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Don't Let Your Father Know
by Kris Kennedy I was almost thirty when I found out I had an older brother. I was just out of business management school and had landed in middle management at the factory where half the people on the floor were relatives of mine in some way. He was fifty by then. Some sort of war baby from my Dad's glory days -- which Dad had never talked about. Anyway, that's a long story with many twists I only found out after my Dad died. At the funeral, family members surfaced I'd never seen before. This "instant brother," for example.

He and his family came in from California in time for the funeral dinner. He was in high tech and more reserved than anyone I knew with a tall Asian wife as well-tailored as he was. They sort of stood out among the machinists, farmers, heavy equipment operators and factory workers of us, Dad's "second family."

He didn't fit in well in our conversations, either. Around the dinner table, our women tried to make him (Cary, he was called) and his wife feel comfortable. A losing battle. The circumstances were uncomfortable -- like who was this upper class Californian born of some high brow French woman who knew our Dad before our mom did?

He had one saving grace. He'd also brought his daughter, their youngest and a very ripe eighteen. "Too young to stay home," he said at first. But later he confided that she was at that "unbridled fillie" stage and he couldn't trust her at home alone. I think he thought he was speaking my language, with the horse reference. That's the kind of lack of communication we had going.

His daughter, on the other hand, knew how to communicate. And she used all the languages. First of all, if my brother was so worried about her wildness, he shouldn't have allowed her to come to a funeral supper with a skirt up to her ass and whorish stockings. They were the kind that hold themselves up at the thighs but that look like you're seeing something you're not supposed to. I'm not exaggerating. In some ways she played like a kid, like she'd run around with my brother's five year-old, chasing his wireless race car forgetting she was dressed like a lady, so when she bent over, my red-blooded American eyes couldn't help roving up her long legs to where the black tops of her stockings squeezed her bare thighs. And then following those thighs up to where this girl was an open story, right to the crotch of her soft purple panties. They were silky and the color was adult -- not white or girly bright, but as subtle as a woman's. It grabbed my attention like a porn site banner ad. I couldn't help it.

Whatever. None of my business, I thought. Besides, you're grieving and shell-shocked and the gonads aren't really working up to par. But what was weird was, before they left, she singled me out. I had gone to the basement freezer to get some ice. My girlfriend at the time was pretty chatty upstairs with the women and I was a little bored, hanging with my brothers who I saw all the time anyway. So I'd resorted to helping the women -- my aunts and so forth, keep up the party. So this niece that I just met corners me down there-- "Hi, I'm Mia " -- like she's on the stairs and I'm at the foot of the stairs. I'd just got my head out of the freezer, a bag of ice in each hand, and she starts talking to me about how she wanted to get a tattoo but her Dad was against it and so forth.

"I think that's just a Dad thing," I said dumbly.

Then she started telling me how all the friends had tattoos. Except she's showing me where. Like on her body.

"I have a friend who got a belly ring" she said. And Mia pulls up her shirt, still talking. "Then she put a tribal tattoo all around it." And Mia pushes the band of her skirt down her tight girl belly and draws a circle on her golden brown skin. I watched her belly suck in as she tickled it.

"That sounds cool," I said. I must have been turning red.

"You wanna know something else?" she said.

"Sure, what?" I said.

"I went ahead and got a tattoo anyway."

Then I felt privileged. And I admit I felt a little one-upsmanship against this new, high brow sort of brother from the West Coast. But I just nodded.

"Do you think I'm a brat?" she said.

"Uh, well. I don't know. Are you?"

"I can be," she said. And the way she said it, I could have sworn she was trying to come on to me. I started to feel a little hot under the collar so to speak.

"Anyway, he'll never know, so I don't think it's any big deal," she said.

"Yeah," I said, a little nervously. "Sometimes that's the best way with tattoos."

"So you wanna see it? -- it's really pretty," she said.

Now, I was just trying to be a good uncle and humor my brand new niece (wasn't I?). But I'll confess, somewhere in me, I knew I should have said no thank you.

"Sure," I said kind of blandly. But I could really feel the tension.

She pulled her blouse off her right shoulder and as I looked for the tattoo on her bicep, I noticed her bra, lacy around the upper border, and with a slight sheen below where it caught the lower flesh of her breast. It was the same languid mauve as her undies. Then I had to remind myself she was my sort of neice.

I saw no tattoo. Instead, I saw her reach for her bra strap. Slowly she slid the rounded, silky strap down over her brown shoulder. I watched the bra start to peel away from her spotless skin, over the roundness of her firm breast. She slid it further down her arm until the inevitable, the bra cup came away from her breast and the little tit fluttered briefly at me. I was caught by sight of her thick brown nipple, fat, as if gorged, and I could almost taste it. She cupped her hand under her breast, bounced it twice -- yes, I counted and I still remember -- and ran her fingers over her nipple so it would jut out of the brown background and form a soft arrow.

"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.

[To be continued...]