Fiddling Around With Uncle Bob

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4-11 Available On

PLEASE NOTE: This is a preview of this novella. It is available for purchase in its entirety via

Author's Note: I got an email from a woman I'll just call Daffy, in which she told me a story about her youth. During that narrative, which shall remain private, for the most part, she mentioned that she had to "play her violin" a number of times because of the feelings a young man caused in her. Her characterization of female masturbation as "playing her violin" caused my admittedly twisted mind to come up with the following story. And so, it is in honor of Daffy that I present it to you.

Chapter One

The usual hum of conversation faded like magic as, without preamble or introduction, the tall curtains slid smoothly aside, and the brilliant circle of a spotlight's white beam lit up the two figures on stage. Both were seated, half toward each other, and half toward the audience. All conversation died and an hush of anticipation took its place. About half the audience leaned forward unconsciously, while the remaining patrons leaned back.

With no visible cue, two violins snapped from where they had been on laps, to be tucked beneath two chins, and two bows followed with only a split second's difference in timing. The first violinist, a short, black-haired beauty, began to play a languid melody. The second, a gangly Nordic-looking blond, starkly different, but just as beautiful, joined in ten measures later, a third apart, for the next twenty measures, providing a counterpoint to the melody of the piece, in an almost languid rhythm that almost made you want to close your eyes and sway with the music. The harmony was exquisite.

Almost imperceptibly, the tempo began to pick up, and the counterpoint began to stray from the third's harmonious accompaniment to the violin playing the melody. Suddenly, instead of accompanying the melody, it was fighting to replace it. The tone, and tempo of the melody didn't change, and the other violinist seemed to flex her muscles, demanding that she be allowed to romp and play, while the melody waltzed. Soon, the second violinist added a string, now playing two at once, her limber fingers flying along the neckpiece of the violin.

Now, the melody, which had been so sweet and tender, began to sound plodding and sedate, while the second violin began building up a head of steam that threatened to leave the first behind like a two-year-old in a grown-up race.

With an almost audible jerk, the first violinist began to stutter the notes in the melody, playing two or three notes, where obviously only one was meant to be played. It sounded like the first girl had awakened from a dream, to find herself far behind, and was trying to find a way to speed up and join the second violinist.

The initial stuttering sound made many members in the audience wince, as if they thought the wrong notes were being played, but the stuttering notes took on a faster cadence, until it became obvious that, rather than being embarrassed, the first violinist was merely flexing her musical muscles too, in tempo with the second violinist's now flying pace.

Faster and faster both bows flashed in the spotlight. The upper bodies of the two women on stage began to sway and rock, as the violins dipped and rose and twisted in their hands. Back, and forth, the combatants raced, first one taking the melody by brute force of skill, while somehow, the other's notes blended in, before jumping out and wresting control of the piece away again.

The audience was enthralled. People actually took sides, deep in the recesses of their mind. They weren't just listening to a piece of music, they were watching and hearing an epic battle, and, somehow, it mattered who won.

The combatants began to tire, battle taking their youthful strength, as the music began to slow, again, almost imperceptibly. A great sadness filled many of the hearts of the listeners, as they began to realize that this particular battle, would be a stalemate. There would be no winner. The flood of achingly vibrant music began to lose a note here, and two notes there, until it seemed like each violinist was giving away the melody, because she didn't have the strength to claim it now. The audience, with a jolt of almost palpable relief, recognized that they were hearing exactly the same melody and harmonious counter point, a third below, that had started the piece, but this time, the roles had reversed. The first violinist sagged, and the bow dropped to her lap, as the second violinist's sweet tones played the melody that had opened the piece, her instrument's sweet soprano tones filling the hall.

Then, on the last note, her bow, too, sagged, and then fell to her lap.

Had any members in the audience had the strength left to check their watches, they would have seen that twelve minutes and thirteen seconds had gone by.

The spotlight snapped off, leaving the huge auditorium in blackness, and there was the hiss of a thousand indrawn breaths. Then, staying off only long enough that people's pupils expanded, the light snapped back on, illuminating the two women, standing side by side, violins cradled lovingly in their left arms, bows hanging at their sides.

