My Cousin Gail

'We... umm... probably shouldn't have done that,' I tell Gail as, the deed done, we lie in each other's arms.

'Oh? You didn't like it?'

I laugh. 'I think you know very well the answer to that. But I'm your cousin. You're my cousin. We're... well... cousins.'

Gail nods and smiles. 'Albert and Victoria were cousins,' she says. 'People sometimes forget that. And Mr and Mrs Charles Darwin. And a few others too.'

I laugh again. 'Yes. But, also, I'm old. Well... I'm older than you, that's for sure.'

'Age is just a number,' she says. 'And, anyway, you're only as old as the woman you feel.' And she rolls onto her back, and takes my hand and places it once more at her warm and wet entrance.

I know that I should take my hand away before things have a chance to develop any further. But I can't. And I don't. 'Someone seems to spilt something slippery,' I say.

Gail nods. 'Yes. My horse. My stallion. The one that I was riding. I'm guessing that it may have been a while since he had been taken for a good hard ride. Perhaps he had been saving it up. Of course, I could be wrong.'

'Umm... no. You're probably right. In fact, yes, I'm sure that you are,' I say. I use my index finger to spread the slippery cum across her butterfly-like labia and then turn my attention to her still swollen clitoris.

'Mmm... oh, yes. Right there,' she says.

I am pretty sure that one part of my brain has wandered off somewhere to quietly contemplate the rights and wrongs of what we are doing. But the other half is just getting on with it.

'I have cum dribbling down to my arsehole,' Gail says after a moment or two. And she giggles.

'Are you sure?'

'Oh, yes. Well... pretty sure,' she says. 'It certainly feels like it. But you could perhaps check. If you'd like to.'

I hadn't picked Gail for a backdoor girl. But it seemed that she was. And the part of my brain that had not wandered off to consider important questions did not need a second invitation. 'Perhaps I should,' I tell her. 'Just to be sure.'

I slide my finger off her plump clit and head south between her thighs. Just slowly. Enjoying her flappy cunt lips along the way. Pausing at the entrance to her hot hole. And then continuing on. And, yes, she was right: some of my slippery cum had dribbled down and pooled at the entrance to her arsehole. 'You are right,' I say. 'This stuff certainly gets around.'

I trace my finger around her arsehole and feel it opening up slightly to welcome me. And then Gail pushes down on my finger and its tip disappears inside her tight tunnel.

'Nice,' she says. Any lingering doubts that she is a backdoor girl are well and truly put to rest.

I withdraw my fingertip and then slip it back in. This time up to my first knuckle. And then some more.

'Mmm. That feels so good,' Gail says.

Then, keeping my fingertip in her arsehole, I reach up with my thumb and resume massaging Gail's clit.

Gail shudders and then giggles. 'Oh, yes!' she says.

I keep it up for a few minutes and then I feel Gail's hand on my hardening cock. 'I think it's time for you to fuck my arse,' she says. 'I think that you might like that.'

'You could be right,' I say. 'But would it be a good idea?'

'What do you think?' she asks.

'I'm not sure that any of this is a good idea,' I tell her. 'But, to be honest, I'm rather past caring.'

Gail laughs and gets onto her hands and knees.

As most people know, penises -- cocks -- come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. Mine is only of average dimensions -- which, as far as I'm concerned, is just fine. But I have been blessed in the shape department. The head of my cock is a bit like a blunt arrow; perfect for nosing its way into tight places.

I reacquaint the tip of my cock with some of the slippery cum that it recently ejaculated and line it up with Gail's rather attractive arsehole. And then, firmly but gently, I push. And Gail pushes back. Yes, Gail is definitely a backdoor girl.

When I awake the next morning, the part of my brain that went off to think about whether having sex with my sexy, younger cousin was a good idea or not, seems to have returned. The news is not good. On the whole, the part-brain tells me, it's probably not a good idea. In fact, not a good idea at all. Too many potential complications. However, what is done is done and cannot be undone. So... just make sure there is not a second time, it tells me.

Gail greets me with a soft kiss. 'Are you OK?' she asks.

'I think so,' I tell her. 'Although I might need to mend my ways. I think I may have strayed into forbidden territory last night.'

'Oh? Did you not have fun? You

seemed

to be having fun.'

'Lots of fun,' I tell her. 'But that doesn't mean that what I did was right.'

Gail laughs. And then she reaches for my cock.

'Uh-uh,' I say. 'I need to get over to the showroom. Saturdays are primetime for walk-ins.'

'It won't take long,' Gail says. 'You're growing already.'

And, no, it doesn't take long. So much for not getting tempted a second time.

'So... what are your plans for this morning?' I ask Gail.

For a moment or two, she just frowns. And then she says: 'I really should head back down to Cardiff. But, to be honest, I don't really feel like crawling back with my tail between my legs. I think I need to make a new plan first. Work out what I might do next.'

'And do you have something in mind?' I ask.

