Libby

After she died, I thought about this a lot. She was the first and as is usual with these youthful relationships she stayed with me and still does, truth be told. I don't wish this to seem maudlin but it will I'm sure. No one else now knows.
She was my first cousin and that worried both of us. It was taboo and so concerned were we that we looked up the various words in a dictionary. We poured through such concepts as incest and taboo and searched our souls as much as the printed page for guidance. We could not tell anyone, obviously. They would stop us. Refuse us. We would not see each other. We could not speak of this, not even really to each other until she emigrated and we could use the right words in our monthly missives.
It was 1966 and I was 14 she was 13. It was in an abandoned large car, rusted and stinking. It was not the first time it had happened in this car. You could tell. The car was on an old branch railway, closed by the government two years earlier and now overgrown and secret. We had gone there with another girl, younger than us who we soon sent packing. This younger girl wished to stay but we knew what was happening and so she left, crying.
We sat opposite each other on the sprung and bursting seats. We played kiss, command or dare to start. What happened was inevitable, but our poor depravity could not perceive a beginning. How do you start? What do you do to love?
We thought our noses and our teeth would bang together and of course they did. She dared me to kiss her and use my tongue. I moved gingerly across the smooth front of her small teeth. I dared her to tell me what girls feel when they feel sexy. She said they felt a tightness and it became wet. She commanded me to rub her back. I did and felt the cool edge of a small breast, under her arm. I asked, did not command, for her to show me her pants. She said they were transparent but only if you stretched them. I asked again for her to do that. I could not see anything but red panties

She said show me the bulge in your underpants first. I was ashamed at the small wet stain on the front. She said unexpectedly that she loved me and would let me touch her. She pulled her red pants to one side and I saw the darkness of her cleft and the smoothness of her young pubic hair. I saw the fluffy blonde hairs mingled with the dark. I saw the darker line that seemed to fall from top to bottom. I looked at the creased v joining her legs and was surprised at the way the hairs curled and complicated themselves. I saw that she was as wet as I was. I knew, always that I would love this moment for the rest of my life.
Taught as wire, I reached across and moved the back of my index finger up the softness. She sighed. When I moved it down again my nail caught and I saw the pale skin at the edge of the cleft pucker. She caught her breath. I apologised for my clumsiness. I dribbled from the corner of my mouth and other places.
I felt the warmth, no, heat emanating from her. I felt the slickness and the softness. I could smell the sex and sweat but did not know where it came. Her mouth opened and her curled tongue moved quickly in and out. A snake breathing I wanted to kiss it.
I could see the muscles in her stomach clench and float intermittently.
My prick was out of my pants and I could feel pain in two places. One where the elastic of my underpants cut into the suddenly and unexpectedly muscular underside and another where my foreskin had pulled itself back to release the engorged head. This I saw was dripping a clear fluid onto the gusset of her pants. This worried me. If someone saw the inevitable stain would they know? If her mother picked up the pants on washday, would she realise?
Pushing these unworthy thoughts aside I moved closer to kiss the still moving mouth. She moved down to help me. I was surprised as suddenly the tip of my penis felt enclosed. With an urgency I felt was bursting from me I pushed against the barrier felt at the tip. She gasped, in pain or in ecstasy, I knew not and cared less. And I was lost.
From my centre I burst out in a shuddering, gasping mess. Crying, weeping and shouting my wonderful guilt to the heavens. Or at least to the rotten brown roof of the car.
It was a while before I realised that I was still thrusting, in and out, methodically, like a robot. My prick was flaccid, uninterested, ugly. I moved it up and down inside her cleft. Becoming slowly aware that the end was burning, dry. The end of my disgusting appendage was brown with caked blood. It was causing pain, to both of us apparently, so I stopped. More for me than her.
She pulled me forward onto her buds and I slept, exhausted.

No one did find out and when she emigrated she wrote. She told me that there was no one else and never would be. She died when she was 50 of cancer. Cancer of the small budding tip that I had caressed so briefly once. She wrote to tell me she loved me just before the end and did not mind that I had found happiness with my second wife. She said she lived the life she wanted. She died miles away from family and me and I died with her.