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From: Bill Hayden <hayden@mindless.com>
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Subject: RP BillyG's "My Sister Jean" - In Celeste's Top 100 1997
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MY SISTER JEAN
BillyG (billyg@hooked.net)
________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 1 -- Jean's Panties
Holding up the soiled panties I'd lifted from the wash hamper and
with an exaggerated voice of wonder, I asked, "What're these?"
My sister, Jean--older by two years--blushed and shot back, "You
jerk! What do you think they are? Give me my panties . . . right now,
Billy!"
Jean and I had always been close and shared most things, but the
conservative atmosphere that surrounded things sexual in our home had
placed a "forbidden" charge on things like underwear . . . and bathrooms
. . . and (gasp), private parts. Added to the mixed messages we'd
received, was the clear awareness of our parents' sexuality, for, when
my father returned from a long sea trip, they'd always "get it on."
Ostensibly, their sexuality was not in the open, but in fact, they were
careless and we were aware of both of them as sexually active people.
But we never spoke of it. That heightened awareness was to add spice to
our own little games.
Holding up the white cotton panties to the light, I examined the
crotch in an affected fashion and said, "Hmmm, what's this white stuff?"
"BILLY! Stop that this minute, you little rat. God! You're
dirty."
I loved her discomfort and as her kid brother, I loved this
fleeting moment of power. Sensing I was on a roll, I held the panties
up to my nose and made a loud sniffing sound and added, "Boy, this
smells sexy."
Would this stratagem work? I was dragging out of the closet a
specific point of sexual tension that had been building between us for a
long time. It started for me, I think, when we were wrestling and I had
become aware of the distinctive "girl smell" Jean had, seemingly coming
from her bottom. I'd wrestled in earnest but as usual, I was
distracted. Everywhere I touched, it seemed, was soft or feminine. She,
on the other hand, wasn't distracted. She'd finally whipped me with a
scissor-lock. I was trapped with my head between her thighs, looking up
into the tight crotch of her shorts.
"Give? Give?" she chanted.
"Never! Not on your life," I insisted. Give up? Heck, I wanted
some more time so close to her secret girl spot. Reaching around her
bare thigh, I tried to insert my hands between her legs near the
stretched bottom of her white shorts. I'd already made out that all she
had on were short shorts and panties glimpsed under a too-large, baggy
sweat shirt.
Making a tickling sound as I touched the inside of her thigh, I got
her laughing a moment, relaxing her strong leg muscles. I lunged-- not
back and away-- rather, I pushed my head in and higher up, bringing my
nose right up to her bottom.
"Now I really gotcha," she chortled. "Give?"
Got me? I smiled to myself. Who's got whom here? "Never!" I
mumbled from the confines of her sweaty crotch, inhaling her smell, the
sexy, girl aroma.
Smelling her panties that I'd snitched from the soiled clothes
hamper was always a turn-on, but smelling her this closely, in
real-time, was almost overpowering. I forgot to struggle and gave
myself over to the erotic moment. Seeing the leg of her panties under
her shorts, a few light brown hairs sticking out, I wondered, has she
any idea what I'm seeing?
Jean suspected something was going on. "What are you *doing*, you
little shit?" And then she shrieked as I began to run my finger tips
under the pant leg, touching her panty crotch, all in the guise of
tickling.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle," I lied, trying to make my mind work on
two separate levels. Pretend we're wrestling, but bury my nose in her
crotch. I was desperate to smell her, to touch her, to see her sex and
I didn't really know how to go about it . . . other than this game.
Still shrieking with laughter and repeating, "No . . . no . . . no
. . . ," she was trying to keep me pinned and get away from my tickling
at the same time. "Oh, God, don't. I'll wet myself. Stop. Please
stop."
Wet herself? What did she mean? It was then that I became aware
of another smell, the unmistakable faint scent of pee. Cripes, was she
peeing in her pants? Craning my head back, I attempted to look at the
white crotch right in front of my face and could see a wet place as big
as a plum. Then, before I could see anymore, she quickly disengaged and
ran from the room, slamming the bathroom door behind her.
As I'd often done in the past when I knew we were alone, I'd listen
at the thin bathroom door. Once again I heard the familiar hissing of
her pee hitting the porcelain bowl. Other times she'd make a louder
noise when her squirting pee splashed in the water and I couldn't figure
out why it changed from time to time. Did she sit differently? Could
she really aim it? I didn't hear the noisy toilet paper roll as I
anticipated. Rather, it was quiet. Straining, I imagined I could hear
her breathing, but it may have been me. After several minutes of
silence, I then heard her pull on the toilet paper, a long pull followed
by another short silence.
The bathroom door knob rattled, surprising me, for she'd not
flushed the john. She *always* flushed that was my signal to get out
of there. Oh, shit! I'm caught, I thought, my heart suddenly in my
throat. Yet, she'd paused just a moment, allowing me to scamper away.
Then the door opened with a bang and Jean, walking out of the bathroom,
stepped over me. I could see the half moons of her ass cheeks as she
stepped over my upturned face. She simply dismissed me with a casual,
"Jerk!"
As she rounded the corner and passed from sight, I jumped up and
went into the bathroom. The lid was up on the john and when I looked
in I was thrilled to see pale yellow water and a folded-up wad of toilet
tissue. There it is, I thought. There's her pee! I stood looking at
it, thinking about how it got there and I just couldn't not jack off. I
was too primed, I was ready to explode with sexual tension. It must
have taken about ten seconds of frantically stroking my teen-aged
hard-on for me to squirt my jism into the yellow toilet water. That's
it. I was hooked. My sister had me by the balls on a downhill drag and
she didn't even know it. Jean's panties and Jean's peeing, at that
moment, became firmly linked in my mind with an immense sexual charge.
Later, I tried to talk with her about our wrestling but I wasn't
surprised when she just wouldn't talk about it at all. Still, we both
knew something had changed and a new tension, a sexual charge, had been
established. For me, I became obsessed with trying to see Jean naked,
or up her dress or under a pantleg. If that's all you think about and
you live in such closeness with another person, the rewards are
frequent. Yet, looking was one thing, but not enough. I wanted to up
the ante. I wanted so much to smell her again and more, I wanted to
talk with her about it! I just wanted to talk dirty. And heaven knows,
I wanted to watch her pee.
She rarely got to go to the john without me being aware of it and
listening at the door. The sound of her peeing was an aphrodisiac for
me --instant woody! Even the muffled sound of her soft farts gave me a
thrill. I came to know her micturition habits born of the certainty of
long experience.
For me, a ritual was established. After school, Jean would always
change her clothes including her underwear, leaving the soiled garments
in the bathroom hamper. As soon as she'd come out, I'd go in, lock the
door, and fish out her panties. Then, with my own pants down around my
ankles and sitting on the toilet, I sniff her panties as I played with
myself. It had been years since I'd caught a glimpse of her bare pussy,
but my active imagination played that tape over and over, seeing the
pussy hair and her little-girl slit slowly open, the lips swelling and
moist. With my nose close to the odor of her "private place," I smelled
the heady scent of her sex. I beat off every day, often twice, trying
to think of a way that I could get Jean to play with me.
She'd become increasingly aware of my voyeuristic play over the
weeks and pretended indignation when I tried to look up her dress, but I
sensed her stance was more pro forma than real. Else why did she sit so
carelessly when I was around? Why did she bend over in front of me so
often the tight crotch of her shorts pulled up into the crack of her ass
and then ask me some nonsense question that I might look her way? She
sure didn't act that way when Mom was around.
Still, I knew her "rules"-- the rules of our household-- don't talk
about it. We could play the game and pretend we weren't doing anything,
but we couldn't openly acknowledge it. She might sit carelessly,
reading a book, and I might sit on the floor in front of her,
surreptitiously watching the junction of her thighs and catching a peek
of her panties . . . but I couldn't openly let her know I was doing
this. That angered her -- me drawing attention to my interest in
looking up her dress. It was part of this teenaged seduction, part of
our forbidden incestuous play . . . pretend it isn't really happening.
Much later, Jean was to tell me that she knew exactly what she was
doing and what I was doing. She was very aware, very excited and more,
thrilled and scared at the same time. She wanted to escalate the game
herself, but it just had to be in a way she could square with her
hypertrophied sense of morality . . . it just isn't so if you don't
admit it.
So, if we couldn't openly own up to our kinks, we could beat around
the bush (as it were) and teasingly approach our horniness. At that
time, I didn't know that Jean wanted to play as much as I did. I
thought the burden of seduction, of guile, was mostly upon me. And,
functionally, most of it was. Like so many boys, I thought I was the
only one who was this sick. I was the only one who hung around the
bathroom door or sniffed their sister's underwear and then had wet
dreams about it. Cripes!
Clearly, I needed a plan. I just couldn't wait around forever. I
suppose I had the typical teenager's impaired tolerance for delayed
gratification. I needed something more direct, less subtle . . .
something to address the topic in a frontal fashion, yet maintain the
denial. Her underpants were the key to this, I thought. She knew, I
suspected, that I played with them in the bathroom, but the secrecy of
my masturbation habits didn't allow the eye-to-eye confrontation I
wanted. Time to crank up the intimacy rheostat. I'll somehow use her
panties as a tool of seduction.
Think about it for a moment. Panties. They've *always* carried a
charge. Girls giggle about them and boys have an unflagging interest in
them. They're secret. They're naughty. And they're sexy as all get
out. They're worn right next to "that place." They get "dirty" with . .
. you know, those things kids don't talk about easily . . . pee . . .
pussy juice . . . skid marks. My sister Jean *knew * of my horny
fascination with her undergarments, both on her as well as in the
dirty-clothes hamper, so they'd be a natural, I reasoned. Further, it
wouldn't be too far out -- not like just out-and-out grabbing her as
I'd really like -- and I could retreat if she was really offended. (I
was limited in the cojones department as a kid, that's clear.) Thus, my
need for an oblique scheme.
Now, back to the soiled panties: Spreading the crotch of her white
cotton underpants over the palm of my left hand and examining them
obliquely to the light, I asked, "Is this a spot of pee I see? Did you
pee in your panties, Jean? Did you have a little accident, big sister?
Did you . . ."
Whop! Something hit me in the face. She'd thrown the first thing
that fell to her hand, thrown and hit me right in the face, with -- you
guessed it -- another pair of her panties!
Pulling them from my face as I staggered back in a theatrical
fashion, I looked at them. These were pink rayon with lace around the
top and the legs. "Oh, do you want me to do a crotch check on these as
well?"
She went ballistic. "You rat. You stinking, little rat. You're
sick. You're a twisted little shit of a brother and I wish you'd fall
into the toilet and be washed out to the dump and I'd never see you
again and I'd get your room and I wouldn't have to wait forever for the
bathroom while you . . ." Red-faced and sputtering, she leaned across
the folding table to grab her panties from me. Her shirt front fell
away.
As part of her Saturday, stay-at-home, no-one-will-see-me uniform,
she was wearing one of my old, baggy and stretched, sweat shirts.
Perhaps because we were doing the wash, and it was a Saturday when no
one was around, she'd not worn a bra. I could see her tits! Down the
gaping front of that sweat shirt, I could see all of her tits and her
front, right down to her belly button. Her breasts were medium-sized
and her nipples were large and erect. I can see them in my mind's eye
yet today. Bending over the table, her arm outstretched, blushing and
angry, her white breasts swayed. At that moment, they weren't the
breasts of a young, teenaged girl; they were the breasts of a sexual
woman and I wanted to touch them! There was silence. I don't know how
long it lasted . . . seemed like long minutes. Jean, looking into my
eyes, angry, hurt, confused and yes, aroused. I'm holding her panties
and looking down her shirt, mesmerized by her breasts, by her nipples. I
stared. I stared and didn't say anything.
I was acutely aware of my cock. It was hard. Hard and pressing
into the edge of the table, bent in my pants and hurting a little.
Unbidden, my hips pushed into the table harder, pushing my hard-on
sideways, the tip of my dick suddenly springing up toward my belt. Now
I was unconsciously dry humping the damn table, holding Jean's panties
and staring at her tits. Nothing subtle here. I was trying to fuck the
damn changing table and couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.
Following my eyes, Jean looked down and saw her own breasts, fully
exposed. With a sudden inrush of breath, she slapped her hand over her
shirt, closing the top. At the same moment, I extended my hand to her
with her panties, as if to give them up. Falling for that, she reached
for them, pulling her hand away and the shirt fell open again. And
again, I could plainly see her bare boobs with their very prominent,
eraser nipples.
Still grinding my cock against the hard table edge and watching her
breasts sway as she stretched farther to get her panties, I pulled back
a little, just out of her reach. And again, time was frozen. Her
breasts, now pink in the wave of her blooming embarrassment, were there
in front of me, one slightly flattened against the table by her chest as
she leaned across, the other swaying free, the nipple prominently erect.
I humped still and she looked. Just looked and looked. The only sound
was our breathing. Both of us, I think, were mesmerized by the erotic
charge of what was happening, and we didn't even really know *what* was
happening.
My world narrowed. Through slitted eyes I could see only her
breast. As down a tunnel, her voice came to me in a hoarse whisper,
"Billy, you're doin' it, aren't you . . . you're doin' it and you're
gonna come, huh?"
I heard her but I didn't. It was too late. I was gone and it
never occurred to me to even attempt to slow this runaway avalanche of
feeling. It began somewhere deep inside, gathering force and rumbled up
and a core of heat poured out my cock in near-painful pulses, once,
twice, a third and then a fourth spurt. I came, spurting jet after jet
inside my Jockeys and the jism pooled and ran back down the shaft of my
cock, the warmth of my come bathing my dick down to the root.
The roaring in my ears quieted. Dimly I heard the hum of the
refrigerator and then a car passing on the street. Then my own breath,
gasping. Opening my eyes I saw Jean. She hadn't moved. Her eyes were
wide open in astonishment, her mouth slack. I could see her tongue
behind her lower teeth and still, her nipple, now almost purple against
the white background of her belly.
Caught in the terrible intensity of this unplanned erotic high, we
stood watching each other for a long minute. Embarrassment began to
flood my feelings. What had I done? How had this happened? I never
planned this. What would Jean think? Worse, what would she tell Mom and
Dad, or her girl friends? Suddenly, I was no longer horny. I was
scared shitless!
I looked away and then, as if it had broken a spell, Jean spun
away, muttering, "Ho-ly shit!" I stood there alone with her panties in
my hand, still pressed up against the table, my cock wilting. Was I in
for it?
My mind raced. Well I might be 'in for it,' but what's done is
done, I reasoned. I'm not going to turn back now. It'd be hard to make
it much worse and she just *might* be turned on too, I reasoned. Gaining
some shred of self confidence, I decided to press any advantage I might
have.
For some obscure reason, I decided that it was unlikely she'd tell
on me. For one, she'd be too embarrassed. And for two, I thought she
just might be a little excited herself.
Knowing she'd want to be "offended" for a little while, I gave her
space and just smiled when she tried to brush me off. While she was a
little bigger than me (then), with the instinctual certainty of the
horny hunter, I knew she wasn't as sure of herself and that she needed
to be chased, to be talked into being naughty. Well, I was just the
guy.
Chapter 2 -- The Couch
I really liked Jean. Heck, I adored her. She was a wonderful
sister and I know she loved me as well. So it wasn't an act when I set
out to be her champion. I stuck up for her. I defended her from my
mom's sometimes erratic sense of fair play and when my friends teased
her, I'd only let it go so far. I'd let those guys know that she was my
sister and not to disrespect her. Jean, at first, was uncertain, but
her loving nature pushed right through. She spoke to me with affection
and began to engage me in conversation, at first about inconsequential
things, but later about "boy-girl" things. Our relationship had been
changed. It was growing more "real," never to go back to our old
sibling rivalry.
Oh, my behavior around her hadn't changed. I was still trying to
look down her blouse or up her dress. I still listened at the bathroom
door. But now, we were closer buddies. She really liked me, so it was
both easier to accept my aggressive sexuality and harder for her to take
offense at my shenanigans. Added to that, I began to accept myself a
little more and was far less hesitant about letting her know that I was
horny.
One afternoon, alone in the house together, she asked, "Can we have
a heart-to-heart?"
Grinning and with a pointed look at her left breast, I said, "Sure,
girl, I'd love to have a heart-to-heart with you. Your place or mine?"
"Come-ON, you nit. Be serious. I need to talk with you, so get
your mind out of the gutter."
Sprawling out on one end of a large sectional in the living room, I
said, "Okay, okay, Sis. Sit and talk to me. What's happenin'? What's
on your mind? Boys? Yeah, I'll bet that's what it is . . . boys, huh?"
Sitting opposite me and giving special attention to a button on her
shirt, she didn't make eye contact, a sure sign of her embarrassment
about something. "Well . . . kinda . . . that is, I need to . . . well,
I'd *like* to ask you some questions about what boys think okay?" When
Jean was uncertain of herself, she often placed an interrogatory
inflection on the last part of her sentences as if to say, "You know?"
"Only if you share with me . . . tit for tat, girl. I'll tell you
things what you wanna know if you tell me what I wanna know . . .and
no mincing around either. Fair?" It was always better to establish the
rules of engagement with Jean. More often, she was willing to give a
little before the fact. Before she became embarrassed and dug in, I
wanted her tacit agreement that if I were to tell her "all about boys,"
I wanted reciprocity. I'd been pulling her in this direction for weeks
and she was ever less reticent to fess up.
"Well . . . okay, but don't get too dirty again, will you . . .
promise?"
"Heck no. I don't promise anything, except to be honest. Where
can you get a better deal than a promise of honesty? The truth can't
hurt you, you know." I was shamelessly playing on her sense of morality
and fair play, trying to suggest that what she had to talk about was
probably just as "dirty" as my stuff. (*I* didn't even believe that.)
Still pulling on the button, "Okay, little brother." Then smiling,
"I do trust you."
Mentally rubbing my hands, I thought, yes . . . trust me . . . to
try to get into your pants, big sister. Affecting a nonchalant
indifference, I leaned back (and almost fell off the couch) and said,
"Thanks. Now, shoot. What's on your mind, woman?" (She loved to be
called "woman.") Now that the general topic was out of the bag and we'd
established the ground rules, she visibly relaxed a little more.
Swinging around, she put her bare feet on the couch near mine and
leaned her knees into the cushions, tugging her skirt down. Out of my
peripheral vision I noted that the hem of her skirt had fallen in such a
fashion that I could see well up the back of her thighs. This has
potential I knew but I'd have to be careful not to be too openly leering
at her legs, at least at first.
Again, nervously tugging at the button on her shirt, she sat
silently for a moment, I imagined composing her question. Whatever it
was, she'd been thinking about it for days at least, but now she had to
compose the words. If nothing else, I was patient. I waited without
further prompting.
Finally, hesitantly, she stammered, "This is embarrassing, but . .
. when you . . . do you remember . . . uh, the time when you . . ."
"The time when I came?" I offered.
Blushing and tugging more on the button, she nodded.
In a soft voice I admitted, "Yeah, well sure. How can I forget? It
was the neatest thing ever happened. What about it?"
"Uh . . . I've been wonderin', that ever happen before? I mean,
have you ever, uh, before . . . that is . . . oh shit! I wanna know. Do
guys, you know . . . jack . . . er, masturbate?"
Do guys . . . ? I couldn't believe it. It was too good to be
true. I'd been wondering for weeks how'd I'd get Jean to talk about
masturbation and now here it was, right out there, and she'd asked me!
Boy, was I going to have a good time with this one. I thought it'd take
a long time to get up to The Topic and now, wham, here it was.
I almost fell off the couch again in an attempt to look casual. My
dick was already stirring. Cripes, I could see the bulge and I know
that if she looked, she could as well. I was now the one who was almost
tongue tied. "Well sure guys masturbate, Jean. At least everyone I know
does, and all the time, or at least that's what they say."
Jean gets restless when she's approaching an emotionally-charged
conversation and I was increasingly aware of her legs as she shifted
them back and forth. Abruptly, they parted as she crammed both hands,
straight armed, between her thighs. I saw a flash of white, the crotch
of her panties. It was more than a flash. Actually, it was a several
second look and the poochy bulge that formed the crotch of her panties
was the sexiest thing in the world at that moment. My mind went right
back to the memory when my nose was smashed next to her crotch and the
olfactory memory kicked in. I could smell her, I thought.
"And you?" she prompted.
"Geeze, Sis. I'm a guy! Sure. That is, I mean, I have," I
admitted in an evasive way.
Tilting her head in way she had, she held out one hand, palm up and
said, "Oh, I supposed you did . . . I mean, the way you're always
trying to look at me and all. But what I was really wondering was, uh .
. . how?"
"How?" How what I wondered?
Now, her voice more certain, "Yeah. Just *how* do you do it. I
mean, the one time I saw you . . . you did it against the table. Is
that the way you *always* do it? I just wanna know."
Laughing, I replied, "That was the *only* time it happened that
way, Sis. That just happened. I didn't plan it. I don't normally get
off on the table . . . I usually do it . . . uh, the usual way, you
know."
With a trace of irritation she countered, "No, I* don't* know.
