MY SISTER JEAN
BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
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Chapter 5 -- The Trip Home
The jazz group Four Play was playing softly over the hum of
the big 4X4's tires. Bob James and Lee Rittenour were weaving
their usual seamless and delightfully rich acoustic fabric as the
western slope of the Sierra foothills fell away behind us. We'd
fallen silent in the Scout after loading up our backpacking gear
and getting some more ice for the chest near the exit of the
National Forest. I was driving and Jean was looking out the
passenger's window as we sat silently in our own thoughts. We
were used to periods of silence and it wasn't uncomfortable.
My mind was playing a tape of endless loop. My sister, Jean
the sometimes ice maiden had, when we were hiking out from
Fourth of July Lake, actually squatted in the middle of the
hiking trail and peed right in front of me . . . in the most
blatant fashion. It was not accidental and not remotely
innocent. Rather, it was considered and extremely provocative.
Most baffling, it had seemingly just happened, out of nowhere. I
was excited and stunned, for it had been the realization of a
longstanding, obsessive fantasy of mine. Now, after that intense
sexual peak of halting interaction, we'd lapsed again into our
usual quiet space of uncertainty.
The grasses and flowers changed as we lost altitude. I
reflected on the events of the last little while. While, in the
preceding weeks, I'd made no secret that I was terribly excited
by her and more, that I was lightheaded with passion for her, I'd
never come right out and asked her if I could look at her nude,
much less watch her pee. Not that the thought hadn't been
foremost in my erotic mind for years, I was simply reticent to
disclose myself . . . to uncover my secret kink, largely from
embarrassment. Oh, I didn't mind so much, particularly of late,
that she knew I masturbated, or that I smelled her panties, or
even that I was crazy about staring up her dress or down her
shirt. Somehow, that was all right . . . that was manly or at
least OK boy stuff. But peeing? Hmmmm. Sounds sick and
perverted . . . or so my judgmental mind spoke to me.
My mind spun on. Why had she done that? Why did she
suddenly expose herself to me in such a provocative way? A
fleeting glimpse of her panties or skinny dipping was one thing,
but letting me watch her pee a long stream into the dust of a
Sierra back trail . . . a scarce few feet from me . . . that was
quite another. Had she known about me . . . about my kink? Or
and I couldn't really believe this was she kinky like me?
No, not the very proper and often prim ice queen. If I had
not been sneaking around for years, listening to her when she was
in the bathroom, I might have supposed that she didn't even pee
at all! Jean was the type who wouldn't say shit if she had a
mouth full. If pressed, she might, in some clinical fashion,
allude to micturition or to (ugh) urine but she'd never utter the
word "piss." I imagined that she might allow, grudgingly, the
expression pee-pee if some little kid had no other way to
express it. So how was it, I wondered, had she moved from that
moral high ground to pulling her panties down and peeing in the
middle of the trail while staring into my eyes? Once again, I
was baffled. Girls!
On a long curve, Jean swung around toward me, tucking her
bare feet up on the seat and asked, "So, Billy. What are you
thinking?"
She always did that. Well, she did it a lot . . . opening
up her topic by asking me what *I'm* thinking. Or, if the topic
is established, she tries to get me to commit myself to a
position before she discloses her's.
Making a vague motion with my hand, I replied, "Oh,
nothing." Smiling to myself . . . If she only knew.
"Come ON, Billy. I know you better than that. You're never
thinking of nothing. What's going through that pointed little
head of yours?" The smile in her voice belied the insult. She
leaned back against the passenger's door, pulling her left foot
further onto the seat, pressing her knee into the back rest. The
leg of her shorts gaped a little. I noted things like that.
I also knew this drill. I'd been through it a thousand
times. If I was stubborn enough, I could simply stonewall it.
I'd done that lot of times, heaven knows. But Jean knows me, and
most of the time I *wanted* to be drawn out. I tried to maneuver
it in such a way that the topic was her's, not mine. This, of
course, was old stuff, born of a sibling's need for protection
from being ratted on. The fact of the matter was that neither
Jean nor I had ratted on the other in years. At root, we acted
to protect each other.
