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Subject: {ASS} Celestial RP: "My Sister Jean" by BillyG (ch.12-19) (emerging adolescence) 9, 10, 10
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Subject: My Sister Jean - XII (m/f, inc, play)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 25 Jul 1997 02:44:03 GMT
--------
MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
Chapter 12 -- Surprise Under the Pillow
After our last near-hit, near-miss encounter, my sister and I had almost
no time to consider our lives much less our sexual attraction. The demands
of school and our otherwise busy social lives grabbed all our energy and
attention. The glances and poignant smiles served to remind us frequently
of the pull we'd come to acknowledge but our natural cautiousness coupled
with our jam-packed lives served to buffer our lusty appetites. Yet we had
opened a door of intimacy that was never to close for all the days of our
lives. In a dozen small ways, we were more affectionately connected, open
and trusting than we even knew.
Our mother, sensitive to the moods in our family, had not failed to
notice that our one-time sibling abrasiveness and competitiveness had given
way to a softer connection. I suspect she was relieved. I wondered if she
might see anything beyond the surface. She did so often.
Pouring orange juice one morning at breakfast, Mom commented, "I
want to tell you kids that it's so much more peaceful around here since you
two became friends. My brother Jim and I did the same thing when we
were about your age."
The same thing? What'd she mean?
Mom chatted on about her teenage life. Jean and I looked at each
other, then she glanced at Mom and, looking again at me, raised an eyebrow
as if to ask, "Do you suppose Mom and . . . ?"
For a moment I was shocked. Mom? Then remembering the lusty
sounds we sometimes heard coming from my parent's bedroom, I smiled to
myself. Jean and I had then decided that our parents probably had done
"it" more than the requisite twice our presence demanded. Shrugging my
mental shoulders, I thought, "Why not?"
Returning to the present, I became more aware of my mother, of her
dress. She was wearing a light robe and several times as she was gesturing
I'd seen her breasts move under it. I thought, "Christ, Billy, you are a real
perv. Your own mother!"
In a silent mime, Jean's eyes opened in astonishment and she put her
finger tips across the surprised "Oh" of her open mouth . . . just as Mom
looked up.
"What?" Mom asked.
Quick to recover, Jean replied, "Oh, I just remembered that I forgot my
French book at school."
Jumping in, attempting to divert Mom's attention, I asked, "Did you and
your brother fight a lot, Mom?" I wasn't interested in their fighting as
much as the possibility of their connection. Not that I expected she'd tell
us much, but perhaps we could beat around the bushes a little.
Laughing, she remembered, "Sure. Just like most brothers and sisters I
guess -- but you know, we really loved each other."
Jean and I looked at each other again. You know, that silent "look"
that says, "Hmmm." Then I looked at Mom's breasts. Jean glanced at
Mom and then slowly shook her head in silent remonstration.
Continuing, Mom added, "You know your Uncle Jim. He's a strong,
take-charge kinda guy now, but he was a little younger than me when we
were kids. Still is for that matter. Why, there was a time when I could
beat him up." Then, looking off into some un-focused middle distance, she
shook her head and added ruefully, "That didn't last long. He grew up
fast!"
Jean snorted her juice through her nose, remembering, I supposed, the
play on words we'd often used, about my "growing UP." Picking up her
napkin, she dabbed her face and fake sneezed to cover her embarrassment.
"And then what happened?" she asked.
"Oh, you know. I used to bully him and then he grew up, more than
just physically. He matured and became a man, like over night, and then he
started to tease me, even though he was younger."
"Did it bother you? That change I mean?" I asked, thinking of how my
relationship with Jean had changed in a similar way and wondering just
what *had* gone on in Mom's younger life. The truth was, I'd ceased to
think of her as a chaste, puritanical person sometime ago. I *knew* she
was sexual with our Dad but I suppose I thought he had been the first and
the last, her only. That limited view of my mother's humanness was
slowly giving way to a more realistic acceptance of her as she probably
was. The thing was, I didn't know how she *was*. I was more than
casually interested . . . more than I wanted to admit to myself.
Mom continued, "Well, at the time I didn't want your Uncle Jim to
know, but secretly, I was pleased. I mean, he was so strong and so smart.
He could just *fix* things and he began to take care of me. I liked that."
She paused, buttering her toast. "Once there was this guy -- a real jerk,
obnoxious and mean, who was always teasing the girls -- saying dirty
things about them. Well, this guy said something about me once -- in front
of a bunch of guys -- something dirty I think. Jim heard about it and
walked right up to the guy -- who was bigger than him by the way --
and said, Don't *ever* talk about my sister,' and without another word,
smashed him right in the nose."
Jean gasped, "Really, Mom? Uncle Jim?"
"Yep. I was there. Saw it all. The guy fell back. He grabbed his nose.
It was bleeding all over the place. He was crying and saying he was going
to kill my brother. Jim walked up to him again and again, without another
word, punched him right in the stomach. Down he went. Stayed there too,
cryin', slobberin' and cursin'. But he didn't get up. Your uncle said, 'Yeah,
yeah. You'll *shit* too, if you're well fed. Get up if you want some more,
asshole.'"
Then hearing the words of her own account, Mom reddened and
glancing at us, added, "Oops. Pardon my French."
"Far out," I said, even more impressed with my uncle.
"Oh, my . . . I never heard that story," said Jean. "That's really
something." And then turning to me with a smile, she asked, "Would you
fight for me, little brother?"
"I guess so. I mean, I *might*," and then turning to Mom added, "If she
wasn't so darn strong and mean already!"
Jean threw her napkin at me and yelled, "You shit! I am not! MOM,
make him stop!"
Covering my head with one arm, I held up the peace sign with the other
hand and quickly said, "Sor-ry. Didn't mean it. Honest. Peace. Peace?"
Then, turning to my mother, I added in a stage whisper, "She's cute when
she's mad, isn't she?"
Mom leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her
eyes and voice softened. "You two remind me *so* much of me and Jim, I
can't get over it." Her nipples were poking through her robe. I tried not
to stare. I failed.
The voice in my head asked, "Did you and Uncle Jim fool around,
Mom?" But the voice that came *out* of my head asked, "You guys ever
double date, Mom?"
She smiled that special smile of remembrance. "Sure. Lots. We'd share
all our stuff with each other. He always had an opinion of the guys who'd
ask me out. Some were ok and some were not. And he'd always ask me
about the girls *he* dated. Things like . . ." and then she suddenly stopped
talking, seemingly embarrassed.
Stepping into the embarrassed silence, I said, "That hasn't changed. If it
wasn't for *my* wise counsel, Jean'd date some real weirdos, I can tell you
that."
Jean surprised me, for she didn't argue. "Yeah, Billy knows a lot about
the guys that I don't . . . that girls don't in general." Turning to me, she
added, "I appreciate your caring, Bro."
Jean was picking up on the direction this was taking. We worked well
together that way. But we knew Mom was no patsy and we didn't
want to be too obvious. We just knew she'd shut up like a clam if she
picked up on what was in our heads -- my head anyway.
"Mom, could you talk to Uncle Jim about . . . uh . . . about your
feelings and . . ." she finished lamely, "and . . . things?"
Mom, sensing Jean's discomfort, forgot her own and laid a hand on
her arm. "Sure, baby. We could talk about everything. That's why it was
so special."
Uncertainly, Jean asked, "Really? Everything?"
Glancing at me a moment, Mom answered Jean, "Yep, everything."
"Even sex?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager yet knowing I was
edging into new ground.
Mom hesitated. I could tell that she felt she'd been accidentally pulled
into this self revelation but couldn't cop out now. "Yes. Even that." Then,
putting her napkin on the table with a gesture of firmness, she leaned
forward a bit and added, "Sometimes, *especially* that. I mean, if you
can't talk to your own brother . . ." and then she made a dismissive gesture
with her hand and looked upward, as if for confirmation from above.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Yeah," Jean echoed, "Your own brother . . ." and then she tailed off,
not quite sure just what she was agreeing with. She looked at me and
wrinkled her nose as she cocked her head . . . her sign language that asks,
What are we talking about, anyway?'
"Sex, Jean. We're talking about sex. Remember?"
Mom, suddenly seeing our discordant thinking, threw her head back and
laughed. "You two . . ." she began and then wiped a laugh tear from her
eye, "you two are like Abbot and Costello."
"Who" I asked.
"Who's on first," Jean prompted.
"What's on second, " Mom continued and they both laughed at each
other. At my expense, I was certain.
"Come on, ladies. What is this, geriatric week? We were talking about
sex, remember? How'd we start talkin' about baseball of all things?"
Placing her hand on my arm, Mom said, "I'm sorry, Billy. You guys
started it. You just got me giggling. I'm a little embarrassed, you know.
I'm not used to talking, well . . . so frankly with you two." And then, as if
to cope with her uncomfortable position, she added quickly, "Anyway . . .
anyway, I must go down to the flatlands.'" This was our name for any part
of the surrounding area not in the foothills where we lived.
This conversation was over I knew, at least for now. I was disappointed
and relieved at the same time. On the one hand, it was kind of thrilling to
hear something of our Mom's early life, but on the other, it was so foreign
as to be strange and a little uncomfortable. We were just becoming
comfortable with our own sexuality. Considering Mom's was almost too
great a stretch.
Dabbing her lips again, Jean started to get up and then paused, looking
at Mom. "Remember I said I was going to stay with Aunt Peg sometime?"
Without waiting for a reply, she went on, "Well, she's invited me over for
tonight. It's OK for me to go over, isn't it?"
Moving toward the kitchen door and hardly pausing, Mom answered,
almost absently, "Sure, baby. Say hello for me, won't you?" And then she
was gone.
"Oh crap!" I grumped with no little disappointment. "I was looking
forward to us watching a movie or something. We haven't spent *any*
time together. We never even talk any more." My tone was almost
petulant.
Jean was unmoved. Laughing, she said, "Oh Billy, don't worry. We'll
talk again . . . promise. In fact, I'll call you tonight from Aunt Peg's house.
About eleven?"
A phone call wasn't what I had in mind, but it was clear that was all I
was going to get, so I tried on a little gracious acceptance. I tried, but it
didn't fit well.
Jean left a short while later and I moped around, trying to stay busy.
The late morning and afternoon were taken up with self-appointed chores
that helped me stay out of a dangerous place, my mind. Years later
someone was to tell me, "Bill, *your* mind should be used for amusement
purposes only."
Still, I spent the early evening feeling sorry for myself, convinced that I
was unloved and largely unlovable. I've always been struck by my capacity
to move from joy one moment to self-pity the next. When I'm in a good
place, those extremes amuse me, but when I'm in some self-centered dark
hole perched firmly on the pity pot, it seems decidedly not funny. Moreover,
I am quick to assume that not only is it a bad situation, but that I'll be stuck
there forever. No half measures in my thinking!
Holing up in my room, I put on an Enya CD and sank into the luxuriant
and mystical sounds that reminded me so much of Jean. Enya's lyrics,
woven into the tapestry of her sound, washed over me:
"If only I could stay with you,
my train moves on, you're gone from view, . . ."
Whatever loving and aesthetic side I might have had, the side that loved
the *spirit* of Jean, was simply pushed aside by the power of my erotic
imagery. Somehow, fueled and driven by the haunting melodies of Enya, I
sank into the sensual torpor of my reminiscence.
If I had thought my images might somehow be visible to others, I'd have
been embarrassed. But safe within that secret place in my mind, I reveled
in the richness of my erotic recall. As if etched in stone, the picture of
Jean, standing with her back to me, flashing her pantied butt, came and
went as a subliminal image. The curve of her back, the soft roundness of
her womanly hips, the dimples above her gluteal muscles and the shadowed
nether regions where the thin strap of her panties cupped her mons . . .
these mental pictures rolled through the interstices of "Shepherd Moons."
The one time I'd had the opportunity to *really* look at Jean's nude
body, it had registered and imprinted in my memory with extraordinary
detail. The filtered afternoon light in her bedroom had slanted across her
torso, seeming to pronounce and deepen the natural shadows. Her breasts
were somehow fuller, heavier, the nipples even more prominent. Refracting
the already diffused light, the almost invisible, downy hairs on her belly were
highlighted and became a penumbral shadow above the soft, curly down of
her pubic hair. Without the jutting prominence of a pubic ledge, her belly
curved smoothly in a soft arc to the darkened region between her thighs. In
my mind's eye, I could see that her rich auburn pubic hair, while not
extensive, was thick and full and curly. I knew what was hidden there,
between her long, slender thighs. I'd seen it once, close up as she had
urinated on a dusty Sierra trail, facing me, in broad daylight. My mind's
images flashed back and forth as a lens snaps into near- and then far-focus.
First one. Then the other.
I was delighted and tormented and excited, all at once. We'd agreed we
would have a "limited sexual connection." We'd abandoned any pretense
that we weren't attracted to each other, but under the lash of our own sense
of propriety and some nameless fear of doing wrong, we'd agreed that
whatever else we did, we wouldn't go all the way. Yet, that remained so
tantalizingly ill-defined. Hanging in that ether of vague boundaries, I found
myself almost agitated with desire.
The hours passed, despite my intolerance for delayed gratification. A
few minutes before 11 P.M. Jean called. "Hi, dude! Miss me?"
"Naw," I lied, "I forgot all about you. What's up, woman?"
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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Subject: My Sister Jean XIII (m/f sibling phone sex)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 28 Jul 1997 16:59:04 GMT
--------
MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
Chapter 13 -- Safety of the Telephone
I never imagined that she would do something so blatantly provocative
and sexual as placing her soiled panties under my pillow. Oh, I knew what
an emotional charge her panties were and I supposed I thought she didn't.
Yet, it had all started with her panties. Our first steps of this erotic
journey
were taken when I'd teased her about her soiled underpants. We'd treated
it in a lighthearted, teasing way since, even when I thought to myself, "She
has no notion what a sexually provocative symbol her panties are for me."
And, not wanting to reveal too much, to become too vulnerable, I never
told her. I never confessed what a gut-wrenching response her intimate
apparel produced in me. Or at least I didn't think I had. In fact, I was
acutely aware that the carelessness with which she had previously shown
with her soiled undergarments had changed. She no longer indifferently
left them in the bathroom as before. I had been unable to get my daily
pheromones fix in months. I assumed she had a hamper in her room, but
I'd made a promise to myself that I wouldn't violate her privacy again. So
far, I'd been able to keep that promise.
Now, suddenly finding this silken thing under my pillow, delicious
memories and feelings came flooding back. That she had called a few
minutes before to tell me to look under my pillow carried so many
messages. Chief among those was, 'Let's play, Billy.'
We'd recently given ourselves permission to be more honest and open
about our sexual feelings for each other and, at the same time, admitting
our fears, had agreed not to have sex. 'God, what does that mean?' I
wondered. 'Not having sex.' Just what is 'not having sex' anyway? By my
lights, we'd 'had sex' several times. Oh, we hadn't done the dirty deed, but
if what we'd experienced wasn't having sex, then what is? We'd been
thrown together several times, picked up and tossed about by forces whose
strength awed us. Each time that happened, we had withdrawn, shaken
and dazed, wondering, 'Where is this going?'
Touching the black silk of Jean's "unmentionables" I was thrilled.
She'd worn these. Recently. They'd been on her body. On her butt.
Between her legs! My resolves were fading away. It's true, I thought,
My dick has no conscious.'
Flattening the crotch of her panties, I studied it. They were slightly
damp to the touch. On the periphery of the damp spot was a faint whitish
dry area. I'd seen that before. Her essence, right there.
Looking closely, I found a few curly hairs. Yes! Pubic hair! A thrill
shot through me and another ratchet of my madness slipped. I was teasing
myself. Delighting myself. This slow, measured -- even controlled
unfolding of a treasure -- heightened my arousal.
I kept for last the real prize, the scent. I was already dizzy with desire
and hard with my lust. Bringing the panties to my face, I slowly inhaled,
allowing her intimate fragrance to titillate my olfactory senses. The
seductive power of her scent ripped through me, much like a whiff of
ammonia. I felt it climb up into my nose, seeming to pass through some
impossible route, directly into my frontal cortex. I fell back, clutching her
panties to my nose, unthinking, a mass of jangling, unstable sexual neurons,
randomly discharging like some mad fireworks display. I was gone. Done
for. I never had a chance.
Then I opened the note. There was only one line. It said: "I want to do
it with you . . . on the phone."
I shoved my arms between my legs, humping against myself as I curled
up in a fetal ball. No question. I was just gonna die!
A little while later -- seemed like days -- the phone rang again. Almost
in a stupor I answered, "Jean?"
She laughed and then in that breathy voice characteristic of her
excitement, she said, "You found them. What do you think?"
"That I've died and gone to heaven. Besides that, I can't think at all.
What're you *doing* to me?"
"Remember we said we'd explore things with each other?"
"Sure. But we didn't."
"Well, I don't know about you, big boy, but I've been afraid."
"Of me?" I asked.
"Partly that, I guess." She paused, and then added, "But more of me."
Not attempting to *act* dumb, I said, "I don't understand."
"I didn't suppose you would. We think differently, you and me. I
suppose it may be a 'girl thing' but anyway . . . to be honest, you have
some power over me . . ."
I interrupted, "I have power over YOU? Come ON Jean. You're
the one with the power. You should see me right now. I'm almost
twitching!"
"Good," she laughed. But it's true. Feel however you want, when you
turn on the current, I'm a goner, so this is the only way I feel safe relating
to you. Sexually, I mean."
"Phone sex? Jean, you mean we live in the same house, right next to
each other and we're . . . we're reduced to phone sex?"
"Pretty kinky, huh? I thought you'd like it. It *is* all right, isn't it,
Billy?"
"Jean, if it were the only way I could talk with you, I'd get off on your
smoke signals! Actually, it *is* kinky and you're right, it appeals to me.
Safe, isn't it?"
"That's it! That's the point of it, brother mine. Because I've been
afraid of you and more, afraid of myself, I've been inhibited, even withdrawn
around you. I've been afraid to tell you what I'm feeling and particularly
afraid of allowing myself to get turned on around you. This way, I figure
we can open up with each other, do anything we want and no matter how
crazy we feel, how crazy we get, we're safe."
"Jean, you're so cerebral. You're so well-thought-out. What're you
gonna be, a college professor or somethin'?"
"I didn't leave my panties under your pillow and then call you to talk
about college, stud muffin. I want to know this: Is it true that boys get
really hot when they smell a girl's . . . uh, underwear?"
I'd stripped for action -- whatever I thought that might have been --
and was wearing only an old sleeveless sweat shirt. I had wrapped her
panties around my erect cock; just the dusky head of my dick was poking
out. "If you could see me now, Jean, it'd answer that question."
"Tell me. Tell me, Billy!"
"Jean, you must know. When I first saw them there, I became excited.
Right away. Touching them, feeling them, got me more turned on. But
what nudged me over was the smell of you. I don't know what that is, but
it just jolts me. Anyway, I'm laying here, horny and hard and I've wrapped
your panties around my hard-on. It's all I can do to resist stroking myself
and coming right now!"
"I *thought* you liked me . . . that you liked the smell of me, but I
wasn't sure. You know what it's like, don't you? I mean, we get all sorts
of messages . . . like it's dirty down there . . . things like that. And I
*know* it's not dirty, but still . . ."
I didn't want to talk about "messages." I wanted to get sexy with this
woman, so I told her what I was thinking. "Jean," I began -- I often
addressed her by name when I wanted to make a point -- "right now, in my
mind, I have a fantasy about you."
She whispered, "Oh, yes! Tell me."
"You're standing on my bed. I'm looking up at you. We don't talk. I
ask you with my eyes. You slowly pull up your full skirt. First I can see
your thighs. Then your panties. Your legs are apart. You step over me
and I'm looking right up into you."
