Cover Her Shame

The cigarette butt landed at his feet, sparks scattering onto his grimy work pants. He tilted his head, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, sizing up the little thing in the white dress standing at the doorway.

"Fuck. So you're the little rich girl, huh? Never seen you before."

The girl was eighteen, named Linda. Slow to develop, she stood a head shorter than him, all skinny limbs and frail frame. Her white slip dress hung loosely on her, the waist so narrow it looked like he could snap it with one hand. She looked up at him with eyes clean as a moon just pulled from a well.

"Are you the new migrant worker my dad hired?"

He crouched down, his rough fingers pinching her cheek directly, kneading the soft flesh as a grin spread across his face. "Damn, this face is tender. Bet I could squeeze water out of it."

The girl didn't flinch. Didn't even seem offended. She just stood there, letting him pinch her.

He leaned in close to her ear, his hot, smoky breath brushing her earlobe. "I've seen you before. The new neighbor, right?"

She nodded obediently. "Linda lives right next door to Uncle."

He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger, pressing his calloused thumb against her lip, rubbing it slowly. "I'm the foreman on your dad's construction site. He's worried about you living alone, so he told me to take *good care* of you." He bit down hard on those last two words, chewing them into something greasy and suggestive.

The girl believed him. She nodded and stepped aside. "Then come in, Uncle."

He stepped inside, the mud from his boots leaving two dirty prints on the white tiles of the entryway. He didn't bother to wipe them, just walked straight in, his gaze sweeping the living room—clean, fragrant, soaked in that milky scent that seemed to come off her, making his throat dry.

The girl spread a yoga mat on the living room floor, her cheeks flushed. "Uncle, sit on the sofa. Linda needs to practice her yoga."

He flopped onto the sofa, crossed his legs, tapping his toe against the floor, his eyes fixed on her.

Then she gathered the hem of her dress up to her waist, revealing a whole stretch of pale, bare skin underneath. Her shoulders were thin enough to show bone, her waist curving inward, and under the light, the two small, soft mounds on her chest trembled faintly—not big, but tender. Lower down, though, her rear was unexpectedly full, a small, rounded curve of white flesh that swayed before his eyes.

His breathing turned heavy. A distinct bulge rose in his crotch.

From beside her, she pulled out a piece of flesh-colored tape, pinching it between her fingertips. Right in front of him, she pressed it over the seam between her legs, flattening and covering her lips, leaving only the edges of the tape cutting into the soft skin, pushing out two subtle arcs of swollen flesh beneath.

She noticed him staring. Her face flushed even deeper, but her voice stayed innocent as ever: "Linda practices like this every day. Sweating through yoga clothes feels too uncomfortable, so I just don't wear them... I just use tape to cover up."

His Adam's apple bobbed. His voice came out rough as sandpaper scraping iron. "Fuck. Your dad know you practice like this?"

The girl gave a sly little smile, shaking her head. "Nope. It's just me here. And since Uncle's gonna look after me now... don't tell Dad, okay?"

He let out a laugh—a nasty, low laugh that came from his nose. "Sure. Long as you let me 'take care' of you, I won't say a word."

She nodded, dropped onto the mat, and spread her legs flat in a perfect 180-degree split. The cleft of her rear was pulled wide open, the outline of her sphincter and the taped lips beneath clearly visible. The edges of the tape were stretched taut, the two shapes half-hidden beneath, pulsing faintly with each breath.

He stared, eyes bloodshot. His crotch ached with hardness, his fingernails digging into the leather of the sofa.

"Fuck. You always practice like this?"

She turned her head and grinned proudly. "Linda's really flexible. I can do any pose."

"Yeah?" His voice was hoarse beyond recognition. "Show me another one, then."

She lay back, pulled her legs over her head, and pressed her ankles to her ears. Her core was completely open—the fine wrinkles of her sphincter and the taped bulge beneath exposed without a shred of cover.

Her small lips parted, a soft breath escaping. "Linda's impressive, right?"

He didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on that piece of tape, on the flesh bulging around its edges, on the little pink-brown opening that fluttered with each breath. He licked his dry lips.

Then she twisted and bent before him, folding into every impossible angle—legs over her head, hips raised to the sky. A thin sheen of sweat coated every inch of her white skin, glistening under the light. Her innocent little face grew flushed, her small mouth exhaling warm air like a half-opened bud being toyed with.

