I'd been expecting it for many months, but still, when my sister Sharon finally called, I had the reaction of having run over a big ass roofing nail in a bad part of town.

"Hey Paul," she began, then getting down to business. "Listen, the reason I'm calling is we really need to do something about Dad's Shack."

Sharon and I had never been particularly close. Even growing up as the only kids. There was always a mysterious barrier between us. Both of us, we rarely and only picked up the phone if we had something to say. Some pressing news or mood.

We were tumble-around siblings growing up and all. There was the awkward year when Sharon grew from thirteen to fourteen. Since I am always a year older, I didn't want to do any more spontaneous couch wrestling anymore. Not when suddenly my sister had tits precisely when tits were all I could think about.

It took me awhile, but I got that all sorted out. But by then there was distance between us, a cleft that just kept widening. We weren't brutal about it or anything. We were always quite civil when we bumped into each other at the old house. Which happened often enough because we both elected to stay in town, even after getting our degrees at the local university. I spent some friendly evenings getting to know several of Sharon's steady-Eddies over the years. Good buys, I mean guys, all around, but then they'd all evaporate.

I was actually back living at the old house for a few weeks following my divorce. A short marriage that ended badly. Sharon dropped by for a visit, and first thing in the door she faced me and shook her head. "Pitiful. I told you not to marry that whore." As, indeed, she had, from the first announcement to the very day of the wedding. What could I do but shrug? I'd gone right ahead and married that whore.

But my sister had the technicalities wrong. So I defended my ex-wife and my decision to marry her. "Yea, but you got her all wrong. I was game for that trade-off. I get to watch ESPN in the evening unmolested while she's out bringing in a couple hundred dollars. You lied to me. I might've listened if you'd warned me about marrying that slut."

Dad's Shack was part of our shared inheritance. We were late children, but even so he'd died early, barely in his 50s. Not quite a year ago. The cancer shark had snagged Mom two years before that.

I was just 25, and my only living relative was my year-younger sister. Who called me because she wanted the cash from selling the shack of the dad.

Her pushiness left me feeling dirty, though her logic was clean. I had no attachment to the shack, and the land had shot way up in value. She'd been advised, she told me, that first we needed to go patch the place up. Even though, in all likelihood, any buyer would first-off raze the dump; building anew. A grander shack, built from actual blueprints, not pen scrawls on a cocktail napkin.

Daddy was a gamblin' man. Some years we ate a lot of cans of pork-n-beans. Some years, he built his shack. Improved over other good years. He was good with barter. One year when he was in a good mood, the several miles of mud ruts from the tiny road to the shack got expertly graded and graveled. The outhouse got housed inside, frosted with the addition of an indoor shower and hot water. Electric lines replaced the generator.

It was a thrilling place for us to go as kids, even if our mother got tired of it pretty quick. It was just the one room, and pretty bare. Mattresses and cushions would've gotten pretty fusty real fast. Our mother was not born for bedding down in a sleeping bag.

The times after that were fun. Dad had an army cot he'd tuck into a corner, where he'd snore the night away. Sharon and I would sleep before the crackling hearth in a pallet we'd construct from whatever bedding we'd remembered to bring along for the floor. We slept together like that even after I'd noticed my little sister had sprouted breasts.

I was pretty passive-aggressive in just accepting her plans for us to waste the long Labor Day weekend meeting up at the shack, making repairs. If things got stupid, I'd just heap all the blame right back on Sharon.

I didn't know what to expect, so I took my old truck. I had a big plastic tubby for all my tools. I went to the Lowe's and filled the bed with a couple sheets of plywood, tons of 2x4s, a roll of flashing and cartons of caulk ... and two huge coolers, which I packed full of booze and food. A dugout crammed with skunk, and I was ready to roll.

I was sort of thinking that we'd get the little repairs done, or enough for me to wave her away while I stayed on a couple days by myself. I didn't have anything pressing going on the upcoming week. I came packing a ton of beer and a deck of cards.

Coming up the long gravel drive, I was glad I'd come in the truck. The drive really needed another layering of gravel. Or, gasp, a ribbon of asphalt. It was a great pity Dad wasn't alive to make that happen over a friendly night of cards.

It wasn't like my car would've been ruined by the ruts from the bottom up; it was that it was so much more fun to be bouncing safely around in the truck.

Eventually I took one more curve, and then I was out of the bottomland woods and at the lip of the Log Bridge. The creek down below the cabin. I stopped and got out of the truck. There was the clear view up to the place showing that Sharon wasn't there, unless she'd walked. Or hidden her car.