"Well, actually I was thinking of our relationship, Sis."
There! That covered a multitude of sins.
"Hmmmm, what about our relationship?"
We both knew the dance so well that the opening steps were
done without effort or thought. Actually, we were both thinking
way ahead of this conversational chafe.
"Come on, dude. Open up. What about it . . . what about
our relationship?"
Looking pointedly at her, I asked, "Do you *really* want to
know?"
This was a well-established signal that one of us would cut
through the fog of protective words if we were serious or
impatient and wanted to get on with something pressing. On the
other hand, if it were the usual verbal game, we'd parry that
offer with some gratuitous insult or another.
"Uh, yeah, Billy. I really *do* wanna know. What're ya
thinkin'?" The last question was a little muffled as she pulled
her sweat shirt over her head, partially pulling up her T-shirt
and momentarily uncovering the bottom of her bare breasts.
Without hurry, she pulled her T-shirt back down, molding the
front against her nipples.
Jean almost never spoke in contractions or idiom. Her
diction was usually precise and her demeanor was oh-so-correct.
So when she said "Uh, yeah" and "I wanna," I recognized her
I-want-to-be-one-of-the-guys gambits. She was letting down her
goody-two-shoes protective distance. Jean was telling me it was
OK to be frank and, in light of our most recent adventure, it was
clear that she wasn't interested in my opinion of the men's
basketball team . . . or their locker room. She was letting me
know that it was OK to talk about what had happened on the trail.
You might think it strange, that "talking" about our sexual
connection, once done, wouldn't be difficult. The reality was
contrary to that, however. A lifetime of denial had, in some
paradoxical manner, permitted us strange behaviors . . . as long
as they weren't validated with acknowledgment. That is, just
don't talk about it.
This interaction, however, was moving at warp speed. Jean
usually took forever to circle up the wagons and establish her
perimeter of protection more often of the barbed-wire variety.
Cutting through the niceties this rapidly let me know that she
felt strongly about what had happened. Usually, Jean dealt with
uncomfortable topics by ducking behind her long-practiced wall of
denial. And I know what that was like.
Glancing again at the gap in her shorts, I could see the
edge of her panties. I pointedly responded, "To be perfectly
frank, Sis, I was wondering about you."
Jean rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion, knowing that
I was being anything but frank. She slipped her right hand under
the front of her T-shirt and absentmindedly, scratched the area
under her breasts. Cripes, how could I watch the road, watch her
scratch her tit and listen to her . . . all at the same time?
I didn't ask her why she rolled her eyes. I knew. But
could I really enter into this forbidden area? By now we'd had
at least three intense but too-brief sexual encounters and had
yet to *talk* about them. A moment of uncertainty washed through
me.
She cleared her throat in a dramatic fashion and I glanced
at her. Maybe it was sibling communication, or the soft smile, or
the direct stare of her blue eyes . . . but suddenly I knew that
it was okay. She was lowering her guard. There'd be no pretend
ignorance or indignation in this conversation. There'd be no
frustrating evasions . . . unless I slipped into them myself.
Taking a deep breath, I blurted, "I loved watching you pee,
Jean. I just LOVED it. But why did you do it? I mean, how'd
you know? Uh . . . we've never . . ." My strong start trailed
off. I didn't know how to give voice to my thoughts.
I took another deep breath but before I could start up
again, she answered, "Billy, I've suspected for a long time . . .
I knew you listened outside the bathroom door and . . ."
Interrupting, I asked, baffled and alarmed, "How did you
know?"
Glancing again at her, I saw the big grin on her face when
she said, "Oh, Billy! For a guy that's so darn smart about so
many things -- you really do impress me most of the time --
for a guy that's so smart, sometimes you're just out of it."
She touched my thigh with the toes of her right foot as if
to take the sting out of it.
Well, that did sting, but knowing the truth of it, I said
nothing. Instead I made an impatient motion with my hands to urge
her on with it.
"Billy, the afternoon sun shines in through the front
windows, doesn't it?"