His temples throbbed. He held on until he was nearly bursting before forcing the words through his teeth: "Alright. That's enough for today."

She collapsed on the mat, legs splayed wide, her sphincter and the taped flesh pulsing with each breath.

He looked away, drew a deep breath, and in his head, he was already planning how to get her into bed.

"Uncle, do you know how to massage?" she asked in a soft, limp voice. "Linda's whole body aches..."

He grinned. A dirty, mean grin, like a stray dog watching meat fall into its mouth.

"Fuck yeah. I know how. I know everything." He stood up and reached out his hand. "Come on. I'll carry you to bed and give you a real good rub."

She placed her hand in his, those thin white fingers landing in his grimy palm. He lifted her—light as a feather, her warm little body pressing against his chest, her damp sweat smearing onto his work clothes.

He laid her on the bed. She lay face down, her waist dipping low, her rear raised high, those two white mounds aimed straight at him. From under the pillow she pulled out a bottle of massage oil and handed it to him: "Rub it warm before you start, Uncle."

He took it, squirted a generous amount into his palm, rubbed his hands together roughly, and slapped them flat onto her back.

The skin beneath his palms was slick, hot, impossibly soft. He kneaded it, pressing his fingertips hard along the tender flesh on either side of her spine. She let out a soft "Mmm," a thin sound that rose from deep in her throat.

He swallowed hard, his voice coarse: "Your dad lets you live alone like this? Not scared of bad guys?"

Her eyes were closed, her voice dreamy: "But Uncle's here now... Uncle will protect Linda..."

He laughed, pressing harder, squeezing her waist until she flinched. "What if I wanted to bully you?"

She tilted her head, looking at him with eyes completely untainted by suspicion. "Why would Uncle bully Linda? Did Linda do something wrong?"

He licked his lips and said nothing. His hands slid lower, past her waist, settling on that plump curve of white flesh.

*Fuck.* So soft. His whole palm sank into it, the tender flesh squeezing between his fingers. He kneaded it, then gave a hard pinch.

She gasped, her whole body jerking, her back arching and then collapsing again.

He watched her—that startled, ticklish little reaction—and his crotch ached fit to burst. Still, he kept up the act: "I'm just working the muscle here. Good for circulation."

She believed him. Obediently, she spread her legs wide again, exposing the cleft of her rear, her sphincter and the taped flesh aimed straight at him. "Really? Then hurry up and do it."

*Fuck.* He almost laughed out loud. This sweet, dumb little thing—she'd count the money after she'd been sold.

He laid his whole palm over her, his rough skin covering the tape and surrounding flesh, his fingers grinding against the soft contours beneath the tape. She started trembling immediately, writhing her hips, letting out those little whimpering sounds.

"Uncle... under the tape... it's so hot..."

He pressed down harder with his fingers: "Hot's good. I'm getting your blood moving."

She bit her fingertip and lay still, letting him work. The tape quickly grew damp and translucent, the pink color underneath becoming clearer and clearer.

He kept at it for a long time. Rubbing, scraping, pressing—torturing her through that thin layer. She grew more and more undone, her eyes starting to roll back, her little tongue slipping past her lips, her voice turning syrupy and limp.

He growled, "Feels good?"

"So... so good..." Her tongue lolled out, drool running down her chin. "Linda's never felt this good before... Uncle's amazing..."

He watched her—that lost, lewd little expression—and his temples throbbed. He worked harder: "Hold on. Almost there."

Before he'd even finished speaking, her body arched sharply, convulsing, her eyes rolling white, her tongue lolling, her hips jerking—a warm trickle of fluid seeped out from under the tape, spilling over his hand and soaking the sheets.

She'd come. Right in his hand.

He looked down at the clear, glistening liquid in his palm, at her still-trembling body, her white-rolling eyes, her slack tongue. The blood rushed straight to his groin, turning him hard and purple.

"Fuck." His voice came out hoarse, like a ghost.

It took her a long moment to come back. The moment she looked down and saw the wet sheets and her own bare body, her face went crimson, and tears spilled down her cheeks: "Linda... wahhh... Linda didn't mean to... Uncle, please don't tell Dad..."

She cried pitifully, like a flower drenched in rain, but it only made his blood boil hotter, made him want to pin her down and devour her whole. He licked his lips, his voice rough and low: "Don't worry. I won't say."

She tried to get up and clean it herself, but her body went limp and she sank back down. He scooped her up, carried her into the bathroom, and dropped her into the tub.