The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 01byshaunreagh©
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.