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Subject: INCEST "Closing Up the Cottage" {Mf, inc} 889800
From: INCEST MAN <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Date: Sat, 13 Jun 2009 12:30:53 +0000
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/theincest.html
Closing Up the Cottage
Section A
It started out as another case of me-and-my-big-mouth. I was down at
my parents' and had wandered into the livingroom in time to catch the
last snatch of a conversation. My sister Ria was saying stuff about
closing up her cottage for the winter. Figuring that to be a pretty
tough sport and feeling full of false magnanimity, I volunteered,
"Well gosh, Ria, I'd certainly come out and help, not that I could get
time away from the kids or afford the airfare." I really would have
been just as satisfied with myself if I'd just thought about offering.
Unfortunately there was a roomful of family to witness my words.
I hadn't seen Ria in a couple of years and didn't expect to see her
again for a couple more. That was the standard schedule since we'd
become adults. Ria and I were not at all close. As children we had
fought like monsters all the time. Sometime in our early teens came a
cease-fire, both of us independently deciding it would be less hassle
to simple ignore the other. Now that we'd both crossed the threshold
into our thirties, things between us were civil enough. Though
neither of us felt obliged to words if we wound up alone in the same
room.
It was like some sort of conspiracy. Less than a month later my wife
announced that she and the kids were driving for a week's stay at her
parents a state and a half away. Instead of being torn between desire
and duty--can I stay or should I go?--I was directed towards a third
choice. She and them were off to her parents, while mine had mailed
me the plane tickets out to Ria's. Somehow I didn't feel much in
charge of my own destiny.
I boarded my airplane, found my seat and sat down. I pulled the
in-flight magazine out from the pouch on the back of the seat ahead of
me. It was not a far reach. I thought to myself _This is insane!_ My
sister was a virtual stranger. There was this cottage, out in the
country, up in the mountains, something like that out in one of the
western states. I had no clear idea what she did with her life. I
had not even seen a photograph of this _cottage_. I didn't know if
she owned or rented or just somehow _inhabited_ this cottage. There
was something about a roommate going abroad for some long stretch of
time. My sole knowledge of this person was her gender. Were they
roommates or friends or lovers? As for my sister's sexuality, I could
state with some certainty that she was female. All the sorts of
details that make up a life, and so few did I know. It was all
information I didn't care about. I could see no reason in the world
why I would be on my way to help her out. Blood isn't _that_ thick.
The pleasure of my flight was mitigated by the circumstances of having
been booked on the cheapest airline still up in the air. The only
refreshment they offered was water, and for that you had to go back
and suck it from the bathroom spigot. Carry-on luggage was restricted
to purses and briefcases because there were no overhead bins, so my
similarly sized duffel had to go into the belly of the beast. I
didn't really need the book I'd neglected to retrieve until I
discovered that all the magazines were actually thickish catalogues of
cheap goods. My favorite was the catalogue catalogue, a huge lavishly
illustrated catalogue of all the catalogues you could possibly want to
order. I did a total tally. For only almost $1000 I could have many
hundreds of worthless catalogues I didn't want delivered to my
doorstep. The prospect was thrilling. The exercise got me past those
first ten minutes when the plane is suddenly rumbling into the air,
going up steep fast. My fear of flying is restricted to these
minutes, and their companion ones at the other end of the flight,
when, statistically, most planes tend to crash and burn.
During the descent I silently waxed poetic about the grand old days of
air travel. When your plane landed, by god you were where you were
going. And you had to worry about dying only twice. My modern flight
sort of hopped across the landscape. Each subsequent airport was
smaller than the one before. And at each we as well traded down for
the next smaller aircraft. It got to the point that as we were once
again nosing back down to earth, all I could really imagine ahead was
a sort of lawnmower with wings. Out the window all I could see us
approaching was what looked like a failed subdivision out in the
middle of nowhere. The sad lines of merrily named streets leading to
nothing, making tracings in the bulldozed mud sea surrounding. The
roads anchored to a small solitary building, the model home/sales
office. We landed there, and it didn't look much different from the
ground. The building was the tiniest terminal that was ever built.
Luckily it was the end of the line. I was where I wanted to be, or
rather, where I was supposed to be.
Amazingly, the flight arrived on time. Nothing else did. I spent the
hour Ria kept me waiting trying to locate my duffel. She finally
caught up with me at an out-of-the-way counter where a gleaming young
woman was filling out a missing tracer for me. Well, she was noting
the information on the backside of a napkin with a snapped pencil.
"So just come back in ten days to check," the woman was telling me
with a winning smile.
