious instant I myself wouldn't have been able to venture a guess about that date.

Who am I and why was I lusting after my niece? I'm Doug. Alison's late mother Nancy was the sister of my former wife Lena, as in Angelina. The other choice of nickname would have been Angel. That might have been appropriate while Lena was working as an Operating Room nurse, but when she took off with the Chief Surgeon, the best appellation in my mind became 'Cunt'! So since we got divorced, I'm not sure if Nancy was technically still my sister-in-law and Alison still my niece.

Lusting after Alison came as no surprise to me, since I had previously lusted after her mother. What happened was that, at a time when Nancy was already divorced, she and that cunt Lena and I were supposed to drive over to Biloxi for a day of gambling, dinner and overnight. Kind of a long drive, but shorter than flying to Vegas for real gambling. When Nancy got to our house, Lena said that she had gotten a call to come to the hospital to cover for one of her nurses who had phoned in sick. Now I finally know that she had wanted to be alone to do an all-nighter with Doctor 'Right', in our own bed. But back then she told us to go gamble without her, and so we did.

Well, I told you that I already had the hots for Nancy and I had already started to have suspicions that Lena was spreading her legs for someone else. I mean, when she suddenly shaves her pussy, buys crotchless panties and uses a new scent, and then she's too tired every night for sex, a guy has to wonder. And since I've never hesitated to knock off a strange piece of ass, I jumped to the same assumption about her.

So, about halfway through the day, and during a winning streak, I put my hand on Nancy's back and began to rub. In all the years that I had known her, I had never done that before. She let it go for a while and then looked at my face.

"What's on your mind, Doug?" She didn't have to ask; she was attractive and worldly. She knew.

I thought, you fucking well know what's on my mind. I want to fuck you blind through every hole you've got and then do it again. But all I said, in very polite words, was that I wanted to leave the table and take her to bed. She closed her eyes, shook her head. "I'd love to, but I would think about my sister and I couldn't handle the guilt." Bitch!

My cock shriveled, my winning streak ended, but I never tried to hit on Nancy again. We stayed overnight, but in separate rooms. I spent the night whacking off to fall asleep. My lust instead moved on to her daughter, maybe half my age.

Let me tell you about Alison. She's in her twenties. You wouldn't call her beautiful but she is very pretty. She has a rack like her mother, which makes for great inspiration when I have to whack off. Otherwise she's slender but healthy. She plays racquet ball and also plays in a softball league. Some would say that means that she's a lesbian, but I don't think so. No doubt though that she's munched a carpet or three in her lifetime. She's very intelligent but alas, quite shy. That may account for the fact that, as her mother told my ex, she's had very few dates in her lifetime.

That may also account for the fact that she's anorexic or bulimic, I'm not sure of the difference, and that she's spent time off and on behind a locked door in a mental hospital. While Nancy was alive, Alison spent most of her free time with her mother. But she's managed to handle herself well enough since her mother died.

So basically that's why I spent so much time just fantasizing. I was simply afraid that a good fuck would make her think that I was in love with her and that she'd want to move in with me. No such luck, dear Alison; my cock has no fidelity.

She had been living on the West Coast for a few years and was planning to move back to Atlanta. She'd called and asked if she could crash with me while she looked for an apartment. Sure, why not? I'd gotten the condo in my divorce from the Cunt because she had a high income sugar daddy to keep her feet warm and her fingers bejeweled. I'd picked Alison up at Hartsfield-Jackson airport. When she found me at the luggage carousel, she gave me a big hug and kiss.

No big deal for a favorite (only) uncle except that the kiss was on the lips and was more than a peck. No tongue, but still not what I had expected. Still, she'd always been a toucher, especially with her Uncle Doug. And the hug confirmed that her tits had grown even more since I'd last seen her – not that I couldn't know that visually. Plus, as we waited for her bags, she kept an arm around my waist. Thirty minutes after all the other passengers were long gone, we finally learned that her suitcases were in the air en route to Honolulu, erroneously misplaced when she changed planes at O'Hare in Chicago. The airline said that they would deliver them as soon as they could be brought back to the mainland.

"No problem. I've got enough work-out clothes to keep you decent for the two or three days."

"Why do I need to be decent?" she asked, disingenuously.

"Huh?" was my reply, but she said nothing.

We hopped on the MARTA and spent the day sight-seeing. When it grew dark, we went to my favorite Italian restaurant for dinner. In truth – I think – I never gave a thought to the fact that the restaurant basically was lighted only by Candles in Chianti bottles. My cock got up to half-mast because she held my hand throughout dinner, but the conversation was about totally innocent stuff.

All in all though, the entire scene led me to re-think my plan to hit on her sometime in the next few days and move it up to that evening. Sufficient to say that the cab ride back to my apartment after dinner was both chaste and wordless.

And now we're back to that moment in my condo when Alison looked toward my bedroom and smiled.

I reached out one hand and like a ballet dancer, Alison folded herself into my arms. We stood chest to chest, face to face. I know that my expression was serious, but her eyes sparkled and her lips smiled. Quickly discarding the idea of saying anything, I bent my head toward hers. Her lips reached out to mine and we met, kissing far beyond familial fondness. Like a viper, her tongue flicked out, passing my lips, pushing and creating a space between my teeth. My own tongue responded in kind. Her eyes were closed as her tits pressed proudly against my chest. I rubbed her smooth back.

My mind temporarily flashed back to that frustrating day when I had rubbed her mother's back, only to be shot down. Forget that, I said to myself, you're not going to strike out tonight. In confirmation, her groin pressed against my cock, both sets of organs covered still by two layers of clothing. Any family misgivings about my sexual plans faded from my head brain into the ether, with all thinking controlled by the hard brain on the lower level, between my legs.

I pulled back from her and my fingers slowly began to open the buttons on her blouse, one by dainty one. After the second one, with her bra still hidden by the silk of her garment, she twisted away from me, grabbed my hand and led me toward my own bedroom. The bed itself was neatly made, as usual. One of my also divorced friends had suggested to me that a woman was generally impressed when the man she was about to fuck was civilized enough to make his own bed. Ignoring any compliments that I had hoped for, Alison flopped down on the neat bed and dragged me with her.

Her legs were wrapped around me as she allowed me to continue with my tactile work. After the third and fourth buttons were relieved of duty, her bra became visible. A modestly serviceable garment, apt for a trip of several thousand miles of airline coach seating, it was made of black mesh. A small hint of breast peeked up above each cup. I kissed a bit of the visible skin and caressed one cup. To my reasonably well trained eyes, I marked them in my mind as 36C or 36D. Unnecessarily I compared them to my ex wife Lena's own tits. Her motto had been, when questioned about her flatness vis a vis the boobs of her sister and niece, 'anything over a mouthful is wasted'. Or was it a 'handful?"

When my button work was completed, Alison lifted her torso and reached behind, quickly releasing the hook that held her bra tightly shielding her breasts. The bra and blouse were soon on the floor and I gazed at the lovely flesh that they had hidden. Yes, 36D! Hard nipples located the center, the dark faucets protruding a full inch. I bent to suckle, listening to her soft purr. At the same time I kneaded whichever tit that I wasn't feasting on. I didn't stop sucking until I began to feel that if I continued, I would cum in my pants.