The bus groaned to a halt. "Finally," Kathy muttered, peeling her thighs from the vinyl seat. Outside, a wooden shack labeled "Wilderness Adventures" stood surrounded by towering pines and stacks of bright orange canoes. Richard practically bounced down the steps of the bus, already pointing at a distant osprey circling above the lake. "Look! Magnificent wingspan!"
19-year-old Kyle dragged his duffel bag out, blinking against the sudden glare off the water. His neck ached from sleeping upright against the window. Beside him, Leslie yawned, stretching her arms high. "Ugh, my hair feels like a grease pit," she complained, finger-combing tangled brown strands.
Richard strode toward the shack, already chatting with a sunburnt man in a faded flannel shirt. Kathy lingered by the bus, adjusting her shirt over her soft stomach. The air smelled sharp—pine resin and cool, deep water. She watched Leslie skip toward the lakeshore, her daughter’s laughter bright against the quiet. Kyle shuffled after Leslie, his long legs catching awkwardly. "Dad's already planning birdwatching routes," he mumbled, kicking a pinecone.
The tour operator, Lars, handed Richard laminated maps. "You chose our 'Wilderness Explorer' package," Lars explained, tapping the map with a thick finger. "Seven days paddling Sämsunden's southern archipelago. You'll camp on different islands each night—marked here, see?" He traced a looping route dotted with tiny tent symbols. "Two-person canoes, lightweight tents, food, dry bags... all included. You carry everything yourselves."
Kathy eyed the overloaded canoes dubiously. "Self-sufficient," Lars grinned. "No shops, no cabins. Just you, the lake, and the sky." Richard beamed; Kathy swallowed hard.
Richard clapped his hands. "Alright, family! Pair up—Kyle with Leslie, Kathy with me." He hoisted a heavy dry bag onto his shoulders. Kyle groaned softly, eyeing the sleek green canoe assigned to him and Leslie. "Dad, these things tip if you breathe wrong," he muttered.
Leslie shoved him playfully. "Relax, genius. I'll steer." She tossed her backpack into the preloaded canoe's bow, making it wobble alarmingly. Kyle flinched. Their father ignored them, already hauling his things toward another canoe.
Richard unfolded Lars’ laminated map, squinting at the intricate blue lines and tiny island clusters. "The first campsite's on Björkholmen—Birch Island," he announced, tracing a route with a calloused finger. "About two hours paddling northwest. See this channel?" He tapped a narrow passage between two larger islands. "Avoid the open water here—wind picks up fierce, says Lars."
Kathy settled gingerly into the bow seat, gripping the gunwales as the canoe rocked beneath her. Richard tucked the map into a waterproof pouch clipped to his life vest. "Ready?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before pushing them off the gravel shore with a grunt.
After a while, the clumsy paddle strokes become rhythmic dips and pulls, as the paddles settle into a steady cadence. Sunlight fractured on the lake’s surface, casting shifting patterns across Kathy’s tense shoulders. Ahead, Leslie’s paddle sliced through the water, her strokes confident and smooth, while Kyle’s movements were hesitant jerks that sent small splashes arcing sideways. Pine-covered islands rose like green sentinels from the deep water. A loon’s cry echoed across the lake.
Richard leaned forward slightly, his paddle resting across the gunwales. Sweat darkened the collar of his faded grey t-shirt, clinging to the solid curve of his shoulders. Kathy, facing away from him in the bow, felt the canoe rock gently with each of his movements. Her dark green button-down shirt stretched snugly across her back, accentuating the soft curve of her figure where the fabric met the waistband of her practical brown shorts. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. She shifted uncomfortably, the canoe seat digging into the hips of the 43-year-old mother.
Ahead, Leslie dipped her paddle with effortless grace. Her sleeveless top—bright turquoise cotton—was buttoned high at the neck, emphasizing her slender throat and the sharp line of her collarbones. The fabric clung tightly to her small, firm breasts and tapered down to her narrow waist, tucked neatly into khaki hiking shorts. Sunlight caught the honey-brown highlights in her long, messy braid as the 18-year-old turned her head, shouting something playful back at Kyle.
Kyle, hunched awkwardly in the stern behind her, looked pale and out of place. His own faded grey t-shirt hung loosely on his lanky frame, emphasizing his narrow shoulders. Sweat plastered strands of his dark-blond hair to his forehead above intelligent brown eyes that scanned the water nervously. His paddle strokes remained clumsy, jerking the canoe slightly every few pulls.
