The Kissing Lesson

Falling From Grace - Chapter 3

AN UNFOLDING ROMANCE BETWEEN UNCLE MATT AND HIS NIECE GRACE

AUTHOR NOTE:

This story is a slow-burn, emotionally intense journey told through micro-moments, small shifts, and inner dialogue. It explores themes of confusion, longing, caregiving, and the gradual unraveling of boundaries.

Please be aware that this chapter contains:

• Explicit sexual content between two related characters with a large age gap

• Non-consensual voyeurism (character watches another while she sleeps)

• Emotional dependency and blurred caregiver roles

Reader discretion is strongly advised.

????✨????BUT... If you're here for the slow ache and forbidden softness... enjoy and welcome. ????✨????

---------

She used to follow him around barefoot in that pink sweater. Too big for her, even then. Her hair in a crooked bun. Round glasses smudged with fingerprints. She'd drag a plastic cup of strawberry milk behind her like a talisman, a crustless sandwich in the other hand. He used to call her Bug. She used to call him Uncle Matty.

"Tell me a story?" she'd whisper at night, climbing into the guest bed without waiting for permission. She always wanted lullabies. Always wanted to be tucked in tight, arms out like a starfish, toes peeking from rainbow socks.

Now?

Now she wore his hoodie to bed and her hair was longer, darker, always loose at night. Her glasses fit better. Her voice was softer somehow. But the way she looked at him-- That hadn't changed. Still wide-eyed. Still trusting. Still asking to be taken care of. And he would. Even now. Even still. However she needed him to.

The hoodie swallowed her. She chose it on her own--tugged it from the pile he left on the guest bed, sleeves hanging past her fingers, fabric soft from years of wear. She wore it the way she used to when she was small: like it meant something. Like it was his and that made it safe.

That morning she found him outside, fixing the porch screen. He looked up as she stepped out barefoot with coffee in hand.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Made coffee."

She offered to help patch a loose board. He told her not to worry about it, but she just smiled and took the tool from his hand anyway. They worked side by side. She laughed when she dropped a screw. He showed her how to hold the drill steady. Their fingers brushed.

"You always made everything feel easy when I was little," she said.

He didn't answer at first.

"You were easy to take care of," he said.

They stopped by the store that afternoon. He needed to restock groceries. She needed shampoo, toothpaste, socks, a few basic things. He hovered beside her while she stood frozen in front of a wall of underwear. She hesitated, fingers hovering over cherries, then reached for a pack with strawberries.

"These are cute," she said.

He nodded. "Good choice."

At checkout, the clerk smiled at him. Mentioned something about his "daughter."

She grinned. "What do you think, Daddy?"

Matt forced a laugh. Nodded like it didn't gut him. She had no idea. Outside, she looped her arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn't speak the whole drive home. His mind stuck in a loop of blurred lines...

That night, after she'd fallen asleep, he found himself wide awake. He thought of the video. Again. The girl kneeling on a pink blanket. Oversized tee. Soft cotton panties. Eyes wide.

"Daddy," she whispered. "Can I show you what I practiced?"

She'd looked young. Too young. He'd only watched it once. But it played in his head on repeat. Especially now.

She fell asleep on the couch again.

He wasn't sure what time it was when he came downstairs. Just that the house was still, the lights low, and the soft hum of the dishwasher in the background like a lullaby. She was curled into the corner like she'd always belonged there--one bare leg draped over the armrest, the hem of his hoodie riding high up her thigh. The edge of her underwear peeked out. White cotton. Strawberry print.

His breath caught. He told himself to grab a blanket. But instead, he pulled the old armchair across from her--slowly, quietly--and sat. Just for a minute. Just to make sure she was warm.

She shifted in her sleep, the blanket slipping down to her waist. Her lips parted, head tilted slightly, chest rising and falling with slow, even breath. Her fingers twitched once against the cushion, curled in that soft, instinctive way she used to when she was little. She made a sound--a small, barely-there sigh--and he felt it like a punch to the gut.

His cock swelled behind the zipper of his jeans.

He didn't move at first. Didn't breathe. Didn't look away.

