Brother and sister end an estrangement with an incestuous discovery of their love...at the old family cabin
“What about the cottage?”
“What do you mean ‘what about the cottage’?” my sister Isabel replied, turning her gaze from the diner window to me.
“I mean, do we sell it or what? The rest of the estate is pretty much wound up now and all the funds from the sales, investments, and accounts are now in the probate estate account. The only significant item left is the cottage”. Our mother had died a year earlier, three years after our dad; mom’s will appointed me as executor and left the estate, after a few small bequests, to be divided equally between Isabel and me, her only children.
“Why wouldn’t you sell it? Everything else has been sold” she said.
“Well, it’s not like we need the money, either of us, and I thought there might be some sentimental value attached. Maybe we, you or me, that is, might want to use it.”
The money part was obvious; finishing law school in a town 100 miles from our family home Isabel had set up a criminal law practise that had flourished. I knew this not from hearing from her (more on that later) but from occasional news reports of the cases, bigger and bigger as her career had progressed over the last 10 years. And I had done very well; graduating in electrical engineering with a degree that timed perfectly with the early days of computers and internet, I’d stumbled onto a few good ideas, patented them and prospered. Prospered enough to quickly form my own firm which, in turn, had done very well. After only a dozen years from graduation I was financially secure and could take what time I needed from work to relax, travel, or pursue other interests.
As for Isabel, other than her obvious success (her new BMW parked in the diner’s lot spoke to that) I had no idea of her personal interests, relationships, or non-work activities. I seriously wondered if she had interests or relationships outside of work.
Isabel and I had been very close as kids. Only a year and a half apart (she was the younger) there was virtually none of the typical sibling friction or rivalries. And our favorite time of all was summertime at our lake cottage. Already rustic and on the small side when our parents bought it, our handyman dad had fixed everything that needed fixing, replaced everything that needed replacing and it had aged very well. Well, at least the last time I’d seen it, about three years before. My wife Audrey never really took to the cottage. I don’t know why. Maybe because she hadn’t “built the nest”, or maybe she just needed every modern convenience at hand. There was no doubt Audrey was a city girl and I was fine with that. But it did mean we rarely ventured to the cottage and after dad’s death it sat virtually unused.
Luckily our parents had made arrangements with Mr. Willis, a permanent resident at the lake and a handyman in his own right, to look after the property. He was a very good neighbor and was happy to do it. After mom’s death I checked in with him and confirmed that he was happy to carry on as occasional caretaker. “It’s in very good shape” he assured me, “doesn’t require very much time or effort for me. And it’s a pleasure to do it - it’s such a lovely spot”.
Now it was my turn to toy with my coffee. I’d asked Isabel to meet at this diner, half way between our towns. I knew she wouldn’t be very enthusiastic, somehow. And even that made my thoughts turn to a subject that I’d pondered countless times in the past dozen years; ever since my graduation, in fact. At about the time I went off to college our close relationship seemed to wane, to become distant. At first it seemed natural; I was off in another city at school, after all, and summers for me usually involved jobs in the outdoors, frequently at bush camps. And it didn’t seem odd to any of us when she, finishing high school a couple of years later, chose a university 100 miles away as its law school had a good reputation.
But then when she graduated and stayed put in her college town it did seem odd. “Well, my dad observed, “it’s the state capital and probably has lots of legal work”. He probably had a point.
But the rarity of her visits, at first passed off as hard work in establishing herself in her profession, became harder and harder to understand. Eventually we assumed that new friends, a new life was a stronger pull, in her new town.
So her absence became the norm, other than Thanksgiving and Christmas visits and the very occasional presence, often on a case. Thankfully, she and mom talked on the phone, probably monthly, so that some minimum connection was maintained although there was rarely much personal detail coming from her side of the conversations. But it always struck me as interesting that even with the Holiday visits Isabel never stayed overnight despite our parents’ entreaties. And when I once invited her to stay at our house her response was, not surprisingly, a polite refusal. I was a bit surprised, as she seemed to like my wife Audrey well enough. But what really struck me then was the look on her face. I couldn’t read it; it seemed a mix of fear and confusion and she even seemed to pale at the offer. But it passed and I never offered again.
“How about this” I said, now back to the diner and our coffees, “how about we maybe head up to the cottage in, say, a couple of weeks? Maybe stay a weekend, check it out? We’d have to do that anyway if we sell it. It’d be October by then and the leaves will be changing; it could be nice”.