"God! I love the thought of you looking at me . . . looking under my
dress . . . at my panties. I'm *such* an exhibitionist! Geez, I'm getting
wet."
Slowly stroking myself, I close my eyes and let the imagery flow, giving
voice to the cine' in my head. "You squat a little, right over my head,
closer and closer. Then you pull the crotch of your panties up into your
pussy, into your slit. I can see your pussy lips, Jean"
"Yes . . . yes . . . I can see it too. I've dreamed of doing something
like this . . . so slutty . . . I can't believe myself. God, I'm getting wet!"
"I can see your pussy hair, Jean . . . the curls, the wet curls . . .
you're so
wet, Jean!"
"No, I'm SOAKING! It's running out of me."
"Pulling your panties back and forth through your pussy slit, you slowly
squat lower and lower. I can see the stitching of your panties, you're so
close. Now I can hear you . . . smell you."
"Listen to this, Billy."
And then I could hear a wet, squishy sound. Jean was masturbating and
I guess, holding the phone by her crotch. Farther away, I could hear her
moaning. Then closer, she added, "Can you hear that?" Do you know
what that is? That's me. That's how wet I am."
We were two trains running. Me with a monologue of my imagery, she
commenting on my words. Neither could be derailed at this moment.
"You yank your panties aside and I can see into you . . . right into your
pink, swollen, wet cunt! You're drooling. I can see pussy juice running
back into the crack of your ass . . . down your thigh."
"Ungh . . . I love it . . . I love it. I'm so loose, so open . . . keep
talking to me, Billy. Please, please . . . don't stop."
"You spread your pussy lips apart and lower yourself closer to me. All
I can see is your pussy hair, your open cunt . . . wet and swollen and open
for me."
"Ungh . . . ungh . . . I'm gonna come, Billy. Gonna come . . ."
"Your legs are weakening. You're sinking lower. Your pussy is right
above my mouth. Your juice is dripping onto my lips."
She had stopped talking. All I could hear was a rhythmic grunting.
"Ungh . . . ungh . . ." that I recognized at the involuntary sounds Jean made
approaching her orgasm. She wasn't alone.
"I reach up with the tip of my tongue and run it up through your slit.
It's coated with your juices. I touch your clit. You sink onto my mouth. I
fuck my tongue into your cunt . . . I smell your musty smell!"
Jeans' grunting ran into an explosive sound . . . then a long breath
followed by a protracted moan that tailed off to a thin wail, "Come . . .
coming, Billy . . . coming."
Then all I could hear was her breathing. I hadn't come.
I was surprised. I was so excited and so hot. I couldn't believe that I
was still hanging there. Actually, it wasn't the feeling of hanging at all. It
was more like drifting along on some sexual plateau of heightened
sensitivity, heightened awareness. I didn't feel frustrated or unfulfilled. I
just felt good.
I'd heard from Jean once that girls complained that guys got their's and
then just rolled off, leaving them frustrated and not knowing how to ask for
more. Well, I'm so self-absorbed that I didn't want to be known as a jack
rabbit. I wanted to be viewed as the consummate lover. (Never having
even done it yet!) I'd started trying to hold off my orgasm when I
masturbated, to stretch it out. It went from impossible to difficult at first.
But I was willing to practice. Every day! I was dedicated that way. After
awhile, I came to enjoy those sexual plateaus. At times, I could extend
them so long, I'd just slide back down the other side without having come.
I just did it again.
"You there, Billy?"
"Boy, am I!"
"Whew. That was something! That was *more* than I imagined it
might be. It was wonderful. I LOVED it!"
A bit late, I asked, "What're you wearing, Jean?"
She laughed and said, "I thought that's what you asked me at the
*beginning*."
"I'm just wearing a sweat shirt."
"Me too! One of your old ones. But right now it's up in my armpits.
I'm holding my . . . myself. My fingers are all wet. God, the smell in here.
*You'd* love it!"
"You have panties there?" I asked.
"Uh, sure . . . oh, there they are. They're on the floor where I threw
them."
"Do me a favor?"
"God, anything." Then laughing, "Well, almost anything."
"Use your panties. Wipe yourself. Wipe up your juices with em . . .
stuff em into your pussy. Then give them to me tomorrow, okay?"
"God, you are *such* a horn dog, Billy!"
"Will you, Jean?"
"Of course I will. You must know it thrills me that you want to smell
me."
"That's not all that I want to do."
"Yeah, yeah. We both know about that. And so do I. You know that
too. But you also know how I feel about it. As much as I want to do it
with you, I'm not gonna. That's why I'm here and you're there! I almost
expect you to crawl through the phone wire and come out through the
receiver. 'Night, Billy. I love you."
"Good night, babes. Remember the panties!"
-- End of Chapter 13 --
Subject: My Sister Jean XIV (m/f, cons, inc, mast, anal)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 5 Aug 1997 17:57:06 GMT
--------
MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
Jean's Visit - Chapter 14
The frogs in the pond behind our house were giving up their last
cacophony in the early morning light. Dictated by my biologic clock I
suppose, I was awake early even though Jean and I had spent an intense
little while on the phone with each other late the night before. As was my
custom, I sleep in the nude and often awoke with an unconscious "tent
pole" under the sheets. With my eyes closed and hands clasped behind my
head, I was reviewing the latent imagery of the night before, of the phone
sex I'd had with Jean, luxuriating in the deliciousness of it all.
God, I loved that woman! The feeling washed over me with an
intensity that left me short of breath. I loved her wit and her spontaneity,
her seriousness and gravity, her daffiness and heaven knows, her
sensuousness. Yet I was uncertain. We'd agreed not to "do it," but I
wasn't at all clear just what that meant. Jean spoke repeatedly of "the
incest thing." Just what *was* the incest thing anyway? Was it talking
about sex? I thought not. Then was it touching? Well, we'd certainly
touched on a couple of occasions and neither of us appeared to be
troubled, much less traumatized by the experience, so I thought that wasn't
it.
If she sucked my dick once, was *that* incest? How about when I
fingered her pussy? To climax? Now, was that incest? Shit! I didn't
know and it bothered me, a niggling, unresolved burr of an issue.
I don't know about you, but I've got several voices in my head that
think they know everything. And they're all loud, even strident. Usually
they sit on the head of my bed and start up first thing in the morning. "Oh
good, you're awake. Let me tell you a few things." They're rarely kind
and understanding; mostly they're full of fear and negativity, except those
that are lazy and just want to go to the beach. Sometimes I feel like I'm in
a car pool when I'm all alone. I can argue both sides of any given issue and
worse, I lose nine times out of ten!
Is it solely the emotional fallout of putting my dick in Jean's pussy?
Is that what she's fearful of? Cripes, I've been *there* a hundred times in
my mind. I've screwed that girl so many times in my head, the emotional
fallout is mostly that it's *only* been there . . . in my head! Or is it that
she's afraid she'll get pregnant? Yeah, that'd be tough. I mean, how many
girls get knocked up by their brother? I'll have to ask her about this, I
thought.
In the middle of this intellectual discussion I was having with
myself, I was startled when something soft touched my face! My eyes
snapped open and saw for a second only a hazy light until I scrabbled away
a pair of panties that'd been dropped across my eyes and nose.
Jean laughed, "Wake up, sleepy head. I promised you these
panties." Then looking away in mock embarrassment, she added, "Geez,
they're ripe! Hope you *really* wanted em."
I inhaled deeply, pulling the aromatic essence of her into my head
and simply said, "YES!" She'd kept her promise.
Nodding toward the tent pole, she asked, "Did I cause that?"
Nodding, "Mostly. I wake up with a woodie every morning," and then
looking down at myself in wonder, I added, "but this one is particularly
urgent. And yes, I *was* thinking of you . . . of last night . . . of what we
did. God, I loved it! I just can't believe the power of *phone* sex for cryin'
out loud!"
Jean smiled and nodded, just looking at me. The least I could do
was return the scrutiny. The morning light was soft, filtering through the
giant redwood behind the house to the east of us and it cast a warm,
luminous glow in my room. She was wearing a short wrap-around skirt and
a T-shirt that didn't even begin to disguise her prominent nipples. Once
again, out of character, Jean wasn't wearing a bra.
Again, her eyes dropped to the tented sheet and she gestured with an
open palm as if to ask, "What, pray tell, *is* that?"
Then, remembering a little ditty that Jean had read to me years before, I
recited,
"The tent pole's up, the canvas is spread.
To hell with breakfast, come on back to bed."
She giggled and continued,
"Take the tent pole down, put the canvas away.
Monkey had a hemorrhage; there'll be no circus today."
Still chuckling, she said, "Just kidding, just kidding," and sat on the
edge of the bed facing me, with one leg bent on the bed and the other on the
floor, partly opening her thighs. Of course, my eyes darted right to the
darkened space under her short skirt, hoping to see . . . well, anything.
"You never give up, do you? What are expecting to see?"
"Not expecting . . . just hoping."
"Billy, you've seen my legs hundreds and hundreds of times.
What's the attraction?"
"Don't really understand it, girl, but it's strong. You thrill me.
More and more, you thrill me. I'm just taken with you. You know that!"
Jean placed her hand on the sheet on top of my thigh and said softly,
"Yes, Billy, I *do* know that and I want to tell you again, I feel the same
way. And I'll tell you this again . . . usually, it's very scary!"
"Yeah . . . I've been thinking about that. About why it's scary for you, I
mean," letting my hand fall to her left knee. Her skirt had pulled up and
open a little and I could see the fine, blond hairs on her thigh.
She glanced at my hand, smiled and asked, "Tell me, buster. What do
you know that I don't? Most of my feelings are just that . . . feelings. Not
based on my intellect, just on my gut."
Trailing my finger tips over the inside of her knee, I looked up
at her and continued, "Well, I've been trying to define "incest" in the last
little while -- an operational definition if you will -- and I've decided that
for us, it's not "talking" and it's not "touching" and it's not "sucking."
Know what I mean?"
Jean, looking puzzled, slid onto the side of the bed another few inches,
opening up her thighs a little more. I looked again. Still too dark, but now
more inner thigh visible..
"If you mean that we've done those things and we're still OK, then I
*do* know what you mean." And then stubbornly, "But I'm still afraid."
Still trailing my fingertips on the inside of her thigh, I continued,
"Yeah. But I think it's not so much what we've done. I don't think it --
incest that is -- has a lot to do with putting my dick in your pussy."
Jean's eyes widened and her pupils dilated with that phrase. She sucked
in her breath but didn't speak. For all her candidness, she remained
unaccustomed to such specific and graphic talk.
Again, nudging her thigh to keep her attention, I went on, "No.
For us . . . for you . . . incest isn't about fucking." Again, the little gasp.
In a softer voice I added, "I think your fear of incest is about getting
pregnant," and then fell silent.
She exploded, "Cripes, Billy! Pregnant! By you? Where in heck did
*that* notion come from? That's silly. That's goofy, you know that?" She
barked a nervous laugh and moved her leg again. This time I caught a
fleeting glimpse of the crotch of her dark panties. The scent of her used
panties was fresh in my mind and I again experienced a strong urge to bury
my head between her legs.
"OK, I know it's goofy, but stay with me a minute. Tell me, IF we
actually did it . . . if we actually, you know, fucked . . . how would you
feel? Inside, I mean. How'd you feel?"
"Scared. I told you that," she answered, nervously plucking at her
skirt, picking it up and then dropping it. I kept my eyes on hers.
"OK, sure," I agreed, "scared but not turned off. Stay with me a little
longer. How'd you feel if you got pregnant? By me?" I added pointlessly.
"Devastated. Just devastated . . . I'd simply just die." Then she added
with a wry smile, "Aside from that, just fine. Where is this going, anyway?"
"Wanna have kids someday, Jean?"
"You know I do, Billy. SOMEday."
I wiggled down in the bed a little, both to give me a better view
under her skirt and that I might be able to reach farther up on her thigh.
"Well, *that's* what I think is going on. It's not us screwing that scares
you. It's getting pregnant. One part of you wants to get pregnant . . .
someday, and another part of you is frightened, scared witless that it would
be ME that did it."
"Let me get this straight . . . let me tell you what I think you've said.
You think that it's not the actual, uh . . . doin' it, that I'm afraid of?" she
asked, skeptically. Her expression was one of those "oh yeah, right!" ones.
"Right," I assured her, touching the inside of her thigh, well up
under her skirt. I wondered if she, like me, had two thoughts running at
the same time, one on the topic and the other on touching her?
"That it's getting pregnant by you that I'm really afraid of?"
"Yeah, exactly, Sis. Hell, we've done almost everything and
haven't suffered any psychological consequences. Actually, we're closer
than ever. We really love and CARE for each other, more now than ever."
Jean smiled and said, "Well, you *may* have something there. It
"feels" all right. At least it doesn't feel *bad*. Not right now anyhow."
"Just sit with it, Sis. You don't have to buy it right now . . . or
ever. Just let it percolate. We'll talk about it later, OK?"
"Whew! Yes, later," she answered, visibly relaxing. Then, as if
noticing for the first time, she stared at the lump of my hand beneath her
skirt, creeping toward her body. "Yes?" she asked, lifting one eyebrow.
Reaching down with my free hand, I covered hers, still on my
thigh, almost touching my cock, and reasoned, "Your fault," nodding to her
hand so close to my hardon.
Surprised, she yanked her hand back and exclaimed, "Yikes!"
And then, almost as quickly, laughed and ran the palm of her hand up my
thigh, again brushing against my erect cock murmuring something like,
"Geez, you are *always* horny, aren't you?"
That rhetorical question didn't need an answer. The lawyers have
an expression for it, something like "res ipsa loquitur" or "the thing speaks
for itself." Instead, I turned my body slightly into her leg, pushing my
hard cock to her hand and, at the same time, running my hand up to her
crotch. What? No panties! I touched the fur of her sex between the warm
softness of her inner thighs, not the crotch of her panties as I'd anticipated.
A thrill shot through me.
Jean suddenly beamed, "That's right, big boy. No panties. I gave them
to you. Just *me* there," and she leaned forward, laying her head on my
chest, now blatantly holding my cock through the sheet.
"Lie beside me for a moment, won't you Jean?" I asked, making
room for her on the bed. I smiled to myself, thinking of the expression that
promised, "I'll only put it in a little way."
"Only a moment," she whispered, turning her body and sliding
down beside me, one leg thrown over my thigh, opening her crotch to my
hand.
I cupped her furry mons softly in one hand while cradling her head with
my other, whispering, "Jean, thanks for last night. It was awesome. I can't
believe how hot it was, being sexual with you . . . even at long distance."
She ran her hand down my forearm, I thought perhaps to pull my
hand from her crotch, but she surprised me. She curved her hand around
mine and with her index finger, pushed my middle finger into the pulpy
wetness of her pussy slit, arching her pelvis into my hand. Her pussy was
sopping and swollen and once again, I experienced the extraordinary thrill
of feeling my finger slide into the heat of my sister's cunt.
"Yes, Billy . . . yes. Touch me. Feel me. Feel my wetness." Wiggling
closer to me, she continued, "I'm melting inside. This is *so* sweet."
As I slid my finger slowly in and out of her pussy, she rocked her
hips against me, still pushing my hand against her sex, now grunting a
little with each thrust.
"I wanted this so much last night, Billy. After we hung up, I
masturbated . . . it seemed like hours. I came and then came again. I kept
coming until . . . I guess I just passed out. God I was horny!"
"Was?"
"*Am*, you jerk! Am horny." And then she murmured something
so soft I couldn't make it out.
"What? What'd you say, girl? Can't hear you."
She murmured again, slightly louder but all I could hear was
"finger . . . " something or another.
Running my tongue into her ear, I again whispered, "What babe?
What'd you say? Tell me what you want. Say it out loud."
Then, as if we were in a crowded room and she wanted only me to
hear, she cupped her hand to her cheek and whispered in my ear, "Finger . .
. finger fuck me, Billy. Please, I need it."
"Yes-s-s," I hissed, cupping her sex in the palm of my hand, my
middle finger curling up under her pelvic bone, searching for her G-spot.
As she grunted her pleasure, she began writhing on the bed,
hunching against my hand, rubbing her body against mine. I could feel the
fullness of her breasts as her torso twisted against me. Pulling back to free
myself from her leg, I threw my right leg over her body as she turned, first
into me and then prone, continuing to hunch against the sheets.
I ran my hand down over her buttocks, catching the hem of her skirt
and pulling it up to her waist as she lifted up, freeing the front of it. I
palmed her butt in my hand and whispered, "Christ Jean, I love feeling your
ass."
"Oh, Billy! Don't stop touching me. I'm so itchy in there. I *need* you
there."
Pulling myself up a bit, I ran my hand between her legs from the back,
feeling the swollen and partially open pussy lips. She moaned and pushed
her hips back to meet me as I slipped the thumb of my right hand into her
pussy, cupping her mons and clit with my fingers, slowly rocking.
"Yes! Right there. Right *there*!" she exclaimed with an explosive
deep, grunting voice, thick with passion.
Pulling her forearms under her, she pushed her chest off the bed as she
pulled her knees under her pelvis, assuming a stance of supplication. Now
her backside was completely bared, her skirt up over her back and her ass
arched high in the air. I kneeled beside her, still holding her cunt in my
hand, still fucking her with my thumb.
Her head was down on the sheet, turned toward me but mostly
obscured by her hair. She was groaning and murmuring incoherently. I
enjoyed the power of making her voice her desires out loud. "What Jean?
What do you want? Say the words."
Barely louder and still incoherent, she continued an entreaty in a
near sing-song voice, still rocking back against my hand.
"Say it Jean. I want to hear the words."
Throwing her head to toss her hair out of her eyes, she looked at
me with eyes almost crazed in passion and said quite distinctly and slowly,
"Fuck - me - with - your - hand. Fuck - me - Billy." Then, dropping her
forehead to the bed again, she groaned, FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK
ME."
Driven by my own lust and given approval by the force of her
thrusts back against my hand, I picked up the speed and depth of my thumb
fucking. With her knees pulled up beside her chest and her back arched,
her ass cheeks were full open, exposing her pink bung hole to my stare.
God! Her ass hole, exposed, open and vulnerable to me! The place
I'd dreamed about and had glimpsed just a few times before. I placed the
tip of my left index finger right below her anus and then as I continued to
thrust my right thumb into her cunt, I ran my left fingertip around the edge
of her ass hole with a feather-light touch, teasing.
Again she groaned, "Billy . . . Billy . . . what are you *doing*?"
Pushing the pulp of my finger tip against her puckered anus, I said,
"I'm fucking you, Jean. I'm fucking you and touching your ass hole. Can
you feel me?"
She gasped, "I can't believe this. I just can't believe what's
happening. I don't even know what I'm feeling, but it's incredible, it's
wonderful. Oh, I want it, I* want* it!"
Dropping a dollop of my saliva on her ass hole, I again pushed my
finger tip against her sphincter muscle. It resisted for just a little while
and then began to soften. My finger tip dilated her ass hole a fraction.
Again, she pushed back against my hand, against my finger.
"Yes, yes, yes . . . whatever you're doing . . . yes!" she chanted into
the bed as I fucked her with my fingers, humping myself against her hip. I
lost sense of time. The sensations went on an on, building, cresting,
overflowing and then she shrieked. No words. Just an explosive shriek.
Then she suddenly became still save the shuddering of her body and with
another eruptive grunt, she screamed, "Coming . . . coming . . . God, God,
God . . . oh shit, shit, shit . . . I'm coming!"
