Serendipity - Version Charlie

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | Epilogue

Foreword: This story is written in three versions, Alpha, Bravo and Charlie. You are reading version Charlie. All the versions share some similarities or shared text in the beginning, but then they travel off in different directions. Moreover, the personalities of some of the characters differ from one version to the next, even though they have the same names.


Chapter One

I looked up as Caitlin got out of the pool and walked toward me.  Her hands rose to gather her long, blond, wet hair behind her, which did interesting things to her breasts, cupped snugly in the too small bikini top she was wearing.

I was glad I was wearing sunglasses, because it let me drink her in without her knowing I was doing it.  It wouldn't do for her to realize that her uncle was a pervert, and anybody who could have seen how I was looking at her would have known, instantly, what I was thinking about.

I had a twinge of conscience as I imagined those breasts bare.  But only a twinge.  She was almost grown up now and I didn't feel so bad about letching after her these days.  That was a relatively new development, considering this was the sixth summer Caitlin had spent part of at my house.  The first had been when I took her in for two weeks so my sister could go on her honeymoon with her second husband.  Those two weeks worked out rather well.

Part of her desire to visit me had to do with the fact that I have an in ground pool, and it's big enough to swim laps in.  That astonished me, because she lives in Santa Barbara, with the entire Pacific Ocean right down the street.  Maybe it's because there's no kelp and no sharks in my pool. I also hear that the ocean along that part of the coast is cold enough that most surfers wear wet suits. My pool may lack waves, but no wet suit is required. Thank goodness.

But probably the main reason we got on so well was that, way back when, when I had no idea what to do with a ten year old girl for two weeks, I figured taking her places, going on day trips, visiting museums and rock climbing and that sort of thing might interest her.  It had, in spades, and the next summer the eleven year old tomboy asked if she could "have another vacation at Uncle Bob's house," and her mother agreed. 

Thus was established the "tradition," wherein Caitlin traveled from far away California to the windy plains of Oklahoma each summer to spend two, then three, and eventually four weeks with her Uncle Bob, who treated her like an adult as long as she acted like one.  What that meant was that I didn't coddle her, or require that she behave in any particular way.  She was just Caitlin and we did whatever she had the urge to do as long as it was safe.

What that means is that she wanted to do more of the same, rock climbing, and fishing and camping.  I had a dirt bike I liked to climb hills with, and she wanted to learn to ride it.  Instead of putting her on my 450, I bought her a 175 and let her learn on that.  She eventually moved up to a two fifty, which was fine, considering all she weighed was a hundred and ten pounds.

We played hard while Caitlin was in town.  It kept her happy, and helped keep me in shape.

That was all fine back when she was prepubescent.  She had that stick thin body that a lot of young girls have, with no breasts and no hips, and yet her face looked all female, with a bright, beautiful smile under bright, beautiful eyes.  She was cute.  And she was fun to be around, even though she ran me ragged.

Her slightness of body belied the muscles under her skin.  She was a surfer, even at that young age, and she also ran track and played T ball or whatever they call it in California.  So choosing something challenging usually challenged me more than it challenged her.

Around the pool, I got more rest.  She practiced her dives and cavorted around while I sat in the sun and read.  There was a girl next door who was a year younger, named Emma, and they struck up a friendship.  Emma came over to swim sometimes, when Caitlin was lonely for the companionship of someone other than an old man.  Once in a while Emma brought another girl or two with her.  All those girls made a lot of noise, and they dashed around as if they were running from their worst nightmares, but I could still read and do lifeguard duty at the same time.  They wore bikinis which, had they been on bigger, bustier girls, might have been interesting.  But on these girls they were merely strips of cloth that covered the parts their mothers wanted covered.  I honestly think they'd have been just as happy running around buck naked, like they probably did when they were toddlers.

And, to be honest, other than those lovely eyes, and the smiles, and the full heads of hair they all tossed about, they wouldn't have been very sexual, had they been cavorting around topless.  Not back then.

