Message-ID: <12032eli$9806092028@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/12032.txt>
From: cmndr@nym.alias.net (Commander Jameson)
X-Good-Total-Length: yes
Subject: {ASS} Ch.01-12 "My Sister Jean" by BillyG (mf, rom, inc) (RP, proofread)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <35826779.1522544@207.14.113.10XCJ>
Reposter's note: This story has been (a bit) proofread by me, and then
again by BillyG. If you still find any typos, you can keep 'em. :-) -- CJ
==========================================================================
MY SISTER JEAN
by BillyG <billyg@hooked.net>
________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 1 -- Jean's Panties
Holding up the soiled panties I'd lifted from the wash hamper and
with an exaggerated voice of wonder, I asked, "What're these?"
My sister, Jean--older by two years--blushed and shot back, "You
jerk! What do you think they are? Give me my panties . . . right now,
Billy!"
Jean and I had always been close and shared most things, but the
conservative atmosphere that surrounded things sexual in our home had
placed a "forbidden" charge on things like underwear . . . and bathrooms
. . . and (gasp), private parts. Added to the mixed messages we'd
received, was the clear awareness of our parents' sexuality, for, when
my father returned from a long sea trip, they'd always "get it on."
Ostensibly, their sexuality was not in the open, but in fact, they were
careless and we were aware of both of them as sexually active people.
But we never spoke of it. That heightened awareness was to add spice to
our own little games.
Holding up the white cotton panties to the light, I examined the
crotch in an affected fashion and said, "Hmmm, what's this white stuff?"
"BILLY! Stop that this minute, you little rat. God! You're
dirty."
I loved her discomfort and as her kid brother, I loved this
fleeting moment of power. Sensing I was on a roll, I held the panties
up to my nose and made a loud sniffing sound and added, "Boy, this
smells sexy."
Would this stratagem work? I was dragging out of the closet a
specific point of sexual tension that had been building between us for a
long time. It started for me, I think, when we were wrestling and I had
become aware of the distinctive "girl smell" Jean had, seemingly coming
from her bottom. I'd wrestled in earnest but as usual, I was
distracted. Everywhere I touched, it seemed, was soft or feminine. She,
on the other hand, wasn't distracted. She'd finally whipped me with a
scissor-lock. I was trapped with my head between her thighs, looking up
into the tight crotch of her shorts.
"Give? Give?" she chanted.
"Never! Not on your life," I insisted. Give up? Heck, I wanted
some more time so close to her secret girl spot. Reaching around her
bare thigh, I tried to insert my hands between her legs near the
stretched bottom of her white shorts. I'd already made out that all she
had on were short shorts and panties glimpsed under a too-large, baggy
sweat shirt.
Making a tickling sound as I touched the inside of her thigh, I got
her laughing a moment, relaxing her strong leg muscles. I lunged-- not
back and away-- rather, I pushed my head in and higher up, bringing my
nose right up to her bottom.
"Now I really gotcha," she chortled. "Give?"
Got me? I smiled to myself. Who's got whom here? "Never!" I
mumbled from the confines of her sweaty crotch, inhaling her smell, the
sexy, girl aroma.
Smelling her panties that I'd snitched from the soiled clothes
hamper was always a turn-on, but smelling her this closely, in
real-time, was almost overpowering. I forgot to struggle and gave
myself over to the erotic moment. Seeing the leg of her panties under
her shorts, a few light brown hairs sticking out, I wondered, has she
any idea what I'm seeing?
Jean suspected something was going on. "What are you *doing*, you
little shit?" And then she shrieked as I began to run my finger tips
under the pant leg, touching her panty crotch, all in the guise of
tickling.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle," I lied, trying to make my mind work on
two separate levels. Pretend we're wrestling, but bury my nose in her
crotch. I was desperate to smell her, to touch her, to see her sex and
I didn't really know how to go about it . . . other than this game.
Still shrieking with laughter and repeating, "No . . . no . . . no
. . . ," she was trying to keep me pinned and get away from my tickling
at the same time. "Oh, God, don't. I'll wet myself. Stop. Please
stop."
Wet herself? What did she mean? It was then that I became aware
of another smell, the unmistakable faint scent of pee. Cripes, was she
peeing in her pants? Craning my head back, I attempted to look at the
white crotch right in front of my face and could see a wet place as big
as a plum. Then, before I could see anymore, she quickly disengaged and
ran from the room, slamming the bathroom door behind her.
As I'd often done in the past when I knew we were alone, I'd listen
at the thin bathroom door. Once again I heard the familiar hissing of
her pee hitting the porcelain bowl. Other times she'd make a louder
noise when her squirting pee splashed in the water and I couldn't figure
out why it changed from time to time. Did she sit differently? Could
she really aim it? I didn't hear the noisy toilet paper roll as I
anticipated. Rather, it was quiet. Straining, I imagined I could hear
her breathing, but it may have been me. After several minutes of
silence, I then heard her pull on the toilet paper, a long pull followed
by another short silence.
The bathroom door knob rattled, surprising me, for she'd not
flushed the john. She *always* flushed -- that was my signal to get out
of there. Oh, shit! I'm caught, I thought, my heart suddenly in my
throat. Yet, she'd paused just a moment, allowing me to scamper away.
Then the door opened with a bang and Jean, walking out of the bathroom,
stepped over me. I could see the half moons of her ass cheeks as she
stepped over my upturned face. She simply dismissed me with a casual,
"Jerk!"
As she rounded the corner and passed from sight, I jumped up and
went into the bathroom. The lid was up on the john and when I looked
in I was thrilled to see pale yellow water and a folded-up wad of toilet
tissue. There it is, I thought. There's her pee! I stood looking at
it, thinking about how it got there and I just couldn't not jack off. I
was too primed, I was ready to explode with sexual tension. It must
have taken about ten seconds of frantically stroking my teen-aged
hard-on for me to squirt my jism into the yellow toilet water. That's
it. I was hooked. My sister had me by the balls on a downhill drag and
she didn't even know it. Jean's panties and Jean's peeing, at that
moment, became firmly linked in my mind with an immense sexual charge.
Later, I tried to talk with her about our wrestling but I wasn't
surprised when she just wouldn't talk about it at all. Still, we both
knew something had changed and a new tension, a sexual charge, had been
established. For me, I became obsessed with trying to see Jean naked,
or up her dress or under a pantleg. If that's all you think about and
you live in such closeness with another person, the rewards are
frequent. Yet, looking was one thing, but not enough. I wanted to up
the ante. I wanted so much to smell her again and more, I wanted to
talk with her about it! I just wanted to talk dirty. And heaven knows,
I wanted to watch her pee.
She rarely got to go to the john without me being aware of it and
listening at the door. The sound of her peeing was an aphrodisiac for
me --instant woody! Even the muffled sound of her soft farts gave me a
thrill. I came to know her micturition habits born of the certainty of
long experience.
For me, a ritual was established. After school, Jean would always
change her clothes including her underwear, leaving the soiled garments
in the bathroom hamper. As soon as she'd come out, I'd go in, lock the
door, and fish out her panties. Then, with my own pants down around my
ankles and sitting on the toilet, I sniffed her panties as I played with
myself. It had been years since I'd caught a glimpse of her bare pussy,
but my active imagination played that tape over and over, seeing the
pussy hair and her little-girl slit slowly open, the lips swelling and
moist. With my nose close to the odor of her "private place," I smelled
the heady scent of her sex. I beat off every day, often twice, trying
to think of a way that I could get Jean to play with me.
She'd become increasingly aware of my voyeuristic play over the
weeks and pretended indignation when I tried to look up her dress, but I
sensed her stance was more pro forma than real. Else why did she sit so
carelessly when I was around? Why did she bend over in front of me so
often the tight crotch of her shorts pulled up into the crack of her ass
and then ask me some nonsense question that I might look her way? She
sure didn't act that way when Mom was around.
Still, I knew her "rules"-- the rules of our household-- don't talk
about it. We could play the game and pretend we weren't doing anything,
but we couldn't openly acknowledge it. She might sit carelessly,
reading a book, and I might sit on the floor in front of her,
surreptitiously watching the junction of her thighs and catching a peek
of her panties . . . but I couldn't openly let her know I was doing
this. That angered her -- me drawing attention to my interest in
looking up her dress. It was part of this teenaged seduction, part of
our forbidden incestuous play . . . pretend it isn't really happening.
Much later, Jean was to tell me that she knew exactly what she was
doing and what I was doing. She was very aware, very excited and more,
thrilled and scared at the same time. She wanted to escalate the game
herself, but it just had to be in a way she could square with her
hypertrophied sense of morality . . . it just isn't so if you don't
admit it.
So, if we couldn't openly own up to our kinks, we could beat around
the bush (as it were) and teasingly approach our horniness. At that
time, I didn't know that Jean wanted to play as much as I did. I
thought the burden of seduction, of guile, was mostly upon me. And,
functionally, most of it was. Like so many boys, I thought I was the
only one who was this sick. I was the only one who hung around the
bathroom door or sniffed their sister's underwear and then had wet
dreams about it. Cripes!
Clearly, I needed a plan. I just couldn't wait around forever. I
suppose I had the typical teenager's impaired tolerance for delayed
gratification. I needed something more direct, less subtle . . .
something to address the topic in a frontal fashion, yet maintain the
denial. Her underpants were the key to this, I thought. She knew, I
suspected, that I played with them in the bathroom, but the secrecy of
my masturbation habits didn't allow the eye-to-eye confrontation I
wanted. Time to crank up the intimacy rheostat. I'll somehow use her
panties as a tool of seduction.
Think about it for a moment. Panties. They've *always* carried a
charge. Girls giggle about them and boys have an unflagging interest in
them. They're secret. They're naughty. And they're sexy as all get
out. They're worn right next to "that place." They get "dirty" with . . .
you know, those things kids don't talk about easily . . . pee . . .
pussy juice . . . skid marks. My sister Jean *knew * of my horny
fascination with her undergarments, both on her as well as in the
dirty-clothes hamper, so they'd be a natural, I reasoned. Further, it
wouldn't be too far out -- not like just out-and-out grabbing her as
I'd really like -- and I could retreat if she was really offended. (I
was limited in the cojones department as a kid, that's clear.) Thus, my
need for an oblique scheme.
Now, back to the soiled panties: Spreading the crotch of her white
cotton underpants over the palm of my left hand and examining them
obliquely to the light, I asked, "Is this a spot of pee I see? Did you
pee in your panties, Jean? Did you have a little accident, big sister?
Did you . . ."
Whop! Something hit me in the face. She'd thrown the first thing
that fell to her hand, thrown and hit me right in the face, with -- you
guessed it -- another pair of her panties!
Pulling them from my face as I staggered back in a theatrical
fashion, I looked at them. These were pink rayon with lace around the
top and the legs. "Oh, do you want me to do a crotch check on these as
well?"
She went ballistic. "You rat. You stinking, little rat. You're
sick. You're a twisted little shit of a brother and I wish you'd fall
into the toilet and be washed out to the dump and I'd never see you
again and I'd get your room and I wouldn't have to wait forever for the
bathroom while you . . ." Red-faced and sputtering, she leaned across
the folding table to grab her panties from me. Her shirt front fell
away.
As part of her Saturday, stay-at-home, no-one-will-see-me uniform,
she was wearing one of my old, baggy and stretched, sweat shirts.
Perhaps because we were doing the wash, and it was a Saturday when no
one was around, she'd not worn a bra. I could see her tits! Down the
gaping front of that sweat shirt, I could see all of her tits and her
front, right down to her belly button. Her breasts were medium-sized
and her nipples were large and erect. I can see them in my mind's eye
yet today. Bending over the table, her arm outstretched, blushing and
angry, her white breasts swayed. At that moment, they weren't the
breasts of a young, teenaged girl; they were the breasts of a sexual
woman and I wanted to touch them! There was silence. I don't know how
long it lasted . . . seemed like long minutes. Jean, looking into my
eyes, angry, hurt, confused and yes, aroused. I'm holding her panties
and looking down her shirt, mesmerized by her breasts, by her nipples. I
stared. I stared and didn't say anything.
I was acutely aware of my cock. It was hard. Hard and pressing
into the edge of the table, bent in my pants and hurting a little.
Unbidden, my hips pushed into the table harder, pushing my hard-on
sideways, the tip of my dick suddenly springing up toward my belt. Now
I was unconsciously dry humping the damn table, holding Jean's panties
and staring at her tits. Nothing subtle here. I was trying to fuck the
damn changing table and couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.
Following my eyes, Jean looked down and saw her own breasts, fully
exposed. With a sudden inrush of breath, she slapped her hand over her
shirt, closing the top. At the same moment, I extended my hand to her
with her panties, as if to give them up. Falling for that, she reached
for them, pulling her hand away and the shirt fell open again. And
again, I could plainly see her bare boobs with their very prominent,
eraser nipples.
Still grinding my cock against the hard table edge and watching her
breasts sway as she stretched farther to get her panties, I pulled back
a little, just out of her reach. And again, time was frozen. Her
breasts, now pink in the wave of her blooming embarrassment, were there
in front of me, one slightly flattened against the table by her chest as
she leaned across, the other swaying free, the nipple prominently erect.
I humped still and she looked. Just looked and looked. The only sound
was our breathing. Both of us, I think, were mesmerized by the erotic
charge of what was happening, and we didn't even really know *what* was
happening.
My world narrowed. Through slitted eyes I could see only her
breast. As down a tunnel, her voice came to me in a hoarse whisper,
"Billy, you're doin' it, aren't you . . . you're doin' it and you're
gonna come, huh?"
