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."

My sister's fantasy sounded really good to me--to my cock, specifically. But I was barely able to process her words. I've always been shy about maintaining eye-contact. But when my eyes drifted down from my sister's, it was to encounter how the top buttoned button of her blouse had worked loose, just like her shoelace.

Finally Abigail figured out my darting eyes. "Beg pardon!!! Guess you saw it all."

"Lavender lace demi-cup," I answered.

"You have fast eyes."

"They got a very clear view."

Only then did she clasp the shirt together at her neck. "Guess the slut button popped open," she giggled.

"The what?"

"You know! The slut button, silly."

I stood there, still clueless.

"Hello?" Abigail emphasized, "the slut button."

Just then Nancy walked into the kitchen. "What's all this talk about the slut button when I'm not in the room?"

Abigail gave the quick précis. "Would you care to demonstrate?"

Nancy walked up to me, her chest outthrust. "See how sexy I look, but still proper, showing a hint of cleavage?" Then she swiveled around, fussed with something, turning back to sway me with the sight of the definition. The slut button was undone. And then I understood. The sight made me want to pounce.

Then Mom came back into the kitchen, wondering about this slut button she'd heard about from the other room.

Nancy explained the term.

"Oh that," Mom flapped a hand and scoffed it away. "You young people think you invented everything. We called that button the magic button. If you pressed that magic button out of its slot, you got a lot more boys paying you a lot more attention. Of course, in those days, the magic button was the one above the one it is these days. Though the real magic button has never changed locations." With that, she tossed a little laugh over her shoulder as she left the room.

"What was that old woman babbling about anyway?" I filled the silence, hoping to get things away from boobs and blouse buttons.

My wife and my sister exchanged the looks of conspirators, giving off little giggles as they both then ran fingers down to point to their pants just off the crotch. "You know, honey," Nancy twittered. "You know all about my magic button."

Nancy diffused the situation by turning towards and laughing at Abigail, like a sister, "Sounds like you've been working that slut button a little too much," as she redid hers.

Abigail stuttered back laughing. "Wish!" She handled the fabric. "It's my oldest favorite shirt. And, trust me, all the buttonholes need resewing."

"I bet they do!"

When we got home from my folks', Nancy and I just sort of fell into decompression mode. She grabbed a couple beers out of the fridge and we watched t.v. for a bit. There wasn't much on, so she moved off to do some other stuff. We crossed paths a few times in the next hour or so, giving each other loving little pats as we met going to pee, or getting a little snack, or getting another beer. I wound up alone in the bedroom dressing for bed in my usual boxers and tee, and then back out on the sofa watching late night bullshit. I could hear sounds of Nancy moving around--she took a quick shower. Then she came into the livingroom, dressed for bed in her usual--one of my old dress shirts, with the tails front and back to hide her sexy panties.

She moved between me and the t.v. "Can't I get you anything, baby?" The way she was leaning down, I was wishing the slut button was undone. I shrugged, holding up my nearly empty bottle of beer, tinkling it like a cracked bell. Nancy smiled, then turned and absolutely sashayed into the kitchen.

My wife returned with a pair of bottles, freshly opened. She took a hearty swallow off one, then set it on the endtable. The other bottle she held and hid up the skirt of the shirttail, shifting it around there while her eyes went wild. Then she withdrew it and handed it to me with a wide smile. I'd never sipped from a bottle of beer whose lip had been dipped in pussy juice.

I was totally mesmerized. It was only when she leaned in to hand me the laced bottle that I realized she'd come in bearing the beers with the slut button undone. And no bra in the way of the view.

Karen stood back up, backing away from me, with a smug set to her face. The bulge in my boxers was like a marble statue. "I think I need to undo the slut button for my lover more often." I just nodded, dumbly. She giggled, "Want to see more?"

She didn't wait for my answer, just slightly hiking, flapping aside, the front tails of the shirt. There was the pretty trim. Not only was my wife not wearing panties, but she'd given her modest bush a pretty trim.

