Swimming with Carrie

Reeling with the effects of beer, the sight of Carrie's surprisingly substantial labia, and the mention of a mysterious gift, Patrick mindlessly picked up the cans and dropped them into the recycling bin before weaving his way up the stairs to his room.

There, like an accusation, sitting on his pillow after he turned on the light, was the dirty magazine he'd spoiled earlier in the day.

TWO

SOME DAYS ARE PIVOTAL. The events of one day and the decisions made can affect the course of a life; one such day for Patrick began with myriad pains. Ignorant of what was to come he woke to a bright morning, another glorious day, but was plagued by physical aches and mental anguish. A dull headache throbbed low down at the back of his skull while what felt like shards of broken glass pricked behind his eyes when they encountered daylight. His joints creaked with rheumatic reluctance as though they'd been tapped all night by a spiteful elf with a toffee hammer, and a deep thirst raged ocean deep while under it all, in a layer of thick and stinking sediment lay the angst about Carrie and her knowledge of his transgression.

She knew he'd been in her room and defiled the magazine. Patrick groaned at the dim realisation; his face, already fevered with hangover, flushed hotter. What was her game? Why did she persist in flirting, even going so far as flaunting her gash at him as she peed in the downstairs cloakroom? The magazine, she'd left the magazine ... But why? Was it a warning, a precursor to blackmail? Would she want money from him?

Patrick's thoughts waded through the gluey morass of the hangover and he reasoned slowly: She has money, lots of it, all she has to do is ask daddy ...

Putting aside his tribulations, Patrick decided to tackle his immediate concerns. A drink of water would do to start. To his relief the cottage settled around him in silence as, after pulling a dressing gown over his nudity, Patrick walked barefoot along the landing and negotiated the stairs. The absence of Brillo in the kitchen told Patrick that the cottage was empty; Anthony would long ago have set out for work, and God knew where Carrie would be.

Toast and then a bacon sandwich washed down with scalding tea. At first his body, outraged at the affront, tried to reject the assault on his stomach. Patrick gagged and sweated and gulped a pint of water until, eventually, the sweating cooled and he began to feel part-way human again.

Shower, coffee this time and a rare cigarette were the tools he needed to think. He sat in the garden, sunglasses masking the road map of broken capillaries that criss-crossed the sclera and which went some way towards blunting the tungsten-tipped arrows of sunlight; oblivious to the blaze of summer colours at full volume in the garden, and ignoring the trilling and tweeting cacophony of birdsong, under the shade of the great oak, Patrick sipped black coffee and savoured the nicotine buzz.

Then it came to him. He knew where Carrie would be. It was then that his brain cleaved in two and the ancient reptile of lust heaved its bulk from the obscene and filthy depths and slithered in a mess of slime across Patrick's moral landscape. Ignoring the sensible fussing of the lucid mind and, as if in a dream, unable to control his actions, Patrick left the butt smouldering in an ash tray, the coffee half drunk and cooling, and set off along the path towards the garden gate.

The Cotswolds wrapped itself around him like a conspiratorial blanket as Patrick, mindless of being clothed only in the robe, took the shaded, dusty path through the trees to the swimming hole. There was no possibility of a clandestine approach, not with Brillo's warning gruff and Carrie, sunbathing in the glade by the pond, leaned into a sitting position with one hand raised in a facsimile of a salute to shield her eyes from the sun and watched him approach.

"Oh, it's you," she said, ignoring her uncle's bathrobe as she settled back onto one elbow. "Did you find it?"

Patrick's eyes went straight to her breasts as the globes jellied inside the bikini top. His balls tightened and his cock thickened.

"Carrie, I—"

"It's OK. I don't mind. So you took a look in my room ..." Carrie shrugged as if her uncle's trespass was of no consequence. "... and found some stuff. It's my fault anyway. Winding you up like I did. I can't blame you for looking in my bedroom."

Patrick stood on the edge of the glade, dappled sunlight camouflaging his face. Hungover and with a mind disordered by the almost overwhelming desire for the girl he stared at her with longing. Then the obvious question came to him. He dragged his eyes from hers, appraising her lean body with a lingering, hungry look, Patrick croaked: "Why?" Just why are you teasing me, Carrie? I'm your uncle, for God's sake ... You're my brother's kid ... What is it? Does it give you a thrill?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I said yes."

