Confessions of a Slutty Cousin

I'd never been in a room where the sexual tension was thicker. Nothing had ever felt so dangerous, so near to eruption. I had never so much feared for my flesh, or wanted so much.

The irony? Was that this was at the family reunion. Not very close family, mind, but blood and married, nonetheless.

After my father left, most of my immediate family didn't keep up too well with his side of the family. He certainly didn't. But I alone still felt obligated to be there, once in a while, to go into the lion's den. I'd never fit in well with his people—they were very old-fashioned, a little backward, and insufferably moralizing, nine days out of ten--and they weren't too keen on me, either, what with the tattoos and piercings and immodest clothing and all, but, I figured, they were blood. I used to think that meant something. But maybe I had ulterior motives, too—maybe I just wanted to see Jacob. It's hard to tell, sometimes. And I stayed, even when things started getting scary.

I suppose it started earlier in the weekend, even before I saw the danger signs. When I arrived on Friday afternoon, you see, the very first body I saw there was the tanned, almost-athletic frame of my favorite cousin, Jacob, who had just beaten me there.

Our beautiful Jacob!

He was standing there with his wife, Becca, talking to Uncle Stuart in the driveway, and clearly unhappy about it. Stuart (who is actually my father's cousin, but we still called him "Uncle") was the preacher at the family church--"Stuart the steward," he'd say he was, laughing his deep, booming, pulpit laugh and touching your head with all the gravitas of God. Jake clearly wanted to get away--I couldn't blame him--but I couldn't work up the courage to liberate him. I'd had a crush on him that knocked my knees since I was a little kid and he was a teen bully about to run off to the army. It had mellowed out over the years, but seeing him again, now, looking better than he had since he was 20, it all came back and shot through my stomach like a stray cannonball, and I couldn't have spoken to him to save him.

Now, I should make one thing clear: I hate Becca. I do; I hate my Jacob's wife, and I have since before I met her.

That is how much I wanted this man. There was enough lust there to get past the guilt and confusion surrounding his being my elder cousin and still manage to crest over and make me hate and be jealous of what everyone told me was a perfectly lovely woman, for marrying him. I at least had the decency to feel guilty about that, and feel like I had to be extra nice to her to make up for it or maybe hide it, but it didn't change anything. In fact, it's probably what eventually got me into most of my trouble at the reunion. But I'll get back to that later.

As I headed in from the street, keeping my eyes down as I passed them and hoping to be ignored, Jake caught me. Much to my delicious embarrassment! "Hey--Kid!" he shouted, before catching me by the elbow. He nearly knocked me off my balance, with as hard as he tugged me for a hug, and I fell into the solidness of him with an "Oomph!," mashed up against his chest with my breasts threatening to climb out of the too-low cut of my V-neck. I scrabbled a little over his biceps to try to steady myself. "Hey, easy Kid," he teased, wearing his patented boyish, shit-eating grin, "don't act so excited to see me."

"Sorry, Jacob…" I was scarlet, and tried to disentangle myself, but he practically had to set me on my feet. I think Stuart was giving me a Look.

Immediately, Jake grabbed my duffle bag. "Sorry, Uncle Stuart, gotta' get the kid settled in," he said, trying to get away, and he planted his palm on my back and steered me away and into the house, marching double-time. "So, Kid," he asked loudly, "you're back from school? It's been too long since we've seen you. How long you in town for?"

I didn't really have time to answer between questions. I just stammered up at him and tripped over the steps trying to get into the house, and finally stumbled to a standstill when he stopped and let me rest in the dark hallway off of the entryway. He stunned me with an exaggerated kiss of gratitude, declared me a hero for getting him out of that, and then laughed at my gaping. I wasn't doing so well with the whole being nonchalant thing.

"Don't leave your mouth hanging open like that, Kiddo," he scolded me playfully, "or you'll wind up with something in it." He aimed two fingers at it obscenely, to show me his drift.

"Jacob!" I swatted him, catching my breath.

"What? You're asking for it." He was laughing, again. Jacob laughed a lot.

When I went to swat him a few more times, falling back into the whole baby cousin dynamic too easily, he dropped my bag and caught my arms (in self defense, of course). He held them high over my head as I struggled, laughing despite myself as I tried to kick him, instead.

