Every few years I fulfill the obligation of visiting my father's side of my extended family, who live in another city in a distant part of the country. I use the word "obligation" because it's more of a chore than a holiday.
Don't get me wrong, I don't hate that side of the family; but I'm glad that they live so far away.
Although my cousins all grew up living near each other, my parents moved back to my mother's hometown before I was born, so my siblings and I don't see our cousins very often. The physical distance seems to have encourage a personal distance, because apart from genetics, I have very little in common with any of them — my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins are like aliens to me.
Sometimes they visited us, but rarely the entire cohort, so it usually fell to our side of the family to visit them. Because finances were always bit tight, it was rare for my entire family to make the trip. My mother usually stayed at home because she and my father's family didn't really get on well (although Dad always felt miserable after seeing them too). We could generally only afford for one child to go with dad, unless we had saved up for a family holiday.
This particular time, it was me who drew the short straw. As both the eldest child and the only one in university, my summer holidays were long enough to make travelling for a couple of weeks feasible.
Dad and I were staying with his brother Larry and sister-in-law Harriet, and their children Sienna, Poppy and Simon. Uncle Larry and Aunt Harriet were quite wealthy, and that seemed to have spoiled their children, especially the youngest, my cousin Simon.
Of the three, I liked Sienna the best, because she was smart and bookish, and we got on because we had the most in common. She was a few years older than me, around twenty-seven at this time, and in contrast to her parents, she tended to think before she spoke. Unfortunately Sienna was studying overseas during our visit.
Simon I liked the least, because he was an annoying, spoiled brat who seemed incapable of being quiet for longer than it takes to draw a breath. He was the youngest of all our cousins, at fifteen, not including my younger siblings.
Poppy was the middle child, twenty-three and just three years older than me. I hadn't managed to form much of an opinion about Poppy. She was quiet, like her older sister, but seemed more interested in fashion than studying. I didn't hold this against her, but it made it difficult for me to have a meaningful, or even interesting, conversation with her.
On the other hand, Poppy was attractive. She had long blonde hair; a smooth, glowing complexion; big, bright green eyes; and thick lips that glistened from her seemingly permanent lip gloss. Although somewhat overweight, this made her breasts look like two melons hanging from her chest, and I confess that I have always been drawn to women with ample figures, especially when it means a luscious bottom and thick thighs.
Incest has never been a particularly problematic idea for me. My friend Adrianna found the concept abhorrent when we discussed it a few years earlier. While I wasn't put off by the idea of first cousins, she was disgusted by even the thought of her third cousins. However, Adrianna came from a large but tight-knit Italian family, leading me to believe that incest becomes less of a taboo when families, like mine, aren't close.
It was still weird the first time I masturbated while thinking about Poppy. I remember feeling conflicted between my sense of morality and the eroticism of the taboo, eventually giving in to my urges. After the first time, it became significantly less weird and Poppy appeared regularly in my "rotation".
The day after we arrived at Uncle Larry's, I awoke in the upstairs guest bedroom at about eleven o'clock in the morning and wandered down the stairs to find the house empty. In the kitchen I found a note that read:
"Didn't want to wake you after the long journey. We've all gone out to see Larry and Harriet's café, then to a few of my old haunts. There's plenty of food, and they say to make yourself at home. We'll be back in time for dinner. Love, dad."
This was a stroke of good fortune — I had been dreading the visit, but found myself alone in the big house. They wouldn't be home for about six or seven hours, and I'd have some peace and quiet.
After I'd fixed myself some breakfast — or brunch, given it was so late — I decided to give myself a tour of the house to refresh my memory. Without my aunt and uncle bragging about the paintings or the size of their televisions, it wouldn't take me long to reorient myself.
It had been about ten years since I'd stayed there, and all that seemed to have changed was the addition of a balcony around the upper floor.
Downstairs was the kitchen/dining area, where I ate breakfast. A door led from the kitchen to the garage, and on the other side of the stairs was my aunt and uncle's bedroom, as well as a bathroom and broom closet. There was a living room down there too, with a projection screen and a large collection of films. A door in the living room led to my uncle's den.
Upstairs was a second living room, with a large television to which was attached Simon's collection of consoles, which had received an upgrade since my last visit. My aunt and uncle's home office was up there, which had been converted to a bedroom for dad, and there were four bedrooms — one for each of the children and a guest — and another bathroom.
This was palatial compared to the three-bedroom house I shared with my parents and three siblings.
Oh yes, and from upstairs I spotted the pool in the backyard.
It being summer and the weather being fine, I decided to go for a swim. I changed into my swimming trunks and headed for the pool. The water was cool and refreshing, and I swam a few laps. That is, I tried to swim a few laps; we didn't have a pool ourselves, and there wasn't much money for lessons, so I wasn't a particularly strong swimmer.
Nevertheless, splashing around in the pool on my own without Simon's competitiveness was a fun treat.
When I was done, I dried off and wrapped the towel around myself before heading back inside. I walked up the stairs and went straight for the shower to clean off any contaminants from the pool. I'd had just enough experience swimming to know that was a good idea.
I think most young men are, especially if they live with their parents or siblings, are habitual shower masturbators. It's one of the few places where you're certain to be given privacy at least once a day, and no one can hear any indicative sounds over the noise of the water.
As I pulled down my trunks, my hand went instinctively to my penis and I began to stroke myself in preparation. Years of practice taught me it was most efficient and least suspicious to be hard before starting the water.
I quickly realised what I was doing and how unnecessary it was. I could shower as long as I wanted. I didn't even need to shower to do this. I could stand in the middle of either living room and do it if I wanted.
It was then that I realised the full potential.
I wrapped the towel around myself, more out of habit than anything else, and went back out into the upstairs living room. The room to the left of the bathroom was Poppy's.
