Only One Bed, Again!

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This is my first-ever incest story. It leans heavily on the “only one bed” cliché, with help from the “oops, I saw him naked in the shower” trope, because I’m not paid enough to produce an original plot.

It’s a cold, damp, winter in Scotland. Cathy and her older brother Chris warm up to each other.

This is an entry in the Winter Holidays Story Contest 2022 — if you like it, please vote.


Chris, my brother, was ten years older than me. We’d never really known each other much growing up; as soon as I was old enough to remember, he was first considered too unreliable to babysit me, then he’d be storming out of the house after an argument.

We did spend a lot of time together during his GCSE year. Playing chess with a smart-arse six year old was preferable to revision, I guessed, but after that I rarely saw him. Always out with his friends, until he went to university. I gathered he hadn’t got in to any our parents approved of, but he was one of the last years to be able to attend without paying fees — and even to get a grant to live on, the lucky bastard! — so they hadn’t argued over the ex-polytechnic he’d chosen to go to.

A decade on, I got the grades for a top red-brick uni, yet I’d be paying off loans for years. Our parents hadn’t quite grasped the new financial order; they treated us equally, resulting in Chris having a nice nest-egg by his early thirties that I’d never be able to look forward to.

Persuade the folks? No, I had no chance. It was increasingly clear I was the failed attempt to keep their marriage together.

They separated during my first year at college, sold the house in my second, divorced during the third. I’d spent a few vacations with Chris, seeing as he was living with a girlfriend, though then that went south. It was like everything he touched; he didn’t value anything enough to hang onto, Mum and Dad said. They fretted over his inability to keep a good stable job. Chris claimed they just didn’t understand.

Dad is a good guy, but frankly clueless. He booked us all a cottage to stay in, for his seventieth. Chris and I were given adjacent rooms, sharing a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Stupid layout, meaning you have to remember to lock the far door when you’re desperate for the facilities.

But not as stupid an idea as Dad inviting Mum and her sister, and Mum’s ‘friend’ Brian, who was obviously her new bloke. Dad was mortified when he realised. I’d be embarrassed too. I mean, I can understand her leaving Dad, whose bumbling and obsessions are as annoying as fuck, but you’d think she’d find someonenot a prize patronising idiot?

We all drank too much. We tried to keep our arguments limited to over Trivial Pursuit, not anything more important. It was a close-run thing. Chris just went quiet when all the older generation united by criticising us; I got gobby. Chris and I had changed roles as we got older, clearly.

I was now drinking heavily; he was the most sober there. The look on his face suggested his mind was elsewhere.

I’d had too many of the posh liqueurs Brian had plied me with. Way too many.

Next morning, I awoke and had to heave, urgently. I rushed into the bathroom, puked, then rapidly turned around to sit down. I looked up when I heard a rattling noise, my elbows still propped on my thighs.

It was Chris, stumbling out of the shower in a very small towel. I was just grateful he’d not locked my door, or it would have been an even more horrendous morning. I wasn’t capable of even focusing on his body, let alone having any opinion on it.

I just sat still and hoped he’d not notice me. The bathroom was full of steam. I closed my eyes to blot out the light.

Suddenly I heard a yell, ‘Aagh!’ I glanced up.

Chris had been drying his hair with his towel, and suddenly noticed my presence. He’d moved to only a step away from me.

If he was now holding the towel to his head, what was down below?

I looked down, and was startled by the substantial cock in front of my face.

It was my turn to scream. ‘Aagh!’

At which point Chris, startled, slipped on the tiled floor, and put his muscular arms out as he started to fall on top of me.

My brother managed to regain his footing by pushing against my shoulders, but not before his cock had stroked over my mouth.

I’d been panting, still feeling unwell, so my brother’s dick had hit not only my lips, but also my dehydrated tongue.

All I could think about, as he grabbed his towel around him again and muttered, “Couldn’t you ever fuckingknock?” was how that drop on the end of his cock-head tasted so much better than my acid-filled mouth had previously.

It was the sort of accident you couldn’t even make up.

I tried to apologise, but he’d slammed the door before I could even groan.

I had a shower myself. I made myself look and feel more human for the rest of the weekend, but for some reason I was reluctant to brush my teeth.

I did, of course. I vigorously bursa escort washed away all traces of my brother’s cock with good old freshmint.

We never spoke about it.

I mean, how could you?

