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From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
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Subject: My Sister Jean - XVIII (m/f. cons, inc, mostly talk)
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Some thoughts on My Sister Jean by BillyG:

    It's becoming more difficult to write a stand-alone chapter in this
increasingly ponderous story, mostly because there's so much history
that's understood or at least implied, all of course contingent on
having read the preceding episodes.  

    As well, for the story to be believable, the characters must go beyond
two- dimensional substance, so it can't be all sex.  In point of fact,
the real lives of Billy and Jean had depth and connection that existed
far beyond the vague boundaries of their sexuality.  But this is a smut
story.  Or is it?  Certainly, the pivotal emotions and actions center
around a halting, uncertain but growing sexual connection.  Still, the
fundamental values were often learned in that stumbling manner.

    For those readers who catch the allusions to earlier adventures and are
sufficiently interested, the earlier chapters can be found on Mr
Double's site at:	
    	
    http://www.why.net/users/mrdouble/htm/billyg.htm
                                    My Sister Jean - Chapter 18

                                      The Trip to Little Cayman

                                                                      BillyG


  The movie had started in the main cabin and the American
transcontinental flight from San Francisco to Miami had quieted for the first
time since Jean and I had boarded.  Quite often when we'd traveled with our
parents, and particularly with our status-conscious father, we had flown first
class, but this time we were paying for the trip from our own meager
savings and we were firmly planted in the main cabin.  Had there been a
steerage class, we might have been there, so strained was our budget.  

  Jean and I were on our way to Little Cayman, south of Cuba, for a week
of SCUBA diving.  We'd been to The Wall at Cayman before with Mom
and Dad and as with most kids, we'd paid no attention to the cost of
anything.  This time, our parents had given us permission to go there alone,
but only if we paid our own way.  Something about 'the value of the dollar.' 
Boy, was that an education!

  I was idly looking out the window, seeing nothing, and Jean was sitting
next to me.  An older guy with a paunch and earphones on was quietly
snoring next to her.  Glancing around, most of the passengers were either
sleeping or caught up in the adventures of Mel Gibson.  It seemed like a safe
time to talk.  I put back the arm rest between us and leaned over to Jean.

  "Are you surprised Mom let us go?" I asked.  

  "Together, on this trip?  Because of our talk you mean?" 

  "Yeah, that," I said.  

  In a moment of mindless unburdening, Jean had confessed to our mom
that we'd been fooling around with each other, but we hadn't 'gone all the
way.'  Cripes, our secret was out!  I thought the jig was up, but I'd
underestimated our mother.  

  Subsequently, she cornered me. What could I do?  Partly in fear and
partly because I didn't know how to lie well, I told her the truth, expecting
the world to fall in on me.  'Your own SISTER?'  Yet, she hadn't gone
ballistic.  Actually, she remained warm and loving, reminding me of my
responsibility to Jean and to myself and not threatening us.  Oh, we'd
spoken of the potential consequences of our acts and the need to be mindful
of our actions.  But she never once said, 'Don't do that.'"

  "Not really," Jean said after a pause.  "I mean, she does trust us."

  "How do you mean?" 

  "Well, we've been truthful with her . . . about us, I mean.  And she's
always been out front with us.  She as much as told me that she can't really
*make* us do anything . . . that we'll do whatever it is we're going to do,
no matter what.  And she trusts that we'll be responsible."  After a pause,
she added, "Mom's always been good at that - making us responsible for
our actions, I mean."

  "Yeah, I know that.  At least intellectually.  But emotionally, I'm still a
bit surprised.  I guess I thought we'd get grounded, say for the next ten
years or so."

  "Wanna hear another shocker?  Try this one on for size.  Mom insisted
that I start taking The Pill.  'Not that I think you're going to do anything for
sure, but you never know, she said.'"

  "You're on The Pill?" I asked, excited.

  "I just said . . ."

  "Then you couldn't get pregnant if we . . ."

