MY SISTER JEAN

     BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)

     _________________________________________________________________
     


     Chapter 9  --  Jean's Surrender


          "Billy, would you like a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade?"
     Jean gasped, leaning against the front door of our home.  The
     bicycle ride back up the hill from "the flat lands" in mid day
     was markedly harder and hotter than the down-hill ride that cool,
     early morning.  Each, unwilling to be second best in our sibling
     rivalry, had pushed and pushed on the way home.  We'd arrived
     totally winded and drenched.

          "Jean, babes (that was a secret term of endearment we had
     for each other), that sounds wonderful . . . it just might save
     my life . . . but let me serve you.  You look beat and after all,
     you're just a girl!" (I'll blame heat-stroke on such a risky
     jibe.)

          In a sugary-sweet tone she replied, "Oh, no-no . . . I'll
     get it sweet brother.  After all, you did win."  And then in a
     slightly more ominous voice, "I owe you!"

          Oh shit, I thought . . . owe me what?  But I was too winded
     to argue or even attempt to be clever.  Sinking into a deck chair
     I waved imperiously to her and said in my most superior voice,
     "While your up, won't you get me a Grants . . . uh . . . I mean a
     lemonade?"

          Looking out over the valley in front of me, I again enjoyed
     that we lived in such a stunningly beautiful place  - a
     relatively isolated country spot but just fifteen minutes' drive
     to the University.  I was feeling smug and very excited, for I
     was again reviewing the mind-boggling experience of my sister
     Jean modeling some thong-style panties for me just an hour ago.
     The image of her firm and curvy butt was etched in my forebrain.
     I was still buzzing, for she'd intimated that she would model
     them again for me.

          Hearing Jean's step behind me, I held up my hand for the
     anticipated glass of ice-cold lemonade.  My erotic reverie was
     shattered by the chilling shock of ice cubes and lemonade dumped
     down my shirt front.

          "Just a girl, huh!"

          With a shriek, I bolted out of the deck chair, ice cubes
     falling out of my clothes and clattering on the deck.
     Momentarily frozen immobile, I stood there, bent over, arms away
     from my sides, just shivering from the icy shock.  Peals of her
     laughter pulled my head around to watch Jean, empty glass in
     hand, holding her side in mirth.

          "Oh, Billy, you look like a drowned rat . . . whatsa' matter
     . . . your little thingie all cold?"

          It *was* funny and yes, my "thingie" was cold.  Recalling
     those mornings of skinny dipping with Jean . . . the mad dash
     into the frigid waters of Fourth of July Lake when my penis tried
     to crawl back into my belly, I had a mental picture of how I
     looked.  I just gave up any hope of maintaining my dignity.

          Fishing a last ice cube from my shirt, I gently tossed it to
     Jean and said, "You look much too comfortable.  Two can play this
     game you know."

          We'd been together so long we both knew what was going to
     happen. Jean wouldn't have stayed around laughing at me had she
     not expected, even welcomed, my anticipated retaliation.  There
     was an almost languorous pace to this game that had an edge of
     excitement, for I didn't really know how deep it was . . . where
     we were going with it.

          I thought of how close we'd grown in the last months.  How
     we'd come to share our truth about ourselves, about our sexuality
     and our mutual horniness.  There was no more games about *that*.
     But what was yet uncertain was our physical involvement.  Oh, I
     knew deep down that I wanted to jump her bones . . . to ravish my
     beautiful sister.  I was in lust with her, but those years of
     cultural conditioning straddled any erotic path we might explore,
     standing as a repressive centurion who might have worn a Gothic
     sign board proclaiming, "Thou shalt not."

          Jean had already told me that as much as she loved me and
     was attracted to me . . . even sexually . . . she remained
     totally uncertain and apprehensive about *us* fooling around.
     "Billy," she had reminded me several times, "you're my brother
     and that's incest. I can't do that.  Know what I mean?"

           I did know and I didn't think she really meant it.  We'd
     skirted around this topic enough times that I'd come to believe
     that she was just saying what she was *supposed* to say . . .
     that deeper within her dwelled the same fascination that gripped
     me.

          I knew she wanted to play.  We just had to work out the
     rules . . . but without talking about it.  Our play occurred by
     multiple approximations . . . a type of relationship braille.  So
     I wasn't surprised when she turned and ran inside, shouting over
     her shoulder in her mocking, sing-song voice, "Naa-naa,
     na-naa-naa!"

