A couple of months ago, a lovely woman reached out to me via email and told me of her fantasy regarding her favorite uncle and asked if I wanted to write a story for her that she might share with him if things went right. As some know, I rarely do collaborations, but this story and her situation intrigued me and after many nosy questions on my part and patience on her part, I wrote the following story. I like it, she enjoyed it and I hope you do too. Anything good about it I attribute to "Melissa" and anything bad about is on me. Please let me know your thoughts, both pro and con on it. Feedback is important.
Thank you, Melissa for sharing your fantasy with me and everyone at Literotica! Enjoy
I always thought the old brickyard factory – abandoned for as long as I could remember, was a pretty cool place to hangout. My friends and I have spent many a summer afternoon here – goofing off, listening to music on Cooter's portable radio/cassette player, maybe dancing a little bit, or trying out kissing with that Brent Statler, but now...now in the hours after midnight, with shadows rising up from the old machinery or piles of discarded and broken bricks and with the temperatures falling past freezing in the chill, Colorado air – I realized that while being her all alone, this place is just damned creepy!
I was huddled in a corner on the second floor, jumping at every little sound as the old building creaked and moaned or as little critters that slept hidden during the daytime came scurrying out. The wind made sounds that sent chills up and down my back and I whimpered as things flapped across the wide expanse between the walls – sometimes seeming to flutter across my face until I pushed away at them. I hoped and prayed they were birds and not bats. I hated bats. For not the first time since the sun had set, I hugged my knees to my face and cried and who could blame me? I was twelve and for almost twelve hours, a runaway.
It might seem silly to some, but after Momma and Daddy had told me I couldn't go to the Statler boy's party because I wasn't freaking old enough, I decided I'd show them who was old enough. I'd packed a duffel bag with clothes, my tooth brush and make-up kit – which they also said I was too young for, and a few snacks and decided I'd hit the road. No definite plan – just getting the hell out of that prison of a house and making my own decisions. I was sure I could get a job somewhere doing something and live my own life...maybe. Again, what did I know? I was twelve.
I knew if I had gone to a friend's house, Momma and Daddy would find me quick enough, so when I'd slipped out the window a couple of hours before dusk, I'd snuck across neighborhood backyards and then over the bare fields to the old brick factory, figuring I could stay there until morning and hitchhike out of town.
I was fine until the sun went down and then the friendly hangout of me and my friends became a scary dungeon. I tried to roll up in a blanket and get some sleep, but near midnight, some men came up in a couple of vehicles and clambered out. I think they were drunk. They passed around some bottles and talked some ugly talk – mostly doing with a certain waitress down at the Roadside Inn – a notorious bar at which all sorts of awful, nasty things occurred – most of which we sixth and seventh grades could only speculate at. Some of the things frightened me and I curled up in my shadowy corner and prayed they didn't come upstairs and discover me. I was afraid of what they might do to me – a twelve year old girl.
Finally, they left, leaving me alone with the little critters that scuttled or flurried about in the shadows. The enormity of what I had done began to weigh on me and I wanted to go home, but I was scared and cold and could only pray for morning. I drifted off into a fitful sleep only to be awakened by the approach of another car. Lights glittered off the mostly shattered windows and I could hear a vehicle stop, a door open and then footsteps slowly approaching. Another light swung back and forth – a flashlight and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
Had one of those men from earlier spotted me? Had he chose to not say anything to the others so he could come back and rape me? I had a dramatic vision of myself, naked and deathly white – raped and then strangled...strangled and then raped! I curled back into a ball, hugging my knees to me, willing myself to become one with the shadows.
Crumbly brick and broken glass crunched under a boot. Through my fingers, now pressed over my face, I could see the faint outline of a tall man, swinging the light this way and that, searching for something. The light flashed upward and I tried to shrink further into shadow. The footsteps came closer and then I heard old, rusted iron creak as he began coming up the old metalwork stairs. I had a sudden urge to run, but couldn't make my limbs work.
A voice called out, "Melissa?" HE KNOWS MY NAME!" I began whimpering with fear, wishing I could see my family one more time...kiss my Mom goodnight one last time. The footsteps were so close now. I could hear the man breathing.
"Melissa, darling...it's me, it's Uncle John." Even as fear was shadowed by relief and I sat up and tried to see my uncle through the light now shining in my eyes, I began to cry. The man moved closer and I knew it was my Uncle John – I could smell his "Old Spice" aftershave and then I was being scooped up into his arms and he was whispering into my ear, "Shhhhh – it's going to be alright, honey. I'm taking you home."
I pressed my face against the rough denim of his jacket and savored feeling ever so safe in his arms as he carried me downstairs and out of the old factory. Then I was sitting in his car – an old Cadillac and as soon as he climbed in, I scooted over to hang on to him.
