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Chapter 1 How I came to hate my Uncle Zak

My name is Anika, pronounced the same as silica without syllabic emphasis, (at least that’s how I prefer it). I am twenty-six years old and happily married … with just the tinniest wrinkle. This is how the ‘wrinkle’ started, at least I think it is, and how I came to hate my Uncle Zak.

Uncle Zak is my mother’s elder brother. Early forties. A big out-doorsie type. Huge hands, broad hairy chest. He thinks he’s handsome, in a rough manual worker sort of way, but I think he’s disgusting. He is staying with us now: David, my husband, and Tracy, who’s two. God knows why I let him.

My Uncle Zak ‘discovered’ me, I think is the term he would use, when I was eighteen. In earlier times he had the habit of taking me onto his knee, or so I was told. Since I was a toddler I guess. But then he went overseas for a time. He is something or other in government. When he came back I was ten years older, just turned eighteen, yet he seemed to think we would pick up where he’d left off.

“Come sit on my knee like you used to, little poppet,” he chirped from my father’s chair in the front room, patting a broad thigh with a thick hand. I was almost as tall as he was! When my objections to this manifestly inappropriate behaviour failed – I was grown up, for chrissake – and he succeeded in getting me into his lap – with cluckings from my mother of, “Oh, how sweet,” – I discovered that my Uncle Zak’s hands had a pretty clear agenda of their own. My mother (obviously) had no idea what this guy, her brother, was like. And I’m not sure my father would have cared even if he did. (My father and I have never got on particularly well. I think he wanted a boy.) So there I sat, embarrassed, yet uncomfortably in a position of mild compliance, as he took the excuse of my being on his lap to check out my shape, with his hands.

I lifted them off, of course – either one, or in one case both – when they strayed too far from where they ought to have been in the circumstances. Although exactly where ‘ought to have been’ was, appeared to be moot when applied to a long lost uncle! My mother had immediately taken to calling him this. And, on account – I am guessing here – of the added licence that being referred to as ‘long lost uncle’ appeared to give him (where his niece was concerned) he pretty quickly followed suit and called himself that too! “Come and sit with your long lost uncle,” he would say, at every opportunity, patting an ample thigh with a broad coarse hand.

On more than one occasion on the first two days of his visit I found myself back in his lap when unable, or too slow, or too dumb to think up a valid excuse as to why my ‘long lost uncle’ should not be allowed to ‘get to know me better’, and why my ‘being snug as a bug in a rug in his lap,’ was not – clearly – the best way of conducting this exercise. How my parents failed to interpret this as an over-sexed older man wanting to get as close he could to a shapely younger niece he had taken a fancy to, I have no idea. But they didn’t. So I was left to my own devices. And defences. As his mouth motored off in one direction – he could talk about anything, and usually did – has hands wandered off in other. Detours and wanderings and side trips all over me. And under me. Anything and everything he’d try.

The reason I guess he persevered at this particular form of behaviour, despite the barrage of resistance I placed in his way, was that in the end he invariably tended to wear me down. In the end I got bored with thinking up reasons why he couldn’t touch me where he wanted to, or stroke me as he wished, or caress a showing piece of flesh as deeply as he cared to. It was as if he knew that if he worked on me hard enough, and for long enough, eventually I would give up the fight. As if he knew, too, that soon after I gave up the fight, he would start to get me aroused despite myself, and despite the fact I hated the creep.

The first time I found myself losing control like this, was at the dinner table. He’d squeezed his chair between me and Sam, who at the time was thirteen. There wasn’t a lot of room our side of the table. I said there’d be more room the other side, where grandpa and grandma sat, both of them thin as rails, but Mum told me not to be rude. So there he was, squeezed between Sam and me, pressed real close. When everyone was talking up a storm – all except me, that is, because of what he was doing beneath the table – his fat hand was stroking my leg. At one point he leaned towards me and ask me a question, while under the table his hand went right on stroking my leg. It was as if what he was saying to me, and what he was doing to me, were unconnected. I’m not sure if Mum knew what he was doing. Maybe she thought it was just him being ‘fun’.

