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From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
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Subject: My Sister Jean IV (teen m/f sibling ws)
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MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
Chapter 4 -- The Hike
Hiking up the switchback climbing from Fourth of July Lake, I watched
Jean in front of me. More correctly, I watched Jean's legs and the
movement of her buttocks. She was a few feet in front and above me on
the steep, dusty trail.
We'd broken camp a few hours ago after having spent a couple of lazy
days in a remote part of the Sierras. It was our family's custom to pack
into remote areas at least once or twice a season and this was the first time
Jean and I had gone alone. With no agenda save a couple of day trips and
some reading, we'd had time to further our connection. I suppose it's not
unusual for siblings to know each other very well on some levels while
being almost strangers on other levels. It was that way with Jean and me.
For as long as I can remember, she'd been my older sister . . . aloof,
superior and occasionally condescending. As with most of us, the position
of apparent superiority was assumed to cover the usual teenaged feelings
of insecurity, of being "less than."
I'd taken on a completely different persona in the family. I was the
joker, the hero and, deep in my own mind, the lecher . . . the closet rake. A
few months before, in an attempt to expand my licentious sphere and
engage Jean in some "dirty talk," I'd turned up the intimacy current.
Unexpectedly, we'd literally fallen into some near-explosive sexuality.
While our "fooling around" had had sudden intensity, we'd not really "done
the deed" and since then our connection was clearly more tender, yet
guarded.
In my loving moments, I'd welcomed the chance to continue our
process of a deepening relationship. In my horny moments, I'd looked
forward to escalating our previously ill-defined sexual connection. In
short, I was hot for my sister and hoped she was too. What an opportune
time, I thought, to explore our sexual side.
Jean, however, had reservations. Oh, she'd shown that she was capable
of intense sexual response once before when we'd been fooling around on
the couch and it'd progressed into a short-lived voyeuristic masturbation.
But since that time, as if frightened by the unplanned and seemingly
uncontrollable force of the experience, she'd drawn back.
Her response to my plaintive entreaties of, "Oh, come ON, Jean . . .
why won't you let me . . ." (fill in the blanks) were met with a smile and
her reasonable position of wanting to go very slow.
"Billy, you *know* I love you. You're my kid brother and the sweetest
boy in the world. You're sexy and, most of the time, you're kind to me.
But . . . (damn, there's always a "but" that follows such a good start) . . .
but, this is scary stuff. I don't know what's right and what's wrong. I know
how I feel, but that doesn't make it right. Won't you give me some space,
please?"
When she said "please" to me with that certain sincere, loving tone of
voice, I was a goner. "Okay, okay. But don't blame *me* if I'm limping
around all the time." (As if there were blame or that I'd really be limping.
The major organ limping in me was not my dick . . . it was my brain!)
We'd gone skinny dipping each day in the freezing high-Sierra,
snow-fed lake. It was so cold that my pecker had attempted to crawl back
into my abdomen. My cremasteric muscles - that thin sheet of muscle that
envelopes the spermatic cord and testes - had gone into such intense
spasm from the cold that each day, on dashing back out of the water, I was
doubled over with pain. It didn't help my sense of dignity or my macho
image when Jean'd point and laugh at me. (I've sense come to see the
wisdom that warns: "It's ok to laugh in the bed room, but not to laugh
*and* point.")
Anyway, my unflagging desire to see Jean nude was answered, but I
was so blue and shivering that I could think only of jumping back into my
sleeping blanket. (My suggestion that Jean and I zip our mirror-image
sleeping bag together elicited no more than a twinkle and a smile coupled
with a mute shake of her head.) So the wish that I carried with me on the
backpacking trip that I see Jean naked had been filled each morning . . .
when my dick was a negative impression. The rest of the time, she'd
managed to change clothes out of my presence. While we'd talked into the
night, she wouldn't let me even cuddle her. Rats! I was frustrated. Still, I
was having a wonderful time. What a collage of feelings.
Too, I thought I'd get a chance to spy on her peeing. Remember me?
I'm the horny little kid who presses his ear to the bathroom door to listen to
his sister take a leak? Yep. That's me. I'd almost come in my pants from
smelling her panties and once, when finding some of her pale yellow urine
and a used tissue in the toilet, I'd jacked off right into the bowl . . . taking
all of ten or fifteen seconds.
Out here in the great outdoors with no bathrooms, not even an
outhouse, I'd surely get to peek at her . . . I thought. So far, no dice.
Either she's got a holding tank for a bladder, or she was adept at slipping
away. I, on the other hand, believed that the only bad publicity was no
publicity. I used every chance to casually take a whiz when I was around
her. Oh, I didn't come up and piss on her shoe, but I did things like
continue a conversation, turning just a little aside as I took out my pecker
and peed on a tree or a rock. She didn't comment on my little
exhibitionistic streak and I couldn't really tell if she was watching or not.
No cuddle, no peeks, no peeing. Shit! I just wasn't getting what I
wanted and was feeling sorry for myself and not a little petulant. So I
employed the short form of the Serenity Prayer and said, "Fuck it." It was,
after all, all right. Here I was, in God's indescribably beautiful mountains
on a primo day with my dearest friend and best buddy, and I was petulant.
Boy, talk about an ungrateful wretch!
