The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 03

My arms had curled around the bastard's neck, and I was hauling his head onto mine. I shouldn't be doing this! I thought, when I heard David's car enter the garage. It is a foreign car. (David likes things foreign.) From Italy. It has a very distinctive exhaust noise. Alfa Romeo, or something. I wrench my mouth off Zak's.

"It's David," I hiss, and push my uncle off me. Reluctantly, he rolls to the side. I sit up, grab my bra and pull it down, grab my blouse and pull it across, start to rebutton the blouse. "You shouldn't have done that," I said, eyes on the window, addressing my Uncle, getting to my knees and crawling to the window. Piles of coins beneath my heaving boobs, I put my face to the glass. My Uncle, apparently unaware that this is no longer funny, grabs my hips and yanks them back onto the mattress. I am on all fours, face three feet from the glass, rear quarters in Zak's undependable control, housemaid somewhere close. David opens the garage door. I dare not look around. "Shsss," I hiss, though can't think why. We're well above the yard.

David has his church clothes on and carries his bible in his hand. It is one his mother gave him. Real leather with a gold silk place mark cut with a 'v' at the end. I sense, almost before I feel it, Uncle Zak's hand snake beneath my torso, and slip into the 'v' of my blouse. David is walking along the path from the garage to the house, his eyes examining the rockery. Zak's damn hand, inside my blouse, has cupped a boob. My bra is too damn thin. It's one for the home with no support. Just cotton. My uncle's hand around it. Fondling the shape as only he knows how. Squeezing and starting to tweak and scratch ... again, as only he knows how. He could write a book about it. I reach my hand over his, his in my blouse and mine above. I wonder if David will see, if he turns.

"Take it out," I demand. He doesn't. Without looking round I swipe a punch to my rear. Yanti yelps! David turns, looks up. (I'd told him we'd be working up here.) I raise the hand I'm using for support, keeping my other one over my breast, (and my uncle's hand, beneath,) and, with an arch of my back to keep me from falling forward onto my face, (knees spread on the mattress, backside stuck in my Uncle's groin,) I give my husband a half-hearted wave. David, bless him, waves his bible back, while Yanti, bless her, say's she is fine -- from my punch, that hit her chin -- while my Uncle Zak, damn him to hell for all time, continues to fondle my boob, as his other hand slips between my legs.

David is mouthing something up at me, gesturing behind him at his rockery, as Uncle Zak's hand, pushed in from behind, continues between my legs until his fingers are at the fastening of my shorts. I pulse sharply once, then twice, onto my uncle's forearm that, on account of the movement of his fingers higher up, and his position behind me reaching beneath me and between my legs, is grinding (annoyingly) on my clit. I pulse a third time. I make a questioning shrug of my shoulders, at David, down there; the shrug made difficult by the fact that I am supporting myself with one hand on the floor while the other is resolutely over my heart, as if the National Anthem is being played. I feel the fastening of my shorts being opened, but instead of responding negatively to this latest development, my pelvis, under an instruction system all its own, pulses again -- three times in rapid succession on the invasive forearm my uncle now knows how to use. Damn his eyes.

David is pointing at the rockery. Something about ... but I have no idea what it is something about ... because while I am trying to understand what my husband is trying to tell me about the rockery, my uncle, brother of my Mum, is opening the zip of my shorts, and then my maid, apparently under some sort of instruction from that same dissolute uncle, is helping him run my shorts -- and my sluggie panties underneath -- down to my knees that are spread on the mattress. It comes as little surprise when two hands close over my now naked pussy. What comes as more if a surprise, is that one of the hands is a lot more slender than the other one. I thrust, and pulse again.

It is something to do with the succulents, I think. Two or three pockets of succulent plants have been planted in the rockery, close to the wall. David is leaning over one of them now, fingers amongst the fronds, as I am leaning over, my face near the floor, on account of my uncle's face pressed against my rear, lips and tongue amongst my labia lips.

I will refrain from reporting the number of times I jerk and spasm into my uncle's face, otherwise this account will become a monotonous series of jerks and spasms ... and thrusts. This is what always happens to me when people play with me, down there. My feelings explode and cause my pelvis, or mons, to kick, or thrust, and my backbone to curl, or jerk. There is nothing I can do about it. It just happens. The more unfortunate aspect is, that just as the involuntary responses increase in number, so the level of arousal inside me rises, like scarlet mercury in a particularly sensitive thermometer.

