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and her laugh!
In Memory of my ‘Field of Rape’ wound!
Mature man finally gets together with his niece’s babysitter, but things don’t go smoothly at first.
“Sorry, Sis!” I said, full of depression, as I gripped the steering wheel with frustration, and glared out through the windscreen at the gathering dusk. “It’s never happened to me before, honest!”
“Do you think that we have tried everything? You know? To get it going?”
“Well, I have. What about you?”
“You know I don’t have any experience with this sort of thing!”
It was the end of a perfect afternoon: – cream teas in the Nature Reserve Café, with views across the reservoir to the variegated hues on the heathland hill on the other side. Hand-in-hand wander around the reservoir itself; and heavenly hugs as we watched the sky colours reflecting off the calm waters as the autumn sun set.
I was so close to panicking. Sissie had promised Libby and her husband John that she would arrive by 6pm, and would be able to babysit for the rest of the evening; and here we were, gone 5:30, and a half an hour away from Libby’s, in the fading light of this carpark, both of us full of frustration.
“Really, what do you think is wrong Jack? Is it age?”
“That shouldn’t have anything to do with it! I went and had it checked out last week, ready for tonight, as I wanted it to be special for you, and our first date. I was given the all clear — age notwithstanding, everything should be working perfectly!” I started wriggling in the seat with vexation, “And I don’t know why it’s not.”
“What about the thingy? You know? The … the … plug?”
“No, they’re new.”
I tugged the knob in vexation — still no response — still no joy.
“Careful!” she said, “Don’t hurt yourself!”
Then, to give vent to my frustration and to let off some steam, I slapped the dashboard with both hands.
Out of the corner, of my eye, I saw what I thought was a flicker in the dial.
Intrigued, in spite of my frustration, I set about investigating.
I switched on the side lights, so that the speedometer/fuel gauge was clearer.
Sissie realised that my mind had changed tack, so she went still and quiet.
I checked the ignition. It was ON!
Then why the fuck was the fuel gauge reading empty?
I rapped the glass on the ‘clock’ a couple of times. The fuel gauge needle didn’t budge.
“What?” asked Sissie, as I slumped back in my seat.
I turned off the ignition, and sighed, ” ‘Ang on.”
I got out of the car, taking the keys with me, went around to the boot, unlocked and opened it, and took out the fuel can. Shaking it showed there was fuel in it, even if it wasn’t a full gallon — ‘A bit like me.’ I thought, ‘Not the full gallon!’.
I prepared the nozzle, unscrewed the cap to the fuel tank, and emptied the can into the tank. Then I recapped the fuel tank, re-secured the nozzle, and put the can back in the boot, then closed and re-locked it. I returned to my seat, and took a deep breath, and turned the ignition ON, and watched.
The fuel gauge needle didn’t budge — well there was less than a gallon in the tank, even now; so maybe not.
I tapped the glass again — still no joy.
I pulled the starter knob, and the engine chundered: — no joy.
I did it again.
And again — but this time — Oh Joy! She started, and purred with life. Not bad for a sixty‑odd year‑old Morris Minor (my second‑best girl) — with some fuel in the tank, of course. (Oh, and in case you haven’t worked it out for yourself — my first-best girl was sitting beside me.)
“YEEESSS!” I screamed in elation, as I bounced up and down in my seat, waving my fists in the air.
“Well done!” And Sissie wrapped her arms around my neck, and gave me a solid kiss on the left side my lips.
I crashed out of my celebration as Sissie’s kiss diverted most of my blood from my big head to my little one (she could usually do that to me — and, up until now, with only a ‘look’). I swallowed convulsively, as I tried my hardest not to look at her, failed, looked — then just couldn’t not grab her; then I sucked her lips and tongue into my mouth.
God, how I wanted this woman! She had put me off for going‑on two years, but she, at last, had relented, and agreed to this date.
Little head took over; so — big steering wheel, and little bucket seats notwithstanding — I readied myself to flip up the front of her skirt to go for her ‘joy button’, tongue first.
She was rescued immediately (to her own frustration) by a park warden rapping on my window.
I wound it down a little.
“I’m sorry sir, but you will have to leave the park now, as I am just about to lock the gates.”