Knowing it was going to get very hot by midday, and that we had a
twelve-hundred-feet climb out of that basin, we'd packed and started early
after a good breakfast and tanking up on mountain water, both in our
bellies as well as our canteens.
Jean was a surprisingly strong hiker and often, on long, uphill climbs,
she'd naturally take the lead. So it was that I was watching the roll of her
hips from close behind as we were forced to take occasional extra long
step-ups on the trail. Her short-shorts, already revealing, had climbed up
on her ass, framing the white, half-moons of her buttocks above her tan
thighs. The crotch of the shorts seemed to thin to a narrow band between
her legs. I already knew (from my snooping) that Jean had thong-type
Bikini panties so I didn't expect to see them as we trudged along, but they
were a green vision in my mind.
Except for the chatter of an occasional bird and the scrunch of our
boots on the trail, there were no sounds . . . if you ignored my panting.
We'd settled into that semi-comfortable, endorphin-enhanced pleasant
walk-climb. I was sweating lightly, feeling good, watching Jean's sweet ass
checks bunch and relax in front of me and thinking, I can't believe how
beautiful and sexy this girl is. And she's my sister! How lucky can a guy
get?
I am not the one with the cast-iron bladder in the family. It's almost
a joke that Billy has to take a leak more frequently than anyone else. Jean
was not surprised when I called out, "Pee break."
"Okay. I could use a breather anyway." She swung her pack to the
ground and turned back to look back down the mountain toward our
camp site, now barely perceivable.
In genuine relief, I moaned, "Ahhh," as I peed into the dust on the side
of the trail. Jean, this time, was clearly watching me so I made an extra
production of "shaking it" when I'd finished. "Hmmm, that felt good," I
added in a redundant fashion.
To my surprise, she said, "I've gotta go too. Don't watch."
It might have been easier if she said, "Don't breathe." Was she kidding?
"Okay," I answered, turning only my head away, still watching her
movements in my peripheral vision. Yet another surprise. She didn't step
off the trail; there was a bush ten or fifteen feet away, but she didn't use it.
And she didn't turn away from me.
My head pulled back to watch her, not even pretending to look away.
She unbuttoned the side of the short-shorts and, with her thumbs hooked
into the top, pulled the yellow shorts and white panties down while
squatting in the same continuous motion. My position, downhill from her,
afforded me a bore-sight view right between her thighs. Now for the
second time in my life, I had a clear view of her closely-cropped, curly,
auburn-haired pussy. After a weekend of horny frustration, hard-ons and
surreptitious masturbation, I was getting, without guile, a look at Jean's
treasures. Full on, up close . . . and damn personal!
For a moment, nothing happened. Her smooth anus pushed out just a
little as she strained and then a trickle of pee dribbled out into the dust.
The dribble increased and then a stream, clearing her pussy lips and arcing
out several inches in front of her started that familiar hissing. It was
happening. I was getting a chance to watch Jean pee for the first time in
my life. Something that I'd fantasized about, something that I'd failed to do
with deception was happening right in front of me. The erotic intensity of
it was gut wrenching. My cock, trapped in my Jockeys, had erected so
fast that it suddenly hurt.
Something caused me to look up. Jean was looking right at me! Her
clear, ice-blue eyes were looking into mine, into my soul. Her eyes seemed
to ask, "Is this what you wanted, Billy? Do you want to see me pee,
Billy?"
For all I know, she'd been saving it for a long time. Her urine continued
to gain force and the hissing sound increased as the gusher of pee ran over
a rock and pooled at my feet. I was struck numb. Not having the presence
of mind I have now, I forgot to touch it, forgot to dip my finger into the
pool and taste it. I just stared, dumbfounded and struck terminally horny.
It didn't last for minutes, it just seemed that way. In comparison, mine was
a piddle. Her's was a production.
It slowed and stopped after one final, small squirt as she clenched her
bottom, making her little rose bud wrinkle. If I'd expected her to stand
suddenly, hiding herself, I was wrong. Rather, she squatted there,
uncovered, hovering over the trail of now-wet dust and rock.
"Well?" she asked. It sounded so loud in the sudden quiet of the
mountain, I was startled and looked at her dumbly. "Is that all you've got
to say," and you could hear the smile in her voice. "Do you have a tissue?"
she added.
Gaining my sodden wits, I said something cleaver like, "Sure . . . if you
let me help."
Pulling some Kleenex from a side pocket, I took the few steps to her.
She hadn't replied so I simply kneeled in front of her and extended the
tissue in my hand between her legs, watching her eyes. She nodded only,
with a little half smile.
Leaning forward, looking under her shorts bunched and pulled apart
above her knees, I softly patted her pussy slit, slowly, from front to back. I
was acutely aware of her warmth and her breathing, now quickened. I was
even more aware of her pubic hair brushing across the tops of my fingers.
Unthinking, I dropped the tissue and traced a feather-light touch along
the inner lips of her cunt. Jean made a soft, sucking sound and looking up,
I noticed that she'd closed her eyes. I continued to "pat" her.
The lips of her pussy were swollen and slick and they'd opened up a
kind of blossoming. Laying the pulp of my middle finger along the length
of her cunt, cupping her mons in my palm, I slowly pushed in. It was like
pushing my finger all they way into China . . . or a ripe Papaya.
Now, years later, when I think of love, I think of this.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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