Uncle Cliff

By Jonas Mec

This story is posted for the exclusive enjoyment of readers of the Nifty Archive. The author retains Copyright. While you are free to make a personal copy, no copy of this manuscript may be published, copied, posted to another web site, or otherwise disseminated without express permission from the author.

The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.

Cliff got me when I was sixteen.  Cliff was twenty-two  -- he was my Dad's kid brother -- just like Bill's my kid brother and he was born when I was fifteen. Except Cliff got put in the oven when Dad was eighteen, when he got sent to Saigon, just after he and Mom started the family with my older brother, Eduardo. I guess he isn't really my uncle, when you come down to it. My Dad's father got killed when he was little, a year old I think, and his Mom remarried, but then she died in a trailer fire when my dad and his brothers were at school and my papa was at work, and he married Cliff's Mom, my nana, when my Dad was seven or eight.

Cliff drove only the coolest car, a 1967 Camaro RS convertible, fire red, everything working, the biggest, baddest, blown 427 that Chevy ever dreamed of building. Not a scratch on the chrome, not a dull spot on the paint -- Cliff had restored everything to perfection. The leather was more than restored -- Cliff had a friend -- Carl - that worked at a place that restored and repaired Jaguars, and they bought hides from Mr. Jarlsen and over two weekends replaced the tough but battle-scarred fake cowhide with Connolly leather. It even had an old eight-track tape player radio, in perfect working order, but with a CD player mounted in the face of the back seat.

Anybody who rode shotgun in that car took a step up in the social register. `Course, in Salinas, there's only two pages of it, mostly dominated by the big grower families - all white, of course. Cliff took me for rides in it, helped me with my homework, helped me with my fielding, you name it. I worshipped him, and he seemed to like me a lot.

I was mowing the front weeds when I caught a glimpse of his car swinging into our road, all the way down to the highway. It was my weekly chore, all two acres of them, using an old Toro that Cliff helped me rebuild in May. I bitched about it all the time when somebody was willing (or unable to avoid) to listen. I actually enjoyed it a little, the responsibility and all, but don't tell anyone.

I pretended to be cool, and ignored the car as it glided up the road, just slowly enough to keep the dust from rising enough to sully the finish. I increased the pace a little, trying to finish the last four swaths next to the house before he pulled in. I finished the last one, smack up to the side of the house, just as he tapped the horn behind me, halfway up the paved part of the drive.

I looked around and acted surprised, then smiled and waved at him as I shut down the engine slowly to let it cool off. I was soaked with perspiration, and could smell my pits a little, over the perfume of the whacked grasses.

"Hey, C.J!" he hollered at me as he flowed out of the car, somehow like a great panther, strong and long and sleek. His jet-black hair shone in the sun, the sidewalls perfectly even, and the line crisp.

"Hey, Cliff!" I grinned back, picking my T-shirt off the mower handle to wipe away the sweat and chaff from the weeds plastering my legs and arms.

"Lookin' good!" he said as he walked -- no, more like . . . gracefully stalked towards me.

I flushed at the compliment. All the hours at the pool, the gym, were finally starting to put some muscles under my taut skin, and I felt a little show-off, so moved a little to let him see.

He looked me up and down like a vegetable buyer, the eyes missing nothin' -- `cept what I hid under my baggy shorts, of course.

"Thanks," I said, then added a little nervously, "You set a high bar."

Cliff has a body to die for -- nothing but skin and bone and muscle, except just a tiny ripple of skin over his hips, just enough to make a little love handle when his jeans are real tight and he's slouchin' in a chair. He did model work for underwear and jeans and stuff in the catalogues for one of those discount stores when he was in college to make extra cash. That good. I have all his pictures in a scrapbook. I liked the ones of him in just the briefs -- you could tell he was all man. His bronze-brown skin was much healthier-looking that the white guys, and showed the briefs off hte best. He was almost always the only Hispanic in the catalogue.

