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Chapter 2: How Uncle Zak Screwed Up My Wedding Night
During 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 without eating. I caught a bus into town, grabbed a burger, another bus out 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 fell asleep. I looked out the window and watched the world as it passed, mostly lights. 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. I figured he’d think I was still out, so wouldn’t bother me. But he did.
Bother me. Around two in the morning I woke to find him in my bed, the bastard. I suppose if I’d been awake earlier I could have fought him off — kicked him in his privates, poked out his eye, bitten his nose, something like that — but by the time I drifted out of sleep and into wakefulness I was already hot and aroused. His lips and teeth were playing with bared nipples as hard and swollen as they only became after lots of sexual attention. His fingers were in amongst a sticky discharge between my widely parted legs that hadn’t just appeared. He had clearly been enjoying me for quite a time.
Why hadn’t I woken earlier and stopped him? The answer was simple, more and more these days I was having dreams that were hot. I mean, really hot. His manipulative teasing had clearly fitted into one of these, although which particular one on this occasion I really don’t recall. They were dreams I had no wish to escape from. Passionate dreams. Escapist dreams. Sexy, bad and wild. (Dreams that were becoming the norm.) When I realised where I was, and who was with me, and the level of arousal I had reached, I took the line of least resistance. I lay back and let him do whatever he wanted.
It was light outside by the time he left. He had fucked me three times. So much for my starry eyed dream of prince charming deflowering me in some summer glade, or by a beach with the sound of surf and circling seagulls overhead. It had been sore each time. A painful muscular distension. A sense of tearing more than stretching. Damned uncomfortable, if you really want to know. It meant I missed out on the blinding orgasm I had somehow convinced myself would follow a proper sexual schooling. Losing my cherry, as they put it. Which pissed me off a little. Yet another lousy let down in life.
He was gone from the house before I got up. I didn’t go to school. I rode the buses for a while. One guy tried to grope me, so I let him, but when his fingers started playing between my legs I discovered I was still pretty sore there, so I stopped him. No hard feelings. He didn’t seem to mind. Just changed seats, from me to another chicken. That night I was too sore to masturbate, which pissed me off some more. I had grown to like a quick come before sleep. Same thing the next night. But by the week-end I was fine, and played with myself into a daze of stars for most of the night. Then I woke before dawn, and did it some more.
Uncle Zak has a place on the west Coast. What I thought I was doing I have no idea, but when asked what I wanted for my nineteenth birthday I asked to go to spend the week-end with my Uncle Zack. He has a slightly dopey wife, called Doris. No children, but a house that overlooks the ocean. I said I wanted to go to the ocean and thought it would be fun for Mum to join me. We both went.
We were there for two nights. I let Uncle Zak fuck me. Five times in all. First two pretty were a let down as he came too damn fast, but the third showed promise, by the fourth we were making some fireworks. The fifth time, the last in the series, ten minutes before Mum and I were due to leave, me on my back on the workbench in his garage, him between my legs feet firmly planted on the cold garage floor, it was fireworks on the fourth of July! Wow! It shook me so hard it was scary!
Thinking back on it now, I guess the reason I wanted to go was I wanted to be fucked. None of my boyfriends would do it. And their friends only wanted to feel me. The only one who would fuck me, properly, no strings attached, was Uncle Zack.
As I grew closer to twenty I got into one or two proper boy friends, and we learned how to fuck. I mean properly. And the last of my ardently church-going girlfriends, lost their virginity. Suddenly sex wasn’t all hidden and secret and private any more. It was out there, talked about, a part of us. It happened, is what I am saying. It took on a more mature mantle. We all wanted this thing to be good, just as our lives were supposed to be good, but proper too, if you see what I mean. So when Uncle Zak next arrived at our home, for another of his meetings in the city, I told him to his face that it was over. No more nookie with his niece. No more hands in my panties. No more fingering my twat. pendik escort I was a big girl now. I did it on my terms, or not at all. He agreed. Right away. Which sort of took the wind from my sails.
