Serendipity

Serendipity

by Robert Lubrican

Bookapy Edition

Copyright 2025 Robert Lubrican

License Notes

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Rights to use cover art purchased at istock.com

******

Foreword: The original concept for this story was a coming of age tale about a girl who fell in love with her uncle. Publishing standards prohibited this version from containing any character under the age of eighteen. It has therefore been heavily edited (censored) to meet those requirements, and may seem a little odd. Things won't add up, in terms of the stated ages that things happened at. If you would like to obtain an uncensored copy, instructions to do so are at the end of the book.

Bob

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four -Chapter Five - Chapter Six

Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Epilogue

******

Chapter One

I looked up as Caitlin got out of the pool and walked toward me. Her hands rose to gather her long, blond, wet hair behind her, which did interesting things to her breasts, cupped snugly in the too-small bikini top she was wearing.

I was glad I was wearing sunglasses, because it let me drink her in without her knowing I was doing it. It wouldn't do for her to realize that her uncle was a pervert, and anybody who could have seen how I was looking at her would have known, instantly, what I was thinking about.

I had a twinge of conscience as I imagined those breasts bare. But only a twinge. She was grown up now and I didn't feel so bad about letching after her these days. That was a relatively new development, considering this was the sixth summer Caitlin had spent part of at my house. The first had been when I took her in for two weeks so my sister could go on her honeymoon with her second husband. Those two weeks worked out rather well.

Part of her desire to visit me had to do with the fact that I have an in-ground pool, and it's big enough to swim laps in. That astonished me, because she lives in Santa Barbara, with the entire Pacific Ocean right down the street. Maybe it's because there's no kelp and no sharks in my pool. I also hear that the ocean along that part of the coast is cold enough that most surfers wear wet suits. My pool may lack waves, but no wetsuit is required. Thank goodness.

But probably the main reason we got on so well was that, way back when, when I had no idea what to do with a twelve year old girl for two weeks, I figured taking her places, going on day trips, visiting museums and rock climbing and that sort of thing might interest her. It had, in spades, and the next summer the thirteen year old tomboy asked if she could "have another vacation at Uncle Bob's house," and her mother agreed.

Thus was established the "tradition," wherein Caitlin traveled from far away California to the windy plains of Oklahoma each summer to spend two, then three, and eventually four weeks with her Uncle Bob, who treated her like an adult as long as she acted like one. What that meant was that I didn't coddle her, or require that she behave in any particular way. She was just Caitlin and we did whatever she had the urge to do as long as it could be done safely.

And she wanted to do what amounted to extreme sports, for a girl her age. I think that came from the fact that, when she was very young, she got very sick. I don't know the details, but she couldn't start public school until she was seven, an entire year older than all her peers. She was weak from her illness, and had been bedridden a lot. By the time she came to my house, her body had fully recovered, but the carefulness of her parents was still stifling her.

What that means is that she wanted to do things like, rock climbing, and fishing and camping. I had a dirt bike I liked to climb hills with, and she wanted to learn to ride it. Instead of putting her on my 450, I bought her a 175 and let her learn on that. She eventually moved up to a two fifty, which was fine, considering all she weighed was a hundred and ten pounds.

We played hard while Caitlin was in town. It kept her happy, and she helped keep me in shape.

That was all fine back when she had that stick-thin body that a lot of young girls have, with no breasts and no hips, and yet her face looked all female, with a bright, beautiful smile under bright, beautiful eyes. She was cute. And she was fun to be around, even though she ran me ragged.

Her slightness of body belied the muscles under her skin. She had talked her parent into letting her surf, even at that young age, and she also ran track and played soft ball. So choosing something challenging for her usually challenged me more than it challenged Caitlin.

Around the pool, I got more rest. She practiced her dives and cavorted around while I sat in the sun and read. There was a girl next door who was a year younger, named Emma, and they struck up a friendship. Emma came over to swim sometimes, when Caitlin was lonely for the companionship of someone other than an old man. Once in a while Emma brought another girl or two with her. All those girls made a lot of noise, and they dashed around as if they were running from their worst nightmares, but I could still read and do lifeguard duty at the same time. They wore bikinis which, had they been on bigger, bustier girls, might have been interesting. But on these girls they were merely strips of cloth that covered the parts their mothers wanted covered.

And then one year she asked if I'd drive her back to California, so we could camp and see some of the national parks along the way. The first year we did that, when she was sixteen, we did Yellowstone. I booked us rooms in the lodge and we spent two days there, seeing the sights. The next year it was Big Bend, in Texas, taking the southern route back home. She got to drive, which was a big deal to her. Back home her driving hours were restricted, because of all the traffic and such. The following year we toured the Rockies and Mesa Verde. I was pretty sure this was her last year spending time with Uncle Bob. She was going off to college, and she'd forget all about me. You couldn't tell that by the way she acted, though. She had told me we were going to see the Grand Canyon and maybe Carlsbad Caverns on the way back home.

That would have been fine, except that she said this year we were going to tent camp, instead of staying in motels or lodges.

"I want to rough it," she had said. "You know, get a taste of what it was like for the pioneers as they moved west."

But looking at Caitlin now, I had a glimmer of how easily things could go ... awry. My niece was all grown up, and she was a babe.

Yeah, I know, she was only eighteen, but you couldn't tell it by looking. Suddenly she looked like she should be in college, instead of finishing up high school. She was all lush curves and, biologically at least, she was ready for being mated with.

I won't prevaricate and claim this was the first year I had noticed her growing up. Basically, I got a yearly update on how puberty was treating her. I watched the polka dotted bikini tops begin to show that there was actually something under them, and those mounds got bigger every year. She never seemed to notice, though, or act any different. While her body changed, she seemed to stay exactly the same, otherwise. She had gained a little more knowledge each year, and her mental world had expanded, but as a female of the species, she still seemed to be holding back.

I asked her, when she was fourteen, if she had a boyfriend yet.

"Naw," she drawled. "Boys are a pain in the butt. They act stupid all the time. Besides, my mom says I can't have a boyfriend until I'm sixteen."

When she was fifteen, I could tell something was wrong as soon as she got off the plane and walked toward me. Her shoulders were slumping and she was looking down. It almost hurt to watch her. In the process of getting a hug I realized she'd gotten braces. That beautiful smile was gone. She had a little acne too, and it was affecting the way she thought about herself.

On the drive back to my house I hammed it up a bit.

"Man, oh man," I sighed. "I hope you don't call your mom and ask to go home early."

"Why would I do that?" she asked, looking over at me.

"You're kind of sexy looking this year," I said. "I may not be able to control my baser instincts."

"Don't lie!" she blurted.

"Are you kidding? Your hair is longer. Parts of you have grown a bit." That was true. She'd gone up at least a cup size, though I really hadn't intended to bring that up out loud. I think I got too much into the role I was playing. I hurried on to get past that. "And then there are the braces. I'm a sucker for a girl with braces."

"You are not," she scoffed. "They're ugly."

"Oh, you poor, innocent child," I sighed.

"I'm not a child!" she barked, instinctively.

"Of course not," I said. "And trust me ... those braces are anything but ugly."

"How come everybody makes fun of them, then?" she asked.