We shared the funny laugh at the sight of my burgeoning cock suddenly finding its way to fully poke out through the front slit of my old boxers. Then Nancy advanced and just sat right down. She unbuttoned the shirt fully and fed me her breasts, before starting to bounce up and down on my cock, still stuck poking out the pee-hole. It was the fast and the furious, the full front of my boxers soaked by her juices by the time we groaned together and made even more of a mess.

We recovered, gasping. Finally I grew so soft and small we were disengaged and Karen had no choice but to dismount and slide off to my side. We kissed as satiated lovers do, with my hands caressing her lovely breasts. I slipped a hand down to finger her dripping cleft. She sure liked that enough I helped her by rubbing out another little sweet one. She responded by jacking my softness. It felt good, but it was a lost cause. Until she got a couple twitches, when she moved down to take me in her mouth.

"Babe, this is wonderful, but really, I'm ready for bed and I think I'm done for the night."

Karen quit sucking my half-hard cock, and stood up. She pulled me to my feet. "I'm ready for bed, too," she murmured, "but I'm definitely not done for the night."

Which she wasn't. And, as it turned out, neither was I. I earned my right to sleep in really late the next day. And to be woken up with a full-course breakfast-in-bed. After that, my dick was as sore as her pussy; we both walked funny for the rest of the weekend. Not that we didn't keep adding to it.

Even that satisfied, I kept thinking of something else. Monday I worked hard and fast to finish up what I needed to do that day on a job by lunch. I got home, had a quick sandwich and a wash up, then drove over to my parents' house. Both their cars were in the lots at their respective jobs. Abigail's rental was in the drive.

Even though I had the key, I always thought it polite to knock and wait. A second series of harder knocks went likewise unanswered. I gave up with a couple pounds of my fists like mallets. The only key I was thinking of using was the one to my car. I was down off the porch and halfway across the lawn, going back home, when the door opened, and Abigail called out, "Hey, you, where you going?!"

I about-faced like nobody's fool, and strolled back up the steps to the porch. Abigail was beaming. Like a torch, like a peach. She was also very moist. She was standing there wearing the comfy slut-button shirt and a pair of gal boxers, her hair turbaned in a towel.

We hugged tightly and then stepped apart. I would've preferred staying tight, with me getting drunk on the smell of her fresh self. Abigail was steeped in the girly smells of soaps and shampoos, but under that was the girly smell of Abigail herself.

"What a surprise!" she grinned, "and what a treat. Are you here to take me out to lunch?" she asked, with a cross-eyed look to her lips.

"Sorry it took me forever to get to the door, but you did catch me stepping out of the shower."

I did not want to think of my sister stepping out of the shower. Even though all I wanted to think about was my sister stepping out of the shower. Perhaps with myself in the picture, purely to assist. To help, you know, like dry her hair.

She turned and waved me in. Better believe I followed. After making sure the front door was deadbolt shut. Abigail moved fast down the hall and into the livingroom, where I finally caught up with her. I came up behind her and gave her a backwards hug.

My arms went around her waist, holding her back against my front. Hug over, she started to squirm, but I held her fast. Until she finally relaxed. I kept her close, and then moved my hands up to her head, massaging her scalp through the terrycloth. "Just thought I'd help you dry your hair," I spoke lowly.

Which is what I did, what she let me do. But then I couldn't resist the sight. The nape of her neck was so bared, so delicate, I had to bend my head to nuzzle against it, then giving it little licks. My frontside was still parked up against her backside, so there was no disguising the stalk growing in my pants.

Abigail hissed, "What are you doing?"

"Smelling and tasting you," I answered honestly. And then I began kissing around her neck. Butterfly kisses, wider and wetter ones, and little nips.

"Um," she declared, "don't you have like a wife to take care of these things for you?"

"Oh," I took a pause, dropping my hands, one on the shoulder nearest my nibblings, while the other made so bold as to cup my sister's breast. "You mean the wife who looks like you?" My adventurous fingers went exploring for Mt. Nipple. Found it! Hidden under the double-layers of a pocket. "I would really like to get to enjoy the original template, the source of my obsession."

"Maybe," she shuddered, "I somehow gave you the wrong impression..."

"Like when you tottered on the chair the second time, and my hands suddenly had to both be doing this." My hands slunk down around and gripped her ass. "And once that was established, you pushed back against my palms. Funny thing is, the whole time, I never felt the actual chair wobble a second time. And then the shoe laces and buttons."

