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The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 01

By: shaunreagh



Chapter 1 How I came to hate my Uncle Zak

My name is Anika, pronounced the same as silica without syllabic emphasis, (at least that's how I prefer it). I am twenty-six years old and happily married ... with just the tinniest wrinkle. This is how the 'wrinkle' started, at least I think it is, and how I came to hate my Uncle Zak. 

Uncle Zak is my mother's elder brother. Early forties. A big out-doorsie type. Huge hands, broad hairy chest. He thinks he's handsome, in a rough manual worker sort of way, but I think he's disgusting. He is staying with us now: David, my husband, and Tracy, who's two. God knows why I let him. 

My Uncle Zak 'discovered' me, I think is the term he would use, when I was eighteen. In earlier times he had the habit of taking me onto his knee, or so I was told. Since I was a toddler I guess. But then he went overseas for a time. He is something or other in government. When he came back I was ten years older, just turned eighteen, yet he seemed to think we would pick up where he'd left off. 

"Come sit on my knee like you used to, little poppet," he chirped from my father's chair in the front room, patting a broad thigh with a thick hand. I was almost as tall as he was! When my objections to this manifestly inappropriate behaviour failed – I was grown up, for chrissake – and he succeeded in getting me into his lap – with cluckings from my mother of, "Oh, how sweet," – I discovered that my Uncle Zak's hands had a pretty clear agenda of their own. My mother (obviously) had no idea what this guy, her brother, was like. And I'm not sure my father would have cared even if he did. (My father and I have never got on particularly well. I think he wanted a boy.) So there I sat, embarrassed, yet uncomfortably in a position of mild compliance, as he took the excuse of my being on his lap to check out my shape, with his hands. 

I lifted them off, of course – either one, or in one case both – when they strayed too far from where they ought to have been in the circumstances. Although exactly where 'ought to have been' was, appeared to be moot when applied to a long lost uncle! My mother had immediately taken to calling him this. And, on account – I am guessing here – of the added licence that being referred to as 'long lost uncle' appeared to give him (where his niece was concerned) he pretty quickly followed suit and called himself that too! "Come and sit with your long lost uncle," he would say, at every opportunity, patting an ample thigh with a broad coarse hand.

On more than one occasion on the first two days of his visit I found myself back in his lap when unable, or too slow, or too dumb to think up a valid excuse as to why my 'long lost uncle' should not be allowed to 'get to know me better', and why my 'being snug as a bug in a rug in his lap,' was not – clearly – the best way of conducting this exercise. How my parents failed to interpret this as an over-sexed older man wanting to get as close he could to a shapely younger niece he had taken a fancy to, I have no idea. But they didn't. So I was left to my own devices. And defences. As his mouth motored off in one direction – he could talk about anything, and usually did – has hands wandered off in other. Detours and wanderings and side trips all over me. And under me. Anything and everything he'd try. 

The reason I guess he persevered at this particular form of behaviour, despite the barrage of resistance I placed in his way, was that in the end he invariably tended to wear me down. In the end I got bored with thinking up reasons why he couldn't touch me where he wanted to, or stroke me as he wished, or caress a showing piece of flesh as deeply as he cared to. It was as if he knew that if he worked on me hard enough, and for long enough, eventually I would give up the fight. As if he knew, too, that soon after I gave up the fight, he would start to get me aroused despite myself, and despite the fact I hated the creep.

The first time I found myself losing control like this, was at the dinner table. He'd squeezed his chair between me and Sam, who at the time was thirteen. There wasn't a lot of room our side of the table. I said there'd be more room the other side, where grandpa and grandma sat, both of them thin as rails, but Mum told me not to be rude. So there he was, squeezed between Sam and me, pressed real close. When everyone was talking up a storm – all except me, that is, because of what he was doing beneath the table – his fat hand was stroking my leg. At one point he leaned towards me and ask me a question, while under the table his hand went right on stroking my leg. It was as if what he was saying to me, and what he was doing to me, were unconnected. I'm not sure if Mum knew what he was doing. Maybe she thought it was just him being 'fun'. 

I'd bring his hand out now and then, of course. But he was so darned persistent, and talked so darned much. I was unschooled, back then, with what men liked to do. Men like him. To girls like me! Pretty soon I had his hand well established between my legs. And after a few more half-hearted rebuttals from me – but the hand kept coming back, further up my leg each time – the finger-tips started to caress the sensitive skin on the inside of my legs. This was interspersed with silent, and growing more frustrated, attempts on my part to push his hand away, or give it back to the lug-head, or otherwise get the ox offa me. But he was persistent, as I've said.

Eventually I gave up, and let him be. If he hadn't got the message by now that I didn't welcome the attention he was giving my legs, then he never would. I decided, I think, too exhausted to continue my seemingly futile resistance, to let matters take their course. He'd get bored with my legs eventually, was the way I figured it. I would ignore him, get on with my meal. Trouble was, he didn't get bored with my legs. And what he was doing wasn't easy to ignore! 

So there I was, sitting obediently still, hands in front of me on the table, one around my fork the other at my glass, nodding at grandma and grandpa, smiling when need be, aware of the conversation that washed about the table like slops in a bowl, passing things now and then to either end – even, once, the salt to Uncle Zak! – as his hand beneath the table was in between my legs, stroking my panties and me underneath. I let it go. I tried to ignore it as best I could. But I felt myself get warm, then hot, then moist as well. Then I started to get swollen and ... 'differently' sensitive, if you know what I mean. 

I started squirming lightly in my seat. I wanted that damn hand away from there – this was me, after all, I wasn't his property – but down there was starting to feel a little dirty and slightly wild. His fingers were becoming a problem. I stuck the tines of my fork in his fat thigh next to mine but he didn't bat an eyelid. I did it again but this time, in retaliation perhaps for my pointed defence, one of his fingers eased the legband of my panties away from my skin, and slipped inside. 

I didn't know what I should do. I didn't know what was allowed! It was like a gentle electric shock to feel the finger there, against my skin, against this private part of me. I squeezed my thighs together tight but all that seemed to do was make me feel the finger more ... the finger slipping gently and easily over my labia lips, ('easily' because of how moist I'd become). He obviously felt the moisture. He couldn't do otherwise! He no doubt presumed, as a consequence, correctly as it happened, that despite the fact I hated the guy there were sensitive parts of me, particularly there, between my legs, where his fingers were, that weren't so particular. My mind said 'Fuck off,' but my pussy had other ideas. 

This made me hate him even more. Not only was he was taking advantage of me, forcing himself on me, but in some ways it was working. I was becoming a party to what he wanted me to feel. He wanted me to feel dirty, and I was starting to. How the hell did he know I'd do that? A conflict started raging inside me. A conflict between how I wanted him to behave toward me – hands off and be nice – and what parts of my body seemed to want – hands on and make me feel dirty. Right then, sitting at the dinner table, trying to look unaffected, trying to look as if I was getting on with my dinner, all I could seem to think of was my hated uncle's finger, inside my pants, stroking my pussy, and how damp and hot and electrically sensitive my pussy had become. I wanted it over. I wanted it stopped. But I wanted more as well. Not from this scum-bag, of course, obviously, but ... if it was either him, or nobody at all, then ... so be it. But it had to go on. And on. And on. AND ON!

At one point I tried to cross my legs but couldn't, not with his hand there. I concentrated on finishing the food on my plate, figuring that once I had finished I could move, get up, take my plate to the sink, make some excuse to leave the room. But I didn't make it. Not in time. I still had three mouthfulls left on my plate when I was hit by the most shattering, all pervading, thoroughly debilitating orgasm I had ever had. I almost bit my fork in two. I hated my Uncle for that. 

But that night ... there was more. 

Uncle Zak was given the guest room. It was next door to mine. I didn't have a lock on my door. The first two nights he had waited until everyone was in their bedroom, then he'd use the bathroom down the hall. He always volunteered to use it last. My kid brother used it first, then me, then Uncle Zak. My parents and grandparents had their own. I tried to offer Uncle Zak the bathroom first but he'd always refuse. Say I needed my beauty sleep more than him. "I'll never be as beautiful as you, no matter how long I sleep, princess!" – stuff like that. Then my Dad would shout at us, out in the landing squabbling about who was to use the bathroom, tell me to stop arguing with my Uncle and 'use the goddamn bathroom'. Uncle Zak would wink at me, pat my butt going past, sending me on my way. 

When I finished with the bathroom I'd get back to my bedroom as quickly as I could, (getting another pat on the butt going past the other way). I knew Uncle Zak would pop his head in last thing and I wanted to be changed and in bed before he did. I heard him close the bathroom door and shout to my brother and grandparents. They were upstairs in the attic rooms. I heard them shout back. Then he knocked on my parent's door, opened the door and called in on them. They were in bed by now. Mum liked to read before switching off the lights. Sometimes he'd go in and chat with them, sometimes not. This time he did. Usually, once he'd finished with everyone else, he'd knock lightly on my door, open it, and call out good-night. 

I'm pretty sure that if my light had not already been off on this occasion he would have come in to talk to me as well. Sit on my bed. Try to grope me, probably. (After what had happened at the dinner table – or beneath the dinner table – I no longer trusted him.) Thinking back on it now I'm not sure why I did what I did, but I guess I figured that if I pretended I was asleep he wouldn't bother me. I wouldn't even have to speak to him, and I didn't want to speak to him, not after what he did. I heard his light knock on the door, then the click of the latch. I forced my breaths long and slow, just like you breath when you're sleeping. But the whole damn thing backfired on me! 

Next thing I knew he was inside my room and I could hear the door softly being closed behind him. I thought of pretending to wake up, getting a fright, calling out or screaming – something dramatic like that – but I wasn't sure how to engineer it convincingly. As I say, I was pretty young at the time. Innocent, you might say. I didn't know exactly what men his age wanted from girls my age. Men like Uncle Zak, at least. Next thing I know he's standing by my bed, whispering my name ... 

"Anika? You asleep, Anika?" 

I gave an exaggerated deep-sleep breath as if I was saying to him: I am asleep so go away. Next thing I know the mattress gives as he sits on my bed. He starts to stroke the point of my shoulder. Little light circular strokes. I continue my deep sleep act. His hip is touching mine. I don't move. Not even when he starts to stroke my shoulders and neck. I figure if I'm sleeping he can't say good-night so will go away. But Boy, did I get that wrong! 

I let him continue to stroke me, my neck, across my shoulder, down my arm. I do not react. I behave as if I am unaware of what he is doing. As if I am deep in sleep. Warning bells started to sound as he lifted my arm – I was laying on my side, facing away from the creep, facing the wall of my bedroom. He eased the sheet from between my arm and side. All I had as cover was a single sheet. I was wearing my pink polka dot teddy, matching briefs, a present from Mum last Christmas. Why was I wearing my cutest night-things? It certainly hadn't been planned. 

Next thing I know the sheet is being raised. He wants to look at me, I think. Light comes into the room from the street light in front of our house. I figure he wants to look at my legs. (My legs are good, men like to look at them.) The teddy is brief, my legs are bare. I stay as I am. My butt is facing him. I realised then, that he'd get a good look my butt and my legs, but what could I do to prevent it? Other than make a scene that I'd likely be blamed for anyway. 'You should be respectful to your uncle,' or something. 'How could you alarm him like that, shouting and screaming like a maniac when all he was doing was saying goodnight.' I wouldn't stand a chance. From the cooler air around my butt and legs I could tell that the sheet was lifted off, and the hem of the teddy was over my hips. 

I guess the way I rationalised doing nothing to stop what was happening, other than avoidance of a scene, was to ask myself how much damage my uncle could possibly do merely by looking at my legs? I suppose if that was all he'd done the problem would never have arisen ... the problem that was about to. But that was not all he did, so the problem did arise. Pretty soon he was stroking my legs. 

I have always had sensitive legs. When my girl-friend showed me how to masturbate – I was fifteen at the time – she said caressing the legs was how you started off. First the outer legs, then easing gently between them where the skin was softest and the feelings were most intense. Then you let your fingers gently climb up the inside of the legs to the nub. Play there gently awhile. Increase the pressure, and pace. And if you did it right, you'd feel fireworks rippling through you! Or so my girl-friend said. I found out she was right. Following her detailed instructions, the very next night, I had felt warm fireworks ripple all right. But – and this was going through my mind as I lay in bed with my Uncle Zak's hands wandering over me – I had never experienced fireworks as intensely as I had at dinner earlier that evening! (How I had ever managed to stay relatively still through that mighty energy-sapping eruption, I do not know to this day. It blew me away!) 

And here we were again, my uncle and I. Uncle Zak on the bed next to his sleeping niece – or so he must believe – gently stroking the inside of her legs, and their undersides. I never knew my skin was so sensitive! The effect of his touch flowed over me like molasses – tingling, prickling, burning hot. The bastard was arousing me again. Making me feel dirty, causing me to melt. I had the edge of my lip between my teeth and had started to chew. Seeking distraction from the wayward feelings coursing through me. Up and down my legs went his fingertips, tormenting me with a gentle feather-like touch. Occasional scratches with finger-nails then softly caressing again. My mind started racing. Some parts of it working out plans, the rest slipping helplessly into the feeling of dreaded surrender, like at dinner. I had to move. I simply must. I couldn't continue to present the back of my thighs and my bottom as provocatively as I currently was. They must be removed from his sight. But how? How did one sleep, yet move? I didn't know. I couldn't work it out. So I stayed as I was, doing neither. 

Desperately conscious of the drift of colder air across these parts of me I knew to be exposed I could physically sense the effect of him ogling my legs, my lifted hip, my partially bared behind, my waist, my shape inside the polka dots. It was as if I could enter his mind and feel him thinking about me, and what he would like to do to me, and how far he would like to go with me – how far he already had, downstairs, at the dinner table! That I was, in effect, the sole focus of this older man's wants, desires, and hunger, caused my bravery to cringe and my resolve to scurry off and hide. The feel of his fingers lightly exploring each offered part of me made me feel suddenly wanton, reckless, but scared as hell! As if part of me was saying, 'Here I am, have a feel,' while another part said, 'Don't you dare touch me!' 

I made a grunting sound I hoped was like a girlish dream, or a sleep-disturbed distraction in the night. A sound I hoped might alert him to the possibility of my coming awake. A sound that might suggest he remove his hands lest he be discovered. But it had no effect. As if he didn't care. As if my wakening posed no threat to him so why should he worry? I had no answer to that, so subsided back into my role of feigned sleep. I slowed my breathing even further. I slipped my thumb into my mouth so that I might suck on that, rather than chew on my lip, which was getting sore. 

