Exercising With Uncle Bob
Lubrican
Exercising With Uncle Bob
by Robert Lubrican
Bookapy Edition
Copyright 2022
License Notes
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Cover art from freeimiges.com
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Table of Contents
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
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Foreword.
I read a story by an author who goes by the pen name Snapper and it inspired me to write this story. The beginning is heavily influenced by his story, but a few paragraphs in it's all me.
I should probably mention a couple of things about this story. First off, it is told from the point of view of a young woman. As most anyone who has read my stuff before knows, I am not a young woman. I'm not a woman of any kind. I've lived with women for seventy years, though, and along the way I picked up some idea of how some of them thought at all ages. So I like to think I'm not just talking out of my ass when I write something from the female point of view.
Second, I have received comments on previous stories like, "Too much philosophical crap. Boring." If that's the kind of reader you are then you can pass this one by. This contains a lot of information about the relationship that develops, and the issues people face when participating in intimate relationships. It goes in fits and starts, with a lot of sex followed by intervals of introspection, at least on the part of the young woman who is coming of age. Why? Because that's just how it turned out. When I write I let my muse have free range. I never know what she's going to come up with.
Well, I guess that's not true. This is an Uncle Bob story, after all, and we all know where that will end up. It's the journey that's really what's interesting, though. At least that's how I feel.
Hmmm. You just got a preview of the philosophical bent of this story. If this foreword was boring, then you might want to find something else to read.
Bob
******
Chapter One
My Uncle Bob was married for a short time, but his wife, Donna, said that she just didn't like being married to a satyr and left him. How do I know this? Because she said that to my mother in the kitchen one day when I was just outside the doorway, and I heard it. They were using that voice adults use that announces to kids that they don't want to be overheard. So, naturally, I stayed hidden and listened. The very next day she left him and they eventually got a divorce.
I was fourteen, at that time, and had no idea what a satyr was, but I had a laptop so I Googled it. Of course Uncle Bob didn't have a horse's ears, or cloven feet or any of that, so I knew his wife must be referring to the satyr's permanent erection. I wondered if she just didn't like sex or whether Uncle Bob was insatiable. I had always thought he was kind of hunky so I had a few fantasies about finding out, just for my own knowledge, if you get my meaning. But like I said, I was only fourteen, and in no position to find out. He didn't date a lot after the divorce, or at least not that I could see. I know that because he hung around at our house a lot, including Friday and Saturday nights. As it turned out, that was a little thing (in my life) that led to big things ... in my life.
My Uncle Bob was a gymnast in high school, and then competed in gymnastics in college. He was an architect, which is a pretty sedentary life, and he was really into keeping his body in shape. I already admitted that, even though he was my uncle, I got tingles when I looked at him. And even back then I knew that "tingles" had to do with my very own libido. My very own libido, of course, subsisted only on imagination and a few dreams; that kind of stuff. So I never thought seriously about how tingly Uncle Bob made me feel.
About halfway through my fifteenth year we all watched the Olympics at our house and I had some short-lived dreams of being like the girls who seemed to be able to fly over the mat and do incredible things. Uncle Bob gave a kind of running commentary on the girls and the moves they executed. So as he was leaving that night I asked him if he'd teach me to do some of that stuff.
"I'd love to, Sweetheart," he said, "but don't set your expectations too high. In the first place, you're getting started kind of late, and in the second place I don't think you'll be willing to give up the time it would take to become really good."
I started working out with him three times a week and he was right. It didn't take long for the glitter to wear off and I really didn't have the time to spend getting good. I did get healthier, however, and I got addicted to the burn. If you don't love being sweaty and weak from a hard workout, then you don't understand what I mean. Suffice it to say I loved working out with him and I was willing to spend roughly six hours a week doing it.
I have to admit, though, that one reason I loved working out with him was that he didn't wear anything under his loose running shorts. The first few dozen times I got a quick peek at a man's equipment, up the legs of his shorts, I thought about Donna. Not because he was a satyr; quite the opposite. It was obvious he didn't have a permanent erection.
This is not to say he never got an erection at all. The first time was after we'd been work-out partners for about six months. I had turned sixteen, though I don't think that had anything to do with it. I was holding his ankles while he did sit-ups and each time he went down I got a quick look at his penis. I couldn't see a whole lot, but I didn't care. Seeing anything at all was huge fun. What I didn't think about was that each time he came up, he could see down my loose T shirt. I never wore a bra back then, unless my mother made me. The bras she bought me were 34 B sized and my boobs didn't shake or shimmy, even when I jumped up and down.
Anyway, he was doing sit-ups and I observed the front of his shorts bulge out. His penis was hard and it held the cloth away from his body so much I could actually see his balls! He didn't say a word. He just kept doing sit-ups. I glanced up at his face at one point and saw his eyes looking down the front of my T shirt as he sat up. Since I wasn't wearing a bra, I knew he could probably see everything I had. It wasn't much, but it was everything I had. When he was finished he stood up and didn't do anything to hide the fact that something was poking his shorts out away from his body. He just pretended it wasn't there. I didn't say anything, either, but I know I blushed.
So, after that, every once in a while, he'd get boners in his shorts. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out they were because of me.
Then there was one time I exercised with him and we were working on flexibility and balance. He had me lying on the floor, spreading my legs wide as I stretched and he watched. I looked at the bulge in his shorts. I knew he wasn't wearing anything under them. And, as I glanced at the front of them, it became obvious he was getting a hard-on while he watched me.
