Soaking Samantha

I never thought I'd be spending my night using my barely legal niece as a human toilet, watching my piss trickle down her tight, sun-kissed belly and over her bald little pussy as she opens her mouth wide just for me. But like my Catholic brother is so fond of saying, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Believe it or not, it's religious fanaticism that got us here.

My wife leaves me because I refuse to go to church on Sundays and I haven't put a baby in her. Her biological clock is ticking louder than a fog horn, but I'm shooting blanks.

“Why can't you be more like your brother?” she asks.

In Cheryl's eyes, my brother is the model man—religious, successful and full of testosterone. In other words, she thinks he's the macho ideal.

Gabe married a devout Irish Catholic with whom he had goody two-shoes Samantha. Cheryl wants her own Samantha (so do I, just not in the same way she does), an honor roll student at St. Ignatius and the kind of kid Cheryl could live vicariously through.

Sam is everything a parent could want in a child—sweet, precocious, and devoted to her studies. She is also beautiful in a way only teenage girls can be; she is totally unvarnished, her complexion soft and clean, unmarred by so much as a single wrinkle.

I could fill a book with all the things that turn me on about my niece, from her full, glossy lips, perpetually parted in deep thought, to her sexy feet and rangy legs. She has the kind of nose models can only dream of as they head to a plastic surgeon—a straight, defined bridge and adorably curled nostrils, which flare when she gets heated.

She gets straight A's at school, but I can tell she feels stifled, both by her parents and her school responsibilities. Something in the way she stares off at family functions tells me she is trying to figure out what her options are in life.

I'm staying in a room at the local Econo Lodge when I get the text. My brother and his wife are on an anniversary cruise and Sam's not answering her phone.

Doreen's called Sam nine times, the text reads. Went straight to voice mail. Now it says the mail box is full. It's past her curfew.

So? I text back.

Doreen's having a conniption, my brother texts me. She thinks Sam's been kidnapped. Tracked her location. She's at a warehouse in the red light district. Can you pick her up and make sure she gets home safely?

Why me? I text back.

You're divorced and living in a Jolly Roger. What the fuck do you got going on that's more important than your goddaughter?

Et tu, Brute? I text back. Fuckhead.

I know he's right, but that doesn't make it suck any less.  The truth is, I've been avoiding Sam for the better part of two years. Ever since she turned sixteen I've found it difficult to be around her without picturing myself on top of her, behind her, in her little mouth.

That's one of the many reasons I don't go to church on Sunday. Every time I'm in a house of worship, all I can think are impure thoughts—bending my niece over the altar and giving her all eight inches, cumming on her mosquito bite nipples, spreading her spindly legs apart and pounding her in the clit with my piss stream.

And I picture her face, that smile, her eyes closed, every time she's ever taken a nap in front of me and how I've wanted to pull my dick out and shove it in her cheek while she let out her cute, little snoring sounds.

Sam was always a beautiful kid, but when she turned sixteen something happened. She sprouted up like a bean stalk, developing the kind of long legs and slender hands men fantasize about and mothers detest.

Her parents saw it too, it was why my brother spoiled her rotten when