  "Billy!  We're not going to DO anything!  How many times do I have to
tell you that?  This was Mom's idea, not mine.  And in any case, it's not for
YOU!"  Her tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

  I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Okay, okay.  I get it.  Don't get
mad."

  Jean turned to stare at me, her eyes blazing and then she softened.  "I'm
not mad.  Not really.  I just don't want you to take me for granted, that's
all."

  The attendant offered each of us a blanket.  We accepted and Jean
spread her's over her lap before continuing.  "When I asked Mom if we
could go on this vacation together, she never mentioned 'our situation.' 
She never said we shouldn't be together or that we shouldn't . . . well, you
know."

  "Make love?"

  She glanced sharply at me.  "Anyway, I told her we wouldn't.  She
shouldn't worry, I said."
  
  "What's that got to do with me taking you for granted?"  I asked.

  "Oh, I don't know!"  She sounded a little exasperated.  "Just don't!"

  "Can I have your peanuts?"  

  I watched the corners of her mouth twitch, trying not to smile.  She
recognized my paper-thin ploy to distract her, to change the subject.  

  Handing me the small bag of peanuts, she said, "You owe me."

  "For the peanuts?"

  "No, you jerk.  For talking Mom and Dad into letting us take this trip
alone."

  "Whatever your price, it's a bargain," I replied, settling back in my seat.

  Still, I thought it seemed a little unreal, almost too good to be true.  It
just didn't fit my concept of how things worked.  After we'd confessed to
Mom our sexual desires, it didn't fit my preconceived notion of the usual
parental response.  But then Mom's responses often didn't.  I couldn't
remember how many times I'd screwed up, expecting to catch hell, only to
have her give me one of her calm talks.  Inevitably, I'd end up taking more
responsibility for my stuff than I wanted to.  Didn't she know?  I just
wanted to be totally irresponsible and do the things I wanted to do and
when I wanted to do 'em.  That was usually right NOW.

  I suppose our taking this vacation together wasn't all that much
different from the times we'd spent home alone together, I reasoned.  Yet,
the sex addict in me wanted to put some other spin on it.  Like we'd been
given permission or something.  

  I looked over at Jean.  She had her seat back partially reclined and was
quietly resting, eyes closed.  I watched the rise and fall of her bulky
sweatshirt.  To be truthful, I was really watching the rise and fall of her
breasts, seeing them in my mind's eye, full and heavy, yet extraordinarily
firm.  Jean'd told me that the women in our family all were blessed with
firm, youthful breasts.  I could only speak for Jean, a peek once or twice at
Mom and oh yes, our Aunt Peg in the hot tub.  Yeah, they'd all have been
picked out of titty line-up as being related.

  Unconsciously, I made it my business to check out Jean.  From long
practice, I'd come to accurately recognize when she was wearing a bra, as
she was today.  It wasn't that her tits sagged or anything obvious like that. 
It was more I think that her bra pushed the sides in a little, maybe so they
didn't get in the way?  But more I noticed subdued movement.  She was
missing that subtle sway when she walked.  As we were carrying our
shoulder bags toward the departure gate today, she'd caught me checking
her out.  She flushed, smiled and then nodded in silent confirmation at my
unasked question.  Jean'd once admitted that she was pleased that I always
checked her out.  I thrived on small encouragements like that.

  Just a bit later, a young girl in a micro skirt dropped something in front
of us and as she bent over at the waist, I saw a flash of red.  Jean nudged me
and smiled.  Red panties.  Were they thongs I wondered?  And why red? 
Had her boyfriend instructed her in how to dress when she met him at the
airport?  That and no bra, I'll bet.  My imagination ran on.  He'd told her to
trim her pubic hair, rouge her nipples and leave the top buttons open.  Man,
I was just getting warmed up!

  "Billy, come on back!"

  "Uh . . . yes . . . my mind wandered for a moment." I said sheepishly.