“Oh, OK!” I muttered blearily; hiltonbet yeni giriş and looked an apology at Sissie.
She giggled, as we arranged ourselves to leave.
The engine was still running, so once we were ready, I just slipped into first gear, the warden offered, “Hope you enjoy the rest of your evening!” Then he winked at Sissie, who’s under‑the‑breath giggles ripped into loud guffaws, as I drove away.
I stopped at the first filling station we passed, and pumped in a few quid’s worth of petrol — and refilled the fuel can — and rapped the speedo/fuel-gauge glass before we left, which failed to get the needle to even attempt to move, so I knew that I had some work to do in the near future.
We were half an hour late getting to Libby’s; which wasn’t so bad. After all, we had phoned ahead and apologised.
And “At Home”
As I followed Sissie in, the ‘Wretches’ lurched towards us when they saw us.
“Gran!” yelled Matty.
“Yeay!” screamed Erica.
And, crouching down with her arms outstretched in welcome, Sissie got swamped-under by her grandchildren, as she attempted to give both of them kissie-kisses — to their wriggling and squealed delight.
“Hello Libby.” I said, as she came forward to greet me.
“Uncle Jack.” she murmured as she kissed my cheek; then backed her head away from me with a raised eyebrow.
“So, you had car trouble!”
“Yeah. Sticky fuel gauge, it seems, so we ran out of petrol.” We’d told her all this over the phone.
“Poor you. And you had to do some repairs as well, I see.”
“Er … no, I didn’t.”
“Well, it looks like you did. Here, let me get this for you.” and she pulled a new tissue from a small pack in her pocket, peered closely at my face, got me to spit on the tissue — then she gently wiped at the skin to the left of my lips.
“Looks like you got some red something-or-other on your face — Red Hermetite maybe? There, that’s better — all gone.” And she finished up with a final dab.
Then Libby just had to labour the point, didn’t she? She peered at, then sniffed, the red discolouration on the tissue.
“Hey, Mum. Did you realise that your lipstick is the same shade of red, and has the same smell as the stuff Uncle Jack must have used to repair the car? Red Hermetite maybe?”
“Beg pardon?” Sissie had this … confused[?] … expression on her face.
Libby turned to me, and with a (well, at least an attempt at a) wide-eyed, guileless expression, said, “Well, I presume it’s Red Hermetite. Not that I know anything about it, of course, but I know John uses it on his engines when he’s been fiddling.
“Have you been fiddling with anything, Uncle Jack? Your engine, say? Or something else? Someone else’s … er … engine, for example?”
Then she switched her attention back to her mum.
“Yeah, I think Uncle Jack had some on his face; probably to do with fixing his car. What do you think?” And Libby gave Sissie the biggest unsubtle wink I have ever witnessed.
Sissie blushed scarlet, and hid her face in her grandchildren. You’d have thought that she had transformed into some kind of alien, the way the kids craned away so that they could get a clearer stare at her.
À propos of nothing really, but … I thought John had done a very good job when he painted the lounge ceiling.
With what would have been a delightfully devilish look on her face — if Sissie and I hadn’t been the butts of her amusement, Libby gazed at me with raised eyebrows.
“Well, Mum? Have you decided what you are going to do tonight after we get back? Are you going to go home; stay here; or are you going to throw caution to the wind, and doss down on Uncle Jack’s couch … or something?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling wounded, “How is your Mum ‘dossing down’ on my couch ‘throwing caution to the winds’? And what’s wrong with my three spare bedrooms?”
“Well … didn’t I hear that at one time you used to sleep-walk? I don’t want you — naked — to scare my Mum by sneaking up on her while you are both asleep.”
That got the ‘Wretches’ sniggering conspiratorially behind their hands with each other.
And Libby leaned in to whisper in my ear, “Just make sure you don’t sneak up on her. Whether or not you are in the nude — one or both of you. Unless she’s wide…” her eyebrows flickered up-and-down, “awake … , O-Kay?” Labouring the point again! But this time emphasising it with a sharp elbow to my ribs.
I swung my head around, “You … you’re sure you’re … OK[?] — with … this?” I whispered, feeling guilty at both my situation and putting Libby under any sort of stress.
She nodded, solemnly.
“Deal!” I said, and pecked her a kiss her on the lips.