          I didn't hurry; I knew where she'd be.  Walking upstairs and
     past my room, I turned the knob of the closed door to Jean's
     room.  She was standing in front of her full-length mirror, arms
     crossed in front of her and elbows up as she paused, pulling off
     her shirt.  From the door I could see the contrast of her white
     bra strap against her tanned back and in the mirror's reflected
     image, the bottom of the bra's cups pulled up, partially
     uncovering the under swell of her breasts. The afternoon sun
     slanted through the gauzy drapes, casting a soft pattern of muted
     colors in the room, accenting the shadows of her body.

     Suddenly, it was very quiet.  I could see her eyes looking
     between her crossed arms as she stood frozen.  There was no
     alarm, just a calm expectancy that silently asked, "What now?"

          "Don't move!" I whispered with a quiet assurance that
     surprised me. "Just stay that way."

          The side of her shorts were undone and partially open.  I
     could see a flash of her panties as I walked up behind her.
     Then, looking into her eyes, I said softly, "Let me."

          She nodded.  I'm not sure either of us knew just what it was
     that she was going to allow me to do.  I gently pulled the shirt
     from her hands and finished tugging it over her head, briefly
     hung up in her pony tail.

          Still looking at me, she dropped her hands to her sides and
     stood passively as I examined her . . . both the real and the
     reflected images in the soft yellow light one sees just before a
     rain storm.

          "You have beautiful breasts, Jean."

          She smiled and made no comment, even as I unhooked her bra.
     Loosened, the cups fell an inch, just exposing the pink areolae
     and nipples. As I pulled the straps off her shoulders, I watched
     the crinkling of her areolae as the nipples hardened.  I slid a
     hand under her arm and cupped a breast, catching her nipple
     between my thumb and index finger, rolling it. Her breast was
     heavy in my hand.

          She shuddered and whispered in a barely discernable voice,
     "I can feel that down there."

          Pulling off my damp shirt, I hugged her from behind, holding
     both of her heavy tits in my palms and looking into her eyes.
     "Down there?" I asked.

          "Oh, God, yessss."

          My vision narrowed to our reflection.  In the blurred
     half-light, half-shadow, I saw Jean, breasts bared and held by my
     hands.  I was watching someone else . . . part of me was a voyeur
     in a sepia vision. I knew this was uncharted waters for us.  We'd
     watched each other masturbate on a very few occasions and we'd
     confessed our horniness to each other, but I'd never held her in
     my arms.  It had mostly been near-arms'-length encounters.

          I could feel her buttocks pushing back against me.  My hard
     on was pushing into her butt as I slid my hands down over her
     stomach and under the elastic of her panties.  My entire
     awareness was centered in the gentle curve of her belly.  The
     tips of my fingers were brushing the top edge of her public hair
     and on each downward caress, I cupped more of her mons.

          "Ohhhhh . . . that's so . . ." and she didn't finish.  Her
     head rolled back and rested on my shoulder.  Her eyes fluttered
     closed. The room was quiet except for our breathing.  Nothing was
     said.  She had surrendered.

          Searching with the fingers of my right hand, I found her
     slit, wet and pulpy.  I'd slipped my fingers into her pussy only
     once before, the day on the trail out of Fourth of July Lake.
     Now I was there again and half out of my mind with excitement and
     desire.

          I slid down her body and kneeling behind her, I beheld her
     back and hips and buttocks.  Through the almost transparent
     panties, I looked at the deep shadow between the cheeks of her
     ass.  Slowly hooking my fingers in the elastic of the waist band,
     I pulled her panties down over her buttocks, and off her hips to
     her ankles.  She lifted one, then the other leg as she stepped
     out of her damp underpants.  I looked at them a moment and then
     held them to my nose, taking in her odor . . . the sweat and the
     musk.  The power of it shook me.

          Then, holding her hips in my hands, I looked at her ass.
     I'd been admiring her butt for ever it seemed.  I'd been brushing
     up against her every chance I could, letting my hand fall from
     her waist to her buttocks, trailing my fingers across her back
     side.  Jean knew how I adored her ass.  I suspect it pleased her
     to be adored even though she pretended it was "no big deal."

          There was a gap between her thighs right below her pussy and
     I could see the soft hair of her cunt between her legs.  I traced
     a pattern up from the inside of her knee to a velvet inner thigh,
     pausing for a moment to say, "Open your legs for me, Jean."

          For a long moment, perhaps thirty or forty seconds, she
     didn't move. And then she moved one foot away from the other by
     no more than an inch or two . . . but it was enough.  One
     millimeter would have been enough. At this point, her surrender
     need be no more than symbolic to be real.

          "I loved it when you flashed your ass at me today in the
     store."

          Her only reply was a momentary tensing of the muscles of her
     buttocks.

          "Do it again, won't you?"

          "Flash you?" she asked.

          "Yes, bend over for me . . . way over . . . show me
     yourself. Show me your secret places . . .  now."