I heard her but I didn't. It was too late. I was gone and it
never occurred to me to even attempt to slow this runaway avalanche of
feeling. It began somewhere deep inside, gathering force and rumbled up
and a core of heat poured out my cock in near-painful pulses, once,
twice, a third and then a fourth spurt. I came, spurting jet after jet
inside my Jockeys and the jism pooled and ran back down the shaft of my
cock, the warmth of my come bathing my dick down to the root.
The roaring in my ears quieted. Dimly I heard the hum of the
refrigerator and then a car passing on the street. Then my own breath,
gasping. Opening my eyes I saw Jean. She hadn't moved. Her eyes were
wide open in astonishment, her mouth slack. I could see her tongue
behind her lower teeth and still, her nipple, now almost purple against
the white background of her belly.
Caught in the terrible intensity of this unplanned erotic high, we
stood watching each other for a long minute. Embarrassment began to
flood my feelings. What had I done? How had this happened? I never
planned this. What would Jean think? Worse, what would she tell Mom and
Dad, or her girl friends? Suddenly, I was no longer horny. I was
scared shitless!
I looked away and then, as if it had broken a spell, Jean spun
away, muttering, "Ho-ly shit!" I stood there alone with her panties in
my hand, still pressed up against the table, my cock wilting. Was I in
for it?
My mind raced. Well I might be 'in for it,' but what's done is
done, I reasoned. I'm not going to turn back now. It'd be hard to make
it much worse and she just *might* be turned on too, I reasoned. Gaining
some shred of self confidence, I decided to press any advantage I might
have.
For some obscure reason, I decided that it was unlikely she'd tell
on me. For one, she'd be too embarrassed. And for two, I thought she
just might be a little excited herself.
Knowing she'd want to be "offended" for a little while, I gave her
space and just smiled when she tried to brush me off. While she was a
little bigger than me (then), with the instinctual certainty of the
horny hunter, I knew she wasn't as sure of herself and that she needed
to be chased, to be talked into being naughty. Well, I was just the
guy.
Chapter 2 -- The Couch
I really liked Jean. Heck, I adored her. She was a wonderful
sister and I know she loved me as well. So it wasn't an act when I set
out to be her champion. I stuck up for her. I defended her from my
mom's sometimes erratic sense of fair play and when my friends teased
her, I'd only let it go so far. I'd let those guys know that she was my
sister and not to disrespect her. Jean, at first, was uncertain, but
her loving nature pushed right through. She spoke to me with affection
and began to engage me in conversation, at first about inconsequential
things, but later about "boy-girl" things. Our relationship had been
changed. It was growing more "real," never to go back to our old
sibling rivalry.
Oh, my behavior around her hadn't changed. I was still trying to
look down her blouse or up her dress. I still listened at the bathroom
door. But now, we were closer buddies. She really liked me, so it was
both easier to accept my aggressive sexuality and harder for her to take
offense at my shenanigans. Added to that, I began to accept myself a
little more and was far less hesitant about letting her know that I was
horny.
One afternoon, alone in the house together, she asked, "Can we have
a heart-to-heart?"
Grinning and with a pointed look at her left breast, I said, "Sure,
girl, I'd love to have a heart-to-heart with you. Your place or mine?"
"Come-ON, you nit. Be serious. I need to talk with you, so get
your mind out of the gutter."
Sprawling out on one end of a large sectional in the living room, I
said, "Okay, okay, Sis, sit and talk to me. What's happenin'? What's
on your mind? Boys? Yeah, I'll bet that's what it is . . . boys, huh?"
Sitting opposite me and giving special attention to a button on her
shirt, she didn't make eye contact, a sure sign of her embarrassment
about something. "Well . . . kinda . . . that is, I need to . . . well,
I'd *like* to ask you some questions about what boys think okay?" When
Jean was uncertain of herself, she often placed an interrogatory
inflection on the last part of her sentences as if to say, "You know?"
"Only if you share with me . . . tit for tat, girl. I'll tell you
things what you wanna know -- if you tell me what I wanna know . . .and
no mincing around either. Fair?" It was always better to establish the
rules of engagement with Jean. More often, she was willing to give a
little before the fact. Before she became embarrassed and dug in, I
wanted her tacit agreement that if I were to tell her "all about boys,"
I wanted reciprocity. I'd been pulling her in this direction for weeks
and she was ever less reticent to 'fess up.
"Well . . . okay, but don't get too dirty again, will you . . .
promise?"
"Heck no. I don't promise anything, except to be honest. Where
can you get a better deal than a promise of honesty? The truth can't
hurt you, you know." I was shamelessly playing on her sense of morality
and fair play, trying to suggest that what she had to talk about was
probably just as "dirty" as my stuff. (*I* didn't even believe that.)
Still pulling on the button, "Okay, little brother." Then smiling,
"I do trust you."
Mentally rubbing my hands, I thought, yes . . . trust me . . . to
try to get into your pants, big sister. Affecting a nonchalant
indifference, I leaned back (and almost fell off the couch) and said,
"Thanks. Now, shoot. What's on your mind, woman?" (She loved to be
called "woman.") Now that the general topic was out of the bag and we'd
established the ground rules, she visibly relaxed a little more.
Swinging around, she put her bare feet on the couch near mine and
leaned her knees into the cushions, tugging her skirt down. Out of my
peripheral vision I noted that the hem of her skirt had fallen in such a
fashion that I could see well up the back of her thighs. This has
potential I knew but I'd have to be careful not to be too openly leering
at her legs, at least at first.
Again, nervously tugging at the button on her shirt, she sat
silently for a moment, I imagined composing her question. Whatever it
was, she'd been thinking about it for days at least, but now she had to
compose the words. If nothing else, I was patient. I waited without
further prompting.
Finally, hesitantly, she stammered, "This is embarrassing, but . . .
when you . . . do you remember . . . uh, the time when you . . ."
"The time when I came?" I offered.
Blushing and tugging more on the button, she nodded.
In a soft voice I admitted, "Yeah, well sure. How can I forget? It
was the neatest thing ever happened. What about it?"
"Uh . . . I've been wonderin', that ever happen before? I mean,
have you ever, uh, before . . . that is . . . oh shit! I wanna know. Do
guys, you know . . . jack . . . uh, masturbate?"
Do guys . . . ? I couldn't believe it. It was too good to be
true. I'd been wondering for weeks how'd I'd get Jean to talk about
masturbation and now here it was, right out there, and she'd asked me!
Boy, was I going to have a good time with this one. I thought it'd take
a long time to get up to The Topic and now, wham, here it was.
I almost fell off the couch again in an attempt to look casual. My
dick was already stirring. Cripes, I could see the bulge and I know
that if she looked, she could as well. I was now the one who was almost
tongue tied. "Well sure guys masturbate, Jean. At least everyone I know
does, and all the time, or at least that's what they say."
Jean gets restless when she's approaching an emotionally-charged
conversation and I was increasingly aware of her legs as she shifted
them back and forth. Abruptly, they parted as she crammed both hands,
straight armed, between her thighs. I saw a flash of white, the crotch
of her panties. It was more than a flash. Actually, it was a several
second look and the poochy bulge that formed the crotch of her panties
was the sexiest thing in the world at that moment. My mind went right
back to the memory when my nose was smashed next to her crotch and the
olfactory memory kicked in. I could smell her, I thought.
"And you?" she prompted.
"Geez, Sis. I'm a guy! Sure. That is, I mean, I have," I admitted
in an evasive way.
Tilting her head in way she had, she held out one hand, palm up and
said, "Oh, I supposed you did . . . I mean, the way you're always
trying to look at me and all. But what I was really wondering was, uh
. . . how?"
"How?" How what I wondered?
Now, her voice more certain, "Yeah. Just *how* do you do it. I
mean, the one time I saw you . . . you did it against the table. Is
that the way you *always* do it? I just wanna know."
Laughing, I replied, "That was the *only* time it happened that
way, Sis. That just happened. I didn't plan it. I don't normally get
off on the table . . . I usually do it . . . uh, the usual way, you
know."
With a trace of irritation she countered, "No, I* don't* know.
That's why I'm asking. I mean, if I knew, do ya think I'd be asking? I
know how girls . . . I mean, I don't know how guys really do it."
For a moment I couldn't believe that Jean was that naive. She
*must* have known. But, maybe she is as inexperienced as she said and I
needed to give her support, not teasing.
"Okay, I think I understand what you want to know. It's like this.
You know what a hard-on is, don't you . . . when a guy's dick swells and
get hard . . . when he's all excited? Well, when my dick's hard, I just
wrap my hand around it and then stroke it up and down. I almost always
think of something sexy . . . you know, fantasize while I'm doing it
. . . and before I know it, wham! I come . . . and, well you saw what
that's like."
"You think of something sexy? Like what? A movie star or a picture
in Penthouse?"
"Well, I have thought of girls I've seen in sexy magazines, but
most of the time I think of someone I know, someone closer to me,
someone who is real and very sexy."
"Janey Pritchard?" she asked, naming the most outrageous flirt in
high school.
"Not Janey. She's okay, I guess, but she doesn't get me off. No,
I think of someone who's far sexier than Janey when I jerk off . . .
that's what guys call it, ya know . . . jerking off."
Jean had succeed in pulling her shirt button all the way off and
was absentmindedly working on the next one down. As her shirt opened
and closed, I caught repeated glimpses of the swell of her breasts above
the lacy white bra she was wearing. She continued to shift around as
she became more excited and had dropped one foot off the couch while the
other, still bent, was up against the cushion giving me a completely
wide-open look under her skirt.
She was wearing bikini-style panties, very low cut in front and
high on the sides. The darkness of her pubic hair was plainly visible,
for I'd picked the end of the couch with the light behind me. Jean had
to squint to look directly at me while I had a clearly lighted,
unobstructed crotch shot. The conversation and the sexy view were
getting to me. My pants were clearly bulging out and I'd seen my sister
glance at my crotch several times and then quickly look away.
She persisted, "Who, then? Just who do you think of that gets you
all . . . uh . . . hard and . . . and horny?"
Was she fishing? Dropping my right hand to bulge of my pecker and
holding it pointedly, I said, "You."
"WHAT?" She gasped, her eyes wide in surprise, her hand frozen
with the shirt pulled part way open. "What do you mean, me? Billy, I'm
your sister for cryin' out loud!"
Lowering my voice and looking hard at her, I rushed on, "Sis, I
*am* your brother and I still find you attractive. I still find you
*very* attractive, beautiful even. Why, you're the most attractive girl
I know and by far, the sexiest girl I know. I can't help that and I
can't help the way I feel. I care for you and I love you. I'd do
anything for you. I can't help it you turn me on. When I see you, I
feel warm. When I see your breasts or your butt, I get a thrill. When
I think of you naked, why I just get so darn horny . . . there's only
one thing I can do."
Jean sat, frozen, with one leg up which pulled the crotch of her
panties into her pussy. There was a natural silence. We just sat and
looked at each other. Now I was no longer trying to sneak peeks at her
panties; I was blatant about it. I knew she could see me and yet, she
didn't close her legs. I could plainly see the penumbra of soft hair
high on her thigh, above where she shaved her legs. Then, looking at
the crotch of her white cotton bikinis, I could see a wet spot. She was
getting wet. She was getting excited, I was sure.
Chapter 3 -- Our First Sex
Suddenly dropping her raised leg, she pushed one hand into her
skirt-covered crotch and seemed to cup herself as she asked, "Just what
do you think about, Billy? I mean, what do you think about me when you,
uh, do it?" She'd taken the bait!
By this time I'd decided to turn up the intensity. Screw this
pussy footing around. Let's get going. "Okay, Sis, I'll tell you
everything . . . everything you want to know . . . I'll tell it all, but
first, you've got to tell me something. I'm way ahead of you and I'm
feeling kinda funny about it like I'm all alone. Know what I mean? So,
before I spill the beans, you've gotta tell me things. Like I know that
girls do it too. And I suspect that you're just like everyone else, so
you probably do it as well . . . but I wanna know just how *you* do it."
I'd emphasized the "you" so she'd talk about herself and not about girls
in general.
By this time her skirt was half way up her thighs and we were
both cupping ourselves shamelessly. "All right you horndog, I'll tell
you. Yes. Yes, I do it . . . a lot. I've been doing it for years . . .
ever since I was nine. Usually I do it when I'm in bed, late at night,
but sometimes I just wake up hot and have to do it again. Lately I've
had to do it in the day time, and then I go, well, you probably know
where I go. You go there all the time!"
Now her skirt was at her hips and I could see her hands over her
panty crotch. I slipped my hand inside my pants to adjust my dick,
noisily sucking air between my teeth. It was all hard and caught bent
in my underpants. She stopped talking and watched me, so I kept my hand
inside my pants, holding my cock.
This was working better than my wildest dreams. I'd hoped we
might "talk dirty" and here we were, touching ourselves openly. I was
getting more excited by the minute. I could hardly sit still. The
loving feeling I had for my sister right then almost choked me up.
"Sis, I wanna tell you how sexy you are right now. You are just
beautiful. I love to look at your legs and I love to see you there and
I'm going crazy trying to see more of you. God, this is HOT and I don't
know if I can stand it!"
Jean, it appeared, had crossed some emotional line of propriety
in her mind. The shy, embarrassed girl was gone and the provocative,
sexy woman was emerging. She was enjoying herself and she was turned on
by seeing me turned on. She'd entered the game without reservation. I
just knew that. I didn't know where this was going, but I was sure of
one thing, it was getting more powerful and going *somewhere* and I was
going with it.
I suppose like most boys, I didn't imagine a girl would be
interested in looking at my dick; still, Jean had been watching me
throttle my hard cock through my pants for the last several minutes.
Suddenly, I knew what to do. Pulling my zipper down, I pushed my hand
through my open fly and grasping my cock, I looked at my sister and
said, "Show me, Jean . . . show me yours."
