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They're all so predictable. They'd be horrified to hear it; they fancy themselves different, special, not like those other perverted old men who lust after young girls. But they're not different or special. They're all the same. The details are different -- Rhaegar likes sheer panties that cost twice her tiny babysitting paychecks, Benjen likes plain cotton, Edmure goes for pink and ruffles, and Brandon likes it when she doesn't wear any panties at all -- but the process is the same. "I don't normally do this," they all say (and Sansa hopes it's true, at least with their other nieces; Arya's far too young and she has a suspicion Rhaenys's preferences don't lie with men), "but you're such an old soul." "Boys your age, they don't know what to do with a sensitive, sensual girl like you." "You've cast a spell on me, Sansa, I can't control myself."
It's complete bullshit, but she never calls them on it. She never does anything that would keep her from getting what she wants, which is to be well and thoroughly turned out by men who know what they're doing.
Brandon was the first. From the moment she first started developing tits, she could feel his eyes on her, somehow seeming like they were leering respectfully. As she'd gotten older, he'd only looked at her more intensely, but he'd never made a move to do anything about it, which is maybe what made her brave enough to do it herself. Sansa had been horny and curious, at the limits of what she could feel with her own hand and under the bathtub faucet and too scared to find a place to buy a vibrator in case it got back to her parents, and he'd been the handiest man who wasn't in her immediate family. It hadn't been very difficult. She only had to sneak into his room while the whole family was on a ski holiday. He was awake when she stole through his door, leaning against his headboard with a book in his hands, and all he'd done was watch her over his glasses as she stood for a moment, letting him see her in her prettiest nightie. If he'd spoken, she might have made up some excuse, but he didn't, and all she had to do was crawl into his bed and look up at him with pleading eyes and he took care of the rest. Deep down, she'd known she was supposed to feel sick and wrong for letting her blood uncle kiss her and touch her and suck her nipples deep into his mouth while fingering her to the best orgasm she'd had so far in her life, but all she felt was good.
Her uncles may have been full of it but they were all completely right on one thing; boys her age did not know what to do with her, but men their age certainly did.
She'd been doing much the same with Uncle Benjen -- kissing, groping, handjobs and humping -- by the time Uncle Brandon first fucked her. Looking back, she thinks each one noticed the other lusting after her, but each thought they were the only one getting her; neither knew she was messing around with both of them. She thinks that's what tipped Brandon from fooling around to fucking, something he'd always avoided before. He made a big production out of it: hotel room, candles, flowers, champagne (which he thought she'd never had before; she didn't tell him her parents had never once locked the liquor cabinet). He'd said all sorts of things about ushering in her womanhood and how losing her virginity should be a spiritual experience and other nonsense. Sansa put up with it. Anything to get his cock inside her and finally find out what it was all about.
He'd spoiled her, really. Her uncles are all fun and really bloody good at getting her off, but none of them fuck as amazingly as Uncle Brandon does, and it's always a tiny bit of a disappointment doing it with the rest of them. He'd fucked her all night that first time, then again in the morning, and even if she felt strange and sore and raw, it was in a good way, a way she wanted more of. A way that was hers and no one else's, not her mother's or her father's, not Jeyne's, not Arya's, not anyone’s. Just hers.
Brandon likes the risk. He likes fucking her in her father's house, in her own bedroom, with her mother downstairs getting supper ready and her little brothers playing down the hall. He likes pulling her into bathrooms when they're all out together as a family, fucking her quick against a stall door or flipping the lock and eating her out on the counter. Sansa loves it. She's never had an orgasm as good as the ones she has when she's afraid her father will walk in and see her fucking his brother so enthusiastically she has to re-do her hair after. If she were seeing Bran's therapist, they'd probably talk about how this is Sansa's way of rebelling, of not being the perfect daughter, the pretty pink princess who does everything right, the virginal and pure little girl her father always wants her to be. Her way of fighting against the narrow life path proscribed for her where she marries early to a nice young man of good standing and has three kids and then a headache for twenty years.
She'd just shrug at that, though. And be glad she's not seeing a therapist.
She sees Benjen the least. He's always off at that boarding school of his, educating young men about the virtues of civic duty and calisthenics, or whatever it is he teaches. Sansa has a feeling he messes around with some of those boys too, or at least wants to. He's always trying to get her to let him put it in her arse, which she doesn't mind sometimes, but it's hardly something she looks forward to. It’s well enough that he's gone ten months of the year and never stays at the house with them when he's back. That way the visits to his flat in the afternoon stay fun, where she lets him fuck her over the back of his sofa and then get her off in the shower before she has to go.
Edmure’s a bit of a puzzle. She’s still surprised he even went for it when she came on to him, honestly, and the worry that he’ll have some sort of moral panic and confess everything to her mother is a little too acute to be enjoyable. But there’s something about his guilty intensity that makes it worth it, especially since he seems to compensate for his guilt by making sure she has about a billion orgasms every time. When he’s not going down on her for at least an hour, he’s using his store of toys, which are many and varied. It’s probably cliché that the guy most wracked with guilt is also the perviest and most creative. Sansa’s had vibrators used on her, dildos, beads, ben wa balls (God, having those in while he goes down on her is bloody brilliant), even a flogger once, just for fun. Mostly he does pretty vanilla things with them, but Sansa can tell there are darker urges lurking beneath his guilt that she’s not quite ready for. If she ever will be, which is in doubt. Somehow she thinks that would make things tip from good for her to good for him, and that’s not what any of this is about.
Things get ironic with Rhaegar. The only uncle not related to her by blood, he seems to be the only one who wishes he were. He’s always Uncle Rhaegar to her, nothing else, though she suspects he’d love to ask her to call him Daddy if he thought she’d be receptive to that (she wouldn’t be; the very thought makes her shudder). He likes play: skimpy outfits, silly pretend situations, overblown romantic gestures. Sometimes he sings to her, which both embarrasses her and touches a place in her heart that she’d locked away when she was still a girl. He can also go all night, making her come so many times that she has to stop him when it hurts, and even then he’ll still jack himself off next to her, talking into her ear about what a sweet, pretty, dirty girl she is and how much he loves to make her come. If he’s anything like that with Auntie Ly, Sansa understands why she married him. That’s the one thought that does make her feel guilty, finally, in a way that none of the rest of it does. She shoves it down. If it weren’t her, it’d be another girl, after all. And it probably already is. God knows how many of them a prominent, successful man like Rhaegar Targaryen has on the side. All the more reason for Sansa to get everything she wants from him, from all of them, and give only what she cares to.
Sometimes she daydreams about them, imagining things that would probably be overwhelming or even awful in real life, but work perfectly in fantasy: Brandon and Benjen taking her together, one in her cunt and one in her bum; Edmure tying her up and having her any way he pleases to; all four of them working together to please her, mouths everywhere, at her own mouth, at her tits, between her legs.
Sometimes she fantasizes about falling in love and doing all these things with a boy her own age, but only sometimes. Certain things are for later. Contrary to how it seems, Sansa’s not in any hurry to grow up.