  She smiled and said in a low voice, "The whole airport could see that." 

  The trip to Miami was best described at tedious and we arrived almost
on schedule.  Between planes, we called home and left a message that
everything was going alright.  Jean bought a few post cards and I mostly
looked at the dark-skinned, good-lookin' girls gliding and swaying about
the airport.  I loved the colors of all the people.  Even the airport colors
looked like something out of a TV Program about Miami.  Watching one
particularly exotic girl jiggle past me - I imagined from Havana - I had an
image of dusky-skinned teenage girls rolling large cigars on nubile firm
thighs.  I didn't know if they did it that way, but I liked the image.  

  Jean nudged me in the ribs and whispered in my ear, "Lookit the ass on
THAT one!"  It was one of those small-waisted, firm-cheeked honeys that
wore jeans so tight, it defied understanding.  I mean, how in hell they get
'em on, anyway?

  I turned and smiled at her, making a brief salivating look.  

  "Down, boy," she advised.

  "If I could WILL it down, my life would be simpler."

  "If you could only will it UP . . ." she countered, then looked away,
blushing.

  "It'd always be up . . . at least around you." I finished in a slightly louder
voice.
  
  "You!"  She pretended mock indignation.

  The Cayman Air flight took off on schedule, an unusual occurrence, I
thought.  The relatively brief flight over Cuba and down to the Caymans
was uneventful, the very best type of trip.  When we landed in Grand
Cayman, the air was sweet and warm and the people friendly and colorful,
but still, we thought of the tourist part of that Caribbean island much as we
thought of Miami Beach, which is to say, not very much.  We were anxious
to move on to a more remote, less developed part of the islands.

  From past experience, we reserved some trepidation for the connecting
flight from Grand Cayman to Cayman Brac and the short jump to Little
Cayman.  We remembered it as a chancy and casually-run affair.  An
unusually tall, former horse-transportation aircraft converted for human use
served as the Mexican bus equivalent of the local island shuttle.  Well, kinda
converted as we remembered and our memory served us well.  I looked
around large, stall-like interior of that curious plane, half expecting to see an
old, dried-up horse turd kicked into a dusty corner but the only thing I saw
was a crushed Coke can and some candy wrappers.

  After landing on Little Cayman, almost a grass strip carved out of the
jungle, we taxied to the terminal.  That's an overstated name for the small
wooden shack sitting next to a weedy graveled area.  With only twenty-
some permanent inhabitants on the island, there'd be no taxi cabs, but I
needed have worried.  A moderately rusted and beat-up old pickup that
belonged to Pirate's Pub was there to meet us.  

  Surprisingly, all our gear made it through the multiple plane changes. 
As surprisingly, Jean traveled almost as light as I did, in marked contrast to
our aunt or our mother.  "Casual clothes, that's all I packed," Jean assured
me.  Even without tanks and weight belts, the rest of the gear was heavy,
bulky and clumsy.  That was the price, we'd been taught, for the safety of
taking your own gear on a dive trip.  I was pleased when several guys
standing around swarmed over our gear and loaded it into the truck and it
appeared they were pleased with the tip.

  Pirate's Pub was run by a delightful, robust, full-of-life lady from Texas
named Gladys Howorth.  She'd studied in several internationally known
culinary institutes and her meals at Pirate's Pub were justifiably famous. 
Still, for all of that, I'd not have traveled so far just for the atmosphere and
her cooking alone.  It was the Wall I was after.  I've heard that there are
three premiere dive spots in the world, at least for wall diving.  There's the
Red Sea for one, then parts of the Great Barrier Reef were highly ranked
and finally, in our hemisphere, there's the Wall off Little Cayman.  

