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From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
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Subject: My Sister Jean - XII (m/f, inc, play)
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MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
Chapter 12 -- Surprise Under the Pillow
After our last near-hit, near-miss encounter, my sister and I had almost
no time to consider our lives much less our sexual attraction. The demands
of school and our otherwise busy social lives grabbed all our energy and
attention. The glances and poignant smiles served to remind us frequently
of the pull we'd come to acknowledge but our natural cautiousness coupled
with our jam-packed lives served to buffer our lusty appetites. Yet we had
opened a door of intimacy that was never to close for all the days of our
lives. In a dozen small ways, we were more affectionately connected, open
and trusting than we even knew.
Our mother, sensitive to the moods in our family, had not failed to
notice that our one-time sibling abrasiveness and competitiveness had given
way to a softer connection. I suspect she was relieved. I wondered if she
might see anything beyond the surface. She did so often.
Pouring orange juice one morning at breakfast, Mom commented, "I
want to tell you kids that it's so much more peaceful around here since you
two became friends. My brother Jim and I did the same thing when we
were about your age."
The same thing? What'd she mean?
Mom chatted on about her teenage life. Jean and I looked at each
other, then she glanced at Mom and, looking again at me, raised an eyebrow
as if to ask, "Do you suppose Mom and . . . ?"
For a moment I was shocked. Mom? Then remembering the lusty
sounds we sometimes heard coming from my parent's bedroom, I smiled to
myself. Jean and I had then decided that our parents probably had done
"it" more than the requisite twice our presence demanded. Shrugging my
mental shoulders, I thought, "Why not?"
Returning to the present, I became more aware of my mother, of her
dress. She was wearing a light robe and several times as she was gesturing
I'd seen her breasts move under it. I thought, "Christ, Billy, you are a real
perv. Your own mother!"
In a silent mime, Jean's eyes opened in astonishment and she put her
finger tips across the surprised "Oh" of her open mouth . . . just as Mom
looked up.
"What?" Mom asked.
Quick to recover, Jean replied, "Oh, I just remembered that I forgot my
French book at school."
Jumping in, attempting to divert Mom's attention, I asked, "Did you and
your brother fight a lot, Mom?" I wasn't interested in their fighting as
much as the possibility of their connection. Not that I expected she'd tell
us much, but perhaps we could beat around the bushes a little.
Laughing, she remembered, "Sure. Just like most brothers and sisters I
guess -- but you know, we really loved each other."
Jean and I looked at each other again. You know, that silent "look"
that says, "Hmmm." Then I looked at Mom's breasts. Jean glanced at
Mom and then slowly shook her head in silent remonstration.
Continuing, Mom added, "You know your Uncle Jim. He's a strong,
take-charge kinda guy now, but he was a little younger than me when we
were kids. Still is for that matter. Why, there was a time when I could
beat him up." Then, looking off into some un-focused middle distance, she
shook her head and added ruefully, "That didn't last long. He grew up
fast!"
Jean snorted her juice through her nose, remembering, I supposed, the
play on words we'd often used, about my "growing UP." Picking up her
napkin, she dabbed her face and fake sneezed to cover her embarrassment.
"And then what happened?" she asked.
"Oh, you know. I used to bully him and then he grew up, more than
just physically. He matured and became a man, like over night, and then he
started to tease me, even though he was younger."
"Did it bother you? That change I mean?" I asked, thinking of how my
relationship with Jean had changed in a similar way and wondering just
what *had* gone on in Mom's younger life. The truth was, I'd ceased to
think of her as a chaste, puritanical person sometime ago. I *knew* she
was sexual with our Dad but I suppose I thought he had been the first and
the last, her only. That limited view of my mother's humanness was
slowly giving way to a more realistic acceptance of her as she probably
was. The thing was, I didn't know how she *was*. I was more than
casually interested . . . more than I wanted to admit to myself.
Mom continued, "Well, at the time I didn't want your Uncle Jim to
know, but secretly, I was pleased. I mean, he was so strong and so smart.
He could just *fix* things and he began to take care of me. I liked that."
She paused, buttering her toast. "Once there was this guy -- a real jerk,
obnoxious and mean, who was always teasing the girls -- saying dirty
things about them. Well, this guy said something about me once -- in front
of a bunch of guys -- something dirty I think. Jim heard about it and
walked right up to the guy -- who was bigger than him by the way --
and said, Don't *ever* talk about my sister,' and without another word,
smashed him right in the nose."
Jean gasped, "Really, Mom? Uncle Jim?"
"Yep. I was there. Saw it all. The guy fell back. He grabbed his nose.
