Jen's Island Excursion

"You feel that?" he asked, smiling down at me, his expression suggesting he liked me a lot.

"Yes," I confessed. I'd just thrust my breast -- instinctively, entirely unintended -- into the fingers that tantalized and toyed. My nipples had certainly not got any less sensitive since the last time I stroked them myself. If anything, much more so!

"Yes," I repeated, intending to follow it up with a remark to the effect that perhaps, sensitive as they were, affecting me as his actions were, perhaps it would be better if he stopped. But as he'd gently cupped my breast with his open hand, and softly squeezed, which made me catch my breath, I didn't manage to finish the sentence. But this had to be enough, I decided, or something inside me decided. But he changed the subject again, back to me, the me of the future rather than the bodily me, here and now.

"What do you look for in a man?"

(Not a 'boy', but a 'man')

This made me think. It was not easy to think while my uncle gently fondled, rolled and squeezed my breasts. I tried to let him know this by reaching up and placing my hand over his. But he carried on anyway.

What would I look for in a man?

"Take your time," he said.

He'd never spoken to me so softly before. Our eyes met and he smiled, and I smiled back. What did I look for? Did I know enough to know?

"Can I kiss you?" he said, my mind still churning for the answer to his question. He already had. Nothing had changed since then.

"Of course," I whispered, my smile still there, though 'of course' was not really what I meant. What I really meant, I realized, as his lips met mine with a gentleness that was difficult to believe came from someone as big and bulky as my uncle could possibly achieve. It was more along the lines of 'I think it might be better if you didn't'... but by the time I'd figured this out, my mouth was open and his tongue was with it, in my mouth.

Being kissed like this -- much of the focus on the interplay of tongues, and the eroticism that comes from knowing someone else's tongue is in your mouth -- takes daily cares away. It takes you somewhere else, somewhere more exciting, perhaps. The fact that it's my uncle's tongue, and that I, his niece, purposely let it in seems to ratchet up the zing-thing even more.

I think for a moment I surrendered. That's not true. It was not for a moment, it was the moment. I surrendered to the moment of my uncle wanting to put his tongue in his mouth while fondling my breast -- a caress intended to arouse. It was his way of trying to arouse me, to turn me on. I knew that, I wasn't a fool. Under normal circumstances, I should've resisted, there was also -- as in now -- the heady recklessness of doing it, even though it shouldn't be done. Of letting him use me as an adult might wish, a grown man might want. The masculine urge, the need to possess... me the object of possession.

Then it was over -- the kiss -- and I remembered his question. I tried to answer it in a way that didn't sound too childish or church-ish.

He continued to caress me as I talked... my breasts, my nipples, my neck, my ears, my throat, over my shoulders, down my arms, back over my shoulders, up my neck, the lobes of my ears, into my hair. We'd kissed, my inner me said. Intimately kissed. He'd already fondled me everywhere. There seemed nothing wrong with letting him continue what I'd already allowed him to do... more than once. So I went on talking, and he went on caressing me, embarrassment magically gone.

It was after a third or fourth circle of my tummy that his fingertips came into contact with the hip band of my briefs. A high alert ran through me, impossible to stop, but possible to ponder... but just as quickly the moment passed, as they slipped past, moving gently down my legs. It was the absentminded, affectionate way my uncle, all his attention on me, caressed me gently as he talked, lightly stroked as he listened, and softly petted his favorite niece as he smiled and asked more questions. As if he couldn't get enough of me. The sun was warm. His touch was deft, and soft, and kind. It moved over my briefs again, out at the side by my hip... his fingers quickly passed.

"What three things could you put your finger on that show you stopped being a girl and started being a woman?" he asked.

What a question! As he asked it, and my expression told him it was a difficult one, he eased closer. Rolled himself slightly against me -- against my hip, and leg -- and his right knee moved over my over my own.

His fingers continued, taking their time, now and then gently toying with the bits of me he knew to be sensitive. I'd stopped disguising my reactions. Why try to hide what he knew. I sighed once or twice, groaned and placed my hand over his. He would smile. I'd smile back. Broad male fingers moved on.

"Can't think of any," I said, a little weakly.

"I can give you one," he said, helping me. "You're much more adult about being touched than you used to be."

"Possibly," I conceded.