'Not really. I didn't realise that I was going to need a Plan B. I don't suppose that I could stay here for a couple of days. Just while I sort out my options.'

'Yeah. Of course,' I tell her. 'Stay as long as you want. As long as you need. But right now, I need to have a shower and get myself across to the showroom.'

'Can I come with you?' Gail asks.

'Umm... yeah. If you'd like to. Although I should warn you: some days it can be a bit boring. On the other hand: other days it can be a bit of fun. Well... interesting, anyway.'

And so Gail and I get ourselves sorted and head over to the showroom.

Daniel, my finance man, has arrived already and he has the coffee on. I introduce Gail and Daniel to each other and then I select three cars -- a Porsche 928, a Ferrari Dino 246GT, and Datsun 240Z -- to partially nudge out onto the small forecourt.

'The little car on the end is very pretty,' Gail says.

'A '72 Datsun 240Z. The first of the Nissan Z cars. And, yes, it is pretty, isn't it? And a lot of fun for the money. Of course, if I was looking for a track-day car, and I had a few more pennies to spend, I'd probably be tempted by a 300ZX Twin Turbo. But as a touch of classic class... yeah... a 240Z would be hard to ignore. I don't think that one will be hanging around for long.'

I have barely had a chance to swallow my first mouthful of coffee before a chap arrives and starts walking around the Dino. 'He just got out of that late model Audi across the road,' I mutter to Gail. 'So... my guess is that he likes cars, and this isn't just a casual visit.' I walk out and greet him.

'I used to have one of these,' the chap tells me. 'Sort of wish I'd hung on to it now.' And he laughs.

'I know the feeling,' I tell him. 'Are you a collector?'

He shakes his head. 'Just looking for a birthday present for my wife.'

'Lucky woman,' I say.

'She's had a rough couple of years. I though a new toy might help.'

I nod. 'This one has been completely rebuilt,' I tell him. 'My chief technician did his apprenticeship at Ferrari. He has a bit of a soft spot for the prancing horse.' I open the driver's door so that the potential buyer can see that the interior has also had the full treatment. 'I'm Jeremy, by the way,' I tell him.

'Howard,' he says. 'Howard Springbrook. I guess the question I have to ask myself is how practical will this little lady be just puttering around Chalfont St Giles?'

'Chalfont St Giles? I was up there just a few days ago,' I tell him. 'My guess is that it will certainly turn a few heads.'

And then Howard turns and looks at the Datsun.

'240Z,' I say. 'The first of Nissan's Z cars. Again it's had a total rebuild.'

He walks, slowly, around the car and, when he arrives at the driver's door, I open it. He doesn't need a second invitation and, moments later, he is sitting in the driver's seat, looking around the interior, nodding and smiling. And then, still sitting in the Datsun, he looks back at the Dino. 'I remember when the first Zs came out,' he tells me. 'I think everyone was a bit surprised at how good they were. You know. Japanese cars didn't have a great reputation back then.'

'That's fifty years ago,' I tell him. A bit before my time. But, yes, I gather the quality and the performance were both a bit of a surprise.'

'Hmm. Decisions, decisions,' he says. 'In my mind I was thinking Ferrari. But now I'm having second thoughts.'

Well, he's going to buy one of them, I tell myself. And if it's going to be his wife's puttering car, the Datsun might be the better choice. 'Switch it on and pop the bonnet,' I suggest.

Again, he doesn't hesitate.

The little Datsun's six-cylinder 2.4 litre engine breaks into a purr.

'Take it around the block,' I tell Howard. 'Probably a bit more traffic than Chalfont St Giles, but it'll give you an idea.'

'Yeah. Thank you,' he says. 'Oh... that's my Audi across the road. Am I likely to run foul of the parking wardens?'

'You should be OK,' I tell him. 'But leave me your keys. We'll keep an eye on it for you.'

'Thanks,' he says.

'Sale, Miss Jones,' I say to Gail as Howard nudges the Datsun out into the Saturday morning traffic.

'Has he bought it?' she says. 'Just like that?'

'Not quite. But he will.'

Howard returns about 20 minutes later.

'How was it?' I ask.

'Nice,' he says. 'But I think that Miranda is going to want a rather more up-to-date entertainment system. I'm not sure that she still has too many of her old cassette tapes.'

'We can sort something,' I tell him.

'In that case, we just need to talk about the price,' he says.

'Aww. And just when I was getting to like you,' I tell him. 'Let's go and find the paperwork.'

At least he has the good grace to laugh.

As it turns out, we have a pretty good Saturday. In addition to selling the 240Z to Howard, we also sell a Mini Cooper S to a chap who wants to recapture his youth, and we buy a BMW E36 series M3 Cabriolet that the owner has long since fallen out of love with.

'Well... it's going to need some work,' I tell him.

'Yeah. I know. But I'm ready to move on.'