Looking up through her lowered lashes, she smiled and said
nothing but slid one hand into her panties and between her legs. The
wet crotch of her panties were bulged with her fingers and I could see
some dark brown pussy hair where the pants were pulled away. My sister
was really calling my hand, imitating me and teasing me at the same
time. When I began to move my hand, she moved hers. It looked like she
was running one finger up and down her slit, pausing at the top to make
little circles.
Put up or shut up, I thought as I pulled my boner out of my
pants. There! No accident this. I was showing my hard-on to my sister
and waiting to see what she'd do . . . run or join in. Then she
surprised me. Suddenly standing, she reached up inside her skirt and
pulled her panties off. Stepping out of them, she rolled them in a ball
and motioned to throw them down, but then, as if having a second
thought, she let them unroll and held them up for me to see. Rolling
her eyes, she shrugged and tossed them onto my chest as she sat back
down.
My dreams . . . my wet dreams were coming true. My sister's
warm panties were mine. The crotch was quite wet and her scent was
strong when I pulled them to my nose. Her panties stolen from the
clothes hamper were hot, but nothing like the fresh wet and warm ones
she'd just stripped from her bottom. I could hardly believe that my
sister, sweet Jean, knew what I wanted and flaunted it for me.
Shaking my head, as to clear it, I stood up and skinned out of
my jeans and underpants. My dick almost slapped my belly as it sprang
up. I stood there a moment, my hips slightly thrust forward, cock at
attention and asked, "Is this what you wanted to see?"
"Yes. And is *this* what you've been trying to see?" She
pulled her skirt up and spread her legs for me. I was seeing now, for
the first time, my sister's naked pussy. God, it was beautiful. Her
pubic hair was curly and thick on top. It was trimmed on the sides and
on the lips. My innocent sister trimmed her pussy hair! Where have I
been this century?
Scooting her hips forward, our legs overlapped as she scrunched
her bottom toward me. Her splayed legs pulled the lips of her pussy
apart just a little and I could see a wet pink inside. The scent of
pussy was heavy in the air and I so wanted to bury my face in her
crotch. Below her partially-open cunt, I could just see her puckered
anus. She was showing me her asshole! My dick lurched again, precome
wetting the area around the pee hole.
I hunched my bottom closer to her and slid my legs farther over
her's as I continued to stroke my woody. The tip of my cock was only
inches from her pussy. I could see her clit as she pulled the hood
back. She was showing me her little hard-on. By now I was so excited I
didn't know what I wanted. I wanted it all. I wanted to jack off, to
watch her jack off. I wanted to smell her, to taste her. I wanted her
to touch me, to touch my cock, my balls, my ass. I was nearing circuit
overload. I couldn't think.
Scrunching forward again, I muttered something like, "Let me
touch your clitty with my dick, Jean . . . Oh, God . . . let me touch
you!"
She was beyond speech and answered with her pelvis. She thrust
her hips to me until our sexes touched . . . until the head of my dick,
almost purple with stasis, touched the hard nubbin of her cunt. I was
mindless. I had no idea what I was doing or what to do. I began
mindlessly slapping her clit with my dick, between the inverted "V" of
her fingers that were splaying her pussy lips open. Slap, slap, slap .
. . I masturbated myself as I softly beat her clit.
Once again, my world constricted. Visions and images swam
before me. I couldn't tell fantasy from reality. My sister's pussy.
The smell of her juice. My hard, curved and shining cock pounding on
her pussy . . . on her clit. Slap, slap, slap. Her wet fingers . . .
red nails . . . holding open her pussy. Groaning sounds . . . strained,
garbled, meaningless speech, "Pussy . . . cunt . . . shit . . . piss .
. . fuck . . . Oh, Christ . . . I'm coming."
"Come on me, come on me, come on me," she chanted over and over
as I squirted ropy spurts of white jism on her chest, on her stomach and
then onto her pussy hair. From far away, I thought I heard her scream.
I must have blacked out for a moment. My next aware sensation was being
held. Jean had my cock in her hand and was holding it softly, cooing as
she stroked it like a feather. My body spasmed again, a jerk that
pushed an unbidden grunt from my chest.
"God, Jean . . . shit . . . Jesus H. Christ! I can't believe
this happened. It was unbelievable . . .incredible . . . fantastic."
"Oh, Billy," she whispered. "Please hold me, won't you? I do
love you so!"
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
since 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, dumfounded
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.
Chapter 5 -- The Trip Home
The jazz group Four Play was playing softly over the hum of the big
4X4's tires. Bob James and Lee Rittenour were weaving their usual
seamless and delightfully rich acoustic fabric as the western slope of
the Sierra foothills fell away behind us. We'd fallen silent in the
Scout after loading up our backpacking gear and getting some more ice
for the chest near the exit of the National Forest. I was driving and
Jean was looking out the passenger's window as we sat silently in our
own thoughts. We were used to periods of silence and it wasn't
uncomfortable.
My mind was playing a tape of endless loop. My sister, Jean -- the
sometimes ice maiden -- had, when we were hiking out from Fourth of July
Lake, actually squatted in the middle of the hiking trail and peed
right in front of me . . . in the most blatant fashion. It was not
accidental and not remotely innocent. Rather, it was considered and
extremely provocative. Most baffling, it had seemingly just happened,
out of nowhere. I was excited and stunned, for it had been the
realization of a longstanding, obsessive fantasy of mine. Now, after
that intense sexual peak of halting interaction, we'd lapsed again into
our usual quiet space of uncertainty.
The grasses and flowers changed as we lost altitude. I reflected
on the events of the last little while. While, in the preceding weeks,
I'd made no secret that I was terribly excited by her and more, that I
was lightheaded with passion for her, I'd never come right out and asked
her if I could look at her nude, much less watch her pee. Not that the
thought hadn't been foremost in my erotic mind for years, I was simply
reticent to disclose myself . . . to uncover my secret kink, largely
from embarrassment. Oh, I didn't mind so much, particularly of late,
that she knew I masturbated, or that I smelled her panties, or even that
I was crazy about staring up her dress or down her shirt. Somehow, that
was all right . . . that was manly or at least OK boy stuff. But
peeing? Hmmm. Sounds sick and perverted . . . or so my judgmental mind
spoke to me.
My mind spun on. Why had she done that? Why did she suddenly
expose herself to me in such a provocative way? A fleeting glimpse of
her panties or skinny dipping was one thing, but letting me watch her
pee a long stream into the dust of a Sierra back trail . . . a scarce
few feet from me . . . that was quite another. Had she known about me
. . . about my kink? Or and I couldn't really believe this -- was she
kinky like me?
No, not the very proper and often prim ice queen. If I had not
been sneaking around for years, listening to her when she was in the
bathroom, I might have supposed that she didn't even pee at all! Jean
was the type who wouldn't say shit if she had a mouth full. If pressed,
she might, in some clinical fashion, allude to micturition or to (ugh)
urine but she'd never utter the word "piss." I imagined that she might
allow, grudgingly, the expression pee-pee if some little kid had no
other way to express it. So how was it, I wondered, had she moved from
that moral high ground to pulling her panties down and peeing in the
middle of the trail while staring into my eyes? Once again, I was
baffled. Girls!
On a long curve, Jean swung around toward me, tucking her bare feet
up on the seat and asked, "So, Billy. What are you thinking?"
She always did that. Well, she did it a lot . . . opening up her
topic by asking me what *I'm* thinking. Or, if the topic is
established, she tries to get me to commit myself to a position before
she discloses her's.
Making a vague motion with my hand, I replied, "Oh, nothing."
Smiling to myself . . . If she only knew.
"Come ON, Billy. I know you better than that. You're never
thinking of nothing. What's going through that pointed little head of
yours?" The smile in her voice belied the insult. She leaned back
against the passenger's door, pulling her left foot further onto the
seat, pressing her knee into the back rest. The leg of her shorts gaped
a little. I noted things like that.
I also knew this drill. I'd been through it a thousand times. If
I was stubborn enough, I could simply stonewall it. I'd done that lot
of times, heaven knows. But Jean knows me, and most of the time I
*wanted* to be drawn out. I tried to maneuver it in such a way that the
topic was her's, not mine. This, of course, was old stuff, born of a
sibling's need for protection from being ratted on. The fact of the
matter was that neither Jean nor I had ratted on the other in years. At
root, we acted to protect each other.
"Well, actually I was thinking of our relationship, Sis." There!
That covered a multitude of sins.
"Hmmm, what about our relationship?"
We both knew the dance so well that the opening steps were done
without effort or thought. Actually, we were both thinking way ahead of
this conversational chafe.
"Come on, dude. Open up. What about it . . . what about our
relationship?"
Looking pointedly at her, I asked, "Do you *really* want to know?"
This was a well-established signal that one of us would cut through
the fog of protective words if we were serious or impatient and wanted
to get on with something pressing. On the other hand, if it were the
usual verbal game, we'd parry that offer with some gratuitous insult or
another.
"Uh, yeah, Billy. I really *do* wanna know. What're ya thinkin'?"
The last question was a little muffled as she pulled her sweat shirt
over her head, partially pulling up her T-shirt and momentarily
uncovering the bottom of her bare breasts. Without hurry, she pulled
her T-shirt back down, molding the front against her nipples.
Jean almost never spoke in contractions or idiom. Her diction was
usually precise and her demeanor was oh-so-correct. So when she said
"Uh, yeah" and "I wanna," I recognized her
I-want-to-be-one-of-the-guys gambits. She was letting down her
goody-two-shoes protective distance. Jean was telling me it was OK to be
frank and, in light of our most recent adventure, it was clear that she
wasn't interested in my opinion of the men's basketball team . . . or
their locker room. She was letting me know that it was OK to talk about
what had happened on the trail.
You might think it strange, that "talking" about our sexual
connection, once done, wouldn't be difficult. The reality was contrary
to that, however. A lifetime of denial had, in some paradoxical manner,
permitted us strange behaviors . . . as long as they weren't validated
with acknowledgment. That is, just don't talk about it.
This interaction, however, was moving at warp speed. Jean usually
took forever to circle up the wagons and establish her perimeter of
protection more often of the barbed-wire variety. Cutting through the
niceties this rapidly let me know that she felt strongly about what had
happened. Usually, Jean dealt with uncomfortable topics by ducking
behind her long-practiced wall of denial. And I know what that was
like.
Glancing again at the gap in her shorts, I could see the edge of
her panties. I pointedly responded, "To be perfectly frank, Sis, I was
wondering about you."
Jean rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion, knowing that I was
being anything but frank. She slipped her right hand under the front of
her T-shirt and absentmindedly, scratched the area under her breasts.
Cripes, how could I watch the road, watch her scratch her tit and listen
to her . . . all at the same time?
I didn't ask her why she rolled her eyes. I knew. But could I
really enter into this forbidden area? By now we'd had at least three
intense but too-brief sexual encounters and had yet to *talk* about
them. A moment of uncertainty washed through me.
She cleared her throat in a dramatic fashion and I glanced at her.
Maybe it was sibling communication, or the soft smile, or the direct
stare of her blue eyes . . . but suddenly I knew that it was okay. She
was lowering her guard. There'd be no pretend ignorance or indignation
in this conversation. There'd be no frustrating evasions . . . unless I
slipped into them myself.
Taking a deep breath, I blurted, "I loved watching you pee, Jean.
I just LOVED it. But why did you do it? I mean, how'd you know? Uh
. . . we've never . . ." My strong start trailed off. I didn't know how
to give voice to my thoughts.
I took another deep breath but before I could start up again, she
answered, "Billy, I've suspected for a long time . . . I knew you
listened outside the bathroom door and . . ."
Interrupting, I asked, baffled and alarmed, "How did you know?"
Glancing again at her, I saw the big grin on her face when she
said, "Oh, Billy! For a guy that's so darn smart about so many things
-- you really do impress me most of the time -- for a guy that's so
smart, sometimes you're just out of it."
She touched my thigh with the toes of her right foot as if to take
the sting out of it.
Well, that did sting, but knowing the truth of it, I said nothing.
Instead I made an impatient motion with my hands to urge her on with it.
"Billy, the afternoon sun shines in through the front windows,
doesn't it?"
Obtuse I thought and nodded, still not getting it . . . aware more
of her foot, now resting on my thigh.
"Remember when the carpet was taken out of the hall and the tile
was installed? Well, the place beneath the bathroom door where the
carpet used to be, now lets the sun shine in." Then pausing for
dramatic effect *now* I could see it coming she added, "And it casts the
shadow of you standing right outside the bathroom door . . . it seems
you're always there." I was mortified! I felt the heat rise in my face
as I sought a way out, an excuse, some way in which I might deny it.
Jean, sensing my acute discomfort, laughed softly and added,
"Billy, don't be embarrassed . . . I'm not . . . at least not anymore.
It's okay. Honest, it's really okay." Her toes curled on my leg as she
ran her foot up and down.
Then, as if to explain further, she went on, "At first I wasn't
sure *what* you were doing. I thought you were pulling some kind of
practical joke on me, but nothing ever happened. I was puzzled and . .
. I don't know why . . . I was fascinated. So, I tested you. I'd wait
until you were around, and then I'd go into the bathroom, just waiting
to see your shadow under the door, then I'd pee. I . . . I didn't mind
that you were right outside the door. Actually, I think I liked it . .
. that you'd want to . . . that you were interested in me . . . but I
didn't want you to hear me do the . . . uh . . . other. I'd really
strain and try to make a loud peeing sound, but I was always scared to
death I'd . . . you know . . . make some other sound."