Jean had once told me how hypersensitive her pussy feels after she's had
an orgasm, so I had presence of mind to slow down, then stop, but leaving
my thumb buried deep in her cunt with my fingertip just nudging into her
ass hole. We stayed frozen there, suddenly silent save our gasping for long
minutes.
I was aware. In *that* moment, right there, right then, I was aware. I
had a startling clarity of us and the NOW. I could feel our breathing and
our sweaty bodies. I could smell the heady scent of Jean filling the room
and my head with her essence. I felt my cock, still hard, pressing against
her thigh and the coolness of the morning breeze drying the wetness of our
bodies. Me naked, Jean with her skirt pulled up, nude from the waist down
and my fingers in her.
Then, I slowly pulled my thumb from her and she gasped, "Oh, no."
Pulling her down with her back to me, I curled around her, holding her
tight against my chest, by hips against her ass and my legs curled into the
crook of her legs. I petted her and I crooned into her hair, Oh, baby . . .
that was . . . that was indescribable. I have no words. I simply can't tell
you . . . I was just blown away. I love you, babes. I love you more than I
can say . . . more than you can possibly know."
End of Chapter 14
Subject: My Sister Jean XV (m/f, inc, cons, oral)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 12 Aug 1997 16:45:51 GMT
--------
MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
Billy, The Pussy Barber - Chapter 15
The behavior that my sister and I exhibited after our last erotic encounter
was a Xerox copy of every other time we'd come together with the energy
of two freight trains in the night. In reaction, we had pulled back a little
and our old approach-avoidance dance was played out one more time. Oh, we
didn't ignore each other and we certainly didn't engage in the silent
treatment, but there was a certain tender, eggshells-tip-toeing around with
us.
The morning after our last unplanned sexual tussle, I'd awakened with a
lightness and freshness of spirit, feeling at ease with my self and the world,
secure in the knowing that I was, at base, an OK guy. I knew I was OK,
but I didn't know if Jean felt the same way about herself. I worried about
her psyche and wanted to touch base with her as soon as possible.
That on my mind, I came down to breakfast just a little later than usual
as Jean was telling our Mom that she had to drop off her car at the
mechanic's and would she pick her up after?
"I will," I offered, hoping to have the chance to have some "plain talk"
with Jean.
"You have an interview this afternoon you told me," Mom offered.
"How're you going to handle that *and* pick up Jean?"
"Rats! I forgot," I said, slapping my forehead in dramatic overstatement.
"Sorry, Sis. Guess I can't."
"That's cool, Billy." She smiled one of those exquisitely bright smiles
and turning to Mom said, "You're playing tennis at the club today, aren't
you? You could pick me up later, huh?"
"Sure, baby. Call me or leave a message at the club if your plans
change, OK?" Mom said as they both threw me a warm smile and left at
the same time.
And so it went for a couple of weeks. Little things like that - small
hitches kept occurring that seemed to prevent us from spending anything
more than a few minutes with each other. Yet, Jean's upbeat attitude and
positive outlook on life, now even more evident, assured me that she wasn't
stuck in some emotionally grey place and my need to reassure her gradually
became less pressing.
In fact I'd almost forgotten it when one afternoon one of my labs at
school was canceled and I found myself unexpectedly home early. As it
turned out, Jean's writing seminar had also been canceled. Her prof had
been called away and hadn't had time to get a sub.
I found her sitting, tilted back in a chair on the redwood deck, her long
tanned legs braced against the railing, just looking off into the valley. She
was wearing a pair of yellow shorts that I remembered from last summer.
They were tight then. Atop that, she had on a sleeveless pull over and I was
immediately aware she wasn't wearing a bra. For a long moment, I admired
her prominent nipples indenting her thin cotton shirt. I seemed always to be
aware of things like that. Then I looked at her lips, half open, a little pouty
it seemed.
It had occurred to me that I'd seen my sister naked, or nearly naked, a
few times in the past. That I'd touched her intimately . . . she'd once even
sucked my cock. We'd shared our secrets with each other and knew we
loved each other deeply. But I'd never kissed her. Oh, I'd given her a chaste
peck on the cheek and once or twice on her lips, mine all puckered up. But
I'd never really kissed her.
Coming up beside her chair, I leaned over and looked into her eyes
and asked, "Would you mind if I kissed you?"
"On the lips, I hope?" She smiled up at me as I bent over slowly,
trying to keep eye contact.
She tilted her head back, eyes open, and with her lips slightly open,
offered her mouth to me. Trying to keep my own lips soft, I touched hers,
feeling her mouth open a little more as we kissed softly. It was
indescribably sweet. I felt as though I were sinking into her. Flicking the
tip of my tongue between her lips, I felt hers brush mine and then retreat.
Feeling a bit heady, I pulled up a chair next to her and said, "Hi, kid.
How's it goin'?" Last year she would have had a fit if I'd called her "kid"
but it didn't seem to bother her today. Maybe it had something to do with
the kiss.
"Billy! That was *nice*. You've never kissed me like that before!
"Thanks. I liked it too. Before I settle, can I get you anything?
"Yes, would you get us a couple of sodas? I'm feeling lazy and I'd love
it if you'd wait on me. I'd like to be pampered."
"Sure . . . and I won't dump the ice down your shirt either."
She turned her head to smile at me and said, "Yes. I remember."
Holding the glasses under the ice dispenser, I listened to it grind away
with its characteristic clunking noise and recalled that I'd not had the
chance to talk with her intimately since the morning after our phone sex,
the time when she'd dropped her scented panties on my face.
Handing her the tall, cold glass, I said, "Jean, I'd like to talk with you
about something . . ."
She interrupted and said, "Yes. Yes, of course we will . . . but first I
want to ask you something and I'm too nervous to wait. Can I go first?"
With an exaggerated, longsuffering sigh, I said, "Oh . . . all right, I
guess."
There appears to be several Billys that live in my head. One is the
kid, spontaneous and genuine. Another is the adolescent who's very
concerned about looking hip, slick and cool. He's the one who thinks
constantly about getting laid and he's convinced that he's got to *look*
good to score. It was that impatient teenager in me that was so ungracious
and pouting.
"I'll try to be quick, Billy. This is right up your alley and I know
you'll be glad I consulted with *you*."
It was as if Jean knew about the several personalities that resided in my
head and knew just what to say. The adolescent brightened right up,
thinking his manly knowledge was being sought. "Sure, kid. Take your
time," I said, mentally slicking back my hair.
Even though no one else was home -- actually, no one was within a half
mile of us -- Jean leaned over, cupping her hand at the corner of her mouth
to whisper confidentially in my ear, "Billy, uh . . . remember the uh . . . the
thong panties? The ones I bought at Victoria's Secret this summer?"
As if I could forget! The image of Jean, modeling those panties in the
store, bending over . . . me, certain I was going to be grabbed by the scruff
of my thick red neck and hauled off to jail -- hell, my thoughts alone could
get me 50 years! -- did I remember? I've never forgotten. So, with my
eyebrows a little knitted, I replied, "No, what panties?"
For as long as perhaps one, or at the most, two seconds, Jean looked at
me with surprise and then seeing the twinkle in my eye, she laughed in
relief and said, "You shit, you! Come ON, I'm serious."
"Jean, I might forget my name or where I live, but I'd *never* forget
those panties. Besides, you never *did* model them for me," I added in a
fake petulant tone.
Her eyes un-focused for a moment, as if remembering something, and
then she replied, "Yes, I owe you. But as I recall, something else came UP
that day."
Palms up, I replied, "Am I an ungrateful wretch or what?" And then
glancing at her yellow shorts -- they'd climbed even higher -- I asked, "Is
*that* all you wanted to ask?"
"No, silly. There's something else . . . kinda embarrassing really." She
was studying some invisible spot on her thigh.
The *only* topic Jean had ever mentioned being embarrassed over was
something about sex. I loved it when she was tentative that way, for it
always seemed to lead to sexy talk. I didn't try to bail her out. I just
looked
at her expectantly, one eye brow elevated. I'd once seen Cary Grant do that
in an old movie. Looked good on *him*.
She looked at me imploringly, as if I might read her mind and answer her
question. I remained silent. Very uncharacteristic of me.
"OK, OK . . . here's the deal," Jean finally rushed on. "I remembered
that I'd promised to model them for you, so I got 'em out and tried them on
again this morning . . ." She hesitated.
"And?" I prompted, watching the color rise in her cheeks, looking at her
full lips, wanting to kiss her again.
"And they stick out," she gushed, almost as one word and then again in
a whisper, "I mean, my pubic hair sticks out on the sides. I'd forgotten
that part." And she stopped as if the problem was now self evident.
"Yes?" I replied, making an impatient gesture with my hand as if to say,
And then what?
"Well, can't you see?"
"Actually I can't. But I'd love to," I added hopefully, looking pointedly
at her shorts pulled tightly into the prominent crease between her parted
thighs.
"The problem, dummy, the problem," she corrected me in a vain attempt
to guide my thinking.
At this point I was no longer thinking. My hind brain had taken over
and the sex addict who lives up there was chortling, "Oh boy, here we go,
Billy."
"Problem?" I asked. Now I wasn't pretending.
"Billy! For a bright guy, sometimes you are really *dense*. If I'm
going to wear those obscenely brief panties, I can't wear them with a lot
of pubic hair sticking out, can I?"
"Is *that* what you wanted to ask?"
"No! That isn't it. I wasn't asking your opinion about how good or bad
it would look. I *know* that." Then as if explaining to a dull kid, she
went on in a reasonable voice, "Sure, pubic hair is sexy, but not hanging
out of panties, or a bikini. It needs to be trimmed."
The sex-addict suddenly clapped his hands with understanding and glee
and said to me, "Oh boy, Billy! Oh boy, oh boy. You're gonna score!"
The cool teenager said to Jean, "So, how can I help you?"
Dropping her gaze, Jean murmured, "I've always done it myself, but . . .
but I thought maybe you might want to help."
"You mean trim your pubic hair? Me? I get to trim your *pubic* hair?"
I asked with unrestrained enthusiasm . . . a sudden and definite loss of being
"cool".
"Well, yes . . . if you want to that is . . . but if you've got . . ." and
her voice trailed off as she looked at me, a little apprehensive and looking
incredibly vulnerable.
"God, Jean! I'm honored . . . I mean I'd be delighted to . . . to help
you." I didn't have to fake any sincerity or enthusiasm with this affirmation.
She seemed almost to slump in her chair with relief. How frightening it
must have been to take such a chance with her kid bother, to have stretched
herself so much and how relieved she appeared to be when I jumped with
joy at the opportunity.
"Oh, good! I've got everything upstairs in my room. The scissors, the
comb, and the clippers . . ."
Interrupting, I asked, "The straight razor?"
Jamming her hands into her crotch, she doubled over and said, "Not a
chance, Billy. Not even close. I saw you shaving with that damn thing and
I saw the nicks . . ."
Throwing up my hands in surrender, I said, "Kidding, just kidding, Jean,
honest."
Jean jumped up and ran into the house laughing and squealing, "I can't
believe I'm doing this."
I came in behind her just in time to see her long legs disappearing up the
stairs and by the time I got to her room, she was standing in front of an
open dresser drawer, holding up a pair of panties . . . the thong panties in
which I'd once seen her . . . for what, seconds? She glanced over her
shoulder at me, still holding out the bit of fluff, and smiled.
"Ready?" she asked.
For a moment, I couldn't speak. I just looked at her, her spine arched,
head thrown back, hips pushed forward and her old, faded yellow shorts
pulled tight across her butt and into the crease of her butt. Her beauty and
her sexiness just stunned me. How could I be so lucky, I wondered?
"Billy, you ready to do this?" she asked again.
Snapping out of it, I grinned that silly who-me-grin and said, "Am I
ever!"
The next several seconds flew by so fast, I could barely see what was
happening. Without another word, Jean unbuttoned her shorts and skinned
out of them. Bare ass! No panties. I saw that much and then she stepped
into the thong panties before any of this registered in my befuddled mind.
Turning, she stood, one hand on her hip in some effortless model pose right
out of some damn lingerie catalog and said, "Ta-Dah!"
Then, turning en face, she placed the flat of her hands on her lower belly
and looking down at her self critically, said, "See?"
Indeed I did! Her legs, already long, looked even longer in those brief
panties that climbed high on her hips. The front panel, silk perhaps, was
trimmed with a broad border of lace, swooping in a low "U", ending just
below the top edge of her pubic hair. Through the lace and sticking out the
sides, I could see her auburn curls. The lacy crotch was pooched out with
the thick cushion of her pussy hair.
Gesturing toward the single straight-backed chair in the room, I said,
"Sit there and let me check you out."
Now, no longer embarrassed, caught up in the adventure, Jean sat in the
chair with her butt at the front edge and sprawled back. She extended her
legs straight out and spread wide, displaying the all-too-thin crotch of the
panties that failed miserably in containing her luxuriant bush.
"See?" she asked again. Had she glanced at me, at my bugging eyes, it's
likely she would not have asked.
"Yes . . ." I gasped, "I see."
Pulling together some last vestige of control, I leaned over and gave
her another brief kiss and then sank to my knees between her thighs and
looked at her for a moment, as if to appraise the magnitude of the problem.
The "problem" of course, was jammed down my pant leg.
"As I see it," I said, "there are a couple of options here. How much we
trim from the sides is dictated by the width of the front panel of these
panties . . ."
"So, what *are* the options?"
"Well, in no particular order, we can shape the top part . . . you know .
. make it a narrow band or stay with the natural look."
"I vote for natural," she interjected and I agreed.
"What other options?"
"You need to decide if you want the length of the remaining hair
shortened, you know, made less bulky, or left long."
"OK, what else?"
It was getting very warm and I suspect I had beads of sweat on my
forehead. "Well . . . ," I started to say and then stalled. This was tough.
"Yes? Well what, Billy?"
"Uh . . . we need, er . . . that is, *you* need to decide if you want the
hair on your pussy lips just trimmed short or . . . ," then I paused again,
took a breath and rushed on, " . . . *shaved*." The "shaved" part came out
in a rush and too loud. I hadn't intended to give it such emphasis and I was
suddenly hotter. I knew my face was burning.
Jean relieved the tension by laughing and asking, "Well, professor,
what's your recommendation?"
"About?"
"About everything, guy. But let's start with the shaving part."
With an audible exhale, I said something really cool . . . something like,
"Awesome, dude." Then, pulling my eyes away from her crotch, just a foot
away, I looked up at her. She was smiling! Christ, *she* was relaxed and
I was almost hyperventilating!
"Yes, Billy. Go on."
I couldn't do it. I couldn't maintain eye contact with her and keep my
few meager thoughts organized. So I acted out the best compromise I
could put together. I looked up at the ceiling as if contemplating a weighty
topic, then closed my eyes and said, "I'd trim the upper part back, but
maintaining its natural wedge shape but at the same time, I'd shorten the
length of the remaining hairs. De-bulk it a little."
Then, taking another deep breath, I continued, still without looking at
her, "I'd first trim back all the public hair on your labia, say below your
clitoris, back to your . . . uh . . . your back bottom."
"Back bottom? You mean my ass hole, Billy?" She laughed that soft,
tinkling laugh that assured me everything was OK.
"Yeah, ass hole, that's what I mean. And then . . . I'd shave the lips."
I heaved a big breath and asked, "So there, what'ya think?
"If that's the way you want it, Billy, then that's the way I want it."
Once again, the complexities of life, largely perceived by my mind,
were reduced to a simple and uncomplicated statement. "If that's the way
you want it . . ." The need to rationalize was passed. My desire to
negotiate a scene the way I wanted it was just put aside by her simple
acceptance.
We didn't speak. She looked at me and I looked at her, or more
accurately, I stared at the junction of her long tan thighs and the brief,
lacy crotch of her panties, at her rich auburn curls sticking out from the
sides.
Finally, in a soft voice, I said, "Stand up, Jean."
Without replying or asking why, she stood up, hands at her sides,
looking down at me as I met her gaze over the twin prominence of her
breasts, nipples now sharply visible through her pull over. I reached up and
hooked my fingers into the elastic waist band over her hips, paused,
savoring the moment, looking into her eyes. Here was my beautiful,
incredibly sexy sister, standing for me as I was about to pull down the
thong panties she'd purchased at my suggestion. I'd spent half my life it
seemed, trying to catch a glimpse up her dress or up the pant leg of her
shorts . . . that I might see just for a moment, which was now right here,
mere inches away from my nose.
My fingers still hooked, I leaned forward and nuzzled the prominent,
cushy mound of Jean's pussy hair, inhaling her fragrance. My little sniff
was the loudest thing in the room at that moment and it jangled my
memory of all the times I'd attempted to snitch her panties from the
soiled-clothes hamper. It had come down to this . . . all my fantasies and
machinations had come down to this moment.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled down her panties, down past the top of
her thick bush, now curling, uncovering her sex as it curved back into her
crotch, her labia barely seen. The thong, caught in her ass cheeks, held up a
moment, and then fell with a little elastic snap. Down past her knees, down
to her ankles and then, one foot at a time, she stepped out of them
The air was thick with her scent. More for the erotic impact than the
smell of her, I held them to my nose as I looked at her. She smiled and
wrinkled *her* nose and still didn't say anything.
"Sit, " I said, again softly.
She sat, butt on the edge of the chair, back straight and knees together.
I looked at her with a quizzical frown and made an opening gesture with
my hands; she opened her legs and then rested her hands on her parted
thighs. I looked between her legs again and remembered the first time I'd
seen her pussy as she'd peed on the dusty trail out of Fourth of July Lake.
While I'd seen her pussy a couple of times after than, it was the first time
that was so strong in my mind, so sweet and so indelible.
Kneeling between her knees, I reached out and touched the skin of her
abdomen, just below her belly button and then traced a soft line down
through her curly pubic hair, just missing her hooded clit, and then down
the center, barely touching the hairs that mostly obscured her labia, now
opened a bit by her spread legs.
She gasped but didn't speak and didn't move.
"Ready?" I asked the rhetorical question.
She just smiled so I asked again, "Ready, Jean?"
As always, I was trying to engage Jean in conversation about some
sexy topic. She wasn't buying. She just smiled broader and nodded her
assent.
I picked up a long comb that had both coarse and fine teeth and then
ran the coarse end through the hair on her lower belly, slowly combing
out the tight curls and tangles, each stroke getting closer to her clit. She
didn't speak but said something like, "Hmmmmm . . . ," as she spread her
legs a little wider, opening more the lips of her pussy, now swollen and wet.
Holding the comb vertically, I combed her labia's hair away from
center, toward her thighs, pulling her lips open still more, making a moist,
sucking sound. This was entirely new territory for me. I'd never seen Jean's
pussy so close and so open before. I was excited and hard, yet aware of our
elevated plateau of awareness and didn't want to rush anything. So,
continuing my placing a "part" in the middle of Jean's cunt, I combed and
combed, watching the further eversion of her lips, and the pooling of her
secretions at the bottom of her slit.
Her thick white emissions pooled, filled and spilled over, running down
into the crack of her ass and she moaned again. As I combed the pussy
hair near her clit, she shuddered, and then spoke for the first time in
minutes, "That's OK . . . I'm OK . . . keep going."
Jean's clit was poking out, a tiny girl hard-on, peeking out from her
clitoral hood. I was mesmerized and moved closer yet, initially to inhale
her fragrance, but when my hot breath washed over her clit, she shuddered
again and moaned, "Yes."
I opened my mouth and slowly exhaled my hot breath on her pussy
again and again. She began to sag, her back falling against the chair and
her hips sliding forward another inch as her hands slipped between her
thighs, pushing them farther apart, opening herself to me.