I’d bring his hand out now and then, of course. But he was so darned persistent, and talked so darned much. I was unschooled, back then, with what men liked to do. Men like him. To girls like bahis firmaları me! Pretty soon I had his hand well established between my legs. And after a few more half-hearted rebuttals from me – but the hand kept coming back, further up my leg each time – the finger-tips started to caress the sensitive skin on the inside of my legs. This was interspersed with silent, and growing more frustrated, attempts on my part to push his hand away, or give it back to the lug-head, or otherwise get the ox offa me. But he was persistent, as I’ve said.

Eventually I gave up, and let him be. If he hadn’t got the message by now that I didn’t welcome the attention he was giving my legs, then he never would. I decided, I think, too exhausted to continue my seemingly futile resistance, to let matters take their course. He’d get bored with my legs eventually, was the way I figured it. I would ignore him, get on with my meal. Trouble was, he didn’t get bored with my legs. And what he was doing wasn’t easy to ignore!

So there I was, sitting obediently still, hands in front of me on the table, one around my fork the other at my glass, nodding at grandma and grandpa, smiling when need be, aware of the conversation that washed about the table like slops in a bowl, passing things now and then to either end – even, once, the salt to Uncle Zak! – as his hand beneath the table was in between my legs, stroking my panties and me underneath. I let it go. I tried to ignore it as best I could. But I felt myself get warm, then hot, then moist as well. Then I started to get swollen and … ‘differently’ sensitive, if you know what I mean.

I started squirming lightly in my seat. I wanted that damn hand away from there – this was me, after all, I wasn’t his property – but down there was starting to feel a little dirty and slightly wild. His fingers were becoming a problem. I stuck the tines of my fork in his fat thigh next to mine but he didn’t bat an eyelid. I did it again but this time, in retaliation perhaps for my pointed defence, one of his fingers eased the legband of my panties away from my skin, and slipped inside.

I didn’t know what I should do. I didn’t know what was allowed! It was like a gentle electric shock to feel the finger there, against my skin, against this private part of me. I squeezed my thighs together tight but all that seemed to do was make me feel the finger more … the finger slipping gently and easily over my labia lips, (‘easily’ because of how moist I’d become). He obviously felt the moisture. He couldn’t do otherwise! He no doubt presumed, as a consequence, correctly as it happened, that despite the fact I hated the guy there were sensitive parts of me, particularly there, between my legs, where his fingers were, that weren’t so particular. My mind said ‘Fuck off,’ but my pussy had other ideas.

This made me hate him even more. Not only was he was taking advantage of me, forcing himself on me, but in some ways it was working. I was becoming a party to what he wanted me to feel. He wanted me to feel dirty, and I was starting to. How the hell did he know I’d do that? A conflict started raging inside me. A conflict between how I wanted him to behave toward me – hands off and be nice – and what parts of my body seemed to want – hands on and make me feel dirty. Right then, sitting at the dinner table, trying to look unaffected, trying to look as if I was getting on with my dinner, all I could seem to think of was my hated uncle’s finger, inside my pants, stroking my pussy, and how damp and hot and electrically sensitive my pussy had become. I wanted it over. I wanted it stopped. But I wanted more as well. Not from this scum-bag, of course, obviously, but … if it was either him, or nobody at all, then … so be it. But it had to go on. And on. And on. AND ON!

At one point I tried to cross my legs but couldn’t, not with his hand there. I concentrated on finishing the food on my plate, figuring that once I had finished I could move, get up, take my plate to the sink, make some excuse to leave the room. But I didn’t make it. Not in time. I still had three mouthfulls left on my plate when I was hit by the most shattering, all pervading, thoroughly debilitating orgasm I had ever had. I almost bit my fork in two. I hated my Uncle for that.

But that night … there was more.

Uncle Zak was given the guest room. It was next door to mine. I didn’t have a lock on my door. The first two nights he had waited until everyone was in their bedroom, then he’d use the bathroom down the hall. He always volunteered to use it last. My kid brother used it first, then me, then Uncle Zak. My parents and grandparents had their own. I tried to offer Uncle Zak the bathroom first but he’d always refuse. Say I needed my beauty sleep more than him. “I’ll never be as beautiful as you, no matter how long I sleep, princess!” – stuff like that. Then my Dad would shout at us, out in the landing squabbling about who was to use the bathroom, tell me to stop kaçak iddaa arguing with my Uncle and ‘use the goddamn bathroom’. Uncle Zak would wink at me, pat my butt going past, sending me on my way.