Obtuse I thought and nodded, still not getting it . . .
aware more of her foot, now resting on my thigh.
"Remember when the carpet was taken out of the hall and the
tile was installed? Well, the place beneath the bathroom door
where the carpet used to be, now lets the sun shine in." Then
pausing for dramatic effect *now* I could see it coming she
added, "And it casts the shadow of you standing right outside the
bathroom door . . . it seems you're always there." I was
mortified! I felt the heat rise in my face as I sought a way
out, an excuse, some way in which I might deny it.
Jean, sensing my acute discomfort, laughed softly and added,
"Billy, don't be embarrassed . . . I'm not . . . at least not
anymore. It's okay. Honest, it's really okay." Her toes curled
on my leg as she ran her foot up and down.
Then, as if to explain further, she went on, "At first I
wasn't sure *what* you were doing. I thought you were pulling
some kind of practical joke on me, but nothing ever happened. I
was puzzled and . . . I don't know why . . . I was fascinated.
So, I tested you. I'd wait until you were around, and then I'd
go into the bathroom, just waiting to see your shadow under the
door, then I'd pee. I . . . I didn't mind that you were right
outside the door. Actually, I think I liked it . . . that you'd
want to . . . that you were interested in me . . . but I didn't
want you to hear me do the . . . uh . . . other. I'd really
strain and try to make a loud peeing sound, but I was always
scared to death I'd . . . you know . . . make some other sound."
I glanced at Jean and her eyes slid away. Now she was the
one who was embarrassed. I didn't tell her that I had heard her
fart softly a few times. Her hand was still inside her T-shirt,
right under her breasts. Maybe the tips of her fingers were
touching the bottom swell of her tit?
It was unusual for Jean to talk so long in such a vulnerable
manner. I just smiled and said nothing, hoping she'd continue.
"I have a confession to make," she continued, rushing the
words.
If this wasn't a confession, what the heck was it I
wondered? "Go ahead, Jean. There's nothing you can say that
would offend me . . . honest." I was so darn magnanimous.
"I snooped in your room."
That didn't surprise me; we all snooped on each other, I was
sure.
"And I found your dirty magazines."
Again, I was stunned. "How did you . . . I mean . . .
shit, Jean!" Now I was really embarrassed. The only magazines
I had weren't plain-vanilla girlie magazines. I'd found two
foreign magazines full of watersports pictures and stories and
secreted them where no one would ever find them. Or so I thought.
"You probably think you're the only one who spies in this
house. Well you're not. I've listened to you in the bath room
too. You're really noisy when you masturbate. You should be
more careful . . . Anyway, I've heard you move your dresser
several times . . . before and after you disappear into the
bathroom. That puzzled me, so I moved it and found the place in
the back without a slat . . . the place where you hid those
magazines."
Her hand moved beneath her shirt. Now I was certain she was
teasing one of her nipples.
I was pissed . . . not so much that my secret was out, but
that I'd been so transparent . . . that my "dumb sister" had
ferreted out my hiding place so readily.
"Billy, reading those stories got me hot. And then I could
understand what you were doing outside the bathroom when I was
peeing. You were imagining *me* in there, weren't you?"
I couldn't believe how smart my sister had become all of
sudden. Grasping her foot in my hand, I ran a finger between her
toes and said, "So?" At these moments of stress, social
repartee was not my strong suit.
"So, I became as interested as you in peeing. I started
watching myself when I peed. I tried looking when I was sitting
on the toilet, but I couldn't see much . . . except the pee
squirting. Then I got a mirror and I could see it well,
particularly when I pulled myself open with my fingers. When I
pulled my lips open, the pee came out in a solid stream, just
like I imagined a boy's did. That gave me the idea to pee
standing up."
I turned down the volume of the car stereo a little, for
she'd fallen into a soft, reflective tone and I didn't want to
miss a word. I squeezed her foot a moment to encourage her to
continue.
"I started in the shower. At first I peed down my legs, but
I got the hang of it quickly and in no time I could stand with my
legs apart and hips pushed forward to pee a strong stream several
feel in front of me."
Glancing at me she asked, "Can you picture that, Billy?