All conscious thought gone, unplanned and unthinking, I reached out
with the tip of my tongue and licked her pool of secretion at the bottom of
her cunt. She jerked, her legs hitting the sides of my head for a moment as
she expelled a whoosh of air, and then she snapped them opened again,
slouching still farther.
As if in a dream. I again reached out with my tongue and slowly pulled
it up one side and then the other or her labia, closer and closer to her clitty.
She hissed, "Yes-s-s-s!"
I leaned into her crotch and with a partially open mouth, kissed her clit
as softly as I could. She suddenly hunched her pelvis into me, driving her
cunt into my mouth. I softly sucked her clit with my lips as she moaned
and moaned, "Ungh . . . ungh . . . ungh . . ."
I nursed on her, sucking her lips, sucking her clitty, tonguing her sweet
feminine slit, tasting her, pulling her copious secretions up to her clit. I
wasn't aware of another thing. My world had narrowed down to this
feminine trough in front of me. I was drowning in her scent and her moans
of pleasure.
I thought she said something like, "In me," so I slipped a finger into her
vagina as I continued to suck and lick her pussy.
The correctness of my interpretation was given evidence by her crying
out, "Yes! Yes! Yes! More! In and out! Oh God, oh God, oh God!"
Jean's ass had slid off the chair and she was supporting her lower body
with her widely splayed legs while her upper torso was balanced rigidly on
the seat. Grunting, moaning, she repeatedly heaved her crotch into my
face. Holding her hips in my hands, as if holding a large slice of
watermelon, I mindlessly mouthed her pussy, licking her slit and
attempting to tongue fuck her as she repeatedly thrust against me.
Jean started a low moan that built in intensity, melding into a rising
scream as she exhorted me, "Billy, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me." She
grabbed my head in her hands and pulled my face tighter to her pussy,
hunching against me.
Air hunger began to build, forcing me to bob my head, breaking the
suction that I might gulp another lung full before diving again into the
center of her wet, swollen desire.
As if a trip-wire had been triggered, suddenly she scissored her thighs
about my head, trapping and squeezing me, almost shutting off all sound.
Perhaps more by vibration, I heard her scream, "Billy, I'm cumming."
Moments later we crashed to the floor. I was gasping for air, my face
totally wet with Jean's juices, my head still between her legs. For long
minutes no one said anything. I couldn't. I couldn't *think* much less
speak. I was stunned and overcome with the intensity of it all.
A little while later Jean said, "Billy?"
"I think I'm dead," I mumbled.
"Billy, are you going to trim my pubic hair or not?"
"Will you kiss me again, Jean?"
END OF CHAPTER 15
Subject: My Sister Jean XVI - Jean's Confession (m/f, cons, inc, talk)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 16 Aug 1997 19:56:14 GMT
--------
MY SISTER JEAN
By BillyG
Jean's Confession - Chapter 16
It was a warm morning, the type of warmth you know will precede a
hot day. I was aware of a vague malaise, a sense of lethergy that was
rooted in the sameness of the last week of uncharacteristic heat. Normally
the cooling breezes of the Pacific, ten or fifteen miles over the coastal
range, held off the valley heat. Must be some kinda low trapped right here,
I concluded.
Still, I was feeling a bit restless and decided to take a hike into the
Open Space District contiguous with our home. I wondered idly if Jean'd like to
go with me, but she wasn't in her room and the downstairs was equally
quiet. Grabbing a hiking stick from the bamboo rack, I walked out on the
trellised deck in the back and found my mom and Jean sitting in the half-
shade, looking out over the pond. They were leaning toward each other,
apparently having a whispered conversation.
Both were wearing white shorts and T-shirts, probably I thought, to
play tennis. It wasn't the first time I'd observed just how much alike they
looked. Both were tan and fit, each with long, attractive legs. And that
surprised me, for I'd not really thought of my mother in any way but as my
mom.
"Hi, ladies. What's happenin'?"
Mom hesitated a moment, finishing something she was telling Jean and
looked up. "Hi, yourself, dude. You look like you're going to take a
walk."
"Yeah. Anyone wanna walk with me?"
Mom answered, "A little later perhaps? I'm too settled right now."
Jean smiled and said, "Me too, Billy. A little later?"
It was never easy for me to hear "No" as an answer, but I knew that's
just the way it was this morning. I told myself it didn't have anything to do
with me; they just had other things on their minds.
Looking up at the early morning sun over the Eucalyptus trees to the
east, I replied, "It's a little warm now. But it's gonna be hotter'n the
dickens in a few hours. You know me and the heat. Think I'll go for it
now. Catch you later."
I loved the miles of Open Space above our house and I'd rather walk
with someone, but in the face of my teenage-impaired tolerance for delayed
gratification, I just couldn't wait and took off up the hill into the redwood
grove. Even in the relative cool of the morning, I seemed to seek out the
shaded spots as I unconsciously choose to walk down into the wooded
ravine rather than up to the open country.
I'd discovered this trail - I thought of it as mine - my secret trail,
until the Open Space people had widened it and made it more attractive. At
first I had a resentment. I just knew that it'd be overrun with hikers now that
it was no longer a secret. I needed have worried. In the years since it'd been
open up, I'd not seen a single person. So it had again reverted to being
"my trail."
The stream at the bottom was running full and on an impulse, I pulled
off my boots and dropped my feet into the coolness of the runoff. As often
happens around the sound of running water, soon I had to take a leak. I
smiled at myself, standing knee-deep in the stream, my dick out, watching
the arc of my stream as it splashed into the water.
"How pleasant," I thought, and closed my eyes, feeling the breeze and
listening to the forest sounds. An image of Jean and my mom, tanned legs
stretched out, flashed and without choosing, I fell into that reverie. They
were both very attractive women and I'd become fascinated, even
mesmerized, with my sister Jean in the past year. Actually, fascination is
not a strong enough term. Our natural affection and apparent mutual
horniness had led us into "almost doin' it" several times but so far we'd
restricted ourselves, mostly just talking about it with an occasional sexual
foray into limited but very intimate touching. Except for the time she gave
me a blow job . . . or the time I kissed her pussy. Yeah, I guess you could
say that was a tad more than intimate touching, huh?
I slowly became aware that I'd stopped peeing and was standing there,
holding a now-erect cock in my hand. "You're hopeless, Billy," I
concluded, "a hopeless horndog."
Turning back to get my boots, I stepped on a round river rock that
suddenly turned, dumping me on my ass in the stream. "Shit!" It was
summer, but the runoff was cold!
I got up slowly, looking down at my soaked shorts, water running out
of my shorts, down my legs and thought, "No way I'm going for a long
walk this way. Guess I'll go back and change."
Returning home, Jean and Mom were no longer sitting on the back
deck, so I stripped off my wet clothes on the side deck and before going in
to change, I decided to take a soak in the hot tub. "They must have gone
to the tennis courts," I reasoned.
As I was folding back the cover of the tub, I heard the back slider door
open and then close followed by Mom's voice. I was startled, not so much
that I'd be caught bare assed - that was no huge deal - although I don't
think my mother had seen my bare butt in a while. What startled me was a
word or two I'd overheard. Sounded like "something horny." I couldn't
imagine my mother and my sister having a conversation that included the
concept of horny. Shows how much I knew.
I stepped into the tub, making no effort to be quiet, but I guess the
noises I made were masked by their own conversation, for they didn't
acknowledge my presence as they settled into the lawn chairs, just around
the corner of the house from me.
The acoustics made no sense, but I was aware I could hear them clearly,
even the tinkle of ice in a glass. Just as I was about to speak up to them, to
let 'em know I was there, I heard Mom say, "So, how long has this been a
problem?"
"The horny thing?" Jean asked.
"That's the topic, I think," Mom replied with a smile in her voice.
A chair scraped and then it was quiet for a long ten seconds. Mom was
patient, I knew. Finally Jean replied, "Gee, I don't know, but I've been
aware of these, um . . . feelings for the last couple of years.
Another pause, briefer. "But now it's . . ." She stopped.
"More intense?" Mom offered.
"Yeah. Sure is. Sometimes it seems that's all I think about."
"Some older people would say that's not a problem . . . that's a
blessing!" Mom laughed. Then asked, "So then, what IS the problem?"
"Golly, Mom . . . you know. I'm, uh, itchy and restless and I have these
. . . you know, urges. And then I begin to think I'm bad. That these
thoughts are wrong. I just feel bad and I'm all mixed up."
I heard the chair squeak and envisioned Mom leaning over to lay her
hand on Jean's thigh. "Baby, we've talked a little about this before, but I
guess it's time to share in more detail. Remember what I told you, girl?
Those are natural feelings. They're right and they're good. There's nothing
dirty or wrong about sexual feelings. It's your humanness shining through.
Most of the discomfort and emotional pain people experience about sexual
things arise in their own heads. Keep it in the forefront of your mind, baby.
Sex is not a moral issue."
"Mom, I get that. Or at least I think I do. I accept myself and I'm
happy to be a woman and I'm really happy that I have you for a mom. It's
just that . . . well . . . it's not an intellectual thing. Cripes, it's not
even an emotional thing!"
"What thing is it, baby?"
"It's a physical thing! You know. Horny!"
As if slapping her forehead, mom said, "Oh! I'm beginning to get it.
You're *horny*. I mean, *physically* horny, and it's bothering you, right?"
Where was Mom when I was suffering from an ingrown hard-on? How
come we never had this kinda talk? Probably because I never told the
truth, I thought as I sank deeper into the hot tub. I *should* announce
myself. This was sneaky. Yet, it was probably too late to speak up now, I
reasoned, so I just sat there quietly and listened. My mind can rationalize
almost anything.
"*Bothering* me is an understatement. I'm a nervous wreck and don't
know what to do about it."
"Does masturbation help?" asked Mom reasonably.
"Sometimes." Then Jean laughed and added, "And then sometimes it
seems to just feed the fires!"
Mom gave a wry laugh and said, "I know what that's like."
"You too?" Jean asked with a note of incredulity in her voice.
"Well, it's not so bad now . . . but I remember . . ."
Jean interrupted, "So, what'd you DO? What do I do?"
"Baby, I've tried not to tell you now to live your life. I've tried to
give you principles by which to live. That's still true. Just WHAT you do is
up to you, but there *are* guiding principles."
"Such as?"
"Remember I told you that among adults, sexual activity is not a moral
issue, that whatever they do is OK if they follow a few rules. Remember
the rules?"
"Uh . . . that we talk about it and not hurt each other?"
"Yes, that's part of it. There must be mutual consent. For that to
happen, you've *got* to talk about it. When I was young, it seems that the
rule was something like it's OK to do it, just don't talk about it. Kinda the
braille approach to negotiation."
Interrupting again, Jean asked, "Are we talking about *doing it*?"
Mom laughed again, that throaty, sexy laugh, and said, "Well, that's
only *part* of it. We're talking about sexual activity, whatever it is. Doing
it - intercourse if you will - is just one of the sexual activities to which I'm
referring. Actually, I'm talking in a broader sense. Whatever it is we do
with each other sexually, we need to talk about it, to negotiate. We need
to make sure it's OK and that we're on the same page. Probably one of the
biggest mistakes we make in human relationships is to assume we know
what the other person is thinking, and then worse, to *act* as if our
assumptions were correct."
"OK, I'm with you so far. What else?"
"Of course, we need not to hurt each other, or allow ourselves to be
hurt."
"Hurt? Like in getting a disease? Or hurt as in physical hurt?" Jean
giggled. "Like spanking?"
"Both. We'll return to things like spanking in a minute, but it's clear,
I hope, that you've got to be very, very careful. Sexually transmitted
diseases *are* a big deal. You've got to be willing to talk to your potential
sexual partner about their sexual history as well as your own. You have a
right to ask for proof of a recent AIDS test and, when you're sexually
active, you've got to be willing to show your own proof."
Then, signaled by her low laugh, I detected that Mom was switching
mental gears.
"But what I was thinking about at the moment was sexual *play*."
"Play?"
I knew what *I* thought of when sexual play came to mind, but I
couldn't imagine what my conservative mother was alluding to.
I heard Mom take a deep breath and then let it out slowly, as if
preparing to launch into a difficult topic.
"Baby, I always knew we'd have this conversation, but I hadn't
planned on it this soon. I kept putting it off, I suppose waiting for the right
moment. I guess this is it."
"What, mom?"
"I've always told you that we're only as sick as our secrets, that
honesty will set us free. Still, there are parts about being an adult, and
more, being a parent, that seem to require some measure of restraint. I
always thought I'd tell you some things when you had a need to know."
"Mom! You're beating around the bush. That's not like you. Like
you always say to me, 'Spit it out.' You were talking about sexual play.
What do you mean?"
"Yes, play - as in erotic power exchange. You know, your dad and I
tease each other about this when we think you two aren't around, but I
know you've overheard us, haven't you?
"Uh . . . I guess . . . maybe a couple of times."
"A couple of times per week would be more like it," Mom suggested,
laughing. Then, a little more seriously, she went on, "Your dad is a very
strong man, even a dominant man. I consider myself a strong woman - and
I am - but when your dad and I play, he's the dominant partner, the Top if
you will."
"And?"
"I meant to have this talk with you someday. Now appears like a good
time. When we play - and we play a lot, your Dad and I - I enjoy being the
little girl. I like to be told what to do. Perhaps it gives me permission to
do the naughty, the forbidden, things I'd really like to do anyway. Then, I
like to be tied up at times. I love the feeling of helplessness. And - this is
a little embarrassing - I like to be spanked!"
"Really? Bare bottom? How embarrassing. Does it hurt?"
"No, baby, that's the point. It's pleasure. I love it. It's a huge
turn-on.
The whole thing works only if there is trust and love and understanding,
and most important, communication. Without that, we're left to our own
imagination, and for me, that's a dangerous place to hang out.
"Oh, if he struck me in anger, it would hurt. I'd really hurt. But it's
done with love and I love it . . . I love the intense sensations. I once heard
a woman describe herself as a sensation slut and that gave me a shiver,
because . . . well, because I could relate."
"Wow. That's . . . uh, far out. I mean, that's really neat, Mom! I had
no idea. Tell me more."
"Baby, I'll tell you as much as you want to hear, but first I want to get
on with the principles of good sexual behavior, OK?"
Rats! I thought my parents were so conservative that they'd never
done anything and now I was hearing of an exciting side of their
personalities of which I knew almost nothing. I wanted to hear more.
"OK. No hurting then. Of course, that seems only right. What's so
difficult about that?"
"Usually not much, but sometimes we really have to look within
ourselves and question our motives . . . to be careful we're not hurting
someone when we think our motives are good. I don't know about you,
but my ego often wears blinders."
"Yeah, I can see how my ego gets in the way sometimes too. What
else?"
"Well, the next thing is a bit more abstract, but we've got to be careful
not to be exploitive."
"Mom, I know what "exploitive" means, but how's it apply in this case?"
"Let me give you an example. Let's say you've agreed to have sex with
someone - and *having sex* doesn't necessarily mean having intercourse. I
regard all sexual activity as "having sex." OK? A sexy conversation can be
viewed as having sex. Mutual masturbation can be viewed as having sex."
"OK, I get it . . . it's a definitional thing."
"Yes, and for purposes of our conversation, that's how we'll define it.
Anyway, let's say you've talked this over with someone, you both want it
and you agree you -'re not going to hurt each other. Now here's the rub.
You're 18 and he's . . . let's say he's 12."
"Mother!"
"Get off your high horse, miss. It's happened. Lot's of times. But that
doesn't make it right. He's too young. He might think he knows what he
wants, but he can't really know. If you had consensual sex with him, that'd
be exploitive."
Jean laughed and said, "Alright. So I can't get it on with Johnny."
Johnny was the boy next door. At 15 he was a year younger than I. I
held my breath.
"Johnny's a cute kid and he *looks* older than he is. Heck, he looks
older than Billy, but I know he's not as mature. I'd put Johnny on the
borderline . . . as least as far as age was concerned. But I'd not pick
someone like him for different reasons. I think of him as a kiss-and-tell
kind of guy. You've got a reputation to take care of, girl."
"OK. Johnny's out." Jean then laughed and added, "He doesn't blow
my skirt up anyway."
By this time, I was almost frozen in my fascination. I couldn't believe
how open and candid my mom and Jean were being with each other. I
wished I could be that way with my dad, but I thought of him as too stern,
too busy, too unavailable. I wondered if Mom would ever let me chat with
her? Cripes, every time I thought I was so sophisticated, so cool and
knowledgeable, I discovered how little I knew. There was probably a
lesson in there somewhere, but I was too caught up in the excitement of my
eavesdropping.
Mom continued, "Let's not get too abstract here. We're talking about
*your* problem. What I'm trying to tell you is this. Being sexual is OK.
More than OK, it's good. You've just got to be careful in life. You've got
to take care of yourself as well as be respectful of those you care for. This
make sense?"
"Hmmm . . . I guess, in the abstract. I mean, I'm so darn horny and
masturbating does help, but not for long. I feeling a deep need for . . .
well, I not really sure for what, but I think I'm ready to start letting
down my defenses around the boys."
"Baby, it's been my experience that beyond some emotional point, my
well-considered intentions go out the window. My, uh . . . my pussy thinks
for me. So you might think you're *starting* to lower your defenses and
suddenly you'll find it's a done-deed, a fiat accompli. Now, I'm not saying
that there's anything really wrong about that, save for a couple of big
considerations. Like sexually transmitted diseases - which can affect
anyone - and the really big one, pregnancy."
"God, Mom . . . I wasn't thinking . . ."
"That's just it, baby. You weren't thinking and when *it* happens, it
won't happen because you've given it a lot of thought. Believe me, it
happens! And our awareness is largely after the fact. Our denial is nothing
more than a head-in-the-sand stance, a refusal to see life as it really is."
"You sound like you've been there."
Jean said this with a provocative tone of voice, as if daring Mom to tell
the truth. And then I wondered, "Had *my* mother really experienced
anything like this, or was she preaching from some how-to book?"
Mom paused, then replied, "I have. It's no big secret and I'll share it
with you, but not right now. It's tough enough staying on the topic. And
the topic is: Sex and Birth Control! It may not be clear to you, but it is to
me. It's time for you to see a gynecologist - you can see mine if you want -
and get on the pill."
"Gee, that sounds like I'm admitting I'm planning on, you know . . ."
"No, it's admitting that you're a sexual being, a human being and it's just
good sense. Jean, you're just like me and sooner or later it's gonna
happen."
And then, as if to honor the statical unlikeliness of such a possibility,
Mom added, "Even if it turns out you don't need it."
"Mom, are you giving me permission to get sexual?"
"You're almost an adult, Jean. You don't need my permission. I know
that you're going to do what ever you need to do, permission or not, and
that's especially true for sex.. I just want you to be a responsible woman."
"You have this conversation with Billy, Mom?"
My ears shot up. How did *I* get into this topic?
Mom laughed again, seemingly not shocked. "No, I haven't, and I can
tell from his sheets that it's time. I had hoped that his dad would, but I
don't think that's going to happen. I know you and he are very close. You
two ever talk about sex?"
I held my breath.
Jean exhaled loudly. "Yeah. Quite a bit, Mom. I trust Billy and I think
he trusts me. He's my closest friend."
I didn't think Mom knew just how close.
"I understand that. My brother Jim was my closest friend. Still is for
that matter, except for your dad. We shared all our secrets with each
other. I'd expect no less from you two."
"Mom, did you . . . well . . . did you ever have any *special* feelings
about your brother? I mean, any sexy thoughts?"
"Of course, baby. Anyone who would tell you that he's not had
thoughts about family members is in denial or lying. It's natural."
And then, as an afterthought, Mom added, "Jean, I'm baring my soul to
you and I'm feeling a little uncertain myself. I don't want to drift into
revealing the confidences of others. But I'll tell you about *me*. Yes,
I've had lots of sexy thoughts."
