May 30, 1961 - Dear Diary

I walked with Margaret earlier this evening along the old path leading back to the gravel pit. It's the same moment's mirthful amusement for me as I glance toward my cousin who attired as she is appears absolutely ludicrous on a wooded path in the middle of nowhere. Her dress is of a sort which I suppose is perfectly suited to the office in which she works, is form fitting and revealing to every blatant extreme. It's something which a movie star, Marilyn Monroe perhaps, might wear. And Margaret's appearance just renders her even more out of place in her present surroundings. She's still at thirty four years of age a very attractive woman, the same sand blonde hair, her features showing nothing more than subtle hints of her age. Tall, her figure is mature though voluptuously so. If in a particularly vain and lascivious mood, I suppose I can admit that there isn't now a great deal of difference between her figure and mine, I at twenty seven years of age - mature to those with can only be called voluptuously full and broad extremes. And with that, I glanced another moment's curious fascination toward a cousin who has always been something of an idol to me, Margaret an hourglass feminine ideal to extremes which simply aren't quite explainable. She stumbles on a jagged pebble and it still appears something I can only call a dance of poised, alluring beauty, Margaret with every step she takes exuding exaggerated feminine allure as though she's simply incapable of less.

"Lynn -" pouting annoyance in her voice this evening.

"Oh come on - just a little further -" and I wrapped a demanding hand onto her own, dragged her along. It's that same strange mix of sighing protest and resigned, abandoned delight in her eyes as she falls obediently into step. I suppose I'll never entirely understand how she and I could have fallen so violently, passionately in love with each other. Margaret and her husband visit for a day or two every several months, Martin making the bar rounds with old high school friends. Margaret stepping from the car gazes toward the house and the remnants of the old barns wondering how anyone could be content still living here in the middle of nowhere. She'll pass her time sprawled on a couch in the living room, my mother and father sighing amused affection as Margaret sighs in boredom waiting for me to get home from school.

"Margaret, come on - a little further," my voice pleading insistence as I dragged her along. "It's a beautiful evening. You will, as soon as we get back to the house, flop down on the couch wishing you had something to do."

"I suppose -" she pouted, a curious glance about the wood. "Lord, it's been years since I've been way back here. Where does this road go to anyway?"

"I'm not sure," I answered in chuckling amusement. "All the way to the river, I suppose, or at least it used to. The road just disappears after awhile now," and I edged, I suspect, eyes awash with musing intrigue toward hers. "That's what you and I must do, Margaret, just keep walking, disappear forever into the forest."

"Oh -?" wondering delight in her eyes, the embrace of her hand to mine intimate, caressing warmth for an adventurous little fantasy we've lived often enough over the years.

"We are, Margaret, just two nameless creatures of the forest who will wander about as they will. We won't even wear clothes, haven't ever worn clothes, will find a nest somewhere at night."

"Oh, but Lynn - it's still too cold -" Margaret glancing toward patches of crusty snow still laying here and there about the wood. "How will we live -

"We'll do fine. It will be summer soon enough. We'll worry about winter again when it comes."

"But me - in the woods -?"

I glanced toward knowing intrigue in her eyes, she for another several paces performing an exceptionally liscivious little dance. It's all part of the adventure, she belonging in an office at a typewriter, she an exceptionally inexpert typist quite aware that her bosses couldn't care less about her typing abilities. She can pass most of her time sitting at her desk doing her nails, yawns in boredom, dances in writhing display every so often toward the coffee pot knowing that a ludicrously restricting dress is being ripped away by a half dozen pairs of devouring eyes. In the evening, she belongs within four civilized, genteel walls with a drink in hand - and I glanced again in wondering fascination toward a Margaret so misplaced in the midst of our primeval, uncivilized wilderness. She, of course, is a helpless, demurring captive glancing toward the barbarian dragging her by the hand into some untamed forest from antiquity, she pouting, protesting - the same giddy delight in her eyes as I wrap a capturing, demanding hand onto her own, drag her along.

I'm not quite certain why her appearance is such an intriguing part of the adventure. Undressing her as I settled her into my room yesterday morning, she writhing from an impossibly clinging dress which can't be shed without performing a writhing little dance, I hadn't had the least doubt that my love for her was still some frantic passion laying in the honest depths of my heart. I saw the same mix of annoyance and pleading in her eyes as she demanded to know how I could possibly be content still living in the middle of nowhere. It had then in our bedroom a few minutes after she had arrived from the city been the liscivious little ceremony it's been any number of times over the past few years. She'd found excuses to wander from one side of the room to the other for another several minutes attired in undergarments which weren't anything more than teasing facade, stood at a mirror with hairbrush in hand, another comment on the weather and a glance over her shoulder just to be certain that she wasn't mistaking anything in a younger cousin's eyes. And I hadn't had to feign a thing, simply see Margaret as feminine beauty and allure which I can only call curving and voluptuous to every mature though ideal extreme. If in the same vain and liscivious little mood, I can yet again admit that there isn't now a great deal of obvious difference between her figure and mine. In an exceptionally liscivious mood, I can admit that "mine" are every bit as large as "hers," bounce with the same exaggerated fury. I'm that which Margaret is, broad to those which can only be called every mature and voluptuously curving extreme. And still, the thing is something a world more than just the numbers, Margaret standing at the mirror with hairbrush in hand - I giving up entirely, running devouring eyes up and down her body. I might for another timeless instant feel nothing less than some seething little envy for feminine curves which are an inexplicable, alluring ideal, Margaret's eyes with another glance over her shoulder awash with anything from gratitude to vain, reeling delight for hopeless envy in my own. "Still attractive, Lynn-?" she'll finally chuckle in amused mirth, she and I dispensing with pretense entirely for another moment, she with hairbrush in hand dancing for me without the least pretense. "Margaret - you're still - absolutely impossible -" I'll answer in chuckling amusement - and will even then allow myself a final, timeless little glance. I haven't again the least doubt that I love her with as violent a passion as any I've ever known, will perhaps in musing amusement wonder why. It's all in part that which it was when Margaret was still living at home, I gazing adoring worship toward my older cousin, resting in contented bliss as she pulled me into her arms for the night. She and I today couldn't in some ways be a great deal more different, she urbane, at home in the midst of civilized, crystal opulence, I plain, unadorned, a grade school teacher in the middle of nowhere contentedly resigned to my fate. And I glanced again toward Margaret standing naked in front of the mirror, moments of the sort culminating, knowing intimacy between us. I'm glancing toward a Margaret who is once more "mine" for at least the next several days, she radiantly happy to be so even as I drag her a helpless captive along the path back toward the gravel pit a half dozen times over the next several days. It's in the end just a fact, I suppose, that my Margaret dancing naked with hairbrush in hand in front of the mirror is still tall, hourglass beauty and allure which I see as a feminine ideal to every voluptuously curving extreme - knowing, radiant delight in her eyes as she dances for me.

"Lynn - I hate you -" she pouted this evening as she stumbled over another tree branch fallen across our wooded path.

"Another few minutes," I sighed as I dragged her on.

"You're so cruel to me."

"Of course I am, Margaret," I chuckled. "Besides, I've told you, we're never going back. We're going on and on into the forest forever."

"Oh yes, I forgot," she sighed and chuckled. "Well I need a cigarette first."

I lit one myself, sat with her on another tree branch fallen across the path.

"Lynn -?" the same genuine, almost frantic concern for me in her features.

"Margaret - what would I do in the city?"

"Anything, Lynn. What possible attraction is there to staying here -"

"Margaret, I'm - happy enough. Besides, Margaret -?" gentle question in my voice.

"Oh, Martin and I are as content with each other as we've ever been. I suppose I was just bored, went back to work for something to do - missed having gawking eyes planted on my ass every time I walk to the coffee pot -" and so it went for another several minutes, nothing of any great profundity whatsoever, she and I both proclaiming ourselves content with life as it was for us.

"A little further -" I insisted when we'd finished our cigarettes.