It was bleeding all over the place. He was crying and saying he was going
to kill my brother. Jim walked up to him again and again, without another
word, punched him right in the stomach. Down he went. Stayed there too,
cryin', slobberin' and cursin'. But he didn't get up. Your uncle said, 'Yeah,
yeah. You'll *shit* too, if you're well fed. Get up if you want some more,
asshole.'"
Then hearing the words of her own account, Mom reddened and
glancing at us, added, "Oops. Pardon my French."
"Far out," I said, even more impressed with my uncle.
"Oh, my . . . I never heard that story," said Jean. "That's really
something." And then turning to me with a smile, she asked, "Would you
fight for me, little brother?"
"I guess so. I mean, I *might*," and then turning to Mom added, "If she
wasn't so darn strong and mean already!"
Jean threw her napkin at me and yelled, "You shit! I am not! MOM,
make him stop!"
Covering my head with one arm, I held up the peace sign with the other
hand and quickly said, "Sor-ry. Didn't mean it. Honest. Peace. Peace?"
Then, turning to my mother, I added in a stage whisper, "She's cute when
she's mad, isn't she?"
Mom leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her
eyes and voice softened. "You two remind me *so* much of me and Jim, I
can't get over it." Her nipples were poking through her robe. I tried not
to stare. I failed.
The voice in my head asked, "Did you and Uncle Jim fool around,
Mom?" But the voice that came *out* of my head asked, "You guys ever
double date, Mom?"
She smiled that special smile of remembrance. "Sure. Lots. We'd share
all our stuff with each other. He always had an opinion of the guys who'd
ask me out. Some were ok and some were not. And he'd always ask me
about the girls *he* dated. Things like . . ." and then she suddenly stopped
talking, seemingly embarrassed.
Stepping into the embarrassed silence, I said, "That hasn't changed. If it
wasn't for *my* wise counsel, Jean'd date some real weirdos, I can tell you
that."
Jean surprised me, for she didn't argue. "Yeah, Billy knows a lot about
the guys that I don't . . . that girls don't in general." Turning to me, she
added, "I appreciate your caring, Bro."
Jean was picking up on the direction this was taking. We worked well
together that way. But we knew Mom was no patsy and we didn't
want to be too obvious. We just knew she'd shut up like a clam if she
picked up on what was in our heads -- my head anyway.
"Mom, could you talk to Uncle Jim about . . . uh . . . about your
feelings and . . ." she finished lamely, "and . . . things?"
Mom, sensing Jean's discomfort, forgot her own and laid a hand on
her arm. "Sure, baby. We could talk about everything. That's why it was
so special."
Uncertainly, Jean asked, "Really? Everything?"
Glancing at me a moment, Mom answered Jean, "Yep, everything."
"Even sex?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager yet knowing I was
edging into new ground.
Mom hesitated. I could tell that she felt she'd been accidentally pulled
into this self revelation but couldn't cop out now. "Yes. Even that." Then,
putting her napkin on the table with a gesture of firmness, she leaned
forward a bit and added, "Sometimes, *especially* that. I mean, if you
can't talk to your own brother . . ." and then she made a dismissive gesture
with her hand and looked upward, as if for confirmation from above.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Yeah," Jean echoed, "Your own brother . . ." and then she tailed off,
not quite sure just what she was agreeing with. She looked at me and
wrinkled her nose as she cocked her head . . . her sign language that asks,
What are we talking about, anyway?'
"Sex, Jean. We're talking about sex. Remember?"
Mom, suddenly seeing our discordant thinking, threw her head back and
laughed. "You two . . ." she began and then wiped a laugh tear from her
eye, "you two are like Abbot and Costello."
"Who" I asked.
"Who's on first," Jean prompted.
"What's on second, " Mom continued and they both laughed at each
other. At my expense, I was certain.
"Come on, ladies. What is this, geriatric week? We were talking about
sex, remember? How'd we start talkin' about baseball of all things?"
Placing her hand on my arm, Mom said, "I'm sorry, Billy. You guys
started it. You just got me giggling. I'm a little embarrassed, you know.
I'm not used to talking, well . . . so frankly with you two." And then, as if
to cope with her uncomfortable position, she added quickly, "Anyway . . .
anyway, I must go down to the flatlands.'" This was our name for any part
of the surrounding area not in the foothills where we lived.
This conversation was over I knew, at least for now. I was disappointed
and relieved at the same time. On the one hand, it was kind of thrilling to
hear something of our Mom's early life, but on the other, it was so foreign
as to be strange and a little uncomfortable. We were just becoming
comfortable with our own sexuality. Considering Mom's was almost too
great a stretch.
Dabbing her lips again, Jean started to get up and then paused, looking
at Mom. "Remember I said I was going to stay with Aunt Peg sometime?"
