tagIncest/TabooWe Need To Talk

We Need To Talk

byMarciaRH©

"I have to go pee," she said apologetically.

"I'll go with you," I said, making to rise.

She made a sound of startled horror. "No!" she almost squealed. I accompanied her anyway, Bonnie protesting every step of the way.

She had on something, though what I don't remember. I have no memory of seeing her nude, or having made love to her. I had been searching for my sister's lost youngster, Brad, gone missing at a family outing at Carlton Regional Park. We'd found him hiding in the corner of a shelter and packed him off to his mom and dad via my wife. To my knowledge, Bonnie hadn't been around through that point. Where she came from, or how we ended up in bed is a mystery.

"Oh, sorry," Bonnie muttered apologetically. She'd pushed open the bathroom door and surprised a woman hulking in the darkness. "Matty?" she asked, closing the door again. I knew Matty, though neither Bonnie nor I realized that she was Bonnie's mother in the dream. Dreams are strange that wasy.

We retreated to the bedroom and Bonnie quickly dressed, both of us aware the danger we were in of discovery. My wife should be home any minute now, I knew, and Matty was a snoopy somebody, sure to pursue the mystery of Bonnie and her Uncle Jack.

"Help me with this," Bonnie pleaded. She was in jeans and a button down cotton shirt. She had backed to me with her shirt pulled up in the back. I eyed the waistband of her pink panties, peeking out the top of her blue jeans. I misinterpreted her plea and asked if she wanted the back of her jeans yanked up to cover her panties.

"No!" she complained in exasperation. "My bra!" Shaking the bottom of her shirt brought the ends of her bra straps to my attention.

"Oh," I said stupidly. The dimples in her lower back just above the top of her panties caused distraction, and I wanted to remove her clothing, not help her into it again. Instead, I grabbed the loose bra straps and used them to raise the rear of her shirt up to her shoulder blades, exposing her bare back.

"Uncle Jack!" she hissed, twisting and trying to reclaim her modesty.

"I want to see. I haven't seen them yet, Bonnie."

Instead of spinning her around, I cupped her small but perfectly formed breasts; hers nipples, erect and hard as fingertips, tickled my palms. She squirmed and made a protesting mewling sound, which made me laugh. I nuzzled the back of her neck, thought momentarily about sliding my hand down the front of her jeans, but she put a stop to that idea by rotating to face me. Keeping her arms up and out of the way, I bent and kissed each of her pea-sized nipples.

"Uncle Jack! No!" she protested, shivering. We both sensed the presence of Matty outside the bedroom door. We were moments away from discovery. The door behind me began to push open, and then I awoke.

* * *

"Well, fuck!" I muttered disgustedly. It was a dream, nothing more. Arousal had me hard as a railroad spike, but luckily, I hadn't come. I was close to it, but waking prematurely had spiked my ejaculation, saving me the chagrin of having to clean up, and the embarrassment of explaining why to my wife. She remained asleep, breathing softly through her open mouth. Nothing worse than having a wet dream right next to your wife.

I waited out my erection and went into the bathroom to go pee. Janice stirred, but only shouldered the covers closer to her jaw, murmuring unintelligibly. Standing at the toilet, I savored the extent of the dream still captured in memory. Five minutes after waking, the best I could do was the roughly page worth of details noted above. Snippets resurfaced here and there over the next few hours, such as holding a naked Bonnie against me, her bare back and rear end warm against my chest and crotch, while I urged her to take me in hand and stroke me between her spread thighs. In the dream, my cock was quite a bit thicker and longer than in reality. In the end, it was me that took the monster in hand and did the dead. Other, less clear and pertinent details of the earlier dream are not worth recalling.

I fantasized over Bonnie the next couple of days and then let it go. A week later, I unexpectedly found her at the in-laws house, visiting along with her new boyfriend, whose name is Ted.

"Bonnie!" my wife exclaimed, grabbing her for a big hug. We'd commented on the cream colored Toyota Highlander in the driveway, but hadn't connected it with Bonnie. My recollection was that she drove a KIA Sedona; it turned out she'd traded it in for the Highlander just last week.

Bonnie introduced us all around. I shook hands with Ted whom I immediately disliked. Tall and blonde and preppy and full of himself, his handshake was of the "crush the opponent" variety. I refused the bait, letting him wring my grip to his heart's content. He made a point of not letting go for three or four seconds beyond what decorum allowed. I ignored the glint in his eye and the upturned corner of his mouth, giving my attention to Bonnie.