"A year or two ago you would have jumped a mile if I touched you," he went on.

"Here for example ..." he gently caressed my breast.

"Or here," his fingers on my nipple, scratching it until I squirmed, continuing until I thrust and groaned then put my hand over his.

"Or here," he said, his eyes on mine, reopened. When my eyes flew wide he didn't smile. Nor did I put my hand over his.

"I ..." I cleared my throat, "I ... suppose you're right," I said, wanting to smile but unable to. I couldn't find a smile. My pelvis caught and pulsed. I closed my eyes and looked away. My hand was over his. His was between my legs.

"So that is one," he said, lightness back into his voice. His hand had turned to mine and holding mine lifted both away. Away from there. That danger spot. Down there between my legs. I turned my head back, looked at him. His smile was there. I had squeezed my thighs together, instinctively. I did it again. He seemed unaware.

"More interested in how I look?" I said, thinking of a second possibility that might fit his question.

"Mmmm, yes," he said, nodding thoughtfully, as if that might work.

"So what about a third?" he asked, hand back at my tummy, fingers stroking gently, eyes full of interest, focused on my face.

"My thinking's more independent," I said, not sure if that was true. Not even sure what that meant.

"In what way?" he asked.

"I'm not sure."

His fingertips ran along the waistband of my bikini bottoms. Out to one hip, back to the middle, then out to the other as if it were a length of string he was testing for breaks.

"In what way is your thinking more independent?" he asked.

He lowered his head and casually kissed my nearest breast. I'd never been kissed there before. He did it softly, but with a slightly open mouth. I felt the brush of his tongue against my skin, just below the nipple. He held my eyes the whole time, and I held his. He raised his head.

"In what way?" he asked again.

I glanced at the trees and the sky overhead. Deeper greens and blues I'd rarely seen before.

"Do you mean that now you are a woman you decide things based on how you feel as a person, rather than looking for what, in all you've been taught, seems most appropriate to the conditions?"

Something like that, I thought, surprised at how well he put it, but I was unsurprised when he leaned down again, while waiting for my answer, and kissed my other breast... this time a little longer. And he suckled my nipple a bit, which made me curl my spine and close my eyes and reach my hand to his head... to let him know it was 'too much.'

"Like how we are now," I said, trying to explain, now that he had risen from my breast, although I was acutely aware of the moisture from his mouth still on my nipple, tingling in the slightest waft of breeze.

I saw he was right. "Yes," I said, gazing straight up. He was right. His fingers still traced the line of the waistband of my bikini bottoms, but from inside. His fingers had snuck underneath the waistband.

"Yes," I said again, looking for the words. They came out strained. "I wouldn't normally let anyone touch me like this." Fingers going wherever they wanted. "All my teachings are against it," I carried on, finding no reason to object to a situation that had taken root. His being permitted to touch me. Me being adult about it.

"Teachings like from your Grandma?" he asked, easing the tips of his fingers further into the waistband of my briefs. I reached down, and put my hand over his. Our accepted sign which meant... enough, it's affecting me.

"Grandma, teachers at school, the pastor at church, bible class... everyone," I said, pretty sure I'd missed some, aware his hand in my briefs was still moving, and mine moving with it, and that his knee had eased much further over my legs.

He was talking again...

"But in matters like this, like us, now -- where we are, how we're dressed, that we kiss now and then, you being caressed, wanted," his voice seemed to catch, "desired ..."

Desired.

He hadn't mentioned that before. Desire.

Did I want my uncle to desire me?

Should I be alarmed?

Could I take the risk of him desiring me, here, in these intimate surroundings? Here, with me already aroused? Him too, from the pressure of his shorts against my thigh, his leg thrown over mine, his chest against the side of my breast, his face very close to my own ... What was the adult thing to do?

"Something like that," I said, less sure than I had been ten seconds ago.

"I am using desire as an example. A perception if you will."

I didn't know what he meant by that. Desire was desire as far as I was concerned. Was he saying desire wasn't present? That he didn't desire me?

"Is that what you mean?" he asked, the tips of worming fingers inside my briefs at the edge of my pubic hair -- mercifully neatly trimmed -- my own hand passive atop them.

Why did I think that?

Why 'mercifully?'

"Is it?" he persisted.