The island materialized slowly: a dense wall of slender silver birch trees rising steeply from the water's edge, their pale bark stark against the deep green pine backdrop. Richard steered their canoe toward a small crescent of smooth sand that served as a natural landing. "Björkholmen!" he announced, his voice carrying easily across the now-still water. Kathy felt a wave of relief mixed with exhaustion as the canoe scraped gently onto the island. Two hours of paddling had settled into her muscles as a deep ache.
Kyle stumbled onto the shore first, his long legs unsteady after hours cramped in the canoe. He immediately sank onto a sun-warmed rock, rubbing his sore shoulders. Leslie bounded out next, already scanning the dense undergrowth near the beach. "Look! Wild berries!" she exclaimed, pointing to tiny red jewels nestled among mossy roots. Richard grunted as he hauled the first heavy dry bag onto the sand, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. Kathy climbed out more carefully, her movements stiff, the damp fabric of her shorts clinging uncomfortably to her thighs.
The campsite centered around a weathered stone fireplace, its blackened interior hinting at countless past fires. Richard directed the unloading with a mechanic's efficiency. "Kyle, tents. Leslie, gather dry kindling—birch bark is best. Kathy, help me sort the food packs." He tossed a bundle of tent poles toward Kyle, who caught them awkwardly. Kathy knelt beside the pile of dry bags, her fingers fumbling with stiff buckles.
Sweat trickled down Kyle's temples as he wrestled with the unfamiliar tent fabric. He jammed a pole into its sleeve, the canvas resisting. "Leslie!" he called, frustration edging his voice. "Stop foraging and help!" Leslie emerged from the underbrush, arms laden with silvery birch bark strips and twigs. "Patience, brother," she teased, dropping her haul near the fireplace. "Can't build a fire without fuel." She knelt beside him, her nimble fingers quickly correcting his misaligned pole.
An hour later, Richard could survey the campsite with satisfaction. Two sturdy tents stood pitched beneath the birch canopy, their green fabric blending into the forest. The food packs were neatly organized on a tarp near the stone fireplace, Kathy meticulously arranging dehydrated meals into meal-specific piles. "Good work, family," Richard announced.
They ate simply: steaming bowls of rehydrated stew eaten straight from the pouch, hunched on a log bench dragged near the crackling fire Leslie had coaxed to life. The wood burned bright and hot, casting flickering light on tired faces. Conversation was sparse, punctuated by the scrape of spoons and Kyle’s quiet yawns. The lake lapped softly against the shore.
Richard cleared his throat, a sharp sound cutting through the comfortable silence. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the firelight deepening the lines around his eyes. "You know," he began, his voice taking on a deliberate, storytelling cadence, "this place... it reminds me of my father. Makes me want to tell you kids about him." He paused, letting the declaration hang in the smoky air.
Kathy sighed deeply, the sound heavy with resignation. She pushed herself up from the log bench, her movements tired and sluggish from paddling. "Right," she murmured. "I'll get us a warm blanket and put on something comfortable. Then you can tell us your story..." She disappeared into the larger tent, the nylon flap whispering shut behind her.
Shortly after Kathy crawled back out of the tent. She’d changed into thick, grey leggings and wool socks that swallowed her ankles. In her arms, she is holding a large, woven blanket. Her white, coarse-knit cardigan hung loosely on her frame, the five dark brown buttons fastened from collar to waist.
Kyle’s eyes drifted toward her as she draped the blanket over the log bench. Her cardigan gaped open slightly where she bent forward, revealing the soft, heavy curve of her left breast sagging against the fabric. The firelight caught the loose skin above her collarbone and the faint stretch marks near her armpit. He quickly looked away, heat prickling his neck. She hadn’t worn a bra. Her breasts moved distinctly beneath the wool, heavy and low, swaying slightly as she settled beside him.
Richard shifted closer to Leslie. The blanket settled over their laps. "Dad, you've never talked about Grandpa. Now you want to tell us?" Her tone held an edge, sharpened by exhaustion. She tucked her legs beneath her, leaning against her father’s solid shoulder. The thick wool scratched her bare arm.
