Miss Sensuosity

by LesLuv

"I love you, Aunty Lynn." It was almost a whisper, just loud enough to carry over the ever present hum of the engines.

To make sure I was awake, she put her hand on my arm as she spoke. I'd been dozing, as one does late at night in airplanes, but heard the message clearly. I opened my eyes and looked across at her, smiling at the most beautiful seven-year-old girl ever created. "Come on then, time for a cuddle." I held out my arms.

She slid across the space, the arm rest having been pushed up long before, and hoisted herself sideways onto my lap, her legs trailing straight out behind her. Her arms went around my neck, mine around her waist, and we squeezed gently, began to rock back and forth, our cheeks touching, purring in happiness.

This was bliss, the kind that you dream of, but never expect to actually occur. My very own niece, mine for at least a week with no one to make me do it their way. I slipped my hand under her green cotton T shirt, and began to rub her back. Purr.

"Ah, ah, that's so nice - I love that." She gave a big sigh and stroked my cheek. "I love you so much." Her eyes closed and within seconds she was asleep, the slumber of angels.

I looked at her, in awe at the change in my life, a change that had begun just four days earlier - although, of course, it had really started seven years ago. Thirty-three years, to be exact. But that's not so important - what mattered was that I now had a chance to recover my lost and bewildered self, the person I'd hated for far too long.

Five days ago my sister had rung me, late one evening, early morning in Rio, near bed time in Melbourne. I was totally caught by surprise, as we rarely spoke, and then with difficulty. Her voice had triggered a rush of adrenalin, a flush of anger, and nothing I had ever vowed could stop it from happening again.

I remember growling, "What the hell do you want?" Not nice sisterly talk, but she was not, and is not, a nice sister.

Pause. Sob. "Oh, Lynette, I'm in trouble." Sniffles, more silence, which I did not break - this was not the first time she'd pulled something like this. "I need your help, please, please." Silence. "Ah, fuck, I'm an idiot. Bernie's left me. Please, say you'll help?" More dead air, until the ultimate appeal. "Look, I know I've been a shit, but you are my sister, and believe me, I need you right now. Please, Lynne, I'll be nice."

Well, this was new; he'd stayed the ten years of their marriage, god knows why - well, she was a corporate cat, and made enough for both of them, and he cared for their daughter, which was more than my sister did. That was food for thought, and it did elicit a response.

"Well, well. Seen the light, has he?" She didn't answer, so I swallowed my dislike and said, boredom and deep breath conveying my feelings, "Well, what do you want?"

"Look, I've got to get him to see the mistake he's making, so I'm going to go to London - he's gone back to his mum, poor dear - and, well, I'm hoping you could look after Denise for a little while. I'll fix the flights, and you'd not be out of pocket, and she would love to go back to Australia for a while, she loves you so much, you know, and a week or so would be wonderful."

I had felt my heart begin to pound as my brain suddenly computed the possibilities. I'd loved that child beyond all reason, and it had soured everything. Well, that hadn't done it, but what had led up to it had. I wanted her so much, and I'd had to stop myself sounding eager or even mildly excited.

"Well, I do like her, you know that, so I guess I could, rearrange my things for a while. When did you want me to come?"

"Ah - would today be too hard? Your passport OK? I could email the tickets to the airline, my corporate clout, have you in business class, but I'm not sure about flights."

She was so eager, so victorious, that the loathing I had for her almost overcame my excitement. "O.K., you let me know, and I'll start packing. It's pretty long flight, I guess."

It was, and it did not happen that day, but the next morning. Nineteen hours in the air, plus two stops, five airline meals; a day, even in the relative luxury of business class, is not my idea of something to do.

And now, here we were, bonding and happy, exhausted. It was going to take me days to get over it, but I didn't care.

I dozed. Den was still cuddled up to me, a steward had draped blankets over us, 2 a.m. was cold even in this place. And the dream returned. No, it was not a dream, more a rehashing of my life.

It had taken me a long time to realize how pushy and single-mined my sister Brenda was. Three years older than me, she had ruled me, teased me, and put me in second place at every turn. I know I rebelled, but she was not easily beaten, taking after my father who ran his own frantic business and took no prisoners. I was, and still am, more like my mother, interested in books, gardens, design and art. And having babies, unlike my sister.

