Getting Reacquainted

It was nearly 10pm when my phone chirped. Work had been stressful at my counseling practice since my assistant had decided not to come back after her maternity leave. We'd agreed that she would come in part-time after six weeks, which would have been fine since my appointments slowed down once Covid-19 reared its ugly head. But months later, depression cases were on the rise, and half of my clients were couples who needed help due to being stuck alone together for weeks at a time. In addition to providing therapy, I now had to handle all the scheduling, billing, and disinfecting the entire office between each appointment. I needed help.

I was already halfway through my second glass of scotch when I looked at the phone to see who had texted. I was surprised to see it was my sister-in-law asking if I was still looking for help at the office. I initially wondered how she knew, then why she would care. The first answer was easy; she'd obviously talked to my mother. The second was harder to puzzle out.

Though my older brother and I were only a few years apart, we've never been all that close. In addition, we'd had a bit of a falling out years ago when he'd slept with my fiancée at the time. We both ended up marrying other women, but I never really forgave him for it. Now he works for a pharmaceutical company and his wife is a corporate attorney, which made it confusing why she was asking whether I was hiring.

Nevertheless, I responded that I was having trouble finding part-time help since the college students in town had been sent home. My business relies primarily on word of mouth, so most of the applicants were friends or relatives of clients whom I couldn't consider due to privacy concerns and conflicts of interest. My sister-in-law in law told me that she knew all about the university shuttering, since her daughter was a senior there. I'd nearly forgotten that my niece attended, since I only ever saw her every few years as she grew up. Though I barely knew Rose, I'd always liked her; it wasn't her fault that her parents were wankers.

My brother's wife explained that my niece hadn't moved home when the university went to all online classes because she couldn't get out of her apartment lease. Now she was looking for work since her retail job played her off indefinitely. I told my sister-in-law to give her daughter my number and we would schedule a time for an interview.

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My phone buzzes and I see your name come up on a text: "I'm here."

I text back for you to come up to the office and the door opens immediately. I know it's you immediately despite the mask you're wearing. I'm not surprised by your aqua hair. I see a lot of brightly colored hair in a college town. However, I'm a little taken aback by the way your leggings accentuate your curves. You've clearly developed quite a bit since I last saw you in high school. Even the hoodie you wear doesn't do much to hide the swell of your breasts, and I need to remind myself to quit ogling my own niece and potential employee.

"Right on time, I see. Thanks for being punctual," I muster as I reach out for a handshake. Instead, you quickly step toward me and embrace me in a tight hug. I don't remember you ever hugging me so affectionately before and I silently wonder if it's gratitude or if you're lonely from self-isolation.

"Oh, sorry," you squeak out as you step back, "should I not do that here your office?"

"Maybe not at work," I respond with a grin.

"Look," I continue, "I know I said on the phone that we'd have an interview, but I haven't had many reliable people applying for the job, and I know you're smart and capable, so I'm willing to give you a chance and we'll see how things work out."

"Thanks, Uncle...." you beam, "You won't regret this."

"It might be best not to call me uncle or by my first name when clients are around. It doesn't sound very professional," I state. "But I understand if it seems weird to call me 'Mister ......', since we have the same last name. So at the office, I think it's best if you just call me 'Sir'."

"Yes, Sir," you reply. I can clearly see that you're smiling beneath your mask. After you assure me that you've been quarantining, I inform you that you should only need to wear a mask when clients are in the office - as we thoroughly disinfect between each appointment. I mostly need help in the afternoons and evenings, and the job includes mostly taking calls, filing, and signing in clients and screening them for Covid symptoms. I'll train you on our billing software over the next few weeks.

"I think your hair color is fine, it's common enough these days for young people to dye their hair. Dress is business casual, so dresses, skirts, slacks, blouses, sweaters, you know...," I trail off as you nod.

"Okay, then. I guess I'll see you tomorrow around 2 o'clock?" I tell you.

You grab me again for an even longer, tighter hug, saying, "Thank you again...... Sir."