"You'll beat me, sure," Cliff said as he punched my gut as usual. I was ready, and his fist just bounced. He pulled his punch, of course, but not as much as he used to. "In a coupla years you'll be knocking `em dead. Bet you already got girls on their backs and guys on their knees."

I couldn't help the flush in my face. I never said nothing to nobody about thinking on those lines. I mean about doing it with a guy. I almost did it once with Carmela, but she wouldn't let me put it inside her, and she was all grossed out when I blew on her leg. I remember that once when Jorge was hinting that we could do something if I wanted. Then his kid bro Ruben got back from school early just as I was thinkin' I was about to tell him that I was gonna maybe let him swing on me, if that's what turned his motor. He was staring holes through my shorts, and I could tell he had a serious starch problem in his shorts as well, but Ruben spoiled it all, and we somehow never got together like that again.

"Yeah, right," I said, bouncing my left fist off his brick-hard abs. I only pulled a little -- maybe ten percent. "Soon's these f___ing zits stop oozing." I got cursed with the family trait -- my Dad has a lot of pockmarks, and so does Eduardo, my big brother, who's still in prison for running drugs. Dumb shit got his girlfriend pregnant and needed juice bad to set up house when her parents gave him her walking papers. He ran ten kilos of coke for a couple of friend of friends of friends - straight into the arms of the Border Patrol, which of course his "friends" did nothing about, just hung him out to dry. He goes up for parole in 2008. He was in trouble all the time as a kid - always looking for a reason to get into a fight with the blacks or the whites or the asians in school, usually succeeding, almost always winning. But he had a nasty streak. Used to pull the legs off lizards, throw rocks onto the freeway, that kind of stuff.

"You see a Doc about that yet?" he asked, quiet-like.

I looked at his eyes for a second, ready to lash out, but I couldn't hold his gaze, and the fight went out of me in a split second.

 "You know," he went on, still real quiet, "I had it pretty bad when I was in High School, and our Doc at Kaiser gave me a prescription that got rid of them in a couple of weeks."

I didn't want to tell him that we don't have one of those HMO things. Since Dad left the winery and got the job in the greenhouses down south, three or four years ago, our membership got stopped. We don't even get MediCal, even if Mrs. Nachez, the school Health Services administrator says we're eligible. We're not poor, we just can't afford the premiums is all. We don't take charity from nobody, neither.

"It'll go away," I said, turning towards the house, pushing the mower in front of me.

"Want me to -- uh -- have a word with my Doc?" he said, throwing his arm over my shoulder like always. "Doc Mallory is a okay guy."

"I--I guess," I said as I pulled out from under his arm and maneuvered the mower under the porch. "Is it . . . I mean, does it cost a lot?"

"What, the pills?" he said from the steps, looking down at me.

"No, the Doc," I said.

There was a millisecond quake of surprise on his eyes, then he recovered.

"He's my Doc -- he'll see you for a Lincoln," Cliff said, turning towards the screen door. "Got any ice tea?"

"Yeah," I said automatically. "Sun tea fresh this morning." I clambered over the side of the steps and kicked off my boots, then pulled my socks off to keep the grass out of the house.

"Frigo?" He was lucky Dad wasn't at home. Dad hates it when anybody in the family uses Spanish -- real or imagined. That's why my Spanish is a little weak -- we never spoke it at home, and most of my friends are in the same boat. We just use English, and pretend we don't speak Spanish at all, especially when the new arrivals are around. Even my Mom and Dad speak only English, even though my Mom didn't come north until she was sixteen. Papa was the same. That's why we all have American names (Except Eduardo, who's named after my Dad's first father.)

"Si, Cliff." I can't resist the pun. "Want some?"

"No, Sweetlips," he said sarcastically. "I asked just to blow some hot air."

I pushed him out of the way and opened the cabinet to get a couple of big jelly jars down.

"Will home?" he asked.

"Nah -- him and Mom took Julia and Billy up to the mall in Morgan Hill to get school clothes," I said, pulling a few cubes from the tray. "Won't be back until the heat's down." I had my back to him.