That's why I'm asking. I mean, if I knew, do ya think I'd be asking? I
know how girls . . . I mean, I don't know how guys really do it."
For a moment I couldn't believe that Jean was that naive. She
*must* have known. But, maybe she is as inexperienced as she says and I
needed to give her support, not teasing.
"Okay, I think I understand what you want to know. It's like this.
You know what a hard-on is, don't you . . . when a guy's dick swells and
get hard . . . when he's all excited? Well, when my dick's hard, I just
wrap my hand around it and then stroke it up and down. I almost always
think of something sexy . . . you know, fantasize while I'm doing it .
. . and before I know it, wham! I come . . . and, well you saw what
that's like."
"You think of something sexy? Like what? A movie star or a picture
in Penthouse?"
"Well, I have thought of girls I've seen in sexy magazines, but
most of the time I think of someone I know, someone closer to me,
someone who is real and very sexy."
"Janey Pritchard?" she asked, naming the most outrageous flirt in
high school.
"Not Janey. She's okay, I guess, but she doesn't get me off. No,
I think of someone who's far sexier than Janey when I jerk off . . .
that's what guys call it, ya know . . . jerking off."
Jean had succeed in pulling her shirt button all the way off and
was absentmindedly working on the next one down. As her shirt opened
and closed, I caught repeated glimpses of the swell of her breasts above
the lacy white bra she was wearing. She continued to shift around as
she became more excited and had dropped one foot off the couch while the
other, still bent was up against the cushion giving me a completely
wide-open look under her skirt.
She was wearing bikini-style panties, very low cut in front and
high on the sides. The darkness of her pubic hair was plainly visible,
for I'd picked the end of the couch with the light behind me. Jean had
to squint to look directly at me while I had a clearly lighted,
unobstructed crotch shot. The conversation and the sexy view were
getting to me. My pants were clearly bulging out and I'd seen my sister
glance at my crotch several times and then quickly look away.
She persisted, "Who, then? Just who do you think of that gets you
all . . . uh . . . hard and . . . and horny?"
Was she fishing? Dropping my right hand to bulge of my pecker and
holding it pointedly, I said, "You."
"WHAT?" She gasped, her eyes wide in surprise, her hand frozen
with the shirt pulled part way open. "What do you mean, me? Billy, I'm
your sister for cryin' out loud!"
Lowering my voice and looking hard at her, I rushed on, "Sis, I
*am* your brother and I still find you attractive. I still find you
*very* attractive, beautiful even. Why, you're the most attractive girl
I know and by far, the sexiest girl I know. I can't help that and I
can't help the way I feel. I care for you and I love you. I'd do
anything for you. I can't help it you turn me on. When I see you, I
feel warm. When I see your breasts or your butt, I get a thrill. When
I think of you naked, why I just get so darn horny . . . there's only
one thing I can do."
Jean sat, frozen, with one leg up which pulled the crotch of her
panties into her pussy. There was a natural silence. We just sat and
looked at each other. Now I was no longer trying to sneak peeks at her
panties; I was blatant about it. I knew she could see me and yet, she
didn't close her legs. I could plainly see the penumbra of soft hair
high on her thigh, above where she shaved her legs. Then, looking at
the crotch of her white cotton bikinis, I could see a wet spot. She was
getting wet. She was getting excited, I was sure.
Chapter 3 -- Our First Sex
Suddenly dropping her raised leg, she pushed one hand into her
skirt-covered crotch and seemed to cup herself as she asked, "Just what
do you think about, Billy? I mean, what do you think about me when you,
uh, do it?" She'd taken the bait!
By this time I'd decided to turn up the intensity. Screw this
pussy footing around. Let's get going. "Okay, Sis, I'll tell you
everything . . . everything you want to know . . . I'll tell it all, but
first, you've got to tell me something. I'm way ahead of you and I'm
feeling kinda funny about it like I'm all alone. Know what I mean? So,
before I spill the beans, you've gotta tell me things. Like I know that
girls do it too. And I suspect that you're just like everyone else, so
you probably do it as well . . . but I wanna know just how *you* do it."
I'd emphasized the "you" so she'd talk about herself and not about girls
in general.
By this time her skirt was half way up her thighs and we were
both cupping ourselves shamelessly. "All right you horndog, I'll tell
you. Yes. Yes, I do it . . . a lot. I've been doing it for years . . .
ever since I was nine. Usually I do it when I'm in bed, late at night,
but sometimes I just wake up hot and have to do it again. Lately I've
had to do it in the day time, and then I go, well, you probably know
where I go. You go there all the time!"
Now her skirt was at her hips and I could see her hands over her
panty crotch. I slipped my hand inside my pants to adjust my dick,
noisily sucking air between my teeth. It was all hard and caught bent
in my underpants. She stopped talking and watched me, so I kept my hand
inside my pants, holding my cock.
This was working better than my wildest dreams. I'd hoped we
might "talk dirty" and here we were, touching ourselves openly. I was
getting more excited by the minute. I could hardly sit still. The
loving feeling I had for my sister right then almost choked me up.
"Sis, I wanna tell you how sexy you are right now. You are just
beautiful. I love to look at your legs and I love to see you there and
I'm going crazy trying to see more of you. God, this is HOT and I don't
know if I can stand it!"
Jean, it appeared, had crossed some emotional line of propriety
in her mind. The shy, embarrassed girl was gone and the provocative,
sexy woman was emerging. She was enjoying herself and she was turned on
by seeing me turned on. She'd entered the game without reservation. I
just knew that. I didn't know where this was going, but I was sure of
one thing, it was getting more powerful and going *somewhere* and I was
going with it.
I suppose like most boys, I didn't imagine a girl would be
interested in looking at my dick; still, Jean had been watching me
throttle my hard cock through my pants for the last several minutes.
Suddenly, I knew what to do. Pulling my zipper down, I pushed my hand
through my open fly and grasping my cock, I looked at my sister and
said, "Show me, Jean . . . show me yours."
Looking up through her lowered lashes, she smiled and said
nothing but slid one hand into her panties and between her legs. The
wet crotch of her panties were bulged with her fingers and I could see
some dark brown pussy hair where the pants were pulled away. My sister
was really calling my hand, imitating me and teasing me at the same
time. When I began to move my hand, she moved hers. It looked like she
was running one finger up and down her slit, pausing at the top to make
little circles.
Put up or shut up, I thought as I pulled my boner out of my
pants. There! No accident this. I was showing my hard-on to my sister
and waiting to see what she'd do . . . run or join in. Then she
surprised me. Suddenly standing, she reached up inside her skirt and
pulled her panties off. Stepping out of them, she rolled them in a ball
and motioned to throw them down, but then, as if having a second
thought, she let them unroll and held them up for me to see. Rolling
her eyes, she shrugged and tossed them onto my chest as she sat back
down.
My dreams . . . my wet dreams were coming true. My sister's
warm panties were mine. The crotch was quite wet and her scent was
strong when I pulled them to my nose. Her panties stolen from the
clothes hamper were hot, but nothing like the fresh wet and warm ones
she'd just stripped from her bottom. I could hardly believe that my
sister, sweet Jean, knew what I wanted and flaunted it for me.
Shaking my head, as to clear it, I stood up and skinned out of
my jeans and underpants. My dick almost slapped my belly as it sprang
up. I stood there a moment, my hips slightly thrust forward, cock at
attention and asked, "Is this what you wanted to see?"
"Yes. And is *this* what you've been trying to see?" She
pulled her skirt up and spread her legs for me. I was seeing now, for
the first time, my sister's naked pussy. God, it was beautiful. Her
pubic hair was curly and thick on top. It was trimmed on the sides and
on the lips. My innocent sister trimmed her pussy hair! Where have I
been this century?
Scooting her hips forward, our legs overlapped as she scrunched
her bottom toward me. Her splayed legs pulled the lips of her pussy
apart just a little and I could see a wet pink inside. The scent of
pussy was heavy in the air and I so wanted to bury my face in her
crotch. Below her partially-open cunt, I could just see her puckered
anus. She was showing me her asshole! My dick lurched again, precome
wetting the area around the pee hole.
I hunched my bottom closer to her and slid my legs farther over
her's as I continued to stroke my woody. The tip of my cock was only
inches from her pussy. I could see her clit as she pulled the hood
back. She was showing me her little hard-on. By now I was so excited I
didn't know what I wanted. I wanted it all. I wanted to jack off, to
watch her jack off. I wanted to smell her, to taste her. I wanted her
to touch me, to touch my cock, my balls, my ass. I was nearing circuit
overload. I couldn't think.
Scrunching forward again, I muttered something like, "Let me
touch your clitty with my dick, Jean . . . Oh, God . . . let me touch
you!"
She was beyond speech and answered with her pelvis. She thrust
her hips to me until our sexes touched . . . until the head of my dick,
almost purple with stasis, touched the hard nubbin of her cunt. I was
mindless. I had no idea what I was doing or what to do. I began
mindlessly slapping her clit with my dick, between the inverted "V" of
her fingers that were splaying her pussy lips open. Slap, slap, slap .
. . I masturbated myself as I softly beat her clit.
Once again, my world constricted. Visions and images swam
before me. I couldn't tell fantasy from reality. My sister's pussy.
The smell of her juice. My hard, curved and shining cock pounding on
her pussy . . . on her clit. Slap, slap, slap. Her wet fingers . . .
red nails . . . holding open her pussy. Groaning sounds . . . strained,
garbled, meaningless speech, "Pussy . . . cunt . . . shit . . . piss .
. . fuck . . . Oh, Christ . . . I'm coming."
"Come on me, come on me, come on me," she chanted over and over
as I squirted ropy spurts of white jism on her chest, on her stomach and
then onto her pussy hair. From far away, I thought I heard her scream.
I must have blacked out for a moment. My next aware sensation was being
held. Jean had my cock in her hand and was holding it softly, cooing as
she stroked it like a feather. My body spasmed again, a jerk that
pushed an unbidden grunt from my chest.
"God, Jean . . . shit . . . Jesus H. Christ! I can't believe
this happened. It was unbelievable . . .incredible . . . fantastic."
"Oh, Billy," she whispered. "Please hold me, won't you? I do
love you so!"
Chapter 4 -- The Hike
Hiking up the switchback climbing from Fourth of July Lake, I
watched Jean in front of me. More correctly, I watched Jean's legs and
the movement of her buttocks. She was a few feet in front and above me
on the steep, dusty trail.
We'd broken camp a few hours ago after having spent a couple of
lazy days in a remote part of the Sierras. It was our family's custom
to pack into remote areas at least once or twice a season and this was
the first time Jean and I had gone alone. With no agenda save a couple
of day trips and some reading, we'd had time to further our connection.
I suppose it's not unusual for siblings to know each other very well on
some levels while being almost strangers on other levels. It was that
way with Jean and me.
For as long as I can remember, she'd been my older sister . . .
aloof, superior and occasionally condescending. As with most of us, the
position of apparent superiority was assumed to cover the usual
teenaged feelings of insecurity, of being "less than."
I'd taken on a completely different persona in the family. I was
the joker, the hero and, deep in my own mind, the lecher . . . the
closet rake. A few months before, in an attempt to expand my licentious
sphere and engage Jean in some "dirty talk," I'd turned up the intimacy
current. Unexpectedly, we'd literally fallen into some near-explosive
sexuality. While our "fooling around" had had sudden intensity, we'd not
really "done the deed" and since then our connection was clearly more
tender, yet guarded.
In my loving moments, I'd welcomed the chance to continue our
process of a deepening relationship. In my horny moments, I'd looked
forward to escalating our previously ill-defined sexual connection. In
short, I was hot for my sister and hoped she was too. What an opportune
time, I thought, to explore our sexual side.
Jean, however, had reservations. Oh, she'd shown that she was
capable of intense sexual response once before when we'd been fooling
around on the couch and it'd progressed into a short-lived voyeuristic
masturbation. But since that time, as if frightened by the unplanned and
seemingly uncontrollable force of the experience, she'd drawn back.
Her response to my plaintive entreaties of, "Oh, come ON, Jean . .
. why won't you let me . . ." (fill in the blanks) were met with a
smile and her reasonable position of wanting to go very slow.
"Billy, you *know* I love you. You're my kid brother and the
sweetest boy in the world. You're sexy and, most of the time, you're
kind to me. But . . . (damn, there's always a "but" that follows such a
good start) . . . but, this is scary stuff. I don't know what's right
and what's wrong. I know how I feel, but that doesn't make it right.
Won't you give me some space, please?"
When she said "please" to me with that certain sincere, loving tone
of voice, I was a goner. "Okay, okay. But don't blame *me* if I'm
limping around all the time." (As if there were blame or that I'd
really be limping. The major organ limping in me was not my dick . . .
it was my brain!)
We'd gone skinny dipping each day in the freezing high-Sierra,
snow-fed lake. It was so cold that my pecker had attempted to crawl
back into my abdomen. My cremasteric muscles - that thin sheet of
muscle that envelopes the spermatic cord and testes - had gone into
such intense spasm from the cold that each day, on dashing back out of
the water, I was doubled over with pain. It didn't help my sense of
dignity or my macho image when Jean'd point and laugh at me. (I've
sense come to see the wisdom that warns: "It's ok to laugh in the bed
room, but not to laugh *and* point.")
Anyway, my unflagging desire to see Jean nude was answered, but I
was so blue and shivering that I could think only of jumping back into
my sleeping blanket. (My suggestion that Jean and I zip our
mirror-image sleeping bag together elicited no more than a twinkle and a
smile coupled with a mute shake of her head.) So the wish that I
carried with me on the backpacking trip that I see Jean naked had been
filled each morning . . . when my dick was a negative impression. The
rest of the time, she'd managed to change clothes out of my presence.
While we'd talked into the night, she wouldn't let me even cuddle her.
Rats! I was frustrated. Still, I was having a wonderful time. What a
collage of feelings.
Too, I thought I'd get a chance to spy on her peeing. Remember me?
I'm the horny little kid who presses his ear to the bathroom door to
listen to his sister take a leak? Yep. That's me. I'd almost come in
my pants from smelling her panties and once, when finding some of her
pale yellow urine and a used tissue in the toilet, I'd jacked off right
into the bowl . . . taking all of ten or fifteen seconds.
Out here in the great outdoors with no bathrooms, not even an
outhouse, I'd surely get to peek at her . . . I thought. So far, no
dice. Either she's got a holding tank for a bladder, or she was adept at
slipping away. I, on the other hand, believed that the only bad
publicity was no publicity. I used every chance to casually take a whiz
when I was around her. Oh, I didn't come up and piss on her shoe, but I
did things like continue a conversation, turning just a little aside as
I took out my pecker and peed on a tree or a rock. She didn't comment
on my little exhibitionistic streak and I couldn't really tell if she
was watching or not.
No cuddle, no peeks, no peeing. Shit! I just wasn't getting what
I wanted and was feeling sorry for myself and not a little petulant. So
I employed the short form of the Serenity Prayer and said, "Fuck it."
It was, after all, all right. Here I was, in God's indescribably
beautiful mountains on a primo day with my dearest friend and best
buddy, and I was petulant. Boy, talk about an ungrateful wretch!
Knowing it was going to get very hot by midday, and that we had a
twelve-hundred-feet climb out of that basin, we'd packed and started
early after a good breakfast and tanking up on mountain water, both in
our bellies as well as our canteens.
Jean was a surprisingly strong hiker and often, on long, uphill
climbs, she'd naturally take the lead. So it was that I was watching
the roll of her hips from close behind as we were forced to take
occasional extra long step-ups on the trail. Her short-shorts, already
revealing, had climbed up on her ass, framing the white, half-moons of
her buttocks above her tan thighs. The crotch of the shorts seemed to
thin to a narrow band between her legs. I already knew (from my
snooping) that Jean had thong-type Bikini panties so I didn't expect to
see them as we trudged along, but they were a green vision in my mind.
Except for the chatter of an occasional bird and the scrunch of our
boots on the trail, there were no sounds . . . if you ignored my
panting. We'd settled into that semi-comfortable, endorphin-enhanced
pleasant walk-climb. I was sweating lightly, feeling good, watching
Jean's sweet ass checks bunch and relax in front of me and thinking, I
can't believe how beautiful and sexy this girl is. And she's my sister!
How lucky can a guy get?
I am not the one with the cast-iron bladder in the family. It's
almost a joke that Billy has to take a leak more frequently than anyone
else. Jean was not surprised when I called out, "Pee break."
"Okay. I could use a breather anyway." She swung her pack to the
ground and turned back to look back down the mountain toward our camp
site, now barely perceivable.
In genuine relief, I moaned, "Ahhh," as I peed into the dust on the
side of the trail. Jean, this time, was clearly watching me so I made an
extra production of "shaking it" when I'd finished. "Hmmm, that felt
good," I added in a redundant fashion.
To my surprise, she said, "I've gotta go too. Don't watch."
It might have been easier if she said, "Don't breathe." Was she
kidding?
"Okay," I answered, turning only my head away, still watching her
movements in my peripheral vision. Yet another surprise. She didn't
step off the trail; there was a bush ten or fifteen feet away, but she
didn't use it. And she didn't turn away from me.
My head pulled back to watch her, not even pretending to look away.
She unbuttoned the side of the short-shorts and, with her thumbs hooked
into the top, pulled the yellow shorts and white panties down while
squatting in the same continuous motion. My position, downhill from
her, afforded me a bore-sight view right between her thighs. Now for
the second time in my life, I had a clear view of her closely-cropped,
curly, auburn-haired pussy. After a weekend of horny frustration,
hard-ons and surreptitious masturbation, I was getting, without guile, a
look at Jean's treasures. Full on, up close . . . and damn personal!
For a moment, nothing happened. Her smooth anus pushed out just a
little as she strained and then a trickle of pee dribbled out into the
dust. The dribble increased and then a stream, clearing her pussy lips
and arcing out several inches in front of her started that familiar
hissing. It was happening. I was getting a chance to watch Jean pee
for the first time in my life. Something that I'd fantasized about,
something that I'd failed to do with deception was happening right in
front of me. The erotic intensity of it was gut wrenching. My cock,
trapped in my Jockeys, had erected so fast that it suddenly hurt.
Something caused me to look up. Jean was looking right at me! Her
clear, ice-blue eyes were looking into mine, into my soul. Her eyes
seemed to ask, "Is this what you wanted, Billy? Do you want to see me
pee, Billy?"
For all I know, she'd been saving it for a long time. Her urine
continued to gain force and the hissing sound increased as the gusher of
pee ran over a rock and pooled at my feet. I was struck numb. Not
having the presence of mind I have now, I forgot to touch it, forgot to
dip my finger into the pool and taste it. I just stared, dumbfounded
and struck terminally horny. It didn't last for minutes, it just seemed
that way. In comparison, mine was a piddle. Her's was a production.
It slowed and stopped after one final, small squirt as she clenched
her bottom, making her little rose bud wrinkle. If I'd expected her to
stand suddenly, hiding herself, I was wrong. Rather, she squatted
there, uncovered, hovering over the trail of now-wet dust and rock.
"Well?" she asked. It sounded so loud in the sudden quiet of the
mountain, I was startled and looked at her dumbly. "Is that all you've
got to say," and you could hear the smile in her voice. "Do you have a
tissue?" she added.
Gaining my sodden wits, I said something cleaver like, "Sure . . .
if you let me help."
Pulling some Kleenex from a side pocket, I took the few steps to
her. She hadn't replied so I simply kneeled in front of her and extended
the tissue in my hand between her legs, watching her eyes. She nodded
only, with a little half smile.
Leaning forward, looking under her shorts bunched and pulled apart
above her knees, I softly patted her pussy slit, slowly, from front to
back. I was acutely aware of her warmth and her breathing, now
quickened. I was even more aware of her pubic hair brushing across the
tops of my fingers.
Unthinking, I dropped the tissue and traced a feather-light touch
along the inner lips of her cunt. Jean made a soft, sucking sound and
looking up, I noticed that she'd closed her eyes. I continued to "pat"
her.
The lips of her pussy were swollen and slick and they'd opened up
a kind of blossoming. Laying the pulp of my middle finger along the
length of her cunt, cupping her mons in my palm, I slowly pushed in. It
was like pushing my finger all they way into China . . . or a ripe
Papaya.
Now, years later, when I think of love, I think of this.
Chapter 5 -- The Trip Home
The jazz group Four Play was playing softly over the hum of the big
4X4's tires. Bob James and Lee Rittenour were weaving their usual
seamless and delightfully rich acoustic fabric as the western slope of
the Sierra foothills fell away behind us. We'd fallen silent in the
Scout after loading up our backpacking gear and getting some more ice
for the chest near the exit of the National Forest. I was driving and
Jean was looking out the passenger's window as we sat silently in our
own thoughts. We were used to periods of silence and it wasn't
uncomfortable.
My mind was playing a tape of endless loop. My sister, Jean the
sometimes ice maiden had, when we were hiking out from Fourth of July
Lake, actually squatted in the middle of the hiking trail and peed
right in front of me . . . in the most blatant fashion. It was not
accidental and not remotely innocent. Rather, it was considered and
extremely provocative. Most baffling, it had seemingly just happened,
out of nowhere. I was excited and stunned, for it had been the
realization of a longstanding, obsessive fantasy of mine. Now, after
that intense sexual peak of halting interaction, we'd lapsed again into
our usual quiet space of uncertainty.
