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From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
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Subject: My Sister Jean VIII (m/f, inc, voy)
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    This story, which traces the slow development in the sometimes
sexual relationship with my sister, reflects a mild escalation in our
teasing.  By this time, we're coming out of the closet and admit, mostly
by actions, the attraction we feel for each other. That Jean began
edging into more public play was an indication of her greater ease with
herself and with me.

    This is a light-hearted vignette that I enjoy to this day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                                     MY SISTER JEAN

                                                             By BillyG


Chapter Eight  --  Victoria's Secret


     "Look at the ass on that one, will you?"

     That got my attention.  I'd been reading the Sunday paper over
coffee and fruit with Jean at a street-side cafe.  We'd ridden our bikes down
from our home in the hills behind the University in the cool of early
morning and had stopped for coffee.  

     Glancing up at Jean, I followed her gaze over my shoulder and
turned to look at "the ass" she was pointing out.  In our increasing comfort
with each other, we'd come to accept our growing sexuality and that, at
root, we were both voyeurs of a sort.  Jean knew of my fascination with
girls' butts and delighted in pointing out to me those she thought were of
merit.  

     She, in turn, was an inveterate crotch watcher.  The day before at
the mall she'd nodded toward a guy sprawled out near a fountain.  He was
wearing jogging shorts that were pulled up into his crotch, outlining an
impressive bulge.  "Is that all cock," she asked, "or do you think he's got
huge balls?"

     The girl Jean had pointed out to me was bending over a nearby
table, cleaning the glass top.  I was peripherally aware that she was wearing
a loose tank top, but what captured my interest was the shorts.  They were
white, very short and very tight with the crotch pulled into the crack of her
ass and made still more taut by her exaggerated bending.  Checking
immediately for panty lines, I noted she was wearing high-cut panties.

     I grinned at Jean, giving her a subtle thumbs-up sign and whispered,
"Boy, I'd love to sidle up behind her and grab her hips."

     She smiled and rolled her eyes as if to say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
we know."

     Sensing she wanted to chat, I sat back in my chair and sipped my
coffee, looking at her over the rim of the cup.  Her hair was wind blown
and her shirt was a little damp from our last sprint.  Looking at her breasts,
I admired her nipples.  Despite wearing a sports bra - she'd flashed me that
morning before leaving home  - her nipples, when erect, were very evident. 
Pointedly staring at her prominent nips for a moment, I looked in her eyes
and said, "It's not cold."

     "Then I must be horny?" She finished.

     "Jean, you're always horny!"

     "Billy, I am not!" she retorted but with a smile that gave the lie to
her denial.

     Glancing over my shoulder  - the girl was gone  - I said, "Well *I*
am."  And, as if indignant, added, "Thanks to you!"

     Placing her spread hand flat on her chest she replied in a surprised
voice, "Moi?"

     "You are a piece of work, woman . . . yes, you!"  

     Abruptly changing the subject, she dropped her hands to her lap
and asked, "Are you sweaty?"

     "As a horse," I replied.

     "You're so graphic, Billy.  And you know what I think of when you
mentioned a sweating horse."

     "A sweating mare?"

     "A horse's cock!"

     "Jean, I know we're both fairly kinky at times . . . but a horse?"

     Flipping her hand in an impatient gesture, she answered, "Not
*really* but there are times when my imagery takes over.  Like, the sexual
power of a horse's cock comes to mind, you know?"

     "You mean like me slipping it into the ass of that waitress?  The
one with the beautiful butt?"

     Perhaps because Jean knew that I'd never "slipped" it into anything,
save my hand, she gave me a puzzled frown.  She replied, "I guess so . . .
something like that . . . not real, but sexy and powerful.  Like, I don't really
want a horse's dick, but I like the thought of it . . . it gets me wet.  Does
the thought of you doin' it to that girl's behind get you wet . . . er, hard?"

     Answering with an exaggerated gesture, I "adjusted" my cock in my
riding shorts and smiled.  Jean and I had come out of the closet with each
other . . . admitted our fascination with sexual things, our masturbation,
peeing fantasies and anal eroticism.  But we'd never actually "done it." 
We'd not done the deed.  More, I thought, because we enjoyed the
prolonged seduction, the tease, than we had any thought of abhorrent
incest.  Jean, as it turned out, had reservations.

     I was crazy about Jean.  Because she was a little older, I deferred to
her in many ways, most of them unthinking.  She was later to tell me that
because I was assertive and appeared so self-confident, she'd started to
re-think the unquestioned assumed roles.  We'd let down all sorts of
protective fences on our camping trip to Fourth of July Lake.  We'd always
accepted our love for each other.  It was only in the last months that we'd
come to accept our sexual feelings for each other.  Still, it remained mostly
verbal.  And teasing.