I glanced at Jean and her eyes slid away. Now she was the one who
was embarrassed. I didn't tell her that I had heard her fart softly a
few times. Her hand was still inside her T-shirt, right under her
breasts. Maybe the tips of her fingers were touching the bottom swell
of her tit?
It was unusual for Jean to talk so long in such a vulnerable
manner. I just smiled and said nothing, hoping she'd continue.
"I have a confession to make," she continued, rushing the words.
If this wasn't a confession, what the heck was it I wondered? "Go
ahead, Jean. There's nothing you can say that would offend me . . .
honest." I was so darn magnanimous.
"I snooped in your room."
That didn't surprise me; we all snooped on each other, I was sure.
"And I found your dirty magazines."
Again, I was stunned. "How did you . . . I mean . . . shit,
Jean!" Now I was really embarrassed. The only magazines I had
weren't plain-vanilla girlie magazines. I'd found two foreign magazines
full of watersports pictures and stories and secreted them where no one
would ever find them. Or so I thought.
"You probably think you're the only one who spies in this house.
Well you're not. I've listened to you in the bath room too. You're
really noisy when you masturbate. You should be more careful . . .
Anyway, I've heard you move your dresser several times . . . before and
after you disappear into the bathroom. That puzzled me, so I moved it
and found the place in the back without a slat . . . the place where you
hid those magazines."
Her hand moved beneath her shirt. Now I was certain she was
teasing one of her nipples.
I was pissed . . . not so much that my secret was out, but that I'd
been so transparent . . . that my "dumb sister" had ferreted out my
hiding place so readily.
"Billy, reading those stories got me hot. And then I could
understand what you were doing outside the bathroom when I was peeing.
You were imagining *me* in there, weren't you?"
I couldn't believe how smart my sister had become all of sudden.
Grasping her foot in my hand, I ran a finger between her toes and said,
"So?" At these moments of stress, social repartee was not my strong
suit.
"So, I became as interested as you in peeing. I started watching
myself when I peed. I tried looking when I was sitting on the toilet,
but I couldn't see much . . . except the pee squirting. Then I got a
mirror and I could see it well, particularly when I pulled myself open
with my fingers. When I pulled my lips open, the pee came out in a
solid stream, just like I imagined a boy's did. That gave me the idea
to pee standing up."
I turned down the volume of the car stereo a little, for she'd
fallen into a soft, reflective tone and I didn't want to miss a word. I
squeezed her foot a moment to encourage her to continue.
"I started in the shower. At first I peed down my legs, but I got
the hang of it quickly and in no time I could stand with my legs apart
and hips pushed forward to pee a strong stream several feel in front of
me."
Glancing at me she asked, "Can you picture that, Billy? Isn't that
crazy?"
"Yeah . . . delightfully crazy. Sexy crazy . . . and hot. Tell me
some more." Could I push this? Would she continue?
"Well, I saw a mare, a female horse (shit, I knew what a mare was)
- I saw a mare urinate in the field, so I tried it that way. I mean, I
bent way over at the waist and while standing, tried to pee. At first I
couldn't tell what happened, what it looked like, but then I stood in
the tub and watched myself in the mirror. Billy, it squirted way out
behind me. I felt like a mare in heat!"
"Then I began thinking about you peeing. I wondered how you did it
what it looked like. What did your dick look like and how far could
you pee? Did you pee hard for a short time, or did it last and last?
How did you hold your dick? . . things like that. I wanted to watch
you pee, and even more, I wanted you to watch me pee. But I couldn't
tell you this in a million years. All I could do was go to the bathroom
a lot. You would have thought that I had a sudden case of diabetes."
She was openly cupping her breast and curling her toes as I
massaged her foot. She went on, "I *had* to watch you pee. I knew that
you peed outside the house a lot and I kept my eye open for my chance.
Once, I saw you head toward the bathroom but because mom was in there,
you cut out the side door. I ran to the kitchen window and watched you
take a leak right on the deck. I got hot just watching you. Actually,
all I could see was your pee hitting the deck, making a big puddle. I
couldn't really see your dick . . . but I wanted to . . . boy, I sure
wanted to!"
She slid her foot higher on my thigh. She had turned completely
sideways in the front seat, still with her left leg curled up and her
right leg extended to me. Her toes were close to my dick and I was
getting harder and harder.
"Did you . . ." I started but she cut me off again.
"Then you went upstairs. Mom was still in the bathroom. I ran out
on the deck and looked at the puddle you'd made. I got so hot I could
hardly stand it. I was dying for a good pee. Now was my chance.
Billy, I know this is crazy but I lifted my dress and pulled the crotch
of my panties aside. I squatted over your puddle on the deck and I
pissed right on top of your piss! I forgot and was straining so hard
that my pee splattered all over my legs and shoes. But I didn't care.
I loved mixing our piss together. It just got me hotter."
She added a little slutty emphasis to the word "piss," drawing out
the "sss" part as she looked into my eyes. Jean was getting off on her
own story. She slid down a little further in the seat and the heel of
her foot was sitting on top of my crotch . . . right on top of my
hard-on. When I glanced at her, she pulled the bottom of her shirt up
for about two seconds, flashing her bare boobs at me, grinning. The
nipples were sticking out.
"So you see, Billy. *You* turned me onto this peeing thing, and
you didn't even know it. Now, I think about it all the time. I listen
to the girls in school when they're in the stall next to me and wonder
what they look like. Sometimes they hiss loudly when they pee.
Sometimes they just tinkle. When I'm feeling slutty, I try to pee
really hard into the water to make a lot of noise. Golly, I even check
the crotches of the guys and wonder how big their dicks are and how they
look when they pee. I wonder a lot if other girls mess around with
*their* brothers. What do you think?"
"Whoa. I'm overloaded. Too much, too fast. Yes . . . I mean no!
I mean . . . shit, I don't know *what* I mean. But wait . . . first,
tell me. Why did you hide from me all weekend? I tried and tried to
get you to talk about sexy things, but you kept changing the subject.
And I was aware of you the whole time and except for skinny dipping, you
never showed me anything. Why? And why did you then let me watch you
on the trail?"
"Oh, you know. I was scared. And I was embarrassed. Even though
I knew you'd listen to me . . . and even though I'd seen your dirty
magazines . . . I was afraid you'd think I was really a nut case some
kinda pervert." She again gave me that radiant smile. "It's a kinda
trust thing, I guess. You were so sweet to me all weekend and you were
so darn provocative, I was creaming in my pants most of the time. And
then, when we were walking out on the trail, I just knew after you peed
so shamelessly that it was my chance. So I did it! Was it okay? I
mean, did you like it, Billy? Do you think I'm terrible?"
I was holding her foot so tight my finger tips were white. She was
rocking her foot and I was pushing her heel down into my crotch in slow,
rhythmic motions.
Losing all restraint, I gushed out, "Jean, it was the most *erotic*
thing I've ever seen. It was better than any story, any picture I've
ever seen. Heck, it was better than any fantasy I've ever had. Seeing
you . . . seeing you so close . . . and you watching me looking at you .
. . I almost came in my pants."
"I like to hear you tell me those things, Billy. It makes me feel
. . . well, sexy and desirable and like I want to do *more* things."
"More? What more? Tell me, Jean."
She pulled her hand from under her shirt, leaving the bottom part
way up, exposing the bottom of her tit. I don't know what it is, but
I'm turned on to seeing the bottom swell of a girl's breast,
particularly my sister's. Dropping her hand to her leg near her crotch,
she rushed on, "Well, I'd *really* like to uh . . . this is kinda hard
to say but I'd really like to . . . pee *on* you."
The road was nearly empty and I was driving slowly, just moseying
along so I could pay more attention to Jean. When I glanced at her, she
met my eyes defiantly for a moment and then looked away, embarrassed,
the color high in her cheeks. Then she looked at me again and said
loudly, "Well, I *would*!"
This was incredibly exciting for both of us I thought, and equally
difficult at times. Sensing her near-shame, I attempted to rescue her
with the truth.
"Jean, the thought of you peeing . . . peeing on me is the hottest
thing I've ever heard! God! I'd love to feel your pee."
"Really? Honest? Are you just *saying* that?" She'd pulled her
right leg back and with her heel on the seat and her knee fallen out,
she'd slipped her right hand under her pant leg. Seeing my eyes on her
motions, she laughed, "Christ, Billy, I'm so hot I can't help it."
Taking a chance, I asked, "Can I tell you some of my secrets . . .
some of my fantasies?"
Abandoning the tight leg-band of her shorts, she opened the front
and slipped her hand under the waistband of her panties and buried it in
her crotch. "Yes-s-s-s, Billy. Please tell me. I really wanna know."
"Sis, I'm *so* glad you told me all this. I'm so glad you told me
about peeing. We're just alike, you and me. I wish I'd know before, we
coulda . . . well we can now, can't we?"
"Billy! Tell me. Don't tease me."
"Okay, okay. Let me collect my thoughts. I hardly know where to
start. There's so many thoughts runnin' around in my head. I know, I'll
just share the images with you . . . then we can sort them out, okay?"
"Go for it, big guy!"
She now had both hands stuffed down the front of her shorts and I
could see her fingers slowly moving in the tight crotch.
"Okay, but before I do, let me smell your fingers!"
Not put off for a minute, she pulled out her right hand and leaning
across to me, she ran her finger under my nose saying, "You are *such* a
horndog."
The pheromone musk of her pussy was strong and arousing.
"Jean, the smell of you is so sexy and it gets me hot."
She grinned and prompted, "Come ON, guy . . . tell me. Tell me
*your* secrets now."
"There's so many images I have. I think about 'em when I jack off
things like the feel of your pee in my hand . . . me kneeling in front
of the toilet . . . you with your legs apart . . . and I've got my hand
under you . . . and you just pee right into my hand. That one always
gets me going. I think of that one all the time when I hear you in the
bathroom."
"Oh, yes! I've had that one too . . . lots. Would you really let
me?"
"Let you?" I asked in an incredulous tone.
She laughed and asked, "Any more? Fantasies I mean?"
"Oh yes. I've thought of you peeing right on my cock . . . right
on my chest. I've even thought of you peeing in my mouth!" The last
statement startled me. Had I really thought that? I'd gone too far.
I pulled into a Rest Stop and parked well away from the other cars.
I looked at her with a little apprehension. Had I gone too far?
Seeing the question in my eyes, she gave me her sweet smile and
said, "Oh, yes, Billy. I'd love to do that . . . you can't know how
much that means to me. Please . . . please tell me more. I've been
waiting so long to hear this . . . don't stop now."
Chapter 6 -- My Wet Confession
It's ironic. The things I want the most seem never to go
the way I want. I scheme and plan and try to manipulate people, places
and things to get my way. It rarely works. Nevertheless, I keep
trying. I think of it as adding to the keenness of my anticipation.
And it does. I've learned not to take myself too seriously when I don't
get what I want. Most of the time, what I eventually get is better than
I might have planned and often better than what I might have imagined.
That's the way it was working out with my sister, Jean.
Yet, I didn't really see it happening. I'd become increasingly aware of
her as a sexy girl. Actually that's an understatement. What I should
admit is that I'd grown infatuated with her. I'd always cared for her
deeply and we were both aware of a spiritual connection. Neither of us
was completely at ease with our own sensuality. Sex remained a
titillating and excitingly naughty topic. That discomfort, however, was
rapidly changing.
Our sibling connection was tender and loving. At base, that
tender connection was always operative, even when we were at odds.
Clearly, we cared deeply for each other, but because she was so proper
and reserved, I'd assumed that she had no sexual feelings at all. But
in the past weeks, I'd come to know that wasn't the case. Not even
close.
For example, not long previously, I'd humped myself to
orgasm on the edge of the laundry room table just looking down the
front of her shirt. While I had planned to confront her with her soiled
panties my "clever" way of introducing the topic of sex I'd not planned
on rubbing myself of on the hard edge of the table. And despite the
fact that she *knew* what I was doing. Or was it *because* she was knew
that made it so exciting?
A little later, in a sexual heat, we'd exposed ourselves to each
other on the living room couch as we were "talking dirty." We shared a
mutual culpability for our couch incident, but again, it was not my
intention to masturbate myself and her by slapping her clit with my hard
cock. It'd just happened in a spontaneous fashion, both of us caught up
in the compelling sexual heat both surprised, turned-on and both,
completely helpless. Swept along by a current whose strength tossed us
about in a sexual typhoon, we had both come together. And again,
frightened by the ferocity of it all, we'd retreated to the familiar
safety of silence.
And most recently, this morning unexpected and unplanned, out of
nowhere she'd fulfilled a long fantasy of mine by letting me watch her
pee.
For months and months I'd been trying to get her to "talk
dirty" with me . . . to share her own sexual stuff with me. Yet, I'd
had limited success until today, until we were riding home from our
back-packing weekend. Now the established reserves had been broached.
To say the cat was out of the bag hardly lent it sufficient impact.
More accurately, we both knew that old barriers were down and they'd not
be erected again. Still, we were uncertain how to move with comfort into
this newly open intimacy.
From the silence of our mutual protection, we'd broken out of
years of restriction and restraint. This wasn't the naughty, snickery
type of you-show-me-yours-and-I'll-show-you-mine conversation that I'd
angled for. This was dealing with real stuff. I was dazzled.
Jean had shared with me some of her "deep dark secrets" and
I'd shared similarly . . . or started to. And she wanted more. She
knew of my peeing fetish and she'd admitted she had one too. It was
plain that we'd only continue in a step-wise manner with each of us
validating the other with our honesty. If I wanted Jean's truth, I'd
have to give her mine.
"Jean, I love this. I love being able to be so open with
you."
"Yes. It's like when we were on the couch . . . only more
so . . . remember? Just talking with you like that . . . I got so hot
then I didn't know what I was doing."