His fingertips stroked me quite openly now: the underside of my legs from just behind the knees all the way up to, then over, my offered buttocks where the fingers would stop, gently caress the buttocks undersides, then the exposed strip of panties that drew a flimsy veil over my pussy lips. They were vibrating now. They tingled, prickled, throbbed from want of touch. All around them was being played with, softly coddled, lightly stroked ... but not this central core, not this strip of feeling, not this tender band of me held lightly inside cotton. Cotton lightly patterned with pink polka-dots. All around the bodice, and down around my hips. Pink polka-dots on 'see-through' cream. 'Feel-through' too, I was discovering, as the fingertips ventured over the pantied strip, softly feeling me there. 

I jumped at that. Sleeping or not I couldn't do anything else. It was a touch that the dirtier parts of me had been working up to for quite a while. Since he came into my room, in fact. As if I were secretly wanting to be touched like this. Though not by him, of course. But by someone. Someone else. Someone – anyone! – other than him. When his fingers first brushed my pudenda my pelvis leapt into his hands. It was an uncontrolled pulse driven by some deep-seated surge of arousal. Arousal I did not want, did not like, and certainly hadn't expected. As if my pussy and soft surround had a life of its own. It filled me with concern, apprehension, and started pumping juice from where it shouldn't. But what could I do, other than pretend to wake up? (But I couldn't do that.) 

I didn't want to be faced with the adult argument I knew I would get. I wasn't equipped to deal with that from him. Nor any adult, come to that. They'd win – he'd win – I knew. I didn't know the arguments against what he was doing. I suspected, in a way, that my own reluctant arousal was the greater sin. I didn't know the ways that I should handle things like this. I suspected he did. Certainly better than me. So I let him carry on. I had no wish to embark on a debate with such a man. A man who already has his hands on my buttocks and thighs. A man who had already driven me to orgasm at the dinner table. A man who, as I debated within myself, was gently easing me over on my back. And I was permitting it, moving as he wishes me to move. 


The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 01



But I had to, had I not. I had to be limp if asleep, did I not? Either that or wake up to a debate, or some other form of unpleasantness – maybe my brother and grandparents might join in the debate for good measure! (What chance did I have?) Besides ... I rationalised, vaguely, now lying on my back ... his hands were very practiced at knowing where to go. Where to go, on me. And knowing what to do once they got there. In order to achieve what he desired. 

What we desired? 

(Perish that thought!) 

What my uncle desired was clear, of course, I found myself thinking, now settled on my back and allowing my uncle to separate my legs and spread them apart. It was to arouse me again just as he did at dinner. To excite me again, if you like. To make me climax again, a second time. (I hadn't climaxed twice in a day before, I realised, and started to wonder if I could. Was it physically possible?) But this time my uncle was going about his task more slowly, more deliberately. More leisurely and privately. Here in the dark of my bedroom, with me in my bed. 

I had no idea how to react when his hand closed over my pudenda. Lightly, softly, gently, as if he was afraid it might wake, or run away. I tried to relax. I forced every muscle to be still. His fingers curled between my legs and started to stroke my pussy lips. His fingers are broad and large and strong, and the fingernails possibly scuffed and dirty, but they were also – damn him! – gentle, soft, and skilful in the manner of arousal. Soon I was sucking my thumb far more from excitement than to pacify myself. His hands were so knowing, so clever, so irresistibly bad. The man was scum. A loathsome cockroach. Yet my back gently arched as my pussy sought his touch. 

I cursed him inside myself. It was becoming like the dining room all over again. How could he make my yearnings so hot when the man himself left me cold. I could not stand him. I hated him. How could he make my nerve ends hum and my softness swell when he disgusted me as he does. It made me disgust myself! Why did I let him cause me to feel like this, to tingle as I did, to hum as I was, to thrill and swell and pulse? Why did I permit it? How could he make my innards writhe so tantalisingly when outwardly I hated all he stood for? He was making me want to be felt, just as he was feeling me now. He was causing me to want to be stroked, between my legs as he is stroking me now – to have a stranger's fingers play with my private parts, here in my bedroom, in a way I know my mother wouldn't want. (What if she knew? What if his sister – my mother – knew what he was doing to me, and knew how it affected me. Which of us would she blame most? Me for my reaction, or him, for his vulgarity?)

Deep inside me I had started to groan. To groan in anguish for wanting him to leave me alone. To groan in arousal for wanting him to do it to me more. To groan in irritation for demanding to know who this man believed himself to be? Asking by what right he was doing these things to me? Needing to know what he'd do next. Wanting it more dirty that what was currently being done to me. Get a move on! part of me was screaming: wanting the feelings enhanced, needing the sensations made bigger, grown and built on, expanded, enlarged. Get off me, you swine! another part shrieked, wanting this ox to unhand me and leave.

Soon my thighs and hips were starting to roll on the bed. I didn't know how this could be explained, but was no longer able to pretend I was asleep. The need to seem to sleep, had slipped. The need to feel more of this scum-bag's fat hands on my sensitive parts had taken control. Touch me more! – Leave me be! – Make me hot! – Leave me cold! – Come closer! – Go away! – Closer still! Conflict roiled in my head as heat and arousal boiled in my groin. Wanting to be toyed with, wanting to be played with, wanting his caress, wanting to be fondled by this man ... jeeees, but he does so well! 

I had never had my breast in the mouth of a man before. It felt unfathomably deep, emotionally wrenching, inexplicably arousing ... satisfying too. Like surrendering to something huge and exciting and pulsing with life. When the tip of his tongue started to dance with my nipple I gasped aloud. He nibbled the nipple. I arched my back off the bed and groaned, then grasped his head and pressed it into my breast. 

He must know that I'm not asleep now? 

I don't think he cared one whit whether I was asleep or not. Not from the way he raised me off the bed and into his hoary embrace. The way he bared my breasts and went from one to the other with his hand and mouth and tongue and teeth. When he nibbled my nipple between light-held teeth it caused me to keen like a kitten. His other hand, the one not doing damage to my breasts and my senses higher up, had slipped inside my panties, down below, and seemed to be wallowing in honey. How had I discharged such lashings of excretions as I obviously had? 

His fingers skated all around my labia, between the lips, into my pulsing vagina, so that when venturing back to my bursting clit they took globs of my honey-thick juices from lower down, and anointed my bucking bud with that. Such simple pressure, and the anointment with liberal slickness – though light – caused me to scream: the second part into his hand! (Clasped quickly over my mouth). I came. I hit the peak. I orgasmed like a steam train. I was suddenly so loud and wild that my Uncle Zak needed his hand on my mouth to drown out the sound while his other hand held my pelvis to the bed to prevent me from bucking from the bed to the floor. 

My limbs thrashed wildly. Once, twice, three times my body arched up from the sheets, my thighs into his hand within my panties, my chest into his mouth. One of my feet came off the bed as the whole leg curled around his groping hand, driving it deeper and deeper still into the feeling its movements sent spiralling through every nerve in my body. How could he transform me like this? How could he so change my nature and drive? 

I was left pondering the question as I gasped, and shook, and quaked, and he continued to nuzzle my breasts with his mouth, and toy with my pussy with one hand as the fingers of the other between my lips explored my tongue and teeth. I gasped for air. My eyes stayed shut. (Too ashamed to have him play me so effortlessly. Like an expert angler with a colourful fish at the end of a line?) But he had, of course – played me as he wished. Seen what he could do to me. Seen what he could cause my body to do. I felt I should disown it. My body. But didn't know how. 

He left me, then. Whether he left me because he didn't dare take our tryst any further. For fear, perhaps, that the noise I might make, if he tired it again, might wake the house. Or whether he felt I didn't have the energy for another bout. I was none too sure. To this day I am still not sure. But it did strike me, half an hour later, that if it was the latter, he was wrong. Because the first thing I did when he left, and I'd recovered sufficiently from the effect of him, was to masturbate wildly about what he'd just done. 

The following night, the fourth of his visit, he didn't even bother to knock. He just came in after everyone else had gone to sleep and played with me all he wanted. Until I had an orgasm. A very powerful one. The second was even worse. His hand on my mouth dulled the noise I made – he put it over my mouth much earlier this time. 

Day five of his stay I didn't even bother to pretend I was asleep. I objected right away. I told him how wrong this all was. I told him how much I hated him. He played with me as I delivered my speech, occasionally giving light acknowledgement to my light resistance, until all my resistance was spent. Then he played with me as much as he wanted. French kissing me this time as well, until I reached orgasm. This time it hit with his tongue half way down my throat, which neatly solved the problem of the noise. Whether my arms pulled his mouth against mine harder than his pulled mine against his, I have no way of knowing. Nor do I care. I was not myself by that stage. Then, thankfully, his time was up, and he left. 

He returned a few months later. Was I more grown up then? I suppose I was. For one thing I had found myself a boyfriend, some years my senior, sufficiently old to know how to touch me the way my uncle had. I liked to be touched much more than I had before. I had even developed a love-hate relationship with strangers, on buses and trams and the like. Not wanting them close but freezing ... then melting ... when they were. And when they became more sexually aggressive, I retreated into a small private place in my mind and watched the arousal as it built inside and then overflowed. 

By the time my uncle returned I was hooked on masturbation. I don't know if he was to blame for this, but I sense his influence was somewhere there. He had introduced me to the hopeless desperation of being aroused against my will. The fantasies I used to assist my masturbation always had an element of that in them. Sometimes masturbation appalled me, but mostly I just accepted it and went with the flow. I loved to study the variations orgasms took. The ones that blew my mind. The ones that comforted me softly. The ones that went on and on and on, often with a cast of thousands. Men ... doing different things to me. It made me see pink, in a smothering of purple! 

I spent a lot of time within my head, especially in bed, doing sexually unusual sorts of things. With strangers mainly. Or those I didn't like. I'm sure if I went to a psychiatrist he would have an explanation. Or she would, if it was a she. Everything was very intense with me back then. But I never shared my daydreams with my parents, so they saw no need to seek help. So I never saw a psychiatrist. Male, or female. 

The start of Chapter 2 ...

The first dinner of his next visit to our home Uncle Zak tried to sit beside me. But I thwarted him. I claimed I had a dinner date, and left. I caught a bus into town, then another to a suburb and back. Just passing time. A drunk sat beside me and tried to grope me. I let him for a while, until the smell of his breath became too much and I changed seats. He didn't follow me. Soon after I moved he fell asleep. I looked out the window and watched the passing town. No-one else bothered me. I was home by ten. Uncle Zak and Mum were still up, gabbing in the kitchen. I slipped upstairs, unnoticed. He was only staying one night, a meeting in the city to attend, and I figured he'd think I was out, so wouldn't bother me. 

But he did. 

Note to gentle reader: I normally prefer my erotica self-contained. Short story form. But I don't think you can drop a convincingly reluctant nymphomaniac into a story without working on her back story, as it were. You have just read my attempt for Anika. Having spent effort on the back-story there is a temptation to use the character again: in Anika's case, as she grows older, goes to college, gets married, etc. So this is an experiment, if you will. If the response is there, I shall continue my tales of Anika through her sexually adventurous years. If it is not, no matter. There are plenty of other things to excite that fit into short story format. 



The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 02



Chapter 2: How Uncle Zak Screwed Up My Wedding Night

During the first dinner of his next visit to our home Uncle Zak tried to sit beside me, but I thwarted him. I claimed I had a dinner date and left without eating. I caught a bus into town, grabbed a burger, another bus out to a suburb and back. Just passing time. A drunk sat beside me and tried to grope me. I let him for a while, until the smell of his breath became too much and I changed seats. He didn't follow me; soon fell asleep. I looked out the window and watched the world as it passed, mostly lights. No-one else bothered me. I was home by ten. Uncle Zak and Mum were still up, gabbing in the kitchen. I slipped upstairs, unnoticed. He was only staying one night: a meeting in the city to attend. I figured he'd think I was still out, so wouldn't bother me. But he did. 

Bother me. Around two in the morning I woke to find him in my bed, the bastard. I suppose if I'd been awake earlier I could have fought him off -- kicked him in his privates, poked out his eye, bitten his nose, something like that -- but by the time I drifted out of sleep and into wakefulness I was already hot and aroused. His lips and teeth were playing with bared nipples as hard and swollen as they only became after lots of sexual attention. His fingers were in amongst a sticky discharge between my widely parted legs that hadn't just appeared. He had clearly been enjoying me for quite a time. 

Why hadn't I woken earlier and stopped him? The answer was simple, more and more these days I was having dreams that were hot. I mean, really hot. His manipulative teasing had clearly fitted into one of these, although which particular one on this occasion I really don't recall. They were dreams I had no wish to escape from. Passionate dreams. Escapist dreams. Sexy, bad and wild. (Dreams that were becoming the norm.) When I realised where I was, and who was with me, and the level of arousal I had reached, I took the line of least resistance. I lay back and let him do whatever he wanted. 

It was light outside by the time he left. He had fucked me three times. So much for my starry eyed dream of prince charming deflowering me in some summer glade, or by a beach with the sound of surf and circling seagulls overhead. It had been sore each time. A painful muscular distension. A sense of tearing more than stretching. Damned uncomfortable, if you really want to know. It meant I missed out on the blinding orgasm I had somehow convinced myself would follow a proper sexual schooling. Losing my cherry, as they put it. Which pissed me off a little. Yet another lousy let down in life.

He was gone from the house before I got up. I didn't go to school. I rode the buses for a while. One guy tried to grope me, so I let him, but when his fingers started playing between my legs I discovered I was still pretty sore there, so I stopped him. No hard feelings. He didn't seem to mind. Just changed seats, from me to another chicken. That night I was too sore to masturbate, which pissed me off some more. I had grown to like a quick come before sleep. Same thing the next night. But by the week-end I was fine, and played with myself into a daze of stars for most of the night. Then I woke before dawn, and did it some more.

Uncle Zak has a place on the west Coast. What I thought I was doing I have no idea, but when asked what I wanted for my nineteenth birthday I asked to go to spend the week-end with my Uncle Zack. He has a slightly dopey wife, called Doris. No children, but a house that overlooks the ocean. I said I wanted to go to the ocean and thought it would be fun for Mum to join me. We both went. 