Not seeing at least her car on the other side, I wanted to give the Log Bridge a visual inspection before I dared my truck drive over. I knew the understructure was solid enough. It was all big boy bridge gauge metal, and Dad apparently had won a cement mixer up the dirt drive to pour all the footings. For the bed of the bridge, he went for foot-round pine logs harvested from his domain. Drilled and bolted down, of course.

There were some individual issues slowly developing, but mostly I was impressed by how solid the Log Bridge still felt under my stamping feet. After the tire-tracks and over the years, the bark had mostly flaked off the logs. The wood was quite solid, but bald. I wouldn't have wanted to drive across it after an icy storm. But it was the end of summer, when everyone's praying for some slippery rain. I was just glad to learn that the bridge hadn't turned to tinder.

Sharon showed up minutes after I arrived. I'd barely gotten the moment to stand and survey and appreciate this little stand of nature when there she was.

We both had huge coolers as well as suitcases. Lastly, I lugged in my tub of tools, bringing them in out of the elements. I was smart enough to have a tarp to tie over the bed of the truck, to keep the dew off the lumber.

We were just getting settled when the sky got dark and this endless rain began roaring down. This nasty front was supposed to pass well north of us, but apparently it decided to dip down south, and stall. With lightning ready to set the woods on fire.

That certainly put a damper on our plans. As did the power going out. We found some old board games, and I'd brought that deck of cards. Our Hearts tournament lasted until it was time to pick from our coolers to make some dinner on the old Coleman stove Sharon had thought to pack.

It was a tasty meal. And we were smart enough to leave the clean-up to daylight. Which left us in an unlit cabin as dusk settled into dark. There was really nothing to do but get a fire going in the hearth. It was starting to get a bit chilly even under the roof, within the walls. But there was like a whole rick of ready wood stacked inside next to the fireplace. That chill was no problem.

We had a few beers sitting cross-legged before the fire. Sharon pulled out a one-hit, so we wound up telling stories while poking at the campfire. The conversation was threatening to take a little nap, until my sister gave me a poke. "Should I maybe pack another one?" Her eyes danced for me in the fire light.

"Permit me the honors." I dug down in my pocket. "Have a nice taste of this." Sharon gave a little squeal as I fished out, um, my canoe. "How lovely!" she gushed. I flipped open the top and held it over. "Have a whiff." She bent her nose down to take in the bouquet, and then she sat bolt upright. "Dayum."

"It's funny," I said as I started packing the bowl. "I'm totally not a weed snob, it's just I happen to know a guy who gets some motherfucking righteous bud. Why don't you grab a couple more beers and toss another log on the fire. That plus this, at this juncture, we'll have a fun forty minutes, and then pillows will sound like the most perfect answer to any question."

My prediction proved pretty accurate. Sharon took the first puff while I watched, taking a first sip. She sealed a smile to keep it in, eventually letting the hit dissipate out her nose. "Suh-weet" she agreed. She leaned in to hand it off, but then fell against me giggling. Her arm against my arm, her head on my shoulder. The scent of her filling my nose. Her eyes were like fireworks, even if that was just the reflection of the new log finally catching serious flame.

"You like?" I laughed

"I definitely need to hook up with my big brother much more often!" Her hands were then all over me, pushing off from me back into an upright position.

We finished the bowl without further incident. From there we drifted into a recitation of childhood memories. Sharon was quite excited by the talk, and her enthusiasm was infectious.

The hour got late. I stood up to go pee, as an excuse to unroll my sleeping bag at an angle to the fire. I had a blanket and a quilt as well, which would settle over me like parachutes. I also had a pillow, which declared my head would be facing the heat. Then I did go to pee and brush my teeth.

When I returned, my sleeping bag was totally unzipped, indeed butterflied like a fat filet mignon. It'd become the bottom of our nest. And there was in fact a whole nest. Sharon had added her covers, and rearranged us so that our pillows were side-by-side, parallel to the hearth.

Sharon explained but that was how we'd always slept. Me, I was sort of thinking about how it might be nice to not be shivering behind the shield of my sister sheltering me from the fire.

I didn't care. I'd agree to anything. I was in a sudden rush to fall fast asleep.

I had trouble at first drifting off. I wasn't fidgety under the covers, lying instead perfectly still. A sense of déjà vu was keeping me from succumbing to dreamland; I finally realized that the night's circumstances were nearly identical to that of the last time I was at the cabin with Sharon. I was maybe sixteen at the time, and always a year older than her.

The present was nearly identical. The heavy rain going late into the night, the power going out, going to sleep lying on a pallet of blankets and quilts next to Sharon by the fire. The only major difference was that, this time, Dad wasn't across the room snoring away on his army cot.

What also remained constant was the alluringly girly fragrance of her natural scent. My sister has always smelled fresh, like pretty girls running through a field of flowers. You get a whiff passing in the hall, but that's just a whiff compared to sleeping under the same covers with her. Sharon smelled like sugar and spice, and everything nice.