Once again he said nothing and didn't try to hide the fact that he had an erection. He just ignored it. I, however, couldn't ignore it. I'd seen this happen enough times by now that I had little fantasies about what he was thinking about when his penis got stiff. By this time in my life I was used to masturbating, occasionally, though I wouldn't have admitted that under torture. This was important, though, because I could tell when I was getting fired up and might need to indulge in what my grandmother would have called "self abuse". And Uncle Bob was at the center of a number of the times I self-abused. As I did those stretches and looked at his bulge I felt my nipples tingle and itch and I knew they were beginning to stick out. I had on a crop top shirt that day and I had to actually stop my hands from going up under it to squeeze my nipples.
I had to excuse myself. I went to the bathroom and pulled down my own shorts. I wear cotton panties when I work out because they soak up sweat better than Rayon or Nylon. I pushed those down to my ankles and sat down, spreading my legs wide. If anybody ever saw my clit I'd be embarrassed. It's the opposite of my boobs. It's huge and it sticks out all the time. At times like this, though, when I was really turned on, it was fantastic to have a big, bulging clit, because it was almost laughably easy to rub off and cum.
I circled my clit with the tip of my forefinger, once, twice -- and mashed it as I came, my body jerking all over the stool. I pulled up my shorts and went back to the patio, where Uncle Bob was lying on the mat, doing leg rises. The front of his shorts weren't sticking out any longer, but I could see the long bulge of his still-inflated penis, lying on his abdomen. I moved to his feet to get down and glanced at him. Each time he lifted one leg and left the other down, the legs of his shorts gapped open. I could see huge, hairy balls up in there. I'd seen balls on statues and in pictures and all that, and they all looked about the size of walnuts. Uncle Bob's, though, were closer to being as big as pool balls.
I took a deep breath. I knew that my face was flushed red from my masturbating. "Wow," I whispered. He sat up and looked at me.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said, blushing even harder.
We did a few more stretches and then he said it was time for strengthening exercises. He said, "Upside down pushups. Try to give me five."
What he was talking about was me, standing on my hands, with my feet on the wall, and trying to do pushups. I had never managed more than three before.
"I can't do those in this shirt," I said. "This top will fall off of me and you'll see my boobs."
"Well, you have very pretty breasts," he said, his voice normal. "I won't mind seeing them at all."
"Uncle Bob!" I squealed.
"What?" he asked, sounding innocent. "I'm just telling the truth. You're a stone fox, Megan."
"You can't say stuff like that to a girl, Uncle Bob," I chastised him.
"I don't say things like that to any girl except you," he said. "It's not my fault that you have great boobs and that you let me see them all the time."
"I don't let you see them," I argued.
"Hmmm," he said, gripping his chin between his fingers and thumb. "Let's see. You never wear a bra, and you always wear loose shirts."
"You're not supposed to look down my shirts," I said, trying to sound miffed.
"Why? You look up my shorts on a regular basis."
"That's only because you never wear anything under them," I said.
"And you never wear anything under your shirts," he said.
I wanted to scream, except I didn't want to scream. It was confusing. This was the first time any of this kind of thing had been discussed, and I felt electrified. He was talking to me like it was no different than discussing the right technique to do a cartwheel. I felt very grown up, in that moment.
"So what you're saying is that it's okay for me to look up your shorts as long as you can look down my shirts," I said.
"It's equitable," he said.
"And why do you even want to see my boobs?" I asked. "I almost don't have anything at all. Please don't tell me you're into boys, Uncle Bob!"
"You look nothing like a boy," he said, firmly. "And don't diss your pretty little breasts. Size isn't what's important in that department. Trust me. Now, are you going to do those upside down pushups or not?"
I thought about it for a few seconds. My crop top was already short and I knew if I stood on my hands it would fall and expose my boobs. What astonished me was that I realized I wanted him to see them! I hadn't minded it before when he peeked. I didn't understand why he'd want to peek, but it didn't bother me when he did. This, however, was different. Now, for some reason, I wanted to show them to him!
So I did a handstand, and let my feet go past the balancing point and then fall against the wall. I felt my shirt do exactly what I thought it would.
My boobs were bare, right in front of Uncle Bob.
I had such a surge of energy that I got four pushups done before I stopped.
"If I go down I'll stay down," I panted.
"I'll help," he said.
He knelt beside me and I felt one of his hands on my back and the other on my solar plexus. His hands felt warm and big and rough and all I could think of was that one of them was just inches from my naked breasts.
"Don't just stand there," he said. "Down and back up. Come on. You can do it. Just one more."
I went down and knew there was no way I could push back up. I rested on the top of my head.
"I can't," I gasped.
"Sure you can," he said.
I felt his hands press toward each other and, suddenly, I felt lighter by half. He was lifting me, just by the friction of his hands against my naked skin. I gave a grunt and pushed. His hands slipped, and one ended up on my butt while the other was right on my lower abdomen, just above where I had a little pubic hair. While I was concentrating on the feel of his hands, somehow, I made it back up.
I kicked off the wall, did a back bend and ended up on my knees, panting hard. I looked down and my shirt was still clinging to my upper chest. My boobs were bare. I looked up at him and he was just standing there, ogling me, with a smile on his face. My eyes fell to the front of his shorts.
He was hard.
I thought about Donna's satyr comment.
"Aunt Donna called you a satyr," I blurted.
"I know," he said.
"You're hard, now," I commented.
"I know that, too," he said. "You're so cute it makes my balls hurt. I don't mean to scare you."
"I'm not scared of you," I scoffed. "I know you'd never hurt me."