And then one year she asked if I'd drive her back to California, so we could camp and see some of the national parks along the way.  The first year we did that, when she was fourteen, we did Yellowstone.  I booked us rooms in the lodge and we spent two days there, seeing the sights.  The next year it was Big Bend, in Texas, taking the southern route back home.  The following year we toured the Rockies and Mesa Verde.  This year she had told me we were going to see the Grand Canyon and maybe Carlsbad Caverns on the way back home.

That would have been fine, except that she said this year we were going to tent camp, instead of staying in motels or lodges.

"I want to rough it," she had said. "You know, get a taste of what it was like for the pioneers as they moved west."

But looking at Caitlin now, I had a glimmer of how easily things could go ... awry.  My niece was all grown up, and she was a babe.

Yeah, I know, she was only seventeen, but you couldn't tell it by looking.  Suddenly she looked like she should be in college, instead of finishing up high school.  She was all lush curves and, biologically at least, she was ready for being mated with. 

I won't prevaricate and claim this was the first year I had noticed her growing up.  Basically, I got a yearly update on how puberty was treating her.  I watched the polka dotted bikini tops begin to show that there was actually something under them, and those mounds got bigger every year.  She never seemed to notice, though, or act any different.  While her body changed, she seemed to stay exactly the same, otherwise.  She had gained a little more knowledge each year, and her mental world had expanded, but as a female of the species, she still seemed to be holding back.

I asked her, when she was fourteen, if she had a boyfriend yet.

"Naw," she drawled.  "Boys are a pain in the butt.  They act stupid all the time.  Besides, my mom says I can't have a boyfriend until I'm sixteen."

When she was fifteen, I could tell something was wrong as soon as she got off the plane and walked toward me.  Her shoulders were slumping and she was looking down.  It almost hurt to watch her.  In the process of getting a hug I realized she'd gotten braces.  That beautiful smile was gone.  She had a little acne too, and it was affecting the way she thought about herself. 

On the drive back to my house I hammed it up a bit.

"Man, oh man," I sighed.  "I hope you don't call your mom and ask to go home early."

"Why would I do that?" she asked, looking over at me.

"You're kind of sexy looking this year," I said.  "I may not be able to control my baser instincts."

"Don't lie!" she blurted.

"Are you kidding?  Your hair is longer.  Parts of you have grown a bit."  That was true.  She'd gone up at least a cup size, though I really hadn't intended to bring that up out loud.  I think I got too much into the role I was playing.  I hurried on to get past that.  "And then there are the braces.  I'm a sucker for a girl with braces."

"You are not," she scoffed.  "They're ugly."

"Oh, you poor, innocent child," I sighed.

"I'm not a child!" she barked, instinctively.

"Of course not," I said.  "And trust me ... those braces are anything but ugly."

"How come everybody makes fun of them, then?" she asked.

"Oh," I said, "You mean the boys?"

"Yes," she sighed.

"That's because they're idiots," I said, carelessly.  "Boys your age have no brains at all.  Did you know the guy who invented zombies did so after talking to a group of fifteen year old boys?  He imagined the bodies of those boys rising from the grave, still trying to find a brain after they were dead."

She finally laughed, and I got to see the hardware on her teeth.

"Braces are sexy," I said. 

"They are not," she argued.

"I'll prove it to you," I said. 


"Wait 'til we get home."

That was the second thing I said I probably shouldn't have.  What I'd been thinking of, while she was talking about how un-sexy braces were, was a web site that catered to naked girls with braces.  I had stumbled upon that one by accident, and had been fascinated by how sexy some of those girls looked. 

But I couldn't show her those pictures.  Besides the obvious problem with that, for that matter, I didn't even know how to find it again.  Still, I had an idea.  I have a lot of faith in Google.

So when we got home, and I had lugged in a grown up girl's luggage instead of the single light suitcase she'd brought in the past, I took her to the den and powered up my computer.   Once Google was up, I typed in "sexy girls with braces," hit the button, and then clicked on the "images" icon.  I suppressed a sigh as a full page of extremely cute girls and women - with braces proudly displayed - popped up on the screen.