"Ha, kid. See?" he said. "You get yourself in trouble, doing that. You better watch out."

"Bully," I said, pouting and kicking him again.

"Oh, you like it." He raised my arms higher over my head, forcing me onto tiptoe. "You

know

you like it."

"Oh, right, I'm sure," I tried, but I almost winced at how unconvincing my attempt at sarcasm sounded. I

did

like it.

I knew I was getting caught at it, and I panicked a little, struggling in vain to free my wrists, if just for some kind of distraction. But I'd had no idea just how strong my cousin was. Not until I tried to bend my knees and heave my weight low, to break his grip.

It didn't break. I just lost my footing, and stayed basically upright, suspended by the wrists from his strong, broad hands. He set me straight, again, but up against the wall, this time, and shifted both my wrists to his left hand, still keeping his grip easily. Something inside me twitched at that, and I tried to hate myself for being pleased. Then he pinned me with his body.

I thought I'd snapped, that I was having some kind of daydream! He felt heavy and warm and I could smell him and feel his breathing and--then he just started to tickle me with his free hand. That made more sense. He'd been tickling me since I was five, ever the aggressor. But this time he tickled me until I couldn't breathe, and until I was squealing for mercy. He tickled me until I was jerking desperately (and uselessly) against him to get away.

I read somewhere that that kind of tickling, painful and unrelenting, can be a form of sexual aggression.

Jake only let up when I was twitching weakly and turning to dead weight in his arms, the fight run completely out of me, and I was almost certain I felt something like steel jutting into my belly, from below his belt, hot and unyielding. I didn't say anything, just leaned up against him under the cover of exhaustion. I think he was looking down my shirt, while he laughed at me again (less smoothly than before), and propped me up against the wall, away from him. I sucked for air, my chest heaving. I wasn't sure my legs could hold me up.

"Kid, what'd I tell you about leaving your mouth hanging open?"

I sank a little lower against the wall, all of me hot and tingling and weak. "Gonna'... gonna' wind up with a boyfriend," I panted, defeated, but still trying to mouth off. I thought I could see the outline of him in his pants, even in the dim light.

"That's right!" he said, still chuckling. "You watch out, okay?" he warned, patting my hip affectionately. "I'm gonna' put your bag in your room—you're going to be in the third on the left, here." He pointed.

I wondered how he knew which room was mine.

I watched him take my bag, and got a strange thrill from it; I was convinced that he was making sure that I knew he knew which room was mine, was proving to me that he could just walk right into it. Almost as if he was proving that he could tell me where to sleep, and I would do it.

Then again, I'd have done almost anything he told me to do. I think he knew that, too.

He must have been there when Aunt Joan parsed out rooms, I rationalized. Most people coming to the reunion lived near enough to just sleep at their homes, but some people were staying in hotels, and a lot of us were staying here in Rudy and Joan's multitude of rooms. I was coming a long distance, and definitely didn't have cash to spare for a room or gas, so I'd opted to stay with the brood, despite misgivings. At least Jake would be staying here, too--that could make up for a lot.

I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath as he settled things in my room. It took him longer than seemed normal, but I didn't think too much about it. When he passed me on the way out, he lightly pinched my side and told me I was looking good, all grown up. Becca had finally come in with Stuart, and Jake trotted out to catch her, leaving me to try to look less disheveled and debauched before Uncle Stuart could catch me. Stuart had never approved of my Loose Looks.

Unfortunately, Uncle Stuart caught me, straightening the short jean skirt I had on. He fired a look of disdain as I bent over double to fix the strap on my sandal. My skirt so rode high up my legs that I might have even flashed him a tiny glimpse of my little lavender panties, although I'm not sure. I think I generally got a little more brazen around that lot out of stubbornness; if they weren't going to like me, anyway, I supposed I might as well give them something to disapprove of!

Famous last words, right?

It certainly worked, anyway. "Erin," Stuart boomed, "the Lord watches you at every moment. Do you really think He would approve of this?" I tried to not let him see my eyes rolling. "Take care that you don't offend His gaze, little Sister."

"Thanks, Uncle Stuart. I'll try." I tugged my shirt down, to arrange it, letting just a little bit more of my cleavage show. I'm not sure; maybe I was trying to provoke him, but who knows into what. In any case, he left quickly, and I felt I had gained a small victory.