"I'll be back in four," I snapped, "That's when I leave. Preferably
with the duffel."
Ria came up and greeted me. She stopped ten feet away and barked,
"Where's your bag?"
I turned back to Miss Perfect Career Choice and asked, "How many
cities does your fine airline serve anyway."
"Thirty-eight," she gave a cheery chirp.
I turned back to Ria. "Take your pick. Now I sort of know why my bag
is late. What's your excuse?"
"I'm here now," she shrugged. "You ready to go?"
The cottage, when we got there, wasn't really much of a cottage. It
wasn't a shack, but it wasn't a cottage. It was a house in the way a
cave can be called a home. It could be called a cabin, except cabins
generally aren't clapboard with little trims around the rims. It
didn't look at all new. Thank god, I thought, it wasn't some listing
double-wide trailer dragged up the hills.
It was really rather nice inside. One big central room, the
livingroom, with vaulted ceiling and a wide stone hearth. A hallway
led off to a pleasant little bedroom opposite a full bath, ending in
the kitchen at back. I retraced my steps and headed for the great
room. In the middle of the room, facing the fireplace, there was one
of those frame things that folds a futon up into a sofa. I was on it
in an instant.
Ria was on me before I could get comfortable. "What do you think
you're doing? Come on! get up!! We got a ton of work ahead of us."
"Coffee," I groaned. "First comes coffee."
"Coffee?" she gave me a queer look. "I don't drink coffee."
"Well I do. You could be nice, or just tell me where everything is
and I'll make my own."
"I said I don't drink the stuff. The closest coffee you'll find is
down in town."
"Then get your butt down to town and get me some!" I cried. "I'm not
moving 'til I've had my fix. Get me a pound, ground, and something to
brew it in."
Ria took my look of exasperation and multiplied it. She went off in a
huff, but she did go off. Without another word she was out the door
and in her truck. I guessed it to be at least a twenty minute trip
each way, nestling my head languidly down into a pillow.
In fact I got to snooze for well over an hour. But then my nap ended
with that terribly disorienting sort of jerking way. It was like my
body shivering awake at the presence of a cat sitting on my chest
staring at me while I slept. The cat was Ria. "Wake up and smell the
coffee," she gently cooed. I couldn't imagine how she had gotten into
that position without me waking straight off. She was straddling me
and half lying atop me. It was a familiar posture from childhood, but
any adult interpretation tended to involve complete lack of clothing.
Of particular embarrassment for me was that she'd caught me at some
stage of sleep where I had an absolutely throbbing erection, a
condition complicated by being twisted up in my underwear. The warm
soft pressure of her crotch was hardly the dash of cold water I
needed. I tried to think of all the most horrifying things I could to
make my tide subside. What more wilt-worthy material was there than
the thought that your own sister might feel your accidental erection?
But it was my own sister on top of me and there was no way she could
mistake what she was sitting on, and Ria really was doing nothing to
abate the situation. If we'd been naked, the sweat alone would've
sent me filling her to the hilt. Her breasts hung unhampered in her
shirt, sometimes swaying against my chest. The view down her shirt
was always excellent. I of course could not linger on the scenery
without appearing quite obvious. It really was much harder on my neck
to keep my gaze up at her eyes. Ria's smile seemed to be quietly
laughing about my quandary. She crushed them against me as she swung
her leg back over me, pushing off me to stand up.
"Coffee's ready," she tossed off. "Drink up!"
It was the worst cup of coffee I'd ever had. It was like she had gone
to the clandestine and unscrupulous open coffee market and been
suckered into buying a bag of dried used grounds disguised as
freeze-dried instant. The best course of action seemed to me to be
stoic and obey orders.
The first order of the day was to put in all the storm windows. There
weren't all that many windows, but it didn't sound like an interesting
chore to me. But if I was going to do any griping, I should have done
it by keeping my yap shut weeks ago. It was a great time-saver that
Ria already had the logistical end figured out. One of us would climb
up the ladder, while the other would hand up the big panes of glass.
We took turns which helped vary the task. And either way, I had a
great view. Divorcing the sights from the fact that it was my sister.
It gave my mind something to do while the rest of me hefted away. I
mean, I'd be a liar to deny that Ria's got a luscious ass, and there
it was, sort of pushed out, just a few feet from my face. Or else I
was looking down deep into some mighty fine cleavage. Looking down
there because that was where I had to look down to reach down and grab
the glass. I mean, Ria's my little sister but she's a big girl now;
she can dress herself.