When we'd parked at the Rest Stop, she'd taken her hands out
of her pants, looking around, surprised that we had stopped. Seeing
that no one was even close to us, she relaxed again, leaning back.
"Where are we? Why'd we stop?"
I explained, "It was getting too difficult for me to keep my
eyes on the road. Between listening to you talk about peeing, and
watching your hands in your pants, I had little attention for driving.
We've got all the time we want. I'd much rather stop and talk. This
way I can give you all my attention. I can see your eyes . . . and," I
added with a leer, "your hands."
"Then look at me, you lecher. I can't believe my kid
brother makes me so horny, just by talking to me. You're doing the
couch thing all over again, you little devil."
"Are you complaining?" I asked, while laying my left ankle
over her right leg in front of the center console.
"Nope. Just letting you know that you have that effect on
me. Hope you enjoy it, lecher."
"You know I do, you harlot. And speaking of harlots, where
were we? Oh, yes. We were talking about peeing and I was . . ."
Interrupting, "You were going to tell me your most secret
fantasies, Billy. You were saying you wanted me to pee on you.
Remember?"
"Jean, it's more than just that. I think of other things
situations . . . having to do with peeing . . . or needing to pee . . .
and you can't. That excites me. Know what I mean?"
"No-o-o . . ." She *sounded* more uncertain than she really
was, I think. "No, I don't know. Tell me what you mean."
Her right hand was slipping into the top of her open shorts, the
fingers under the waistband of her panties.
"Two can play that game," I countered, as I slowly began to
unbutton my jeans.
Impatiently, "Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . but I *still* want to
hear those secrets. 'Specially if they're about peeing. And what do
you mean 'needing to pee, and can't'?"
I loved it when she kept after me, *making* me tell her my
kinky stuff.
"Oh *you* remember, Sis . . . how could you forget? Think
back to the trip that you and me and mom made to the Farm. Remember,
we'd been driving for several hours after downing a couple of Cokes . .
. remember how hot it was? You all kid me about my micro bladder, so I
never gave it a thought when I had to get out and take a leak and you
all didn't. Peeing along the road's no big deal for a guy."
With a throaty laugh, she said, "Sure I do. Mom and I just
looked at each other when we heard you peeing on the road. We had to go
then, but we couldn't say anything . . . or at least I couldn't. I
don't think it embarrasses Mom at all."
"I remember smiling back at Mom when she said to me, 'You
lucky stiff.' It was about then that I caught on that you two guys were
starting to feel your full bladders. And it was then that I decided to
play a little game. I was going to make you guys wait and wait to pee."
"I sure remember that trip, but I didn't know you were
playing a game. What'd you do?"
Smugly, "You never pay much attention to roads or which way
we go, or where things are. You just ride along and enjoy yourself.
Mom's the same way. So I decided to not only take a longer way, but to
take the route with no rest stops or gas stations."
"Why you little shit, you! I just thought we had bad luck.
That you got to take a leak and we needed to go, and there were just no
places to go. I thought it was an accident. You mean . . . ?"
"Yep. That's what I mean, girl. I wanted to see you two
women squirm a little. You're always kidding me that I can't wait so I
wanted to see how well you could wait. Besides, I think it's sexy . . .
seeing you and Mom squirm around, and then cross your legs."
"Billy, I don't know whether to laugh or get mad. At the
time, I would have given anything to squat and take a good pee. My back
teeth were floating. And you kept saying that it'd just be a little
further. You rat!"
"I *loved* it, Sis. You were squirming around in the front
seat and Mom was shifting back and forth right behind us. At least she
was able to ask me to look out for a gas station, that she had to pee
something bad. You just pretended that everything was OK . . . at least
for a little while. Sis, you are *so* hip, slick and cool! Then it
began to really get to you, and I enjoyed thinking of you, needing to
pee. Don't understand it, my dear sister, but there's something
terribly erotic about that. I mean, I got hard just thinking about you
and Mom."
"More is coming back to me. I remember how *bad* I had to go.
I remember two things, actually. One was the fear that I'd lose it,
that I'd leak into my panties. The second was the burning sensation in
my . . . well, in my pussy . . . kinda good actually. Actually, kinda
erotic."
"Well, I guess I can confess now, Sis. My fantasy was that
you'd not be able to hold it. I could see you in my mind's eye,
dribbling a little pee into your panties, whimpering, bent over, hugging
yourself with your legs crossed. You know how fantasies are . . . I was
right there . . . I mean my eyes were inches from your pussy and I could
see you clench your cheeks trying to hold it in . . . and I could see
the pee dribble out, wetting your pussy hair and your panties."
"You mean you *wanted* me to pee in my panties?" She sounded
incredulous, but she didn't look it, as she smiled at me, one eyebrow
arched.
"Not really . . . well, yes . . . really. My fantasies don't
always make sense, but the idea of you peeing in your panties, seeing it
run down your legs, just jolts me. I'd like to stand in front of you as
you were losing it, and then run my hand up under your dress and cup the
crotch of your panties and feel your hot pee running over my palm . . .
those kinds of images. Kinky, huh?"
"Kinky, yes. But now that I know . . . well, I like it too.
It sure got to mom and me that day. I don't know how she feels about
it, but do you recall what happened when we finally got to the Farm?"
"Probably more than you know." I paused, recalling the scene.
"You and mom both jumped out of the car and raced for the house. I knew
there was only one bathroom in that old house and I didn't know what you
were gonna do . . . who'd have to wait. You two were too panicked to
notice, but I followed right behind you . . . right to the bathroom."
"Oh, God. I remember. I'd beaten Mom to the toilet, but as I
was pushing my shorts and panties down, she said, 'I'm your mother! I
go first,' and she just pushed me right out of the way! There I was,
dying to pee, standing in front of Mom like some little girl, waiting
for her to finish . . . and afraid I was going to lose it."
As she was recalling the memory, I'd slipped my cock out of my
jeans and was sitting back, holding it and covering it at the same time
as I slowly stroked it up and down.
Nodding toward my hand, Jean said, "That gets me hot, bro."
Not acknowledging her reference to my masturbation, I continued,
"When the two of you dashed in there, you slammed the door, but it
didn't shut all the way . . . musta bounced or somthin'. I couldn't
see you but I sure could hear you. I heard Mom's pee hissing and you
whimpering, 'Hurry . . . hurry . . . I gotta go too.'"
"God what a rat you are! I can't believe you . . . you
pervert. You sadist. And your own mother too! They've got a name for
guys like you, bro."
"You asked for it," I defended myself. "'Sides, you're just
as bad as me."
"I know. I *am* and it surprises me, but it feels too good to
stop." Then she added, "If you were right outside the door, you must
have known what happened, huh?"
"I think so. It sounded like Mom finished and you bumped into
her or something like that . . . trying to get to the toilet. And then
I heard you cry out, 'Oh . . . I can't hold it.' And Mom laughed and
then you almost cried, 'It's not *funny*, Mom!' In my imagination, I
thought that you'd peed on yourself or something like that."
"That's exactly what happened. I was just dying. Mom took
for-EVER. Why she even wanted to wipe herself! The sound of her going
just loosened me up. Like running the faucet for a little kid. My
muscles weren't working anymore. I knew I was relaxing and that I was
gonna pee on myself and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I
kept bumping into Mom trying to get to the toilet. Cripes, it was a
Chinese fire drill. She moved one way and I moved the same way, back
and forth, back and forth. My darn shorts and panties were down around
my knees and I couldn't take a big step. Mom bumped into me again by
then she was laughing at me and I just lost it. I started to pee
right there, bent over, stumbling for the john. Billy, it was awful . .
. and at the same time, it was wonderful. I peed all over my panties
and all over my legs and the floor and the toilet seat, frantically
trying to plop my fanny down. Then it really opened up. I think I peed
a gallon. I remember sitting there, knees together, looking at my wet
panties and legs and then looking at Mom as I peed and peed. I was so
embarrassed. Did you hear her when she said something like, 'Feels
good, huh?'"
"Yeah. I think she said, 'Jean, I *know* how good that feels.'"
"Whatever . . . but I think she liked it too. Although she never
said anything."
"All this talk of peeing . . . and I haven't gone since this
morning. How about you?"
"I *knew* you were working up to this. Yeah, I need to pee,
now more than ever . . . but I'll hold it just a little longer. How
'bout you?"
"Me too. Then when you *have* to go, I'll be there to help
you."
"Billy, I just know what kind of help you have in mind . . .
the same kind I do."
"Let me tell you what I'm thinking, girl. We *could* go into
the rest rooms, but what a waste. I've got another idea."
Jean slipped her hand out of her shorts, leaned over and ran
her wet finger under my nose. She stared right into my eyes and again
ran the wet tip of her tongue over her partially open lips. The same
intoxicating odor of her pussy filled my senses. I closed my eyes and
slowly sniffed in, making a moaning sound of appreciation.
"Lecher!" she accused, and then asked, "What's your idea . . .
if I dare ask?"
"I was thinking. How about if we walk over to those picnic
benches and you straddle my lap? No one's around. Don't tell me when
you're gonna start, but surprise me . . . just let it go . . . pee right
through your panties and through your shorts and into my lap? I really
love that."
"Brother dear, you've just been reading my mind. Right this
minute I'm hotter than can be and I've got a full bladder and the idea
of peeing my panties, right into your lap actually all over your cock
that just get's me wet. Yes, let's do it . . . and right now!"
Jean, when suddenly moved to action, is nothing if not
decisive. Not waiting for further discussion, she slipped out of the
Scout, buttoning her pants and walking off. I followed her out the
other door, frantically trying to jam my hard dick back into my tight
jeans
"Don't start without me!" I shouted after her.
"Getcher buns over here, guy and sit right down . . . right
here," gesturing to a picnic bench facing away from the parking area.
I sat with my butt on the edge of the picnic bench. Jean
looked around one more time before swinging her leg over mine and
squatted on my thighs, facing me. Her eyes were sparkling as she gave
me a wicked grin.
"There're some people right over there, Billy. Do ya suppose
they know what we're doin'?"
Without looking, I said, "Yes. They know *exactly* what
you're doing, Jean. They know you're a naughty little girl with a full
bladder who can't make it to the toilet and who's gonna pee on her
brother's lap . . . don't they?"
"Christ, you're a tease, guy. I pity your girl friend . . .
*when* you get one."
She hadn't waited long. I could see the change in her eyes,
the relaxation in her face. (Some surprise.) She fell silent and
looked into my eyes as long as she could, then dropped her head into the
corner of my neck and shoulder. Her hips seemed to settle as she gave a
soft moan. I could feel the heat and the wetness spreading, at first
right in my crotch and then spreading. It was happening! My sister
was peeing on me, right through her panties. I held her ass around her
hips as she peed.
My mind was dizzy . . . drunk with passion. My wonderful,
sweet sister Jean was sitting on my lap, straddling me, in the open and
peeing all over herself and all over me . . . all over my cock. I could
feel my heart pounding in my chest and, at the same time, my heart beat
in my turgid dick. It swelled and I felt a pulling passion within the
core of my being.
With a groan of passion, I pulled her crotch right into my belly
and said, "God, Sis, I really wanna fuck you."
Chapter 7 -- Jean's Backside
The long ride home from our camping trip - after Jean had peed in
front of me on the hiking trail and then later had peed through her
panties onto my lap - marked a major departure from our previous
behaviors. We'd both confessed our thoughts and previous sexual
behavior, including those we secretly regarded as kinky if not downright
bizarre - our fascination with peeing.
How freeing it was to discover in her the same kinkiness. You see,
I loved my sister as a warm and kind person who possessed those
estimable traits of honesty and caring and living in the present. Two
years older than me, Jean had always been a role-model for the
principles of living. So, if she had the same sexual interests as me, I
reasoned, it must be okay. As it turned out, the external validation
given to me then helped me in the more important internal validation I
was to develop as a young man.
The heat of the moment, coupled with our growing trust in each
other, enabled us to surrender to our affection and our lust.
Confessing, as I did - that I wanted her to pee on me - Jean just
laughed and went for it with her customary enthusiasm and verve. Then,
as she was straddling my lap, her body pressed against mine, my face
between her breasts and her pee leaking into my lap . . . I blurted out
a truth that surprised both of us. I told her that I wanted to fuck
her.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Holding her arms about my head, pulling me to her warm breasts, she
remained quiet for a little while and then murmured softly, "Billy, I've
never done it, and as much as I think I want to right now . . . I'm not
ready."
Her refusal didn't surprise me. My asking is what surprised me. I
didn't respond. She hadn't expected me to.
"And if I were ready, Billy . . . I'm not at all sure that I should
be thinking about doing it with *you*. Our fooling around - the stuff
we've done - that's enough for me now. I love you a lot and I don't
want to do anything I'll really regret."
Then, as if to check-in with me, she leaned back and looked into my
eyes, "Does that make sense?"
Embarrassed at my impetuous outbreak, I mumbled, "Yeah . . . I
guess so . . . sure." And then with a little more feeling, I added, "I
wasn't really *asking* you to . . . to do it, Jean . . . I was just
telling you how I felt, that's all."
That moment of discomfort - the fear of having gone too far -
passed quickly. Laughing, Jean climbed off my lap and then stood there
awkwardly, slightly bent, legs apart and looking down at the wet patch
than defined her bottom and part way down her bare legs. Pinching the
edge of her shorts between her thumb and index finger, pinky out, she
pulled the material away from her hip and shook her leg as she said,
"Ech . . . doing it was a lot more fun than sitting in it."
Then, pointing at my wet lap, she giggled. Jean laughs, she
chortles, she occasionally guffaws but she doesn't giggle . . . or at
least until now. A giggle, a little girlish giggle is the best
description of the sounds she made as she pointed to my soaked jeans.
