Quiminal Intent
"Shall we retreat to the bedroom?" I asked from below, his sturdy body standing over me.
My perspective was from beneath his bollocks, his wide, taut cock in the foreground, nearly blocking my view of his face.
Uncle's broad, bearded face looked down at me with a smile.
"Give me another minute or two of encouragement, Camille, and then let's warm this place up a bit. After that yes, the bed for sure."
He nudged his penis towards me, and I took the hint.
How much I had missed Uncle Quim! It had been almost a month since I had last tasted his mighty member, his sultry sword of pleasure. The smooth sensation of his penis-head sliding into and out of my mouth, the tactile rush of my tongue slithering wetly along his shaft, this was happiness writ large for me, my own groin involuntarily constricting.
He reached down and tweaked a nipple, erect against the rough woolen fabric of my sweater. Under normal circumstances, the scratchy wool-texture would have been unwelcome, but today the rough friction against my bare chest had heightened my anticipation all morning and been thoroughly intoxicating.
I gave another few lip-slides along his shaft, lingering with my tongue at that tantalizing spot just under his cock-head that I knew gave him such enjoyment, and left off, an unavoidable smile on my face.
Uncle Quim caressed my hair, rubbed my ears, let me know of his delight. He pulled up his jeans, closed his fly, and followed me to the kitchen.
I knew he preferred coffee, but that is a bother for me, and I am a tea-drinker, so he settled, bless him, for my offer of Darjeeling. I like tea-breath from someone I am kissing far more than the taste of coffee.
While I put the kettle on, he put a couple split apple-wood logs into the wood-burning stove at the corner of the living room, right next to the kitchen, and soon had a good fire going.
Our summer cottage was small enough, drafty as it is, that it warms up in no time even in winter, which isn't usually that severe here on Cape Cod. Today the late November chill came off quickly, and we stood across from each other in the narrow confines of the kitchen. I could just see out the window in the front room, the salt marsh rushes of the Bay waving in the breeze. The Nickerson's dingy, moored about fifty yards to the East in a little inlet, was the only sign of human habitation.
Uncle was leaning against a counter with his steaming mug in one hand, his eyes going from my face to my chest. I was aware of how erect my nipples were.
I involuntarily shivered at just how handsome he was, that expansive, dark-bearded face and those big shoulders in his plaid flannel shirt, untucked and rustic. He had the strong, rounded shoulders of my father, which for better or worse I had inherited as well. It was never a stretch for a stranger to conclude Uncle Quim and I were related.
Uncle Quim's business was a custom cabinetry shop in Ipswich, and he always smelled of sawdust and sweat. This was a combination I never tired of, familiar my whole life as our extended family, my father included, although not me or Mom, always either worked with wood as a profession or a hobby.
The times as a child that I was sent out to our garage, converted into a workshop crammed with saws and other tools, to retrieve my father for dinner, watching him shut off his machinery, wipe his brow and reluctantly come in for dinner, was a fixture in my history. Sweat and sawdust went together like bread and butter - results of endeavor and energy expended.
Daddy was an insurance salesman, about the blandest thing you could be, and when it was "bring you daughter to work day," I would end up with far more boring days than my friends, who would get to go to cool places like police stations or machine shops.
At least on "my" day we would always have lunch downtown at the Corinthian (no idea why it was called that, although they did have some fancy, faux-temple column set up in one corner of the dining room) in Lawrence, filled with a huge range of lunch-hour businessmen and artisans, my favorite always the rough-talking workmen, pleased to see a young girl in tow to my father. I liked the cheesecake for dessert,
But Uncle had taken the family hobby into professional territory, and his cabinetry skills had become both renowned and profitable.
"So is business okay, even with the pandemic Uncle?" I asked.
He sipped his tea and squinted at me. "When everything first closed down, back in March, it was pretty bad as you know, and we didn't know how'd we'd do. But lately," he waved his mug, "seems like lots of folks are up for a remodel. Some are moving away from Boston, buying a country place, and they want it fixed up, special touches. We've been plenty busy, I could work more if I wanted."
"And you? You still drawing those damn salt marsh weeds?" His eyebrows arched.