But I should have known better. I woke from a wild sexual dream at around three o’clock in the morning, to find he was back in my bed with most of the excitable parts of me highly excited, being enthusiastically aroused by his hands, or mouth, or teeth, or tongue. My sweating body, naked, though it hadn’t been on climbing into bed, was curling and writhing in deep sexual anguish, as it clearly had been for some time! He fucked me three times before dawn. I was too damn drained after the first assault to put up a lot of resistance to assault number two. And besides, Uncle Zak is a big strong guy. Two was so damn good when it came to number three I may have been as keen on it as he was. But shit … this wasn’t right.
Come lunch time I cornered him in the kitchen and gave him a piece of my mind. He tried to soft talk me, then to caress the lobes of my ears. I picked up a wooden steak mallet from the work-bench, and whapped it on the fingers of his hand. End of conversation. Two of his fingers were broken by that. The next night he left me alone. The night after that I arranged to be away, staying overnight with a friend.
Over the next two years we didn’t see a lot of Uncle Zak, and the only time we did, he didn’t stay. I felt he’d got the message, at last. What had evolved — I am guessing here — was an unspoken agreement, of sorts: I would say anything to anyone about the way he had treated me when I was in my teens, and he would now treat me as an adult. The agreement had, as its unspoken addendum, the understanding that I had been young back then — a little randy, much too weak — whereas he had been a hot-blooded man away from home faced with a succulent body not quite in control of itself. But now I was no longer young. And if I was randy then that was none of his damn business. (Being older, of course, I was no longer weak. I was my own woman now, embarking on my voyage into the adult world, confident, incisive, decisive, strong.)
When I got married to David, Uncle Zak, as my only uncle, and Aunt Doris, his dopey wife, were (of course) invited to the wedding. It was during what followed the reception that Uncle Zak pissed me off. I mean really pissed me off.
It was ten in the evening. Everyone was full of champagne. More than one of the male guests had held me much closer than they should have as we waltzed round the floor, me in bridely white, most of them with their jackets off, when Uncle Zak broke in on the guy I was dancing with. He did it pretty rudely, but heck, he was my uncle after all, and it was my wedding day, and Uncle Zak and I had stopped being an item years before — if a clueless teenager and a married guy in his forties can be properly called an ‘item’. My thinking was this: What possible harm can it do to dance with the guy?
So I let him put an arm around my waist. When he wanted to put the other arm around my waist as well, well, I didn’t stop him. With both my arms draped companionably round his shoulders, and my nose an inch from his, and smiling radiantly as brides are expected to on their wedding day, I embarking on a raft of polite conversation that I felt would make him feel at ease, and show him how mature and well-balanced I’d become.
I also left open to him, if he wanted to examine the subtext, that I did not hold his taking advantage of me in my younger years, against him. I did this feeling that at the time of our physical ‘togetherness,’ if that is a fair expression to use, it was he who was the adult and therefore he, rather than me, who should have known better. (I hadn’t even known how to fuck, for chrissake, far less how to initiate such an activity with an older man.) I felt it was fair that he accept the blame and that I, on my wedding day, should show that I forgave him.
He had not, after all, I was willing to concede, given me any sexually transmitted disease. He had not injured me in any physical way. Had not bitten me, not damagingly at least, nor broken any bones. And he had, conversely, served to educate my sexual senses to a degree to which surprised me, at times almost frightened me, but for which, in retrospect, I suppose I was to some degree grateful.
Had I not been as sexually responsive and excitable as I was, I doubt if I would ever have snagged such a husbandly catch, as David. (He describes me as his sexual jelly. The slightest touch and the whole of me quakes. But it makes him feel good. Men likes sexual jellies, I think. It makes them regard themselves as ‘good in bed’, to have a partner responding as I do. Powerfully, wildly, out of control. It makes them feel sexually masterful. Something like that.) But now that I’d earned my spurs, so to speak, marriage would ensure that the quaking jelly — my standard response to physical advance — would be regularly dealt with, assuaged if need be, in the culturally acceptable arena of the marriage maltepe escort bed. (Which beat the back of a bus, or the darkened stalls of a cinema.)
“How about a feel of the bride for old times sake,” the fat old bastard whispered leeringly into in my ear. But I was not going to let Uncle Zak annoy me. Not on this, my wedding day. So instead of sticking my knee in his crotch, which is what he deserved, I decided to be nice. “As my uncle, you’re entitled to kiss the bride,” I purred in his ear, being nice. “But that’s the lot.”