"Lynn, you're an absolute - dominatrix -"

"Am I?" barbaric vehemence in my eyes as I crushed a hand about hers, that same mix of annoyance and giddy delight in her eyes as I dragged her along. It's in part that which it might have been when a fourteen year old girl had grasped an older cousin's hand and dragged her about, a bored Margaret deciding she hadn't anything else to do at the moment anyway, deciding an hour or two with a girl who idolized her might be amusing - she an hour later not quite certain how she had become an utterly helpless captive to a fourteen year old girl of forceful, determined personality. I suppose I'll never entirely understand it all myself, glanced again this evening toward a thirty four year old woman who in any other circumstances is poised, commanding self assurance. Martin and the boys, I might almost have chuckled aloud, will proclaim Margaret august, imperial self assurance, Martin for the next several days reveling in liberated delight knowing that Margaret belongs to me. And I crushed an owning hand onto hers this evening deciding on another quarter mile or so. I glanced again in wondering, amused intrigue, I suppose, toward a woman with whom I was passionately, violently in love, no other words seeming enough. And I'm in love with her just as she is, Margaret possessed of all manner of ordinary human fault, Martin and the boys eminently able and willing to testify to said eminently observable fact. It's all, however, something even more than this. I led her along wooded paths back by the gravel pit, and she as I did so mine, I immersed in a contented little warmth that I once more had my Margaret at my side. The embrace of my hand to hers is indeed owning, demanding intimacy - and something pounding into the depths of my heart for that in Margaret's eyes which she makes no attempt to hide. She protests again that I'm a cruel dominatrix - and a glance between us enough. She's fallen as passionately in love with me as I have with her, might no more than I do entirely understand why. She flings her eyes to the crush of my hand about hers, knows that she hasn't any choice, is utterly helpless to the force of my will - and shudders in contented delight.

"We're never going back, Margaret -" I repeated, perhaps an edge of amused mirth in my voice, perhaps something a great deal more. "We're vanishing into the forest, just you and me, forever."

"But Lynn - I don't want to. I want to go home -"

"No you don't. You want to be with me."

"Oh, you're so cruel to me."

I chuckled in amused mirth, decided as quickly that I was in the mood for familiar and culminating mischief.

"Oh Lynn - no - not this evening -" her voice giggling protest as I drew my hands to her neck, to the catches on her dress. We were, I yet again decided as I pushed the clothing from her body, to be nothing more than two nameless creatures of some wild and untamed forest, even clothing belonging to some other existence forever left behind. I pushed my own clothing away, Margaret and I reveling in juvenile abandon as we stepped naked along the banks of the stream swollen into a noisy, rushing torrent by spring runoff, she and I giggling in wicked mischief knowing the thing become the sensual little ecstasy it always was.

And it's the same wondering intrigue for me, is still that which it had been so many years before, Margaret glancing over her shoulder just to be certain that her younger cousin gazed swooning adoration toward an idol. I stood this evening beside our noisy, rushing stream watching her dance across pebbles a few steps away. Even as she stumbles, it yet again seems a constant dance of feminine beauty and allure to every not quite explicable extreme. I can't now, I suppose, help but notice the obvious, haven't for the past several years now bothered with a great deal of pretense whatsoever. I haven't even in culminating moments of the sort the least doubt that my Margaret is the one person in the world who I love with an emotional ferocity seeming limitless. And I just gazed in something close to spellbound fascination toward my Margaret who is still tall, hourglass beauty to every impossible extreme. She is today that which I yet again decide I must call mature. Giving myself up to little less than liscivious gawking, I see Margaret as fuller, rounder - and absolutely perfectly so, her curves those which can only be called a voluptuous feminine ideal. It might for another amusing moment or two be the same seething little envy as I realize I'm mistaking absolutely nothing. Walking arm in arm with Margaret in town, I'll yet again decide that there isn't now a great deal of difference between our figures - and will nod pleasantries toward young men my own age who notice me only from a distracted corner of their eyes. Young men my own age are gawking in a shuddering stupor toward that which I yet again must decide isn't quite explicable, Margaret with every step she takes raw, blinding feminine allure to extremes which can only be called impossible. I stood another moment and another timeless, gawking little eternity beside our secret forest stream, Margaret and I just two creatures existing alone in primeval, otherworldly seclusion - and she dancing for me without the least pretense, wicked, vain delight in a flash of her eyes toward mine. And it's nothing more yet nothing less than wicked, resigned amusement in my own eyes. She's quite aware that I've given up entirely, have fixed blatant devouring eyes on "them," I as she danced for me gazing intrigued fascination toward motion which is feminine beauty and allure to every full and ideal extreme. She turned away from me, danced another few paces along the banks of the stream, knows with a glance over her shoulder that it's culminating, liscivious abandon between us. It's the word "ass" yet again spoken with that wicked little glance over her shoulder. And it's yet again not quite explicable, her curves those which I can only call broad and round feminine allure, the same impossible, absolute ideal.

And it was, just this evening, something a world more than the juvenile mischief it's been between Margaret and me often enough in the past. It's something a world more than just wicked, knowing mischief in that which has now become for us our secluded, otherworldly forest in which she and I exist alone, she and I simply creatures of that forest who've never worn clothing in all their lives. I hadn't even then the least doubt that my love for my Margaret was all of the gentle affection it's always been, hadn't the least doubt that my love for her was honest emotional violence residing in every corner of my heart. And with all of that, it seemed again just this evening supremely personal intimacies inescapable and irrevocable.

We wandered hand in hand another short distance along our noisy, rushing stream, edged our way over pebbles strewn about its banks, had settled into quiet, pondering moods - and edged eyes awash with culminating, wicked mischief toward each other's knowing it become for both of us as intensely sexual an abandon as any either of us have ever known. Margaret and I have known for years that we were both given to sexual appetites which seemed at times ludicrously ravenous. We'd stumbled any number of times onto each other at supremely inopportune moments, had caught each other succumbing to the primal, basic wants of our bodies. And my cousin Margaret and I ten minutes later could lean toward each other in giggling, whispering intimacy even for such supremely personal matters. I might at times have thought myself a uniquely, ludicrously ravenous creature, forever giving myself up to the want of my body seeming so constant and demanding - until I'd edged curious eyes toward Margaret's she if anything even more ravenous than I was. She was, she explained, content with Martin, still felt at least a passing affection for him. He and she had long since, however, decided that they were both content to occupy separate bedrooms. I'd sighed, chuckled, crushed my hand about hers speaking again my love for her - and had sometimes for at least the past several years now allowed myself all manner of wicked little fantasies, wondered if Margaret ever allowed herself the same.

And I wandered with her along the banks of our rushing forest stream the moment yet again something I can only call consumating, she and I walking at each other's sides our hands crushed onto each other's in finished, violent embrace. It would, I suppose, have been as sensual an abandon had I wandered naked by myself through this wood. And with that, it yet again seems something I've never before known in quite the same way - the crush of her hand onto my own leaving me immersed in as enveloping and reeling a warmth as any I could imagine.

It is, I suppose, supremely personal intimacies yet again seeming inescapable, almost irrevocable. I still, on occasion, will accept some young man's invitation to the drive-in, might even allow him a kiss or two. I might even allow myself a moment's musing fantasy - and it just doesn't work, is as often as not nothing more than a moment's mirthful amusement. And so I return home - and wait for the one person with whom I am violently, passionately in love to visit for a day or two. I'll walk with my cousin Margaret up to our bedroom, she and I perhaps pretending for a few minutes as we unpack the suitcases, talk about the weather. I'll inquire after Martin and the boys. Margaret with smiling mischief in her features might bother to ask if any young man has finally caught my fancy. And the suitcases unpacked and various manner of ceremony dispensed with, we'll press another kiss to each other's cheeks, stand another moment our hands crushed onto each other's with frantic violence - and the thing for another timeless eternity that which it's been for years now. I just can't remember a time when I haven't been passionately - painfully in love with her. Her visits are my life, she and I perhaps to spend a morning strolling along the sidewalks in town, the afternoon back in the woods reveling in wicked, juvenile mischief. Martin on Sunday morning comatose from Saturday night's revelries, Margaret and I will walk to church together. After mass, we'll stand on the lawns as long as anyone else in pleasant, idle banter, Margaret eager for the latest gossip. I might for moments almost convince myself that Margaret and I aren't so different than anyone else.

"Oh honestly - look at her, will you," Margaret will groan as she gazes blatant scrutiny. "She hasn't changed since high school. How dare she -"

And yet - just this morning - I stood with Margaret in her bedroom after I'd helped her to writhe from one of her ludicrously clinging dresses - and the moment supremely personal intimacies simply inescapable. I haven't the least doubt that my love for her is genuine emotional passion residing in every honest corner of my heart.

Helping her change her dress, I'll decide it nothing more than the knowing, liscivious mischief it's always been between us, she and I just two exceptionally vain creatures who can comment on "them" in blatant, unabashed delight. "Mine," she'll declare despite my giggling protest to the contrary, are all of the perfect feminine beauty which hers are. I'll stand at her shoulders pushing her dress away her dance for me all manner writhing contortions, a wicked little flash of her eyes over her shoulder - and I'll stand with her in our bedroom the thing in another bizare moment simply that which it is. I might even then tell myself that I'm just helping her change her dress, might tell myself that a woman might indeed see another woman as nothing less than entrancing beauty and allure - and Margaret as I help her writhe from her dress of course deciding that the perfect moment for liscivious, outright bawdy mischief.

