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(Gentle reader. If you are the sort of person who is offended by the idea that men and women may sometimes act in a manner on which the more rigid factions of (your) society might frown, then please do not read this. This is not a ‘how to’ story, nor a ‘should do’ parable, it is rather a ‘what if’ daydream, with a sexual bias. Besides, I have no wish to offend you. If, on the other hand, you believe life can be a bitch and the urges can sometimes get you by the balls — and squeeze — and you know yourself sufficiently well to be confident you can explore likely outcomes in an open-minded and non-judgmental fashion, then please read on, and, if the spirit moves you to, comment. To the anonymous reader who remarked on the difference between ‘throes’ and ‘throws’, and the other who pointed out that there is a difference between Wall-Mart, and K-Mart, my thanks. You are both right, of course. If my errors appall, I apologise. I do try to get things right!)
He started coming to stay. My Uncle Zak. With us. Not with his parents, or his sister, or brother Zok — or Zunk, or Zick, or whatever his damn name was — oh no! he HAD to come stay with David and me. I argued that it just wasn’t right. Let him go stay with people his own age, I said. But David wouldn’t listen. We were closer to the city than the rest, he said. And had a bigger house, he added. And a maid, he finished it off. So that was that!
When Uncle Zak came, the first time, I was seven months pregnant with Tracy, so reckoned I would be safe. But I wasn’t. When he got me all hot and bothered, me pushing his hands from my body like a windmill in a gale, him getting there in the end, it was one of the best fucks I’d had in months! David had always been sort of cautious around me once the baby was on the way. Treated me like Dresden china. Which was nice, but hardly sexually fulfilling. Uncle Zak, he didn’t give a fuck about the baby. All he wanted was to hump me and make me gasp and squeal. And he did both. And I came, twice.
The second day of his stay, at breakfast, just after David left for work, and while Yanti, our maid, was in the laundry ironing clothes, we fucked on the kitchen table. I was terrified Yanti would come in, but he didn’t give a damn. If she had come in, he’d probably have fucked her next. Yanti is a pretty little thing. (She is from Indonesia, don’t ask me how David arranged it. Through his firm, he said.) I swore, after that, that Uncle Zak would never stay with us again. But he did — a weekend, the very next year. And managed to fuck me again. Managed to fuck me eight time, in fact. In almost every room in the house. (Yanti was away for a week.) God only knows where the old bugger gets the energy, or sperm, but he hasn’t slowed down one iota from the first time he made me explode. Must be something he eats.
Now he’s back. Again. I tried to tell David that No, not again, he’s been here enough. Let him stay with someone else. Let him stay in a hotel in town — Christ he’s hardly poor. He has his own company for Chrissake. But David said I was not being myself, and asked if I was expecting again. (I’m not, as it happened, but said that I might be, for otherwise how did I explain my opposition to my uncle coming to stay, other than telling the truth. And I could hardly do that.)
So he’s back. But this time Yanti is here, and I have arranged that we stay together, all day, doing the house-work. ‘Spring Cleaning’ I have called it, though it’s half way through Fall. Yanti, little sweetie that she is, doesn’t know any better, and is happy to work with me. We get on well together, she and I. Which is why we’re here, right now, up in the attic, sorting through things. I figure the pull-down ladder is too steep for my reprobate uncle to climb. And even if they’re not, I have Yanti here to protect me!
The attic is not very large. Sloping eves either side and a big window at the end that looks out over the back yard and the garage. Even at its highest it’s not very tall. I can only just stand in the middle. From there it slopes down either side all the way to the floor. The sides are stacked with boxes, some old furniture and mattresses piled on the floor, a bunch of tennis and squash rackets, a set of old golf clubs. Yanti and I were yapping away about this and that. She’s only nineteen, and only just learning the language, but finds almost all things amusing. She smiles a lot for a girl so far from home. I can’t get enough of her cheerful ways.
“Aye aye,” comes a voice from the floor. Both of us stop and look round. A head, that’s all, peers at us from the trapdoor in the middle of the floor. The rest of his length is on the ladder below. (Okay, so I was wrong, the bastard can climb a ladder.)
