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Subject: {ASS} Ch.13-20 "My Sister Jean" by BillyG (mf, rom, inc) (RP, proofread)
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MY SISTER JEAN
by BillyG <billyg@hooked.net>
________________________________________________________________________
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 carelessly 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we had withdrawn, shaken and dazed, wondering, 'Where is this going?'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. 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 lying 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 hot!"
"I can see your pussy hair, Jean . . . the curls, the wet curls . . .
you're 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 jackrabbit. 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!"
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 woody 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. 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.
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!"
"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 fingertips 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. 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, 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?"
"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 eye
brow.
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 hard-on.
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 put 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 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 elbows 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 desire 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 moment. 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 know."
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. 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 and 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 gray 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, in the past. That I'd touched her intimately . . . she'd even
once 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 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 noises 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 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 unfocused for a moment, as if remembering herself, 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 eyebrow 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, uh . . . 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 hyperventilation!
"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
that, 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 secretions 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 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 partially an open mouth, kissed
her clit as softly as I could as 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
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 pussy 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?"
My Sister Jean - Chapter 16
Jean's Confession
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 lethargy 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 needn't 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 how 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, "All right. 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 statistical 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?"
My Sister Jean - Chapter 17
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 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 all right. Believe me."
Do they tell you to be calm before your exiled? Gonna be all right
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 oughta 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 all right"
"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 matter what you two have done, if you've done it with
honesty and love, things will be all right. 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
woody 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 woody? 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 . . . uh,
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 all right, 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 judgment 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?"
"Agreed, 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."
My Sister Jean - Chapter 18
The Trip to Little Cayman
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 all right. 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 needn't 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 water 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 hiccuped 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 good-night 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
good-night, 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
all right, 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.
My Sister Jean - Chapter 19
Margi
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 how 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 sunglasses, 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 stuck-up."
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 I 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 women, 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
tantalizing 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 woody 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 saw 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 woody. 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, smart ass. As I recall, you trimmed your pussy before coming
down here, right?"
Jean gave me a wolfish 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 judgment, 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,
stroking the neck idly as she grinned as us.
Nodding to Jean's masturbation of the bottleneck, 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 were 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 eyelashes 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 woody.
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 still 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, uh, 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 say. 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."
My Sister Jean - Chapter 20
Conclusion, A Resolution - Of Sorts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little Cayman
A sudden knock on the loose-fitting screen door sounded like a gun
shot, loud and jarringly unexpected.
With a faintly British accent, a young man's voice called out,
"There's a phone call for Billy or Jean." And in another moment,
"Anyone there?"
Jean and I looked at each other. I lifted an eyebrow that asked,
'Do you know?' She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, 'Beat's me.'
A naked Margi had slumped to her knees, one hand thrust between
her thighs and the other unsuccessfully trying to cover her breasts. We
were all uncomfortably aware that whoever it was had only to step off
the walk to look through the unshuttered screens to see the three of us,
mostly naked. We remained frozen.
"Anyone home?" the disembodied voice asked again, and again
knocked.
Suddenly jarred from my inaction, I called out, "OK. Be right
there." Turning to my sister and our friend, Margi, I held my hands
out, palms up and whispered, "Stay here. I'll be right back."
Jean placed her hand on my arm and asked in a surprisingly loud
voice, "Where'd you think we were going to go?"
"Shit, I don't know . . . but wait anyway, OK?"
Jean smiled and nodded. "Hurry back."
I slipped into some sailing shorts and a fresh T-shirt. As I was
leaving, I glanced back to see Jean kneeling beside the cowering Margi.
It occurred to me that if Margi wasn't concerned about her nudity, she
might understandably be concerned about her job at this remote and
high-priced dive resort.
Whoever had brought the message was gone when I went outside.
Threading the darkened paths that connected our octagonal beach house
with the larger central building, I reflected that only our Mom knew
where we were. Entering the main structure, I walked into the bar where
our hostess, Gladys, glanced up and nodded her head toward a phone
receiver off the hook. "Your mom," she offered.
"Hello?"
"Billy? How are you? You and Jean OK?" It was Mom.
Damn, I should have called to let her know. "I'm sorry, Mom . . ."
I began but she cut me off.
"Don't worry about it. That's OK. Gladys already told me that
everything's fine; I just wanted to hear your voice. Or Jean's."
"We're fine." And then searching for something to say, I asked,
"Remember Margi, the Dive Master from last year?"
