Work Text:
I can’t stop thinking about Cody:
His chocolate-brown eyes. Endless pools of decadence, like the deepest, snuggliest mug of cocoa, warming you from the inside out.
His sandy blond hair. The way it glimmers pure gold in the afternoon sunlight.
His crooked, gap-toothed grin, diamonds flashing every time his face lights up with laughter.
His sun-kissed nose, and round, glowing cheeks. Dotted with dimples. Dusted with cinnamon freckles. They trail down his neck and across his shoulders and along his arms and back up his legs and everywhere.
The plump curve of his backside.
His pert, pink nipples.
The way his dick would taste in my mouth. Sweet. Tender. Irresistible…
There’s just one problem:
Cody is my cousin.
Okay, okay—before you freak out—technically he’s my first cousin, once removed—whatever that means anyway. His mom is my cousin. But yeah… my cousin.
I know what you’re thinking. But c’mon, listen. He’s my cousin. Not my father or my brother. Just my cousin. That’s not that terrible, right? It’s legal in eighteen states. (Not my state—because I’ve checked—but you know, still, almost forty percent, which is basically half, which is pretty much a majority…) And actually, not even my cousin-cousin. (That’s legal in all but five, for what it’s worth…)
So yeah, I’m in love with my cousin. Big deal. Who cares? Who cares if I want to pet my cousin’s hair or kiss my cousin’s lips or suck my cousin’s dick or lick every inch of my cousin’s skin until I’ve forgotten the taste of anything but him…
Well…
Alright, I guess I lied.
There are two problems.
Cody isn’t just my cousin.
He’s my two-year-old cousin.
But—like I said, it’s once removed—and technically he’s turning three in a couple months, and—
Yeah…
I know what you’re thinking. You’ve instantly recoiled in disgust. If you haven’t already slammed the tab closed, you’re scrolling back up, blinking incredulously and asking yourself, The fuck did I just read?
Immediately you’re hurling slurs in your head, and probably out loud too. Grimacing as you spit at the screen, Pedo freak, oughta be locked up, or worse.
You don’t think I know? Trust me, I’ve heard it all before. I repeat it all to myself in the mirror—every. single. fucking. night.
Maybe I should back up. Start at the beginning.
I wasn’t always this way. Or, maybe I was, IDK. It’s kinda hard to know that you’re a P-word
when you’re only a kid yourself. Back in preschool I had a crush on my classmate’s two-year-old little brother, but I was only four, so everyone just thought it was fucking adorable.
I’m not really sure what changed. There was that funny uncle on my mom’s side—like, a genuinely funny uncle; he always made me laugh with his jokes. But also, I guess he was kind of a Trademark Funny Uncle too, because they were pretty dirty jokes, and he was usually telling them to me while I was sitting on his lap wearing only my panties… Anyway, my mom stopped talking to him a long time ago, and at some point he got into a drunk driving wreck and died. Oh well.
Then there was Pastor Kyle. He taught middle school youth group and was always checking in on me, like he knew that my brain was destined to be full of dirty thoughts. He said that if we both shared, we could hold each other accountable to God. He’d tell me about his struggles with porn and prostitutes, and I’d confess to him about learning to masturbate, and show him sometimes too, and then we’d pray for each other.
Or maybe my high school gym teacher. By that point I was starting to feel pretty weird. All my crushes were either guys fifteen years older than me or five years younger than me. I sucked at most subjects, and wasn’t even good at gym—how can you fail gym, for fuck’s sake?—so Mr. Dawson offered me extra credit to be his coach’s assistant for the younger grades. Corralling a bunch of rambunctious, stinky, obnoxious, hilarious, adorable, beautiful, perfect pre-teen boys as they scampered through the grass, glistened with sweat, and ripped off their shirts every chance they got—what could possibly go wrong? At least, thank god, Dawson didn’t seem to notice that I was always staring at his students; I think he was too busy staring at me…
Oh god, it’s the fucking pedo got diddled and became a pedo sob story roulette—except that she didn’t even get diddled enough for it to count—
Okay, too fucking far back. We’re going to ignore this whole On the Origin of Pedophilia tangent and just focus on the current problem:
Cody.
My cousin.
My two-year-old cousin.
Who I want to fuck. You know. In case you’d forgotten.
That problem.
Let’s try this:
I’ve never really been close to any of my cousins. Only one on my mom’s side, daughter of the aforementioned Funny Uncle™, and she’s incommunicado as far as I can tell. (Maybe she got diddled, too, and offed herself.) So it’s all my dad’s side; he’s got four siblings, so there’s about a dozen cousins. Half the time I can’t even remember their names. Most of them live at least a couple hours away, so we’ve only ever seen each other at holidays, like our annual Fourth of July family reunion. But I haven’t bothered going since I moved out on my own after college a few years back. Usually I’d just insta-delete their DMs, or if one of them really started bugging me, make up some excuse about being busy with work.
So, when Megan got pregnant, I didn’t pay much attention to that either. I tossed the baby shower invite the day it came and didn’t even keep track of when she was due.
But I still remember the day I met him.