     Constrained by the outward conventional morality around our
house, we took some delight in an unconventional exhibitionistic teasing. 
Jean, who was most enamored with her own breasts, took delight in
flashing me.  Bending over wearing a loose top, running from her room to
the bathroom wearing a skirt and bra, idly running her fingers inside the
edge her blouse into her cleavage . . . all these things were done to entice
and tease.  And I loved it.  Still, she knew that my major interest was her
beautiful full butt.  She professed ignorance.  "Oh, come ON.  Who's
interested in BUTTS?"  she'd ask.  

     She knew the answer.  Me.  Often it was evident that as some reward or
sign of affection, she'd honor my fetish.  She'd suddenly sit in my lap,
squirm for a moment, and then run away, laughing.  Once, when running
from the bathroom wearing only her bra and panties, she met me (ever
watchful) in the hall.  Before disappearing into her room, she suddenly
pointed her back side at me and bent way over.  Her already brief panties
almost disappeared in the cleft of her ass, and outlining the pooching bulge
of her mons.  I retained the after image of that for a long time.  Several
times, playing with myself on the toilet, stroking off, that image came to
mind and pushed me right over the edge.  I'd think to myself, "Jean, I'm
coming for you."

     So we'd progressed to that point in our honesty where we admitted
our masturbation and our kinks, but we appeared to remain hesitant and a
little fearful of actually "doin' the deed."  Oh, I knew I really wanted to be
sexual with Jean . . . to touch her, to play with her, but I was afraid she
would think it was "really sick."  We circled the edges of our desires,
admitting some, denying others.

     Jean broke into my brief reverie, "Let's stop at the mall on our way
home.  I'd like to check out Victoria's Secret."

     "Oh, ugh.  Where they have all that, uh . . . girl stuff?"

     "Don't be a jerk.  I've seen you checking out my lingerie.  Actually,
maybe you're more interested in the soiled ones!"

     "Busted!" I grinned at her.

     We rode our ten-speeds back to the shopping center, me contriving to
ride behind Jean, admiring her trim, firm ass and thighs.  Now, close to
noon, the shops would be open, but because it was Sunday, the hard-core
shoppers wouldn't be out in force yet.  

     Locking our bikes in the racks on the edge of the mall, we walked
slowly, staying in the cool shadow of Macy's, checking out the other
morning people.  I've always maintained that the healthy, alive folks are out
early.  This was no exception.  Falling into our comfortable role of people
watching, we admired the bodies of many of the other strollers.  Some
were young, and some were older.  Most were fit.  I find particularly
appealing the looks of healthy and fit older women.  By older, I meant
Mom's age . . . you know, older.

     Mesmerized by the firm, long legs of a woman with streaks of grey in
her hair, I was nudged out of my sexy musings by Jean's voice: "Are you
listening?"

     Again, I gave her my grin of being caught and said, "I guess I wasn't. 
Sorry.  I'm listening now, sweet sister."

     "I'll 'sweet sister' you, buster!  I *said*,  How about these?'" She
gestured toward a collection of frilly panties in the window of Victoria's
Secret.  

     "Hmmm, hard to say.  I'd have to see them ON to know for sure."  

     Jean knew what I was implying and I knew I'd not get the chance to see
her model panties for me . . . at least not in *this* shop in *this* shopping
center.  I'd heard of a small lingerie shop in San Francisco where modeling
of lingerie was permitted, even encouraged.  I'd suggested once to Jean
recently that we "check this out" but she'd just snorted and said, "Fat
chance."

     If nothing else, I'd come to appreciate the power of planting a seed in
Jean's mind.  I'd make an observation or a suggestion, even when I
suspected that her first response would be "no way" and then I'd let it go. 
Many times, she'd return to it in oblique ways.  Was this happening now, I
wondered?

     "Let's look together," she offered.  

     In mock resignation, I replied, "Oh, all right . . . if I *have* to."

     Grabbing me by the hand, she pulled me inside.  The thought came to
me that we probably looked like boyfriend-girlfriend.  I was secretly
pleased.  

     There were perhaps a half-dozen other girls and women in the store and
I was acutely aware of them.  They appeared to not even see me.  

     Picking up a pair of lacy panties, I held them up to her and asked, "Jean,
what're these?"  Her fierce blush told me she'd remembered.  She
remembered our first sexual awareness with each other, when I'd teased her
about her panties in the wash.  

     "Yes, I remember too, Billy," she replied.  "I'm glad that you do."  
(As if I could ever forget.)

     Jean picked up an arm load of dainty things quickly and before
disappearing in the back, said to me, "Meet me by the entrance to the
changing rooms in a few minutes."

     I gulped.  The changing rooms?  That's were all those girls will be
naked or near-naked!  As if they *all* could read my mind, I became
more and more apprehensive as I ever-so-nonchalantly strolled to the back
of the shop.  Self-centered as I am, I imagined that everyone in the shop
was watching me out of the corner of their eyes.  They'd chastise me any
moment.  "Young man, what *are* you doing back here?"  No one even
looked.