“We didn’t wake you, did we?” I challenge, sweetly, rubbing in the fact that we are up and working while he’s been lazing in bed. I ignore the fact that it’s Sunday, and I encouraged him to sleep in this morning — as I flaunted my way from the sitting room pendik escort last night on the arm of my David, my husband and protector, who is just as big as he is. (Though not between the legs, it has to be said, although that hardly matters, of course). “We are just clearing up, but we’ll be down soon. Amuse yourself in the den,” I told the head in the middle of the floor. David is at church. It is turn to take collection. I never go, don’t like to, which is why I’m here, with a slender and sweet nineteen year old to protect me.
“No, I’ll help,” says the great ox as he heaves himself through the trapdoor and bangs his head on the centrepost!
“Don’t, you’re far too big to be up here,” I say, a touch of alarm in my voice.
Which he detects, damn his eyes. “Not too big for you, dear niece,” he says, all knowing innuendo, coming to our end of the attic. Soon there are three of us here, at the end beside the window, kneeling on the mattress that used to be on our bed — David and mine — but has since been changed for a new one. We are sorting through a cake tin full of coins. Yanti and I had started it, now Uncle Zak wants to help.
“The foreign coins go in these piles there,” I am explaining, reluctantly, to Uncle Zak, wishing he wasn’t here. There’s one large tin of coins, all mixed up. Individual piles of coins, one for each country, sit on open pages of newspaper laid out on the wood planking of the attic floor, between the mattress and the window. There’s a tree just outside. It’s a yew, David says, although I think it’s more likely a birch. To its right is the corner of our swimming pool. To its left the garage, and the path past David’s rockery to the kitchen door.
Uncle Zak has inserted himself between Yanti and me on the mattress. I am none too sure how he succeeded, nor why all three of us are kneeling so close together, but there it is. We are facing the window and the piles of coins. When he turns, and smiles, then starts to help, my heart is in my mouth. This man has known every sensitive bit of me since I was God-knows how old, and I have never, (ever,) made a successful defence of my virtue when he has chosen to arouse me … which is another thing the bastard has never failed to do when he has set his mind to it! He knows my body better than it knows itself, yet here he is, sandwiched between us, Yanti and me.
Our hips are touching. Our breath is intermingling. Our eyes are dipping in and out of each other’s. Our hands, all engaged in their separate tasks, crossing and brushing and touching as the coins need be added to the others of their origin, wherever that pile should be. It’s like that game, where the hands go to spots on the floor, then others go to others, then feet join in, and soon you are tangled in knots, with other people.
I lean past Uncle Zak from his right, where I am, to put a coin on the paper, far left, and as I do, Yanti, from her position on his left, leans over to the right to do the same thing with the coin she has in her hand. We are suddenly crossed before my Uncle Zak; stretched out ahead of him, reaching out our respective coins, when Uncle Zak’s hand cups my breast. I stop. Frozen. I do not move. Not a inch. It is as if this is what I was waiting for, but somehow prayed would never come, though somehow (deep inside me) sensed it might. At the precise moment that the fingers curl around my breast, and the high voltage throb zips through me, (as it always does,) energising breast, and nerves, and launching hopeless hormones in all the wrong directions, to all the wrong places, I know — I just KNOW — that he also has a hand on Yanti.
Our faces are mere inches from each other. My eyes are on Yanti’s and hers are on mine. And hers are saying … nothing. Nothing at all. It is as if she is denying what she’s felt. As if it is a private thing between this man and her. Not a thing the mistress need concern herself with. I wonder if my eyes are saying the same sort of thing. I wonder what will happen if I rise? Will he release his hold on me? Will he release his hold on Yanti? Will he speak, crack a joke, make some excuse? Will I hit my head on the crossbeam?
Yanti and I stayed bowed, stretched over in front of the man, each with an arm outstretched. Neither of us have dropped the coin in the pile to which it belongs. Both of us stay as we are. The hand gently strokes my blouse and the breast within. I sense he does the same thing to Yanti, over the T-shirt she wears. It is a T-shirt with ‘I’m your Honey’ writ in pink, across her plump girlish boobs.
“Sure you got the right piles?” the base voice drawls as his hands gently play with a breast from us each. I don’t know what to do. Neither does Yanti, I can tell. The only one who seems to have a clue, is my blessed Uncle Zak, who continues to fondle us, like pets.
“Spain,” I say, as I angle the face of the coin my way.
“The Philippines,” says Yanti, looking at hers, both of us still angled over, offering our maltepe escort breasts, having him administer a gentle milking action to both of us.