Kyle sat rigidly beside Leslie, leaving a careful gap between them. He stared fixedly at the fire, avoiding his mother's movement as she settled heavily beside him. Her thigh pressed warm against his under the blanket. He smelled her faint sweat beneath the wool cardigan, mingling with woodsmoke. Her unbound breasts shifted visibly beneath the coarse knit as she pulled the blanket edge higher. Kyle clenched his jaw, staring harder at the flames.
Richard cleared his throat, leaning forward. The firelight carved deep shadows under his cheekbones. "My father..." he began, voice low and rough. "He wasn't like other men. Worked the docks down in Malmö. Came home smelling of fish and salt." Leslie leaned in, intrigued, her eyes wide and reflecting the flames. "Did he ever tell you stories? About the sea?"
Kathy shifted against Kyle, her head settling heavily onto his shoulder. The sudden weight startled him. Her unbound breasts pressed warm and soft against his arm through the thick wool cardigan. He froze, every muscle locking. The scent of her sweat—musky, intimate—mixed with woodsmoke filled his nostrils. Her ear brushed his jawline. Kathy sighed contentedly, nestling closer. "Richard," she murmured drowsily, "tell us about the storms..."
Richard’s gaze stayed fixed on the flames, his voice deepening. "The storms," Leslie gasped softly, leaning closer to her father. Kyle felt Kathy’s hand slide onto his thigh beneath the blanket. Her palm was broad, warm, and calloused slightly from years of office work. She rubbed slow, soothing circles up his thigh, a purely maternal gesture meant to comfort. Kyle stared ahead; his breath grew shallow.
The firelight danced across Kathy’s face as she rested against her son’s shoulder. Her cardigan gaped wider where her breast pressed against Kyle’s arm, the soft wool outlining her heavy flesh. He could feel every shift—the slight sag, the warmth radiating through the fabric. His jaw tightened. He focused on the crackling birch logs, the sparks spiraling upward into the dark. "Don’t think about it," he ordered himself, "don’t." He clenched his fists beneath the blanket, knuckles white. His father’s voice became a distant drone—something about waves swallowing fishing boats whole.
Kathy sighed softly, her breath warm against Kyle’s neck. Her hand slid up and down on his thigh beneath the blanket. A jolt of heat shot through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing sterile lecture halls and anatomy diagrams from his university—anything but the soft weight against his arm or the scent of his mother's skin. Leslie leaned forward, enthralled, her turquoise sleeve brushing Richard’s knee. "Did Grandpa ever capsize?" she whispered.
The rhythmic pressure of Kathy’s hand was relentless, innocent yet maddening. Her breast pressed fuller against him as she shifted. His pants tightened painfully. "Focus on the fire," he begged himself silently. The sparks. The wood smoked. But his traitorous body betrayed him, blood pulsing hot and thick.
Her hand slid higher—a soothing stroke meant for her weary son. Her fingers brushed something firm beneath the blanket—not muscle, not fabric. Her breath hitched. "Oh God!" She thought and jerked her hand slowly away as if nothing had happened, heat flooding her own cheeks. But the feel lingered: the unexpected hardness, the startled tension in his body. A forbidden thrill shot through her, low and startling. Then she starts stroking him again, a little further away from the bulge, as before.
Kyle froze. Every nerve screamed. His mother’s touch retreated, then returned—hesitant, innocent strokes. Her thigh pressed hot against his. He stared blindly at the flames, sweat beading on his upper lip and thought: "Don’t move. Don’t breathe." Her fingers resumed their slow circles, inches from where he throbbed. Innocent? Accidental? He couldn’t tell. Her breast shifted against his arm, heavy and soft beneath the wool.
Richard’s voice rumbled on—waves, drowning men, salt spray—but the words blurred. Kathy's own pulse roared in her ears. Her caresses became more sensual, and slowly they felt their way back up, not yet touching the bulge. A shudder ran through him. She felt it, deep in her own belly. Years of neglect, of cold beds and silent showers, cracked open. Hunger, raw and undeniable, coiled low. "Just once," she thought wildly, "Just to feel wanted," but she hesitated.
Her breath grew heavier and more fervent. The scent of pine smoke faded, replaced by the clean sweat on Kyle’s skin. Without conscious thought, her head tilted. Her warm, soft cheek pressed against the taut line of his neck. She rubbed gently, slowly, savoring the roughness of his stubble against her skin, the heat radiating from him. Eyes closed, she inhaled deeply, lost in the forbidden sensation. The wool of her cardigan scraped her hardening nipple as she moved against him.