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The next month passes quickly, and I'm impressed by how quickly you learn the ropes. It's also a welcome change to have someone else in the office to talk to between appointments. I'm not sure if I imagine it, but it seems that more of the women in couples counseling are complaining about their significant others and their 'wandering eyes', though only one mentions looking at you specifically. I can hardly blame them, after all. Whether it be the skirts that expose the smooth skin of your legs or fitted pants that emphasize the curves of your hips behind, everything you wear makes you look amazing.

At the end of a particularly long day, in which the same woman storms out accusing her husband of "eye-fucking the receptionist out front", I decide that I need to unwind and offer to take you out celebrate your first month on the job.

"Where can we go, though? No place is open," you casually remind me.

"There's a decent Indian place near my house that delivers," I suggest.

"Are you sure it's no trouble?" you ask.

"I'd be glad for the company," I reply, "My wife is visiting her sister, so you'll be saving me from eating alone. I can drive you home afterward."

A short car ride and a phone call later, I'm cursing myself. "Well, shit. I forgot that they're not open on Monday. Y'know what? I can make a butter chicken curry that's almost as good as theirs. Open up one of those bottles of pinot and I'll start dicing chicken," I suggest.

"It's okay. You don't have to cook for me," you protest. I'm not listening, though. I'm craving curry and I won't hear any argument. Once you realize I won't be swayed, you pour us each a glass of wine as I prepare the chicken for the pan.

As the chicken cooks, I tell you to open the pantry and get some rice. I shamelessly take in the sight of your rounded ass as you bend over to reach down to the shelf. When you quickly turn your head to ask me which kind, I know I'm busted. You play it off as if you don't notice, even though we both know better, as I reply, "Uh... the basmati."

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We made small talk through dinner, mostly me asking how classes are and how you like working in the office, and you complimenting the meal and remarking how seldom you get good home cooking. One bottle of wine flows to a second bottle, and the question comes: "How come you and my dad don't talk much?" I clumsily attempt to evade the question by asking what you mean, but you roll your eyes. "I'm not sure that's something your dad wants you to know," I reply. You bite your lip and coyly twirl a lock of your aqua hair, saying, "Come on... I'm really good at keeping secrets."

You continue your inquisition until I relent and explain how, before he ever met your mother, your father had sex with a woman I was engaged to marry. Your eyes widen in disbelief, then your face splits into a grin and you ask, "Whoa. Does mom know?"

"I seriously doubt it. I can't imagine that your dad told her, and Grandma and Grandpa don't know either, though they know there's something keeping your dad and me from being as close as they'd like," I explain.

"I thought there might be something, but I never thought it would be anything like that. I can't imagine him doing that," you ponder. "Did you ever think about getting revenge?"

"You mean like with your mom?," I ask. "No. That thought never crossed my mind." At that thought we both burst out laughing as we drain our glasses. As I get up to get another bottle, I notice you watching me and biting your lip again. I hold up the bottle as if to ask if you'd like more.

"I'm a little drunk," you say, "Are you sure you're still okay to drive me home?"

After thinking for a moment, I reply, "I will be in an hour or two... probably not if we open this. You're welcome to stay in the guest room if you'd like."

"Open it," you say with a mischievous smile, then inquire, "Hey, can I use your bathroom?"

"Of course. Upstairs, first on the left," I direct as I uncork the bottle, "I'll be in the living room with your wine." My eyes are glued to your swaying hips as you saunter up the stairs. Again, you turn our head and catch me looking. This time, you don't pretend to not notice, instead giving me a sly smirk before continuing upstairs.

I pour us each another glass and set them down on the table next to the sofa as I sit, grabbing the remote. Waiting for the tv to connect to the wifi so we can watch something, it occurs to me that I don't really know what kinds of shows you enjoy. My musing is interrupted by movement at the top of the stairs. I'm astonished to see you step silently down toward me with bare feet and wearing one of my wife's nightgowns.

"I raided your closet. Hope she won't mind," you say playfully.

"I'm sure it's fine," I say in reply, thinking to myself that there's no way I'd ever let my wife know that our niece was spending the night here in her sleepwear anyway.

"I figured if I'm sleeping over, I should be comfy," you offer, "Besides, I wouldn't want to get my work outfit all wrinkled by sleeping in it."