We were there for two nights. I let Uncle Zak fuck me. Five times in all. First two pretty were a let down as he came too damn fast, but the third showed promise, by the fourth we were making some fireworks. The fifth time, the last in the series, ten minutes before Mum and I were due to leave, me on my back on the workbench in his garage, him between my legs feet firmly planted on the cold garage floor, it was fireworks on the fourth of July! Wow! It shook me so hard it was scary! 

Thinking back on it now, I guess the reason I wanted to go was I wanted to be fucked. None of my boyfriends would do it. And their friends only wanted to feel me. The only one who would fuck me, properly, no strings attached, was Uncle Zack. 

Go figure!

As I grew closer to twenty I got into one or two proper boy friends, and we learned how to fuck. I mean properly. And the last of my ardently church-going girlfriends, lost their virginity. Suddenly sex wasn't all hidden and secret and private any more. It was out there, talked about, a part of us. It happened, is what I am saying. It took on a more mature mantle. We all wanted this thing to be good, just as our lives were supposed to be good, but proper too, if you see what I mean. So when Uncle Zak next arrived at our home, for another of his meetings in the city, I told him to his face that it was over. No more nookie with his niece. No more hands in my panties. No more fingering my twat. I was a big girl now. I did it on my terms, or not at all. He agreed. Right away. Which sort of took the wind from my sails. 

But I should have known better. I woke from a wild sexual dream at around three o'clock in the morning, to find he was back in my bed with most of the excitable parts of me highly excited, being enthusiastically aroused by his hands, or mouth, or teeth, or tongue. My sweating body, naked, though it hadn't been on climbing into bed, was curling and writhing in deep sexual anguish, as it clearly had been for some time! He fucked me three times before dawn. I was too damn drained after the first assault to put up a lot of resistance to assault number two. And besides, Uncle Zak is a big strong guy. Two was so damn good when it came to number three I may have been as keen on it as he was. But shit ... this wasn't right.

Come lunch time I cornered him in the kitchen and gave him a piece of my mind. He tried to soft talk me, then to caress the lobes of my ears. I picked up a wooden steak mallet from the work-bench, and whapped it on the fingers of his hand. End of conversation. Two of his fingers were broken by that. The next night he left me alone. The night after that I arranged to be away, staying overnight with a friend. 

Over the next two years we didn't see a lot of Uncle Zak, and the only time we did, he didn't stay. I felt he'd got the message, at last. What had evolved -- I am guessing here -- was an unspoken agreement, of sorts: I would say anything to anyone about the way he had treated me when I was in my teens, and he would now treat me as an adult. The agreement had, as its unspoken addendum, the understanding that I had been young back then -- a little randy, much too weak -- whereas he had been a hot-blooded man away from home faced with a succulent body not quite in control of itself. But now I was no longer young. And if I was randy then that was none of his damn business. (Being older, of course, I was no longer weak. I was my own woman now, embarking on my voyage into the adult world, confident, incisive, decisive, strong.)

When I got married to David, Uncle Zak, as my only uncle, and Aunt Doris, his dopey wife, were (of course) invited to the wedding. It was during what followed the reception that Uncle Zak pissed me off. I mean really pissed me off. 

It was ten in the evening. Everyone was full of champagne. More than one of the male guests had held me much closer than they should have as we waltzed round the floor, me in bridely white, most of them with their jackets off, when Uncle Zak broke in on the guy I was dancing with. He did it pretty rudely, but heck, he was my uncle after all, and it was my wedding day, and Uncle Zak and I had stopped being an item years before -- if a clueless teenager and a married guy in his forties can be properly called an 'item'. My thinking was this: What possible harm can it do to dance with the guy? 

So I let him put an arm around my waist. When he wanted to put the other arm around my waist as well, well, I didn't stop him. With both my arms draped companionably round his shoulders, and my nose an inch from his, and smiling radiantly as brides are expected to on their wedding day, I embarking on a raft of polite conversation that I felt would make him feel at ease, and show him how mature and well-balanced I'd become. 

I also left open to him, if he wanted to examine the subtext, that I did not hold his taking advantage of me in my younger years, against him. I did this feeling that at the time of our physical 'togetherness,' if that is a fair expression to use, it was he who was the adult and therefore he, rather than me, who should have known better. (I hadn't even known how to fuck, for chrissake, far less how to initiate such an activity with an older man.) I felt it was fair that he accept the blame and that I, on my wedding day, should show that I forgave him. 

He had not, after all, I was willing to concede, given me any sexually transmitted disease. He had not injured me in any physical way. Had not bitten me, not damagingly at least, nor broken any bones. And he had, conversely, served to educate my sexual senses to a degree to which surprised me, at times almost frightened me, but for which, in retrospect, I suppose I was to some degree grateful. 

Had I not been as sexually responsive and excitable as I was, I doubt if I would ever have snagged such a husbandly catch, as David. (He describes me as his sexual jelly. The slightest touch and the whole of me quakes. But it makes him feel good. Men likes sexual jellies, I think. It makes them regard themselves as 'good in bed', to have a partner responding as I do. Powerfully, wildly, out of control. It makes them feel sexually masterful. Something like that.) But now that I'd earned my spurs, so to speak, marriage would ensure that the quaking jelly -- my standard response to physical advance -- would be regularly dealt with, assuaged if need be, in the culturally acceptable arena of the marriage bed. (Which beat the back of a bus, or the darkened stalls of a cinema.)

"How about a feel of the bride for old times sake," the fat old bastard whispered leeringly into in my ear. But I was not going to let Uncle Zak annoy me. Not on this, my wedding day. So instead of sticking my knee in his crotch, which is what he deserved, I decided to be nice. "As my uncle, you're entitled to kiss the bride," I purred in his ear, being nice. "But that's the lot."

"Okay," came back, more meekly than I'd expected, quite surprising me.

"Where do you want it?" I asked, meaning the left cheek or right.

"In front of your Aunt Doris," came back, surprising me even more.

I pushed myself away from him. "Uncle Zak, what are you talking about?" 

I was starting to get pissed off with him again. I'd done my best with this guy, forgiven him his behaviour through much of my sexually formative years, and now he wanted some sort of kinky last kiss. But his face was more conciliatory than aggressive, so I softened. "Why on earth would you want me to kiss you in front of Aunt Doris?"

"It's a little ... bet, I have with her," he said.

"What sort of bet?"

"A friendly bet."

"Uncle Zak. You are a louse, and you know it. You used to take advantage of me shamelessly, but now you know you can't. So what's this all about?"

"You want me to come clean?"

"Of course I do," I snapped.

He looked to be twenty years younger. All boyish and embarrassed. He ducked his head. His grip of me had already faded to nothing at all. He was looking as sheepish as I had ever seen him. "Doris doesn't think you'd let yourself be kissed by an old man like me," he said, as he shuffled his feet.

Oh how the mighty have fallen, I thought to myself.

"Why on earth not?" I said.

"Because I'm so ..." he actually blanched "decrepit ..."

"So," I rubbed it in, "you've always been decrepit."

"... while you are so radiant," he finished, as if I hadn't spoken. 

The old blighter was actually blushing! I closed my arms around his bedraggled head, pulled it close to mine, and whispered in his ear, "You are a complete swine, but no girl would ever call you decrepit." I left it there. I was certainly not about to praise the old reprobate in terms of his penile prowess. But nor did I want him depressed on my wedding day, especially for no reason at all. 

In fact he had a fabulous penis.

"So you'll do it. Kiss me in front of Doris?" he said, still not meeting my eye.

"Of course I will, you fool." I felt a sudden affection for the old rake.

"Sweetie, you're a gem," he whispered. 

I laughed, hardly believing this reversal of roles. 

When he added, "She said it should be on the mouth, do you mind?"

"Of course I don't," I retorted, glad to help him regain some sort of his tenuous grip on his marriage, a marriage I'd never fully understood. He was always so dictatorial, so bossy. Aunt Doris was always so submissive. I couldn't understand how a marriage could be so one-sided. And what he asking for, 'a kiss on the mouth for old time's sake,' was hardly bad, considering what we had done in the past! Next thing I knew we were heading off the dance floor. Off to resolve this little bet he had. Off to strengthen his position with his mousey little wife. What a turn-up for the books! I couldn't help giggling, part champagne no doubt, but a big chunk of it was the idea that this great self-appointed seducer and stud, was suddenly under his meek wife's thumb. "Where is she?" I asked, as we started up the stairs.

"In Sandra's room, with Sandra, I think," he responded, taking up the rear but keeping his hands to himself, which in itself was a change! In the past whenever we'd climbed stairs, he'd always taken the rear, and put his hand on mine. This time he left well alone. Maybe the old dog had learned new tricks, I thought. Like how to be a gentleman, perhaps? "Third along, isn't it?" I queried, reaching the top of the stairs and turning right. 

Sandra was Sandra Coolidge, Doris's sister. She owned horses, and this lovely country house. It was through her that we were here. Her kindness and generosity had afforded us this ideal location for our wedding. Held out in the garden in sunshine overlooking the lake in the grounds. Here in the evening for the reception. Everything laid on, nothing left to chance. We were grateful. Who wouldn't have been? 

I knocked on the last door along. It was a beautiful room with a bay window overlooking the lake. It was Sandra's room; Sandra now a widow. It was here that I had put on my wedding dress. Doris opened the door. "Oh," was all she said when she saw me, opening the door and letting me in.

"Is Sandra here?" I queried. 

Doris looked uncomfortably formal, as if unhappy to be here. "No, my dear," she said, her eyes on mine. They looked troubled.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she said, eyes darting nervously over my shoulder at Uncle Zak, closing the door behind us. They seemed to dislike what they saw, slipped back to mine. "You look ... a picture, my dear," she stammered. Her smile seemed wan. 

I reached out my hand. "Are you sure you're okay, Aunt Doris?" I took her hand in mine. She didn't look happy at all.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she took both my hand in hers. "Just fine. Finer now, seeing you. Happier, now that you're here. Did Zak tell you? Our bet? Our silly bet?" She was rabbitting on as if she was nervous, or scared. I didn't know which. But I wasn't about to be phased.

"Of course he did," I said, turning my head to her husband who now stood before the closed door. "He said you didn't believe I would let him kiss me."

"You wouldn't, would you?" She sounded almost hopeful that I wouldn't.

"It's my wedding day, Aunt Doris. Surely I must let my only uncle kiss the bride?"

"Oh," she said at first. And then, "Can I hold your hands when you do?" she enquired, still holding on to my hands.

Why would she want to do that? 

"Of course, if you want to," I said, hesitantly, leaving my hands in hers. I didn't object when she moved my hands behind my back, took a grip on both wrists, and turned me to her husband. There was something about this I was starting to dislike. It was almost as if I was her prisoner. "This is not some sort of trick, is it?" I asked, as lightly as I could, though she now gripped my wrists more tightly than I liked. 

"Where should I kiss the bride?" asked Uncle Zak. He was suddenly back to the cock-sure man I had known for most of my later teens. Back to the manipulator. Back to the predator. Back to the one who took what he wanted and aroused as he pleased. "Where do you think, Doris?"

"I think you should ask the bride," she said, voice low.

"Left cheek or right?" I tried to keep it light, not liking this at all. I suppose I should have known what would happen next. I kick myself now for not having seen it come. He had his tongue stuck out. It was a raw, long, almost reptilian tongue that I knew from old was outrageously effective wherever he decided to put it. It was clearly aimed at my lips. I thought to turn my head. I felt I should speak, or stall, or duck out the way. But there was this bet to be won, and Uncle Zak didn't lose bets! Certainly not with his wife, meek Doris. 

For some, or perhaps all of these reasons, or perhaps from some silly indecision to do with wedding days, and how much champagne I had drunk, I let the tongue into my mouth. I accepted his lips against mine. And when a large square hand (that I knew so well) closed over my breast, I sort of let that happen too, for as soon as the kiss was done, and Doris had seen I had kissed him, then perhaps the old bores would let me get back to my wedding, and everyone would be happy. 

But as the kiss began to develop, and my breasts began to perk (on account of the attention he was giving them), I felt another hand start to pull the taffeta skirts of my wedding dress, up my legs. I eased back my head but his followed, his hand still at work on my breast, his tongue sliding softly over mine, his other hand lifting my skirts, bringing the air in, cooling the skin at the top of my stockings, my wrists in his wife's firm grasp, all of it starting to roil, and become just a little unworldly. Why did his wife not release me? Why did my tongue not stay still? Why did my breast not behave? His hand within my skirts eased softly between my legs and found the centre of my usual sexual troubles. It started to work its old magic. I screamed in my head that he had only just touched me. That the kiss was but ten seconds old. Maybe twenty. That the fondling of my breast was a last hurried feel before I went out of his reach. What was the problem for chrissake? 

He was old, after all, I rationalised, letting him feel me, giving him the last opportunity to feel what he'd once almost owned. I let it go on. I tried not to be revolted by the feel of his fingers as they brushed my clitoris, or the others (other hand) as they tweaked a nipple. I tried not to be disgusted by the thing within myself that didn't stop him right away. I resolved to bear the pain, repugnance if need be, as his tongue roused mine to a somnolent dance. I determined to let him have this last hurried fling, to let him hold the parts he'd held before, stroke where he'd stroked me before, caress my private parts as he'd done so hungrily and skilfully so many times before. It was the least I could do, after all. He had been my teacher in so many ways, how could I refuse him today? This day of all days. The last day I could.

I felt his fingers steal inside the leg-band of my panties, special for my wedding. They were made of silk, and although a mere thong, were hugely expensive. They were meant for David on his wedding night, yet here was this reprobate doing what he wanted amongst them. And his fingers knew precisely what to do! Surely and unhesitatingly they did exactly what I liked. (What he knew damn well I liked.) I started feeling fidgety. I started getting hot. I quickly got aroused. I groaned into his mouth. I tried to make a second groan a 'No' from me to him. I said it again. 




The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 02



"No, Please No!" 

I pulled at the wrists his wife held firm and said my 'No' again. My wrists unmoving in his wife's firm grasp as his face eased back from mine. I repeated my request. His lips eased off, but his hands kept up their work. Continued to play with me the way he used to. As if I was his toy. A little plaything for his amusement. Except that this time his wife was an aider and abetter to his crime. 

"No," I whispered, eyes downcast, wanting his hands from my body, wanting my breast left alone, wanting the hand taken out from beneath my wedding dress, while wanting, too, the magic to continue, to escalate, increase, grow stronger, faster, harsher, quicker ...