"Oh," I said, "You mean the boys?"

"Yes," she sighed.

"That's because they're idiots," I said, carelessly. "Boys your age have no brains at all. Did you know the guy who invented zombies did so after talking to a group of fifteen-year-old boys? He imagined the bodies of those boys rising from the grave, still trying to find a brain after they were dead."

She finally laughed, and I got to see the hardware on her teeth.

"Braces are sexy," I said.

"They are not," she argued.

"I'll prove it to you," I said.

"How?"

"Wait 'til we get home."

******

That was the second thing I said I probably shouldn't have. What I'd been thinking of, while she was talking about how un-sexy braces were, was a web site that catered to girls with braces. I had stumbled upon that one by accident, and had been fascinated by how sexy some of those girls looked.

But I couldn't show her those pictures. That's because most of the pictures at that site were of naked girls with braces. Besides the obvious problem with that, for that matter, I didn't even know how to find it again. Still, I had an idea. I have a lot of faith in Google.

So when we got home, and I had lugged in a grown-up girl's luggage instead of the single light suitcase she'd brought in the past, I took her to the den and powered up my computer. Once Google was up, I typed in "sexy girls with braces," hit the button, and then clicked on the "images" icon. I suppressed a sigh as a full page of extremely cute girls and women - with braces proudly displayed - popped up on the screen.

"See for yourself," I said, standing up.

It was a little thing, really. I'm sure her parents had told her the braces did not detract. But kids ignore parental support sometimes, whereas "the cool uncle" can say something they'll actually pay attention to.

Then, of course, there was the fact that, about two pages down, Google delivered pictures of girls with braces ... naked.

"Uncle Bob!" she chastised. "Really? Are you some kind of pervert?"

"I didn't know about those," I gasped. "Honest. You have to believe me!"

Anyway, the braces were not denigrated after that, and by the time I got her back to California, her grin was back full force.

The next year the braces were gone again and she'd grown another cup size. She looked every inch like the California girls the Beach Boys sang about. She still hadn't cut her hair, and now it reached the middle of her back. The bikini that year was white - not a polka dot in sight - and it cradled her body like ... well ... like I wanted to. More than once, as I stared at her through my sunglasses, I found my hands cupped.

This year started going badly for me right away. She wanted to go swimming and did my usual "lifeguard" duty, sitting on a chaise lounge and watching her while I read a book. When she got out, she said she was going to go take a shower to get the chlorine off of her. The suit she was wearing this year was thin, and did nothing to hide her nipples. They were stiff, probably because of the water, but it didn't matter why. They were luscious looking. I watched her walk away. You know that thing girls do where they slide their fingers inside the back of their bikini bottom and rearrange it, so it covers their buns the way it's supposed to? She needed to do that. But she didn't. And I got my first full-fledged boner for my niece.

What I never knew until many years later, was that, when she got inside, she turned around to look at me and saw me adjusting my erection in my swim suit.

And she knew exactly what I was doing.

******

I'm going to commit a literary sin, here, and it might happen again later in this narrative. And that sin is changing voice back and forth. I'm telling you this tale because it's exciting for me to share with others what happened to me. And since I'm just telling you what happened, that's called first person narration. But there were things that happened which I didn't know about at the time. And if I wait until the point at which I did find things out, the story will be all jerky and out of order.

So, to make things go more smoothly, sometimes I'm just going to tell you what happened, even though I didn't see it or know it was happening. And, technically, what that means is that I have to change into third person, omniscient voice. I'll suddenly become the all knowing observer. So if that happens, and you're suddenly thinking, "How the hell could he possibly know that?!" you'll know why it's written that way. It just makes the flow of the story a little smoother.

And that's about to happen right now.

Things might have ended right there. After all, most girls are very aware that men get erections. If a girl thinks about it long enough, she'll reflect on how it was an erection that brought her into existence. She might have reacted like I think most girls would have reacted. She might have thought, "I wonder if that was an erection. Huh. Interesting!" Or it might have been "Ewwww!" Either way, she could have forgotten all about it and gone on with life.

But like the fabled wings of the butterfly flapping on one side of the earth, which might eventually cause a hurricane on the other side of the planet, something seemingly harmless can upset the status quo, leading to really big changes.

And that little thing that I think changed everything for Caitlin that summer was that, while she took her shower, she was reflecting on how her uncle had gotten a boner while he was in her company at the pool. The logical extension, since there were no other females anywhere in sight, was that he had gotten that boner because of her. She knew that men stared at her while she was in her bikini. They stared at her when she wore her one piece suit, which wasn't as vulnerable to the waves as a bikini is. Hell they stared at her when she wore her thick wet suit. But she ignored those men, those strangers who were no doubt thinking very nasty things about her. She didn't want to think about that.

But being noticed by Uncle Bob was a whole different situation. She loved him. And she knew he loved her. He would never do anything to hurt her. To the contrary, he was always worried whenever they did something even mildly dangerous, and became a mother hen, insisting that every safety protocol be strictly observed.

To be noticed ... as a woman ... by Uncle Bob ... well, that sent shivers down her spine and made something in her belly feel warm and happy. As she washed her body, she couldn't help but imagine what it might be like to see that erection ... that had bloomed into existence because of her female attributes.

Which is where the turning point happened. It happened because Caitlin Anderson suddenly got horny.

And since she happened to be in the shower when it happened, it was just too easy to deal with the situation.

******

She was a grownup now, at least legally. She'd engaged in this particular pastime many times before. She started by just rubbing a soapy hand between her legs, widening her stance to give her hand room to slide, deliciously, back and forth. As she did so, she imagined Uncle Bob coming into the bathroom. It would be by accident, of course. Maybe she'd have turned off the water, and was letting her body drip before taking a towel to it. He wouldn't know she was there, or that she could see him through the glass. And he wouldn't be paying any attention to the shower.

In her fantasy she imagined he came into the bathroom to jack off. She knew boys did that all the time. Some of them even bragged about it, which was stupid, since anybody could masturbate. Uncle Bob would drop his swim suit and there it would be ... a long hard penis. He'd grab it and make the classic motion that everybody in the world would have understood.

By now she was abusing her clit, and every once in a while sliding her middle finger into her pussy. She squatted more. Her fantasy somehow got Uncle Bob to open the door to the shower, still hard. Of course he'd be startled and make some exclamation, and even though it didn't make any sense, he'd step into the shower with her, naked.

She didn't get any further than that in her little shower fantasy, because just the thought of him joining her in the shower, naked, with a hard on, was enough to tip her over the edge. It was a fabulous orgasm. It wasn't earth shaking, or mind blowing. It just felt really good and lasted a really long time. The two fingers she used to fuck herself with whipped rapidly in and out and she squatted ever lower, until she ended up with her butt on the cold floor, and her back against the cold wall of the shower stall.

It was a turning point because, while she'd thought for years that Uncle Bob was handsome, for the first time she viewed him as a potential sexual partner.

As an actual, potential sexual partner rather than a "He's cute and makes me a little horny," kind of male which, up to this point, was the only category of potential sexual partners she had.

The butterfly had flapped its wings.