It is now pretty high. (This mercurial sexual arousal of mine.) But there is little I can do to prevent its further escalation. I have this facial communication to conduct with my husband, out there in the garden, and I need one hand to conceal what is happening within my blouse, and the other to stop myself falling on my face on the attic floor. My rear is cocked in the air like a wanton display from a particularly randy partridge, and Yanti, my maid -- as far as I can tell -- is being given a particularly detailed lesson on how to arouse a woman by manipulation of her private parts, while the teacher, at the same time as she learns, (about labia majora and minora,) sees if he can insert his tongue in the anus, higher up. But he doesn't, for I stop him -- although I do let Yanti continue to have her clever little way. (She is a very quick learner, and rather a perfectionist.)

David's dropped his bible in the succulents. They look dry. Perhaps that's what he's telling me, that they are dry? He reaches for his bible as the slurping sound from my own rather moister succulents start to fill the attic with a lewd and slightly other-worldly sense of ... what is that? ... impending doom? I nod at the window, and my husband beyond. He is brushing off his bible. I almost say thank-you to my uncle for removing his hand from the 'v' of my blouse, and the throbbing boob and perky nipple that live within, (and annoyingly want the hand back as soon as it leaves).

My husband, looking up, gives me a shrug and then a smile. He steps back from the rockery onto the path. "He's coming in," I say, giving my team a heads up as it were, though my uncle's head stays down. On me. I feel his tongue slip into me, a little bit. "He's coming, I said," I say, though for reasons best known to my pelvis and torso they stay as they are, as my uncle and maid do their damnedest to cause me more grief. (Why is my maid so damned malleable in the hands of this offensive man?) He's stopped again. No, not my uncle -- he keeps going -- I mean my husband. David. He has stopped.

"No way!" I squawk, almost twisting round from the window but catching myself just in time as David looks up with yet another silent message contained in his expression. 'Have you seen this before,' or something, he seems to be asking me, as my uncle, who is clearly dropping his pants behind me, may well be about to ask the same thing. "You will not!" I say out the side of my mouth, trying to be stern to the man at my rear, as the man at my front, and below, sees my face attempting to tell him, 'No, I don't think I have,' or something. (Have you ever tried to be hard of voice when also being soft of expression? It is not easy!) Which is when I felt the bulbous tip I knew so well push between the slick engorged lips of my snatch. I begin to fear the worst.

David opens his bible. He lifts a flower, possibly pressed, from between the pages as my uncle's prick, between my legs, presses into my flower, as I've heard it called. It may be a wild flower I think as David holds it up for me to admire, and my uncle thrusts into me. I do my best to hold myself still with my arms, fingertips braced against the bottom of the window, seeking purchase. My uncle doesn't help. He is happy to have me, as boisterously as he chooses, knowing I will hold myself still for him. What else can I do? How else could I behave? Any other action would have a bad outcome. Probably for all of us.

... I had forgotten quite how big my uncle was.

(But it is coming back to me.)

I have to say "No!" to Yanti. More sternly than I like to be with her. Clearly under instruction from my rider -- me the mare on hands and knees, he the bloody stallion -- she reaches a tentative hand beneath my taut and trembling torso, engaged in the tricky business of cushioning the thrusts my uncle makes, intent on cupping a breast. Intent, I must surmise, on raising my enjoyment of what is being done to me, for I can hardly hide that side of my reactions from the girl -- she will recognise them as clearly in me as she would were this being done to her. At my sharp command, however, her hand retreats. But a minute later, it is back.

"No!" I snap again, holding my shoulders still, with difficulty, as my husband on the garden path holds the pressed flower to the light and invites me to admire it just as he is doing. But it is difficult for me to admire very much of anything, just now, other than the molten lava flow of feelings that courses, white hot, through my most sensitive channels, like high pressure steam in pipes that are much too small. I feel about to explode. Which I am, I suppose. It will not take much. And now that I have a slender hand slithering into the 'v' of my blouse, making for a nipple that's hard and as throbbing as a pea that's been out in the sun too long, I sense the approach of my explosion. Which is when David waves and smiles again.

(I wish he wouldn't do that.)

