Uncle Bob's Bathrobe
Lubrican
Uncle Bob's Bath Robe
By Robert Lubrican
Bookapy Edition
Copyright 2021 Robert Lubrican
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, lend them your e-reading device. Otherwise, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Epilogue
Foreword
As happens fairly frequently, I read a story I liked, but which didn't push the buttons I like having pushed. So, as also happens frequently, I took that idea and "made it my own" as they say on those singing competitions. I don't think it will seem familiar, because I changed most of it. But there is a thread running through it that might seem like a dim memory of something you've read before. On the other hand, there is no plot in this genre that hasn’t been written about a hundred thousand times. This one is my version of that plot.
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Chapter One
My uncle had been my family from just about the time I was born. There was always just the two of us. I never knew who my mother was. I was told that she had died shortly after I was born, and my father had disappeared even before that. Social Services left me with my mother's brother. He didn't date and never married. He just took care of me.
He wasn't boring, but he had a sort of routine that began at the end of the day. During the day I went to school and he worked and then worked out. After supper his ritual was to take a shower, put on his body rub, and then his robe. We used the same bathroom, so I would shower right after he did, and put on my own robe. It was a nightly ritual that we went through for as long as I could remember. We both had more than one robe. Some were for summer, and some were for winter. Some of them were matching robes.
After that, it could be TV, or a movie, or a puzzle, or whatever I wanted to do. That changed, over the years. These days, after we were ready, wearing our robes, we would discuss whether to watch TV or a movie on Netflix.
When we watched TV or a movie, Uncle Bob curled up on one end of a big, overstuffed couch that had a soft fabric covering. He was buff, and I knew that, when I got old enough to understand what buff meant. He was also handsome, and I recognized that, too. As far as men went, he had two places in my life. He was "Daddy", even though I called him "Uncle" and he was also the man I had romantic feelings for. It was safe to have those feelings for him, because even if he found out, he wouldn't laugh at me or make fun of me. I really liked being near Uncle Bob after he showered. He always smelled so clean and masculine right after he took a shower, so fresh and clean. There was something really manly about the body rub that he wore. It was really, really sexy, smelling like spice and musk at the same time.
He was the only man I had ever seen naked. When I was little, I saw him naked all the time. We even took baths together. The dangly thing between his legs didn't mean anything to me, back then. It wasn't, in fact, until my first period that he separated us, and taught me the meaning of modesty.
At some point, around when I was fourteen, maybe, I used to look at his muscular, hairy legs, and wonder what it would feel like to run my hands over those hairs, all the way up to his thighs. To me, he seemed to have such wonderful legs, like some guys had nice faces, nice chests. Actually, Uncle Bob had nice everything, but I especially liked his legs. That's all there was to it. He was very tall, and there was a bulge of muscle at the back of each calf. It was a very muscular bulge. I knew he went to the gym a lot. And, his legs were virtually covered with a forest of thick, rich black hairs. I liked that the most about his legs.
When I was fifteen, my fantasy expanded. I wondered what it would feel like to move my fingers across the warm skin of his hairy legs, feeling the muscles beneath my fingers, then moving up to his thighs, and then between his legs to his cock and balls. I wondered, sometimes, if other nieces wondered that about their uncles. I wondered, though, if all other girls had an uncle like mine. I knew that some girls didn't much get along with their fathers or their uncles. But, I got along great with Uncle Bob. Besides, their fathers weren't generally hot-looking, like my Uncle Bob was.
I always wondered if his cock would get hard at my touch, wondered if, when I touched his balls, I could feel them tighten when he shot his hot load of cum. I imagined it going all over me, like my own exotic body rub. That was the fantasy I developed as I approached my sixteenth birthday, and I found myself lying in bed late at night, fingering my pussy, thinking of Uncle Bob's bare, muscular, hairy legs as he sat there on the old, soft couch, watching television.
******
Wherever in the room I was sitting, I looked at his legs a lot. If I was reading a book, I looked over the top at them. If I was watching TV, I glanced at them a lot. I hoped all the time that his robe would fall open a little, giving me a peek at his penis. My memory of it from when we took baths together was dim, fuzzy. I wanted to see it now. I really, really wanted to see my uncle's cock.
I wasn't aware of it, but the state of my own robe was often loose. I knew he wore nothing under his robe, and I wore nothing under mine, either. I knew he slept naked, so I had always slept naked. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was just the way life was.