The audience lost its muzzy and tired aspect, a direct result of emotions that had been played just as hard as the two violins had, and leapt, as one, to its feet. The roar of voices began and soared upward, to be replaced by the almost frantic beating of hands together, as the two violinists bowed regally, bending at the waist. Then, with a blown kiss from each, they bounded, in opposite directions, for the wings of the stage.

The audience went crazy, begging and pleading for more. They had just experienced a world-class exhibition of musical skill, and it was like the memory of water that they couldn't reach, even though they were dying of thirst.

At first, the stage stayed empty, and the patrons cried, screaming for just one more measure of music as the spotlight stayed on the two empty chairs on the stage, showing that nothing would be happening. It was almost as if the light was taunting the audience, showing them the coffin of a dear loved one.

Then, the light snapped again, into twin beams, that lit opposite sides of the stage. The shorter one, with the long, raven tresses, was holding her violin, as she walked slowly out on stage. On the other side, the taller blond, long-legged and svelte, carried a cello, its rounded, female shape in contrast to her slim, almost boyish one.

The crowd stopped their noise and sat as one, the folding seats making a staccato thumping noise as hands flopped them down, and butts held them that way.

The encore was slow, and sad, as if the two on stage were saying a heartbreaking farewell, and the audience was left with tears in their eyes as it sank in that, when this was over, the night would be over. They yearned for it to go on forever, but it lasted only long enough for their racing hearts to slow, and for breathing to return to normal, from where they had been taken by the previous piece.

This time, as the music faded, the spotlight faded too, dying, as the music died.

The crowd tried to regain their earlier manic demand for more, but their heart wasn't in it, this time. Their lover had kissed them good night, and they knew they had to go home. Slowly, they did, the hall emptying, a feeling of profound sadness left, in place of the living bodies that had filled it.

Outside, though, in the lights of the city, the dark mood vanished, as people came alive again, remembering what they had just witnessed. Again, their hearts raced. Many looked for something else to do, to keep the party going. Many more stared into each other's faces, and sought some private place, where they could act out what they had just been through musically.

Much love was made that night, a result of the music the two women had shared.

Backstage, Daphne and Gabriella Stockton carefully put their instruments away. It was known that they wanted time alone after a concert, and no one bothered them. What was not known, except by their mother, is what they did in those private moments after they rocked the worlds of so many people.

Daphne stood, from tenderly placing her violin in its case, and her hands darted to the zipper of her sister's dress. Gabriella stood from closing the cello case, and felt the cool air caress her back as her sister's fingers did their work. Then she turned, to help Daphne out of her dress too. Both girls, naked now, went to two chairs, sat, leaned back, and sighed, as their fingers went busily between their legs.

There was no talk. They had done this many times in the past. It was what they looked forward to all night long, when a concert was scheduled.

Before the concert, in the privacy of their dressing room, they looked at their collection of favorite pictures, culled from magazines, or downloaded from the internet. They eyed the thick penises, some of which were plugged into wet pussies, and dreamed of what it might be like to have that penis plugged into their own virgin tunnels. Other pictures, were of gaping pussies, filled with thick, white fluid, and still others of naked women, misshapen, because of the precious things that grew within them, making their bellies bulge, and their breasts swell.

Then, thoroughly excited by their fantasies, they went on stage, and the sexual energy they had created, imbued their music with passion that routinely left much of the audience with tents in their pants, or a need to change panties.

Daphne, at fifteen, was the more sensual of the two sisters, exuding sex appeal, in both her physical persona, and her music. Gabriella, the tall Nordic blond, was athletic in the way she reacted to the hormones racing through her bloodstream. They teased each other throughout the concert. Afterward, orgasms were not only desired ... they were practically necessary. The girls would have gone crazy without them.

Deliah Stockton waited the prescribed fifteen minutes, and then tapped gently on her daughter's dressing room door. Reporters were waiting to talk to the girls. She heard the lock click, and opened the door, to find the girls dressed and ready to face the world. Both looked relaxed and calm.

"All done?" she asked, unnecessarily.