“That’s right,” I say, frowning at the coin in my outstretched hand, failing to draw my breast away, failing to stop the feeling of his fingers at my boob, failing to consider what might happen next, and fascinated too, at Yanti, and the fact she is doing the same thing. What is this thrall he holds us in? What is the power of this man?
“I’ve had you both, you know,” he says, as if it were a gentle conversation. About the weather, say. My eyes on Yanti grow and question. As do hers, on mine. Then we are blushing at each other, dropping our eyes, letting the hands and the coins join the paper on the floor. It is as if, by this admission from us both — the boast from him, the lack of denial from either of us — he has proved that he holds all the cards. As if it illustrates our weaknesses. Surprises us perhaps, but fits us for our fate. He must have had Yanti last night, I realise. When I was safe with David my uncle was seducing our maid. Why should that surprise me, I wonder, straightening and pushing off his hand. Yanti, seeing what I do, does the same. Both of us stare at the floor, back on our heals, red as beetroots, not sure what comes next.
But Uncle Zak … he knows what comes next. He’s had us both, you see. He knows our weaknesses. He knows the buttons to press, and how to press them. I take a deep breath. He shuffles back towards the centre of the mattress like a walrus easing back from the surf. He reaches out a hand to both of us and turns us towards him. (Why we let him I do not know.) And there we are, the three of us, knees touching, in a triangle on the mattress. Two blushing hard. One breathing softly.
Broad hands I know so well slip round the back of our heads — Yanti’s and mine — and pull them to his. I watch him kissing Yanti, then I kiss him. Then Yanti and he kiss again. Then he and I kiss. His hand has slipped up Yanti’s t-shirt and fondles her breast. The other, having opened the buttons of my blouse, has moved my bra out the way and caresses my naked breast. He has lost none of his skill. Soon I am kissing him deeply. Then he and Yanti are kissing, equally deeply. When he moves Yanti’s open mouth to mine, eyes closed, lips glistening with spittle. It seems an extension of what we’ve been doing, that fact alone renders it churlish to object, so soon I am kissing the girl.
Her mouth is much sweeter than his. Her lips so much softer and plump. I find her delightful to kiss. I find his caresses arousing me more as I kiss my maid. I put that arousal into my kiss, with her. Soon I have Yanti’s young tongue playing with mine. I feel her soft hand on my face, gently stroking the skin of my cheek. I return the compliment, feeling her younger cheek, sensing the rising arousal in her. We get on well, the two of us. We like each other too. Fingers (of the solitary male in our midst) part my knees, just as I’m sure they do, Yanti’s. But neither of us chooses to end the kiss. Nor do we think to resist as broad fingers sneak into the crotches of our shorts, and start to arouse what is there.
As I ease my legs apart — to give the hand greater access — and open my lips even wider over Yanti’s delicious young mouth, I start to question what my Uncle Zak is doing. What all three of us are doing. How it fits into the fabric of our home and domestic arrangement. Just because Uncle Zak appears to be able to make us say Yes — meaning Yanti and me — when we should be saying No, is this added dimension not harmful? Harmful in terms of our household? Harmful in terms of David and me? And Yanti and me? The harm caused by the fact that our secret, Yanti and mine, (concerning the man in our midst,) is no longer that. Now Yanti knows about me, and Uncle Zak, and I know about Yanti, and Uncle Zak. And Uncle Zak, of course, knows about both of us — as well as ‘knowing’ us both, in the biblical sense.
I have to end our kiss. Not by reason of ethics or morals. I need my mouth to breath! And judging from the sound of the air that had started exploding from Yanti’s pretty little nose to my cheek, lips clamped together like limpets to rocks in one of the most ardent bouts of French kissing I can ever remember having had with another human being — David and Uncle Zak included — it is clear that my partner in this, my sweet young maid who, until today, was merely that, (my sweet young maid,) is clearly feeling the same.
As we break, we both sway back on our heels like stands of bamboo in a breeze. Each of us reach out behind, straight-armed, to catch ourselves from falling. Our sighs come together, their sound like a breeze through another tall stand of bamboo. I hold myself like that, arms straight out behind me, shoulders round my ears, face towards the eves, eyes closed, mouth open, breathing harsh and fast. My knees on the mattress remain, splayed wide, with the kartal escort practiced fingers of a man’s broad hand eased inside the leg of my shorts, the tips of his fingers inserted in the leg band of my panties, stroking the slick and pungent discharge I’ve been pumping to his bidding for the past few frenetic minutes. I groan as my pelvis kicks and gently thrusts into his toying fingers, all in accordance with instructions of its own. I have no control over that part of my body. Only Zak knows how it works. And how to work it. (Even David, poor dear, has failed to find the secret of the thing.)
