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"You're going to burn," Uncle John says, and you squint up at him where he's standing haloed by the sunlight, uncommonly bright and hot for this early in the year. It's what prompted you to get outside on the old lounger, sprawling on your front to soak in the rays.
"I put sunscreen on!" You protest, pouting a little despite yourself. It's nice of Uncle John to let you stay with him while your parents travel, but really, you're nearly an adult- he doesn't need to hover so much.
And he's just- he's so cool, popping in and out of your family home over the years with new stories to tell, chuckling over cigars and whiskey with your dad, even while mum flutters around and shoos you out the door, away from the men. It's like she thinks you'll be corrupted by proxy if you hear them talk, rehashing dad's glory days and Uncle John's current ones.
Still, mum agreed quick enough to let you take your vacation at his house, her and your dad going off for a honeymoon that they'd long delayed. Uncle John has his own leave saved up he can use- and even just thinking that it's leave, not vacation, gives you a little thrill. He's like that, talking about the military with the assumption you'll figure it out by context, not coddling you or pretending you don't know what a gun is, or what KIA means.
Uncle John drags a chair over next to where you're lounging, sitting by your legs. You squint at him a bit, but the sun's still behind him, which is smart, it's not in his eyes this way. The cap of the sunscreen pops.
"Come on, untie that. Poor host if I let you get turned into bacon on my watch," he says, and you tug open the back tie of your bikini. You felt very adult picking it out, hoping for a chance to wear it. Uncle John's hand is big and warm even on your sun-kissed skin, smoothing the sunscreen down in even, smooth strokes. He even slips his fingers under the edge of your bottoms, making sure the sunscreen covers you properly, where the waistband might shift around.
He taps at your thigh, high up on the muscle. "Open up," he says, "don't want to burn here. Ask me how I know it hurts," and you giggle along with his warm chuckle, spreading your thighs open over the seat. His fingers, slick and warm, curve over your thigh, move up and down over your skin, and your belly twists. It feels good, the way he's touching you, a heat inside. You close your eyes and relax into it, feeling the sun on your bare back and Uncle John's hands keeping you safe from the rays.
He's thorough too, making sure both legs are properly coated, and you wiggle up a little when he smooths more sunscreen over the outside curve of your ass (see mum? I can say the word without combusting) to give him room. His fingers clench on your skin, pushing in, and you hover a little. "What is it?" You ask.
"Hold on," he says, "got a fly trying to settle down. Don't move," and you wait with your butt lifted, thighs trembling a little at being spread and holding up your weight, when there's a sudden sharp pop and a burst of heat over your ass cheek. You squeal a little, surprised, and Uncle John catches your leg to keep you from falling over.
He's laughing, "sorry, love! Got the little fucker. Didn't want it to bite you." When you look back, he's lounging in his chair, warm and smiling, and you smile back and wriggle into place on the lounger again.
"Mm, it's fine! Thanks, Uncle John."
-
You're trying to do dishes while Uncle John cooks, which probably isn't the best idea when his kitchen is so small, but he was out of serving bowls and you wanted to help, take responsibility- you'd used the last one for cereal that morning. So you're squeezing past him, back and forth from sink to table, as he goes between stove and fridge.
"Oh! Sorry," you giggle, when he catches you in passing again, both your bodies squished together between the countertops.
He grunts, hands on your hips to move you, big and warm on your skin. You never changed out of your swimsuit, the heat of the kitchen keeping you toasty, so you can feel the callus of his fingers and palms right through the thin cotton T-shirt you'd thrown on. Your mum and dad were in your ear all the time about being presentable, but they weren't here, so you didn't have to listen, hah!
Uncle John turns you around, and for a moment your ass rubs against his hips, set into the cradle of them, his thighs powerful against yours. The heat comes back, a burning in your belly, and you gasp- and then he's shooing you on, the cramped space opening up again. You fix your eyes on the dishes, unnerved. Your heart is pounding, and when Uncle John reaches past you for the salt, he seems to be doubled in size, heavy muscle and the thick hair on his arms and poking out of his shirt collar, the smell of him under the scents of cooking and dish soap.
Then he's gone, fussing at the stove, and you stagger to the table with the last bowl with a strange, twisting heat between your legs, something sparked off in you.
-
"Uncle John!" You rattle the knob again. "Uncle John, I need help!"
