My Niece

All characters are consenting adults age 18+

Chapter 1

The phone line finally clicked dead, leaving a faint electronic hum lingering in the air. Maria, my older sister, had just ended our lengthy conversation, and I sincerely hoped the cathartic nature of our talk had genuinely eased her troubled mind. Her request echoed in the sudden silence: would I be willing to provide sanctuary for my nineteen-year-old niece, Becky, for several months? Maria’s tone suggested Becky had entangled herself in unspecified difficulties recently, though she deliberately omitted details, wrapping her worry in vague phrases. Compounding this familial concern was Maria’s looming professional burden—a colossal, high-stakes project at her architecture firm demanding extensive international travel throughout the summer and into early autumn.

Maria’s voice had trembled slightly when she confessed that despite Becky’s age and imminent return to college classes in the fall, she couldn’t trust her daughter unsupervised for such an extended period. My agreement was instantaneous and unreserved. Maria and I shared an unshakeable bond forged in childhood; I’d move mountains for her without question. I’d relocated to Seattle six years prior, fleeing the humid familiarity of St. Louis immediately after graduating with my computer science degree. Fortune had favored me: landing a sales role at a nimble, innovative software startup that exploded in value. When a tech giant acquired us, it felt like winning the lottery. While my stock options didn’t catapult me into the stratosphere of billionaires, they secured a life of profound comfort for a thirty-year-old with modest tastes. Work remained a necessity, but financial freedom granted me immense flexibility—a luxury I deeply appreciated.

Our last physical reunion occurred at Cousin Angela’s chaotic wedding two summers ago. Holiday visits back to Missouri grew sporadic after Mom’s passing five years prior; the hollow emptiness of our childhood home held too many ghosts. Dad vanished from our lives when I was barely old enough to form memories—just a smudged photograph and Maria’s rare, guarded mentions. She shielded me from his shadow growing up, and eventually, I stopped probing the wound. I’d severed geographical ties at nineteen, departing for college and leaving Maria and Mom behind. Breaks provided fleeting reunions, but upon graduation, the West Coast job offer felt like destiny. That wedding trip was purposefully extended into a subdued family vacation—Maria, Becky, and me wandering coastal towns. Becky, then seventeen, mirrored Maria’s striking features but towered four inches taller, possessing an athletic grace. The trip was uneventful but deeply connective; witnessing Maria’s success in raising such a poised, intelligent young woman filled me with pride.

Subsequent phone calls finalized Becky’s summer relocation logistics. Maria remained evasive about the precise reasons for her distrust, hinting only at nebulous “relationship issues” plaguing Becky’s recent behavior. They shipped two bulky boxes of Becky’s essentials ahead via courier, ensuring they’d arrive before her flight touched down.

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport buzzed with the usual symphony of rolling luggage and muffled announcements. I scanned the disembarking crowd, searching for Becky’s familiar face. A light tap on my shoulder made me jump. Spinning around, I found myself facing a vision that momentarily short-circuited my recognition. “Uncle Pete? Earth to Uncle Pete?” Becky’s voice, richer than I remembered, cut through my confusion as she slid oversized designer sunglasses onto her head. Her smile was dazzling, transforming her face. She looked like she’d stepped off a Milan runway—immaculate, expensive clothing hugging her curves, makeup artfully applied. Before I could react, she leaned in, planting a firm kiss directly on my lips, followed by a tight embrace. Despite her lightweight spring coat—a sensible choice against Seattle’s lingering chill—the unmistakable soft pressure of her breasts against my chest registered sharply. Shock rippled through me. The gawky teenager I recalled had been utterly eclipsed by this radiant, sophisticated woman.

Heat flooded my cheeks; I imagined judgmental stares branding me a lecherous old man exploiting a young girl. As she released me, I mentally shook myself, forcing a smile. “Becky! My god, you’ve… transformed since that wedding. You’re not a girl anymore, Rebecca. You’re a woman.” The observation felt inadequate, yet undeniably true. Simultaneously, a calculation flickered in my mind: the twelve-year gap between us suddenly felt negligible. With her poise and attire, she could easily pass for twenty-five. Perhaps, to onlookers, we appeared merely as an age-gap couple, not an uncle and niece. The paranoid tension eased slightly.

