“Come on Harry, I guess we should get dressed and go before someone catches us here in flagrante…”
“They’d be in for a sight to see.” They both laughed nervously at each other, grinning playfully.
Harry and Claire stood up, brushed off the grime on their bodies from the tarp and mattress, and put on their underclothes. Harry stashed the wet and dirty towel and rag in his backpack and took out a couple of water bottles, offering one to his mother. Their little romp had dehydrated and exhausted them in the best possible way.
Claire and Harry half-reluctantly stepped outside to wring out their wet clothes as best they could for the last time and take in the warm sun again before getting dressed. While their shirts, jeans, and sweaters were soaking wet, they weren’t cold as they made their way back home, the moist air was rising through the woods in a wispy fog illuminated by the sun’s rays all around them. Neither said very much, except to point out how a rock ledge they used to sit on had eroded and collapsed or the sight of squirrels chasing each other. Without having to say it, both were thinking the same thing – once the afterglow of the lust and passion had worn off, how would they feel about it?
Harry resisted the urge to say or do anything playful or suggestive on the way back or at home. Mother and son both realized that while it was possible that something like this would happen again, they had no intention of making it routine habit. If it didn’t happen, then they’d both have a strange but fond memory of a stormy late fall afternoon of incestuous joy in the grimy, musty-smelling ruins of a storage shed turned makeshift hunting cabin – a memory that would be, somewhat unexpectedly without guilt or regrets.