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Extended Family Closet (15 September 2005)

Oh God I want to touch her so bad!
It is a big family I've married into, and they have many weddings, first weddings, second weddings, third weddings, multiplied by an astronomical and rapidly growing number of relatives, former relatives, and step-relatives. It seems like we spend most weekends drunk at receptions, trying to figure out how to get everybody upright in front of the cameras.
She's all the way across the room and I can't reach her, cannot obviously leave my wife and disappear so I sit here with my wife and stare, watching her chat, and flirt, and laugh and smile.
The bride and groom have always struck me as reasonably intelligent, if a little too perfect in appearance, but holding their reception at a marina probably wasn't the brightest idea they've ever had. I kept thinking someone was going to fall into the water during the pictures. hoping it wouldn't be anybody I liked, or was responsible for. I'm not that strong of a swimmer even when I'm sober.

Her smile doesn't fool me. I know her pain, the need behind each flirtatious glance, the agony of marriage soured, love faked, and desire long unsated. One orgasm will not fix all that, but five or six might, and more important the knowledge of her own desirability. How can women so beautiful so easily doubt themselves? Does she wear that orange dress for the stares? Is the zipper so easy and so obvious to make a point, to encourage action? Does she really know what she wants?
I can't figure out this thing with the exes. Do other families do this? What is the point? Why is my wife's ex-husband here?
What I want her to want is me. Even if just to use me, to reassure herself, for some sexual release. Just once. To know, and not just dream.
Do people sneak off with their exes? Do the exes sneak off with each other? Do they still have relationships with other members of the family that they don't want to give up?
Why am I so hesitant to tell her of her gorgeousness, my hardness, my desire? A fine one to talk, I am, conflicted, unsure, not knowing what to make of her stated refusal to call me by my title.
These entanglements we call families are ridiculously complex and riddled with psycho-sexual peril.
I sense in her a strong need to escape the reception conflicting with her happiness for this week's bride and groom. Perhaps it is a reminder of her own wedding not so long ago, perhaps a fear that theirs will fail too, perhaps horror at her fleeting thought that misery loves company.
Why, for instance, am I the only uncle she calls just by first name. Does she still think of my wife’s ex as her uncle? Is it an implicit refusal to recognize my marriage to her aunt? Is it a sign that she wants to think of me as something else, something more familiar, or is it just plain lack of respect?
Maybe she'll go outside again, and I can walk along the dock with her as the sun sets over the boats even oranger than her dress and redder than her hair.
I watch her eyes darting about, looking for a place to hide. There are many dark corners in this establishment, many closets and unused rooms for her to escape to, for me to follow her into, where I can kiss her, pull her zipper down, push her dress up around her waist, and kneel before her in sexual worship as she desperately pulls my head into her aching cunt, forcing my tongue very willingly against her clit. I must eat her until she calls me uncle after all.
My wife does not apparently feel compelled to stay at my side despite whatever expectations she may have of me. In the midst of this dual-threaded conversation with myself about my niece and the nature of family she has quietly disappeared.
I have motive. I have opportunity. I must act. I rise, I cross the room, I say "excuse me." I lead my niece, firmly but gently, by a slender elbow away from the family, away from the crowd, to the first closet I can find.
My instincts about her are obviously correct. She is more than willing. Not merely docile, or uncomplaining but an active participant in her own abduction, checking both ways down the hall for signs of my wife or someone else who might object to what we are about to engage in before turning the knob of the closet door and opening it for us.
My wife is already in there, her skirt up around her waist, her ex-husband's cock inside her and her legs wrapped around his back. Her eyes are closed, and she is crying with pleasure.

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