He pops up around the corner so quick you startle, and have to grab the towel back up around you. "What's wrong, love? Hurt?" He asks, already taking your arm and turning you to face him, looking up and down your body like he expects an injury. Your face heats in embarrassment that he might see you like this, the old towel and your hair a dripping mess, water still trickling down your legs and arms.
"No, it's the door, I think- I think I locked it on accident when I went to take my shower," you cringe out. God, how embarrassing! John rattles the knob himself, testing it, and nods in agreement.
"Oh, it's fine," he assures you. His hand covers your shoulder, warm where the water is cooling off. "Here, go in my room and get a shirt from the dresser, so you aren't chilled. I'll find my lockpicks." He sends you off with a little pat to your lower back, and the towel pulls, your thigh and side slipping out, before you pull it back together.
The shirts are where he said, military-neat rows of black and grey and green, and you pick out one that feels soft as sin, faded army colors and an embroidered PRICE over the front pocket. It's huge on you, sagging lower than the towel did, and you don't have anything for under it, but you can use the towel for your hair at least. Uncle John is talking to himself as he hunts down the lockpicks- and of course he has them, and knows how to use them! Another exotic skill, more evidence of his exciting life.
You like that he calls you love, too. It feels special, different from when your own dad does it, or when mum calls you her sweetheart. Love from Uncle John feels like- like you're one of his people, trading stories, a warm hand on your back or his smile curving under his mustache.
When you step out into the hallway he's kneeling at your door, his sleeves rolled up, poking into the old lock with a few narrow bits of metal. You watch curiously as he angles them back and forth.
"Want to learn?" He asks.
You grin. "Of course!" You sling the damp towel back into the bathroom, a wet slap on the tiles, and kneel next to him. It feels weird, only wearing the shirt, a breeze moving over your bare ass and between your thighs. Still, you don't want to whine about it like a baby, so you do your best to focus.
Even though Uncle John is so close, and smells good, and his hands move yours so surely. He's practiced, he's experienced, and your belly twists again as he tugs you into the circle of his arms to position you better. Your thighs squeeze together.
"Here, love, hold it like this- firm grip now. You want to move your hand back and forth, just a bit- you'll feel when you hit the sweet spot," he says, close to your ear, and under your fingers the lockpick slips in and out before catching, a neat little click that makes you bounce a little in delight. Uncle John smiles next to you, his cheek brushing yours; "good girl," he praises, and it's like the kitchen all over again, the way he's suddenly bigger, eclipsing you, the prickle of your bare skin under the shirt suddenly a throb. Your nipples perk up, and you glance down, hoping they're not visible.
They are, and the sight of them pushing out the embroidered PRICE makes your whole belly clench tight, your hand shaking. John grasps your wrist, keeps you steady as the lockpick slips. "Sorry," you gasp, and try to ignore the way everything between your thighs is suddenly hot and damp.
You just didn't dry off enough from the shower, is all.
The lock pops open, and you scramble inside, Uncle John steadying you with a hand on your thigh, the hem of the shirt riding up, reaching for a pair of panties almost desperately.
As you pull them up, you hear a low sound from behind you, but when you turn around Uncle John is facing away, packing up the lockpicks.
Your belly swoops in something like disappointment.
-
There's a sound that wakes you through the wall, something low and heavy and half asleep it burns in your belly, a sound you want to hear again. Something like a moan and something wet, something unfamiliar, heat blooming between your thighs.
You strain to hear it, grinding unconsciously against the sheet twisted between your thighs, and hear another low moan, a panting breath, sounds that make your half-remembered dreams floating to the front- touches on your breasts, your nipples, soft lips and thick mustache kissing down your belly and over your fingers. An ache between your thighs that peaks and clenches.
Sleep tugs at you, and you slide back into it, ignorant of the dampness in your panties, the sounds of a cock being stroked on the other side of the wall.
-
Uncle John is so relaxed he seems to have melted into the couch. You smile at him, accept his offer to take a seat, and wriggle down so you can relax the way you did when you were smaller, and he and your dad would come home together- your back on the cushion, your head on his thigh. Though you're big enough now that your legs sling over the armrest instead of curling up against the cushions.
Uncle John pats your hair, takes another sip of his whisky. He smiles down at you and raises the glass in a little toast.
"Want a sip?" He asks.
You bite your lip. "Oh, mum and dad don't let me have any yet." It's unfair, you're nearly eighteen, soon you can just go buy it for yourself- but their house, their rules, and you don't realize you said the last part out loud until Uncle John is patting your shoulder with a smile.