"I sometimes . . ." and she trailed off.
"Sometimes have thoughts about Billy?" asked Mom.
"Whew!" An explosive gust of air and then a long pause.
"Uh . . . yeah . . . and even feelings, I mean sexy feelings." And then
Jean rushed on, "He's a neat guy. He good looking and well built. He's
kind and thoughtful and he knows my moods better than anyone . . . and
when he gives me a hug . . ."
"Get's your juices flowing, eh?"
"Mom!"
"Jean, Jean . . . remember, I've been there, done that. It's natural,
baby."
"You and Jim?"
"Sure. He still turns me on. Don't tell your dad, though, OK? I mean
don't tell *anybody*!"
"I won't tell if you won't tell."
Then after a another short pause, Jean added, "But there *is* something
I'd like to tell you, Mom. Actually something I *have* to talk about and
you're the only person I can talk to."
I could hear the wind blowing in the oak trees. Where was Jean going
with this, I wondered?
"I have a confession to make. I just gotta share this you or I'll bust. I
feel so darn guilty, I can't stand it."
Mom's voice got softer. "What ever it is, Baby, it's OK. I'll not judge
you. My job is just to love you. There is nothing, absolutely nothing under
the sun you can tell me that will change that."
Without pause, Jean blurted, "Billy and I have had sex, Mom! I don't
mean that we've *done* it . . . you know, had intercourse or anything like
that, but we have touched each other."
Oh-shit-oh-dear! At this point I felt a leaden weight in my stomach.
Busted! Grounded! Probably forever, if I wasn't run out of town on a rail
first. Jig's up. I waited for my Mom to scream.
Instead, Mom said, "I'm not surprised. In fact, I'd have been surprised if
you hadn't. You know, I live here too. I'm aware. I've seen you two. I've
seen how you act around each other. I even told you that you remind me
of myself . . . especially when I found your panties in his bed."
Jesus! I thought I had hidden those. I immediately wondered, how
might I lie my way out of this one? When I'm confronted, blind-sided like
this, the *last* thing I think about is telling the truth. My first instinctual
response, after suppressing a survival desire to run, is to make up a story,
one that'll get me off the hook. Then later, I have to spend so much
energy backing out of the corner into which I've firmly implanted myself.
"How do I remind you . . . you and Jim . . . your brother? You mean . .
you've had similar . . .?"
"Sure. Shocked?"
"Kinda . . . but not really. Actually, I'm pleased. Even thrilled. I
don't know . . . kind of makes *me* OK."
"You *are* . . . you are OK. And I love you, Jean."
Jean started to cry and I could hear Mom making comforting sounds.
The next little bit was lost to my ears. I envisioned Jean crying into Mom's
shoulder . . . Mom patting her.
Then Jean blubbered, "Oh, my . . . I don't know why I'm doing this, but
I'm so relieved and so happy. I feel so loved."
"Want to tell me what you've done, Baby?"
"You won't get mad?"
"No, this isn't about getting mad and you're not being grilled. What we
all need are safe places. Places where we can share our secrets. Believe
me, the more you share with me, the better you'll feel. Just keep in mind, I
love you and I'm not judging you. I don't so much need to hear this as you
need to share it."
I was feeling like a shriveled-up prune by now, wanting to run and hide,
disappear from the face of the Earth. Glancing down I noticed my dick had
disappeared!
Jean rushed on, "Well, it started off as an accident. At least, I think it
was an accident. Anyway, we were doing the laundry and Billy got hard -
he was looking down my shirt - and then he rubbed off on the table looking
at me, and then later we talked and he showed me his . . . and I couldn't
help it . . . I showed him mine, and . . ."
"Whoa. Slow down a little. Take your time. Breath."
Jean was on a confessional express and couldn't be slowed.
"Mom, I'm so excited, I want to get it all out at once. Anyway, Billy
was always listening to me pee in the downstairs bathroom - I knew that. I
didn't understand it, and I knew it was naughty, but I guess it thrilled me.
He said it turned him on. Sounds dumb but I guess that made it exciting
for me. Anyway, when we went to Fourth of July Lake last year, I let him
watch me pee one day. God! Is that kinky or what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Sounds like a chip off the old block."
"Dad?"
"Yes, but we're not talking about your Dad. We're talking about you.
Again, I'll tell you things about me, but your Dad's stuff is his stuff. I feel
free to talk about myself, but not your Dad and not my brother.
Understand? Now, anything else?"
"Yes. It get's a lot more intense. Like, I love flashing Billy, you know?
I flashed him wearing next-to-nothing at Victoria's Secret. Wow, Mom. I
felt all squishy inside. I know it gets him hot and that gives me a sense of
power. Makes me hot too. Weird, huh?"
"No. Not at all weird. That's what exhibitionism is for some folks,
Jean. Just another sexual game. More and more it seems, you're just like
me!"
"Well - this is getting more intense, Mom - one day I took his thing in
my mouth! I don't know how it happened. It just did."
Mom didn't gasp. She laughed. "You mean you sucked his *cock*,
don't you?
I gasped. Jean gasped.
"Yes . . . I guess that's what I really mean. It's just that I'm not used
to saying . . . things like that . . . and when I hear *you* say it . . ."
"So, tell me, what's Billy's part in this? He the victim or the perp?"
"Hah! Billy the victim? Hardly. He may act soft sometimes, but he's
tough as nails. I don't want you to think that he took advantage of me. He
didn't. I wanted it. All the time, I wanted it just as much as him. Even
more I bet!"
"So did that stud-son of mine touch you, get you off?"
"Oh yes! Several times. We even had phone sex once. What a hoot!
And a couple of weeks ago I asked him to trim my . . . my pussy . . . my
pussy fur. There! I said it. PUSSY!"
"Did he?"
"Trim my pussy?" Laughing. "No, we never got to it. Once he got
down between my legs . . . well, one thing led to another and he . . . he
sniffed around and . . ."
"He went down on you, right?"
"How'd you know?"
"He's his father's son."
"And that's pretty much it, Mom. I've *wanted* to do it with him. All
the time. But we haven't. I'm afraid to. I want to and I'm afraid to. But I
love getting sexual with him. God, he thrills me! I wish there were some
way we could just play with each other, satisfy each other, and not really,
well, you know . . . not really do it."
By this time I didn't know whether to strut or flush myself down the
drain. I just shut my eyes and scrunched down further.
"Baby, I'm glad for you - glad for your emerging sexuality and mostly,
for your willingness to tell the truth. Incest is *really* a loaded topic. We
can talk about the philosophical issues, and mostly, that's what they are,
philosophical issues. We can talk about the practicality of your situation . .
. or the lack of it.
"I'm not going to tell you that you're right or that you're wrong. It's
not about that. It's about feelings. And, as I've often told you, feelings
aren't right or wrong either. They just are. The only intrinsic evil I see in
life is an incapacity to love. Still, I want you to promise me something . . .
that you'll go slow, really slow with this."
Jean cried some more. I got all choked up.
"Oh, God, Mom. I feel so much better. I still don't know what to
*do*, but I feel better, so much better. Thanks"
"Good. Now the next thing we've got to do is drag Billy out of the
closet. If he's anything like you, he's dying his own deaths."
Little did they know. Death sounded like a viable option at that
moment.
"What can we do? I mean I can talk with him. I *will* talk with him.
He's got to know that I told you our secret. But then what? Will *you*
talk with him, Mom? He has the same fears and the same concerns I have.
I know. We talk about it. And I know you'd be *so* much better than
Dad."
"I suppose I *could* - might even be fun - and Jim might be better.
Except he's away on a trip and won't be back for too long. Let me think
about this, OK?"
I could hear them pushing back the deck chairs as they stood up, ready
to leave. Suddenly, unplanned and completely unbidden, I called out, "I'm
in the hot tub. I've been here all along. I heard the whole thing. I'm
sorry."
Christ! What did I *do*?
Two heads looked around the corner at me scrunched down in the tub,
almost out of sight.
I ran on, "I'm sorry for eavesdropping. I didn't mean to be a snoop.
When I came back, you weren't here and I just jumped into the tub . . . then
you came out and began talking about sexy things. I lost my head. I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to listen to your private conversation."
Jean and my mom looked at each other. Jean was red. No more than
me.
My mother broke the tension. She looked at Jean and said, "Well, I
guess this resolves *who* is going to talk with Billy."
Then looking at me, one hand on her hip, she smiled and asked, "Well,
stud . . . ready to spill the beans?"
Subject: My Sister Jean XVII The Jig's UP! (m/f inc. caught)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 21 Aug 1997 15:19:00 GMT
--------
My mother said something to Jean in a low voice, then nodding her
encouragement, gently pushed her away. Jean glanced at me, eyebrows
furrowed in a worried expression, then back at Mom. Our mother, in a
slightly louder voice, said, "It's OK, Jean. It'll be OK. Now go on in and
let me talk to Billy."
I suppose one of the more dreaded expressions I might hear from
my mother would be, "I'd like to talk to you." I immediately catastrophize,
leaping far into the future, thinking of what bridge I might live under and if
I can really stay alive selling pencils. If I sank any lower into the hot tub,
my head'd be under water.
Mom walked over to the tub and and said, "Well, this caught us
both by surprise, didn't it?"
I made a millisecond eye-contact and numbly nodded.
"Billy, we have to talk and there'll never be a better moment than
this. Don't you agree?"
Again, the acquiescing nod, still not meeting her eyes.
"Tell you what . . . you get dressed - get warm - and we'll also sit
on the back deck. It'll be private."
And then she added with a chuckle, "Unless someone's sitting in
the hot tub."
After donning sweats, I walked the final mile to the guillotine and
waited for Mom. How could things have gone so wrong, so fast, I
wondered as I sat there, remembering that a short while ago everything had
been normal? Or had it? I suppose not. My addict's mind wanted to think
that nothing was wrong, but the more-normal kid who lived in my head
suggested otherwise.
"For Christ's sake, Billy. You've been trying to get into Jean's
pants for months - your sister for cripes sake! And you think that's
normal? And then Jean tells Mom and *she's* gonna think it's normal?
Yeah, right."
My impending suicide was thwarted by Mom sitting next to me and
laying her hand on my arm, saying. "Try to calm down, Billy. It's going to
be alright. Believe me."
Do they tell you to be calm before your exiled? Gonna be alright under
the goddamn bridge?
I tried to talk and croaked instead. "Uh . . . I don't know what to
say . . . I didn't . . ."
"Didn't plan this?"
"Plan it? I couldn't have imagined it!" Then I looked at her and added,
"I don't know what to say."
"Try starting with the truth, why don't you?"
"The truth? You KNOW the truth. Jean told you the truth. It's
true, what she said. Except that she took too much responsibility for what
we did. I was the one that was pushing it all the time."
"Billy, Billy . . . I'm not sorting out who did what. And I'm *not*
attempting to apportion blame. It's not a blame thing . . . at least as far as
I
understand it. But I need to know more. That's why we're talking."
I glanced at her. She gave me a soft smile and squeezed my forearm. I
still didn't know what to say so I did what I did best. I just sat there like a
lump.
"Son, I always knew I'd have these personal talks, these talks about
sexuality with Jean and I suppose I assumed that your dad would do the
same with you. I know now that that's probably an erroneous assumption.
Your dad is very smart and he's well educated and quite articulate, but as
you know, there's an unapproachable emotional side that shields him from
things like this. I'm afraid he'll never get it together to chat with you. So,
like it or not, you get me."
"Mom, you know I can't talk to dad about things like this. Cripes,
I don't know how I can talk to *you* about it."
"We'll do OK, Billy. Let's start with general things. I gather you
don't disagree with Jean's story, at least not in most ways."
I mumbled, "No, I agree . . . at least mostly."
"Do you have anything to add? Anything that might help me see
things better?"
I was about ready to admit I didn't have a thing more to say, that
there was nothing I could add to the story. Instead I began talking.
"Mom, I can't tell you how much I care for Jean. I'd do anything for her
and I never wanted to hurt her. Oh, there's a part of me that thinks of sex
all the time - and Jean's a sexy girl, I can't deny that - but below that, I
care for her too much to ever allow myself to hurt her."
"I know that, Billy. I never doubted that."
"You see, we just became really close, really good friends. I needed
someone to talk to about . . . about my own feelings. I knew Jean would
never make fun of me and that when the chips were down, she'd support
me. As I would her."
I know that, too."
"We talked about it and talked about it. We didn't fit any mold of how
a brother and sister aughta be, at least about sex, but it just happened that
way. We thought that if we always told each other the truth and if we
always cared for each other, we'd be alright."
"Go on, Billy."
"Gee, Mom . . . the rest is about . . . you know . . . sex."
Smiling, she said, "Yes, I'm getting that."
"But, I feel funny. Talking about sex with you, I mean."
"Billy, you heard me tell Jean that sex is not a dirty subject. Private,
certainly. And at times, very intimate. It's true that we don't talk about it
with just anyone, but not because it's wrong, or bad or dirty. It's private.
Well, this conversation is private. What you say here will stay here. No
one else will hear what you tell me unless you tell them. I know kids think
that *they* invented sex, that their parents got off the sexual boat
yesterday . . . and mostly that's not the case. At least not with me. I'm a
sexual woman. I was a sexual girl and not much has changed. They still
do it the same way last I heard."
I could feel my face burning. I didn't look at her and mumbled, "Yeah, I
guess so."
"Guess so, SHIT!"
My head shot up and I turned to look into her flashing eyes.
"Don't patronize me, Billy . . . don't be so damn superior. I don't know
everything, but I'll bet a nickel I've seen more, imagined more and done a
darn sight more that you've ever thought of. I'm an intensely erotic
woman and proud of it! You could do a damn sight worse than talking
with me, dude."
My mouth fell open. I stared at her, astonished, open eyed. I stuttered.
"So let's start over, shall we? I'll respect you. I expect no less from
you. OK?"
Finding me tongue, I stumbled over my words. "I'm sorry Mom. I
didn't mean that . . . I never thought . . . Cripes, I don't know what I'm
trying to say. But I AM sorry for my attitude. Forgive me, please?"
"Forgiven. Now let's get down to plain talk. Don't beat around the
bush. Whatever words you'd use with your buddies, with Jean, you can use
with me. Don't give me any of that penis-vagina crap. Say it like it is,
OK?"
Wow. Where did this woman come from anyway? I've never seen her
like this.
How do I talk with her? I mean, how can I turn around a life-time of
behavior?
"Well . . . OK, I'll try . . . no . . . I'll DO it. What were we talking
about
anyway. I forgot."
"I think you were trying to tell me that you wanted to screw your
sister."
Gulp. "I hadn't thought to say it in just those words . . . but yes, I
guess
that's about it. But I didn't! We never did it. Honest!"
Softer, "Yes, I believe you, Billy. You don't have to convince me.
What I'm more interested in is how you support each other, about how
caring you are for each other. I'm far less concerned about conventional
morality than I am about our capacity to love and care for each other. No
mater what you two have done, if you've done it with honesty and love,
things will be alright. I just don't want you to sweep it under the rug,
that's all. So tell me, where do you see this going?"
"In the long run? I've no idea, Mom. It's pretty clear to me, all I can
handle, the only thing I can control, is my actions right now. I've been told
over and over to do the footwork and let go of the outcome, that there's no
way I can control the outcome of anything. So, I've no idea where this is
all going. But I do know this. I *can* control who I am and what I do
today."
"And what does that mean to you? In terms of you and Jean?"
"Well, it means that I can show up each day and tell the truth. That I
can think of Jean's welfare more than I think of my own. That I can be a
man today. Or at least try to be."
"You know, kid, I think you may have a chance. A chance in life that
is. It may surprise you, but I've been watching you a long time and I think
you're a good guy at heart. More, you're a good guy in your actions. So,
tell me, how do you see yourself . . . no, how do you FEEL about yourself
and your sexuality"
We'd been talking just long enough for the terror of the moment to
have abated in me. My mouth wasn't as dry and I could breath in and out,
even unconsciously. I'd slipped into that place where I wasn't considering
what I was saying. I was just letting it happen. Of course, had I seen this,
I'd have frozen.
"Mom, I know I've never received any judgmental stances from you or
from Dad. You never told me - us - that sex was bad or a moral thing.
Yet, I've received that message repeatedly from lots of other places. You
know . . . school, TV, and especially church . . . places like that. I've never
attempted to weigh you against them, but I suppose I *have* been
influenced by those messages, those shalt nots."
"Yeah, it's impossible not to hear them. They're there and on all levels.
You OK with it now or are there still demons to be reckoned with?"
"Mostly I think I'm OK. At least, I'm not aware of any really deep
issues. I suppose there are the superficial, social-shame issues. You know,
the fear of ridicule or rejection if I break social taboos. I'd be red-faced if
I
left my fly open, but I wouldn't be emotionally crushed and wouldn't think
I was a bad or evil person."
"Boy, your mind floats away, doesn't it? At times, you're so darn
cerebral, Billy. Let me ask this. How do you feel when you spring a
woodie around Jean? Or when you have a wet dream?"
"It's still difficult to forget you're my mother. I keep forming phrases
in
my mind that I hope won't be too offensive. I'll try to be real, Mom. How
do I feel about a woodie? When it's Jean? At first I was embarrassed.
Then I came to accept it. More, to enjoy it. I began to look forward to the
sexy feelings I'd get around Jean. I was always trying to look up her dress
or catch a glimpse of her breasts . . . er, tits."
"Sounds pretty normal to me."
"Anyway, whatever it is, I was stuck with it. Jean told you. We sorta
drifted into being more open and even a little sexual with each other. I felt
wonderful. For the first time in my life I could be honest with another
person about my sexual feelings. I loved it."
"And you wanted to jump her bones?"
Yeah. Something like that. I admitted to her right away that I wanted
to . . . you know."
"Fuck her?"
"I think that's the expression I used, yes."
"And she didn't want to?"
"No. She wanted to. And I wanted to. But both of us were scared.
She more than me. I told her that I supported her all the way, but that I
was so terminally horny, that if she ever gave in, I'd give in. It was kinda a
threat, huh?"
"Or a promise."
"Hmmm, hadn't thought of it that way. Whatever. We've played
bathroom games. I love watching her. I know she told you. We've had
oral sex - once for her and once for me. And, oh yes, we dry humped once
in the grass on the hill above the house. We both seem to enjoy the thrill of
seduction, of almost doing it. That make sense?"
"Billy, you don't have to tell me every little detail, although I must
admit
that I enjoy hearing about it. Brings back memories. Really what I wanted
to do is gauge how open and honest you kids were with each other. To get
an idea if you might hurt yourselves or each other."
"And what do you think, Mom? We a danger?"
Laughing, "Probably are, but I must say, you're both psychologically
more healthy than most adults I know. Certainly better adjusted that I was
at your age. I'm impressed with you. Still, I'm concerned for both of you.
This is dangerous stuff. You know that, don't you?"
"Intellectually I do, but emotionally somehow I think I'm OK. I'm not
trying to argue with you. Just trying to tell you how I feel."
"Yeah, I can see that. So what I'm going to do for the moment is
nothing. I still think there's the potential for harm here, but I'm not going
to fall back on some shame-based sanctions. I love you two guys and I
trust you. Trust that you'll try to act honorably. But please understand,
I'm not telling you that everything's alright, that there's no problem, no
worry. What I am telling you is that I understand what you're feeling and
what you're facing. I want you to continue to show caring respect for Jean,
and she for you. I know you have no control over you sexual feelings.
They're just there."