Isn't that crazy?"
"Yeah . . . delightfully crazy. Sexy crazy . . . and hot.
Tell me some more." Could I push this? Would she continue?
"Well, I saw a mare, a female horse (shit, I knew what a
mare was) - I saw a mare urinate in the field, so I tried it that
way. I mean, I bent way over at the waist and while standing,
tried to pee. At first I couldn't tell what happened, what it
looked like, but then I stood in the tub and watched myself in
the mirror. Billy, it squirted way out behind me. I felt like a
mare in heat!"
"Then I began thinking about you peeing. I wondered how you
did it what it looked like. What did your dick look like and
how far could you pee? Did you pee hard for a short time, or
did it last and last? How did you hold your dick? . . things
like that. I wanted to watch you pee, and even more, I wanted
you to watch me pee. But I couldn't tell you this in a million
years. All I could do was go to the bathroom a lot. You would
have thought that I had a sudden case of diabetes."
She was openly cupping her breast and curling her toes as I
massaged her foot. She went on, "I *had* to watch you pee. I
knew that you peed outside the house a lot and I kept my eye open
for my chance. Once, I saw you head toward the bathroom but
because mom was in there, you cut out the side door. I ran to
the kitchen window and watched you take a leak right on the deck.
I got hot just watching you. Actually, all I could see was your
pee hitting the deck, making a big puddle. I couldn't really see
your dick . . . but I wanted to . . . boy, I sure wanted to!"
She slid her foot higher on my thigh. She had turned
completely sideways in the front seat, still with her left leg
curled up and her right leg extended to me. Her toes were close
to my dick and I was getting harder and harder.
"Did you . . ." I started but she cut me off again.
"Then you went upstairs. Mom was still in the bathroom. I
ran out on the deck and looked at the puddle you'd made. I got
so hot I could hardly stand it. I was dying for a good pee. Now
was my chance. Billy, I know this is crazy but I lifted my dress
and pulled the crotch of my panties aside. I squatted over your
puddle on the deck and I pissed right on top of your piss! I
forgot and was straining so hard that my pee splattered all over
my legs and shoes. But I didn't care. I loved mixing our piss
together. It just got me hotter."
She added a little slutty emphasis to the word "piss,"
drawing out the "sss" part as she looked into my eyes. Jean was
getting off on her own story. She slid down a little further in
the seat and the heel of her foot was sitting on top of my crotch
. . . right on top of my hard-on. When I glanced at her, she
pulled the bottom of her shirt up for about two seconds, flashing
her bare boobs at me, grinning. The nipples were sticking out.
"So you see, Billy. *You* turned me onto this peeing thing,
and you didn't even know it. Now, I think about it all the time.
I listen to the girls in school when they're in the stall next to
me and wonder what they look like. Sometimes they hiss loudly
when they pee. Sometimes they just tinkle. When I'm feeling
slutty, I try to pee really hard into the water to make a lot of
noise. Golly, I even check the crotches of the guys and wonder
how big their dicks are and how they look when they pee. I
wonder a lot if other girls mess around with *their* brothers.
What do you think?"
"Whoa. I'm overloaded. Too much, too fast. Yes . . . I
mean no! I mean . . . shit, I don't know *what* I mean. But wait
. . . first, tell me. Why did you hide from me all weekend? I
tried and tried to get you to talk about sexy things, but you
kept changing the subject. And I was aware of you the whole time
and except for skinny dipping, you never showed me anything.
Why? And why did you then let me watch you on the trail?"
"Oh, you know. I was scared. And I was embarrassed. Even
though I knew you'd listen to me . . . and even though I'd seen
your dirty magazines . . . I was afraid you'd think I was really
a nut case some kinda pervert." She again gave me that radiant
smile. "It's a kinda trust thing, I guess. You were so sweet to
me all weekend and you were so darn provocative, I was creaming
in my pants most of the time. And then, when we were walking out
on the trail, I just knew after you peed so shamelessly that it
was my chance. So I did it! Was it okay? I mean, did you like
it, Billy? Do you think I'm terrible?"