"Well, that's good," he said.
There was an awkward silence as I stood there on my knees, looking up at him.
"You should probably cover up your breasts," he sighed.
I was astonished again when I realized I didn't want to do that.
But I did, and we went on to the next exercise. When I left that day and went home, I had to rub again.
As I did that, I wondered if he was doing the same thing.
******
The next time we met it felt different. There had been a frank acknowledgment that he liked looking at me, and that the fact he got erections around me didn't make me uncomfortable. That little thing changed the dynamic of our relationship. It allowed us to discuss things we'd never discussed before.
"Why don't you go on dates?" I asked him as we stretched.
"I don't know," he said. "I guess it just seems too complicated."
"What's complicated about it?" I asked. "You take a woman out to dinner and have fun with her. Seems simple to me."
"Having fun, as you put it, is the complicated part," he said. "The first time or two, you're trying to get to know each other and basically prying into the other person's life. It's never comfortable to be pried at, on either person's part. You end up spending a lot of time being uncomfortable and then, even if you think things are fine it might turn out they aren’t after all. I’m still a little gun-shy because of Donna, I guess, so I’m not much interested in all the work it takes to establish a relationship that might fall to pieces, later."
"Unless the date is just for sex," I said.
"And just what would you know about that?" he asked.
"Nothing. I've been allowed to date for three months but nobody has asked me out. You're the only male I've spent any time alone with," I said.
"And I'm not the best role model, as you have already noticed," he replied.
"I wouldn't say that. I see guys at school quite often who have boners. My health teacher said it's normal."
"It is normal," he said. "That doesn't mean it's the best thing to base a relationship on."
"Okay, I get that, but you were married. Isn't sex a perfectly normal thing for a husband and wife to do?"
"Sure, but the sex drives of two people are almost never the same," he said. "One person's sex drive may be higher than the other."
"So is that why she left you?"
"Yes. At least I think so," he said. "I didn't think I wanted sex any more often than any other guy, but she complained that all I ever thought about was sex."
"How often did you want to do it?" I asked. I was kind of amazed that this conversation was still going on, but it was fascinating, so I just kept talking.
"Every day," he said. "I didn't think that was excessive, at least not for newlyweds. She only wanted to have sex once a month, though."
"Once a month?"
"To have a baby," he said. "She only wanted to have sex when she was at her most fertile."
"Surely there was some middle ground," I said. "I've never even had sex but I already know I'd want to do it more than once a month."
"Explain to me how it is that I'm having this conversation with a sixteen year old girl," he said.
"Sixteen is old enough to get a driver's license," I said. "The great state of Iowa trusts sixteen-year-olds on the roads."
"You're deflecting. You're young and I'm not. I can't think of a single person who would approve of this conversation."
"I do," I said. "I'm a person."
"You're a teenager, whose veins are awash with hormones," he said.
"I'm just curious," I defended.
"Well, the things you're curious about are things I investigated long ago," he said. "My point is that you're vulnerable right now and I don't want to take advantage of you."
"You're not taking advantage of me," I objected.
"Show me your breasts again," he said.
"What?"
"Show my your pretty teenage titties, Megan. I want to see them again."
"I can't do that!" I yipped.
"Do it," he commanded. "Just lift your shirt and let me see them."
Do not ask me why I obeyed him, but I did. I lifted my shirt and exposed my mounds.
"Now," he said. "What just happened was me, using my authority over you to influence your actions. That's taking advantage of you."
"I disagree," I said. I pulled my shirt back down.
"Did you want to show me your breasts?" he asked.
"No," I said. Something niggled at my mind. "Not exactly," I amended.
"Come on. The only reason you did it was because I told you to. You did it out of some sense of duty, and because I'm older and you're used to following the commands of your elders."
"Okay, maybe that's true," I said. "But while I was doing it I was glad I was doing it."
"That's those hormones I mentioned," he said.
"No," I argued. "You look at them all the time anyway, when you look down my shirt. The only difference is that I made them easier for you to see."
"So if I dropped my shorts right now, that would be okay, because you look up my shorts all the time anyway, right?"
"Not the same thing," I said. "You asked me to let you see them. I've never asked you to show me yours."
"I didn't ask you. I told you to do it," he insisted. "That's my whole point. I could use my authority over you as an adult to get you to do things, and that would be taking advantage of you. That's what I want to avoid. Sure, I love looking at you. You're gorgeous. But there's a very thin line between that and molesting you."
"I think I'd know if you were molesting me," I scoffed.
"How?" he asked. "What do you think your mother would say if she found out I asked you to show me your tits and you did it?"
"She'd kill me," I said. "Then she'd ground me until I'm eighteen."
"Exactly. In her eyes, it would be molestation."
"Okay, I get that," I conceded. "However, I think some weight should be given to the fact that I don't feel abused or molested. I should get a say in this, too."
"If you were twenty-one I would agree," he said. "Right now you're a little young to be making life-changing decisions without any experience to rely on."
"So, what you're saying is I need to go out with a bunch of boys and mess around with them to get some experience, so I'll know if how I feel about all this is legit," I said.
"I wouldn't have put it quite like that," he said.
"So how do I get the experience needed to be able to make what you call life-changing decisions?"
He didn't answer. He looked frustrated. I was afraid he'd say we couldn't talk about this anymore.
"I love talking about all this stuff with you," he said, "but we've stretched enough. We have a workout to do. We can talk more, later."
"Okay," I said. He looked relieved.
We spent another hour working out.
He got a boner and it just stayed there, poking his shorts out, the whole time.
