Lost in the forest

My name is Daniil, I'm 21. Summers at our father's dacha were always a strange mix of boredom and tension. Especially after he married Irina two years ago, and she burst into my life—Maya, my now half-sister. She was 19, and she was the embodiment of everything that both drove me crazy and terrified me. Not the kind of beauty you see on magazine covers, but a real, natural beauty. Bright red hair that she always wore in a messy ponytail, freckles on her nose, and gray eyes that could see right through you. We lived in the same house, our rooms separated by a thin wall, and I could hear her tossing and turning at night. We constantly bickered over trivial things—who washed the dishes, what movie to watch—but beneath this game of "evil brother and sister," something else smoldered. Something forbidden, something sharp, something that took our breath away when our hands accidentally touched at the dinner table. We both felt it. The estate stood on the edge of an old, dense forest. The air smelled of resin and damp earth. My father and Irina had gone to town for a couple of days on business, leaving us alone. The first day passed in awkward avoidance, but boredom took its toll. "Listen, there should be plenty of mushrooms here after the rain," Maya said, leaning against the doorframe and looking at me defiantly. She was wearing old, worn shorts that fit her so tightly that I had to avert my eyes, and a simple gray T-shirt with no bra. I saw it, and she knew I saw it. "Mushrooms? Can you even tell a death cap from a russula?" I snorted, putting the book down. "Can you tell the difference? Let's go and poke some sticks into the moss. It's so quiet here it's enough to drive you crazy." There was that note in her voice—half-mockery, half-invitation. A challenge I couldn't ignore. We walked deeper into the forest, and the world narrowed to the pine trunks, patches of sunlight, and a thick carpet of needles beneath our feet. The conversation was halting at first, about mundane matters. Then it somehow died away. I walked behind her and couldn't help but watch the muscles in her thighs move to the rhythm of her steps, the arch of her back. My mouth went dry. "Do you think about this often?" her question, thrown over her shoulder, sounded like a gunshot. “About what?” I swallowed. "That we're not related. That everything could have been... different." I stopped. She turned around. There was no mockery or playfulness in her eyes. There was that tightly sealed truth that we were both afraid to let out. “Often,” I breathed out hoarsely. “Every day, May.” She didn't answer, only stared. The atmosphere around us thickened, as if before a thunderstorm. We walked on, no longer speaking. The air was filled with unspoken desire, hanging between us like a heavy, sweet garland. We wandered further than we'd planned. We didn't find any mushrooms, and when we decided to turn back, all the paths looked the same. The sky, which had been clear before, was covered with heavy, leaden clouds. It smelled of ozone. “I think we’re lost,” Maya said, and for the first time there was a note of alarm in her voice. And then thunder roared. Rolling, close. And a second later, a wall of water crashed down on us. A summer downpour, warm, blinding, merciless. We took off running, stumbling over roots, until I saw a huge, spreading spruce tree. Its lower branches, like a tent, hung almost to the ground. “There!” I grabbed her hand, and her palm was hot even through the icy water. We ducked under the green canopy. It was dry, quiet, and dark, smelling of pine needles and mold. We stood there, breathing heavily, water pouring off us in streams. Maya was shivering, but not from the cold. She looked at me, her T-shirt clinging to her body, outlining every curve, every bulge. Her nipples strained beneath the wet fabric, hard and dark. I couldn't look away. “Daniel...” she whispered, and it was no longer her brother’s name, but the name of a man. Everything that had been building up for months, years, burst. I stepped toward her, pressed her back against the rough trunk, and pressed my lips to hers. She didn't resist. She responded. Her kiss was wild, greedy, tasting of rain and something sweet. I clutched my wet hair with my hands, and she wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her whole body against mine. "I can't take it anymore... I'll go crazy," I muttered between kisses, ripping her wet T-shirt off. She helped me, her movements just as desperate. We threw off everything: my shorts, her shorts, her cotton panties. The clothes lay on the soft, springy moss in a dark, wet lump. We stood naked before each other, the rain howling