He was aiming to tease me, but I didn't rise to the bait. Daddy had always made fun of my biology degree from UMass, and to be fair, it certainly hadn't been a bankroll. I'd gotten a job at a Nature Center in Eastham, which didn't pay very much, and then of course work went away completely last March, when the pandemic shut everything nonessential down. Suddenly, like plenty of other folks, I had a lot of time on my hands.
I had gotten busy making detailed drawings of the salt marsh rushes and other plants along the Bay, with the vague hope of getting them into a small book or brochure that might be used by one of the Cape nature centers, maybe the Chatham Conservation Foundation, where I knew a couple folks.
"It's okay. I've gotten a number of good ones done, I am hoping something will come through."
I went into the other room and fetched my portfolio.
"I like these last couple at the front," and I handed him the folder.
There were some nice ones of cordgrass and glassworts, and what I thought was a handsome drawing of a salt-marsh fleabane in flower.
He looked carefully, more than just out of politeness, and smiled. "Fleabane?" he looked amused.
"Not what you think, I laughed. "Pluchea purpurascens, the native Wampanoags used it as an herbal tea."
He went back to my drawings.
"Sweet," he said. "I hope you get something out of this, but I'm not sure you will. At least you'll still be able to stay here at the family retreat rent-free and keep your expenses down."
The cottage would have been empty in the off-season anyway, and Daddy was pleased that I would stay and take care of the place. I got groceries once a week, and the occasional pizza delivery, but it was pretty lonely. Except for when Uncle Quim would make his periodic pilgrimage. I couldn't wait to see him. I would be jumpy with anticipation the whole day before. Judging by the condition of his crotch whenever I first greeted him, that was likely true for him too.
He looked long at me.
"But if you ever decide for a real salary, there is always room at the shop for an apprentice. It never hurts to have a trade," he continued, advice he had offered me countless times over the years. But it would be too complicated to be working at the shop, with Uncle there as my boss. The chances were good that that would ruin everything, and of course, that our little secret would get harder to keep.
I then imagined him at his shop, his hands on a handsome piece of wood, sanding, shaping, those big forearms of his rippling while he worked.
Now his penis was now back in his jeans, softened but still an intriguing mound. I was impatient for bed, but it was nice and warm in the kitchen now, and there is something about prolonging your desire that is intriguing. Uncle knew this too.
"So why is lust so complicated, Uncle Quim?" I always felt like I could just spill the top of my thoughts to him, there was nothing he would make fun of, or dismiss.
"It isn't," he laughed. "Lust is easy, straightforward. It's people's heads that make it complicated."
"Right now I am longing to have your balls in my mouth." This was true, just thinking about it made me salivate. Imagining the sensations each hairy egg would produce as I rolled it around, feeling their turgid pressure against my lips.
"Lust is plain, Camille. It is when people start tinkering with it, pushing it into funny places, when someone does something to provoke it, maybe when they want something in return or it's a bargaining chip or something. That's when the troubles start."
"But don't we always want something in return? Your own pleasure gifted back to you?"
"That depends. I guess that's part of what makes things interesting. But there are plenty of times when I do something for you just 'cause I know you like it. No thought of reciprocation."
"Yes, that's true." I thought of all the times I did that with him too.
"But then sometimes, like when I am licking your balls, it does me me excited too. And I know you can't lick my balls back."
He laughed at this.
"But maybe I can groom your quim with my tongue? Slide it into exciting territory? Provoke thy clit into impossible pleasures?"
We had a word game we played when lust got hold of us before lovemaking. It was "thy penis this, thy sword of pleasure that." Great fun.
"So what makes it pure lust then?" I asked.
"When you want something. You — subject. Then something — object."
"I see thy penis, and I want it?"
"Yes. I see thy chest, and I want to smear it with my sperm."
"So when I start to think about how you will like having your penis pleased...?"
"Ah, that's when it gets complicated. Another thought intrudes. No longer lust then, or at least unadulterated lust." His smile was almost sideways, not puzzled, maybe just amused.
"No longer lust? My desire hasn't changed. In fact it may have grown. Not just my own enjoyment, but yours too. It multiplies things. What's wrong with that?"
We looked at each other.
"Complicated is much better," I concluded. "That's probably the major difference between us and animals."
"That we're complicated?" His brows furrowed, thinking I was taking things in a different direction.