She returned her gaze out the window. I had a sense of that fear and confusion again, somehow. I couldn’t understand why it was such a difficult decision for her, but finally she said “ok. My trial schedule is light in a couple of weeks so how about the weekend of the 15th?”
“Sounds great. I can drive; I’ll pick you up at, say, 10 on Saturday. We can grab lunch on the way and be back Sunday afternoon. It’ll be just us; I’m pretty sure Audrey isn’t interested in going.” Was it just me, or did she actually seem to tense up with that last part?
Picking Isabel up on the way made sense; the cottage was another 70 miles past her town so even if it was just me I would be driving right near her house.
The two weeks flew by but in that time my mind rebounded several times to the question: after a dozen years of quasi-separation, how would it be? What would we talk about? Twenty four hours is a long time to just talk about the weather. But I thought maybe even that brief time would give me a clue to the question if I just took things as they came and went with the flow.
When I pulled up to her house she was ready and emerged immediately. Walking down to the car it struck me how lovely (there really was no other word for it) she was. Slim, in stylish tight black jeans, expensive boots, and the perfect leather jacket to top it off, with a matching small leather carryall. Her long brown hair in a simple ponytail, for the first time ever part of me saw her as, say, a potential date: she looked hot. Without remotely trying, I thought. And in that few seconds before she got into the car I asked myself for the hundredth time “why doesn’t she have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Any relationship of any kind?” I was perplexed.
We were soon on the road to the lake and as the towns got smaller, the roads narrower, and the hills steeper her silence and withdrawal continued as she watched the scenery go by. She was so quiet that occasionally I glanced over to see if she had nodded off.
At the last and smallest town before the lake we stopped at a diner. Not just any diner, but our old, traditional family-stop diner. Our family had probably eaten there 100 times. And probably 95 of those times she and I had ordered the same meals; a deluxe burger and fries for me, a grilled cheese sandwich for her. As we pulled in she seemed to come alive, at least partly, and took immediate notice. When we got out of the car I thought I sensed an almost imperceptible softening on her part.
We went in, found a booth, and waited. Neither of us looked at the menus offered and immediately ordered. Yes, you guessed it: burger and fries for me, grilled cheese for her. As we sat, waiting for our order, each of us slowly scanned the walls, the counter, the aged stools, the old pass-through from the kitchen. “Hasn’t changed a bit” she said, and I thought I saw the ghost of a smile.
“No”, I said, “I bet we’ll find most things unchanged. I haven’t been here since dad died, but I’m betting things will be the same.”
“Some things change”, she said, “they have to. People, for example. Feelings. Even memories.”
I had no answer to that, but added it to the random data I was slowly accumulating, hoping for clues to what happened a dozen years before.
Our food arrived and, as always, it qualified in my top three comfort foods. As I dug in I casually remarked “sooo good, just as I remembered. Better than sex.” It was a casual, unthinking remark, an old cliche from my university days but her response was immediate; her head jerked up slightly and she briefly stared at me until she caught herself and returned to her sandwich. I think her glance might have made me blush.
Another half hour on the slower, twisting road to the lake and we were there. And it was even prettier than I’d imagined or remembered. As I’d predicted the leaves were turning and the lake shore was a stunning palette of oranges, yellows, and occasional reds. For a few moments we both stood there, overnight bags in hand, taking it all in. Watching from the corner of my eye I sensed part of her shell cracking, small bits whisked away by the unearthly colors surrounding us.
As I had hoped, the cottage was in excellent shape. “Mr. Willis has done a good job” she said quietly. Her first stab at conversation, I thought. “I hope it’s as good inside as out”. With that I dug the key out, opened the door and we entered. It was as good. I couldn’t even see cobwebs or dust, so I assumed Mr. Willis had engaged Mrs. Willis’ help. Pots, pans, and dishes as I remembered. Ancient and venerable wood fired cookstove standing ready. Stone fireplace with its sturdy oak mantle all patiently waiting for us, with the old leather couch facing it, probably as old as the cottage. I smiled to feel the nostalgia and peace flooding into and over me and watched as Isobel dropped her bag on the kitchen table and slowly walked around. I was sure she was feeling something of what I was feeling.
Her wandering continued down the hall toward the bedrooms; her old one and our parents’. “Want your old room?” I asked.
“No” she replied, almost too quickly, I felt. Again, more data.
“Well, take mom and dad’s room”, I said, “and I’ll sleep up in the loft, as I always did”. I took her silence as agreement.