Neither of us said anything about it.
******
The next time we met he wanted to work on strengthening again. He had a machine that could be changed around to work every muscle in the body and he put me on that. He increased the weight five pounds from what I had been working out with and laid his hand on the muscle being worked. He said it was to teach me how to feel individual muscles, but some of them were way up high between my legs and I knew he was being naughty. At the same time, his hands or fingers did help me feel the muscle being worked. It was very instructive at the same time it got me going.
By now the fact that my uncle got me going felt normal. The fact that I got him going felt normal, too. I knew his intentions were noble, or at least that he didn't want either of us to feel like he was Chester the Molester, but I never felt even a twinge of discomfort, even when his fingers moved inside my loose shorts to identify the five different adductors in that area. What I thought was funny was that I wished I'd left my panties off, like he left his underwear off.
Later, I would decide to stop wearing panties when we worked out together, but that's jumping ahead.
He moved me to leg spreads, where the weight made my legs spread wide and I had to use my muscles to bring my knees together. There was a slight pause each time the weights pulled my legs apart and he stood to one side, leaning over me with his hands on the insides of my thighs. I noticed he was hard, again.
"What about you?" I asked, at one point. "You're not working on your own muscles."
"My muscles are fine," he said.
"I know one of them is fine," I said. I looked at the front of his shorts.
He sighed.
"Men have hormones, too. That's just a man reacting to a beautiful woman. That particular muscle isn't used for gymnastics. It's used to help the man relax if he's full of tension."
"I see," I said. It was so satisfying being treated like an adult, instead the way most other grownups treated me. Everybody at home treated me like I was twelve, even my brothers, who were only one and two years older than me, respectively. "So, does a woman have muscles like that? You know ... muscles that help her relax if she's full of tension?"
He stared at me for a good fifteen seconds. I could actually see him come to a decision as his eyes bored into mine.
"She does," he finally said. "Do you want to learn about them?"
It didn't take me nearly as long to make up my mind.
"I think I do," I said.
I was still on the leg-spreader machine and his hand came to cup my pussy.
Just like that! With no warning at all!
"Those muscles are inside you," he said, as I pulled in a lungful of air. "Can you feel them working as you close your legs?"
"Oh yes," I gasped, with his hand trapped between my closed legs.
"Of course the nerves in this area play an even bigger role in things," he said, as he rubbed, gently.
"They do?" I wheezed as he kept stroking my cooch.
He stopped and moved me to the machine that did the same thing for my arms that the previous machine had done for my legs. He set the weight and had me close my arms several times. When I was in the "rest" position, with my arms spread wide, he we went behind the machine and reached around to slide his hands up inside my crop top. Again I gasped as he cupped my little titties and squeezed them.
"Your breasts aren't technically muscles," he said in my ear. His hot breath in my ear made me shiver. "But you have muscles under them that are important. Can you feel those muscles working?"
As I operated the machine he kept mauling my breasts, paying particular attention to the nipples. I wanted to squeal, but kept it inside.
"I think so," I panted.
He moved me to the place where I could hook my ankles while I did sit ups and crunches. His hand stroked my abdomen, just above the waistband of my shorts. I've touched myself there countless times, but it never felt like his hand did.
"These muscles are what help during child birth," he said. "It's important for them to be well toned and strong. They are called upon for literally hours while you push a baby out of your womb."
"I'm not having a baby," I gasped, as he continued to stroke the area over my uterus.
"You will some day," he said.
No matter what machine he put me on, he managed to point out - and stroke - muscles that he found some way of relating to sex. He was so bold about it that by the time we finished, it felt completely normal for my uncle to touch me literally anywhere and everywhere on my body. We went on until sweat was dripping off of me. He tossed me a towel and I wiped my face and cleavage with it.
"I think you've had enough for one day," he said. He still had a major erection and, again, he was doing nothing whatsoever to hide it. The funny thing is that I never once thought about how a satyr has a constant erection and that this man, whose ex-wife had called him a satyr, had, if not constant, at least very frequent erections. Not that I didn't think about them. I thought about them a lot. But his comment about how different people have different sex drives made things more simple for me. Donna hadn't liked his boners. They didn't bother me at all.
"We've never worked this hard before," I panted. "I need a shower."
"I have one," he replied.
"I didn't bring anything to change into," I said.
"I can throw your clothes in the washer and dryer," he offered.
"And what would I wear while that happened?" I asked, arching one eyebrow.
"I'm sure I can find something to drape your loveliness in," he said.
I thought about it. The idea of being naked in his house made my blood race through my veins. Nothing would happen, of course, but it would be delicious to be like that so close to him.
"Deal," I said.
"You know where the shower is," he said. "I'll go look for something you can put on afterwards."
I went to the big glassed-in shower in the master bath just off his bedroom. Getting naked took less than a minute. I opened the door and dropped my shirt and shorts in the open doorway.
This was actually a good thing for me, because I was alone with my thoughts and could work things out in my mind. On one level I knew that what was going on was not acceptable, to the public in general. But to me, it was just simple curiosity and the chance to do some things I otherwise could not do; learn things I could not otherwise learn. Yes, I could go on some dates, where eager boys would want to touch me. But I knew it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't feel so normal. It would be ... scary. What I was doing with Uncle Bob wasn't scary.
I was in the shower, soaking under the stimulating spray when his shadow crossed the glass. It was frosted, so I couldn't see him.
"I'm leaving you a jersey to wear," he called out. "It's oversized and should fit you like a dress."