"See for yourself," I said, standing up. 

It was a little thing, really.  I'm sure her parents had told her the braces did not detract.  But kids ignore parental support sometimes, whereas "the cool uncle" can say something they'll actually pay attention to.

Whatever the case, the braces were not denigrated after that, and by the time I got her home, her grin was back full force.

The next year the braces were gone again and she'd grown another cup size.  She looked every inch like the California girls the Beach Boys sang about.  She still hadn't cut her hair, and now it reached the middle of her back.  The bikini that year was white - not a polka dot in sight - and it cradled her body like ... well ... like I wanted to.    More than once, as I stared at her through my sunglasses, I found my hands cupped.

That was the first year I got a full blown hard on for my niece.  It was at the pool, when she got out and said she was going to go take a shower to get the chlorine off of her.  I watched her walk away.  You know that thing girls do where they slide their fingers inside the back of their bikini bottom and rearrange it, so it covers their buns the way it's supposed to?   She needed to do that.   But she didn't.

And what I never knew until many years later, was that, when she got inside, she turned around to look at me and saw me adjusting my erection in my swim suit.

And she knew exactly what I was doing.

I'm going to commit a literary sin, here, and it might happen again later in this narrative.  And that sin is changing voice back and forth.  I'm telling you this tale because it's exciting for me to share with others what happened to me.  And since I'm just telling you what happened, that's called first person narration.  But there were things that happened which I didn't know about at the time.  And if I wait until the point at which I did find things out, the story will be all jerky and out of order.

So, to make things go more smoothly, sometimes I'm just going to tell you what happened, even though I didn't see it or know it was happening.    And, technically, what that means is that I have to change into third person, omniscient voice.  I'll suddenly become the all knowing observer.  So if that happens, and you're suddenly thinking, "How the hell could he possibly know that?!" you'll know why it's written that way.  It just makes the flow of the story a little smoother.

And that's about to happen right now.

Things might have ended right there.  After all, most girls are very aware that men get erections.  If a girl thinks about it long enough, she'll reflect on how it was an erection that brought her into existence.  She might have reacted like I think most girls would have reacted.  She might have thought, "I wonder if that was an erection.  Huh.  Interesting!"  Or it might have been "Ewwww!"  Either way, she could have forgotten all about it and gone on with life.

But like the fabled wings of the butterfly flapping on one side of the earth, which might eventually cause a hurricane on the other side of the planet, something seemingly harmless can upset the status quo, leading to really big changes.

And that little thing that I think changed everything for Caitlin that summer was that, while she took her shower, she was reflecting on how her uncle had gotten a boner while he was in her company at the pool.  The logical extension, since there were no other females anywhere in sight, was that he had gotten that boner because of her.  She knew that men stared at her while she was in her bikini.  They stared at her when she wore her one piece suit, which wasn't as vulnerable to the waves as a bikini is. Hell they stared at her when she wore her wet suit. But she ignored those men, those strangers who were no doubt thinking very nasty things about her.  She didn't want to think about that.

But being noticed by Uncle Bob was a whole different situation.  She loved him.  And she knew he loved her.  He would never do anything to hurt her.  To the contrary, he was always worried whenever they did something even mildly dangerous, and became a mother hen, insisting that every safety protocol be strictly observed. 

To be noticed ... as a woman ... by Uncle Bob ... well, that sent shivers down her spine and made something in her belly feel warm and happy.  As she washed her body, she couldn't help but imagine what it might be like to see that erection ... that had bloomed into existence because of her female attributes.

Which is where the turning point happened.  It happened because Caitlin Anderson suddenly got horny.

And since she happened to be in the shower when it happened, it was just too easy to deal with the situation.

She started by just rubbing a soapy hand between her legs, widening her stance to give her hand room to slide, deliciously, back and forth.  As she did so, she imagined Uncle Bob coming into the bathroom.  It would be by accident, of course.  Maybe she'd have turned off the water, and was letting her body drip before taking a towel to it.  He wouldn't know she was there, or that she could see him through the glass.  And he wouldn't be paying any attention to the shower.