The ripples would be felt as Caitlin explored what it was like to be a woman, around a man she wanted to be a woman with.

Meanwhile, I engaged in the time honored pursuit of trying not to think about Caitlin, up there in the shower buck-naked, by filling my stomach instead. The diversion I chose was to make myself a three layer sandwich of Black Forest ham, smoked turkey, and Miracle Whip. I put a slice of cheese on it and added tomato and lettuce to complete the masterpiece.

While Kat was satisfying herself in the shower, I was satisfying my belly in the kitchen.

And it worked. I was satisfied.

But things wouldn't stay that way for long.

******

There is a condition in life that most of us don't think about. Some people call it "Sex Addiction." Some therapists even make their living treating this condition. But I sometimes wonder if there isn't a lot of hype surrounding that. Think of it like those commercials you see on TV where the model is tossing a long mane of glossy hair around and the announcer is trying to convince you that you can't really be happy unless your hair looks like that too. They're selling you something, and they get to keep the money, regardless of how your hair turns out.

But the thing is, literally billions of people get along just fine without that hair. Those commercials are mostly hype. And I sometimes think all this sex addiction business is like that.

I think that people who are "addicted" to sex simply think about sex more often than others. And that doesn't mean there's something wrong with them. Teenage boys are reputed to think about sex sixty or seventy times an hour, and nobody tries to drag all of them into a therapist's office to get them to stop.

I'm not saying there aren't people on the planet who think about sex so much that they are handicapped by it. I'm sure there are, just like there are people who believe there is something on their sleeve and literally spend all day trying to brush it off. They can't really function either. My theory is that a lot of people who are labeled as being addicted to sex, are probably just OCD about sex. The rest of us are normal. Granted, we're normal in varying degrees. Teenage boys are an example.

But where do you draw the line?

And why am I wasting your time talking about these theories?

I'll tell you why. Because all this crap affects us on a daily basis. That's why.

Sex is normal and the desire to engage in it is normal too. And there is a sort of civil war in western society, maybe all societies, in which one side embraces the normalcy of interest in sex, and the other side screams that sex is wrong, and bad, and nasty, and harmful and on and on ... unless, of course, you engage in it this way, or that way, or under these specific conditions, etc. It's a little like religion. There are hundreds of religions, the adherents of which are all convinced that what they believe is absolutely right. So they insist that everybody else believe the same thing. Wars are fought over it.

So it's ground into all of us that, when Kat came into the kitchen as I was finishing up my sandwich, my cock should not have begun to stiffen (again!) as I admired how sexy she looked. And she should not have looked at me and felt that shiver down her spine again, and remembered with happiness that little fantasy she'd just had in the shower as she rubbed off.

Society says that we shouldn't look at that woman coming out of an apartment building, looking radiant, and wonder if some of that radiance is because she is freshly (and happily) fucked. Society says we're not allowed to look at the pregnant woman sitting on the park bench and, knowing that she's had sex, imagine what it might be like to have sex with her. Society frowns heavily when, on seeing a cute young girl walking down the street with her friends, you wish you could be the one to teach her about the joys of sex.

And if you do all three within the space of a single day, society might say you're addicted to sex.

But talk to any biologist, and he (or she) will tell you that, because of evolution, human beings should and do evaluate every single member of the opposite sex as a potential sexual partner. Most of that is done completely under the radar, without you even knowing it's happening, especially if the other person is rejected as a possibility. In that case, there's just no interest on a conscious level, in terms of sexuality.

And Kat and I were evaluating each other. I still don't know how much of that was conscious and how much was subliminal, but it was definitely going on. And worse, neither of us was rejecting the other as a potential sexual partner.

And when Society found out, it was going to be all sorts of pissed off about it.

******

I said that some of these feelings of attraction (and our responses to it) were conscious and some were subliminal. That affected us in different ways. I was completely aware of why I felt the things I was feeling, and what they meant. With Caitlin, it wasn't so clear cut.

For example, when she got out of the shower, dried off, and got dressed, she left her bra off. It was a conscious decision, but for subliminal reasons. I'm not sure she understood why she was doing that. But when I saw those still-excited nipples denting the otherwise smooth fabric of the tank top she'd put on, I knew exactly why I wanted to stare at them. In fact, I knew why I wanted to do a lot more than just stare at them.

Looking back on it now, it's obvious what was going on. She had been noticed by a man, and she'd liked the feeling. That initial happy feeling had led to something blatantly sexual, and which felt really good. So it was normal for her to want that man to notice her again. And since society hadn't had time yet to fully inculcate her about how awful it was for her to think about her uncle that way, some part of her mind suggested another way to get him to notice her.

It sounds simple, but it wasn't. And that's because she made another decision that day that, while related to all these feelings she was experiencing, was not for the same reason.

In addition to leaving her bra in the dresser drawer, she decided to leave her panties there too.

That wasn't to get my attention, though. Rather, it was just part of feeling sexy and wanting to explore that feeling. She'd heard about going commando, but had never done it. She knew that going commando had something to do with sexuality, but didn't understand all that. So she tried it. She'd gone braless before, and she knew what that accomplished, at least when there were males around. But she didn't know about the other, so she tried it.

And what that means is that when Caitlin walked into my kitchen that day, there were a lot of things going on inside her, some of which she was aware of, and some of which she was not.

I stared. I might have licked my lips. I don't remember if I did that or not, but she sure looked delicious.

Kat had the kind of breasts that are often described as proud, sitting high on her chest and thrusting out at the world like the main guns of the battleship Missouri. You couldn't miss them under any circumstances, and right now, as she walked toward me, they seemed to give a little shiver. Even if I hadn't been able to see her nipples being telegraphed through the cotton material, I'd have known she was braless, just by that subtle shake and wobble that is the signature of healthy, young breasts that are unsupported by a constricting undergarment.

But the nipples made it obvious. I hadn't seen them since the year she was twelve and the top of her bikini came off during a cannonball she executed in the pool in an effort to splash me. She'd stood up in the shallow end of the pool, laughing, looking to see if she'd gotten me, and it had taken a few seconds for her to realize that the top of her suit was hanging loose. Her little, cone-shaped breasts had been snow white, with rosy tips that were more like the nose cones of a pair of rockets, than nipples.

Those nipples had grown up just like the rest of her. The nose cones were gone. Now her nipples looked like exactly what they were intended to do. Even through the shirt.

"I hope you made one for me," she said. "I'm starved!"

"Alas, I did not," I confessed, trying to get control of my cock by pure mental force.

"You are a terrible uncle," she sighed.

"I am," I said, sadly.

"So why do I still love you?" she asked, bumping up against me and resting her forearms on my shoulders.

Those unsupported breasts crushed gently into my chest. Hazel eyes stared up into mine from less than a foot away.

"Because you are perfect," I sighed. And I meant it. Subliminal things were happening inside me too.

"Well then," she said, pulling her arms back as she stepped back. Her hands ran into my shoulders and she left them flat as they slid down to press against my pecks. "Make your perfect niece a sandwich."

