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Part 2: Make Room for Uncle
by Kris Kennedy The following is the 2nd part of our story "Make Room for Uncle." If you missed part 1 (and it was a good one) you can read it in our archives. But for now, here's where we left off:

"'See?' she said. I watched her thin fingers play sweetly with her breast until I noticed that her long tri-colored fingernail was pointing. The tattoo sat in the upper corner of her fluid breast. From where I was I could tell it was a small spider. I was in awe of her flesh and the way the spider poised on it, half hoping the creature would come to life and set all eight legs to work on her rude, hard nipple, pricking it with microscopic hairs."

---

I came this close.

"You take care of that, now," I said and sidled on by her.

The scene haunted me until she and my sudden brother and his wife left the house. I kept asking myself -- nothing really happened, right? I mean, the kid showed me her tattoo, big deal. And it was OK. Except I knew that beneath what might have been innocent on paper, she had come on to me. And I'd been hard.

Next day at the funeral I was infuriated to find myself glancing over at her, repeatedly. My rational mind knew she was just a girl. But my eyes. Damned my eyes. They went straight to my dick. She wore black velvet that looked so fine against her skin. The neckline was low. My mind went over to her, took her dress by the shoulders and folded the material -- gently-- down, down, down. I looked away. But I pretended that she was standing there among the black dressed ladies and dark suited men with her breasts bare, two perfect still-life peaches resting on black velvet like works of art.

When I glanced back at her, she was watching me. I felt hot. I looked away. But soon enough, I looked back. Her head was lowered this time. No, her breasts were not out in the open. They were tucked safely into her soft dress. The velvet barely hid her tattoo spider. It was our secret.

In the months after my Dad's funeral, I did a lot of grieving. I pretty much forgot the girl, lost touch with my sudden brother. If I had thought or done anything untoward, I chalked it up to heightened emotions and my vulnerable state at the time. After a while, it was all just a faint dream. And then I forgot it.

About five years later I was 34, a workaholic, and freshly bachelored and licking my wounds. So when this distant brother invited me to one of his sons' weddings, I accepted. Travel sounded good. Anything to fill up the vacuum.

My brother was the same superior prick he'd been the first time I met him. I had almost forgotten about her. Until I saw her. Only slightly more filled out, but with features that had definitely evolved from girlhood to young womanhood. At the wedding ceremony I watched her from afar. She knew her power. You could always find her around men, leaning in to them, talking close, flirty, never giggly, but kind of smoldery. I wondered how much trouble she'd gotten herself in since our last little meeting on my cellar steps.

At the wedding reception, she danced with so many men. Uncles, grandparents, women as well as men. This time her dress was a pale blue knit embroidered with tiny opalesque beads. It ended mid-thigh, but the type of material that would ride up easily and that clung to her every bit of skin for dear life. The sleeves were long, the neck low. But you could see the outline of her panties, the high French leg, the low bikini waistband. You could see the indentation of her navel and the pits at the crowns of her firm breasts. She danced with abandon -- her hips, the scoop of her butt, lithe like a seal in water.

She was just twenty. She was my niece. But I wanted to strip her down and fuck her right there on the dance floor. It's like all these emotions and drives that had been muted -- or I suppressed or who knows what? -- it was like all the force of those two days of my Dad's funeral came back and possessed me temporarily. And as she danced and swayed, and threw out her hips, thrust up her little mound or her hot ass, it was useless to remind myself that she was my niece. To repeat things like, what would mom say, what would the family say -- useless.

And for just an instant, I let my fantasies take over. I looked at Cary and grinned to myself. I pictured splaying his daughter's nude body out right there on the parquet: I imagined the spread of her crotch displaying her opened pussy in full view of my so-called brother, so he could watch my cock disappear right before his eyes into his girl's womanly cunt.

I felt a wave of shame. My god, I thought. Do you hear yourself? I guess it was one of those little games we play with ourselves when we're bored or lonely. Maybe this time my recent break-up was making me depraved. Maybe it was just that every time I saw this girl I was an emotional raw nerve.

Soon enough, I got into conversation with a couple at my table, talking about the Lakers -- and I managed to cool off. They of course were die hard Lakers fans. I noticed at one point that Mia had left the dance floor. A little more wine, some wedding cake, and a conversation about real estate prices and I almost forgot about her. I was feeling pretty good when suddenly I felt a hand running through my hair and fingers resting on my neck.

I whipped around and there she was, towering above my chair. I stared up at the tight mounds of her breasts. Her rose scent was light