"Well, you're not in their house, are you?" He says, and you grin, bubbling over with excitement. Not just a cheap beer, this is- whiskey, real stuff, and you start to sit up but the glass is already at your lips, held carefully as a sip trickles over your tongue.
You choke a little, it's hard to swallow at this angle, and its- well. It's certainly a taste.
John laughs at whatever your face is doing, and you gamely grab at his wrist when he pulls the glass back.
"It's fine!" You insist. "It's not...that bad."
He's still chuckling, and you giggle back, the whiskey warming your throat. You can feel it going down, a hot liquid spread through your chest and belly.
The glass taps your lips again. "Alright," he says, "another sip. Focus on the flavor, not the taste," which doesn't make sense, but he pours out a little for you again. It's warmer this time, and John's hand touches your chin as you swallow. "Good girl," he says, leaning over you, and the warmth spreads out to your fingertips. His thumb brushes your lips, catches the drop in the corner of your mouth, sweeps it over your skin- it tingles, from the alcohol or his touch, you don't know.
You blink, feeling that same twisting clench in your belly, the whiskey warmth spilling down between your thighs, like a line drawn from your lips. "More," you ask, and Uncle John's face does something strange, his eyes going dark, and he gives you another sip.
Your eyelids feel heavy, three sips in, and you lick your lips as you cuddle down into the couch, Uncle John's thigh big and heavy under your head. His free hand pets your hair again, a soothing motion. You're warm all over.
"So, big girl, on her own without mum or dad," he says, rousing you out of the stupor you were in. You try to focus, you don't want to fall asleep like some lightweight! "First drink. Any boys I need to worry about you sneaking in through the window now?"
You giggle up at him. "Uncle John!" You protest. "That's so silly. Of course not, mum would kill me, if Dad didn't kill them first. No boys!" You wave a finger in the air. "Don't talk to them alone! You know they're only after one thing! You need to focus on studying!" John chuckles.
"Really? Not even one boyfriend?" He asks.
You shrug, trying to readjust against his thigh. John sits you up for a second, drawing his leg up, and when he pushes you back down you find your head cradled in his lap, more comfortable, surrounded by the heat of his thighs and belly. Your own thighs squeeze together a little, the whiskey still warm in your throat. "No. I asked, once, and got a lecture. Can I have another?" You ask, reaching for the glass.
"You sure? Don't want to overdo it," he says, holding it out of reach.
"Please? I like it," you answer, and this time his whole hand cups your cheek as he pours a little more for you, a bigger swallow, his fingertips tracing the curve of your throat. You gasp a little when it's gone, your hands flexing across your own belly, a burning heat stronger than alcohol making you float. "Mm. Thank you," and rub your cheek against the soft, work denim under your head, where a fold is wrinkled up and firmer to lay your head on.
"You like it?" John asks. "How's the flavor now?" Your nose wrinkles. "Heh, well, it can be an acquired taste. How does it make you feel, though?"
Your eyes slip shut, one hand tracing the line of your throat down your abdomen. "I like that I can feel it going down. It's warm."
John's hand joins yours. "Mhmm. Now, you feel it hitting? Feeling lightheaded?"
"Mm. A little." You're not lightheaded, or a lightweight, but it is nice and floaty. Like everything is warm and tingling.
Uncle John's hand strokes over your chest, between your breasts back and forth through the center line where the whisky went down. Your nipples are hard again, you realize, your heartbeat faster. You want him to move his hand. Something twists in you, a desire to move, to arch your back or roll over and- something.
"Feel good?" He asks, and you nod. Your head feels wobbly. "Strong stuff. You don't need a break?"
Your eyes fly open. John is a big shadowy shape, warm and familiar. "I can handle it!" You insist, and his proud smile warms you more than the whisky.
"That's my girl," he says, and you nuzzle against his stomach, happy to have pleased him, his big hand on your chest. "Big drink now."
This one is more, nearly too much, and you hear the clink of the glass being set down as you cough. John's hand goes lower, over your belly, and your head swims and your thighs squeeze together as his thumb scrapes up under the edge of your shirt. You're gasping as he pets your hair, and he smiles down at you.
"Grown up lovely," he comments, and you smile up at the compliment. "Really no boyfriends? No one spending time with you? Hard to believe." Your smile changes to a pout, you told him this already. No boys!