After that, the afternoon went by in a blur of people, many of whom I'd never met before and wouldn't remember after the weekend was over. As far as I was concerned, Jacob was about the only worthwhile relation of the lot, and even he was an asshole in his own right. Still, I tried to make fairly nice with the lot of them, even spending far too much time with Becca (out of the guilt for hating her that I mentioned earlier).

And it was Becca who went up to Uncle Stuart, and Jamie and David (a pair of my second cousins), afterwards, and made what I can only imagine must have been very damning, insinuating remarks about my character and virtue.

I think Becca maybe doesn't like me any more than I like her. Maybe she could tell I wanted to jump her husband.

In any case, after she spoke to them, I couldn't shake the feeling of being stared at, the rest of the evening--mostly because at least one of them was looking at me at any given time. Jamie, in particular, was keeping his eyes below my neck, as if he was trying to spot a loose seam somewhere. After about twenty minutes of being aware of his staring at me that way and offering a running commentary to his brother, David, I started to lose the battle of wills, and wished I'd worn something a little less revealing. I was sure I was covered, but every time I sat down or started to cross my legs, I worried about whether or not they could get a glimpse of my panties. Every time I reached across the table or bent over something, I was aware of just how much of my chest was exposed.

There is something obscene about a woman in uncomfortably little clothing, I suppose. Almost anything can be an acceptable outfit if you're comfortable in it, I've always thought, but take away your confidence and almost anything can be scandalously skimpy. Art nudes are fine, and Victorian women were able to look trashy and naked in ruffled pants and corsets. Maybe it's a kind of self-humiliating mechanism we've got, constantly checking our clothes and sort of subconsciously trying to cover up, inadvertently drawing attention exactly where we don't want it. And I shouldn't even mention what it does to men. I might as well have been wearing a "Harrass me!" sign in bright neon. Jamie and David were watching me like wolves.

It was David who finally suggested, around 9 o'clock, that the kids and grandparents head back to their rooms, hotels, homes, and so forth, to be well rested for the next day's festivities (I was stuck with these people all weekend, you see). They'd set up several card tables in the den, plenty for all the adults remaining to get in on one game or another. Well, I wasn't really ready to go to sleep, and I do love cards, but I was intending to make my excuses, anyway, and go run to hide in my room. Just as Jamie was about to protest my stammering apologies, though, Jake grabbed me around the shoulders.

"Come on, Kid, you're not bailing on us now, are you? It's still early."

Jamie backed off (nobody really messed with Jake), but Jacob still delivered me unto eventual danger by insisting I come join in a game of Hearts with him and a couple I'd met but didn't remember. I couldn't deny him. And at least it meant I wasn't trapped in the Poker game Jamie and David were working up, or Pinochle with Stuart the Steward. For a while, at least.

I was only barely managing to relax, when on the way down the dark hall for a bathroom break, a giant hand gripped my shoulder and stopped me where I stood.

Stuart.

"If something offends the Lord's gaze, it must be plucked out, little Sister." I sank a little, hissing, under the painful squeeze he gave my neck. I didn't think that was how the line went, but I managed to wisely keep my mouth shut. His hot breath was on my shoulder, then, as he leaned down to whisper, "You are a danger to the faithful gathered here."

I think if he hadn't let go right then, I'd have been begging forgiveness, but as it was, I was able to run to the bathroom with a little more of my dignity intact than I might have otherwise had.

When I got back to the den, I found that my place at Jacob's side had been taken from me—by Becca, naturally. I halted in the doorway, only to have Stuart push past me into the room, his tall, hard frame pressing solidly and roughly against me as he muscled by, smoking with all the righteous fire of his anger.

My skin felt charged, where he'd rubbed against me. I coughed, to cover the choking noise that was starting in my throat, and found a few heads turned my way.

That was when I felt the tension.

I'm convinced that while I was out of the room, more people had been brought into the loop about my apparently loose morals, or dangerous influence, or whatever, because more of the women were looking at me distrustfully, and more of the men with interest. Apparently Becca works fast.

In fact was sure there were at least six men in the room who wanted to--maybe intended to--fuck me, if I was any judge of things. Stuart and Jacob were among them. Visions of incestuous gang-bangs filled my head, and I started to back out of the room. I was starting to sweat.