"Oh Lynn - that's so - exciting -" she'll croon for the touch of my hands which can't be a great deal less than caressing intimacy.

"Margaret - honestly -" I'll sigh and chuckle as she writhes for me,

I standing a hand to her shoulder helping her undress - and a moment's liscivious imagining seeming incomprehensibly timeless. I haven't even in that moment the least doubt that my love for my Margaret is honest, heartfelt emotion. And I'll answer the liscivious little question in her eyes quite as I always have, a wicked flash of my eyes toward hers in order to inform that it is indeed "her ass" toward which I'm gawking - and I'll finish undressing her flinging devouring eyes to feminine curves which are some impossibly voluptuous, alluring ideal, have for another half moment and another incomprehensibly timeless eternity given myself up to every manner of liscivious little fantasy. I've wrenched an owning arm about her waist, have slammed her body onto my own, have flung groping, devouring hands to curves which are mine to caress, to search and explore in wild, frantic love making. We give up entirely, she and I flinging ourselves onto the bed, she finally mine to devour with my hands.

Oh God - stop, I'll finally demand of myself having yet again allowed myself a moment's and a timeless little eternity's imagining to every consumating extreme. I'll finish helping her undress - and simply admit, I suppose, that I'm romantically in love with another woman, always have been in love with my Margaret. I'll admit supreme little intimacies, haven't finally any choice but to do so. It might have been nothing more than a moment's fanciful imagining, a moment's caressing touch of my hands helping her to undress - and I'll stand at her shoulders my body fallen into an aroused want built to a threatening edge, a sexual want sometimes become a flooding, pounding ache desparate for relief.

And it's been for at least the past year now something incomparably more - was just this morning something ultimately more.

"Thank you, Lynn," she chuckled for my assistance, and she even as she leaned toward the bed for the other dress darting a flash of her eyes toward mine, passing another moment and another timeless little eternity examining the dress she's holding in her hands - she even then dancing for me, her dance now perhaps nothing more than a subtle little twist of her body. And yet she's standing at the edge of the bed now wearing nothing more than a bit of flimsy, entirely transparent pretense - and she quite aware that I'm violently in love with her, she just as aware that I'm about to fling her onto the bed, rip a bit of flimsy pretense from her body, devour every inch of her. The whole thing hadn't, just this morning, been a great deal less than blatant love making from the start. I'd pushed my own dress away as soon as we'd closed the bedroom's door, blatant, unabashed mischief in Margaret's eyes asking me to help her with her dress. I'll never quite know why familiar mischief just this morning suddenly seemed so much more than that.

"I suppose this one will do," she decided, glanced toward the dress she held, glanced for my opinion - the thing that which it's been for at least the past year now, the thing just this morning yet again something I can only call consumating, knowing intimacy between us. It's for moments a sweet, reeling ecstasy knowing that my Margaret with whom I'm so passionately, painfully - romantically in love has fallen as desperately in love with me. And it's any number of times for at least the past year now been every last intimacy spoken between us, was the same again this morning.

"Lynn - help me dress -" she tried, edged her eyes again to mine - and it's the want of my body built to that same finished, threatening edge knowing that the one person in the world with whom I can fall in love has all along felt for me everything I've felt for her. It's that helpless, endless fall from a precipice as she and I flung every last pretense aside, edged our eyes toward each other's - stood our breasts heaving in breathless fury knowing that it's our bodies fallen together into the same primal, aching want.

"Margaret -" I finally tried myself, not quite certain what I had meant to say - and I stood in a reeling, dizzying oblivion for that which had been her name gasped in frantic, pleading whisper.

And it's yet again a wash of raw, falling sensation for her answer, is emotion hammering into every corner of my heart even as it's every last secret between us flung aside. I stood another dizzying, confused moment knowing that I had mistaken everything, knowing that she must gasp in startled affront for such abandoned presumption on my part.

And it yet again seemed some impossible, otherworldly dream, the woman with whom I was so desperately in love letting the dress fall from her hands, my Margaret for that in my voice which had been a gasped plea obediently and frantically falling a half pace forward. It all seemed the matter of one more sudden and timeless instant come from nowhere, my arms flung about her waist, her body finally mine to wrench onto my own with unfeigned, wanting violence.

It's yet again a moment's reeling confusion. We've countless times over the years stood locked in each other's arms, our lips crushed onto each other's cheeks without caution or restraint. My Margaret and I have countless times stood frantic little eternities in each other's arms just listening to the pounding of each other's hearts, she and I knowing our love for each other something of limitless ferocity. And I stood with her next to the bed this morning finally allowing myself all of the rest, that which I now just couldn't deny had been there all along. I'd pushed my own dress away as soon as we'd closed the bedroom's door, had as I'd done so perhaps admitted in not quite dared corners of my mind that my doing so was something more than a matter of practical necessity. I had as I'd pushed Margaret's dress away admitted in corners of my mind that my touch was caressing, that I longed to fling every last pretense away - and I stood in that seeming another dazed instant folding her body onto my own, her lips finally so close to mine, the swirl of her breath about my lips a blissful ecstasy. I stood my arms drawn about her waist with wrenching violence. It might almost have been another timeless instant's bizare, reeling mirth, the obvious now eminently and inescapably so. I'm wearing next to nothing, am crushing a woman wearing nothing but a bit flimsy pretense into my arms. Neither Margaret nor I are inordinately large or anything of the sort. We're both, however, that which can only be called the feminine ideal to every round and full extreme. It can't, for Margaret and me, be anything less than blatantly obvious - and the thing just this morning everything I had known it would be in all manner of long cherished fantasy, the crush of her breasts to my own all of the warm, maddening ecstasy I had always known it would be did she and I ever fling pretense aside entirely. And as quickly, it's all something a world more, the ultimate intimacies yet again inescapable. I stood my eyes buried to hers - and yet it's the naked warmth of her body which has become my entire existence. It's our eyes buried to each other's - and yet she and I knowing it's the primal want of our bodies become our entire existence.

It's yet again a bizare half instant's confused pause. I've wrenched her body onto my own with wanting, demanding violence, had supposed for a confused, timeless moment that it couldn't be so different that it's been often enough in the past. And it seems again a reeling, impossible dream, that same timeless instant come from nowhere - I flinging frantic, searching hands up and down her body. It must have been that in my eyes which appeared a raw, wanton frenzy, I even in that maniacal moment knowing that it was my Margaret who I had wrenched into my arms with frantic violence, my sweet Margaret who I love with every beat of my heart. And yet - it was my Margaret whose body I had wrenched into my arms, her body finally mine to devour with my hands. It was nothing less than some raw and liscivious abandon, pretense flung away entirely, I finally crushing frenzied, searching hands from her waist onto curves which are the round and broad feminine ideal, my Margaret maddening beauty and allure to every impossible extreme.

I flung my eyes again to hers, will never really know why I did so immersed in a timeless instant's reeling panic. I flung my eyes to hers denial now impossible, saw that in her eyes which was indeed a moment's startled fright, I as soon as I'd pushed her dress to the floor slamming her body onto my own, the thing blatant and liscivious to every possible extreme. It's the round, maddening curves of her ass onto which I've flung a frantic, groping hand, a gasp of raw, wanton ecstasy exploding from my throat - I finally awakening, flinging panicked eyes to that in hers which must now be aghast affront.

And it seemed in that same timeless instant something I could never quite have imagined. It's her eyes indeed awash with startled fright, her eyes flung to my hands and caresses which were frantic, devouring abandon, her nails dug onto my arms and a final trembling gasp exploding from her throat as she flung her eyes back to mine. It's a timeless half instant, confused, reeling panic. And it's yet again that impossible, blinding dream for that which was indeed a raging fury in her eyes - and she crushing her mouth onto my own, burying her mouth to mine in writhing, devouring want. It was yet again timeless, reeling oblivion, my Margaret and I in a single instant seeming come from nowhere abandoning ourselves to that which we simply knew was the most intimate way to kiss, she and I searching each other, burying ourselves into each other's warmth with frantic, devouring want. It was finally my every sweet and cherished fantasy realized, was all of the raw, dizzying ecstasy I had known it would be - her maddening beauty yet again mine to search with caresses of wild, unrestrained abandon. It was all as quickly just something incomparably more, she knowing that I want her hands on my body, her caresses wild, unrestrained, all of the searching, exploring intimacy I had wanted.

