They Grow Up So Fast

Note: This could have gone into the Erotic Couples area, but I settled for Incest/Taboo because there's at least an incestuous tinge to it. Alex and Carissa are related by marriage, not biology.

*****

The last time Alex Starr saw Clarissa Fontana was during the time of the Democratic National Convention, the one that nominated Barrack Obama for President of the United States. Clarissa, his wife's niece, was ten years old, a bright, happy child in pigtails, splashing in the Starr's above-ground pool, watching videos, riding her bike, eating steamed crabs and shopping at the mall with Hunt. She stayed with the Starr's in Maryland for close to a week before returning to her home in Alexandria, Virginia. After that, other than an occasional phone call or email, Hunt Starr didn't see much of her sister Faith, her brother-in-law Jeremy or much of Clarissa either.

So now, nine years later, Alex is surprised to hear that nineteen-year old Clarissa is interested in getting into amateur bicycle racing, and has requested that he lend her his expertise. He's all too happy to help and arranges leave time from his day job.

She's come to the right source, for Alex is still active in the sport, still competing as well as coaching, still winning medals in bike races for the Masters over-40 set. He's not quite as fast as he once was; but, with apologies to Toby Keith, he's as fast once as he always was.

Before Clarissa starts back to college in the fall, the Starr's arrange for her to stay with them for a few days, just as she did nine years ago. Alex remembers well the bike she brought from home, the one with the banana seat, streamers, high handlebars and rusty chain that he greased for her. Before she arrives, he learns that her dad Jeremy, in deference to Clarissa's ambition, just dropped a couple grand on a brand new carbon racing machine, a clear sign that Clarissa is serious about racing.

Nine years ago, Clarissa's mom had dropped her off at the Starr's. Now, on this hot, late July morning, Alex watches Clarissa pull her white Honda Fit into his driveway. Both he and Hunt emerge from their three-bedroom suburban rancher to greet her. The blond, pigtailed girl they last saw has grown into an attractive young woman, tall and lean, with a musculature firmed-up by hours of spin classes, miles of road cycling and light weight training. Her shoulder blade-length hair is a shade darker, dirty-blond you might call it, and her legs glow with the color of someone who spends much of their time outdoors. Alex had caught glimpses of her on Facebook. But now, seeing her in the flesh, he marvels at the changes nine years can make in one's formative years.

"My little niece is all grown up," Hunt gushes. She and Alex take turns hugging her.

Alex recalls Clarissa riding her one-gear bike up and down their street for hours when she stayed with them that summer. "Whatever happened to that clunker?" Alex asks, helping Clarissa pull her sleek, black carbon machine from the Honda.

"Oh, I can't remember," Clarissa says. "We either gave it to Goodwill or junked it. It was a bit too small for me then, you might recall." Alex does, and very well, because a day after Clarissa's mom picked her up, he had called Jeremy and told him. Shortly after that, Clarissa got a new bike that served her well through much of her adolescence.

*******

A few hours after Clarissa gets situated, Alex begins his coaching with a trip out to Belvedere Reservoir, a man-made lake less than ten miles from the Starr's home. Belvedere, with its mile and a half of smooth asphalt road that wraps around it, is the scene of several criterium races a year. All manner of athlete trains here, from cyclists to runners to skateboarders. There's very little motor traffic, and the cars that do pass respect the cyclists' right to the road. Today, Alex wants to get some idea of Clarissa's fitness level as measured in pace over so many miles. She looks in good shape, at least for a serious recreational athlete. Bike racing, however, requires one to step several levels higher.

"Don't drop me now," Clarissa jokes as she and Alex strap on their helmets. Both wear the standard issue gear for warm weather riding, black spandex shorts, short-sleeve jerseys and cleats that lock onto the pedals. Alex brought his prized titanium Seven, a custom-made bike ideally suited to his five-foot ten height and thirty-two inseam. Clarissa, at five-seven, finds her 54cm Specialized, while not a custom, comfortable as well since she swapped out the stock stem for something shorter. Like many women, her legs are long relative to her torso, and the original stem had her draped too far over the top tube.

"Okay, go ahead, I'll stay on your wheel," Alex says. Clarissa nods, clips in and starts her ride, an easy spin in a low gear to warm-up. Alex follows a few feet from behind, watching her form and something else—her sexy derrière. He's no different than lots of guys in his cycling club that ride behind women and do the same thing. The women look at guy's butts too, he knows. Still, he feels a little guilty doing it with Clarissa. After all, she's here to be coached, not ogled.