I stayed very sober the next few times I met up with Chris, which was more often than usual as he’d been dumped by a promising girlfriend, and my company seemed to be the only thing which got him out the house.

Then Mum decided to emigrate to New Zealand. With Brian. Brian had as much personality as the average sheep, so I guessed she’d be happy there.

Chris seemed to take it as a personal rejection.

Dad had a bright idea to cheer us up.

This was to enrol us all in a Three Peaks challenge — not Ben Nevis, some lower Scottish peaks, involving simply lots of hillwalking. He even booked hotels for the nights before and after, and confirmed the group would shelter in a picturesque bothy for the night out in the wilds.

For me, it was the sort of thing I did for fun anyway. The southern Highlands, in good weather, would be beautiful, even with winter approaching. With Chris, who preferred weightlifting and working out in a gym to climbing mountains, not to mention Dad being in his seventies, we wouldn’t be rushing to win, just enjoying the outdoors.

It sounded like one of Dad’s better cunning plans.

When Chris saw the weather should be good, he agreed to come. “It’ll be good to see you again, in nice hotels this time,” he said. Good. He’d even stopped hitting the gym much, according to his flatmate.

I worried about him. He seemed depressed.

Still, Chris met me and my hefty backpack in Glasgow.

He brought the message that Dad had had to cancel — he’d sprained his ankle mildly while raking leaves outside. A minor injury, but certainly not one he could participate with us with!

“Typical. Ah well, free rooms and meals. I’ve packed plenty of rations,” I told Chris.

“Mm. Nice to see you again. May as well go along. ‘I’ve started, so I’ll finish.’ Maybe not finish all my whisky, though.”

If he wasn’t drinking too heavily, that was good. I hoped this weekend would be good for him.

We sat mostly quietly on the trains, reading. In due course we emerged at the two-trains-a-day station in the middle of Scotland. As did fifty other hikers, presumably for the same event. We plodded the mile to our small hotel. A large pub with rooms, really.

“A twin room, aye, yes, here’s your key. Sorry, is something wrong? Mr Grierson said one of the party of three had had to cancel. Is that no’ right? The second room has gone, I’m afraid. We’re fully booked this night, wi’ the walkers. So is everywhere in town, mind.”

I glanced at Chris. “Two beds? That’s fine.” He nodded. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Och, that’s a relief! You’re in number five, up yon wee stairs, hen.”

“Thank you so much! Come on, Chris! The Scottish voices all round us brought back some of Dad’s classic phrases, and I used one, “Don’t leave yer mouth hanging open; you’re letting a draft in!”

Chris nearly retorted with one of the very rude phrases he knew, but grunted, picked up his pack, and headed upstairs.

The narrow wooden corridor had a runner of carpet down it. My pack touched both walls. Our small room had two beds, true, both tucked under sloping ceilings on either side of the room. A white-wood bedside table with a bright begonia separated the two. The position of the wall lamps proved the usual layout was the beds pushed together, to make a pretend double.

Chris sat, stretched, hit his head, and swore. I rubbed it, as a peace offering. He cursed again, at me. I sat carefully on my bed, but the light wasn’t in the right spot for reading. Despite watching as I stood up, I clonked my head, too.

“Let’s push them back together,” I said.

“You want me in the bed right next to you?”

“You want to hurt your head again?” I retorted.

“Whatever. If you don’t mind my naked body two feet away.”

“You sleepnaked?”

“Well, duh! How many men do you know who don’t? Or boys over twelve, even?”

I hadn’t thought about it. I guess I’d assumed Scotland, snow, cold: warm pyjamas. “Hang on! You’re not going to go naked in the bothy are you? There’s probably going to be two or four strangers in the room!”

“A warm woodstove, with dancing flames in the front room of a ‘but and ben’? Of course I’ll be nude and enjoy the heat on my bare skin!” He clarified, “No, ya divvy, I’ll be sleeping in my clothes like everyone else, after a hard day’s hike! You daft muppet!”

We scraped the second bed into its usual position.

“Daft lavvy-heid yourself.” I accused Chris of talking shit. It was probably unfair to the good people of Scotland that we’d only picked up their insults from our parents. On the other hand, Scots insultswere epic.

We both flopped onto the beds, thankful they were comfortable, and grinned at each other. Our faces were only a foot apart.

In any other bursa escort bayan circs, lying down with a gorgeous man, that close, you’d end up kissing, right?

