Reformatory Girls Ch. 17: Rebecca Lucie 04

"So the man tried once more to ignore his needs, travelling to his office, working on his garden at weekends.

"But then something happened. Out of the blue a girl arrived in the man's home. A beautiful girl. And all the desires that the man had tried to suppress rose up in him, a hundredfold. He tried to fight them, but they were too strong. He even went into his wife's bedroom one night, and asked her to take him into her bed, but his wife told him she was too tired.

"So one night the man could bear it no longer: he went to visit the beautiful girl in her bedroom."

Rebecca listens to this in a kind of stunned silence. She doesn't know what to say. Then her Uncles leans in closer, looks her candidly in the eyes and says:

"Can I get into bed with you Becky?"

"You're my Uncle," Rebecca says.

Her Uncle grins his boyish grin:

"I know," he says. "It's a bit naughty of me, isn't it?"

Even as he speaks he has folded back the bedcovers, exposing Rebecca's breasts. She doesn't know what to do: it would be hysterical of her to grab at the sheet and try to cover herself. So she lies there and watches, a rabbit caught in the headlights of his intentions, as he draws down the covers, slowly revealing more of her, drawing them down past her waist, down over her thighs, past her knees and her ankles. And still she doesn't react when his fingers grip the elastic of her panties, and they too are drawn slowly down, down over her knees, down until they are clean off her feet and she is exposed, naked.

"Oh, Becky, Becky," says her Uncle. "You are so, so beautiful."

"Uncle," she finds her voice at last. "I don't know about this."

"Becky," says her Uncle soothingly. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you."

She feels her legs being gently parted: then his face is between them and she can feel his little moustache against her pubis as his tongue feels its way over her labia, inside her labia, over her clitoris and her opening. Her Uncle pauses for breath and looks up, but he is looking through her not at her. He slips off his dressing gown. She has never seen his penis before: he is fully erect, but he is not huge, not as big as Mick or Toby. He prepares to mount her.

"No, wait," she says. "At least use a condom."

"No need," he says. "I'll get you one of those morning-after pills tomorrow."

"No," says Rebecca: "In my bag."

She gestures to her shoulder bag: her Uncle delves inside and comes up with the large packet of condoms. A grin extends across his features:

"Not interested in boys eh?" he says. Rebecca fleetingly curses herself: then her Uncle, condom in place, is pushing himself inside her. She lies back, letting herself go limp, letting him move her around as he desires. She keeps her eyes closed. She can feel him, deep inside her, and smell his distinctive male smell and, as his face comes down alongside hers, his distinctive brand of aftershave.

He's right about the strength of his need: within seconds she can feel him pulsing inside her, feel the contractions of his penis against her vaginal muscles. He comes, sighing, his sounds muted yet still conveying the intensity of his pleasure. Oh, oh oh, Becky.

She fears for a moment that he's going to cry -- like George did. But no: after a period during which his breathing subsides and his body goes limp, he gives a happy, grateful little laugh.

"Oh Becky," he says. "That was so, so good. I needed that so badly."

How can she resent the pleasure she has given him? She lays a hand on the back of his head: undemonstrative, but not without kindliness.

Eventually her Uncle pulls out of her:

"I suppose I'd better go back to my own bed," he says.

"I think that would be best," says Rebecca.

He kisses her once on each breast: then leaves, closing the door silently behind him.

Rebecca does not sleep well. The following morning she takes herself off on a long walk, to clear her head and try to get her thoughts in order.

It's a hard shift to get her head around -- her Uncle, the man she has known and looked up to from childhood, turning overnight into her -- what? Not her lover. She can't think of a word for it -- a man who wants to have sex with her. She supposes she ought to be outraged, wounded even. But she doesn't feel outraged or wounded. On the contrary she feels a certain satisfaction -- pleased that she has been able to please him; validated as a woman. And, she has to admit, she feels no little glee at having put one over on her Aunt Ellen. She also -- with hindsight -- feels that she has to take some responsibility for her Uncle's lust. After all, she's been wandering round his house in a short, tight dress, enjoying his flattery, enjoying his lascivious comments - though not, perhaps, understanding the full extent of the effect she was having on him.