The cottage was chilly, though; the cool fall weather was making itself felt. I immediately set to my traditional role in the family: keeper of the cook stove. Early in my adolescence our dad had shown me the tricks and intricacies of starting and maintaining the stove’s fire, so I put my old skills in action and soon had a healthy fire heating the stove and, soon, the cottage. As Isobel drew near the stove to warm her hands I said “I’ll get a fire going in the fireplace later; it’ll make it cozier.” Again, a brief, penetrating glance from her.
I had planned the meals so as I unloaded our food from the car Isobel left the cottage and strolled down to the lake. As I unloaded provisions in the kitchen I glanced out the window and saw her near the water, staring out at the lake, her arms wrapped around herself as if to keep herself warm. I began dinner, glancing out the window occasionally. I placed chopped onions in a large cast iron dutch oven, added oil, then peppers, garlic, then a few chopped carrots. In went chopped tomatoes, tomato paste, some oregano, and a touch of cumin. And, finally, our mother’s secret ingredient, a bit of honey. I put our old percolator to work and started coffee.
I minced some onion and took my two packets of meat; one ground pork and one hamburger, mixing the two. I combined that with the onions, a little salt and pepper, and formed the mix into meatballs for the ragout which was happily simmering very slowly on the wood stove. The meatballs would wait while the ragout cooked and would go into the sauce later. And I’d make the salad just before dinner.
Isobel was now sitting on the old garden bench we had by the lake, still looking out at it, still hugging herself. Pouring two mugs of coffee I walked down to the bench and offered her one. “Still take it black?” I asked.
“Yup, still black” as she took her first sip. “There’s nothing like cottage coffee, is there?” she asked. I was encouraged; possibly her second stab at conversation. She seemed to be softening. Maybe it’s The Lake Effect, I thought. I followed her gaze out to the lake.
“I’m amazed that swim float is still here; too bad it’s too cold to swim out to it. Remember the times we used to?” I asked. The float, probably ten feet square, was anchored about 60 or 70 feet out in the water, where it was deep enough to dive. An old diving board still projected from the float.
“I remember the games” she said. “I remember racing out to it, the winner getting to be the first to dive off the board.”
“Remember our “Fight For The Castle” game?” I replied, “when we’d wrestle and try to push the other off the float and take possession? Then the winner was expected to jump into “the moat” and we’d have a second wrestle and defend the castle again?”
There was a pause, and then “Oh, yes, I remember. I remember”. We were quiet then for a few minutes.
“You’re cold” I said. She didn’t deny it, so I slid along the bench to her and put an arm around her, pulling her to me. We hadn’t touched in years, not since the briefest familial hugs as she returned home after visits to our parents. There was no resistance; on the contrary she seemed to lean onto me. We sat there for another few minutes as the afternoon light faded and I said “it’s not just us; the coffee’s cold too. Time to light the fire.” With that we rose and walked back to the cottage, its welcoming lights now shining out into the gathering dusk.
I took several armloads of Mr. Willis’ firewood inside and busied myself with the fire. I soon had a blaze underway in the fireplace and congratulated myself that my pioneer skills hadn’t waned. I’d started the old water heater soon after arrival and announced to Isobel that “there’ll be hot water by now if you need a shower or bath”.
“Maybe later,” she said, “but thanks. I’ve brought a few files to look at.” And with that she reached into her overnight bag and removed some manilla folders. As I returned to the kitchen she curled up on the couch and began reviewing the files, making the occasional note on, yes, the lawyer’s standard yellow pad. I put the meatballs into the ragout and turned to salad-making. I had brought along a loaf of French bread so I cut it in half along its length, crushed and spread some garlic, buttered it, and dusted it with grated parmesan cheese. Satisfied, I foil-wrapped it and tossed it in the oven to warm.
Continuing the Italian theme, I’d brought along several bottles of good Chianti and opened one in anticipation of dinner. Taking two glasses - of wine this time - to the couch, I handed one to Isabel who looked up from her file with slight surprise, but accepted the glass. We sat in a kind of companionable silence for a few minutes after she’d put files back, both of us staring into the fire as if it could answer questions on our respective minds. “This is nice, really nice” she finally said and, to my great surprise and growing hope, actually smiled; first at the fire and then at me. As she sipped her wine I adjourned to the kitchen to place the pasta in a pot of boiling water.