"Stuff like that happens all the time," she answered in an uncertain voice.

"Yea, but then you let me have a nice long look."

The prosecution had rested; the defense was stunned.

I nibbled and whispered in my sister's ear, "Please, Abby? Just this once? So I don't go to my grave with regrets."

I moved around so that I was facing Abigail, though still holding her and pawing at her. I ran a hand up across her breast until I was fingering the slut button. My sister hadn't been lying. With barely a nudge it popped free from its frayed slot. "Oops, it did it again," I sang.

Abigail's face broke into a huge smile, which then promptly melted.

"What's the next button called?" I asked, as I gingerly fingered it.

She gave it some thought. "It's the of course I'm your whore, 'cause my tits are flopping in your face button, I suppose."

I stared my sister down as I undid it. And then I lowered the plane of my face to hers uplifted. We giggled and dueled with our noses. And then I first kissed my sister. On her lips. Which kissed me back.

I was still a run of buttons short, but the fabric was loose enough for me to easily slide a hand under the shirt to finally cup her breast. She was watching my face intently as my eyes closed for the moment as I gave a little gasp, my fingers first touching the first swell of the underside. Abigail's eyes rolled as the touch continued, but then she reached a hand up to catch mine and remove it. She kept my hand lightly in hers, her thumb rubbing circles on my palm.

But for the motions of her thumb, I thought I was done. My shame revealed, put on the front burner, the emblem hammered onto my front door--so that every day for the rest of my life I would look in the mirror and regret my actions on this day. Until Abigail turned away from me, and still holding my hand, led me out of the room and down the hallway to her old bedroom.

Mom had transformed the bedroom into 'her' room, but all that meant was that there was a good chair and a desk with her computer and printer. It doubled as a guest room, which was why Abigail was always quartered there for her visits. My old room had become Dad's man cave; a futon couch folded out in emergencies, if you could get enough of the man clutter out of the way. Abigail got to sleep in her old brass bed, and indeed, most of the room still looked like mid-afternoon it would be filled with Abigail erupting home from school.

Immediately as we'd entered, Abigail sort of slung me into the middle of the room. She shut the door, and then sort of leaned against it, quite languorously. We eyed each other. I can't even guess the gallons of jism I jacked out back in the day, just thinking of being alone like this in her bedroom. Alone like this, in her bedroom. Abigail staring back at me, sharing the wanting, with her blouse half undone.

Abigail broke the standstill by reaching behind her and turning the lock on the doorknob. Then she advanced upon me, grabbing the back of my head with both hands to pull me down for a raw kiss. I was expecting a lot of tongue and soft wet lips, but the kiss quickly turned into nipping teeth, the bone bites of repressed desires finally bubbling to the fore.

My sister's hands left my head as our mouths attacked, moving down to finish off the buttons. Then she shoved me rudely away. I stood back a few feet and watched as she shifted the shirt off her shoulders, letting it drift down off her arms to the ground. I could give a poetic description of how the discarded garment pooled on the floor, but I was too busy staring at my sister's tits.

"You like?"

It was funny. How my wife and my sister looked like sisters themselves, until you took their shirts off. While they probably wore the same bra cup, beyond that all bets were off. I loved Nancy's soft pillowy tits. Her wide pink areoles that puffed up when excited, the little nipples that would get so stiff if you licked them enough. Breast-play was an indulgence; Nancy didn't get much out of it, and I knew that. But she knew I did, so like an excellent wife, she indulged her mate.

Eventually I remembered to say, "I like a whole lot!" Which is a nice thing to say if you happen to have a hand each groping your sister's tits. Abigail's areoles were like brown quarters, her nipples like chocolate chips calling out to be sucked.

I started that out, and quickly learned that my sister very much enjoyed breast-play. The polite term for getting her tits mauled by her own damn brother. From there we quickly got rid of clothes and were rolling naked in her girlhood bed. We pretended to be interested in oral, but we were both too impatient, greedy for it. Greedy for it.

Abigail rolled onto her back and spread her legs, displaying herself. I was in love. I moved on over her. As I sunk into her tight little cunt, all I could do was moan, "Oh my god!"