I was holding her foot so tight my finger tips were white.
She was rocking her foot and I was pushing her heel down into my
crotch in slow, rhythmic motions.
Losing all restraint, I gushed out, "Jean, it was the most
*erotic* thing I've ever seen. It was better than any story, any
picture I've ever seen. Heck, it was better than any fantasy I've
ever had. Seeing you . . . seeing you so close . . . and you
watching me looking at you . . . I almost came in my pants."
"I like to hear you tell me those things, Billy. It makes
me feel . . . well, sexy and desirable and like I want to do
*more* things."
"More? What more? Tell me, Jean."
She pulled her hand from under her shirt, leaving the bottom
part way up, exposing the bottom of her tit. I don't know what
it is, but I'm turned on to seeing the bottom swell of a girl's
breast, particularly my sister's. Dropping her hand to her leg
near her crotch, she rushed on, "Well, I'd *really* like to uh .
. . this is kinda hard to say but I'd really like to . . . pee
*on* you."
The road was nearly empty and I was driving slowly, just
moseying along so I could pay more attention to Jean. When I
glanced at her, she met my eyes defiantly for a moment and then
looked away, embarrassed, the color high in her cheeks. Then she
looked at me again and said loudly, "Well, I *would*!"
This was incredibly exciting for both of us I thought, and
equally difficult at times. Sensing her near-shame, I attempted
to rescue her with the truth.
"Jean, the thought of you peeing . . . peeing on me is the
hottest thing I've ever heard! God! I'd love to feel your pee."
"Really? Honest? Are you just *saying* that?" She'd
pulled her right leg back and with her heel on the seat and her
knee fallen out, she'd slipped her right hand under her pant leg.
Seeing my eyes on her motions, she laughed, "Christ, Billy, I'm
so hot I can't help it."
Taking a chance, I asked, "Can I tell you some of my secrets
. . . some of my fantasies?"
Abandoning the tight leg-band of her shorts, she opened the
front and slipped her hand under the waistband of her panties and
buried it in her crotch. "Yes-s-s-s, Billy. Please tell me. I
really wanna know."
"Sis, I'm *so* glad you told me all this. I'm so glad you
told me about peeing. We're just alike, you and me. I wish I'd
know before, we coulda . . . well we can now, can't we?"
"Billy! Tell me. Don't tease me."
"Okay, okay. Let me collect my thoughts. I hardly know
where to start. There's so many thoughts runnin' around in my
head. I know, I'll just share the images with you . . . then we
can sort them out, okay?"
"Go for it, big guy!"
She now had both hands stuffed down the front of her shorts
and I could see her fingers slowly moving in the tight crotch.
"Okay, but before I do, let me smell your fingers!"
Not put off for a minute, she pulled out her right hand and
leaning across to me, she ran her finger under my nose saying,
"You are *such* a horndog."
The pheromone musk of her pussy was strong and arousing.
"Jean, the smell of you is so sexy and it gets me hot."
She grinned and prompted, "Come ON, guy . . . tell me. Tell
me *your* secrets now."
"There's so many images I have. I think about 'em when I
jack off things like the feel of your pee in my hand . . . me
kneeling in front of the toilet . . . you with your legs apart .
. . and I've got my hand under you . . . and you just pee right
into my hand. That one always gets me going. I think of that
one all the time when I hear you in the bathroom."
"Oh, yes! I've had that one too . . . lots. Would you
really let me?"
"Let you?" I asked in an incredulous tone.
She laughed and asked, "Any more? Fantasies I mean?"
"Oh yes. I've thought of you peeing right on my cock . . .
right on my chest. I've even thought of you peeing in my mouth!"
The last statement startled me. Had I really thought that? I'd
gone too far.
I pulled into a Rest Stop and parked well away from the
other cars. I looked at her with a little apprehension. Had I
gone too far?
Seeing the question in my eyes, she gave me her sweet smile
and said, "Oh, yes, Billy. I'd love to do that . . . you can't
know how much that means to me. Please . . . please tell me
more. I've been waiting so long to hear this . . . don't stop
now."