Our libations done and the cottage filled with the aroma of the ragout and garlic loaf, I set the table and placed pasta, sauce, bread, and salad on the table along with a small block of parmesan cheese and a grater. Had I forgotten that spaghetti was one of Isobel’s favorite teen meals? No I had not. And my memory was confirmed by another smile as she sat down and took in all the victuals. Dinner began and, with more wine, a conversation of sorts began. First a safe topic (I suspected there must be unsafe ones somewhere, yet to be discovered) as we talked about the cottage’s state, Mr. Willis’ maintenance, and speculated on its value. I then began to speak a bit about my work, how success had freed me to engage in a few other pursuits. In response to my tactful questions she acknowledged that her work was very consuming, that she loved the challenge and enjoyed the camaraderie she found in court work. I was encouraged by even these fairly skimpy observations from her.
We were well into our second bottle of Chianti by dinner’s end and by unspoken accord we carried our glasses and the bottle back to the couch and fire. By now the night was dark; dark as only the sky can be in the country. The inky black sky sparkled with stars. I think we were both happy to luxuriate in the warmth of the cottage. “Did you get the hot water heater working?” She asked.
“Yup; one of the first things I did this afternoon, so there should be lots of hot water.”
“I think I’ll take a shower then, if that’s ok.” I was flattered that she seemed be asking permission.
“Absolutely; I’ll stoke the fire while you’re gone.” And with that she headed into the small bathroom and in a couple of minutes I heard the quiet clanking of the pipes as the first hot water in a long time coursed through them. As I sat and stared into the fire my mind was a perfect blank, vaguely conscious of the water flowing, stopping, then flowing again. Wash, soap and shampoo, rinse, I thought. There was some soft shuffling as I heard Isobel moving about from the bathroom to our parents’ bedroom then another few minutes of silence until she finally emerged back into the living room. I glanced up and smiled a welcome as she sat again on the couch, now wrapped in an old terrycloth robe that she’d found and a pair of our mother’s old floppy slippers. I laughed softly and said “That old robe looks pretty good on you”. And it did. She blushed slightly, then actually smiled and pulled it a little tighter about her. But as she drew her legs up onto the couch I thought to myself “very good”; her legs, clad in jeans all day, were, well, beautiful. And sexy. There was no denying it.
We talked then, reminiscing about our parents and expanding the talk to include other, more distant, relatives. It was a pleasant chat, the kind of talk with her that I’d missed for years. Her relaxing almost seemed palpable, until finally, out of nowhere, I said “foot rub?” It had been a thing in our later teen years, when Isobel had had a part time job that kept her on her feet; when she got home, obviously tired, I’d often offer a foot rub. She never refused, but instead would sink back on the couch, close her eyes, and relax, with the occasional “aahhh” as my massage hit a particularly tired spot.
And so it was when, to my great surprise, she slowly uncurled herself, like a cat rousing herself into a slow stretch, and lay her feet at my disposal. I shifted across the couch so as to place them on my lap and began to massage. A kind of long-buried muscle memory awoke as my hands squeezed and my thumbs probed; suddenly I was back 15 years, remembering how it was to give such a simple pleasure. And I wasn’t the only one transported back; Isobel’s soft sighs and occasional moans also echoed back to those times. Occasionally I was rewarded with a quiet “Oh, yeah…that’s it…right there”.
After a time, both feet well massaged, my hands moved to her calves, those beautiful and sexy calves, first with a gentle caress and then with a light massage. More soft sighs. Finally, my work done, I left her calves resting on my lap as my attention returned to my wine and the fire. Almost unconsciously my free hand continued to lightly stroke her legs. I knew we were as close, both physically and emotionally, as we’d been in over 12 years and I simply let that thought lie, enjoying the moment.
Finally, after long moments, she opened her eyes and turned her head to face the fire, our silence continuing. After about 10 minutes of this quiet closeness I gently moved her legs and rose to put another couple of logs on the fire. Sitting again I looked at her and, again, saw in her eyes that inscrutable glance, one that lasted into a gaze. I answered her gaze by opening my arms to her, a wordless invitation to a hug. She surprised me by sliding across the couch to lean into me, accepting the hug. It quickly changed into a cuddle as she nestled against me, her head on my shoulder. This was new, so absolutely new and for over a decade so unprecedented that I relished it, luxuriated in it, and tightened my hug. Her wine now more than an arm’s length away, I instinctively offered my glass; she accepted with a sip. It seemed to me were almost sharing a communion.
Finally she spoke, quietly. “Do you remember that swim dock”?