  I read that the Wall dropped off into the depths, falling 6,000 feet
straight down.  That was academic, of course, but what made it so fantastic
was the impossible-blue waters there with constant 100 feet plus viability. 
That together with the rich and varied marine life in and around the pockets
and caves on the Wall made for some of the most spectacular diving
anywhere.  Happily, there was no drift current as in Cozumel, so you could
hang out anywhere without having to work against the drift.  If the Dive
Master became confidant of your abilities, you could dive alone with your
buddy and return to the boat when you were ready.  Rarely did we have
dive groups larger than six to eight people and often, there'd be as little as
four. 

  We'd been to the Caymans a couple of times before with our parents
and friends.  Jean was a strong swimmer and a naturally talented diver. 
We'd been diving buddies for years and were very comfortable with each
other's abilities.  We just floated around effortlessly using so little air, often
we were in the water for fifteen or twenty minutes after other folks had
depleted their tanks' air supply.

  "Think Margi's still here?" Jean asked on the ride through the jungle. 
She'd had taken off her sweatshirt and was down to a skimpy sleeveless T-
shirt.  My arm was over her shoulder and I had a good view of the top of
her white bra as well as a good portion of her cleavage. It never ceased to
thrill me.  

  Margi?  Margi had been a small, very attractive female Dive Master who
came from Colorado.  We'd met her last year.  I'd developed a crush on her
then but aside from recognizing me as an experienced diver, I don't think
she even know I was alive.  She was a couple of years older than Jean, and
that put me out of the running.  Some good-looking 'older guy' had
monopolized much of her time when we had been there the previous year. 
No, I hadn't forgotten Margi.

  "I hope so, but doubt it.  They've had a new Dive Master every time
we've been here.  They're such a bunch of gypsies." 

  "Would you like to *see* her again?" she asked, grinning at me.  We
both remembered the time Margi had been helping a sea-sick diver into the
boat and  couldn't tend to a broken bikini bra strap.  I couldn't see the
diver, just Margi's full breast.  I remembered how tan she was, except her
breast which was startlingly white.  Mostly, I remembered her nipple.  It had
been very large, thick and meaty, jutting out from her pebbled areola.

  I whispered in her ear, "Remember her nipple?"  I may have been talking
about Margi's breast, but it was Jean's I was eyeing as I peered down her
shirt. 

  "I KNEW that's what your were thinking, you hound dog!"

  Jean loved to play the innocent, obliquely referring to something sexy
and then pretending moral outrage.  We knew the game well.

  When we arrived at Pirate's Pub, the efficient crew had us moved into
our room in a jiffy.  We'd asked for two adjoining rooms, but knew we'd
take whatever was available.  I was tickled when Gladys put us in a single
large room with two double beds.  Our quarters was one half of an
octagonal building in the palm trees quite near the beach.  I remembered
how soothing the waves and the night sounds were there.

  "Well, babes, it looks like we're stuck together.  Mind?"

  "Of course not, but don't get any ideas," she replied, not looking at me
as she swung her luggage onto the bed.

  "Jean, ideas are all I have." I protested, opening my large carry-on bag. 
Filling the drawers and sorting out gear, I added, "You don't think I can
really stop *thinking*, do you?"

  Jean held up some brief, sheer panties I'd never seen before, and studied
them for a moment.  "It's not your *thinking* that concerns me, big guy."

  "Where'd you get those?"  

  "Victoria's Secret.  And you know what I'm talking about."

  "Hot!"  I paused and then continued, "And no, I don't know what
you're talking about.  Sex, sure.  And us.  But what about it?  I thought we
had a deal?"

  A little while back we'd agreed to explore our sexuality, out of the
closet as it were, just as long we honored each other's limits.  That of
course meant mostly me respecting her limits.  I'm not sure I had any.  At
least I hadn't bumped into them yet.
  
  Jean stopped unpacking and just looked out the screened window at the
filtered light reflected off the water.  Periods of silence were common
between us and I didn't pay any attention until I saw her shoulders shake. 
When I walked in front of her I saw her eyes were screwed tight and a
couple of tears were running down her cheeks.

