Falling for My Dirty Uncle

The sun shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows in my living room, and I pivot my direction so that I can move the velvet cream curtains to either side to make room for more light. I love when the light hits the gold and crystal chandelier; it makes it sparkle, and the reflections on the wall shine like diamonds.

I stare at the twinkling crystals, almost amazed and ridiculously amused by the reflection. It’s amazing what can happen when you open yourself up to a world of new possibilities.

Wow, Mira. Calm down. Apparently, I can now relate to a damn chandelier. Hah. But I guess there are worse things to relate to.

I continue my path to my bedroom while running my hand over one of the white plush couches. I revel in the feel of it against my sensitive skin.

My nerves are so tightly wound, as they have been since the moment I laid eyes on my now step-uncle, who I saw devour that woman in the cake room.

God. I need a release before I combust from too much pressure.

I quicken my pace down the hall to my bathroom, passing the new collection of artwork I purchased from an up and coming artist. I don’t usually buy art, but I was engrossed by the way this artist captured their subjects. Or, rather, pieces of their subjects.

They’re all snapshots of a human’s body, focusing in on a person’s hand, the crevice of their upper thigh, the curve of their collar bone.

The sensuality of it all moved me when I first saw them, and now it’s more fitting than ever as I walk pass them feeling my desire for Owen burn through me.

I don’t even care that he’s technically my step-uncle. Like I’ve said before, we’re barely related. If we were royalty, no one would even bat an eye at our relationship.

So why not pretend that I am? For the time being at least…

Stepping into my Elizabethan-style bathroom—see, I told you I can play royal—I undress, folding his shirt neatly, not wanting to let the smell of him on it escape.

I get a whiff of my perfume from the night before. Ugh. It’s clinging onto me.

But now, it’s mixed with a sour-y sweetness. And a hint of his musk. I want him to stay on me, in the most primal sense, but I follow my better judgement and shower.

I turn on the waterfall shower head and wait for the water to warm. I look at myself in the mirror and see something different in my reflection.

Maybe it’s him, and this new part of me that I can’t get enough of. This ravenous, sexual being who wants nothing more than to be fucked by a man I can’t have.

I enter the enormous shower and let the water cascade down my body, warming and wetting me. I lather my vanilla and cherry-scented body wash over my skin, and I close my eyes. Visions of Owen’s body come to me, and I imagine that it’s his hands touching me, moving the soap across every inch of my body.

My hands slide over my breasts, tugging at my nipples. In my mind, it’s his mouth that sucks them in, teasing them with his tongue, nipping each one with his teeth.

I moan softly, feeling my ache for him intensify.

I imagine his hands move down my back and grab my ass, just like on the dance floor—but rougher—and he pushes my cunt into his mouth.

My fingers graze over my clit, teasing it at first, and then gradually adding pressure. Thinking Owen’s tongue likes to tease.

He’d rub my sensitive nub and fill me with his fingers. They’d stroke me, gliding against my aching walls. And his tongue would lick and suck my clit.

My fingers move in and out of my wetness, and my thumb moves to my clit, mirroring his technique. My other hand holds me up, occasionally pulling at my breasts when the pressure becomes too much.

I envision him fucking me with his tongue until I burst, and as I come, his cock thrusts into me, my cunt greedily taking all twelve inches of him.

That’s right, my dirty little slut. Take my dick, I hear him grunting out inside my head. I hate that word, but I love when he says it…like that. Aggressive and rough, wanting more of me.

My body jerks when my fingers hit my spot.

“Ah, Owen!” I cry out.

He flips me over and takes me from behind, hitting that delicious spot I found with every thrust.

I imagine hearing the muffled sounds he makes. He says my name, repeatedly, and it sends me over the edge.

I reach in front of me to turn the lower shower head on and put it on full blast. It hits my clit, touching the nerves my thumb can’t reach. It’s his hands who massages those nerves, winding and building me up to the point of eruption.