by Peter Loaf
My Uncle Peter is a pervert. I found that out when he let his screen name slip out in a conversation we were having one time at a family dinner. The very first chance I got, I went on line and googled him. It didn’t take long before I found a collection of his stories on a website called 'The Writings Of Leviticus'. I discovered that he writes hardcore masturbation fantasies in which his heroines always find sexual fulfillment while tightly bound and completely helpless.
I was shocked, at first. But then again I was intrigued. Could a woman really enjoy being trussed up and molested in that way? Did he and my Aunt Janie do those things? It was always so real, surely he was writing from experience. I mean, his girls are always so helpless, always exposed, always orgasmic, and always, always, satisfied in the end.
It was like he was reading my mind, uncovering my deepest secret desires. My very own wet dreams were there, on the computer screen, for all to see. I found myself slipping a hand down into my jammies, finding and tickling my little love button, imagining my Uncle Peter doing those wonderful things to me . . . for me.
I book-marked the site and started spending a couple of early mornings a week reading his stories and stuff, while my hubby was sound asleep, of course. It wasn’t very long before I found a story that actually made me come.
Thing was, it was my first ever orgasm, despite the fact I’d been sexually active since my first year in college and I’d been married for over a year.
I had almost given up hope, figuring myself incapable of achieving true passion. Then, when it happened, it scared me. I didn’t read any more for nearly a month. But I kept remembering the excitement and pleasure the story had given me. Finally, I listened to my body’s needs and went back, quickly discovering that regular practice made me much better at finding the passion within myself.
The next time I made love with my husband I closed my eyes and played out a bondage fantasy in my head while hubby masturbated himself in my vagina. Suddenly, it was enough. I was there, fully engaged, fully involved, my nipples swollen, my vagina gripping on him like a milking machine, my cries of passion loud enough to be heard next door. When I came I nearly passed out.
My husband was delighted at the change in me, thinking it was due to his bedroom skills. I didn’t disabuse him, it’s not his fault he’s such a dud in bed.
The trouble is, I began to wonder if reality would be as good as the fantasy. In the stories my uncle wrote the girl is sometimes punished with canes, paddles, and whips before being pleasured. She is never permanently injured, but she is frequently left with welts and blisters on her bottom and boobies. I wondered if the pain of such treatment could really enhance the passion I would feel. I suspected it would excite me as much as it excited the women in Uncle Peter's fantasies, but also knew I would never get the chance to find out. After all, hubby is as vanilla as they come, what would he think if I were to come to bed one night sporting cane stripes on my bottom?
Then we got the notice. Hubby’s National Guard unit was being sent to Iraq for over a year. I waved a tearful goodbye to my husband and began to think about how I could begin seducing my Uncle Peter.
I never for a moment thought he would turn me down; after all, he is a pervert. Everyone knows that perverts have no morals. Incest doesn’t really enter into it because we are not blood relatives. He is my uncle only by marriage. He is not much to look at because he is old and really kind of fat but that doesn’t matter that much. It’s his mind I wanted, not his body. I felt raging desire for his brand of domination. His understanding of the submissive and her needs was what was keeping me awake at night. His gross appearance didn’t enter into it, much. I told myself his undesirability would only enhance the experience, make me hotter; more helpless and afraid, if you will.
But still, I made a mental note to ask for a blindfold if it ever came to that.
I thought about his ranch. It is out on the open prairie ninety miles north of the big bend of the Rio Grand. The house sits in the middle of a huge cattle spread, fifteen miles on a side. Uncle Peter and Aunt Janie live there all alone, now that their children have grown up and moved away.
They have a big farmhouse with three empty bedrooms, several outbuildings, horses, privacy, everything a girl on the make wants. I was sure that if I asked him the right way he would invite me out for while. Then, when I got my knees under his table, I could let it slip that Hubby’s National Guard pay wasn’t paying the mortgage and I needed a place to live because our house was about to be foreclosed.
I’m sure Aunt Janie smelled a rat, but Uncle Peter walked right into the trap. “Well, Hell, Sissie, why don’t you move right on out here? We got room, heaven knows, and if you rent out your city house you'll be able to keep up the payments so that when your husband gets home he will still have one.”
I was in! I raised a few (very few) objections, but didn’t refuse when he pressed me. Aunt Janie, on the other hand, was a little less welcoming. There was nothing you could put your finger on, but when I looked her way I got the feeling she was changing her expression from something far less cheerful.
The first week there went by like a suspense novel. Every innocent move he made, I thrilled to think was his opening move. But he treated me like he was Ozzie Nelson and I was his favorite niece. Aunt Janie was watching us like a hawk, sure that I was here for more than shelter. She was right, but I was hoping to get away with it.
Or maybe it was her punishment I was after, who knows?