"No?" he teased, not letting up, loosening a button of my bodice as his fingertips scratched the bulge of a nipple. "You know you like it, Anika, my little tart."

"You shouldn't call her that," said Aunt Doris, from behind me, sounding cross.

"I think we should finish, Aunt Doris," I said, though didn't turn my head. I somehow hoped she didn't know what was going on around the front. That her husband was caressing me. That he had a hand up my skirt. That he was opening the bodice of my dress.  

"He said you wouldn't kiss him, said you were ashamed to," said Auntie Doris, face pressed against my back as if she didn't want to know what was happening round the front. 

"Of course I would," I said, keeping my voice much calmer than I felt. "He's my uncle. Why would I not." I felt desperate, foolish, stupid. Here I was, pathetically trying to assure this woman that what we were discussing was merely a matter of a simple kiss, when one of her husband's hands was inside my panties, caressing secretions from a pussy he'd aroused to wakefulness, and the other was slipping into the bodice of my dress and pushing my bra out the way! This was not a kiss in any normal meaning of the word. This was a full blown sexual advance. This was unmitigated sexual arousal. I was being molested. This was a sexual assault!

"But you didn't," came plaintively from behind me. Her mouth was against the skin of my shoulder. I could feel her brow on the back of my head.

"But I did," I tried to assure her, as if it were only the two of us here. As if I didn't have these hands inside my clothes. Didn't have these fingers caressing my skin. "I kissed him, just now," I pleaded with the hopeless bloody woman. 

My now-naked breast was cupped in the palm of his hand. His fingers were stroking the upper surface as only he knew how to. My swollen nipple nuzzled his palm. The tantalising touch of his fingers shepherded all feelings to the nipple, sparked off arousal in his palm, caused me to throw the weight of my breast into his hand. I gasped, then said stupidly to the hopeless woman behind me, "Honestly, I did."

"No you didn't," said Uncle Zak. 

The bastard!

"You really must, you know. You said you would," said his mousey little wife.

I gasped, part frustration at the woman and her man, part frustration at the way my body was reacting to it all. It wasn't reacting well. I took a deep breath, and said to my aunt. 

"This time you must look!" 

I opened my mouth on Uncle Zak's and let his tongue back in. The fondling of my pussy had parted my legs. My pelvis was jerking and pulsing from the effect of his fingers as they played with me there. But I let him go on. I needed his wife to be aware that I was kissing her husband, as agreed. I needed her to know that I was keeping my side of the bargain, even if they were hardly keeping theirs, (whatever theirs was supposed to be!) As far as my reaction was concerned I'd given up on attempting to orchestrate that. I reacted as my body dictated. I needed my thoughts for what would come next. I needed my wits intact for when this kiss came to an end. 

It was then I must lay down the law. It was then I must demand they let me go. But the kiss was becoming complex. His tongue drew mine into his mouth. He started caressing its length, to its roots, with that amazing reptilian thing in his mouth. One minute it was like being caressed by a snake, then a light-fingered playmate, then a hot coil of rope joined the mix. My tongue was sucked, like a penis, deep into his mouth. Then his came into mine and I did the same. It was as if he had shown the way, as if there was no alternative but for me to be a slave to the lesson he'd taught. The heat of the lesson the motive, the strength of arousal the cause. 

My arms being at my back no longer mattered. I had my front with which to press into his form, moulding my breast into his hand, forcing my other to his chest, thrusting my pelvis wantonly into his hand, the sticky fingers in my pussy, spreading honey wantonly over the labia lips. "I think that's enough," I gasped past his tongue, pressing my lips even wider over his, pushing my face even harder into his, thrusting my tongue to the back of his mouth, seeking to push it in his throat. 

Then his tongue was back in my mouth, and as I had learned to do as a much younger girl, I ceased to breath and held my head still and felt the tip of the long tongue as is softly eased into my throat. I controlled the urge to gag, just as I'd learned years ago, for the pleasure that came from the intimate invasion of the entrance to the throat. It was something so indescribably wild and forbidden and bad, that it caused me to pulse and thrust my pelvis into the fingers. And as the tongue softly eased even further down my throat, so two fingers eased into my vagina and duplicated matters.

I came as if with a rainbow hued blast from the past. I gagged, cried out, and the tongue was removed from my throat. Only the fingers remained, searching for my g-spot, making me writhe and squirm against him, causing my wrist to buck and jump in his wife's loosening grip. One of my hands came away. Tears were steaming from my eyes. Whenever he did that to my throat, with his tongue, I would come, cry out, and my eyes would water. Aunt Doris refound my escaped wrist and took it back in her control. 

"Jeesus," said Uncle Zak, clearly pleased at what he'd released. 

And release it they had. 

Boiled jelly!

We stayed in the room for another hour. My uncle fucked me twice, I think. I certainly fucked him twice. While Auntie Doris watched. In amongst it all I had the most powerful orgasm I ever had. Riding on top of my Uncle Zack, assuring his wife that, "No, it isn't sore. Not at all," as his finger slipped into my ass and he blew his oats inside me. At the time I didn't think either of these actions would necessary bring about an orgasm. But boy, was I wrong! It was as if a switch had been thrown. I was half-way through my sentence to his wife when he blows, and then I have a finger up my ass, and then ... Wham! Bam! 

I was toast! 

A toasted jelly sandwich.

That night in a nearby hotel, the bridal suite, my wedding night, I couldn't do a thing. David dutifully screwed. I dutifully squirmed and writhed and groaned beneath him, legs splayed wide, with him on top, but I had never been further from coming in my life. I think I was all screwed out. 

My bloody Uncle Zack had seen to that. 

Chapter 3 ...

Then he started coming to stay. Not with my folks. Not with his sister. But with David and me. I argued with David that it just wasn't right. Let him go stay with people his own age, I said. But David wouldn't hear of it. We were closer to the city than my parents, he replied. We had a bigger house. We had a maid. It was his sister, after all, who had given us such a great venue for our wedding! (And such a great room for my wedding fuck! But I could hardly tell David that.)

When Uncle Zak came the first time, I was seven months pregnant with Tracy, so reckoned I would be safe. But I wasn't. And when he got me running, hot and bothered, pushing his hands from my body like a windmill, but getting there in the end, it was one of the best fucks I'd had in months. David had always been sort of cautious around me once the baby was on the way. Treated me like Dresden china. Which was nice, but hardly sexually fulfilling. Uncle Zak, he didn't give a fuck about the baby. All he wanted was to hump me and make me gasp and squeal. And he did, both. And I came, twice. 

To be continued ... ladies, if any are out there reading this, give me some ideas of where you'd like to see this go?



The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 03



 (Gentle reader. If you are the sort of person who is offended by the idea that men and women may sometimes act in a manner on which the more rigid factions of (your) society might frown, then please do not read this. This is not a 'how to' story, nor a 'should do' parable, it is rather a 'what if' daydream, with a sexual bias. Besides, I have no wish to offend you. If, on the other hand, you believe life can be a bitch and the urges can sometimes get you by the balls -- and squeeze -- and you know yourself sufficiently well to be confident you can explore likely outcomes in an open-minded and non-judgmental fashion, then please read on, and, if the spirit moves you to, comment. To the anonymous reader who remarked on the difference between 'throes' and 'throws', and the other who pointed out that there is a difference between Wall-Mart, and K-Mart, my thanks. You are both right, of course. If my errors appall, I apologise. I do try to get things right!)

*

He started coming to stay. My Uncle Zak. With us. Not with his parents, or his sister, or brother Zok -- or Zunk, or Zick, or whatever his damn name was -- oh no! he HAD to come stay with David and me. I argued that it just wasn't right. Let him go stay with people his own age, I said. But David wouldn't listen. We were closer to the city than the rest, he said. And had a bigger house, he added. And a maid, he finished it off. So that was that!

When Uncle Zak came, the first time, I was seven months pregnant with Tracy, so reckoned I would be safe. But I wasn't. When he got me all hot and bothered, me pushing his hands from my body like a windmill in a gale, him getting there in the end, it was one of the best fucks I'd had in months! David had always been sort of cautious around me once the baby was on the way. Treated me like Dresden china. Which was nice, but hardly sexually fulfilling. Uncle Zak, he didn't give a fuck about the baby. All he wanted was to hump me and make me gasp and squeal. And he did both. And I came, twice. 

The second day of his stay, at breakfast, just after David left for work, and while Yanti, our maid, was in the laundry ironing clothes, we fucked on the kitchen table. I was terrified Yanti would come in, but he didn't give a damn. If she had come in, he'd probably have fucked her next. Yanti is a pretty little thing. (She is from Indonesia, don't ask me how David arranged it. Through his firm, he said.) I swore, after that, that Uncle Zak would never stay with us again. But he did -- a weekend, the very next year. And managed to fuck me again. Managed to fuck me eight time, in fact. In almost every room in the house. (Yanti was away for a week.) God only knows where the old bugger gets the energy, or sperm, but he hasn't slowed down one iota from the first time he made me explode. Must be something he eats. 

Now he's back. Again. I tried to tell David that No, not again, he's been here enough. Let him stay with someone else. Let him stay in a hotel in town -- Christ he's hardly poor. He has his own company for Chrissake. But David said I was not being myself, and asked if I was expecting again. (I'm not, as it happened, but said that I might be, for otherwise how did I explain my opposition to my uncle coming to stay, other than telling the truth. And I could hardly do that.) 

So he's back. But this time Yanti is here, and I have arranged that we stay together, all day, doing the house-work. 'Spring Cleaning' I have called it, though it's half way through Fall. Yanti, little sweetie that she is, doesn't know any better, and is happy to work with me. We get on well together, she and I. Which is why we're here, right now, up in the attic, sorting through things. I figure the pull-down ladder is too steep for my reprobate uncle to climb. And even if they're not, I have Yanti here to protect me!

The attic is not very large. Sloping eves either side and a big window at the end that looks out over the back yard and the garage. Even at its highest it's not very tall. I can only just stand in the middle. From there it slopes down either side all the way to the floor. The sides are stacked with boxes, some old furniture and mattresses piled on the floor, a bunch of tennis and squash rackets, a set of old golf clubs. Yanti and I were yapping away about this and that. She's only nineteen, and only just learning the language, but finds almost all things amusing. She smiles a lot for a girl so far from home. I can't get enough of her cheerful ways.

"Aye aye," comes a voice from the floor. Both of us stop and look round. A head, that's all, peers at us from the trapdoor in the middle of the floor. The rest of his length is on the ladder below. (Okay, so I was wrong, the bastard can climb a ladder.)

"We didn't wake you, did we?" I challenge, sweetly, rubbing in the fact that we are up and working while he's been lazing in bed. I ignore the fact that it's Sunday, and I encouraged him to sleep in this morning -- as I flaunted my way from the sitting room last night on the arm of my David, my husband and protector, who is just as big as he is. (Though not between the legs, it has to be said, although that hardly matters, of course). "We are just clearing up, but we'll be down soon. Amuse yourself in the den," I told the head in the middle of the floor. David is at church. It is turn to take collection. I never go, don't like to, which is why I'm here, with a slender and sweet nineteen year old to protect me.

"No, I'll help," says the great ox as he heaves himself through the trapdoor and bangs his head on the centrepost!

"Don't, you're far too big to be up here," I say, a touch of alarm in my voice.

Which he detects, damn his eyes. "Not too big for you, dear niece," he says, all knowing innuendo, coming to our end of the attic. Soon there are three of us here, at the end beside the window, kneeling on the mattress that used to be on our bed -- David and mine -- but has since been changed for a new one. We are sorting through a cake tin full of coins. Yanti and I had started it, now Uncle Zak wants to help.

"The foreign coins go in these piles there," I am explaining, reluctantly, to Uncle Zak, wishing he wasn't here. There's one large tin of coins, all mixed up. Individual piles of coins, one for each country, sit on open pages of newspaper laid out on the wood planking of the attic floor, between the mattress and the window. There's a tree just outside. It's a yew, David says, although I think it's more likely a birch. To its right is the corner of our swimming pool. To its left the garage, and the path past David's rockery to the kitchen door. 

Uncle Zak has inserted himself between Yanti and me on the mattress. I am none too sure how he succeeded, nor why all three of us are kneeling so close together, but there it is. We are facing the window and the piles of coins. When he turns, and smiles, then starts to help, my heart is in my mouth. This man has known every sensitive bit of me since I was God-knows how old, and I have never, (ever,) made a successful defence of my virtue when he has chosen to arouse me ... which is another thing the bastard has never failed to do when he has set his mind to it! He knows my body better than it knows itself, yet here he is, sandwiched between us, Yanti and me. 

Our hips are touching. Our breath is intermingling. Our eyes are dipping in and out of each other's. Our hands, all engaged in their separate tasks, crossing and brushing and touching as the coins need be added to the others of their origin, wherever that pile should be. It's like that game, where the hands go to spots on the floor, then others go to others, then feet join in, and soon you are tangled in knots, with other people.

I lean past Uncle Zak from his right, where I am, to put a coin on the paper, far left, and as I do, Yanti, from her position on his left, leans over to the right to do the same thing with the coin she has in her hand. We are suddenly crossed before my Uncle Zak; stretched out ahead of him, reaching out our respective coins, when Uncle Zak's hand cups my breast. I stop. Frozen. I do not move. Not a inch. It is as if this is what I was waiting for, but somehow prayed would never come, though somehow (deep inside me) sensed it might. At the precise moment that the fingers curl around my breast, and the high voltage throb zips through me, (as it always does,) energising breast, and nerves, and launching hopeless hormones in all the wrong directions, to all the wrong places, I know -- I just KNOW -- that he also has a hand on Yanti. 

Our faces are mere inches from each other. My eyes are on Yanti's and hers are on mine. And hers are saying ... nothing. Nothing at all. It is as if she is denying what she's felt. As if it is a private thing between this man and her. Not a thing the mistress need concern herself with. I wonder if my eyes are saying the same sort of thing. I wonder what will happen if I rise? Will he release his hold on me? Will he release his hold on Yanti? Will he speak, crack a joke, make some excuse? Will I hit my head on the crossbeam? 

Yanti and I stayed bowed, stretched over in front of the man, each with an arm outstretched. Neither of us have dropped the coin in the pile to which it belongs. Both of us stay as we are. The hand gently strokes my blouse and the breast within. I sense he does the same thing to Yanti, over the T-shirt she wears. It is a T-shirt with 'I'm your Honey' writ in pink, across her plump girlish boobs.