"Oh, yes. I remember Margi. I'm sure *you* do!"
It amazed me how my mother could put so much suggestive meaning
into her voice.
Before I could frame an answer, she went on, "Gladys said that the
three of you had gone to listen to CD's after dinner. Having fun?"
Cripes. Half a world away. Did we have any privacy? I looked at
Gladys and she smiled a conspiratorial, almost wolfish grin.
"Uh . . . yes. We were . . ." and I didn't know just what to say.
"We were . . . uh, playing a game."
"Truth or Dare?" Mom asked.
What the hell is this, I wondered?
"How'd you know?" I asked, perplexed once again by my mother's
seeming omniscience.
"I didn't, but it's what came to mind. Probably because that's
what I'd do in the same situation." She paused and then went on, "You
and Jean explore 'your situation' anymore?"
Our 'situation.' I was embarrassed. Even though we'd had an open,
heart-to-heart conversation about sex, Mom and me, I still found it
difficult to be comfortably candid.
"Uh . . . nothing new, Mom. We're OK, honest."
"Baby, I'm not checking up on you two. I love you both and have
confidence that whatever you do, it'll be all right. Now get back to
your party, tell Jean I love her and say hello to Margi. And oh yes.
Tell Margi not to do anything I wouldn't do . . . and that leaves her a
lot of latitude. Bye." she ended up laughing.
"Bye, Mom."
I turned to leave and Gladys said, "Tell Margi to relax."
"What?"
"Just relax, have a good time . . . that's all."
Once again I had the feeling that I wasn't completely in the know
about what was going on. Were we that transparent?
I was mulling that over in my mind as I walked the darkened path
back to our room. I noticed that the blinds were drawn and the room
apparently dark as I let myself in. There was a yellow, dim light, a
candle flickering on the night stand. One of Margi's CDs was playing, a
soft, melodic sound that I didn't recognize, but I liked.
"Hi, Billy," two voices intoned, almost in unison. "Welcome back,"
added Jean.
"Margi, Gladys says, 'relax'."
"What?"
"Relax. She says to relax. That's all. You know what that's a
about?"
"Uh, I'm not quite sure. But she thinks I'm too tense."
As I dark adapted, I saw Jean was sitting on the floor, legs
outstretched, her back against the foot of the bed and Margi was leaning
back against Jean in turn, between her legs. Jean was holding Margi
loosely, one hand over a full breast. Both were naked as best I could
see in the flickering light.
"We've been talking," Jean added, in response to the question
unasked. "Margi's been telling me about her sex life."
Margi squirmed, I thought uncomfortably, and looked down, not
saying anything.
"Isn't that so, Margi?" Jean asked, nudging her breast.
"Oh, Jean . . . don't," she murmured so softly I almost missed it.
"Oh, Jean, yes. Billy would be pleased to hear what you've been
telling me." And then turning to me, she added, "Our little Margi's
really quite experienced, Billy. Shy, but experienced. Right, Margi?"
She murmured something. I couldn't hear her, so I kneeled between
her splayed legs and said, "What was that, sweet girl? What'd you say?"
"She'll tell you, Billy, but first she's got to be relaxed. That
phone call scared her. Is everything all right?"
I nodded and offered no further explanation.
"Tell you what, Billy. Pull up the ottoman there behind you and
sit facing us. Put your legs over Billy's, Margi so he can move in and
be close. OK?"
Perhaps it was because of the dim, flickering candle light or
perhaps Jean and Margi had come to some trust or understanding while I'd
been talking with our mom because she didn't demure at all. Sliding up
toward them, my own legs splayed, Margi lifted her's and dropped her
thighs over mine. In turn, my legs were draped over Jean's. My dark
adaptation and the candle light enabled me to appreciate the furry core
of Margi's pelvis in the process.
"Hmmm, nice, Margi."
"Are you commenting on Margi's pussy, Billy?"
Margi gasped and I felt her trying to close her legs, but she was
stuck in an open and exposed position.
Not waiting for a reply, Jean went on, "Tell Billy what you told me
a few minutes ago, Margi."
"Oh, I couldn't . . ." she began but was cut off by Jean
immediately.
"Sure you can, girl." Jean cupped both her breasts in her hands
and rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger. She then turned
her attention to me. "I'll start." she began. "Margi has always wanted
to acknowledge her body as well as her sexuality. She told me that
making out in the dark is fun certainly, but not exciting. She's
attracted to the excitement. Aren't you, girl?"
