Year of the New Phone

My niece, Stephi, my wife's sister's daughter, was in our bed when I got home. I had half remembered that my wife was at choir practice and I hadn't been expecting anybody in the bed, especially not Stephi.

She was talking on the phone. The fancy new cordless phone my daughter had just got us for Christmas with all the buttons and indicator lights, multiple lines, mute and speaker and intercom. A bad joke for her technologically impaired parents, but she'd gotten one for herself too, so we claimed to love it, and installed it in our bedroom.

I had no idea who my niece was talking to. I had no idea where my daughter was. Theoretically Stephi was visiting my daughter while my sister-in-law and her husband were in Europe for the holidays. But whoever she was talking to, whatever it was about, had obviously gotten her excited. The phone was under her chin, her sweater was draped over the footboard, her left hand was pinching her left nipple through her blouse, and her right hand was between her legs, rubbing herself hard through her jeans. Those jeans that look like they're painted on. Those jeans I wanted to spank her in, had wanted to spank her in for years before that evening.

I wanted to watch but was sure I was not supposed to, that she had simply not noticed the time, and was not expecting company. Trying to flee, yet transfixed by her golden hair on my wife's pillow, by her moving hands, by the bend of her knees, I stepped backwards into the door frame, banging my head. That she heard. Heard and turned, and paused not a second, but winced with me as my hand checked the back of my head for injuries.

"I have to go." I heard her say, reaching for the phone cradle, her back to me, the phone clicking down firmly, my beautiful niece standing, turning, walking toward me, with a naughty little look on her face.

It's the same look she's had on every picture we've ever gotten from her since, and every Christmas she's sent another picture. I like to think the pictures are for just for me, but I'm pretty sure she sends them out in all her cards. Vanity, thy name is Stephi. I wonder how many who get the pictures have seen that same facial expression as she walks towards them unbuttoning her jeans, her nipples dark and thrusting beneath her shirt, her golden hair mussed? This year's picture certainly comes close, taken in the back seat of the limousine after her wedding, one strap of her gown already off her shoulder, clutching her new husband's head to her breast. Who took that picture? Did her husband approve? Does she really send these to everybody? My mind reels as I stare at it, reels with questions and memories a decade old, memories of the year my daughter brought us the telephone.

Stephi stood in front of me, inches from me, pants already undone, sweater already off, shoes and socks already gone, stood, stared, and unbuttoned her blouse, one slow button at a time. I reached out to help her. I knew I shouldn't, and it didn't stop me in the least. Our hands joined, working the buttons together. As the last button popped free, she leaned forward, and up, on her tiptoes, my hands moving around her, gentlemanly like, to boost her up, the blouse draped over her breasts. I wanted them, needed them, salivated for them as she hopped into the air, wrapping her legs around my back, grabbing my head, pulling my mouth into her mouth, silently urging me to carry her back to the bed, to put her down, to lie on top of her.

I smiled down at her as she slowly pulled the blouse off. My god her breasts were beautiful, she was beautiful. I kissed her again on the mouth then went for her neck as she moaned, trailed my mouth down to her breasts, nipped her softly, delighted in her little scream, felt myself grow harder and harder, wished my pants were off, but listened this time to the little voice that warned me of consequences as my tongue moved down across her hard flat stomach to the golden curls to her beautiful tasty pink little cunt. My pants stayed on, but I pulled hers off, delighting in the little wiggle she had to do to get them over her hips. I watched her for a second, golden and eager, before I leaned in again. My tongue darted out, teasing her at first, flicking, licking, pausing for awhile, until neither of us could take it and I buried my head in earnest, in lust, in longing.

She was vocal. Very, very, vocal. She called out my name. She teased me, she called me uncle, and bastard, and old man as I licked her rapidly creaming cunt harder and faster with my strong pointy tongue until she was trembling, gasping, reduced to grunts and moans and cries of ecstasy punctuated with a final violent scream as her thighs clamped around my head.

I looked up at her, at her beautiful face red with exertion and gasping for air. She smiled at me, but her eyes glanced ever so slightly to her left, and I shifted my eyes ever so slightly to my right, to see what she was looking at. That's when I noticed the speaker and intercom light on the phone, just as from my daughter's room upstairs I heard the faint unmistakable cries of orgasm.

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