And still, it was finally even in the midst of that oblivion some awakening, perfectly lucid clarity. We'd stood just moment's ago at the edge of the bed seeing in each other's eyes little more than the wicked, knowing mischief we'd always seen, she and I both outrageously excitable creatures, she and I both eminently aware that my helping her to undress was little less than teasing, caressing lovemaking. We'd both for moments seen the ultimate in each other's eyes, that which has been true for at least the past several years now, Margaret and I quite aware that no other words were enough - she and I passionately, painfully, romantically in love with each other. We've passed another month counting the days, have lived our lives in resigned routine waiting only for the weekend when we could be together again. We'd wandered into our bedroom immersed in a giddy little ecstasy that we finally were together again, knew it a joyous little ecstasy just to be close to each other once again. We both, however, even as we gave ourselves up to all manner of liscivious little fantasy, had finally urged ourselves toward reasoning calm. And even if I just couldn't any longing deny or escape the obvious, the person with whom I was so painfully in love another woman, I'd decided a moment's mirthful amusement might be calming. My Margaret, I'd decided to remind myself, was my first cousin.

And yet - it seems in another timeless moment come from nowhere ludicrous that it hadn't happened countless times in the past. It's perfectly lucid clarity, she and I both women - and it's simply everything I had known it would be, all of the reeling ecstasy I had for so long now imagined it must be. We stood wrenching each other's bodies into an embrace of crushing violence, our kisses something I can only call wanting desparation. We forced each other's mouths open, simply can't kiss each other enough. We have to search each other, with our lips, with our tongues, have to bury ourselves again into each other's warmth in writhing, frenzied want. It might yet again for timeless moments be some bizare, reeling mirth, that which I can only call so inescapably obvious - and she and I flinging our hands to each other's breasts, our caresses searching, fondling, gasps of primal abandon wrenched from our throats as we tore clothe from each other's bodies, she and I just reveling in finished, unfeigned delight for that which is so obvious. It's strange and confusing for another timeless moment. Neither Margaret nor I are that which anyone would call small in any sense of the word - and yet we're entwined in an embrace which is unfeigned, frantic lovemaking, her waist as I wrenched her body onto my own suddenly seeming ludicrously small, the obvious yet again so glaring and inescapable. And with that, it's nothing less than culminating, liscivious delight, she and I abandoning ourselves to our every secret little want, she and I pushing the last shred of clothing from each other's bodies - she and I flinging our hands from each other's waists to caresses of fondling, groping intimacy. It's yet again everything I could ever have imagined it would be, yet again some bizare, perfectly lucid clarity. She's my sweet, beautiful Margaret, and yet she's broad, curving feminine allure, some impossible, inexplicable ideal, the thing a dizzying, blinding ecstasy she finally mine to devour without caution or restraint.

And it was, just this morning, finally and again supremely personal intimacies which are inescapable. I've known what sexual desire is for a very long time now. I, at seven years of age when Margaret was still living at home, had any number of times stumbled onto my fourteen year old cousin at "supremely inopportune moments," had stolen toward the edge of the bed glancing a moment's curious amusement. "What are you doing, cousin Margaret -?" I'd several times asked with accusing mischief in my features, she opening startled eyes, chasing me from the bedroom. I'd noticed ten years later, Margaret returning home for a weekend every other month or so, that she and Martin exchanged little more than a curt word or two, Martin as often as not disappearing for the rest of the weekend. In swooning ecstasy that my adored idle was home again at least for the weekend, I'd yet again wandered into our bedroom one evening at an unexpected moment - the moment something I can only call awakening and consumating.

I'd fallen back onto the wall next to the door - the thing for me in a bizare moment a flooding, pounding ache of a ferocity I had never before known. I stood in transfixed, dazed oblivion, my beautiful Margaret naked, a hand pressed to a touch of frantic, caressing intimacy, the writhing, heaving motions of her body leaving me standing my own body immersed in a wash of raw sensation I could never before have imagined. I'd finally edged my way back into the hallway - and it had yet again seemed a single, consumating moment come from nowhere. A touch which before that evening might have been a moment's strange little fun was something incomparably more, perhaps a half moment's fright for the helpless, flooding want of my body which just wasn't stopping. I'll never quite know why another imagining glance toward my Margaret was enough, the fright gone - and the thing finally my body fallen into something which I'd known from the start was pleasure, was hammering, pounding pleasure wrenching quiet though helpless, gasping screams from my throat.

I was violently, passionately in love with my Margaret - and decided countless times over the next few years that I must allow myself a moment's introspective pause. I accepted as many invitations to such as the drive-in as any young woman my age, felt at least a pleasant little intrigue in the company of some handsome young man. And I settled into bed at night pretense and denial useless, a half moment's idle imagining sometimes enough. I was certainly, I'd sighed some evenings, the most ludicrously excitable creature who had ever lived, and most evenings as I gave myself up to the sexual wants of my body bothered with no pretense or denial whatsoever. It was simply something a world more than the juvenile infatuation I might at one time have supposed it. l lived only for those weekends when she and I would finally be together again - and our weekends together for at least the past several years now something I can only call unifying, knowing intimacy. It always happened at least once, sometimes ten minutes after she had stepped from the car, I helping her to unpack and change her dress - and the thing for me swooning, dizzying ecstasy she hiding absolutely nothing from me, she finally fallen as passionately, painfully, romantically in love with me as I had with her. And most of those weekends were every last intimacy spoken between us. It might be nothing less than brazen and unabashed mischief, she as I helped her undress commenting on some "underground club" in the city into which she and girlfriends had stumbled, a club, she informed me with unabashed, wicked mischief in her eyes, catering to female clientele of "eccentric tastes." Sighing, chuckling, I decided after another teasing embrace of our eyes that we'd both for at least the past several years known that we were romantically in love with each other, no other words enough. And most of our weekends together were supremely personal intimacies spoken with a consumating embrace of our eyes, she and I perhaps pretending that I was just helping her with her dress - and she and I knowing it was nothing less than lovemaking between us already. We couldn't sometimes quite dare each other's eyes for another moment or two - and it was something built to a finished, threatening edge, the want of my body a pounding, maddening ache knowing that it was the same for my Margaret.

Stop - I suspect we've both demanded of ourselves countless times over the past several years, Margaret and I both retreating from that threatening, maddening little edge - until just this morning - the thing some sudden immersion in raw, blinding sensation when I realized we just weren't stopping this time. We'd edged our eyes toward each other's quite as we had countless times in the past, she and I quite aware that we had yet again worked ourselves into a finished, aroused want - and our eyes this morning finally met and locked, she and I standing a moment and a dizzying, timeless eternity knowing we just weren't going to stop this time - the thing in a timeless, culminating instant an immersing wash of raw, liquid warmth.

It's everything I could ever have imagined it would be, is sweet, dizzying ecstasy for our mouths buried onto each other's in frantic, devouring want. It's finally my every secret, most intimate want come true, she and I naked, my beautiful, maddening Margaret mine to slam without caution or restraint into my arms, her body warm, voluptuous beauty and allure finally mine to devour with my hands. I'll never really know if I allowed myself the least pause whatsoever, the thing a maniacal, frenzied oblivion - perhaps timeless half instants of awakening lucidity.

It was all that which I suppose it had to be. I had indeed, slamming her into my arms, seen a half instant's startled, very genuine fright in her eyes, the thing for Margaret genuinely more than she had anticipated. It might for that half instant have been something of that which our otherworldly forest adventures had so often been, my helpless, impossibly voluptuous beauty as I dragged her along declaring me "a barbarian -" and she and I as usual playing our liscivious little games to every blatant extreme. I had, as Margaret and I wandered naked along the banks of our otherworldly forest stream, performed quite as many dances for her as she had for me, and my helpless, voluptuous beauty gazing toward a captor who was an inch taller than her, a few pounds heavier, solid and firm rather than voluptuous. She remembers that taunting challenges to a fourteen year old girl had been exercises in futility, she no match whatsoever for a fourteen year old girl who could wrestle her onto the ground in a half moment. She for the past several years now along our secret, forest paths had edged eyes awash with giddy delight toward a captor's hand wrapped with crushing ferocity about her own - and she and I living our imagining adventures to every finished extreme. "No - you can't go home. Your mine now, Margaret -" and I'd decided this was the time, I just to lead my Margaret on forever, culminating, swooning delight and nothing less than an edge of very real fright in her eyes for that in my own which was probably maniacal and barbaric to every possible extreme.