"Yeah," sighed Daphne.

Deliah Johnson had been the girls' manager ever since they had been discovered in a regional talent contest, when they were only ten and eleven. She had since been with them on two world tours. When she had discovered their carefully hidden secret - the routine, almost ritual way in which they prepared for a concert - she had been scandalized and horrified. She had kicked her own philandering husband out when girls were five and six, and, since she had no use for men any longer, she had no use for sex either. All her time and attention went into her daughters' careers. Finding that her daughters were not only aware of sex, but actively fantasizing about it had shocked her. They had been eleven and twelve at the time.

She soon found, though, that this kinky little ritual made all the difference in the world, when they were performing. They didn't do it at home, during practice sessions. Practice sessions were to learn the music the way the composer had intended it to be played. But, during actual concerts, their interpretation of the pieces was directly connected to how they felt when they went on stage. If they were sexually excited, that imbued their music with something that couldn't be reproduced in any other way. If they weren't sexually excited, as Deliah found out, they played beautifully, but with little, or no heart. In one case, they were technical master craftswomen. In the other, they were shockingly brilliant in their interpretation of the musical notation on the dry and lifeless pages.

She had, therefore, acceded to their demands, ever since. They got half an hour to get ready for a concert, and fifteen minutes afterwards, to finally achieve the climaxes that would render them normal, teenaged girls, who just happened to be two of the most brilliant young violinists in the world.

It wasn't giving them much, really. Their lifestyle was typical of young prodigies. They were on tour most of the year, though it wasn't the grueling different-city-every-day kind of tour that rock stars complain so much about, as it stuffs their pockets with cash. Rather, they played at some exotic venue about once a week. Still, they couldn't go to a regular school, and therefore the list of friends their age was limited in the extreme. Dating hadn't been an issue thus far, but Deliah knew that beast would begin to snort and rear its ugly ... and horny head, soon.

That their list of people who wanted to spend time with them included Kings and Queens, or the best musicians in the world, wasn't much comfort. Most of those were at least twenty years older than the girls, and thought grown-up things almost constantly. Had they not gotten so much pleasure out of their music, the girls' world might have seemed dim indeed.

Which, one might hazard (wince), was why one of their favorite people was Deliah's brother, Bob Hazzard.

Now you know why I winced.

Bob, having entered his teenage years in 1981, had heard every Dukes of Hazzard joke in the book, usually aimed at him. Rather than hate it all, he had embraced it, asking every girl he was attracted to if her name was Daisy when he introduced himself. He still went by the nickname he'd been unable to evade. Even his sister called him Duke.

At thirty-three, and having never found Daisy, he was single and well off, due to his talent for recognizing real estate that was cheap today, but would be valuable in months to come. He had the same carefree and somewhat irresponsible attitude as his erstwhile "cousins", Bo and Luke, as well as the same purity of heart those actors portrayed on the screen. He'd do just about anything for a friend, and just about everybody was counted in that category.

This is not to say he was not sophisticated. He had that knack that is so interesting, the ability to fit in with almost any crowd, and be almost indistinguishable from the natives, wherever he happened to be.

As they were growing up, Bob and Deliah had both been required to play an instrument in the band. Deliah had chosen the violin, because that would keep her out of the marching band. Bob, a year younger, got away with taking piano lessons, which kept him out of band all together, for the most part, though he did get suckered into accompanying the choir at school. That was because the teacher who directed the choir was young and pretty.

The ring on her finger didn't affect Bob's fantasies in the slightest, and, on a trip to the State Choral contest, part of his fantasy came true, when the young woman divested him of his virginity. As is the case with much music, their relationship was glorious, stormy, and temporary, in the sense that, once played, it was over. The teacher recognized the dangers, both legal and emotional, and as much as both would have liked an encore, it was not to be. Bob, in a burst of surprisingly sophisticated insight, understood why she refused him, and accepted that.

In truth, the memory of the physical music they had created together was part of what soured him on subsequent dalliances with girls his own age. It's hard to be happy with chopsticks, when you've played Rachmaninoff.

