Incest Forbidden Glances at Nicki

[marcjstn]

The word hung there—"Uncle?"—soft and questioning, and something inside me snapped. Not broke. Not shattered. Just... gave way. Like a dam that had been holding back a flood for years, cracking along every seam at once.

My hand left her thigh. I felt her tense, felt the brief stillness of her body against mine, and for one terrible second I thought I'd gone too far, that she would pull away, that the spell would break. But then my hand slid upward, fingers trailing along the curve of her waist, slipping beneath the hem of her tight yellow t-shirt. The fabric rode up easily—too easily—and my palm met the bare skin of her stomach.

She was warm. Impossibly warm. The skin was smooth and flat, trembling slightly under my touch, and I felt her muscles contract as a sharp breath hitched in her chest. My hand climbed higher, tracing the curve of her ribs, feeling the softness give way to the firmness of bone beneath, and then my fingers met the edge of her bra. Thin lace. I could feel the texture of it against my fingertips, the delicate pattern, and then I was past it, sliding beneath the cup, and my hand closed over her bare breast.

*Oh God.*

The softness was overwhelming. Her breast filled my palm—heavy, full, warm—and I cupped it firmly, feeling the weight of it settle into my hand. The skin was impossibly smooth, the flesh beneath yielding and plush, and then I felt it—her nipple, already pebbled and hard, pressing against the center of my palm like a small, firm knot. I squeezed gently, and the nipple hardened further under my touch, stiffening until I could feel the distinct ridge of it against my skin.

She gasped. A soft, broken sound that she tried to swallow but couldn't quite contain. It escaped her lips as a tremor, and I felt her body shudder against mine—her ass pressing deeper into my cock, her back arching slightly, pushing her breast more firmly into my hand.

"Uncle..." she breathed again, but this time it wasn't a question. It was something else. Something softer. Something that sounded almost like surrender.

I pressed my hips forward, driving my cock against the soft cheeks of her ass. The layers of fabric between us did nothing to hide the shape of it—the length, the hardness, the desperate throbbing of it against her. I could feel the cleft of her ass through her jeans, and I ground against her slowly, deliberately, letting her feel every inch of my need.

Her head tilted back slightly, resting against my shoulder, and I could see her face in profile—the dark lashes, the flushed cheeks, the way her lips were parted and glistening. Her eyes were half-closed, heavy-lidded, and then they opened—dark and wide—and locked onto mine in the dim, flickering light of the bus.

Neither of us spoke. Neither of us looked away.

My other hand moved. I couldn't stop it—didn't want to stop it. It found her thigh again, sliding down the smooth denim, feeling the shape of her, the warmth of her. But this time I didn't stop at her thigh. My fingers traced upward, following the curve of her leg, slipping past her knee, past the midpoint of her thigh, until I met the hem of her short skirt. The fabric was thin—a loose, flowing thing she'd worn over the jeans earlier and then... had she removed the jeans? When? I didn't remember. Had I been so lost in the feel of her breast that I hadn't noticed?

My fingers slid beneath the skirt's hem, and there was nothing beneath it but bare skin. Smooth, bare, milky-white skin, warm and impossibly soft. I groaned against her neck, the sound vibrating against her skin, and felt her tremble in response.

Higher. My hand climbed, greedy and desperate, palms dragging over the silk of her inner thighs. I could feel the heat radiating from her core before I even reached it—a warm, humid pulse that drew my hand upward like gravity. And then my fingers found it—the thin fabric of her panties, already damp, already clinging to the soft, swollen flesh beneath.

I cupped her through the fabric. My hand molded over her cunt, feeling the shape of her through the thin cotton—the plump, heated swell of her lips, the dampness seeping through the fabric, the way she was already wet for me. My middle finger pressed into the cleft, tracing the line of her through the panties, and she bit her lip. Her teeth sank into the soft pink flesh, and her eyes squeezed shut, and a whimper—barely audible above the rumble of the bus—escaped her throat.

"Nicki," I whispered, and my voice was raw, broken, barely recognizable as my own. "Nicki, I—"

"Don't stop." Her voice was barely a breath. Her eyes opened again, dark and burning into mine. "Please don't stop, Uncle."

My hand tightened on her breast, thumb rolling over her stiff nipple. My other hand pressed harder against her cunt, feeling the wetness soak through the thin fabric, feeling her hips tilt forward—pressing herself into my hand, seeking more pressure, more contact. The bus swayed around us, and the other passengers sat in their oblivious bubbles, and the world outside the windows had gone fully dark, and none of it mattered. None of it existed.

There was only her—her breast in my hand, her cunt under my fingers, her ass pressed against my aching cock, and the forbidden, consuming fire that burned through every point where our bodies touched.