 Ann Dulaney is currently at work on a collection of erotic short fiction as well as an erotic novel. Her writing has appeared in Clean Sheets, Sexilicious, and Amoret Online, and in Erotic Travel Tales from Cleis Press. Ms. Dulaney lives and writes in Copenhagen, Denmark. Visit Ann Dulaney's "Bending to Submission" online. Email Ann Dulaney.
Editor's Note The following story deals with the taboo and difficult subject of incest between uncle and niece, however it does not deal with an underage character. I thought carefully before presenting a story of this topic at Mind Caviar. After much consideration, I found the story to not only be beautifully written, but to raise questions that other stories published of the same topic often fail to present. In this tale you will find a character who wrestles guiltily with her forbidden love, and yet also relishes her erotic and romantic desires. I will leave it up to you, Dear Reader, to decide if this type of story is for you to read. If you are an incest survivor, this story may act as a trigger; beware. For others, this story may act as an erotic tool to explore sexual taboos in a safe and controlled environment, where no harm can be done to others. If you feel you may be uncomfortable with this subject, I urge you to return to our Fiction Page for alternative quality, erotic fiction.
Pernilla by Ann Dulaney I have always adored photography because my Uncle Rex was a great photographer. For years he conducted his studio in our house beginning when I was a young woman, barely twenty. People came from all around to have him make their portraits. Famous people too: film stars, prime ministers, business magnates, opera singers.... Once Uncle photographed the royal family. He photographed me too, of course. All the time. It was great fun, and of all the illustrious subjects that sat before his lens, I, he claimed, was his very favorite. He liked to photograph me because I was patient, unlike my younger brothers. I could sit for hours, and endure costume change after costume change. Under Uncle's tutelage, I might have become quite a good model, professionally I mean. Once he told me, "With you as my subject, I regret not having become a painter, if only to look at you the longer." Uncle always said he was very fortunate that my mother allowed him to live with us. But why shouldn't she? His work brought us extra income, and it meant we could have a real photography studio and laboratory right in our home. At breakfast Uncle holds out his cup as I stride past him en route to my own seat. I reach across him for the teapot, and his lips brush my bosom. I pour him tea without spilling a drop. Today Uncle wants me in my usual pose: in the grand armchair, with its deep olive upholstery, with my legs dangling over each arm. We are in the private studio, the one his clients never see, the one Uncle keeps locked. Today he wants me to wear only the stockings, not the dress. He positions my chin atop my wrist, elbow on one knee, and tells me to look sleepy. Under the warm lights, it's not difficult to feel drowsy. This pose is easy. Behind him on the wall can be seen at least a hundred photographs of me in this position, in as many different costumes. No matter what the costume, I must always hold my legs apart, just as I am doing right now. Uncle takes one exposure and pauses. He looks up from behind the camera. Examines one of the silvered umbrellas and makes an imperceptible adjustment. From under a table covered with a long drape, Uncle retrieves the box of props. He rummages through it until he finds a pair of ladies' satin high-heeled shoes. I like these shoes. I like to walk around in them. He crouches beside me and slips one on my foot. "Is it too tight?" he asks. I shake my head. "Don't move," he reminds me. He remains crouched near me and contemplates me. He reaches a hand up to my breast, hesitates. Then he licks his thumb and rubs my nipple with it. He licks his thumb again and rubs the other nipple. I see him nod thoughtfully. He moves to put the second shoe on me, but then in a change of heart places it on its side on the floor, as if it had just fallen from a dangling toe. I have grown used to the feel of his breath between my legs, and when he next traces his thumb across my belly it doesn't even tickle very much. I focus on my drowsiness and on keeping still. His thumb enters me; this makes me flinch. He withdraws the thumb and puts it pensively to his mouth. He returns to the camera. "Very nice," he speaks through the lens. "Very nice, Pernilla." Uncle takes two or three exposures and tells me I can relax and get dressed. The remainder of his day is filled with appointments, and I must hurry to help my mother with dinner and then return to my books. By supper, I know Uncle has finished his appointments. I wonder whom he photographed today and how the pictures turned out. Mother reminds me to gather the wash