I wrapped her into my arms just this morning with frantic, desparate violence, buried my mouth onto hers with abandoned, devouring violence. I'll never know how long it all lasted. I simply couldn't tire of it all, must run frenzied searching hands up and down her body forever. I knew in some clouded corner of my mind that I had flung myself into something which was abandon to every ludicrous and maniacal extreme, knew again that it was nothing less than frightening for Margaret, knew that I must allow her at least a half moment's pause. And it might again almost have been an instant’s dizzying, reeling mirth, was as quickly the same blinding ecstasy for an arm wrenched with brutal violence about my neck until I’d yet again flung caution away entirely, buried my mouth onto hers in unrestrained, devouring want.

And yet it had, in the end, to be that which it’s always been, she and I knowing it become something from which we must retreat, she and I finally admitting that which was simply inescapable and obvious - and she and I even in the midst of a dazed, reeling oblivion playing the liscivious little games we've always played.

"Lynn - we have to stop -" her voice a shuddering whisper - and my maddening, voluptuous beauty dancing for me, a writhing twist of her body as she attempts to escape a frenzied barbarian's capturing arms. It is indeed nothing more than a questioning twist of her body - my helpless, demurring captive, I decided in another timeless moment's abandoned imagining, mine to fling onto the bed, mine to ravish.

Stop - the word shooting into dazed corners of my mind. Stop, I’d cried to myself - and will never know why I bothered.

It was yet again something more than she had genuinely anticipated, something now incomparably more, was that which it yet again had to be. It once more seemed that single instant come from nowhere. I'll never remember the next moment or two, might have heard a gasp of very real fright exploding from her throat as I wrestled her onto the bed. I'd slammed my body atop hers, she my maddening hourglass beauty, my helpless, demurring captive who I had so often led along our otherworldly forest paths. And finally, she was mine to devour with kisses of wild, burying want. I knew in some distant, clouded corner of my mind that that her struggles to escape me were at least for another timeless moment frantic, flailing desparation to the limits of her strength - and it was yet again that which it had to be, she a civilized, helpless beauty no match against me whatsoever. It's yet again my every long cherished want come true, she maddening, agonizing beauty and allure, she finally mine to search and explore with kisses and caresses of unrestrained abandon. I knew even then in those dazed and reeling corners of my mind that she was my sweet Margaret, my Margaret who I loved, adored. And yet it was her breasts I now had to search with my lips and my hands, she feminine beauty and allure I had to devour, the writhing, flailing struggles of her body just some new, maddening delight. She was my Margaret even as I crushed brutal hands onto her waist, and yet it's culminating, dizzying abandon, her body unclothed, mine to wrestle about as I wished, her warm naked beauty stirring in me a raging, violent desire I could never have imagined possible. It's yet again nothing less than a raw and liscivious delight, she my Margaret and yet it's the maddening, alluring curves of her ass onto which I've dug fondling, groping hands, she round, voluptuous allure to every maddening extreme. She struggled finally in helpless, finished desparation, her body arching and flailing with wild, frantic violence - gasps of raw ecstasy wrenched from my throat for her body mine to attack, to devour without caution or restraint.

I'll never quite know why I finally heard her screams in something more than a distant corner of my mind.

"Lynn -" a final, primal scream exploding from her throat.

I flung my eyes to hers.

Oh God - the thing confused, reeling terror. She had indeed flung herself again to the limits of her strength - and I'd locking cruel hands onto her wrists, slammed her body back onto the bed with brutal violence, slammed my body again onto hers.

"Lynn -" she screamed - and I waited for angry, furious outrage. "Lynn - I wanna fuck -"

It's yet again timeless in ways I could never before have imagined, she opening her eyes, flinging her eyes to mine - in order to see why I had stopped.

"Lynn -" she finally gasped again, perhaps another moment's confusion in her eyes - everything from mirth to abandoned pleading in her eyes as she flung clawing, biting hands onto my arms. "Oh God, Lynn - I want to. I want to so badly. I have for so long now -"

I buried my eyes to hers, another moment or another impossible, timeless eternity. I lay indeed entirely naked, I finally realized with at least something close to awakening, lucid clarity, lay my body sprawled atop hers, my hands clawed onto her wrists. I'd flung her onto her bed, mauled her. I buried my eyes to hers - finally dared believe that it was her eyes wide and awash with wild, ecstatic delight.

"Lynn -" her voice a frantic, pleading gasp, "oh Lynn - I knew - I knew it would happen - just like this. I've waited for so long - and now - finally -"

It's always something I could never quite have imagined. We've finally spoken the words aloud. And haven't we been lovers for at least the past year now anyway? Haven't we both known all along? She'd just minutes ago as we climbed the stairs worn blatant, unabashed mischief in her features asking me to help her change her dress - and I standing at her shoulders my every secret, most cherished dream yet again come true as I unfastened her dress' shoulder straps, a hand to her waist as I helped push her dress away - her body mine to search and explore with my hands. I tell myself the entire time that I'm just helping her undress - and it's some maddening little ecstasy knowing that she's dancing for me, writhing in abandoned fury for the caressing touch of my hands, she knowing that I'm gazing in transfixed oblivion toward feminine beauty and allure which for me is some impossible, inexplicable ideal. I'd pushed her dress to her waist, pushed it finally to the floor - had stood another moment and another dizzying, timeless eternity the thing nothing less than bawdy, lascivious abandon. It was, I might for a half instant have told myself, just a matter of necessity that I must lay a caressing hand onto her hips, she even in that culminating moment my sweet Margaret - and yet it's the maddening curves of her ass which I'm now devouring with my eyes, voluptuous curves onto which I must throw frantic, devouring hands.

Haven't, I asked myself again, we been each other's lovers for at least the past year now? We had, as soon as she'd stepped from the car yesterday morning, crushed the breath from each other's lungs. It had yet again seemed painful years rather than just a month's separation. We'd crushed frantic, devouring kisses to each other's cheeks, had stood for timeless eternities just fallen into each other's eyes. She was for moments the radiantly beautiful teenager who led a seven year old girl about by the hand sometimes for an entire day, who a few years later just before she left to be married held that girl to her heart for an hour, a girl who was crying in terrified anguish, not quite certain how life could be possibly without her cousin Margaret. She was the Margaret who a few years after that stood herself in despairing, disillusioned anguish, the roles finally reversed, I crushing her with frantic violence to my heart, telling her that I had always loved her, would never stop loving her. I had that day stepped toward Martin with angry fury in my eyes, he standing in cowering silence before a girl of forceful, determined character, shuddering for the likely consequences did he ever again hit Margaret - and she that day standing in obedient quiet in my arms, I not quite certain that I could allow her to return home with Martin, allowing her to do so in settling amusement only when she assured me that Martin trembled in ashen faced terror at just the mention of my name.

And I'd crushed her into my arms at the car's door just yesterday morning every reasoning resolution I'd made to myself gone in an instant. She's mine, the words crashing into every corner of my mind. I've long since given up pretense and denial, held the woman with whom I had always been painfully in love in my arms - and the thing in that same instant exactly that which I might have anticipated. We couldn't even wait a half minute before we started playing our liscivious little games.

"Margaret -" I'd gasped in mirthful rebuke for the hand she'd crushed onto my own, my voluptuous beauty sliding my hand from her waist onto her hips - my Margaret satisfied only when it was raw, barbaric vehemence in my eyes for a helpless, demurring captive in my arms.

I'd helped her unpack and undress yesterday morning, she and I as usual seeing blatant, unabashed mischief in each other's eyes, she and I knowing that we had, five minutes after we'd climbed the stairs, flung ourselves into that which was nothing less than teasing, caressing lovemaking. I'd wandered back upstairs a few minutes later, had fallen toward the bedroom's door not quite certain why I was doing so, not quite daring to admit that I knew exactly why I was doing so. I'd stolen quietly toward the door deciding almost in mirthful amusement that she might indeed be napping.