The old walnut baby grand piano he had learned on and practiced on, was still in the studio Deliah had built for her daughters, in the home they had both grown up in. It was rare for Bob to sit down at that keyboard, and not think of Donna Hamilton, the woman who had made him a man. It was, perhaps, for that reason, that Bob was one of the few people who played well when his nieces were jamming with him. His passions, though unknown to Bob, mirrored theirs when his fingers stroked those keys. And he jammed with them as often as he could. They played a range of music, in the privacy of their home studio, that would have astonished concert-goers all around the world.

A violin can be played as a fiddle, and a cello can be plucked like a string base. Additionally, both girls had learned the use of the more adolescently acceptable guitar. Daphne, who was more tuned to acoustic sounds, was developing what she called her "private skills" on the twelve string guitar, and five string banjo. Gabby, whose tastes in music went more toward ZZ Top, had picked up an electric guitar one day, and now owned four of them.

With an electronic drum track, and Uncle Bob, the girls could stretch to the max in their home studio, playing wildly and covering old rhythm and blues, bluegrass, and country tunes that made them feel like they were flying, while standing, more or less, stock still. The combination of their ability to cooperate on levels most humans couldn't even understand, and the competition resident in any good musician, just naturally resulted in their favorite "private" piece being Dueling Banjos, by Arthur "Guitar Boogie" Smith, and Don Reno. Bob loved the sound of Gabby's whining electric guitar in the piece, even though it sometimes drowned out Daffy's banjo. He was thinking of buying Daffy an electric banjo, so she could compete. He'd never heard the song performed with all electric instruments before, but he thought it would be wild.

It was against this backdrop, that a situation presented itself, which would change the lives of Bob Hazzard and the Stockton women forever.

Deliah was on a simple shopping trip to the grocery store, just being a mother, for once, when an SUV, going twenty miles an hour faster than the posted speed limit, ran a red light and T-boned her Camry, crushing it between another vehicle. Eleven bones were broken, and she lost a lot of blood before the fire department was able to rip the roof off the car and extract her from the crushed compartment.

The prognosis was good, as she lay in the hospital bed, immobilized by various casts and traction devices, but there was no one to take care of her daughters, not only in their routine life at home, but in the upcoming tour, scheduled in two weeks, for Western Europe. The tour was scheduled for three weeks, with ten performances, in nine cities, a departure from their usual sedate concert schedule. Deliah had been loathe to make such an extended trip, but the money offered was so good that it would establish a trust fund for the girls that could, with proper investment, be the seed of a sum that could last them their entire lives. It was only for that reason that she had signed the contracts.

Another reason she had agreed to the extended tour was that the public was clamoring for recordings of the girls' music. That was something they hadn't done yet, primarily because the difference between how the girls played on stage, after ... prepping themselves ... was so vastly different than what they sounded like in the home studio. Deliah had planned on producing a live CD, based on the tour.

The arrangements were already finalized. It would be financial ruin to break the contracts, especially since there was no reason, other than that Deliah couldn't be with them, that the girls couldn't play.

It was only natural that, when her brother visited her, Deliah broached the possibility that he might accompany them on the tour.

"You're kidding," he said gently, looking at her swollen and bruised face. Seeing her like this made him realize how transitory life can be.

"No, I'm not," she said. Her words came out in a lisping kind of fashion. Her whole face was swollen. "I can't back out of the contracts, and I'm sssertainly not going to let them go alone."

"Of courssse not," said Bob, unconsciously copying her lisping voice.

"Don't make fun of me," she said weakly.

Bob blinked, and realized what he'd done.

"I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't making fun of you. I love you."

"It'sss about time," she lisped. "You ssshould have loved your big sssisster a lot sssooner than thissss."

"I've always loved you," said Bob, sounding injured.

"No you haven't," she said. "If you'd have loved me, you wouldn't have sssabotoged my prom dressss."