"At least you don't have any zits on your back, like I did," he said from right behind me. "Your skin is as clear as paper."

I got a chill up my back. I could feel the goosebumps.

"Okay if I touch it?" he said from just behind my right ear.

I couldn't talk. I just nodded a little. I was as nervous as a grasshopper.

His fingertips touched the top of my shoulder and traced lines down my back towards my middle. And I shivered like a steer tormented by flies.

"Flawless," he said. "Your face will be just like that when Dr. Mallory finishes," he said. His voice sounded a little husky.

"You think so?" I said, turning. "Even my cheeks?"

"Your cheeks aren't as bad as you think," Cliff said, touching them lightly. "Only a couple here and there." I had both glasses in my hands, and the ice must have been rattling. "Let me see a little closer," he said, turning my head slightly.

I couldn't help but watch as his face approached, looking at my left cheek just below my eye. I could smell his shaving lotion, spicy and tangy.

"They're not as deep as mine were," he said. "You won't have any scars to talk about."

I looked at his bronze skin, and saw no sign of pits, not on his cheekbones, not on the temple. He was tilting my head about, his face only inches from mine.

"You smell good," he said in a hoarse almost-whisper.

"Good enough to eat?" I smart-mouthed back.

"Good enough to get in really deep trouble if you aren't careful," he said with a grunting little laugh, pulling back. "I'd hate to see you get hurt."

The ice was jangling, I'm sure. I was trembling. Was he or wasn't he? I wanted to see what it would be like to get in trouble. But I couldn't just out and say that, could I? I mean, what if he wasn't that way? What if he was just teasing my hormones, winding me up? Wanting to know so he could show me up to my Dad?

"You're my uncle," I said, putting the glasses down on the table next to the frigo, "you won't hurt me." I didn't dare look at him when I said that.

"No. Never," he said. He was behind me again.

"Will you?" I asked quietly, as I poured tea into each glass.


"Show me a little serious trouble?" I asked, topping off his glass, putting the stopper over the air inlet of the tea jar.

"Sure?" he asked. He knew what I wanted. He was behind me, a little to my right.

"Si," I said without a moment's thought. I put the tea jug down on the counter, making no move to put it back in the fridge.

"Now?" I could feel his breath on the back of my shoulder, just slightly. I teetered, hoping to brush against him.

I had to force myself to breathe so I could respond. "Si, hombre."

His fingertips touched me again, reaching around in front this time, lightly tracing the muscles, tense for some reason, moving up to my pecs, to my shoulders. I turned my head around, twisting my body in his arms, and our mouths were only a centimeter apart.

"Sure?" he whispered softly one more time, his sea-green eyes drawing me closer. His hands were on my back, strong yet firm, holding me steady -- not pulling me towards him, but keeping me right where I was, gently massaging the skin. I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I put them on his hips, my thumbs resting on the belt.

"I--" I stammered. "--I want . . ."

"This?" he said in the barest of whispers as his lips closed the gap and landed square on mine.

They were soft, moist, slightly open, and before I knew what was happening, his tongue had slipped through my lips and was exploring my mouth. My tongue caressed his, exploring, just like my hands were all over his body, trying to get under the shirt, touch his skin, feel the heat of him. I managed to get my right hand under his shirttail, exploring  the ropy muscles I'd watched ripple under his bronze parchment skin for as long as I could remember, wanting mine to look just like his. His hands were on my back, holding me to him, not crushing, but immensely strong, reassuring.

The Kiss finally broke as we came up for air, chests heaving, pants straining as our things tried desperately to touch the other.

"Yeah," I said. "That. More. Now."

I got what I wanted, at least for a minute or two. His shirt came off somehow, and I felt his skin against me, warm, electric, rubbing my suddenly tender nips into electric frenzy, as my hands went up his spine, over his shoulders a little, around his neck. Our teeth cracked together at one point, and he pulled away, kissing my face, my eyelids, my nose.