And I'd stood yesterday morning the thing a wash of dizzying, reeling sensation, emotion pounding with culminating violence into every corner of my heart even as it was my body fallen into aching, aroused want. It might almost have been another timeless half instant's mirthful amusement, she laying naked on the bed, she still "doing it" the same way I do it myself. I'll never quite know why it was all something so much more yesterday morning than the amused intrigue it had been in the past. I'd stood yesterday morning doubt long since gone, my body aching for relief knowing that the hands she pushed to her breasts in caresses of fondling intimacy were mine. She ran her hands the length of her body, quiet though helpless, primal gasps wrenched from her throat as she writhed for her body immersed in a building pleasure desparate for something more. She pushed her caresses to finished intimacy - and it was just yesterday morning something incomparably more for me than it's ever been in the past, something I can only call unifying knowing that it's something for her which it just couldn't have been with any other fantasy lover but me. I'd stood another half moment and another incomprehensible, timeless eternity knowing that it was she and I our bodies entwined in naked, searing warmth, her body mine to search with my hands, her maddening, voluptuous beauty mine to devour with my caresses - her body finally mine in the ultimate act of intimacy. She's writhing in building desparation, her breasts heaving with culminating violence. She's gasping the only words which are enough - Lynn - fuck me - and I stood next to the door not quite certain what was happening. And it was, in yet another bizare and incomprehensible moment something I'll never entirely understand, could never before the moment have imagined possible. I flung my eyes again to my sweet, beautiful Margaret laying naked on her bed, quiet screams now wrenched from her throat for her body finally engulfed in the throes of obvious and powerful release - and it's my own body immersed in the throes of something which just won't stop, a sexual release which is pounding, hammering ferocity to extremes I could only believe were impossible.

I'd finally fled yesterday morning back downstairs, sat over coffee at the kitchen table another dazed little eternity waiting for something at least close to lucid calm.

Oh God, I'd finally whispered - a very genuine and frantic prayer. It was time I came to my senses. Yes, I was passionately, desperately in love with her. I just couldn't remember a time when I hadn't been. And I certainly couldn't deny that I was probably as sexually ravenous a creature as any who had ever existed, couldn't finally deny the ultimate. A half moment's distracted glance toward her is sometimes enough, my body fallen into an aroused want for her which can seem nothing less than a painful ache desparate for relief.

And I sat in the kitchen searching again for settling, reasoning calm. I'm a teacher in a Catholic grade school, certainly capable of surviving another day in a reasonable manner. I sat finally in something close to an amused calm - turned my thought toward Father Andy who teaches in the classroom next to my own. Confession, I supposed, would be the amusement Andy always made it for me. And still, I'd ask him questions I've asked for almost a year now. We love each other - would it really be so wrong? Andy searches for answers to my question with gentle, honest sympathy in his features - and will as often as not decide on irreverent, "insider" amusement. Father Andy will inform me that Margaret and I are first cousins, an impediment which he's not certain can be dispensed.

Behave - I'd just demanded of myself at the kitchen table over coffee.

And it seemed just this morning another bizare and sudden instant come from nowhere, every resolution toward reasonable behavior collapsed as I helped her undress - my caresses teasing, pleading, frantic - until it was my every long cherished hope and want come true, she and I finally flinging pretense aside entirely.

I flung my eyes again to hers this morning - that which I suspect was despairing apology in my eyes. I'd flung her onto the bed, her warm, naked beauty at last mine to devour in frantic, unrestrained abandon.

And it was yet again something I'll never entirely understand, that same slam of emotion pounding to the edges of my being for her hands wrenched onto my arms with clawing violence.

"Don't you dare, Lynn," she gasped - an edge of nothing less than characteristic, wicked mirth settling into her features. "Oh Lynn, don't you dare say you're sorry. Oh Lynn - I'll tell myself that I'm going to behave now too - and you know that in another hour I'll find some way to entice you back in here, maybe try the mirror again, stand naked in front of it with my hairbrush. Oh God Lynn - maybe I'll say it right out loud next time. Damn it, Lynn - come on - toss me onto the bed - ravish me -"

It's a gasped chuckle wrenched from my throat - and we rested at each other's sides our hands crushed onto each other's arms, the bite of her nails onto mine my existence.

"Lynn -" a pleading whisper, "I - I just can't help it either. I'm - I'm in love with you - and - sometimes - all you have to do is look at me - it's - it's so bad that it hurts -"

It's yet something I can only call unifying, she and I finally speaking every last secret. I can't again quite dare believe that I hadn't flung myself precipitously into something which had been startling and unexpected for her. And it's yet again nothing less than knowing, wicked mischief in her features, something as quickly a world more, her voice a frantic, pleading whisper.

"Lynn - remember when I first started coming home again a few years after I was married - we'd sleep together just as we did when we were children - and you wouldn't stop no matter how many times I told you to -?"

"I remember -" I whispered, a soft, gasped chuckle as we lay our hearts pounding with hammering violence. I was sixteen, in transports of ecstasy for my beautiful Margaret home again at least for a day or two. I'd wrenched her with desparate violence into my arms even after we'd settled together into bed, wasn't going to allow her to leave again, crushed frantic kisses to her cheeks - had wondered why she'd sometimes chuckled a sheepish "now stop it" and made me sleep on my own side of the bed quite as she had so often in the past. I had on more than a few occasions simply refused to stop it, had waited until her back was turned to me, had known that she would protest another moment or two as I wrenched my arms around her, curled her body back onto my own. I'd crushed my lips onto her neck, she perhaps writhing for escape another half moment, giving up, laying a docile captive in my arms. She was my adored, beautiful idol who I would lead away forever into some otherworldly forest, my mood as often as not blatant, liscivious abandon, my Margaret mine to fondle and caress - I sometimes wondering as I crushed her body to my mine with owning desparation why her breath had become explosive gasps.

"Margaret - oh Margaret -" I whispered, the bite of her nails onto my arms as we lay on the bed this morning my entire existence. It's yet again almost a strange, necessary little process, I flinging eyes awash with despairing remorse and apology to hers - and she simply not allowing it, wicked, unabashed mischief in her own eyes, frantic pleading a moment later.

"Oh Lynn - I needed your arms around me. You know I did. I was so lonely, so in despair. I'll never claim that it wasn't as much my fault as it was his. We were both just too young, hadn't any idea what love was - what marriage was. It was a relief for both of us when we decided separate bedrooms the only answer. And then I decided to be a girl again, at least for a day or two every month if I could manage it, even if I had to be a girl who - who'd never felt anything except in the arms of her younger cousin, a girl who sometimes felt - too much in her younger cousin's arms, who insisted that her beautiful little cousin get back on her own side of the bed. And then after I'd found out that marriage wasn't in the least what I'd anticipated, I needed a beautiful young woman's arms around me a day or two every month - and told myself that I would let her have a kiss or two this time, would insist that she get back on her own side of the bed before it was too late - but -"

"Margaret -" I tried, perhaps a mirthful chuckle, "you hadn't a chance against me when I was sixteen, remember? I could wrestle you onto the ground in a heartbeat. And Margaret - you hadn't a chance - remember? You're sleeping with me whether you like it or not, cousin Margaret. And - my beautiful Margaret finally home where she belongs, beside me in bed again. I just - I just couldn't hold you closely enough, Margaret, just couldn't stop kissing you -"

She buried grateful eyes to mine, still however, not quite willing to believe that I had had a role in that which had happened on this same bed. And with that, I suspect it was nothing less than wicked, abandoned mischief in my own eyes.

"Margaret -" I whispered in frantic pleading, "remember? Oh cousin Margaret, you have such a gorgeous ass and I'm gonna touch it all night long if I wanna."

We allowed ourselves a gasp of mirthful laughter. And we rested at each other's sides in clawing, desparate embrace.

"Margaret -" I tried, "I knew - in a way I knew, even at the time. I knew I was making love to you. You were so beautiful - and I wanted you, wanted you for myself - and knew there was something more -"

"I know - I know, Lynn. I remember thinking one day - oh my God, she's fallen in love with me. And then, it couldn't have been more than a day later - oh God, I'm every bit as deeply in love with her. I always had been. I thought for a while that it was just - just something which we would both grow out of. I'd always thought myself a rational creature, Lynn - thought I knew the difference between - between love and love making. Now - now I'm not so certain there is a difference, Lynn. Lynn - I've just never fallen out of love with you. I tell myself I'm going to behave every time I step from the car. And then - five minutes later - if I could just feel her arms around me one more time - if she'd just hold me - never let me go this time -"

I rested another timeless moment at Margaret's side on the bed - and just drew her body onto my own,

her body mine to cradle in frantic, possessing embrace, the pounding of her heart my life. I'll never quite know why this was the weekend it was finally to happen. It's yet again something I've never before known in quite the same way. We'd both attempted retreat from some threatening, precarious edge. I might for a futile half instant have told myself that I could indeed stop now.

