That was the question that started it all.
Looking back on the unbelievable sequence of events that had led us to this point, I suppose it was inevitable. I mean, I’m a red-blooded man, with hair on my chest, an impressive power tool collection, and more than my share of pubic scalps hanging from my belt (metaphorically speaking, of course). So when my attention was attracted by a hot young thing 25 years my junior – not that 42 is old, mind you – with flaming red hair, the face of an angel, and the body of a Playboy centerfold, there is absolutely nothing untoward about entertaining fantasies about the lithe young goddess in question. It’s perfectly natural for a virile gentleman such as myself to be picturing that nubile seventeen-year-old body intertwined with mine, contorted into naked, glistening poses of lusty abandon and sheer physical pleasure, is it not? I’m a man, I like women. Nothing wrong with that.
Except, of course, when the stunning young lady in question is your niece.
A little backstory. I have a brother, a few years younger than I. My brother has a lovely wife and together, 17 years ago, they produced a daughter. I’ve been a bachelor my whole life; I’ve had girlfriends here and there and come close to getting engaged once, but had basically resigned myself to the fact that I would never have kids of my own. This being the case, I welcomed my niece with great joy. I was her favorite uncle and she became the light of my life.
I watched my niece grow, taking pleasure in her happiness as though she were my own daughter. I was the one she called first with any piece of happy news, I was the one who cheered her up when she was down, and I was the one she came to when she needed someone, even more than her own parents. We became very, very close. She had her own room in my house and, even during those rebellious teen years when her parents became The Enemy, she never treated me as such. I was her co-conspirator, her confidante, her partner in crime.
I suppose that was how we ended up where we are now.
My niece, Rebecca, came to my door one Saturday night. She rang the bell and then let herself in with her key. I’d been in the den beating the crap out of bad guys on the bigscreen, a video game controller in my hands, a cold beer on the coffee table. When I heard the bell and then the key in the lock, I knew who it was. Even though she practically lived here, Becca always announced herself before letting herself in (credit my brother and sister in law for instilling the same respect in her that we’d been raised with).
I paused my game and went out to the hallway to greet my niece. “Hey Punkin,” I called – the nickname being a cross between endearment and a joking reference to her hair, which as a child had been rather orangey but had darkened to a gorgeous flame red as she got older. “You know I love it when you’re here but wouldn’t you rather be anywhere BUT here with your old uncle on a Saturday night?”
One look at her face killed my teasing mood. She stood in the hallway and appeared positively ghostly. She simply stood there looking at me, her pretty face ashen, her normally gleaming emerald eyes looking empty. “I can leave,” she said in a flat voice.
I rushed to her and put my hands on her shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere,” I said, worry in my voice. “Come here.” I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tight. I could tell she had something going on, and I knew she’d get it off her chest in her own time, so I held off saying anything else for the time being and instead I just hugged her.
She stood like a statue for a moment, then her breath hitched and she flung her arms around me. “Oh Uncle Ronnie,” she said, then broke down and started sobbing.
I stroked her hair and made comforting noises. I held back the inane platitudes like “it’s okay” and “let it out;” she and I were both realists and we’d had many conversations about just such philosophical topics as the utter uselessness of such empty words. Instead I just hugged her for a moment and rode out the storm of tears. When they began to subside in a hail of sniffles, I cupped her cheek in my hand and kissed her forehead. “Come on,” I said softly.
We went into the kitchen and I made some hot chocolate. We took our mugs and went into the den, where I shut off the video game and the television and sat down next to her on the couch, turning to face her. She curled her legs up underneath her and held her mug as if hoping the warmth would permeate her soul. The pose was sweet and innocent and unbelievably sexy. I frowned inwardly at that stray thought, as if to chastise it and drive it away.
Finally, after sipping her way through half her mug of cocoa, she began. “Something happened tonight,” she said in a low voice.
“So I gathered.” I reached over and squeezed her hand briefly, eliciting a fleeting smile. I said nothing else, waiting for her to continue, giving her the time to do so.
“You know I’ve been dating this guy,” she said. I did know; being the most attractive girl in the senior class at her high school, she’d naturally attracted attention from every guy in the school and had been dating a football player for a couple of months. “We went to this party. He was drinking…we started making out…we went into another room for a little privacy…he said he loved me, then he started getting…insistent.”
I already knew where this was going, and I felt the rage rising up inside me. I sternly pushed it down and just listened.
“I said no, I wasn’t ready for that. He kept pushing and pushing and when I wouldn’t…do what he wanted…” She sobbed quietly, then took a deep breath to steady herself. “He got so mad. Started yelling at me, calling me horrible names, saying I didn’t care about him, that I was a tease, that I only wanted to latch onto him because he was going to be a football star…then he tried to, tried to…” She sniffled again and broke down into a fresh batch of sobs.
I put down my mug, took hers from her hands and set it on the table, and once again gathered her into my arms. I simply hugged her, letting her know I was there. Every fiber of my being ached to go find this asshole and beat him within an inch of his life.
“Oh Uncle Ronnie, it was horrible!” Becca sobbed.
“Shhhhhh,” I said, and kissed the top of her head. “It’s ok. He can’t do anything to you. And if he does, you just tell me and I promise you the only football he’ll ever be able to play again will be on Playstation.”
Her sobs had gotten quieter and a chuckle slipped in there with that statement. “This is why I came to you,” she said. “I always feel safe with you. I love you so much!” she cried out and hugged me tighter.
“I love you too, Punkin,” I said softly. I just sat there holding her for quite a few minutes.
After a while, I heard her voice, muffled by her hair, rising from where her face was pressed against my shoulder. “Why do guys suck, Uncle Ronnie? All I want is a good guy but all I find are assholes.”
“Hey, we don’t ALL suck,” I teased. This was a familiar conversation, one we’d had many times before. We both enjoyed going back and forth on this topic, which usually resulted in both of us laughing.
“I know,” she sighed. “Just most of you. Almost all of you. All of you except you,” she said, her eyes looking up at me with a little of their regular spark in them. I grinned in reply. “Why can’t I find a guy like you? A guy who can actually talk with me, who gives a shit about me, who wants to make me happy the way I would make him happy? The way you make me happy?” She sniffled again, her green eyes shining up at me. “Why can’t I find someone like you?”
I smiled slowly. “Well, Punkin, you deserve nothing but the absolute best, but unfortunately, they broke the mold after they made me. Too much awesomeness like this would make the world implode.”
She barked a laugh then dissolved into giggles. “You always know how to make me feel better,” she said, then reached up and kissed my cheek. “I wish I could be with someone like you.”
Her kiss lingered on my cheek longer than it should have. I turned to see her staring at me, her eyes smoky. “I want someone like you to love me,” she said softly. Then her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I want you to love me…”
“I do love you, Punkin,” I said, wondering what was going on. The look in her eyes was a little strange, though the vibes she was giving off told me exactly what the situation was. She’d shifted in her place, so her legs were almost draped over mine. Her hair was mussed, her lips slightly parted, the whole thing so erotic I felt my cock stirring in my pants despite everything.
Becca said softly, “I love you, Uncle Ronnie.