"Sure you got the right piles?" the base voice drawls as his hands gently play with a breast from us each. I don't know what to do. Neither does Yanti, I can tell. The only one who seems to have a clue, is my blessed Uncle Zak, who continues to fondle us, like pets. 

"Spain," I say, as I angle the face of the coin my way.

"The Philippines," says Yanti, looking at hers, both of us still angled over, offering our breasts, having him administer a gentle milking action to both of us. 

"That's right," I say, frowning at the coin in my outstretched hand, failing to draw my breast away, failing to stop the feeling of his fingers at my boob, failing to consider what might happen next, and fascinated too, at Yanti, and the fact she is doing the same thing. What is this thrall he holds us in? What is the power of this man?

"I've had you both, you know," he says, as if it were a gentle conversation. About the weather, say. My eyes on Yanti grow and question. As do hers, on mine. Then we are blushing at each other, dropping our eyes, letting the hands and the coins join the paper on the floor. It is as if, by this admission from us both -- the boast from him, the lack of denial from either of us -- he has proved that he holds all the cards. As if it illustrates our weaknesses. Surprises us perhaps, but fits us for our fate. He must have had Yanti last night, I realise. When I was safe with David my uncle was seducing our maid. Why should that surprise me, I wonder, straightening and pushing off his hand. Yanti, seeing what I do, does the same. Both of us stare at the floor, back on our heals, red as beetroots, not sure what comes next. 

But Uncle Zak ... he knows what comes next. He's had us both, you see. He knows our weaknesses. He knows the buttons to press, and how to press them. I take a deep breath. He shuffles back towards the centre of the mattress like a walrus easing back from the surf. He reaches out a hand to both of us and turns us towards him. (Why we let him I do not know.) And there we are, the three of us, knees touching, in a triangle on the mattress. Two blushing hard. One breathing softly. 

Broad hands I know so well slip round the back of our heads -- Yanti's and mine -- and pull them to his. I watch him kissing Yanti, then I kiss him. Then Yanti and he kiss again. Then he and I kiss. His hand has slipped up Yanti's t-shirt and fondles her breast. The other, having opened the buttons of my blouse, has moved my bra out the way and caresses my naked breast. He has lost none of his skill. Soon I am kissing him deeply. Then he and Yanti are kissing, equally deeply. When he moves Yanti's open mouth to mine, eyes closed, lips glistening with spittle. It seems an extension of what we've been doing, that fact alone renders it churlish to object, so soon I am kissing the girl. 

Her mouth is much sweeter than his. Her lips so much softer and plump. I find her delightful to kiss. I find his caresses arousing me more as I kiss my maid. I put that arousal into my kiss, with her. Soon I have Yanti's young tongue playing with mine. I feel her soft hand on my face, gently stroking the skin of my cheek. I return the compliment, feeling her younger cheek, sensing the rising arousal in her. We get on well, the two of us. We like each other too. Fingers (of the solitary male in our midst) part my knees, just as I'm sure they do, Yanti's. But neither of us chooses to end the kiss. Nor do we think to resist as broad fingers sneak into the crotches of our shorts, and start to arouse what is there.

As I ease my legs apart -- to give the hand greater access -- and open my lips even wider over Yanti's delicious young mouth, I start to question what my Uncle Zak is doing. What all three of us are doing. How it fits into the fabric of our home and domestic arrangement. Just because Uncle Zak appears to be able to make us say Yes -- meaning Yanti and me -- when we should be saying No, is this added dimension not harmful? Harmful in terms of our household? Harmful in terms of David and me? And Yanti and me? The harm caused by the fact that our secret, Yanti and mine, (concerning the man in our midst,) is no longer that. Now Yanti knows about me, and Uncle Zak, and I know about Yanti, and Uncle Zak. And Uncle Zak, of course, knows about both of us -- as well as 'knowing' us both, in the biblical sense. 

I have to end our kiss. Not by reason of ethics or morals. I need my mouth to breath! And judging from the sound of the air that had started exploding from Yanti's pretty little nose to my cheek, lips clamped together like limpets to rocks in one of the most ardent bouts of French kissing I can ever remember having had with another human being -- David and Uncle Zak included -- it is clear that my partner in this, my sweet young maid who, until today, was merely that, (my sweet young maid,) is clearly feeling the same. 

As we break, we both sway back on our heels like stands of bamboo in a breeze. Each of us reach out behind, straight-armed, to catch ourselves from falling. Our sighs come together, their sound like a breeze through another tall stand of bamboo. I hold myself like that, arms straight out behind me, shoulders round my ears, face towards the eves, eyes closed, mouth open, breathing harsh and fast. My knees on the mattress remain, splayed wide, with the practiced fingers of a man's broad hand eased inside the leg of my shorts, the tips of his fingers inserted in the leg band of my panties, stroking the slick and pungent discharge I've been pumping to his bidding for the past few frenetic minutes. I groan as my pelvis kicks and gently thrusts into his toying fingers, all in accordance with instructions of its own. I have no control over that part of my body. Only Zak knows how it works. And how to work it. (Even David, poor dear, has failed to find the secret of the thing.)

I thrust again and hear another groan, and sense it's mine. And then another groan I know is not. This time it is Yanti. Deeper than I thought she would groan, had I given it thought -- which I hadn't ... There she goes again! (What a deeply arousing sound that is. Her groan. My Yanti's groan.) 

I fight to open my eyes. I need to put an end to this. My maid is being molested by our house guests. She's only a kid, for goodness sake. She's only nineteen. This cannot be allowed. As my eyes strive to obey the instruction they've been given by my brain -- the small part still under my control, as opposed to the greater part that's been converted into a hormone factory, (which is threatening to explode if my Uncle doesn't stop what he is doing) -- I realise a couple of things. One, my concern for my maid may be a trifle redundant as my uncle has already had her. And Two, I was younger than she is now when my uncle first had me! 

I power up the muscles in my neck and lift my head, aim my face at the cause of our disquiet. I force my eyes to frown and my mouth to set itself into a tight line, that will make it clear to anyone witnessing this scene -- my uncle in particular -- that this is not a situation I wish prolonged. I am, after all, the mistress of this house. But it is at that exact moment, when my various facial features are working towards their positions to execute my 'This Situation Will Not Be Prolonged' look, that my Uncle Zack slips the tips of two fingers into my ladylike bower, up to the second joint, (annoyingly curling the tip when it gets there,) causing my resolve to retract like the feelers of an anemone that has just been similarly fingered. 

I groan as I frown and my head snaps back towards the ceiling. Damn the bastard man! In the brief moment when my eyes were open, and my head faced the front, and my senses were properly recording the events going on in the external world -- rather than becoming further entangled in the internal hormone-fuelled hiatus in my brain that my lousy damn uncle was responsible for -- I noted the relative positions of each of our triangulated trio, and what was being done by one of the three, to the other two, and how these other two were reacting, to what was being done, to them. I don't know which of the two female members of this little group, this Sunday morning, on the mattress in the attic of Number 1445 Grace Drive, (our address, in case you're ever passing,) was handling this worse. But Yanti, to my surprise, appeared to be into this sexual stuff like a sausage in a frying pan spluttering with oil. She was positively sizzling, poor dear.

"Okay. Enough!" I snapped, shooting out my more slender hands in the direction of the wrist of the broader hand that was stuck up the legs of my shorts. I held it. Hard. I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. His hand up the leg of Yanti's shorts continued to work as if nothing was wrong. And Yanti, her cute little face aimed high overhead, her eyes tight shut, furrows of anguish and confusion on her brow, whimpering low throaty sounds from deep inside her pretty little chest -- in fact, now her breasts were out her T-shirt, I could see they were not all that little. Pretty, yes. Little, no. 

"Enough, Uncle Zak," I announced, firmly, (because my action of taking control of his wrist had minimal effect on what his hand and fingers continued to do inside my pants; which was, to arouse me to even greater heights). I pressed down hard with my hands around his wrist. I pressed down hard with my shoulders over my hands. But to no effect. His fingers continued their annoying arousal of my pussy and surrounds. Pretty soon I was moaning like Yanti. And my eyes had closed, like Yanti's. And I was pressing down hard, again -- if anything more energetically than before -- but with my pelvis and mons, rather than my hands. Onto the damn man's fingers. God but he knew how to touch a girl! 

I suppose it was hardly surprising -- when he decided to push my shoulders towards the mattress and turn me so I rolled onto my back -- that, when he pushed, it is what I did. It was probably inevitable, too, that I should let him place me beneath him like this. Then he was over me, his broad damn chest against my breasts as it had been so many times before, and I had his thick damn lips on mine. The huge reptilian tongue of his performed its vulgar -- oh so evil -- playtime in my mouth. My eyeballs gave up for a moment or two, drifted brainwards as I reacquainted myself with this man's foul but oh so skilful tongue. That loathsome organ of his. Like the other he had. Both big, and long, and strong. Something from an earlier age. 




The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 03



My arms had curled around the bastard's neck, and I was hauling his head onto mine. I shouldn't be doing this! I thought, when I heard David's car enter the garage. It is a foreign car. (David likes things foreign.) From Italy. It has a very distinctive exhaust noise. Alfa Romeo, or something. I wrench my mouth off Zak's. 

"It's David," I hiss, and push my uncle off me. Reluctantly, he rolls to the side. I sit up, grab my bra and pull it down, grab my blouse and pull it across, start to rebutton the blouse. "You shouldn't have done that," I said, eyes on the window, addressing my Uncle, getting to my knees and crawling to the window. Piles of coins beneath my heaving boobs, I put my face to the glass. My Uncle, apparently unaware that this is no longer funny, grabs my hips and yanks them back onto the mattress. I am on all fours, face three feet from the glass, rear quarters in Zak's undependable control, housemaid somewhere close. David opens the garage door. I dare not look around. "Shsss," I hiss, though can't think why. We're well above the yard.

David has his church clothes on and carries his bible in his hand. It is one his mother gave him. Real leather with a gold silk place mark cut with a 'v' at the end. I sense, almost before I feel it, Uncle Zak's hand snake beneath my torso, and slip into the 'v' of my blouse. David is walking along the path from the garage to the house, his eyes examining the rockery. Zak's damn hand, inside my blouse, has cupped a boob. My bra is too damn thin. It's one for the home with no support. Just cotton. My uncle's hand around it. Fondling the shape as only he knows how. Squeezing and starting to tweak and scratch ... again, as only he knows how. He could write a book about it. I reach my hand over his, his in my blouse and mine above. I wonder if David will see, if he turns. 

"Take it out," I demand. He doesn't. Without looking round I swipe a punch to my rear. Yanti yelps! David turns, looks up. (I'd told him we'd be working up here.) I raise the hand I'm using for support, keeping my other one over my breast, (and my uncle's hand, beneath,) and, with an arch of my back to keep me from falling forward onto my face, (knees spread on the mattress, backside stuck in my Uncle's groin,) I give my husband a half-hearted wave. David, bless him, waves his bible back, while Yanti, bless her, say's she is fine -- from my punch, that hit her chin -- while my Uncle Zak, damn him to hell for all time, continues to fondle my boob, as his other hand slips between my legs. 

David is mouthing something up at me, gesturing behind him at his rockery, as Uncle Zak's hand, pushed in from behind, continues between my legs until his fingers are at the fastening of my shorts. I pulse sharply once, then twice, onto my uncle's forearm that, on account of the movement of his fingers higher up, and his position behind me reaching beneath me and between my legs, is grinding (annoyingly) on my clit. I pulse a third time. I make a questioning shrug of my shoulders, at David, down there; the shrug made difficult by the fact that I am supporting myself with one hand on the floor while the other is resolutely over my heart, as if the National Anthem is being played. I feel the fastening of my shorts being opened, but instead of responding negatively to this latest development, my pelvis, under an instruction system all its own, pulses again -- three times in rapid succession on the invasive forearm my uncle now knows how to use. Damn his eyes.

David is pointing at the rockery. Something about ... but I have no idea what it is something about ... because while I am trying to understand what my husband is trying to tell me about the rockery, my uncle, brother of my Mum, is opening the zip of my shorts, and then my maid, apparently under some sort of instruction from that same dissolute uncle, is helping him run my shorts -- and my sluggie panties underneath -- down to my knees that are spread on the mattress. It comes as little surprise when two hands close over my now naked pussy. What comes as more if a surprise, is that one of the hands is a lot more slender than the other one. I thrust, and pulse again.

It is something to do with the succulents, I think. Two or three pockets of succulent plants have been planted in the rockery, close to the wall. David is leaning over one of them now, fingers amongst the fronds, as I am leaning over, my face near the floor, on account of my uncle's face pressed against my rear, lips and tongue amongst my labia lips. 

I will refrain from reporting the number of times I jerk and spasm into my uncle's face, otherwise this account will become a monotonous series of jerks and spasms ... and thrusts. This is what always happens to me when people play with me, down there. My feelings explode and cause my pelvis, or mons, to kick, or thrust, and my backbone to curl, or jerk. There is nothing I can do about it. It just happens. The more unfortunate aspect is, that just as the involuntary responses increase in number, so the level of arousal inside me rises, like scarlet mercury in a particularly sensitive thermometer.

It is now pretty high. (This mercurial sexual arousal of mine.) But there is little I can do to prevent its further escalation. I have this facial communication to conduct with my husband, out there in the garden, and I need one hand to conceal what is happening within my blouse, and the other to stop myself falling on my face on the attic floor. My rear is cocked in the air like a wanton display from a particularly randy partridge, and Yanti, my maid -- as far as I can tell -- is being given a particularly detailed lesson on how to arouse a woman by manipulation of her private parts, while the teacher, at the same time as she learns, (about labia majora and minora,) sees if he can insert his tongue in the anus, higher up. But he doesn't, for I stop him -- although I do let Yanti continue to have her clever little way. (She is a very quick learner, and rather a perfectionist.) 

David's dropped his bible in the succulents. They look dry. Perhaps that's what he's telling me, that they are dry? He reaches for his bible as the slurping sound from my own rather moister succulents start to fill the attic with a lewd and slightly other-worldly sense of ... what is that? ... impending doom? I nod at the window, and my husband beyond. He is brushing off his bible. I almost say thank-you to my uncle for removing his hand from the 'v' of my blouse, and the throbbing boob and perky nipple that live within, (and annoyingly want the hand back as soon as it leaves). 