That's a good example of what I mean by a mixture of things going on inside her. She was braless intentionally, for the express purpose of seeing if I would notice that, and how that might feel. She'd seen me gawk at her and something in her brain had stood to attention and said, "Mission accomplished!" And that had felt good, so that led to the unconscious desire to be in close proximity to the man who had just made her feel good again. In other words, the hug wasn't for the same reasons going braless was. She wasn't trying to seduce me. Far from it, in fact.

But, in reality, she was seducing the crap out of me.

Okay, okay. I was letting her seduce me. I wanted to be seduced. Call it what you want, the point is that something massive had been set in motion, and it was picking up speed, whether that was intended or not.

Anyway, I was happy to make her a sandwich. It let me face the counter, which covered for the fact that there was a lump in the front of my shorts. And let me adjust things without her seeing it.

Or so I thought. It turned out she sat at the table, put her elbows on top of it, and rested her chin on her hands. Then she just watched my back. Which is why she was able to see when my hand laid the mayonnaise knife down and reached to put things in what I thought would be a less noticeable position.

And, again, she knew exactly what I was doing while I did it.

******

People react to being horny in different ways. I'm talking about those times in which you can't just rip off your clothes and satisfy your urges. In Caitlin's case, she got full of energy and wanted to burn some of that off. I have a theory that sex is related to combat, in the sense that there is a physical confrontation, in which both people want some kind of victory. In battle, it's victory over the other. In sex, that victory can be shared. I think that's why she wanted to play tennis. She wanted to enter into a battle of sorts, but for the purpose of fun, rather than winning. And, not that she knew it at the time, to burn some of that horny energy off.

We went over to the city courts, and she tore me up. But I claim that's because she didn't change clothes. And by that, I mean she didn't go put on a bra.

So I was pretty much constantly distracted by how elastic firm, young breasts can be, as they became a prime example of Newton's three laws of motion.

I fought back, to be sure. She won the first set 6 - 1. I managed to win three games in the second set. Then I got distracted again and was down five games when her right foot, while it was sliding sideways, ran into a seam in the concrete and caught on the raised edge. Because she's a surfer, she's learned to go limp when a big wave grabs her. Loose muscles and tendons are much more flexible than those held rigid by tightened muscles. So she let the ankle bend, instead of trying to stop it. The problem was there was no water there to support her body weight when all this happened. I heard the yelp of pain as her ankle was overstressed, and she went down in a heap, the racket clattering across the court.

I ran up to the net and pushed it down to cross over to her side, where she was lying in a more or less fetal position. Her hands were wrapped around the ankle that had given way.

"You okay?" I asked, worried.

"I don't know," she moaned. "My ankle hurts a lot."

"Can you sit up?"

She made the attempt, and I helped her, at which time I got a look at some really beautiful cleavage. But I'm not a sex addict, so I ignored the opportunity to stare, and squatted beside her. She brought her right knee up and put some weight on the ankle.

"It's not too bad," she said.

"You want me to take you to the hospital?"

"No!" she scoffed. Male athletes don't have a corner on exhibiting macho characteristics and wanting to be tough.

"Well, no more tennis," I said. "That's for sure."

"Yeah," she said. "Help me up."

"Let's take it slow," I warned.

She held up both hands and I pulled her onto her left foot. Gingerly, she put some weight on the injured ankle.

"Shit," she said, under her breath.

"You sure about the hospital?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I hope this doesn't mess up my surfing when I get back home."

"I'll help you back to the car," I said. "Want to go piggy back?"

She laughed. "Piggy back is for little girls, Uncle Bob. Just let me lean on you and I'll be fine."

Which is how I ended up with Caitlin tucked into my left armpit, my arm around her back, as we made our way to my car.

Oh ... did I mention? As we walked, and she hopped, my left hand sort of ended up cupping the side of her left breast.

You remember ... the braless one.

It was unbelievably firm.

And at the same time, it was unbelievably soft.

******

Something else I forgot to mention is that, along with that bright yellow tank top, Kat had donned a denim skirt after her shower. It wasn't a particularly short one, and denim is heavy, so I'm sure she thought it wouldn't flare out while she played tennis. And it didn't do that, as a matter of fact. But it was still a skirt, and she still elected to remain sans underwear. Maybe she was just in a hurry to go and didn't want to spend the time it would take to choose a pair, pull them on, tug them here and there so they fit perfectly, etcetera, etcetera and so forth. Don't laugh. I've seen women put on a pair of panties. Anyway, choosing to dress that way led to a situation that, for reasons that had nothing to do with why she'd put it on, would change both our lives.

When we got home I helped her into the house. I'll be honest. The first time I groped her left breast was an accident. It was just an honest accident that resulted from her lurching gait and my attempt to support her. But she hadn't complained about it, or admonished me by saying something like "Hey, Uncle Bob, you maybe wanna get your hand off my boob, you pervert?"

On the other hand, when I helped her into the house, I groped her on purpose. It wasn't some attempt to get her excited or anything like that. It wasn't even an attempt to excite me. Not exactly. It's just that a man in my circumstances doesn't get a chance to feel something like that very often. So I took advantage of the situation. I'd like to point out that, once again, I got no admonishment from her. To be honest, I think all her attention was on her ankle, and she wasn't even aware I was copping a feel.

I situated her in my recliner, telling her to raise the foot rest, while I went to get some ice. When I got back she had leaned the chair back.

"Let's get a closer look at this," I said, pulling the coffee table over to sit on. "Lift the foot," I said.

She did and, because I was sitting to her right, she moved the foot in question in that direction.

I formed a cradle with my hands and she gingerly let her calf down on one hand while I supported her bare heel with the other. The ankle was swollen, but normally colored.

"Can you move your toes?" I asked.

Her toes moved just a little, then more.

"Yes," she said. I could hear some pain in her voice.

"Now point your toe," I instructed her.

Very slowly she extended. I watched the ankle, which looked pretty normal, and then looked up to see what her face was registering.

At least that's what I meant to do. Along the way, as my eyes went up the length of her leg on the way to her face, they followed the leg under that denim skirt which, while it had been plenty long enough on the tennis court, had slid up a considerable amount when she reclined in the chair.

And there, basically on view for all the world to see, was the fact that sweet, little Caitlin was going commando.

Of course all the world wasn't looking. Only I was. And I got a crystal clear view of pussy lips that belonged on a woman twice her age. By that, I mean her outer labia weren't tight and rolled in to create the classic camel toe. No, in fact, they framed her inner lips, which protruded like a blossoming bud and were loose and wrinkled, full enough that I instantly imagined sucking them between my lips and sort of chewing on them. The whole package was pale pink, lying nestled between even paler thighs and there wasn't a trace of hair anywhere around them.

I honestly don't think she intended for this to happen. The situation was completely the result of little actions, none of which were done for the purpose of letting me see the prettiest little pussy I'd seen in years. It was all the result of little accidents. There was the accident of her seeing me adjust the erection she realized she was part of. That led to her desire to experiment with whether going without panties would feel sexy or not. Then there was the accident that she had chosen to buy a shoe design that had crisp edges on the sole, rather than rounded ones, which might have slid right over that little projection in the cement of the tennis court.

All in all, the reason I was staring at Caitlin's pussy was because of serendipity. It was just a happy accident.