"What do you mean? I—"

The girl sighed and butted an interjection as her uncle grew wild-eyed and strident. "—it gives me a thrill!" she barked. Carrie's brow crinkled in a frown of concentration. "Well, not a thrill exactly, but I like doing it. I think it's the power. I know men find me attractive. I know they want me, I can see the look in their eyes and I know they'll do silly things. It's surprising how a seemingly rational and intelligent man will do just about anything I ask ... if I ask them the right way." The frown unwrinkled and an impish glint flickered in her eye, Carrie's upper lip curled and her face took on the sly look Patrick was growing accustomed to seeing. "And you being Dad's brother ... why that only makes it better."

Patrick stepped into the glade. He grew aware of only being clad in his bath robe and flushed with embarrassment as he realised that he was proving Carrie's words. He'd come out in his dressing gown; wasn't even wearing slippers ...

"Power," he muttered, shaking his head from side to side. "Makes it better," he continued quietly, almost breathless with incredulity. "But I'm your uncle," Patrick insisted. "For you to think like that ... it ... it ... it's sick ... Depraved ... Perverted."

Carrie shifted on her elbow; her breasts jiggled. "What about you?" she challenged belligerently. "What about sneaking into your niece's room, rooting through her personal stuff ..." Carrie's face twisted into a sneer. "What about wanking over that mucky book -- What about that, Uncle Patrick?"

"I ... It ... I didn't," Patrick began, the throb in his temples re-emerging; he heard the lub-lub of the blood in his ears. His stomach twisted, bubbling with the breakfast lying leaden in his guts. "I think I'm going to be sick," he groaned.

Concern replaced the contempt on Carrie's face. "Here," she said before standing and taking a plastic water bottle to her uncle. "Drink this. Maybe you'll feel better."

Patrick took the bottle from Carrie's outstretched hand. "Thanks," he managed weakly. After several heavy swigs he tilted the bottle up again and rinsed his mouth. Patrick spat the mouthful of water onto the grass and sat with his back against a tree. He crossed his legs in front of him and studied his toes. "I don't know why I went to your room, Carrie," he admitted. "I knew I was doing wrong even as I was doing it."

Carrie knelt next to her uncle. She placed a concerned hand on his shoulder. "It's OK," she murmured, eyes downcast. "I shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have teased you. It isn't fair. Like you said, you're my uncle."

Turning his attention from his feet to his niece's face, Patrick was surprised at how forcefully he was struck by her physical beauty. Carrie looked so demure, so innocent with her eyelids lowered like a penitent. He saw the snub of her nose in profile and thought how cute it was; he felt the pressure of her hand on his shoulder, the first physical contact Patrick could recall other than the light hug and peck on the cheek she'd bestowed upon him when newly released from prison. Again, like in the kitchen the evening before, he could smell her scent, feel the heat of her body, that glorious body ... Then she opened her eyes and tilted her head to face her uncle.

He was lost to the Cupid's bow curve of her mouth, the lips slightly parted, moist from her tongue, and fraternal loyalty flew into the high summer sky like a flock of startled birds. She was his niece -- so what? Carrie was, in his eyes, damn near perfect; it had been a long time since he'd held a woman. He wanted to kiss that mouth, to feel her tongue sliding around his as they tussled and tore at each other's clothing in desperation. Patrick wanted to rip the bikini from her body and see her breasts, tight and high with stiff teats begging to be bitten ... He desired nothing more than to have the girl lie back and spread her legs so he could cleave the lips of her sex apart with his tongue and drink in her essence.

Sensing a fundamental shift in her Uncle's sensibilities Carrie acted quickly in a moment of carpe diem. She stood and casually hooked her thumbs into the elastic waist of her bikini bottoms. After yanking the briefs down her legs and stepping out of them, pausing for effect, the girl pushed her pelvis forward and thrust her pubic mound towards her uncle. Patrick's heavy swallow and wild-eyed stare was reward in itself. Her heart beat faster as she pulled the bootlace straps of the bikini top down over her shoulders. Again she paused and let Patrick's eyes rove all over her body. The pulse, ever present between her legs, throbbed heavily with blossoming desire. Her nipples stiffened, not because of the benign summer breeze, but because they ached for the touch of Patrick's tongue and his nibbling teeth. The girl posed, allowing the man his fill of her body until, after removing the bikini top to expose her breasts, she turned. Carrie smirked when she heard her uncle's sharp gasp after she turned and the man saw her tapered waist and teardrop buttocks.

