The Uncle

She knew he was coming. In a few hours, her uncle would be there, where she could see him, real, maybe touch him, real. Months of agonizing separation, and now, at least, a few moments of relief. Every cell in her body and brain was alive, aching, longing, anticipating; her mind was a swirling mess of excitement, with a hint of anxiety. She knew how much she wanted to see him, she thought it was mutual in definition, but perhaps in quantity. But frankly, that didn't matter much.

The way she felt - a child about to meet a hero, a mistress waiting for a lover, an adolescent bursting anticipating a reunion with a best friend. That's how it felt.

When he called her that day, it was like he blew on the flame, making it explode. She wanted him, wanted everything. But there were no expectations. Just one hug, that would be enough, really, she though. To feel him against her, that would be enough.

She saw his car first, white. It passed by where she was jumping on a trampoline, entertaining children. Nervous, shaking a little inside. But just so very happy.

When she saw him, coming across the yard, well, there aren't words that exist for that feeling. He was a little reserved (She thought he would be) She was hesitant, but only for a moment. She had to touch him. So she ran after him, down the path through the woods, irrational. It didn't matter that his back was too her, in that moment the wanting was all she knew. And she threw herself at him, a full hug, but he turned to the side, he was on the phone. Oh my, it must've been on purpose. Calling his wife the moment he arrived. A message, telling her to stay away.

So she tried to, pull herself inside herself, only stare at him. Tried to hide all the energy inside her. But it felt like fire slipping through cracks in a shell. She followed him, mostly from a distance, gulping him in through her eyes, shining, dark. She didn't know, maybe everything had only existed in the abstract. Maybe real, there was nothing.

In the shadows of falling dusk, she stood and watched him tying a hammock to the trees. Surreal, for all these months she'd imagined him, memorized photographs, sketched him. And now he was there, six feet away, but maybe it was a hundred feet, a million. Out of reach, always just out of reach.

He said something, mumbled what sounded like

"So you don't love me anymore?"

But knowing him, he might be on the phone, or talking to himself, or talking to the hammock.

They all sat in the yard to watch a movie. Well, on and off. He was distracted, as always. Wandering off to help someone, focused on everything but her of course. But then he sat next to her, and he rolled up his sleeve, and leaned back, so that arms touched, the briefest caress of skin on skin.

She didn't know anyone could ignite her like that with such basic, simple contact. Yes, she was used to being easily aroused, she lived in a state of semi-arousal. But to be so suddenly, so completely on fire, to feel her entire body tingling, the blood rushing to her center, deep stirring between her legs, to want someone with so much passion, this was novelty. It was him, it was instinct, a cellular calling.

She was wearing a skirt that came to just above her knees, and nothing under. She placed one foot on the bench beside her, so that the skirt slipped up to her hip. It was meant as a message, that she felt "it", wanted "it", whatever "it" was. Her husband sat on the other side; after a while he draped an arm over her legs, felt skin, adjusted her skirt to cover her. She only hoped her motive wasn't evident, but apparently not. She only hoped how much she felt for the man on her other side wasn't evident. She was trying so hard to contain it.

Later in the evening, cleaning up, the Uncle handed her bottle of bug spray. He pressed his hand against her abdomen. Just that, was enough to almost make her legs weak, to raise the heart rate. And then, when no one was looking, he ran his hand over her abdomen, lightly pressing her breast with his palm. Dizzy.

They'd wanted to take a walk, just a few moments away from other people. No intentions, just a chance to embrace him. It didn't work out that way, so she took a walk alone. Her mind was exploding, she ran, trying to run out of herself, trying to escape the one thing she didn't want to escape. She wanted him to find her, follow her, take her into the shadows, take her. Instinct, blinding, pounding. Hurt.

And then when she was almost back to the house, there he was, waiting in the road. He told her she could have a hug, it was her only chance all week, get it out. So she did, climbing up him like a mountain, wrapping legs around him. She breathed him in, felt him, his face, neck, shoulders, rubbing herself on him. Inhaling his scent, like a dream. His arms came around, his hands under her skirt, grasping the bare flesh of her soft but firm buttocks. This was more than she'd expected, better than imagination. So much, so close, and yet, there was so much more.

And there was the fear. Her skin glowing in the moonlight, knowing they were visible from the house, him constantly reminding her how someone might come looking for him, only a few moments, a few moments, one moment. She pulled away, ran down the road, trying to collect herself. She was so close to ecstasy, just by grinding against him. But the anxiety, she couldn't relax. Not with the reminder of being found out any moment.

So they said goodnight, he went through the woods to sleep, she went to the house. She showered, climbed in bed. He husband was sleeping, she couldn't even lay still a moment. So awake, every fiber alive, touching herself, She went back outside, in a nightgown. Thin cotton, short, straps, from a well known store. But she thought it was one of her more chaste nightgowns, acceptable, covered her to the thighs at least.