After one lap around the reservoir, Clarissa accelerates to 20mph, more than respectable for a recreational rider, though not quite up to speed for an aspiring racer, especially on a flat crit course. She's down on the drops, an ideal position for the maximum in aerodynamics. The downside is a compressed diaphragm, making breathing more difficult. Alex, sitting more upright, can see her labored breathing and suggests she grip the topside of the handlebars. "Save the drops for your sprint toward the end," he advises.

They ride fifteen miles, changing positions, drafting off one another, perspiring profusely in the warm, humid air. Alex doesn't "drop" her but he does make her work hard to keep up. Every few minutes he attacks by standing on the pedals to accelerate, forcing her to respond. By sheer determination, she stays with him and even initiates attacks of her own.

Alex is impressed. "You did damn good," he says after racking their bikes on the roof of his blue Mazda 5. "I'd say you have the spunk and aerobic capacity to be a bike racer. Learn the technical side of this sport and you'll be on your way."

Clarissa flashes a broad smile. "You really think so, Uncle Alex?"

"Absolutely. Of course, you'll need to put in the work required, and based on what you've achieved already on your own, that shouldn't be a problem."

Before getting back in the car, Alex grabs a clean white T-shirt from his gear bag and then throws off his sweaty cycling jersey. "It's uncomfortable riding back in a wet jersey," he says. "Know what I mean?"

Clarissa stares at Alex's well-developed six-pack. "Wow, you're in terrific shape for a guy your age, Uncle Alex. Many guys MY age don't have abs like that."

He nods and smiles. "Thanks. Well, I cross train a few times a week," he explains while slipping on the T-shirt. "Cycling doesn't do much for the abdominal region. I know plenty of middle-age guys, fast cyclists with paunchy stomachs." Clarissa lifts the ends of her jersey just above her navel to show her abs. "Not bad," he says, eyeing the faint outlines of her own fledgling six-pack. "Looks like you're no stranger to ab work either."

"Gotta do my sit-ups," she says, then slips off her cycling jersey. "Guess you don't have a T-shirt for me to wear, huh?"

"Um, no, sorry," he says, staring at her nipples pressed against the fabric of her blue sports bra.

She sighs. "Well, then I guess I'll leave my top on." She giggles. "That's all you need, a cop to pull you over after spotting a topless girl in your car."

"That would definitely ruin my day," he says, his eyes still fixed on her chest.

"What would? The cop or my boobs?" She points and laughs. "Just kidding, Uncle Alex."

He wonders where she's going with this talk of boobs and cops. Her seductive affect is unmistakable. Is she, in fact, trying to seduce him? Tease him? What? "Exposing your boobs won't help you win races," he says glibly.

She laughs. "No, and I don't think Aunt Hunt would approve either."

"That's for sure."

Once in the car, she changes the subject back to bike racing. But her weird reference to boobs distracts Alex from the conversation. Focusing on two things at once isn't easy—discussing what her training regimen might be over the next few days and picturing her riding next to him bare-chested. Just thinking about it brings on pangs of guilt, especially when he feels his cock begin to rise against his cycling shorts. Discreetly, he drops his hand to his crotch to hide the bulge. He's got one hand on the wheel, the other hand over his crotch, discussing bike racing with his niece (by marriage) while his fantasies run amok. Absurd, patently absurd, he thinks, and an aberration he hopes will soon pass.

But later that night, Clarissa disabuses him of that notion. While he and Hunt watch the ten o'clock news in their room, dark except for the TV, Clarissa cracks open their door. "Sorry to interrupt," she says, "but I need your advice on some training issue."

Alex, shirtless and in his Hanes briefs, looks up. "It can't wait until morning?"

"Well, I suppose it can, but—ˮ

"Go help her," Hunt chimes in. "Jeremy told me that Clarissa isn't one to curb her enthusiasm once she latches on to something, be it bike racing or cooking."

"I'll be right there," Alex says.

When Clarissa goes back to the guest bedroom, he throws on a robe. After blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden brightness, he sees Clarissa sitting cross-legged on the bed in a short blue nightie, her laptop in front of her. She starts to talk about a training routine she found on a bike racing web site. However, all Alex can think about is what she's wearing—or not wearing. Is it by design or circumstance that Clarissa isn't wearing panties—that her nightie is pulled up to the tops of her tanned thighs exposing her shaved pussy? He isn't sure and struggles to look away, when she says, feigning embarrassment, it seems to him, "Oh, sorry, Uncle Alex, I should have slipped them on while staying with you guys. I usually sleep without them at home." She tugs at the hem of her garment, scoots to the edge of the bed and crosses her legs. "There, that's better, huh?" She giggles.