"Animals just copulate. It's primal. Instinct driven. Cannot help it. People can extend it all, first of all outside the normal 'rutting season' but anytime. Or almost anytime," I smiled ruefully, thinking of the times when menstrual cycles had altered our intimate time together.
"And so, when you were on your drive here down from Ipswich this morning, I was able to think the whole time about what I would do with your body when you got here. All the lovely things." I paused. My imagination was in overdrive. His penis pushing inside me. The feel of his heavy body on top. Breathing hard in my ear. His ass clenching when he discharged. My own climax later.
"I see what you mean. So are we complicated enough for you?" He arched those bushy eyebrows.
I laughed. Our relationship was fraught, no two ways about it.
"Yes, more than I could wish. We have a connection that can never be public, never be legal, never..." I didn't need to finish.
"Maybe that is part of the appeal," his smile was open, not just indulgent but honest.
It was certainly risky. We were playing with fire. If Daddy ever found out? I didn't even want to think about that.
I considered all my earlier loves. I was always attracted to the impossible. The guy who was way above my station, who would never give me the time of day. The brief Cape Cod summer flings when my boy then disappeared back to his home town in September and I never heard from him again, I had just been his summer entertainment. And more recently, the married guys. None of them ever really viable. Uncle probably knew me better than I did.
Whenever he visited, and it was never often enough, I thought of our "First Contact," which of course wasn't first contact, since that probably occurred the first time he visited our home after I was born and gave me a kiss on the forehead or held me or something.
But it was just over a year ago, on Thanksgiving, in our Lawrence home. Uncle was staying overnight, he had been uncharacteristically distraught about his shop, one of his workers had been troublesome, and Uncle was going back and forth whether to fire him or not, the kind of business decision he hated to do, dreading the conflict and the ripple effects.
While Daddy was watching the afternoon Thanksgiving football game, Uncle and I talked it over in the study. I think he was pleased not only to get a sympathetic ear, which was easy enough to do, but what I said seemed to make sense to him. We talked for over an hour, going over all the different pieces of his business and this troublesome guy, and he was visibly relieved when he developed a plan to deal with it all.
He gave me a big hug afterward, thanking for me for my time and concern. But as he gripped me with those big strong arms, I felt an erection pressing against me through his clothes. I must have started or given some indication that I noticed, since he got all flustered then, as most guys do when they are "found out."
He was all apologetic and embarrassed and I brushed it off. But later my thoughts kept replaying the scene, and it got far more exciting that I ever would have imagined. Uncle with an erection! For me!
I was flattered I guess, but it wasn't until over a month later, when he was over at New Year's Eve, when we had a chance to do anything. Midnight had come and gone, and everyone hugged everyone else, and one by one Daddy and Mum and my brothers all headed off to bed, and Uncle and I were left in the living room.
Everything blurred together, mixed with whiskey and the various New Year's euphorias, but Uncle Quim's penis got a very sweet blowjob on the living room sofa that night, me getting a taste of his sperm for the first time, neither of us in a position to do anything more daring than that at my family's house that night. And we were off and running. In an exciting, but realistically untenable relationship. He became "Uncle Quim" about a month later, with his first weekend visit to me on the Cape. Ha!
"So this impossible dream of ours," I went. "Has its own charm?"
"What do you think? Does this," he gestured to us, to the tiny kitchen, the family retreat, the weekend in front of us, "does it get anymore charming than this?"
I shook my head. Of course not.
We looked at each other for awhile, without speaking.
We were both good for each other. Uncle had married once, ages ago, neither for very long nor happily. And of course in these plague years of isolation, I was alone most of the time. So we each had each other. Once a month or so, we could explode and then relax in each other's arms. We were good for each other. I kept telling myself that.
"Getting warm in here, Uncle," I finally said.
Indeed the kitchen had heated up.
"Why don't you do something about it?" His eyes had that mischievous expression I had enjoyed forever.
I made a show of pulling off my sweater. Took my time, knew just how it appeared to admiring male gazes over the years to see that slow pull-over the head of a such garment. With my sweater over my head, my view momentarily blocked, I was aware that his eyes were still on my chest, as indeed they were when it finally came off.
He took a deep breath. "Camille, those breasts of yours could stop traffic."