We both dug into our packs and slipped into some dry shorts. Ever
watchful, I noticed that Jean didn't bother with underpants. I was
acutely aware that my soft-spoken, conservative sister was climbing into
the 4X4 wearing only a thin T-shirt and hip-hugger shorts . . . already
pulled up into the crack of her butt.
"Nice butt, Sis!"
Looking back at me she smiled, "Glad you like it, bro. I got these
shorts with you in mind, but I didn't think I'd ever wear 'em."
She stood there, one foot inside the Scout, like mounting a horse,
the step-up was so high. The crotch of her shorts were pulled into her
ass cheeks. Posing for a moment, looking over her shoulder at me, she
grinned that devilish grin that told me all was not-as-it-appeared on
the surface.
My head tilted, as if to appraise her better, I added, "You know
Sis, your hips and butt may be your best feature."
Pulling her foot back down, Jean stood up straight. Or nearly
straight - she'd stuck her behind out a little at my provocative
observation. Still looking over her shoulder, she slowly bent her arms
at the elbows and hooked her thumbs into the tops of her shorts at the
hips. She posed that way for a long few seconds, palms toward me and
fingers splayed. She looked at me as if to say, "So, do you want to see
more?"
My obvious answer was a broad grin as I vigorously nodded my head.
Jean slowly pushed the hip-huggers down, revealing by inches the
mounds of her ass cheeks. She continued until her arms were straight
and the waist of her shorts cut across the mid part of her buttocks,
displaying the top part of her ass crack. With her thumbs still
stuck into her shorts and her fingers spread out - as if she were
signaling someone behind her - she remained posed . . . bent over just
slightly, her arms and hands framing her slim waist and the womanly
flair of her hips.
The sun was high and in front of her, making a soft halo of her
hair and casting deep shadows around her ass. Two dimples I'd never
seen before, accented the shadows.
Certainly, most delicious was her ass. I'd not really noticed
before, but she'd obviously been sun bathing wearing a thong bikini, for
there was a narrow, white band high across her hips and buttocks, with
an inverted triangle of white ending in the top of her ass crack. Her
cheeks were tan as were her back and hips. The small, untanned belt of
white that ended as it dipped between her cheeks served to accent the
saucy prominence of her butt.
"I hoped you were an ass man, Billy. I kinda like my own butt."
Then, fishing for a compliment, she asked, "Do you like it? Do you
think it's sexy?"
Then, marching in place, she pulled the tight shorts over her hips,
wriggling to seat them properly before she jumped into the Scout,
yelling, "Hey, dude! Let's get truckin' . . . let's haul *ass*!" She
slid down in the seat, dissolving in gales of laugher at her own pun.
"Haul ass . . . oh, I'm terrible." More laughter.
Jean's laughter is so infectious that I found myself laughing along
with her, thinking, "Boy, this is fun and I'm not even sure what I'm
laughing about."
Adjusting my own shorts, I settled again into the driver's seat. I
checked her shorts and found that she'd buttoned only the lower buttons,
leaving the soft curve of her belly uncovered.
Back on the road, still relatively deserted, we sat silently for a
little while, making eye contact frequently and smiling. We both knew
that there had occurred yet another major shift in our relationship and
were content to let things unfold.
Swinging onto a larger and busier highway, now out of the
mountains, I broke the silence this time and asked, "So, woman, what're
*you* thinking this time?" reminding her of her own gambit.
"What'll you give me if I tell you?" she countered.
"Probably anything you want . . . but I ain't doin' the dishes for
another week, no matter what you're thinkin'." Then I offered,
"Twenty-five cents?"
"A quarter?! That's all my thoughts are worth to you? Twenty-five
cents! Forget it."
"Okay, okay. A half-dollar then, but you've got to do my laundry
for me when we get back."
"I'll clean *your* laundry," she threatened and then added, "Fifty
cents and *you* do the laundry."
Grudgingly and with a little whine I capitulated, "Well-l-l, only
if you hand me the panties you're wearing . . . to wash of course."
"You jerk! You know I'm not wearing any . . . I watched you
watching me. But all right. I'll give you my dirty underpants, you . . .
you pervert!"
Ignoring the insult, I said, "Well, let's get back to the topic."
"What topic?"
"Why, your butt. That's the topic. Remember?"
"Oh yeah. You were saying it's my best feature. Really think so?"
Diplomatically, I responded, "I like *all* of you, but . . .,"
and then I paused, waiting for her recognition of my pun, "but".
With a teasing frown she asked, "What do you mean, but'? Or is
that butt'?" accenting the tt' of butt.
"In your case, Sis, it's butt' or, if you will, ass,'" as I
gave her my best Grouch Marx leer.
She continued to fish. "I can see why guys might like a girl's
breasts, or her legs, because . . . well you know . . . but," and she
laughed at herself, "but what's the big deal with a girl's behind?"
Looking up to the heavens for guidance, I shrugged and said, "Jean,
I don't understand any of this sex-attraction stuff. I've given up
trying to understand it. It's just there. I feel it. I experience it.
That's all. I just accept that I'm a horny guy and I don't even try to
understand it any more. I like your butt . . . No, I *love* your butt
. . . your ass. I like to watch your hips roll and your cheeks move when
you walk. I love the inverted heart shape of your ass when you bend
over. I adore the bottoms of your ass checks when I see them below your
short-shorts. I try to run the back of my hand across your bottom when
I pass behind you, pretending it's accidental. The back of my hand is
acutely aware of the soft dip between your cheeks."
Following such a strong start, I finished lamely with, "I don't
know . . . I just like em . . . and it gets me horny."
A slight shift and lowering of her voice signaled a serious
question. I listened intently. Actually, I'd come to listen to her
with an intensity that was previously reserved for those times when *I*
was talking.
"I've heard that some girls . . . er, some people do it that way
. . . uh . . . in the . . .you know . . . back there. You ever done it
that way, Billy?"
Ass fucking? Was *my* sister talking about ass fucking? I was
thunderstruck.
"Me? Me? You gotta be kiddin' . . . I've never done it *any* way!"
Flustered, she spoke rapidly, correcting herself, "Oh, I didn't
mean . . . I didn't think you had . . . I mean . . . have you ever
*thought* about it . . . about doin' it that way, I mean? Back there?"
She squirmed in her seat, not looking at me. Had she looked, she
might have noticed *my* squirming. Whenever Jean hits my emotional
bull's eye, I start to squirm, and she'd hit this one straight center.
Nailed, as it were. Sure I'd thought about it . . . a lot . . . but I
didn't think I *should* be thinking about such stuff. (I was pushed
around by those "shoulds" a lot in my young life.)
"Uh . . . yeah . . . I've thought about it . . . I mean, I've
thought about a lot of things."
Uncharacteristically, Jean offered, "Me too. Tell me, what did
you think about . . . uh . . . when you thought about doing it back
there?"
Back in my court again. (Well, Billy, get honest. She's making
it easy for you . . . and *you* were the one trying to get her to talk
dirty'.)
"Gee, Sis . . . I don't know what to say . . . where to start . . .
but, yeah - I've thought about it ever since I saw one a Dad's European
dirty magazines. It had lots of pictures of people doin' it . . . in
the butt I mean. Since then, I've thought about it a LOT."
"You have? I mean, you've actually *seen* pictures of it? Wow!
I've only heard about it . . . I've never seen a picture of it. Can you
show me? Gee, I'd give anything to see some pictures."
Jean's enthusiasm once again put me at ease. I'd swung from being
hesitant about revealing one more kink and now here she was, more open
about it than I was . . . and now I was swinging back to self
revelation.
"I'll either find Dad's, or I'll get some from the adult book
store, Jean. Actually, I used to have a bunch, but I traded them for the
peeing magazines that you discovered," and added with chagrin, " . . .
in my most secret hiding place."
"Oh, bitte, bitte, bitte," Jean singsonged her Germanic entreaty.
Plunging in again, I asked, "Is *your* ass erotic, Jean? I mean,
have you ever touched yourself there . . . uh, does it feel good if you
do touch yourself?" (If I could ever learn to finish as strongly as I
start . . .)
Jean stared at me for a long moment. He pale blue eyes glinted.
She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, wetting them and, as
always, my eyes were drawn to her mouth. Did she have any notion how
erotic her mouth was? I thought not. But this was not some affected
look, not some pretend stance. Jean's interest was intense and real and
right now.
Licking her lips a second time, she started slowly, "When I was a
kid - (and that could be any age less than she was that day) - when I
was a little girl, I got sick and had a tummy ache. Mom decided I
needed an (ugh) enema."
" Phu-leeze, Mother. I don't need an enema,' I cajoled." (She
loved that word too.) "Well, you know Mom. I was protesting all the
way to the bathroom. God! I thought I'd die of embarrassment. I knew
no one was home but me and Mom and I was still dying. But Mom showed me
no mercy. Over her knees, pajamas down and K-Y to the butt - so fast I
couldn't respond. Can you imagine that?" she inquired as it were the
most impossible image in the world.
My fertile - read dirty - mind didn't have any difficulty at all in
imagining that. "Yeah, Sis, I can imagine that."
Not even pausing, she continued, "Mom slipped that hard nozzle into
my butt . . . burrr . . . it was cold . . . but you know, it didn't hurt
at all! I just knew it was going to hurt like the dickens and it didn't
hurt at all. That really surprised me."
Now, for the first time since starting this story, she grinned at
me and went on, "No, what really surprised me was that it . . . it felt
good!"
And again she asked the rhetorical question, "Can you imagine that?
I couldn't. I mean, sticking something up your butt . . . how could
*that* feel good . . . but it did, Billy, it did."
"I remember . . ." I started to say but she continued, interrupting
me. (Oh, now I get it. *She* wants to talk.)
"Then, before I could even switch mental tracks, Mom started the
warm water flowing. She had ran the hot water tap in the bathroom until
she got the temperature she wanted and then filled that huge water bag.
Then she added something else from a bottle . . . I don't know what it
was . . . and that's what I got. I could feel the warmth flowing
through me. Mom must have done this when she was a nurse, 'cuz every
time I started to get a cramp, she seemed to know it and clamped the
tube. I'd rest a few moments, and she'd start it again. I was
embarrassed and frightened and mad . . . all mixed in with the confusing
feelings of liking the warmth and the fullness. I didn't know what was
going on."
Jean took a big breath and then through pursed lips, blew it out
slowly, looking out the window for a moment. I knew enough to keep
quiet.
Turning back to me, she continued, now a little slower. "I don't
know how much she gave me - felt like gallons - but it probably wasn't
. . . anyway . . . when I was all filled up I thought I was going to
lose it and must have whimpered. Mom said, 'Now hold it. Hold it in.
I'm going to pull out the tube and I want you to lie down on the rug for
a minute . . . just relax, okay?'"
"And I did . . . or at least, I didn't . . . you know, lose it or
anything. I'd forgotten how silly I must have looked, lying on the
floor with my pj's around my knees and my fanny uncovered. All I could
think of was how full I felt and trying to keep myself clamped shut . . .
so I wouldn't . . . uh . . . dribble?" (She ended with her
interrogative inflection again.) "And behind all that, there was a
funny, sexy feeling."
The direction of this conversation was getting to me. My dick was
stiffening again. Just listening to Jean's story of her enema had me
hot. Thinking of her cute butt and her rosebud asshole, filled with
water . . . well . . . I *told* you I was kinky!
She continued, "The need to have a B.M. got stronger and stronger,
Billy. I told Mom I was going to have an accident if I couldn't go
soon, so she let me get up and sit on the toilet.
"Now, you must know that *no one* - since I was a baby - had
stayed in the room with me when I moved my bowels, but I had to go so
bad I probably wouldn't have stopped if *you* had walked in." (As if I
was the bathroom equivalent of the Queen Mary cruising through.)
Running her hands up the inside of her thighs, she opened and then
closed her legs. She was clearly warming up to this story.
She rushed on, "It was one of the most delicious feelings in the
world, Billy. Just letting myself go and expelling all that water . . .
whew . . . it was like pooping and peeing and even coming . . . all at
the same time.
"I'm sure I got all red in the face . . . from pleasure I know now,
but Mom asked, You okay?' I just couldn't tell her how OK I really
was!"
Now she laughed. "Don't think I'm a closet enema freak, brother
dear. I've only had a few in my life . . . but maybe not as many as I'd
like. Anyway, that was the time when I realized that my behind was
sensitive . . . I mean, like erotic, you know?"
Sensing that she had touched on the main part of the story, I spoke
again and asked, "Well, I can see that it excited you. Did you then
start thinking of . . . butt fuckin'?"
"Billy, most of the time I don't like that word . . . fuck . . .
or fucking . . . but when I'm talking with you . . . it has a juicy edge
to it and it's OK. And yes, that's when I started thinking that if a
enema tube felt good, then a finger or even . . . it's hard to say -
even a dick would feel good . . . or even better."
"We're just alike . . .we're two peas in a pod, Sis. We both like
peeing and now we're finding out that we *both* like anal things."
She looked at me, one eyebrow arched as if to say, "Oh, is that
right?"
Hurrying to explain, I added, "I haven't had an enema or anything,
but I've wondered about it." Then, not looking at her, I went on,
"Once I took Mom's enema nozzle - do you think it was the same one she
used on you? - I took her nozzle and slipped into my own ass. I was
sitting on the toilet. I had just finished looking at one of Dad's dirty
magazine - I'd sneaked it out again - and I was wondering how it
would feel to me . . . having something up my butt. So, I got the
nozzle, put some K-Y on it and pushed it in my behind . . .slowly. I
don't know what it was . . . maybe just the thought of it . . . but
anyway . . . I got a boner right away. I jacked off, and like always, I
was thinking of you, Sis . . . thinking of your ass while I was doin'
it."