"Okay," I called back. He was right out there, only a couple of feet away from my wet, naked body. I wanted to open the door and expose myself, but I didn't. "My stuff is on the floor."
"I stepped over it to come in here," he said.
Then he was gone and I was vaguely disappointed. I wasn't too disappointed to masturbate, though.
******
When I stepped out of the shower I felt great. I got a towel and dried off. I keep my hair short, in a pixie cut. I think it makes my boobs look bigger and it's easy to take care of. I ruffled it mostly dry with a second towel and picked up the jersey. It was a Kansas City Chief's jersey with number 15 on it. Even I knew that was Patrick Mahomes's number. Uncle Bob and my dad are rivals when it comes to football. My dad is a Packers fan.
He said it would fit like a dress and it did - a mini dress. It fell maybe five inches past my puff of honey blond pubic hair. If I did any bending over my butt would show. So would everything else I had. I looked in the mirror. He'd said I was a stone fox. My friends didn't use that term, but the way he'd said it gave me the definition. I didn't see that, staring back at me. What I saw was a too-tall girl with small boobs and narrow hips. I'd never seen myself showing off my legs like this, and I was startled to see they were pretty good looking legs. Still, I didn't think I was a raving beauty. Boys didn't think that, either. If they did, they'd ask me out and nobody had asked me out. If anything, I looked a little bedraggled. There was no blow dryer in view, though, so my hair was just going to have to dry on its own.
I found him in the kitchen, making macaroni and cheese, of all things. He looked at me and whistled.
"I want to be a football player if they look like that." He grinned, and then frowned. "That didn't sound as good out loud as it did in my head."
"Maybe I'm a cheerleader dressed in a jersey after having hot sex," I teased.
His frown disappeared.
"That would kill me," he said. Then he grinned. "Unless I was the player you decided to have all that hot sex with."
"You really are being naughty today," I said.
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for that jersey," he said.
"What? It's already yours," I said, confused.
"Let me phrase that differently. I'll give you a hundred dollars if you take it off."
"Uncle Bob, you just gave it to me to put on!" I laughed.
"I made a terrible mistake," he said. "I should have given you a dish rag to wear."
I went to the counter and picked up the dish towel he used to dry his dishes. He washed and dried everything by hand. I draped it artfully across my chest. I knew it didn't go far enough to cover my groin. Then I lowered it to cover my groin, and that left my chest "bare."
"I don't think so," I said.
"You're right. I should have just had you stay naked when you got out of the shower. I mean we're all friends, here. Being naked together wouldn't be a big deal, right?"
"It would be a huge deal," I said, bending over to stare right at the front of his shorts.
I laughed so hard at my little joke that I had to sit down on the floor because I got dizzy.
It was when I felt the cold tile on my butt that I remembered how short Patrick Mahomes jerseys are. I looked to see that my spraddle-legged landing had left my pussy obscenely displayed. I reached to cover it with one hand and looked up at him. His eyes were bright.
"Two hundred dollars," he said.
I got to my hands and knees and he moved to stare at my butt. I stood and tugged the jersey down.
"Three hundred dollars," he sighed.
"You make me sound like a whore," I said. I was sorry the instant it was past my lips, but what has been said can't be un-said.
He stopped working on the mac and cheese and came to pull me into his arms.
"I'm sorry, Megs. I didn't mean it like that. I'd never think of you like that."
"I know. I'm sorry I said anything."
"No, you should have. It takes a strong woman to keep me in check. I'm glad you feel like you can do that."
"You're poking me," I said. I bumped my hips against his. "Are you all stressed out and need relief?"
He looked startled and then just stared at me.
"How upset would you be if I said I wanted to kiss you?" he asked.
I was pretty sure he wasn't talking about a routine uncle/niece peck on the cheek. I had reflected at least a thousand times what it might be like to get kissed by a guy I liked a lot. I liked Uncle Bob a lot.
"After I peed my pants I'd say I wished you would," I said. "Except I'm not wearing any pants," I added. Again, what has been said can't be un-said and that had slipped out of my mouth before my brain engaged.
He kissed me. On the lips. Like he kissed his girlfriends and ex wife. I didn't pee my non-existent pants. I dripped in them, but I didn't pee. When he got finished with that kiss I was hanging limp in his arms.
"You can have the jersey for free," I whispered.
******
"I shouldn't do this," he said, staring at me.
"If you don't, I think I'll scream," I whined.
"Fuck!" he gusted. "Why couldn't you have been ten years older and not my niece?"
"I like being your niece," I moaned.
His hands reached for the bottom of the jersey.
I raised my arms and felt the cool air travel up my body. He gasped while my head was still covered. I lowered my arms and pulled to get my head free. Pulling my arms out I tossed the garment aside. I felt my face get hot when I looked at his eyes.
I knew, in that instant, that at some point, probably in the near future, I would leave Uncle Bob's house no longer a virgin. I also knew I didn't care.
"It's not fair for me to be the only naked person in the room," I whispered.
"Do you know what you're asking?" His eyes cleared.
"I know what I want," I said.
"You're too young, Megs," he groaned.
"Shut the fuck up," I said.
I dropped to my knees and reached for his shorts. He hissed as I jerked hard and his penis got caught in the elastic of the waistband.
"I'm sorreee," I whined as I realized I'd caused him pain. Then I said, "Good grief, Uncle Bob! I get it, now! I know why Donna left you. Grandma must have mated with a fucking horse!"
"Please don't talk about my mother that way," he said, sounding quite dignified. "She is a lovely woman."