Actually, the car just needs a bit of a tidy up. But, if he's ready to move on, who am I to stand in his way?

'Selling cars looks a lot more fun that selling houses,' Gail says, as we head back to my place at the end of the day.

'Does it?' I say. 'Yes. I suppose it's fun on a day like today. When everyone comes away feeling that they've had a win.'

'Are there days when people don't feel that they've had a win?'

'Mmm... possibly a few,' I tell her. 'Not many. In fact, not many at all.'

When we get home, Gail and I get out of our suits and into something a little more casual, and I find a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio.

'Just as a matter of interest,' Gail says, 'did you make money on both of those cars today?'

'Oh, yes. Probably not as much as you would have made from selling a couple of moderately expensive houses. But how often do you sell a couple of decent-priced houses in less than three hours? And we still have the M3. That should turn a handy margin.'

I have some langoustines in the freezer. I take them out; prep a loaf of garlic bread; and then prep a Greek(ish) salad (tomatoes, cucumbers, capsicum, red onions, feta, plump black olives, oregano, a slosh of red wine vinegar and some olive oil, salt and pepper). And then it is time to fire up the barbeque.

'Perhaps I should sell cars,' Gail says, as we sip our wine and wait for the grill to come up to temperature.

'Do you like cars?'

'Would I need to?'

'I think it helps,' I tell her. 'Do you like houses?'

'Not especially. Well... not the sort of houses that I normally get to sell, anyway.'

'Maybe that's the problem,' I say.

Gail frowns. But then she says: 'No. I think it's just the system. The attitude. The way you're supposed to see both the sellers and buyers as know-nothing mugs. The way you are supposed to mislead one or the other. Sometimes both. Sacrifice anything and everything in pursuit of the commission.'

'Perhaps you just picked the wrong agency,' I say.

'I think they're all, to a greater or lesser extent, a bit like that,' Gail says. 'It just seems to be the way that it works.'

It has finally reached the time of the year when the sun has moved around far enough -- and for long enough -- to warm the little patio, and so that is where we eat. The langoustines are succulent and the salad complements them perfectly.

'This is nice,' Gail says, gesturing with her hand to include both of us and the small garden.

'It is,' I say. And my brain starts having another argument with itself. One half is telling me that I'm just having a pleasant little supper with my younger cousin. Move along, folks. Nothing to see here. The other half is telling me that I'm having a hot date with a very sexy woman, a hot date that can only end in one way. I will need to be careful. I will need to be very careful.

'After spending a few days with you, I'm starting to wonder why everybody rushes to buy new cars,' Gail says. 'Whey don't we all just buy classic cars?'

I laugh. 'I think it depends on what you want from a car,' I say. 'Modern cars tend offer a lot more by way of creature comforts. And, on the whole, they are probably more reliable. But, that said, most of them lack soul. Well... I think so, anyway. I suppose it's a bit like buying a Georgian terrace house versus buying a new-build with all mod cons.'

Gail nods.

For the next hour or so, we sip our wine and talk about everything and nothing. And then we decide it is time to head inside. We gather up the dishes, take them inside, and load them into the dishwasher. And then Gail kisses me. 'You liked that,' my brain tells me. 'You liked it a lot.' My good intentions are melting faster than a block of ice on a hot griddle pan.

Gail smiles, as if she too has heard my brain. 'It's umm... a bit warm, isn't it,' she says. And, keeping her eyes firmly on mine, she crosses her arms and slowly removes her sweatshirt. 'There. Better.' I'm not sure whether 'better' is a question -- 'Is that better?' -- or a statement -- 'Yes, that's better'. And then she begins to unbutton her jeans. And, as she steps out of both her jeans and her knickers, she announces that it is now my turn. 'Perhaps I could give you a hand,' she suggests.

I am pleased that she makes no attempt to remove her bra. There is something -- I'm not sure what -- particularly sexy about a woman wearing just a bra. And then, almost before I know it, I am wearing just my polo shirt. We kiss again, and then Gail looks around the kitchen. 'Perhaps the table,' she says. 'I think that's about the right height.' And she perches herself on the edge and spreads her thighs. She is not wrong. The sturdy farmhouse table is

exactly

the right height. But first, I crouch down and go to work with my tongue.

'Oh, god, yes,' Gail says. 'That is one educated tongue you have.'

And then it is time for the main event. My cock has long since given up listening to the cautious part of my brain. I run my eager cockhead along the length of Gail's now-slick cuntal valley and then place it at the entrance to her wet and warm opening. 'Ready?' I say.

'Ready.'

'Are you sure?'

'Don't tease,' she says.

'I just wanted to make sure that you were sure,' I tell her.

But she isn't listening. She thrusts forward -- just an inch or so -- but it is all it takes to engulf my hovering cockhead. 'Oh, fuck, yes!' she says. She says it softly. But it is quite loud enough to drown out the censorious voice from the disapproving part of my brain. Thank goodness.