  When my shadow crossed her face, she opened her blue eyes that were
shiny wet and just looked at me as she brought her fingers up to her face.  I
gathered her into my arms and held her without speaking.  She sobbed
silently for a few minutes and then put her arms about my neck burying her
head below my ear.  I ran a hand up and down her back, softly kissing her
hair and making crooning sounds.

  "I'm sorry, Billy.  I know I'm being such a bitch.  You don't deserve
that.  Thanks for your patience with me."  She hiccoughed and then
laughed.  "And yes, we *do* have a deal.  That hasn't changed.  Tell you
what, I'm a little bit scared and my period's about to start.  I always get a
little 'touchy' for a day or two this time of the month.  God, I *hate* to
think I'm a PMS-er!  Can you put up with me?"

  I almost asked her what my choices were, but held off, thinking she
didn't need any of my sophomoric humor.  Instead, I continued to hold her
close and said, "Jean, there's not a serious problem on the horizon.  Think
about it.  We're alive and well, we're together, and this is the first day of a
to-die-for vacation.  I love you . . . you know that, but I want to say it
anyway.  There's no agenda.  We can dive or not dive.  Sleep or not sleep. 
Wanna be with me?  Cool.  Wanna be alone a little, that's cool too."

  "Oh, Billy!  I don't what to be alone!  What ever I say . . . however I
act,  I came here to be with you.  Don't leave me, promise?  I'm sorry I've
been a shrew, but I'm feeling better already.  Maybe I just had to let the
bitchiness out, huh?"

  Nodding, I said, "All I really know is how I feel and that works for me,
babe.  The letting it out, I mean.  If I carry it around, stuffed, not letting go
of it . . . well, it just festers.  I can maybe hide it for a little while, but it'll
erupt if I don't own it.  Know what I mean?"

  She nuzzled my neck before letting me go and then spinning around, she
said something like, "Whew . . . I feel so much better.  Thanks, Billy."

  I sat on her bed and picked up a pair of her lacy panties.  Holding them
up to the light - I could almost see through them - I commented, "This is
how all this started, what, a couple of years ago?"

  Jean gave me a particularly wicked smile and said, "They're the *clean*
ones.  I'm *wearing* the ones *you* want, you perv."

  I was pleased to have the old Jean back and told her so on the way to
the main house to register and see if we could get a late snack.  Gladys
keeps an open bar for her guests and while we didn't drink much on a dive
vacation, we stopped by to see who was there.

  "Why, it's the two porpoises," sang out a woman's voice from back of
the bar.  "Welcome back," yelled Margi, loud enough for everyone to hear. 
As often follows a loud noise, it suddenly became quiet and I was aware of
the curious stares of several people.

  Margi typically didn't wait for a reply.  She ran on, "Everyone, I'd like
you to meet Billy and Jean, two of the nicest people, first rate divers and if
anyone needs help and I'm not around, ask either of them."

  Margi rounded the bar and ran into my arms for a bear hug.  As usual,
she was wearing a pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt sans bra.  I wondered if
she even owned a bra?  

  I asked her, "Do we get paid for that?"

  "What's your price?" she whispered in my ear.

  "You and me to go diving alone some time this week." I returned in a
similar whisper.

  "Did he ask you to go diving alone with him?" Jean sang out in a voice
not heard by more than half the room.  "He was hoping you'd be here,
Margi."

  Margi smiled at me and with a broad wink said, "That right, big boy?"

  Before I knew it, Margi took Jean aside and they immediately fell into a
heads-together conversation.  Their body language suggested I talk with
someone else so I introduced myself to a bearded bear of a man who was
sipping a drink and chatting with a sun-bleached, tan woman I guessed in
her thirties.  

  "Hi.  I'm Ian and this's Jan."  Turning to her, he added, "Sorry Jan, I
don't know your last name."