I was breathing so hard, I couldn't think, and my heart was thumping in my ears.

"Vamanos," he said, leading me towards my room behind the kitchen, small but at least my own room. My shorts fell to the floor as soon as he undid the button, and his fell a second later, his keys jingling as they his the floor, right next to my bed. He wasn't wearing any underwear, and I felt his thing snap up against my thigh. He pulled his hips back a little to let it arc upwards, and pulled me back into him, his thing now against my boxers, touchiung my skin up to my belly button, I think. It felt huge, hard, slippery.

"I've never . . ." I started to say something, but he stopped me with another kiss, at once hard and tender, his lips so soft, his tongue so insistent. I held him to me, and his hands went to the sides of my Jockey Boxers, pushing the elastic down, freeing my thing, which snapped up between his legs, stopped in his yoke.

We stood there, for I don't know how long, our mouths making urgent love, my boxers frozen above my knees, his hands all over my back, down to my butt, massaging, smoothing, exploring, loving, sending waves of shivers through me.

We started to lean, then fall to my bed, the covers still open where I'd left them when I got up, the cool sheet against my back as he somehow supported me in the fall, gently lowering me, his thing no longer touching me, mine now wedged against his stomach.

"You're the most handsome guy I know," he whispered into my face, his breath heavy on my lips as I opened my eyes again to look at him, his beauty, the bronzy aquiline nose, the long dark eyelashes, the flashing green irises. "Also ths exiest and the nicest."

I didn't know what to say -- I couldn't speak anyway.

"I want to make you feel better than anyone on earth," he whispered in my ear, his legs between mine, his elbow supporting most of his weight. "I want you to be mine."

I wanted to be his, too, wanted him to love me, take me with him wherever he was going, hold me like this until we grew old, turned to dust.

I felt his thing between my legs, under my balls, and suddenly knew he was going to put it in me down there, fill me with his thing, put his come into me, deep into me. I briefly thought of the hurt, the . . . dirt, then wanted him there, wanted him inside me. My thing got throbbing, and I suddenly felt the pang of my insides contracting, ready to spit out my come.

"Ahhh . . . !" I moaned. "Aie! I'm coming . . . !"

He plunged down, and took my thing in his mouth before I knew what was happening, just in time to catch the first spasm, his mouth doing something to it that made my coming more intense than I'd ever felt before, even using warm soap and water or warm cooking oil, up to then the best ever. I hollered out my release, the Feeling so good it almost hurt, his mouth continuing to pull the spasm from me.

It was minutes later, but way too soon over, but he made it up to me, covering my mouth with another of those Kisses that raise your blood pressure instantly, my legs somehow around his waist, lifting my butt towards him, almost inviting him inside.

"Not yet," he said. "Soon, but not yet."

I trembled with the urgency of my need to make him come inside, make me part of him, show me what it felt to be loved, and said something like "Now, Cliff. Now."

He pulled away from me, pushed my legs down, and was suddenly beside me, not on top of me, his thing sticking over my hip bone, pushing under my still-hard erection. His Kiss was back, and his tongue made love to mine, first inside my mouth, then inside his. His teeth felt smooth as oiled glass, the roof of his mouth ridged but smooth in the back. He was moaning with his need. I reached down with my left hand and felt him, the first time I'd touched another man down there, the first time I'd seen or felt a man's erection.

It felt huge, bigger than mine, soft, with skin loose even when he was hard, easily moving back and forth as I moved my hand.

He broke the Kiss for a second and looked up over my head, then resumed in the space of a hummingbird's wingbeat. His arm reached over me, and I knew it was for the hand cream I kept on the headboard, supposedly for my dry hands, but more to aid my solitary sexual pursuits.

I knew he was going to do it, and felt . . . good, I guess, glad he still wanted to show me, take me.