Bonnie is my favorite niece. I get along better with Bonnie than most other relations of my wife, whose family is generally pretty lame, or pretty obnoxious. I've never shown any sexual interest in Bonnie, nor she in myself. Because of the dream, I kept both my expression and my interest neutral. I wanted to scrutinize every inch of her, though. Down boy, I thought. To my surprise, Bonnie had difficulty meeting my eyes, and was standoffish and anxious, to the extent she reddened slightly and the hug she gave me was perfunctory, at best.

What's that about? I thought. The rest of the visit was just as uncomfortable.

Two nights later, I dreamed of her again.

"Uncle Jack?" she said. "Is this yours?"

I looked at the Sports section in her hand. I ignore that section of the paper completely, being totally uninterested in any team sports. Regardless, I cocked my head to see the picture on the front page: a bunch of Redskins in burgundy and gold caught in intense conflict with the other team. I shook my head.

"You like the Redskins?" I asked.

"I love the Redskins," she admitted. "I don't like them, though," she said, tapping the folded paper with a stubby-nailed fingertip.

I looked more closely at the picture. "The Vikings?" I inquired.

Bonnie shook her head, pointing out the green and white uniforms of the Philadelphia Eagles. I vaguely remembered the Vikings wearing purple and white.

"OK," I said, eyeing the disturbingly plain, dark gray corduroy bib overalls she wore over a flannel shirt. With her mussed hair, shapeless form, dearth of make-up, and masculine posture, she could easily be a boy. Or a tomboy, I thought, distractedly. Her breasts were undetectable under the bib overalls.

"I'd like to go the next time they play at home," she said. "Would you take me, Uncle Jack?"

I shook my head. "Not to the Stadium/Armory." I hated the parking situation downtown, especially the half-collapsed underground garage they kept putting off repairing, and the un-navigable maze of railroad tracks surrounding the complex. Some fool, probably to save money, had located the stadium dead-smack in the middle of the Washington Rail Yard. FedEx Field did not exist in my dream.

She scratched her left underarm. "How about if I drive? Would you take me then?"

I was about to answer that might be better idea than me driving, when my wife elbowed me out of sleep.

"What?" I complained.

"You were talking in your sleep again," she muttered irritably.

"What did I say?"

"I don't know," she grouched. "Something about football tickets." She got up reluctantly to go pee. "Who were you arguing with, anyway?"

I told her the truth. She grumbled something about late-night eating of leftover pizza, stumbled around the foot of the bed and made for the bathroom. She didn't broach the subject of sex-dreams, but why should she? It was an argument she had woken me up from.

There was more to this dream, just like there was more to the family outing dream, but everything other than what I described above was lost. I believe Bonnie had been careless in buttoning the top of her flannel shirt and allowed me tantalizing glimpses of her chest, but that might be wishful thinking. I do remember concentrating unusual attention on the seductive rise of her neck from the confines of her shirt collar though, and that's not wishful thinking, not in the least. Bonnie has the most seductively long, slender and oh-so kissable neck in the world. I drifted off to sleep fantasizing about kissing that exquisite neck and removing her bib overalls.

* * *

A month went by with no dreams and no sight of Bonnie. She'd slipped almost entirely from my thoughts by then--during the daylight hours, at least--and the few times I dwelled upon her at night, propriety kept the perusing as vanilla as a Nabisco cookie. It had been two or three days since I'd thought of her at all. Then I awoke with a start at 3:15 AM Saturday morning, grabbing my cock to keep it from spewing liquid fire into my shorts.

Jesus Christ, I thought frantically. I'd been in a mountain cabin way out in the middle of nowhere. There was a snowstorm raging, and Bonnie was down on her hands and knees on the rough timber flooring (not planks, but the same logs as made up the cabin walls), scraping mud from between the boughs with a carpenter's wide-blade drywall knife. She was cursing and frustrated and on the verge of hopelessness. No matter how much she scraped up with the blade, more mud oozed up to take its place. Bizarre as that scenario is, imagine Bonnie on her hands and knees wearing nothing but a kitchen apron.

"Bonnie!" I complained in the dream. "It's useless!"

