Fiddling Around With Uncle Bob By Lubrican

   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
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 instrument.

   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 girl, 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 posteriors 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, was 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 daughters' 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, in addition to being their mother, 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 the
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, as Deliah soon learned, they weren't sexually excited, 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 bank accounts 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 contracted
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 weak lisp.  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 him.  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 to
them 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 in the way most men react to good looking
mostly naked young women, 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 for 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, followed by the first concert that 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, below that.  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.  It sounded lame to
his ears.

   It was while they were on their way to him that Bob remembered that
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 erect looking, starkly pink nipples.

   He closed his eyes to avoid what was displayed so carelessly, only to
have two sets of warm, soft lips pressed to his, one after the other.

   "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 again.

   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."

   "Okay," 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.

   "Okay, 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.
   