Kyle’s entire body locked beneath the blanket. Her cheek was impossibly soft against his throat. Her breath hitched, hot and damp on his collarbone. He dared not move, not even to swallow. The firelight seemed to pulse with the frantic hammering of his heart. Her thigh shifted, pressing higher against his own. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. He sought distraction in his mind: "Lecture slides. Diagrams. Anything."
Richard’s voice cut through the thick silence, oblivious. "...and that’s when the nets tore loose. Men screaming..." He gestured broadly toward Leslie, who leaned forward, rapt, her fingers twisting a strand of her long brown hair. "Grandpa saw it?" she breathed, eyes wide. Richard nodded grimly. "Saw it, lived it." He took a slow sip from a tin mug, the steam curling into the cool night air. The story was a shield walling off the silent taboo running through his wife and son mere feet away.
Kathy’s hand resumed its slow journey beneath the family blanket. Her hand slid higher, deliberate now, grazing the bulge straining against Kyle’s pants. Her breath caught—sharp, audible only to Kyle. Her fingers traced the outline, feather-light, exploring the hard length through the fabric. A low tremor ran through him. "Don’t move," he screamed inside, frozen statue-still. His mother’s cheek pressed harder against his neck, her exhale hot and ragged. The innocent pretense was shattered. Her need was sparking against his skin.
Kyle’s resolve snapped. A choked gasp escaped him. His hand wandered beneath the blanket, silent and desperate, covering hers. He pressed his mother's palm flat against his hardness. Her fingers curled instinctively, squeezing him through the fabric. Heat flooded him, shame and raw hunger twisting together. Kathy's free hand slid around his waist, pulling him closer, her soft, motherly body pressing against him.
From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a tired son leaning into his mother’s comforting embrace. Kathy’s head rested against Kyle’s neck, her eyes closed as if listening to Richard’s tale. Kyle’s rigid posture could be mistaken for weary stiffness. Only the slight tremor in Kathy’s hand beneath the blanket hinted at anything beyond familial warmth. Leslie remained engrossed in her father’s story, oblivious.
Kathy’s hand worked with desperate stealth. Her fingers tugged the button of his pants free with a faint scrape of metal against the fabric. The zipper slid down silently, inch by torturous inch. Kyle’s knuckles whitened where he clutched the blanket draped over their laps, pulling it taut across his knees to not shake the blanket with every movement. He kept his gaze locked on the leaping flames, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped in his cheek. Richard’s voice droned on.
Her breath hitched again, hot against his neck. Then her hand slid inside, past the fabric of his boxer shorts. Her fingers closed around him. Hot. Hard. Throbbing against her palm. A bead of slick wetness coated her fingertips as she brushed the swollen head. "Precum for his mommy," she thought, a jolt of satisfaction mingling with her shame. She smeared it with her thumb, feeling the silky heat.
Kyle jerked, a sharp intake of breath escaping him, and covered up with a cough. He clamped his jaw shut, staring blindly at the fire. The flames blurred. Her grip tightened, her calloused thumb rubbing slow circles over the sensitive tip. Then his mother's fingers began to move—slow, deliberate strokes, pulling the skin taut, exploring his length with possessive curiosity.
"He’s so hard for me," Kathy thought, her own breath shallow. The rhythm was hypnotic, almost maternal in its soothing cadence, yet charged with something dark and electric. Years of Richard’s indifference, the cold silences in their bed, the quick fumbles in the shower that left her empty—it all coiled into this moment. "He’s mine now. My boy." The forbidden thrill was intoxicating, sharper than any fantasy. She pressed her face deeper into the crook of his neck, inhaling the clean sweat and woodsmoke scent of him, her own body responding with a dull, insistent ache.
"She’s touching me. Mom’s touching me," Kyle thought. The shame was molten, but so was the pleasure, twisting together until he couldn’t tell them apart. He leaned into her, surrendering to the weight of her head against his shoulder, the soft, saggy breast of hers against his arm. His hips betrayed him with a tiny, involuntary thrust against her grip.
Her fingers tightened, slick with his wetness. Kathy explored him—the thick vein pulsing along the underside, the taut skin stretched over his shaft, and the swollen head slick...
