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It was with no little relief that I unlocked and removed the restraintthat had been my (almost) constant companion for weeks. Unlike thepanties I had previously been used to wearing, the ones chosen for metoday had no pouch into which to tuck away my limp cock. I did my best tominimise the lump, but there was no mistaking what I was packing, modestin size though it may have been. Clearly, this was another part of methat was meant to be on display.Finally, I slipped into a striking pair of pumps. They were pink, with ablack lace motif and the kind of 6-inch heels on which I had now becomeso accustomed to walking.I inspected myself in the mirror. With slightly heavier makeup than usualand striking red lipstick, my raven tresses left to tumble freely down myback, and the wispy lingerie concealing so little, I looked ready to stepout on the catwalk at a Victoria's Secret show.Despite the butterflies in my tummy, I smiled at the reflection. Whateverelse had been done to me at the Ceder. 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.
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