"Dear fucking Christ," Patrick blasphemed.

"Take that dressing gown off. Come for a swim," Carrie called over her shoulder as she walked slowly away.

Patrick watched the girl as she moved towards the swimming hole, his cock jutting with desire through the gap in the robe. The girl's body, a delight to behold, seemed to him to be an art form delicately sculpted by a divine hand; the creator with an eye for the erotic. He could see the knobs of her spine as the girl walked with a distinctly feminine, rolling-hipped glide. Her round shoulders and slender limbs were painted a honeyed gold by the sun; her back tapered down to a tiny waist before the curve of her hips and swell of her buttocks lengthened into her long legs. Carrie paused and looked back towards her uncle.

"Coming?" she asked with a widening of her eyes and a questioning look.

The nymph entered the water, breaking the mirrored surface and ducking under immediately. Patrick saw a flash of buttocks and the girl's legs as she dove. He understood then, after watching his niece stroll to the pool, what force compelled a hound to howl all night. He scrambled to his feet, leaving indentations of his passing in the meadow and discarding the dressing gown as he hurried.

THREE

HE DROVE WITH ONE HAND resting on Carrie's cool thigh, only lifting it off her leg to change gears as he powered the Porsche through the bends between Burford, the gateway to the Cotswolds, and Charlbury. Conscious of his illegal status as a driver, Patrick held the car to the speed limit as they passed through charming Chipping Norton, the town basking in yet another day of sunshine. His eyes darted this way and that as he scanned the streets for any sign of a police car. Out on the lanes beyond, heading for The Great Western Arms a few miles past Deddington, Patrick unleashed the beast and the Porsche growled its satisfaction.

Carrie, squirmed in the leather bucket seat to his left. The movement rucked the dress higher up her thighs and Carrie lifted the hem to flaunt her uncovered sex to Patrick as he drove.

"You trying to get us killed?" he asked and grinned.

Carrie smiled in return, blonde tendrils of hair coming loose from its clasp as slipstream from the car's open top buffeted above the windscreen. "You're a fantastic driver." Sunlight as bright as her smile glinted off her sunglasses. "You drive as well as you fuck."

Patrick felt a quick, guilty stab of remorse. Anthony's daughter, his brother's daughter ... He pushed the thoughts aside, repressing the emotion like he had many times over the last three days.

Since that day at the pond.

"I did a course, a driving course. It was for a special job in Northern Ireland."

"Like James Bond?" Carrie's grin widened, as did her thighs.

Patrick's laugh flicked into the slipstream. "Not even close," he said, "nowhere near as glam." He didn't mention the nights spent under a grim blanket of border drizzle in bandit country, night vision goggles to his eyes as he tracked the movements of the major players of Irish republicanism in the north. Those days were long gone, as were the sweltering heat of middle-east operations and monochrome experiences of prison. Despite his momentary misgivings about his relationship with his niece, Patrick let his hand slide along the taut flesh of his Carrie's thigh until his fingers found the mush of her sex.

"My clit," Carrie groaned as the gap between her thighs widened and she slumped further down in the seat. "Rub my clit. Make me come before we get to the pub."

"They didn't teach me this on the course ..."

Arching her back and moaning as her uncle fingered her opening and slid the tips of his fingers over the slip-slidey bud of her clitoris, Carrie urged: "That's it, Uncle Pat." She sighed as she rested her head against the car seat. "Finger me. Make me come."

With concentration impossible Patrick hauled the car into a rare but fortuitous lay-by. The engine idled, growling like a petulant animal denied its run until Patrick turned off the ignition and the car fell silent. He pushed open the driver's door, dimly grateful through the fog of lust for the overhanging avenue of trees that shielded them from view of the lane. Heedless of scuffs on the knees of his jeans he knelt on the tarmac and unceremoniously hauled his niece bodily to suit his needs. A grey horse stuck an inquisitive head over the fence rail that ran parallel to the short car park. Bemused but hopeful of apples and Polo mints its long face eyed the couple. Ignoring the equine voyeur, and after staring in apparent wonder as had become his habit whenever Carrie's sex pouted wetly inches from his face, Patrick held the girl's long thighs apart and slid his tongue into the ooze.