"He's ..." I manage to get out, as Yanti's nimble fingers find a nipple, under cotton, and she scratches it lightly with her finger nail, "...coming," I gasp, and practically do, as I focus on the sound of the back door. It makes a squeak. The hinges do, at least. I hear them, then he calls, "How is it going up there?"

What can I tell him? My thrusts, now that my front is no longer required to be anchored to the floor like the rock of Gibraltar, have been enlisted in our task. The task of my uncle and I -- and Yanti, too, I guess -- of bringing me, and maybe him as well, to a state of orgasmic release. (Sounds awfully irresponsible, put like that.)

"It's ... aah!" I swallow, arching my back and thrusting into the piston-like strokes of my much-too-spirited uncle. Why can he not act his age? "... good!" I finish off, shouting it out with what seems to me like desperation.

I wonder what I sound like.

"I'll come and help!" I hear from David, as I also hear him start up the stairs.

It sends me over the top. I come with a blinding intensity that freezes every fibre of my body, and drives every feeling to high compression in a central core, from which it explodes like a hydrogen bomb. A count of ... I don't know ... then feeling comes back from lingering numbness of orgasm. I find I can breath again. Which is when I am aware that my Uncle Zak has come as well, and is pumping rhythmically into me. I cannot move. At this point nothing on earth would make me move from my position: ass in the air, head in my arms among coins on the floor, thick shaft of manhood sunk deep inside, pulsing gently -- both of us. If I am to be ...

"Coming up!" I hear his voice through the trap door to the attack. And then, "Yanti's not downstairs. Is she with you?" I hear the foot on the first step of the attic ladder. We are about to be discovered. But there's nothing I can do about it, because I cannot move. I have no wish to move. This is too ... important ... is that the word? I think I give up at this point. It is all too much.

"This step is loose."

What step is loose?

"Oh dear." David sounded concerned. "This step, this second bottom one ..." a pause. I could hear my breath, and Yanti's breath, and Zack's. All of us should have been holding our breath, but too much had happened, and we needed to breath to exist, to continue on in this state of mild ecstatic bliss that always comes over me after ... after ... that. That thing that happens to ... "I'll get a screw driver. Best you stay up there until I've fixed it." David was moving away. I heard him move down the stairs. "Won't be a jiff," he shouted back.

"Okay," I whispered, feeling my uncle should move, and Yanti should take her hand out of my blouse.

Both of them did what I wished. My uncle rolled over on his back, stared at the roof with a dazed sort of smile on his face.

"Jeesus!" he gasped. "Now that's what I call ... Hot!" He grinned at the ceiling, then at Yanti, then at me. I started to pull up my sluggies, then my shorts. It felt like a tepid bog between my legs. I was suddenly determined to get to a shower before David got back from the garage. That's where he kept his tools. In the garage.

I turned to the window just in time to wave as he strode purposefully along the path to the garage.

"Hot," my uncle repeated himself, his penis glistening, hands clasped behind his head, hair sweated and matted to the side of his face, (as mine must be too, I guessed,) "Like these people who asphyxiate themselves. Experience orgasm as death approaches."

What was he talking about?

I kept my eyes from Yanti. I didn't know how I'd behave with her now, but would prefer to get cleaned up before I considered it further. "I'm going down," I said, stepping over my uncle, slapping off his hands as he reached up for yet another feel of his niece. Then I remembered Yanti. "You too, Yanti," I said.

"Let her stay. She can entertain me," said my uncle.

Which really pissed me off.

"Mr David, coming back," said Yanti.

I shot a leg through the trapdoor to the ladder, turned back. Yanti was peering out the window. Uncle Zak was stroking her leg.

"Here's how it works," I said, still throbbing with the afterglow of sex, but seeing the narrow escape we'd just been through as what it was: a barely avoided life-changing event that I didn't want repeated. "Yanti, if you do not come down now, you will not work here any more. Uncle Zak, if you do not let her go, tidy up here, and then come down yourself, I will never speak to you again." I looked him in the eye. "And I mean that."

"Well, well, my little niece," he said, hastening Yanti towards me. "I do believe you're serious." (He was right, I was.) With that he sat up, scratched his head, flopped his glistening penis in his lap, and -- grinning broadly -- reached for the tin full of coins as Yanti and I departed down the ladder.