I swear I could feel Chris’s breath. Warm, whisky-scented. I was horribly tempted to kiss him anyway.

He was being so sweet. If even my lumpen brother could grow into a kind, loving man, what excuse did Carlos have for being an arsehole? I’d been trying to convince myself to break up with the guy for a while.

As if reading my mind, Chris gave me a tiny peck of a kiss — not on my lips, but not an inch away. “Almost like being a couple on holiday, isn’t it? You’ve set the alarm so we’ve got plenty of time in the morning? Grand. I have to say, I’m looking forward to this twelve-mile hike in the glens. It’s good to be away from the city, sometimes.”

“It is. Easy on the kisses, mate. We’re not a couple! Don’t you be forgetting that in the night! No sneaking over to my side of the bed!”

“I won’t.”

Was it my imagination, or was it not just me now thinking about that idea?

I certainly fantasised about it, as I tried to sleep. My big brother, his fit body under his golden curls, who knew me like no-one else…

Come morning, an organiser explained that we were in a group of twelve, listed as not planning to race, just enjoy our hike. The leader would ensure we all reached the bothy that night — a stone shelter, a basic building that was always kept free, unlocked, with a code of being welcoming to all — and raise the alarm if we didn’t.

We reached the first minor summit with no problem. The views over the loch were stunning. Soft green, some purple still mixed in with the copper sheen from fading heather, the water a garish blue you’d think was unrealistic in a painting. Even when cloud drifted in, muting the shades to a watercolour effect, the Scottish countryside’s beauty was unsurpassable.

Colder clouds settled above us, so everyone pulled on extra layers. Then the classic mizzle — mist and drizzle — evolved into drizzle, and later, a freezing, penetrating rain.

It was the total epitome of that Scots word ‘dreich’: cold, damp, and miserable. The wind picked up to howl round us, adding to the cold, preventing any conversation.

We started plodding up the final ascent. This was still hill-walking rather than climbing, similar to the paths up Snowdon in Wales. Not normally dangerous, but you still have to treat mountains with respect.

Especially with changeable British weather.

And with the sheer cliffs above or below the stony path. A severe gust made it clear; this was not the day to go up this hill. Or mountain; I couldn’t remember how it was classified. Either way, it was steep, slippery, and a liability in this weather.

The leaders called it, so we didn’t have to feel chicken. Time to switch to our ‘escape route’. An extra seven miles added to the day, but more sheltered, going around the base of the mountain instead of up and down.

It was grim. The wet paths, increasingly soggy with watery mud, seemed endless.

It got dark. Even with all our torches, we slowed down.

The rain stepped up.

Actually, it might have been sleet. I was too cold to care. All I could think of was whether the bothy would be warm. Normally, we’d have reached it in daylight, and some of the group would have continued a couple more miles to a hotel, but tonight we’d have to all cram in and make do.

At last, we bumped into the grey granite building, set into a hill. Its peeling black-painted door and windowless walls promised a welcome haven, not intimidating as windowless edifices might appear normally.

It looked exactly as I’d expected — one stone room with the fireplace, chimney going up the middle of the building, then the smaller room behind it with a wooden platform, keeping you raised off the ground. Nothing else, bar a basket of kindling and one split log, a rustic shelf holding two cans of beans, hooks in the walls, and the inevitable spade and bucket.

The Bothy Code reminds you that bothies have no toilet facilities — everything must be buried 100 yards from the building, even when the ground is frozen.

The only promise of a bothy is a watertight windproof shelter, and a warm welcome to any visitor. If there were only two of you in this bothy, enjoying the fire on a summer’s night, then adjourning to the ‘bedroom’, wrapping up in your bedding you’d brought, it might be romantic, if no-one else dropped in.

Add ten extra sweating damp bodies, and a chilly evening boding a freezing night, and it really wasn’t. The twelve of us huddled in the space, waiting for the fire to get going before bringing in more wood from the cold.

The leader ticked our names off. “Cathy Grierson? Chris Grierson? Both here? Good! That would look bad, if we’d lost one half of a couple!”

Neither of us corrected that misapprehension.

I swapped my socks for dry ones, and put a clean base layer on my escort bursa top half. Once I’d replaced the four other layers over it, hanging my fleece jacket and waterproofs up to dry, I felt much better.

The fire was working to boil a kettle, as well as heating water in a pot, ready to cook pasta. I pulled out my contributions to the feast.