Against this, though, she can't help suspecting she may have been manipulated. For the more she goes over the words of her Uncle's 'bedtime story' the more she feels something does not quite ring true. So sexual relations with her Aunt have broken down: no great surprise there -- in fact the only surprise is that they ever had any in the first place. But marriages break down all the time: her Uncle is a resourceful man and a wealthy man: surely he could have found himself a mistress, even another wife? Or failing that, if he is as frustrated as he claims, he can afford to visit prostitutes.

Has she, she wonders, been taken in by a sob story -- just as her mother was once taken in by the woman after free vegetables?

She's not sure. She can't really make sense of all these conflicting emotions and impressions.

But one thing she is sure of: he caught her unawares last night: if he visits her again she will be much better prepared for him.

The next day, and on each of the following days, her Uncle acts quite normally towards her. Its true her Aunt Ellen is around for most evenings: but there are still opportunities for her Uncle to take her aside if he wishes. Instead he seems determined to act as though nothing has happened, commenting on the food, offering her drinks, playing cards or watching television with her. Seven days pass, and Rebecca is starting to think her Uncle's nocturnal visit was a one-off -- when, at much the same hour, he enters her room again.

"Is it all right if I come in?" he asks -- sitting down on her bed before she can reply. "Are you sleepy?"

"Would it matter?" she asks. He ignores her, and shivers -- but it's a theatrical shiver, as the night is mild.

"Can I get into bed with you?" he asks, with a self-deprecating little smile.

"Just like that?" says Rebecca.

"Go on," says her Uncle. "Budge up a bit."

"So I'm to be available whenever you want me?" asks Rebecca. "Is that it?"

"Hey," says her Uncle. "No, I didn't say that. I do need you though -- a week is a long time."

He allows his dressing gown to fall open, and looks down apologetically at his erection.

"What is it with men and their erections?" says Rebecca. "Do they think just because they've got an erection a girl is supposed to open her legs?"

"Rebecca," there's a chiding note in his voice. "You don't know what it's like -- a man gets desperate you know."

"If you're that desperate," says Rebecca, "why don't you just have a wank?"

"Rebecca," he says, and this time there's a pained expression on his face: "where would the pleasure be in that? Come on now, be a sport."

"Where's the pleasure for me?" she returns. "Lying here, not knowing whether I can go to sleep or whether you're going to turn up making demands."

"What's got into you tonight?" asks her Uncle. "I thought you of all people would understand."

"What do you mean, 'me of all people'?" Rebecca demands, her emotional temperature rising.

"Nothing," says her Uncle looking down.

"You mean me because I'm my mother's daughter?" Rebecca throws out. "You mean because my mother was a whore and fucked men for money I must be a whore too. Well if I'm a whore like my mother and you want to fuck me you can damn well pay for it as well."

She's worked herself up into a real anger -- but stops abruptly, suddenly fearing she has gone too far, that her Uncle will be angry with her.

But instead of being angry, her Uncle throws back his head and laughs:

"You've certainly got your mother's spirit," he says. Then, smiling, he leans in closer to her and says:

"So how much should I pay you? Considering as how you're living in my house for free and eating all my food for free?"

She doesn't know how to reply. For a moment the wind has been taken out of her sails: which is why she can only watch silently as her Uncle slides the bedcovers off her, exposing her lying naked except for her pants. She makes a half-hearted attempt to resist having her pants pulled down, then submits to the inevitable, and lies there in the full beam of her Uncle's gaze.

This time he's brought his own condom, which he extracts from the pocket of his dressing gown and rolls over his cock. Then she feels his tongue, wet and slobbery, between her legs. He doesn't linger long -- just enough to lubricate her. When he enters her, and spreads and pushes back her legs, there is a subtle difference from the previous time: whilst he is still gentle, he is just a shade more assertive, more confident in his right of possession, more entitled. He fucks her firmly, working up the erection he partly lost during their sparring, taking her with more uninhibited expressions of pleasure, grunts and oohs and aahs: until he comes with a long drawn-out groan of release, gripping her buttocks and spasming into her until he is spent.

Afterwards he's demonstratively nice to her: he strokes her hair, he nuzzles her cheek, he tells her how good it was, he thanks her for giving him such pleasure. She listens in silence, apparently accepting it all: but this time she does not lay her hand on the back of his head.

Eventually he kisses her cheek, rises unsteadily, and, after a last lingering look draws the bedcovers back over her.

