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From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
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Subject: My Sister Jean V (m/f, inc, voy,)
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MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
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."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
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