He chuckles. "Yes, no boys. You're a young woman, a boy wouldn't know what to do with you. You need a man, love, one that can take care of you properly."
"Take care?" You mumble. You don't know what he means. You don't need anyone, you have him, and Uncle John's palm smoothes out hot over your bare skin, lifting your shirt, and your eyes flutter open- when did you close them?- as it's pushed higher, the edge of the soft fabric catching on your nipples, the bottom curve of your breasts exposed.
"Yes, love, you have me," he says, "I can take care of you," and oh, Uncle John's hand is so big. It's so hot, the scrape of his callus and the softer places on his palms, and your skin burns as he touches you, so close to where you want him. His fingertips cup your breast, and you gasp, your back arching, pushing up into him.
He's blurry and so big, your eyelids sagging and fluttering, and a shivery burst of heat rolls through you as the shirt is finally pushed up all the way, your breasts exposed. You feel hyper aware of them, of the way your nipples are so tight they ache, straining up, and you hope Uncle John likes them. You hope he sees you're grown, you aren't a child anymore, and the soft, whimpery little moan you make when he fully squeezes a breast, thumbing over your nipple, sounds wanton in your ears.
"Do you do this for yourself?" Uncle John asks, and you blink up at him a little dazed as he thumbs over your nipple. It's a little fluttery sensation rolling down from your chest to between your legs. "Play with these cute tits? That wet little pussy?"
Pussy. You roll the word around in your mind, feeling liquid and soft inside, your brain sloshing. "...no," you mumble, cheeks burning. "Sorry."
He shakes his head, and oh- oh, wow- he pinches your nipple, not too hard, tugs at it a little and your whole back curves up, your hands clutching at his thighs, the couch, the moan on your lips spilling out. "Don't be sorry. You're a good girl, been focusing on school." Your blood heats further at good girl. "I'll show you how to do it, a beautiful woman should be able to come when she needs it."
"Yeah?" You ask, and he keeps carefully playing with your nipple. It feels so good, and everything is warm and liquid in you, the bolts of pleasure spilling through your blood like more whisky.
"Uncle John!" You whine, and his thighs are thick and hard under your cheek. He smells good, something masculine and heavy, musky, and he chuckles when you rub your cheek against the soft, worn denim.
"Oh, don't worry, you'll get what you need," he soothes, and bends low to suck your other nipple into his mouth, so hot and wet, so much all at once and your thighs ache, your- pussy aching, feeling so wet and soft, a throbbing pulse all on its own.
His belly is pressed against your face as he sucks, his tongue flicking across your nipple, and you can smell even stronger that hot musky scent, making your mouth water. It's like the whiskey, a taste you want more of, something to learn to love.
He lifts off your nipple with a wet pop, a soft sound that makes your belly clench, and his hand spreads wide again to go down your stomach, and cup you fully through your shorts, his hand so blazing hot through thin fabric it makes you moan, hips bucking up.
He shifts over, pulls you over his lap, and cups the back of your head in his other hand, lifting so you can see. You blink blearily down the length of your body, seeing your nipples hard and flushed, one wet from his mouth, breasts heaving; and his hand looks so large and wide between your thighs, holding them apart. You gasp, push against him, trying to get more pressure but he only moves with you.
"Want Uncle John to show you how to pleasure a woman? How to make this little pussy come?" He asks, low into your ear, and you moan and nod, head swimming. He helps you, moving your head with the hand tangled in your hair. "Good girl. Let's take these off."
Your shorts come rolling down, and Uncle John rubs at you through your panties, a flick of his middle finger that makes you whine, squirming. He holds you firmly to his lap, kissing your cheek. "Shh, hold still," he says, and when he pulls your panties off there's a splotch of something sticky and wet on the inside, and you hide your face against his chest in embarrassment.
"Unc' John..." You whine, and feel the air move over your bare pussy. You'd shaved, for sunbathing in your bikini, and there's nothing to hide it from his eyes, so hot and dark they burn you, the weight of his gaze on the soft and throbbing folds.
He bunches your panties in his fist, and kisses your cheek again. You try and catch his lips, and he only chuckles, giving you a little peck as your head wobbles. "Smell that? That's a pussy that wants to come. She's been waiting," and he pushes the panties against your nose as you inhale.
Wet and musky and strange, your nose scrunching, and he only laughs and sets them aside, next to his whisky glass. He dips two fingers into the inch left, and puts them to your lips. "Suck," he says, and pushes them over your tongue, as you drink the whiskey off the tips and then take them further, slicking them up with spit, holding still as Uncle John goes deep into your mouth. Your pussy throbs.