We collected her luggage—three enormous, wheeled suitcases that hinted at an extended stay—and navigated to my parked Audi. The hour-long drive north unfolded initially with light chatter—safe topics like the flight, Seattle’s infamous weather, her mom’s trip preparations. Gradually, conversation lapsed into a companionable silence as evergreen forests blurred past the windows. My thoughts drifted uncomfortably: a thirty-year-old bachelor, comfortably solitary, now sharing his spacious home with this stunning young woman for months. My dating life had cooled significantly after an indulgent phase following the company windfall—nights fueled by expensive clubs and fleeting connections. The thrill faded, replaced by a preference for quieter, more meaningful encounters. But Becky’s presence, radiating vibrant sexuality, felt like tossing gasoline onto dormant embers.

Becky, I quickly realized, would pose a significant challenge to my self-control. As she slid into the passenger seat, her raincoat parted, revealing legs clad in sheer stockings beneath an alarmingly short skirt—a detail I’d missed earlier. During the drive, my gaze repeatedly betrayed me, flickering towards the smooth expanse of her exposed knee and thigh, tracing the line upwards towards hinted shadows beneath the hem. The primal pull was undeniable: the combination of youthful beauty, proximity, and the tantalizing glimpse of forbidden territory ignited an intense, unwelcome arousal. Mentally, I recited a desperate mantra: *She’s your niece. Your sister’s daughter. Not a date.*

We arrived at my waterfront Mercer Island home just as the persistent drizzle ceased. Hauling the luggage inside, we dumped the bags unceremoniously in the marble-floored foyer. “Let’s ditch the wet coats and shoes here,” I suggested, facing the coat hooks, “keep the carpets dry.” Shrugging off my jacket, I turned just as Becky handed me hers—a sleek, expensive-looking trench. As I hung them up and toed off my loafers, I felt a light pressure on my shoulder. Glancing back, I froze. Becky was bent over, wrestling with a stubborn ankle strap on her high heels. Her posture thrust her upper body forward, and the pristine white silk blouse she wore—deceptively simple—gaped open where the top three buttons were undone. The view plunged directly down the valley of her cleavage, revealing the creamy swell of her breasts constrained by the intricate lace edging of a pale blue bra.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. She fumbled momentarily with the first shoe, then shifted her weight to free the other foot, her hand maintaining its steadying grip on my shoulder. My eyes remained treacherously locked on the mesmerizing depths of her blouse, fixated on the smooth skin and the hint of blue lace beneath. As she straightened up, her eyes met mine, holding a knowing, almost amused glint. She’d caught me. Mortification burned my face. Coughing abruptly, I seized two of the heaviest suitcases, muttering “This way,” and hurried towards the guest wing, praying she hadn’t noticed the bulge straining against my pants.

My home boasted three bedrooms. Becky’s allocated room resided in a quieter wing, deliberately chosen for its generous amenities: expansive walk-in closets, two substantial dressers, an elegant built-in vanity, a plush loveseat nestled by the bay window overlooking Puget Sound, and—crucially—a private ensuite bathroom, ensuring her privacy and comfort. The pre-shipped boxes sat neatly stacked near the closet door. Placing her luggage down, I turned, steeling myself against the magnetic pull of her figure. Success came only through sheer force of will and the distracting totality of her appearance. For the first time, I registered the true brevity of her skirt—barely skimming mid-thigh. Like the blouse, it screamed understated luxury, clinging to her hips with exquisite precision. Her legs, bare and impossibly smooth, seemed sculpted. Her blonde hair, piled artfully in a loose bun, exposed the elegant line of her neck. Meeting her eyes directly, I managed a semblance of composure, internally congratulating myself for avoiding a downward glance… though the peripheral awareness of her ample chest, straining against the delicate silk, was intensely distracting. They seemed larger than Maria’s ever were—a startling observation.

