My Sister, My Sin

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One morning in the summer of my fourteenth year I woke up with a much stiffer and thicker erection than any my young loins had ever before sustained.

I knew it must have some link with my sister, whose arrival the night before had made it difficult to get to sleep. I had scarcely seen her for five years, for after our mother and father separated we had been shuttled about from school to camp and back again.

But I knew as soon as we had rushed into each others' arms on her arrival that the slavish love for her I had felt as a young boy-when we had taken baths together and played tickling games, exposed ourselves and played house-was undiminished, even if she was now fifteen.

I slid out of bed, slipped on a bathrobe and headed for Sandy's room. Then I thought better of it and took off the robe as well as my pyjamas. What was the sense of covering up? We were going to have a whole summer together, under the half-blind eye of dotty grandma, while the parents wrangled far away in the city over the settlement and our custody. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had shot up in the last year, and even if I was a year younger than my sister, I was a couple of inches taller. I wasn't a skinny rail like most kids my age, either, but had begun to flesh out smoothly, and my erected standard was that of a man, not a boy.

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