The grasses and flowers changed as we lost altitude. I reflected
on the events of the last little while. While, in the preceding weeks,
I'd made no secret that I was terribly excited by her and more, that I
was lightheaded with passion for her, I'd never come right out and asked
her if I could look at her nude, much less watch her pee. Not that the
thought hadn't been foremost in my erotic mind for years, I was simply
reticent to disclose myself . . . to uncover my secret kink, largely
from embarrassment. Oh, I didn't mind so much, particularly of late,
that she knew I masturbated, or that I smelled her panties, or even that
I was crazy about staring up her dress or down her shirt. Somehow, that
was all right . . . that was manly or at least OK boy stuff. But
peeing? Hmmm. Sounds sick and perverted . . . or so my judgmental mind
spoke to me.
My mind spun on. Why had she done that? Why did she suddenly
expose herself to me in such a provocative way? A fleeting glimpse of
her panties or skinny dipping was one thing, but letting me watch her
pee a long stream into the dust of a Sierra back trail . . . a scarce
few feet from me . . . that was quite another. Had she known about me
. . . about my kink? Or and I couldn't really believe this was she
kinky like me?
No, not the very proper and often prim ice queen. If I had not
been sneaking around for years, listening to her when she was in the
bathroom, I might have supposed that she didn't even pee at all! Jean
was the type who wouldn't say shit if she had a mouth full. If pressed,
she might, in some clinical fashion, allude to micturition or to (ugh)
urine but she'd never utter the word "piss." I imagined that she might
allow, grudgingly, the expression pee-pee if some little kid had no
other way to express it. So how was it, I wondered, had she moved from
that moral high ground to pulling her panties down and peeing in the
middle of the trail while staring into my eyes? Once again, I was
baffled. Girls!
On a long curve, Jean swung around toward me, tucking her bare feet
up on the seat and asked, "So, Billy. What are you thinking?"
She always did that. Well, she did it a lot . . . opening up her
topic by asking me what *I'm* thinking. Or, if the topic is
established, she tries to get me to commit myself to a position before
she discloses her's.
Making a vague motion with my hand, I replied, "Oh, nothing."
Smiling to myself . . . If she only knew.
"Come ON, Billy. I know you better than that. You're never
thinking of nothing. What's going through that pointed little head of
yours?" The smile in her voice belied the insult. She leaned back
against the passenger's door, pulling her left foot further onto the
seat, pressing her knee into the back rest. The leg of her shorts gaped
a little. I noted things like that.
I also knew this drill. I'd been through it a thousand times. If
I was stubborn enough, I could simply stonewall it. I'd done that lot
of times, heaven knows. But Jean knows me, and most of the time I
*wanted* to be drawn out. I tried to maneuver it in such a way that the
topic was her's, not mine. This, of course, was old stuff, born of a
sibling's need for protection from being ratted on. The fact of the
matter was that neither Jean nor I had ratted on the other in years. At
root, we acted to protect each other.
"Well, actually I was thinking of our relationship, Sis." There!
That covered a multitude of sins.
"Hmmm, what about our relationship?"
We both knew the dance so well that the opening steps were done
without effort or thought. Actually, we were both thinking way ahead of
this conversational chafe.
"Come on, dude. Open up. What about it . . . what about our
relationship?"
Looking pointedly at her, I asked, "Do you *really* want to know?"
This was a well-established signal that one of us would cut through
the fog of protective words if we were serious or impatient and wanted
to get on with something pressing. On the other hand, if it were the
usual verbal game, we'd parry that offer with some gratuitous insult or
another.
"Uh, yeah, Billy. I really *do* wanna know. What're ya thinkin'?"
The last question was a little muffled as she pulled her sweat shirt
over her head, partially pulling up her T-shirt and momentarily
uncovering the bottom of her bare breasts. Without hurry, she pulled
her T-shirt back down, molding the front against her nipples.
Jean almost never spoke in contractions or idiom. Her diction was
usually precise and her demeanor was oh-so-correct. So when she said
"Uh, yeah" and "I wanna," I recognized her
I-want-to-be-one-of-the-guys gambits. She was letting down her
goody-two-shoes protective distance. Jean was telling me it was OK to be
frank and, in light of our most recent adventure, it was clear that she
wasn't interested in my opinion of the men's basketball team . . . or
their locker room. She was letting me know that it was OK to talk about
what had happened on the trail.
You might think it strange, that "talking" about our sexual
connection, once done, wouldn't be difficult. The reality was contrary
to that, however. A lifetime of denial had, in some paradoxical manner,
permitted us strange behaviors . . . as long as they weren't validated
with acknowledgment. That is, just don't talk about it.
This interaction, however, was moving at warp speed. Jean usually
took forever to circle up the wagons and establish her perimeter of
protection more often of the barbed-wire variety. Cutting through the
niceties this rapidly let me know that she felt strongly about what had
happened. Usually, Jean dealt with uncomfortable topics by ducking
behind her long-practiced wall of denial. And I know what that was
like.
Glancing again at the gap in her shorts, I could see the edge of
her panties. I pointedly responded, "To be perfectly frank, Sis, I was
wondering about you."
Jean rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion, knowing that I was
being anything but frank. She slipped her right hand under the front of
her T-shirt and absentmindedly, scratched the area under her breasts.
Cripes, how could I watch the road, watch her scratch her tit and listen
to her . . . all at the same time?
I didn't ask her why she rolled her eyes. I knew. But could I
really enter into this forbidden area? By now we'd had at least three
intense but too-brief sexual encounters and had yet to *talk* about
them. A moment of uncertainty washed through me.
She cleared her throat in a dramatic fashion and I glanced at her.
Maybe it was sibling communication, or the soft smile, or the direct
stare of her blue eyes . . . but suddenly I knew that it was okay. She
was lowering her guard. There'd be no pretend ignorance or indignation
in this conversation. There'd be no frustrating evasions . . . unless I
slipped into them myself.
Taking a deep breath, I blurted, "I loved watching you pee, Jean.
I just LOVED it. But why did you do it? I mean, how'd you know? Uh .
. . we've never . . ." My strong start trailed off. I didn't know how
to give voice to my thoughts.
I took another deep breath but before I could start up again, she
answered, "Billy, I've suspected for a long time . . . I knew you
listened outside the bathroom door and . . ."
Interrupting, I asked, baffled and alarmed, "How did you know?"
Glancing again at her, I saw the big grin on her face when she
said, "Oh, Billy! For a guy that's so darn smart about so many things
-- you really do impress me most of the time -- for a guy that's so
smart, sometimes you're just out of it."
She touched my thigh with the toes of her right foot as if to take
the sting out of it.
Well, that did sting, but knowing the truth of it, I said nothing.
Instead I made an impatient motion with my hands to urge her on with it.
"Billy, the afternoon sun shines in through the front windows,
doesn't it?"
Obtuse I thought and nodded, still not getting it . . . aware more
of her foot, now resting on my thigh.
"Remember when the carpet was taken out of the hall and the tile
was installed? Well, the place beneath the bathroom door where the
carpet used to be, now lets the sun shine in." Then pausing for
dramatic effect *now* I could see it coming she added, "And it casts the
shadow of you standing right outside the bathroom door . . . it seems
you're always there." I was mortified! I felt the heat rise in my face
as I sought a way out, an excuse, some way in which I might deny it.
Jean, sensing my acute discomfort, laughed softly and added,
"Billy, don't be embarrassed . . . I'm not . . . at least not anymore.
It's okay. Honest, it's really okay." Her toes curled on my leg as she
ran her foot up and down.
Then, as if to explain further, she went on, "At first I wasn't
sure *what* you were doing. I thought you were pulling some kind of
practical joke on me, but nothing ever happened. I was puzzled and . .
. I don't know why . . . I was fascinated. So, I tested you. I'd wait
until you were around, and then I'd go into the bathroom, just waiting
to see your shadow under the door, then I'd pee. I . . . I didn't mind
that you were right outside the door. Actually, I think I liked it . .
. that you'd want to . . . that you were interested in me . . . but I
didn't want you to hear me do the . . . uh . . . other. I'd really
strain and try to make a loud peeing sound, but I was always scared to
death I'd . . . you know . . . make some other sound."
I glanced at Jean and her eyes slid away. Now she was the one who
was embarrassed. I didn't tell her that I had heard her fart softly a
few times. Her hand was still inside her T-shirt, right under her
breasts. Maybe the tips of her fingers were touching the bottom swell
of her tit?
It was unusual for Jean to talk so long in such a vulnerable
manner. I just smiled and said nothing, hoping she'd continue.
"I have a confession to make," she continued, rushing the words.
If this wasn't a confession, what the heck was it I wondered? "Go
ahead, Jean. There's nothing you can say that would offend me . . .
honest." I was so darn magnanimous.
"I snooped in your room."
That didn't surprise me; we all snooped on each other, I was sure.
"And I found your dirty magazines."
Again, I was stunned. "How did you . . . I mean . . . shit,
Jean!" Now I was really embarrassed. The only magazines I had
weren't plain-vanilla girlie magazines. I'd found two foreign magazines
full of watersports pictures and stories and secreted them where no one
would ever find them. Or so I thought.
"You probably think you're the only one who spies in this house.
Well you're not. I've listened to you in the bath room too. You're
really noisy when you masturbate. You should be more careful . . .
Anyway, I've heard you move your dresser several times . . . before and
after you disappear into the bathroom. That puzzled me, so I moved it
and found the place in the back without a slat . . . the place where you
hid those magazines."
Her hand moved beneath her shirt. Now I was certain she was
teasing one of her nipples.
I was pissed . . . not so much that my secret was out, but that I'd
been so transparent . . . that my "dumb sister" had ferreted out my
hiding place so readily.
"Billy, reading those stories got me hot. And then I could
understand what you were doing outside the bathroom when I was peeing.
You were imagining *me* in there, weren't you?"
I couldn't believe how smart my sister had become all of sudden.
Grasping her foot in my hand, I ran a finger between her toes and said,
"So?" At these moments of stress, social repartee was not my strong
suit.
"So, I became as interested as you in peeing. I started watching
myself when I peed. I tried looking when I was sitting on the toilet,
but I couldn't see much . . . except the pee squirting. Then I got a
mirror and I could see it well, particularly when I pulled myself open
with my fingers. When I pulled my lips open, the pee came out in a
solid stream, just like I imagined a boy's did. That gave me the idea
to pee standing up."
I turned down the volume of the car stereo a little, for she'd
fallen into a soft, reflective tone and I didn't want to miss a word. I
squeezed her foot a moment to encourage her to continue.
"I started in the shower. At first I peed down my legs, but I got
the hang of it quickly and in no time I could stand with my legs apart
and hips pushed forward to pee a strong stream several feel in front of
me."
Glancing at me she asked, "Can you picture that, Billy? Isn't that
crazy?"
"Yeah . . . delightfully crazy. Sexy crazy . . . and hot. Tell me
some more." Could I push this? Would she continue?
"Well, I saw a mare, a female horse (shit, I knew what a mare was)
- I saw a mare urinate in the field, so I tried it that way. I mean, I
bent way over at the waist and while standing, tried to pee. At first I
couldn't tell what happened, what it looked like, but then I stood in
the tub and watched myself in the mirror. Billy, it squirted way out
behind me. I felt like a mare in heat!"
"Then I began thinking about you peeing. I wondered how you did it
what it looked like. What did your dick look like and how far could
you pee? Did you pee hard for a short time, or did it last and last?
How did you hold your dick? . . things like that. I wanted to watch
you pee, and even more, I wanted you to watch me pee. But I couldn't
tell you this in a million years. All I could do was go to the bathroom
a lot. You would have thought that I had a sudden case of diabetes."
She was openly cupping her breast and curling her toes as I
massaged her foot. She went on, "I *had* to watch you pee. I knew that
you peed outside the house a lot and I kept my eye open for my chance.
Once, I saw you head toward the bathroom but because mom was in there,
you cut out the side door. I ran to the kitchen window and watched you
take a leak right on the deck. I got hot just watching you. Actually,
all I could see was your pee hitting the deck, making a big puddle. I
couldn't really see your dick . . . but I wanted to . . . boy, I sure
wanted to!"
She slid her foot higher on my thigh. She had turned completely
sideways in the front seat, still with her left leg curled up and her
right leg extended to me. Her toes were close to my dick and I was
getting harder and harder.
"Did you . . ." I started but she cut me off again.
"Then you went upstairs. Mom was still in the bathroom. I ran out
on the deck and looked at the puddle you'd made. I got so hot I could
hardly stand it. I was dying for a good pee. Now was my chance.
Billy, I know this is crazy but I lifted my dress and pulled the crotch
of my panties aside. I squatted over your puddle on the deck and I
pissed right on top of your piss! I forgot and was straining so hard
that my pee splattered all over my legs and shoes. But I didn't care.
I loved mixing our piss together. It just got me hotter."
She added a little slutty emphasis to the word "piss," drawing out
the "sss" part as she looked into my eyes. Jean was getting off on her
own story. She slid down a little further in the seat and the heel of
her foot was sitting on top of my crotch . . . right on top of my
hard-on. When I glanced at her, she pulled the bottom of her shirt up
for about two seconds, flashing her bare boobs at me, grinning. The
nipples were sticking out.
"So you see, Billy. *You* turned me onto this peeing thing, and
you didn't even know it. Now, I think about it all the time. I listen
to the girls in school when they're in the stall next to me and wonder
what they look like. Sometimes they hiss loudly when they pee.
Sometimes they just tinkle. When I'm feeling slutty, I try to pee
really hard into the water to make a lot of noise. Golly, I even check
the crotches of the guys and wonder how big their dicks are and how they
look when they pee. I wonder a lot if other girls mess around with
*their* brothers. What do you think?"
"Whoa. I'm overloaded. Too much, too fast. Yes . . . I mean no!
I mean . . . shit, I don't know *what* I mean. But wait . . . first,
tell me. Why did you hide from me all weekend? I tried and tried to
get you to talk about sexy things, but you kept changing the subject.
And I was aware of you the whole time and except for skinny dipping, you
never showed me anything. Why? And why did you then let me watch you
on the trail?"
"Oh, you know. I was scared. And I was embarrassed. Even though
I knew you'd listen to me . . . and even though I'd seen your dirty
magazines . . . I was afraid you'd think I was really a nut case some
kinda pervert." She again gave me that radiant smile. "It's a kinda
trust thing, I guess. You were so sweet to me all weekend and you were
so darn provocative, I was creaming in my pants most of the time. And
then, when we were walking out on the trail, I just knew after you peed
so shamelessly that it was my chance. So I did it! Was it okay? I
mean, did you like it, Billy? Do you think I'm terrible?"
I was holding her foot so tight my finger tips were white. She was
rocking her foot and I was pushing her heel down into my crotch in slow,
rhythmic motions.
Losing all restraint, I gushed out, "Jean, it was the most *erotic*
thing I've ever seen. It was better than any story, any picture I've
ever seen. Heck, it was better than any fantasy I've ever had. Seeing
you . . . seeing you so close . . . and you watching me looking at you .
. . I almost came in my pants."
"I like to hear you tell me those things, Billy. It makes me feel
. . . well, sexy and desirable and like I want to do *more* things."
"More? What more? Tell me, Jean."
She pulled her hand from under her shirt, leaving the bottom part
way up, exposing the bottom of her tit. I don't know what it is, but
I'm turned on to seeing the bottom swell of a girl's breast,
particularly my sister's. Dropping her hand to her leg near her crotch,
she rushed on, "Well, I'd *really* like to uh . . . this is kinda hard
to say but I'd really like to . . . pee *on* you."
The road was nearly empty and I was driving slowly, just moseying
along so I could pay more attention to Jean. When I glanced at her, she
met my eyes defiantly for a moment and then looked away, embarrassed,
the color high in her cheeks. Then she looked at me again and said
loudly, "Well, I *would*!"
This was incredibly exciting for both of us I thought, and equally
difficult at times. Sensing her near-shame, I attempted to rescue her
with the truth.
"Jean, the thought of you peeing . . . peeing on me is the hottest
thing I've ever heard! God! I'd love to feel your pee."
"Really? Honest? Are you just *saying* that?" She'd pulled her
right leg back and with her heel on the seat and her knee fallen out,
she'd slipped her right hand under her pant leg. Seeing my eyes on her
motions, she laughed, "Christ, Billy, I'm so hot I can't help it."
Taking a chance, I asked, "Can I tell you some of my secrets . . .
some of my fantasies?"
Abandoning the tight leg-band of her shorts, she opened the front
and slipped her hand under the waistband of her panties and buried it in
her crotch. "Yes-s-s-s, Billy. Please tell me. I really wanna know."
"Sis, I'm *so* glad you told me all this. I'm so glad you told me
about peeing. We're just alike, you and me. I wish I'd know before, we
coulda . . . well we can now, can't we?"
"Billy! Tell me. Don't tease me."
"Okay, okay. Let me collect my thoughts. I hardly know where to
start. There's so many thoughts runnin' around in my head. I know, I'll
just share the images with you . . . then we can sort them out, okay?"
"Go for it, big guy!"
She now had both hands stuffed down the front of her shorts and I
could see her fingers slowly moving in the tight crotch.
"Okay, but before I do, let me smell your fingers!"
Not put off for a minute, she pulled out her right hand and leaning
across to me, she ran her finger under my nose saying, "You are *such* a
horndog."
The pheromonal musk of her pussy was strong and arousing.
"Jean, the smell of you is so sexy and it gets me hot."
She grinned and prompted, "Come ON, guy . . . tell me. Tell me
*your* secrets now."
"There's so many images I have. I think about 'em when I jack off
things like the feel of your pee in my hand . . . me kneeling in front
of the toilet . . . you with your legs apart . . . and I've got my hand
under you . . . and you just pee right into my hand. That one always
gets me going. I think of that one all the time when I hear you in the
bathroom."
"Oh, yes! I've had that one too . . . lots. Would you really let
me?"
"Let you?" I asked in an incredulous tone.
She laughed and asked, "Any more? Fantasies I mean?"
"Oh yes. I've thought of you peeing right on my cock . . . right
on my chest. I've even thought of you peeing in my mouth!" The last
statement startled me. Had I really thought that? I'd gone too far.
I pulled into a Rest Stop and parked well away from the other cars.
I looked at her with a little apprehension. Had I gone too far?
Seeing the question in my eyes, she gave me her sweet smile and
said, "Oh, yes, Billy. I'd love to do that . . . you can't know how
much that means to me. Please . . . please tell me more. I've been
waiting so long to hear this . . . don't stop now."
Chapter 6 -- My Wet Confession
It's ironic. The things I want the most seem never to go
the way I want. I scheme and plan and try to manipulate people, places
and things to get my way. It rarely works. Nevertheless, I keep
trying. I think of it as adding to the keenness of my anticipation.
And it does. I've learned not to take myself too seriously when I don't
get what I want. Most of the time, what I eventually get is better than
I might have planned and often better than what I might have imagined.
That's the way it was working out with my sister, Jean.
Yet, I didn't really see it happening. I'd become increasingly aware of
her as a sexy girl. Actually that's an understatement. What I should
admit is that I'd grown infatuated with her. I'd always cared for her
deeply and we were both aware of a spiritual connection. Neither of us
was completely at ease with our own sensuality. Sex remained a
titillating and excitingly naughty topic. That discomfort, however, was
rapidly changing.
Our sibling connection was tender and loving. At base, that
tender connection was always operative, even when we were at odds.
Clearly, we cared deeply for each other, but because she was so proper
and reserved, I'd assumed that she had no sexual feelings at all. But
in the past weeks, I'd come to know that wasn't the case. Not even
close.
For example, not long previously, I'd humped myself to
orgasm on the edge of the laundry room table just looking down the
front of her shirt. While I had planned to confront her with her soiled
panties my "clever" way of introducing the topic of sex I'd not planned
on rubbing myself of on the hard edge of the table. And despite the
fact that she *knew* what I was doing. Or was it *because* she was knew
that made it so exciting?
A little later, in a sexual heat, we'd exposed ourselves to each
other on the living room couch as we were "talking dirty." We shared a
mutual culpability for our couch incident, but again, it was not my
intention to masturbate myself and her by slapping her clit with my hard
cock. It'd just happened in a spontaneous fashion, both of us caught up
in the compelling sexual heat both surprised, turned-on and both,
completely helpless. Swept along by a current whose strength tossed us
about in a sexual typhoon, we had both come together. And again,
frightened by the ferocity of it all, we'd retreated to the familiar
safety of silence.
And most recently, this morning unexpected and unplanned, out of
nowhere she'd fulfilled a long fantasy of mine by letting me watch her
pee.
For months and months I'd been trying to get her to "talk
dirty" with me . . . to share her own sexual stuff with me. Yet, I'd
had limited success until today, until we were riding home from our
back-packing weekend. Now the established reserves had been broached.
To say the cat was out of the bag hardly lent it sufficient impact.