She found him up the hill, in a cemetery, laying on a lounge chair. She hadn't come for sex, not really; she hadn't come for anything. She simply couldn't not come, she had to be close to him, she wanted to somehow merge with him, be a part of him. She leaned against his shoulder, feeling aware how strong his scent was, how wonderful, but how it could linger on her skin. So she had to be careful. He penis was out, it was the longest one she'd seen; it was magnificent. Somehow, in a moment, she found herself on top of him. She pressed on him, riding against him. If they had planned this better a little lubrication, she'd have finished right there. She'd chaffed her tender vulva skin but grinding so hard on the fabric of his clothes earlier. That can make it hurt, just enough to make it harder. But anyway, he lifted her so his erect penis met the opening to her vagina, she would've come down on him, wanted to, but it was like there was some unspoken law that shouldn't be broken, some line that couldn't be crossed. She tried riding against him, without penetration.

"Fuck me, fuck me" He said.

And she would have, she wanted to drop down on that penis, feel it drive deeper and deeper, ride it until the waves of pleasure coursed through her, and the pink wetness of her vagina pulsed open and closed on his shaft, consuming him. But then, before she could, before she dared to, he was certain someone would be looking for her, he was afraid. His fear transferred into her, making her anxious too. This wasn't going to work, not without a moment to relax, to surrender to the lack of consciousness required to release herself into orgasm. So at his insistence, she stood up, and ambled back to the house, back to bed. She lay for a little while, but sleep would still not come.

One more trip outside, it was early morning. She sat in a hammock, she wanted him to want her. She pretended she'd left something behind, because, she couldn't stay away. She found him again, farther up the hill, farther into the cemetery.

Again, close, he had a vibrator he slipped inside her, he knelt in front of her. But every moment, he was anxiously watching down the hill, certain someone would be coming, and their lives would "be over". She wanted to let loose, to find the pleasure that was just there, almost there. But when she'd start to relax, to claim it, he'd jerk her back into consciousness with his fear.

At one point, she was on the verge of an orgasm, and he stopped everything. "Someone's standing right there, watching us" She panicked, terrified. But it was an illusion.

So He stood behind her, leaned her slightly forward, an arm around her; he pushed is cock between the lips of her vulva, she pressed it against her with her hand, and he thrust, hungrily. She wanted this, wanted him to get whatever he needed. She was so aroused, wanting so much, feeling so much pleasure, feeling wetter by the second. Somehow, he slipped inside her. Not all the way, but enough that should feel him, feel the head and force of his long, hard penis pressing against the walls of her vagina, seeking out the g-spot,. She could feel the sensation rippling through her, surprised at just how much, for only being slightly inside. But were they really doing this? It should feel "wrong", unfaithful, but it didn't. She would have taken anything then. For some reason, with him, everything felt like it was meant to be, every touch, every word, all the fantasies. It was like a part of herself that she'd always to find had found her. It was like she was meant to be a part of him.

"I'm going to cum"

He pulled out, stepped away, she watched the stream of him, his fountain in the shadows, in the moonlight. She touched herself, wanting to cum for him. She wanted just one more moment to relax, but he panicked, and sent her away to finish alone. In moments, she brought herself to pleasure.

In the morning, he was gone with the guys. He wouldn't call or text her. They'd had a chance to go to a store, together. He chose not to without any explanation. She walked up to the cemetery, a different place in morning sun. But it felt colder, empty. Alone, she'd never felt so alone. She asked herself if anything had even happened here, or if she imagined it? When he came back, to take them up north in his car, he ignored her as much as possible, he would hardly look at her.

Sitting in the back seat, she stared at his hair, listening, watching every move, still wanting, always wanting. Then she moved in the front seat, she tried to be happy, just looking over at him. She sorted through his glove box, tried on his shoes, looking down her legs at the connection of suntan pantyhose and orange crocs. It felt like it should be enough to be able to be here, next to him, touching his sacred belongings, talking him into giving her old ear plugs, an ink pen. But it hurt, because she wondered now, if she'd managed to ruin everything by being too accessible.

He tried to avoid her when they all stopped later at a store, but finally she followed him, asked him

"Do you hate me now?"

"No" he said "I don't hate you."

"Maybe", she thought, "he totally disregards me, he's just turned off completely now? Or maybe, maybe, like me, he just isn't sure what to do with this, with what happened, and what could happen".

But she couldn't regret it, not really. She only regretted that he'd pulled out, or that she hadn't thought to stick her face in his fountain of semen, drink it in, make it a part of her. All she could feel was that potent mixture of agony, desire, love. And she had to resign herself that she would never be that close to him again.

He wasn't completely cold when they arrived at his house, she tried her best to look into his mind and somehow understand what he wasn't saying. She put on the most calm veneer she could, pretending to be alright. But inside, she was exploding into a million pieces, confused, angry with herself, desiring, and scared to death. Wanting more, but knowing there wouldn't be another chance.

It wasn't easy, that evening, pretending, Seeing his wife, knowing the impact of what they'd done if she ever found out. But inside of her, the secret would be safe, a memory she would keep close, and bring to her mind when she needed it. No one could take that away from her.