And it was almost some calm, sighing relief for both of us - perhaps another half moment's bizare reeling mirth. We're naked, laying on the bed, her body now sprawled atop mine - my agonizing, voluptuous beauty gasping in breathless abandon knowing she's absolutely helpless to me, knowing that my want for her is raging, burning fury. I might for another fleeting moment as I leaned, touched my lips to hers, have told myself that I was just crushing my heart back to my hers. And in ways it's finished already, quiet though primal screams wrenched from our throats for that which seems our bodies become one in an enveloping, surrounding warmth. It's the same question crashing into every corner of my mind - why on earth not? We've just never had the least doubt that our love for each other is something I can only believe is the ultimate two people can feel for each. As soon as she steps from the car, we see that in each other's eyes which we know is frantic, relieved ecstasy - and we will in the morning see torturing agony in each other's eyes, will claw desparate hands onto each other's arms the pain brutal, physical in intensity as we let each other go.

No - I'll never let her go again - and I just gave up entirely, the warmth of her body my entire existence - the explosive swirl of her breath about my lips a sweet, dizzying ecstasy. It's yet again something I'll never entirely comprehend. I hadn't even in that culminating moment the least doubt that she was the one person in all the world with whom I could fall genuinely, honestly in love. And I cradled her body in my arms the supreme intimacies now seeming so obvious and irrevocable. It seems a knowing union of our hearts, and it's simply that which it is, is something a world more than I had ever before known - is my body fallen into arousal become a helpless, flooding ache to extremes I couldn't before the moment have imagined. And it's as quickly just something even more, an immersion in raw, falling sensation knowing again that it's exactly the same for her, knowing that I'm folding my Margaret into my arms her body fallen as well into the supremely intimate want.

It seems for another moment and another bizare, timeless eternity absolutely ludicrous that we had ever hesitated. It might for that bizare, timeless little eternity have been nothing less than some culminating, liscivious abandon between us, she and I denying and pretending absolutely nothing. It seems that which it's always been between us, she laying a helpless captive in my arms. I'm that which I've been for her countless times in our otherworldly wood behind the house, I an amazon belonging in some wild, untamed forest from antiquity. She as we allow ourselves unrestricted license in our otherworldly wood gazes intrigued fascination toward a form which she decides is lean and supple rather than voluptuous, I noticing her studying attention deciding I'm holding a spear or something of the sort in my hand, my step for another few paces all manner of supple writhing. It might have been our liscivious little adventures played to every blatant extreme, her writhing struggles to escape a captor futile, she giggling in entranced delight as I wrestled her effortlessly onto the ground. Hands locked onto her wrists, I'd decided I wasn't allowing her to return to the city this time, decided she was mine to lead forever into some otherworldly forest.

"No - let me go -" my demurring captive struggling, writhing for escape.

"I'm never letting you go," I answered, raw, wanton delight in my eyes as I touched my lips to her cheek - she and I perhaps for timeless moments admitting that it was all something a world more than innocuous mischief between us - she and I sometimes meeting each other's eyes another timeless moment not quite certain we were going to stop this time.

"Oh - Lynn - that was so - exciting -" she might giggle a few minutes later - she and I daring another glance, she and I knowing exactly what the word "exciting" now meant between us.

It was as we lay naked in each other's arms on the bed this morning that which I suppose it had to be, that which she and I had always known it would be, I the aggressor my eyes a wash with frantic, desparate pleading - and the thing yet again my every long cherished want finally come true, her hands drawn onto my arms with violent, assenting strength. It was even then our liscivious little games played to some dazed, reeling conclusion, nothing less than an edge of very genuine fright in her eyes, a writhing twist of her body attempting to escape something for which she wasn't prepared.

And with that it was dizzying, blinding, oblivion to every finished extreme. I hadn't even in that maniacal moment the least doubt that my love for my Margaret was honest emotional violence, hadn't the least doubt that I was slamming her back to my heart, just couldn't let her escape me, couldn't live any longer without her. And yet it's my maddening, impossibly voluptuous beauty writhing for escape, I wrenching her body onto mine with violent, culminating strength - throwing a frantic, clawing hand onto her breasts, throwing a hand from her waist to feminine curves finally mine to devour. Her struggles to escape me are just some new, reeling ecstasy, I abandoning myself entirely, burying my lips onto her neck, throwing frantic hands up and down her body, gasping in primal, abandoned fury for her warm, maddening beauty finally mine to devour without caution or restraint.

I'll never quite know why I flung my eyes back to hers in another sudden and timeless instant - and the thing yet again dazed, reeling oblivion I could never before have imagined.

It's the same words wrenched from her throat with gasping fury.

"Don't you dare -" and it's strange, dizzying ambivalence, is awakening remorse and is some blinding, culminating ecstasy crashing into every corner of my mind. I slammed her body onto mine with brutal, unrestrained strength - quiet screams wrenched from her throat as I did so. It's yet again something a world more than I could ever have imagined it would be, the ache of my own body built into something of unimaginable ferocity knowing that I'm holding my Margaret in my arms her body fallen into the throes of the ultimate pleasure, my Margaret shuddering in abandoned violence for her body fallen into something which is so obviously a pounding, violent release.

"Don't you dare -" she cried out again - almost of gasp of resigned mirth. I suppose I felt something of the same as I just gave up, wrapped her body to my own with desparate, culminating strength.

I'd wondered for so long in all manner of liscivious little fantasy how we would "do it" the first time. I'll never quite know why this was the weekend it was finally to happen - she and I entwined in that which I'll never deny was an act of consumating sexual intimacy, an entwining embrace of our bodies enough. And in so many ways - I just can't bring myself to feel any real regret. It was something I can only call a joyous little ecstasy knowing that I held her in my arms her body fallen into that which was so obviously a powerful, total release. It was for me almost in that same moment something I could never have imagined possible - something that I can't doubt would never have been possible without her. It was my body fallen as quickly to some impossible, finished edge - and was that which I can only call torturing, agonizing pleasure, an exploding release which just wouldn't stop, was hammering and pounding to impossible, unimaginable extremes.

And yet it was something so much more than just the act. It was that in the end without pretense between us, she and I flinging our eyes to each other's even in the midst of it - and she and I knowing it our bodies settled onto each other's in the finished act of intimacy. It hadn't been more than our bodies wrenched to each other's with finished, violent strength - and it was that which we knew in a culminating instant was our bodies joined and one, something which in every way of importance couldn't have been more penetrating, filling, something I'll never believe had been less than unifying, something which will always seem her body one with mine in as intimate a manner as possible. It was for another impossible, timeless eternity nothing less than blatant and liscivious to every possible extreme. It was yet again that which I suppose it had to be - I fucking her, clawing brutal hands onto her hips as I pounded her with frenzied desparation - and she and I and crying out together for that which was our bodies joined and one in the ultimate act of intimacy, she and I crying out together in the throes of the ultimate pleasure.

And yet it was all something a world more than just the act - was even in the midst of it a final, ultimate question crashing into every corner of my mind my - how could it possible be so wrong?

We rested at each other's sides another timeless, settling eternity, rested entwined in each other's arms - rested our hands clawed onto each other's waists our breath gasping fury. It was even then nothing less than some resigned, knowing mirth between us. We couldn't doubt that it had been the same for both of us - had heard little less than helpless, primal screams wrenched from each other's throats.

It was yet again the same strange little process, I burying my eyes to hers desparate to plead my sorrow for culminating, abandoned aggression - and that just another moment's resigned mirth between us for her nails clawed onto my waist with demanding strength.

And we rested for another timeless moment helplessly unable to deny the ultimate. It had finally happened, she and I entwining our bodies about each other's in the ultimate act of intimacy. I'll never quite know why neither Margaret nor I took the least refuge whatsoever in pretense or denial. She and I are both quite aware that it could have been a great deal more blatant, a great deal more liscivious. She and I not that long ago had giggled together over a copy of D H Lawrence - yes, THAT one, the one banned in Britain until just a few years ago. Giggling together in a mood of knowing licentious mischief, I'd wondered aloud if anything had even been written of a sort which I'd decided to call an unorthodox nature. "Oh my God, Margaret," I'd sighed and chuckled a month or two later, the books she had found detailing every way it was possible for two women to have sex with each other.

We rested another timeless eternity locked frantically in each other's arms - saw little less than startled wonder in each other's eyes. Margaret and I have both known what sexual intimacy is for a very long time now, could admit that we could at least envision the possibility of something one might call "normal." Margaret giggling in conspiratorial mischief will admit that she had, at least when she and Martin had first been married, "come very close" on a few occasions. I in giggling mischief will admit that I, demanding propriety and restraint of some handsome young man at such as the drive-in, had sometimes done so only after it had become eminently necessary to do so, could admit that stolen caresses on his part and liscivious little fantasy on mine had at the least been pleasant and intriguing. And with all of that, Margaret and I rested in each other's arms our breath gasping fury, our eyes buried to each other's in frantic, knowing intimacy. It had been everything we had suspected it would be - and had been something incomparable more than we could ever have imagined it would be. We rested our embrace yet clawing, desparate violence - and saw nothing less than wicked, abandoned delight in each other's eyes. We've yet again flung pretense and denial aside entirely, haven't any doubt that it had been consumating intimacy between us - can't have the least doubt that it had been our bodies engulfed in the throes of a released pleasure which neither of us had ever before known with anything close to the same inexplicable ferocity.

