by Sylvia Fox
I picked up the bottoms and sighed, stretching the seat in hopes that it could somehow do a better job covering my ass than the top was doing containing my cleavage.
Wriggling into them, I pulled and shimmied until they were as high as they’d go. I turned my back to the mirror and nearly fainted from shame. The worst part wasn’t the bottom of my ass swallowing up the back as if it were a thong, which it wasn’t meant to be, it was the fact that my butt cleavage was quite possibly deeper than that of my breasts. A porn star wore more conservative swimwear than I was wearing, moments before I was to join John in his hot tub with a bottle of wine. My dashing, handsome, confident “uncle”, the very sight of whom had me aroused.
The beer wasn’t helping. Wine would surely be a knockout blow.
A deep breath filled my lungs and I stared at the girl in the mirror. I had to admit, I looked good. And if this was Spring Break in Panama City, I’d be the belle of the ball. The pounds college had added to my frame all seemed to be in the right places; I was curvier than I’d ever been and I laughed at imagining myself as being mistaken for the long-lost fourth Kardashian sister.
The spiral staircase led to a rec room of sorts, with two doors at one end, a small workbench, and an opening out to the deck. True to John’s word, I found a pile of fluffy white towels near the doors. I wrapped one around my midsection and carried second tucked under my arm, stepping out into the chill of the night.
If my nipples hadn’t been hard enough to drive nails through plywood already, they were now. John had his back to me, steam rising from the water, his muscled arms stretched wide, a bottle of wine and an empty glass near his left hand. A half-filled glass was in his right hand. The tub itself was surrounded by low lights, but otherwise only the light from the house penetrated the darkness. A sliver of moon hung among about a billion stars overhead.
“There you are. I was beginning to think maybe you’d gotten lost,” John said.
I approached and set down the towel I was carrying, hoping I could somehow slither from the towel to beneath the cloudy water before being seen. John’s eyes, however, were locked on me.
“Oh, no, I was just unpacking a little. Your house is unbelievable,” I said, delaying the inevitable.
“Listen,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you hear the owl?”
I cocked my head to the side and focused on the sounds of the forest, hearing a distant call penetrating the silence. “Hoo-coo-hoo-hoo.”
John smiled. “I love owls, but in all the time I’ve had this place I’ve never seen one. Bats, deer, raccoons, possums, elk, eagles and hawks, even black bears, every kind of critter you can imagine, but never an owl. One of these days.”
“Bears?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound too terrified.
“They never come around here. I’ve seen them up the mountain a bit. There’s a stream they like. I’ve taken some good pictures up there. You should come visit in the Spring. This place changes so much with the seasons. But enough boring wildlife talk. Come on in. It’s perfect.” He patted the deck, his eyes never leaving me. I’d waited for an opening, for him to be distracted for a second so I could surreptitiously slip in, but it wasn’t happening.
I surrendered and dropped the towel.
John’s expression immediately took on a more serious tone, and he sat up a bit straighter in the tub, looking like he wanted to say something, but reconsidered. The cool air raised goosebumps all over my ample exposed flesh, and I let my foot drop into the water, followed by my leg and then the rest of me.
The heat was a shock, stinging me at first, but once I adjusted, it was fantastic. I’d placed a hair tie around my wrist, and I removed it used both hands to pull my hair back into a pony tail. As I raised my hands behind my neck, and my chest thrust forward, I caught John’s eyes widening and his nostrils flaring.
I was in trouble. How much, exactly, I didn’t yet know.
“The Moultrie men must be lined up from Hale Hall halfway to Spuds waiting to ask you out, Josephine,” John said, filling my glass with Cabernet.
“I’m not so much into the social scene. Honestly, the guys I’ve met are mostly the same as the high school ones back home. They just want one thing; they’re mostly, pardon me for insulting them, since you were once one of them, but they’re mostly douchebags,” I took a long sip of the best Cabernet I’d ever tasted.
John just stared at me, in a way that made my pulse race. He swirled his glass and sniffed at it before taking a sip.