The problem that arose was that due to warping in the frames, it was
stupidly difficult for the person on the ladder to hold the window
fast while reaching up to secure the fasteners. I was up top when Ria
decided the best thing was for her to follow up the ladder, reaching
around me to hold the window steady while I busied around with the
latches. She couldn't help but mash her breasts against me a few
times while she got set. In all my wriggling around there were some
contortions that required I brush back against them. I was hoping Ria
wouldn't notice how much I was blushing as I tried to avoid the touch.
I let my manner be matter-of-fact, and thought it best to mention not
a word of it. But it was driving me crazy, every now and then, that
brush of hot breath on the back of my neck. And then back down the
ladder. Next was the worse way. I followed her dancing ass up the
rungs and then had to become a true contortionist. Leaning in enough
to hold the glass flat while keeping my pelvis kept cocked way back.
Maintaining that posture, and affecting it as natural, required true
talent. If I'd been in a calmer state I wouldn't have minded nestling
on up when the job required it. But really, my idlings had left me
with a big hard thing in the front of my pants which I really did not
want to be rubbing up against my sister's ass. On several occasions,
exactly that did happen. I was flooded with self-mortification, a
weird sort of fluid in my veins and stuff which served to push even
more blood into the offensive member.
I was so relieved when the job was done and it was time to go in and
make sandwiches.
But then afterwards we filled the back of her pickup with tools and
drove down the drive to the road. Down there a big gate could be
swung closed and locked, blocking the drive. Apparently some errant
rural postal carrier had swerved bad and knocked the gate posts to
their current strange slants. Ria had the new lumber ready. We
weren't righting the posts. We were there to replace the old 4x4s
with 8x8s, sinking them about a yard down and setting them in
concrete. I'd used a post-hole digger before in my life, and wasn't
exactly thrilled at the repeat. Again, the labor was equitably
divided. Down there, the ground revealed itself to be about three
inches of top soil covering an unending bed of large rocks glued
together with clay. It was hard, hot work, and soon enough Ria
finished off the buttons on her shirt and hung it on one of the tilted
old posts. Ria's breasts were now covered by only the pale lacy pink
wings of a giant butterfly. I couldn't tell if it was a sorry sort of
halter, or bikini top, or more intimate upper apparel. Whatever the
function, the material made the contents sway as easy as a sweet
summer breeze. They jiggled quite smartly when Ria plunged the digger
down in the hole, repeatedly, seeking purchase. The whole scene
seemed orchestrated, choreographed really. She'd move halfway around
the hole so that by the time it came to bend low and take the big
bite, well, I would want to bend low and take a big bite myself.
_Hey, that's your sister_, I had to keep reminding myself, _and she
doesn't particularly like you in the first place_. Like she'd be
terribly thrilled to turn around and catch me drooling over her ass.
Keep your eyes on the concrete and your hands stirring the shovel, I
made that my motto. But not soon enough, for as soon as I took over
on the digger, Ria bitched at me for not attending to the concrete.
"You let it start getting _hard_," she snapped. No doubt! "You
should have stirred it more." No doubt!!
Her remonstrations did act nicely as a bucket of cold water, leaving
me in much less of a state when we got down to the tugging and
grunting of getting the posts set in place. Difficult though it was,
I kept most of my mind on the job holding the posts steady while Ria
twisted and turned, shoveling the concrete from the wheelbarrow into
the holes. The posts stood up straight and tall and proud. "See," I
said as we cleaned up, "everything worked out fine. They're poking up
like poplar trees." Ria, I swear, blushed. And it was that that made
me decide that her nipples really were erect. Well, we'd been working
pretty hard and gotten hot and sweaty, and now as we loaded up the
truck the afternoon was fairly done and the air was taking on the
chilly cast of evening. Something else was starting to poke up again
as well, but I was feeling pretty cocky having discovered that, come
untucked during our labors, my shirt was plenty long enough to keep
all that quite hidden.
I couldn't figure out why I was so blasted horny. It probably was
some bizarre combination of a good honest day's work and the vast
lungsful of clean mountain air. At any rate, I figured once I got my
turn at the shower just the mild touch of soaping myself up would take
care of the problem. I wasn't quite sure what I was going to do about
the matter of my sole set of clothing being soiled.
As to be expected, Ria seized first shot at the shower. Only there
wasn't a shower, just a bath. She was off in the tub splashing away
for hours like a child. When she emerged she was flushed from the
heat, trotting to the bedroom in just a towel. "_Woo!_ It's chilly in
here," she squealed. "Why don't you hop in the tub while I get some
dinner going, and then we'll attend to the fireplace."
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