The girl in the video had looked like this. Not exactly. But close enough that the memory hit him low and hard.

"Sleepy girl gets what she needs before bed."

That was the title.

She was draped across a man's lap, thighs spread, shirt bunched around her waist. Her eyes fluttered half-shut. Her mouth open. Her body soft. Willing. The man touched her like he knew her. Like every inch of her had been given to him on purpose.

"There you go, babygirl... that's it. Let me feel how soaked you are."

She whimpered when he slipped his fingers between her legs. Arched. Opened.

She didn't say no. She said "Daddy."

And the sound had destroyed Matt.

He came before she even got her panties off. Didn't even make it halfway through the video. Didn't save it. Didn't let himself think about why that voice--soft, obedient, aching--had cracked him open in a way nothing else had for months.

But now, in the dark of his own living room, watching Grace breathe with that same sweet slackness, that same half-open mouth, in his hoodie and those fucking strawberry panties.

He was hard before he even touched himself.

His hand moved slowly. Careful. Silent.

Just one fingertip grazing his waistband. Just enough to ease the pressure.

He watched the way her thighs shifted under the blanket. The way her legs relaxed a little more each time she exhaled. She sighed again. That tiny, helpless sound that went straight to his chest.

His grip tightened.

He stroked himself through his jeans, then beneath them--slow, long, desperate pulls, every nerve in his body strung taut.

"Still my good girl," he whispered.

His breath hitched. The words that came out of his mouth surprised him. Her knees shifted. The blanket slipped further.

He came in a hot, pulsing rush--his hips jerking, teeth clenched, fingers locked around his cock like he could stop the truth from spilling out of him.

But it spilled anyway.

Not into her.

Not tonight.

Not ever... not unless she asked.

Just into his hand.

Across the fabric of his boxers.

Alone.

Ashamed.

He sat back in the chair. Breath shallow. Heart racing.

She hadn't moved. Still curled. Still sleeping. Still safe.

He stood slowly. Walked to the bathroom without looking at her again. Wiped himself off with vibrating hands.

Didn't speak.

Didn't think.

Didn't wonder why this time, too, had worked so well.

Or why it was her face now--not the girl from the video--that filled the dark behind his eyelids when he closed them.

He wasn't thinking about Grace.

Not like that. Not exactly.

But the guilt crept in anyway.

But he knew one thing for sure, he would give her everything she ever asked for. If he had it to give.

⸻

The morning came. The kettle boiled. The house felt light.

Sun streamed across the counter. His hoodie hung off one shoulder. Her voice was casual--almost like a joke.

But not really.

"Can I ask you something?"

He turned from the sink. Nodded once.

She shifted her weight. Fidgeted with her sleeve.

"I don't think I ever learned how to kiss."

Matt froze.

She didn't notice. Or if she did, she kept going--soft, hesitant, hopeful.

"I've done things before. Like, technically. But it was always fast. Weird. It never felt like I thought it would."

He stayed quiet.

She looked up at him and smiled--nervous and sweet and so achingly familiar.

"I guess I was wondering if maybe you could... show me? Just how it's supposed to feel."

His chest tightened.

She wasn't teasing. She wasn't flirting. She meant it.

She thought she was asking for a lesson. A skill. Like tying a tie. Or learning to parallel park.

Matt closed his eyes for a second, fighting the rush behind his ribs. Because he could already feel her mouth against his. Could already imagine the softness, the sigh, the little way she might press in without even knowing she was giving him permission.

His cock twitched in his jeans, and he hated himself for it.

She didn't know what she was offering. And he wouldn't take more than she gave. Not ever.

When he opened his eyes, she was still waiting.

"I trust you," she added softly.

He had to look away. "Ask me again at bedtime."

She blinked. Then nodded. "Okay."

She didn't press. Just left it there. Like it really was that simple.

⸻

Matt didn't know how he made it through the day.

She floated through the house like she always did. Barefoot, hoodie-clad, sweet and warm and completely unaware of how she looked with her damp hair and strawberry-glossed mouth.

She didn't flirt. Didn't bat her lashes or push her luck. She just... existed. Bright and earnest and full of something unnamed that made his chest ache.