More accurately, we both knew that old barriers were down and they'd not
be erected again. Still, we were uncertain how to move with comfort into
this newly open intimacy.
From the silence of our mutual protection, we'd broken out of
years of restriction and restraint. This wasn't the naughty, snickery
type of you-show-me-yours-and-I'll-show-you-mine conversation that I'd
angled for. This was dealing with real stuff. I was dazzled.
Jean had shared with me some of her "deep dark secrets" and
I'd shared similarly . . . or started to. And she wanted more. She
knew of my peeing fetish and she'd admitted she had one too. It was
plain that we'd only continue in a step-wise manner with each of us
validating the other with our honesty. If I wanted Jean's truth, I'd
have to give her mine.
"Jean, I love this. I love being able to be so open with
you."
"Yes. It's like when we were on the couch . . . only more
so . . . remember? Just talking with you like that . . . I got so hot
then I didn't know what I was doing."
When we'd parked at the Rest Stop, she'd taken her hands out
of her pants, looking around, surprised that we had stopped. Seeing
that no one was even close to us, she relaxed again, leaning back.
"Where are we? Why'd we stop?"
I explained, "It was getting too difficult for me to keep my
eyes on the road. Between listening to you talk about peeing, and
watching your hands in your pants, I had little attention for driving.
We've got all the time we want. I'd much rather stop and talk. This
way I can give you all my attention. I can see your eyes . . . and," I
added with a leer, "your hands."
"Then look at me, you lecher. I can't believe my kid
brother makes me so horny, just by talking to me. You're doing the
couch thing all over again, you little devil."
"Are you complaining?" I asked, while laying my left ankle
over her right leg in front of the center console.
"Nope. Just letting you know that you have that effect on
me. Hope you enjoy it, lecher."
"You know I do, you harlot. And speaking of harlots, where
were we? Oh, yes. We were talking about peeing and I was . . ."
Interrupting, "You were going to tell me your most secret
fantasies, Billy. You were saying you wanted me to pee on you.
Remember?"
"Jean, it's more than just that. I think of other things
situations . . . having to do with peeing . . . or needing to pee . . .
and you can't. That excites me. Know what I mean?"
"No-o-o . . ." She *sounded* more uncertain than she really
was, I think. "No, I don't know. Tell me what you mean."
Her right hand was slipping into the top of her open shorts, the
fingers under the waistband of her panties.
"Two can play that game," I countered, as I slowly began to
unbutton my jeans.
Impatiently, "Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . but I *still* want to
hear those secrets. 'Specially if they're about peeing. And what do
you mean 'needing to pee, and can't'?"
I loved it when she kept after me, *making* me tell her my
kinky stuff.
"Oh *you* remember, Sis . . . how could you forget? Think
back to the trip that you and me and mom made to the Farm. Remember,
we'd been driving for several hours after downing a couple of Cokes . .
. remember how hot it was? You all kid me about my micro bladder, so I
never gave it a thought when I had to get out and take a leak and you
all didn't. Peeing along the road's no big deal for a guy."
With a throaty laugh, she said, "Sure I do. Mom and I just
looked at each other when we heard you peeing on the road. We had to go
then, but we couldn't say anything . . . or at least I couldn't. I
don't think it embarrasses Mom at all."
"I remember smiling back at Mom when she said to me, 'You
lucky stiff.' It was about then that I caught on that you two guys were
starting to feel your full bladders. And it was then that I decided to
play a little game. I was going to make you guys wait and wait to pee."
"I sure remember that trip, but I didn't know you were
playing a game. What'd you do?"
Smugly, "You never pay much attention to roads or which way
we go, or where things are. You just ride along and enjoy yourself.
Mom's the same way. So I decided to not only take a longer way, but to
take the route with no rest stops or gas stations."
"Why you little shit, you! I just thought we had bad luck.
That you got to take a leak and we needed to go, and there were just no
places to go. I thought it was an accident. You mean . . . ?"
"Yep. That's what I mean, girl. I wanted to see you two
women squirm a little. You're always kidding me that I can't wait so I
wanted to see how well you could wait. Besides, I think it's sexy . . .
seeing you and Mom squirm around, and then cross your legs."
"Billy, I don't know whether to laugh or get mad. At the
time, I would have given anything to squat and take a good pee. My back
teeth were floating. And you kept saying that it'd just be a little
further. You rat!"
"I *loved* it, Sis. You were squirming around in the front
seat and Mom was shifting back and forth right behind us. At least she
was able to ask me to look out for a gas station, that she had to pee
something bad. You just pretended that everything was OK . . . at least
for a little while. Sis, you are *so* hip, slick and cool! Then it
began to really get to you, and I enjoyed thinking of you, needing to
pee. Don't understand it, my dear sister, but there's something
terribly erotic about that. I mean, I got hard just thinking about you
and Mom."
"More is coming back to me. I remember how *bad* I had to go.
I remember two things, actually. One was the fear that I'd lose it,
that I'd leak into my panties. The second was the burning sensation in
my . . . well, in my pussy . . . kinda good actually. Actually, kinda
erotic."
"Well, I guess I can confess now, Sis. My fantasy was that
you'd not be able to hold it. I could see you in my mind's eye,
dribbling a little pee into your panties, whimpering, bent over, hugging
yourself with your legs crossed. You know how fantasies are . . . I was
right there . . . I mean my eyes were inches from your pussy and I could
see you clench your cheeks trying to hold it in . . . and I could see
the pee dribble out, wetting your pussy hair and your panties."
"You mean you *wanted* me to pee in my panties?" She sounded
incredulous, but she didn't look it, as she smiled at me, one eyebrow
arched.
"Not really . . . well, yes . . . really. My fantasies don't
always make sense, but the idea of you peeing in your panties, seeing it
run down your legs, just jolts me. I'd like to stand in front of you as
you were losing it, and then run my hand up under your dress and cup the
crotch of your panties and feel your hot pee running over my palm . . .
those kinds of images. Kinky, huh?"
"Kinky, yes. But now that I know . . . well, I like it too.
It sure got to mom and me that day. I don't know how she feels about
it, but do you recall what happened when we finally got to the Farm?"
"Probably more than you know." I paused, recalling the scene.
"You and mom both jumped out of the car and raced for the house. I knew
there was only one bathroom in that old house and I didn't know what you
were gonna do . . . who'd have to wait. You two were too panicked to
notice, but I followed right behind you . . . right to the bathroom."
"Oh, God. I remember. I'd beaten Mom to the toilet, but as I
was pushing my shorts and panties down, she said, 'I'm your mother! I
go first,' and she just pushed me right out of the way! There I was,
dying to pee, standing in front of Mom like some little girl, waiting
for her to finish . . . and afraid I was going to lose it."
As she was recalling the memory, I'd slipped my cock out of my
jeans and was sitting back, holding it and covering it at the same time
as I slowly stroked it up and down.
Nodding toward my hand, Jean said, "That gets me hot, bro."
Not acknowledging her reference to my masturbation, I continued,
"When the two of you dashed in there, you slammed the door, but it
didn't shut all the way . . . musta bounced or somthin'. I couldn't
see you but I sure could hear you. I heard Mom's pee hissing and you
whimpering, 'Hurry . . . hurry . . . I gotta go too.'"
"God what a rat you are! I can't believe you . . . you
pervert. You sadist. And your own mother too! They've got a name for
guys like you, bro."
"You asked for it," I defended myself. "'Sides, you're just
as bad as me."
"I know. I *am* and it surprises me, but it feels too good to
stop." Then she added, "If you were right outside the door, you must
have known what happened, huh?"
"I think so. It sounded like Mom finished and you bumped into
her or something like that . . . trying to get to the toilet. And then
I heard you cry out, 'Ohh . . . I can't hold it.' And Mom laughed and
then you almost cried, 'It's not *funny*, Mom!' In my imagination, I
thought that you'd peed on yourself or something like that."
"That's exactly what happened. I was just dying. Mom took
for-EVER. Why she even wanted to wipe herself! The sound of her going
just loosened me up. Like running the faucet for a little kid. My
muscles weren't working anymore. I knew I was relaxing and that I was
gonna pee on myself and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I
kept bumping into Mom trying to get to the toilet. Cripes, it was a
Chinese fire drill. She moved one way and I moved the same way, back
and forth, back and forth. My darn shorts and panties were down around
my knees and I couldn't take a big step. Mom bumped into me again by
then she was laughing at me and I just lost it. I started to pee
right there, bent over, stumbling for the john. Billy, it was awful . .
. and at the same time, it was wonderful. I peed all over my panties
and all over my legs and the floor and the toilet seat, frantically
trying to plop my fanny down. Then it really opened up. I think I peed
a gallon. I remember sitting there, knees together, looking at my wet
panties and legs and then looking at Mom as I peed and peed. I was so
embarrassed. Did you hear her when she said something like, 'Feels
good, huh?'"
"Yeah. I think she said, "Jean, I *know* how good that
feels."
"Whatever . . . but I think she liked it too. Tho she never
said anything."
"All this talk of peeing . . . and I haven't gone since this
morning. How about you?"
"I *knew* you were working up to this. Yeah, I need to pee,
now more than ever . . . but I'll hold it just a little longer. How
'bout you?"
"Me too. Then when you *have* to go, I'll be there to help
you."
"Billy, I just know what kind of help you have in mind . . .
the same kind I do."
"Let me tell you what I'm thinking, girl. We *could* go into
the rest rooms, but what a waste. I've got another idea."
Jean slipped her hand out of her shorts, leaned over and ran
her wet finger under my nose. She stared right into my eyes and again
ran the wet tip of her tongue over her partially open lips. The same
intoxicating odor of her pussy filled my senses. I closed my eyes and
slowly sniffed in, making a moaning sound of appreciation.
"Lecher! she accused, and then asked, "What's your idea . . .
if I dare ask?"
"I was thinking. How about if we walk over to those picnic
benches and you straddle my lap? No one's around. Don't tell me when
you're gonna start, but surprise me . . . just let it go . . . pee right
through your panties and through your shorts and into my lap? I really
love that."
"Brother dear, you've just been reading my mind. Right this
minute I'm hotter than can be and I've got a full bladder and the idea
of peeing my panties, right into your lap actually all over your cock
that just get's me wet. Yes, let's do it . . . and right now!"
Jean, when suddenly moved to action, is nothing if not
decisive. Not waiting for further discussion, she slipped out of the
Scout, buttoning her pants and walking off. I followed her out the
other door, frantically trying to jam my hard dick back into my tight
jeans
"Don't start without me!" I shouted after her.
"Getcher buns over here, guy and sit right down . . . right
here," gesturing to a picnic bench facing away from the parking area.
I sat with my butt on the edge of the picnic bench. Jean
looked around one more time before swinging her leg over mine and
squatted on my thighs, facing me. Her eyes were sparkling as she gave
me a wicked grin.
"There're some people right over there, Billy. Do ya suppose
they know what we're doin'?"
Without looking, I said, "Yes. They know *exactly* what
you're doing, Jean. They know you're a naughty little girl with a full
bladder who can't make it to the toilet and who's gonna pee on her
brother's lap . . . don't they?"
"Christ, you're a tease, guy. I pity your girl friend . . .
*when* you get one."
She hadn't waited long. I could see the change in her eyes,
the relaxation in her face. (Some surprise.) She fell silent and
looked into my eyes as long as she could, then dropped her head into the
corner of my neck and shoulder. Her hips seemed to settle as she gave a
soft moan. I could feel the heat and the wetness spreading, at first
right in my crotch and then spreading. It was happening! My sister
was peeing on me, right through her panties. I held her ass around her
hips as she peed.
My mind was dizzy . . . drunk with passion. My wonderful,
sweet sister Jean was sitting on my lap, straddling me, in the open and
peeing all over herself and all over me . . . all over my cock. I could
feel my heart pounding in my chest and, at the same time, my heart beat
in my turgid dick. It swelled and I felt a pulling passion within the
core of my being.
With a groan of passion, I pulled her crotch right into my belly
and said, "God, Sis, I really wanna fuck you."
Chapter 7 -- Jean's Backside
The long ride home from our camping trip - after Jean had peed in
front of me on the hiking trail and then later had peed through her
panties onto my lap - marked a major departure from our previous
behaviors. We'd both confessed our thoughts and previous sexual
behavior, including those we secretly regarded as kinky if not downright
bizarre - our fascination with peeing.
How freeing it was to discover in her the same kinkiness. You see,
I loved my sister as a warm and kind person who possessed those
estimable traits of honesty and caring and living in the present. Two
years older than me, Jean had always been a role-model for the
principles of living. So, if she had the same sexual interests at me, I
reasoned, it must be okay. As it turned out, the external validation
given to me then helped me in the more important internal validation I
was to develop as a young man.
The heat of the moment, coupled with our growing trust in each
other, enabled us to surrender to our affection and our lust.
Confessing, as I did - that I wanted her to pee on me - Jean just
laughed and went for it with her customary enthusiasm and verve. Then,
as she was straddling my lap, her body pressed against mine, my face
between her breasts and her pee leaking into my lap . . . I blurted out
a truth that surprised both of us. I told her that I wanted to fuck
her.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Holding her arms about my head, pulling me to her warm breasts, she
remained quiet for a little while and then murmured softly, "Billy, I've
never done it, and as much as I think I want to right now . . . I'm not
ready."
Her refusal didn't surprise me. My asking is what surprised me. I
didn't respond. She hadn't expected me to.
"And if I were ready, Billy . . . I'm not at all sure that I should
be thinking about doing it with *you*. Our fooling around - the stuff
we've done - that's enough for me now. I love you a lot and I don't
want to do anything I'll really regret."
Then, as if to check-in with me, she leaned back and looked into my
eyes, "Does that make sense?"
Embarrassed at my impetuous outbreak, I mumbled, "Yeah . . . I
guess so . . . sure." And then with a little more feeling, I added, "I
wasn't really *asking* you to . . . to do it, Jean . . . I was just
telling you how I felt, that's all."
That moment of discomfort - the fear of having gone too far -
passed quickly. Laughing, Jean climbed off my lap and then stood there
awkwardly, slightly bent, legs apart and looking down at the wet patch
than defined her bottom and partway down her bare legs. Pinching the
edge of her shorts between her thumb and index finger, pinky out, she
pulled the material away from her hip and shook her leg as she said,
"Ech . . . doing it was a lot more fun than sitting in it."
Then, pointing at my wet lap, she giggled. Jean laughs, she
chortles, she occasionally guffaws but she doesn't giggle . . . or at
least until now. A giggle, a little girlish giggle is the best
description of the sounds she made as she pointed to my soaked jeans.
We both dug into our packs and slipped into some dry shorts. Ever
watchful, I noticed that Jean didn't bother with underpants. I was
acutely aware that my soft-spoken, conservative sister was climbing into
the 4X4 wearing only a thin T-shirt and hip-hugger shorts . . . already
pulled up into the crack of her butt.
"Nice butt, Sis!"
Looking back at me she smiled, "Glad you like it, bro. I got these
shorts with you in mind, but I didn't think I'd ever wear em."
She stood there, one foot inside the Scout, like mounting a horse,
the step-up was so high. The crotch of her shorts were pulled into her
ass cheeks. Posing for a moment, looking over her shoulder at me, she
grinned that devilish grin that told me all was not-as-it-appeared on
the surface.
My head tilted, as if to appraise her better, I added, "You know
Sis, your hips and butt may be your best feature."
Pulling her foot back down, Jean stood up straight. Or nearly
straight - she'd stuck her behind out a little at my provocative
observation. Still looking over her shoulder, she slowly bent her arms
at the elbows and hooked her thumbs into the tops of her shorts at the
hips. She posed that way for a long few seconds, palms toward me and
fingers splayed. She looked at me as if to say, "So, do you want to see
more?"
My obvious answer was a broad grin as I vigorously nodded my head.
Jean slowly pushed the hip-huggers down, revealing by inches the
mounds of her ass cheeks. She continued until her arms were straight
and the waist of her shorts cut across the mid part of her buttocks,
displaying the top part of her ass crack. With her thumbs, still
stuck into her shorts and her fingers spread out - as if she were
signaling someone behind her - she remained posed . . . bent over just
slightly, her arms and hands framing her slim waist and the womanly
flair of her hips.
The sun was high and in front of her, making a soft halo of her
hair and casting deep shadows around her ass. Two dimples I'd never
seen before, accented the shadows.
Certainly, most delicious was her ass. I'd not really noticed
before, but she'd obviously been sun bathing wearing a thong bikini, for
there was a narrow, white band high across her hips and buttocks, with
an inverted triangle of white ending in the top of her ass crack. Her
cheeks were tan as were her back and hips. The small, untanned belt of
white that ended as it dipped between her cheeks served to accent the
saucy prominence of her butt.
"I hoped you were an ass man, Billy. I kinda like my own butt."
Then, fishing for a compliment, she asked, "Do you like it? Do you
think it's sexy?"
Then, marching in place, she pulled the tight shorts over her hips,
wriggling to seat them properly before she jumped into the Scout,
yelling, "Hey, dude! Let's get truckin' . . . let's haul *ass*!" She
slid down in the seat, dissolving in gales of laugher at her own pun.
"Haul ass . . . oh, I'm terrible." More laughter.
Jean's laughter is so infectious that I found myself laughing along
with her, thinking, "Boy, this is fun and I'm not even sure what I'm
laughing about."
Adjusting my own shorts, I settled again into the driver's seat. I
checked her shorts and found that she'd buttoned only the lower buttons,
leaving the soft curve of her belly uncovered.
Back on the road, still relatively deserted, we sat silently for a
little while, making eye contact frequently and smiling. We both knew
that there had occurred yet another major shift in our relationship and
were content to let things unfold.
Swinging onto a larger and busier highway, now out of the
mountains, I broke the silence this time and asked, "So, woman, what're
*you* thinking this time?" reminding her of her own gambit.
"What'll you give me if I tell you?" she countered.
"Probably anything you want . . . but I ain't doin' the dishes for
another week, no matter what you're thinkin'." Then I offered,
"Twenty-five cents?"
"A quarter?! That's all my thoughts are worth to you? Twenty-five
cents! Forget it."
"Okay, okay. A half-dollar then, but you've got to do my laundry
for me when we get back."
"I'll clean *your* laundry," she threatened and then added, "Fifty
cents and *you* do the laundry."
Grudgingly and with a little whine I capitulated, "Well-l-l, only
if you hand me the panties you're wearing . . . to wash of course."
"You jerk! You know I'm not wearing any . . . I watched you
watching me. But all right. I'll give you my dirty underpants, you . .
. you pervert!"
Ignoring the insult, I said, "Well, let's get back to the topic."
"What topic?"
"Why, your butt. That's the topic. Remember?"
"Oh yeah. You were saying it's my best feature. Really think so?"
Diplomatically, I responded, "I like *all* of you, but . . .,"
and then I paused, waiting for her recognition of my pun, "but".
With a teasing frown she asked, "What do you mean, but'? Or is
that butt'?" accenting the tt' of butt.
"In your case, Sis, it's butt' or, if you will, ass,'" as I
gave her my best Grouch Marx leer.
She continued to fish. "I can see why guys might like a girl's
breasts, or her legs, because . . . well you know . . . but," and she
laughed at herself, "but what's the big deal with a girl's behind?"
Looking up to the heavens for guidance, I shrugged and said, "Jean,
I don't understand any of this sex-attraction stuff. I've given up
trying to understand it. It's just there. I feel it. I experience it.
That's all. I just accept that I'm a horny guy and I don't even try to
understand it any more. I like your butt . . . No, I *love* your butt .
. . your ass. I like to watch your hips roll and your cheeks move when
you walk. I love the inverted heart shape of your ass when you bend
over. I adore the bottoms of your ass checks when I see them below your
short-shorts. I try to run the back of my hand across your bottom when
I pass behind you, pretending it's accidental. The back of my hand is
acutely aware of the soft dip between your cheeks."
Following such a strong start, I finished lamely with, "I don't
know . . . I just like em . . . and it gets me horny."
A slight shift and lowering of her voice signaled a serious
question. I listened intently. Actually, I'd come to listen to her
with an intensity that was previously reserved for those times when *I*
was talking.
"I've heard that some girls . . . er, some people do it that way .
. . uh . . . in the . . .you know . . . back there. You ever done it
that way, Billy?"
Ass fucking? Was *my* sister talking about ass fucking? I was
thunderstruck.
"Me? Me? You gotta be kidin' . . . I've never done it *any* way!"
Flustered, she spoke rapidly, correcting herself, "Oh, I didn't
mean . . . I didn't think you had . . . I mean . . . have you ever
*thought* about it . . . about doin' it that way, I mean? Back there?"
She squirmed in her seat, not looking at me. Had she looked, she
might have noticed *my* squirming. Whenever Jean hits my emotional
bull's eye, I start to squirm, and she'd hit this one straight center.
Nailed, as it were. Sure I'd thought about it . . . a lot . . . but I
didn't think I *should* be thinking about such stuff. (I was pushed
around by those "shoulds" a lot in my young life.)
"Uh . . . yeah . . . I've thought about it . . . I mean, I've
thought about a lot of things."