But Jamie gave me a shit-eating grin, and gestured to the empty seat he had next to him, even pulling it out for me. I knew better, I'm sure I knew better, but I stopped, shamed into it by his gesture. I reluctantly approached, like a dog that's afraid it's only being whistled up so you can kick it, and sat. At least it got me out of the spotlight.

Jamie hugged me as soon as I sat down, but "missed" his mark as he reached around me, brushing against one of my breasts. My bra didn't come up high enough to put a second layer between us, and it startled me, so I jumped and yelped a little.

"Hey, E, settle down," he teased, letting go. "How you been? Finally back from college!" He slapped my shoulder in that way that means 'be a good sport,' and didn't let me answer. "You look, uh, different. Doesn't she, Dave? Since we saw her last time?"

"She certainly does," David agreed, not looking up from his cards. I almost jumped again, when I realized he was sitting immediately to my other side. How didn't I notice that? I was surrounded!

There were a lot of ways I looked different, but I knew exactly what he meant: I'd bloomed late, definitely since I'd last seen much of this side of the family, and I'd finally come into a healthy pair that I didn't try to hide (because, why? Really?). Plus, I'd moved into a decrepit high-rise in San Francisco, and going up and down four flights every day had given me legs and an ass that wouldn't quit, a fact I was a little bit proud of.

To these horny twenty-somes, I must have looked like a peach that had finally ripened, from a teen in frumpy sweaters to a sexed up 22 year old.

Still, I feigned ignorance. "I, um, I cut my hair short," I tried, "and it's gotten blonder over the summer…"

"I don't think that's it…" David murmured, dealing the cards.

"The--the nose stud, then. The eyebrow ring, the--the vine tattoos going around my wrists--"

"No, something else," Jamie said. "That's okay, we'll figure it out eventually."

They wouldn't let me go to bed, after that. Table after table broke up and went home or to their rooms, my Great Aunt Anne left the Poker game, and her husband John gave up soon after. But whenever I would start to stand up to make my excuses, Jamie would catch me and pull me back down, and insist, "No, no, at least one more hand…"

Soon enough, the room was empty, except for me, Jamie, David, and Paul, who was a third cousin once-removed-ish that had taken interest in the proceedings a couple of hours before.

If they hadn't been refilling my drink, all night, I think I might have been okay. I might have been able to just firmly push past them, insist that I was going to bed and that I'd see them in the morning, but as it was, I was just not quite steady enough to get away, and when Jamie pulled, I fell back into my seat. And I hadn't been quite strong-willed enough to turn down the drinks, not with all the stress of the day. By midnight, I was finally relaxed, for the first time that day, and also more than a little drunk. And exhausted. I sighed, dropping my cards on the table, and sank down in my chair to lay my head on the back, to rest and gather my wits.

The moment my eyes closed, though, a hand slid into my purple V-neck, and I froze. I didn't even open my eyes. Did they think I'd passed out?

A sudden heat pooled between my legs, in spite of myself, as Jamie pulled my breast free, shoving the shirt aside and my bra cup down.

"I think that's one of the big differences," he muttered to David, snickering.

"They're not really that big," came David's voice.

"Big enough, man. She used to have, like, no tits," Jamie reminded him, "just a couple years ago."

"True. Pull up her shirt to her neck," he said. My shirt was gathered up above my breasts, and another hand went behind for my bra strap, fumbling to unhook it. I felt a tug, and then I could hear the snaps being undone on my little jean skirt.

"They must think I'm really, really out," I thought to myself, "Why am I pretending?"

"Because if I move, now," I answered myself, "they'll realize I was awake and letting them do this." And then, "Why

am

I letting them?"

"I'm scared," I insisted.

"Well, so, pretend to wake up suddenly," I replied, "and freak out and run."

"But. . ."

But I was frozen. And I was very, very hot.

My nipples were getting hard and sensitive, with the rough lace edges of my lavender bra brushing up against them under the inexpert pawing of Jamie. At least, I think it was him. My skirt was just about to come loose (the snaps went all the way down), and the denim, sliding away down my thigh, was raising goose bumps. I drew my knee in, in spite of my best efforts at playing dead, and a less familiar voice piped up, uncomfortably, "Hey, guys… I think she moved…"