He never broke the kiss, even as he turned me a little on my side, my right arm underneath his shoulder, as he popped the top of the lotion and squirted some -- a lot -- of the cool liquid on my belly, in a pool in the hollow under my button. He put the plastic bottle back on the top of the headboard, and moved his hand to the pool of lotion, spreading some of it on my still-hard thing, then moving his hand under me, spreading it in the crack of my legs, under my nuts, around my hole, but not in it.

His hand went back for more lotion, and he pulled his hips back a little, his thing slipping out of my hands. I knew he was smearing it with lotion, getting it ready to move inside me, taking his time with me, loving me.

He rolled my bottom half a little further, so my cheeks were almost like I was laying on my side, but my back still flat on the bed, his left arm under my shoulders. I felt his thing move between my legs, warm, slippery, hard like bone.

I broke from his lips, and said something dumb, like "take me!" or some shit.

He just kissed my cheek, even as his legs wrapped around my left leg, and he rolled me a little back towards him, his thing now sticking up between my legs, my bottom almost resting on his lower belly.

"I love you," he said in a whisper. "I love you more than any person on earth." He began gently rocking, his erect bone moving under my nuts, the shaft moving across my hole. "This has to be special. Slow and special. Just for you."

"I love you, man," I whispered back. How foolish I was. I didn't know what was love, not really. I was in heat, in lust, in thrall, in ecstasy, and I wanted his come inside me, wanted to feel his thing deep inside me as he spurted like a firehose, drowning my need of him, if only for a while.

He moved his hand to my chest, touching my left nipple, making a circular motion over it. His left hand was on my left nipple, his fingertips gently tweaking. He flexed his arm muscle and thus raised my head more to his lips, and my right hand moved up and down his back, over his spectacular backside, over the globes of his cheeks, up to his hipbone, jutting away from his taut body. Chills went through me, the stimulation too much, yet not enough.

His hand with lotion went to my thing, and he grasped it lightly, just at the top, my foreskin in the middle of his palm only. I thrust upwards a little, more to feel his hand on my thing, and I felt his bone move down and under me, the head now under my nuts, almost at the hole.

I wiggled a little, trying to get it in the right place, but he pulled back a little, teasing. I moaned into his mouth my frustration, but he just took my moan and swallowed it, and returned a little moan of his own, his tongue now deep in my mouth, almost to my throat.

We rocked like that for an eternity, a millisecond as my still-hard thing moved in and out of his hand, still only lightly, just enough to make me ever more horny, want him to apply a little more pressure with his hand, speed up a little, make me come again. I knew I could, felt the shivers in my insides that said I was not that far from coming again. If only he would increase the pressure a little . . .

I felt his thing right at my hole, pushing lightly then pulling back, in rhythm with me, the pressure always just enough to make me tingle, make me want it inside me, but never enough to really push into me. I tried to push back, but he retreated every time, making me whimper in frustration.

I eventually stopped trying to get him inside, and just let him tickle me, relaxing as the feeling in my thing started to build up.

"I love you," he said just as I felt myself open up to the pressure, felt the head of his spear pass into me. It didn't hurt at all, just a twinge, a tiny twinge. "Don't clamp down," he said. "Just relax, let it come in real, real slow. Don't push, either."

I trusted him, loved him, knew he wouldn't tell me wrong, and let my hole down there stay loose, like I was waiting to take a dump on the toilet, but not trying to force it out.

We kept rocking like that, my thing moving more and more in his hand, until almost the whole thing was going through it, but he wouldn't increase the pressure, wouldn't bring me off, no matter that I was getting intensely close to the edge. His hand was like smooth feathers, like running water.

I felt full inside, a little uncomfortable at first, but it didn't hurt but once or twice - just another twinge.

Suddenly, I felt something rippple against the inside - the underside - of my thing, but inside me, where I never felt it before, and it happened again and again, building the pressure and . . . I lost it again, my thing exploding in Cliff's hand, the white liquid spurting up to my chest, my moan a deep keening inside his mouth, his hand softly coaxing more of my come from me, more by vibration than by massage. I broke away from the Kiss, trying to catch my breath.