So, while I watched for an opportunity to glimpse his manhood, I wasn't aware that I sometimes showed him what made me a woman. I was too busy wondering what he would look like if his robe opened, and what his masculine equipment would feel like if I could touch it and fondle it.
Unfortunately, his robe was always in the way.
Still, I sat there and got excited, feeling a tingling in my pussy lips, wanting to see more. Sometimes, I had to get up and go masturbate, fingering myself to orgasm, visions of my uncle's hairy, muscular legs and thighs in my head, fantasies of his hairy cock exploding loads of cum on my body.
Then one night I had a dream that he didn't just shoot it on my body.
He shot it in my pussy.
When I woke up the next morning, I had to masturbate before I went to school.
******
It got to the point that I knew I'd have to do something or I'd go stark raving mad.
We had always been able to talk about anything. When I had that first period, for example, he explained it and told me what to do about it. He'd anticipated it, in fact, and had materials on hand in the bathroom under the sink. I could talk to him about anything. I never had talked to him about my fantasies, especially not the ones about him, but I knew I could if I had to.
And now I had to.
One night I told him I needed to talk to him about something serious.
He turned off the TV and sat there in his robe.
I spilled my guts. I told him about my fetish for his legs, and about wanting to fondle his cock and balls. I told him that I imagined him shooting on me, and me rubbing it in like he rubbed his body rub in.
And I told him about my dream, where his disembodied penis pumped streams of viscous white liquid up into my pussy.
Then, exhausted, emotionally, I just sat there at his feet. I realized one of my hands was gripping his calf, and let go.
"Hmmm," he said.
I looked up at him. He wasn't smiling. He didn't make fun of me. I felt better already.
"I think you're fairly normal," he finally said.
"Not even," I barked. "I dream about my uncle shooting his sperm all over me. That's not normal."
"Okay, maybe dreaming about your uncle doing those things is odd, but not about those things happening," he said. "It's normal for a healthy young woman to think and fantasize and dream about having sex. You masturbate … don't you?"
I blushed, but nodded.
"That is you, meeting your sexual needs, at a time when you can't have a partner to help you meet them. It's completely normal and it's healthy."
He stared down at me with his hazel eyes.
"There's nothing wrong with you, Chrissy. It's okay to think about those things, and want to do those things."
"Okay," I said. "Thank you."
It was time to go to bed, then. Maybe we should have stayed up a bit longer, though, because what I heard him say was, "It's okay to do those things you want to do." My mind left out the "want".
******
The very next night, I sat at his feet again. As he watched TV, I hugged one leg, resting my head against his knee.
He reached down and stroked my hair. His touch was light, gentle, loving. I could feel my body literally tingle all over with his touch. I took it as a sign that my touching him was Okay, so I moved my hand up a little, and then, even a little higher. I loved the way he was touching me, the way he was stroking my hair. It made goose bumps all over me, and yes, indeed, it made a tingling sensation even in my pussy.
I could feel his bristly, manly hair beneath my fingers, and what it was doing to me was unbelievable. I could feel the juices in my pussy leaking out, making the insides of my thighs slippery under my robe.
I twisted and started using both hands, sliding them up his leg to the spot behind his knee. The skin there was warm and smooth, and I could feel the heavy thigh muscle just above that. Slowly, gently, I moved my hand farther up, gently squeezing and massaging his leg as I went. The leading edge of the couch cushion obstructed one of my hands, but I could reach between his legs with the other. I could only reach his mid-thigh, though, where the hair got finer and the skin smoother and softer. I heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a heavy sigh. I had no idea what he was thinking about while I was fondling him, but he didn't pull away or stop me.
He responded at last by running his fingers through my hair more quickly, combing my hair with his outstretched fingers.
I had reached as high as I could, sitting on the floor. Now I got up and lay down on the couch with my head on his thigh. I didn't face the TV, like I usually would have in this position. Instead, I faced his stomach.
The belt of his robe was right there, and I pulled the bow loose. He did nothing. I slid my hand through the joining and felt his hairy thigh.
I pulled my hand, and it dragged across something bumpy.
His penis.
And the balls under it.
Still, he didn't move or say anything. I darted a glance up at his face, and it was intent on the screen of the TV.
I felt that lump of skin move as I rested my hand on it. His penis was getting hard!
I wanted to move the cloth, but it was wrapped too tightly around him. I got up on one elbow and tugged it off his legs.
His cock and balls were exposed, and I lay back down.