She hugged me, and kissed me full-on, arms squeezing around my waist.
Hands squeezing my bum cheeks.
Then hiltonbet giriş she smiled smugly at my hot (flushed?) face.
“I think that she needs you, Uncle Jack.” she whispered, “She had more life in her voice as she was apologising on the phone for being late this evening, than she has had any time since Dad died.
She then continued in an even softer whisper, right into my ear, which gave me the shivers right down my spine, and raised the hairs on the back of my neck. “But … if you hurt her — I promise[!]… that I will present your bollocks to her as earrings — even though you are her brother. Got that?”
Goaded, I gabbled as I hissed back, “Look, Libby, I haven’t stayed single, waiting for her ’til now — only to discard my longings by mishandling this opportunity.”
SHIT! I’d said that aloud!
I croaked, and panicked, and swallowed … or something … but maybe — not in that order[?].
Shit-shit! There was Sissie’s raised eyebrow — but on Libby! Bloody women — ganging up on me and getting me all confused.
I took in a deep breath. Come on — be a man!
“So, it’s a deal!” and I kissed her lips again. “OK?”
Then, as Libby gazed at me, her expression slipped slightly into wonder.
“You ARE joking… right? That’s what? Forty-odd years?”
Damn! That showed how rattled I had become; I had answered too quickly … and with too much emphasis!
Two raised eyebrows this time!
” … Er …Yes[?]! … Course Not! … Not … really … maybe?” I wished my mouth wasn’t so dry.
“Bollocks! You could never have been that interested in her — you were never about!”
“I was if I was needed! You know that! How many times did I come to sit with you and Rita, when you were growing up? And at a moment’s notice, on more than one occasion, if I remember correctly.
“AND… And I used to phone … periodically[?].”
“Oh, yeah; third Friday in every month — regular as clockwork!”
“Well — there you go then! I … I did phone … periodically.”
She leaned forward to virtually hiss in my face, “But you still stayed away, though, didn’t you?”
Sorry — a bit of an aside here: – … now — I much prefer women to have their finger-nails shaped into points, rather than flat-ended ‘shovels’, especially when their fingers are long and slim. (So much more graceful!)
And if you’re really into the woman, isn’t it better to get your back — or bum — shredded by ‘Hot’ fingers, rather than ‘Oh well’ fingers? It’s probably in the woman’s interest as well; I know I’m good for a better erection, breadth as well as length, to watch those long, delicate, sharp[!] love instruments petting my peter.
Libby’s were a copy of Sissie’s — which was another thing going for her — against her — them[!] — Bloody Women!
But that evening, Libby’s were (maybe?) a bit long — and sharp — as she poked my chest — hard — with both her index fingers.
…. ‘But you still stayed away, though, didn’t you?’
I was stung!
“Well, course I did.” I hissed quietly back (while rubbing my punctured chest — hoping there wouldn’t be too much blood), “She was in love with your dad. She didn’t need me complicating her life. She wasn’t even aware I had any feelings for her until after your dad died.”
“Humph!” And her arms crossed. And this time she glowered at me from under Sissies lowered eyebrows. Exactly as Sissie would have done. And hopefully — would still do so, many times, in the future.
“True! Honest!” I held up my hands as though swearing an oath — two oaths — and trying to protect myself — from…
Libby… maintained her crossed arms, and her glowering eyebrows — while she considered my defence. Then, gradually the ‘storm clouds’ lifted.
Sissie (and the kids), had watched all this with fascination. Sissie, at least, basically knew what was going on. She was now pink with anticipation … and relief, about her daughter’s seemingly calm acceptance; rather than being scarlet with embarrassment, or worse — shame — because her daughter wasn’t calm. But Libby being… just… angry[?]… didn’t seem to faze Sissie.
Once Sissie had eventually managed to untangle herself from the ‘Wretches’, Libby eyed her with relief that her mum seemed to have shrugged off her depression; and Sissie sighed in relief that Libby wasn’t confrontational.
Later, with Libby and John gone to the theatre, and the ‘Wretches’ in bed asleep, we spent the evening snuggling — Sissie and I — alone together — with the occasional restrained snog. There was no need to get any further into doing … stuff … that the ‘Wretches’ shouldn’t see. OR Libby and John, for that matter… as I was on a ‘firm promise’ for the rest of the night!
