Uncle Oscar

The little old bastard was standing very close to my girl. Unbelieving, I watched as he confidently caressed her fragrant hair, then moved his hand down her back. I could tell by his movements that he was shamelessly kneading her buttocks. She looked at him, a little flushed, still smiling, mouthing "not here."

But she made no attempt to take his hand away from her ass. Uncle Oscar continued to knead her. I could see she was perspiring, her breathing had become heavy.

It was like a slow motion crash, she turned lazily around until she faced the old man, his eyelids almost closed now, her face slowly dipping down, like a moth drawn to a candle, she paused a moment to give his huge moustache a little pinch, and their lips met.

Have you ever watched a tall beautiful young girl's face as she dips down to kiss a short bald old man equipped with the biggest white moustache you can imagine? Good for you. Christina managed to find both of uncle's lips under his facial hairs and she kissed him with a slow, sensuous passion, his moustache covering most of her cheek. I couldn't see any tongue action inside that bush, but yes, I could hear them -- swirling tongues, smacking sounds, soft whimpering.

I tried to look away from the nightmarish scene. I looked around. Some people looked embarrassed, some dumb-founded, several threw glances at the young beauty and the old sod who were making out like there was no tomorrow.

I took a few steps back. I wasn't with them. This young beauty was not French-kissing her boyfriend's old uncle right under her boyfriend's nose.

After long minutes the two kissers separated, as slowly as they had been drawn to each other. I watched her beautiful hands as they let go of his back and slowly slid up his side, to rest on his shoulder. Christina traced her forefingers along his neck and looked into his eyes.

Uncle Oscar's next move didn't really shock me. Of course the old exhibitionist wanted me to know what I was up against now. Still, when my old uncle turned to give me a hint of what he had just been grinding into my girl...

... I was not prepared at all.

The sight of the beastly erection that was straining Uncle Oscar's shorts made my throat go dry. The size of the tent that now pointed towards me - and the ceiling - was bigger than I could have ever imagined.

He wanted me to learn that here was a man who needed to have my girl's pussy. And that he was going to have it.

My gaze left Uncle Oscar's crotch and met my girlfriend's. She too, I could tell, was shaken. Her breath came in heaves, her eyes were glazed. She too tried to keep her eyes away from his crotch.

Oscar noticed that his suitcase was arriving. He nonchalantly pulled his shirttail out to cover his erection. Christina's luggage was arriving too. They picked up their belongings. Christina gave me a quick glance, said "see you" and left with Oscar. When I came to the exit five minutes later, I saw them leaving in a taxi.

Chapter 6

It was mid-summer and holiday time. That very week Christina and I had been together for a full year. Since a few months we had been sharing a tiny downtown flat, not far from my Uncle Oscar's place. Just one combined living room/bed room. We didn't have mobile phones then and I didn't hear a word from Christina until the following Friday.

Friday morning she phoned me that she would be arriving with a removal van around noon.

In the course of an hour or so her stuff was gone. We only exchanged a few sentences all the time she was there.

She faced me when she was on her way out.

"I am sorry. Sort of. Just couldn't resist him. Didn't want to. There's not a lot more to say. He's just too awesome. She paused.

"Much too much... Man."

She pronounced the last word like she was speaking of a delicacy. I believe she licked her lips, I think she purred like a content cat.

No regrets. Never look back.

She handed over her keys and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.

Then she was gone.

Christina had left her bag behind in the living-room, I looked inside it. Her gym clothes. On top of them an envelope. I picked it up. It had "Christina & Oscar" written on it. The envelope was dated the previous Saturday, the day they met.

My heart froze. She was not an absent-minded person. Had she deliberately left it behind?

I quickly opened the envelope, anxious that she would soon return. There were some forty, maybe fifty, 5 X 7 pictures inside. In some sort of masochistic discipline, I gathered them on our living room table, face down in a pile, and went through them in sequence.

I turned the first picture.

It gasped for breath. My lungs felt like they were full of needles. I clearly remembered the bearskin rug on Uncle Oscar's living room floor. It scared me when I was little but I loved to play with it when I was a bit older. He had shot the bear himself when he lived in Canada as a young man.

It was obvious that my uncle was fresh out of the shower, his body hairs were still wet. Had she been in the shower with him? Of course. Soaping his old body?

I shuddered.

I didn't know about the classic Burt Reynolds 1972 bear rug pose at the time. I do now. Uncle Oscar must have decided to make a perfect imitation. He was on the rug, completely nude, on his right side, his head in the palm of his right hand. He had a crude smile, playfully making his huge bicep swell. His elbow was on the bear's snout. An ashtray was on the floor beside the bear's head. In Uncle Oscar's mouth was -- not a small cigarillo like Bert's - but a monster Churchill style cigar.

The sight of his torso made my jaw drop. His skin belied his years. He was amazingly muscled, deltoids enormous, dense white hairs covering the upper part of his body, his legs massive and hairy, his feet huge.