“This is absolutely perfect, Uncle Pete!” Becky exclaimed, spinning with arms outstretched—a move that unintentionally offered a fuller view of her figure. “My room back home felt like a shoebox; half my stuff lived in storage in your old room!” Her enthusiasm was infectious. “I’m dying to unpack! And my own bathroom—no trekking down chilly hallways in the middle of the night! Seriously, this is amazing. I’m going to love staying here. You’re the best!” She punctuated her declaration by throwing her arms around me again, hugging tightly and planting a firm kiss on my cheek. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—filled my senses. “It feels incredible to be here, with you,” she murmured warmly before releasing me and diving eagerly into exploring the closet and bathroom.

She reappeared moments later, eyes sparkling. “Could you move those boxes closer to the closet for me, Uncle Pete? Most of that stuff needs to go straight in. I want to get everything settled ASAP.”

“Of course,” I agreed, “but Rebecca, aren’t you exhausted from the flight? This can definitely wait until tomorrow. No rush.”

“I’d rather power through,” she insisted firmly. “Once it’s done, we can relax properly. If I crash, I’ll stop, but I really need some essentials unpacked tonight. Oh, and do we need to change the bedding or anything?”

“No need,” I reassured her. “I have a fantastic cleaning service that handles all that. They freshened everything up yesterday—sheets, towels, the works.”

“Well,” she declared with a hint of Maria’s authoritative tone, “you won’t be needing them while I’m here. Consider me your chief domestic officer for the summer. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—I’ve got it covered.” The echo of her mother was uncanny.

“Alright, boss,” I conceded with a smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Dinner’s planned for 6:30—figured we’d eat a bit earlier to help with your jet lag. I’ll give you a shout about thirty minutes beforehand. Anything else you need right now?”

“All good for now, Uncle Pete,” she replied cheerfully. “I’ll holler if anything comes up.” Turning, she effortlessly hoisted a suitcase onto the loveseat, unzipping it with determination. As I exited, a final, involuntary glance back caught her bent over the open case—the short skirt taut across the perfect, rounded curve of her backside. The image lingered as I retreated.

Preparing dinner became a welcome distraction. At 6:15, I called her room. “Thirty minutes, Rebecca!” Her cheerful “Okay!” echoed down the hallway. Returning to the kitchen, I focused on plating. She must have showered; emerging minutes later, she looked utterly transformed. Her damp blonde hair cascaded straight past her shoulders. Her makeup was darker, smokier, emphasizing her eyes. She wore a sleeveless, sky-blue knit dress that clung lovingly to her figure—so sheer I could discern the matching outline of her underwear beneath the fabric.

Caught mid-stare with a serving spoon hovering over roasted vegetables, I felt a flush rise. “Wasn’t sure how fancy dinner was,” she explained, a playful smile touching her lips. “Hope this is okay?”

“It’s the height of sophistication around here,” I joked, tearing my gaze away. “You look beautiful, Rebecca.” Busying myself with final kitchen tasks, I watched peripherally as she expertly poured the Pinot Noir I’d opened into glasses near the dining table. The knit dress left little to the imagination; when she turned to walk to the far side, the unmistakable outline of a thong was clearly visible beneath the thin material.

She executed an unexpected maneuver: shifting her place setting from across the table to the chair immediately adjacent to mine—a ninety-degree angle instead of an oppositional divide. Catching my surprised glance, she smiled disarmingly. “I hate shouting across a table when it’s just two people. Feels too formal.” The logic seemed sound, easing my initial flicker of unease.

Dinner conversation flowed easily, centered mostly on Maria’s travels and Becky’s impressions of Seattle. With her seated so close, the plunging neckline of her dress offered frequent, tantalizing glimpses down her cleavage. After finishing her meal, she grew more tactile—resting a hand lightly on my thigh occasionally to emphasize a point during lively discussion. The contact, coupled with the wine, felt slightly more intimate than expected, yet comfortably casual in the moment.

When I gently broached her college plans, her enthusiasm dimmed, replaced by hesitation. Knowing her stellar high school and first-year grades, academic struggle seemed unlikely. Sensing this might be the crux of Maria’s concern, I decided honesty was best. “Rebecca,” I began carefully, “I don’t want to overstep… but what’s really going on? Two years ago, you were buzzing about college. Now it sounds… different. Is this why your mom was worried about leaving you alone?”