And every time she passed by him, he thought:

She has no idea.

No idea what it would feel like to sit on his lap and let him guide her hands. No idea what his mouth would sound like against her throat. No idea what he'd only barely let himself think about doing to her if she ever asked for more.

But she didn't. She just wanted to learn how to kiss.

And so that's all he would give her.

Because he loved her. Because she trusted him. Because he wanted her--but not at the cost of breaking her.

Not even a little.

⸻

That night, she padded to the bathroom without being told. Brushed her teeth. Changed into his hoodie again--bare legs peeking out, face soft and pink from the warm water.

She looked at him in the hallway.

Not shy. Not afraid. Just open.

"Uncle Matt?" she whispered.

He stopped.

"Can I ask you again now?"

He nodded. Felt his knees go weak. "Ask."

"Can we practice kissing? Will you tell me if I'm doing something weird or gross?"

His voice was soft. "Yes. Let's lie down."

She moved first, crawling into bed like it was a nest, pulling the blankets up over her chest and tucking them tight beneath her chin. The hoodie sleeves hid her hands almost completely.

He lay beside her. Fully dressed. Careful. His body didn't touch hers--not even a brush, not even a whisper of overlap beneath the blankets.

His spine stayed rigid, like any softness would be a betrayal.

His hands were folded over his stomach. His breath measured. Every inch of him braced.

"Ready?" he asked, voice low and quiet, like he might scare her away if he spoke too loud.

She didn't answer right away.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth. Then to his eyes. Then back to his mouth.

Her head gave the tiniest nod. Barely more than a breath.

Then she leaned in.

Not fast. Not bold.

Just a slow, steady shift across the small distance between them--like a thought she decided to follow all the way through.

Her lips brushed his.

Just barely.

Featherlight.

More question than contact. A suggestion. A what-if.

She hovered there, mouth warm and soft against him for a heartbeat, maybe two--long enough for him to memorize the shape of her breath. The way her nose bumped his cheek. The way his entire body went still.

His heart slammed in his chest, but he didn't move. Didn't kiss back. Didn't guide her. Didn't even exhale.

This had to be hers.

She pulled back slightly.

Her lips were parted, eyes wide, like she was waiting for a sign. Waiting to know if she'd done it right. Waiting to know if this meant anything at all.

He didn't speak.

Couldn't.

Because in that exact moment, something shifted so deep inside him it didn't have a name.

Not lust.

Not guilt.

Not even love.

It was gravity.

And she was suddenly at the center of it. Again. Just like when she was his little "Bug".

She kissed him again--longer now. Pressed and held. Her mouth was warm. Slightly damp. He could taste the watermelon toothpaste, yes--but also something sweeter. Something warm from the back of her throat. From the way she let herself linger, just an extra half-second, like she didn't want to get it wrong.

Then again. Deeper. Softer. Slower.

She tilted her head a little this time. Opened her mouth slightly. Her breath caught on the exhale, and Matt's heart nearly stopped.

She touched his arm. Just the fabric of his sleeve. But it broke him.

His body seized--hips twitching, breath caught, his cock pulsing hot and hard and then--

He came.

Without warning.

A wet heat soaking into his boxers as she pulled away, still watching him.

A natural pause. For her anyway. For him, there was nothing natural about it.

"Was that okay?" she asked, voice unsure.

He nodded, throat tight. "Perfect."

Matt rolled onto his back, in a state of disbelief, followed quickly by a flood of guilt at the realization that he had cum for her... again.

And she had no idea... again. Hopefully, anyway.

She smiled. Hummed. Rolled onto her side and tugged the blanket up to her chin again.

"I liked it."

"I'm glad, sweetheart. Did you learn anything?"

"Yeah! I learned how much I like kissing!"

Matt didn't move. Not at first.

He just lay there, stunned and silent, trying to breathe through the way his whole body felt--empty and full and absolutely wrecked.

He got up carefully. Walked to the bathroom like he was made of glass and cleaned up.

----

The next night, she didn't wait to be asked.

She brushed her teeth early without being reminded. Wore the hoodie again. Crawled under the covers and patted the spot beside her like it was already his.