So I was married to dear Henry at age twenty four, pregnant later in the year (six months later, if you must know), giving birth to a gorgeous little girl in due time, calling her Ruth after my mother.

Dear Brenda, who just could not let me have anything to myself (especially not the joy of getting one on her at last) gave birth three weeks later to the little girl who was now on my lap. She and Bernard had never married, as who cares about things like that these days, and he seemed overjoyed, but sis was not cut out to be mother to anything. Bernie was house dad through shifts around the globe until she got the plum job of corporate Vice-President of Human Resources to one of the big multinationals who sent her to Rio to help them become more efficient. She was cut out for that role. It must have been something pretty awful for him to leave, as he knew all the neglect Denise would suffer if left in the care of her ma, but who was I to complain?

The next part of my story is so hard to write that I've had to start again a few times, but I have to get it out according to my shrink, so this is what happened. Ruth was beautiful, as only a newborn can be. But she didn't respond as she should have, according to the doctors who looked very grave after a couple of days, so they took the tiny bundle to do some tests and came back with soft voices and smiling reassurance. That beautiful, wonderful baby had a hole in her heart and was not able to pump enough blood around her tiny body to survive for long. So they wanted to operate and fix it, something, they assured me, that had happened often enough for them to be confident of a good outcome.

They didn't have to tell me that not all outcomes were good, though, and after most of the next day being operated on, she died.

Just like that.

That is when I lost it. My sanity, that is. Mother came, even dad, but Brenda? She was in Zurich, doing a due diligence, and was so sorry, but she'd come as soon as possible. She never did. Well, not for two years, and then with hubby and daughter.

Who caused me to have another nervous breakdown, not because she was my niece, but because it was so unfair. I, who wanted children, had been deprived by some stinking fate or something, while my good-for-nothing sister had a healthy, beautiful child all to herself. It got to the point where I would not even talk to Henry, was comfortless, sexless and totally depressed. After three years he went, got a divorce, and began living with someone who was capable of a decent response and life. I went into hibernation, saw my depression ebb with the help of medication, got a job that took me to the city each day, joined a tennis club and survived.

But all those memories of the traumas I'd suffered sent me backwards as the plane droned on. The black hole opened up once more, I forgot my good fortune, the tears came, uncontrollable, the sobbing and self-loathing, the guilt and non-reasoning reasserted themselves, and it was not until I felt a hand shaking my shoulder and heard a small voice that I opened my eyes again.

"What's the matter, Aunty Lynne? You're crying. Are you sad?"

Well, I suddenly wasn't. Just couldn't take her into that realm of terrors, she was too precious, so I managed a wan smile, wiped my eyes, grabbed some tissues and blew my nose. I loved this girl, loved her as my own, even while knowing she was not mine and I'd have to give her back. Sometime, somehow.

"Want me to make you happy?" She sat on my knee as she spoke, a little smile on her lips.

"You make me happy already, my love. Just by being here."

"But not like this. Juanita, our housekeeper, showed me, and she liked it so much. She was unhappy lots of times, but she was real happy after I learnt what she liked, and did it, I liked it too, after a while, because it tastes nice, and she took me out to her place, to the movies, to the park, so I could show you, if you like, because I love you. I didn't love Juanita, but she looked after me."

Images of fruity kisses flipped through my mind, so anything that brought this child closer to me was what I wanted. "Yes, if you want to, I'd like you to make me happy."

I couldn't help grinning at her, and she grinned back before standing up, pulling the blankets off my legs and lap, and saying, "You'll have to pull your dress up." Matter of fact, no idea what she was asking, no idea the sudden rush of horror that began racing round my head, because I knew exactly what that paedophile housekeeper had taught her, knew that I couldn't do it, knew - that she was pushing my dress up, tugging at my pants, saying, "lift up, please, Aunty Lynne, thank you."

My mouth was open, astonishment robbing me of willpower. Her 'thank you' was said in such a commanding tone I knew it was her mother at work, so, little sister as I still was, I did as I was told.

They slid down, my legs were parted, and a head placed where only one other head had ever been before. Two if you count Ruth's. Suddenly conscious that we were in a public place, well, kind of, dim, sleeping passengers on the other side of the isle, roaming stewards - I mentally shrugged my shoulders, pulled the blanket up over us, and closed my eyes. Shit! What was I doing?