“You’re not overstepping, Uncle Pete,” she replied earnestly, swirling her wine. “Mom just wanted me to have space to think. See… a few months ago, I did some test shoots for a modeling agency. Just portfolio stuff. They loved me. Offered me representation.” She paused. “Seriously, Uncle Pete, the money was unreal. Almost twenty grand for four weekends of work. And they let me keep all the clothes I modeled—even the pieces they didn’t use in the final catalog.”

“The agency said there was no pressure to decide immediately,” she continued, leaning closer, her knee brushing mine. “But Mom panicked. She was convinced they’d keep hounding me if I stayed in St. Louis. I get why she wants me in college—she never got the chance, and she regrets it. But the agency rep… he told me my ‘peak marketability window’ wouldn’t stay open forever. Said I had ninety days to formally accept—that clock started ticking last week.” She took a sip of wine. “Plus, Mom hated the niche I was modeling for. Though honestly, I’m not runway-skinny; it wouldn’t have been my scene anyway.”

“So… what exactly *were* you modeling?” I ventured cautiously.

Becky shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing scandalous! Swimwear and lingerie, mostly. This agency specializes in high-end online retail for those categories. They shot hundreds of images—only maybe twenty ended up on the site. Lots of other girls too.” Her expression sobered slightly. “Mom flipped when she saw the catalog online afterward. She was furious I hadn’t told her upfront. But legally, I was eighteen when I signed the contract.”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “The agency owner, though—she’s fantastic. She actually sent my portfolio to some major players. Got serious interest… including Victoria’s Secret.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Mom just doesn’t see it. Honestly, Uncle Pete…” She gestured towards her laptop bag near the door. “After we clear this up, I could show you the actual site. Then you’d understand.”

She didn’t wait for consent. Standing decisively, she gathered plates and silverware. “Come on,” she commanded brightly, stacking dishes with surprising efficiency. “Kitchen first, then the den!” Intrigued and slightly apprehensive, I followed, clutching our empty wine glasses and wondering precisely what rabbit hole I’d tumbled into.

Becky dominated the cleanup. Her energy was unstoppable; rinsing, scraping, loading the dishwasher with practiced speed. Refilling both wine glasses, she grabbed my free hand and pulled me down the hallway into my tech haven—a spacious den dominated by a mammoth OLED television and a state-of-the-art gaming PC setup boasting twin ultra-high-definition monitors. My inner tech nerd was proudly displayed here. She settled gracefully into my ergonomic office chair, tapping the mouse. The screens sprang to life instantly.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. Moments later, the browser displayed the sleek homepage of “Allure Intimates”—an online retailer specializing in premium lingerie. The banner proudly proclaimed inclusivity: “For Every Body, Every Curve.” A rotating gallery showcased diverse models: voluptuous women, athletic builds, petite frames—all celebrated equally. Becky navigated swiftly, bypassing the homepage splash featuring a statuesque mature model. She clicked through to a section titled “Featured Models.” One thumbnail instantly stood out: Becky herself, radiant and confident. Clicking her image opened a dedicated gallery showcasing the diverse pieces she’d modeled.

“See?” she stated confidently, clicking through photos. “Not scary, right?” The first few images were elegant bras—supportive, beautifully crafted pieces emphasizing fit over overt sexuality. Becky modeled them with poise and professionalism. One shot, featuring a rose-pink bra trimmed with delicate ivory lace, offered multiple angles: front, side, back. She paused on the front-facing view. “Can you spot anything remotely wrong here?” she challenged gently, glancing at me.

“It’s tasteful,” I conceded cautiously. “But I think I grasp your mom’s perspective. Seeing her daughter modeling lingerie publicly… it’s a leap.” Becky didn’t seem to hear. She’d already navigated to another tab: “Corsets & Shapewear.” Selecting a thumbnail of herself, she opened it. The image that filled the screen was drastically different—visceral, provocative. Becky wore a high-shine black vinyl corset, aggressively laced front and back, cinching her waist impossibly small while forcing her breasts upwards with alarming prominence, threatening to spill over the structured top. The matching panty was a micro-thong, barely covering her essentials. She clicked to the back view—the thong strap vanished completely between her buttocks. The contrast to the previous elegance was stark. Involuntarily, my gaze flickered between the screen and Becky beside me—the embodiment of the image. My body reacted traitorously, arousal intensifying despite my mental protests.