Uncharacteristically, Jean offered, "Me too. Tell me, what did
you think about . . . uh . . . when you thought about doing it back
there?"
Back in my court again. (Well, Billy, get honest. She's making
it easy for you . . . and *you* were the one trying to get her to talk
dirty'.)
"Gee, Sis . . . I don't know what to say . . . where to start . . .
but, yeah - I've thought about it ever since I saw one a Dad's European
dirty magazines. It had lots of pictures of people doin' it . . . in
the butt I mean. Since then, I've thought about it a LOT."
"You have? I mean, you've actually *seen* pictures of it? Wow!
I've only heard about it . . . I've never seen a picture of it. Can you
show me? Gee, I'd give anything to see some pictures."
Jean's enthusiasm once again put me at ease. I'd swung from being
hesitant about revealing one more kink and now here she was, more open
about it than I was . . . and now I was swinging back to self
revelation.
"I'll either find Dad's, or I'll get some from the adult book
store, Jean. Actually, I used to have a bunch, but I traded them for the
peeing magazines that you discovered," and added with chagrin, " . . .
in my most secret hiding place."
"Oh, bitte, bitte, bitte," Jean sing-songed her Germanic entreaty.
Plunging in again, I asked, "Is *your* ass erotic, Jean? I mean,
have you ever touched yourself there . . . er, does it feel good if you
do touch yourself?" (If I could ever learn to finish as strongly as I
start . . .)
Jean stared at me for a long moment. He pale blue eyes glinted.
She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, wetting them and, as
always, my eyes were drawn to her mouth. Did she have any notion how
erotic her mouth was? I thought not. But this was not some affected
look, not some pretend stance. Jean's interest was intense and real and
right now.
Licking her lips a second time, she started slowly, "When I was a
kid - (and that could be any age less than she was that day) - when I
was a little girl, I got sick and had a tummy ache. Mom decided I
needed an (ugh) enema."
" Phu-leeze, Mother. I don't need an enema,' I cajoled." (She
loved that word too.) "Well, you know Mom. I was protesting all the
way to the bathroom. God! I thought I'd die of embarrassment. I knew
no one was home but me and Mom and I was still dying. But Mom showed me
no mercy. Over her knees, pajamas down and K-Y to the butt - so fast I
couldn't respond. Can you imagine that?" she inquired as it were the
most impossible image in the world.
My fertile - read dirty - mind didn't have any difficulty at all in
imagining that. "Yeah, Sis, I can imagine that."
Not even pausing, she continued, "Mom slipped that hard nozzle into
my butt . . . burrr . . . it was cold . . . but you know, it didn't hurt
at all! I just knew it was going to hurt like the dickens and it didn't
hurt at all. That really surprised me."
Now, for the first time since starting this story, she grinned at
me and went on, "No, what really surprised me was that it . . . it felt
good!"
And again she asked the rhetorical question, "Can you imagine that?
I couldn't. I mean, sticking something up your butt . . . how could
*that* feel good . . . but it did, Billy, it did."
"I remember . . ." I started to say but she continued, interrupting
me. (Oh, now I get it. *She* wants to talk.)
"Then, before I could even switch mental tracks, Mom started the
warm water flowing. She had ran the hot water tap in the bathroom until
she got the temperature she wanted and then filled that huge water bag.
Then she added something else from a bottle . . . I don't know what it
was . . . and that's what I got. I could feel the warmth flowing
through me. Mom must have done this when she was a nurse, cuz every
time I started to get a cramp, she seemed to know it and clamped the
tube. I'd rest a few moments, and she'd start it again. I was
embarrassed and frightened and mad . . . all mixed in with the confusing
feelings of liking the warmth and the fullness. I didn't know what was
going on."
Jean took a big breath and then through pursed lips, blew it out
slowly, looking out the window for a moment. I knew enough to keep
quiet.
Turning back to me, she continued, now a little slower. "I don't
know how much she gave me - felt like gallons - but it probably wasn't
. . . anyway . . . when I was all filled up I thought I was going to
lose it and must have whimpered. Mom said, 'Now hold it. Hold it in.
I'm going to pull out the tube and I want you to lie down on the rug for
a minute . . . just relax, okay?'"
"And I did . . . or at least, I didn't . . . you know, lose it or
anything. I'd forgotten how silly I must have looked, lying on the
floor with my pj's around my knees and my fanny uncovered. All I could
think of was how full I felt and trying to keep myself clamped shut . .
. so I wouldn't . . . uh . . . dribble?" (She ended with her
interrogative inflection again.) "And behind all that, there was a
funny, sexy feeling."
The direction of this conversation was getting to me. My dick was
stiffening again. Just listening to Jean's story of her enema had me
hot. Thinking of her cute butt and her rosebud asshole, filled with
water . . . well . . . I *told* you I was kinky!
She continued, "The need to have a B.M. got stronger and stronger,
Billy. I told Mom I was going to have an accident if I couldn't go
soon, so she let me get up and sit on the toilet.
"Now, you must know that *no one* - since I was a baby - had
stayed in the room with me when I moved my bowels, but I had to go so
bad I probably wouldn't have stopped if *you* had walked in." (As if I
was the bathroom equivalent of the Queen Mary cruising through.)
Running her hands up the inside of her thighs, she opened and then
closed her legs. She was clearly warming up to this story.
She rushed on, "It was one of the most delicious feelings in the
world, Billy. Just letting myself go and expelling all that water . . .
whew . . . it was like pooping and peeing and even coming . . . all at
the same time.
"I'm sure I got all red in the face . . . from pleasure I know now,
but Mom asked, You okay?' I just couldn't tell her how OK I really
was!"
Now she laughed. "Don't think I'm a closet enema freak, brother
dear. I've only had a few in my life . . . but maybe not as many as I'd
like. Anyway, that was the time when I realized that my behind was
sensitive . . . I mean, like erotic, you know?"
Sensing that she had touched on the main part of the story, I spoke
again and asked, "Well, I can see that it excited you. Did you then
start thinking of . . . butt fuckin'?"
"Billy, most of the time I don't like that word . . . fuck . . .
or fucking . . . but when I'm talking with you . . . it has a juicy edge
to it and it's OK. And yes, that's when I started thinking that if a
enema tube felt good, then a finger or even . . . it's hard to say -
even a dick would feel good . . . or even better."
"We're just alike . . .we're two peas in a pod, Sis. We both like
peeing and now we're finding out that we *both* like anal things."
She looked at me, one eyebrow arched as if to say, "Oh, is that
right?"
Hurrying to explain, I added, "I haven't had an enema or anything,
but I've wondered about it." Then, not looking at her, I went on,
"Once I took Mom's enema nozzle - do you think it was the same one she
used on you? - I took her nozzle and slipped into my own ass. I was
sitting on the toilet. I had just finished looking at one of Dad's dirty
magazine - I'd sneaked it out again - and I was wondering how it
would feel to me . . . having something up my butt. So, I got the
nozzle, put some K-Y on it and pushed it in my behind . . .slowly. I
don't know what it was . . . maybe just the thought of it . . . but
anyway . . . I got a boner right away. I jacked off, and like always, I
was thinking of you, Sis . . . thinking of your ass while I was doin'
it."
There! It was out. Now Jean knew her perverted kid brother
ass-fucked himself with a goddamn enema nozzle and fantasized about her.
My face felt warm and I couldn't look at her.
"Ohhh, Billy . . . that's hot! That really gets me wet . . .
hearing what you did . . . and that you thought of me while you were
doin' it too. Wow! You are somethin'."
Emboldened again and ever pushing, I asked, "So, tell me, my
erotic sister . . . are we going to explore this new wrinkle . . . anal
sex . . . or what?"
I suppose it was idiotically tautological to add, " I'm game. Are
you?"
"God, who knows with you, Billy? Every time I think I've gone
just about as far as I'll ever go . . . with you or anyone, you sorta
nudge me along and before I know it, I'm right in the middle of
something I didn't plan on."
She placed her hand on my arm and added softly, "But Billy, you
*know* I not really going to do it with *you* . . .still I'm open to
talk about it with you."
Chapter Eight -- Victoria's Secret
"Look at the ass on that one, will you?"
That got my attention. I'd been reading the Sunday paper over
coffee and fruit with Jean at a street-side cafe. We'd ridden our bikes
down from our home in the hills behind the University in the cool of
early morning and had stopped for coffee.
Glancing up at Jean, I followed her gaze over my shoulder and
turned to look at "the ass" she was pointing out. In our increasing
comfort with each other, we'd come to accept our growing sexuality and
that, at root, we were both voyeurs of a sort. Jean knew of my
fascination with girls' butts and delighted in pointing out to me those
she thought were of merit.
She, in turn, was an inveterate crotch watcher. The day before at
the mall she'd nodded toward a guy sprawled out near a fountain. He was
wearing jogging shorts that were pulled up into his crotch, outlining an
impressive bulge. "Is that all cock," she asked, "or do you think he's
got huge balls?"
The girl Jean had pointed out to me was bending over a nearby
table, cleaning the glass top. I was peripherally aware that she was
wearing a loose tank top, but what captured my interest was the shorts.
They were white, very short and very tight with the crotch pulled into
the crack of her ass and made still more taut by her exaggerated
bending. Checking immediately for panty lines, I noted she was wearing
high-cut panties.
I grinned at Jean, giving her a subtle thumbs-up sign and
whispered, "Boy, I'd love to sidle up behind her and grab her hips."
She smiled and rolled her eyes as if to say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah . .
. we know."
Sensing she wanted to chat, I sat back in my chair and sipped my
coffee, looking at her over the rim of the cup. Her hair was wind blown
and her shirt was a little damp from our last sprint. Looking at her
breasts, I admired her nipples. Despite wearing a sports bra - she'd
flashed me that morning before leaving home - her nipples, when erect,
were very evident. Pointedly staring at her prominent nips for a moment,
I looked in her eyes and said, "It's not cold."
"Then I must be horny?" She finished.
"Jean, you're always horny!"
"Billy, I am not!" she retorted but with a smile that gave the lie
to her denial.
Glancing over my shoulder - the girl was gone - I said, "Well *I*
am." And, as if indignant, added, "Thanks to you!"
Placing her spread hand flat on her chest she replied in a
surprised voice, "Moi?"
"You are a piece of work, woman . . . yes, you!"
Abruptly changing the subject, she dropped her hands to her lap and
asked, "Are you sweaty?"
"As a horse," I replied.
"You're so graphic, Billy. And you know what I think of when you
mentioned a sweating horse."
"A sweating mare?"
"A horse's cock!"
"Jean, I know we're both fairly kinky at times . . . but a horse?"
Flipping her hand in an impatient gesture, she answered, "Not
*really* but there are times when my imagery takes over. Like, the
sexual power of a horse's cock comes to mind, you know?"
"You mean like me slipping it into the ass of that waitress? The
one with the beautiful butt?"
Perhaps because Jean knew that I'd never "slipped" it into
anything, save my hand, she gave me a puzzled frown. She replied, "I
guess so . . . something like that . . . not real, but sexy and
powerful. Like, I don't really want a horse's dick, but I like the
thought of it . . . it gets me wet. Does the thought of you doin' it to
that girl's behind get you wet . . . er, hard?"
Answering with an exaggerated gesture, I "adjusted" my cock in my
riding shorts and smiled. Jean and I had come out of the closet with
each other . . . admitted our fascination with sexual things, our
masturbation, peeing fantasies and anal eroticism. But we'd never
actually "done it." We'd not done the deed. More, I thought, because we
enjoyed the prolonged seduction, the tease, than we had any thought of
abhorrent incest. Jean, as it turned out, had reservations.
I was crazy about Jean. Because she was a little older, I deferred
to her in many ways, most of them unthinking. She was later to tell me
that because I was assertive and appeared so self-confident, she'd
started to re-think the unquestioned assumed roles. We'd let down all
sorts of protective fences on our camping trip to Fourth of July Lake.
We'd always accepted our love for each other. It was only in the last
months that we'd come to accept our sexual feelings for each other.
Still, it remained mostly verbal. And teasing.
Constrained by the outward conventional morality around our house,
we took some delight in an unconventional exhibitionistic teasing. Jean,
who was most enamored with her own breasts, took delight in flashing me.
Bending over wearing a loose top, running from her room to the bathroom
wearing a skirt and bra, idly running her fingers inside the edge her
blouse into her cleavage . . . all these things were done to entice and
tease. And I loved it. Still, she knew that my major interest was her
beautiful full butt. She professed ignorance. "Oh, come ON. Who's
interested in BUTTS?" she'd ask.
She knew the answer. Me. Often it was evident that as some reward
or sign of affection, she'd honor my fetish. She'd suddenly sit in my
lap, squirm for a moment, and then run away, laughing. Once, when
running from the bathroom wearing only her bra and panties, she met me
(ever watchful) in the hall. Before disappearing into her room, she
suddenly pointed her back side at me and bent way over. Her already
brief panties almost disappeared in the cleft of her ass, and outlining
the pooching bulge of her mons. I retained the after image of that for
a long time. Several times, playing with myself on the toilet, stroking
off, that image came to mind and pushed me right over the edge. I'd
think to myself, "Jean, I'm coming for you."
So we'd progressed to that point in our honesty where we admitted
our masturbation and our kinks, but we appeared to remain hesitant and a
little fearful of actually "doin' the deed." Oh, I knew I really wanted
to be sexual with Jean . . . to touch her, to play with her, but I was
afraid she would think it was "really sick." We circled the edges of
our desires, admitting some, denying others.
Jean broke into my brief reverie, "Let's stop at the mall on our
way home. I'd like to check out Victoria's Secret."
"Oh, ugh. Where they have all that, uh . . . girl stuff?"
"Don't be a jerk. I've seen you checking out my lingerie.
Actually, maybe you're more interested in the soiled ones!"
"Busted!" I grinned at her.
We rode our ten-speeds back to the shopping center, me contriving
to ride behind Jean, admiring her trim, firm ass and thighs. Now, close
to noon, the shops would be open, but because it was Sunday, the
hard-core shoppers wouldn't be out in force yet.
Locking our bikes in the racks on the edge of the mall, we walked
slowly, staying in the cool shadow of Macy's, checking out the other
morning people. I've always maintained that the healthy, alive folks
are out early. This was no exception. Falling into our comfortable
role of people watching, we admired the bodies of many of the other
strollers. Some were young, and some were older. Most were fit. I
find particularly appealing the looks of healthy and fit older women.
By older, I meant Mom's age . . . you know, older.
Mesmerized by the firm, long legs of a woman with streaks of grey
in her hair, I was nudged out of my sexy musings by Jean's voice: "Are
you listening?"
Again, I gave her my grin of being caught and said, "I guess I
wasn't. Sorry. I'm listening now, sweet sister."
"I'll 'sweet sister' you, buster! I *said*, How about these?'"
She gestured toward a collection of frilly panties in the window of
Victoria's Secret.
"Hmmm, hard to say. I'd have to see them ON to know for sure."
Jean knew what I was implying and I knew I'd not get the chance to
see her model panties for me . . . at least not in *this* shop in *this*
shopping center. I'd heard of a small lingerie shop in San Francisco
where modeling of lingerie was permitted, even encouraged. I'd
suggested once to Jean recently that we "check this out" but she'd just
snorted and said, "Fat chance."
If nothing else, I'd come to appreciate the power of planting a
seed in Jean's mind. I'd make an observation or a suggestion, even when
I suspected that her first response would be "no way" and then I'd let
it go. Many times, she'd return to it in oblique ways. Was this
happening now, I wondered?
"Let's look together," she offered.
In mock resignation, I replied, "Oh, all right . . . if I *have*
to."
Grabbing me by the hand, she pulled me inside. The thought came to
me that we probably looked like boyfriend-girlfriend. I was secretly
pleased.
There were perhaps a half-dozen other girls and women in the store
and I was acutely aware of them. They appeared to not even see me.
Picking up a pair of lacy panties, I held them up to her and asked,
"Jean, what're these?" Her fierce blush told me she'd remembered. She
remembered our first sexual awareness with each other, when I'd teased
her about her panties in the wash.
"Yes, I remember too, Billy," she replied. "I'm glad that you do."
(As if I could ever forget.)
Jean picked up an arm load of dainty things quickly and before
disappearing in the back, said to me, "Meet me by the entrance to the
changing rooms in a few minutes."
I gulped. The changing rooms? That's were all those girls will be
naked or near naked! As if they *all* could read my mind, I became more
and more apprehensive as I ever-so-nonchalantly strolled to the back of
the shop. Self-centered as I am, I imagined that everyone in the shop
was watching me out of the corner of their eyes. They'd chastise me any
moment. "Young man, what *are* you doing back here?" No one even
looked.
After furtively looking around - no one was looking at me - I
looked into the hall at the row of bat-wing doors. Beneath one I saw a
pair of legs . . . Jean's! I recognized her. She looked over the top
of the swinging doors and saw me. Suddenly, she opened both doors and
struck a pose. Wearing white panties and bra that contrasted so well
with her tan skin, she stood, one knee bent and pulled into the other.
She held the pose for perhaps five seconds, but the image was burned
into my mind.
I saw the swell of her breasts, pushed slightly up and in by the
half cups of her bra. The straps were positioned well to the side,
framing and enhancing the thrust of her C-cup breasts. Over the top of
the cup I could see much or her areolae . . . dark and prominent against
the whiteness.
The sides of the panties were cut high with the waist riding up on
the hips on the sides and dipping well down below her belly button in
the front. The darkness of her public hair was clearly evident through
the translucent front of the panties. With her legs near crossed, I
couldn't see the object of my desire . . . which made it even more
tantalizing.
Again, over the closed bat-wing doors, Jean called to me, "Why
don't you pick out a few things for me to try on?"
Terribly conscious of my hard on, cramped and bent in my shorts, I
tried not to act as guilty as I felt. I picked up a pair of thong
panties . . . hardly more than a triangular patch in the front. What I
*really* wanted was to see the cheeks of Jean's butt. Would this work?
To minimize the agony of choice, I picked nothing else and walked back
to the entrance door. Again, no one noticed or paid any attention to
me.
"Bring them back to me," Jean said.
With visions of jail in my head, I replied, "Not even close. Come
get 'em."
"Scairdy cat," she chided as she dashed out in some sort of a
mid-thigh sleep shirt (which I never saw again. Didn't do much for me
either.)
When I handed her the slip-of-nothing panties she gasped and said,
"Is this *all*?"
"Quit whining, woman, and put 'em on, will you?"
Holding my eye for a moment, she made up her mind and spun back
into her booth. "Don't go 'way," she admonished me.
Go away? She kidding? By this time, I was ready to risk jail.
"Excuse me, please," said a woman as she brushed past me walking
into the changing area.
Oh shit! Jig's up, I thought. Game's over. And on the heels of
that thought, Jean's doors swung open and there she was! Naked . . . or
nearly naked. Wearing only the thong panties! She stepped out into the
hall, took a few steps toward me, and when six or seven feet away, swung
around and posed with her back to me.
I could see the waistband of the thong and the vertical strap
disappearing into the cheeks of her ass. Standing with one foot cocked,
the asymmetry of her ass was so incredibly unexpected, and sexy that I
was struck numb. My throat was dry and my chest was tight. Forgetting
other people, forgetting getting arrested and going to jail . . . I
stood there, entranced.
There was my beautiful sister, showing me her ass in the most
provocative way. While I'd seen her butt several times, it was never
with this sexual charge. Never so blatant. I was transfixed.
Suddenly she bent over, pulled the thong strap out of the crack of
her ass, and showed her ass hole! I must be dreaming. This couldn't be
Jean! Jean's sexy certainly, but she wouldn't show me her bung hole in
a public store like this.
Then she was gone. The entire thing took maybe fifteen or twenty
seconds. I was rooted there in the doorway, mouth agape. The same
woman emerged from her cubicle a few moments later and saw me standing
there, looking astonished and dumb. She glanced over her shoulder to
see what I was looking at and then passed me, smiling. Did she know?
I had to go outside to breath. I felt I was about to burst. Jean
continued to astonish me, to amaze me and delight me. I felt so full of
love for that girl, I couldn't see straight.
A few minutes later, Jean emerged with a small bag and said, "I
thought you'd be out here. Wanna know what I bought?"
Hoping it was the thong, I said, "The white bra?"
"Yes, that too, for me, but what I really bought was for you."
Brightening, I said, "The thong!"
Nodding, she said, "The thong . . . and I might have a chance to
model it for you again today . . . if Mom and Dad go the City as they
thought they might."
That set my mind spinning. It sounded as if we were making a date
. . . a date to get nearly naked. We'd had our little encounters and
they'd all been spontaneous. I'd wanted to "talk dirty" with Jean for a
long time, and when we did, it wasn't on my terms . . . it just
happened. We'd "fooled around" a little and again, it wasn't when *I*
wanted to. We'd never, ever talked about getting together.
The erotic possibilities were vivid.
"Well, do you *want* to or not?" Jean sounded a little annoyed.
I realized that again I'd been thinking so intently that I'd not
answered, except in my head. Slipping an arm around her shoulder, I
pulled her tight to me as we walked and said, "Jean, you must know that
I'd *die* to have you model that bit of nothing again. The answer is
YES! Yessss, I really do want to."