Margi glanced at me and then tried to look up at Jean but couldn't
manage fully. Jean nudged her again and she nodded.
"Aren't you?" prompted Jean.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I love the excitement."
"And?"
"And . . . I'm too embarrassed to ask for it."
Patiently, "For what, Margi?"
"For someone to tell me what to do." she said softly and then
gaining some confidence, added in a louder voice, "I want to do things.
All sorts of things, you know - sexy things - but I'm too shy. It's not
that I don't want to try things, everything, it's that I'm so
embarrassed. If someone, you, *makes* me do things . . . well, then I
can't refuse. It's like it's not my fault. Then it's OK. Know what I
mean?"
"Good, Margi. Now let me ask you this. Are you willing to tell
Billy what our deal is?"
Margi nodded, studying the rug in front of her, not looking up.
"ARE you, girl?" Jean nudged her again.
Margi suddenly looked up at me and stared for a long moment before
saying, "Yes, I am."
I touched her for the first time. I placed my hands on the tops of
her thighs and slowly stroked up and down. "Then tell me, Margi. What's
the "deal' - the one you've made with Jean. I'd like to hear you tell
me."
She took a deep breath and blew it out. Then another before
beginning. "I told Jean that I was so excited, so hot a little while
ago - when we were playing Truth or Dare - that I would have done
anything, and Jean asked, 'Anything?'"
She took another breath and continued. "When she asked me that, I
was excited and afraid at the same time, but I guess I was more excited
then frightened so I said, 'Yes, anything.'"
Jean continued to roll Margi's nipples in her fingers. They were
swollen and dusky. I hunched a little closer and ran my fingers over
the tops of her thighs, ending just an inch away from her public thatch.
"Go on," I urged.
"She asked me if I'd be your slave for the night, the two of you's
slave. I wasn't sure what that meant, but somehow it made me wetter."
She looked at me again and asked, "Know what I mean?"
"The slave part or the wetter part?" I asked.
"Uh . . . I figure you know about the wetter part. I'm horny. But
do you know about the slave part? What does that mean to you?"
"No, Margi. The real question is: What does that mean to *you*?"
She looked down, nibbling on her lower lip and brushed the top of
her pubic hair with her fingers. "Well, I *think* it means that I have
to do what you tell me to do, that I have no choice."
I traced a line across the top of her pubic bush, meeting her hand
in the process. She started to pull away but I grabbed her hand and
pulled it back to the top of her pussy and held it there.
"Margi, it's important to know that you *do* have a choice. You
always do. This is a game. That's all it is. And in this game, we
play that you're a slave, our slave, and that you have to do the things
we say. Keep in mind, if you agree, we'll expect you to keep your
bargain. We'd never hurt you, but we might embarrass you and we just
might make you even hornier. But you do have a choice. Do you
understand that?"
After I removed my hand from her's, she resumed touching the area
around the top of her slit, idly moving her fingers through her bush.
Oddly stronger, she went on. "Oh, I know that. And I've already
made the decision. That's the "deal" I made with Jean. I'm yours for
the evening and I have to do what I'm told." Glancing back, she added,
"Isn't this right?"
Jean answered promptly, "That's right, girl and the first thing I
want you to do is play with yourself. I'll play with your tits. You
play with your little cunny. Yes, show Billy your pussy."
Jean has assumed a firm, directing voice and I took my clue from
that. "While you're playing with yourself, Margi, tell us . . . when
did you start masturbating?"
She ran the index finger of her right hand up through her slit. In
the yellow light, I could see her finger glistening with her wetness.
"Um . . . I'm not really sure. A long time ago. I was young. I
mean, very young. Maybe eight. Even seven. I don't remember. All I
knew was that it felt really good and I knew I wasn't supposed to be
doing that. I didn't know why. I don't remember anyone telling me not
to touch myself, but I knew. Maybe my girlfriend told me. I knew it
was naughty, but it felt too good to stop."
"Ever get caught?" Jean asked.
Margi slipped two fingers into her slit and then rubbed her juice
on my hand as I toyed with her pubic hair. When I looked at her, her
eyes were glistening, intense and wide open. She smiled a little.
"Several times. It was embarrassing, but it also was exciting. I
think I *wanted* to get caught."
"Did you cum then?" I asked, holding my hand up to my nose.
Her eyes glittered as she watched me. I smelled her and then
touched my tongue to my fingers. She jerked.
Now a little more breathless, she answered, "I could cum as long as
I can remember. Just some were more powerful than others."
