A Niece in Nice is Nice Twice – Part 1
by
Rwxxx13 (rwxxx13@yahoo.com)
I couldn’t stop looking at them, that was the biggest problem. No, I take that back. The biggest problem was that I was pretty sure they knew I couldn’t stop looking at them. As circumspect and sly as I tried to be, I always seemed to catch a hint of sparkling eyes and knowing smiles. I wasn’t sure how much longer this situation could last before some irreparable step was taken. I still possessed enough of a grip on sanity to admit that my control was quickly slipping. I just didn’t see any way out of it.
I guess I should explain.
About two months ago I got a call from my sister in France. She had one of those huge, life-altering types of favors to ask. I was living in Seattle at the time. Well, subsisting in Seattle. Not that I was destitute or anything. I still had a bit of money socked away. I just wasn’t doing much with it but getting through each day. I guess I’ve always been a bit prone to depression. I also don’t handle stress well, so the more stress, the more depressed I get.
It’s like this. A couple of years ago, when I was twenty-five, I was trying to make it as a writer. Psychological thrillers. I’d written three novels and couldn’t get a single one published. I’d had a little bit better luck with short stories, but not enough to live on or even consider myself a professional writer. In the meantime, I was keeping myself afloat financially by gigging with my band, I play keyboards, or doing odd jobs.
One night after playing in some dive bar I was stoned and while the rest of the band and some backstage Betties giggled in a large booth around me, I was doodling on a napkin and ignoring the girl who’d attached herself to my side.
Finally, said girl managed to catch my attention when she said, “Hey, that’s really good. You should be an artist.”
I’d always been a doodler I guess. Just something I did. So when I looked down at the napkin and saw I’d drawn a cute little frog, I wasn’t too surprised, although I couldn’t have said where I came up with the idea for it. Anyway, over the next couple of days I found myself glancing again and again at that frog. I’d stuck the napkin on the fridge with a magnet. Finally, I sat down and began writing and drawing. A few days later I had a rough draft of Peter Pondjumper Saves the World. So after all the serial killers and psychos, I ended up getting published with a children’s book.
You’d think that would make me happy, right? Well, it did I guess. For about a week. Then, after the high, reality set in. My publisher was already hounding me for a followup. I was suddenly faced with adult things like money management and stocks. My friends were no longer content to let me couch-surf between them, as I’d been doing for years. If anything, my life seemed worse than it had before.
I managed to get out another book. It did even better than the first, but instead of boosting my confidence, it just increased the pressure for the quality of the third. Not only that, but my dreams of being a ‘serious’ writer were quickly going up in smoke. I’d already broached the possibility with my publisher of getting one of my novels published, and they were basically horror-stricken. Not only no, but hell no. I suggested maybe publishing them under a pen name, but got the same response. People would know, they assured me, and it would kill sales of the kid’s books. Stick to what worked, I was told.
In the meantime, I was spiraling down into darkness.
So that was me.
My sister had another story. She’d married early, but well. By twenty, she’d squirted out her first kid. Nine months later, to the day, she had her second. They moved to Nice, in France. He was an investment banker. Six years later, her husband, then forty-nine, died in a skiing accident. In the meantime, my sister Carly (now with an I instead of a Y for some reason) had been working in the fashion industry. She wasn’t a designer or a model, although she’d started as one. That was how she’d met her husband, Richard. She was just too short to go the supermodel route though, so she’d gone behind the scenes.
At the time she’d called, it was to announce that she’d just gotten a new job as a buyer. Apparently a buyer was someone who traveled all around the world searching for fabrics and textiles to be used by their designer. It was evidently a pretty big deal, and although Carly (I refused to even think of her name being spelled with an I) had been left fairly well-off by Richard, this new position would be a great help to her and the kids. The only problem was the ‘around the world’ part.
I think my big sis saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. She’d get me out of Seattle, which she thought lent to my depression, and get a full-time nanny, or manny as she jokingly called it, for her kids. She pointed out that I could write anywhere. I didn’t bother pointing out that I couldn’t seem to write at all. Still, it was a change of pace, and my sister needed me, so I figured it was at least worth a try.
That was two months ago. It was amazing how much could change in two months.
*
I flew into Cote d’Azur airport in Nice on a Saturday in late May, after an exhausting flight from Seattle, to Denver and then on to Munich. I trundled up the jetway nearly gasping for breath, desperate to get out of the stale air of the plane, surrounded by tired businessmen and old people and hordes of tourists with their screaming kids.
A quick glance around once I reached the gate showed me the smiling face of my sister and the bouncing blonde heads of my nieces, hand-lettered sign reading ‘Jason’ (that’s me) held proudly overhead.
I hadn’t seen my sister or her kids in a couple of years. Well, maybe closer to three for the kids, as my sister had flown in for the release party for my first book. The girls were just little clones of my sister. Carly had always been beautiful. At thirty-one she was transitioning from the haunting ingenue to something more mature, but no less beautiful. She was wearing her hair short these days, making her seem more care-free and yet more professional at the same time. She’d never been big-busted, but if she was indeed braless, as she seemed to be, then what she had was holding up very well.
