My New England Volleyball Cousin

The grandparents, parents, and cousins left this morning for late November Christmas shopping. I am 35, alone, in my highball sipping gambling loving grandparents' New England Victorian house. The young afternoon sky is a shiny blue whale's underbelly about to drop flurries. Then I hear the wood staircase squeak and shriek like a dilapidated tree fort in a Florida hurricane. My blonde-haired cousin blows into the kitchen in her UMass volleyball shirt with the scent of Jasmine and vodka springing off her sock-sliding bounces.

"Greg, what the fuck are you doing here?" Jessica said.

Jessica is a hot cousin known for her ass swelling out of her daisy dukes during New England's above-ground pool summer parties. Every Fall I go back home to Florida to dream for weeks of her ultra-white ass jiggling through clouds of Marlboro Lights to the echoes of John Mellencamp.

"Nobody woke me, so I guess I missed the bus," I said. My thirty-five-year-old morning-wood stretching a Scooby Doo print on my pajama bottoms. I sit on an old stool by a pale stove. "How did we get home, from the, wait, where was the last place we were at?"

"I missed the bus too. I am so fucking hungover cousin," she said.

My heart burns with Uzi riddling beats as sudden recollections set my cock to marble.

"Did we kiss in the car, Jessica?"

"Greg, you don't remember walking across the bar, playing soccer with people's drinks, screaming Nirvana's Lithium into a Karaoke microphone?

Jessica's limbs are in a frantic blur assembling the coffee pot as if snapping Legos to make buildings. "We made out in the boys bathroom." she said.

"Is coffee enough? I feel like I am in hell," I said.

"Don't drink so many Roman Cokes, cousin." she said. "What do you mean is coffee enough?"

"Hair of the dog....," I said. "One Budweiser each?"

We both drift to the fridge and collide near the door. Her skin turns blueish, and she puts her lips in front of my view of shelfed beer cans. Her neck extends like a sunflower just out of shade. "What if we stick to coffee and..." she said.

"Coffee and...?" I said.

"Coffee and Ssssssss," she said.

"Ssssssss?" I said.

Her baby blue eyes cross into my chapped lips. "Coffee and Ssssssssex," she said.

I have fantasized about my cousin for years, and she is my mother's sister's daughter. But we have kissed so kissing is okay. I lean into a frosty mist, spit out by the fridge fan. Her lips are soft with a cold wet watermelon tongue. My cock irons out Scooby Doo. I pawn the back of her golden head and my left-hand crawls like an ascending cellar spider up her goose-bumpy torso. "I agree; fuck beer," I said. I like her tongue as I clear the vowels of the word "beer".

"Fuck that beer, cousin," she said. Her blue eyes roll under her tan lids.

"Fuck that beer," I said. I read the ingredients on a pickle jar as I kiss her tits and make infantile popping sounds with my lips. For years I have watched these boobies wobble after every Volleyball serve and now, they are soft and malleable skinless fruits to annoy my tongue into a maniacal worm inspiring my oak cock to drip.

She whispers in my ear, "fuck that beer, cousin." The air from her whisper tickles my testicles. I hug her, smooshing her tits against my naked bird chest's rattling heart. I slide down her lower back's flesh-ramp until her ice cube ass cheeks wobble in my squeezing fits: Molest. Visualize. Her pajama bottoms drop to her ankles.

"Fuck that beer, cousin," she said.

With her volleyball shirt, now a scarf, I carry her naked body to the living room sofa. Her sweet wet tongue dances inside my voice. With one loose eye, I flex and stroll, yelling at the cats that scatter below. We bounce on the cushions and giggle in a horny daze. "It is snowing out," I said. "Fucking beautiful Vermont!"

Her beautiful onion bottom is perching high enough for sidewalk people in turkey sweaters to leer. Each cheek jiggles to my knee-cap-to-cushion cha-cha. Scooby Doo is under the coffee table as my escaped swinging dick has never absorbed the grandparent's lamp light in this World War One living room.

Her dilating pupils homing in and hooking to my freed and hard cock. "Slide that bad boy in cousin," Jessica said.

My high arched penis aims for the late nineteenth century wood ceiling. My thumb pushes down its absorbing pulsating vessel. I grind my teeth and slide my cock into my cousin's soaking pussy. My entire lazy existence, roaming imagination, eluding day dreaming, every breath, surrenders and merges into the most joyful sweet ass bonding.

Just sliding in and out for a baker's dozen: "Oh cousin, I'm going to come all over your fucking cousin ass," I said.

She swivels her head until her blue eyes connect with my aching gasps. "Come in me, cousin," she said. "Early Christmas gift."

Just like the Christmas Vacation Griswold's scatter out of the house into Clark's station wagon. Our packed family's excursion dashes into the snow blanket driveway.

My pelvis emulating the ghostly powering of a vacant old rocking chair pours sweat down my thighs as I gaze upon my cousin's wet wobbly ass. And all the hangover demons in the most joyous collection of earthly seconds dive in a fluid chorus of exorcisms as I flood her ass with a tablespoon of syrup.

Our skin slapping draws the family to one blue window of afternoon incestuous fucking. We both scurry, nude, hysterically up the stairs dangling like silly puppets from the disillusioned angels yanking our sinning souls from skipping across the layer of clouds above this old Victorian house.