from the lines, and it makes me think that the photos Uncle took are already hanging on a line in his darkroom. I gather bed linens and nightshirts into a basket and hurry inside just as a slow rain begins to drop from the dark evening sky. Inside is cozy; candles have been lit upon an elegant table, and Mother is setting out a gorgeous beef roast. My brothers are lounging around the fire waiting to be called to table. My youngest brother will start university in a few weeks. He will return to us for summers and holidays, just as my other brothers do, and fill our heads will tales of his escapades. My mother's eyes will mist over with pride, and she will give him pocket money. I deposit my basket in the kitchen and return to the table with a dish in each hand. Uncle has opened wine and is serving sparkling rubies and garnets for each glass. I love evenings like this, when we are all together. My brothers enter and seat themselves. Mother recites Grace, and the evening meal commences. I hold my glass to the candlelight. It's beautiful, the way the liquid is ignited by the cut crystal. I shall always remember how the sight of it warmed me. I take a sip, but wine always makes me shiver. I like it much better in the glass. Uncle is gazing at me. "Whom did you photograph today, Uncle?" my brother asks. "Oh, a banker and his wife and their three children. Then a fashion model in need of her portfolio. Then two children, a boy of about ten years and his infant brother. We made use of that wheelbarrow. I think those pictures should turn out very charming indeed." "Was the fashion model very pretty?" I can't help asking. "Oh yes, naturally. Very pretty. Very agreeable, you know. Her skin took to the light quite fetchingly." "Was she very vain, I suppose?" "No, surprisingly not. A superior beauty, she had. One that does not recognize itself but rather encapsulates itself. A delicate chin, a small mouth, expressive eyes, and of course the usual range of bodily contours expected of a model. She will do very well for fragrance advertisements and the like, I daresay." Uncle seems quite serious. I look down at my plate and my appetite falters. The model had likely been with him for hours, such is the time required for a suitable portfolio. I am unaccountably chagrined. Mother begins to talk on unrelated topics, and I choose to hold the balance of my questions. Once the supper plates are cleared, Mother and I iron the wash that I pulled in. After that, there is time for little else than a few minutes of reading before bed. I like to read in bed, with the light from the lamp on my bedside table. Mother didn't approve of my doing that at first, insisting that the light is too dim and that I should go blind if I continued the practice. Tonight I'm working my way through The Romance of the Rose, a rather fine translation, I find. Naught else I ask of you save grace to love.But now comes Uncle through the door. He is early tonight. Dangerously early. It is possible others are not yet asleep. He sets a candle on the bedside table and turns off my lamp. I sit up and swing my legs about as he kneels on the floor before me. Without speaking, he lifts my leg to kiss my ankle. Tonight he is aflame, a conflagration of lust. He takes no time to flirt with me or tease me as he does usually. In another second, his mouth is between my legs, and my nightgown is up about my waist. I do not yet feel that familiar wash of sensation, and his passions have yet to take hold of my heart. I lie back, my finger holding my place in my book, as he gorges himself on my flesh. "Beautiful Pernilla," he cries out, taking but little pain to lower his voice. "How cruelly beautiful you are, my darling, my darling..." I fold an elbow over my eyes as his efforts begin to take their toll. I clasp my knees about his head and ensnare him. "Why do you torment me with descriptions of fashion models?" I'm able to chastise him finally. "You know how I despise it." Uncle takes hold of my knees and lies atop me, fluttering hands seeking out my breasts. The bulge in his trousers is dreadfully full and hard, and in no time at all, he has freed himself and is inside me. "Forgive me, my angel," he speaks through moist kisses. "You know I adore you." My legs are quite muscular, thanks to my chores and the necessary long walks to town. I have found I can control his motions by squeezing my legs together. Between two rather vigorous trochees, I grip him forcibly enough to suspend his ardors. "You're going too fast," I whisper harshly. "You presume too much." I can feel his slippery head straining to find me again. I imagine the cool air on that patch of wet skin is quite uncomfortable indeed. Yet in such a position, agonized as he is, he finds the wherewithal to gaze down at my body. "Oh, I like you to be jealous, darling. I don't deserve your beauty. Your very presence in this house tortures me. Shall I kiss your