“Okay,” came back, more meekly than I’d expected, quite surprising me.
“Where do you want it?” I asked, meaning the left cheek or right.
“In front of your Aunt Doris,” came back, surprising me even more.
I pushed myself away from him. “Uncle Zak, what are you talking about?”
I was starting to get pissed off with him again. I’d done my best with this guy, forgiven him his behaviour through much of my sexually formative years, and now he wanted some sort of kinky last kiss. But his face was more conciliatory than aggressive, so I softened. “Why on earth would you want me to kiss you in front of Aunt Doris?”
“It’s a little … bet, I have with her,” he said.
“What sort of bet?”
“A friendly bet.”
“Uncle Zak. You are a louse, and you know it. You used to take advantage of me shamelessly, but now you know you can’t. So what’s this all about?”
“You want me to come clean?”
“Of course I do,” I snapped.
He looked to be twenty years younger. All boyish and embarrassed. He ducked his head. His grip of me had already faded to nothing at all. He was looking as sheepish as I had ever seen him. “Doris doesn’t think you’d let yourself be kissed by an old man like me,” he said, as he shuffled his feet.
Oh how the mighty have fallen, I thought to myself.
“Why on earth not?” I said.
“Because I’m so …” he actually blanched “decrepit …”
“So,” I rubbed it in, “you’ve always been decrepit.”
“… while you are so radiant,” he finished, as if I hadn’t spoken.
The old blighter was actually blushing! I closed my arms around his bedraggled head, pulled it close to mine, and whispered in his ear, “You are a complete swine, but no girl would ever call you decrepit.” I left it there. I was certainly not about to praise the old reprobate in terms of his penile prowess. But nor did I want him depressed on my wedding day, especially for no reason at all.
In fact he had a fabulous penis.
“So you’ll do it. Kiss me in front of Doris?” he said, still not meeting my eye.
“Of course I will, you fool.” I felt a sudden affection for the old rake.
“Sweetie, you’re a gem,” he whispered.
I laughed, hardly believing this reversal of roles.
When he added, “She said it should be on the mouth, do you mind?”
“Of course I don’t,” I retorted, glad to help him regain some sort of his tenuous grip on his marriage, a marriage I’d never fully understood. He was always so dictatorial, so bossy. Aunt Doris was always so submissive. I couldn’t understand how a marriage could be so one-sided. And what he asking for, ‘a kiss on the mouth for old time’s sake,’ was hardly bad, considering what we had done in the past! Next thing I knew we were heading off the dance floor. Off to resolve this little bet he had. Off to strengthen his position with his mousey little wife. What a turn-up for the books! I couldn’t help giggling, part champagne no doubt, but a big chunk of it was the idea that this great self-appointed seducer and stud, was suddenly under his meek wife’s thumb. “Where is she?” I asked, as we started up the stairs.
“In Sandra’s room, with Sandra, I think,” he responded, taking up the rear but keeping his hands to himself, which in itself was a change! In the past whenever we’d climbed stairs, he’d always taken the rear, and put his hand on mine. This time he left well alone. Maybe the old dog had learned new tricks, I thought. Like how to be a gentleman, perhaps? “Third along, isn’t it?” I queried, reaching the top of the stairs and turning right.
Sandra was Sandra Coolidge, Doris’s sister. She owned horses, and this lovely country house. It was through her that we were here. Her kindness and generosity had afforded us this ideal location for our wedding. Held out in the garden in sunshine overlooking the lake in the grounds. Here in the evening for the reception. Everything laid on, nothing left to chance. We were grateful. Who wouldn’t have been?
I knocked on the last door along. It was a beautiful room with a bay window overlooking the lake. It was Sandra’s room; Sandra now a widow. It was here that I had put on my wedding dress. Doris opened the door. “Oh,” was all she said when she saw me, opening the door and letting me in.
“Is Sandra here?” I queried.
Doris looked uncomfortably formal, as if unhappy to be here. “No, my dear,” she said, her eyes on mine. They looked troubled.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she said, kartal escort eyes darting nervously over my shoulder at Uncle Zak, closing the door behind us. They seemed to dislike what they saw, slipped back to mine. “You look … a picture, my dear,” she stammered. Her smile seemed wan.