I wondered what she was trying to tell us, but before I could frame
another question, Jean asked, "Tell us about the powerful ones, girl.
Can you remember what made them that way?"
"Yes, I can . . . but I'm a little embarrassed to talk about it."
Bending forward, I used my finger tips to pull open the lips of her
pussy, watching her finger roll her clit.
"Then all the more reason to tell us," I interjected. "It's the
stuff about which we are most embarrassed that's often behind the
greatest erotic charge."
"Exactly," chimed Jean. "Remember, you're our slave, so tell us
everything girlfriend."
I presented the wet tips of my fingers to Jean. She sniffed them
and said, "I'm beginning to understand why you keep snitching my
panties, Billy."
Margi looked back and forth between us, straining her neck trying
to see Jean behind her. I nodded to her. "Go on."
"You guys make me forget what I'm saying . . ."
"The most powerful cums," I prompted.
"Oh yeah! Well, it had something to do with the fear of getting
found out. That some one would catch me. The closer I got to
discovery, the more powerful my cums got. A couple a times I got caught
with my hand in my panties as I was about to cum and it shot me over the
edge. I just doubled up and groaned, it was so strong."
I scrunched a little closer again. Margi had to lift her thighs
even higher as I moved in. She looked down and saw my cock, inches
from her. She tentatively reached out to touch me and I said, "In a
moment. But right now, I want to look at you. I want to touch you.
Have you ever been this open for anyone?"
She shook her head and continued to look at my cock, now bobbing. I
ran my finger through her slit. It was swampy and the musky scent of
her was filling the room.
"And have you *wanted* to show yourself this way? "
She nodded her head vigorously. "All the time! I don't understand
it, but I *want* to be seen. I put myself in positions where I'll be
exposed and then almost die of embarrassment when I am. And I keep
doing it. I get so hot sometimes I have to . . ."
"Masturbate?" Jean prompted.
"Yes. I *have* to get off. I even stick things up inside of me."
She paused and then added, "God, I can't believe I said that!"
Turning her back to the moment, I asked, "Can you feel it in your
pussy when Jean pinches your nipples?"
I nodded to Jean. Margi gasped with the intensity of Jean's pinch.
"Can you feel that in your little cunny, Margi?" Jean asked, tugging on
her swollen nipples.
Margi bobbed her head and groaned, as she slid down a bit, pushing
her cunt at my fisted cock. I slid the head of my dick up and down
through her wet slit and said to her, "Margi, bring yourself off for us.
Show us how you cum. We want to watch you, your pussy, your sweet cunt.
Watch it drool. Make it foam, girl. Jill off for us."
She looked wildly at me for a moment and then surrendering, she
threw her head back, her neck arched, tits thrust forward and slipped
the fingers of her right hand into her cunt as she began rolling her
clitoral hood with her left hand.
I began to tap on the engorged and jutting tip of her clit with the
head of my cock, much as I'd done with Jean once a few years before.
And like Jean had done, she began a grunting moan that sounded like,
"Mmmm, uh, uh, uh," over and over, thrusting her hips at me, plunging
her fingers into her swampy core. My desire was surging.
As she slid forward again, I noted that Jean had pulled her hands
away from Margi and into her own crotch. At least it looked that way. I
made eye contact with her and she looked almost pained. Her brows were
knitted and she was biting her lip. Her eyes were open and wild with
passion, unfocused.
Margi had slid almost flat with her legs wrapped around me. My
cock had been pulled down into the crack of her ass as I mindlessly
began humping at her sexy, wet warmth.
Jean pulled away and shifted position, now kneeling over Margi's
head, her hand buried in her own cunt, frigging away, almost
frantically. Margi's unsupported head was thrown way back, neck
hyper-extended, mouth open. When I caught Jean's eye again, I nodded
toward Margi's open mouth and Jean threw her leg over and lowered her
cunt to Margi.
Margi immediately opened her mouth and started to suck on my
sister's pussy as she continued to frig her own cunt, now with three
fingers jammed in and still blindly humping the air.
Jean was moaning and grunting as she fingered her clit and Margi
mouthed her slit. No less intense, Margi continued to moan incoherently
as she fucked her self with her bunched fingers, my hard cock rubbing
the crevasse of her ass cheeks. I wondered if she'd ever taken it up
the ass.
I wrenched myself back, pulling away from Margi. Without looking,
she pulled her mouth away from Jean long enough to moan, "No, please
no."