"I changed my mind," I said, staring at his cock. "That thing would split me in half!"
"We don't have to do that," he said. "We shouldn't do it anyway. I'd be delirious if you just used your hands." He stepped out of his shorts and spread his feet apart a little.
"I could do that, maybe," I said. I reached to grasp it in both hands. When I did, the tip was still sticking out. He was uncircumcised and I pulled a little, making the loose skin at the tip cover things completely and bunch up. It didn't look like a penis, to me. The only ones I'd seen were in porn videos my friends and I sneaked peeks at during sleepovers. It didn't look so dangerous with all that skin bunched up and the rest hidden by my hands.
He just stood there and let me take things at my own pace. Not a whole lot was happening, in the grand scheme of things, but for me, the world had sped up to about a thousand miles an hour. I mean there was a real live penis in front of me and I was getting to touch it and everything. In one sense it felt like I'd slipped into another dimension. But I knew this was Uncle Bob and that I was safe and that nothing bad was going to happen.
The first thing I did was let go with one hand and shift my grip with the other. I pushed back and watched in awe as all that loose skin got thin and then disappeared, as if by magic. The head was shiny and hard looking, smooth and dark. The little eye on the end cried a single milky tear.
"You've actually put that in women before, haven't you," I said.
"I have," he said, softly. "And, just for the record, I never got any complaints." He frowned. "Except for Donna, I guess."
I looked up at him but he looked innocent, if a man in that situation can look innocent.
"You want me to suck it, don't you?" I asked. "Guys always want you to suck it."
"Now where would you get that idea?" he asked.
"All the girls I know who do this kind of thing say that," I said.
"But you've never done it?"
"Of course not. I'm a good girl," I said. I squeezed his cock. "At least I am when I'm not with you."
"I don't want to debauch you, Megan," he said.
"I do not have time to look words up right now," I complained.
"It means to debase the moral purity of someone, to corrupt her."
"You're not corrupting me," I said. "I wanted to do this."
"Wanted, as in past tense?"
"Give a girl a minute to get used to the idea that they get this big," I said. "The only ones I've seen are the ones on the little boys I babysit for and my brothers." I blinked. "My mother did not sleep with the same guy who gave you these genes." I squeezed his cock again.
"Well, while having your lovely lips wrapped around my little friend there is a fantasy I have enjoyed many, many times, I will not make you suck it. You could move your hand, though. Back and forth? Please tell me you haven't done that to anybody else yet, either. I'll be happy to teach you the method."
"I haven't done anything with anybody," I said. "If you didn't make me crazy I wouldn't be doing anything with anybody right now!"
"We can stop," he said.
I abandoned his penis and stood up. I draped my arms around his neck.
"Uncle Bob, I love you right now more than I've loved any other man. Well, maybe not as much as I love my daddy, but I'd never think of doing this with him. I'm very happy with the way things are going and I wish you would stop trying to do the right thing. I'm fully aware that all this takes naughty to the extreme, but I love it and I don't want to stop. My only problem is I don't know what to do and I don't know what to ask you to do."
"Maybe a few lessons are in order, then?" he suggested. "Some relatively innocent things, fun, but not dangerous?"
"Teach me, oh wise one," I breathed.
******
"When you actually start going out with boys, they will want to do this," he said, fondling my breasts. "If they do this outside your clothing it's not so dangerous. If they can get them naked, though, then they can do this."
His fingers drew together until my nipples were in his grasp. He pulled on them, squeezing them gently and my knees got weak.
"I can see this is affecting you. That's why you don't want to let the boys get your beautiful breasts naked."
"I understand fully," I breathed.
"They'll also want to do this," he said.
He leaned down and sucked my right nipple. It was crazy. I felt a stab of something sweet in the nipple he was sucking and, at the same time a similar stab of happiness in my belly, just above my pussy and below my belly button. He switched and while he sucked on the left one his fingers rolled, pulled and squeezed the right one. His hand landed on my skin, right where that stab of happiness had jolted me. His fingertips were in my hair, down there, but his hand didn't move lower. I wanted it to. I wanted him to touch me while his lips did such incredible things to my breasts.
I haven't been all that happy with my boobs, generally speaking. When they first started growing they hurt all the time. Then they were smaller than my classmates' and that got me teased. Boys stared at my friends' chests, but never mine. My boobs were always there, just sitting on my chest but never any good for anything. So I didn't love my boobs.
Now, however, with Uncle Bob sucking on them and mauling them and just driving me crazy with them, my attitude about them changed. I decided maybe, just maybe, I'd give them another chance.
He stopped molesting me. That was the legal term for it. Never mind that I had not only asked for it, but I loved what had happened thus far. But the law doesn't give a fuck for what I wanted. The law's attitude is, "You're too young and stupid to make your own decisions. Never mind that you can legally be responsible for a two ton speeding hunk of metal on the roads and streets. We complete strangers in the legislature know what's best for you and your desires in this matter are of no consequence whatsoever."
And people wonder why teenagers have such a contentious relationship with mister nice policeman and all those stuffy adults who love to make rules.
My own definition of molestation was a little muddier than the legal one. If a stranger did this to me, it would be molestation. If an adult I didn't want to touch me did it, same thing. If my brothers did it, then call the cops and drag them away. Just about any male other than Uncle Bob would be molesting me if he touched me like this.
