Falling for My Dirty Uncle

But those soft eyes, those pink lips. I want to kiss them. My hands should be on her body, feeling how soft and curvy she is. Her skintight workout leggings showed me the curve of her ass in a way that I’ll never forget. I could smell her sweat, her fear. I want to have her in this shower, washing them off and then erase her pain with kisses all over her body. I want to erase that anguish and bring her pure ecstasy.

My balls load up at the way I’m torturing them, and little flashes in my mind of Emmaline now, in her shower, naked, wet, shimmering for me.

Joelle knew she wasn’t what I wanted.

Why do I feel like Emmaline could? I should tell myself not to be so foolish, but I really fucking think Emmaline could want to belong to me, the way that no woman ever has. I could possess her completely, and she’d love every second of it.

I know she likes me having authority over her. I saw that thrill in her eyes when I towered over her. Even through her fear, when she read into me, she was aroused. And through her adrenaline, her shock, her arousal, when I gave her an order, she obeyed.

Emmaline asked me how I knew where she lives, but she didn’t press when I didn’t answer.

She’s smart as hell. Her paper was a delicious taste of how strong she is. I’m going to bring the fucking thing to bed tonight, after I cum in here thinking about painting her pretty body with it. Because no matter what I found out about her online, nothing compares to her words, written by her hand, telling what she wanted to me.

Have you thought about me, baby girl? Are you thinking about me now?

I think about Emmaline, fist my cock, and keep pulling while jets of cum shoot through the water and down the shower drain. I groan hard, imagining touching her. My legs actually shake a little, but I don’t lose purchase with my palm still on the shower wall. Fuck, I came so damn hard. I must've shot out a gallon.

I remember her story, reading it before I read all the other papers, and grading those others thinking about how I wanted to read Emmaline’s paper again. I needed to read her words

again. Thinking about her soft little voice reading those words to me. Her looking up at me.

I want to see her look up at me from her knees. Look at this cock and see those eyes go wide again when she realizes that I’m going to have her.

Every hole, hours of claiming her and covering her in my cum, her cum. Oh, I want to make Emmaline cum so fucking hard she blacks out from the pleasure when we’re finally done. Then I’ll take her to the bath, clean her soft body, dry her off, lotion her up, and hold her tight in my arms until we wake up and do it again. I want to hold her all night like she’s a bird with a broken wing that I can’t let fly away.

The soft scent of her, like lemons and honeysuckle, is all around me, even though I’m using my own shampoo right now. The mint in the air, against the lemon scent of her in my mind, tangles with my thoughts and I feel my cock hardening all over again.

I ignore it, rinsing the shampoo from my hair. I finish washing up and towel off. Wrapping the towel around my middle, I head back to the kitchen to make something to eat. I have to put the wine on top of something, and I’m finishing the bottle while I cook. I decide against having another bottle, though, because the warmth of the alcohol isn’t dulling my senses, it's dulling my willpower.

I might call Emmaline if I keep drinking. And like she needs some drunk asshole calling her and asking her what she’s wearing.

Maybe she has just stepped out of her shower now. She’s probably carrying a little basket back from her dorm bathroom. Emmaline, wrapped in towel, her chocolate hair darker and wet. Going back to her room, and putting something comfy on. A little drawstring I’d like to tug on to see what her panties look like.

Fuck, I’m a dirty old man, sitting over here drinking wine and making a steak. I pop some green bean pods in half. Put some peppercorns into my mortar and pestle. I wonder what atrocious college food she’s eating right now. I’d like to be making this steak for her. Picking out a wine that would pair well and make the food sing in her mouth. I’m lucky enough to be from old money. I remember how Joelle and I became friends after I threw her shitty sandwich in the garbage. We were just kids, but I had Alfredo and couldn’t imagine anyone eating that shitty looking sandwich. As a kid, of course, it was gross. I think I wanted to take care of her, even then.

I finish the last of my wine and let the memories and the loneliness I suddenly feel sting together.

I've been fine with the bachelor life for so long. Didn’t care that my relationships never went anywhere. That no one ever interested me. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself if that changed.

How would I ever find someone appropriate when I wanted Emmaline? Even if dating a student could work, that was really the least of my concerns. Fucking Joelle would skin me alive if she knew I was over here thinking about pawing her daughter.

Of course, that’s all assuming that I could date Emmaline. I’m thinking about fucking her…and suddenly I want to feed her dinner? Date her? Have a future with her? I’m just about the clingiest fucking creep there’s ever been. Give me a day and I’m going to be thinking about getting her pregnant.

Yeah…that offhand thought makes me nearly burn myself on the stovetop. Christ almighty, I never thought I’d have a kid of my own. But Emmaline, I can’t write her future for her, shit.

I shouldn’t see Emmaline until class in a few days. I need to give all of this insanity some mental space.

I finish my dinner and pour over The Mary Shelley Reader. My well-worn copy has such a frequent place at my table that I have bookends centering my table. Her concern with the results of emotional drama, well, they are my concerns now.

I’m one of those dramatic, literary obsessed types. That’s why I teach English courses in a college rather than running any of the media conglomerate that pays my bills. They called Mary a hack, they made fun of her, but Shelley was wise and gifted as her contemporaries. I wrote about her as much as I wanted during my time in school, and my family money, well, that meant I had certain loyalties in those that were supposed to be my teachers.

It's no wonder that my respect for authority has already shattered. I would abuse my authority to have Emmaline. I know about the artifice of academia, and if I did leave this world because I wanted to be with Emmaline, well, that’s my business.

Such grandiose ideas for a man who has never even kissed the woman he wants to sign his life away for.

I flip through the reader, enjoying Mary’s letter to Byron. She looked up at the Italian sky and saw only change.

Yes, that’s the way it works sometimes.