Turning the handle, I entered Poppy's bedroom. The room was furnished with a double bed, a dresser, wardrobe, and bedside table.
I checked the dresser first, and hit a small jackpot. In the third drawer were her bras and panties. I carefully felt through them, taking care not to disturb their positions too much in case Poppy noticed.
Then I spotted them. A black bra with padded satin cups big enough to hold a cantaloupe each. I stroked the material between my fingers, imagining the cups were full with Poppy's breasts. My penis twitched.
I pulled the drawer out further, scanning the contents. Aha! Matching black panties. I twisted the gusset in my fingers. I tried to imagine Poppy in nothing but the bra and panties, and my penis strained against the towel.
My snooping expedition wasn't over yet, however. I found nothing else of interest in her other drawers or wardrobe, except for a mermaid costume that I had seen her wearing in pictures and had found quite fetching on her. Poppy's bedside table was similarly devoid of anything interesting, except for a photo of her showing off her impressive cleavage.
I took the photo from the bedside table and put it on the dresser, so I could see it at a better height. I opened up her third drawer again and took out the black bra and panty set, putting both items on top of the dresser.
This'll have to do, I thought.
***
After tugging myself off in Poppy's room while looking at her picture and underwear, I put everything back how it was and cleaned up, then went for a shower.
I still had a few hours to kill, so I watched television and played games until the others got home.
I felt a bit guilty about what I'd done when confronted with sharing the dinner table with the rest of the family, and with Poppy sitting opposite me, but I pushed it out of my mind. Someone once told me that if it stays in your head, it's okay. Poppy was attractive and us being related didn't change that, I reasoned. If we'd grown up closer together, maybe I'd be less attracted to her. Fantasising about fucking your cousin is not the same as actually fucking your cousin, and it was purely between me and my conscience.
***
The next day we planned to go to the beach. Although Simon irritated me, it was fortunate that Poppy had work. The sight of her in a bikini could prompt an awkward reaction from me. Aunt Harriet had decided to stay home and our other cousins couldn't make it, so it was just Uncle Larry, Simon, dad and myself.
Swimming in the sea always made me a little uncomfortable due to a traumatising incident involving jellyfish when I was a child, but I had largely overcome this. Simon was his usual self, showing off and demanding attention. He could swim much better than me, and was insufferable about it. I was twenty, and he was fifteen, but he acted like he was about a third that age, while I felt closer to thirty.
Simon reminded me of Dudley Dursley from the Harry Potter books, but not as fat. Simon was, in fact, quite fit. But the comparison was otherwise apt: he always had to have the best, the latest, and the most expensive, and he threw a tantrum when he didn't get it.
The scene of a teenager complaining that someone else has a bigger ice cream cone than you is funny, unless you're the one with the bigger ice cream cone.
"IT'S NOT FAIR! HIS IS BIGGER!" Simon whined.
"Simon, we'll get you another one," Uncle Larry said, trying to placate his son.
"I WANT THAT ONE!"
Simon pointed at my ice cream cone. To be fair, Simon wasn't wrong. My scoop did look a little bigger, but that may have been something to do with me saying "please" when ordering.
"You want this one?" I asked, before Uncle Larry could come up with another mollifying reply.
"YES!"
"Well, here you go."
I held the ice cream cone out, and Simon eagerly rushed forward. My arm moved up as he approached and I pushed the ice cream into his face.
In hindsight, it wasn't the most diplomatic move. As the adult, I probably should have handled the situation better, but if the consequence was no longer being welcome at Uncle Larry's, I wouldn't have considered that a downside.
The car ride back to the house was quiet. Uncle Larry had helped Simon wipe the ice cream off his face, but neither appreciated me pointing out that now, at least, Simon had in fact had the biggest ice cream cone.
When we arrived, I said I wasn't hungry and would retire to my room early. I wasn't tired, but nor was I in the mood for the chatter — or worse, awkward silence — of dinner. Instead, I lay on my bed and read.
About an hour later there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," I answered.
I was surprised that Poppy entered. I was expecting that dad would be there, asking me to decide whether to apologise to Simon or go home. Dad is not a demanding person, so he would never implore me to apologise, but he'd state the options clearly.
Poppy was carrying a tray, on which I could see a plate of various meats and salads, a glass of cola, and a bowl of chocolate moose.
"We thought you might be hungry," she explained.
"Thanks. I am actually."
She put the plate down on my bedside table as I got myself into an upright position.
"You're welcome."
"Did you make this?" I asked, tucking into dinner.
"Yes," Poppy said. "Well, most of it. Mum did the potato salad."
"It's delicious."
She smiled.
"Um," she began. "I wanted to say that I heard what you did to Simon."
"Ah," I said. "Yeah ..."
"He's upset, but it's funny. He deserved it."
I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
"Yeah, he can be a bit of a brat sometimes," she continued.
"Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one who feels that way."
I continued on my dinner, expecting her to keep up the conversation. After I realised she wasn't talking, I broke the silence.
"Oh, you can go back to dinner, if you like," I said. "No need to wait for me to finish. I might be a while."
"Um," she started, closing the door. "There was something else."
"Yeah?"
"Um, yeah. Can I sit down?"
"Sure."
Poppy sat on the edge of the bed. I felt the other edge lift up a bit under her weight.
"This is a bit awkward," she continued. "But when I got dressed this morning, I noticed a ... stain ... on one of my bras."
I almost choked. Shit. I must have missed that.
"Oh?" I said, feigning ignorance.
"Yeah. Um, the black one."
I could feel my face starting to burn, and knew it must have flushed red. Poppy would surely notice.
"It's okay. I won't tell anyone. But I'd obviously prefer it if you didn't go through my stuff, and didn't ... you know ... over my ..."