There! It was out. Now Jean knew her perverted kid brother
ass-fucked himself with a goddamn enema nozzle and fantasized about her.
My face felt warm and I couldn't look at her.
"Oh, Billy . . . that's hot! That really gets me wet . . .
hearing what you did . . . and that you thought of me while you were
doin' it too. Wow! You are somethin'."
Emboldened again and ever pushing, I asked, "So, tell me, my
erotic sister . . . are we going to explore this new wrinkle . . . anal
sex . . . or what?"
I suppose it was idiotically tautological to add, " I'm game. Are
you?"
"God, who knows with you, Billy? Every time I think I've gone
just about as far as I'll ever go . . . with you or anyone, you sorta
nudge me along and before I know it, I'm right in the middle of
something I didn't plan on."
She placed her hand on my arm and added softly, "But Billy, you
*know* I not really going to do it with *you* . . . still I'm open to
talk about it with you."
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 . . . uh, 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 Macys, 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 gray
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."
"Scardy 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 made 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."
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 downhill 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 . . . what'sa 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 signboard 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 was 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 waistband, 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 forever 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."
Chapter 10 -- Tender Moments
In a soft, contralto voice Jean asked, "Billy, what are you
thinking? I mean, what do you think of us?"
"What?" I replied, almost stupidly. I'd heard the words but I
didn't understand them . . . they didn't make any sense. None would
have. I was still out there, dumb and floating in some post orgasmic
stupor, largely incapable of rational thought.
With a low laugh, she nudged me with her toe. "Earth to Billy . . .
Earth to Billy."
Some small part of my brain knew where I was, but my thinking
sludged somewhere between languid and torpid. Usually a linear,
left-brain type of guy, I'd simply lost it all and was hanging out in
some emotional wallow, playing and re-playing those vivid tapes of our
erotic connection, Jean and me. I was remembering the excitement of our
sexual discoveries in the past months, remembering the quickening of
fear when I'd dared acknowledge my desires to her. More strongly,
remembering the extraordinary energy we'd generated when we surrendered
to the moment.
"Back side of the moon . . . static . . . failing . . . failing
communications . . . ," my voiced tailed off to a fake mumble.
"Billy, come out. I know you're in there!"
Momentarily lifting my head and squinting, I asked, "Why . . . why
do I have to come out . . . or down . . . or what ever?"
"Because this is important, that's why. We have to talk . . . now!"
Eyes closed, I rolled over and pushed myself to one elbow and
paused, half sitting up. I was suddenly aware of my dick. It felt
cool. Looking down I saw my cock, soft and lolling over my thigh. The
air was drying the moisture on my shaft, cooling it off. I stared at it
a moment, confused and with a start, embarrassed. My cock was wet
because Jean had sucked it . . . had taken me in her mouth and sucked me
off! I pulled my shorts over my loins in some futile attempt to cover
myself.
Looking up at Jean sitting in a chair, I stared at her for a few
moments. From my position on the floor where I'd slumped in my gray
out, I could see her nakedness in the soft, diffused afternoon light.
She sat, unashamed, one foot on the seat of the chair, leaning forward.
Mentally shaking my head to clear the fog, I said something bright like,
"Uh . . . yes . . . talk. Sure. What about?"
"You remember . . . like I've told you a hundred times . . . we
weren't gonna do it?"
Nodding that yes, I remembered, I just stared at her breasts. They
were full and, I thought, remarkably firm with a slight upturn to her
pebbly areolae. How, I wondered, could her nipples be so hard when my
cock was so soft? Going on as if it were the rhetorical question it
really was, she continued, "Like you're my brother and as much as I love
you . . . well, you know . . . it's the incest thing."
Still nodding, I licked my lips. God I was dry! With one foot on
the chair that way, I could look right up between her thighs and see how
her pussy was pulled slightly open.
"And this is the part that scares me," she continued, "Every time
we go a little bit farther . . . farther than I intended to go . . . and
I LIKE it. I like it more than I realized I would. I think *too* much
. . . I mean, it scares me, you know?"
My part of this conversation was easy. I nodded again. Hell yes.
I knew -- I loved it and it scared the shit outta me. This was all new
stuff, very deep and with a strong current that was pulling us God knows
where. Every time we'd drifted into the tug of our mutual desires, we
seemed to end up someway we never planned. When we started something,
we had no idea where it would take us.
"Yesterday . . . yes, even as late as this morning, I would never
have thought I'd take your cock in my mouth." She looked at me with a
slight tilt of her head as if to ask, so what do you think?
I smiled. My cock? Jean never called it my cock. It was usually
"my thing" or something like that.
"Don't you see? Taking your cock in my mouth is like really close
to really doin' it?"
I looked up to heaven, closed my eyes and just smiled.
"Oh you! Listen to me, you jerk. Be serious will you?"
"Jean, I *am* listening to you. I just can't help smiling. I love
you and I'm all whacked out. Can't you tell that?"
Jean looked startled for a moment. She stared at me as she idly
cupped her breast and rolled a nipple between her fingers. I could
barely hear her voice. "Yes, I *can* tell that, Billy."
"Maybe we just have different definitions. When I just touch you,
I don't think of it as incest. So when you touch me, I still don't
think of it that way. Oh sure, it's sexual, but *that's* not incest."
She smiled warmly at me as she retorted, "You are *such* a lawyer."
I didn't want to get into an intellectual word game with Jean. She
was too smart for me. No, it was always best for me to be honest with
her. I didn't have to defend my honesty. We accepted that while our
views on things might be different, neither of us need be wrong.
"I mean . . . uh, I think of incest as, you know . . . fucking.
We're just foolin' around and if I touch you, that's not incest. And if
you touch me, that's not incest. And if I come . . ."
"Yeah, yeah . . . I know about that. But it's the feelings that
scare me. It makes me *want* to do it."
"Jean, when I wake up in the morning with a boner because I've been
dreaming about you, I want to do it. When you flashed your butt at me
this morning, I wanted to do it. *Wanting* to do it and really doin' it
are two different things."
We'd been over this a dozen times. I was so hot and so confused I
didn't know anymore if I really meant it. Being honest was very
important to me, but I suspect that if I thought I'd get in Jean's pants
by telling a lie, I'd jump into duplicity without a second thought.
Jean knew this, for I'd once admitted as much, but we continued to treat
our impetuous lust as the elephant in the living room.
As she had so many times before, perhaps wanting to be reassured,
Jean accepted my slip-shod thinking and faulty reasoning again. "OK,"
she sighed, "But you've got to help me with this. Promise?"
"Promise." I intoned, crossing my heart, as I watched her stand up
and stretch, reaching toward the ceiling, hips thrust forward, and then
spin about and walk into the bathroom, mumbling, "Gotta pee."
She'd left the door open and I could hear the toilet seat come down
as she continued to speak to me in a louder voice. "Do you still want
me to model those panties? I mean, after all, you've seen me buck
naked."
Interpreting the open door as an invitation, I got up and wandered
into the bathroom. Jean was sitting on the toilet, knees together,
hands folded between her thighs. Leaning on the low partition right in
front of the toilet, I looked at her with a question in my eyes.
"What?" she asked.
"Let me watch," I answered.
"You *are* watching," she replied, knowing exactly what I meant.
We stared at each other for a long moment and then she parted her legs,
at first only inches. I made a rolling gesture with my hand. Again she
paused and then parted her knees fully, opening herself to my stare.
"I don't know if I can go," she began, but that was immediately
interrupted by her peeing.
The bathroom has a bright, southern exposure and the low afternoon
sun streamed in, lighting the orange tile floor and casting a red-orange
tint on her skin. Her brown pubic hair was tightly curled, pressed by
her shorts. Glancing down, she looked at herself for a moment and then
ran her fingers through her muff, ruffling her hair as she peed. I
could see her labia, pulled slightly open by her spread thighs, and the
strong stream of urine splashing against the porcelain bowl, high up.
"I have to be careful, " she noted, and bent slightly at the waist
to direct her stream into the toilet bowl. The loud hissing of her
peeing was joined by the clatter of her stream in the water.
"Let me . . ." I started to say, as I stepped in front of her and
sank to one knee, right between hers.
She looked at me with a questioning expression but didn't stop
peeing. As if to make the stream more strong, I saw her stomach muscles
bunch in a forced Valsalva. It worked. Her stream again shot to
a point near the edge and at the same time, she gave off a little fart.
"Ohmygod," she whispered and put her finger tips against her closed
lips as if to signal her embarrassment.
Without thinking, I reached between her thighs and cupped her
stream with my palm. It splashed, some drops hitting her and some
hitting me. All at once, I was aware of her wide-eyed stare of
incredulity, the satin softness of her thigh against my forearm and the
heat of her urine in my hand. I curled my fingers and cupped her sex as
she continued to pee.
"Billy! What are you *doing* for cryin' out loud?"
"Don't talk . . . just pee . . . keep peeing for me, Jean."
Sitting up straight again, she murmured, "Crazy . . . this is
crazy," and continued to pee out the last dribbles.
"Why, Billy? Why did you do that?"
Leaning back, letting my pee-wet hand drip into the bowl, I looked
at her and grinned. "I don't know. Just wanted to, I guess. It has
something to do with intimacy. I just love the intimacy of being with
you when you pee . . . of feeling your hot pee in my hand."
With a half smile, she shook her head slowly and pulled off a
length of toilet tissue.
Taking it from her hand, I said, "Let me." Dabbing her pussy, I
asked, "Remember the last time you let me do this?"
"How could I forget . . . but I didn't think it would get to be a
habit," she chided me as she leaned back, legs opened farther. And, as
with the last time, I slipped a finger into the wet and open slit of her
pussy, pulling up to the top and tracing small circles about her clit.
"Oh, God . . . that feels good."
"Let me touch you, Jean. Let me play with you. Come. Let's lay
on your bed."
Without further words, we got up and walked in slow motion to her
room, to her bed. Without prodding, she piled two pillows and lay
against them, half-reclining with her legs splayed open. I kneeled in
the "V" of her legs and just looked. Her pussy had flowered. The inner
lips were swollen, partially everted and very wet. The musky smell of
her juices wafted up to my nose and, as if on cue, she said, "Jeez . . .
do I smell raunchy."
The musky essence of her sex was driving my libido while some other
voice was telling me to slow down, to savor the moment. Somehow I knew
I wanted to get out of my own head and the best way for me to escape the
gadfly of self was to think of someone else.
Once in a rare while I'm given some nugget of advice that hits me.
It's a two-pronged blessing . . . first, that I'm offered it and second,
that I *hear* it. The exhortation of a good friend and advisor came to
my mind. He said: "Bill, where ever you are, *be* there!"
I sat back on my heels and closed my eyes. My inner awareness grew
and filled the room, taking in the sounds of our breathing and the soft
breeze, the scent of both of us and mostly, the sweet, delicious
tenderness of the moment. I thought to myself that I must work at being
an authentic participant in my life, for Jean it comes naturally. Her
spiritual state rests easily with her, much as a comfortable, loose
garment. Opening my eyes, I looked into hers. They were deep and
lustrous and filled with affection.
She smiled and asked, "What are you thinking, Billy?"
"How much I care for you . . . how much I love you, Jean. I'm just
filled with you."
She held out her hand to me and said, "Come, lie beside me. I want
to be close to you. I want to feel your skin on mine. Hold me,
please?"
Nestling her head against my neck, I asked, "But what about . . .?"
"The sex?" she finished for me.
"Well, there is that."
"We'll do that . . . whatever it is we're going to do . . . but
first I want to savor this minute with you. The sex will always be
there. Moments like this are rare. Stay with me, won't you?"
Chapter 11 -- Dry Humpin'
Like so many of the good things in our lives, we take them for
granted. That was certainly true for me in my family. I took them and
their love for granted, for that is the way it always was. I didn't
think much about it, if at all. It wasn't something I had to work for
so I didn't give it any conscious thought.
That taking-for-granted was particularly true with my sister. Like
my parents, there was never a time in my life when she wasn't there, so
I was hardly grateful for them or her . . . at least not then. Because
we had an active sibling rivalry and because I was the younger, I often
lost. So, if you were to have asked me what I thought about Jean, I
suppose I might have answered that I didn't think about her at all,
except to wish she might immigrate to Saturn or some equally distant and
hostile place.
Yet the vagaries of my developing youth suddenly moved me from a
totally self-centered, largely insensitive and unaware young man to some
marginally more mature stance of appreciation for the goodness and
beauty in my life.
I had gone from being mostly unaware of Jean to that tingling,
hypersensitive consciousness where I thought of little else. There was
not a day that passed that I'd not thought of her, of her kindness and
her gentleness, and yes, if the truth is known, of her erotic sexiness.
I frequently dreamed of her, usually erotic, and it often waked me
with an intense, near-painful hard-on. Add to that my walking-around,
day-dream state and you can see how I was preoccupied with her. Dazed
might be a better description.
It was almost too much. I didn't know the first thing about
handling the intensity of these feelings, so I did that which I'd always
done so well when I was in doubt. Emotionally bobbing and weaving, I
tried not to show my feelings -- those feelings that were bubbling and
about to overflow. Not that there were "downer" feelings . . . not at
all. They were just powerful and new. I was confused.
In the days and then weeks that followed our last unplanned and
largely uncontrolled sexual encounter, my sister and I had *both* pulled
back a little. There was no emotional "badness" connected with this; we
did it comfortably, without conscious decision as we had done in some
reflexive manner several times in the past. There was something almost
moth-and-flame-like in our behaviors. Perhaps governed more by our hind
brains, we were pulled toward each other, longing, and in some
ill-defined way, hungry for each other. Of late, we often fell,
unplanned and unanticipated, out-of-control, into a heightened sexual
awareness and more, into a sexual connection.
