Closer Than Cousins Ch. 01


A rippling orgasm turned her limbs to butter and left her whimpering. She had never known anything like it, not even in the throes of the dance.

When at last she had recovered, she opened her eyes to see that Kit had taken his erection in hand again, staring hungrily at her and pulling so hard that she feared he might hurt himself.

"Kit, wait," she said.

"Sorry ... I have to ... you're so ... I'm sorry," he said as his hand moved faster.

Swan crawled hurriedly over to him. "Let me."

That stopped him, stopped him in his tracks. He shook his head, but at the same time his hand fell away, leaving his penis to poke out at her like an exclamation point.

"Lean back," she said.

Kit stretched out his legs, his torso propped up on his elbows. Now the exclamation point jutted straight up toward the bathroom ceiling. Swan ran her finger along the underside, and Kit hissed in a breath.

"Swan," he said in a brittle, tense voice. "We can't. You're my cousin!"

She shushed him again and took his length between her palms. From the instant she'd seen him like that, a burning curiosity had been awakened in her. She had to touch him. Had to know what that part of him felt like.

He was softer there than she had expected, smooth velvety skin all over a hardness like stone. Kit threw his head back and moaned, then looked down again as Swan gripped him. She mimicked the motions that he'd used himself, up and down, in firm and sure strokes.

His bottom bumped on the rug as he thrust up to meet each downstroke. "Ah ... oh, Swan ... yes, oh, yes!"

"What is it like?" she asked, leaning close to watch his expression. It looked like agony, but she knew it wasn't. "What does it feel like, Kit?"

"So good," he moaned. "I'm ... ah!"

Kit writhed on the rug, any further words lost as his penis convulsed in Swan's grasp. More of the thick white fluid spurted from him, slicking her hand, spraying in milky drops over his thighs and stomach.

At last, the flow ended, and Swan sat back in pleased amazement. She rubbed the back of her hand, noting the slightly sticky, slightly creamy texture of the fluid against her skin. She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose a little – not a bad smell, but one she thought would have to take some getting used to – and ran out the tip of her tongue.

A strange flavor. Not unpleasant, but different. She had heard Uncle Chet refer to some kinds of alcohol as an acquired taste, and the thought made her smile.


She looked at Kit quizzically. "What?"

"We ... we really shouldn't have ..."

"Oh, stop," she said. "You already said so, and I know. But we did, and it's done, and we can't change it. Besides, didn't you like it?"

He nodded, but seemed to have trouble now meeting her gaze. He'd retrieved the towel and draped it over his loins. "But it can't ever happen again. If anybody knew ... if Uncle Chet found out ... think what he'd say. He's been like our father, taking care of us when our mothers died and nobody else would. He'd ... Swan, he'd be ... horrified."

"I wasn't going to tell him," she said. "And there's no harm done, Kit. You worry too much."

"It can't ever happen again!" he said in what sounded like heartfelt anguish.

"All right." She adjusted the top of her dress and smoothed down her skirt, and went to the sinks to wash her hands.

In the mirror, she saw him pass a shaky hand over his face. He really was making too big a deal of something that was, in her mind, quite natural and harmless. Everybody had to find out these sorts of things sooner or later. They were cousins, they'd grown up together, and cared about each other. What was so wrong with that? Better Kit than some stranger. And for him, better Swan than some girl like Marianne Devereaux.

She turned back to him and held out a damp washcloth. "Here, Kit. You clean up, and I'll go and get you those dry clothes."


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