When I finished with the bathroom I’d get back to my bedroom as quickly as I could, (getting another pat on the butt going past the other way). I knew Uncle Zak would pop his head in last thing and I wanted to be changed and in bed before he did. I heard him close the bathroom door and shout to my brother and grandparents. They were upstairs in the attic rooms. I heard them shout back. Then he knocked on my parent’s door, opened the door and called in on them. They were in bed by now. Mum liked to read before switching off the lights. Sometimes he’d go in and chat with them, sometimes not. This time he did. Usually, once he’d finished with everyone else, he’d knock lightly on my door, open it, and call out good-night.

I’m pretty sure that if my light had not already been off on this occasion he would have come in to talk to me as well. Sit on my bed. Try to grope me, probably. (After what had happened at the dinner table – or beneath the dinner table – I no longer trusted him.) Thinking back on it now I’m not sure why I did what I did, but I guess I figured that if I pretended I was asleep he wouldn’t bother me. I wouldn’t even have to speak to him, and I didn’t want to speak to him, not after what he did. I heard his light knock on the door, then the click of the latch. I forced my breaths long and slow, just like you breath when you’re sleeping. But the whole damn thing backfired on me!

Next thing I knew he was inside my room and I could hear the door softly being closed behind him. I thought of pretending to wake up, getting a fright, calling out or screaming – something dramatic like that – but I wasn’t sure how to engineer it convincingly. As I say, I was pretty young at the time. Innocent, you might say. I didn’t know exactly what men his age wanted from girls my age. Men like Uncle Zak, at least. Next thing I know he’s standing by my bed, whispering my name …

“Anika? You asleep, Anika?”

I gave an exaggerated deep-sleep breath as if I was saying to him: I am asleep so go away. Next thing I know the mattress gives as he sits on my bed. He starts to stroke the point of my shoulder. Little light circular strokes. I continue my deep sleep act. His hip is touching mine. I don’t move. Not even when he starts to stroke my shoulders and neck. I figure if I’m sleeping he can’t say good-night so will go away. But Boy, did I get that wrong!

I let him continue to stroke me, my neck, across my shoulder, down my arm. I do not react. I behave as if I am unaware of what he is doing. As if I am deep in sleep. Warning bells started to sound as he lifted my arm – I was laying on my side, facing away from the creep, facing the wall of my bedroom. He eased the sheet from between my arm and side. All I had as cover was a single sheet. I was wearing my pink polka dot teddy, matching briefs, a present from Mum last Christmas. Why was I wearing my cutest night-things? It certainly hadn’t been planned.

Next thing I know the sheet is being raised. He wants to look at me, I think. Light comes into the room from the street light in front of our house. I figure he wants to look at my legs. (My legs are good, men like to look at them.) The teddy is brief, my legs are bare. I stay as I am. My butt is facing him. I realised then, that he’d get a good look my butt and my legs, but what could I do to prevent it? Other than make a scene that I’d likely be blamed for anyway. ‘You should be respectful to your uncle,’ or something. ‘How could you alarm him like that, shouting and screaming like a maniac when all he was doing was saying goodnight.’ I wouldn’t stand a chance. From the cooler air around my butt and legs I could tell that the sheet was lifted off, and the hem of the teddy was over my hips.

I guess the way I rationalised doing nothing to stop what was happening, other than avoidance of a scene, was to ask myself how much damage my uncle could possibly do merely by looking at my legs? I suppose if that was all he’d done the problem would never have arisen … the problem that was about to. But that was not all he did, so the problem did arise. Pretty soon he was stroking my legs.

I have always had sensitive legs. When my girl-friend showed me how to masturbate – I was fifteen at the time – she said caressing the legs was how you started off. First the outer legs, then easing gently between them where the skin was softest and the feelings were most intense. Then you let your fingers gently climb up the inside of the legs to the nub. Play there gently awhile. Increase the pressure, and pace. And if you did it right, you’d feel fireworks rippling through you! Or so my girl-friend said. I found out she was right. Following her detailed instructions, the very next night, I had felt warm fireworks ripple all right. But – and kaçak bahis this was going through my mind as I lay in bed with my Uncle Zak’s hands wandering over me – I had never experienced fireworks as intensely as I had at dinner earlier that evening! (How I had ever managed to stay relatively still through that mighty energy-sapping eruption, I do not know to this day. It blew me away!)