Then the wet fingers leave and trail over your nipple, down your belly, and you can't look away as they near the soft exposed folds- the little curved shape at the top, you know what that is, it's aching, like all the pressure in you is winding up to that one little point-
Uncle John rubs your clit with his wet fingers, hot little circles, and you melt, wet heat down to your bones, your thighs spreading. You're making sounds but the whiskey is floating through you, the pleasure and the scent of Uncle John bubbling in your veins, there's something happening, some precipice you're approaching, hips thrusting up and meeting Uncle John's fingers. Oh, oh you're so empty, a hot clench in your pussy as your clit throbs, you need something, and it's like- you want- you gasp, your head tossing, and Uncle John pulls it back by the hair and sucks at your throat, groaning against your skin, the arm around your back shifting so he can grope at your breast- your nipple is pinched again, tighter, your clit pulses-
All at once it's ripped away, and you collapse gasping into Uncle John's arms, shaking, so close to the edge of something it hurts, a physical pain in your belly. Your hips buck up, chasing, and John only kisses you with a slow press of his lips, his tongue slicking along yours for a moment before retreating.
"Breathe, love, I don't want to overwhelm you," he urges, and you whimper and feel tears fill your eyes.
You can't form words, just whining, grabbing at his hand and trying to push it back between your legs. He stops you, holding your wrists together in one hand, so big. Your belly swoops, hips squirming, and you promise you're his good girl, please don't stop, Uncle John please-
He groans, and yanks the shirt away entirely, leaving you naked on his lap. When he sits up and puts you properly on his lap, thighs spread open, you try and grind down immediately only to flinch away from the rough scrape of denim, too much on the swollen, soaked folds of your pussy. He pats your ass, comforting, drawing your head down to cradle against his shoulder.
"Easy, love," he soothes, "just need to give you a break. You can come from your clit like that, did you feel that? Could you feel your pussy clenching?" You nod. "It needs something nice and fat inside to feel the best. Don't worry, I've got just the thing." He bounces you a little, smacking your pussy across his groin, and you squeal at the pressure on your clit.
In another moment he's got his hand between your legs, bumping you with his knuckles, and you whine again. You feel so wet, hot and drippy, every rub of his fingers over your clit making another slick gush clench in your pussy.
Then he sits you back, thighs spread wide, and oh. Oh, that's his-
"Ever seen a real cock, sweet girl?" He asks, and your head shakes. It's so big. Thick and fat- oh, he said you need something fat in your pussy- is he, will he, and Uncle John takes his cock in hand and strokes it, laying it flat against the soft flesh and hair on his belly, and then drags you forward by the hips.
Your pussy grinds over his balls, up the shaft, and oh, soft skin and hot, pulsing flesh, hard against your clit, and John moves you up and down, slick smearing over him, and catches your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath.
He sucks your tongue in the same rhythm as he moves your body, he grinds your pussy in little circles over the tip of his cock, you're whining and moaning into his mouth as your heart pounds, the tight pressure winding up again as your clit rubs over and over.
He tastes like whiskey, and you think you understand now, the flavor is alcohol and heat and musk, it's the clench of his fingers on your ass, the way he nips at your lips and throat before kissing you again. You wriggle against him, trying to push up against his cock, and he slows you with a hard grip on your hips, holding you off him. Your pussy throbs in midair, straining, the clench and spasm inside you making your head swim.
"No, baby girl, you can't just take it. You need fingers first, he says, a hand going down to flick over your clit. You wail, jerking against his touch.
"Uncle- John, no, need it-!" You need it so bad, need something to fill you up and make you come, the shining edge of the horizon that you're so close to. He said, he said you needed it, and you need it, his cock.
Your eyes flutter open as he touches your cheek. "Oh, love," he croons, "you want it that bad? Want Uncle John's cock in that hot little pussy?" You nod, bobbling up and down.
Then he stands, lifting you in his arms, and you moan as you realize he's carrying you to his room, the wide bed with its sheets rumpled still, the scent of him wafting into your nose as you're laid down. The room moves in flashes, each blink lasting ages, waiting for him, as John steps back to undress.
His cock looks bigger now, hanging thick and heavy over his balls, streaked with slick- your slick, and your arms give out, heart pounding, your body melting down into the mattress. When he kneels up between your legs, you grab limply at his arms, tugging at him.