In her fantasy she imagined he came into the bathroom to jack off. She knew boys did that all the time.  Some of them even bragged about it, which was stupid, since anybody could masturbate.  Uncle Bob would drop his swim suit and there it would be ... a long hard penis.  He'd grab it and make the classic motion that everybody in the world would have understood.

By now she was abusing her clit, and every once in a while sliding her middle finger into her pussy.  She squatted more.  Her fantasy somehow got Uncle Bob to open the door to the shower, still hard.  Of course he'd be startled and make some exclamation, and even though it didn't make any sense, he'd step into the shower with her, naked.

She didn't get any further than that in her little shower fantasy, because just the thought of him joining her in the shower, naked, with a hard on, was enough to tip her over the edge.  It was a fabulous orgasm.  It wasn't earth shaking, or mind blowing.  It just felt really good and lasted a really long time.  The two fingers she used to fuck herself with whipped rapidly in and out and she squatted ever lower, until she ended up with her butt on the cold floor, and her back against the cold wall of the shower stall.

It was a turning point because, while she'd thought for years that Uncle Bob was handsome, for the first time she viewed him as a potential sexual partner.

The butterfly had flapped its wings. 

The ripples would be felt as Caitlin explored what it was like to be a woman, around a man she wanted to be a woman with.

Meanwhile, I engaged in the time honored pursuit of trying not to think about Caitlin, up there in the shower buck naked, by filling my stomach instead.  The diversion I chose was to make myself a three layer sandwich of Black Forest ham, smoked turkey, and Miracle Whip.  I put a slice of cheese on it and added tomato and lettuce to complete the masterpiece.

While Kat was satisfying herself in the shower, I was satisfying my belly in the kitchen.

And it worked.  I was satisfied.

But things wouldn't stay that way for long.

There is a condition in life that most of us don't think about.  Some people call it "Sex Addiction."  Some therapists even make their living treating this condition.  But I sometimes wonder if there isn't a lot of hype surrounding that.  Think of it like those commercials you see on TV where the model is tossing a long mane of glossy hair around and the announcer is trying to convince you that you can't really be happy unless your hair looks like that too.  They're selling you something, and they get to keep the money, regardless of how your hair turns out.

But the thing is, literally billions of people get along just fine without that hair.  Those commercials are mostly hype.  And I sometimes think all this sex addiction business is like that.

I think that people who are "addicted" to sex simply think about sex more often than others.  And that doesn't mean there's something wrong with them.   Teenage boys are reputed to think about sex sixty or seventy times an hour, and nobody tries to drag all of them into a therapist's office to get them to stop.

I'm not saying there aren't people on the planet who think about sex so much that they are handicapped by it.  I'm sure there are, just like there are people who believe there is something on their sleeve and literally spend all day trying to brush it off. They can't really function either.  My theory is that a lot of people who are labeled as being addicted to sex, are probably just OCD about sex.  The rest of us are normal.  Granted, we're normal in varying degrees.  Teenaged boys are an example.

But where do you draw the line?

And why am I wasting your time talking about these theories?

I'll tell you why.  Because all this crap affects us on a daily basis.  That's why.

Sex is normal and the desire to engage in it is normal too.  And there is a sort of civil war in western society, maybe all societies, in which one side embraces the normalcy of interest in sex, and the other side screams that sex is wrong, and bad, and nasty, and harmful and on and on ... unless, of course, you engage in it this way, or that way, or under these specific conditions, etc.  It's a little like religion.  There are hundreds of religions, the adherents of which are all convinced that what they believe is absolutely right.  So they insist that everybody else believe the same thing.  Wars are fought over it.

So it's ground into all of us that, when Kat came into the kitchen as I was finishing up my sandwich, my cock should not have begun to stiffen as I admired how sexy she looked.  And she should not have looked at me and felt that shiver down her spine again, and remembered with happiness that little fantasy she'd just had in the shower as she rubbed off.