I thought solving that mystery would free me to sleep, but the persistence of her scent opened the memory up completely. We'd gotten along remarkably well all the long rain-drenched day. We whiled away the tedious hours playing cards and just talking. I think we both knew that if we started bickering, Dad would just throw us out into the pouring rain, and let us stand out there drenched until he was certain of the sincerity of our promises to quit fighting--he'd done it before!

I was happy to be having fun with my sister. I liked talking to pretty girls. Sharon certainly qualified as that. Plus she was funny and smart, when we weren't being mean. The long dreary afternoon passed rather quickly in my memory.

And then came the shame, the part I'd tried so hard to forget. The way my sister smelled so close. I lay there beside her at that tender age. I was sixteen, so I was perpetually bored and horny. I was horrified by the association, but that didn't stop me from freeing my erection. We were back-to-back in the dark, so I felt safe doing that very quietly.

I certainly didn't need to do any wild jacking motions. I was so primed all I had to do was give myself a squeeze or three. I wasn't really thinking about my sister, I was just really horny. But then I did start thinking about Sharon, and got a bit more frantic. But then she started stirring a little bit. I tried to be much more discreet, but I still seemed to be disturbing her, so I totally quit. Soon enough she calmed down. I was even stiffer.

The moment became totally vivid. How I'd gripped my shaft with my left hand, given a little tug. I was nowhere near the thought of finding a sock or something. The fingertips of my right hand became little tickly spiders all over the head of my cock. I wasn't really thinking about my sister. For a brief moment I envisioned the hands upon me as Sharon's. I didn't think about her for more than a couple seconds. That was all it took. I shot off all over the place, and then easily fell asleep.

All these years later, after remembering the details, and still smelling my sister... of course I was hard. That wasn't because I was thinking of my sister. I was excited by the memory of how I wasn't really thinking about my sister.

I was older too, of course. Even with Dad no longer in the equation, no way was I going to repeat the jack-off, not with Sharon beside me to remind me that I wasn't thinking about her. Despite still such an alluring scent. I did give myself a couple squeezes, but just to keep the interest flowing. Older now, I knew that if I kept erect, all my blood would be down there, and my deprived brain would start yawning and let me fall asleep.

I was totally down under when something jolted me awake. It was like I was sleeping in a little boat that was suddenly rocked by insistent waves. But not really even waves, more like wavelets. Not even that. Just the slight swells of water in motion, a body of water briefly breached.

Maybe it was that the rain had softened away, no longer pounding on the roof with such unrelent. The room would've been completely in the dark of out-in-the-country, but there was a spacious moon somewhere flooding in through the windows. And there was still a soft glow from the hearth.

Soon enough I pinpointed the sense of movement as coming from Sharon. Her near arm was busy in discrete motion, though still shifting the covers around, making them rise and fall. She kept giving off short huffs like little waves lapping at a pier.

That was when it struck me. Back then, what'd paused me from discreetly touching myself were the discreet motions of Sharon touching herself! She had to have heard my low final groan as I splattered all over the place. But always away from my sister, because I wasn't really thinking about her.

My mind sort of collapsed when I realized what she was doing, next to me but alone in the night. My cock started reacting all on its own, because I could smell what she was doing. A girl enjoying being a girl. She was having a private moment, but like the scent of a grill-out several houses away, I was swallowing saliva. It's called keeping your drool private.

It was a very private moment, but I could not help but intrude. Her scent was short-circuiting the controller parts of my brain. I couldn't help it! My arm extended, and my hand came hovering over her hip like a helicopter. It was so wrong, but I couldn't stop myself. I hadn't been with a woman in months, but that fact barely started the story. The truth was over a year. The truth was that all other women had evaporated in the here and now.

My sister froze when my hand landed on hers. "Don't stop," my whisper urged, letting her relax. "Please let me help you."

I was just awake enough to be shocked by what I'd done. Talk about instant regrets. Until her palm spread and slipped away from under mine, leaving my fingers touching her wetness.

I knew how to jill a girl crazy, so that's what I proceeded to do to my sister. My eyes went wide in astonishment as that began happening. A dense cloud had floated across the moon, so I didn't actually see too much. But what I could hear, and smell and feel of her reaction had me hard as steel. Sharon gave a little squeal, and then I was wet to my wrist. A pool of her zeal in my palm.

She rolled over my way and came to a rest wrapped around me. I thought she was falling asleep until I felt a hand slink down to grip my cock. That would've been the perfect way to fall asleep, after Sharon had shared her hand. "Maybe I should help you now?"

A drifting-off hand-job would've been wonderful.