Uncle Bob, however, was not molesting me. He was teaching me. And don't laugh and call me naive, either. I was fully aware that his "teaching methods" were not school board approved and never would be. In the last ten minutes, though, I had learned more about myself and how things affected me than any licensed teacher could have even gotten near to in a classroom situation. I already knew that boys were not going to get my boobs naked. And if I did finally go on a date, I wasn't even close to being interested in having a boyfriend, or even dating somebody for an extended period of time. That would come later and I wasn't in a hurry to get there.
But I knew guys would try things and I was pretty sure it was much better for me to experiment with Uncle Bob than it would be to see what things were like on dates. Assuming I ever went on one.
An important part of all this is that, as I said, earlier, he stopped molesting me. He let me breathe and think.
"That's a preliminary move on the boy's part," he said. "He'll have been kissing you before he tries that, of course. Kissing is the start of foreplay."
"Like you kissed me," I said.
"Exactly. To be honest, I engaged in a lot of foreplay with you on the machines, too. I didn't think it would lead to something like this, though."
"Well, it did. So, after he attacks my boobs, what will he try next?" I asked.
"You're not supposed to let him attack your boobs," he sighed. "Have you learned nothing?"
"Of course I understand that," I said. "I still want to know what comes after that. I assume there will come a day when I decide some guy deserves to get my boobs naked. I also already know I really like it when a guy, or at least when you, pay attention to them. So it stands to reason that if I like him enough to let him play with my boobs, I'm going to like him enough to let him do whatever it is that comes next."
"Okay," he said. "For the sake of argument, let's assume you're twenty-five or thirty and have decided to start dating and become intimate with a man."
"Twenty-five or thirty?" I interrupted. "Are you insane?"
"No," he said. "I just picked a number at random, let's say a number I'm comfortable with."
"You want me to be an old maid," I groused.
"Not exactly," he said. "It's more of an if-I-can't-have-you-I-don't-want-anybody-else-to-have-you kind of thing."
"You want to have me?" I sighed. I felt more butterflies in my tummy.
"Don't fish for compliments. I think you already know how I feel about that," he said. "However, there is no profit in talking about something that can't happen," he went on. "I can, on the other hand, break almost every rule in the book and play with you a little, now and then. It is presently now, which is why I am playing with you. Make sense?"
"I don't think this is playing," I said. "You really have helped me understand myself and what ... um ... stuff ... is like. I think this is very serious."
"I do, too, Pumpkin," he said. "I love you and I think it's very serious, too. I just don't want it to get too serious."
"What comes next?" I asked.
I realized that we had just been chatting away for ten minutes or so, and were bare-ass naked the whole time. Actually, what I realized was that it hadn't felt odd to be bare-ass naked with my uncle while we had a chat.
"Digital stimulation is what's usually on the agenda, if they can get the girl to go for it."
"You mean he'll try to get his hand in my pants," I said.
"Actually, he'll try to get you out of your pants, and then touch you."
"Like you did," I said. "I am, in fact, out of my pants, and you are, in fact, about to touch me."
"We're not on a date," he pointed out. "This is purely instructional."
"Of course. Based on what you said, he'll be kissing me while he tries to initiate ... what did you call it ... digital stimulation, right?"
"Yes," he said.
I hugged him, rubbing my naked titties against his chest. Aha! I had just found another use for them! Then I kissed him, long and hard.
He got the hint and his hand ventured between my legs.
I would later learn that if a girl isn't ready for this stage of a relationship, she'll be dry down there. There could be a number of reasons she's not ready. Maybe she's scared and feels guilty that she's in the back seat of a car (or wherever) being groped by some boy. Maybe she's just not into the guy. Maybe she honestly wants to save herself for marriage, or whatever.
None of these impediments existed with Uncle Bob and me, however. My pussy was as slippery as a fresh-caught eel, and when his finger probed there, it slid in with almost no resistance. Since I'd had my own fingers in there, when his went in it didn't shock or scare me. It felt big, but it didn't scare me.
He hooked his finger and 'stimulated' me.
Getting my nipples sucked had created stabs of ecstasy in my belly. Call it using an ice pick to stab at a block of ice. What this did was more like Thor's hammer, slamming into my sex spot. I don't know what it's actually called, assuming it's a physical place, but I think of it as my sex spot. When something tickles, fondles, or slams into my sex spot, it makes me want to fuck. I have learned this over time, and my first lesson was when Uncle Bob borrowed Thor's hammer and made me want to fuck.
I really did. At that moment in time I grabbed his boner (by pure instinct, not design) and I felt it in my hand and my brain said, "This should be in my pussy, not in my hand."
And then he stopped.
I hadn't minded when he stopped molesting my breasts. At this point, however, I felt taking breaks to discuss things was wasting valuable time.
"Don't stop!" I complained, as he withdrew his finger.
"If I don't stop, I'll make you cum, and then you'll be in a mood to let me do even more," he said.
"Okay. Don't I need to know about all of it?" I whined. I was still gripping his penis. "Besides, I need to use all those muscles and nerves inside me to get some relief. I'm exceptionally full of tension right now."
"Megan, Honey, I want to have sex with you," he confessed.
"If you're worried about my virginity, I have to lose it some time," I said.
"See?" he said. "You're already in the mood to let me do more. Let's examine some ways to cool things down a bit and still have fun."
"Like what?"
"I believe you said all guys want girls to give them blow jobs. If you do that then the dangerous penis will get soft and no longer be so dangerous."
Now, before this I would not have been very excited about getting a penis in my mouth. My perspective on that had, somehow, changed a bit. Looking back on it, I believe that the foreplay he had been teaching me about was what changed my perspective. If he wasn't going to move forward with stimulating me, at least I could play with his handsome cock. That would certainly be more fun than just stopping and talking.