throat? Would that appease you? Shall I kiss your breasts? Tell me, *mon bijou,* only tell me what you'd like. I'm begging you, Pernilla, let me in." My knees relax their grip only to permit him to enter halfway. I squeeze again, pinning him in place. It makes me laugh. "Unkind vixen, you've no idea how you make me suffer." I flex once more, and he is fully inside me, yet pinned again. "You'd make me die a half death, wouldn't you? Oh, you are vicious." Uncle quits his straining and acquiesces to my hold on him. "You will want to move eventually," he tells me. His voice is almost normal again, a trifle condescending, a bit flip. "Look at you, legs thrown wide like a little whore. Oh, I am inside you now, and you feel me there, filling you. You cannot resist. Look at these beauties, how you hold them out to me. What if I were to take just the tiniest bite?" Now I see how I have been duped. My trickery has worked against me. Now Uncle is the one gripping my hips, preventing me from budging the tiniest fraction. "Eh, my little tart? You'd like to move now, wouldn't you? Tell me you want it, or I won't move a muscle." Yet even so saying, he flexes the muscle that lies inside me, and I swoon. It is too much, he has won. "Please Uncle, I beg you!" "Little whore, I don't believe you." He is smiling at me, enjoying my struggles. "Tell me how you want me to fuck you." It's a word I can't bear to speak. I shake my head and continue to try to move my pelvis. "Say it!" A small degree of motion can now be felt; it is too much for me. "Fuck me, Uncle!" "Like this?" He begins to rock in earnest, then stops. "Yes, like that, oh fuck me, fuck me!" Uncle laughs at me then and takes hold of my hands, pinioning them well above my head, deep in the pillows. I don't realize that I am still crying out even as he thrusts in and out of me and I am wracked with wave upon satisfying wave. Uncle's style is to hold very still at the close of lovemaking, until each little shudder has subsided, and then withdraw quickly. He stands above me afterward, nonchalantly adjusting his trousers. Next he reaches for my book, squinting to read the title on the spine. He flips through the leaves. "Was this your page?" he asks, handing me the book. He pecks me curtly on the cheek, and departs. In the morning when I come to breakfast, Uncle is reading the paper by the window. He doesn't even notice me except to comment later that I am making considerable chewing noises with my bread. I chew even more noisily then, and take a loud slurp of tea for punctuation's sake. Mother tuts me disapprovingly. My brothers rush through and help themselves to chunks of bread on their way out. My eldest brother clutches a ball under his arm. Drops of jam mark their exits across the floor. My mother sighs, but I know I will be the one to clean it up. I chew more slowly and stare balefully at the open doorway and the tempting warm gusts beyond. Uncle sets his glasses upon his forehead and lays the paper down to speak. "More rioting in the city," he says. "Makes one glad to live in the country." Mother nods and sips from her cup. Finished with my breakfast, I carry the dishes to the kitchen and return with a rag for the floor. I am too late. The blackberries have left stains. I stare down at them guiltily, as if I made them myself, wishing fervently they would simply go away. Uncle Rex places me in the armchair. Today, stockings again, a brassiere that is far too small on me, and a wide-brimmed Fedora with a single drooping ostrich feather. He wants the shoes on me as well, both of them. He tugs at the brassiere until my nipples just peek out. I don't like it; it really is too tight. He adjusts the hat until the feather curls over my chest and trails across my pelvis. The brim of the hat shades my eyes, and I feel like a film star. Uncle typically takes one exposure once he has positioned me, and then changes something. Today the change he makes is the addition of lip rouge. With my eyes hidden, some element is needed to draw attention to my face. He steps into the proper studio for a moment to fetch the makeup case. In that moment, I relax, let my belly out, scratch my leg. It's strange to be left alone in such a pose. I feel almost that I am trespassing in Uncle's private studio. I become self-aware. It is very different when Uncle is in the room with me and the camera is making click after click. Uncle returns and locks the door again, jingling his keys in his trouser pocket to ensure they are safely stowed. He kneels before me and rouges my lips. He makes a loud, dry sniff through his nose, and then the very lowest of growls escape his throat. The rouge has produced the proper effect I think. He returns to the camera and peers through it for a very long time without taking a single exposure. Then he straightens himself, and I can see from under the hat that he is standing a short distance away from the camera. Now he