“Of course; it’s always been there. I’m impressed that it’s still there.”
“No, I mean do you remember it from when we used to come here with mom and dad?”
I was confused by the question. “Yes; it’s pretty much the same.”
“No. I mean do you remember our games? How we used to race each other to see who could get there first? The winner got to sit on the diving board; remember?”
“Ahhh, yes. I remember. And the “king of the castle” contest that we were talking about earlier? The wrestling to see who could push the other off the dock?”
“And then the loser, in the water, got to cling to the winner when they jumped in? Hug or piggy back? Do you remember that?”
“Sure. And it seemed I usually won, so often that I wondered if you’d cheated, deliberately let me push you in.”
A silence. And then “you’re right; I did let you win. I did let you push me in, so then I could hug you, so then you had to let me hold onto you. I…I loved that.”
More silence, and then, from me, “I didn’t know. I guess, looking back, I loved it too. I kind of miss that feeling, Iz”. And there it was: “Iz”. Everyone called her Isobel, or maybe Izzie, but I was the only person that called her Iz, and I hadn’t said it to her in well over 10 years.
“More than ‘loved it’”, she continued, “it…um…well, I…uh…I was turned on by it. It turned me on”.
I shifted slightly and glanced down at her, she all the while continuing to stare into the fire. She continued speaking quietly, almost as if she were now talking to the fire and I wasn’t even in the room. She began to speak with less hesitation now: “it really turned me on and I wanted to lose so I could hug you, hold you, have you hold me in return. In my head I think I wanted to play that game 10 times a day and lose every time.” Then, very quietly “I needed that. I needed to touch you and…and…it scared me. It was like something was taking me over that I couldn’t control.”
Shocked? Yes, I was shocked but feeling her long-buried need instinctively I pulled her even closer, a wordless message to her that it was ok, that whatever she felt or needed was ok. I meant it as a brotherly hug but something else happened. Those beautiful legs, her long dark hair, the undeniable warmth of her body against mine. Something stirred in my primeval brain. But something else stirred too; it was as if, as they say, my other head was beginning to think. I was surprised that that didn’t bother me; I didn’t shift guiltily to try and hide my arousal; no, I was far more concerned with what Isobel was telling me, of its importance, of its implications. My brain was spinning all of this like some kind of Rubik’s Cube while that primitive part of the brain kept…thinking its own thoughts, it seemed.
“It got so that it was almost all I could think of; you and me…that way.” I sensed another blush; hell, I might have even blushed slightly. “I know mom and dad thought I was ‘moody’”, she continued, “but that was what it really was; thinking of you, thinking of you holding me, touching me…” and with this she trailed off. Again, purely by instinct, I leaned down and kissed her hair lightly, giving her full permission, full approval to tell me this. I thought it was helping her somehow, helping her lift an old burden off her. But that primeval brain continued its awakening and it wanted, no, needed to hear more.
“I finally concluded that the only way I could deal with it”, she said, the only way I could try and control it, was to…well, avoid it. To avoid you, in fact.” And then if flashed on me, how she’d taken her first summer job and how she routinely declined trips to the lake with our parents and me with “I have to work”.
I began to understand, the Rubik’s Cube colors slowly began to align as I realized that is why she chose college 100 miles from our town, why she rarely visited. And an undeniable sadness descended on me, a palpable regret; regret for the time we’d lost as loving siblings, regret for her carrying this weight all these years. Again I kissed the top of her head and was not entirely surprised as she drew back slightly and turned her face up to me.
And that was the moment, the moment. I did the most natural thing in the world, it seemed: I leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t draw back; no, she returned the kiss as softly and lovingly as I offered it. Our first kiss.
She settled back into my arms, then and after a few minutes continued. “It was hard, really hard for me, because the feelings never left me. I had a few boyfriends in college, of course, dated pretty normally I suppose, even slept with a few guys, but there was never a real spark. After a few years I understood that none of them would replace you, that there was some kind of a void that I decided only you could fill. Are you shocked? Is this difficult for you?”
Finally, probably the most important conversation Isobel and I would ever have. “No, Iz, I’m not and it isn’t. I love you. I’ve always loved you and I always will. And that’s beyond the simple fact that you and I are all that we have now.”
I felt her body relax with that. “I miss it sometimes”, she said, “…the sex, I mean. It got so that the few one night stands that I had over the years were totally physical, empty. I know that that’s why Tinder exists; I even tried it a few times for quick hookups, but it didn’t help, it didn’t satisfy. So I began to live without sex.”