I thrust again and hear another groan, and sense it’s mine. And then another groan I know is not. This time it is Yanti. Deeper than I thought she would groan, had I given it thought — which I hadn’t … There she goes again! (What a deeply arousing sound that is. Her groan. My Yanti’s groan.)
I fight to open my eyes. I need to put an end to this. My maid is being molested by our house guests. She’s only a kid, for goodness sake. She’s only nineteen. This cannot be allowed. As my eyes strive to obey the instruction they’ve been given by my brain — the small part still under my control, as opposed to the greater part that’s been converted into a hormone factory, (which is threatening to explode if my Uncle doesn’t stop what he is doing) — I realise a couple of things. One, my concern for my maid may be a trifle redundant as my uncle has already had her. And Two, I was younger than she is now when my uncle first had me!
I power up the muscles in my neck and lift my head, aim my face at the cause of our disquiet. I force my eyes to frown and my mouth to set itself into a tight line, that will make it clear to anyone witnessing this scene — my uncle in particular — that this is not a situation I wish prolonged. I am, after all, the mistress of this house. But it is at that exact moment, when my various facial features are working towards their positions to execute my ‘This Situation Will Not Be Prolonged’ look, that my Uncle Zack slips the tips of two fingers into my ladylike bower, up to the second joint, (annoyingly curling the tip when it gets there,) causing my resolve to retract like the feelers of an anemone that has just been similarly fingered.
I groan as I frown and my head snaps back towards the ceiling. Damn the bastard man! In the brief moment when my eyes were open, and my head faced the front, and my senses were properly recording the events going on in the external world — rather than becoming further entangled in the internal hormone-fuelled hiatus in my brain that my lousy damn uncle was responsible for — I noted the relative positions of each of our triangulated trio, and what was being done by one of the three, to the other two, and how these other two were reacting, to what was being done, to them. I don’t know which of the two female members of this little group, this Sunday morning, on the mattress in the attic of Number 1445 Grace Drive, (our address, in case you’re ever passing,) was handling this worse. But Yanti, to my surprise, appeared to be into this sexual stuff like a sausage in a frying pan spluttering with oil. She was positively sizzling, poor dear.
“Okay. Enough!” I snapped, shooting out my more slender hands in the direction of the wrist of the broader hand that was stuck up the legs of my shorts. I held it. Hard. I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. His hand up the leg of Yanti’s shorts continued to work as if nothing was wrong. And Yanti, her cute little face aimed high overhead, her eyes tight shut, furrows of anguish and confusion on her brow, whimpering low throaty sounds from deep inside her pretty little chest — in fact, now her breasts were out her T-shirt, I could see they were not all that little. Pretty, yes. Little, no.
“Enough, Uncle Zak,” I announced, firmly, (because my action of taking control of his wrist had minimal effect on what his hand and fingers continued to do inside my pants; which was, to arouse me to even greater heights). I pressed down hard with my hands around his wrist. I pressed down hard with my shoulders over my hands. But to no effect. His fingers continued their annoying arousal of my pussy and surrounds. Pretty soon I was moaning like Yanti. And my eyes had closed, like Yanti’s. And I was pressing down hard, again — if anything more energetically than before — but with my pelvis and mons, rather than my hands. Onto the damn man’s fingers. God but he knew how to touch a girl!
I suppose it was hardly surprising — when he decided to push my shoulders towards the mattress and turn me so I rolled onto my back — that, when he pushed, it is what I did. It was probably inevitable, too, that I should let him place me beneath him like this. Then he was over me, his broad damn chest against my breasts as it had been so many times before, and I had his thick damn lips on mine. The huge reptilian tongue of his performed its vulgar — oh so evil — playtime in my mouth. My eyeballs gave up for a moment or two, drifted brainwards as I reacquainted myself with this man’s foul but oh so skilful tongue. That loathsome organ of his. Like the other he had. Both big, and long, and strong. Something from an earlier age.
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