A shudder ran through me as I read the message. I sat in my office yesterday afternoon at 4.43 pm, shaking. My phone still rested in my half-open hand but I had temporarily lost the power to focus on it. I had lost the power to do anything other than sit there and will myself to exhibit what I hoped was an adequate semblance of mild interest in the words I had just read - for my colleague had chosen that precise moment to step through the door. I forced myself to remain motionless and expressionless, but I felt as though a handful of goosepimple seeds had been cast over my flesh and instantaneously begun to germinate there. My body was tingling.
"My cock is hot and aching to pierce you. I need to feel your perfect breasts in my mouth again. I'm burning for you. Where are you? I need to fuck you over and over, now and all afternoon."
It was from my Uncle Jeffrey.
Now before you all immediately start compiling an image of some jovial, chuckling character with a moustache like Freud's pan scrubber and a hand puppet that can conjure coins from your ear, let me at least put you right...
Uncle Jeffrey doesn't have a moustache.
Yes, yes, ok, so there is still that astounding thing he can do with the hand puppet and the coins. But let us disregard that minor detail. Let us focus instead on the momentous fact that he has no moustache - and no inclination to grow one at any time in the foreseeable future, either. I think that's an important point - a very salient consideration - when judging the merits of an uncle/niece hanky-panky situation.
Another point I would kindly ask you to bear in mind is the fact that I am not some pigtailed virgin in white anklesocks, but a fully developed woman of some experience. Yes, I wear pigtails sometimes, yes. But I was not wearing any on the particular Sunday I am about to tell you about, and I do not possess such things as anklesocks. Or indeed hymens.
So you see, dear Reader, it is not all quite as dreadful as it may have sounded at first.
Oh dear. I'll begin again. This is a hard one to write. I am in danger of losing myself in self-justifications. But let us be practical now. Let me give you some background: I met my Uncle Jeffrey for the first time in my life last weekend. I'd never set eyes on him - nor had any sort of direct contact with him - before then, because he grew up in New Zealand and because my mother's large and sprawling family are an amiable but distant lot who only ever clap eyes on each other at funerals - if at all. Indeed, funerals in my mother's family tend to be quite sociable affairs, at which very close blood relatives are first informed of each other's existence. (What? My father had a sister? I have an Aunt Binkie? And two extra grandparents and a cousin called Dwane? Good heavens, how do you do!) So Uncle Jeffrey was a stranger to me. I knew of him by name only. Then there is the fact that he's four years younger than I am. This makes it impossible to take his avuncularity the least bit seriously. He feels more like a brother. Oh dear, that's not good either, is it? Let me change that: he feels more like... a cousin. Yes. That's it exactly: he feels like the nearest possible blood relative the police will let you fuck.
Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. I fucked Uncle Jeffrey. I had sex with a man who emerged from the same womb as my own mother. If we had a child, it would be its father's great niece or nephew and its mother's cousin and have clusters of extra eyeballs up its armpits; hair would grow in the wrong direction along its fingers and it would have toenails on the roof of its mouth; it would intermittently bark and shout the word "nifkins" and two perpetual rivulets of snot would join in a y-shape beneath its chin. Oh bad Zora. Bad, bad Zora. Where is my rolled-up newspaper? It is time for me to beat myself about the nose and use that horrid growly voice.
And it all started so innocently, too. He is travelling around the world and he happened to be passing through my city, so he got hold of my e-mail address and suggested that we both went off on a picnic, which he would provide. It sounded delightful. I even baked a special cake to take along as pudding the day before - as a good niece might well do for a long-lost uncle on a Saturday afternoon. And I planned a route for us to take - into Austria and up into the Alps. But on the Sunday, it rained and rained; we were driving around in my Mini for miles, peering through the little round portholes we had wiped in the steamy windows, listening to the disasterous-caravan-holiday sound of the rain pattering against my softtop, watching my flimsy windscreen wipers going slapity-slap like some silly clockwork device - making no impact whatsoever on the torrents of water that were streaming down the glass.
So Uncle Jeffrey very sensibly suggested that we got ourselves some strange old-fashioned Austrian hotel room and ate our picnic in there. Some place we could feel dry in; some place that looked exactly like the inside of a cuckoo clock, he said. Well, you all know about my hotel room fetish. Not to mention my cuckoo clock fetish. And what with my rampant sex fetish, too, the events that ultimately ensued are hardly surprising.