Mollified, she grinned at me and said, "Well, let's get going, It's
a long pull home."
Chapter 9 -- Jean's Surrender
"Billy, would you like a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade?" Jean
gasped, leaning against the front door of our home. The bicycle ride
back up the hill from "the flat lands" in mid day was markedly harder
and hotter than the downhill ride that cool, early morning. Each,
unwilling to be second best in our sibling rivalry, had pushed and
pushed on the way home. We'd arrived totally winded and drenched.
"Jean, babes (that was a secret term of endearment we had for each
other), that sounds wonderful . . . it just might save my life . . . but
let me serve you. You look beat and after all, you're just a girl!"
(I'll blame heat-stroke on such a risky jibe.)
In a sugary-sweet tone she replied, "Oh, no-no . . . I'll get it
sweet brother. After all, you did win." And then in a slightly more
ominous voice, "I owe you!"
Oh shit, I thought . . . owe me what? But I was too winded to
argue or even attempt to be clever. Sinking into a deck chair I waved
imperiously to her and said in my most superior voice, "While your up,
won't you get me a Grants . . . uh . . . I mean a lemonade?"
Looking out over the valley in front of me, I again enjoyed that we
lived in such a stunningly beautiful place - a relatively isolated
country spot but just fifteen minutes' drive to the University. I was
feeling smug and very excited, for I was again reviewing the
mind-boggling experience of my sister Jean modeling some thong-style
panties for me just an hour ago. The image of her firm and curvy butt
was etched in my forebrain. I was still buzzing, for she'd intimated
that she would model them again for me.
Hearing Jean's step behind me, I held up my hand for the
anticipated glass of ice-cold lemonade. My erotic reverie was shattered
by the chilling shock of ice cubes and lemonade dumped down my shirt
front.
"Just a girl, huh!"
With a shriek, I bolted out of the deck chair, ice cubes falling
out of my clothes and clattering on the deck. Momentarily frozen
immobile, I stood there, bent over, arms away from my sides, just
shivering from the icy shock. Peals of her laughter pulled my head
around to watch Jean, empty glass in hand, holding her side in mirth.
"Oh, Billy, you look like a drowned rat . . . whatsa' matter . . .
your little thingie all cold?"
It *was* funny and yes, my "thingie" was cold. Recalling those
mornings of skinny dipping with Jean . . . the mad dash into the frigid
waters of Fourth of July Lake when my penis tried to crawl back into my
belly, I had a mental picture of how I looked. I just gave up any hope
of maintaining my dignity.
Fishing a last ice cube from my shirt, I gently tossed it to Jean
and said, "You look much too comfortable. Two can play this game you
know."
We'd been together so long we both knew what was going to happen.
Jean wouldn't have stayed around laughing at me had she not expected,
even welcomed, my anticipated retaliation. There was an almost
languorous pace to this game that had an edge of excitement, for I
didn't really know how deep it was . . . where we were going with it.
I thought of how close we'd grown in the last months. How we'd
come to share our truth about ourselves, about our sexuality and our
mutual horniness. There was no more games about *that*. But what was
yet uncertain was our physical involvement. Oh, I knew deep down that I
wanted to jump her bones . . . to ravish my beautiful sister. I was in
lust with her, but those years of cultural conditioning straddled any
erotic path we might explore, standing as a repressive centurion who
might have worn a Gothic signboard proclaiming, "Thou shalt not."
Jean had already told me that as much as she loved me and was
attracted to me . . . even sexually . . . she remained totally uncertain
and apprehensive about *us* fooling around. "Billy," she had reminded
me several times, "you're my brother and that's incest. I can't do
that. Know what I mean?"
I did know and I didn't think she really meant it. We'd skirted
around this topic enough times that I'd come to believe that she was
just saying what she was *supposed* to say . . . that deeper within her
dwelled the same fascination that gripped me.
I knew she wanted to play. We just had to work out the rules . . .
but without talking about it. Our play occurred by multiple
approximations . . . a type of relationship braille. So I wasn't
surprised when she turned and ran inside, shouting over her shoulder in
her mocking, sing-song voice, "Naa-naa, na-naa-naa!"
I didn't hurry; I knew where she'd be. Walking upstairs and past
my room, I turned the knob of the closed door to Jean's room. She was
standing in front of her full-length mirror, arms crossed in front of
her and elbows up as she paused, pulling off her shirt. From the door I
could see the contrast of her white bra strap against her tanned back
and in the mirror's reflected image, the bottom of the bra's cups pulled
up, partially uncovering the under swell of her breasts. The afternoon
sun slanted through the gauzy drapes, casting a soft pattern of muted
colors in the room, accenting the shadows of her body.
Suddenly, it was very quiet. I could see her eyes looking between her
crossed arms as she stood frozen. There was no alarm, just a calm
expectancy that silently asked, "What now?"
"Don't move!" I whispered with a quiet assurance that surprised me.
"Just stay that way."
The side of her shorts was undone and partially open. I could see
a flash of her panties as I walked up behind her. Then, looking into
her eyes, I said softly, "Let me."
She nodded. I'm not sure either of us knew just what it was that
she was going to allow me to do. I gently pulled the shirt from her
hands and finished tugging it over her head, briefly hung up in her pony
tail.
Still looking at me, she dropped her hands to her sides and stood
passively as I examined her . . . both the real and the reflected images
in the soft yellow light one sees just before a rain storm.
"You have beautiful breasts, Jean."
She smiled and made no comment, even as I unhooked her bra.
Loosened, the cups fell an inch, just exposing the pink areolae and
nipples. As I pulled the straps off her shoulders, I watched the
crinkling of her areolae as the nipples hardened. I slid a hand under
her arm and cupped a breast, catching her nipple between my thumb and
index finger, rolling it. Her breast was heavy in my hand.
She shuddered and whispered in a barely discernable voice, "I can
feel that down there."
Pulling off my damp shirt, I hugged her from behind, holding both
of her heavy tits in my palms and looking into her eyes. "Down there?"
I asked.
"Oh, God, yessss."
My vision narrowed to our reflection. In the blurred half-light,
half-shadow, I saw Jean, breasts bared and held by my hands. I was
watching someone else . . . part of me was a voyeur in a sepia vision.
I knew this was uncharted waters for us. We'd watched each other
masturbate on a very few occasions and we'd confessed our horniness to
each other, but I'd never held her in my arms. It had mostly been
near-arms'-length encounters.
I could feel her buttocks pushing back against me. My hard on was
pushing into her butt as I slid my hands down over her stomach and under
the elastic of her panties. My entire awareness was centered in the
gentle curve of her belly. The tips of my fingers were brushing the top
edge of her public hair and on each downward caress, I cupped more of
her mons.
"Ohhhhh . . . that's so . . ." and she didn't finish. Her head
rolled back and rested on my shoulder. Her eyes fluttered closed. The
room was quiet except for our breathing. Nothing was said. She had
surrendered.
Searching with the fingers of my right hand, I found her slit, wet
and pulpy. I'd slipped my fingers into her pussy only once before, the
day on the trail out of Fourth of July Lake. Now I was there again and
half out of my mind with excitement and desire.
I slid down her body and kneeling behind her, I beheld her back and
hips and buttocks. Through the almost transparent panties, I looked at
the deep shadow between the cheeks of her ass. Slowly hooking my
fingers in the elastic of the waistband, I pulled her panties down over
her buttocks, and off her hips to her ankles. She lifted one, then the
other leg as she stepped out of her damp underpants. I looked at them a
moment and then held them to my nose, taking in her odor . . . the sweat
and the musk. The power of it shook me.
Then, holding her hips in my hands, I looked at her ass. I'd been
admiring her butt forever it seemed. I'd been brushing up against her
every chance I could, letting my hand fall from her waist to her
buttocks, trailing my fingers across her back side. Jean knew how I
adored her ass. I suspect it pleased her to be adored even though she
pretended it was "no big deal."
There was a gap between her thighs right below her pussy and I
could see the soft hair of her cunt between her legs. I traced a
pattern up from the inside of her knee to a velvet inner thigh, pausing
for a moment to say, "Open your legs for me, Jean."
For a long moment, perhaps thirty or forty seconds, she didn't
move. And then she moved one foot away from the other by no more than an
inch or two . . . but it was enough. One millimeter would have been
enough. At this point, her surrender need be no more than symbolic to be
real.
"I loved it when you flashed your ass at me today in the store."
Her only reply was a momentary tensing of the muscles of her
buttocks.
"Do it again, won't you?"
"Flash you?" she asked.
"Yes, bend over for me . . . way over . . . show me yourself. Show
me your secret places . . . now."
She slid her hands up her thighs and lightly cupping the under
curve of her ass, she slowly bent over. In the half light, most of her
bottom was in shadow, but the posture of giving, of showing, was so
erotic I could only stare. Speechless.
"Let me look at you," she asked.
I was surprised. I had no idea she'd want to look at my body. "N
- naked? I almost stuttered.
"Of course," she answered, still bent over.
Of course, I thought. What else? "All right. Sit in that chair.
We can watch each other."
Jean sat, bringing one heel up to the edge of the chair, opening
her crotch to my gaze and said again, "Let me look at you."
I looked down and smiled, for the front of my shorts were bulged
out. My cock hurt from the hardness and being trapped, bent in my pants.
Wanting to draw this out . . . the sibling equivalent of a strip tease,
I slowly unbuttoned the cut-off 501's, exposing my pubic hair. I'd
neglected to wear underwear that day . . . a rare thing on those days
when I'm riding my bike.
With a soft chuckle she asked, "Can you get them off, Billy?"
My answer was to slowly push down the shorts, bending my cock until
it sprang free, snapping against my belly.
"Oh!" she gasped as her hand slipped between her thighs, driven by
some unconscious need.
Turning obliquely away from her, I grasped my cock in my fist,
sliding it up and down slowly, moving the soft skin over the hard shaft.
"Yessss . . . show me Billy. Show me how you masturbate. I know
you do it all the time, don't you? What do you think of when you do it?
Do you ever think of me?"
I recognized the change in her voice. She was running on . . . a
stream of conscience . . . as she traced a finger through the wet, soft
lips of her pussy. We'd been here before . . . that place where we gave
ourselves to the moment. Turned on by the moment, the voice, the
images.
Stepping closer to her, stroking my impossibly hard cock, I stood
straddle-legged and said something like, "I think of nothing else. All
I can see is your legs, your breasts, your ass . . . all I can remember
is jacking off with you, seeing your naked body at the lake, watching
you pee . . . watching you touch yourself. I beat off every day, often
twice, thinking of you. I think I'm obsessed with you."
I fell silent for a moment, still slowly stroking my cock. The wet
noises of her fingers in her pussy suddenly sounded loud. The musky
odor of her pussy rose to fill my nose. It was heady. I was drunk with
lust and the desire to fall between her legs . . . to taste her.
"What do you want to do, Billy? I mean right now . . . what can we
do. I want you so much I hurt . . . but we *can't* do it . . . you know
we can't. What can we do?"
We'd lost our eye contact. When I glanced up from her open pussy,
I saw her leaning forward, eyes hooded, mouth a little open, staring at
my cock as I continued to fist it's full length. She wet her lips and
stared. Then, all I could see was her lips.
Another step forward and I was pushing my knees between hers.
Slowly I hunched my hips toward her and the head of my cock touched her
wet lips. She glanced at me. I nodded.
Her lips opened and her mouth sank slowly over my prick.
"Ouch . . . no teeth! Just your lips and your tongue . . . that's
it. Now let it slide in as far as you can . . . breathe through you
nose . . . yesss, just like that!"
Her hands slid up and cupped my balls for a moment and then pushed
my hand away. She slowly stroked the base of my cock as she ran her
tongue over the head and underside of my shaft. My knees grew weaker.
I felt faint. Watching her masturbate my cock with her delicate hand,
watching her lips form an "O" around the head of my cock, her cheeks
pulled in with the suction . . . I couldn't last. I didn't want to
last.
I couldn't think of anything. My entire waking awareness was
narrowed down to my sister's mouth on my cock. It probably lasted
thirty seconds . . . perhaps less . . . yet it seemed to go on and on.
"Gonna' come, Jean . . . can't hold it . . . JEAN . . . here it
comes!"
Now, in retrospect, I don't know if I were warning her so she could
get away or, more likely, that she might enjoy it the more. In any
case, she never slowed. She masturbated me through spurts of my hot
come, holding my cock right inside her lips, stroking my shaft with her
hand.
"The better to taste you," she explained to me later.
I wasn't aware that I'd slipped to my knees. I had a grey out and
came to kneeling between her legs, my face resting on her thigh. Jean
bent down and held my shoulders, hugging me, murmuring, "Oh Billy . . .
Billy . . . Billy . . . that was so nice . . . that was beautiful . . .
thank you, thank you."
Chapter 10 -- Tender Moments
In a soft, contralto voice Jean asked, "Billy, what are you
thinking? I mean, what do you think of us?"
"What?" I replied, almost stupidly. I'd heard the words but I
didn't understand them . . . they didn't make any sense. None would
have. I was still out there, dumb and floating in some post orgasmic
stupor, largely incapable of rational thought.
With a low laugh, she nudged me with her toe. "Earth to Billy . .
. Earth to Billy."
Some small part of my brain knew where I was, but my thinking
sludged somewhere between languid and torpid. Usually a linear,
left-brain type of guy, I'd simply lost it all and was hanging out in
some emotional wallow, playing and re-playing those vivid tapes of our
erotic connection, Jean and me. I was remembering the excitement of our
sexual discoveries in the past months, remembering the quickening of
fear when I'd dared acknowledge my desires to her. More strongly,
remembering the extraordinary energy we'd generated when we surrendered
to the moment.
"Back side of the moon . . . static . . . failing . . . failing
communications . . . ," my voiced tailed off to a fake mumble.
"Billy, come out. I know you're in there!"
Momentarily lifting my head and squinting, I asked, "Why . . . why
do I have to come out . . . or down . . . or what ever?"
"Because this is important, that's why. We have to talk . . .
now!"
Eyes closed, I rolled over and pushed myself to one elbow and
paused, half sitting up. I was suddenly aware of my dick. It felt
cool. Looking down I saw my cock, soft and lolling over my thigh. The
air was drying the moisture on my shaft, cooling it off. I stared at it
a moment, confused and with a start, embarrassed. My cock was wet
because Jean had sucked it . . . had taken me in her mouth and sucked me
off! I pulled my shorts over my loins in some futile attempt to cover
myself.
Looking up at Jean sitting in a chair, I stared at her for a few
moments. >From my position on the floor where I'd slumped in my grey
out, I could see her nakedness in the soft, diffused afternoon light.
She sat, unashamed, one foot on the seat of the chair, leaning forward.
Mentally shaking my head to clear the fog, I said something bright like,
"Uh . . . yes . . . talk. Sure. What about?"
"You remember . . . like I've told you a hundred times . . . we
weren't gonna do it?"
Nodding that yes, I remembered, I just stared at her breasts. They
were full and, I thought, remarkably firm with a slight upturn to her
pebbly areolae. How, I wondered, could her nipples be so hard when my
cock was so soft? Going on as if it were the rhetorical question it
really was, she continued, "Like you're my brother and as much as I love
you . . . well, you know . . . it's the incest thing."
Still nodding, I liked my lips. God I was dry! With one foot on
the chair that way, I could look right up between her thighs and see how
her pussy was pulled slightly open.
"And this is the part that scares me," she continued, "Every time
we go a little bit farther . . . farther than I intended to go . . . and
I LIKE it. I like it more than I realized I would. I think *too* much
. . . I mean, it scares me, you know?"
My part of this conversation was easy. I nodded again. Hell yes.
I knew -- I loved it and it scared the shit outta me. This was all new
stuff, very deep and with a strong current that was pulling us God knows
where. Every time we'd drifted into the tug of our mutual desires, we
seemed to end up someway we never planned. When we started something,
we had no idea where it would take us.
"Yesterday . . . yes, even as late as this morning, I would never
have thought I'd take your cock in my mouth." She looked at me with a
slight tilt of her head as if to ask, so what do you think?
I smiled. My cock? Jean never called it my cock. It was usually
"my thing" or something like that.
"Don't you see? Taking your cock in my mouth is like really close
to really doin' it?"
I looked up to heaven, closed my eyes and just smiled.
"Oh you! Listen to me, you jerk. Be serious will you?"
"Jean, I *am* listening to you. I just can't help smiling. I love
you and I'm all wacked out. Can't you tell that?"
Jean looked startled for a moment. She stared at me as she idly
cupped her breast and rolled a nipple between her fingers. I could
barely hear her voice. "Yes, I *can* tell that, Billy."
"Maybe we just have different definitions. When I just touch you,
I don't think of it as incest. So when you touch me, I still don't
think of it that way. Oh sure, it's sexual, but *that's* not incest."
She smiled warmly at me as she retorted, "You are *such* a lawyer."
I didn't want to get into an intellectual word game with Jean. She
was too smart for me. No, it was always best for me to be honest with
her. I didn't have to defend my honesty. We accepted that while our
views on things might be different, neither of us need be wrong.
"I mean . . . uh, I think of incest as, you know . . . fucking.
We're just foolin' around and if I touch you, that's not incest. And if
you touch me, that's not incest. And if I come . . ."
"Yeah, yeah . . . I know about that. But it's the feelings that
scare me. It makes me *want* to do it."
"Jean, when I wake up in the morning with a boner because I've been
dreaming about you, I want to do it. When you flashed your butt at me
this morning, I wanted to do it. *Wanting* to do it and really doin' it
are two different things."
We'd been over this a dozen times. I was so hot and so confused I
didn't know anymore if I really meant it. Being honest was very
important to me, but I suspect that if I thought I'd get in Jean's pants
by telling a lie, I'd jump into duplicity without a second thought.
Jean knew this, for I'd once admitted as much, but we continued to treat
our impetuous lust as the elephant in the living room.
As she had so many times before, perhaps wanting to be reassured,
Jean accepted my slip-shod thinking and faulty reasoning again. "OK,"
she sighed, "But you've got to help me with this. Promise?"
"Promise." I intoned, crossing my heart, as I watched her stand up
and stretch, reaching toward the ceiling, hips thrust forward, and then
spin about and walk into the bathroom, mumbling, "Gotta pee."
She'd left the door open and I could hear the toilet seat come down
as she continued to speak to me in a louder voice. "Do you still want
me to model those panties? I mean, after all, you've seen me buck
naked."
Interpreting the open door as an invitation, I got up and wandered
into the bathroom. Jean was sitting on the toilet, knees together,
hands folded between her thighs. Leaning on the low partition right in
front of the toilet, I looked at her with a question in my eyes.
"What?" she asked.
"Let me watch," I answered.
"You *are* watching," she replied, knowing exactly what I meant.
We stared at each other for a long moment and then she parted her legs,
at first only inches. I made a rolling gesture with my hand. Again she
paused and then parted her knees fully, opening herself to my stare.
"I don't know if I can go," she began, but that was immediately
interrupted by her peeing.
The bathroom has a bright, southern exposure and the low afternoon
sun streamed in, lighting the orange tile floor and casting a red-orange
tint on her skin. Her brown pubic hair was tightly curled, pressed by
her shorts. Glancing down, she looked at herself for a moment and then
ran her fingers through her muff, ruffling her hair as she peed. I
could see her labia, pulled slightly open by her spread thighs, and the
strong stream of urine splashing against the porcelain bowl, high up.
"I have to be careful, " she noted, and bent slightly at the waist
to direct her stream into the toilet bowl. The loud hissing or her
peeing was joined by the clatter of her stream in the water."
"Let me . . ." I started to say, as I stepped in front of her and
sank to one knee, right between hers.
She looked at me with a questioning expression but didn't stop
peeing. As if to make the stream more strong, I saw her stomach muscles
bunch in a forced Valsalva. It worked. Her stream again shot to the to
a point near the edge and at the same time, she gave off a little fart.
"Ohmygod," she whispered and put her finger tips against her closed
lips as if to signal her embarrassment.
Without thinking, I reached between her thighs and cupped her
stream with my palm. It splashed, some drops hitting her and some
hitting me. All at once, I was aware of her wide-eyed stare of
incredulity, the satin softness of her thigh against my forearm and the
heat of her urine in my hand. I curled my fingers and cupped her sex as
she continued to pee.
"Billy! What are you *doing* for cryin' out loud?"
"Don't talk . . . just pee . . . keep peeing for me, Jean."
Sitting up straight again, she murmured, "Crazy . . . this is
crazy," and continued to pee out the last dribbles.
"Why, Billy? Why did you do that?"
Leaning back, letting my pee-wet hand drip into the bowl, I looked
at her and grinned. "I don't know. Just wanted to, I guess. It has
something to do with intimacy. I just love the intimacy of being with
you when you pee . . . of feeling your hot pee in my hand."
With a half smile, she shook her head slowly and pulled off a
length of toilet tissue.
Taking it from her hand, I said, "Let me." Dabbing her pussy, I
asked, "Remember the last time you let me do this?"