"Makes sense," I say as I hand you your wine. You surprise me by drinking half in one swallow, then bending slightly to set it back down on the table. I'm blessed by a brief glimpse of creamy flesh beneath the loose-fitting gown before you sit sideways on my lap instead of next to me on the sofa.

"Are we watching something?" you ask, eying the television.

"I haven't decided on anything yet," my mouth speaks, but my brain is asking: "What on Earth is going on here?"

"Let me help," you say in a throaty voice, barely above a whisper. You take the remote from my trembling hand, but instead of putting it to use, you toss it on the other end of the sofa. Uncertain of what to do with my hand, I place it tentatively on your knee, hoping I don't seem creepy.

"I really want to thank you for all you've done for me. Not just dinner tonight, but the job and everything," you continue, your forehead inches from mine as you hold my gaze.

I frantically search for words, but all I can come up with are, "Um, yeah... it's... uh... worked out well for both of us."

"Yeah. It has" you whisper. With that, I feel your lips brush gently against mine.

"Um. That was..." I begin before I'm interrupted by your mouth pressing more firmly this time. My heart is racing, but I allow you to continue, and when I feel the tip of your tongue dance lightly across my lips, I can't help but respond. I push worry out of my thoughts and surrender to instinct. Soon our tongues are entwined together, darting like fencers' blades. When you take mine into your mouth and suck on it, you elicit a sharp intake of breath from me followed by a hungry growl. You've found one of my secret weaknesses. My hand moves up your thigh and now grips your soft hip as we both moan in passion.

Then you stand as suddenly as you had sat down, and I'm afraid I let things go too far. I assume you did what I couldn't: that you've come to your senses and will be heading off to bed, so I attempt to stand and do the same - only to be pushed back down onto the couch. You drain what wine is left in your glass and kneel on the floor in front of me, your hands slithering from my knees toward my pockets then heading for my belt. My mind is in a fog, trapped between fear, guilt, and desire. I've been fully erect since our first kiss, so it's unsurprising that it springs forward as soon as you release it from my trousers.

"You have a really nice dick," you tell me, grinning ear to ear. I struggle to respond to your compliment, but my mouth has gone dry. Instead, I take a page from your book and pick up my glass, draining the contents all at once. I'm lost in the ecstasy you provide as you bathe my phallus with your tongue. As you take it into your mouth, I imagine that this is what heaven must be like. You notice my head lolling backward and giggle.

"Looks like you're enjoying yourself. Does your wife not do this for you?" you question with your head tilted to one side.

"Rarely," I answer, "Very rarely." You seem to take my reply as a challenge, as if even more determined to make this experience as enjoyable as possible for me. I'm surprised when I feel my glans make contact with your tonsils, then feel your throat close around the head. After a few moments, you lift your head with a small cough.

"You don't have to deep throat it to make me happy, " I try to explain, "Suction and tongue work are more important, anyway." You glance quickly up at me, then undeterred, engulf my pole in your throat once again. As the idea that you might like it a little rough finally dawns on me, I run my hands through your light blue hair, winding the strands around my fingers. As you bob up and down, I encourage your movements - gently at first, then more forcefully. I can't remember the last time I was so hard. Selfishly, I grasp your hair tightly and press hard, plunging my swollen member as deep into your gullet as I can. I hold it there as the seconds pass, the release you. You sputter as you struggle for breath, but you're still wearing a smile as you wipe the corners of your eyes.

Those eyes are still shining when you look at mine to ask, "Did you like that, Uncle....?"

"No." I interrupt.

My answer takes me by surprise for a second, and there's a look of shock on your face as well. Something about that word provoked something in me. Something made it seem... not right. It takes me another second to understand.

"Call me 'Sir'," I demand with all the authority I can muster. As my understanding passes to you, your expression of surprise transforms into your familiar mischievous grin.

"Yes, Sir," you purr, "did you enjoy that, Sir?"

"You know I did," I smile.

You're still beaming as I reach forward and grasp your shoulders, lifting upward to signal you to stand. I stand up with you and you begin to turn toward the kitchen when I stop you immediately. It's your turn. Before you can react, I toss you onto the sofa. Swiftly sweeping your legs off the floor, I lift them onto my shoulders. Reaching for the waistband of your underwear, I unceremoniously yank your panties to your ankles then off completely. My eyes drink in the heady sight before me. Your breasts are heaving beneath the borrowed nightgown as you pant in anticipation. In the dim glow of the television, I see glistening between your legs.