  She extended her hand to me and gave me a dazzling smile.  "Jan'll do. 
Margi told us today that you and Jean were expected.  She thinks highly of
both of you and your wife."

  I laughed.  "Jean's my sister."

  Ian added, "Yes, there's a strong resemblance in your eyes and mouth. 
You've much the same facial bone structure."

  "That may be, but I don't see it.  All I see are the differences."

  We looked over at Jean and Margi.  Jean was sitting back in her chair
and her skimpy T-shirt hugged her breasts and prominent nipples.

  "Yes, there *are* some differences," observed Ian as he looked at Jan
and me with something approaching a leer.  

  "Ian doesn't miss much it would appear," said Jan with a wry smile.  

  Neither do I, I thought as I ran my eyes over her shirt front.  

  "And neither do you," Jan added.

  I held my hand palms up and looked up to heaven for support. 
"Busted," I said.

  We chatted for a few minutes until Jean returned and said, "Billy, we're
all checked in and I've got us some snacks.  I'm really beat.  Think I'll go
back to our room and nibble before crashing.  You?"

  I"m tired too.  I'll go with you."  Turning back to Jan and Ian, I said
goodnight and, "See you in the morning."

  Walking back through the palm trees I could hear the electric generator
chugging away in the distance.  I'd forgotten how isolated this place was.  I
wrapped my arm around Jean's shoulder and asked, "What were you and
Margi talking about with such intensity?"

  "Wouldn't you like to know?"  Her smile underscored her teasing, yet
there was again a faint edge to her voice.  I fell silent, oddly put off a little.  

  Just before entering our room, Jean stopped and asked, "Well, wouldn't
you?"

  "Like to know?"

  "Yes, I thought you be dying to know what Margi said."

  "Yeah, I suppose I am, but to tell the truth, I'm feeling a little
disconnected.  You're my best friend and I'm picking up strange energy
from you.  I'm so used to being on the same wavelength, I don't know how
to behave when we're not."  I paused and then went on, "Shit!  I don't
know.  Maybe it's me.  Do you think it's me?  'My being a jerk?"

  I'd learned that no matter what the other guy said or did, anytime I was
upset, it was axiomatic that something was wrong with me, that I had a part
in it somewhere.  Usually it meant I wasn't accepting life on life's terms. 
Things weren't going my way and I was being petulant.  

  "You're right, Billy.  Things *are* off kilter a little.  I feel it too.  You
know what I think it is?"

  "No, I don't guess I do," I answered, a bit more interested, for Jean's
ideas were often right on.

  "Think about it.  Here we are, together . . . actually, sleeping in the same
room . . . with all this history behind us . . . that moth and the flame history. 
We've been flirting with each other forever it seems.  Mom knows.  And we
know that she knows.  I'm on the pill.  Cripes, Billy!  I'm scared witless.  I
think you are too and that's what's wrong with us.  That's the tension we're
feeling, don't you think?"

  "It's certainly true that despite my resolve not to have expectations, they
creep into my mind.  You know, I've told you about the sex addict guy that
lives in my head?  Well, he's up there having a field day while the good guy,
the rational guy is frightened.  Wanna call a time out?"

  "Good idea!  Mom always told us we could start our day over anytime
we liked.  Let's start our vacation over, okay?"

  "Deal!  And Doctor Billy prescribes a good night's rest, starting right
now."

  She gave me a high five and we walked into our room.  Without lights,
we turned down the beds and I went into the john to take a leak.  When I
came out, I could see Jean's shadow in bed.  I wanted to hug her goodnight,
but was still feeling a little tender and, afraid of rejection, I slipped into my
own bed.  "'Night, Jean."

  "I can't believe you're not curious about what Margi said about you."
Jean provoked me, assuring my night's sleep.

  "About me?  Did you guys talk about me?"

  "Well, I didn't get to say much.  Mostly Margi talked.  I did tell her that
we didn't have secrets from each other and suggested that she not tell me
things she didn't want you to hear, but she said, 'Oh, what the hell,' or
something like that."