I remember blinking, and wondering just how long I'd been staring at what I was staring at. My eyes reluctantly left her pudenda and made the rest of the trip to her face.

Which was flushed, if not beet red, quite darkly.

It was crystal clear she knew exactly what I'd been staring at for however long I'd been staring.

Chapter Two

When my niece caught me staring at her exposed vagina, she didn't say anything. Neither of us did. And that's not odd. How do you start that conversation?

"Hmmm. Quite a nice, little pussy you have there, Caitlin," I could open, suavely.

"Why thank you, Uncle Bob," she might say, sweetly.

"I notice you're as bald as a baby's butt down there," I'd continue.

"Well, I do wear the tiniest of bikinis," she'd explain.

"Looks really delicious. Do you suppose it might be possible for me to have a little taste?" I'd ask, hopefully.

"Why, Uncle Bob! I had no idea you were such a pervert! Perhaps I should phone the police. No, I'm sure I'm in no danger here, right?"

No, the conversation wouldn't go anything like that. And nothing else I could think of saying sounded any better in my mind.

So I ignored the elephant in the room and went back to the ankle.

It had swollen quite a bit, and there was the hint of blue on the pale skin, suggesting some serious bruising was developing. I gently used the hand cupping her heel to begin moving the ankle through larger and larger arcs of movement.

But I confess my attention wasn't completely on the ankle while I did this. Instead, I dipped my head and darted my eyes to my left, trying to commit to memory how lovely she was. I already knew what I'd be thinking about the next time I beat off. And I was pretty sure I would be doing that very soon.

None of this happened in a vacuum, of course. I mean Kat was there, and things were going on in her mind too, just like they were going on in mine. At first, the fact that she did absolutely nothing to mitigate her exposure was because she was, quite simply, paralyzed. When she realized what I was staring at ... that I was staring avidly ... she quite literally lost the ability to make intentional movements.

But that only lasted a few seconds, and long before I tore my eyes away from the prize, she was certainly capable of reaching for the material of the skirt and stuffing it between her legs.

She chose not to, however. I say "chose" but let's not misinterpret that word to mean what it normally means. In many cases a choice is made based on logical reasoning. You choose to go to work so you'll get paid and have money. You choose which item to buy, based on quality, or price or whatever. But sometimes a choice has a less rational basis. Why do you choose, for instance, to eat Cheerios for breakfast, rather than Raisin Bran? Those choices are based on something less substantial ... some inner cloudy desire.

And even though she hadn't started the day to get to this point, or left her panties in the drawer for this purpose, Caitlin suddenly had the misty, cloudy desire ... to let me look at her naked pussy.

So she did.

It is at this point that I should tell you that Caitlin's desire to find out what the world was like when one wasn't wearing any underwear might have had some genetic component. That's because, you see, I stopped wearing underwear after high school. For me, I find that briefs are too tight. They chafe, and if they absorb sweat, they get clammy. And boxers are no better. Sometimes, when you wear boxers, it's like trying to pack a parachute into your pants. And I just like the feel of the freedom of movement. Makes going to the john quicker too. You just have to ensure you shake well.

When it comes to outer clothing, I favor something flexible and comfortable. On this day, that meant a pair of running shorts that were tight enough to keep my penis and balls from displaying Newton's laws of movement in the same way Kat's breasts had. I like the kind that are mostly cotton, but have some other stuff in them too. The good news was that they had contained the dragon and his eggs quite nicely while we frolicked on the court. I'd gotten a little bulge as I watched her bouncing boobs, but the fact that she was handing me my head helped keep things under control.

Now, however ... not so much.

What made it even worse was that, because I had sat down while the thing was soft, it was aimed at the opening of the leg, and when it decided it needed to be ready to plunder Caitlin's luscious pussy, and therefore stiffened, the tip peeked out of the leg opening.

All this happened about the time she came to her senses and, while not closing her legs, at least moved the recliner in a more upright position, which lowered her hips, and caused the skirt to obstruct my view.

It did nothing, however, to obstruct her view. I don't think she intentionally sat up to look at my crotch, but when she did sit up ... she looked at my crotch.

And saw the nose of the beast that was trying to creep out into the warm sunlight.

Some things are instinctive. And instinct kicked in just then. For both of us.

She finally adjusted her skirt, pushing it between her legs as a shield of sorts.

"Sorry," I said, for some insane reason, apologizing for the fact that something completely natural was going on. My right hand abandoned Caitlin's heel and reached to pull on the leg of my shorts, covering up the one-eyed dragon.

Kat stared at me. She was still red-faced, but it was fading.

"I think you sprained it pretty badly," I said, looking right in her eyes. "I've got an ace bandage in the bathroom. I'll wrap it up and we'll put some ice on it for a while. Then we can see how it feels when you put weight on it. I think I've got some crutches around here somewhere too. Okay?"

"Yes," she said. Her breathing was both deeper and faster than her circumstances would normally have suggested. "Thank you," she added.

I looked at the dimples her excited nipples were making in the thin fabric of the shirt, and then up to her face again. Her eyes told me she knew what I had just looked at then, too.

"You're welcome," I said, softly.

******

When I got back with the ace bandage, and a zip lock bag full of ice, she was lying peacefully in the chair, her normal color restored. She didn't blush again when she saw me, but I did see her eyes drop to the front of my shorts. There was nothing to see there, though. When I went to my bathroom to get the ace bandage, I had engaged in what was probably the world's fastest beat off session, aiming the shots of soothing semen into the toilet bowl and then tucking the lizard away where he couldn't do any harm.

It was good I had done that, because the skirt, rather than having been smoothed down and lengthened, to conserve her modesty, looked suspiciously shorter than it had been before. I looked at her innocent, guileless face. There was no trace there to suggest she was anything but sweet, pretty Caitlin, the surfer girl from California who came every year to brighten my summers. Still, she was a beauty, and laid back like that, with all that skin above the knee showing, it was good I couldn't manage another erection this soon.

"Do you need any aspirin?" I remembered to ask.

"I don't think so," she responded. "It's not so bad if I don't flex it."

"We'll get it wrapped up and that should help immobilize it. The ice will help with pain too."

"Yeah," she said.

I resumed my seat on the corner of the coffee table and reached for the injured foot.

And Caitlin, with no hesitation whatsoever, lifted her leg and moved it sideways, holding it elevated with strong leg muscles. Had there been anyone else in the room, it would have looked like she was simply presenting her ankle to be wrapped.

But sitting where I was, it was obvious that Caitlin ... was showing me her pussy.

The previous time, it had been an accident ... serendipity. Not this time. There was no "chance" involved in what she had done. She could have waited for me to lift her ankle, and could have left her legs together while I lifted it. She could have pulled her skirt down, or tucked it between her legs.

Instead, she raised a leg and spread it away from the other one, becoming an exhibitionist, of sorts.

Having just jacked off, I wasn't enslaved instantly. I looked at her face, which was definitely pinker than normal again. Her eyes glittered. It was plain that she knew exactly what she was doing, and was doing it intentionally.

Now, suddenly, not only had my little Caitlin grown up, she had become a flirtatious, sensual woman. It was a new Caitlin, a young woman I had never met before, and didn't quite know how to act around.