I plant kisses from your calves up your thighs and blow softly on your labia until you're wiggling with need, only then do I give you the attention you desire. I plant my tongue firmly at your entrance and lick slowly upward, rewarded by a groan of pleasure. Over and over, I repeat the action, savoring the pungent flavor of your womanhood. After a few minutes, I focus my ministrations on your clit while my hand crawling upward to your soft nipples. I pinch and twist them roughly as your small landing strip tickles my nose. Relentlessly, my tongue continues to lavish attention on your clitoris. When I hear your breathing quicken, I bring one hand down to your now-dripping pussy, leaving the other to fondle your breasts and tweak your nipples.

Sliding first one, then two fingers into your sopping slot, I intensify my oral assault. I pump my fingers into you until I hear you pant with exasperation, "Oh, god. Oh, yes. Oh, god, yes, yes, yes...."

I suck your clit into my mouth and press hard with my tongue while simultaneously wriggling my two fingers against your g-spot. I hear you cry out as you're wracked with orgasm. I feel you tighten around my fingers and I hold them steady as they're soaked with your juices. I hear you mutter something incoherently and ask what you said. You provide only a satisfied laugh by way of reply.

I kneel upright above you and gaze down admiringly. You're quite beautiful; smiling and flushed from your climax. I get my first look at your pink nipples. I don't think I've ever seen such perfect tits - so pliable, yet perky. I know I must have a stupidly happy grin on my face, but your next words step me from my trance instantly.

"Fuck me, Sir."

"Are... are you sure?" I ask.

"Please? Please fuck me, Sir," you whimper, "I need it. I need your cock."

I'm still as hard as I've ever been as I bring my dick to your lips. I get the head good and wet before sliding it over your sensitive clit, enjoying the whine I get in response. As slowly as I can, I slide my cock all the way inside your cunt. I can feel the tip just touching your cervix, so I leave it there for a minute. Gently rocking my hips, I press my pelvic bone against your clit, leaving my throbbing cock embedded inside you. Backing out a bit, I lift your ankles onto my shoulders and start delivering long, slow strokes. Your pussy is so smooth and slick, but has the heat of a furnace.

After a few minutes of this, you beg, "Please, Sir, harder. Fuck me harder. Please?" I comply by grabbing your shapely hips and pistoning until, once again, your orgasm renders you unable to speak.

I decide it may be time for us to take a break, but clearly you have other plans. You shove me backward onto the rug and climb on top of me. Without a word, you plant your mouth on mine. Our tongues, now familiar with one another, resume their dance from earlier. I feel your delicate fingers grasp my penis before positioning it where you want it. With one smooth movement, I'm again completely enveloped within you. You break our kiss and sit upright, astride me like a champion rider. I'm mesmerized by the gentle sway of your breasts. Leaning up, I bring my mouth to your flawless tits to get my first taste of those glorious nipples, suckling one, then the other.

Relinquishing control to you, I lie back as you ride me with abandon. I sense that I won't be able to hold back my own climax much longer. "Nngg. I'm getting close," I inform you through gritted teeth. Undeterred, you keep bouncing on my pole.

"Mm-hmm. Me, too. Cum with me. Cum inside me," you say without missing a beat.

With that, I lose what little self-control remains. I grab your hips and deliver a powerful upward thrust, releasing months of pent up sexual frustration. As you feel my cock throb within you and jettison its seed deep inside, your orgasm crests and you roll your hips as you ride it out. An animal scream escapes both our lips, merging into a single chorus of passion and satisfaction.

Struggling to catch our breath, you still lay atop me. A nagging thought occurs to me. Before I can even consider it, I hear my voice blurt it out.

"I don't suppose you're on birth control, are you?"

"No, I'm not," you answer, wistfully. We're both quiet for a minute, thinking about the ramifications of what we just did. The silence is broken by a chuckle.

"What's funny?" I ask.

"Nothing," you lie, "It's just.... Is this why your last assistant ended up on maternity leave?" We both break out in hearty laughter.