Since middle-school I had been aware of their effect on boys. As an early bloomer of course I got more attention that I wanted. Girls who want a bigger chest don't always know what else they get too.
My whole father's side of the family had those northern European bones, the broad shoulders, smooth rather than well-shaped limbs. I had gotten the big torso too, with hips to match. Most of the time I wished my chest was a little smaller, less attention-grabbing, but of course in this case I took pleasure in his own enjoyment.
"Yeah, but then you get this too." I cradled my none-too-small belly in both hands, the navel a deep, dark divot in my soft flesh.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," his smile was that lovely mixture of admiration and lechery I found so appealing.
Uncle put down his tea and sidled over for a boob fondle.
"Meaty," he murmured.
I laughed. "You've always said that. And me a vegetarian even."
"Yeah, but whatever you eat, you're still entitled to have your own meat," he said, hefting my left breast in his big paw. "These are solid," and his squeezing did make them feel that way to me. They felt good in his hands. That his hands were large enough to handle them was a plus. A couple skinny guys I had been with had hands which really couldn't even heft them properly.
My nipples were erect. He rubbed them and it felt great.
I reached over and rubbed his crotch. The beast stirred underneath his clothes.
We each looked at each other. He slid a finger under my skirt and found my notch. Of course I knew how damp I was, but I could see the pleasure on his own face when he realized his finger was slick.
I knelt down, and began to unlace his boots. This was so funny to me, all of a sudden. He probably hadn't had anyone remove his shoes since he was a boy of three or four.
Carefully I unlaced them, pulled them off, then his socks, him raising each foot to help.
Then a look up at his beaming face, and me unbuckling his belt, opening his fly, pulling his jeans, then his briefs off.
There it was, that noble cock. About half-hard, sticking out, balls hanging lovely together in their thick forest. I salivated again and gave his cock a quick rub.
He pulled me up. We were getting to a crisis point, a decision point.
He looked at me, then down at his lower torso.
"Well, collectively, we got one fully naked person," he laughed.
Me topless, him bottomless. I had to laugh too.
"Maybe the best parts of both of us?" I looked over at his erection. Probably nothing more handsome when you want one.
"I don't know about that," he said, gazing at my chest. "I think without your shirt on you are one of the wonders of the world. But still then, we're missing the sight of your quim..."
We looked at each other, and my eyes drifted to his erection.
"Maybe time for a nap, Uncle Quim?" His eyebrows arched and he nodded.
I reached over and fondled his penis for a moment. It took very little effort to increase its hardness into serious territory. With a smile I took it in hand and let him to the bedroom, like a dog on a leash. I had done this before and the pleasure shining on his face made it supremely worthwhile while I delighted in feeling the smooth texture of his erection.
We finished dispensing with the rest of our clothes in what passed for the big bedroom in the house, although its dimensions, given its summer cottage design, were not great. The heat from the stove had warmed the whole house, so it was plenty comfortable in our bare skin, which is always nice.
If we played our cards right, and we had done so enough in the past, I would be able to get two batches of semen out of him this afternoon, and the trick usually was to make my orgasm the sandwich filling between his. Judging by the stiffness of his penis leading him in, the first round for him was likely to be fairly quick.
Which was fine.
We lay next to each other, kissing and fondling each other. His rough hands were always gentle on me, the fingers knew where to go, what to do. Sliding a finger up along the side of one lip, then down the other. My dampness became wetness.
Kissing him, oddly enough, felt more nasty that the genital-contact part. Which is totally strange since kissing him was something I had done all my life, and the family had seen it, it was expected. But those times were always during a ceremonial greeting or departure, and perfunctory.
https://forum.mobilelegends.com/home.php?mod=space&uid=616513&do=profile
https://www.milesplit.com/discussion/159818
https://www.mightycause.com/user/qwxgcf
https://mixer.com/FlattestSauce60
http://entries.contest.metacpan.org/2011/12/efthimios-mavrogeorgiadis-metapost.html
http://beasiswa.mercubuana.ac.id/2017/04/alih-jenjang-d3-ke-s1-jurusan-yang-sama.html
https://bugzilla.mozilla.org/show_bug.cgi?id=771686
https://community.multitheftauto.com/index.php?p=profile&id=486776
Комментарии
Отправить комментарий