His upper body and arms were almost completely covered by tattoos. I knew Christina found them sexy, she had a couple of small ones herself. She had wanted me to get one. I refused.

Uncle Oscar's naked body was a shocking contrast to his plain face. From neck to toe the old man was masculine perfection.

He had a speedo tan line, the white contrasting his brown tan. Like on Burt's picture, his huge left forearm was resting across his crotch. A huge mass of white hairs sprouted out from his loins. His forearm covered almost all of his penis. But down by his wrist, way below his bush, the head of his limp cock peeked out. It was the size of a child's fist.

Could I now comprehend how a beautiful young woman could be attracted to a man like him?

Yes. I could.

Chapter 7

They must have set up the camera on a tripod, and set some kind of repeat timer mode, because the rest of the pictures in the pile were from the same distance and angle.

The next shot showed Christina, also nude, kneeling. Her kneecaps against his ribs, facing the camera. Uncle Oscar was leaning on his elbows. The fingers on Christina's right hand were sliding through the exceptional mass of white hair on Oscar's chest, the ones on her left hand fruitlessly tried to encircle his gargantuan cock. It was already at full mast and slick with his pre-cum.

Uncle Oscar's erection was monumental.

He wasn't only bigger than any stud I had seen in porn, there was an aesthetic quality to his monster that begged a lingering look. It's skin was bewilderingly dark, the stem looked like the thick branch of a Sequoia tree, contrasting his pale waist. My uncle's cock, veins bulging, curving upwards, was ending in a perfect golf ball sized half-dome. His balls were giant too, hanging low in his hairy scrotum. The skin of his scrotum also displayed prominent blue veins.

OK, I'll say it, Uncle Oscar's long, fat, hard, juicy cock was the most awe-inspiring sight I had ever seen.

In that second, all I thought I knew, all I thought I understood about men and women was crushed. And from the ashes came a sensation that was completely new to me. Utter and complete humiliation. I'd had some embarrassing things happen in my life but they were things from which I was able to move on. The sight of Uncle Oscar's erect penis was profoundly mortifying, I knew right then and there that I would be forever changed.

I hurried through the pile. Most of the pictures were of Christina and Uncle Oscar on his living-room floor. They were engaged in acts of heated oral worship. Oscar was feasting on my girl like a gorilla in rut. And Christina... She was falling in love with old Oscar's cock, wasn't she? With his body.

I couldn't believe my eyes. How could she do this to him? And that! How could she do these things to any man? Voluntarily and loving it?

My stomach was churning in disgust, in helpless jealousy. Suddenly my body was racked with a strong urge to cry.

I let my tears flow freely.

There were some twenty more pictures. When my tears had finally dried I was vaguely able to learn that Christina's pussy was able to accommodate my old uncle's enormous cock. His humungous fuck meat had stayed steel hard during their extensive foreplay, now he was plunging it in and out of her body. Her foamy white pussy cream quickly covered it. The remainder of the pictures showed Uncle Oscar pounding Christina, pounding her, pounding her in every position. In some pictures he was standing and I could only see his strong legs and Christina's dangling feet.

All the time Christina was matching his sexual energy, enjoying the hot, raucous, nasty fantasy sex she had always longed for. Their faces were twisted in lust, mouths open. I knew what sounds they made.

Words of praise. Obscenities. Shrieks revealing unearthly pleasure.

The film had expired before my old uncle had finished with Christina. In the last picture Uncle Oscar had pulled his cock out. They were both on the rug. He was behind her, his face buried deep between her ass cheeks. I could only observe a bit of his moustache, tickling her right buttock. Christina was on all fours, her long beautiful neck and head thrown back.

There was a smaller envelope inside the large one. I decided to open it. Inside was a picture of Christina, alone on the rug now, attempting to rest against the uncomfortable bear head. Her dominant old stallion had fucked her to total exhaustion. To submission and to dependence. She had craved to be fucked by a Man. Her craving had clearly been over-complied.

Christina was ravishingly beautiful on the rug. She was in a sweaty, post-orgasmic glow, her lovely hair all tangy. Her lips looked swollen, there were hickeys, bruises, scratches. On her neck, on her voluptuous tits, on her shapely thighs, on her instep, all over.

In her right hand she was holding Uncle Oscar's lit monster cigar. She had just blown a perfect smoke ring his way and smoke was still coming out of her nose. She looked like she was about to doze off and she was giving him a blissful, goofy smile.

Between her legs, on the bearskin rug, was the ashtray. Astounding amounts of her lover's thick male seed had already oozed into it. She was spreading her battered pussy with her left hand so that her Man - and portrait photographer - could see that copious amounts of his spunk was still leaking from her hairy cunt.

The doorbell rang.

I hastily put the photographs back in the envelope. I opened the door for Christina so she could bring her last belongings to her new home.