There was a long pause as the thought sunk in until finally it was my turn. “I know that feeling” I said. “The long times without sex, I mean”.
Now it was Isobel’s turn to be surprised; “WHAT?” she asked, pulling back and turning to me. “But…but…Audrey…”
“I know” I said, “I love Audrey, I really and totally do. But after 10 years’ marriage she seemed to lose interest in the physical part. We talked about it and she was honest. We even got counseling, but there was no denying that sex simply didn’t mean much to her. She’s a very good partner, and when I approached her she would…well, she’d accommodate my needs, but after a while I felt, you know, like I was being serviced. Like some kind of machine that needed periodic adjustment. And, honestly, I got tired of asking. It somehow seemed pretty one-sided. So I, well, I pretty much stopped asking. Once in a long while maybe we’ll have had a few drinks and then make love, but it doesn’t seem to change things.”
Isobel continued to look at me, watching my face, watching the emotion and, yes, the sadness wash across my face. Now it was her turn to comfort, as she leaned to me and kissed me. And something broke in me, something was released. Looking back it was as if an emotional dam had burst filling a riverbed that, for both of us, had lain dry for years. I pulled her closer, if that was even possible, as she shifted, lifting a leg over me, enveloping me more. Our kisses came fast and, yes, furious now as if we were somehow racing to catch up, to overcome 10 or 15 years’ denial. My left hand slipped almost unconsciously into the folds of her robe and quickly found her. Folks speak of ‘seeing stars’ when their head is banged; my mind’s eye was filled with exploding fireworks as my hand felt the warmth of her skin for the first time in 15 years. She shifted again to my touch, her body pressing mine back into the soft couch. My hand began to caress her, sliding lovingly along her soft and warm curves, drifting to her back, pulling her closer as my fingers danced along the soft bumps of her spine.
We broke the kiss for a few seconds, our breathing now closer to panting. We resumed, lips now by common assent opening slightly so that our tongues made that first electric contact and began to…shyly at first, then more enthusiastically, dance about each other, exploring and learning the intricacies of each other’s mouth. All the while my hand was doing its own learning, mapping her beautiful curves until, finally, I drew it forward and tentatively reached it between us, squeezing into the tight space and gently cupping her right breast. At that she broke the kiss and gasped. Gasped and involuntarily tossed her head back as her body shook with my touch. As I gently fondled the breast I marveled at the instant effect it had on her. Her body continued to shake with a long-repressed longing until I released the breast and returned to our kiss.
Perhaps 10 minutes, perhaps 15 passed; we’d lost all sense of time. Content in each other’s love, in our mutual confessions, in our sudden understandings, we rested then, her head lightly against my chest. I idly stroked her leg as it rested across mine, gently pressing my hand under the robe, sliding up along her thigh, reveling in the soft sighs that she gave as my hand continued its new education.
Eventually the hand slipped over to her inner thigh. More sighs as it continued its journey until, finally, her right hand descended onto mine, resting there together. “This is it” I thought, “we’ve reached the limit and it has to stop now”. I felt a sadness at the thought, but it was immediately replaced with a wave of affection, love, even, that washed over me as questions that had dogged me for years were answered. I knew that, somehow, there was now a path forward. But even as I was flooded with those feelings our hands remained together, warm, affectionate, until she took mine, raised it to her lips, and kissed it tenderly. With that we returned to our kisses, a wordless conversation that had waited 15 years to occur.
We finally stopped and she rested her head again on my shoulder, occasionally raising her head to give me short, almost playful kisses from time to time. But our minds continued to hum and process these revelations, these bridges built, these questions answered. Finally she stirred, drew back, and our gaze locked; I could see her arriving at a decision. She then rose, never releasing my hand, and led me from the couch, the fire, and the living room. With that the final Rubik’s block fell into place, completing the puzzle once and for all.
She led me…to the larger bedroom? No, to her old bedroom with its smaller bed. We paused at the doorway; another kiss and as we both looked at the bed she explained. “This is where I tried to deal with it,” she explained, “tried to push the thoughts, the need, from my mind. But all that happened was that that seemed to feed it. It seemed like every night I’d lay in bed, driven, tortured even, by my thoughts of you. I’d remember how good it felt to touch you even briefly, to hold you as long as I could. And then I couldn’t stop it, what I thought was a pure fantasy, you and I making love. Here. In this very room, in this very bed. I’d ‘please myself’ as they say, trying to be as quiet as possible, so that mom and dad wouldn’t hear my moans. Thankfully it was quick; my fantasy always made me come quickly. And then, finally, I could sleep.”