This frightened us. And it excited us. Neither found the paradox
puzzling. We were terribly attracted to each other, emotionally,
lovingly and now, with a sexual ferocity that simply frightened us. So,
in a silent acknowledgment of that fear, we'd stepped back just a
little. Oh, not so you'd notice it around the house, for we continued
our open-for-business-as-usual banter and interaction. Yet, we knew.
Sometimes a word, a gesture would ring in our minds and looking up, we'd
see the other staring and we would recognize that vulnerable, uncertain
look.
We knew at base what it was about. I did anyway. I loved my
sister. The uncertainty wasn't about that. It centered about our lust.
We'd danced around it, slowly at first, with a gradual opening and
increasing intimacy. Some time ago I'd confessed to her that I wanted to
make love with her. (Actually, I think I told her I wanted to "fuck"
her.) At once out, I wanted to bite my tongue. I'd have given anything
at that moment to take back those words. Not that I didn't mean them.
I did. But I knew I'd crossed the Rubicon with those words and the felt
a sinking feeling with the irreversibility of it all.
Jean handled it well, at least on the surface of it; she was an
uncomplicated, up-front girl without guile. She had simply said
something like, "Me too, but we're not gonna do that, Billy. That's
incest." End of discussion. Or was it?
Clearly it wasn't, for that was the nidus of our emotional turmoil.
That we both wanted to "do it" wasn't the question. We'd confessed
that. No, the tension arose from the not knowing. The not knowing in
view of the wanting and that nagging voice coming up from the hind brain
that repeatedly urged, "Go ahead. Have a bite. It's just an apple."
I smiled to myself and thought, "Lead me not into temptation. I
know the way myself."
Despite that sometimes-delicious pull into the last taboo, we
continued to be comfortable about each other. As long periods of
silence are comfortable among close friends, we had no feeling of
malaise around our unresolved passions. We were, both of us I think,
content in following the thread of our lives and our connection, not
knowing where it would take us.
There was a time, both before and again later, when I practiced a
studied imperturbability, a coolness on the surface that frequently gave
the lie to the cauldron beneath. I certainly didn't suffer from
alexithymia . . . that failure to recognize feelings when I had them.
To the contrary, I was in heightened contact with my feelings. As a
safe cracker might have sanded his fingertips, my emotional awareness
was crackling with sensitivity. What I didn't know was how to really
talk about them . . . my feelings. Jean always helped me out when I was
stuck like that.
"What are you feeling right now, Billy?" she asked as were walking
in the hills behind our home.
I'd been aware that her breasts were swaying inside her sweatshirt
and wondered if she had departed from her usual conservative attire to
pique interest or if she'd simply grown accustomed to me.
Picking up a rock, I heaved it as far as I could into the wooded
canyon and muttered, "Oh, nothin'."
"I've seen you do that a thousand times," she observed, looking in
the direction of the thrown rock.
"Uh . . . throw a rock?" I asked.
"Yeah. Or it's equivalent. When you're uncomfortable, you move.
You just can't stay still. You leave. Heck, I've seen you get up and
leave the room without ever getting out of your chair!"
There was no debate here and I knew it. We'd covered this one
before and she was concomitantly observant and accurate.
"So. Tell me. What's goin' on? You've been silent for more than
a week."
"Jean, I'm sorry," I said. And then glancing at her to make eye
contact, I added, "I'm not trying to be an asshole (as if it took much
effort on my part) and I'm not trying to punish you or anything like
that. I'm just not sure what it is that I'm feeling."
Jumping from stone to stone, we crossed the winter-rain swollen
creek and started up the other side before she spoke again. "I thought
that, but also know that if we don't talk about what's going on, it'll
go underground and ferment."
"OK, OK," I sighed with resignation. I *knew* this was going to
happen. Then, taking the plunge, I stated the obvious, "Lady, you
*know* how moved I was when we . . . when you . . ."
Laughing, Jean finished my stuttering sentence, " . . . when I
sucked your cock?"
"You *do* have a way with words, you silver-tongued devil you." I
glanced down at the tight spot where her jeans were drawn into her
crotch and then up to her eyes. She'd seen me looking.
"Yeah, and *you're* the one whose always telling me to call a spade
a spade," Jean countered.
I sat on a fallen tree and looked back into the ravine. Jean sat
beside me her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin. For a few moments
the noisy jays made the only sound to be heard.
Not looking at her, I continued, "Well, whatever we call this rose
-- or this spade -- that fact is that I keep thinking about you . . .
about us."
"Cut to the chase, boy. You mean us *doin' it,* don't you?"
Drawing back and placing my hand flat on my chest, I replied,
shocked, "Moi?"
"Yes, you! You horny jerk, you."
Then, in a moment of complete honesty, I admitted it. "Yes. All
the time. It's all that I think about." Then, rushing on, "I'm not
*asking* you to do it, you see . . . it's just that it *is* on my mind
all the time. You know?"
Nodding her head, Jean murmured, "I know." And then placing one
hand on my arm, she pulled my face around to look into my eyes and said,
"Let's not have this be the elephant in the living room. We both feel
it. We mustn't pretend it's not there. We've got to talk about it."
"All right, woman. I'll tell you what I've been thinking. How we
feel about each other and about our selves is no secret. Cripes, we're
both horny and all we can think about is screwing . . . at least that's
the way I feel. We've talked about it enough that we know, for the
moment anyway, that we're not prepared to actually *do* it. And it
would seem that we're not ready to enter the monastery or take vows of
chastity either. So . . ." I paused.
"Yeah-yeah . . . so?"
I've got her attention, I thought to myself. When in doubt, tell
the truth. "So . . . I propose that we continue as we have. No rules
. . . well, except one. For now, we won't do it. As much as I'd love to
really do it with you, Jean, we won't. Whatever else we do, we do."
"Whew! I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed . . . I
feel both."
"Me too."
"But what to you mean, whatever else'?"
"I guess I mean that I'll continue to act as I have. I can't help
but enjoy looking at you . . . or trying to get peeks of your butt . . .
you know, things like that."
"Touching?"
"Yes, touching . . . if you'll let me that is. I'll not stop
wanting to, but I won't try to force you to do anything you don't want
to do. If we can't agree that it's okay, that neither of us is going to
be hurt, then we won't do it. How's that sound?"
"God, Billy . . . if we only could! If we could be open enough
with each other. I we could just say how we feel and be able to talk
about things, it'd be so-o cool."
"Tell you what, Sis. If we don't try, it sure won't happen. Maybe
we won't do it very good . . . maybe we'll mess up from time to time . .
. even a lot, but if we don't *try,* we'll have given up, don't you
see?"
"Billy, you sound just like Dad! 'You've got to try your best and
when you fall on your butt, pick yourself up and try again.' You sound
just like him."
"I hadn't thought of that, but yeah . . . I've heard that mantra
before." Then, touching her cheek, I asked, "Well?"
In a low voice, Jean said, "Billy, I've got that deep-down feeling
that this is a first step of a journey that may take us a long, long
way. Part of me is so excited and another part of me is scared silly.
But yes . . . I'll do it. I'll do my best, that is. I have no idea
what I can do and what I can't, but I guess that's why we're starting
this, huh?"
"I don't know about that, Sis. Mostly I'm thinking about getting
in your pants."
She slugged me on the arm. "You ARE an asshole, you know that?"
Laughing, I pulled her to the ground and we rolled and tumbled over
the soft cushion of pine needles, ending up in that classic I-got-you
position . . . me straddling her chest and holding her forearms to the
ground beside her head.
"Why didn't you wear a bra?" I asked in a teasing tone.
"What'ya think? To get your attention, jerky boy?"
"Remember Mardi Gras? Remember the beads and how the girls would
pull their shirts up, showing their tits? And you wouldn't?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I remember that. So?"
"So, now you're gonna!"
"What!?" Bucking unsuccessfully, Jean quieted after a moment, out
of breath. "If you think I'm going to pull up my shirt . . ." and then
she shrieked.
I was holding both wrists above her head and was slowly pulling the
bottom of her shirt up, tickling her ribs in the process.
Suddenly she stopped struggling and looked at me, unsmiling. In a
small voice, she said, "Billy, let me."
I cocked one eyebrow and looked at her. She just nodded. I let
her go. She reached down and pulled the bottom of her sweat shirt up,
slowly. The white under swell of her breasts were followed by the
prominent nipples, pulled upward by her elevated arms. With the shirt
pulled up to her chin, she asked, "Is this what you wanted to see?"
Nodding, I tentatively extended the index finger of one hand and,
holding it right above her nipple, I looked at her and asked, "OK?"
"Yes. I *want* you to touch them. I want you to look at me. I
ache for you to touch me, Billy."
With a feather touch, I traced a line from her axilla up across the
swell of her breast and then around and around the areola, not actually
touch her nipple.
Jean arched her back, pushing her breast toward me and with a half
groan, whispered, "Ugh . . . that's so good . . . please . . . more . . .
touch it, Billy . . . please touch it."
With the tips of my fingers, tenting the breast, I slowly pulled up
on her surprisingly firm tit, lightly finger-milking her but just short
of touching her engorged areola and turgid nipple. Again and again,
lightly, tracing a feather-touch, up and down. Her hips began to stir,
to roll slightly under me. I became acutely aware of that old familiar
stirring with myself.
"Harder! Billy, harder!" she groaned. "Touch me, dammit."
"Jean, I love your tits! You've got the sexiest tits I've ever
seen." (I was relieved that she didn't remind me that I'd not seen many
and hadn't touched any . . . other than hers.) I leaned down and with
the tip of my tongue, I touched her nipple. She jerked upward, mashing
her breast on my lips. Opening my lips, I began to suck on her nipple.
"Don't tease me, dammit. Bite me. Bite me a little."
Afraid to hurt her, I placed her nipple against my upper front
teeth and with the tip of my tongue, pushed her erect nip against the
sharp edges of my teeth, alternately soft and then firmer, never
actually biting her.
"Oh, God, Billy. MORE. Harder. I can feel it down in my pussy
. . . all the way down there . . . there's a connection from my breast to
my womb. Jesus, it's good! Oh God, oh God, it's so good."
I slipped down and pushed my pelvis against hers, never losing
contact with her breast, continuing to nibble as we slowly humped
against each other. Her legs fell open and I knee-walked between them,
grinding my trouser-imprisoned hard-on against her pubic symphysis
through her jeans.
With both hands, I cupped her breast, continuing to suck and
nibble. She bent her knees and thrust up at me repeatedly, grunting and
in a barely audible voice, chanting, "Oh shit . . . oh shit . . . oh
shit."
The compelling vortex of our desire pulled us again, out of
control, into a headlong flight through the endless limits of some inner
space, spinning and falling into that almost painful moment of intense
pleasure where our boundaries were blurred, then lost. I couldn't tell
where I ended and Jean began. We were one for a moment, in some
blinding light of fulfillment. Then, sometime later, we tumbled out,
dazed, lightheaded and confused onto to the pine-needle bed of our
"almost doing it."
Slowly I became aware of our ragged breathing, out of sync and of
the sweat trickling through my hair. I'd rolled off Jean and was laying
beside her, one leg still trapping hers. For several minutes we didn't
move, didn't talk, just glided down the back side of that mind-bending
emotional peak.
Finally Jean spoke. "JE-SUS KEY-RIST!" Even the mildest profanity
carried an additional impact when it came from Jean, for she rarely
employed crude words much less profanity.
With my usual post-orgasmic cleverness and wit I answered stupidly,
"Wha-a-t-t?"
"Boy! Am I glad I was dressed."
"I'm not glad, but why are you?"
Turning her head, she looked at me and with a warm smile she said,
"Once again we've charged into some out-of-control place, you and me. I
thought we *might* fool around just a little, but I never imagined this.
I can't understand how these things happen to me, you know? "
Again, with catchy wit I asked, "What things?"
"Don't play dumb with my, guy. You fool lots of people, but *I*
know who you are. I'm talking about my complete lack of control when we
get together. I never planned on what we did . . . that . . . what do
you call it anyway?"
"Dry humping?"
"Yes, that. It just happened so fast. The next thing I knew my
body had taken over and I wanted you inside me. I couldn't stop my
hips. I didn't even *want* to stop. That's what I mean . . . out of
control. Who knows what would have happened if we woulda been naked?"
"It's too wonderful . . . too sweet to even imagine, Jean."
"Yeah. Well, that's why I'm NEVER gonna get naked with you alone.
If you ever see me without any clothes on, don't *even* come near me.
Hear?"
I just smiled at her and looked down at her breasts, still exposed.
She poked me in the ribs and repeated, "You hear me, Billy?"
Laughing, "Sure, sure . . . yeah, um . . . I hear you. The next
time I see your bare butt I'll just grab my woody and run in the
opposite direction."
Quietly, seriously Jean added, "Billy, I don't want you to run from
me. You know that. Run TO me, but please don't take advantage of me. I
just know I won't be strong enough when I should be."
Damn. I hated that. When she transferred responsibility to me in
asking that I help her, I was screwed. I couldn't fall back on being a
brainless kid and not to blame for my actions. Shit! Who said growing
up was all that much fun?
Touching her cheek I whispered, "Jean, you know I'll be there for
you. I'll always honor you. My horniness is small change when I compare
it to my love for you. You can take that one to the bank, girl."
Brushing the tell-tale pine needles from our clothes, we started
back, holding hands a little of the way. I can't remember when I ever
felt better.
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 twice. 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 unfocused 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. 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?"
Her 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.
(continued in Ch. 13)
-- CJ
I don't write any stories. I'm just a reader, and sometimes a reposter.
--
+----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+
| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>