Carrie's fingers ran through her uncle's thick brown hair as she purred encouragement. "Uh-huh," she squeaked. "Lick it, lick it ... Lick it." His tongue dipped lower while his fingers splayed Carrie's buttocks. "Oh that's bad," the girl chuckled darkly. "Licking my arse ... Uncle Patrick, that's just so fucking dirty ... Oh!" Patrick's tongue squirmed deeper into his niece's dirty-hole. "Finger it," Carrie panted. "Finger my shitter and lick my cunt ..." The girl wriggled and squirmed and pushed Patrick's face hard against her pubis, grunting when her uncle's index finger slid into the puckered ring of her sphincter and his tongue delved deep into her sex. "Two fingers in my cunt. Finger-fuck me, I'm going to come. Kiss me, I want to taste myself on your tongue ... Kiss me ... Finger me ... Do it ... Do it to me ... Do it all to me."

The girl climaxed heavily, nearly sucking Patrick's tongue out by the root as they kissed. Her breath panted into the man's open mouth as she came writhing and moaning and clawing at the leather of the Porsche interior.

Eventually her orgasm tapered and Carrie lay sprawled uncomfortably in a tangle of tanned limbs and her rumpled dress, half-in, half-out of the car, gasping for breath, her eyes rolling at the intensity of feeling. The horse, disappointed by the lack of goodies, snorted its derision, flicked its mane to emphasise its displeasure and sauntered away and Patrick eyed the car for signs of damage from the girl's chaotic thrashing.

"No more fucking about while I'm driving," he admonished.

"Yes, sir," grinned Carrie, struggling to regain a modicum of decorum as the car kicked up a shower of stones and accelerated out of the lay-by.

"Thanks for taking the car out." Carrie sipped at her vodka. "I appreciate you could get into real trouble if we get caught." She took a surreptitious look around the beer garden. Nobody was close by. Sotto voce, she added: "Would you go back to prison?"

"Very probably," Patrick replied, sipping at the pint of lime and soda. No point in courting trouble by driving with any booze in him, not even a single pint of Old Hooky.

"Was it dire? ... In jail?"

Patrick grimaced. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm sorry. It's just that the whole thing is a bit of a mystery to me. I mean, what happened?

"I'd been in Iraq, the western desert," Patrick replied tersely. "Like I said, I don't really want to talk about it. Do you have a cigarette?" Carrie rummaged in her bag and pulled out a packet and lighter. Patrick took one and lit up. "You're too young and pretty to use these things," Patrick quipped as a deflection.

After lighting her own cigarette, the girl's fingers stroked Patrick's bare arm. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought that now ... now we're ..." she actually blushed. Patrick was surprised at Carrie's coyness. "... lovers," Carrie finished after a pause, her face flushing a deeper crimson at the word. She shrugged her shoulders. "I just thought we could share things."

Patrick relented with a sigh. "Yeah," he began. "We'd been out celebrating. Your dad had just pulled off a major financial coup with some Japanese thingummy or other -- I have no idea how his business works -- and I was just back from running around the desert. We'd taken in a few bars in the west end. Anthony was flinging money about and we had women dripping off us. Nothing serious," Patrick added quickly, "I mean your mum had buggered off long before this. I was single and your dad was unattached. Nothing went on, just us having a good time with a few goodtime girls, on the pull—"

Carrie blew a stream of smoke towards the sky. "—You were all in the car, the bloke came out of nowhere ... and you hit him."

Patrick stared at his niece for long seconds. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. Then he opened it again. He paused, on the verge of speaking, but then shook his head instead and picked up his drink. Eventually, after swallowing the fizzing water, he spoke. "Yeah, the bloke got hit. It killed him. I ended up in court and got banged up. Now my brother's putting me up while I get myself together ..."

Moving away from the touchy subject Carrie asked: "What do you plan to do?"

Again he paused. The gentleness of the countryside settled around the couple as Patrick contemplated an answer. In the distance he heard a man's voice from the Oxford canal as a narrow boat moored alongside the dock -- a pub lunch and a few drinks before another sedate leg of a journey downstream. There came to his ears the distant rumble and clatter of some agricultural machinery threshing away in the haze -- yellow and green livery of a John Deere working on the farmland ... Quintessentially English summertime.

"I thought about travelling," Patrick eventually responded suddenly thirsty for a pint of beer, real beer, ale. "Not that I wouldn't miss this," he added, shoving down the temptation and casting an arm around him in an arc to represent the scene about them. "Just getting away from reminders of the past and losing myself somewhere like Thailand or Bali."