          She slid her hands up her thighs and lightly cupping the
     under curve of her ass, she slowly bent over.  In the half light,
     most of her bottom was in shadow, but the posture of giving, of
     showing, was so erotic I could only stare.  Speechless.

          "Let me look at you," she asked.

          I was surprised.  I had no idea she'd want to look at my
     body. "N - naked? I almost stuttered.

          "Of course," she answered, still bent over.

          Of course, I thought.  What else?  "All right.  Sit in that
     chair. We can watch each other."

          Jean sat, bringing one heel up to the edge of the chair,
     opening her crotch to my gaze and said again, "Let me look at
     you."


          I looked down and smiled, for the front of my shorts were
     bulged out. My cock hurt from the hardness and being trapped,
     bent in my pants. Wanting to draw this out . . . the sibling
     equivalent of a strip tease, I slowly unbuttoned the cut-off
     501's, exposing my pubic hair.  I'd neglected to wear underwear
     that day . . . a rare thing on those days when I'm riding my
     bike.

          With a soft chuckle she asked, "Can you get them off,
     Billy?"

          My answer was to slowly push down the shorts, bending my
     cock until it sprang free, snapping against my belly.

          "Oh!" she gasped as her hand slipped between her thighs,
     driven by some unconscious need.

          Turning obliquely away from her, I grasped my cock in my
     fist, sliding it up and down slowly, moving the soft skin over
     the hard shaft.

          "Yessss . . . show me Billy.  Show me how you masturbate.  I
     know you do it all the time, don't you?  What do you think of
     when you do it? Do you ever think of me?"

          I recognized the change in her voice.  She was running on .
     . . a stream of conscience . . . as she traced a finger through
     the wet, soft lips of her pussy.  We'd been here before . . .
     that place where we gave ourselves to the moment.  Turned on by
     the moment, the voice, the images.

          Stepping closer to her, stroking my impossibly hard cock, I
     stood straddle-legged and said something like, "I think of
     nothing else. All I can see is your legs, your breasts, your ass
     . . . all I can remember is jacking off with you, seeing your
     naked body at the lake, watching you pee . . . watching you touch
     yourself.  I beat off every day, often twice, thinking of you.  I
     think I'm obsessed with you."

          I fell silent for a moment, still slowly stroking my cock.
     The wet noises of her fingers in her pussy suddenly sounded loud.
     The musky odor of her pussy rose to fill my nose.  It was heady.
     I was drunk with lust and the desire to fall between her legs . .
     . to taste her.

          "What do you want to do, Billy?  I mean right now . . . what
     can we do. I want you so much I hurt . . . but we *can't* do it .
     . . you know we can't. What can we do?"

          We'd lost our eye contact.  When I glanced up from her open
     pussy, I saw her leaning forward, eyes hooded, mouth a little
     open, staring at my cock as I continued to fist it's full length.
     She wet her lips and stared. Then, all I could see was her lips.

          Another step forward and I was pushing my knees between
     hers. Slowly I hunched my hips toward her and the head of my cock
     touched her wet lips.  She glanced at me.  I nodded.

          Her lips opened and her mouth sank slowly over my prick.

          "Ouch . . . no teeth!  Just your lips and your tongue . . .
     that's it.  Now let it slide in as far as you can . . . breathe
     through you nose . . . yesss, just like that!"

          Her hands slid up and cupped my balls for a moment and then
     pushed my hand away.  She slowly stroked the base of my cock as
     she ran her tongue over the head and underside of my shaft.  My
     knees grew weaker. I felt faint.  Watching her masturbate my cock
     with her delicate hand, watching her lips form an "O" around the
     head of my cock, her cheeks pulled in with the suction . . . I
     couldn't last.  I didn't want to last.

          I couldn't think of anything.  My entire waking awareness
     was narrowed down to my sister's mouth on my cock.  It probably
     lasted thirty seconds . . . perhaps less . . . yet it seemed to
     go on and on.

          "Gonna' come, Jean . . . can't hold it . . . JEAN . . . here
     it comes!"

          Now, in retrospect, I don't know if I were warning her so
     she could get away or, more likely, that she might enjoy it the
     more.  In any case, she never slowed.  She masturbated me through
     spurts of my hot come, holding my cock right inside her lips,
     stroking my shaft with her hand.

          "The better to taste you," she explained to me later.

          I wasn't aware that I'd slipped to my knees.  I had a gray
     out and came to kneeling between her legs, my face resting on her
     thigh. Jean bent down and held my shoulders, hugging me,
     murmuring, "Oh Billy . . . Billy . . . Billy . . . that was so
     nice . . . that was beautiful . . . thank you, thank you."


     END 9