"Oh, God!" I whispered into Cliff's neck. "Oh, God!"

"Good?" he whispered, his lips tracing from the top of my head, over my forehead, down my nose.

"I never felt like that," I whispered. "I love you."

"You almost made me come," he whispered on the tip of my nose. "Your insides grabbed me like a fist."

"Can't you come like this?" I whispered back, still on cloud ninety.

"It won't take long," he said. "I can't hold back too much longer."

"Come inside me, Cliff," I said. "I want to feel you come inside me."

"I'm not all the way inside yet," he said. "Stay relaxed."

I did, and he kept slowly rocking, his hand now gripping my thing more firmly, the strokes getting longer and longer. His mouth went over mine again, and I pulled at his right shoulder with my left hand, urging him deeper into me. He was really stretching me now, as the thick part of his muscle gradually forced open a path, and I felt a twinge each time he moved deeper inside me, always with that tingling feeling inside under my dick, but twice, once on the inward once on the outward strokes.

"I'm in," he whispered again, and I felt his abdomen tight up against the inside of my right cheek, his legs grasping my left leg in a vise, my right leg hooked over his right thigh. I felt with my left hand, and his nuts were tight up against the inside of my left leg, big as golf balls, maybe bigger, soft, his sac full of ropy things, the things that his sperm swam through to get to the prostate, ready to burst into the opening made by his thing.

"Play with them," he said. "Roll them around. Let me get ready to fill you."

"I love y--" I started to say, but he sealed my lips again with his, and started moving a little faster, not taking it all the way out, only maybe halfway, his nuts stretching with each thrust.

I felt his thing, underneath, as it moved in and out of me, amazed that anything so big could fit in there. I was so proud he had chosen me, so happy he was about to come inside me. He gripped my thing more and more tightly as his thrusts increased in speed and length, and his hand moved up and down in perfect rhythm, sending waves of pleasure through me, just as the movement inside me was sending the tingling feeling right to my toes.

I was sweating, just as Cliff was, and our whole bodies, everything, seemed to slide together in time with his thrusts, my bed thumping up against the wall every time he hit bottom, sending more waves back into us.

"I'm gonna," he half whispered. "Here it comes!" He took a deep stroke out, then plunged back into me. "I love you!" he cried, just as he put his mouth over mine again, and I felt the huge head of his thing surge past the tingly spot, and I squeezed down to hold him inside me.

From nowhere, from everywhere, I got the Feeling all over again, so hard it almost hurt. I could feel my muscles or whatever they are bear down on his spear, and with my fingertips, felt the contraction of the muscles behind his nuts as he fired into me, just as he got to the end of his plunge and stopped. I felt him pump into me again and again, even as my orgasm evaporated, probably too intense after too short a pause to last for long.

He stayed like that for as long as he was coming, moving back and forth no more than an inch or two, timing it so that the spurts were always at the deepest part of the movement, moaning inside my mouth, then gasping for breath as the coming took the last of his strength, wrapped it up in his sperm, and sent it into me.

"I love you C. J.," he said as he kissed me, and I kissed him. "I always will."

"Me too, Cliff." I said drowsily. "Me too."


So, that's how Cliff got me -- before anybody else could get in the way. The next two years were pretty tough, as I couldn't exactly just pick up and leave home. We went hunting a lot, and fishing. We went up to the Redwoods in Spring to fish, Tahoe in Winter for skiing, down to the Desert to protest pollution, anywhere where we could pitch a tent in isolation, so we could make all the noise we wanted as we took each other. I got accepted at Davis, and got a pretty decent scholarship, and Cliff moved up here with me -- actually, a couple of weeks before me -- getting a job as a manager with the telephone company, overseeing installers and stuff.

Cliff's my man. I didn't get his cherry, but like he says, "That isn't important -- you got my heart instead."

And he got mine. I know what Love is, now.

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