I kneeled between Margi's legs and pulled them up, pushing her
knees toward her shoulders, baring her open and swollen sex as she
crammed her fingers into herself. Just below was her ass hole, fringed
with dark hair. I was desperate to sink my cock into something.
"Margi, I'm going to fuck you. You OK with that? Want me to sink
my hard cock into you soft cunt, girl?"
She pulled back, took a breath and almost screamed, "YES! Yes. FUCK
me--I want it--I need it. Fuck me, please!"
Unthinking, I leaned over her, pushing the head of my cock below
her fingers. She pulled out and grabbed my cock, guiding it into her
core as I slowly sank into her, no more than a head's depth.
"Want more than the head in there, girl?" I asked, trying to drive
her crazy."
Jean's voice entwined itself in our reverie, "Fuck her, Billy! Fuck
her while I watch. Yes, fuck her while she eats me. Oh, God. Oh,
shit. This is so hot. Put it in. More!"
"More, Margi?"
"Oh GOD, don't tease me. I'm gonna die. Push it in, Please!"
I eased in another inch, maybe two.
"Yesss," she hissed and humped at me.
"Yes," echoed Jean. "Oh Christ, Billy. I've wanted this and I've
been afraid of this for so long. Fuck HER, Billy and think about
fucking me!"
Bending forward and thrusting her hips out that she might see Margi
better, Jean added, "Come on, girl. Suck me. Eat me while my brother
fucks into your cunt. Give me the fuck energy he's giving you. Fuck me
with your tongue."
I lost all restraint as I pulled back and then slammed into her as
hard as I could. I touched something back there, in the back of her
cunt. She grunted and bucked under me as I began a trip-hammer
pounding, kneeling between her splayed thighs, my eyes locked with
Jean's as we climbed higher and higher onto some impossible pinnacle. I
lost track of time. I lost track of Margi. It came down to just the
two of us.
There was just me and there was just Jean, eyes locked, fucking and
fucking, lost in the moment, lost in each other.
She started first, as her head fell back and she grabbed her own
breasts, humping Margi's mouth, her moan drawn out to a rising
crescendo. I remember thinking for a brief moment that I'd watch this
erotic sight, but my own runaway orgasm caught me by surprise.
I couldn't remember what we'd decided about her risk. I pulled out
and fisting my cock, I stroked it once, twice and a third time when I
exploded. The first thick white rope of cum landed on Jean's thigh. The
next on Margi's chin and throat and the last on her chest and belly. A
few more dribbles ended up in my hand. I looked at the warm white
puddle in my hand and then reached out and wiped it across Jean's
breast. Her nipple was pebble hard.
We fell silent. Frozen in the tableau, Jean sat back on her heels,
freeing Margi's face. I fell back on my heels and looked at the
wreckage. The only sound was our panting. I couldn't really tell which
was mine.
Margi slowly lifted her head and make eye contact. We looked at
each other but didn't talk. Couldn't talk. We were drained.
Margi ran her finger through a glob of my cum on her chest and
looked at it. She looked back at me and then placed the tip of her
finger in her mouth, tasting me.
Jean watched silently and then similarly picked up a clot of my
jism with her finger and tasted it as well.
The CD was still playing, but I'd not heard it in the past while.
Gradually I heard again the waves on the beach as I reentered reality.
I looked down. I was still holding my cock, now soft and
shriveled. It looked almost pathetic, that once proud weapon now
reduced to a soft, wet noodle.
Jean cupped her cunt and held it for a moment before asking in a
whisper, "Well, stud, how do you feel now?"
"There are no words."
"We finally got to 'do it' Billy."
"Yeah. I wonder if we'll ever get any closer, Jean?"
"I don't know, Billy. Maybe not. Maybe this is it. I just don't
know. But I am sure of one thing . . ."
"What's that?"
"We'll never be able to go back. You can't go home again."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Epilogue
Because we're still very much alive, Jean and I, there's no real
ending to this story. Still, for now, it needs to end somewhere and
this is it.
I've taken the remembering, the reliving, the healing of it all as
far as I needed to. I have other things to write, things aside and away
from Jean.
More, I have a jazzy life to live and the vibrancy of the moment,
the here and now, is more vital than the sweet memories of what once
was. Given then and given now, it's a no-brainer. I'll go with the
moment any day.
BillyG
Author: BillyG <billyg@hooked.net>
-- CJ
I don't write any stories. I'm just a reader, and sometimes a reposter.
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