It was just that we were getting along so well. I felt a deep affinity towards him right from the start. It felt like meeting my male counterpart - or discovering an element of myself that had been separated from me at birth and I had been missing all my life without realising it. I was astounded that such an incredible person existed in the world and that nobody had ever told me about it. He even looked a bit like me. The family resemblance was striking: fair-skinned, compact, wiry and attractively proportioned, a warm, copper glow upon his thick and unruly crop of wavy shoulder-length hair, fine features, blue eyes that seemed to hold intriguing never-ending layers of innocence upon shrewdness upon innocence; layers that tunnelled like a self-reflecting mirror, far beyond his physical outline, reaching all the way back to infinity; eyes that somehow seemed shaped into the lines of a question that had never been asked. And though looking at him felt like gazing at myself in a self-reflecting mirror, at the same time, I was finding him inexhaustibly surprising. Our sense of the ridiculous seemed to perfectly overlap. As we talked, things kept falling into place. We had to keep bursting out laughing and clapping our hands together as one or other of us suddenly came out with something we whole-heartedly agreed with but had never put in quite that way before. I was captivated. My gaze was continually widening in awe and amusement at his delightfully warped astuteness. I watched his face while he spoke, and I thought that his eyes looked like two almond-shaped moons hidden behind storm clouds, and then I saw him looking very intently at me, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and fascination, and I wondered if he was thinking the same about me.
Before long, our gestures were ending in hot, tingling touches. And meanwhile our picnic lay forgotten at the other end of the wooden bed. We had become far too excited to eat and we wanted this exhilaration to go on and on. We wanted to leap off a precipice and plummet into it, tumbling further and further down until we lost ourselves entirely in this topsy-turvy cuckoo clock world. And I suppose that's exactly what we did.
There, in a tiny panelled room that could easily have housed Hansel and Gretel, words stopped abruptly when he slid over to me and pressed his thigh against mine. Sitting next to him on that quaint, hand-painted bed, listening to the unrelenting electric fizzle of rain against the window, I became aware of the throb and the incredible heat of him. Hot waves of energy seemed to be radiating towards me through his trousers. I tried to pick up my sentence and carry on talking but I was feeling suddenly hot and very flustered and the glowing breadcrumb trail of words I had been following began to dim and peter out. His hand shifted the hem of my dress and stole stealthily up my bare leg. As the last bright crumb of meaning waned into everlasting obscurity, he tore down the shoulder of my little dress and bent over to lick one of my nipples.
"Shit! You're my uncle!" I said with a gasp.
"Shut up," he said, "I'm your uncle and I command you to shut up."
"Don't you dare cheek your elders and betters!" I said, "I'm the eldest. I have the authority here."
He stood up before me and opened his trousers to show me how big he was. He was hard, fully erect and straining. He was hard for me - hard just from sitting beside me and watching me move and hearing me speak. Perfectly silhouetted against a twee wardrobe, he held his cock in his hand and tossed it lightly up and down in a confident gesture of understated power, as if he was secretly showing me a loaded pistol. Then he said, "Nobody must know. What happens inside the cuckoo clock must stay our secret. Do you promise to keep it a secret? Do you promise never to tell mummy and daddy, little Zora?"
I stared at the throbbing cock that was slanting towards me across his palm. I wanted to fall to my knees and take it in my mouth. I was yearning to suck it - to show him what else his little niece could do. I wanted to make the little birdie come out. So I slid off the bed and kneeled in front of him, resting my hands against his thighs, but he grasped my head and held me away at arm's length.
"Do you promise Uncle Jeffrey?" he asked.
"Certainly not," I replied, with a pert smile, "Let me suck your cock this instant, young fellow-me-lad, or I shan't let you have any pudding."
Two seconds later, as my eager mouth enclosed him, I heard him say, "Of course, a blowjob isn't really incestuous, is it?"
"It's no worse than drinking your parent's bath water," I reassured him, corroborating my statement with a voracious, flat-tongued lick. He looked down at me and shuddered.
An hour or so later, as I was straddling him and bouncing up and down on his ecstatic body, he reached up for my breasts and pulled them to his face, saying, "Of course, it's not really incest unless you don't use a condom, is it?"
"That's quite correct Uncle Jeffrey," I panted, circling my hips and grinding him as his hot mouth closed around its captive target, "Strictly speaking, for this to be incest, the skin of your cock would have to physically touch the inside walls of my pussy as I slide up and down on it. As it is, this thing we're doing here falls into the same category as, say, wanking into one of your mother's rubber gloves."
"While it's up her fanny."
"Well, obviously - if we're going to be pendantic about it - then yes, ideally, the hypothetical glove should be up one's mother's fanny at the time."
Reader, my phone just rang again. Just now as I was writing that. It must have been telepathy.
"The thought of my naked heat deep inside you, condomless, shatters my remaining sanity."
Has quite a literary streak, does Uncle J - wouldn't you say? I wonder if he writes.
(Guard! Guard! Take this phone away now! Bring me my rolled-up newspaper, quick! Guard...! Please... Guard... Oh bugger.)