"Then get down here and help me!" she cried. She was frantic now; the three galvanized steel pails she'd balanced precariously before her on the logs overflowing with mud. Every trowel-full sent equal amounts over the rim and down the caked sides. Drop-jawed, I stared in amazement at the little pink ring of her asshole, and the wonderful offering of her moist, warmly pink and inviting slit below. My breathing was labored and my heart beat erratically. Unzipping my pants in preparation of taking her there on her hands and knees, in her apron, impaling her anally with my aching muscle, forced me awake, gasping and ready to come.

Beside me, Janice moaned and bunched the covers more tightly to her chin. She shifted, drawing up her knees and then crossing one leg over the other. I watched her, breath clenched in my throat and cock clenched in my fist. Slowly the need to ejaculate slipped away. After a minute I slid carefully from bed and tiptoed to the toilet to relieve myself. I waited for my aching prostate to relax and release the voluminous contents of my bladder, which sounded loud as a jet engine on impact.

I had to wonder: Why suddenly, was Bonnie in my head like this? I'd never had a desire for her; no more than the usual male stirrings generated by a pretty young girl. I'd watched her grow from a 12-year-old old into beautiful young womanhood; she might as well have been blood. I considered her blood. Powerful feelings of kinship overpowered any of lust, so what was she doing naked in my dreams offering her exquisite asshole and luscious sexual aperture for fucking?

"Fuck," I muttered bitterly. "You got to stop this shit, Jack. This is totally unacceptable behavior."

I returned to bed and dreamed of her again.

* * *

The following Thursday, Thanksgiving, the entire family descended on Eva and Carl's house for turkey and football. Minnesota played Detroit and battled fiercely right down to the final second of the game. Minnesota, 7-1 entering the match-up, crawled off the field with their 8th victory, pulling it out with a last second field goal, the score 51 to 48. An incredible, adrenalinized game.

Everyone picked a favorite, and though no one cared squat about either team, each of us rooted for our pick ferociously. Even Bonnie, usually cold as packaged cold cuts about football, got swept up in the excitement and did her share of shouting, gesticulating and threatening the obstinate, wide-screen TV. She practically gnawed a thumbnail into extinction during the final minutes as Minnesota slogged their way down the muddy field to score.

"Fuck!" she hissed bitterly as the place kicker lofted the ball cleanly over the goalpost into the net, directly between the uprights. The house was raucous as I'd ever seen it, as raucous as Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota.

"Fuck! Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!" she muttered fiercely. Everyone around her laughed and or chastised her over the language. Bonnie smiled tightly and wagged her head side to side, arms crossed tight as steel bands over her chest. She looked ready to detonate. Then she cut her eyes toward me and her arms tightened and her shoulders hunched forward into a U. Already blazing with indignation and anger, her cheeks bloomed the color of roses.

We ate then. Bonnie sat opposite me next to her boyfriend, Lunk-head, as I'd come to call him, and her usual incessant chatter was throttled to an occasional two or three word response, an occasional request to pass a bowl of this, or a plate of that, or an infrequent comment about the subject currently under discussion. Not once did she catch and hold my eye. I was becoming aggravated.

"What's going on, Bonnie?" I whispered. She was at the sink, Eva's apron wrapped tightly around her protecting her clothes (not the apron from the dream, though I didn't miss the significance of the coincidence ), and I didn't miss her wince and near-recoil away from me when I spoke. She tried to meet my eyes, but couldn't.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was tight and an octave too high.

"You're avoiding me like the plague. Worse than you did last time I saw you here. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she lied badly. If not for the wet dishes in her hands, I believe she would have wrapped herself protectively in her arms and hunched against my presence, like a salt pillar. I wanted to grab her arm and shake her until she faced me, a shockingly foreign emotional response. Instead, I walked away and left her to the dishes.

* * *

Three weeks later, I received a surprise phone call.

"Uncle Jack?"

"Bonnie?" I said, startled.

"We need to talk."

I said okay, and agreed to meet her at a McDonald's mid-way between her place and ours. Janice was away for the weekend, and Bonnie knew this from reading her Facebook postings, I later discovered I drove the 22 miles from Clinton in consternation; she refused to discuss things over the phone.

"Did you want something to eat?" I asked. She wore an expensive black leather jacket over a zippered peach sweater over black leggings and boots with fur overflowing the top. At 22, a college graduate with a BA in computer sciences, Bonnie was already making more than either Janice or I, an RN, and a small business owner. Bonnie was both brilliant, and determined, a Class 1 overachiever, a Type A personality. Right now she looked more like an overdressed, troubled teenager. She shook her head.