She had had expert tuition, because never before had tongue, mouth and fingers worked with such ardour, such precision, and so tirelessly. I had not had any kind of sex for ages, even masturbating was hard and thankless, but this, well, it was breathtaking to begin with, then exciting, then, well the hot feelings began, and I somehow lifted my pelvis off the seat so she could get in further. Feelings I hadn't had for years and years began to flow though me, the shivering, the spasms, the snorts and gasps, and the build up towards the end, that wonderful climax that had always left me shaking and speechless before.

And this time, too. I couldn't stop myself groaning, quietly of course, as I reached the peak, the orgasm to end all, but still aware of the need to keep it quiet; not that I didn't want to scream it was so wonderful, but I wasn't unconscious, and had a semblance of control.

As I drew deep, shuddering breaths, a little head popped up and whispered, "Are you happy now, Aunty Lynne?"

I smiled, as I still couldn't get any words out, but saw a shadow ahead of an approaching figure out of the corner of my eye and quickly pushed the head back down.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" It was the senior stewardess, a pleasant sounding woman of about forty.

I grinned and nodded. "Just a little rearranging." I made the mistake of lifting my hand off the buried head to wave it in illustration.

Anxious, no doubt to finish her chat with me, the head popped straight up again, saw the standing figure, grinned, and said, big blue eyes shining with confidence, a grin of conspiracy, "I just made my Aunty Lynne happy."

If this was something new she gave no sign, but looked at me with interest. "Hmm - I just might have to give you my address. I like happy. Be careful." She smiled and walked away.

I pulled my darling up next to me, told her it was the very best getting better I'd ever had, and kissed her on the lips, which seemed like the only place after what she'd done.

"Hmm," she purred, "I love being kissed on the lips. Mummy wouldn't do and that, but I know it means we love each other, doesn't it?"

"It sure does, and you do taste so sweet. I guess that's me, isn't it?"

She grinned. "You are sweet, sweeter than Juanita, and smaller too."

"When we get back to my place, would you like me to make you happy too? Have you ever been happy like that?"

"Could you do that? I've never been sad, though"

"Let's see, eh? I'm off to the loo. Want to come?"

It took the best part of twenty four hours after we got home to recover enough to think. Den had slept from the moment we got into the taxi until the next morning, about fourteen hours. I slept at least ten, then had to begin sorting and unpacking. There was a spare bed in my flat, but things weren't luxurious. Denise was excited, and had to be shown everything at once - she'd never seen my place, and it was humble compared to her usual housing. I had to take her down the street, see the children two doors away, decide which food she liked, and get used to being here.

The following day the phone rang, which it didn't do much of, and I didn't recognise the voice. After a little hesitation he said, "Lynette? It's Bernard, Denise's dad. I only just found your phone number from directories, and I had to call because I had no idea she had gone to stay with you."

Den was listening with plain old curiosity, so I whispered, "It's your dad!"

"Please, please, I want to talk to him. Now, Aunty Lynne, now."

So they did. They obviously cared very much for and about each other, because that chat went on for about fifteen minutes. Then he came back to me and told me he wanted to come to see me and his daughter, to explain what had happened, to apologise for the problems Brenda had caused, and to fill me in. That was not to be denied, so he said he'd be with us the day after tomorrow, as he was still in England.

He sounded very nice, nice indeed, and I suddenly longed for the male species. At last.

The waiting proved too much for Den, and a fit of angst set in, only cured by a happy. I'd not forgotten my offer, because, truth to tell, her work on the plane had rekindled my naturally oversexed libido.

"OK," I told her, "You know what to do. Legs open, edge of the bed, think sad thoughts, and tell me how good I am at this, eh?"

I had never ever thought before of putting my tongue inside a little set of lips, finding the clitoris, licking and sucking it, or gently massaging the area, not even probing her birth canal with my tongue either, but I did that day. And the one after. She told me I was the very first to do that, and of course I was the best. We loved doing it. We still do.

Paedophile? No. not at all. I love her, totally, and she loves me. She is NOT going back to her mother - I'll prove her to be unfit. And who knows, Bernard might even help. My depression would be just a memory. I hope.

Only time will tell.

The End