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My First Pearl Necklace

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My first pearl necklace was given to me by my cousin. I know, weird.

We met at a family reunion that was being held at a huge hotel in our city. There were like, 30 family reunions going on that same week, so when a cute guy who approached me in one of the hotel boutiques, I didn’t think anything of it.

He was a little over six feet, dark-skinned with a shaved head, and he looked like a thicker version of Tupac, complete with long, curly eyelashes.

I saw him staring at me through the glass. Brothers say I’m thicker than a snicker: an exquisite DD rack, waist that curves in, round hips and thick, curvy legs. They also like my naturally long hair and dark chocolate complection.

He caught me coming out of Atelier with a bag on my arm and asked me out to lunch. We had mad chemistry. He was a real estate agent who had played football. I’d just gotten my liberal arts degree and was still unemployed. But we liked the same music and shared a similarly cynical sense of humor.

He struggled to keep eye contact, but his gaze kept falling to the top of my plump, luscious cleavage peeking out of my top. I let it slide because he was so cute, I knew before he asked that I’d go out with him again.

It wasn’t until the next night that we realized we were related, when we saw each other at the banquet–but by then, of course, the seeds were sown.

We lived on opposite sides of the same big city and started dating, but we didn’t call it that. We called it getting to know a new cousin. One night he came by my apartment with a sci-fi movie and a huge bottle of sınırsız escort wine. We watched it and talked late into the night. By the time we started yawning, I genuinely worried about him getting on the road.

I told him he could just sleep on the pullout couch. But we kept talking, and eventually I fell asleep on the pullout with him. Naturally as we slept, we ended up spooning.

It started innocent enough. Though he knew I wanted him and I knew he wanted me, we could pretend that being related was enough to keep us apart. But the couch became a “thing.”

Our dates turned into a tease game that kept escalating. He’d come over to see me dressed in a tube top and little shorts, we’d watch a movie all cuddled up, fall asleep and wake up to find him wedged rock-hard behind me.

Each time we went a little further: his hands cupping my breasts as he pretended to snore, me grinding around on his cock pretending to be moving in my sleep. I was so wet for him.

One night, he plucked my nipples till I came hard, and he damn near fucked me through my little cotton shorts. We couldn’t pretend anymore that we had been asleep or innocent.

I decided to get back at him for making me cum, violating our unspoken agreement, by keeping him hard all night. The next time he came to sleep over, I was in a tank top and panties.

We didn’t even pretend to watch a movie that night. Straight to bed, no pretense of sleep or ‘accidental’ touches. We went right to it, kissing for the first time and grabbing onto each other and doing everything taksim escort we’d wanted to do since we met.

Right up until he tried to push his cock inside of me. I did the hip twist every good Catholic schoolgirl knows and he slid between my pussy lips to bump my clit instead. It felt so good. My legs fell open, and he went for it again, and I parried again. We were seriously wrestling: He was trying to pin my hands over my head and I was trying to throw him off my lower body.

The air between us was steaming. We were quietly, desperately fighting, and it was a huge turn-on. Suddenly the full import of what we were doing hit me. I jumped off the couch and locked myself in the guest bedroom to get some distance and clear my mind.

He knocked on the door, pleading with me to come out. He said he would stop if I just came back to lay down. We didn’t have to go any further. He vacated the couch and laid in my bed.

I didn’t believe him at all, and for once stopped deluding myself too. When I came out to rejoin him, I knew exactly what was coming. We had been stalling this train for more than 6 weeks, and my cousin had damn near become an obsession for me. I peeled off my panties and tank top and climbed under the bedsheet beside him, not surprised to find him already naked.

He licked and sucked my tits until I was desperate for him. I later learned he had a real tit fetish, one of the reasons he was so drawn to me.

We wanted it so badly, but neither of us had condoms and I told him I wasn’t having any 2-headed babies. tesettürlü escort So he climbed up over me and straddled my chest. I thought he wanted me to suck him off, so I opened my mouth.

Instead, he grabbed a handful of each breast and started plowing my cleavage. Each time his dick popped out of the top of my tits, it thumped me on my lips and chin. So I opened wide and tasted his tip every time I could. This really drove him over the edge. He fucked my tits so fast it was hard to keep a grip on them.

When his back suddenly humped and he let out a whine, I opened my mouth wide to receive everything. But he kept his cock wrapped up tight between my boobs. Hot white jizz spurted over one breast, then the other, then a third blast got my face.

He lurched over and forced his dick down my throat for the last strong spray, and I pressed my nose to his groin and swallowed everything he had left. It was so hot and salty; the thought that it was my cousin’s cum coating my face and chest pushed me to orgasm.

The pattern painted across my chest was beautiful; I wanted to take a picture but I was too timid to ask him to do it. I was afraid someone else would see the picture and learn what we’d been up to.

We kept fucking in secret for about a year, then stopped when we both got in serious relationships. That was over 10 years ago, and we’ve visited each other with my boyfriends, his girlfriends, or just us alone numerous times.

Strangely enough, this past Thanksgiving was the first time since back then that we acknowledged what went on between us. He doesn’t like to call it incest but I don’t mind; he tried to say something about still being in love with me but I didn’t let him finish.

That’s the kind of thing people say when they’re lonely, or haven’t had any in a while. Me, I don’t have those problems, and I’m content with the memory.

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