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Subject: My Sister Jean XI (m/f, cons, inc, dry humpin')
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                                       MY SISTER JEAN

                                                                    By BillyG


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 much 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. Fantasy had
moved in and set up housekeeping. 

     I frequently dreamed of her, usually erotic, and it often waked me with
an intense, near-painful hardon.  Add to that my walking-around,
day-dream state and you can see how I was preoccupied with her a good
part of the waking day.  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 just 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.  But you can't get the toothpaste back into the tube.  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 finger tips, 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 my
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'?" she asked.

     "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.  If 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
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.  And I'm
not at all sure I'm ready to go there.  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 hardon 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 was wanting 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 woodie 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.
     

                             * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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