When he's gone Rebecca lies awake, thoughts scurrying round in her head. She can't exactly resent him. She's not immune to the compliments and the blandishments -- to his obviously genuine gratitude.

All the same -- she can't help feeling that he's played her again.

The following morning Rebecca is afflicted by a restlessness bordering on agitation: she feels as though she needs to break out in some way, to smash through some invisible wall. The house is empty of people; she doesn't bother to dress, and after she has eaten breakfast in the kitchen she wanders from room to room looking for some way to throw off her mood. Outside the sun is beating down: she's used to wandering naked round the house, but now for the first time she goes naked into the garden, enjoying the feeling of the air on her skin, the warmth of the sun, and her own sense of transgression. Her Uncle has left a sprinkler on, in the centre of his lawn: she watches it swish back and forth, watches the rainbow glint on the arcing droplets. Then a crazy impulse takes hold of her, and she runs, leaps across the sprinkler with her legs spread, shrieks as the cold water hits her skin, and races on to the far side of the lawn.

Laughing, exhilarated, she turns and runs back, leaps again over the spray, feels the water hit her between her legs, and careers on, back towards the house.

This is better; this is what she needs. She savours the soft texture of the grass under her feet: then she runs again, wide of the sprinkler this time, and turns one, two and a third cartwheel. Some of the spray reaches her, cold on her thighs: she doesn't care. A wild exuberance possesses her: again she turns cartwheels, until she has completed a circuit of the lawn.

She looks around her and sees the swing. She walks up to it, and gives the log seat a light push. Suspended by a single rope it's quite tricky to mount: you have to grip the rope, jump, and make sure you land squarely, one leg balanced each side. As on the day she arrived, her muscle memory kicks in: she catches the returning rope, jumps with her legs apart and lands perfectly, the flesh under her buttocks bulging as the log takes her weight.

Her momentum carries her forwards: soon she is swinging gracefully in an ever-increasing arc. She swings with abandon, throwing her head back, feeling the rope between her legs, pressed against her pussy. The air rushes past her: she feels like an eagle soaring, wild and free. The garden is mostly sheltered, though there are gaps in the trees through which someone in the attic rooms of the house next door could see; and if someone came up the path to the back door she would be fully exposed. She doesn't care: let people see. She throws her legs open, kicks out her feet and throws back her head: she feels dizzy, she wants to feel dizzier still. Back and forth she swings, pushing into the rope with her pussy, feeling a glorious stirring between her legs. She wants to come, up there, come speeding and shrieking with her legs kicked-out, in a wild, abandoned, flying orgasm, with the dappled sun on her thighs and the breeze in her hair.

But the hemp rope is too coarse: she can't get a proper purchase on it with her vulva or her clit; it's starting to chafe and frustrate her.

She allows the swing to come almost to a standstill, jumps down, and walks back onto the lawn, into the full glare of the sun. She stands just at the edge of the range of the sprinkler, plants her feet apart and reaches both arms up towards the sky, displaying herself to the birds and the leaves, to the rainbow droplets and the sun. She feels glorious: sensual, alive, with the power of empires between her legs. She throws her head back: in a crazy way she wants to fuck all the elements, to be brought off by the water, by the trees and the air and the sun. She wants the world to witness her glory, to watch, awed by the life-force between her legs.

With one hand still raised she starts to play with herself. She feels the blood fill her labia, she feels her clitoris engorge, until her whole being is focussed in her genitals, as though it were compressed there, a tremendous force contained and trying to break free. She rubs herself furiously, careless of the sounds she is making, feeling the force there build and build: she feels that when she comes the force will burst her open, that she'll literally explode. Still she rubs, her breath coming short and fast, the tension in her cunt almost unbearable, her face screwed up, exhorting herself vocally, come, come, come, rubbing and rubbing, come, come, come,

And then the explosion between her legs happens, her cunt, her clit, her labia, her finger, all uniting in a gigantic, cataclysmic convulsion that makes her legs shudder and has her crying out into the sky, O my God O my God O my God, the blood pulsing in her genitals, her finger on automatic pilot, rubbing out every last wrinkle of unexpended energy, until her head sags and, still with one arm raised to the sky, she stands triumphant and glassy-eyed on her Uncle's lawn.

The next interval is just five days. Again, she's reading, and just about ready to turn out her light.