Society says that we shouldn't look at that woman coming out of an apartment building, looking radiant, and wonder if some of that radiance is because she is freshly fucked.  Society says we're not allowed to look at the pregnant woman sitting on the park bench and, knowing that she's had sex, imagine what it might be like to have sex with her.  Society frowns heavily when, on seeing a cute young girl walking down the street with her friends, you wish you could be the one to teach her about the joys of sex.

And if you do all three within the space of a single day, society might say you're addicted to sex.

But talk to any biologist, and he (or she) will tell you that, because of evolution, human beings should and do evaluate every single member of the opposite sex as a potential sexual partner.  Most of that is done completely under the radar, without you even knowing it's happening, especially if the other person is rejected as a possibility.  In that case, there's just no interest on a conscious level, in terms of sexuality.

And Kat and I were evaluating each other.  I still don't know how much of that was conscious and how much was subliminal, but it was definitely going on.  And worse, neither of us was rejecting the other as a potential sexual partner.

And when Society found out, it was going to be all pissed off about it.

I said that some of this attraction (and our responses to it) were conscious and some were subliminal.  That affected us in different ways.  I was completely aware of why I felt the things I was feeling, and what they meant.  With Caitlin, it wasn't so clear cut. 

For example, when she got out of the shower, dried off, and got dressed, she left her bra off.  It was a conscious decision, but for subliminal reasons.  I'm not sure she understood why she was doing that.  But when I saw those still excited nipples denting the otherwise smooth fabric of the tank top she'd put on, I knew exactly why I wanted to stare at them.  In fact, I knew why I wanted to do a lot more than just stare at them.

Looking back on it now, it's obvious what was going on.  She had been noticed by a man, and she'd liked the feeling.  That initial happy feeling had led to something blatantly sexual, and which felt really good.  So it was normal for her to want that man to notice her again.  And since society hadn't had time yet to fully inculcate her about how awful it was for her to think about her uncle that way, some part of her mind suggested another way to get him to notice her. 

It sounds simple, but it wasn't.  And that's because she made another decision that day that, while related to all these feelings she was experiencing, was not for the same reason. 

In addition to leaving her bra in the dresser drawer, she decided to leave her panties there too.

That wasn't to get my attention, though.  Rather, it was just part of feeling sexy and wanting to explore that feeling.  She'd heard about going commando, but had never done it.  She knew that going commando had something to do with sexuality, but didn't understand all that.  So she tried it.  She'd gone braless before, and she knew what that accomplished, at least when there were males around.  But she didn't know about the other, so she tried it.

And what that means is that when Caitlin walked into my kitchen that day, there were a lot of things going on inside her, some of which she was aware of, and some of which she was not.

I stared.  I might have licked my lips.  I don't remember if I did that or not, but she sure looked delicious.

Kat had the kind of breasts that are often described as proud, sitting high on her chest and thrusting out at the world like the main guns of the battleship Missouri.  You couldn't miss them under any circumstances, and right now, as she walked toward me, they seemed to give a little shiver.  Even if I hadn't been able to see her nipples being telegraphed through the cotton material, I'd have known she was braless, just by that subtle shake and wobble that is the signature of healthy, young breasts that are unsupported by a constricting undergarment.

But the nipples made it obvious.  I hadn't seen them since the year she was twelve and the top of her bikini came off during a cannonball she executed in the pool in an effort to splash me.  She'd stood up in the shallow end of the pool, laughing, looking to see if she'd gotten me, and it had taken a few seconds for her to realize that the top of her suit was hanging loose.  Her little, cone shaped breasts had been snow white, with rosy tips that were more like the nose cones of a pair of rockets, than nipples.

Those nipples had grown up just like the rest of her.  The nose cones were gone.  Now her nipples looked like exactly what they were intended to do.  Even through the shirt.

"I hope you made one for me," she said.  "I'm starved!"

