Follows the 750 Word appetizer "Uncle Quim Comes to Town." You may wish to read that first.
"Shall we retreat to the bedroom?" I asked from below, his sturdy body standing over me.
My perspective was from beneath his bollocks, his wide, taut cock in the foreground, nearly blocking my view of his face.
Uncle's broad, bearded face looked down at me with a smile.
"Give me another minute or two of encouragement, Camille, and then let's warm this place up a bit. After that yes, the bed for sure."
He nudged his penis towards me, and I took the hint.
How much I had missed Uncle Quim! It had been almost a month since I had last tasted his mighty member, his sultry sword of pleasure. The smooth sensation of his penis-head sliding into and out of my mouth, the tactile rush of my tongue slithering wetly along his shaft, this was happiness writ large for me, my own groin involuntarily constricting.
He reached down and tweaked a nipple, erect against the rough woolen fabric of my sweater. Under normal circumstances, the scratchy wool-texture would have been unwelcome, but today the rough friction against my bare chest had heightened my anticipation all morning and been thoroughly intoxicating.
I gave another few lip-slides along his shaft, lingering with my tongue at that tantalizing spot just under his cock-head that I knew gave him such enjoyment, and left off, an unavoidable smile on my face.
Uncle Quim caressed my hair, rubbed my ears, let me know of his delight. He pulled up his jeans, closed his fly, and followed me to the kitchen.
I knew he preferred coffee, but that is a bother for me, and I am a tea-drinker, so he settled, bless him, for my offer of Darjeeling. I like tea-breath from someone I am kissing far more than the taste of coffee.
While I put the kettle on, he put a couple split apple-wood logs into the wood-burning stove at the corner of the living room, right next to the kitchen, and soon had a good fire going.
Our summer cottage was small enough, drafty as it is, that it warms up in no time even in winter, which isn't usually that severe here on Cape Cod. Today the late November chill came off quickly, and we stood across from each other in the narrow confines of the kitchen. I could just see out the window in the front room, the salt marsh rushes of the Bay waving in the breeze. The Nickerson's dinghy, moored about fifty yards to the East in a little inlet, was the only sign of human habitation.
Uncle was leaning against a counter with his steaming mug in one hand, his eyes going from my face to my chest. I was aware of how erect my nipples were.
I involuntarily shivered at just how handsome he was, that expansive, dark-bearded face and those big shoulders in his plaid flannel shirt, untucked and rustic. He had the strong, rounded shoulders of my father, which for better or worse I had inherited as well. It was never a stretch for a stranger to conclude Uncle Quim and I were related.
Uncle Quim's business was a custom cabinetry shop in Ipswich, and he always smelled of sawdust and sweat. This was a combination I never tired of, familiar my whole life as our extended family, my father included, although not me or Mom, always either worked with wood as a profession or a hobby.
The times as a child that I was sent out to our garage, converted into a workshop crammed with saws and other tools, to retrieve my father for dinner, watching him shut off his machinery, wipe his brow and reluctantly come in for dinner, was a fixture in my history. Sweat and sawdust went together like bread and butter — results of endeavor and energy expended.
Daddy was an insurance salesman, about the blandest thing you could be, and when it was "bring you daughter to work day," I would end up with far more boring days than my friends, who would get to go to cool places like police stations or machine shops.
At least on "my" day we would always have lunch downtown at the Corinthian (no idea why it was called that, although they did have some fancy, faux-temple column set up in one corner of the dining room) in Lawrence, filled with a huge range of lunch-hour businessmen and artisans, my favorite always the rough-talking workmen, pleased to see a young girl in tow to my father. I liked the cheesecake for dessert,
But Uncle had taken the family hobby into professional territory, and his cabinetry skills had become both renowned and profitable.
"So is business okay, even with the pandemic Uncle?" I asked.
He sipped his tea and squinted at me. "When everything first closed down, back in March, it was pretty bad as you know, and we didn't know how'd we'd do. But lately," he waved his mug, "seems like lots of folks are up for a remodel. Some are moving away from Boston, buying a country place, and they want it fixed up, special touches. We've been plenty busy, I could work more if I wanted."
"And you? You still drawing those damn salt marsh weeds?" His eyebrows arched.
He was aiming to tease me, but I didn't rise to the bait. Daddy had always made fun of my biology degree from UMass, and to be fair, it certainly hadn't been a bankroll. I'd gotten a job at a Nature Center in Eastham, which didn't pay very much, and then of course work went away completely last March, when the pandemic shut everything nonessential down. Suddenly, like plenty of other folks, I had a lot of time on my hands.
I had gotten busy making detailed drawings of the salt marsh rushes and other plants along the Bay, with the vague hope of getting them into a small book or brochure that might be used by one of the Cape nature centers, maybe the Chatham Conservation Foundation, where I knew a couple folks.
"It's okay. I've gotten a number of good ones done, I am hoping something will come through."
I went into the other room and fetched my portfolio.
"I like these last couple at the front," and I handed him the folder.
There were some nice ones of cordgrass and glassworts, and what I thought was a handsome drawing of a salt-marsh fleabane in flower.
He looked carefully, more than just out of politeness, and smiled. "Fleabane?" he looked amused.
"Not what you think, I laughed. "
Pluchea purpurascens,
the native Wampanoags used it as an herbal tea."
He went back to my drawings.
"Sweet," he said. "I hope you get something out of this, but I'm not sure you will. At least you'll still be able to stay here at the family retreat rent-free and keep your expenses down."
The cottage would have been empty in the off-season anyway, and Daddy was pleased that I would stay and take care of the place. I got groceries once a week, and the occasional pizza delivery, but it was pretty lonely. Except for when Uncle Quim would make his periodic pilgrimage. I couldn't wait to see him. I would be jumpy with anticipation the whole day before. Judging by the condition of his crotch whenever I first greeted him, that was likely true for him too.
He looked long at me.
"But if you ever decide for a real salary, there is always room at the shop for an apprentice. It never hurts to have a trade," he continued, advice he had offered me countless times over the years. But it would be too complicated to be working at the shop, with Uncle there as my boss. The chances were good that that would ruin everything, and of course, that our little secret would get harder to keep.