I don’t know why I was even on Facebook that day. I only log on every once in a while, to clear out notifications. The family group chat was lit up like a firework, over a hundred messages on that glowing red flag dot. So I was like, what the hell; it’s not like I had anything better to do. I clicked it.
Nothing could have prepared me for what came next:
He was… the most beautiful little baby boy I’d ever seen!
The biggest, roundest brown eyes. Delicate wisps of hair. The pinkest, plumpest, chubbiest cheeks. Face-cheeks, and, uh… cheek-cheeks. Clad in just a diaper. His soft, smooth belly—so bulbous—peeking above the hem. His fat, squishy arms and legs, still all scrunched up. Only just home from the hospital days ago.
Instantly I knew: I was in love.
After that, well… you might say that things escalated pretty quickly.
I started checking Messenger more often. At first, I tried to limit myself to once a week. Then, every other day. Then, just once a day. Then… I just… stopped bothering to keep track.
Thankfully, Megan seems as obsessed with sharing pics as I am with looking at them. Constant daily updates, with every milestone you can imagine—first smile, first laugh, first binky, first bottle, first word, first tooth (first kiss, first handjob, first blowjob, god, I want to be all his firsts so badly…)
Cody’s been growing so fast. The weeks turn into months and before I know it he’s already one, then on his way to two, and only becoming more irresistible with each passing day.
When it started, I promised myself that I’d only look, at least while I actually had the pics up. (The images were so vividly imprinted in my mind that it didn’t matter anyway; later, in bed, I’d conjure them up, one after another, after another, after…)
But one day Megan posts him, I shit you not, completely butt (emphasis on the butt) naked. Lying flat on his belly, his petite cherubic cheeks in full view. I mean, c’mon?! What do you expect me to do?
I almost came instantly, and it took me only seconds after thrusting my hand down my pants to finish.
From here on out, I’ve been hopping on Facebook one-handed every night, jerking off to every single one of Cody’s latest precious pics.
Yeah… I know, okay. Like I said, trust me, you don’t have to tell me twice.
But, also, like, I mean it’s not like it’s porn-porn. (And yes, I know, I said the same thing about the technically-not-cousin-cousin thing.) It’s not like I’m hunting the dark web with a VPN. It’s right there on fucking Facebook!
Still, I feel awful.
But not enough to stop.
Every night I watch as Cody sucks on his binkies and bottles—and, a couple times, even Megan’s tits—imagining his wet little mouth and pink little tongue on me instead. So slick and slobbery and starting to bud with teeth.
Meanwhile Megan’s posting bath time. Pool time. Toddling naked around the house and yard time. Can you blame me, really? The little guy’s a fucking exhibitionist in training.
So that’s where I am: infatuated with my two-year-old cousin and wanking to his not quite cheese pizza Facebook pics every night; how’s your life going? Is anyone even still reading this?
Oh hey—who cares! A new notification—looks like another photoshoot just dropped. Let’s check it out.
Holy shit! I’ve struck fucking gold.
Megan’s message is titled Potty Training Progress
, littered with a bunch of toilet and smiling poo and sparkling heart emojis.
And there’s Cody, my perfect little angel. Sitting on the big boy toilet! Pants on the floor below his feet. His bare legs dangling and swinging.
The camera’s at a high angle, and he’s leaning forward, looking up at it, so his oversized shirt covers his waist and obscures most of his crotch. But I can just picture it, his adorable little dick nestled between his legs, soft and tiny. I rub my fingers together and can feel it between them, like I’m rolling it in my hand.
God, I want nothing more than for him to sit on my face underneath him like that toilet. I’d take that small, succulent morsel in my mouth and taste and lick and suck forever. He could even go then and there, right in my mouth, and I’d drink him completely dry. I want to bury my face in his crotch and between his velvety butt cheeks and smell the soft baby powder. To nuzzle that round under-curve of his belly and kiss and tickle it till he giggles.
Fuck, I can’t wait any longer. I slip my hand into my panties, finding myself already soaked. My clit’s so swollen up, it’s practically the size of Cody’s perfect little cock, and throbs as my fingers brush against it. Wouldn’t that just be incredible, sandwiching his tiny body between my legs, pressing his crotch up against mine, grinding our micro dicks together. I’d make us both feel so good, slicking us both up with my cum, cradling his warm belly against mine, rocking, and rolling, and riding, until—
Fuck! I’m coming already, gasping out, “Oh, Cody! Baby boy!” as the orgasm surges through me. I keep on stroking myself as the sensitivity peaks, then gradually ebbs away, then bring my fingers to my mouth and suck, imagining my thumb is Cody’s delectable, diminutive dick. He tastes so good.
For a few golden moments, absolute bliss.
Then, the waves of shame rush in. God, I am one sick freak. Masturbating to my not-quite-three-year-old cousin’s potty training photo. What the literal fuck is wrong with me?
Truly, I wish I knew.
So far, though, I haven’t figured any of it out. Neither the reason for nor a solution to my problem, ahem, problems.
But hey, Megan’s posted, two, four, six, eight, looks like about a dozen more angles from today. If I keep investigating, something is bound to come to me eventually. So, I scroll down.
Then I slip my hand back into my panties—and get to work.