Anyway, Uncle Peter was the perfect host, in no way showing his inner tiger, for seven tense days. Then, on Sunday morning I heard Aunt Janie’s Hummer pulling out of the dooryard and a few minutes later a soft knocking on my bedroom door. “Sissie, I want to talk to you,” he said through the door.
I pulled down the sheets to expose my bare breasts and said, “Come in!”
He stepped into the room wearing a horseman’s getup; jodhpurs, knee high riding boots, spurs, ten-gallon hat, and Mexican embroidered jacket over a shiny black silk shirt. Held in his fat fingers was a riding crop.
I waited long enough for him to get a good look, then coyly pulled up the sheet, 'accidentally' showing him my naked hip and thigh in the process.
He smiled in a way that melted my ear-wax and sat down in the chair next to the bed. “Aunt Janie is off to visit her sister in Seattle for two weeks,” he grinned. “What would you like to do today?”
I couldn’t believe my luck! Two weeks! I looked him in the eye and said, “How about you tie me up tight somewhere and then fuck me silly?”
“And why would I do that?” he asked, a twinkle in his vivid blue eyes.
“Because I want you to do to me what you do to the women in your stories,” I said, throwing caution to the wind.
He smiled again, his blue eyes alight. “Sissie, you took the hint!” he said, leaning forward enough to draw back the covers, exposing my naked body to his blowtorch gaze.
“Yessir, all that I could find,” I confessed, spreading my knees to give him a better look at my moist, shaved and swelling pussy. “I need some of that style of Mastery. Can you give me what I need?”
He smiled and offered a hand. “I think that could be arranged.” He got up and pulled me off the bed, forcing me to turn my back to him. “Come out to the tack shop with me and we’ll turn you into a well-trained pony girl,” he said, binding my wrists together behind my back with thin nylon cords.
I was half way there, I thought. The bed was right in front of me, his jodhpurs were tented out by his huge organ, I was horny, naked, and bound, what more did we need?
Quite a bit, as it turned out. Leading me with a grip on my elbow he forced me to walk, bound and naked, out to the tack shop. A blind man could have followed the scent trail I was leaving. Once inside, I was hustled over to an upright beam and forced to bend over at the waist so that my bound wrists could be attached to a ring high up on the post. My throat and arms were bound next, pinning me to the post, exposing my naked ass to his gentle caresses . . . and brutal whipping if all went well.
I said nothing, having learned from his stories that talkative ponygirls get bitted, or gagged.
My feet were noosed and spread out to rings in the floor.
Fingers came and tickled my labia, making me jump in anticipation.
I heard his zipper go down and felt his big organ pressing into my anus, it’s condom covered tip glistening and slippery with his spit.
I had never been fucked in the ass before so I tensed up, closing my sphincter to any but the most brutal of thrusts. He chuckled and knelt down behind me, bringing my pussy into reach of his tongue. That was more like it. I moaned and pressed myself back against the pleasure.
I felt a greasy finger pressing into my ass, then as the licking continued I felt two, then three fingers invading me. Bent and presented, I could not escape. I bit my tongue and endured, hoping that the passion would soon overcome the discomfort. My wishes were granted . . . for a while. Then when I was almost there, almost on the point of orgasm, he stood up and went to cropping my bent ass so hard that I thought I was being skinned raw back there.
And again I neared orgasm, only to have him switch to a steel-tipped barker’s cane that whistled into my crimson bottom three times, followed by his cock driving its thundering bulk deep into my well greased ass.
This time I reached what I had come here for. I was His slave. His chattel, His eager, stump-broke pony.
It was about then that Aunt Janie spoke up, “How is she Peter, is she worth the trouble of training?”
Uncle Peter didn’t act the least surprised. He slowly withdrew his organ, stripped off the condom and began rolling on a second one, this one covered in little rubber spikes. Watching between my knees as it came toward me, I felt my swollen pussy throb in anticipation. Then I felt it wedging its way into my vagina, stretching me and stimulating me and reaching deep into my soul with its promise of fulfillment.
Aunt Janie walked over and knelt beside me. Taking my nipples in her fingers she caressed them teasingly until she was sure they were at the peak of sensitivity. Then she put the pinch clips on, the ones that pinch harder if they are tugged. She tugged then twice and then hung weights so that it felt like my nipples were being torn right off.
What could I do, I came. And I came and again I came.
That night I slept between them, bound in a face up hogtie, every opening stuffed with something.
In the morning they took me out and harnessed me to a cart. Aunt Janie climbed on and off we went, my cries garbled by my bit. My feet laced into hoof boots, my tummy bent over a cross bar, my arms bound to the cart’s shafts at both wrists and elbows so that I could not straighten up. My bare bottom under the lash, I soon discovered my talent for finding slave space. The harder they made me work, the more I loved my two masters.
I never mentioned any of this to hubby, figuring it was none of his business. The child born about eight and a half months after hubby’s return has blue eyes.
Hubby says they must be from my side of the family because he’s a Cherokee. I just smile and agree with him.