“My TA, Aaron, is quite smitten with you. He asks about you quite often. He isn’t a douchebag, at least not according to my definition of the word, but, frankly, you’re out of his league. I’ve always thought you were mature for your age, Josephine. High school boys, and even college men, aren’t what would ever be enough for you. Am I right?”
I let the nearly-scalding water soak into my pores and took another drink of my wine, nodding my head at him through wisps of steam.
“Now that I’ve had dinner last night with you and then our ‘dessert’, and most of today with you, if I can be perfectly blunt and hopefully not too crass… Now that I’ve seen you in this setting, seen what a striking young woman you’ve developed into, I’m more sure than ever that you could never be happy with anything but a man. I mean that as a compliment. Are you familiar with Antonio Stradivari?”
My foggy brain thought the name sounded familiar somehow, but nothing made sense right now besides John’s piercing blue eyes, perfectly-trimmed salt and pepper beard, and glistening shoulders just above the water. I shook my head no.
“Antonio Stradivari was an Italian luthier in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. He made all sorts of stringed instruments, but he’s most widely-known for his violins. They fetch millions of dollars in the marketplace today.”
I nodded my head in recognition. The name Stradivarius meant something to me, even if the word “luthier” would have had me scrambling for dictionary.com without the context John provided.
“Any violinist could play a Stradivarius. I mean pull a bow across the strings, the physical act. Even a student at his first lesson. But to allow a beginner or an amateur to handle such an instrument would be criminal. Even virtuosos sometimes pause when confronted by such a masterpiece of craftsmanship, sure their ability will found wanting. The hubris of youth or the novice would allow wanton disregard for the perfection of the instrument and the result would surely be disastrous.
“Likewise, allowing a high school boy, or even a college ‘man’, access to a heart such as yours, or to touch such an exquisitely, and again, forgive me if I’m trespassing where I ought not tread, an exquisitely developed body such as yours, would be tragic. They’d surely be found wanting, and could only damage you, never explore your vast, full potential.”
I stared at him, amazed at how he spoke of me. He’d fucked me the night before, used my body for his own wicked pleasure… But he spoke of me now in such reverent tones.
As if he loved me.
I’d finished my glass and as he spoke, he’d moved nearer to me, refilling both our glasses.
He watched me bring mine to my lips, an intense stare as my mouth opened to accept the wine. My mouth was more than ready to accept him, to receive his kiss, or his cock, than I dared admit.
The wine and the earlier beer, the heat of the tub, and listening to this man, who I idolized, describe me with his deep voice as “exquisitely developed,” had turned my body to liquid. I felt as one with the water, my muscles flowing into my bones, my relaxation complete.
My head fell back onto the side of the tub, gazing up at the stars. I let my eyes fall shut, listening intently for the owl to call again, when I felt the bristles of his beard at my throat.
He was kissing me there; in a place he couldn’t possibly know was my kryptonite. Up and down the side of my throat, to my jawline and back to just beneath my ear. I whimpered and clutched at him with my right arm, wrapping it around his shoulders to let him know
I didn’t want him to stop.
Below the surface of the water, his hand reached across and enclosed my ribcage, holding me fast. His left hand reached for my pony tail, sliding the holder off and letting my hair fall loose, his fingers tangled up in my hair, gently, but firmly holding my head back, my neck exposed to him. All the while, he never stopped kissing me down to my collarbone and across to the front of my throat. He took his time, not missing an inch, his beard rough against my skin, his lips soft and full, consuming me.
My mind swirled, struggling to process what was happening. As desperately as my body wanted and welcomed it, the voice in my head, tiny and getting smaller every time my heart pounded inside my chest, was screaming at me that it was so very wrong for so many reasons.
His hold on my hair lessened, and his mouth found mine. He moved in front of me, his hands cradling my face as he rose out of the water, steam and droplets of water accentuating the manly tone of his shoulders and arms. He pulled my face to him, kissing me on the mouth like I’d never before been kissed.