My husband, looking up, gives me a shrug and then a smile. He steps back from the rockery onto the path. "He's coming in," I say, giving my team a heads up as it were, though my uncle's head stays down. On me. I feel his tongue slip into me, a little bit. "He's coming, I said," I say, though for reasons best known to my pelvis and torso they stay as they are, as my uncle and maid do their damnedest to cause me more grief. (Why is my maid so damned malleable in the hands of this offensive man?) He's stopped again. No, not my uncle -- he keeps going -- I mean my husband. David. He has stopped.

"No way!" I squawk, almost twisting round from the window but catching myself just in time as David looks up with yet another silent message contained in his expression. 'Have you seen this before,' or something, he seems to be asking me, as my uncle, who is clearly dropping his pants behind me, may well be about to ask the same thing. "You will not!" I say out the side of my mouth, trying to be stern to the man at my rear, as the man at my front, and below, sees my face attempting to tell him, 'No, I don't think I have,' or something. (Have you ever tried to be hard of voice when also being soft of expression? It is not easy!) Which is when I felt the bulbous tip I knew so well push between the slick engorged lips of my snatch. I begin to fear the worst. 

David opens his bible. He lifts a flower, possibly pressed, from between the pages as my uncle's prick, between my legs, presses into my flower, as I've heard it called. It may be a wild flower I think as David holds it up for me to admire, and my uncle thrusts into me. I do my best to hold myself still with my arms, fingertips braced against the bottom of the window, seeking purchase. My uncle doesn't help. He is happy to have me, as boisterously as he chooses, knowing I will hold myself still for him. What else can I do? How else could I behave? Any other action would have a bad outcome. Probably for all of us. 

... I had forgotten quite how big my uncle was. 

(But it is coming back to me.) 

I have to say "No!" to Yanti. More sternly than I like to be with her. Clearly under instruction from my rider -- me the mare on hands and knees, he the bloody stallion -- she reaches a tentative hand beneath my taut and trembling torso, engaged in the tricky business of cushioning the thrusts my uncle makes, intent on cupping a breast. Intent, I must surmise, on raising my enjoyment of what is being done to me, for I can hardly hide that side of my reactions from the girl -- she will recognise them as clearly in me as she would were this being done to her. At my sharp command, however, her hand retreats. But a minute later, it is back. 

"No!" I snap again, holding my shoulders still, with difficulty, as my husband on the garden path holds the pressed flower to the light and invites me to admire it just as he is doing. But it is difficult for me to admire very much of anything, just now, other than the molten lava flow of feelings that courses, white hot, through my most sensitive channels, like high pressure steam in pipes that are much too small. I feel about to explode. Which I am, I suppose. It will not take much. And now that I have a slender hand slithering into the 'v' of my blouse, making for a nipple that's hard and as throbbing as a pea that's been out in the sun too long, I sense the approach of my explosion. Which is when David waves and smiles again. 

(I wish he wouldn't do that.)

"He's ..." I manage to get out, as Yanti's nimble fingers find a nipple, under cotton, and she scratches it lightly with her finger nail, "...coming," I gasp, and practically do, as I focus on the sound of the back door. It makes a squeak. The hinges do, at least. I hear them, then he calls, "How is it going up there?"

What can I tell him? My thrusts, now that my front is no longer required to be anchored to the floor like the rock of Gibraltar, have been enlisted in our task. The task of my uncle and I -- and Yanti, too, I guess -- of bringing me, and maybe him as well, to a state of orgasmic release. (Sounds awfully irresponsible, put like that.) 

"It's ... aah!" I swallow, arching my back and thrusting into the piston-like strokes of my much-too-spirited uncle. Why can he not act his age? "... good!" I finish off, shouting it out with what seems to me like desperation. 

I wonder what I sound like. 

"I'll come and help!" I hear from David, as I also hear him start up the stairs. 

It sends me over the top. I come with a blinding intensity that freezes every fibre of my body, and drives every feeling to high compression in a central core, from which it explodes like a hydrogen bomb. A count of ... I don't know ... then feeling comes back from lingering numbness of orgasm. I find I can breath again. Which is when I am aware that my Uncle Zak has come as well, and is pumping rhythmically into me. I cannot move. At this point nothing on earth would make me move from my position: ass in the air, head in my arms among coins on the floor, thick shaft of manhood sunk deep inside, pulsing gently -- both of us. If I am to be ...

"Coming up!" I hear his voice through the trap door to the attack. And then, "Yanti's not downstairs. Is she with you?" I hear the foot on the first step of the attic ladder. We are about to be discovered. But there's nothing I can do about it, because I cannot move. I have no wish to move. This is too ... important ... is that the word? I think I give up at this point. It is all too much.

"This step is loose."

What step is loose?

"Oh dear." David sounded concerned. "This step, this second bottom one ..." a pause. I could hear my breath, and Yanti's breath, and Zack's. All of us should have been holding our breath, but too much had happened, and we needed to breath to exist, to continue on in this state of mild ecstatic bliss that always comes over me after ... after ... that. That thing that happens to ... "I'll get a screw driver. Best you stay up there until I've fixed it." David was moving away. I heard him move down the stairs. "Won't be a jiff," he shouted back. 

"Okay," I whispered, feeling my uncle should move, and Yanti should take her hand out of my blouse. 

Both of them did what I wished. My uncle rolled over on his back, stared at the roof with a dazed sort of smile on his face. 

"Jeesus!" he gasped. "Now that's what I call ... Hot!" He grinned at the ceiling, then at Yanti, then at me. I started to pull up my sluggies, then my shorts. It felt like a tepid bog between my legs. I was suddenly determined to get to a shower before David got back from the garage. That's where he kept his tools. In the garage. 

I turned to the window just in time to wave as he strode purposefully along the path to the garage. 

"Hot," my uncle repeated himself, his penis glistening, hands clasped behind his head, hair sweated and matted to the side of his face, (as mine must be too, I guessed,) "Like these people who asphyxiate themselves. Experience orgasm as death approaches." 

What was he talking about? 

I kept my eyes from Yanti. I didn't know how I'd behave with her now, but would prefer to get cleaned up before I considered it further. "I'm going down," I said, stepping over my uncle, slapping off his hands as he reached up for yet another feel of his niece. Then I remembered Yanti. "You too, Yanti," I said.

"Let her stay. She can entertain me," said my uncle.

Which really pissed me off. 

"Mr David, coming back," said Yanti. 

I shot a leg through the trapdoor to the ladder, turned back. Yanti was peering out the window. Uncle Zak was stroking her leg. 

"Here's how it works," I said, still throbbing with the afterglow of sex, but seeing the narrow escape we'd just been through as what it was: a barely avoided life-changing event that I didn't want repeated. "Yanti, if you do not come down now, you will not work here any more. Uncle Zak, if you do not let her go, tidy up here, and then come down yourself, I will never speak to you again." I looked him in the eye. "And I mean that."

"Well, well, my little niece," he said, hastening Yanti towards me. "I do believe you're serious." (He was right, I was.) With that he sat up, scratched his head, flopped his glistening penis in his lap, and -- grinning broadly -- reached for the tin full of coins as Yanti and I departed down the ladder.



The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 04



I blame that swine, my uncle Zak. What has he turned me into? (What has he turned us both into, Yanti and me?) My fingers toy with my pussy as bits of my mind yell, Stop it right now! (But I don't.) David is asleep; hard day at work. I can hear his breathing, deep and long, as I wish mine was. I try not to shake the mattress as my fingers, as if with a mind of their own, manipulate the parts of me that like being treated ... like this. My hips curl around my sexual stage as if to form a protective guard. I am abed, warm and safe, but ... how could I have let that happen? (I can't get it out of my mind.) 

It was Zak, again, of course. His influence is all pervading. He was visiting town. A 'flying visit' was how he put it on the phone from the airport; a 'flying fuck' more likely is what he wanted. I know the man. His reprobate ways. Despicable man that he is. I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door as soon as I put down the phone. David was away that night and I didn't want Zak staying while David was away. At the last minute I remembered poor Yanti. If I left her alone she'd be red and raw by the time I returned. Poor girl. How could I commit her to that? So I headed back inside, and told her we were going to the city. 'Girls night out,' was how I put it. 

'But where?' she asked, stopping what she was doing. (Ironing clothes.)

'I dunno. Bit of shopping. Coffee. Slice of chocolate cake,' I said, for Yanti likes her chocolate cake. 'Maybe take in a film?' 

The last part did the trick. 'Oh. Wow!' her face lit up. 'I love the cinema!' she enthused, switching off the iron, yanking off her apron as she headed for her room. 'What do I wear?' she called out, once there. 

'Casual,' I shouted back, glancing at my watch nervously. I was dressed in a blouse and skirt for messing around home, but I wasn't about to change. No time! Zak may have had lied about phoning from the airport. He could be in a taxi on his way here. (He likes to catch his prey unaware. That, if little else, I have learned about my rotten Uncle Zak.) 

'Hurry up,' I called to Yanti, glancing at my watch again, though why I cannot think. It's not as if I knew when he'd appear. 

Nerves, I guess. 

Yanti came out of her room in a T-shirt and shorts. How can anyone who looks like that -- all ripeness, ripples and curves -- not realise that wearing shorts that hug her as tightly as that (especially there) are bound to attract attention. The kind of attention that makes life hard. (Men too, you have to guess!) But there was no time. 'Let's go,' I snapped, heading through the kitchen to the garage. I tried not to run.

'Why are we running?' asked Yanti, as we jogged down the path through the garden at the back. I didn't reply. But once we were seated, seat-belts on, the garage door lifting to the ceiling, I commented, 

'These shorts. They're pretty brief?' 

'So are your skirts,' she giggled, big eyes on the road, a mischievous smile on her face. 

Since the time in the attic with Uncle Zak and my collection of coins, Yanti and I have never brought up the subject of her, and me, or how 'close' we had been that day. (It is better, I think.) But there is no doubt what took place between us has softened our relationship. We are more like sisters now than mistress and maid. Teasing and the discussion of more intimate subjects -- though still not THAT intimate -- are now almost common between us. (I am only a few years older than Yanti, after all.) I have become the older sister, she the younger. We have our fun, is what I'm saying, though we keep our hands to ourselves. I put the car in gear, moved out and took a left, heading away from the airport route. Yanti had her huge cotton shoulder bag on her lap. (Balinese, I think.) 

Once we were on our way I glanced at the skirt I wore. Lots of my legs were on display too. Two or three metres of pretty good legs between us! I'd forgotten how brief some of my skirts were. I went through a period of flaunting my legs in my last years of college, and the year leading up to my marriage. Don't ask me why. "Your legs are an asset most gals would kill for," Uncle Zak told me once, in a moment of ill-advised intimacy, before adding, "Most men would kill for them too." I had them wrapped around his head at the time. Best forgotten.

After shopping and wandering the malls, having coffee and chocolate cake, (twice,) and a pizza for dinner, we ended up in a cinema I'd never been to before. It was a little seedy and run down but the nearest to the restaurant. One of the waiters directed us. I figured Uncle Zak would probably hang on at home, pretty late, and then, if we didn't appear, give up and head back to the airport hotel to be ready for his early morning flight. I reckoned midnight would do it. He'd have given up by then. We had time to kill, so here we were. 'The Playhouse' it was called. (What else did two twenty-something girls, a mistress and her maid, do in the city in the evening?) As it transpired, it was not a good idea. (But I didn't know that at the time.)

Yanti and I stumbled through the darkness towards some vacant seats up near the back. We were directed there by the fading beam of a failing torch in the hands of an ailing usher, who didn't seem to want to be there any more than we did. I had no idea what the feature film was about. Then Yanti leaned close, and giggled, and said, 'A big guy just sat down beside me.' (Yanti has this thing about 'big guys'. She says Westerners are so much bigger than the guys at home. And, I'm quoting Yanti again, (in playful mood,) she likes them 'big'. I usually ignore her when she talks like this, but it doesn't stop her doing it. Youthful exuberance, I guess.)

I told her, playing the straight guy to Yanti's playful girl, that it was a cinema, that if you weren't using a seat it was free for anyone who had paid the entry fee. They weren't our seats. Then I leaned forward, playing the concerned older sister, and glanced past her to have a look. I saw the 'big guy' (he wasn't that big,) was with a woman. So I responded to my playful maid by saying, 'Leave him alone, you don't know where he's been,' and added. 'His wife is with him, and she won't approve.' With that, I sat back and relaxed intent on finding out whether I might like the film. At which point another guy entered our row, squeezed past us all and then, a little to my annoyance, sat down next to me.

I am never sure what it is about cinemas and theatres, where you sit in partial darkness, that if the seat next to you is suddenly taken, it feels like an invasion of your space. It did to me now? But of course what I had just said to Yanti applied equally to me. So I swallowed my illogical annoyance, and got on with the film. It was one of these languid French affairs. Filmy dresses and farmyards and lingering looks. Three minutes into trying to fathom what the storyline is, Yanti leans over and says, again with her playful little giggle, "I think the big guy likes me."

"Why do you say that?" I ask, not taking my eyes off the screen. 

"Trust me, he likes me," she responds.

"Imagination," I retort.

"Shut the fuck up," says a voice behind me, as a thick finger prods my shoulder pretty hard. So we do, (shut the fuck up,) because the voice behind sounds a whole lot deeper -- and the owner a whole lot bigger -- than the 'big guy' next to Yanti. 

As if all this isn't enough off-screen entertainment to be going on with, some minutes later the knee of the guy on my right, spread wide to his left, touches mine. I think about this, as the youngster on the screen in the French looking frock, (in French it is a frock, in English it's a dress made of filament, at least what the girl on the screen -- Annette, is her name -- is wearing, appears to be made of filament) walks -- no, let's call that a 'saunter' -- across the farmyard. (the knee, against mine, doesn't move away, indicating, one has to assume, that it is happy there. I think about that.) Two hooded eyes on the screen, from the stable, follow Annette's progress across the sun dappled yard. Highlights flickering through the filament of the frock hint at the girl within. The film is French. The girl is no dullard. Her shape is not bad. Not bad at all. 

I move my knee. Two minutes later, his knee follows. Thirty seconds after that his foot follows suit. I now have his calf against mine, as well as his knee. I suddenly wonder if Uncle Zak has followed us into the cinema: come in behind us and now sits beside me, starting to play with me just as he usually does? I sneak a glance to my right. If it's Uncle Zak it's a great disguise. (Doesn't look anything like him.) I don't know whether it is the thought of Uncle Zak, or something in my mind that reacts to Uncle Zak, but I leave my leg where it is. I let him press his own against it, as if so doing is a form of ... I don't know ... penance? The penance owed for being a reasonably attractive woman in her prime, when so many others are not? 

