I've had a secret basically my entire life. A deep, dark secret. One that's mortified me, even as I've indulged in it. In my deepest, darkest personal thoughts--my most private world.
I say my entire life, because I of course don't remember the first couple years--the time in my life when I was an only child.
In the family album is a snapshot of me, nowhere near three, staring into the camera while standing beside Abigail's crib. There's a first shot--way out of focus --where I'm bent down and I guess patting my little sister on the head. I've seen it; it didn't make the album. It's stuck away somewhere. In the official snapshot, I'm grinning up at the camera in a way that's always been called angelic. As an adult, I look at it and think demonic.
My life was changed by the appearance of this pretty thing called Abigail.
I remember my kindergarten because there was this little girl. Just looking at her gave me strange queasy feelings that I totally didn't understand. I never dared talk to her, even though I wanted us to marry. At age five. She had long still-light hair. Looking back, she looked rather like Abigail.
I kept it all so very close to my chest as we grew up. I never slipped, not once. I figured I'd outgrow it. Or get a girlfriend. Unlike most stories I've ever read, not once did someone barge into my room and catch me stroking myself while moaning my sister's name. The act itself happened a lot, but she never caught me out.
I outgrew adolescence, stumbling out of that dark forest into the sunny meadow where there were girls with an eye for me. Nancy was the one I chose to marry.
Good guys don't tell, but you can well imagine. Nancy was the best at it. In all respects. It was nice for me to get beyond, to grow beyond the perverse yearnings of my youth. Sure, I still thought of my sister now and again in that old bad way, but mostly it was carefully tucked away.
There was something about Nancy that just made me electric. And that spark charged her well and good every time. My plug in her socket, it was 220 delivered on one raw wire.
Even after so many years of marriage, we were still after each other all the time. It could get almost embarrassing when we were out in public, or hanging with family. Sure, we both had the famous Seven Year Itch, but still for one another.
The transition was helped by Abigail going way the fuck away for college and beyond, way the fuck off in Seattle. She settled there into her own life.
She came back for a visit, but it was the week when I was off with Nancy's family for some beach cottages--I proved myself popular, and there was applause from all quarters when I officially proposed. Yes, it was scripted. And awesome.
From there it added up. It was the summer after our 3rd anniversary. Which made it five years since I'd last seen Abigail. She was in town for pieces of a long week, using the old house as a base. Of course we drove the ten minutes over, repeatedly.
Abigail looked really good. I felt terrible immediately for thinking such a thing. Things were a little awkward the first drive over. The next time, things were cool, and suddenly she and Nancy had totally bonded. They kept hanging away, chattering like sisters.
I certainly wondered what they were talking about.
Mom was always a bitch for stirring the pot. "Look at them standing over there," she poked me nearly cackling. Abigail and Nancy were in a corner of the kitchen, cutting off nibbles of cheese and chatting. Mom was always loud enough for the whole house to hear. "Heh. Looks like you married your own sister!"
Even I'd never considered that notion. None of us had, to judge from the gasps. Finally Nancy laughed it off, poking Abigail, "I hadn't thought of it before, but it's true. We could easily pass for sisters."
That earned me a weird look from Nancy. I just sort of shrugged. I really hadn't thought of it, but it was kind of true. I was kind of wanting to drag Nancy down the hall into one of the bedrooms, but if I first stumbled and grabbed Abigail's hand instead, well, wow, and so be it.
Upon further reflection, I poked my mother back. "Isn't it time for you to go into a nursing home, where you can say all you want without anyone ever listening?"
"Probably," she nodded, giving me a smile back like the devil's own.
It all started with Nancy deciding we needed to redo our kitchen. I knew how to do stuff like that. I knew enough to know to get pros to, like, put in the new floor. All the finishing stuff I saved money by doing myself. In doing so, I learned the value of pretty trim. Pretty trim improves everything.
My mistake was in ever letting my mother see our new kitchen. She was floored. I suppose she was paying a compliment, but I saw it as a pain in the ass when she decided I should be the contractor to redo the old family kitchen.