His knee found the bench where I sat, landing firmly between my legs, where my hips ground wantonly against it. My body was no longer subject to my whims, only to lust. To need. To achieving maximum pleasure, no matter the cost.
So I rubbed against his thigh as if I were in heat, kissing him desperately.
I struggled to rise with him, to press my body to his, and I felt his hand at the small of my back. He took hold of the top of my bikini bottom and pulled upwards, making everything tight against my aching sex. I yelped at the liberty he took with me, but his mouth just swallowed up the sound.
It seemed he’d never stop kissing me.
I was sure I’d die if he did.
His fist wrapped itself around the fabric of my bikini bottom, holding it tight as I rutted on him, my frantic style of kissing giving away the orgasm threatening to overtake me.
He stopped kissing me only long enough to press our foreheads together, his eyes an inch from mine, just long enough to pose a question.
“Do you need to come, Princess?”
I bit my lip and nodded, trembling as I clutched at him, his muscles my anchor to reality as the waves of pleasure washed over me.
“Good girl. Good girl.” He repeated into my ear again and again, his words sustaining my climax much longer than I’d have expected.
When the aftershocks subsided, I sank back into the water, followed by John. He knelt between my legs, smiling, looking up at my flushed face.
“Was that okay with you?” he asked, kindly.
“Yes. Yes, very okay,” I rasped in reply.
“Good. Turn around and let me get a good look at your ass, Josephine.”
It wasn’t a request or a question, it was a command.
I stood and turned, slowly, both hands on the side of the tub, the cold air sending a chill down my spine, causing me to shiver for just a moment.
“Glorious,” John stated, his hands again taking liberties with my body, palming my ass, one hand sliding down the back of my thigh and the other massaging the small of my back.
“Feet together.”
My body was now taking commands solely from John Hardwicke, not from me. I shuffled my feet toward one another, and when they were near enough, I felt his thumbs pull the sides of my bikini bottoms down in one long smooth tug. They disappeared as soon as they reached my ankles, and I anticipated his next command but waited to hear it before following it.
“Legs apart now.”
As far as I could, I let my feet slide away, leaving me bent over the side of the hot tub, my ass up in the air, everything exposed and available to him.
“This body of yours needs guidance, Josephine, doesn’t it? It craves a firm hand. Discipline. It’s very lush. It needs to be tamed. Am I right?” The entire time he spoke, his hands roamed over and around my ass, up and down the backs of my legs, absolutely every place except where I needed his touch so badly, the furnace between my thighs.
My head dropped between my shoulders as my hips rolled in circles under his ministrations.
“Yes. Yes, I need you so badly, please!” I implored him.
“Tell me, Josephine. Tell me exactly what your body needs. What you need. What you had planned coming out here dressed like this. Knowing what it would do to me. Tell me.” His open hand crashed down on the right cheek of my ass, a stinging exclamation point. He rubbed his palm over the area in a soothing motion as I whimpered and bit my bottom lip.
“I… I need… I need you. I need to get fucked by you. I need you to fuck me. Please fuck me!” My voice was deeper than I recognized, sultry, husky. He spanked my ass again. Then again, alternating hands, each impact sending a jolt up my spine and back down directly to my searing sex.
“Kneel on the bench. Ass high in the air. Be proud of your succulent ass. I’ve never seen its equal.”
I lowered myself into a kneeling position. My torso flat on the deck, the cold air no match for the heat my lust was producing. I felt him move behind me, change positions. I expected to feel his cock, the girth Alexa had noticed straining against his pants at Spuds, the hammer I couldn’t help but notice swinging in the basket of his old swim trunks upstairs in my room.
The cock that had fucked me last night, like a young whore. I was his whore. Forever. Until he was done with me and even if he ever was done with me, I’d still be so grateful to have been fucked by him.
To be owned.
But when I felt his hands on my ass, they spread me open not for his cock, but for… his tongue.
Every muscle in my body tensed at once and I jolted upright, but his strong hands held me in place and his approach was unchanged.