"Here I am again," he says, with his little apologetic smile, as he sits on her bed.

"Well I'm not in the mood," says Rebecca. "So you can take yourself away again."

"You're such a tease," says her Uncle, one hand pulling the sheet below her breasts.

"Hey," says Rebecca. "What are you doing?" She grabs at the sheet and pulls it back up to her neck. But she does it awkwardly, such that one breast remains exposed.

"Come on now," says her Uncle: "do we have to play games?"

"Who says I'm playing games?"

"Please," says her Uncle: once again he opens his dressing gown and shows her his erection. "Pretty please?"

"Do you realise how stupid that thing looks?" says Rebecca.

Her Uncle looks down:

"It's how we're made," he says. "Men can't help what they are."

"Stupid," says Rebecca again. She flicks dismissively at his penis with the backs of her two middle fingers: her Uncle's eyes widen as his penis oscillates.

"Jesus," he says.

"Stupid stupid stupid," says Rebecca, as, perhaps remembering George, she gives her Uncle's penis a slap which sends it reeling from side to side.

When it settles she slaps it again. And again.

Her Uncle groans.

"Can you imagine anything more stupid hanging between your legs?" Rebecca demands. She smacks him again: she's not sure how much her anger is real and how much pretend. "Except perhaps these."

She grabs her Uncle's testicles and squeezes them, almost to the point where she intends to hurt. Her Uncle's eyes and jaw are gaping:

"Jesus Christ," he groans.

"They should be chopped off at birth," Rebecca says. "Then a girl might get some peace." She squeezes again: her Uncle's erection is straining fit to burst.

"Becky," he says: "for God's sake."

He wrenches free, almost at the point of no return, yanks back the bedcovers and makes a thrust for her cunt.

"Condom," she says firmly.

"It's too late," says her Uncle. He doesn't even attempt to enter her: he pushes his rock-hard penis between her legs, clamps her legs closed against it, and with his cock enclosed by her warm tummy and the warm fleshy insides of her legs he spurts furiously, spunk shooting out over her tummy, pooling inside her belly button hole.

"Jesus H Christ," he says. He might not have come inside her but it's clear he's had a powerful orgasm nonetheless. Rebecca, knees bent, looks down on him with some amusement.

Eventually he looks up at her sheepishly.

"Sorry," he grins. "You just about tipped me over the edge."

"So I see," says Rebecca. "Do you get turned on at the thought of having your balls removed?"

He doesn't answer that, just groans again and rolls off her. After a while, when he has recovered himself, he stands up to go.

"What about this?" asks Rebecca. She draws his attention to the sticky mess over her stomach, the droplets of semen which have spattered up over her rib-cage. "Am I supposed to clean this off myself?"

"What? Oh, sorry," her Uncle says. He takes a tissue from the box by the bed and wipes, ineffectively, at the milky smears of his seed.

"Properly," says Rebecca. "Use a warm flannel."

Obediently her Uncle goes into the en suite, returns with a warm flannel and proceeds to wash her tummy and chest. She lies back, watching him, enjoying treating him as a servant. When he is done she tells him to dry her with a towel. She can sense he feels just a touch shamefaced at having shot his load over her so precipitately.

"Thank you," she says.

"No - thank you," says her Uncle, before he shuffles out of her room.

Four days after her Uncle's last visit Rebecca's period starts. Her breasts swell, her stomach hurts, she feels generally out of sorts: the last thing she wants to hear is the sound of her bedroom door opening.

"Not tonight" she says firmly.

Her Uncle, frowning a question at her, continues into her room and sits on her bed.

"I mean it," says Rebecca. "Unless you want to get Aunt Ellen's sheets covered in blood."

"Ah," says her Uncle, comprehending.

"So please just go."

Her Uncle looks down on her tenderly, and fingers his moustache. At length he says:

"There's more than one way to skin a cat."

"I don't want to skin any cats," says Rebecca.

Her Uncle laughs:

"You know what I mean," he says.

"I suppose you mean you want me to suck you off," says Rebecca.

"Possibly," says her Uncle. "Or..."

"Or what?"

"You've got a very beautiful bottom," her Uncle says.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying? Because if so you can forget it. Look: I feel like shit -- please just go back to bed."

"How about if I gave you a hundred pounds?"