Guilt.

That's what you saddled me with, David. Guilt. It's your fault. It doesn't matter what you call it, regret, ruefulness, shame at doing things that cousins should never do, it all boils down to guilt, and I feel it deeply. It shakes my soul. You wonder why I feel guilty? Let me tell you.

You probably have no idea how it all started, so I'll tell you. Remember that summer we spent together at Grandma Reese's? The summer when the thunderstorms never came and the heat just built, day by day. Grandma would go to work and you were stuck with me, who you called your little nuisance. Not Daisy your cousin, but Daisy the nuisance. It wasn't that our age difference was so great, I was 16, you 18, it's just that I'd always been your younger cousin, and you'd always been the one I looked up to.

That summer, we'd play childish games until you got sick of them, then you'd watch TV because the heat outside was too intense. Then one scorching afternoon you said to hell with it and jumped into Grandma Reese's above-ground pool in your cutoffs, against her instructions to stay out unless she was home. But you couldn't wait, and I wasn't to be denied any illicit pleasure my older cousin enjoyed.

So I went to my room to change into the new bikini I had bought that spring, the one with pink flowers that showed off my developing curves. Feeling secure in the knowledge that you were in the pool, I didn't bother closing my door before changing. Damn, was I a fool. Seems you no longer saw me as just your little cousin anymore, or at least you had noticed the curves. That's right, David, I saw you hiding in the shadows of the hallway that day, watching my changing act like a terrier in heat. No, I didn't scream. I wasn't scared. I was stunned though, and after a moment of gathering my emotions, I realized I was overcome by feelings I had never experienced with such intensity before. So I changed slowly, letting you get your fill. You can thank me now.

The afternoon passed innocently. So did the week, the summer, and the following years. But god David, it took me a long time to forget that day. I replayed the scene every night in the safe haven of my nocturnal fantasies, but I felt guilty about how such reveries made me feel. As the weeks passed, the fantasies got ever more wild, and before long, when all were asleep except the fantastical David and Daisy, we did things no two cousins should ever do with each other. At least not in society's view. The release those sessions gave me was fierce, but so was the building guilt. On Sundays I'd confess and regret. By Monday night we'd be engaged in even more daring exploits. It was a vicious circle I could not break. Sin and guilt, guilt and confession, confession and sin.

But the great modifier, time, did its job and as the years passed, so did my sexual fascination with my favorite cousin. You got married, secured a job as a pharmaceutical rep, then divorced; I went to college, got a part time job and rented an apartment of my own. I was over you, thanks to time and a little experience with boys my age. But damn you David, then you had to call. 

"Hi Daisy," you said, "I'm passing through town and wanted to know if you wanted to have a quick drink."

I should have been honest. Told you that I had to work that evening and had plans for later. But I lied. Thrice. First, I told you my date book was clear. When I hung up with you, I called my boss and told him I had strep throat; he worries about nothing more than the wait staff infecting his patrons with dangerous infections. Finally, I lied to my best friend Brenda, cancelling our date to watch the midnight movie playing at the Student Union, using the same strep throat excuse. Damn you.

Fifteen minutes later I saw you drive up in your Mercedes convertible, top down, hair tousled. Why did you have to run your fingers through your hair like that? It made you look 18 again, and my heart was pounding like a smith on an anvil. You approached my door and knocked, and when I opened it to you, you handed me two six-packs as a hospitality gift. Clearly your idea of hospitality is a bit more intense than mine. But living on a student/waitress income, I was glad for the contribution.

So we popped open a couple of beers and reminisced about everything except that day that held my attention from so long ago. You told me about your messy divorce and how happy you were with your new girlfriend, Joan. I told you anecdotes from the biology lab, which weren't nearly as interesting, but you laughed anyway. You were being sweet, damn you.

We had a couple of more beers, and told more tales. By the time we got around to talking about food, we were too tipsy to drive, so we ordered pizza in, and when it arrived, more beer flowed. By eleven the beer was gone, both six-packs expended. You mentioned something about getting to your motel before they gave your reservation away, but I wouldn't hear of it. I offered you my bed and insisted that I would sleep on the couch since you were so tired from driving all day. But you were still being sweet, and refused the offer, so we giggled and wrestled with the matter until we fought each other into a compromise. It was a double bed, so we would share it, protected by the invisible line running down its center.

I entered the bedroom while you washed your face.