I reached out my hand. “Are you sure you’re okay, Aunt Doris?” I took her hand in mine. She didn’t look happy at all.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she took both my hand in hers. “Just fine. Finer now, seeing you. Happier, now that you’re here. Did Zak tell you? Our bet? Our silly bet?” She was rabbitting on as if she was nervous, or scared. I didn’t know which. But I wasn’t about to be phased.
“Of course he did,” I said, turning my head to her husband who now stood before the closed door. “He said you didn’t believe I would let him kiss me.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?” She sounded almost hopeful that I wouldn’t.
“It’s my wedding day, Aunt Doris. Surely I must let my only uncle kiss the bride?”
“Oh,” she said at first. And then, “Can I hold your hands when you do?” she enquired, still holding on to my hands.
Why would she want to do that?
“Of course, if you want to,” I said, hesitantly, leaving my hands in hers. I didn’t object when she moved my hands behind my back, took a grip on both wrists, and turned me to her husband. There was something about this I was starting to dislike. It was almost as if I was her prisoner. “This is not some sort of trick, is it?” I asked, as lightly as I could, though she now gripped my wrists more tightly than I liked.
“Where should I kiss the bride?” asked Uncle Zak. He was suddenly back to the cock-sure man I had known for most of my later teens. Back to the manipulator. Back to the predator. Back to the one who took what he wanted and aroused as he pleased. “Where do you think, Doris?”
“I think you should ask the bride,” she said, voice low.
“Left cheek or right?” I tried to keep it light, not liking this at all. I suppose I should have known what would happen next. I kick myself now for not having seen it come. He had his tongue stuck out. It was a raw, long, almost reptilian tongue that I knew from old was outrageously effective wherever he decided to put it. It was clearly aimed at my lips. I thought to turn my head. I felt I should speak, or stall, or duck out the way. But there was this bet to be won, and Uncle Zak didn’t lose bets! Certainly not with his wife, meek Doris.
For some, or perhaps all of these reasons, or perhaps from some silly indecision to do with wedding days, and how much champagne I had drunk, I let the tongue into my mouth. I accepted his lips against mine. And when a large square hand (that I knew so well) closed over my breast, I sort of let that happen too, for as soon as the kiss was done, and Doris had seen I had kissed him, then perhaps the old bores would let me get back to my wedding, and everyone would be happy.
But as the kiss began to develop, and my breasts began to perk (on account of the attention he was giving them), I felt another hand start to pull the taffeta skirts of my wedding dress, up my legs. I eased back my head but his followed, his hand still at work on my breast, his tongue sliding softly over mine, his other hand lifting my skirts, bringing the air in, cooling the skin at the top of my stockings, my wrists in his wife’s firm grasp, all of it starting to roil, and become just a little unworldly. Why did his wife not release me? Why did my tongue not stay still? Why did my breast not behave? His hand within my skirts eased softly between my legs and found the centre of my usual sexual troubles. It started to work its old magic. I screamed in my head that he had only just touched me. That the kiss was but ten seconds old. Maybe twenty. That the fondling of my breast was a last hurried feel before I went out of his reach. What was the problem for chrissake?
He was old, after all, I rationalised, letting him feel me, giving him the last opportunity to feel what he’d once almost owned. I let it go on. I tried not to be revolted by the feel of his fingers as they brushed my clitoris, or the others (other hand) as they tweaked a nipple. I tried not to be disgusted by the thing within myself that didn’t stop him right away. I resolved to bear the pain, repugnance if need be, as his tongue roused mine to a somnolent dance. I determined to let him have this last hurried fling, to let him hold the parts he’d held before, stroke where he’d stroked me before, caress my private parts as he’d done so hungrily and skilfully so many times before. It was the least I could do, after all. He had been my teacher in so many ways, how could I refuse him today? This day of all days. The last day I could.
I felt his fingers steal inside the leg-band of my panties, special for my wedding. They were made of silk, and although a mere thong, were hugely expensive. They were meant for David on his wedding night, yet here was this reprobate doing what he wanted amongst them. And his fingers knew precisely what to do! Surely and unhesitatingly they did exactly what I liked. (What he knew damn well I liked.) I started feeling fidgety. I started getting hot. I quickly got aroused. I groaned into his mouth. I tried to make a second groan a ‘No’ from me to him. I said it again.
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