As he drove me home, he said little as he drove with one hand on the wheel and one arm draped around my shoulders. His car and his body were warm and his arm around me felt so strong and made me feel so safe...safer than I'd ever felt before. It was the best feeling in the...
...world. I blinked my eyes and turned away from the sunlight flooding through my bedroom window. There was several moments of confusion as my dream faded away and I had to adjust to my surroundings. The large, snoring lump under the quilt was my husband, Sam. I was in our bedroom. My name was still Melissa, but everyone calls me Missy. Well, everyone but my Uncle John. I smiled at the thought of my aunt's husband, recalling my dream.
Quietly, I slipped out of bed and went to the window. The sun felt good on my body – even though it was still just early September in the mountains of Colorado, it could get pretty cold. I stretched, working out the kinks in my muscles, feeling things pop and tug in my thirty-eight year old body. I felt a warm tingle between my legs and looking down, saw my nipples – sharp little points slightly bigger than pencil erasers poking out from my cotton nightshirt.
I felt...well, horny. As I moved around the room, I could feel the warmness between my legs translating now to a little slipperiness between my pussy lips. I glanced again at my snoring Sam and considered waking him up with a loving blowjob, but then thought against it. Sam wasn't a morning person. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table – 6:30 on a Saturday morning. I decided to let him sleep and headed towards the shower.
Stripping down while waiting for the hot water, I looked at myself in the mirror over the sink. My blonde hair was tousled with sleep and my eyes as ever were big and brown. For a thirty-eight year old woman, I wasn't doing too badly. My breasts were still pretty firm – the weight of my 36C boobs not sagging much. True, I had a little too much going for me with my butt, but I'd long ago learned most men like a little junk in trunk. I slipped a hand through my neatly trimmed pubic hair and shivered as a finger caressed my still sensitive labia. For a moment, I closed my eyes as I touched myself and thought of...Uncle John.
I opened my eyes wide at the image of my uncle and wondered where that had come from. "Behave, Missy," I said to myself. "You're a married woman!" I turned to the shower and saw the steam rising from behind the curtain and tried to focus on that. I climbed into the tub and began to wash up. Try as I might, my thoughts kept returning to Aunt Betty's husband.
Aunt Betty was my daddy's younger sister. She'd married John when I was only six years old and they had been a constant in my life. My name is Melissa, but everyone has always called me Missy – family, friends, teachers...everyone, but my uncle. Uncle John has always called me Melissa. When I was little, it pleased me for some reason – made me feel more grownup. To be honest, I still like the way it makes me feel – today, I'm viewed as a mom or wife or daughter – when I hear my fifty-five year old uncle call me 'Melissa,' I feel like a woman.
As I soaped my body, my thoughts returned to the dream. I had been twelve and wanted so much to go to Brent Statler's party, but my parents felt I was too young – he was nearly fourteen and I had only turned twelve. I hated them and to prove my independence I'd run away. I'd only been gone about twelve hours – and I'd scared everyone to death.
It had been Uncle John who'd found me. He'd been the only one who'd thought to quiz my friends about where I might have gone to hide. He never told me which of my friends had squealed on me – not that I was ever mad about it. I'd been terrified and to this day have never felt quite as safe as I did being carried out of that old factory in my uncle's arms.
A shiver went through me as my soapy fingers brushed my labia and I felt myself blush as I realized I was on the verge of masturbating while thinking of my uncle. "Honestly, Missy...you're too old for that." Feeling slightly frustrated with myself, I finished showering and got on with my day. There were my two teenagers and Sam to get breakfast for and then kids to be ferried and errands to run before we were to go over to my Aunt Betty's and Uncle John's for a cookout in the afternoon.
As the day passed by, I'd get idle thoughts about Uncle John and wonder what was up with that. I have a passably good marriage to Sam – true, we're not burning up the bed these days with passion, but we do make love about once a week. I love sucking Sam's cock and adore sitting in his lap, slowly fucking him as he teases and sucks at my nipples – I just wish it happened more often. My Sam will even eat my pussy – he actually seems to enjoy it although I never have gotten much out of it – never cumming thanks to his mouth.
Truthfully, I knew what was triggering my thoughts, but I'd been avoiding it. Last Christmas I'd given several members of my family homemade presents – blankets I'd made crocheting – something I'd learned to do several years ago and had recently gotten back into. My Aunt Betty had been thrilled with her blanket and for months had been badgering me to teach her. All through this summer, I'd been going over on days when I could spare the time and teaching her to crochet. In truth, she was now capable of going it alone, but we both enjoyed our little sewing sessions and I had never minded being around her and Uncle John.