I pulled on my sleep shirt and kept on my panties. You walked into the room and stripped, matter-of-factly, right in front of me, then crawled under the bedsheet clad only in your boxers. Damn you David! Luckily, dame alcohol was on the side of the righteous and by midnight we were both fast asleep.

My sleep though, was fitful. I dream-flashed back to early days and earlier fantasies. Your near nude presence was to blame. As dawn approached, my sleep got lighter and my dreams more intense. I could almost feel your hands on my breasts. My nipples were swelling; I could tell that even while mostly unconscious. They felt squeezed, manipulated, they were definitely aroused.

I started feeling neurotic messages surging throughout my body and being. The whispy hairs on the back of my neck, on my forearms and near my pelvis stood on end. Then I heard the moan. "My God," I thought as I struggled to gain the ability to comprehend, "is David really caressing my tits? or is this a cruel dream?"

My eyes opened, but I could see nothing in the pre-dawn darkness. I could only hear the sound of breathing, yours and mine, both slow, but slightly labored. Soon, I was convinced I was awake, and you were copping a feel. Actually, you were doing more than just feeling, you were downright mauling my breast and nipple. But I was unsure if you were awake, fully so anyway. I'd been with enough men to know that the ritual early in the morning is much the same. A sleep-dazed male is a horny male, and he gives no thought whatsoever about his actions.

I froze. What else was I to do? I judged you didn't know what you were doing, or at least didn't know who you were doing it with. Maybe, if I just laid there, you'd fall off into a deeper slumber and the crisis would pass. But damn, then your hand slid down to my tummy and started to push my t-shirt up. Before I could process this new information, I felt the warmness of your mouth caressing my belly.

Oh my God, any ability I had to act rationally instantly disappeared. Now, all I could do was lay there, pray for divine intervention and accept the pleasures these new sensations were giving me. I lost my breath when you tongued my belly button. My soul shook as your mouth found its way to my panty-clad mound. When you pressed your tongue like a flaming rod against the cotton, I could feel, almost smell, the co-mingling of your saliva and my juices as they both soaked my panties. Somehow, magically maybe, you arraigned yourself between my knees, mouth at my love gash which was now gushing. You pulled my panties aside, exposing my vagina for your assault. I had tried to stay quite, so as not to queer the deal, but I couldn't help it--it was the only thing I did wrong. I moaned, loudly.

You audibly responded, although the response was muffled by my dripping cunt and the action of your tongue. But I could make out your words. You said, "I love the sweet taste of your pussy, Joan. It's like a mixture of milk and honey." I must have sat up, or screamed, or done something to gain your attention. "Joan?" You were still half asleep. I couldn't see you except in dark silhouette, but your head was up, looking in my direction. You spoke again, squeaking out a frightened, "Daisy?"

We both stayed silent, not knowing what to do. It was your fault, David. You should have gotten up then and left. But you were silent, and I was beyond shame. After ice ages of inaction, my thighs twitched, my calves flew and in an instant my legs wrapped around your torso in a vise grip while my hands reached for your head, pushing it down toward my now spastic pussy. "Eat me David, eat your little Daisy," I screamed.

You obliged, driving your tongue full force into the sweetness of my gash, then engulfing my swollen clit with the warm folds of your mouth. I came, and came again. And we fucked all the rest of the darkness away, and a good bit of the morning.

You had to go, get back on the road to Dallas. I said I needed a shower. You said you needed one too. So we showered and fucked again, and showered again and fucked once more. Then you left.

* * *

I hear you and Joan are getting married. I give you my best wishes. I know it must be hard because you are on the road so much, like now, and she is in Ohio getting things ready for the big wedding day.

But I had to let you know that I feel guilt again, David. All because of you. But it may not be what you think. You see, I don't feel guilty about what we did. I'm beyond feeling guilty for my sins. Sins are just cultural artifacts anyway. I learned that in my cultural anthropology class. No, I feel no guilt for fucking you. No guilt for fucking my cousin. This time, my guilt is prospective, not retrospective. Society and their mores can just be damned. But, you see, at the heading of this e-mail, I have a cc. Yes, I'm also sending it to Joan. I feel she should know, she still being afflicted by cultural hang-ups as she is. Yes, you told me she was straight-laced; that's what that means isn't it? Hung up on social mores?. So it's best she know, even if sending it to her makes me feel a little guilt. Anyway, I hope you stop by and say hello on your way back to Ohio. Kisses from your kissing cousin, Daisy.

And if you can't stop by, say hi to Joan for me. If she'll still speak to you.