is walking toward me again. What could be wrong? He is crouching beneath me now, bending toward my open sex. I peer down and see him gazing up at me, tongue stretching forward. He kisses my sex, caresses me with his pointed tongue, patiently, patiently, producing a clear secretion from me. I can't help but arch my back and hold my legs apart all the more. It is all I can do to keep still. And when I feel the edge is near, what does he do? Pulls himself away, ever so carefully, such that a tender, gossamer strand yet tethers his lower lip to my body. The bright strand snaps, like a soap bubble, and I gasp as rich pleasure soars through me. Uncle fairly runs to the camera and takes shot, after shot, after shot. I am asleep when Uncle Rex comes to me. I awaken to find he is already on top of me. My nightgown is around my throat, and the tip of my nipple is firmly between his lips. "Good evening, my dear," he whispers and returns his attention to my bosom. I close my eyes and let myself drift backward into sleep. But now he is rousing me, drawing me up to where he crouches before me, his cock dangling from his trousers. He wants me to take him in my mouth. I part my lips, but first he grasps my chin and tips my face up to him. He has brought the lip paint from the studio, the bright red rouge. He uses his thumb to apply it, sometimes setting his thumb inside my mouth for me to suck. He nods his approval and dabs the wet tip of his cock at my lips. Without having seen the photos he took today, I can only imagine how my mouth looks now. In the studio, Uncle had wiped my lips clean using an oiled cloth before I could leave. I never saw myself. I wonder if it pleases him now to see his cock disappearing between my darkened lips. I think it must, for he does not take his eyes from me. Mother would be incensed to find me wearing lip rouge. Mother sends me round to collect items needing to be darned. Later, as I am bending over my work, I am startled by the sudden appearance of Uncle's middle finger in my face, poking rudely through a hole in one of his undershirts. I had missed the shirt when I made my rounds. I pluck it from his finger and toss it on the basket. Uncle announces he would like to take a bath and could one of us bring him more hot water in three quarters of an hour. Mother nods and asks whether he is in need of a clean towel. After forty-five minutes I am lugging two buckets of steaming water to his room. Uncle is asleep in his bath. I add the water carefully and manage not to wake him. I collect his clothes and replace them with new ones from his wardrobe. Downstairs Mother is heating more water for the wash. There is no time to pose for Uncle today. At breakfast, Mother and Uncle sit icily at table. They have not heard my steps, and suddenly I know not to enter the room. Mother has placed his watch, a small handful of coins, his ring of keys, and his newly washed and pressed trousers on the board before him. She has not set him a place for breakfast. He takes the keys into his fingers and looks at them for a long, long time. Soundless, he buries his face upon his arms and lowers his head to the table. What has happened? Uncle gathers his things and dashes from the table, leaving Mother sitting stiffly in her chair. He passes me, still waiting on the stairwell, pauses long enough to look in my eyes, and I see the terror in his. What has happened? Mother's back is to the open doorway, to the summer that waits outside. I leap from the stairs and crash through the opening. I run as fast as I can, as far as I can. It will be years before events are absorbed into the past. In that time, I will find lodging in the city and steady work. Uncle Rex will find me on a bright clear morning to deliver a box of prints and their negatives. Thanks to Mother's sustained silence, the experience has not ruined him, and he is still a photographer of great renown. I am glad of that. And with the passage of even more years, long after books have been published containing Uncle's work, long after a box of dust is all that remains of him, long after university courses are named for him, an art gallery will hold a special exhibition, the Pernilla Collection. I stand anonymously in line with all the others to view it. The photos gleam with all their original brilliance. I listen to the whispers of amateur critics nearby: See the longing in this one. See the anger in this one. See how an innocence is portrayed even through the trappings of sin. See how she looks like a child here, and like a woman here. Who was she? Why was he so fascinated with her? Look at her skin in this one. The expression on the face. The placement of the hands. Why did he create the collection? Is it pornography or art? I contemplate their questions, and ask some of my own. Was it art, or love? Did we do wrong? Copyright © 2001 Ann Dulaney. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post. |