His heel lifts off the floor, moving his calf against mine, rolling his knee against my knee. I hold still. We are much desired, of course -- the section of humanity to which I belong -- and perhaps we should recognise this. What harm do I do in letting this unknown older man, probably deprived of youth and looks like me (comparatively so) --touch me like this? Or ... But now I am not so sure. I now have his hand on my knee. I think about that. I Leave my leg as it is but think about the hand. He desires to touch me. Desires to share what I have. What he has not ... I let him touch me. Feel my skin -- my flesh, the muscle within, the bulk and shape of what I have. To him, a younger ripeness. 

The farmyard is void of flitting frocks, backlit forms, pecking chicken and the pig that was strolling near the muck pile. The evening approaches. The sound of horsebeats grows louder in the background. (The hand strokes my knee, but inoffensively. I let him stroke me. I let it wander a little way up my leg, then back, as if he is nervous, not sure if he's allowed.) Ah! A horseman now in sight. And there is a chicken. I see it now, scurrying out of the path of the horse. (It is difficult to hold my leg still with the stranger's hand delicately stroking the skin. But I must, I feel. Hold it still. It would not do to acknowledge that I know it's there. The hand. His hand, I mean.) It is the brother. The one who's dark stare follows Annette wherever she goes. A brooding countenance, one might say. 

I drop my eyes, unobtrusively, to my legs. (I don't want him to know I know, you see.) I see my neighbour's hand. His elbow is over the armrest between us, my side. I feel it at my hip. I wander into his mind -- or think I do. 'This attractive woman next to me, fresh and healthy and young, legs mostly bare, short skirt.' (I'd have fragrance too, if I'd had time to dress properly before I came out!) What does he want to do. To me? If life was free, and we were somewhere else. Someplace private, say. What would he want to do. To me?

I suddenly remember Yanti at my side. I glance at her, alarmed. (If I can plainly see the hand that's on my knee then she can too.) Her eyes are on the screen. A far off look, the lips -- she has such foxy lips -- in the tiniest pout: half amusement, half petulance. (Not that she is, you understand, amused or petulant, it is merely that her lips are so plump that they give the impression she is.) ... I stop. The hand has slipped over my knee and a strange man's fingers have started to stroke the sensitive skin on the inside of my leg. 

Time for us to move. I think to turn to Yanti to inform her of this when the hand between my legs moves more confidently upwards, the back of the fingernails brushing my other leg as they climb -- my legs drift apart to permit it --the effect begins to empty my mind. What does he want to do to me? He wishes to arouse me. And excite me? Yes, excite me. It's offensive: of course. And bad: no-brainer. It is probably evil and wrong ... but, sweet Jesus, it is also ... I don't know what it is also. I take my elbow off the arm-rest between us. I put my right hand over my left forearm, clearing the armrest for him, I guess you'd have to say. His arm is now angled over it towards my lap where it ducks down at the wrist to the hand between my legs. 

All I can think of, focus on, feel, is the touch of this strange man's fingers between my legs, up in the soft part half way between my knees and my ... you know where I mean. That, and the fact that for some unknown, unguessed at reason, I am not doing a damn thing to stop him. Because I don't know how? I let my glance wander left, towards Yanti, have not wanting her to notice what I'm letting this man do, half wondering what I would do if she was watching too, half realising that if she was watching it would make the whole thing more ... more what? ... more ar/

I move my head back. My mouth is open. 

Sweet Jesus. She has the same problem as me! 

So why, I wonder, after an age, as the brother follows Annette down a moonlit avenue of trees that seem to go on for ever, are we not communicating? Why am I not objecting to what my neighbour is doing with my legs? Why is she not objecting to what hers is doing with her legs? I know we are mistress and maid, but still. We are also females. Friends. So why do we not defend ourselves? 

Is that what it is, a form of defence? And if it is, what is it we are defending? Honour? The risk of being excited and aroused. The risk of getting off on it. Orgasm. The little death. Pulsing the joyous fantastic. Getting down and dirty. Lifting the sky off the place!) 

I have started chewing the side of my lip. I find myself wondering how Yanti's guy can put his hand on her leg with his wife, or sister or girlfriend, sitting one seat along? Then I stop thinking too clearly about that because the stranger's fingers are so far up my legs that they must by now be under the hem of my skirt. I don't dare look to confirm it. (Gawd, but this is a long avenue of trees!) Nervously -- because arousal brings nervousness at its coat-tails, don't ask me why -- I glance at Yanti's lap, thinking perhaps I may have imagined what I saw there. (I hadn't.) 

Yanti's 'big guy' has his hand on her leg. High up on her leg. It is spread possessively over her skin as if it was his leg rather than hers. Yanti shorts are so brief you can hardly see them. It makes her legs outrageously apparent, even in the dimness this far from the screen. It is over the leg nearest him. At the top where her shorts start. I watch, open-mouthed, as his little finger carelessly strokes the bulge at the front of her far-too-short shorts. 

Yanti is staring at the screen as if her life depended on it, her fingers curled round the armrests either side. I suddenly realise I am doing much the same thing, except one of my hands is clutched tight round my other arm, rather than the rest -- which I've surrendered to the guy with his hands up my skirt. His fingers are stroking my pussy, over my panties. Where I got the guts from I dunno, but something makes me reach for the guy's wrist -- the one stuck under my skirt. I pull it out. Now I have it in my hand. 

What now? I wonder. I move it back to the guy's lap and leave it there. Simple. No problem. I bring my own hand back over my side of the arm-rest, feeling pretty damned pleased with myself. That's not so damn hard, I think. Then I lean towards Yanti and whisper in her ear. 'Just lift it up and give it back to him.' 

She doesn't even look at me. 

I try again, 'Just lift it up and give it back to him.' 

Nothing ... nada ... zilch. 

I lean forward to see if I can stare her neighbour off. He has his wife's, or girl friend's, hand in one of his on one side while on the other (his other hand) is playing with the highly excitable tush, of Yanti, my maid. But he doesn't seem to notice me. I sit back. I stare some more at the hand in Yanti's lap. The fingers, encouraged perhaps by the lack of resistance on her part, are starting to wander all over the girl. On either leg, between both, softly over skin, onto the fabric of her shorts, pressing down on her mound, tickling below it where her clitoris lives. I cannot see why she does nothing to prevent it. I look at her again, but her eyes have a glazed 'I'm-not-here' sort of look. What the hell's with her? Which is when I notice my neighbour has extended his arm along the back of my seat. When did that happen? I figure it must have been when I looked along at Yanti's neighbour, giving him the death stare. Lot of good that did! 

So ... what do I do about the arm around the back of me? 

If I kick up a fuss the bloke behind me will tell me to shut the fuck up. Again. And I don't want that. Besides, he wouldn't care about an arm on my seat. Maybe he thinks I'm his girl friend. Or daughter. Or something. It's hardly touching me anyway. Which is when I notice the bloke next to Yanti has just put his left arm, the one not involved with Yanti, around his wife -- girl-friend, whatever -- and they've started necking. Jeeees! Both her arms are round his head, pulling it close, while his other hand quite calmly fondles Yanti! 

Ooooops!

My guy's hand is back on my knee. And he's closer than before. I feel his arm around my shoulders. I take a deep breath and the hand slithers off my knee back between my legs and starts to move upwards. I grab the arm, just below the elbow, with both hands. 'Stop it,' I hiss at him. But no sooner do I than I get a sharp prod on the back of my head. 'Hey fuck-wit,' a big voice says from behind me. 'We're trying to watch the movie. Either sit still and shut the fuck up, or get your frigging boy-friend to take you somewhere else.' 

I swing my head around. I want to tell the guy that this is not my 'frigging boy friend' and the only reason I'm speaking at all is because he has his hand on my leg ... in fact it's up my skirt! But the guy behind is huge and has a girl-friend of his own, sitting on his lap with her skirt round her waist, and a big hand stuck in the waistband of her panties. Shit! 

I swing back round, embarrassed, and just a little bit shocked. Doesn't she know she can be seen? Not well ... Ngaaaargh! Jeeeesus! My pelvis just flipped. I look at my lap. All I can see is my legs, apart (who decided that?) beneath an abbreviated covering of skirt, and this guy's arm that disappears beneath it. This isn't good. (His fingers are incredible.) I hump all of a sudden, clearly aroused, (and who decided THAT?). Unable to catch the urge to pulse into his touch, I do it, again. Then I reach for his arm, easing it away just a tad. He lets it come, but just the smallest way. I lean to him and hiss in his ear. 'Please, I am hellish sensitive there.' I figure if I'm honest he'll desist. 

'It's alright, pet. I'll be gentle,' he whispers back, dropping his other arm over my shoulder, his hand around the point. I feel the rough sleeve of his shirt at the back of my neck. I try to relax. I try to pay attention to the movie. I try to ignore the arm around my shoulders, and the hand around its point, and the other hand that's in between my legs, playing with my knickers and the bits of me beneath. 

Why didn't I tell him I didn't want him to touch me at all, instead of just complaining how sensitive I was? I cast my eye around me. We are clearly in the make-out zone of the cinema. All the heads are close, many tight together, some of them out their seats -- the one behind me, for example! I try to relax. 

I glance at Yanti. Her eyes are shut. Her hips have slipped forward in her seat and her head's against the backrest. I check her lap, and see why. The guy has his fingers in the fly at the front of her shorts. The catch at the top is undone and the zip's run down. Yanti's legs are splayed apart. Ngaaar ... I buck in my seat. This guys fingers are too much to bear, and one just went inside my knickers. I lean to him again, my hands back round his forearm. 'Please,' I whisper. 'That really disturbs me.' But his fingers keep playing with my pussy, one of them in against skin, as he whispers back, 




The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 04



'So what'll you give me?' 

What does he mean? 

'What do you mean?' I ask, trying to push on his forearm, trying to close my legs, but electrically aware that a stranger has his finger in my knickers, and is arousing the bejesus out of me. 

'What will you give me in return?' he says, as if we're discussing the film.

I shake my head, but my thighs have contracted around his hand and my pelvis is starting to curl off the seat. 'I have nothing to give,' I say, sounding more dramatic than intended.

'Whatya mean, nothing to give. Okay, this'll do fine,' he responds, and a second broad fingers slips into the leg band of my panties and onto the flushed heated skin of my labia lips. 

'Whatdya want,' I gasp, sliding down the seat, flaring my thighs round his fingers and hand. 

'A breast?' 

I think about that. My breasts are sensitive, especially the nipples, particularly when gently scratched with a fingernail -- one of Zak's specialities. (It drives me wild!) But it couldn't be as bad as having his fingers where they are now. Down there. Where he is causing me to tighten up and start to gasp. 

'Ngaaaar!' He does it again. I do it again. A sudden surge, a sudden rush of feeling, rockets through me. 

'Okay,' I gasp, agreeing. To any bloody thing. Anything has to be better than this ... this torment he is putting me through. I feel his other hand dropping from my shoulder down the front of my chest. I almost reach up to stop him, but remember the deal we just made. I glance to my left. Yanti is lost to the man's hand inside her shorts, which themselves are now well down her hips, knickers too. I can clearly see the fingers where they disappear between her legs, working on her hungrily. How he can do this, while so heavily involved in the heated tryst he is having with the woman he came in with? Kissing and caressing his wife with one hand, groping my Yanti with the other. 

I feel the hand on my breast. It has started to gently squeeze me. It generates a strange feeling, a bit like molasses being poured all over my chest. Then his mouth comes onto my ear. 'D'you like that, pet?' he whispers. I wondered how old he is. I would have said thirties, but his voice sounds older than that. I guess he's Uncle Zak's age. Mid forties, somewhere there. I don't respond. Next thing I know I have his tongue in my ear and he's sucking on the lobe. 'Do you like that, pet?' he asks again, (a man of few words,) breathing the question in my ear. 

'Ngaaar!' I gasp, and jump, then plunge my thighs at his fingers. He hasn't relinquished my pussy. He was meant to! I want to object, but the hand between my legs is driving me nuts. And the one on my breast is starting to have its usual effect. I realise, there and then, that I have to put a stop to this. It's getting out of hand. But my mouth has opened wide and I'm suddenly gasping for breath. (My defence is in tatters before it's got started!) I turn my head again, looking to Yanti for help. To see that the hand from her shorts is pushing up her t-shirt. Yanti does nothing to stop him. Then I have three fingers in my panties and they are starting to do serious damage to my self-control. I turn back to my neighbour, now half over the armrest that's meant to be keeping us apart. 

'Please,' I say, about to appeal to his better nature, but before I can get out the rest of the request I have his mouth over mine. And he's starting to kiss me. When his lips hit mine I drew back my head back, but his arm round my neck pulled it back. Now we are lips to lips and he's practically forcing me to kiss him. 'Hot little honey,' I hear in my other ear, as a second hand snakes over my shoulder and makes for my uninvolved breast. With a start of horror I realise it's Mr Shut-the-fuck-up from the seat behind. The big one, with the girl-friend on his lap. I find myself wondering, kinda vaguely, if the hand he has just closed over my right boob is the same one he had up his dolly's knickers. Then I am kissing my neighbour back. 

The effect of the hands -- where they are and doing what they're doing -- has me wanting to kiss someone. Preferably male. Ideally hard. So I do. Something inside me makes me. Even with this complete stranger! Pretty soon we are French kissing more deeply than I do with David. It's how I kiss with Zak. (Zak is sorta gifted in that department: the reptilian tongue makes the difference.) With this guy next to me it seems to be all about opening the mouth as wide as you can and letting the juices mix and the tongue work hard. 

By the time I realise I am dangerously hot, and extravagantly flushed, and intimately involved in something I really don't think I want to be involved in, with people I don't even know and will probably never see again, my blouse is open and one of the hands on my boobs has found a way under my bra. The other still moulds and squeezes, happy at the feel of me in cotton. But that doesn't last. The clip at the front is located, by one of the guys who's hands explore me -- or maybe even his girl-friend -- and I feel my boobs come free. 

They are not free for long. I am gasping and grunting into the mouth of this guy, when I feel my panties being pulled past my knees though I don't remember them coming off my hips. I lift a knee to slow things down. I wrench my face away. 'Please,' I gasp, reaching for the hand between my legs, trying to stop my thong travelling any lower than it already has. It is my red one. The one I've taken to wearing around the house. It makes me feel ... Me. (It is probably my favourite.) 