  "Jean!  You're gonna drive me batty at this rate."

  "Well, she's definitely interested in you."

  "Yeah, right.  Last year I couldn't get her attention.  She was always
hanging around with that other guy."

  "You mean he was hanging around her!  Oh, she was aware of you
alright, but because you're younger and a guest, she was afraid to let you
know."

  "Let me know what, for cryin' out loud?"

  "That she was . . . uh, interested in you."

  "I admit it.  I'm dumb.  What does 'interested' mean?"

  "Maybe this'll help, my stud-muffin brother.  She asked me if you were
a virgin."

  Oh Jesus!  You didn't tell her, did you?"

  "You bet I did.  Girls are worse than guys when they think they're
getting someone, some guy, for the first time."

  "And you think she's gonna get me?"

  "Only if you're willing, big boy . . . only if you're willing."

  "And, making believe all of this is true - which I doubt - how do *you*
feel about this?"

  "I'm jealous.  I'm thrilled too, but I'm really jealous."

  God, I'd *never* understand women!  

  "Jean, part of me is pleased.  That you're jealous . . . I mean, that you
care that much.  And another part is asking, about WHAT?"

  "Don't ask me to explain this, Billy.  I don't understand it either.  I
guess I'm jealous that you're interested in her . . . that's part of it.  But
more, I'm jealous that she can do things with you and I can't."

  "Do things?  Like in . . ."

  "Yes!  Like in!"  

  Jean fluffed up her pillow and then slammed it down, turning away from
me.  In the dim light, I could see the sheet had pulled up and exposed her
tan back side and the her white panties.  Or were those panties?  No, that
was Jean's pale ass I was staring at.  She was naked as a jay.

  I'd worn my briefs to bed, more out of propriety.  Or was it
embarrassment?  I never wore underwear to bed and suddenly I was aware
of my hardness, bent in my shorts.  I pulled them off slowly and dropped
them by the side of the bed.

  I spoke at her back in a low voice, "I've been trying to get into your
pants for half my life it seems.  You're the sexiest woman in the world to
me.  I'd do anything for you and you're jealous of some woman who's older
than you even, who asked a few questions about me.  Talk about driving
beyond your headlights!"

  She flounced back, facing me.  Darn, now I couldn't look at her butt. 
"Oh no I'm not!  Women *know* these things.  She's hot for you.  She's
already asked if we could get together tomorrow night."  And then she
mimicked Margi's deeper voice, '. . . so we can get to know each other
better.'  I know what she wants to get to know better!"

  My dick, I hoped.  I saw no inconsistencies in that.  I knew I loved Jean
and was terminally hot for her, but my dick was interested in every good
lookin' girl on the horizon.  That had nothing to do with love or anything
like that.  This was all about my desire to penetrate some girl's soft, wet and
itchy pussy.  Fuckin' in other words.

  "That might be nice.  Do you wanna?" I asked.

  "Heck yes, I 'wanna'," she replied, now mimicking me.  "I like Margi
too.  She's fun and outrageous - braver than me and I know we'll enjoy her. 
But I'm still a little jealous. Don't worry, it won't stop me from having a
good time."

  Then, turning away again, she concluded, "Now go to sleep, won't you? 
I'm completely worn out and I'll get cranky if I don't get a night's rest."

  The muted washing of waves on the beach drifted through the palms and
I could hear the soft night sounds as I lay back, hands behind my head,
looking at the ceiling fan slowly turning.  Where was this going?  

  The only thing I knew with certainty was that it wasn't going the way I
had dreamed it up.  But then, things rarely did.  The upside of that
disappointment was grounded in the reality that when things didn't turn out
the way I wanted them, what I got was far better than what I wanted.  

  Grasping my hard-on through the sheet, I fell asleep.


End of Chapter 18



  

  

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