"Alas, I did not," I confessed, trying to get control of my cock by pure mental force.

"You are a terrible uncle," she sighed.

"I am," I said, sadly.

"So why do I still love you?" she asked, bumping up against me and resting her forearms on my shoulders.

Those unsupported breasts crushed gently into my chest.  Hazel eyes stared up into mine from less than a foot away.

"Because you are perfect," I sighed.  And I meant it.  Subliminal things were happening inside me too.

"Well then," she said, pulling her arms back as she stepped back.  Her hands ran into my shoulders and she left them flat as they slid down to press against my pecks.  "Make your perfect niece a sandwich."

That's a good example of what I mean by a mixture of things going on inside her.  She was braless intentionally, for the express purpose of seeing if I would notice that, and how that might feel.  She'd seen me gawk at her and something in her brain had stood to attention and said, "Mission accomplished!"  And that had felt good, so that led to the unconscious desire to be in close proximity to the man who had just made her feel good again.  In other words, the hug wasn't for the same reasons going braless was.  She wasn't trying to seduce me.  Far from it, in fact.

But, in reality, she was seducing the crap out of me.

Okay, okay.  I was letting her seduce me.  I wanted to be seduced.  Call it what you want, the point is that something massive had been set in motion, and it was picking up speed, whether that was intended or not.

Anyway, I was happy to make her a sandwich.  It let me face the counter, which covered for the fact that there was a lump in the front of my shorts.  And let me adjust things without her seeing it.

Or so I thought.  It turned out she sat at the table, put her elbows on top of it, and rested her chin on her hands.  Then she just watched my back.  Which is why she was able to see when my hand laid the mayonnaise knife down and reached to put things in what I thought would be a less noticeable position. 

And, again, she knew exactly what I was doing while I did it.

People react to being horny in different ways.  I'm talking about those times in which you can't just rip off your clothes and satisfy your urges.  In Caitlin's case, she got full of energy and wanted to burn some of that off.  I have a theory that sex is related to combat, in the sense that there is a physical confrontation, in which both people want some kind of victory.  In battle, it's victory over the other.  In sex, that victory can be shared.  I think that's why she wanted to play tennis.  She wanted to enter into a battle of sorts, but for the purpose of fun, rather than winning.  And, not that she knew it at the time, to burn some of that horny energy off.

We went over to the city courts, and she tore me up. But I claim that's because she didn't change clothes.  And by that, I mean she didn't go put on a bra.

So I was pretty much constantly distracted by how elastic firm, young breasts can be, as they became a prime example of Newton's three laws of motion. 

I fought back, to be sure.  She won the first set 6 - 1.  I managed to win three games in the second set.  Then I got distracted again and was down five games when her right foot, while it was sliding sideways, ran into a seam in the concrete and caught on the raised edge.  Because she's a surfer, she's learned to go limp when a big wave grabs her.  Loose muscles and tendons are much more flexible than those held rigid by tightened muscles.   So she let the ankle bend, instead of trying to stop it. I heard the yelp of pain as her ankle was overstressed, and she went down in a heap, the racket clattering across the court. 

I ran up to the net and pushed it down to cross over to her side, where she was lying in a more or less fetal position.  Her hands were wrapped around the ankle that had given way.

"You okay?" I asked, worried.

"I don't know," she moaned.  "My ankle hurts a lot."

"Can you sit up?"

She made the attempt, and I helped her, at which time I got a look at some really beautiful cleavage.  But I'm not a sex addict, so I ignored the opportunity to stare, and squatted beside her.  She brought her right knee up and put some weight on the ankle.

"It's not too bad," she said. 

"You want me to take you to the hospital?"

"No!" she scoffed.  Male athletes don't have a corner on exhibiting macho characteristics and wanting to be tough.

"Well, no more tennis," I said. "That's for sure."

"Yeah," she said.  "Help me up."

"Let's take it slow," I warned.

She held up both hands and I pulled her onto her left foot.  Gingerly, she put some weight on the injured ankle.