     After furtively looking around  -  no one was looking at me  -  I looked
into the hall at the row of bat-wing doors.  Beneath one I saw a pair of legs
. . . Jean's!  I recognized her.  She looked over the top of the swinging
doors and saw me.  Suddenly, she opened both doors and struck a pose. 
Wearing white panties and bra that contrasted so well with her tan skin, she
stood, one knee bent and pulled into the other.  She held the pose for
perhaps five seconds, but the image was burned into my mind.  

     I saw the swell of her breasts, pushed slightly up and in by the half cups
of her bra.  The straps were positioned well to the side, framing and
enhancing the thrust of her C-cup breasts.  Over the top of the cup I could
see much or her areolae . . . dark and prominent against the whiteness.

     The sides of the panties were cut high with the waist riding up on  the
hips on the sides and dipping well down below her belly button in the front. 
The darkness of her public hair was clearly evident through the translucent
front of the panties.  With her legs near crossed, I couldn't see the object of
my desire . . . which made it even more tantalizing.  

     Again, over the closed bat-wing doors, Jean called to me, "Why don't
you pick out a few things for me to try on?" 

     Terribly conscious of my hard on, cramped and bent in my shorts, I
tried not to act as guilty as I felt.  I picked up a pair of thong panties . . .
hardly more than a triangular patch in the front.  What I *really* wanted
was to see the cheeks of Jean's butt.  Would this work?  To minimize the
agony of choice, I picked nothing else and walked back to the entrance
door.  Again, no one noticed or paid any attention to me.  

     "Bring them back to me," Jean said.

     With visions of jail in my head, I replied, "Not even close.  Come get
'em."

     "Scairdy cat," she chided as she dashed out in some sort of a mid-thigh
sleep shirt (which I never saw again.  Didn't do much for me either.)  

     When I handed her the slip-of-nothing panties she gasped and said, "Is
this *all*?"

     "Quit whining, woman, and put 'em on, will you?"

     Holding my eye for a moment, she make up her mind and spun back
into her booth.  "Don't go 'way," she admonished me.

     Go away?  She kidding?  By this time, I was ready to risk jail.  

     "Excuse me, please," said a woman as she brushed past me walking
into the changing area.  

     Oh shit!  Jig's up, I thought.  Game's over.  And on the heels of that
thought, Jean's doors swung open and there she was!  Naked . . . or nearly
naked.  Wearing only the thong panties!  She stepped out into the hall,
took a few steps toward me, and when six or seven feet away, swung
around and posed with her back to me.

     I could see the waistband of the thong and the vertical strap
disappearing into the cheeks of her ass.  Standing with one foot cocked, the
asymmetry of her ass was so incredibly unexpected, and sexy that I was
struck numb.  My throat was dry and my chest was tight.  Forgetting other
people, forgetting getting arrested and going to jail . . . I stood there,
entranced.  

     There was my beautiful sister, showing me her ass in the most
provocative way.  While I'd seen her butt several times, it was never with
this sexual charge.  Never so blatant.  I was transfixed.

     Suddenly she bent over, pulled the thong strap out of the crack of
her ass, and showed her ass hole!  I must be dreaming.  This couldn't be
Jean!  Jean's sexy certainly, but she wouldn't show me her bung hole in a
public store like this.

     Then she was gone.  The entire thing took maybe fifteen or twenty
seconds.  I was rooted there in the doorway, mouth agape.  The same
woman emerged from her cubicle a few moments later and saw me
standing there, looking astonished and dumb.  She glanced over her
shoulder to see what I was looking at and then passed me, smiling.  Did she
know?

     I had to go outside to breath.  I felt I was about to burst.  Jean
continued to astonish me, to amaze me and delight me.  I felt so full of love
for that girl, I couldn't see straight.

     A few minutes later, Jean emerged with a small bag and said, "I thought
you'd be out here. Wanna know what I bought?"

     Hoping it was the thong, I said, "The white bra?"

     "Yes, that too, for me, but what I really bought was for you."

     Brightening, I said, "The thong!"

     Nodding, she said, "The thong . . . and I might have a chance to model
it for you again today . . . if Mom and Dad go the City as they thought they
might."

     That set my mind spinning.  It sounded as if we were making a date
. . . a date to get nearly naked.  We'd had our little encounters and they'd all
been spontaneous.  I'd wanted to "talk dirty" with Jean for a long time, and
when we did, it wasn't on my terms . . . it just happened.  We'd "fooled
around" a little and again, it wasn't when *I* wanted to.  We'd never, ever
talked about getting together.  

     The erotic possibilities were vivid.  

     "Well, do you *want* to or not?"  Jean sounded a little annoyed.  

     I realized that again I'd been thinking so intently that I'd not answered,
except in my head.  Slipping an arm around her shoulder, I pulled her tight
to me as we walked and said, "Jean, you must know that I'd *die* to have
you model that bit of nothing again.  The answer is YES!  Yessss, I really
do want to."

     Mollified, she grinned at me and said, "Well, let's get going, It's a long
pull home."


                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


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