"How could I forget . . . but I didn't think it would get to be a
habit," she chided me as she leaned back, legs opened farther. And, as
with the last time, I slipped a finger into the wet and open slit of her
pussy, pulling up to the top and tracing small circles about her clit..
"Oh, God . . . that feels good."
"Let me touch you, Jean. Let me play with you. Come. Let's lay
on your bed."
Without further words, we got up and walked in slow motion to her
room, to her bed. Without prodding, she piled two pillows and lay
against them, half-reclining with her legs splayed open. I kneeled in
the "V" of her legs and just looked. Her pussy had flowered. The inner
lips were swollen, partially everted and very wet. The musky smell of
her juices wafted up to my nose and, as if on cue, she said, "Jeeze . .
. do I smell raunchy."
The musky essence of her sex was driving my libido while some other
voice was telling me to slow down, to savor the moment. Somehow I knew
I wanted to get out of my own head and the best way for me to escape the
gadfly of self was to think of someone else.
Once in a rare while I'm given some nugget of advice that hits me.
It's a two-pronged blessing . . . first, that I'm offered it and second,
that I *hear* it. The exhortation of a good friend and advisor came to
my mind. He said: "Bill, where ever you are, *be* there!"
I sat back on my heels and closed my eyes. My inner awareness grew
and filled the room, taking in the sounds of our breathing and the soft
breeze, the scent of both of us and mostly, the sweet, delicious
tenderness of the moment. I thought to myself that I must work at being
an authentic participant in my life, for Jean it comes naturally. Her
spiritual state rests easily with her, much as a comfortable, loose
garment. Opening my eyes, I looked into hers. They were deep and
lustrous and filled with affection.
She smiled and asked, "What are you thinking, Billy?"
"How much I care for you . . . how much I love you, Jean. I'm just
filled with you."
She held out her hand to me and said, "Come, lie beside me. I want
to be close to you. I want to feel your skin on mine. Hold me,
please?"
Nestling her head against my neck, I asked, "But what about . . .?"
"The sex?" she finished for me.
"Well, there is that."
We'll do that . . . whatever it is we're going to do . . . but
first I want to savor this minute with you. The sex will always be
there. Moments like this are rare. Stay with me, won't you?"
Chapter 11 -- Dry Humpin'
Like so many of the good things in our lives, we take them for
granted. That was certainly true for me in my family. I took them and
their love for granted, for that is the way it always was. I didn't
think much about it, if at all. It wasn't something I had to work for
so I didn't give it any conscious thought.
That taking-for-granted was particularly true with my sister. Like
my parents, there was never a time in my life when she wasn't there, so
I was hardly grateful for them or her . . . at least not then. Because
we had an active sibling rivalry and because I was the younger, I often
lost. So, if you were to have asked me what I thought about Jean, I
suppose I might have answered that I didn't think about her at all,
except to wish she might immigrate to Saturn or some equally distant and
hostile place.
Yet the vagaries of my developing youth suddenly moved me from a
totally self-centered, largely insensitive and unaware young man to some
marginally more mature stance of appreciation for the goodness and
beauty in my life.
I had gone from being mostly unaware of Jean to that tingling,
hypersensitive consciousness where I thought of little else. There was
not a day that passed that I'd not thought of her, of her kindness and
her gentleness, and yes, if the truth is known, of her erotic sexiness.
I frequently dreamed of her, usually erotic, and it often waked me
with an intense, near-painful hardon. Add to that my walking-around,
day-dream state and you can see how I was preoccupied with her. Dazed
might be a better description.
It was almost too much. I didn't know the first thing about
handling the intensity of these feelings, so I did that which I'd always
done so well when I was in doubt. Emotionally bobbing and weaving, I
tried not to show my feelings -- those feelings that were bubbling and
about to overflow. Not that there were "downer" feelings . . . not at
all. They were just powerful and new. I was confused.
In the days and then weeks that followed our last unplanned and
largely uncontrolled sexual encounter, my sister and I had *both* pulled
back a little. There was no emotional "badness" connected with this; we
did it comfortably, without conscious decision as we had done in some
reflexive manner several times in the past. There was something almost
moth-and-flame-like in our behaviors. Perhaps governed more by our hind
brains, we were pulled toward each other, longing, and in some
ill-defined way, hungry for each other. Of late, we often fell,
unplanned and unanticipated, out-of-control, into a heightened sexual
awareness and more, into a sexual connection.
This frightened us. And it excited us. Neither found the paradox
puzzling. We were terribly attracted to each other, emotionally,
lovingly and now, with a sexual ferocity that simply frightened us. So,
in a silent acknowledgment of that fear, we'd stepped back just a
little. Oh, not so you'd notice it around the house, for we continued
our open-for-business-as-usual banter and interaction. Yet, we knew.
Sometimes a word, a gesture would ring in our minds and looking up, we'd
see the other staring and we would recognize that vulnerable, uncertain
look.
We knew at base what it was about. I did anyway. I loved my
sister. The uncertainty wasn't about that. It centered about our lust.
We'd danced around it, slowly at first, with a gradual opening and
increasing intimacy. Some time ago I'd confessed to her that I wanted to
make love with her. (Actually, I think I told her I wanted to "fuck"
her.) At once out, I wanted to bite my tongue. I'd have given anything
at that moment to take back those words. Not that I didn't mean them.
I did. But I knew I'd crossed the Rubicon with those words and the felt
a sinking feeling with the irreversibility of it all.
Jean handled it well, at least on the surface of it; she was an
uncomplicated, up-front girl without guile. She had simply said
something like, "Me too, but we're not gonna do that, Billy. That's
incest." End of discussion. Or was it?
Clearly it wasn't, for that was the nidus of our emotional turmoil.
That we both wanted to "do it" wasn't the question. We'd confessed
that. No, the tension arose from the not knowing. The not knowing in
view of the wanting and that nagging voice coming up from the hind brain
that repeatedly urged, "Go ahead. Have a bite. It's just an apple."
I smiled to myself and thought, "Lead me not into temptation. I
know the way myself."
Despite that sometimes-delicious pull into the last taboo, we
continued to be comfortable about each other. As long periods of
silence are comfortable among close friends, we had no feeling of
malaise around our unresolved passions. We were, both of us I think,
content in following the thread of our lives and our connection, not
knowing where it would take us.
There was a time, both before and again later, when I practiced a
studied imperturbability, a coolness on the surface that frequently gave
the lie to the cauldron beneath. I certainly didn't suffer from
alexithymia . . . that failure to recognize feelings when I had them.
To the contrary, I was in heightened contact with my feelings. As a
safe cracker might have sanded his fingertips, my emotional awareness
was crackling with sensitivity. What I didn't know was how to really
talk about them . . . my feelings. Jean always helped me out when I was
stuck like that.
"What are you feeling right now, Billy?" she asked as were walking
in the hills behind our home.
I'd been aware that her breasts were swaying inside her sweatshirt
and wondered if she had departed from her usual conservative attire to
pique interest or if she'd simply grown accustomed to me.
Picking up a rock, I heaved it as far as I could into the wooded
canyon and muttered, "Oh, nothin'."
"I've seen you do that a thousand times," she observed, looking in
the direction of the thrown rock.
"Uh . . . throw a rock?" I asked.
"Yeah. Or it's equivalent. When you're uncomfortable, you move.
You just can't stay still. You leave. Heck, I've seen you get up and
leave the room without ever getting out of your chair!"
There was no debate here and I knew it. We'd covered this one
before and she was concomitantly observant and accurate.
"So. Tell me. What's goin' on? You've been silent for more than
a week."
"Jean, I'm sorry," I said. And then glancing at her to make eye
contact, I added, "I'm not trying to be an asshole (as if it took much
effort on my part) and I'm not trying to punish you or anything like
that. I'm just not sure what it is that I'm feeling."
Jumping from stone to stone, we crossed the winter-rain swollen
creek and started up the other side before she spoke again. "I thought
that, but also know that if we don't talk about what's going on, it'll
go underground and ferment."
"OK, OK," I sighed with resignation. I *knew* this was going to
happen. Then, taking the plunge, I stated the obvious, "Lady, you
*know* how moved I was when we . . . when you . . ."
Laughing, Jean finished my stuttering sentence, " . . . when I
sucked your cock?"
"You *do* have a way with words, you silver-tongued devil you." I
glanced down at the tight spot where her jeans were drawn into her
crotch and then up to her eyes. She'd seen me looking.
"Yeah, and *you're* the one whose always telling me to call a spade
a spade," Jean countered.
I sat on a fallen tree and looked back into the ravine. Jean sat
beside me her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin. For a few moments
the noisy jays made the only sound to be heard.
Not looking at her, I continued, "Well, whatever we call this rose
-- or this spade -- that fact is that I keep thinking about you . . .
about us."
"Cut to the chase, boy. You mean us *doin' it,* don't you?"
Drawing back and placing my hand flat on my chest, I replied,
shocked, "Moi?"
"Yes, you! You horny jerk, you."
Then, in a moment of complete honesty, I admitted it. "Yes. All
the time. It's all that I think about." Then, rushing on, "I'm not
*asking* you to do it, you see . . . it's just that it *is* on my mind
all the time. You know?"
Nodding her head, Jean murmured, "I know." And then placing one
hand on my arm, she pulled my face around to look into my eyes and said,
"Let's not have this be the elephant in the living room. We both feel
it. We mustn't pretend it's not there. We've got to talk about it."
"All right, woman. I'll tell you what I've been thinking. How we
feel about each other and about our selves is no secret. Cripes, we're
both horny and all we can think about is screwing . . . at least that's
the way I feel. We've talked about it enough that we know, for the
moment anyway, that we're not prepared to actually *do* it. And it
would seem that we're not ready to enter the monastery or take vows of
chastity either. So . . ." I paused.
"Yeah-yeah . . . so?"
I've got her attention, I thought to myself. When in doubt, tell
the truth. "So . . . I propose that we continue as we have. No rules .
. . well, except one. For now, we won't do it. As much as I'd love to
really do it with you, Jean, we won't. Whatever else we do, we do."
"Whew! I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed . . . I
feel both."
"Me too."
"But what to you mean, whatever else'?"
"I guess I mean that I'll continue to act as I have. I can't help
but enjoy looking at you . . . or trying to get peeks of your butt . . .
you know, things like that."
"Touching?"
"Yes, touching . . . if you'll let me that is. I'll not stop
wanting to, but I won't try to force you to do anything you don't want
to do. If we can't agree that it's okay, that neither of us is going to
be hurt, then we won't do it. How's that sound?"
"God, Billy . . . if we only could! If we could be open enough
with each other. I we could just say how we feel and be able to talk
about things, it'd be so-o cool."
"Tell you what, Sis. If we don't try, it sure won't happen. Maybe
we won't do it very good . . . maybe we'll mess up from time to time . .
. even a lot, but if we don't *try,* we'll have given up, don't you
see?"
"Billy, you sound just like Dad! You've got to try your best and
when fall on your butt, pick yourself up and try again.' You sound just
like him."
"I hadn't thought of that, but yeah . . . I've heard that mantra
before." Then, touching her cheek, I asked, "Well?"
In a low voice, Jean said, "Billy, I've got that deep-down feeling
that this is a first step of a journey that may take us a long, long
way. Part of me is so excited and another part of me is scared silly.
But yes . . . I'll do it. I'll do my best, that is. I have no idea
what I can do and what I can't, but I guess that's why we're starting
this, huh?"
"I don't know about that, Sis. Mostly I'm thinking about getting
in your pants."
She slugged me on the arm. "You ARE an asshole, you know that?"
Laughing, I pulled her to the ground and we rolled and tumbled over
the soft cushion of pine needles, ending up in that classic I-got-you
position . . . me straddling her chest and holding her forearms to the
ground beside her head.
"Why didn't you wear a bra?" I asked in a teasing tone.
"What'ya think? To get your attention, jerky boy?"
"Remember Mardi Gras? Remember the beads and how the girls would
pull their shirts up, showing their tits? And you wouldn't?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I remember that. So?"
"So, now you're gonna!"
"What!?" Bucking unsuccessfully, Jean quieted after a moment, out
of breath. "If you think I'm going to pull up my shirt . . ." and then
she shrieked.
I was holding both wrists above her head and was slowly pulling the
bottom of her shirt up, tickling her ribs in the process.
Suddenly she stopped struggling and looked at me, unsmiling. In a
small voice, she said, "Billy, let me."
I cocked one eyebrow and looked at her. She just nodded. I let
her go. She reached down and pulled the bottom of her sweat shirt up,
slowly. The white under swell of her breasts were followed by the
prominent nipples, pulled upward by her elevated arms. With the shirt
pulled up to her chin, she asked, "Is this what you wanted to see?"
Nodding, I tentatively extended the index finger of one hand and,
holding it right above her nipple, I looked at her and asked, "OK?"
"Yes. I *want* you to touch them. I want you to look at me. I
ache for you to touch me, Billy."
With a feather touch, I traced a line from her axilla up across the
swell of her breast and then around and around the areola, not actually
touch her nipple.
Jean arched her back, pushing her breast toward me and with a half
groan, whispered, "Ugh . . . that's so good . . . please . . . more . .
. touch it, Billy . . . please touch it."
With the tips of my fingers, tenting the breast, I slowly pulled up
on her surprisingly firm tit, lightly finger-milking her but just short
of touching her engorged areola and turgid nipple. Again and again,
lightly, tracing a feather-touch, up and down. Her hips began to stir,
to roll slightly under me. I became acutely aware of that old familiar
stirring with myself.
"Harder! Billy, harder!" she groaned. "Touch me, dammit."
"Jean, I love your tits! You've got the sexiest tits I've ever
seen." (I was relieved that she didn't remind me that I'd not seen many
and hadn't touched any . . . other than hers.) I leaned down and with
the tip of my tongue, I touched her nipple. She jerked upward, mashing
her breast on my lips. Opening my lips, I began to suck on her nipple.
"Don't tease me, dammit. Bite me. Bite me a little."
Afraid to hurt her, I placed her nipple against my upper front
teeth and with the tip of my tongue, pushed her erect nip against the
sharp edges of my teeth, alternately soft and then firmer, never
actually biting her.
"Oh, God, Billy. MORE. Harder. I can feel it down in my pussy .
. . all the way down there . . . there's a connection from my breast to
my womb. Jesus, it's good! Oh God, oh God, it's so good."
I slipped down and pushed my pelvis against hers, never losing
contact with her breast, continuing to nibble as we slowly humped
against each other. Her legs fell open and I knee-walked between them,
grinding my trouser-imprisoned hardon against her pubic symphysis
through her jeans.
With both hands, I cupped her breast, continuing to suck and
nibble. She bent her knees and thrust up at me repeatedly, grunting and
in a barely audible voice, chanting, "Oh shit . . . oh shit . . . oh
shit."
The compelling vortex of our desire pulled us again, out of
control, into a headlong flight through the endless limits of some inner
space, spinning and falling into that almost painful moment of intense
pleasure where our boundaries were blurred, then lost. I couldn't tell
where I ended and Jean began. We were one for a moment, in some
blinding light of fulfillment. Then, sometime later, we tumbled out,
dazed, lightheaded and confused onto to the pine-needle bed of our
"almost doing it."
Slowly I became aware of our ragged breathing, out of sync and of
the sweat trickling through my hair. I'd rolled off Jean and was laying
beside her, one leg still trapping hers. For several minutes we didn't
move, didn't talk, just glided down the back side of that mind-bending
emotional peak.
Finally Jean spoke. "JE-SUS KEY-RIST!" Even the mildest profanity
carried an additional impact when it came from Jean, for she rarely
employed crude words much less profanity.
With my usual post-orgasmic cleverness and wit I answered stupidly,
"Wha-a-t-t?"
"Boy! Am I glad I was dressed."
"I'm not glad, but why are you?"
Turning her head, she looked at me and with a warm smile she said,
"Once again we've charged into some out-of-control place, you and me. I
thought we *might* fool around just a little, but I never imagined this.
I can't understand how these things happen to me, you know? "
Again, with catchy wit I asked, "What things?"
"Don't play dumb with my, guy. You fool lots of people, but *I*
know who you are. I'm talking about my complete lack of control when we
get together. I never planned on what we did . . . that . . . what do
you call it anyway?"
"Dry humping?"
"Yes, that. It just happened so fast. The next thing I knew my
body had taken over and I wanted you inside me. I couldn't stop my
hips. I didn't even *want* to stop. That's what I mean . . . out of
control. Who knows what would have happened if we woulda been naked?"
"It's too wonderful . . . too sweet to even imagine, Jean."
"Yeah. Well, that's why I'm NEVER gonna get naked with you alone.
If you ever see me without any clothes on, don't *even* come near me.
Hear?"
I just smiled at her and looked down at her breasts, still exposed.
She poked me in the ribs and repeated, "You hear me, Billy?"
Laughing, "Sure, sure . . . yeah, um . . . I hear you. The next
time I see your bare butt I'll just grab my woodie and run in the
opposite direction."
Quietly, seriously Jean added, "Billy, I don't want you to run from
me. You know that. Run TO me, but please don't take advantage of me. I
just know I won't be strong enough when I should be."
Damn. I hated that. When she transferred responsibility to me in
asking that I help her, I was screwed. I couldn't fall back on being a
brainless kid and not to blame for my actions. Shit! Who said growing
up was all that much fun?
Touching her cheek I whispered, "Jean, you know I'll be there for
you. I'll always honor you. My horniness is small change when I compare
it to my love for you. You can take that one to the bank, girl."
Brushing the tell-tale pine needles from our clothes, we started
back, holding hands a little of the way. I can't remember when I ever
felt better.
Chapter 12 -- Surprise Under the Pillow
After our last near-hit-near-miss encounter, my sister and I had
almost no time to consider our lives much less our sexual attraction.
The demands of school and our otherwise busy social lives grabbed all
our energy and attention. The glances and poignant smiles served to
remind us frequently of the pull we'd come to acknowledge but our
natural cautiousness coupled with our jam-packed lives served to buffer
our lusty appetites. Yet we had opened a door of intimacy that was
never to close for all the days of our lives. In a dozen small ways, we
were more affectionately connected, open and trusting than we even knew.
Our mother, sensitive to the moods in our family, had not failed to
notice that our one-time sibling abrasiveness and competitiveness had
given way to a softer connection. I suspect she was relieved. I
wondered if she might see anything beyond the surface. She did so
often.
Pouring orange juice one morning at breakfast, Mom commented, "I
want to tell you kids that it's so much more peaceful around here since
you two became friends. My brother Jim and I did the same thing when we
were about your age."
The same thing. What'd she mean?
Mom chatted on about her teenage life. Jean and I looked at each
other, then she glanced at Mom and, looking again at me, raised an
eyebrow as if to ask, "Do you suppose Mom and . . . ?"
For a moment I was shocked. Mom? Then remembering the lusty
sounds we sometimes heard coming from my parent's bedroom, I smiled to
myself. Jean and I had then decided that our parents probably had done
"it" more than twice. Shrugging my mental shoulders, I thought, "Why
not?"
Returning to the present, I became more aware of my mother, of her
dress. She was wearing a light robe and several times as she was
gesturing I'd seen her breasts move under it. I thought, "Christ, Billy,
you are a real perv. Your own mother!"
In a silent mime, Jean's eyes opened in astonishment and she put
her finger tips across the surprised "Oh" of her open mouth . . . just
as Mom looked up.
"What?" Mom asked.
Quick to recover, Jean replied, "Oh, I just remembered that I
forgot my French book at school."
Jumping in, attempting to divert Mom's attention, I asked, "Did you
and your brother fight a lot, Mom?" I wasn't interested in their
fighting as much as the possibility of their connection. Not that I
expected she'd tell us much, but perhaps we could beat around the bushes
a little.
Laughing, she remembered, "Sure. Just like most brothers and
sisters I guess -- but you know, we really loved each other."
Jean and I looked at each other again. You know, that silent
"look" that says, "Hmmm." Then I looked at Mom's breasts. Jean glanced
at Mom and then slowly shook her head in silent remonstration.
Continuing, Mom added, "You know your Uncle Jim. He's a strong,
take-charge kinda guy now, but he was a little younger than me when we
were kids. Still is for that matter. Why, there was a time when I
could beat him up." Then, looking off into some un-focused middle
distance, she shook her head and added ruefully, "That didn't last long.
He grew up fast!"
Jean snorted her juice through her nose, remembering, I supposed,
the play on words we'd often used, about my "growing UP." Picking up
her napkin, she dabbed her face and fake sneezed to cover her
embarrassment. "And then what happened?" she asked.
"Oh, you know. I used to bully him and then he grew up, more than
just physically. He matured and became a man, like over night, and then
he started to tease me, even though he was younger."
"Did it bother you? That change I mean?" I asked, thinking of how
my relationship with Jean had changed in a similar way and wondering
just what *had* gone on in Mom's younger life. The truth was, I'd
ceased to think of her as a chaste, puritanical person sometime ago. I
*knew* she was sexual with our Dad but I suppose I thought he had been
the first and the last, her only. That limited view of my mother's
humanness was slowly giving way to a more realistic acceptance of her as
she probably was. The thing was, I didn't know how she *was*. I was
more than casually interested . . . more than I wanted to admit to
myself.