And here we were again, my uncle and I. Uncle Zak on the bed next to his sleeping niece – or so he must believe – gently stroking the inside of her legs, and their undersides. I never knew my skin was so sensitive! The effect of his touch flowed over me like molasses – tingling, prickling, burning hot. The bastard was arousing me again. Making me feel dirty, causing me to melt. I had the edge of my lip between my teeth and had started to chew. Seeking distraction from the wayward feelings coursing through me. Up and down my legs went his fingertips, tormenting me with a gentle feather-like touch. Occasional scratches with finger-nails then softly caressing again. My mind started racing. Some parts of it working out plans, the rest slipping helplessly into the feeling of dreaded surrender, like at dinner. I had to move. I simply must. I couldn’t continue to present the back of my thighs and my bottom as provocatively as I currently was. They must be removed from his sight. But how? How did one sleep, yet move? I didn’t know. I couldn’t work it out. So I stayed as I was, doing neither.

Desperately conscious of the drift of colder air across these parts of me I knew to be exposed I could physically sense the effect of him ogling my legs, my lifted hip, my partially bared behind, my waist, my shape inside the polka dots. It was as if I could enter his mind and feel him thinking about me, and what he would like to do to me, and how far he would like to go with me – how far he already had, downstairs, at the dinner table! That I was, in effect, the sole focus of this older man’s wants, desires, and hunger, caused my bravery to cringe and my resolve to scurry off and hide. The feel of his fingers lightly exploring each offered part of me made me feel suddenly wanton, reckless, but scared as hell! As if part of me was saying, ‘Here I am, have a feel,’ while another part said, ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

I made a grunting sound I hoped was like a girlish dream, or a sleep-disturbed distraction in the night. A sound I hoped might alert him to the possibility of my coming awake. A sound that might suggest he remove his hands lest he be discovered. But it had no effect. As if he didn’t care. As if my wakening posed no threat to him so why should he worry? I had no answer to that, so subsided back into my role of feigned sleep. I slowed my breathing even further. I slipped my thumb into my mouth so that I might suck on that, rather than chew on my lip, which was getting sore.

His fingertips stroked me quite openly now: the underside of my legs from just behind the knees all the way up to, then over, my offered buttocks where the fingers would stop, gently caress the buttocks undersides, then the exposed strip of panties that drew a flimsy veil over my pussy lips. They were vibrating now. They tingled, prickled, throbbed from want of touch. All around them was being played with, softly coddled, lightly stroked … but not this central core, not this strip of feeling, not this tender band of me held lightly inside cotton. Cotton lightly patterned with pink polka-dots. All around the bodice, and down around my hips. Pink polka-dots on ‘see-through’ cream. ‘Feel-through’ too, I was discovering, as the fingertips ventured over the pantied strip, softly feeling me there.

I jumped at that. Sleeping or not I couldn’t do anything else. It was a touch that the dirtier parts of me had been working up to for quite a while. Since he came into my room, in fact. As if I were secretly wanting to be touched like this. Though not by him, of course. But by someone. Someone else. Someone – anyone! – other than him. When his fingers first brushed my pudenda my pelvis leapt into his hands. It was an uncontrolled pulse driven by some deep-seated surge of arousal. Arousal I did not want, did not like, and certainly hadn’t expected. As if my pussy and soft surround had a life of its own. It filled me with concern, apprehension, and started pumping juice from where it shouldn’t. But what could I do, other than pretend to wake up? (But I couldn’t do that.)

I didn’t want to be faced with the adult argument I knew I would get. I wasn’t equipped to deal with that from him. Nor any adult, come to that. They’d win – he’d win – I knew. I didn’t know the arguments against what he was doing. I suspected, in a way, that my own reluctant arousal was the greater sin. I didn’t know the ways that I should handle things like this. I suspected he did. Certainly better than me. So I let him carry on. I had no wish to embark on a debate with such a man. A man who already has his hands on my buttocks and thighs. A man who had already driven me to orgasm at the dinner table. A man who, as I debated within myself, was gently easing me over on my back. And I was permitting it, moving as he wishes me to move.

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