I wasn't a contractor. Sometimes I worked for my buddy the subcontractor. But Mom was having none of that modesty shit. I was trapped into a two month job. The pay was good, and I made the old place shine. There're a couple of snapshots of the old kitchen in the family photo album. There was certainly no wainscoting back then. Just when I thought I was done, Mom decided that she thought it would look special if on one wall, a foot or so below the ceiling molding I'd put up, there was like a line of ivy. She wasn't thinking of stencils. She wanted it to look real. And she would not let me rest until I agreed to waste another month of my life. After she agreed that my hourly rate would skyrocket. I was gambling 50 an hour would dissuade her, but I lost that bet. So I did a really damn good job of it. The rail of ivy even had a few yellowing leaves you wanted to go ahead and pick off. If you had a ladder. Or stood on a chair.
It was maybe a month or so after I finished that Abigail was suddenly coming back to town for one of her sporadic visits. It'd been several years since I'd seen her last, back when I'd sort of gotten into trouble about my wife sort of looking like my sister's sister.
To the extent that one evening when we started getting chummy, Nancy offered up the fantasy play of being my sister. I started really thrusting. "But what if I happen to really like fucking the girl I married?" The right answer, unless you happened to be one of the neighbors having to endure all the caterwauling.
We all joined up at the airport to meet Abigail. She looked really good, or am I repeating myself? We caravanned back to the old house. She'd had an evening flight, so we were all fed. We got her and her stuff inside, and then hung out in the livingroom having drinks.
Everyone got involved in this long conversation that I didn't care to follow. Apparently Abigail felt the same. She stood up to refresh her drink, stopping by my chair to pull me to my feet. "Mom's been telling me all about what you've done to the kitchen. Care to show me?" My drink too was getting a bit dry, so I joined her. I put a hand on her hip and guided her into the room.
"Wow," was her response. I mixed our drinks while she took it in.
"Such pretty trim," she declared. "I especially love the ivy thing. Where did you find stencils that long and varied?"
"There aren't stencils that elaborate. I snapped a chalk line, and then got out a pencil. I thought that was bad enough, until I had to get into the brushes and paint."
"Really?" she remarked, "that's all free-hand? I want a closer look." She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, shoved it closer, then climbed onto the chair. The chairs were old, missing screws, and Abigail had chosen the worst. It immediately wobbled and would've bucked her except I moved in right away to tighten one hand on her far hip, and the other on the back of the chair. Abigail, bent down, steadied herself with a hand on my shoulder, letting me go to stand back up straight.
"Maybe another chair?" I suggested, sort of croaked, well aware that my sister's beautiful ass was not only right in my face, but with my fingers still on the seat back and her hip, I was palming, albeit lightly, one of those lovely cheeks.
"Naw, just hold on; all I want is a quick peek." As if on cue, she started to topple again, and suddenly both my hands were needed on her bottom to steady her. I was taken by surprise because I hadn't felt the chair wobble first. She seemed to almost press back against my grip.
That got my cock to thinking, and then I was pretty ashamed. I put a hand to the back of the chair, steadying it as my other was picked up by hers, helping her down from the unstable chair.
Abigail immediately sat down on the chair, bending down to retie a loosened shoe lace. She continued chatting up at me. "That's so beautiful. Maybe you should establish a niche market."
There was a certain niche I tried my best not to stare at. The front of her shirt scalloped out as she stayed bent over tying her shoes. I couldn't see much, but I did see much more than I needed to see. I forced my gaze to stay above my sister's chin. I stumbled, muttering, "Anything for the folks. But if I was asked to do this for someone else, I'd be sure to estimate myself out of the job."
Abigail finished retying the shoe, turning to tighten up its mate. "You do really good work," she gleamed up at me. "I know it's silly, but I sometimes have this fantasy of moving back, of us working together, you know, with our skills, of fixing and flipping houses. You're so good at the structural stuff, and I could do the decorating, maybe handle all the paperwork."
.... There is more of this story ...