I held her close, covering her hair, her neck, her lips with kisses. Then it was my turn; I led her into the small bedroom, leaned over the bed and pushed its covers back. As I pulled my shirt, my pants, and then my briefs off, each article dropping to the floor more quickly than its predecessor, she loosened the sash on her robe, shrugged slightly, and let it fall to the floor. I know I gasped. Or maybe for a moment I stopped even breathing. “Oh, god, Iz” I said, “you’re incredible. I had no idea…”
She reached down and wrapped her hand around my fully erect cock. “Hello, you” she smiled, looking down at it, “I’m glad to finally meet you, I’ve waited so damned long” and drew me down onto the bed. Small as it was, it was more than enough to accommodate our instantly entwined bodies. Arms wrapped, legs mingled. Curves, softness, hardness all brushed, pressed, and came together. My rigid cock was matched by her hard nipples as my hand gently grazed them and then my head bent down, my lips and tongue taking each in in turn. Kissing, squeezing, licking all the while vaguely aware of her mounting moans, her head thrust back into the pillow, her hands digging into my arms, my back with more and more urgency.
Maybe my mind and body needed to catch up for the lost 15 years, but something in me demanded that my pleasure be deferred, that all the need and pain Iz had felt for years had first to be assuaged. After a quick kiss to her lips I moved down her body, tracing her curves, kissing her midriff, nuzzling the soft fur as I slipped downward. Her loudest gasp came as I pressed against her vagina, tongue tasting her wetness and pressing her lips apart. Moans upon gasps, guttural utterances that spoke to me in a wordless language, as my tongue probed and played. Her body began quickly to shake and within short minutes her body arched with “UUUUnnnhhhhh…I…AAAHHHHH” as her orgasm struck, her body bucking uncontrollably so that I moved back up, quickly kissing her, our tongues again dancing together, Iz for the first time in her life tasting herself.
We had waited 15 years, only one of us aware of the wait, but both of us now craving the release. We lay quietly, embracing on the narrow bed, giggling quietly as the after shocks of her orgasm shook her. Finally, looking into each other’s eyes, I asked her quietly “Yes?”.
“Oh, yes”, she whispered, “absolutely, totally, always…yes”. One more quick last kiss before we became lovers, real lovers, and we each shifted slightly; me to position myself above her, she matching with her own shift, onto her back, spreading her legs to give me easy access as I reached down, found my cock, and rubbed its head lightly up and down her opening, now wet, wetter even than for my tongue. As I caressed her with my cock we gazed down into each other’s eyes and, finally, I pushed gently and slipped insider her.
Slipped inside…my sister. Despite all our kisses, all our caresses, all our touches, this was the final shocking taboo, broken irrevocably. Again my brain exploded with the the thought, the realization: I…was…inside…my…sister. I was fucking my sister. I was in love with my sister. The tightness of her pussy confirmed her early admission of very infrequent sex on her part. My cock was gripped by a wet, warm, velvet fist as her vaginal muscles held me tightly. I pushed further until I was fully inside her, balls now pressing against her. I knew that from her hand reaching down and cupping them lovingly. We rested, each trying to absorb our arrival at this long-awaited destination, this place we now wanted to be, forever. Finally I withdrew almost entirely, to her soft “no…” and then pushed back in.
And that oldest of dances began as I began my slow rhythmic strokes in, out, into her. She drew her knees up, feet flat on the bed, creating what I often thought of later as Paradise Valley. As my slow thrusts began to quicken her body responded quickly, assuming our rhythm perfectly, her hips lifting slightly to meet each of my thrusts. Perhaps her first orgasm allowed her next to wait, but I wasn’t so sure mine would. I had to slow and stop, resting deep inside her to delay my - no, our - ultimate release. Her soft murmurs of dissent, her gentle pressing of her hips spoke to her eagerness. “I have to wait” I said, “or I’ll come in record time”. At this she smiled and kissed me, filling the delay with deep, passionate probing and our tongues own dance.
Finally I could resume and after a very few minutes her legs shifted and wrapped around me, locking her ankles to hold me as tightly as she was able. Now I felt only the flexing of her buttocks meeting each of my thrusts. I tried to distract myself to extend our pleasure, tried to think of anything, anything but my sister’s warm, tight pussy. Wood stoves, diner meals, computer design, but like some kind of erotic bungey cord it snapped back to images of Iz; her tight black jeans, her long dark hair, Iz curled on the couch before the fire warming herself in the cabin’s old robe, when suddenly “oh, my God, Iz…I’m…uuunngghh…going to come. I have to pull out”.
