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Growing up, Uncle Dale was a frequent presence in our house at weekends. He wasn’t blood, not really. I’d asked my Mum once when I was younger if he was related to us, and she’d just laughed that soft, dismissive laugh of hers and said, “He’s one of your stepdad’s good friends, sweetheart. So be polite and call him Uncle Dale like everyone else does.” And that was that. The title stuck. Familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

Or so I told myself for years.

By the time I was in my late twenties, that safety had long since cracked open into something hotter, darker, and far more dangerous. Uncle Dale still came over at weekends. He still slept in the spare room down the hall from mine. And I still left my bedroom door cracked open more often than not, whenever I stayed there, pretending it was just habit, just the way the house breathed. But the truth was simpler and filthier: I wanted to catch him. I wanted to see.

I’d lie there in the half-dark after a shower, listening for his footsteps. The soft pad of bare feet on carpet. The quiet creak of the bathroom door. Then the hallway light would catch the edge of him as he walked past my open doorway, a white towel slung low around his hips, water still beading across the broad planes of his chest and the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the terry cloth. The outline of his cock was always there, thick, heavy, swinging slightly with each step. Sometimes it was soft. Sometimes it was half-hard, as if the heat of the shower had left him restless. I’d bite my lip hard and squeeze my thighs together until the ache between them became a pulse.

I told myself it was just curiosity. Just the idle, dirty thoughts of a woman who hadn’t been fucked for a while. I had boyfriends over the years. Ordinary men with ordinary cocks who came too fast and never looked at me the way I caught Uncle Dale looking when he thought no one was watching. But none of them ever made my cunt clench the way the sight of that towel did.

One Saturday afternoon while I was visiting, the house was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Mum and my stepdad had gone out for the day, some errand, some lunch, something that would keep them gone for hours. I was alone. Or I thought I was. I lay on my bed in nothing but a pair of pale pink panties and a thin white bra, a book open but unread across my stomach. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains in soft gold stripes. My skin felt warm. My nipples were already tight against the thin fabric.

Then I heard it: the distant rush of water. The shower starting.

My heart slammed once, hard, against my ribs.

I set the book aside and slipped off the bed. The carpet was cool under my bare feet as I padded down the hall. The bathroom door was cracked open maybe four inches, steam already curling out into the cooler air of the hallway. I could hear the water hitting tile, the soft sound of a body moving under the spray. I pushed the door wider, slowly, carefully, until the gap was wide enough to see.

Steam fogged the glass of the shower stall, but not enough to hide him.

Uncle Dale stood sideways under the spray, one powerful forearm braced against the tiled wall, the other hand slowly working soap over his body, or so I thought. Water sluiced down the hard lines of his back, over the curve of his ass, down the thick columns of his thighs. And there, hanging heavy between his legs, already half-hard and growing harder under his soapy grip, was his cock. Thick. Veined. The head flushed a deep, dark pink, glistening under the water as he stroked himself with deliberate, unhurried pulls.

I froze in the doorway, breath locked in my throat. My cunt clenched so hard I almost whimpered. I couldn’t look away. I watched the way his fist slid from base to tip, the way his thumb smeared over the head on every upward stroke, the way his cock thickened and lengthened under his touch until it stood out from his body in a heavy, upward curve. A bead of precum welled at the tip and was immediately washed away by the water.

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