“This,” Becky declared matter-of-factly, pointing at the screen, “is Mom’s breaking point. Okay, this one’s… intense. I get why she freaked. But it’s *still* not naked!” Her tone shifted, becoming practical. “It took the stylist over an hour just to lace me in properly. Bearable? Yes. Comfortable? Hell no.” She navigated quickly to another item: a flowing ivory silk negligee. The image was breathtakingly beautiful—soft, romantic, sophisticated. She clicked through the gallery showcasing the piece: the robe closed, then open to reveal a matching baby-doll chemise beneath. The final image—the chemise alone—was ethereal, the fabric diaphanous enough to subtly reveal the shadowed contours of her breasts and darkened nipples beneath. My physical response surged uncontrollably.

“Mom hasn’t seen *this* one,” Becky whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “If she saw the baby-doll shots…” She clicked the thumbnail. The high-resolution image confirmed her implication: the sheer silk clung, rendering her nipples clearly visible as firm peaks beneath the fabric. “This shoot was freezing,” Becky chuckled softly. “Keeping my nipples soft was impossible. They kept having to pause the shoot.” She suddenly jumped up, vibrating with energy. “Okay, wait right here! I have an idea!” Before I could react, she dashed out of the room.

Left alone amidst humming electronics, I wrestled with conflicting impulses. The urge to explore the site, to hunt for more images of Becky, was overpowering—yet the risk of discovery paralyzed me. My erection throbbed persistently beneath my jeans. Almost unconsciously, my hand drifted to my lap, rubbing the rigid outline through the denim. Needing relief, I loosened my belt slightly and reached inside, adjusting my straining cock—over eight inches when fully aroused—to a marginally less painful angle against my abdomen. Before I could withdraw my hand, Becky burst back into the den. She wore the exact baby-doll chemise from the website image—translucent ivory silk swirling around her thighs—paired with matching high-heeled mules. Her eyes shone with exhilaration.

“See, Peter?” she demanded, executing a slow pirouette. The flimsy chemise flared, confirming she wore the matching white thong beneath. She halted directly before me, arms slightly spread, offering an unobstructed view. “Is *this* pornographic? It’s beautiful! It’s art! Why should Mom—why should *anyone*—be ashamed of what my body looks like?” Her voice dropped lower, imbued with startling intensity. “I love my body. And I want to share that… especially with people I *love*.” Her gaze held mine, unwavering and laden with meaning.

The porcelain teacup rattled softly against its saucer as Rebecca’s hands drifted upward, palms skimming the delicate fabric of her negligee. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted both breasts from beneath, cupping their full weight with a practiced ease that made the silk strain. Her thumbs slid forward to find her nipples, applying rhythmic pressure until they tightened into distinct peaks beneath the thin material. “See?” Her voice was low, intimate. “This is exactly how I posed for those shots they rejected from the website. God, I love how this feels—the hardening, the sensitivity.” Her eyes locked onto mine. “What do you think, Uncle Pete?”

Silence thickened the air. My throat tightened as visceral images flooded my mind—grabbing her slender waist, pushing her against the bookshelf, the frantic tearing of lace. Instead, I cleared my throat, forcing words through the tension. “You’re… undeniably beautiful, Rebecca. But this?” I gestured vaguely toward her positioned hands. “It feels… improper. For an uncle and niece.” The hypocrisy of the statement burned; part of me marveled at my own restraint.

Rebecca’s lips curved, dismissing my protest like static. “Here,” she murmured, shifting her stance. “I’ll recreate a few poses. Tell me which one resonates.” She pivoted sideways, spine arching like a drawn bow as her hips pushed backward. Arms lifted overhead, elbows bending until her fingers nearly brushed the small of her back. The posture thrust her young breasts forward, silk clinging to their taut outline, nipples visible as sharp points against the fabric. She held the pose for thirty deliberate seconds, head turning to offer me a knowing smile. “That’s pose number one.”