Bob grinned as he remembered taking their mother's seam ripper and carefully breaking every other stitch in the bodice of her off-the-shoulder dress. They'd been playing punk music at the prom, and her gyrations had caused her to end up in the bottom of the dress, and, basically, her bra. Tony, her date, and the man she would marry, had loved it. He'd grabbed her and prevented her from fleeing the dance floor, while all his buddies ogled her. That was the first clue that he was a bastard, but she'd missed it in her embarrassment. She'd had to change into her after-prom outfit, and had been too embarrassed to return to the dance. THAT resulted in Tony getting her alone for a lot longer period of time than she'd planned, which resulted in her losing her virginity, which had resulted in her deciding to marry Tony. She half-heartedly blamed all of that on Bob. She'd had to tell her parents about the dress, and Bob had been severely punished. She didn't tell anybody about the aftermath. In the years since, she'd stowed that memory away, and learned to love her little brother again. He'd been a rock she could cling to when their parents had died.

"I apologized," he said, still grinning.

"I need you, Bobby," she pleaded. She used what was at hand to try to get her way. "You can finally make up for that night."

"Not being allowed to go to the Junior Prom and being grounded for two months wasn't enough?" he asked, still grinning.

"Please, Bobby," she begged.

"Oh, all right," he said, trying to sound disgusted. "I'd have done it anyway. You didn't have to go and get yourself half killed to get a vacation."

Once he had given in, there were more meetings in her hospital room, as she tried to educate him on all the things a manager is responsible for, and what he'd have to do on the trip. Naturally, she couldn't tell him about the rituals the girls engaged in, before and after their performances. Instead, she simply said that they required half an hour before, and fifteen minutes after each performance, to "prepare and recover from the rigors of playing", as she put it.

Bob found her files at home, with the schedules of where they'd stay, and the names of the companies that would provide transport, and all the myriad of details he would never have dreamed of. Gowns had to be dry cleaned between performances, for example. Instruments had to be packed in climate-controlled crates. Ground transport, for the instruments, at least, was preferred to air transport, to avoid rough handling and loss, even if it was temporary loss. The girls still had to study, but they'd also want to do some sight-seeing.

Looking back on things now, it was amazing that, in all the preparations they discussed, and all the lectures she gave him, Deliah forgot only one tiny detail.

She always stayed in the same room with the girls.

Thus it was that, when Bob and his nieces deplaned in London, and were met and whisked away to the Claridges luxury hotel, the ... tiny problem ... became apparent when the clerk at the desk smoothly passed one key to Bob.

"We're delighted to have your daughters with us in London, Mister Hazzard. The concert is sold out, or I'd be there myself. Enjoy your stay, and if you need anything ... anything at all ... don't hesitate to give us a call."

The girls were staring at the huge chandelier, above black and white checkerboard tiles on the floor, that led to a sweeping staircase. Their home was modest, by almost any standards, with the possible exception of the state-of-the-art studio. They always saw luxury when they traveled on tour, but had never gotten used to it.

"Uh ..." said Bob, with pause. "Aren't there two rooms?"

The clerk looked horrified, and scanned the computer in front of him.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mister Hazzard," said the clerk, frowning. "Only one room was booked, and we're completely full. I can have a privacy screen brought up, if that will make your daughters feel better."

"My daughters," said Bob, off balance. He blinked. Everything had been planned out, and he hadn't anticipated having to think on his feet. He had a whole notebook of lists, contact numbers and instructions in his briefcase, but this problem wasn't dealt with in any of them. "Just let me confer with them," he said, backing away from the desk.

The girls turned to face him, smiling. He was their favorite uncle, which wasn't saying much, since he was their only uncle. Beyond that, though, he was a compatriot. He played music with them. He was special in ways that no other man had ever been special. They really loved him. In a very real way, he was their favorite man, and that WAS saying something.

Love comes in many colors and flavors. Each is subtly different from the other, but all have a common denominator. That common denominator allows for the different kinds of love to morph and stretch ... to slowly ... or sometimes rapidly ... become a different kind of love. The love that they currently enjoyed was of the color and flavor that best friends share, where any subject may be approached, without fear of judgment or reproach. It was a love that made them ever glad to see each other, and always eager to spend time together. It was a love that anticipated amazing things would happen, though, to be truthful, the only things they anticipated were musical. At least at that point.

"Got a little problem, my darlings," said Bob. The girls looked at him expectantly.