Now I wasn't sure what I had meant. Nor what he meant now.

"Can we change the subject?' I said, without a smile, aware that the touch, down there, in there, was beginning to turn this thing serious. But what could I do -- suddenly grab his writs and yank his hand out? We had a peacefulness here that we'd never had before. How could I dare to shatter it? What adult would? Only a child would do that. But I had to tell him. Didn't I?

"Uncle," I said, not catching his eye. "What you're doing ... is ... is ... it's affecting me."

"Laying there as you are, you are very beautiful."

I'd never thought of myself as beautiful.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, like a child asking an adult for a treat. My mind was still on the idea of his finding me beautiful. It may have been my confusion, or possibly nervousness, that caused me to let out a girlish giggle -- one that I immediately regretted -- and then, to make matters worse I blurted out, "Where?" as if it was a joke.

"On the lips," he said, sounding offended that I should make fun of him like this.

I didn't want him to feel offended.

"Okay," I whispered

What else could I say?

It's funny how the mind works in situations like this... sexual situations. Not that I'm an expert! I noticed it then when my uncle was kissing me, caressing me, pressing me close. I knew he wanted to excite me, arouse me. It added to the mix. Some parts of my mind were intimately involved in what was happening, others on how it was making me feel, others on the urges stirring within, and how they manifested themselves, others still, tinged with nervous concern, wondering when I should stop things, and how precisely I would do that.

Our lips were spread wide against each other. Our tongues were engaged in a dance I was getting better at the more we did it. My pelvis and spine, surprisingly, became integral parts in the exchange -- first stretched, then curled, then thrusting hard. His hand in my bottoms with my own laid on top of it thrust low, as his tongue thrust into my mouth. And just as my lips spread to accept his tongue so my legs spread to accept his fingers but once they were in -- the ease and slurp illustrating how juicy I was -- my pelvis flared, then pulsed and leapt, and I groaned into his mouth and thrust my own tongue deep into it.

He rolled on top of me. His other hand came from beneath him and sought a breast to squeeze. When he found it, my pelvis curled in on itself and my spine snapped straight then thrust all my weight into his chest, I felt his wiry chest hairs against a nipple, the other one molded itself to his hand.

Ngaaar!" I groaned, as both his hands went to work. On me. A breast for one, my pussy for the other. My spine squirmed, hopelessly. My pelvis bucked again.

My uncle wanted me.

I could tell from his touch... from his kiss... from his urgency. The way his legs were over my own had scooped mine up between them. The way he fondled my breast, hard, then started to knead, and press, and squeeze. The way his tongue fought mine, the dance no longer there. The hunger in the other hand, fingers in the juiced up slickness, hot engorged labia lips. Then a finger pushed inwards, aided by the honey oozing from inside.

I pressed, and squirmed, and bucked, and thrust against the varied attacks on my body as I battled with the hormone-driven craziness. I searched my mind for the proper and appropriate response. The 'good girl' response to what was rapidly becoming an unacceptable situation. One I may even, I had to admit, have partly brought upon myself.

And certainly, right now, was hardly helping to bring to a satisfactory conclusion by my enthusiastic reaction to much of what he was doing, or schooling me in. But it was, of course, coming to a conclusion. To an end, if you will. But not the end that Grandma would have wanted, more the end my uncle desired.

The end of his penis. His prick. His 'weapon.' It was out. I could feel it, down there, against my skin. As hot as my skin had become with all that was happening. Where would he want to put it? I'd heard men liked to be sucked -- never done it myself, too prim by far, but I'd seen some porn in my time. (Well, once.) But I knew what they did. And what the girl did.

Would my uncle want that?

Want me to do that... to him?

And if he did would I be any good?

I was sucking his tongue as I thought these things. Sucking it into my mouth. Exerting the pressure to suck it in more. Suck it in stronger.

His penis was bigger than his tongue. Would that be the same ... as this?

His knee was easing my legs apart. But of course, that couldn't happen. His fingers in my pussy were one thing, anything else in there was another matter altogether. Another level of objection. Completely different. The time had come, the line must be drawn. So I drew it... firmly, uncrossable, time to withdraw.

He rolled on top of me and spread my knees out to each side. At some stage he'd pushed the crotch-piece of my bikini briefs to the side. My maidenhood, as Grandma once termed it, lay bare. Bare to an uncle who wanted inside. I already had one of his fingers inside me, a second trying, and the tip of something large and hot fought with the fingers.