So I tried to act normal and wrapped her ankle.

And stared at her pussy, of course. If she was willing to show it to me, I was willing to look at it. Twice, I looked up at her face, and both times she was watching me intently.

But you can only make wrapping an ankle last so long. Eventually I was done, and had installed the last clip.

"There," I said, sitting back, regretfully.

She lowered the leg, leaving it apart from the other one by almost a foot.

"It feels okay," she said. "It might be a little tight, though."

"It's supposed to be tight," I said.

"But if the ankle keeps swelling, it might get too tight," she countered.

Something in her voice penetrated into my brain and suggested she wasn't actually too worried about the possibility. And if that was true, then what motive could she have to put that fear forward? Another part of my mind sidled up and whispered, "She wants to show it to you again, you idiot."

"Do you want me to rewrap it?" I asked.

"Maybe later," she said, destroying that little fantasy. "Let's see how it feels after the ice has been on it."

"Okay," I said.

I draped the bag of ice across her ankle and stood. Her nipples were spiked again. Or maybe still spiked. I don't know.

All I knew was that it was time to go visit the bathroom again.

I was going to have to relieve the pressure Caitlin had caused by teasing me.

I was sure that's what it was ... just a girl teasing an older man she'd caught ogling her.

Right?

******

I've never done a poll, and I've never seen one by anybody else about how often the "average" man masturbates. At least not an actual scientific study. Come to think of it, there probably isn't an "average" man, when it comes to that subject. Age, marital status, girlfriend status, type of job ... all those variables make it impossible to define the term. So I don't know if the four or five times a day I've been able to spank the monkey in the past is normal or not. Not that I do it that many times each day. Not on a routine basis. But there have been plenty of days when, for one reason or another, I was excited all day long and, every time it raised its rebellious head, I beat it into submission. The day after I saw The Summer of '42 was one of those days. I couldn't get Jennifer O'Neill's image out of my brain, and I lost my virginity to her in my imagination when I got home that night, and at least five times the next day.

Anyway, I wasn't too worried that, suddenly, Kat was causing a spike in the graph of the number of times I was jousting the purple-headed knight each day. My mind sparred with itself, one part saying, "She's just a girl, you pervert!" and the other part saying, "Yes, but she's a big girl, and everybody knows eighteen-year-olds can have sex whenever they feel like it."

Not that I ever gave any serious thought to having sex with her. It was a delightful fantasy, but there was no way in the world that sweet, and now naughty little Caitlin wanted things to go that far. I was sure she was simply stretching her sexual wings a bit, seeing how it felt to be a bit of a vamp for (what I sincerely hoped was) the first time.

I thought about all this as I fixed her a glass of iced tea and cut her a square of the brownies she had baked the night before. By the time I got back to her, about an hour had passed, and I'd had enough time to decide that the best way to deal with this situation was to be up front about it. That wouldn't be that difficult, I figured. We already had a history of being able to talk about pretty much anything.

Like the time she'd been watching a DVD and I told her I was going to the grocery store and asked if she wanted anything.

"Tampons," she'd said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. In truth I think she was distracted by the movie, and that lowered her inhibitions.

"I've never bought tampons before," I said. "Are there more than one kind?"

She had blushed then, and said "I'll just go with you."

But on the way I'd insisted she teach me all about tampons. By the time she was finished, it didn't seem so strange any more. That kind of atmosphere asserted itself now, as odd as that might sound.

I noticed the ice pack was lying on the foot rest, beside her ankle. Her legs were now closed. And the front of her shirt was now smooth.

"The ice pack got too cold," she said, reaching for the treats I'd brought. "So I took it off."

"You want to try standing up?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm tired of just lying here." She elevated the chair and reached to manipulate the lever that let the foot rest down.

Then she reached for me with two hands, making it plain she wanted some help in standing up. As I did that, she came up and stood on one leg, while hugging me for support. She felt really good against me, with her arms around me. And her hair smelled wonderful.

"It's not terrible," she said, putting some weight on the foot. "But I don't think I can actually walk on it yet."

"I think those crutches are in the garage," I said.

"You're sweet," she said.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, I rather blatantly stared at your ... um ..." Suddenly, I got cold feet. I couldn't think of a word to use. "Vagina" sounded too technical, and the raft of vernacular terms all seemed inappropriate.

"Coochie?" she suggested, trying to help.

The cold feet vanished.

"Coochie? Seriously?" I smiled.

She pushed away from me, but held on, balancing on the good foot.

"It's what most my friends call it," she said in self-defense. "Or hoo-hah. Is that better?"

"I'm more of a pussy man," I said, feeling incredibly bold.

"You can say that again," she said. "You sure stared at it long enough."

"Well, you showed it to me," I pointed out.

"Not the first time," she argued. She giggled.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"You should have seen your eyes. I thought they were going to pop right out of your head."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," I sighed.

"Me either," she agreed.

"So why'd you do it?" I asked.

"Show you my ... pussy?" The last word was spoken more softly than the rest.

"Yes."

"I don't know," she confessed.

Suddenly I had no response. It was quiet for half a minute and the tension grew in the silence. I finally thought of something to say.

"So, how do you feel about it now?"

"That's hard to explain," she said.

"We don't have to talk about it right now," I said.

"No, I'm glad we're talking about it," she came back.

"Are you glad you did it?" I asked, my voice suddenly tight. I immediately wished I hadn't asked that question. I realized that this question was powerful enough to establish our future relationship. If she wasn't glad, then that relationship would have a burr under its saddle. Neither of us could forget what had happened, and if her feelings were negative, it could be the beginning of the end.

"Will you think I'm a slut if I say yes?" she asked.

"Of course not," was my automatic and fervent reply.

"That's good," she sighed. "Because I think I am."

"Really?"

She was speaking into my chest now, but her voice was strong.

"I've never had a rush like that before. Not even when I was running a tube on my board."

"You're kidding," I said, feeling much better. "Just because I snuck peeks at your pussy?"

Now she looked up. Her cheeks were pink, but those hazel eyes bored into mine.

"No other man has ever seen me there," she said.

I thought about the gynecologist she must surely have seen by now, but decided not to argue with her.

"I'm honored," I said.

"The way you looked at me ... I felt like a little lamb, with a wolf right there, about to pounce on me."

"I'd never do that," I said.

"I know that," she said, looking down and pushing her face into my chest again. Her arms tightened around me. "I think that's why I liked it so much. It was so rad to be able to do that with a man I know loves me, and who I don't have to be afraid of. A man who doesn't want what all the others want."

"Well, I wouldn't go quite that far," I said. "I am a man, and we're sort of biologically programmed to want ..." I stopped, deciding that it probably wasn't the best move to finish the original thought. Which was "to fuck you."

"Okay," she agreed with surprising élan. "but I can trust you," she insisted.

"Trust me to do what?" I was confused.

"What I want," she said.

"What you want?" I was still confused. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," she moaned into my chest.

"Perfect," I sighed.

"Don't be mean to me," she barked, pushing away from me again. "Go find those crutches."

"Yes, Ma'am," I said.

She sat back down in the chair.

She was frowning ...

But those nipples were back.