"We sort of forgot to book two rooms," he said.

Daffy tossed one hand negligently. "Who cares?" she said.

"They think I'm your father," said Bob. Why he told them that, he didn't actually know. It didn't have anything to do with anything, except the hotel's assumption that a father and his daughters could surely share a room.

"We wish you were," said Gabriella, speaking for both girls. She hugged him, to punctuate her announcement.

"But I'm not," he said, feeling her supple body pressed to his. They were beautiful girls, and he was well aware of that. It was part of why he played so much better when he was in their company. But he held his fantasies at bay. That was something he didn't want to give in to.

"We love you more than we love our father," said Gabriella in his ear.

"That's not the point," he said. "You're teenagers. You need your privacy."

"Nonsense," said Daphne. "It's only for two nights. What's the big deal?"

Gabriella let him go and stepped back. "I'm hungry. Let's change clothes and find something to eat."

And, just like that, it was decided that one room would be suitable.

Bob sensed the continuation of problems, when the girls scampered out of the shower, their hair still wet, and wearing only bras and panties, ignoring him and chattering about what kind of food they wanted to eat. He reacted to their partial nudity, and was ashamed of himself for doing so. He ducked into the bathroom, got in the shower, and stroked himself to completion, just to get rid of the thoughts.

That was fine until they had eaten, and walked around a while, taking in the sights and ambiance of the city. Then it was time to return to the room. The girls would have a practice session at the concert hall the next morning, and the first concert would be the next night. They were playing twice, in London.

The girls favored frilly ... and brief ... sleeping wear. Their mother did too, and it was a habit no one had thought about. To the girls, Bob was just an adult they loved and were comfortable around. While they were aware that they were showing him their butts and breasts, it didn't seem all that important to them. He'd seem them in bikinis, and those showed even more. Just as him staying in the room with them was no big deal, this wasn't either. Not to them. He was family, after all.

For Bob, it was devastating.

Daffy was the worst. Her top was a lacy thing with shoulders, like a shirt would have, but it fell to only just below her breasts. The matching panties rode high on her well-rounded hips, with tiny bows on each hip, just begging to be pulled. Both top and bottoms were filmy. Her puffy looking nipples were clearly defined by the cloth covering them, and her midnight pussy hair showed through. She wore her hair up to perform, but tonight, it was down, draped carelessly on her shoulders. Bob was astonished at how much she looked like a miniature of Catherine Bach, the woman he unconsciously compared all women to, if they had dark hair.

When he looked at Gabby, in an effort NOT to lust after Daffy, it wasn't much better. Her "pajama" bottoms covered more skin, technically, but were even thinner, with lacy ruffles around her legs and a matching bra with a filmy jacket. The fabric was simple, a pale lavender color, and smooth. While her blond pubes didn't show through, the panties, snugged up as they were, advertised her camel toe as if she meant it to, and her obviously dark nipples spiked the tips of her top. The jacket, which hung loosely from her shoulders, wouldn't have obscured anything, even if it had been wrapped around her.

That they ignored their uncle, only made it worse, because he was able to look all he wanted, as they chatted about the next day's schedule, and in what order they were going to practice the pieces they were going to play.

Bob found himself sitting in a chair, with the magazine he had been idly flipping through lying on his lap, instead of held up where he could see it. It needed to be there, because if the girls saw what was under it, it would scare them silly.

The girls turned, standing beside the bed they were going to sleep in together. Thankfully, there were two beds in the suite. About now, Bob wished he'd taken the desk clerk up on his offer of a privacy screen.

"Come kiss us good night," said Daffy, standing negligently, her dark nipples screaming at Bob.

"Um ... you come over here," said Bob weakly.

"Why?" asked Daffy.

"I'm ... um ... too tired to get up," said Bob, feeling lame.

It was while they were on their way to him that Bob remembered their kisses, while infrequent for the most part, were always on the lips. That's how they kissed their mother, so that's how they kissed him too.

When they bent over, Bob saw cleavage, on Daffy's part, creamy and deep, the inner slopes of her breasts looking like something he'd like to slide down some day. As for Gabby, she was so flat he saw it all, including her well defined and spiked looking, starkly pink nipples.