The crowd figured out how best to fit into the main room, many of us sitting on our rucksacks. The leader passed round his hip flask. “One wee nip each, mind!”

Then a bearded bloke pulled out his own. “Here’s some proper whisky!” Another sip for each of us.

Mugs of black tea circulated. One woman had sachets of milk for hers, and shared with a friend, but not enough to go round. Sugar was shaken into all the mugs. I never took sugar normally, but this was an emergency.

“I hope that’s sugar, and no’ cocaine!”

“If it were, d’ye think I’d be sharing?”

“Aye, stingy bastard!” The banter continued.

I had a fair bit of food and emergency chocolate I could share, but no drinks beyond water. But Chris was hospitable enough for the both of us there, pulling out a plastic bottle of yellow liquid.

“Ah, we don’t want see your pish!” exclaimed the joker.

“That’s fine. I’ll share this Tobermory with those with taste,” Chris countered.

Someone thought decanting a single malt into a plastic water bottle was sacrilege, but the majority were with Chris; only an idiot would cart glass bottles around the mountains.

A hot meal, a mess of mixed pasta and instant rice and some rehydrated sauces, revived everyone’s spirits. We were safe, and sheltered, and the mountains wouldn’t beat us down.

The atmosphere of bothy bonhomie, often spoken of, grew. We played poker for pieces of trail mix, listened to various tall stories. One guy described his work as a diver, working various lochs, so vividly that I almost began to believe in the Loch Ness Monster. I yawned.

Some of the older men were getting drunk and wanting to stay up, but the leader and his wife, one lone woman, and Chris and I decided it was time to crash. We assembled all our bedrolls and sleeping bags and space blankets, but it would be our body heat and the back of the fireplace keeping the small room warm.

I let the woman sleep next to me. Then me and Chris, who everyone still assumed were a couple. “We’re not married,” was all Chris had said. The two leaders lay on the far side of Chris. The room was about six foot by eight. While wecould have fit someone else in, in an emergency, with our packs on the floor we were snugly packed in, the men’s knees bent.

“I’m sorry my hospitality isn’t quite what I’d planned,” Chris told me.

“That’s OK. We’re warm and safe.”

“That we are, love.” The endearment had slipped out of him. He hadn’t called me that in nearly 20 years.

“Good night, big buddy.” The childhood nickname escaped my mouth, too.

“Aw, aren’t they sweet,” the female leader said to her husband. “Go on, kiss him goodnight, don’t mind the rest of us. Night-night both of you, and you, dear,” to the quiet girl on my far side.

I raised a cheeky eyebrow at Chris, wondering if he would take the dare.

He’d got into trouble many times as a teenager, taking on reckless dares. Surfing downstairs, on an ironing board, was one I recalled well. Mum had nearly exploded, until realising Chris reallywas concussed.

Chris gave me an equally knowing smile. He hadn’t really changed, just by growing up.

He wasn’t going to back down.

Nor was I.

I let my lips touch his, first just a delicate brush, then a firm, proper kiss as soon as I realised he was responding.

I’d have stopped there. Honest. He was my brother, for goodness sake!

But Chris slipped his tongue between my lips, probably expecting I’d recoil in horror.

I’d meant to.

Really. I mean, snogging your brother? With an audience, no less?

Problem was, it felt so good. Not just the firmness of his tongue and the heat of his face, though it would have been a good first kiss from any guy.

Chris loved me, I knew, and I wanted him to feel loved too. But those were minor considerations compared to the simple fact of my older brother being a well fit and cute guy, enthusiastically making out with me.

The warmth of his body on the unheated wooden platform didn’t go amiss, either.

As Chris put his hand round my head, seeing I wasn’t pulling away, it couldn’t be clearer that he was loving it too.


I managed to pull away. Any couple would limit their kissing in front of strangers, right?

Chris smiled at me, with a little guilty pout. He couldn’t go ‘Ha-ha! Did your dare!’ in front of strangers now, even if that was how he felt. But he seemed happy. Content, even. As if he’d been repressing something for a long time and now let it out.

That was certainly how I felt. That urge had been there ever since my older brother had fallen out of that shower.

The big question was, what next?

Apart from trying to sleep.


I got a few hours rest, despite the rowdy lot next door, and before a call of nature meant I had to venture outside into the snowy darkness. At least I hadn’t needed the spade.

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