It was strange, thinking back on it now, but at the precise moment the conflict was coming to a head -- in my head, between what Grandma would approve of me doing and my uncle wanted me to do, and between my legs, between my uncle's eager fingers, and the equally eager tip of his cock -- the last thing on earth I wanted, the absolute last thing, was for him to stop kissing me. I needed the kiss. I needed to be occupied with the kiss. I needed to be able to keep my eyes closed. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to have to make the decision or carry it through. The stream of events had picked me up and swept me along, and there were many exciting bits.

Keep kissing me, Uncle. Please!

I chanted this to myself, as if in prayer. Because I wanted to be able to say to myself -- later, in the future, when alone -- that I had nothing to do with this! That it was nothing to do with me.

My uncle -- bless him -- same wavelength, clearly -- continued to kiss me. But his breathing was now short and hard. And the noise from his nose was immense. But at least he left me with nothing I HAD to do - except continue to kiss him, and hold my arms around him, and keep my legs wide, and ... when the time came, and the bulbous tip sank into me -- not cry out, or react, or object or revolt -- which I didn't.

Behave like an adult young Jen, I thought to myself when the head of his cock spread me as it worked its way in and I started to think that I might bite his tongue -- but I didn't. Instead I took a deep breath, as the steam train noise of his wheezing and gasping got louder, and faster, and ever more urgent.

I felt my uncle's thick shaft bend slightly as he pushed into me slowly, the large head of his cock pushed determinedly against a thin membrane... against my still-intact hymen.

I wanted it to go the opposite way... I had to stop him from being so hot and bothered. I wanted it to last. I wanted to remember this. I wanted this little chapter of my life to be something I'd never forget. I felt a need to remember the feelings, the cauldron of emotions, the plateau of excitement and arousal that was involved in this... this... this something NEW. These new feelings, and urges, and wants, that had roughly, violently -- because he was my uncle? -- engulfed me, submerged me, swept me along. I needed to stand away from this or be overcome. I needed a semblance of calm, to be outside looking in. Better to be able to record the way the limbs, the legs, the torsos, interplayed. The vulgar hunger we displayed, my uncle's sparking mine. A sensual shimmer, snapping at my core, as his thick shaft pushed against my hymen.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and put my hands on his hips to stop him from pushing into me all the way. To calm him. To give him a chance to enjoy the experience as much as I wanted to enjoy it. His steam train wheezing and gasping slowed but he seemed more focused.

I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he'd gotten the message.

My uncle reached between us and teased and rubbed my clit with his thick thumb. The feelings were electric. The urge to feel his cock sink into me doubled... quadrupled! The feelings of lust-driven desire were indescribable. I cried out with the pure ecstasy of it.

My back arched at the unbelievably pleasurable sensations, and I moaned in surprise when he thrust forward gently and in disappointment when he stopped at my hymen again.

Had he rethought his actions? Is he going to stop fucking me?

Disappointment flooded through me.

It was at this point I felt him draw his hips back again and thrust forward hard and sudden.

My face tightened at the sudden stinging pain and my mouth opened in a wide O of surprise, as my hymen tore, the thin half-moon membrane torn by his desire. For me. To possess me.

That was the moment my uncle took my virginity. For an instant, it felt as if was doused by a bucket of ice water and then I felt more of him inside me, and the pain was drowned by pleasure of his cock and his rapidly-moving fingers on my clit.

One inch... two.

Three inches, say. Maybe four, no more.

I braced for more.

My uncle stopped with four inches of his thick shaft inside me and held still, trembling. He snatched his hand from between us and braced himself.

I lay still beneath him with my breasts crushed against his chest, watching, waiting, though my body was desperate to thrust up to meet his invading maleness. He lay braced on his hands, about half of his thick cock sunk inside me. I could feel the thick corded muscles of his back and arms tense like iron bands and felt his body shake uncontrollably. His head was stretched out, chin tilted up, and his eyes were clenched tightly shut... in the midst of a superhuman, herculean effort. I closed my own eyes and focused on the pleasure of his scent, the feel of his hard muscles shaking on my own soft body, the hardness of his member inside me.