She put her hand on my arm, I guess for emphasis. "Around me, you
two guys can be yourselves. You don't have to hide your affection. My
brother Jim is cool. I'll talk to him. He'll understand. It's your dad I'm
less
certain about. So prudent judgement would suggest that you stay
underground around him, at least about the sexual stuff between you and
Jean. OK?"
I sat there, more dazed than not. I couldn't believe how we'd gone from
some place of utter fear to rational communication. About sex. With my
Mom!
"Mom, right now I'm so confused. It's clear, I need help. I'll do
whatever you tell me to do. I'll do it your way."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, guy. How about a compromise.
Let's do it *our* way. And for that to happen, we've got to keep avenues
of communication open. You've got to be able to talk to me and I've got
to be able to talk to you, each of us without apprehension. This can't be
the last talk we have on the subject. Do you agree with that?"
"Agree, but I know if I wait until the moment *seems* right, I may
wait forever. Let's make a date. Right now, for later. Tomorrow say?
Even if it's just a brief check in, I'll feel better if I know I have a date to
talk with you . . . about sex. OK?"
"Boy, a date with my son!"
"I'm not gonna bring flowers or anything."
Subject: My Sister Jean - XVIII (m/f. cons, inc, mostly talk)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 21 Aug 1997 15:15:18 GMT
--------
Some thoughts on My Sister Jean by BillyG:
It's becoming more difficult to write a stand-alone chapter in this
increasingly ponderous story, mostly because there's so much history
that's understood or at least implied, all of course contingent on
having read the preceding episodes.
As well, for the story to be believable, the characters must go beyond
two- dimensional substance, so it can't be all sex. In point of fact,
the real lives of Billy and Jean had depth and connection that existed
far beyond the vague boundaries of their sexuality. But this is a smut
story. Or is it? Certainly, the pivotal emotions and actions center
around a halting, uncertain but growing sexual connection. Still, the
fundamental values were often learned in that stumbling manner.
For those readers who catch the allusions to earlier adventures and are
sufficiently interested, the earlier chapters can be found on Mr
Double's site at:
http://www.why.net/users/mrdouble/htm/billyg.htm
My Sister Jean - Chapter 18
The Trip to Little Cayman
BillyG
The movie had started in the main cabin and the American
transcontinental flight from San Francisco to Miami had quieted for the first
time since Jean and I had boarded. Quite often when we'd traveled with our
parents, and particularly with our status-conscious father, we had flown first
class, but this time we were paying for the trip from our own meager
savings and we were firmly planted in the main cabin. Had there been a
steerage class, we might have been there, so strained was our budget.
Jean and I were on our way to Little Cayman, south of Cuba, for a week
of SCUBA diving. We'd been to The Wall at Cayman before with Mom
and Dad and as with most kids, we'd paid no attention to the cost of
anything. This time, our parents had given us permission to go there alone,
but only if we paid our own way. Something about 'the value of the dollar.'
Boy, was that an education!
I was idly looking out the window, seeing nothing, and Jean was sitting
next to me. An older guy with a paunch and earphones on was quietly
snoring next to her. Glancing around, most of the passengers were either
sleeping or caught up in the adventures of Mel Gibson. It seemed like a safe
time to talk. I put back the arm rest between us and leaned over to Jean.
"Are you surprised Mom let us go?" I asked.
"Together, on this trip? Because of our talk you mean?"
"Yeah, that," I said.
In a moment of mindless unburdening, Jean had confessed to our mom
that we'd been fooling around with each other, but we hadn't 'gone all the
way.' Cripes, our secret was out! I thought the jig was up, but I'd
underestimated our mother.
Subsequently, she cornered me. What could I do? Partly in fear and
partly because I didn't know how to lie well, I told her the truth, expecting
the world to fall in on me. 'Your own SISTER?' Yet, she hadn't gone
ballistic. Actually, she remained warm and loving, reminding me of my
responsibility to Jean and to myself and not threatening us. Oh, we'd
spoken of the potential consequences of our acts and the need to be mindful
of our actions. But she never once said, 'Don't do that.'"
"Not really," Jean said after a pause. "I mean, she does trust us."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, we've been truthful with her . . . about us, I mean. And she's
always been out front with us. She as much as told me that she can't really
*make* us do anything . . . that we'll do whatever it is we're going to do,
no matter what. And she trusts that we'll be responsible." After a pause,
she added, "Mom's always been good at that - making us responsible for
our actions, I mean."
"Yeah, I know that. At least intellectually. But emotionally, I'm still a
bit surprised. I guess I thought we'd get grounded, say for the next ten
years or so."
"Wanna hear another shocker? Try this one on for size. Mom insisted
that I start taking The Pill. 'Not that I think you're going to do anything for
sure, but you never know, she said.'"
"You're on The Pill?" I asked, excited.
"I just said . . ."
"Then you couldn't get pregnant if we . . ."
"Billy! We're not going to DO anything! How many times do I have to
tell you that? This was Mom's idea, not mine. And in any case, it's not for
YOU!" Her tone was uncharacteristically sharp.
I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Okay, okay. I get it. Don't get
mad."
Jean turned to stare at me, her eyes blazing and then she softened. "I'm
not mad. Not really. I just don't want you to take me for granted, that's
all."
The attendant offered each of us a blanket. We accepted and Jean
spread her's over her lap before continuing. "When I asked Mom if we
could go on this vacation together, she never mentioned 'our situation.'
She never said we shouldn't be together or that we shouldn't . . . well, you
know."
"Make love?"
She glanced sharply at me. "Anyway, I told her we wouldn't. She
shouldn't worry, I said."
"What's that got to do with me taking you for granted?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know!" She sounded a little exasperated. "Just don't!"
"Can I have your peanuts?"
I watched the corners of her mouth twitch, trying not to smile. She
recognized my paper-thin ploy to distract her, to change the subject.
Handing me the small bag of peanuts, she said, "You owe me."
"For the peanuts?"
"No, you jerk. For talking Mom and Dad into letting us take this trip
alone."
"Whatever your price, it's a bargain," I replied, settling back in my seat.
Still, I thought it seemed a little unreal, almost too good to be true. It
just didn't fit my concept of how things worked. After we'd confessed to
Mom our sexual desires, it didn't fit my preconceived notion of the usual
parental response. But then Mom's responses often didn't. I couldn't
remember how many times I'd screwed up, expecting to catch hell, only to
have her give me one of her calm talks. Inevitably, I'd end up taking more
responsibility for my stuff than I wanted to. Didn't she know? I just
wanted to be totally irresponsible and do the things I wanted to do and
when I wanted to do 'em. That was usually right NOW.
I suppose our taking this vacation together wasn't all that much
different from the times we'd spent home alone together, I reasoned. Yet,
the sex addict in me wanted to put some other spin on it. Like we'd been
given permission or something.
I looked over at Jean. She had her seat back partially reclined and was
quietly resting, eyes closed. I watched the rise and fall of her bulky
sweatshirt. To be truthful, I was really watching the rise and fall of her
breasts, seeing them in my mind's eye, full and heavy, yet extraordinarily
firm. Jean'd told me that the women in our family all were blessed with
firm, youthful breasts. I could only speak for Jean, a peek once or twice at
Mom and oh yes, our Aunt Peg in the hot tub. Yeah, they'd all have been
picked out of titty line-up as being related.
Unconsciously, I made it my business to check out Jean. From long
practice, I'd come to accurately recognize when she was wearing a bra, as
she was today. It wasn't that her tits sagged or anything obvious like that.
It was more I think that her bra pushed the sides in a little, maybe so they
didn't get in the way? But more I noticed subdued movement. She was
missing that subtle sway when she walked. As we were carrying our
shoulder bags toward the departure gate today, she'd caught me checking
her out. She flushed, smiled and then nodded in silent confirmation at my
unasked question. Jean'd once admitted that she was pleased that I always
checked her out. I thrived on small encouragements like that.
Just a bit later, a young girl in a micro skirt dropped something in front
of us and as she bent over at the waist, I saw a flash of red. Jean nudged me
and smiled. Red panties. Were they thongs I wondered? And why red?
Had her boyfriend instructed her in how to dress when she met him at the
airport? That and no bra, I'll bet. My imagination ran on. He'd told her to
trim her pubic hair, rouge her nipples and leave the top buttons open. Man,
I was just getting warmed up!
"Billy, come on back!"
"Uh . . . yes . . . my mind wandered for a moment." I said sheepishly.
She smiled and said in a low voice, "The whole airport could see that."
The trip to Miami was best described at tedious and we arrived almost
on schedule. Between planes, we called home and left a message that
everything was going alright. Jean bought a few post cards and I mostly
looked at the dark-skinned, good-lookin' girls gliding and swaying about
the airport. I loved the colors of all the people. Even the airport colors
looked like something out of a TV Program about Miami. Watching one
particularly exotic girl jiggle past me - I imagined from Havana - I had an
image of dusky-skinned teenage girls rolling large cigars on nubile firm
thighs. I didn't know if they did it that way, but I liked the image.
Jean nudged me in the ribs and whispered in my ear, "Lookit the ass on
THAT one!" It was one of those small-waisted, firm-cheeked honeys that
wore jeans so tight, it defied understanding. I mean, how in hell they get
'em on, anyway?
I turned and smiled at her, making a brief salivating look.
"Down, boy," she advised.
"If I could WILL it down, my life would be simpler."
"If you could only will it UP . . ." she countered, then looked away,
blushing.
"It'd always be up . . . at least around you." I finished in a slightly louder
voice.
"You!" She pretended mock indignation.
The Cayman Air flight took off on schedule, an unusual occurrence, I
thought. The relatively brief flight over Cuba and down to the Caymans
was uneventful, the very best type of trip. When we landed in Grand
Cayman, the air was sweet and warm and the people friendly and colorful,
but still, we thought of the tourist part of that Caribbean island much as we
thought of Miami Beach, which is to say, not very much. We were anxious
to move on to a more remote, less developed part of the islands.
From past experience, we reserved some trepidation for the connecting
flight from Grand Cayman to Cayman Brac and the short jump to Little
Cayman. We remembered it as a chancy and casually-run affair. An
unusually tall, former horse-transportation aircraft converted for human use
served as the Mexican bus equivalent of the local island shuttle. Well, kinda
converted as we remembered and our memory served us well. I looked
around large, stall-like interior of that curious plane, half expecting to see
an
old, dried-up horse turd kicked into a dusty corner but the only thing I saw
was a crushed Coke can and some candy wrappers.
After landing on Little Cayman, almost a grass strip carved out of the
jungle, we taxied to the terminal. That's an overstated name for the small
wooden shack sitting next to a weedy graveled area. With only twenty-
some permanent inhabitants on the island, there'd be no taxi cabs, but I
needed have worried. A moderately rusted and beat-up old pickup that
belonged to Pirate's Pub was there to meet us.
Surprisingly, all our gear made it through the multiple plane changes.
As surprisingly, Jean traveled almost as light as I did, in marked contrast to
our aunt or our mother. "Casual clothes, that's all I packed," Jean assured
me. Even without tanks and weight belts, the rest of the gear was heavy,
bulky and clumsy. That was the price, we'd been taught, for the safety of
taking your own gear on a dive trip. I was pleased when several guys
standing around swarmed over our gear and loaded it into the truck and it
appeared they were pleased with the tip.
Pirate's Pub was run by a delightful, robust, full-of-life lady from Texas
named Gladys Howorth. She'd studied in several internationally known
culinary institutes and her meals at Pirate's Pub were justifiably famous.
Still, for all of that, I'd not have traveled so far just for the atmosphere and
her cooking alone. It was the Wall I was after. I've heard that there are
three premiere dive spots in the world, at least for wall diving. There's the
Red Sea for one, then parts of the Great Barrier Reef were highly ranked
and finally, in our hemisphere, there's the Wall off Little Cayman.
I read that the Wall dropped off into the depths, falling 6,000 feet
straight down. That was academic, of course, but what made it so fantastic
was the impossible-blue waters there with constant 100 feet plus viability.
That together with the rich and varied marine life in and around the pockets
and caves on the Wall made for some of the most spectacular diving
anywhere. Happily, there was no drift current as in Cozumel, so you could
hang out anywhere without having to work against the drift. If the Dive
Master became confidant of your abilities, you could dive alone with your
buddy and return to the boat when you were ready. Rarely did we have
dive groups larger than six to eight people and often, there'd be as little as
four.
We'd been to the Caymans a couple of times before with our parents
and friends. Jean was a strong swimmer and a naturally talented diver.
We'd been diving buddies for years and were very comfortable with each
other's abilities. We just floated around effortlessly using so little air,
often
we were in the water for fifteen or twenty minutes after other folks had
depleted their tanks' air supply.
"Think Margi's still here?" Jean asked on the ride through the jungle.
She'd had taken off her sweatshirt and was down to a skimpy sleeveless T-
shirt. My arm was over her shoulder and I had a good view of the top of
her white bra as well as a good portion of her cleavage. It never ceased to
thrill me.
Margi? Margi had been a small, very attractive female Dive Master who
came from Colorado. We'd met her last year. I'd developed a crush on her
then but aside from recognizing me as an experienced diver, I don't think
she even know I was alive. She was a couple of years older than Jean, and
that put me out of the running. Some good-looking 'older guy' had
monopolized much of her time when we had been there the previous year.
No, I hadn't forgotten Margi.
"I hope so, but doubt it. They've had a new Dive Master every time
we've been here. They're such a bunch of gypsies."
"Would you like to *see* her again?" she asked, grinning at me. We
both remembered the time Margi had been helping a sea-sick diver into the
boat and couldn't tend to a broken bikini bra strap. I couldn't see the
diver, just Margi's full breast. I remembered how tan she was, except her
breast which was startlingly white. Mostly, I remembered her nipple. It had
been very large, thick and meaty, jutting out from her pebbled areola.
I whispered in her ear, "Remember her nipple?" I may have been talking
about Margi's breast, but it was Jean's I was eyeing as I peered down her
shirt.
"I KNEW that's what your were thinking, you hound dog!"
Jean loved to play the innocent, obliquely referring to something sexy
and then pretending moral outrage. We knew the game well.
When we arrived at Pirate's Pub, the efficient crew had us moved into
our room in a jiffy. We'd asked for two adjoining rooms, but knew we'd
take whatever was available. I was tickled when Gladys put us in a single
large room with two double beds. Our quarters was one half of an
octagonal building in the palm trees quite near the beach. I remembered
how soothing the waves and the night sounds were there.
"Well, babes, it looks like we're stuck together. Mind?"
"Of course not, but don't get any ideas," she replied, not looking at me
as she swung her luggage onto the bed.
"Jean, ideas are all I have." I protested, opening my large carry-on bag.
Filling the drawers and sorting out gear, I added, "You don't think I can
really stop *thinking*, do you?"
Jean held up some brief, sheer panties I'd never seen before, and studied
them for a moment. "It's not your *thinking* that concerns me, big guy."
"Where'd you get those?"
"Victoria's Secret. And you know what I'm talking about."
"Hot!" I paused and then continued, "And no, I don't know what
you're talking about. Sex, sure. And us. But what about it? I thought we
had a deal?"
A little while back we'd agreed to explore our sexuality, out of the
closet as it were, just as long we honored each other's limits. That of
course meant mostly me respecting her limits. I'm not sure I had any. At
least I hadn't bumped into them yet.
Jean stopped unpacking and just looked out the screened window at the
filtered light reflected off the water. Periods of silence were common
between us and I didn't pay any attention until I saw her shoulders shake.
When I walked in front of her I saw her eyes were screwed tight and a
couple of tears were running down her cheeks.
When my shadow crossed her face, she opened her blue eyes that were
shiny wet and just looked at me as she brought her fingers up to her face. I
gathered her into my arms and held her without speaking. She sobbed
silently for a few minutes and then put her arms about my neck burying her
head below my ear. I ran a hand up and down her back, softly kissing her
hair and making crooning sounds.
"I'm sorry, Billy. I know I'm being such a bitch. You don't deserve
that. Thanks for your patience with me." She hiccoughed and then
laughed. "And yes, we *do* have a deal. That hasn't changed. Tell you
what, I'm a little bit scared and my period's about to start. I always get a
little 'touchy' for a day or two this time of the month. God, I *hate* to
think I'm a PMS-er! Can you put up with me?"
I almost asked her what my choices were, but held off, thinking she
didn't need any of my sophomoric humor. Instead, I continued to hold her
close and said, "Jean, there's not a serious problem on the horizon. Think
about it. We're alive and well, we're together, and this is the first day of a
to-die-for vacation. I love you . . . you know that, but I want to say it
anyway. There's no agenda. We can dive or not dive. Sleep or not sleep.
Wanna be with me? Cool. Wanna be alone a little, that's cool too."
"Oh, Billy! I don't what to be alone! What ever I say . . . however I
act, I came here to be with you. Don't leave me, promise? I'm sorry I've
been a shrew, but I'm feeling better already. Maybe I just had to let the
bitchiness out, huh?"
Nodding, I said, "All I really know is how I feel and that works for me,
babe. The letting it out, I mean. If I carry it around, stuffed, not letting
go
of it . . . well, it just festers. I can maybe hide it for a little while, but
it'll
erupt if I don't own it. Know what I mean?"
She nuzzled my neck before letting me go and then spinning around, she
said something like, "Whew . . . I feel so much better. Thanks, Billy."
I sat on her bed and picked up a pair of her lacy panties. Holding them
up to the light - I could almost see through them - I commented, "This is
how all this started, what, a couple of years ago?"
Jean gave me a particularly wicked smile and said, "They're the *clean*
ones. I'm *wearing* the ones *you* want, you perv."
I was pleased to have the old Jean back and told her so on the way to
the main house to register and see if we could get a late snack. Gladys
keeps an open bar for her guests and while we didn't drink much on a dive
vacation, we stopped by to see who was there.
"Why, it's the two porpoises," sang out a woman's voice from back of
the bar. "Welcome back," yelled Margi, loud enough for everyone to hear.
As often follows a loud noise, it suddenly became quiet and I was aware of
the curious stares of several people.
Margi typically didn't wait for a reply. She ran on, "Everyone, I'd like
you to meet Billy and Jean, two of the nicest people, first rate divers and if
anyone needs help and I'm not around, ask either of them."
Margi rounded the bar and ran into my arms for a bear hug. As usual,
she was wearing a pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt sans bra. I wondered if
she even owned a bra?
I asked her, "Do we get paid for that?"
"What's your price?" she whispered in my ear.
"You and me to go diving alone some time this week." I returned in a
similar whisper.
"Did he ask you to go diving alone with him?" Jean sang out in a voice
not heard by more than half the room. "He was hoping you'd be here,
Margi."
Margi smiled at me and with a broad wink said, "That right, big boy?"
Before I knew it, Margi took Jean aside and they immediately fell into a
heads-together conversation. Their body language suggested I talk with
someone else so I introduced myself to a bearded bear of a man who was
sipping a drink and chatting with a sun-bleached, tan woman I guessed in
her thirties.
"Hi. I'm Ian and this's Jan." Turning to her, he added, "Sorry Jan, I
don't know your last name."
She extended her hand to me and gave me a dazzling smile. "Jan'll do.
Margi told us today that you and Jean were expected. She thinks highly of
both of you and your wife."
I laughed. "Jean's my sister."
Ian added, "Yes, there's a strong resemblance in your eyes and mouth.
You've much the same facial bone structure."
"That may be, but I don't see it. All I see are the differences."
We looked over at Jean and Margi. Jean was sitting back in her chair
and her skimpy T-shirt hugged her breasts and prominent nipples.
"Yes, there *are* some differences," observed Ian as he looked at Jan
and me with something approaching a leer.
"Ian doesn't miss much it would appear," said Jan with a wry smile.