His flattened tongue covered my opening in long, slow licks, and I knew that he must be able to taste the arousal he’d been building in me all afternoon and into the evening.
From his position, each time he covered the length of my sex with his tongue, I knew his nose had to be… oh, God, it was right there… I could feel it, there was no mistaking it, his face was right there by my ass. Not by it, in it.
Nothing and no one had ever been there, touched me there, seen me there. But in the flickering light of the hot tub and the moonlight bathing us, I knew he was experiencing the last virginal part of me, my most private sanctuary. Waves of shame coursed through me. The tricks a mind can play set my entire future out in a nanosecond; get out of the tub, get dressed, get home (my mind couldn’t quite connect the dots between the cabin and home, I blame the alcohol), withdraw from school, and leave the country. Maybe, one day, I could face my parents again. With luck, I’d never have to look at Uncle John’s handsome face ever ag- oh, fuck…
Fuck, fuck fuck.
He wasn’t intent to just grope, spank, look at, and smell my ass.
No, that wouldn’t be mortifying enough.
He was kissing it.
I don’t mean the cheeks, either.
Although he was kissing them, too.
He held me there, kissing all over my ass. His hands running up my back and down my sides, in wide, circular massaging swaths. While he moved up and kissed the small of my back, and then down to the top of the crack of my ass, where I have a tiny mole that nobody on Earth knows about except… well, I used to be the only one. But now he was kissing it.
And lower. And deeper.
And the entire time, I was as wet with arousal as I’d ever been in my life.
I writhed and leaked like a faucet as I felt his beard scratching at the most tender flesh on my body, between the cheeks of my ass, and I let myself collapse back down onto the deck, whimpering, letting him have his way with me.
His kisses became more insistent, changed to licked, tighter and tighter circles. Nearer and nearer to where I so desperately needed to feel his tongue.
To a place on my body I’d never before been so acutely aware was surrounded by the most delicious nerve endings.
He licked me… there.
And suddenly, everythin
g in my life I thought had been pleasure was suddenly, laughably insignificant.
That mysterious owl, every bear on the mountain, and all the creatures in the forest could suddenly have descended on the cabin, on John’s deck, and I doubt I’d have noticed.
My focus was absolute. On the tiniest, tightest bundle of nerves in my body.
His insistent tongue swirled ’round and ‘round before setting on the task of probing. Invading. Extending inside me. Where, impossibly, the sensations of forbidden pleasure were magnified a thousand fold.
I could feel wetness everywhere. My feet and calves were underwater. My cheeks were stained with tears, the genesis of which was my body’s complete inability to process the wonderful euphoria washing over me. And my inner thighs were an entirely different matter. My arousal may well have filled the tub all on its own.
John pressed his face in deeper, until he was, quite literally, French kissing me there. Enthusiastically French kissing my ass.
Not only had I never experienced anything like this, I’d never heard of anything like this.
I had friends in high school, and my Moultrie roommate Alexa, who were, by degrees of magnitude more adventuresome and experienced sexually than I. But none of them had described anything like a man devouring them from behind.
My mind boggled. And then an orgasm erupted inside me that threatened to incinerate my soul.
It began, quite impossibly, in my ass. My prior orgasms had all been from my clit, entirely self-administered. I’d read enough Cosmo to understand that I had a “g-spot” and that if it were stimulated properly that it could produce a powerful climax. And somewhere on-line I recalled the theoretical “a-spot” at the very back of a vagina. Of course, my nipples had given me hours of fun. But my ass could come?
Yes. Yes, it could.
The muscles in my ass started clenching and clamping down, all over John’s face, and I squealed, an embarrassing sound I couldn’t duplicate for a suitcase full of cash, but a sound over which I had absolutely no control.
I thrashed and squealed, my ass orgasming around his tongue, until everything was just too sensitive, too tender, too overwhelming, and I tried to pull myself up onto the deck further, to escape his maddening tongue, if only for a moment’s respite, just to take a breath.