outside our shelter. Her body was pale, with reddish highlights on her pubis, graceful as she was. My penis, already hard, throbbed painfully, rising elastically toward my stomach. “Yours is... big,” she said quietly, without looking away. “Have you changed your mind?” my voice broke into a croak. In response, she knelt down on the soft moss and took my cock in her hand. Her palm was cool and wet. She looked up at me, then leaned over and took my cock in her mouth. I cried out in surprise and pleasure. She wasn't an expert; her movements were clumsy, but incredibly sweet because it was her. I watched her red strands fall onto my pubic area, her cheeks hollow, and I thought I was going to cum from that sight alone. But I wanted more. I gently pushed her away and helped her up. “I want you. Now.” She nodded, her eyes shining in the darkness. She lay down on her back on our makeshift bed of clothes and moss, spreading her legs. I sank between them, propping myself up on my elbows. The sight of her pussy, wet, pink, and completely exposed to me, drove me mad. “Maya... I don’t have anything with me...,” I whispered, already touching her entrance with the head. "I don't care. I want you," her whisper was hot in my ear. And I entered. Slowly, overcoming resistance, plunging into incredible, tight, scorching moisture. She screamed, digging her nails into my back. I froze, letting her adjust. "Everything is fine?" "Yes... go on. Please." I began to move. Slowly at first, searching for a rhythm. Then faster, deeper. Each thrust made her moan—quietly, intermittently, in time with the rain hitting the pine needles above us. The sounds mingled: the roar of the downpour, our heavy sighs, the sloshing sound of our intercourse. I watched her face contort with pleasure, her breasts bouncing in time with my movements. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her heels digging into my buttocks, pushing, demanding more. “Harder... Dania, come on harder,” she thrashed under me. I turned her over and forced her onto her knees. She arched her back, presenting her perfect, pale bottom to me. The sight was so revealing and arousing that my vision darkened. I entered her again from behind, holding her hip with one hand and her red hair with the other. This was no longer love, but some kind of animal, primal connection. We moved in unison, as if we'd always known this dance. The moss was soft and springy beneath her knees. I felt the tension building in my lower abdomen, inexorable as this thunderstorm. She was close too, her moans high-pitched and shrill. "I'm coming... I'm cumming..." she screamed, her body clenching around my cock in a series of convulsive spasms. It was unbearably sweet. I couldn't hold back any longer. I pulled out, flipped her over onto her back, and, looking into her wide, lost eyes, began to jerk my cock roughly and quickly over her stomach. “On you... Everything on you...” was all I could say. The wave washed over me. I groaned, and hot, thick streams of sperm erupted from me, staining her stomach, her chest, and even landing on her chin and neck. The convulsions continued for a few more seconds until I collapsed next to her, completely spent. We lay there, breathing heavily. The rain outside our tent window was dying down, turning to a light drizzle. The smell was pungent, a mixture of sex, pine needles, and damp earth. I looked at her. At my sperm, white on her skin. At her breasts, still heaving. It was the most obscene and beautiful sight of my life. "God..." she finally breathed, touching her stomach with her fingers. She brought her finger to her mouth and tasted it. And smiled. A tired, cunning, satisfied smile. "It tastes... like you." We clung to each other in silence. There was no guilt, no regret at that moment. Only a deafening, echoing clarity and fatigue. I found a handkerchief in the pocket of my wet shorts and handed it to her to dry herself off. We somehow dressed in still damp, cold clothes, and it felt strange—hiding again the bodies that had just known each other by heart. We found our way back almost immediately, as if the forest, having received its prey, had released us. The house was empty, quiet. We climbed the stairs in silence. On the landing, in front of her doors, she stopped and took my hand. "This isn't the end, is it?" there was a question in her eyes. “No,” I kissed her wet hair. She nodded and disappeared into her room. I went into mine and leaned against the very wall that separated us. A light knock came from the other side. I responded in kind. And I realized that our game had just reached a new, dangerous, incredibly sweet level. And neither of us wanted to back down.