Neither do I, I thought as I ran my eyes over her shirt front.
"And neither do you," Jan added.
I held my hand palms up and looked up to heaven for support.
"Busted," I said.
We chatted for a few minutes until Jean returned and said, "Billy, we're
all checked in and I've got us some snacks. I'm really beat. Think I'll go
back to our room and nibble before crashing. You?"
I"m tired too. I'll go with you." Turning back to Jan and Ian, I said
goodnight and, "See you in the morning."
Walking back through the palm trees I could hear the electric generator
chugging away in the distance. I'd forgotten how isolated this place was. I
wrapped my arm around Jean's shoulder and asked, "What were you and
Margi talking about with such intensity?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Her smile underscored her teasing, yet
there was again a faint edge to her voice. I fell silent, oddly put off a
little.
Just before entering our room, Jean stopped and asked, "Well, wouldn't
you?"
"Like to know?"
"Yes, I thought you be dying to know what Margi said."
"Yeah, I suppose I am, but to tell the truth, I'm feeling a little
disconnected. You're my best friend and I'm picking up strange energy
from you. I'm so used to being on the same wavelength, I don't know how
to behave when we're not." I paused and then went on, "Shit! I don't
know. Maybe it's me. Do you think it's me? 'My being a jerk?"
I'd learned that no matter what the other guy said or did, anytime I was
upset, it was axiomatic that something was wrong with me, that I had a part
in it somewhere. Usually it meant I wasn't accepting life on life's terms.
Things weren't going my way and I was being petulant.
"You're right, Billy. Things *are* off kilter a little. I feel it too. You
know what I think it is?"
"No, I don't guess I do," I answered, a bit more interested, for Jean's
ideas were often right on.
"Think about it. Here we are, together . . . actually, sleeping in the same
room . . . with all this history behind us . . . that moth and the flame
history.
We've been flirting with each other forever it seems. Mom knows. And we
know that she knows. I'm on the pill. Cripes, Billy! I'm scared witless. I
think you are too and that's what's wrong with us. That's the tension we're
feeling, don't you think?"
"It's certainly true that despite my resolve not to have expectations, they
creep into my mind. You know, I've told you about the sex addict guy that
lives in my head? Well, he's up there having a field day while the good guy,
the rational guy is frightened. Wanna call a time out?"
"Good idea! Mom always told us we could start our day over anytime
we liked. Let's start our vacation over, okay?"
"Deal! And Doctor Billy prescribes a good night's rest, starting right
now."
She gave me a high five and we walked into our room. Without lights,
we turned down the beds and I went into the john to take a leak. When I
came out, I could see Jean's shadow in bed. I wanted to hug her goodnight,
but was still feeling a little tender and, afraid of rejection, I slipped into
my
own bed. "'Night, Jean."
"I can't believe you're not curious about what Margi said about you."
Jean provoked me, assuring my night's sleep.
"About me? Did you guys talk about me?"
"Well, I didn't get to say much. Mostly Margi talked. I did tell her that
we didn't have secrets from each other and suggested that she not tell me
things she didn't want you to hear, but she said, 'Oh, what the hell,' or
something like that."
"Jean! You're gonna drive me batty at this rate."
"Well, she's definitely interested in you."
"Yeah, right. Last year I couldn't get her attention. She was always
hanging around with that other guy."
"You mean he was hanging around her! Oh, she was aware of you
alright, but because you're younger and a guest, she was afraid to let you
know."
"Let me know what, for cryin' out loud?"
"That she was . . . uh, interested in you."
"I admit it. I'm dumb. What does 'interested' mean?"
"Maybe this'll help, my stud-muffin brother. She asked me if you were
a virgin."
Oh Jesus! You didn't tell her, did you?"
"You bet I did. Girls are worse than guys when they think they're
getting someone, some guy, for the first time."
"And you think she's gonna get me?"
"Only if you're willing, big boy . . . only if you're willing."
"And, making believe all of this is true - which I doubt - how do *you*
feel about this?"
"I'm jealous. I'm thrilled too, but I'm really jealous."
God, I'd *never* understand women!
"Jean, part of me is pleased. That you're jealous . . . I mean, that you
care that much. And another part is asking, about WHAT?"
"Don't ask me to explain this, Billy. I don't understand it either. I
guess I'm jealous that you're interested in her . . . that's part of it. But
more, I'm jealous that she can do things with you and I can't."
"Do things? Like in . . ."
"Yes! Like in!"
Jean fluffed up her pillow and then slammed it down, turning away from
me. In the dim light, I could see the sheet had pulled up and exposed her
tan back side and the her white panties. Or were those panties? No, that
was Jean's pale ass I was staring at. She was naked as a jay.
I'd worn my briefs to bed, more out of propriety. Or was it
embarrassment? I never wore underwear to bed and suddenly I was aware
of my hardness, bent in my shorts. I pulled them off slowly and dropped
them by the side of the bed.
I spoke at her back in a low voice, "I've been trying to get into your
pants for half my life it seems. You're the sexiest woman in the world to
me. I'd do anything for you and you're jealous of some woman who's older
than you even, who asked a few questions about me. Talk about driving
beyond your headlights!"
She flounced back, facing me. Darn, now I couldn't look at her butt.
"Oh no I'm not! Women *know* these things. She's hot for you. She's
already asked if we could get together tomorrow night." And then she
mimicked Margi's deeper voice, '. . . so we can get to know each other
better.' I know what she wants to get to know better!"
My dick, I hoped. I saw no inconsistencies in that. I knew I loved Jean
and was terminally hot for her, but my dick was interested in every good
lookin' girl on the horizon. That had nothing to do with love or anything
like that. This was all about my desire to penetrate some girl's soft, wet and
itchy pussy. Fuckin' in other words.
"That might be nice. Do you wanna?" I asked.
"Heck yes, I 'wanna'," she replied, now mimicking me. "I like Margi
too. She's fun and outrageous - braver than me and I know we'll enjoy her.
But I'm still a little jealous. Don't worry, it won't stop me from having a
good time."
Then, turning away again, she concluded, "Now go to sleep, won't you?
I'm completely worn out and I'll get cranky if I don't get a night's rest."
The muted washing of waves on the beach drifted through the palms and
I could hear the soft night sounds as I lay back, hands behind my head,
looking at the ceiling fan slowly turning. Where was this going?
The only thing I knew with certainty was that it wasn't going the way I
had dreamed it up. But then, things rarely did. The upside of that
disappointment was grounded in the reality that when things didn't turn out
the way I wanted them, what I got was far better than what I wanted.
Grasping my hard-on through the sheet, I fell asleep.
End of Chapter 18
Subject: My Sister Jean XIX "Margi" (f/m/f, cons, het, game, inc)
From: BillyG <hayden@mindless.com>
Date: 27 Aug 1997 14:43:30 GMT
--------
My Sister Jean - Chapter 19
Margi
BillyG
Whatever tension there had been the previous day between Jean and me
was quickly dissipated in a day of glorious diving on the Wall at Little
Cayman. Our group was uncharacteristically small. Margi, of course was
our Dive Master. Ian and Jan joined us and that was it, just us five while
Gladys' other guests choose to take the day off.
Margi said she'd like to dive with us and asked if we might stay well
within a safe profile, for she wanted Ian and Jan to stay closer to her. My
selfish desire to not be encumbered with less experienced divers was far
outweighed by the fun of having Margi along to point out those fascinating
sights visible only to the knowledgeable. By the end of the day, we
returned in high spirits, laughing and affectionately kidding each other.
"God! Don't you two BREATHE down there?" Jan asked on the trip
back.
Jean answered, "Sure we do, but not as often I guess."
Jan protested, "I don't see how you do it. I get a little short of breath
just with the excitement of it all. And then there's the work of the sport . .
."
"If you're *working* at it, you're not doing it right. It can be almost
effortless and if you're not working hard, then you're not using up a lot of
air."
They fell into a conversation with Jean explaining that they both carried
far too much weight. Soon their conversation had become a distant buzz.
I'd tuned out.
A hand touched my shoulder and I turned to smile at Margi.
"How's it feel to be back, Billy?"
"I can't tell you alive I feel. It's somewhere between wonderful and
unbelievable"
"Jean told me that you thought I was a snot."
I was embarrassed. "Well, 'snot' wasn't exactly the expression."
"Stuck up? Indifferent?
I couldn't see her eyes behind her sun glasses, but that she might see
me better, I lifted my glasses as I spoke to her. "First, I'm sorry. I
apologize. I had no right to expect anything special. You've always been
friendly and fair with me."
Margi reached out and touched my arm. "No, no . . . please don't
think of this as a complaint or a confrontation. It's just that I want us to be
friends and I don't wanna appear stuckup."
I still had a lot of questions about her last year's behavior, but in the
spirit of cooperation, I extended my hand and said, "Let's do be friends." I
wondered if it sounded as stiff as I felt?
She ignored my hand and grabbed me behind the neck, pulling us
together for a quick kiss on the lips. "It's a deal."
A deal? Now I had a deal with two woman, I thought to myself, but
certainly different deals. The earlier deal with Jean had to do with
sexuality. This one with Margi had to do only with being friends . . . or so
I thought.
Back at Pirate's Pub as we were washing our gear, Margi proposed
getting together that night after dinner to listen to a few new CD's she had
recently purchased. "I know you've heard "Enigma" but I've only caught a
few cuts on the radio back home. I'd love to hear all of it with you two
guys."
I'd been thinking how Jean and I might spend a little time together but
when she replied to Margi with warm enthusiasm, I put that expectation
aside for the moment. And if I was entertaining any remote hopes of
getting to know Margi better - you know, as in making out - it'd have to be
another day. Oh well. <sigh>
Sure enough, right after an extraordinary meal from Gladys, Margi
came over to our table and said, "We still on?"
Jean glanced at me and then without waiting, said, "You bet! I'm
looking forward to it. Aren't you, Billy?"
"Sure am," I replied with all the confidence of a man who has no idea
just what he's looking forward to. If nothing else, I was willing to let
things unfold without my direction.
"Cool! I'll get some CD's from my room and come right over to
yours, OK?"
"See you there," Jean called to Margi's retreating back, then turned to
me and asked, "Ready?"
"Uh . . . I'm ready to go *back*. Is there somethin' else I should be
ready for?"
Jean gave me a funny smile and said, "What do you mean?"
"Nothin' I guess," I answered, getting up from the table, still with the
faint notion that there was something I was missing. But then, that wasn't
a new feeling. There were times when I thought that if an instruction book
had been passed out on 'How to do Life,' I'd missed it.
It'd cooled off a little after sunset but the oscillating fans still created a
downdraft of sweet, cooling air and I sprawled out under one, arms out
thrown.
"I'm going to take another shower," said Jean. "If Margi gets here
before I'm done, entertain her, okay?"
I could hear her humming some tune in the bathroom through the open
door. A moment later, her clothes came flying out the doorway, piece by
piece, landing in a disordered heap by her bed, panties last and on top of
the pile.
If I got up and peered around the corner, I'd likely catch her nude, I
thought and then smiled to myself. We'd grown increasingly casual about
dressing and undressing in front of each other, but I still thought in terms
of trying to peek at her. There seemed to be something naughty and
delicious about peeking. If I called her, she'd probably walk out nude, but
it just wouldn't be the same. Maybe I needed to get away with something.
I was pondering that when I heard Margi's voice outside the screen.
"Hi, Billy. Can I come in?"
"Sure, come on in, but I'm not dressed for company." I suppose I
offered that as an excuse for wearing nothing more than the shorts I'd left
on.
"You naked?" she asked with a little excitement in her voice.
"Nope. Got shorts on."
"Darn," she said as she walked through the door. "Thought I'd get
even for you gawking at my boobs last year."
"Margi, if it'd be an acceptable exchange - my being naked for the
chance to look at your boobs - why I'll take 'em off right now!"
She laughed but didn't reply to that. Instead, she asked, "Where's
Jean?"
I cocked my head toward the bathroom door and almost on cue, the
shower started. "She's freshening up."
"I think it's really neat that you guys are so open and comfortable with
each other that you share a room this way. I wish I had a brother like
you."
Gesturing toward the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, I said,
"Jean's not exactly a neat freak as you can see."
"Wait'll you see my room," Margi replied, rolling her eyes.
I caught that she didn't say, 'If you could see my room.'
"Let me ask you something, Billy. I mean, it's kinda personal. You
mind?"
I shrugged. "Don't know. Guess you'll have to ask and find out. If it
is, I'll tell you, okay?"
"Well, it's like this. I'm a girl and I'm aware of what guys do,
especially around other girls. Good lookin' girls, I mean."
I nodded. So far, I understood the words by not the direction. "Yeah?"
She wasn't making eye contact with me and I thought her cheeks were
a bit pink. Was she embarrassed about something?
"Uh . . . yeah. It's like they're always, uh . . . checkin' 'em out, you
know?"
I shook my head to indicate that I didn't know.
"YOU know," she protested, "Like they're always looking at their
figures and all."
"So? I do that all the time."
"But your sister?"
"Why not?" I asked. "Don't you think she's good lookin'? I sure do."
"Well . . . sure . . . but . . . I mean, doesn't it sometimes 'bother' you
that she's so good lookin' and you two are so close and all?"
"Margi, you think I'm gay or somethin'?"
"God, NO!" she almost shouted and then blushing, added in a quieter
voice, "No, not you. That's not what I mean. I mean, you're all guy and
she's a . . . a really sexy girl and all. Don't that bother you?"
I was beginning to catch her drift. "I think I see where you're going
with this. You're wondering how I can travel with Jean and be so
physically close to her and not be . . . excited? As that it?"
Nodding, she answered, "Yeah, somethin' like that."
In an unusual and unbidden action, I walked over and picked up Jean's
panties from the pile of clothes and held them to my face a moment before
chucking them into her lap. "Things like this you mean?"
Margi gasped, literally gasped and stared at me with round yes.
Jean's voice sang out from the bathroom over the sound of the shower,
"Margi, he trying to embarrass you with my panties?" She laughed. Margi
was holding Jean's panties and looked confused.
Jean continued, "He did that with me a few years ago. Don't let him
get to you."
I jacked my thumb toward the bathroom and rolled my eyes, then I
said, "We tease each other a lot."
Holding up the panties, Margi asked, "Like this?"
"The first time he did it, he held them up to his nose and smelled them!"
Jean stood in the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around her body and
one on her head, her face shiny and beaded with water as she smiled at us.
"Smelled them?" Margi asked, eyes wide with astonishment. Then
turning to me, she asked, "Did you really?"
By this time my face was burning. Jean and I were frank with each
other and save our little talk with Mom, we'd not come out of the closet
about our mutual attraction to each other. Where was Jean going with
this?
Attempting to put on a bold face, I said, "Yes. Really. I guess it's the
pheromones."
"Fero . . .?"
Jean chimed in, "The scent of a woman's sex that appeals to a man,
that turns him on. You know, Margi. You've smelled yourself, I'm sure."
By this time, Margi was as red as I was and with Jean's accusation that
*she* had a sexy odor, she began to fidget, looking back and forth between
us and then at the panties she still held, perhaps wondering how's she'd get
out of this. She was probably used to guys hitting on her, perhaps even
girls, but she hadn't ever encountered a situation quite like this, I was sure.
"No . . . well . . . sure, doesn't everyone . . . but who . . . I mean yuck,
who *wants* to smell *that*?"
"Billy does," Jean offered, sitting on the bed and drying her hair. With
her arms up, the tops of her breasts were pulled out of the towel a
tantalising bit. I watched, fascinated, wondering what the hell kept the
towel up anyway?
Margi looked at me as if to ask again, really?
"Sure he does. Most guys do, don't they Billy?"
Jean was dragging me into this loaded conversation, like it or not.
"I can't talk for 'most guys,' but it's true. There's something
powerfully attractive about the feminine odor. More than attractive, it's
exciting. Maybe I'm a perv. I don't give a shit. I love it." I finished that
declaration in a rush.
"I don't know . . . I mean, I was always so embarrassed . . ." Margi
started.
"Yeah, me too," Jean piped in, "but my stud muffin brother here gave
me a different view of it."
I was watching the towel slip by millimeters, hopefully waiting and not
certain whether to be proud or embarrassed by Jean's disclosure.
*That's* what we were talkin' about," Margi jumped in, "I never knew
anybody like you two . . . I mean . . . brother and sister . . . and so close.
You know?"
"Let me ask *you* something, Margi?"
Margi looked up at Jean and nodded. I thought I could see Jean's
areola peeking from the top of the bath towel.
"Do you think Billy's a sexy hunk?"
Christ, I wished they'd stop talking about me in the third person . . .
like I wasn't even there!
Margi slid a glance in my direction and then idly wrapping Jean panties
around her finger, blushed and nodded.
"Well, so do I," Jean declared. "Because he's my brother doesn't
change that." She hitched the towel up an inch or so and continued, "He's
also my best friend. I'd trust him with my life and I think he feels the same
way. There's nothing . . . well, almost nothing . . . that I can't talk with
him about. We share are feelings, Margi . . . our deepest feelings and I
know he'll never judge me. We LIKE each other. Does that make sense
to you?"
Margi was looking unfocused at the window, seeming to contemplate
her thoughts. "Yeah . . . it makes sense . . . it's just that . . ."
"Just what, Margi?"
"Well, I don't know . . . I mean, I never had a connection with anyone
like that. Someone I could trust, I mean. Someone who wouldn't take
advantage of me, I guess."
"We *are* lucky, aren't we, Billy?"
More at ease now, I could smile and say, "A professor of mine often
says, 'It's better to be lucky than good.'"
Jean rubbed her hair vigorously and the towel dropped into her lap, her
full breasts bouncing, the nipples erect.
Margi gasped. I stared.
Jean looked down, laughed and said, "Oh screw it."
It was silent for a few moments as we all were acutely aware of this
fork in the road. Jean had upped the ante. Now it was in our laps.
I ran with it. "Don't you think Jean has beautiful tits, Margi?"
Margi appeared to be reeling from one emotional blow to another,
stunned, not knowing whether to run or stay. She asked Jean, "Doesn't
that bother you? Billy looking, I mean?"
"It woulda a couple of years ago," she answered, mimicking Margi's
pronunciation a little, "but now it doesn't. In fact, I like it!"
"But it seems so . . . so sexual, don't you think?"
"I hope so!" Jean replied with a chuckle. That's some of the fun of it.
Oh, there's a real comfort in not being tied up in false modesty, but above
that, there's a sweet charge that we admire each other."
"It sounds like . . . I mean, I've always been so shocked at the idea of .
. ."
"Incest?" Jean asked, cutting to the chase.
Margi again looked at the floor and made a ball of Jean's panties. "I
wasn't going to call it that," she protested, "but SOMEthing like that I
guess."
"Would it make you feel any better if I told you that Billy and I don't
fuck?"
Jean almost never used the "F" word with me. I was startled to hear it
come out so easily.
Margi became beet red and sputtered in her confusion, "I didn't think .
. . I mean . . ."
"Bullshit!" Jean said with a large smile. "You see Billy and I sharing a
room, me half naked in front of him, admitting that he turns me on . . . you
you're telling me you didn't think . . .?"
It was getting too warm for me, despite the fact that we were talking
about my favorite subject, me. I fell back on what I did so well. I ran.
"You girls can continue this chat. I'm going to take a shower." They
hardly looked up.
Retreating into the bathroom, I stripped, and copying Jean's actions, I
threw my shorts and briefs out the door as if to say, "Here's MY
underpants, girls." Brave, huh?
I strained to hear what they might be saying, but their voices were
reduced to a muted murmur, so I gave up and jumped into the shower.