"You need a shave," said Gabriella, as she stood up.

"I'll ... um ... shave in the morning," croaked Bob.

"What's wrong?" asked Daphne? "You're all flushed. You're not getting sick on us are you?" She looked concerned.

"It's just ... stuffy in here," said Bob weakly. "Go on to bed. I'll be fine."

The girls ran, and launched themselves at the bed, landing on top with giggles. Then they writhed as they tried to pull the covers down while still on top of them. Butts and pussies flashed at Bob, and he closed his eyes.

Finally it was quiet.

"Get the light please?" called Gabriella.

Bob, only too glad to put the room into darkness, lurched out of his chair, the magazine dropping to his side. He was still dressed in his slacks. He habitually slept in his boxers, and hadn't thought about packing anything else. He'd planned on getting undressed in the dark, once the girls were in bed. His urge to darken the room made him forget about his hardon. It was only a few steps to the switch, and he sighed as the room went dark.

"Did you see that?" asked Daffy in an excited whisper.

"What?" asked Gabby, who hadn't been looking at her uncle.

"The front of his pants are sticking out a mile," said Daffy quietly.

"Really?" asked her sister, interested.

"You should have seen it. He must have a monster in there."

"Daffy!" whispered her sister, poking her. "He's our uncle!"

"I know that, but he's killer gorgeous too, and he's got a lump to die for!"

Gabriella squealed.

"What's going on over there?" came Uncle Bob's deep voice.

"Nothing," sang out Daffy. "We're just getting ready to go to sleep."

"OK," said Bob, pulling at his belt. They were on the fifth floor of the Hotel, and he didn't realize how much light came in through the curtained windows. He dropped his slacks, stepping out of them, and unbuttoned his shirt.

"We're thirsty," came Daffy's voice. "Can you bring us a glass of water please?"

"Who appointed me your butler?" asked Bob crossly. His embarrassment was beginning to turn to anger at the girls. It was easy to blame them for teasing him, even though, down deep, he knew they weren't.

There were hissing whispers, and Bob saw movement in his peripheral vision as the covers were thrown back.

"OK, grumpy," giggled Gabby. "We'll get it ourselves."

Bob was standing beside the bed when the light at the bar went on. Both girls turned to stare at him. He looked down in horror to see his boxers standing six inches away from his groin, an obvious point in them, and obviously pointing at the girls. He leapt for the bed and heard more giggles.

Back in bed, Gabriella put her lips right next to Daffy's ear.

"Boy! You were right! I can't believe it!"

"It looked like it was hard under there," whispered Daffy back. "You think maybe that's because of ... us?"

Gabriella reached up and squeezed one of her nipples. "Maybe," she whispered back.

"Go to sleep!" came Uncle Bob's raspy sounding voice.

The girls subsided. They were used to being horny on concert day. They loved that feeling, knowing that they'd be that way until after the concert, that the passion would enter their performance, and that afterwards, they'd finally get to feel the sweet agony of an orgasm, as their fingers rubbed and pinched. The excitement of being horny usually started during their practice session, though. They rarely went to bed that way, and if they did, it was simplicity itself to merely rub off again. Their mother ignored their habits, but their mother wasn't with them this night. Neither girl felt like she could do what she wanted to do, because the man lying not ten feet away would surely hear her.

Bob had a similar dilemma. He'd relieved the pressure earlier, but now it was back. He couldn't go in the bathroom to take care of things. He'd be in there too long. He certainly couldn't do anything in bed, not ten feet from the girls.

As a result, all three of them went to sleep horny, and had horny dreams.

Bob woke up titillated, if not actually horny. That only lasted until the girls jumped out of bed and scampered around. For whatever reason, as they got dressed, they weren't nearly as modest as they had been the night before. When they'd changed into their sleep wear, they did it in the bathroom. Now, however, Bob watched, almost groaning as both of them, on their way TO the bathroom, pulled their tops off.

True, they were both facing away from him, but still, the expanse of two naked teenaged backs got him going again, before he even got out of bed.

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