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Part 3: Don't Let Your Father Know
by Kris Kennedy Welcome to Part 3 of "Don't Let Your Father Know." If you missed parts 1 or 2, they're alive and well and living in our archive. But to get you started on Part 3, here's where we left off.

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

"Aren't you going to dance with me, uncle?" she said.

[And now for Part 3:]

She winked, soft eyelashes, deep brown eyes.

Just as I stood up, my instant-brother came over and said something in her ear. She pouted and went off. I felt a guilt-flush -- like maybe he'd seen the inside of my mind where I ripped his daughter's clothes off and mounted her right on the dance floor.

Carey guided me towards a table of his in-laws and introduced me. I talked to everyone at the table as I tried to hide the fact that his daughter's momentary flirtation had given me wood. I thought I was in for a long session of meeting people I didn't know or want to know, but Carey suddenly ushered me off to an alcove and stopped short.

Out of the blue he said, "I'm trying to get Mia to go to college."

"Yeah?" I replied.

"You know, she makes good money and she... well she's having fun. She's too boy crazy --"

"She's twenty-three --"

"What's that got to do with it?"

I flushed. "I just meant, 'boy crazy' is what you say about teenagers."

"I don't get your point," he said.

"I'm just saying that she's probably capable of having mature relationships. Guys that could be good influences --"

"She's not looking for good influences. She's irrational. She has an idiotic attraction for guys who have nothing in common with her but sex. A whole parade of men and not a single brain among them. She's throwing her life away."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. I just didn't want to prolong any kind of discussion with the guy.

"Why don't you talk to her?" he asked point blank.

"Me?" I croaked.

"She was pretty impressed by your side of the family when we were out there." I noticed he sidestepped mentioning the funeral. Or the father who gave him a name and a home and then hit the road running. And then fucked my mom -- somehow connecting me and this uppity, sophisticated Asian-looking guy from California.

"Oh," I said. My side? I think I huffed at him or something.

"She thinks I should be more like you," he said.

"She does?"

"So of course I don’t hesitate to mention that you've been to college. That's how you managed to rise above your circumstances."

What "circumstances" did he mean? The snob. His early "circumstances" hadn't been all that superior. Some sort of war baby. Besides, my "side" of the family made good money, had good healthy lifestyles, and I bet they spent more quality time with their kids than Carey ever had time for.

"College is a good thing," I mumbled.

"She doesn't realize that she's going to wake up some day and find out she's got no options. I don't want that for my kid, you know?"

"Oh, I hear it," I said. And I felt for the guy, suddenly. I couldn't imagine what it must be like to have a daughter.

"So why don't you sit her down and set her straight?" he said.

A little double entendre went a long way. All the way to my dick, in fact. "Well, you know. I hardly know her," I hedged. "I don’t see why she's going to listen to me more than anyone else."

"It's worth a shot. I told you she likes you. She thinks I'm too... I don't know ... crunchy."

I burst out laughing. He looked a little bewildered. To cover for my outburst I promised him I'd talk to her.

No sooner had he been called away by his son, the groom, than I felt a squeeze on one of my ass cheeks. I already knew by the rose scent it was Mia. I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed.

"Can we dance now?" she asked me, pouting playfully. The dress made her breasts look utterly wanton. But yet "our secret," her spider tattoo, was still hidden under the dress. I wondered if Carey knew about the spider tat yet.

Mia held up her arms for me to dance with her. At the moment, the DJ was playing a slow dance.

"Sure," I said. "But maybe we should talk first."

"After," she said. She took my arm and dragged me onto the dance floor.

The music was jazzy, saxophony, sultry, and she hugged my neck and pressed her breasts against my chest and then slid her hands down to squeeze my ass.

If she had not been the niece I was supposed to be motivational guru to, I would have pressed my growing stalk into her tummy until she could make no mistake about what effect she was having. And instead of gentle fingers on her arm, I'd have had a whole hand cupped around her breast, squeezing it.

Instead, I kept removing her hands from my ass and placing them in respectable places. Only to have her worm her upper body against mine; she pressed so tightly, my pecs must have recorded her breast measurements. I set more space between our upper bodies. So then she started grinding her pelvis into my crotch, rubbing my dick with her small mound. She was merciless.

She told me to stay with her through the next fast dance. She turned around and danced backwards, bending to rest her elbows on her knees, thrusting her perfect ass at me, waving it from side to side. Her tight blue dress showed where her twin cheeks rounded off to form her crack. My imagination peeled the dress right off her bare flanks, where her two holes, all soft and floral, awaited me.

Down, boy, I kept telling myself. This dangerously eligible brat is your neice -- by paper if not blood -- and at best you would cause a family scandal. I scanned the room for Carey, to see if he was hawk-watching his daughter, if he was close enough to see a tent in my pants.

[To be continued...]