The girls, as I said, were just carbon copies of their mother. They reminded me so much of Carly at that age. A quick calculation told me that the oldest, Samantha, would be twelve. That put… another quick calculation, her little sister, Hannah, at eleven. Barely. By some weird quirk, the girls were born nine months apart. To the day. They could practically pass as identical twins, except for the very slight height difference between them. That, and I noticed with vague interest, the fact that Samantha seemed to be sporting a pair of newly budding breasts inside her sundress.
Now, let me explain something from the start, because I think it’s important. I don’t get off on little girls. I mean, I don’t not get off on little girls. I just mean, I’ve never really thought about little girls. What I really mean is that I’m a guy. I think I’m a pretty typical guy, and I think that most guys, if they are being honest, no matter how much alcohol that takes, will admit that boobs are boobs. Boobs on a fifty-year-old, if they are nice, are just as interesting as boobs on an eleven-year-old. Doesn’t mean you want to go around sleeping with eleven-year-olds, or fifty-year-olds for that matter, it’s just that guys like boobs. Even most of the gay guys I’ve met are a bit intrigued about boobs. Also, just maybe, there’s something sorta fascinating and a tiny bit magical about newly budding boobs. Just sayin’.
The point is, I didn’t go all googly-eyed seeing my nieces at the airport. They were my sister’s kids. Family. I’d noticed my sister’s boobs as well. Didn’t mean I wanted to sleep with her. Men just notice boobs. Okay, I think I’ve made myself clear.
So. France. It was warm. It was sunny. Nice is on the southeast coast of France, on the Mediterranean, part of the French Riviera. I wasn’t particularly enamored if I’m being honest. Sure, it was beautiful, if you like exotic architecture and things like sun and perfect weather. It was mostly lost on me. Still, my sister’s house was really nice. Big. Big in a house is good. The guest room I’d be using was nearly as large as the master, which was huge, so it’s not like I’d be suffering. Hell, I guess anything was an upgrade from couch-surfing.
Not going to go into detail about getting settling in. It’s pretty boring, easily imagined, and I don’t think you care one way or the other. Suffice it to say that I got moved in and the girls and I started getting to know each other.
Carly wasn’t slated to leave for a week, so we all had a chance to get acquainted and up to speed. I was really impressed by how sweet and well-behaved the girls were. Not just that, but they were funny and smart, but then I wouldn’t expect any less from my sister’s kids. The girls of course spoke fluent French, but their accent in English was a strange amalgam of the two, with Hannah sounding a bit more French than Samantha.
In that time I’d also noticed that Sam wasn’t the only one being hit with the puberty stick. Little Hannah had some definite swelling in that area, her little buds looking like bee-stung mounds, sticking out maybe an inch or two. Again, I just noticed. Purely in passing. Really.
Carly leaving coincided with the girls’ last day of school before summer break. We had a big dinner for her and there was lots of hugging and crying. The girls cried, too. The next morning she got into a cab and then it was just me and the girls.
Things ran smoothly for about a week. We’d fallen into a routine, the girls and I. We all got up about ten. We made breakfast together, which usually consisted of bread and jam and coffee. Sometimes we added a bit of fruit and I even tried to introduce them to eggs and bacon, but they felt it was a bit much. After breakfast, showers all around, then I went to work while the girls went and did whatever girls did. Sometimes that meant going to other girls’ homes, and sometimes the other girls came to the house. I only ever figured out which was happening based on the presence or absence of giggling.
Work for me, let’s be honest, usually consisted of watching tv or playing video games. Luckily, Carly had the tv wired to the internet which allowed for American tv programs. As the girls spoke French fluently they didn’t care. I wasn’t doing a whole lot of writing or drawing, despite the pressure from my publisher and the new locale. This left me feeling a marginal amount of guilt, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t deal with, sadly.
Anyway, I was going to talk about when this whole thing began to flip on me. It was a weekday. I don’t remember which. Hannah’s birthday was coming up soon. That morning I’d gotten up a bit earlier than usual, and instead of going back to bed, I thought maybe I’d just go ahead and see if I couldn’t accomplish something that day. So I got up and headed into the bathroom for a shower.
Are you prepared for the cinematic physical reveal? This is where I look into the mirror and describe what I look like in a clever way which fits neatly into the story without drawing you out of the moment. Anyway, since I sleep in the buff, I’d gone out and bought a nice terrycloth robe which I wore back and forth to the bathroom in the mornings. The girls were always really good about knocking, so I’d never gotten into the habit of locking the door.
Anyway, I hung up my robe and glanced at myself in the mirror while the water in the shower warmed. At twenty-seven I was still in pretty good shape, but I can admit that I’ve never been very confident about my physical appearance. I was a late bloomer, so when I was young it was always a matter of wanting to appear older and tougher. That never happened. By the time I was sixteen I still looked like I was twelve, and a delicate and waifish twelve at that. I had very girlish features and pale blond hair. I didn’t even get pubic hair until I was nearly seventeen. My parents actually had me seen by specialists.
