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Early Memories.
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Memories:
I can remember the open fire, logs blazing in the old stone hearth, making shadows dance on the walls. The crackle and spark and scent of pine as fresh flame licked around it. The comforting heat enveloping me, warming my flesh through the thin material of my night-dress, the old sheepskin rug soft and warm and familiar beneath my thighs. And I can remember the smell of cigarette smoke, see it wafting slow and lazy and blue around my Uncles head, his eyes slitted against it but still warm and reassuring, his beetling, tufty brows above, the cigarette appearing tiny in his large, powerful hand.
It was always the same. Friday night was bath night and after he had given me my 'millionairess' bath with its sea of soft suds and scents of far flung only imagined exotic islands, he would have me stand in the bath water while he draped a huge and deliciously warm and soft bath towel around my shoulders and patted me dry. He made me feel special.
I knew it was wrong. Even back then I knew. I knew he shouldn't be bathing me, drying me, his soft blue eyes following every movement of his hands as they gently patted my naked flesh. I knew I shouldn't allow him to bathe me, to dry me.
But I did. I never objected, never said a word. Unspoken understanding. Doing something we shouldn't do. Being wicked. Being naughty. Our secret, and I liked secrets, even then, especially then.
Afterwards I would be allowed to sit before the fire in my night-dress, drinking hot cocoa while Uncle smoked his cigarettes, his eyes caressing me, his wide mouth smiling warmly whenever I looked up at him. He would sit in his favourite armchair, legs crossed, dressed for bed as I was, sheep skin slippers on his feet. In his left hand, held high beside his face, would be his smouldering, sometimes forgotten cigarette with its curving tip of grey ash. His right hand would be out of sight, tucked between his crossed thighs, gently moving, gently moving. I think I even knew what he was doing. But I didn't object, didn't even mind. It was my reward for him. And it made me feel even more special. It was between us and no one else. It was our secret, our unspoken secret.
One night--I would have been six at the time--he suggested quietly, reassuringly, persuasively, that I should stretch out before the fire, relax on the rug, close my eyes and think nice thoughts. I was drowsy from the bath and the heat from the fire, from the warm cocoa in my belly, and I wanted to please him. And besides, I knew what he wanted, what he really wanted. Even then I knew, almost instinctively.
The night dress he'd chosen for me that evening was a new one. It was soft pink flannel with a big blue elephant on the front, it's ears so large it was flying, the moon and stars behind it.
"Dumbo" he'd said, referring to the elephant, and we'd giggled because at first I thought he was referring to me.
He'd slipped it over my head as I stood arms upraised and naked before him, then, still kneeling, he'd turned me to look at my reflection in the mirror, asking me if I liked it.
I had, I loved it. But it was much shorter than my usual night dress's, the ones my mother packed when I was sent to stay the weekends with him. I commented on this, part of me thrilled for being allowed to wear something so 'grown up', part of me simply stating the obvious. In our reflection I saw his brow furrow, his face alter as though my words had bothered him, perhaps even offended him.
"Do you mind?" he'd asked. "You don't have to wear it if you don't want to, you do know that, don't you Stella?"
I was horrified I may have offended him and reassured him almost pleadingly, telling him I loved it and loved him for giving it to me.
After a moment he seemed to accept my words, his face softening and smiling once more.
"Good. But you're right. It is a bit short, isn't it. Maybe best we don't tell your mother you've got it, I don't think she'd approve!"
We grinned and giggled with secrecy.
"Deal?" he asked, eyebrow arched piratically, and I'd nodded, excited by the intended subterfuge.
"Good. Then we'll keep it here and you can wear it just at weekends when you visit."
And that was the beginning, the real beginning.
That night, as I stretched myself out on the sheepskin before the fire, I knew what he really wanted, what he'd wanted all along.
I lay back, body protected from the worst of the heat by the low tiled area before the fire, designed to catch fallen embers or thrown sparks.
I closed my eyes, heart beating, neck flushing with unknown excitement, and I raised my hips from the rug and stretched my arms high above my head, tensing muscles and arching my back until I felt the hem of my night dress ride up over my hips. Then, with eyes still closed, I clasped my hands behind my head, relaxed my whole body and let my thighs fall open.
I feigned sleep though I knew he knew I was awake all the time. Heart pounding, wicked with excitement, butterflies fluttering wings in my tummy, I lay still for him.
A game. Our game. My present.
I know it didn't take long.
Only moments later I heard him gasp, then breathe out as though winded, then groan. I was alarmed but knew I shouldn't open my eyes, not yet anyway. I waited a moment, and then another.
When his breathing had calmed I opened my eyes and sat up, leaning on an elbow.
"Are you ok Uncle?" I asked, noticing how flushed his face, how washed out his eyes. His hands were busy at his lap, wiping as though he'd spilt something. I watched him as he watched himself. Then he tucked his handkerchief back into the pocket of his old camel dressing gown and looked up, his face soft and grateful.
"I'm fine Stella, just fine. Now, isn't it about time you popped off to bed?"
I nodded with part reluctance, still excited by what I think I knew had just taken place, excited by my own audacity, excited by his compliance.
Standing up I moved to his knees for a good night kiss as always and as always he opened his knees and took me into his arms in a bear like hug, squeezing me tightly as I pressed my cheek to his, feeling the heat of his skin against my own, the rasp of his stubble, the smell of cigarettes and whisky which were his trade mark.
After a moment he relaxed his grip and pecked me on the cheek.
"Thank you Stella." he whispered.
I kissed his cheek in return and eased from his arms, wanting to say something but not knowing what.
I moved to the door, conscious of his eyes on me all the while. Opening it I went to move through but hesitated, looked back at his kind old face which seemed to beg some recognition for his thanks, some confirmation of my understanding.
"That's ok Uncle," I said slowly, "I enjoyed it too."
And with blush rising I sped to bed.
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Posted on : Jul 9, 2012
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Add Comment
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Commented on Aug 1, 2012
Wow!..You're a hot n sexy woman,stellasue..with each words from your story here i can almost smells, see n imagine you when you were at that very tender age..sweet innocent girl,yet very warm sexy pleasant understanding young girl,n niece..mmh .. Gee,wish i ever have a niece as good n exciting as you are then sweetie..Love every anticipating single words that as thou' i'm watching a sexy erotic movie..turning me on with a hard throbbing reading you bb..If anything,you sweet desirable hot stellasue,would very much love to read more of your fingering a continuing part here..which i'm sure there should well be..be it when you're still in that tender sweet innocent 6 yo, into your teens or something else with every visits to your uncle's place..hehe..i could tell that you were a sweet pretty cuddly 6 yo at that time..lol...or you upon your comforts,could mail me upon my message here..wow! again...^__^...applaus!!...
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