"More appropriate, I'd say." Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He gives the routine a token once-over. "This looks okay from what I can see. Let's discuss it tomorrow, shall we?"

"Fair enough, Uncle Alex. Now how about a kiss good-night?" She stretches her arms up to him. "You kissed me good-night when I was a little girl, remember?"

"Yes, but—ˮ

"Big girls need good-night kisses too, you know." He stoops down to accommodate her, to plant a kiss on her forehead, when she stands up and grabs his shoulders. "Like this," she says, and presses her mouth against his.

His first instinct is to pull away. But it isn't easy, for she tastes so good, like sweet peanut butter and smells so good too, a mix of that herbal shampoo she uses and honey-lemon. Finally, he manages and says, "That's no little girl kiss."

She rubs her hands over her boobs. "Well, I'm not a little girl anymore."

He steps back. "Yes, I can see that. Look, Clarissa..." He pauses.

She grins. "Yes?"

He sighs. "Nothing. Good-night, see you tomorrow. I have a forty mile road ride planned for us, and a fast one at that. So get some sleep."

When he returns, Hunt is still watching the news with her head propped up on two pillows. She adjusts her glasses and says, "What was so urgent that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

"Nothing urgent, just some cycling routine she wanted to show me," he says, slipping off his robe. "Like you said, she's an enthusiastic kid."

Hunt makes a half turn to face her husband when he crawls into their queen-sized bed. "She's a very pretty girl, isn't she, Alex?"

Keeping his eyes glued to the TV, he says, "Um, I guess so. What interests me is showing her the finer points of crit racing."

"She was flirting with you at dinner. Don't tell me you didn't notice." He did indeed, and he knew Hunt would notice and probably make an issue of it. Their marriage had been strained for the past couple years, rocked by everything big and small, from finances to divvying up household chores. Their sex life, while not null and void, was now more a Sometime Thing, no small consequence of Hunt's expanding girth and Alex's wandering eye out in public. He had remained faithful but frustrated, which only intensified Hunt's insecurity about her steady weight gain and her husband's indifference.

"It's nothing to worry about," he says, turning on his side to face her. "She's here to be coached, sees me as her mentor, nothing more. It's not what you might be thinking."

"What I might be thinking is what I'd bet you might be thinking, what all horny, middle-age guys with overweight, middle-age wives think in the presence of flirty, svelte young women. That's okay, I get it, you're a man after all, virile and vigorous, all that good stuff. But just remember, Alex, she's my niece."

He knows he'd look silly trying to deny this basic truth that applies to him as surely as the spare tire around his wife's expanding waist. "Good-night, Hunt." He gives her a token kiss, hands her the TV's remote and then rolls over.

************

Look but don't touch is Hunt's message as Alex understands it. In fact, he doesn't intend to hit on his wife's hot niece. Yes, he's thought about it, added it to his long list of erotic fantasies. And the realm of fantasy is where he intends to leave it. However, if he's not mistaken, Clarissa appears willing to cross the line into reality. Either that or she's your basic prick teaser.

Today, she's wearing extra short, black spandex cycling shorts. She's got great legs, of course, but it's also her skin that catches Alex's eye, that tan, satin-smooth epidermis so endemic to young girls. It's a major summer attraction, those young chicks in their short-shorts and cut-off jeans, prancing around the summer landscape, smiling with the gratification that comes with feeling all those male eyes on them as they pass, strutting their charms. He finds athletic girls even more desirable, girls like Clarissa, now turning over the pedals in a strong, steady cadence, her shapely quads and calves flexing with every pedal stroke. Alex told her this would be a fast ride and he wasn't kidding. He normally races in the low to mid-twenties, a pace still out of Clarissa's league. So he "slows" it down to around 18, not quite out of her comfort zone but close enough to where her quads burn and chest heaves. But she stays with it, drafting behind Alex through the farms and small towns of southern Pennsylvania and then across the Mason-Dixon Line to end their 40-mile ride at a Maryland park & ride.

"You did great," Alex says after racking their bikes.

Clarissa pulls off her helmet, shaking her long bangs out of her eyes. "Thanks, but we both know eighteen miles per hour won't cut it in a road race, not even for women. And I was bushed doing that."