And — à propos of something definite — I failed hiltonbet güvenilirmi Sissie … abysmally … later that evening/early the next morning when, at looonnng-lonng-last, I got her into my bed (NOT a spare-room bed — OR the bloody couch!): – but one lick of her clit, and I orgasmed myself into oblivion. Although I did manage to redeem myself — half an hour later — after I had recovered. And a bit later than that. Then a bit later than those. A few times. After all, I did have forty-odd years of emotion — fizzling in my balls.
(Incidentally, I was intrigued to discover that there was a note in her orgasmic whines that acted a bit like an eject button; somehow it seemed to cause my balls to resonate [with said forty-odd years of emotion — probably]. And when that happened, I lost all control, and orgasmed hard — every time!)
Oh, and life, as I had known it, came to a crashing end that night.
The wait was definitely worth it. At last, my life was complete — as I was able to wallow in my Love for Joanne, my beautiful sister; whom, despite her prematurely silver hair (though still thick, long, and — sometimes — gulp[!] — wavy), I could never clearly see — through the ‘glaze’ of the fourteen-year-old innocent nymphet with whom I’d fallen in love. Even though I had nurtured that love within me — keeping me warm, but frustrated… at the same time.
Libby made sure to keep me abreast of their feelings for me. Libby and Rita appeared as ardent as Sissie (but only in a platonic way, of course).
So, despite my self-confessed deep feelings for their mother, neither Libby or Rita held anything against me (aside, of course, from their bellies when they pulled them against my stiffies… by their hands on my bum, as they thanked me, through their kisses and tears as they sobbed into my chest for their mum’s happiness.
And also, it seems, because I had not ‘haunted’ their mum during her marriage. So, Libby especially, did not feel that her dad had been cheated out of anything.
That following Christmas, once she had snagged me under the mistletoe, arms tightly round my waist — as I was vaguely waving my arms in the air, feeling embarrassed, and wondering exactly what I should be doing with them, Libby murmured, “Thank you, Uncle Jack — for giving me my Mum back!”
Then Libby gave me another full, erotic style … but (obviously) platonic … kiss … but… but, just because it was platonic, didn’t mean that I didn’t get a stiffie.
Once again, I was wishing she wouldn’t wear the same perfume as her mum. Between that, her soft boobs tipped with the stiff nipples which she would thrust against me; and her kisses (on the lips, even); always got my hormones confused!
And wishing that she didn’t wind me up by grinding against me like that; each hand gripping a bum cheek (my bum cheeks), as she pulled us together, and whispered, with a little girl pout and lilt in her voice, “Unkie Jack? Are you just hiding my Mummy’s Chwissy pwezzie down your twousers, or are you weally pleased to see me?
“C’mon, Unkie Jack — are you going to be our new Daddy, eh? Are yah? Eh?”
I could cope with the playacting, it was sorta cute — but it was the bloody grinds on my stiffie — and the soft boob wriggles on my chest — with their stiff nipples, that got me sweating.
Mind you, at least Sissie enjoyed them — and my red face. Have I told you that my sister has always had a sadistic streak?
But she didn’t really show she was enjoying my discomfort at the time that Libby (or Rita) were doing them… but she did later, when we were alone. She normally ended up getting nailed on her way to the bedroom, usually even before she reached the bottom of the stairs. I got confused (again) the first few times it happened, because she screamed out a ‘Thank You” to Libby or Rita as she soared on her climax.
I realised (later) that whoever’s name was screamed — in delight — was whichever sneaky little bugger had been winding me up that evening. I know I’m slow, around Sissie … too much blood in my nether regions, and not enough in the brain… so it took me a while to realise the girls had a Cunning Plot… to ensure their mum got as much joy-juice as this old man could deposit.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
During our Christmas get-together, Libby was bad enough, so I am SO NOT going to tell you what Rita did! Not only in front of her mum … but ALSO her grinning husband, no less! Though fortunately, not in front of either or both sets of the ‘Wretches’; as they were elsewhere in the house (probably getting up to mischief — after all, considering there were the five of them visiting, they were being remarkably quiet!)
Well, the only thing I will say is… she asked that, if I was going to be her new Daddy, would I spank her if she was naughty.
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