As I am contemplating this, my favourite article of clothing leaving its authorised position, my head is moved left, and another man's mouth comes onto mine. I murf an objection into this new mouth, but a tongue, quickly into mine, soon stills my objections. Yanti I notice, while I start to kiss this new guy -- the huge guy behind me, or so I believe -- also has more than one hand on her now. And the new one belongs to the wife! It is stuck between her legs, moving on her hungrily, and causing Yanti to buck and writhe in her seat. Her shorts and knickers are discarded on the floor. Both Yanti's pretty breasts are exposed, one of them deep in the fingers of a large man's hand, being thoroughly mauled. 

I stick my tongue in the big guy's mouth, partly because I wanted to feel what it would be like to do it: because he was so huge. I wanted to see if his tongue was as thick and as long as it seemed to be, and partly because ... I just sort of did it, (without a lot of planning or forethought). 

My favourite thong was now below my knee and my neighbour's hand was back between my legs. This time it was causing mayhem, and a jumpy concern. (Was there some sort of sign you got when you were past the point of no return? Some sort of alarm that went off, caused you to blink, or set up a buzzing in the ear, to say that you had to stop things now or the outcome wouldn't be good.) A part of me was hot and excited and bothered, impulse driven by all that was happening: the bizarre situation; the public place; the people being strangers; Yanti getting similar; four hands, maybe six, wandering all over me, looking for arousal points, private parts, sensory buttons to press or stroke ... fondle ... caress ... Ngaaar! ... or even nip. My pelvis pulsed in the air, off on a trip of its own. Clitoris brushed, then brushed again. Swollen hood attacked. A thorough, yet gentle attack. Drawing the feeling out and up as if it were syrup. Curling it back and stoking it. Then erupting it again!

I wanted to call out for help, but didn't know who I should call to. All of those closest appeared to be involved. Involved already. Involved with us. The two innocent ladies, from home, who had strayed back here, where the bad girls went. Who'd wandered inadvertently into bad boys' territory. Maybe that was it. Maybe the reason the wilder girls, the badder girls, came up here to the back was because this is what happened when they came up here. Other people played with them. Older strangers played with them. Perhaps that was the point of coming up the back? To be played with like this.

Did I want to be taken 'all the way', I wondered, almost compliant with all that my neighbour wanted. All that he wanted to do, with me. All the parts that he seemed to have such a need to explore. The naked, private, bits. Of me. To stroke, caress. Squeeze and lick and kiss, and gently bite. (He wasn't vicious. Not at all. I'd heard they were -- that was one thing at least to be thankful for!) My blouse and bra and cardigan were off to either side or rucked beneath my chin. My breasts were bared. There was a hand involved with each. Testing, checking, caressing, fondling the glands, if such they were -- they felt like plump swollen clumps of sensory nerves! Hard wired into my soul! Hot wired into an agonizing core of lava-like arousal! As if an animal inside me was being played with, and all I could do is stand on the periphery, and watch.

'Graaaagh!' I groaned, as one and then two fingers worked their way inside me. It made a slurping sound. Was I so moist? Had my juices lubricated me to that extent? Which is when I realised my pelvis was lifting off the cinema seat and angling towards the fingers that invaded me, and that I was kissing 'shut-the-fuck-up' as enthusiastically as he was kissing me, and that my tongue was as deep in his mouth as his was in mine, and that the fingernails around one of my nipples were much too long to belong to a man. 

I managed to open my eyes -- a belated attempt to bring some rationale to events -- to note that Mrs wife-of-Yanti's-neighbour had slithered along the seats and was now on her knees between Yanti's legs, her face planted firmly over Yanti's lively pudenda. 'I think,' I said, my mouth my own for a brief few seconds, before shut-the-fuck-up gave into the whining entreaties -- so that's what that sound had been? -- of little Miss sit-on-his-lap-with-his-hand-in-her-pants, and let her kiss me. 

Next thing I know I am tasting lipstick, and peppermint. A womanly scent and taste comes into my mouth with her tongue. Much gentler than him, I note, as my lips give up the sentence they were trying to get round, and meld with Miss hand-in-her-pants. Then, (and it was funny how it happened,) just when I thought it would be nice if it ... wasn't ... all ... so ... rushed ... Miss hand-in-her-pants eased off, a tad, and her lips became all gentleness. 

My own became the same. 

The only girl I'd ever kissed before was Yanti, and only that one time -- under urging and instruction, as it were, of Uncle Zak. But this was sorta different. This was kinda ... serious ... if you know what I mean. As if, being strangers, this was just about the kiss and nothing else. And that being the case we should try to impress. And I think we both got into it.

The lightest touch of lips. Held together but not pressing hard. Her lips were pretty nice, and plump, and mine are girlish, full and pleasantly thick (my Uncle Zack's description) . It was quite a feeling! Four gentle lips held close, all moist, no tongues involved, just the lips themselves, against each other, moving gently, rolling around each other, brushing against each other, enhancing the feeling, the touch. 

Then -- at last, it seemed -- her tongue came out. Like a little animal peeking between the gentle warmth of contact. Tentatively touching. Lightly licking my, by now, quivering lips. Then, as if by a signal, all four plump lips slowly opened and both tongues came out and touched -- like animals rubbing noses, sort of thing. Then, as if the whole orchestra now needed to become involved, everything opens, and spreads, and the little meek animal tongues suddenly grow up, and set about entering, and pretty soon ravishing, the other mouth and tongue. Signal for mayhem. Signal for loss of control. But I couldn't ... lose control. So I murmured instead, between my groans, to the effect that perhaps this had gone on long enough. 

But my girlfriend from the row behind didn't seem to be hearing me. Quite the opposite, in fact. I seemed to be having the sort of effect on her that other parts of me were clearly having on the two men involved. Why did I have this effect? What was it about me that caused three presumably pleasant human beings when out on the street, to become so needy and wanting when put at the back of a cinema, with the lights turned down? Was it, like butterflies, something to do with pheromones? 

I felt it before it went in. What Zak call's 'my friend'. (His prick, my friend -- who is he kidding, the rat!) I violently wrenched myself away from the lips I was growing to enjoy, (the fingers that were doing things to my breasts that were hugely different from anything I'd ever experienced before,) and the lower movement (the one that concerned) where unhygienic practices could lead to serious trouble. 'No. No. No.' I yelped, my eyes, surprised, staring up at the face of quite a pleasant young lady who could not have been too much older than me, leaning over from the seat behind -- still on her boyfriend's knee, still with his hand in her panties!

'Whatisit Sweetie?' asked my latest girlfriend, rotating her hips calmly in response to what the hand was doing inside her panties.

'No,' I said, my eyes I sense as large as saucers.

'Worried?' she said, a ripple of concern floating onto her brow -- though her eyes looked pretty spaced. 

Had I done that to her? Or the hand in her pants?

'Yes,' I agreed. Clutching at the ridges of concern across her brow. 

'Don wan im bareback, huh?' she smiled, stroking my cheek. 

I was turned in my seat, facing my neighbour, upper leg over his, lower stretched out beneath the seat in front, neighbour's lower parts between ... 

'Hey Gabby,' she said, head turning to her man, 'Giv the girl a sheath, there's a daling.'

I had it in my hand. Small and slim and square. I stared at it dumbly. Of course I knew what it was for, but Zak never liked the things. Neither does David. And all the guys in college put it on themselves. Shit, I'd never even handled one before. 

But it seemed my neighbour had! 

It was out of my hand. I was listening to foil rip open. Then there was a bit going on between my legs. I was looking back at Gabby's girl, trying not to stare at what Gabby's hand was doing inside her panties -- although she didn't seem to think it strange. As if that's what you did back here. Have men play with your private parts as you sit, glazy eyed, and take it. Get it off with someone else at the same time to heighten the ... excitement ... or something. 

I decided, while this was going on, and as I appeared to have been presented with a window of opportunity, to take Yanti and get the heck out of here, before I had to experience things I hadn't experienced before, as it were. I turned my head. Yanti was now two seats away, astride the man she had been next to, him with his pants round his knees. She was easing up and down on top of him with a motion that seemed to pass pain to her face, eyes closed, mouth open, head angled towards the darkness overhead. The wife, or maybe girlfriend, was down on the floor, somewhere -- her feet were under mine -- forcing her head behind Yanti's buck naked rear end, doing something with her tongue. 

'Ngaaaaar!' I grunted, taken off guard, swung back around, pelvis suddenly flaring as a now appropriately dressed penis, that belonged to my next door neighbour, went into me a darn sight more hungrily that Uncle Zak ever did, even at his most desperate, (as when he first gets his hands on me after six months apart). 

You can't do much of anything when a thing like that, goes in there, as Yanti and I had discovered already with Zak in the attic. So when hands sought to reposition me astride my neighbour I didn't make it particularly difficult for him to achieve what he wanted to achieve. Pretty soon I was in the same position with my neighbour as Yanti was, with hers. The only difference, I guess, is that I didn't have a girls face and lips and tongue waiting for my ass to descend on the down stroke, like Yanti had. Which is when Gabby's girlfriend's lips sought mine, to make a second difference.

Leaning over the back of the seat, Gabby's hand doubtlessly still in her pants, (she seemed to be happy with it there,) she found my lips with hers, and my tongue, and some of the back of my throat. She reached over me and cupped my naked butt, thrusting up and down with a rhythm that seemed to be inbuilt, or instinct, or something like that. Her fingers started looking for my anus. (Why did I want her to find it? ) 

I started to moan into her mouth, and curl and coil my pelvis in a way that took as much advantage of her wandering hands on the skin of my butt, as it made it easier for my neighbours sheathed knight to thrust ever deeper inside me. The in ... and out ... I found, was nice ...Into me ... then partly out ... then into me ... then partly out ... then into me.

GRAAAH! 

I was slavering out of the side of my mouth. Something to do with my taste buds? 

My row-behind girlfriend noticed, and hungrily licked it off. I was becoming more and more aggressive towards my ride -- for that, I think, is what it properly was; especially seated like this, moving up and down on top of him like this -- my feelings towards my girlfriend from the seat behind became the opposite. And not just her. Even her boyfriend, in fact -- his hand still fondling my nearest breast, although it must have been uncomfortable, sitting as he was, hand-in-pants on his lap. 

She leaned forward to get at my lips. He leaned after her to get at my breast. My relationship towards them seemed to be growing more gentle. Almost loving. As if our relationship was based on mutual respect and gratitude. (They had, after all, provided the 'sheath' as she termed it.) The relationship with my neighbour, on the other hand, the one I was now astride, riding quietly -- we couldn't make too much noise as this was, after all, a cinema, a public place, quite possibly with children not too many rows in front of us, (out for a treat with their grannies, though I'm not sure the film would be their sort of things, either the children, or grannies,) -- was based more on mutual satisfaction. Satisfaction where both of us ... 

Ngrrrrrah! ... I orgasmed violently! (I loved to do that. No getting away from it.) 

I heard groans from Yanti. I knew them well. When Zak had done his work with her Yanti's voice had changed. Become high pitched and lost. Almost like a baby's cry. Little squeals, high pitched and rhythmic. As if she was urging the orgasm out. It came in little steam-train-puffs ... and then ... (There it was now!) ...the mewling, plaintive cry as the orgasm ripped through her innards and swelled and filled her with slick bright purple light. (That's what it sounded like, at least.) 

I glanced at her, still bouncing up and down and starting to grunt -- as I tended to do when getting close -- to see Yanti's lovely face as she came. It was beautiful. As if all her cares and worries had been swept away, and all she knew was a flood of love for all the world. I was pleased to see they were being gentle with her. The man, I guessed, had come as well. 

Then I had other things on my mind -- funny how my girlfriend from the seat behind instinctively knew I was coming again. She stopped kissing me, knowing I probably had better things to do with my mouth. Like stretch it wide open and get all the air that I needed to ride up this peak I was aiming for. 

Why I always approach orgasm as quietly as I do -- compared to Yanti I was quiet as a mouse -- I have no idea. But when it hits I moan so loud and long that Zak, first time he heard me, thought I was dying. He really did! And in a way I was, I suppose. That 'little death' of mine. Though sometimes, when it hits, it feels anything but 'little'! 




The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 04



Yanti looking like a deflated balloon that had just been basted in caramel. She was gently caressed and kissed all over. Mrs neighbour was sitting next to me, in the seat that had been Yanti's, her hands all over her. Then her head turned and she looked at me. Just when I was about to hit the summit! I felt it start to build, and knew I'd make a noise, so I reached for my friend in the row behind and mashed my mouth over hers. 

It was just in time. The howl of release was half way into my mouth by the time our lips had spread and pressed, limpet close. Which is when the sound and all the rest of what goes on at such a time erupted out of me, causing my limbs and torso to buck and leap and then, grind down. Forcing the thing as deep as it would go inside me, hoping it would thereby be driven to even greater heights itself -- for that was the point, was is it not? -- then everything about me seemed to be washed by a rainbow of a planet far different from ours. A planet where everything's irrelevant and nothing really matters. Where enjoyment packs a punch and everything brings joy. Where bodies are allowed to be bodies. To act like bodies, feel like bodies, interact with other bodies. Bodies so lovely for all the love they do, things they excite, feelings they arouse, sensibilities they ...

'Ms Anika!' Someone was shaking my shoulder. 'Ma'am.' I opened my eyes. 'Ms Anika.' It was Yanti. Her eyes an inch from mine. I had to blink. The lights were coming on. Where were we? 'Please.' What did she want? 'We have to hurry.' Why? I wondered. What's the hurry. I blinked my eyes again. Looked up. The cinema. It started coming back to me. 'It's time to go,' said Yanti. Had I fallen asleep? I must have done. Of course. How silly. A dream. I had been dreaming. 'You have to hurry,' said Yanti. 

My eyes became accustomed to the cinema lights, now coming on. We were down on the floor, crouched low. Yanti was pushing my skirt into my chest. I glanced at my thighs. They glistened with sweat. My pubic hairs all matted and damp. 'We have to get dressed,' she hissed, pulling on her panties and shorts. Her bra was still undone, her t-shirt covering a breast, the other bare and bouncing about with the urgency of her actions. I glanced at my own. Nakedness, redness, sweat and finger marks. 

'Better get a move on girls. The cleaners are coming.' 

It was Gabby, along the end of the row, grinning and waving something red.

Dammit, he'd taken my favourite thong!