He smiles down at you, his chest heaving. You want to play with his nipples, you think, pinch and suck at them like he did yours.
"Feeling good, love?" He asks, and you giggle at him repeating himself. Silly Uncle John. "Now, your old Uncle has a nice big cock. Going to be a lot for your little pussy. Sure you want it all?"
Your head bobbles in another nod. Oh, you're so liquid. So wet, inside and out, pussy throbbing and heart racing. Whisky bubbles in your belly, filling your nose with the sharp scent, perfectly paired with the musky smell of your pussy, his cock.
"Say it for me, want to hear you."
You swallow around the sudden clench in your throat. "Want- you, Uncle John, want your- um, cock, please!" You tilt your chin up and get a kiss as a reward, soft on your lips, heat blooming in your heart.
He takes himself in hand, touches the head to your clit. "Gonna fill you full," he says, tracing circles over your clit with it, "and eat it back out," and you briefly wonder with disjointed thoughts what he means-
-big, big full too full, hot hard stretch huuuurt, too big Uncle John!-
"Shh, love, hold still-"
-no, oh...oh oh oooh, so big, too big ow, hurts wait- wait!-
Your head spins, your eyes blinking tears. Pussy so full and hurts and wet, so wet, sloppy slaps of flesh together as Uncle John moves his cock in and out, your body bouncing on the mattress. He sucks your nipple, makes you moan, until the clench of your pussy stings again and you whine. You're swallowed by him, eclipsed, going oh oh oh at every pound of his cock.
"That's my girl," he pants, "taking it so well. You like getting fucked, love? On your first cock, fuck, giving it to me?"
You can't nod, but he does it for you, snapping his hips forward so your head rolls. Every gasp and moan echoes in your ears.
It hurts, it's an ache and splitting pressure, and your clit throbs, burns with the twisting coil in your belly, your thighs lifted up over John's arms. He grunts, pushes them together and forward, bending you, and you find your voice again as a keening moan warbles out, the shift moving his cock inside you.
The pleasure blooms again, your clit smacking his groin, sharp little bursts alongside the deep, clenching spasms of your pussy around his cock, the way it drags in and out, folds spread and swollen, all so wet, whiskey and slick and your drool in the corner of your mouth, the tears in your eyes, and Uncle John groans and pounds into you harder. You wail, gasping, and this time the horizon line is coming, nothing to stop it now- a burning pleasure in your belly, spreading out through your limbs, and there's a hot gush between your thighs, around Uncle John's cock, as it peaks and snaps like a spring.
"That's it, big girl, coming on my cock," he groans. You sob in relief as at last the pressure eases, limp and puddled under John, until the sensation of his cock in you begins to hurt again.
"Mmhm, Un'John, no," you mumble, and he grunts and spreads your thighs wide again, forcing your hips up so that every slap of his own push his cock deeper. "Ow! Oh, mm, wait- wait-"
He groans, and looks down at your pussy, the way it spreads and splits, swollen and sore. You whine, trying to squirm away, but there's nowhere to go, and you moan and whimper as Uncle John takes what he needs from you, all the soft wet insides clenching around him, until he gasps and there's a sudden burst of new wetness, a new slick sensation dripping down the crease of your ass as John pants and presses his forehead to yours.
"Good, oh, my sweet girl," he gasps. "Such a perfect pussy for your Uncle John."
You whimper when he pulls out, bereft and empty, aching, a sting inside- and burst into tears when John lays flat and spreads your folds, holding you open.
"Gorgeous," he says, and licks at you from stinging, burning hole to throbbing clit, holding you down as you thrash away from the hot wet heat of his lips and tongue.
Your head spins, the room wavering. Everything aches, floating away, except for the slick wet sounds of Uncle John's mouth as he sucks your clit, tongue lapping, as your poor fucked pussy clenches and drools out the slick and cum he filled you with.
You blink, and the mouth on your clit has moved lower, a fat tongue wriggling into your hole. A blink, and you're on your belly, hips lifted on a pillow, what you think are fingers stroking in and out of you. Your head rolls. The whiskey burns now, sharp in your stomach, and Uncle John cups your cheek, strokes your tongue with fingers that taste like slick and blood, like alcohol.
"Good girl," he says, and sets his cock to your lips as the whiskey and pleasure and tangled, painful longing all finally roll you under.