What I didn't think about, in that moment, was that just like my own libido had opened up and was accepting new things as possibilities, his had opened up, too. He was willing to do more now than he'd been willing to do just a few moments ago. That's how insidious all this libido stuff can be, even for an experienced adult. I didn't think about that, though. Not then. I did later, but not then.
"Teach me how," I said.
Chapter Two
A man's penis can be a fascinating thing. I'd had my hands on this one, but only for maybe a hundred and twenty seconds. I'd made the foreskin retract a couple of times and felt the hard-yet-soft texture of things. Now, though, I got to spend some quality time with one. His "instructions" consisted of telling me to "get to know it" and, when I felt ready, to think of it as a Tootsie Roll Pop.
Now think about that for a minute. It's brilliant, really. When you put a Tootsie Roll Pop in your mouth, there's no taste, immediately. You have to roll it around in your mouth and suck on it to get the taste to come out. You don't bite it. You let it melt in your mouth. It starts out rough, and the first thing you do is try to suck the roughness off of it, until it gets smooth and sweet and slides around easily. It hits your teeth, but again, you don't bite it.
If you use all the same techniques in sucking a guy's penis, then you're doing it right. You don't even have to think about it.
That said, there are differences, of course. A man's penis doesn't get "sweet". There is a taste, and you do begin to bring that taste out as you suck, but it's not quite the same kind of reward that whoever makes Tootsie Roll Pops has in mind. Another difference is that the average male penis is bigger than a sucker. You can't put a Tootsie Roll Pop too far down your throat and gag on it. And, of course, there's no soft chocolate center to ultimately chew on.
You do get a rush of taste at the end, but it's not the kind of taste you chew on.
Anyway, I played with his for a good five minutes before I hesitantly kissed the tip. I kissed it in different ways. I pulled his foreskin up to make a circular, mushy lip and kissed that. It felt weird; not like the lips it first looked like. Then I retracted it and kissed the hard head, where the little eye was crying again. Eventually I took the plunge and sealed my lips behind the crown. I gave it a little suck and there were no tough edges to smooth. It was already smooth. It was bigger than a Tootsie Roll Pop, but not that much bigger, and it felt just perfect in my mouth. I was astonished, to be honest. I hadn't expected to like the feel of it in my mouth, and when I did, it felt so natural that I couldn't understand why I'd resisted this idea at all!
I pulled off and looked at his face.
"This is fun!" I said.
"I already knew that," he teased.
I put it back in my mouth and tried to suck the candy off so I could get to the soft chocolaty center.
He warned me when he was going to cum, but at that point the idea of him shooting off in my mouth seemed like a natural and logical conclusion to the exercise. And you don't take the Tootsie Roll Pop out of your mouth when you get to the center.
Of course I already knew there was no chocolaty center. But the idea of receiving and swallowing his offering was something I actually looked forward to.
His taste was strong, not like anything I'd ever tasted before this. The texture was unique, too. I've heard girls describe it as different kinds of food, but that's not how I'd characterize it. Semen tastes like semen, not food. I've only sucked one other guy off since this happened, and the taste was different than Uncle Bob's, but it still tasted like semen.
During the process, at least half of the fun was listening to him moan and groan and whine about how good it felt. I wondered if he'd make the same noises if he was fucking me. At some point I realized I had my own finger up inside me, and that I was trying to cum right along with him. That didn't happen though. It felt good, but I was paying too much attention to sucking him to concentrate on getting my own orgasm.
His poor penis was pathetic when I got finished with it. It shrank down to maybe four inches long and it was as soft as soft can be. It had been so impressive and even scary when it was hard, but now it was the very definition of harmless. I had seen pictures of the statue of David, where he looks so buff and handsome, but his dick is minuscule. I had always thought that was kind of odd, but now I get it. Most guys' dicks are that size most of the time. It's only when they get turned on that it gets impressive. I guess the sculptors back then were going for realism, as opposed to the (literally) larger-than-life way that later statues were made.
I was fidgety and antsy. I was happy that I'd been able to play him like a banjo, but I was still horny.
So he pushed me down and, without warning or permission, ate my pussy like a starving man attacks a loaf of bread.
I wish I could go into detail about what that was like. The problem is all I can remember are the orgasms I had as he did it.
I did learn one thing I didn't know before that, though.
Since I knew a guy could only have one orgasm per ... um ... incident ... I thought it was the same for a girl.
Boy, howdy is that not true.
******
He left me lying there feeling like my body had turned into a puddle of warm Jell-O. I heard the shower running and then he came out of the bathroom and started getting dressed.
"What are you doing?" I asked. I'd never done all this before, but I was pretty sure there was supposed to be more before people started getting dressed.
"I have somewhere I need to be," he said. "I can't spend a whole day chasing you around the table and making love to you."
"First, there was no table involved," I said. "Second, I've only been here two hours. Third, I don't think you made love to anybody."
"I never take two hours to do a workout. My workout only takes an hour," he said. He came over and leaned down to kiss me. " What I did during that other hour was make love to a girl I shouldn't have even touched."
"But we didn't do it!" I complained.
"Did you feel good?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Did you have orgasms?"
"Yes," I grumbled.
"Was anybody else involved when all that happened?"
"You know you were," I said.
"Sweetheart, making love isn't a formula, where you do A, B, and C, in that order. Making love is spending time together being intimate. We literally made some love. There is more love in the world right now than there was two hours ago. And I loved it, but now I have to go and make some money. It won't be nearly as much fun, but it has to be done."