"Shit," she said, under her breath.

"You sure about the hospital?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said.  "I hope this doesn't mess up my surfing when I get back home."

"I'll help you back to the car," I said.  "Want to go piggy back?"

She laughed.  "Piggy back is for little girls, Uncle Bob.  Just let me lean on you and I'll be fine."

Which is how I ended up with Caitlin tucked into my left armpit, my arm around her back, as we made our way to my car.

Oh ... did I mention?  As we walked, and she hopped, my left hand sort of ended up cupping the side of her left breast.

You remember ... the braless one.

It was unbelievably firm.

And at the same time, it was unbelievably soft.

Something else I forgot to mention is that, along with that bright yellow tank top, Kat had donned a denim skirt after her shower.  That would be the skirt she was pantiless underneath.  That would turn out to be a situation that, for reasons that had nothing to do with why she'd put it on, would change both our lives.

When we got home I helped her into the house.  I'll be honest.  The first time I groped her left breast was an accident.  It was just an honest accident that resulted from her lurching gait and my attempt to support her.  But she hadn't complained about it, or admonished me by saying something like "Hey, Uncle Bob, you maybe wanna get your hand off my boob, you pervert?"

On the other hand, when I helped her into the house, I groped her on purpose.   It wasn't some attempt to get her excited or anything like that.  It wasn't even an attempt to excite me.  Not exactly.  It's just that a man in my circumstances doesn't get a chance to feel something like that very often.  So I took advantage of the situation.  I'd like to point out that, once again, I got no admonishment from her.  To be honest, I think all her attention was on her ankle, and she wasn't even aware I was copping a feel.

I situated her in my recliner, telling her to raise the foot rest, while I went to get some ice.  When I got back she had leaned the chair back.

"Let's get a closer look at this," I said, pulling the coffee table over to sit on.  "Lift the foot," I said.

She did and, because I was sitting to her right, she moved the foot in question in that direction.

I formed a cradle with my hands and she gingerly let her calf down on one hand while I supported her bare heel with the other.  The ankle was swollen, but normally colored.

"Can you move your toes?" I asked.

Her toes moved just a little, then more.

"Yes," she said.  I could hear some pain in her voice.

"Now point your toe," I instructed her.

Very slowly she extended.  I watched the ankle, which looked pretty normal, and then looked up to see what her face was registering.

At least that's what I meant to do.  Along the way, as my eyes went up the length of her leg on the way to her face, they followed the leg under that denim skirt which, while it had been plenty long enough on the tennis court, had slid up a considerable amount when she reclined in the chair. 

And there, basically on view for all the world to see, was the fact that sweet little Caitlin was going commando.

Of course all the world wasn't looking. Only I was.  And I got a crystal clear view of pussy lips that belonged on a woman twice her age.  By that, I mean her outer labia weren't tight and rolled in to create the classic camel toe.  No, in fact, they framed her inner lips, which protruded like a blossoming bud and were loose and wrinkled, full enough that I instantly imagined sucking them between my lips and sort of chewing on them.  The whole package was pale pink, lying nestled between even paler thighs and there wasn't a trace of hair anywhere around them.

I really don't think she intended for this to happen.  The situation was completely the result of little actions, none of which were done for the purpose of letting me see the prettiest little pussy I'd seen in years.  It was all the result of little accidents.  There was the accident of her seeing me adjust the erection she realized she was part of.  That led to her desire to experiment with whether going without panties would feel sexy or not.  Then there was the accident that she had chosen to buy a shoe design that had crisp edges on the sole, rather than rounded ones, which might have slid right over that little projection in the cement of the tennis court.

All in all, the reason I was staring at Caitlin's pussy was because of serendipity.

I remember blinking, and wondering just how long I'd been staring at what I was staring at.  My eyes reluctantly left her pudenda and made the rest of the trip to her face.

Which was flushed, if not beet red, quite darkly.

It was crystal clear she knew exactly what I'd been staring at for however long I'd been staring.

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