Without pausing, she faced the same direction again. Hinging sharply at the waist, she kept her legs rigid, back still arched so her head hovered higher than the swell of her ass. The baby-doll negligee pooled downward, obscuring her lower body’s contours—but her breasts remained defiantly prominent beneath the gauzy material. Sensing their exposure, she slid both hands beneath them, lifting their weight. The silk stretched taut against soft flesh, revealing one breast in startling clarity: the puckered brown areola, the stiffened nipple, the subtle slope toward her sternum. “Pose two,” she announced brightly, straightening with fluid grace.

For the third, she planted her feet wide apart, shoulder-width or more. Glancing over her left shoulder, her smile turned playful. Her left hand drifted downward, fingers splaying over the curve of her right buttock. She hitched the negligee’s hem upward, baring the full, pale globe of her ass—and the narrow strip of thong bisecting its cleft. My gaze snagged on the darker skin encircling her anus, where the white fabric pressed intimately before vanishing between her parted thighs. “And *this*,” she breathed, “is pose three. So, Uncle Pete? Favorite? I know these are… hotter than what’s online.” A conspiratorial wink. “But they’re just for you.”

She rotated to face me fully now, feet still spread, accentuated by the sharp incline of her high-heeled slippers. Hands settled on her hips, hiking the negligee higher, exposing the soft swell of her pubic mound beneath sheer white silk. “Time to judge,” she commanded, voice teasing yet firm. “Which pose wins?”

I shifted in my armchair, paralyzed. Blood roared in my ears, my erection straining painfully against my zipper. Without my belt’s restraint, I knew it would breach my waistband. “They’re all… impressive,” I managed, voice strained. “But Rebecca—this *isn’t* appropriate.” The duality warred within me: primal hunger urging me to seize her, familial duty clinging like a tether.

“Don’t be absurd,” she laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “How could it be inappropriate? We’re not strangers.” Her tone implied this was as mundane as sharing tea. “Besides, this wine’s gone straight to my head.” She swayed slightly. “I should sleep.” Turning toward the hallway, she paused mid-step. “Oh! Almost forgot.” In one fluid motion, she bent over me, lips brushing my cheek. My gaze plunged involuntarily down the gaping neckline of her negligee—the perfect, hardened peaks of her nipples, the dark aureolas stark against pale skin. “Goodnight, Uncle Pete.”

She sauntered out, hips undulating hypnotically. The click of her bedroom door echoed down the hall. Minutes passed—water running, soft footsteps—then silence. My skull throbbed; my cock ached with insistent heat. I bolted the den door, stumbled back to my desk, and tore open my belt and zipper. Fingers dove beneath my waistband, freeing my rigid shaft. A groan escaped as I gripped it, stroking slowly, savoring the slick friction against my palm.

The relief was electric. I pumped my fist, torn between visions: Rebecca’s calculated innocence, the predatory gleam in her eyes. Innocent? Or a masterful tease? Right now, it scarcely mattered. My free hand seized the mouse, clicking frenetically through galleries—her lingerie shots interspersed with professional models. I lingered on a full-bra image, but my mind replayed her earlier display: hands lifting breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked. Within minutes, tension exploded—hot spurts arced across the desk, splattering my shirt cuff and keyboard. Release, sharp and shuddering, eased the coil that had tightened since fetching her from the airport.

Slumping back, I re-lived the day’s disorienting spiral. Eighteen hours ago, I’d been making coffee, oblivious. Now guilt curdled my stomach even as arousal lingered. Three months stretched ahead—a minefield of temptation. Had she orchestrated this? A deliberate seduction, despite blood ties and age? Rationalization descended as I wiped semen from polished wood. *The wine*, I assured myself. Only the wine loosened her inhibitions.

Sleep came fitfully. Each toss summoned Rebecca’s negligee-clad silhouette: the arch of her back, the sheen of silk on skin. My hand would drift, stroking renewed hardness, shame prickling beneath the pleasure. Dawn found me tangled in sweat-damp sheets, cock throbbing anew, haunted by dreams of my sister’s trusting smile as she entrusted her “precious daughter” to me.

Under the shower’s scalding spray, guilt clung like steam. Would today be avoidance? Or surrender? The battle lines were drawn—instinct versus conscience—and I dreaded which side would claim victory.