Alex sits on the rear edge of his Mazda

hatchback, changing from his cleats into his street shoes. "For someone who's just getting into this sport, you did fine. You'll get up there. Keep training, work hard, and before you know it, you'll find yourself in the peloton."

She nods and throws her helmet and cleats into her black equipment bag. Then she looks at him and says, "Look, about last night, Uncle Alex."

"Last night?" He's not sure whether she means the flirting at dinner or the kissing in her room.

"Yeah, when you came in and saw me with...well, my legs spread, wearing no panties, my beaver hanging out."

"A wardrobe malfunction, I take it," he says, doing his best to keep things light.

"Well, kind of." She giggles and sucks on her index finger.

"Kind of?" He pauses, studying her seductive pose. Then: "Clarissa, as far as I know, you came here seeking advice and coaching for bike racing. Are there other motives I'm not aware of?"

She pulls out her finger and steps closer to him. "None, at least there wasn't until a few hours after I arrived. But then..." She steps closer.

"But then? Go ahead, I'm listening."

"But then...this isn't easy, Uncle Alex. It's kind of embarrassing, if you want to know the truth." He nods, keeps silent. She rubs her fingers through his curly, chestnut hair, takes a deep breath and then steps back. "Look, for some reason I seem to be attracted to older men. Much older men. If I tell you something, do you promise it won't go any further than this parking lot?" He nods. "Okay, well, a few months ago I had an affair with a married man. The guy was around your age. Like you, he still lived with his wife. We screwed like crazy before the guilt got to him and he broke it off. There was minimal emotional investment, so I wasn't hurt. But I really miss those exciting afternoons at that Motel 6 where we met."

"What's the address?'

"The address?"

"Of the Motel 6." Before she can react, he says, "Just kidding." He props one foot on the edge of the hatch with his arms wrapped around his leg. "Clarissa, I'm a married man living with his wife who just happens to be your mom's sister."

She folds her arms against her chest. "A not so happily married man based on overheard conversations. Aunt Hunt must tell mom things that she passes on to dad. I've heard them talk."

He resists the temptation to ask what things. They'd be a rehash filtered through Clarissa's perception of what he already knows. Besides, his issue now is whether he's daring enough to journey to that place where Clarissa appears willing to take him. On a pure, no-holds-barred, carnal level he'd love to go there. But first he'd need to rationalize his way through it, somehow make it justifiable on a moral level. No mean feat for someone with a conscience; but not impossible for a man with needs unfulfilled. He could take it in increments, feeling things out, so to speak, step by cautious step.

He stands up, reaches out and takes her into his muscular arms. They kiss beside his car under the bright sun and the whooshing sound of cars speeding by the lot. He inhales the sweet sweat pouring from her firm, nubile body.

She rubs her fingers through his close-cut, reddish-brown beard. "You've got that hunky, lumberjack look," she tells him. "It really turns me on."

"And you smell really good and feel really good, especially that incredibly firm, shapely ass of yours." He reaches down, gives it a squeeze with both hands, then presses it against his groin.

She reaches inside his spandex shorts. "Man, you've got SOME head tube in there, Uncle Alex. Can we take it for a spin?"

He needs no clarification of her cycling metaphors. What he does need is a place to "ride." Motel 6 comes to mind. But so does the cab of his hatchback. Not here, though; they're too exposed, both by the sun and to traffic. But the Belvedere watershed area, where they rode yesterday, sounds right. There's plenty of shade, plus all those nooks and crannies formed by clumps of thick foliage.

Clarissa likes that idea. After they rack the bikes on the roof, she hops in the car, eager for the ride. The Mazda has plenty of cargo space. Lots of stuff can go in there, including two horny, over-sexed bodies. Not long after Alex pulls into a secluded, shady spot, their clothes come off and their tongues come out, kissing, licking, sucking. She's on the pill and he's on blind lust, sucking on her nipples, licking her stomach, working his tongue over her pussy, wet and getting wetter. He can scarcely believe he's doing this with the girl who only a few summers ago was staying with him and Hunt, sitting cross-legged while munching marshmallows and playing with her Lego set and Barbie dolls. That image flashes before him, the cute ten-year old in pigtails juxtaposed with who he sees now, the sexy young woman in a ponytail, her legs spread, moaning in delight. "Make love to me, Uncle Alex," she says. "Show me what you can do with that thick head tube of yours."