"Me, too," my sister panted back.

Oh, it was so push-and-shove. I was slamming into my sister, and she was slamming at me right back. Until she gave her final groan, shuddering all over. At that, I slowed way up, to gently cuddle, saving myself to make her do that again. Abigail had barely recovered when I went right back at her. After she recovered from that orgasm, my sister set her sights on doing me.

"Now I'm going to do you," she declared.

Her eyes gleamed like devil cat's eyes. She wrapped her body around mine, and went to work.

Girls can do amazing damage with their pelvises, if they know what to do. Abigail did. I fought back, but my sister had me beat. I erupted at her command. My sperm shooting deep into her womb.

But when I exploded, Abigail went ballistic. I'd never known a girl to come that hard and for so long.

Eventually I whispered, as we lay in a withering clasp, "Guess I win?"

"With me," she whimpered, "you always win."

We lay there afterwards, totally cuddling; licking and kissing and nibbling and whispering. Abigail giggled, then reached down to run a finger the short stretch up my sticky little cock. "So ... why didn't you ever show me this before? Hmm? Before today? Like today, just one look would've sold me."

"What? Like I should've walked into the den while you were watching t.v. and just stood between you and the screen? With the back glow, whipped it out and stuck it in your face?"

Abigail pealed. She was about choking. "Maybe a more subtle approach, please! But yeah. If you'd done that, chances are I would've at least sucked you off."

I really didn't need to hear that.

"So why didn't you ever, like, flash me a bit of panties?"

As I grew under her hand, she gripped me even tighter. "Shut up," she said, "I gave you crotch shots all the time." The slideshow started up in my brain, and finally the lightbulb flickered on.

"Wow. You're right. Now I remember." What can you do but shake your head. "How did I miss that?"

Abigail continued jacking me up to full form. "It's not your fault. It's because you're a guy. And guys are stupid."

I agreed as she bent down and took me into her mouth. Within a minute I was experiencing the best blowjob of my life. Even with my sperm still churning away inside me.

Abigail came up for air. "Guys never know when the best thing for them is just sitting there quietly waiting."

"I know now," I groaned.

"So, are you going to fuck me again?"

I nodded vociferously.

"Well, you're wrong," she declared. I knew enough to wait for what would happen next. She bent down and her sweet lips were on mine. Inside, our tongues were doing a mighty duel.

She backed up. "You got to do your little sister. Now I get to truly do my big brother." Then she rose up and sank down on me, working things at her own speed.

Abigail arose, on her knees sitting back on her heels. She never left jacking me as she made her way between my spread legs. She kissed me and licked me down there, stopping for a little suck. And then, like torture, she slowly stuck me up inside her.

From there, my sister went well on to work. She was centered on the pivot, and could swivel any old way she damn well wanted. While hunching on the old fashioned vertical plane.

We went loud that way, the both of us, together.

Since we were loosening our thighs' strangleholds, I slipped a finger down to the dampness of my sister's slit. The understatement of all understatements. Abigail's cunt continued full flush, and dripping wet. Her little nub was still out and ready for another quick rub. "Oh, fuck!" she laughed, coming like a queen.

2.

I was standing around and admiring my handiwork. The refinished hardwood floors looked awesome. I was feeling good about the decision vis-à-vis the livingroom. The boards in there were so battered; beyond sanding down ... we'd talked about the cool rough look, maybe new oak slat laid atop. The old stand-by of a decent wall-to-wall Berber seemed just right. I had all the baseboards off and freshly painted, lying in the middle of the room. I took my foot and nudged the sample square of the carpet I'd agreed with into a corner of the room. I moved a couple short dry pieces to intersect and see how nice it was all going to look.

I moved the rest of the baseboard into another room; the carpet guys were tomorrow.

Then the front door opened. I turned and saw as Abigail swept into the house. I moved towards her, and our lips met in a light, delighted kiss. She immediately joined me, joining me in enjoying the little corner tableau. After the appropriate adoration, she wondered aloud, with a mercenary turn to her voice, about the state of the kitchen. She frowned and shrugged. "Got a couple nibbles who want to get inside."