Without waiting for a reply, she went on, "Well, she's invited me over for
tonight. It's OK for me to go over, isn't it?"
Moving toward the kitchen door and hardly pausing, Mom answered,
almost absently, "Sure, baby. Say hello for me, won't you?" And then she
was gone.
"Oh crap!" I grumped with no little disappointment. "I was looking
forward to us watching a movie or something. We haven't spent *any*
time together. We never even talk any more." My tone was almost
petulant.
Jean was unmoved. Laughing, she said, "Oh Billy, don't worry. We'll
talk again . . . promise. In fact, I'll call you tonight from Aunt Peg's house.
About eleven?"
A phone call wasn't what I had in mind, but it was clear that was all I
was going to get, so I tried on a little gracious acceptance. I tried, but it
didn't fit well.
Jean left a short while later and I moped around, trying to stay busy.
The late morning and afternoon were taken up with self-appointed chores
that helped me stay out of a dangerous place, my mind. Years later
someone was to tell me, "Bill, *your* mind should be used for amusement
purposes only."
Still, I spent the early evening feeling sorry for myself, convinced that I
was unloved and largely unlovable. I've always been struck by my capacity
to move from joy one moment to self-pity the next. When I'm in a good
place, those extremes amuse me, but when I'm in some self-centered dark
hole perched firmly on the pity pot, it seems decidedly not funny. Moreover,
I am quick to assume that not only is it a bad situation, but that I'll be stuck
there forever. No half measures in my thinking!
Holing up in my room, I put on an Enya CD and sank into the luxuriant
and mystical sounds that reminded me so much of Jean. Enya's lyrics,
woven into the tapestry of her sound, washed over me:
"If only I could stay with you,
my train moves on, you're gone from view, . . ."
Whatever loving and aesthetic side I might have had, the side that loved
the *spirit* of Jean, was simply pushed aside by the power of my erotic
imagery. Somehow, fueled and driven by the haunting melodies of Enya, I
sank into the sensual torpor of my reminiscence.
If I had thought my images might somehow be visible to others, I'd have
been embarrassed. But safe within that secret place in my mind, I reveled
in the richness of my erotic recall. As if etched in stone, the picture of
Jean, standing with her back to me, flashing her pantied butt, came and
went as a subliminal image. The curve of her back, the soft roundness of
her womanly hips, the dimples above her gluteal muscles and the shadowed
nether regions where the thin strap of her panties cupped her mons . . .
these mental pictures rolled through the interstices of "Shepherd Moons."
The one time I'd had the opportunity to *really* look at Jean's nude
body, it had registered and imprinted in my memory with extraordinary
detail. The filtered afternoon light in her bedroom had slanted across her
torso, seeming to pronounce and deepen the natural shadows. Her breasts
were somehow fuller, heavier, the nipples even more prominent. Refracting
the already diffused light, the almost invisible, downy hairs on her belly were
highlighted and became a penumbral shadow above the soft, curly down of
her pubic hair. Without the jutting prominence of a pubic ledge, her belly
curved smoothly in a soft arc to the darkened region between her thighs. In
my mind's eye, I could see that her rich auburn pubic hair, while not
extensive, was thick and full and curly. I knew what was hidden there,
between her long, slender thighs. I'd seen it once, close up as she had
urinated on a dusty Sierra trail, facing me, in broad daylight. My mind's
images flashed back and forth as a lens snaps into near- and then far-focus.
First one. Then the other.
I was delighted and tormented and excited, all at once. We'd agreed we
would have a "limited sexual connection." We'd abandoned any pretense
that we weren't attracted to each other, but under the lash of our own sense
of propriety and some nameless fear of doing wrong, we'd agreed that
whatever else we did, we wouldn't go all the way. Yet, that remained so
tantalizingly ill-defined. Hanging in that ether of vague boundaries, I found
myself almost agitated with desire.
The hours passed, despite my intolerance for delayed gratification. A
few minutes before 11 P.M. Jean called. "Hi, dude! Miss me?"
"Naw," I lied, "I forgot all about you. What's up, woman?"
He laughter picked me up. "You lyin' sack a'. . . . Your nose is
growing!"
"That's not all that's growin'."
"Well, big boy," she began in her Mae West imitation, "if you'll check
under your pillow, we'll see if we can help it grow a little more."
"What . . . ," I began, but she interjected: "I left you a little present.
Check it out and I'll call you back in a little while." Click. The line went
dead.
Still holding the dead phone to my ear, I pushed up and turned back,
looking under my pillow. There was a pair of Jean's panties. They'd been
worn. Under them was a note.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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