And with that, we finally this morning saw something like awakening, settling lucidity in each other's eyes, perhaps even an edge of despairing remorse. We'd always known that it might happen, had danced teasing mischief about each other for years now, had as often as not danced to some precarious edge. We'd always, however retreated from that edge - and we rested entwined in each other's arms no idea how to retreat from that which we couldn't again deny had been consumating.

"Lynn -" and it's that which I might have expected in her voice, little less than characteristic, mirthful amusement, Margaret deciding that as good a way as any to effect a retreat. "Lynn - Martin and I seem of late to have come to a tacit - understanding -"

"Oh -?" perhaps an edge of amusement in my own voice, perhaps still an edge of frantic pleading in the crush of my hands to her waist.

"We have to stay together, at least for now, at least for the sake of appearances - at least for several more years until the boys are out on their own. And then - well, let's just say we've already begun amicable negotiations, will as soon as the boys are on their own beat jubilant paths to our respective lawyers. He can have the house. I'll be perfectly content with a small stipend as long as I can go where I want -"

I tried a soft, mirthful chuckle - and crushed pleading arms to her waist a final moment.

"Then you'll be free, Margaret," I whispered, " free to come home, back to me - where you should have been all along."

------------------------

I led her along our otherworldly forest stream this evening, our licentious little adventure not so different than it's been countless times in the past. I'm not quite certain why I had to live that adventure with her this evening quite as we always have. Perhaps it was just the same attempt to find some settling middle ground between the emotional affection we felt for each other and the sexual attraction we couldn't any longer deny we felt for each.

We'd left our clothing far behind, left it in the world we'd abandoned forever. We wandered naked, hand in hand along a path which was hardly negotiable, giggled in juvenile delight as we writhed past threatening branches spreading across the path. I edged my eyes as I always have toward my maddening, impossibly voluptuous beauty - she and I one with each other as we crouched past overhanging branches, she and I one with each other just as we were. We don't in our otherworldly forest have to deny that which is obvious, she and I both female.

We wandered finally back toward our clothing laying in a pile a few steps from the stream.

"We're never going back, Margaret, are staying here in the forest forever," I chuckled even then - perhaps an edge of frantic resolve in my voice. It was supposed to have been the juvenile mischief it's been countless times in the past, no real danger here in the woods behind the gravel pit.

"No -?" nothing more than amused question now in her own voice, perhaps an edge of something more in her eyes. "But Lynn - how will we survive - all by ourselves -?"

"Who cares," I chuckled. "We'll be with each other. We'll find a way. The cavemen did. Why can't we?"

She sees that which I suspect is the start of the usual maniacal vehemence in my eyes, feels it in the frantic crush of my hand to hers. She protests, a teasing little dance for me as she tries to escape - swooning abandon in her eyes as I deny her escape.

"Lynn - we have to go home -" she sighs - and it's yet again something more than I had intended, is some dizzying ecstasy knowing that she's abandoned herself to me entirely. I told myself one final time that my Margaret and I were just playing the liscivious little games we'd played all our lives. I glanced down toward our clothing - stood as quickly in as reeling an abandon as any I could ever have imagined. Leaning, gathering clothes, shoes, everything into my arms, I flung it all into the stream.

"Lynn -" her voice a startled gasp as she watched our clothing born away by a rushing, swollen torrent - flung eyes awash with wild frantic delight back to mine.

I took her hand back into my own - she and I just two nameless creatures of some otherworldly forest who have never worn clothing in their lives. We're two creatures who setting eyes on the other find themselves immersed in the primal want for unifying intimacy. We can't again escape the obvious - she and I both female as we stand our hands wrapped about each other's with finished, frantic violence. And yet it's the same question crashing into every corner of my mind. Why not? Why on earth not? I'm crushing my hand onto hers with frantic pleading violence - and her answer to me simply that which it is, that which, right or wrong, it's always been, her answer yes.

We stood a finished timeless eternity in our otherworldly forest our hands wrapped about each other's in violent, unifying embrace. We stood fallen into each other's eyes - and yet we stood unclothed, she and I seeing the most personal intimacy of each other's bodies, she and I knowing it yet again a throbbing, pounding ache that our bodies touch, that our bodies be one with each other's in the ultimate intimacy. And I just can't now believe that it will be anything less - right or wrong. Whether it's right or wrong, it will be my body joined and one with hers, will seem an aching want relieved - and will be that which it simply is, will be the ultimate physical pleasure. We can't even in that moment deny the obvious, she and I both women our bodies entwined and one, our bodies fallen into the throes of sexual release - and nothing to come of it, the act without reproductive consequence. And yet - it's even then the same question coursing frantic paths through my mind. How can it be possibly so wrong? How if the ultimate pleasure is not withheld can the act between she and I be wrong?

And how can it possibly be wrong now - she and just two creatures met in some otherworldly forest, she and I simply two creatures who just as we are find ourselves fallen into the primal, most intimate want, a want that our bodies one with each other's in the ultimate touch of intimacy.

I crushed my hand onto hers a final, maniacal moment - and will never know why another moment back here in the woods is enough, she and I awakening, knowing we must return to the world from which we have come. We knew, even this evening, that we must do so.

"Lynn -" my Margaret pouted as soon as she saw awakening, lucid reason in my eyes, "you threw the cigarettes in this time too. Now I can't have a cigarette all the way back to the house and we can't climb through the window till it's dark -"

-------------

Dear Diary - I'll confess it all again next Saturday. I'll never quite know why I tremble with such violent fright as I walk toward the confessional.

"Lynn - it's me -" Father Andrew will chuckle. I'll sigh, chuckle myself as I walk with him into the rectory, agree to one glass of his outrageously potent wine from the South Pacific or some such exotic location. I suppose he'll always in part be Andy to me, the most outrageous rake who ever haunted the hallways of St. Peters - who not that many years ago chased me up and down those hallways I as I fled glancing over my shoulder just to be certain that he still pursued.

"Andy - honestly -" I'll groan in annoyance today for his intrigued - "oh - then what happened?" Sighing, an edge of wicked delight in my own eyes, I'll provide him a teasing hint or two.

We'll sometimes sit for an hour in idle, irreverent gossip, will muse in mirthful, conspiratorial hilarity over the consequences of there being a listening device or some such thing in this room. Andy and I would both, I suppose, be summoned from our respective classrooms trembling in abject terror as we made our way to Monsignor's chambers. Andy and I will always, however, settle into moods of quiet brooding. I'll sometimes grasp his hand in gentle warmth for that which is genuine pain in his eyes, he and I shuddering in remorse knowing "insider" secrets, knowing that even within the church there are people who no longer bother themselves with introspective question of any sort.

"How -" I'll finally ask Andy with frantic pleading in my eyes, "how can it be so wrong? If two people love other -"

He sat last Saturday searching with the same desparation in his features for an answer - or at least for some way to understand the question.

He began, as usual, with irreverent mischief.

"I'll approach Monsignor and the tribunal first regarding the impediment of consanguinity. You're first cousins, but that can easily be dispensed. I'm not quite certain, however, how amenable Monsignor or the tribunal are going to be toward the dispensing of one other impediment -"

I chuckled in gentle mirth, waited for him to speak his heart.

"Lynn -" he finally tried, "your otherworldly forest might indeed exist. But - but I fear it might only exist in God's good time. Wait a bit for it Lynn, if you think God's asking that of you, and I think He is. Perhaps, when we're all in that otherworldly forest, some accommodation will be made for all of our eccentricities."

I nodded gratitude toward him last Saturday evening - chuckled in easy amusement for relieved gratitude in his eyes when I declared his answer indeed meaningful and important to me.

I chuckled again for another moment's hesitant uncertainty in his eyes, he and I both, I suppose, wondering how two people such as ourselves have come to be sitting in this room.

And as always, I just leaned, Andy placing his hand to my hand - doubt in another moment seeming senseless to both of us.

"Lynn - ego te absolvo -" he begins - though even then it's a gasp of amused annoyance wrenched from my throat for the liberties Andy takes with church ritual. Last week, roughly translated, it was, "God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost says your sins are forgiven and that's the end of that story."

I haven't, no matter how it's worded, the least doubt.