"Coffee?" I suggested.

She gazed pessimistically at the menu selection and sighed. McDonald's will never be a true menace to Starbucks. Her normally impeccable hairdo was surprisingly disobedient today, I noticed, reminding me of her disheveled mop in the Redskins dream. Though disturbing, I liked the look.

"A caramel frappe?" she ventured.

"Caramel frappe, it is." While she grabbed us a table in the back, as far from the windows as possible, I went to the counter. Outside, the lowering overcast made it look more like 4 o'clock in the afternoon than just before noon. It was barely in the 40's with a northwest wind gusting into the 20's. Not a day to wash the car. I returned to the table with her frappe and a medium size coffee for myself. I prefer 7-11's over anybody's.

"I was surprised to hear from you," I said.

She unwrapped her straw and slid it through the top of the clear domed lid. I had to admit the frappe looked enticing. I prefer my coffee steaming hot though, unadulterated, and carefully folded back the tab and blew on the surface through the dime-sized hole. Bonnie sipped her concoction and frowned.

"Maybe we should have met somewhere else," I suggested.

She shrugged.

At the head of the aisle a trio of teenagers stopped to discuss lunch options. They not so clandestinely checked Bonnie out as they did. I ignored them as best I could because Bonnie always draws looks, even though her looks are more suggestive of beauty than beautiful in reality. Her features are a bit too sharp, the planes of her face too odd-angled. No one can beat her eyes though, and right now, they were uncomfortably trying to meet mine.

"Tell me what's wrong, Bonnie."

"I keep dreaming about you, Uncle Jack."

I blinked, startled. "Dreaming...about me?"

She nodded, sipping her drink. "Every single night. Sometimes three or four times a night." She looked down at the table. "It's become very stressful for me, Uncle Jack."

Numb with shock, I nodded.

"The worst of it is..." Her face became a mottled, frustrated red. She shook her head in denial.

I cleared my throat. "How long has this been going on?" Her answer of two months made me shudder. I too, had been dreaming of her every night lately.

"I can't..." She made a choking, coughing sound, put a hand to her mouth and looked away. "I don't know what's going on with me. These dreams are so real-not real, you know, but intense. I forget almost everything afterward, but it's still there, bits and pieces and fragments. Enough to make me very uncomfortable in my own skin." Her face couldn't be more red.

I thought: There's no way you can tell her about the dreams you're having. She'll see that as ill-conceived bullshit, an attempt to diminish her own suffering by hemming in on it, making it about yourself instead of her. Not to mention how ridiculous a claim like that would sound. I didn't believe it myself.

"If I ever came across as attracted to you, did anything to generate or encourage these dreams, Bonnie, I'm sorry. I never intentionally-" She put up a hand to stop me. I took another sip of my coffee, waited patiently. What a lie that is.

"What do you want to do?" I asked finally.

In a very tight, trembling voice she told me.

* * *

She called at 11:30 the next morning. I stared at the cell phone in my hand, trembling with anxiety--and a good lick of fear. I had never cheated on Janice before. "Hi, Bonnie," I answered. She was crying.

We arranged to meet at Starbucks this time. It was a mile closer to Bonnie's house and we met there at 1 o'clock. If Bonnie had been out of sorts the day before, she looked moderately stunned today. Shell-shocked is a better word. Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. The red of her nose had nothing to do with the cold, and she only shook her head at me as I closed her car door and offered a hug. I followed her in, not even allowed to be gentlemanly with the front door. She again chose the most secluded table and sat down, awkwardly extracting herself from her coat after sitting. It was the same leather coat she'd worn yesterday. Wordlessly, I shrugged off my own coat and hung it over the back of my chair.

"What would you like?" I asked.

Her voice was low and bitter. "For someone to cut my fucking head off."

Appropriately stung, I walked to the counter and ordered us the Starbucks' equivalent of yesterday's McDonald's confections. Her frappe looked and smelled significantly better, but I've already stated my preference in coffee. I waited the five minutes at the counter rather than go back to the table empty handed.

Her outfit today mirrored her mood: a black turtleneck tucked into black jeans and black leather boots. The turtleneck was unfortunately form fitting and elastic, emphasizing her small, high breasts. Bonnie had a true cheerleaders physique. I wished she had left her coat on.

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