Now my face was right by the prize. I ran my fingers all over his stiffening cock, even moving it so that I could reach and see his balls. They looked huge, a bulging, inflated sack under a dark almost pillar of flesh. His black hair sprouted from everywhere. It was beautiful. Those balls were full of a creamy substance that I had imagined for years. The column in front of me was the delivery hose.
The tip of his cock had been an undefined worm-head kind of thing. As the shaft stiffened, though, I saw there was a collar, within which resided a little slit, like a closed eye. The collar was puffy, but slowly thinned. At some point I realized the column was now jutting up away from the nest of tangled hair. Like a dog's nose, going up in the air, his penis seemed to be looking for something.
I reached to grip it with my fingers, and was amazed at how hot it felt.
"Careful," came his one word acknowledgment that he knew what I was doing.
Careful of what? I wondered. There could only be one thing to be careful of. This thing would go off and empty those big, throbbing balls. His stuff would spew everywhere if his cock was manipulated properly.
Or inside me.
I never gave a single thought about how I shouldn't let any penis in me, much less this one. Not at my age. I just assumed that this one would enter me one day, and would go off inside me, just as my dream had played out. I assumed his semen would coat my body like his body rub coated his body. It was just the way the world would work. What would happen after that … I had no idea. I didn't even care.
My grip on him softened. A sudden thought popped into my mind. My girlfriends at school talked about blow jobs, and how they would get a girl out of a difficult situation. I knew that difficult situation involved having a cock shoved up your pussy, but to me, that wasn't a difficult position at all. The only cock that would ever be shoved inside me would be Uncle Bob's, and I doubted he'd just shove it in me. If the time ever came for that to happen (and I knew it was possible that time might never come) I knew he would handle it in a way that would please me. I just knew it.
I had always thought the concept of putting one's mouth on a penis was ridiculous. But the concept of "Uncle Bob" and "blow job", when put together, didn't seem ridiculous at all.
I pulled on the thing in my hand, and aimed it at my face. The little eye opened, slightly and my hand caused the collar to thin to almost nothing. I shifted and my hand slid toward his body. The little collar disappeared entirely and now a shiny, purple knob was exposed. I was fascinated.
"Careful," he breathed again. He seemed to be breathing faster.
I looked at the knob. It would fill my mouth nicely, like an oddly shaped lollipop.
I leaned forward to see if that was true.
He groaned as my lips clamped down behind the knob, and I gave a little exploratory suck.
"Ohhhh Chrissy" he sighed.
He liked this. I could tell. I decided I liked it, too.
Suddenly there was flavor. It wasn't like anything I'd ever tasted before. It was of something slightly burnt, with a little salt thrown in. It was bitter, but not an unhappy kind of bitter.
"Careful!" he whispered, urgently.
I pulled my mouth of him and looked up.
"Careful of what?" I asked.
"If you keep doing that, you're going to get a mouthful."
"I already had a mouthful," I said.
"I mean of cum," he said.
"Oh."
I went back on him, holding his shaft firmly in my hand. I liked the feel of his smooth skin against my tongue. That knob was the perfect size to suck on, and I set up a rhythm.
His hips moved. He groaned. His hand came to clamp over mine on his shaft, and he moved it back and forth. When he let go I knew to keep moving it back and forth.
"Ohhhh yeah," he groaned.
Suddenly there was a lot of flavor in my mouth. I knew he was shooting his stuff, but it felt completely different than I imagined it would. It was slippery, and yet firm, like tapioca pudding. The taste was intense, very strong, but still made up of the things I had tasted before.
I swallowed, to lessen the amount and felt something ripple along his shaft beneath my hand. I felt the stuff jet against my cheek and swallowed again. There were two more spurts, but they didn't produce as much, so I was able to pull off of him and swirl it around in my mouth, concentrating on the taste. It wasn't delicious or anything, but I liked it. Maybe I liked it because it came from him, and I loved him. All I knew was that I would do this again, perhaps many times.
I did it again right then, covering the tip and sucking as it oozed more flavor. I felt his penis getting spongy, and then soft. It was sad, because I liked it when it was nice and hard.
"Thank you," I said, looking up at him. He was breathing hard.
"I should be the one thanking you," he breathed.
******
We didn't talk about it, exactly, but our relationship began to change after that day. It was unspoken in the sense that, after he took his shower the next day, I walked into the bathroom while he was putting his body rub on and took it from him. I was the one who smoothed my hands over his skin that day, moving the good-smelling cream all over. I touched him everywhere, even in the crack of his hairy butt. He went up on his tiptoes when I did that, and hissed. It made me smile.