******

I decided the best course was to pretend nothing had happened. If she wanted to talk about it more, she'd bring it up.

To pursue that course, once I found the crutches and adjusted them for her, I told her I was going to grill some steaks for supper.

"Make mine medium rare," she said.

"I know that," I said. "That's the way you always want your steak."

"And bake me a potato," she said, ignoring my observation.

"With extra butter and sour cream," I said, showing her I knew how she liked her food.

"And green beans and cottage cheese," she added.

"Is there anything else, Milady?" I asked, bowing low.

"Yes. Don't be a dick," she answered.

I stood back up.

"I am shocked at your use of gutter words," I said in my most dignified voice.

"I'll remember that the next time you want to look at my ... pussy!" She emphasized the last word. I also heard a hint of anger in her voice.

"What's happening here?" I asked, getting concerned.

She slumped on the crutches.

"I don't know," she said, dismally. "I think I'm confused."

"That wouldn't surprise me," I said. "I'm a little confused too."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"What are you confused about?"

"How to feel about you," I said, without examining that too much before saying it.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, until today you've just been Caitlin," I said.

"What's wrong with that?" she interrupted.

"Nothing," I said. "I like Caitlin. I even love Caitlin. But that's always been a chaste kind of love." I was pretty satisfied with that, until, from somewhere, something made my voice add: "Mostly."

"Mostly?" She was on that word like a hawk on a mouse.

"Never mind that," I said.

"No, I want to know. What did you mean?"

I was boxed in. But it was with a girl who had showed me her pussy. So I told her the truth.

"There might have been a time or two that I had ... um ... impure thoughts about you," I confessed.

"Really?" I heard the sharp note of avid interest in her voice. It surprised me. Your average woman isn't much interested in knowing what Joe Blow is thinking about when he looks at her. Rather, they actively don't want to know.

"I was weak a few times," I said.

"Like how?" she bored in.

"You don't want to hear about that," I scoffed.

"The hell I don't," she said. "C'mon. Give. What kind of impure thoughts?"

"Why do you want to know this?" I asked, uncomfortable now.

"I just want to," she said.

"You won't like it," I said.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"Because it concerns things an uncle shouldn't feel for his niece," I said.

She stared at me. At first I thought she was disgusted, because she just stared for the longest time. Finally, she spoke.

"Would it help if you knew I had ... um ... impure thoughts ... about you before?"

I could hear the vulnerability in her voice. She wasn't disgusted. She was nervous! But I could tell this was important to her. And then there was the fact that she wasn't disgusted at all.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Like I said, we're not supposed to have those kinds of thoughts."

"Can you stop yours?" she asked. "Because I can't stop mine. And, besides, who's going to know?"

"So now you want to keep secrets?" I asked.

She laughed. "I've been keeping that secret since I was twelve, when you stared at my boobs when my top came off in the pool."

"You're kidding," I said. "You remember that?"

"It was the high point of my life," she grinned. "Up to then, anyway."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you were a man, and you were handsome, and when you looked at them, you didn't laugh. I could see something in your eyes that made me shiver and it felt so good that I got this huge crush on you and I've had it ever since."

"Wow," I said. "I never knew."

"Of course not," she said. "You tried to act like you weren't looking. You were a perfect gentleman. You didn't say anything crass, or try to take advantage of the situation. I was so embarrassed, but I was also elated. I didn't even know that word back then, but the first time I saw it, and understood what it meant, I remembered how I had felt when you pretended not to be looking at my bare boobs. I was elated. And I felt the same thing when you stared at my pussy, today."

"Wow," I said again. "I don't know what to say."

"You can tell me about your impure thoughts," she prodded.

Suddenly I was embarrassed. The fantasies I'd had were in exact opposition to her characterization of me as a "gentleman." I thought about the incident in the pool that she'd just spoken of. I had assumed all these years that she'd forgotten all about it. But she hadn't. So I just started there.

"Well, since you brought it up," I said for an opening. "When you did that cannonball, and stood up, the first thing I noticed was how white the uncovered area was. Your tan line was really stark."

She stood, waiting, eyes on me.

"Your breasts were cone-shaped back then."

I looked down and then looked up to see her looking up from having looked down too.

"Your nipples were pink and I remember there was no definition to them. I mean the areola and nipple all looked like a single construct. They looked half formed. I mean they were half formed, but I wanted to help them get fully formed somehow."

"How?" she asked, her voice low.

She waited while I got up the nerve to confess.

"I wanted to ... put my mouth on them." I swallowed. "Suck them," I admitted.

She closed her eyes, and I actually saw the shudder that shook her body gently.

"I'm sorry," I said, instantly. "I warned you."

She opened her eyes again.

"Don't be sorry," she said. "I'm not mad."

"Really?"

"Far from it," she whispered.

"Wow," I whispered back.

"You need to go get started on supper," she said. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"Do you want any help?" I asked.

She looked at me with something like a half smile on her face.

"You've helped enough for now."

So I went to heat up the grill and mess with steaks and the other ingredients for supper.

Completely unaware that she was lying on her bed while I did that.

She'd pulled up her tank top to bare her breasts, and that skirt was up on her stomach now, her legs were spread wide.

One hand pinched and pulled at her nipples as she thought about what I'd confessed to.

The other rubbed her pussy until she came.

Chapter Three

Again, I completely missed the satisfied look on her face when she crutched onto the patio as I took the meat off the grill.

"Can I do anything?" she asked.

"Test the potatoes," I said, pointing to the contraption I had that helped bake a potato in half the time. It was made of metal and had wide, flat projections going upwards that pressed deep into the tuber. You put it in the grill with the meat. The metal conducted heat into the center of the potato while the outside cooked by radiant heat.

She picked up the paring knife I'd used to cut open the meat when I checked it, and poked it into a potato.

"They're done," she said. "Where are the hot pads?"

"You can't carry that thing with one hand," I said. "Go sit down. I'll take care of all of this."

She crutched back into the house, displaying remarkable agility after being on crutches for such a short time. Athletes seem to be able to adapt to such things more quickly than most of the rest of us.

When I got in, she hadn't sat down. She was at the counter. She'd taken the green beans out of the microwave and was in the process of removing the safety plastic barrier from the top of the new tub of cottage cheese. The trash was ten feet away, so I walked up next to her and plucked the plastic out of her hand.

"I told you to sit down," I said, slapping her on the ass with my free hand. I winced, mentally, because I slapped that tight ass a little harder than I'd intended. I expected her to object vociferously. She objected ... but not anywhere near vociferously.

"Oh. Ouch," she said, hamming it up. "I'm going to cry!"

"I'll give you something to cry about if you keep being stubborn," I threatened.

She turned to me and the crutches fell noisily to the floor as she put her arms around my neck. She arched her back and pressed those amazing, soft, hot breasts against my chest.

"And what would that be, you terrible ... mean ... old ... pervert? You gonna spank me again?"

I saw the smoky look in her eyes, and heard the seductive note in her voice.

I once read an article where some "expert" or another said that every woman wants to be spanked at some time in her life. Not as actual punishment, but as a way of submitting to a man she's excited about. I thought it was bullshit at the time. Now that assumption wavered a bit. "Don't bite off more than you can chew, little girl," I warned, suddenly nervous that I was in the act of biting off more than I could chew.