Now, at twenty-seven, I was still only five foot four and my hair had darkened only slightly, so that it was more gold than platinum. The little body hair that I had, in my armpits and crotch, was also blond and sparse. I had no hair at all on my chest or stomach. Not even that little line of hair from the navel downward that we called a treasure trail when I was in high school.
I’ve mostly come to accept that I’m just a smaller guy and always will be. It helps a lot that I share my sister’s model looks, although they look much better on a female than a male, but there are plenty of women, and no small number of men, who are attracted to that sort of thing, so I’ve always done well for myself in the romance department.
The only thing that I’ve never been able to come to terms with is the size of my dick. This isn’t the sort of thing that I would admit to just anyone, but I feel like we’ve become friends. You see, fully erect, I’m not even five inches. Oh, I tell myself I’m five inches, and the few times someone has asked, that’s what I’ve told them as well, but the truth is that it’s much closer to four and a half. Okay, four. And a quarter. Maybe. Not that it makes a huge amount of difference of course. In fact, it’s fairly ridiculous that we guys are so obsessed with a half inch one way or the other, but when you’re as small as I am, every little bit helps.
Also, it’s a bit on thin side, which doesn’t help. I’ve never been sure if you’re supposed to measure around it, or across it, but across, it’s about one and a quarter inches. That’s the shaft. The head is a bit wider, but I don’t think that counts. That’s also hard. Soft, I’m barely an inch thick. And the worst part? I’m a grower. So when I’m not hard, the whole thing just basically gets lost in my small amount of pubic hair, just a little pink head among the curls.
I count myself lucky that I’ve actually only had one complaint. Maybe the others were more polite, or dick size didn’t mean as much to them, or maybe, I tell myself on occasion, they actually like them small. In any case, only one girlfriend ever said anything mean, and she was angry and drunk at the time. Still, that hurt. On the plus side, I’ve had several lovers, men and women, who really seemed to like my size. Especially the men.
Anyway, I hopped into the shower, which was basically a glass-enclosed box, except for the two walls. I had my head tilted back, rubbing water across my face when I thought I heard a noise. I turned in surprise to see Sam scuttling across the bathroom.
The girl saw that I’d spotted her and she cried, “Sorry! Hannah is in mom’s and I have to go so bad!” She was referring to her mother’s master bathroom, which the girls most often used now.
Then Samantha was slipping down her panties, revealing a small, golden bush of pubic hairs, and she planted herself on the toilet, visibly slumping with relief as she emptied her bladder. Next, she focused on me and I saw her eyes widen with interest.
It took me a moment to react. In fact, it wasn’t until I felt an increased flow of blood downstairs that I realized what was happening. I quickly turned away, giving the girl my back. “Geez, Sam,” I complained. “You could have knocked at least.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I really had to go.”
What happened next seemed inevitable. A few seconds passed, and I heard the toilet flush. The sound and the consequence didn’t connect for me for a split second, then the water flashed ice cold and I yelped, jumping backward. That put me with my back against one glass wall, but by then Sam had moved to stand just outside the shower, so I was perpendicular to her. This left her with a clear view of me from the side.
“I’m so sorry! I forgot!” she exclaimed, hands to her mouth. However, I could see that she was staring for all that she was worth.
I’ll admit that I was staring as well. I was used to the girls wearing these cute little shorty pjs to bed. Or sometimes it was the pj shorts with a t-shirt. Now I wondered if they dressed like that for me and changed for more comfort later, or if this outfit was just for me, because there were no cute little shorty pajamas to be seen here. Sam was wearing a tight little spaghetti strap top in a lilac-colored, silky fabric that stretched across her cupcake sized breasts, clearly showing her little nipples. It left her midriff bare, providing a shocking amount of skin below, because she had also chucked her pj bottoms and was wearing just a pair of thin, white, bikini panties, which clearly hugged her little mound and left her mostly naked on either side. Despite the blast of frigid water, my cock was on the upswing rather than the opposite.
I’ve got to admit that I wasn’t completely upset about that. For obvious reasons, I’ve never been particularly happy about being seen in the nude. The size of my penis is something that’s always caused me a bit of shame, so I’ve never been comfortable in public showers, or at urinals, or during physical exams. Even with lovers, I mostly make sure to wear at least some underwear around the house. I don’t mind being seen naked during sex of course, but afterwards, or at other times, I like to cover up. I’ve had lovers tell me I’m being silly and they like my dick no matter what it looks like soft, or even especially when it’s soft, but it’s hard to argue with your own personal hangups.
When Sam burst in on me, I was in a warm shower, but not at all aroused, so I was sitting right at barely more than an inch. Looking at her in her admittedly sexy little outfit, I’d hit about the three inch mark before I hurriedly covered myself. “It’s cool,” I said, trying to collect myself. “Just… let me finish up in here, okay?”
“Okay, Uncle Jason,” she smiled. Then, with a last look across my naked body, she turned and flounced out. I admit my eyes followed her barely-covered ass and the thoughts I was having weren’t purely uncle..y. Uncley. Uncleish? Nope, going with Uncley. Sue me.
End of part 1
Copyright 2018 – Rwxxx13
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