Instead, her hand left me, and joined its mate grabbing at my hips, tugging me over on top of her. "Why stop there? why stop at that? and why the hell stop now?" And then she guided me up against her, teasingly, rubbing the ready head of me against her equally ready sump.

"Hope you don't mind getting to fuck your sister," she quipped.

I about had a heart attack as my manhood slipped between the buttery folds of her sex, my cock sinking deep into my sister's tight little cunt. I could see enough to see how her eyes rolled up as I sank all the way in. I registered her gasps, as well as my own. I hardly had to move a muscle before she went exploding.

When I saw that starting to happen, I braced myself.

Sharon simpered up at me as she recovered, "There I was lying on the floor of this stupid cabin in the dark, never quite falling asleep. And then out of nowhere I started getting horny. Real horny. And then I happened to wake up my brother, who came to my beautiful rescue."

That said, we started fucking in earnest again. Off into the wilds where no one could hear, she began bucking up against me and screaming for my load. I gave her silence soon enough, my balls churning as I bit her neck enough to leave a serious mark.

Afterwards we rolled away, but then shifted back, our two selves melting into one as we drifted into the slumber of utter satisfaction.

The how?s and why?s and what-the-fuck?s could wait 'til morn. In the meantime, it felt so good to be drifting, holding Sharon wrapped against me. Feeling her leaking me onto my own self. Her pussy against my thigh. She remarked on it, in a slumbering mermaid murmur, giving out a final breath, "This moment is so hot."

I was wondering if I could get hard enough to fuck her again ... wake her up enough for another go ... but somewhere along that train of thought I apparently slipped the rails and fell asleep. I wanted to do it again because I knew that once I hit the pillow, I was so drained I'd be a goner for many many hours.

Next I knew I was having a dirty dream so fucking dirty I woke up. My mind was pretending I hadn't really fucked my own sister, sending the two of us into ever dirtier scenarios that just reflected badly upon me as a human being.

I'd be a pervert to think about being woken up before dawn by my sister sucking my dick, but that's what happened. That's what was going on when I woke up. Of course I was thinking about it. Which I guess made me a pervert. Even though I was simply watching it happen. Once she realized I was awake, Sharon got a smiley apologetic face, looming brightly down towards me in the darkness. I certainly felt better, less the perv, knowing my dirty dream was based on a splendid reality.

"Sorry to wake you up," my sister bit her bottom lip in the sultriest manner imaginable, "but I need your help again." She rose up to settle back down, sinking me slowly down all the way up inside her. Considering how ready she had me going when I woke up, she could've gone on without deliberately waking me. She got what she wanted, and I certainly enjoyed the secondary benefits. That tight wet cunt, going up and down, clasping me to a slow sleepy spill. The spell of us in the low glow of the dying fire, doing what animals did best. The long moans of our impending, mutual release.

We came together, out-howling the motherfucking wolves gathering along the horizon. Sharon collapsed upon me, the intermingling of our juices soaking our juncture, and that was all I remembered. The vague sensation as I slunk out of her and she slid to my side.

There was an interlude in the scant light of early dawn, but it was like the flash of a dream. I woke enough from another very sexy dream just in time for it to not be a wet-dream. My balls boiled over just as my sister collapsed on my chest.

The next time I woke up, the sun was shining. I was alone in the messed up bedding. But I could smell coffee! And some sort of breakfast starting up on the Coleman stove's other burner.

I moved into the room, surprising my sister as I moved my hand up her loin. She was back in her old worn, now come-stained, nightgown. I massaged that loving haunch, even moving my hand up under the light fabric.

"So the electric is still out?"

Sharon ignored my nudging and poured me a cup of coffee. "Better take a look outside," she laughed. I took my mug of coffee and stepped out onto the front porch to take my advised look. She freshened her mug and joined me. The rain wasn't even a trickle, just a spit on your arm now and again. The sky behind didn't look too promising.

Our li'l crik was still so high we couldn't see how much of the tree bridge had washed away, just enough of a view to know we were fucked. Totally for a few days until the water fell and we figured out what to do.

My hands wanted to be rude again, darting up under her hem, but this time so crude and fast all the fabric got bunched up around her waist. Instead my fingers gave a light stroke of the forearm holding her mug. "So, what about last night," I asked gently, adding with a smile, "not to mention the dawn's early rising?"

She smiled at my joke, then sort of looked down and away. "It just felt so right, the glow from the fire, and..."

"And?"

Sharon still wouldn't look at me. "And you beside me. There! I've finally said it." Her head was still hung, but swung so her eyes bore into mine, a look of defiance softened by her hanging hair. "I've had a deep dark secret for so very long. I've always kept it contained, but I guess last night the cork got nuzzled out of that bottle."