"Bite what?" she asked, coquettishly, and completely unafraid. She was in full tease mode now. For the first time I wondered how far she would go. Before this I had assumed she was just curious, and wanted to experiment a little bit. I decided maybe a shot of reality might wake her up.

"I think you know," I said, dropping the plastic on the counter and using both hands to grab her buns. I pulled her against my groin.

Again, she closed her eyes.

"That's so hot," she whispered.

Then she opened her eyes and, before I could react, reached up on tiptoes to kiss me.

******

There are kisses ... and then there are kisses!!

I got one of the latter. No boys might have seen her precious teen pussy, but they had kissed those lips. That was obvious. She kissed like a pro and her lips transmitted the kind of passion that had me erect within seconds. And, since my hands were still on her ass, pulling her against me, that erection sprouted right where it counted.

Reality didn't scare her at all.

While she thrust her tongue into my mouth, she ground her loins against mine.

She pulled her face away from mine, but made no attempt to separate anything else from me.

"You don't kiss much, do you," she observed, dryly.

"What?" I was dazed. I admit it.

"You're supposed to kiss me back," she said.

"No I'm not," I sighed. But I was thinking of much more than kissing.

"Yes you are," she said.

And she kissed me again.

My baser instincts kicked in.

I kissed her back.

And we more or less dry humped the crap out of each other. It was astonishing.

I'll be honest. Had she pulled me to the bedroom, right then, I would have fucked her brains out. One of the thoughts I had during that kiss was that while no boy had seen her pussy, that didn't mean no boy had ever slid his adolescent little prick into it. She was acting like she'd done this dozens of times, and much more. So I wouldn't have asked any questions, and would have been astounded to find that she was a virgin.

But that didn't happen, because Caitlin was a female. And females don't necessarily react the same way males do in that situation. To Caitlin, this was romance, and she wanted it to last. Caitlin, it seems, was very capable of engaging in delayed gratification.

She pushed away from me and said, "I'm so horny I could explode. But I can't do anything about it now. Let's eat before everything gets cold."

******

One of my favorite movie scenes is from the 1963 movie in which a character named Tom Jones and a woman he met on the highway have dinner at a country inn. It's set in the seventeen hundreds, or thereabouts. If you pull up You Tube and put "Tom Jones fine dining" in the search box, the first video on the list is that scene.

That scene was replayed, in many ways during supper that night.

It started as if it were any normal meal. But being horny caused Caitlin to behave in an aggressive way. By that, I mean that, instead of cutting up her steak, she picked it up with both hands and bit into it, smearing her lips and part of her cheeks with the juices. She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, just like Joyce Redman did in that scene.

Then she did it again, and pink juices began running down her chin, threatening to drip onto the Old Navy T shirt she was wearing. As if on cue, she put the meat down on her plate and picked up her napkin, dabbing at her chin. She cleaned each finger by sucking on it. I say "as if on cue" because she was staring at me the entire time she did all this.

"I don't want to get my shirt stained," she said, casually.

And, just as casually, she reached to pull the bottom of the shirt upwards. There was no doubt but that she was about to take it off. I watched the creamy skin of her belly appear before my startled eyes. I was frozen, five or six green beans impaled on the tines of my fork, which hung, suspended between the plate and my open mouth.

Then her plain, white, utilitarian bra appeared, and I sighed inside because I was denied the view of her breasts. I never even gave thought to the fact that, previously that day, she'd gone around sans bra, but had, for some reason, decided to put one back on for dinner. As it turned out, it was purely for show, because she had planned what she was going to do intentionally.

And that was to do what amounted to a slow striptease ... sort of ... in front of me during supper.

The shirt caught under her pony tail, and she had to maneuver the cloth over her head and then extract the pony tail. That gave me all sorts of time to look at her upper torso. The bra covered more skin than one of her bikini tops would have, but that made no difference whatsoever to my prick, which sat up, trying to look at what my eyes could now see.

She tossed the shirt aside and looked at her plate, and then down at her bra. Then she looked up at me.

"I don't want to get my bra stained either," she said, calmly.

She reached behind her in that way that makes it look like the woman has Gumby arms and my frozen aspect relaxed enough for me to pull in enough air in a gasp that would keep me conscious for another half minute.

The soft swish of elastic being released ... the sag of stiff, white cotton on her chest ... the shrugging motion that dislodged bra straps carelessly, and the distraction of the bra being tossed on top of the shirt. My eyes followed that bra, for some reason, but then snapped back to Caitlin so quickly I'm surprised my retinas didn't detach.

And there they were.

Just as I could not adequately describe the sensations of viewing her pussy, it's difficult to describe this situation too. Each time I try to write it down, all I can do is see them in my mind's eye. But I'll try.

She sat upright, as if she were trying to practice good posture. She didn't arch her chest, or anything like that. Her arms were straight down, but I couldn't see if her hands were hanging, or her elbows were bent and her hands suspended beneath the table. I didn't really care about her hands, just then.

Her pale orbs were set off by tan lines around them, the darker skin seeming to frame what had been hidden before. Her nipples were no longer the pale pink of callow youth, but were darker, as if lipstick had been applied. The cones of yesteryear had vanished, or been inflated by round balloons. And the amorphous shape of her twelve-year-old nipples had also disappeared, to be replaced by cylindrical shaped nubbins that already looked like they fed a baby on a regular basis. Those nipples sat on areolas that made it appear as if the nipples were being presented on a plate, ready to be tasted, or feasted from. There was no hint of sag, and yet each breast looked like it must weigh ten pounds.

"I'm sorry," she said, breaking my concentration. "Is this bothering you?"

I had to swallow twice before I could answer. I also had to breathe out and then back in.

"No, I'm fine," I croaked.

"Good," she said.

Then she picked up her meat again and made a mess of her cheeks, chin, hands, and chest. She worked me like a pro, eschewing the napkin and trying to scoop up the juices she dripped with her hands. All she did, of course, was make a mess of her upper chest and, eventually, the breasts themselves.

She made noises of approval as she ate. She ate everything with her fingers, including the baked potato, and each green bean, which was slipped between her lips as she stared at me. She didn't eat like a pig. It wasn't like that at all. It was more like she ate with abandon, that the tasting and enjoyment of the food was paramount, and that nothing else mattered.

As for me, I was so engrossed with watching her, that I ate on auto pilot. What that means is that I ate gracefully, with my fork, and did everything the way Emily Post would have suggested I should. We were opposite sides of a coin.

Except that my side and her side were not touching in the middle.

Finally, she leaned back. Her arms dropped, and I was presented with the unbroken view of her gravy-smeared breasts. She sighed, and put one hand over her bare stomach.

"That was so good," she said, almost in a moan.

She looked down at herself.

"I made a mess," she commented.

"You did," I agreed.

"I need to clean up," she said.

"You do," I agreed.

"I can't stand up. My ankle's not ready for that and my lap is full of bits and pieces." She looked up. "Will you help me?"

I almost laughed, but restrained it. It would have been a laugh of joy at her antics, but I didn't want her to think I was laughing at her, if you know what I mean.