“NO!” was her reply, almost shouted. “No: come in me. I want you to come IN me. I’ve waited years and years; you HAVE to come in me. Don’t worry; it’s safe. Please…I need this”. After that speech failed her: “I…I…”. And with that all barriers were broken, all resistance gone. I felt it coming, felt that irrevocable surge of my seed. I buried my face in her hair and felt my body go completely rigid with the most profound orgasm I’d ever felt. No wonder the French call orgasm “la petite mort”, “the little death”. My cock began to pulse with jet after jet of my cum, pumping ceaselessly it seemed, deep into Iz. And with that her second orgasm arrived, pounding through her like a freight train, lifting us both off the bed and shaking us together.
As our orgasms receded we melted into each other’s arms. There’s no other word for it, really; our pleasure seemed to have robbed us of skeletal support. I felt like I could no more stand and walk than I could fly. We lay together for long minutes, kissing, touching, reminding ourselves of what we’d discovered together. Echos of her orgasm occasionally shook her gently and finally ceased. My mind was blank; I doubt I was even capable of coherent thought. Finally, from me: “I love you Iz. I mean, I really love you”.
“I know” she whispered. “I love you too. I’ve always loved you, and I think I’ve always known it. I just didn’t know what to do about it.”
“Well, now you - we - know.”
We lay together for probably half an hour, never releasing our embrace, until finally she said “I sense”, giggles interrupting, “that you’re ready for a repeat performance?”
I laughed and said “well, you’re the lawyer, there’s exhibit A waiting” as we both glanced down at my rapidly stiffening cock.
More giggles as she said “well, time to enter the exhibit, Your Honor” and quickly rose and straddled me, reaching down and expertly guiding me into her opening. A deep sigh which seemed to come from somewhere in her chest as she lowered herself onto me. And from then she easily assumed control, my only guidance my hands resting on her hips as she rose and fell on my cock. As she slid up and down, pumping me faster and faster my hands glided up her back and gently pulled her over so that she suspended herself above me, resting on her extended arms. Her long hair fell and created a curtain around our heads as I my lips reached up slightly and took each of her nipples in turn, kissing, licking, circling her aureolas, her gasps coming faster, louder as I switched back and forth between her breasts.
Somehow I was able now to hold back and wait patiently for her release which came suddenly as she sat erect, rigid, unmoving for the briefest seconds, and then, her head thrust back, a long and loud “AAAAHHHH…UUUNNNGGHHH…OH GOD!” as her body shook with her now familiar climax. Again that signaled my release and as I came in her my orgasm lifted both of us slightly and briefly off the bed.
Another resting period until her quiet whispered question; “time for another shower?” I didn’t need encouraging. To - ahem - save water we showered together rejoicing in the warm water, the slippery suds as we each soaped and rinsed the other. Dried and back in bed we fell into a deep sleep.
Morning came, but not before another session of love making and eventually a hearty breakfast; sex had left us both famished. Another walk with our coffee to the bench by the lake and a quiet time there, together, my arm around Iz. Finally, the question I needed to ask, even though I suspected the answer: “so…sell the cottage?”
“Not on your life” came her reply. “We’ll never sell the cottage. In fact, I think I might come here more often; you?”
“Obviously” I said. “I think I need the cottage now more than I ever did. Even if Audrey isn’t interested in coming I think you and I can enjoy it. Together.” At that last word she burst into laughter and kissed me.
A quick return to the cottage as she took my hand and pulled me along, a quick removal of all clothing once back inside, and a slow, final session of lovemaking to cap our visit. Both of us delayed as long as possible but eventually dressed, cleaned and arranged the cottage, and packed to go. The return trip was much better than the drive up to the lake. She held my hand for much of the trip, we laughed and kibitzed over lunch at the diner, and made plans for our return.
That night Audrey wanted a full report. And I gave it; not full obviously, but told her how the visit seemed to “change something” in Iz and that she agreed not to sell it. In fact she said she even wanted to start going there more often. “That’s great”, said Audrey, “maybe you should go too; maybe it’ll bring the two of you closer after all these years”.
“Maybe” I said, hiding my smile, “maybe I will and maybe it will”.