Starting out hot and then finishing up with a cold shower, I felt physically
renewed. As often happened, I'd sprouted a woodie in the shower,
perhaps because I so religiously washed it. So, drying off I took my time,
waiting for the boner to subside.
In the periphery of my vision, I saw motion out the bathroom doorway.
Looking that way, I say that a dresser mirror gave me a view into the room
and the movement I'd noted was Jean and Margi. Jean was holding up a
bikini top, apparently offering it to our guest. She'd lost the towel and was
wearing only a pair of panties, while Margi was still wearing her shorts and
a T-shirt.
I froze, aware that I'd walked into a scene. I couldn't hear all the
words, just a few here and there. Margi, who's back was to the mirror,
was facing away from me while Jean offered a frontal view. Margi was
shaking her head and Jean said something like, ". . . he's in the bathroom."
She pushed the bikini top to Margi again who apparently needed just that
much coaxing, for she said something and then pulled her T-shirt off. I
was right. No bra. I could see her bare back and the side of one breast as
she accepted the top from Jean.
As Margi was looking down, adjusting the front of the bathing suit top,
I glanced at Jean and found her looking right into my eyes! She knew!
Before I could move, she looked back and Margi and made some minute
adjustment and then picked up the bottom of the suit and said, "Here, try
this."
Margi glanced at the bathroom door. Had she looked in the mirror,
she'd have seen me, but she didn't. I turned on the faucet in the sink and
began making noises as if I were occupied, still watching the scene unfold
in the mirror.
Again, making up her mind, Margi quickly skinned out of her shorts
and panties and for a moment, I saw her bare ass. That might be her best
feature, I thought. It was like Jean's. She had a narrow waist and jutting
buttocks that were made more striking for their whiteness atop her tanned
thighs. As she stepped into the bikini bottom, I had a too brief view of her
pussy through her legs. Her lips appeared to be shaven and they were
wonderfully prominent as she bent over.
I looked again at Jean who surreptitiously motioned to me to come out.
Jean appeared to have a plan and was in control. I didn't ponder the
decision. Instead, I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped into the
room. "Nice!" I commented, staring at Margi.
They both faced me as one and Jean asked, "So, what do you think,
Billy? How's Margi look in something more glamorous?" As she said this,
Jean pulled the bikini bottoms from the back as if to 'adjust' them but what
it really served was to pull them into Margi's crotch all the snugger.
Pointedly staring at the outline of her feminine slit, I leered and said,
"Glamorous indeed."
To my surprise, Margi didn't protest Jean's blatant actions. Instead,
she pointed at my crotch and said, "No one had to pull your towel tight,
did they?"
In the excitement of the moment, I'd forgotten my woodie. I didn't
have to look down to know it was making a prominent and unmistakable
tent in the towel. At this point, I didn't care. Actually, I was feeling a bit
proud of myself and said something like, "Well, it's you guys' fault!"
Jean, clearly the instigator in this play, kept things alive by pulling the
string tie of Margi's top with one hand and snatching it off her body with
the other, completely baring her pert tits. "There! Now we're even." Jean
laughed and threw the bikini top to me.
Margi tried to cover her breasts for a moment and then gave up in
laughter. I was mesmerized by the two sets of tits in front of me. Jean's
were larger and mostly tanned while Margi's were a bit smaller but with
larger nipples and paradoxically, very white. It was clear that her tits and
her ass didn't see the sun very often.
"Truth or dare time," Jean announced.
"God, what else'we got to lose," asked Margi.
"Nothing much, 'cept our psychological defenses," I suggested.
"Whadya mean, psychological . . .? Margi asked sitting on the floor,
legs crossed Indian style. I liked how it pulled the crotch of her suit into
her pussy.
"It's like this," Jean explained, "do you mind so much right now that
Billy can see your nipples?"
Margi glanced down at her turgid, erect nips and said, "Well . . . not so
much right now. I mean, YOU uncovered me . . . and 'sides, your tits are
showing too."
"That's just what I mean. You have a psychological defense or even a
justification for showing us your tits. My being bare makes it all right and
more, since I uncovered you, it's not your fault."
Margi nodded. I could see where this was going and sat down to
watch with interest, mindful of the fact that the towel was not covering
much.
Jean sat, also Indian style. Her dark pubic hair was clearly evident
through the thin crotch of her panties. "So, the end result is that we . . .
Billy, actually . . . gets to see your nipples. But . . ." then she paused for
dramatic effect, "what if . . ." another pause, "what if I said to you, say as
you were wearing a blouse or a T-shirt . . . what if I said to you, 'Margi,
pull up your shirt and show Billy your tits.'? Then how'd you feel?"
"Oh . . . that'd be different. I couldn't do that."
"Sure you could, and you'd love it. That's the psychological part. It
adds an edge. It makes it more exciting. Guys just know this, huh, Billy?
Guys just know that the partially nude woman is far more exciting than the
completely nude one, huh?" She addressed the last part at me, seeking
confirmation.
I replied, "Sure. Why do you think Jean's just wearing panties? She
coulda put on shorts, even a shirt if she wanted. She knows how sexy
casual undress can be. More, it's the tease. The psychological game adds
to the tease which, of course, adds a delicious edge to anything sexual."
Turning it back to Jean, I added, "Aren't I right?"
"Of course you're right, you horny lech," she laughed and reached over
to flip up a corner of my towel, exposing part of my scrotum. "And if he
wasn't sporting such a boner, you'd be able to see it too."
"You said something about Truth or Dare?" I asked, attempting to
keep things rolling and turning the attention away from me.
"Yes! This is no simple strip poker game. Heck, we each have just
one article of clothing on anyway, so getting totally nude is no big deal, but
if we do this right, we can add several layers to the excitement by
psychological Truth or Dare."
Jean didn't ask Margi if she wanted to play, she just continued to set
out the rules. I'd seen Jean's daring and strong side before, but never so
pronounced. I was usually the aggressive one but now I was quite content
to see this assertive side of Jean express itself.
She finished, "So you see, it's nothing more than a form of spin-the-
bottle."
"Can I watch someone else go first?" asked Margi, a little skeptically.
"OK, I'll go first," I offered. I'm so magnanimous at times. I spun the
bottle and it ended up pointing at me. "Nothing there," I said as I spun it
again. This time it ended up between Margi and Jean, but closer to Jean.
"It's you, kid. Truth or Dare?"
"Oh goody," cried Jean. "I want a dare!"
"How'd I know you'd say that?" I smiled at Margi. "She's such an
exhibitionist!"
"Come on, come on, big boy . . . what's your dare?"
"OK, smartass. As I recall, you trimmed your pussy before coming
down here, right?"
Jean gave me a wolffish grin and nodded eagerly.
"Then, your dare, should you choose to accept it, is to pull the crotch
of your panties aside and show us!"
I knew Jean'd milk this one. She'd do it. Hell, she *wanted* to do it,
but more, she wanted to make a production of it. She wanted to add some
psychological tension to it. I'd counted on that.
"Billy!" she exclaimed in mock indignation, "My breasts are one thing.
Even my panties. But you want me to uncover my . . . my sex and SHOW
myself to you and Margi?"
I nodded gravely. "If you dare,"
"But . . . but that's private! I mean, that's so intimate, looking right at
my . . ." and then she added in a very small voice, "my pussy."
Margi's eyes were bouncing back and forth between me and Jean, first
my eyes, then her crotch. She squirmed a bit.
"Would you tell anybody?" Jean asked.
"Not me," I answered in my best sincere voice. "But Margi, she might.
How about it, would you, Margi?"
Margi looked at us with wide, round eyes and slowly shook her head,
"Not me neither," she intoned.
"There, see, you're safe with us. Now show us, wimp!"
Jean looked dubious as her hand fell to her lap. Curling a finger into
the crotch of her panties, she paused. Jean was giving me an opportunity
to crank up the current, I knew.
Pointing, I said, "Say, Jean. Is the crotch of your panties wet? You
pee or somethin'?"
She flushed. Perhaps she hadn't wanted me to turn up the intimacy
current so high after all. But her finger stayed there, pulling the material a
few millimeters, enough to see the outside of one lip. Margi stared,
hypnotized.
Jean turned to Margi and explained, "He's up to his old tricks again.
He'd embarrassed me with that one before. You'd think I'd get used to it,
wouldn't you?"
I went for another notch on the intimacy rheostat. "Is that you I smell,
Jean?"
"See what I mean?" Jean said to Margi, who looked like she was ready
to fall through the floor.
Turning to me, she announced, "Yes, they are wet and I'll let you
figure out with what. And for all you know, that's Margi you're smelling."
At that point, Margi reddened again and cupped her crotch as if she
might stem the flow of odoriferous pheromones.
I sensed that Jean had taken this as far as it would go on our first Truth
or Dare.
"OK," she said, "this goes against my better judgement, but here's my
trim job!" With that, she pulled the crotch of her panties well to the side,
exposing all. No cheap flash here. I admired her bare pussy lips slightly
parted by her position as well as the lush dark curls atop her mons for the
full twenty or thirty seconds she gave us.
Shaking my head in admiration, I passed the bottle to Jean who let her
panties snap back into her crotch. She held the bottle in her lap, stoking
the neck idly as she grinned as us.
Nodding to Jean's masturbation of the bottle neck, I said to Margi,
"She always had a serious case of penis envy."
"You're darn right!" Jean agreed. "I always wanted to be able to write
my name in the snow." Then she turned to Margi, holding the neck of the
bottle in her fist and pointing it at her, she asked, "You ever write *your*
name in the snow?"
Margi surprised both of us by saying, "Yeah, several times," and then
she laughed, "but I could never dot the i."
"See!" Jean said to me.
See what, I wondered? Yet, I liked the image of Margi trying to pee
her name in the snow. I wondered if there was some way I could work
that into Truth or Dare . . . even without the snow? Keep 'em off balance,
Jean had once advised me.
"Now *I* get to spin the bottle." She emphasized the "I" part, as if
that had special portent.
I knew she'd somehow manage to skip Margi and that I'd be the next
'volunteer.' Sure enough, when the bottle looked like it was going to stop
near Margi, Jean grabbed it and said, "And that was one of my allowed
practice spins."
Practice spins? I never knew anyone who could make up Truth or
Dare rules faster than Jean.
The next spin pointed at her and the third spin pointed roughly in my
sector.
"Another practice spin?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Nope, big boy. That was for real. You're IT! Truth or Dare?"
I already knew that no matter what I picked, it'd be embarrassing. So
I'd leave it up to fate, in this case, the second hand of my watch. I'd
occasionally employed this scientific technique when I'd narrowed a
multiple choice down to two equally attractive answers. The second hand
between twelve and six was Truth and between six and twelve was Dare.
The random chance of my watch's second hand decided my fate. "Truth,"
I declared with far more confidence than I felt.
Jean commented to Margi, "I know most of Billy's secrets already, so I
need to ask a question in an area he and I haven't explored before."
That's all she needed to say. I could see it coming. The 'new' element
here was Margi. The bottle hadn't pointed at her, yet she'd be pulled into
Jean's web, I just knew it.
Trying to fend it off, I attempted a first strike. "She's gonna ask me
something embarrassing about you, Margi."
Syrupy sweet, Jean agreed, "Of course I am. We all know that."
I wasn't sure Margi knew, but I sure as hell did.
Turning to our hapless guest, Jean started, "Can you imagine, Margi?"
and then she pointedly looked me up and down, "that this overgrown kid,
this lunk, once told me he'd like to put his nose in my CROTCH! Is that
sick or what?"
By this time, Margi was getting the picture. She could see Jean's flair
for the dramatic, for overstatement, for hyperbole. She glanced at me
through lowered eye lashes and smiled. Probably a smile of sympathy.
Her voice raising, Jean went on, "I mean, my own BROTHER! In my
*crotch*!"
I looked at that crotch. Now it was definitely wet. I checked Margi's
and I think it was as well, but the color of the bikini bottom made it
difficult to say with certainty. So, Jean's gambit had something to do with
me and Margi's crotch. I mean, how many possibilities can you come up
with?
"So, here's my Truth question, Billy! Ready?"
As if my readiness made any difference. I rubbed my eyes with my
fingers and nodded. Hell, it was like asking the man on the gallows if he
was ready. Everyone knew what was going to happen.
Being sure to include Margi in this, she asked, "And you Margi . . . you
ready?"
Margi was still holding her crotch, I imagined more to keep my nose
out than her scent in. She nodded dumbly. Her areolae were puckered and
pebbled. So were Jean's.
"Now Billy, I know you had the hots for Margi last year. You told me
so, remember?"
Grasping at straws, I asked, "Is *that* my Truth question?"
"Hell no! We're just setting the stage here and if you don't admit it, I'll
tell her right now everything you told me last year!"
I couldn't remember the details of what I'd said last year and afraid I
might have been more lurid than I'd be comfortable admitting, I caved in,
just as Jean knew I would. "Yes, that's true."
"What's true?" Jean goaded me.
"That I had the . . . uh . . . 'hots' for Margi last year," I mumbled.
"You hear that, Margi?"
I heard a breathy yes in reply. Jean knew darn well that Margi had
heard me.
"So tell me, brother dear . . . and this is just a hypothetical question you
understand . . . IF I'd asked you last year if you wanted to put your nose in
*Margi's* crotch . . . if I'd asked you that, what would you have replied?"
My mind raced for an out here, partly for the fun of it, and partly
because I was getting increasingly excited and increasingly sheepish.
"Nothing hypothetical about that question," I began.
Jean, in her best debating style, cut me off and said, "Answer the
question please."
"Yes, you know I would. I even said that last year." Actually, I don't
think I ever said that, but what the hell . . .
Embellishing the lie, Jean picked up on it and said, "Yes, I remember
that well. You went on for the longest time how you'd like to sniff in her
crotch and that you'd give anything to kiss her there." Turning to Margi,
she added, "My brother's such a horn dog. You'd better be careful of him,
I tell you!"
Before Margi could reply, Jean picked it up again. "So tell me, Billy.
Now that you've got your poor innocent sister down to her panties, almost
defenseless and now that you've maneuvered this guileless sweet girl here,"
gesturing to Margi, "into sitting in front of you in nothing but the skimpy
bottom of my bathing suit . . . are you going to tell us that you've
reformed? That you're no longer interested in our . . . our girl places? Do
you expect us to believe that for a minute?"
"Of course I do," I remonstrated. I mean, think about it. A guy as
pure as me . . . as pure as the new-driven snow . . . a guy who helps little
old ladies across the street and gives quarters to panhandlers . . . surely you
can't believe that I entertain any thoughts other than chaste ones!"
Jean leaned over and ripped my towel aside, baring my hard-on. It was
almost quivering, so chaste were my thoughts.
"Now *there's* purity," Jean announced, pointing at my woodie.
I hung my head, still looking at Margi's crotch through my lashes.
Adjusting the crotch of her own panties, Jean said, "So there! Now
we're ready for my question. You ready?"
"No," I answered truthfully.
"Good," she replied. "Here's the question . . ." and she paused.
"You ever see a Truth or Dare game last so long on one spin of the
bottle?" I asked no one in particular. Margi shook her head.
As if I hadn't interrupted her, Jean continued, " . . . and the question is:
Do you wanna go down on Margi tonight?"
Even though I saw it coming a long time ago, even though I had time
to put on my emotional armor, it sill struck with freight-train impact.
Here's this girl we knew from last year, a girl we'd been diving with one
day this trip, and we're near nude, sitting in a circle, me with an erection
pointing to the ceiling and we're talking about my going down on her!
This wasn't going the way I imagined it al all. I was much better!
"Before I answer that - and I will - I'd like to ask Margi a few
questions." I knew Jean wouldn't object to this deviation of whatever
loose set of rules pretended to govern this game.
"Of course. You have that right." Jean pronounced with authority.
Cripes, the only "rights" we had were those we made up, I thought.
"Before I answer, there's a couple of things I'd like to know . . . so I
can frame my answer better you understand."
"I understand," Jean said solemnly, again adjusting her panty crotch,
flashing us in the process.
"Well, for starters, before I can speak to uh . . . 'going down' on Margi
. . ." I paused and she flushed, adjusting her own crotch, "I need to know,
ah, Margi . . . have you had someone go down on you?" I left it sexless on
purpose. I'm not sure why.
Margi looked at Jean as if to ask, do I have to answer? Jean nodded
and made a get-on-with-it motion with her hands.
Margi looked at me a moment and then looked down, nodding her
head.
"Is that a 'yes'?" I asked.
She nodded again.
"Margi, I can't hear you," I protested.
"Yes!" she whispered, almost in a hiss.
Pushing it, I asked, "Many times?"
"Yes!" Louder.
"And now, most important, Margi, did you LIKE it?"
She pulled her legs up and leaned on her knees, her breasts smashed
against her thighs. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came
out.
"Margi, I need to know. My answer depends on what you way. Did
you LIKE it?"
She mumbled something. I couldn't make it out. "I couldn't hear that,
Margi."
She looked up and almost shouted, "I LOVED IT!"
The tension in the room was thick. I looked at Jean and she gave me a
thumbs up sign. Margi wasn't looking at anything, except perhaps that
same spot on the floor. I wonder if she had it memorized?
"Now I'm ready to answer your question, Jean. But just in case I've
disremembered it, would you ask it again?"
"I'll be glad to. Do you remember what I asked, Margi?"
Head down, she nodded vigorously.
"Good. Then I think it'd have more erotic impact if you told Billy what
my question was. Why don't you do that, girl?"
Still speaking to the carpet, Margi said, "You asked him if he wanted to
uh . . . go down on me."
"Tonight," Jean prompted.
"Uh . . . tonight," Margi added.
"Is that a question or a proposal?" I asked.
Jean smiled. No one said anything for a moment.
"Margi?" I prompted.
Turning to Jean, Margi asked, "Do I hafta?"
"Margi, Margi. You don't 'hafta' do anything. This is a game. We
can say or do anything we want." She paused and then added, "Just as
long as its consensual and safe."
"Margi, it's OK to say no." I said, "Remember, it's just a fun game and
we're all playing together. No one's the victim here."
"Proposal," Margi mumbled. And then without prodding, she said in a
louder voice, "It's a proposal!"
"That Billy go down on you tonight?" Jean asked.
"Oh shit!" Margi cried, "I don't know what you guys're gonna think of
me, but I'm so on edge, I'm so damn horny I'm about ready to bust. I
really DO want Billy to go down on me. Like now."
"And you, Billy?" Jean asked. "You still haven't answered my question
or even Margi's question. Do YOU wanna bury your head between her
thighs? Do you want to tongue her pussy, Billy?"
By way of answering, I stood and pulled Margi to her feet, turning her
back to Jean and held her by her shoulders. I pointed to Margi's swimsuit
bottom and without further prompting, Jean reached up and pulled them
off her hips, letting the bikini puddle about her ankles.
Margi looked a question at me and I nodded. She stepped out of them
and now stood before me, totally nude. I held her by the shoulders at
arm's length and looked her up and down. Her dark-haired bush stood out
in marked contrast to her white belly. A thin line of hair pointed to her
belly button.
Glancing down, I saw Jean pick up the swimsuit bottom and hold it to
her nose. "Ripe," she declared and threw them up at me.
I pulled them to my face as Margi squirmed before me. "Yes, quite
ripe," I agreed. "Now I know who I was smelling a little while ago."
Margi flushed again.
"Do you want me to leave?" Jean asked.
If she really wanted to leave, she wouldn't have asked. I knew that.
But more, I *wanted* her to say. She was a part of this seduction and I
wanted her to stay with me, to stay with us.
"No, don't leave," I asked. "After all, we've just spun the bottle
twice."
End of Chapter 19
-- CJ
I don't write any stories. I'm just a reader, and sometimes a reposter.
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