"Can we do the kissing part first?" she asked.

Matt's mouth went dry. He nodded. Lay down beside her again--on top of the blankets. Fully dressed. Every nerve in his body screaming restraint.

She leaned in before he was even settled.

Kissed him softly. Once. Then again.

Longer this time.

Slower.

She was learning.

He could feel it.

The hesitation from the night before had faded. She lingered longer now. Tilted her head. Her lips parted just enough to let her breath mingle with his.

Her hand brushed his sleeve again, this time on purpose.

His cock ached.

But he didn't move. Didn't guide her. Didn't push.

He just let her practice.

She kissed him again.

And again.

Her breath hitched once--then steadied.

Her tongue brushed his lower lip. Light. Curious. Experimental.

He clenched the sheet with one hand. Bit back a sound with the other.

When she finally pulled away, her cheeks were pink. Her eyes glassy.

"That one felt different," she whispered.

He smiled--barely. "You're getting good at this."

She giggled. Tugged the blanket up to her chin again. "Think I'll need more practice?"

"You certainly don't need it," he said gently. "But if you want more... we can do this every night."

She grinned. Tucked herself deeper into the blanket. Closed her eyes with a little hum.

He stood slowly, like a man balancing on a tightrope.

His boxers were soaked. Again.

He walked to the bathroom. Cleaned himself off for the fourth night in a row, breath ragged, heart pounding. Another load of cum for his good girl. Maybe her "Daddy's" good girl.

The routine was becoming familiar; cleaning himself in the bathroom, in a hazy fog of lust, love confusion and guilt.

...

The house went quiet. Like it was holding its breath with her.

Grace rolled onto her side, tucking the blanket between her legs, pulling it up high to her chest. Warm. Safe.

Her hand drifted lower.

Not on purpose.

Not really.

She just... rested it there. Over the hoodie. Over the cotton of her underwear. Over the place where her body still felt warm and fluttery from earlier.

She thought it was supposed to feel like this with other boys. That's what she'd told herself. That's why she asked him--to practice. To catch up. To understand what she'd been missing.

But it hadn't felt like this before. Not with them. Not ever.

She pressed her fingers more firmly between her legs.

The cotton was damp. She hadn't noticed that before.

Her breath caught.

She thought about his mouth--the way he'd kissed her tonight. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Just there. Present. Like she mattered.

She thought about the way his hand had brushed her hair back afterward. How he whispered, *you're doing perfect.*

She squeezed her thighs around her hand and gasped--soft, sharp, into the dark.

Her hips rolled forward. Her fingers stayed still. She didn't even know what she was doing, not really. Just chasing the warmth. The ache. The way her body wanted.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Not with Uncle Matt.

He was helping.

Teaching.

But--

Her fingers moved slightly, pressing into the heat through the fabric.

She moaned. Quiet and breathless.

Her hips lifted. Her body clenched.

And then everything broke.

The flutter burst open. Her whole body shuddered, legs tightening, mouth pressed into the pillow as the wave rolled through her.

She came.

Fast. Surprised. With a sharp gasp and her thighs trembling.

After, she lay still.

Hand frozen. Breathing fast. Face hot with something she didn't have a name for.

Her body felt empty and full at the same time.

She stared at the ceiling.

Thought about what just happened. About him.

It wasn't supposed to be Uncle Matt.

That's not what this was.

She just wanted to learn.

Just wanted to feel what other girls got to feel.

So why did it feel like this?

Why did her skin tingle afterward?

Why did she want to do it again already?

Why did her chest flutter every time she pictured his mouth?

She didn't know what any of it meant.

Didn't know what to call the heat curling in her belly when he said her name.

Didn't know why the soft ache between her legs hadn't gone away yet.

But she knew one thing:

Tomorrow night, she was going to ask to kiss him again.

And maybe a little longer this time.

Maybe with his hands in her hair.

Maybe just one more inch closer.

Just to see how it felt.

Just to understand.

⸻

Next time:

She asks for more.

And he says yes.

But only because she asked.

Only because she trusts him.

Only because he can't say no anymore.