Mom continued, "Well, at the time I didn't want your Uncle Jim to
know, but secretly, I was pleased. I mean, he was so strong and so
smart. He could just *fix* things and he began to take care of me. I
liked that." She paused, buttering her toast. "Once there was this guy
-- a real jerk, obnoxious and mean, who was always teasing the girls --
saying dirty things about them. Well, this guy said something about me
once -- in front of a bunch of guys -- something dirty I think. Jim
heard about it and walked right up to the guy -- who was bigger than him
by the way -- and said, Don't *ever* talk about my sister,' and without
another word, smashed him right in the nose."
Jean gasped, "Really, Mom? Uncle Jim?"
"Yep. I was there. Saw it all. The guy fell back. He grabbed
his nose. It was bleeding all over the place. He was crying and saying
he was going to kill my brother. Jim walked up to him again and again,
without another word, punched him right in the stomach. Down he went.
Stayed there too, cryin', slobberin' and cursin'. But he didn't get up.
Your uncle said, Yeah, yeah. You'll *shit* too, if you're well fed.
Get up if you want some more, asshole.'"
Then hearing the words of her own account, Mom reddened and
glancing at us, added, "Oops. Pardon my French."
"Far out," I said, even more impressed with my uncle.
"Oh, my . . . I never heard that story," said Jean. "That's really
something." And then turning to me with a smile, she asked, "Would you
fight for me, little brother?"
"I guess. I mean, I *might*," and then turning to Mom added, "If
she wasn't so darn strong and mean already!"
Jean threw her napkin at me and yelled, "You shit! I am not! MOM,
make him stop!"
Covering my head with one arm, I held up the peace sign with the
other hand and quickly said, "Sor-ry. Didn't mean it. Honest. Peace.
Peace?" Then, turning to my mother, I added in a stage whisper, "She's
cute when she's mad, isn't she?"
Mom leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her
eyes and voice softened. "You two remind me *so* much of me and Jim, I
can't get over it." Her nipples were poking through her robe. I tried
not to stare. I failed.
The voice in my head asked, "Did you and Uncle Jim fool around,
Mom?" But the voice that came *out* of my head asked, "You guys ever
double date, Mom?"
She smiled that special smile of remembrance. "Sure. Lots. We'd
share all our stuff with each other. He always had an opinion of the
guys who'd ask me out. Some were ok and some were not. And he'd always
ask me about the girls *he* dated. Things like . . ." and then she
suddenly stopped talking, seemingly embarrassed.
Stepping into the embarrassed silence, I said, "That hasn't
changed. If it wasn't for *my* wise counsel, Jean'd date some real
weirdos, I can tell you that."
Jean surprised me, for she didn't argue. "Yeah, Billy knows a lot
about the guys that I don't . . . that girls don't in general." Turning
to me, she added, "I appreciate your caring, Bro."
Jean was picking up on the direction this was taking. We worked
well together that way. But we knew Mom was no patsy and we didn't want
to be too obvious. We just knew she'd shut up like a clam if she picked
up on what was in our heads -- my head anyway.
"Mom, could you talk to Uncle Jim about . . . uh . . . about your
feelings and . . ." she finished lamely, "and . . . things?"
Mom, sensing Jean's discomfort, forgot her own and laid a hand on
her arm. "Sure, baby. We could talk about everything. That's why it
was so special."
Uncertainly, Jean asked, "Really? Everything?"
Glancing at me a moment, Mom answered Jean, "Yep, everything."
"Even sex?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager yet knowing I
was edging into new ground.
Mom hesitated. I could tell that she felt she'd been accidentally
pulled into this self revelation but couldn't cop out now. "Yes. Even
that." Then, putting her napkin on the table with a gesture of
firmness, she leaned forward a bit and added, "Sometimes, *especially*
that. I mean, if you can't talk to your own brother . . ." and then she
made a dismissive gesture with her hand and looked upward, as if for
confirmation from above.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Yeah," Jean echoed, "Your own brother . . ." and then she tailed
off, not quite sure just what she was agreeing with. She looked at me
and wrinkled her nose as she cocked her head . . . her sign language
that asks, What are we talking about, anyway?'
"Sex, Jean. We're talking about sex. Remember?"
Mom, suddenly seeing our discordant thinking, threw her head back
and laughed. "You two . . ." she began and then wiped a laugh tear from
her eye, "you two are like Abbot and Costello."
"Who" I asked.
"Who's on first," Jean prompted.
"What's on second, " Mom continued and they both laughed at each
other. At my expense, I was certain.
"Come on, ladies. What is this, geriatric week? We were talking
about sex, remember? How'd we start talkin' about baseball of all
things?"
Placing her hand on my arm, Mom said, "I'm sorry, Billy. You guys
started it. You just got me giggling. I'm a little embarrassed, you
know. I'm not used to talking, well . . . so frankly with you two." And
then, as if to cope with her uncomfortable position, she added quickly,
"Anyway . . . anyway, I must go down to the flatlands.'" This was our
name for any part of the surrounding area not in the foothills where we
lived.
This conversation was over I knew, at least for now. I was
disappointed and relieved at the same time. On the one hand, it was
kind of thrilling to hear something of our Mom's early life, but on the
other, it was so foreign as to be strange and a little uncomfortable.
We were just becoming comfortable with our own sexuality. Considering
Mom's was almost too great a stretch.
Dabbing her lips again, Jean started to get up and then paused,
looking at Mom. "Remember I said I was going to stay with Aunt Peg
sometime?" Without waiting for a reply, she went on, "Well, she's
invited me over for tonight. It's OK for me to go over, isn't it?"
Moving toward the kitchen door and hardly pausing, Mom answered,
almost absently, "Sure, baby. Say hello for me, won't you?" And then
she was gone.
"Oh crap!" I grumped with no little disappointment. "I was looking
forward to us watching a movie or something. We haven't spent *any*
time together. We never even talk any more." My tone was almost
petulant.
Jean was unmoved. Laughing, she said, "Oh Billy, don't worry.
We'll talk again . . . promise. In fact, I'll call you tonight from
Aunt Peg's house. About eleven?"
A phone call wasn't what I had in mind, but it was clear that was
all I was going to get, so I tried on a little gracious acceptance. I
tried, but it didn't fit well.
Jean left a short while later and I moped around, trying to stay
busy. The late morning and afternoon were taken up with self-appointed
chores that helped me stay out of a dangerous place, my mind. Years
later someone was to tell me, "Bill, *your* mind should be used for
amusement purposes only."
Still, I spent the early evening feeling sorry for myself,
convinced that I was unloved and largely unlovable. I've always been
struck by my capacity to move from joy one moment to self-pity the next.
When I'm in a good place, those extremes amuse me, but when I'm in some
self-centered dark hole perched firmly on the pity pot, it seems
decidedly not funny. Moreover, I am quick to assume that not only is it
a bad situation, but that I'll be stuck there forever. No half measures
in my thinking!
Holing up in my room, I put on an Enya CD and sank into the
luxuriant and mystical sounds that reminded me so much of Jean. Enya's
lyrics, woven into the tapestry of her sound, washed over me:
"If only I could stay with you, my train moves on, you're gone
from view, . . ."
Whatever loving and aesthetic side I might have had, the side that
loved the *spirit* of Jean, was simply pushed aside by the power of my
erotic imagery. Somehow, fueled and driven by the haunting melodies of
Enya, I sank into the sensual torpor of my reminiscence.
If I had thought my images might somehow be visible to others, I'd
have been embarrassed. But safe within that secret place in my mind, I
reveled in the richness of my erotic recall. As if etched in stone, the
picture of Jean, standing with her back to me, flashing her pantied
butt, came and went as a subliminal image. The curve of her back, the
soft roundness of her womanly hips, the dimples above her gluteal
muscles and the shadowed nether regions where the thin strap of her
panties cupped her mons . . . these mental pictures rolled through the
interstices of "Shepherd Moons."
The one time I'd had the opportunity to *really* look at Jean's
nude body, it had registered and imprinted in my memory with
extraordinary detail. The filtered afternoon light in her bedroom had
slanted across her torso, seeming to pronounce and deepen the natural
shadows. Her breasts were somehow fuller, heavier, the nipples even
more prominent. Refracting the already diffused light, the almost
invisible, downy hairs on her belly were highlighted and became a
penumbral shadow above the soft, curly down of her pubic hair. Without
the jutting prominence of a pubic ledge, her belly curved smoothly in a
soft arc to the darkened region between her thighs. In my mind's eye, I
could see that her rich auburn pubic hair, while not extensive, was
thick and full and curly. I knew what was hidden there, between her
long, slender thighs. I'd seen it once, close up as she had urinated on
a dusty Sierra trail, facing me, in broad daylight. My mind's images
flashed back and forth as a lens snaps into near- and then far-focus.
First one. Then the other.
I was delighted and tormented and excited, all at once. We'd
agreed we would have a "limited sexual connection." We'd abandoned any
pretense that we weren't attracted to each other, but under the lash of
our own sense of propriety and some nameless fear of doing wrong, we'd
agreed that whatever else we did, we wouldn't go all the way. Yet, that
remained so tantalizingly ill-defined. Hanging in that ether of vague
boundaries, I found myself almost agitated with desire.
The hours passed, despite my intolerance for delayed gratification.
A few minutes before 11 P.M. Jean called. "Hi, dude! Miss me?"
"Naw," I lied, "I forgot all about you. What's up, woman?"
He laughter picked me up. "You lyin' sack a'. . . . Your nose is
growing!"
"That's not all that's growin'."
"Well, big boy," she began in her Mae West imitation, "if you'll
check under your pillow, we'll see if we can help it grow a little
more."
"What . . . ," I began, but she interjected: "I left you a little
present. Check it out and I'll call you back in a little while." Click.
The line went dead.
Still holding the dead phone to my ear, I pushed up and turned
back, looking under my pillow. There was a pair of Jean's panties.
They'd been worn. Under them was a note.
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 pheromone 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 hardon. 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 woodie every morning," and then
looking down at myself in wonder, I added, "but this one is particularly
urgent. And yes, I *was* thinking of you . . . of last night . . . of
what we did. God, I loved it! I just can't believe the power of phone
sex for cryin' out loud!"
Jean smiled and nodded, just looking sat 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 agrteed, "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 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 hardon.
Surprised, she yanked her hand back and exclaimed, "Yikes!" And
then, almost as quickly, laughed and ran the palm of her hand up my
thigh, again brushing against my erect cock murmuring something like,
"Geez, you are *always* horny, aren't you?"
That rhetorical question didn't need an answer. The lawyers have
an expression for it, something like "res ipsa loquitur" or "the thing
speaks for itself." Instead, I turned my body slightly into her leg,
pushing my hard cock to her hand and, at the same time, running my hand
up to her crotch. What? No panties! I touched the fur of her sex
between the warm softness of her inner thighs, not the crotch of her
panties as I'd anticipated. A thrill shot through me.
Jean suddenly beamed, "That's right, big boy. No panties. I gave
them to you. Just *me* there," and she leaned forward, laying her head
on my chest, now blatantly holding my cock through the sheet.
"Lie beside me for a moment, won't you Jean?" I asked, making room
for her on the bed. I smiled to myself, thinking of the expression that
promised, "I'll only put it in a little way."
"Only a moment," she whispered, turning her body and sliding down
beside me, one leg thrown over my thigh, opening her crotch to my hand.
I cupped her furry mons softly in one hand while cradling her head
with my other, whispering, "Jean, thanks for last night. It was
awesome. I can't believe how hot it was, being sexual with you . . .
even at long distance."
She ran her hand down my forearm, I thought perhaps to pull my hand
from her crotch, but she surprised me. She curved her hand around mine
and with her index finger, pushed my middle finger into the pulpy
wetness of her pussy slit, arching her pelvis into my hand. Her pussy
was sopping and swollen and once again, I experienced the extraordinary
thrill of feeling my finger slide into the heat of my sister's cunt.
"Yes, Billy . . . yes. Touch me. Feel me. Feel my wetness."
Wiggling closer to me, she continued, "I'm melting inside. This is *so*
sweet."
As I slid my finger slowly in and out of her pussy, she rocked her
hips against me, still pushing my hand against her sex, now grunting a
little with each thrust.
"I wanted this so much last night, Billy. After we hung up, I
masturbated . . . it seemed like hours. I came and then came again. I
kept coming until . . . I guess I just passed out. God I was horny!"
"Was?"
"*Am*, you jerk! Am horny." And then she murmured something so
soft I couldn't make it out.
"What? What'd you say, girl? Can't hear you."
She murmured again, slightly louder but all I could hear was
"finger . . . " something or another.
Running my tongue into her ear, I again whispered, "What babe?
What'd you say? Tell me what you want. Say it out loud."
Then, as if we were in a crowded room and she wanted only me to
hear, she 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 grey place and my need to
reassure her gradually became less pressing.
In fact I'd almost forgotten it when one afternoon one of my labs
at school was canceled and I found myself unexpectedly home early. As
it turned out, Jean's writing seminar had also been canceled. Her prof
had been called away and hadn't had time to get a sub.
I found her sitting, tilted back in a chair on the redwood deck,
her long tanned legs braced against the railing, just looking off into
the valley. She was wearing a pair of yellow shorts that I remembered
from last summer. They were tight then. Atop that, she had on a
sleeveless pull over and I was immediately aware she wasn't wearing a
bra. For a long moment, I admired her prominent nipples indenting her
thin cotton shirt. I seemed always to be aware of things like that.
Then I looked at her lips, half-open, a little pouty it seemed.
It had occurred to me that I'd seen my sister naked, or nearly
naked, 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 un-focused 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, er . . . that is, *you* need to decide if you
want the hair on your pussy lips just trimmed short or . . . ," then I
paused again, took a breath and rushed on, " . . . *shaved*." The
"shaved" part came out in a rush and too loud. I hadn't intended to
give it such emphasis and I was suddenly hotter. I knew my face was
burning.
Jean relieved the tension by laughing and asking, "Well, professor,
what's your recommendation?"
"About?"
"About everything, guy. But let's start with the shaving part."
With an audible exhale, I said something really cool . . .
something like, "Awesome, dude." Then, pulling my eyes away from her
crotch, just a foot away, I looked up at her. She was smiling! Christ,
*she* was relaxed and I was almost hyperventilating!
"Yes, Billy. Go on."
I couldn't do it. I couldn't maintain eye contact with her and
keep my few meager thoughts organized. So I acted out the best
compromise I could put together. I looked up at the ceiling as if
contemplating a weighty topic, then closed my eyes and said, "I'd trim
the upper part back, but maintaining its natural wedge shape but at the
same time, I'd shorten the length of the remaining hairs. De-bulk it a
little."
Then, taking another deep breath, I continued, still without
looking at her, "I'd first trim back all the public hair on your labia,
say below your clitoris, back to your . . . uh . . . your back bottom."
"Back bottom? You mean my ass hole, Billy?" She laughed that
soft, tinkling laugh that assured me everything was OK.
"Yeah, ass hole, that's what I mean. And then . . . I'd shave the
lips." I heaved a big breath and asked, "So there, what'ya think?
"If that's the way you want it, Billy, then that's the way I want
it."
Once again, the complexities of life, largely perceived by my mind,
were reduced to a simple and uncomplicated statement. "If that's the way
you want it . . ." The need to rationalize was passed. My desire to
negotiate a scene the way I wanted it was just put aside by her simple
acceptance.
We didn't speak. She looked at me and I looked at her, or more
accurately, I stared at the junction of her long tan thighs and the
brief, lacy crotch of her panties, at her rich auburn curls sticking out
from the sides.
Finally, in a soft voice, I said, "Stand up, Jean."
Without replying or asking why, she stood up, hands at her sides,
looking down at me as I met her gaze over the twin prominence of her
breasts, nipples now sharply visible through her pull over. I reached
up and hooked my fingers into the elastic waist band over her hips,
paused, savoring the moment, looking into her eyes. Here was my
beautiful, incredibly sexy sister, standing for me as I was about to
pull down the thong panties she'd purchased at my suggestion. I'd spent
half my life it seemed, trying to catch a glimpse up her dress or up the
pant leg of her shorts . . . that I might see just for a moment, which
was now right here, mere inches away from my nose.
My fingers still hooked, I leaned forward and nuzzled the
prominent, cushy mound of Jean's pussy hair, inhaling her fragrance. My
little sniff was the loudest thing in the room at that moment and it
jangled my memory of all the times I'd attempted to snitch her panties
from the soiled-clothes hamper. It had come down to this . . . all my
fantasies and machinations had come down to this moment.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled down her panties, down past the
top of her thick bush, now curling, uncovering her sex as it curved back
into her crotch, her labia barely seen. The thong, caught in her ass
cheeks, held up a moment, and then fell with a little elastic snap.
Down past her knees, down to her ankles and then, one foot at a time,
she stepped out of them
The air was thick with her scent. More for the erotic impact than
the smell of her, I held them to my nose as I looked at her. She smiled
and wrinkled *her* nose and still didn't say anything.
"Sit, " I said, again softly.
She sat, butt on the edge of the chair, back straight and knees
together. I looked at her with a quizzical frown and made an opening
gesture with my hands; she opened her legs and then rested her hands on
her parted thighs. I looked between her legs again and remembered the
first time I'd seen her pussy as she'd peed on the dusty trail out of
Fourth of July Lake. While I'd seen her pussy a couple of times after
than, it was the first time that was so strong in my mind, so sweet and
so indelible.
Kneeling between her knees, I reached out and touched the skin of
her abdomen, just below her belly button and then traced a soft line
down through her curly pubic hair, just missing her hooded clit, and
then down the center, barely touching the hairs that mostly obscured her
labia, now opened a bit by her spread legs.
She gasped but didn't speak and didn't move.
"Ready?" I asked the rhetorical question.
She just smiled so I asked again, "Ready, Jean?"
As always, I was trying to engage Jean in conversation about some
sexy topic. She wasn't buying. She just smiled broader and nodded her
assent.
I picked up a long comb that had both coarse and fine teeth and
then ran the coarse end through the hair on her lower belly, slowly
combing out the tight curls and tangles, each stroke getting closer to
her clit. She didn't speak but said something like, "Hmmmmm . . . ,"
as she spread her legs a little wider, opening more the lips of her
pussy, now swollen and wet.
Holding the comb vertically, I combed her labia's hair away from
center, toward her thighs, pulling her lips open still more, making a
moist, sucking sound. This was entirely new territory for me. I'd
never seen Jean's pussy so close and so open before. I was excited and
hard, yet aware of our elevated plateau of awareness and didn't want to
rush anything. So, continuing my placing a "part" in the middle of
Jean's cunt, I combed and combed, watching the further eversion of her
lips, and the pooling of her secretions at the bottom of her slit.
Her thick white 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 lethergy that was
rooted in the sameness of the last week of uncharacteristic heat.
Normally the cooling breezes of the Pacific, ten or fifteen miles over
the coastal range, held off the valley heat. Must be some kinda low
trapped right here, I concluded.
Still, I was feeling a bit restless and decided to take a hike into
the Open Space District contiguous with our home. I wondered idly if
Jean'd like to go with me, but she wasn't in her room and the downstairs
was equally quiet. Grabbing a hiking stick from the bamboo rack, I
walked out on the trellised deck in the back and found my mom and Jean
sitting in the half- shade, looking out over the pond. They were
leaning toward each other, apparently having a whispered conversation.
Both were wearing white shorts and T-shirts, probably I thought, to
play tennis. It wasn't the first time I'd observed just how much alike
they looked. Both were tan and fit, each with long, attractive legs.
And that surprised me, for I'd not really thought of my mother in any
way but as my mom.
"Hi, ladies. What's happenin'?"
Mom hesitated a moment, finishing something she was telling Jean
and looked up. "Hi, yourself, dude. You look like you're going to take
a walk."
"Yeah. Anyone wanna walk with me?"
Mom answered, "A little later perhaps? I'm too settled right now."
Jean smiled and said, "Me too, Billy. A little later?"
It was never easy for me to hear "No" as an answer, but I knew
that's just the way it was this morning. I told myself it didn't have
anything to do with me; they just had other things on their minds.
Looking up at the early morning sun over the Eucalyptus trees to
the east, I replied, "It's a little warm now. But it's gonna be
hotter'n the dickens in a few hours. You know me and the heat. Think
I'll go for it now. Catch you later."
I loved the miles of Open Space above our house and I'd rather walk
with someone, but in the face of my teenage-impaired tolerance for
delayed gratification, I just couldn't wait and took off up the hill
into the redwood grove. Even in the relative cool of the morning, I
seemed to seek out the shaded spots as I unconsciously choose to walk
down into the wooded ravine rather than up to the open country.
I'd discovered this trail - I thought of it as mine - my secret
trail, until the Open Space people had widened it and made it more
attractive. At first I had a resentment. I just knew that it'd be
overrun with hikers now that it was no longer a secret. I needed have
worried. In the years since it'd been open up, I'd not seen a single
person. So it had again reverted to being "my trail."
The stream at the bottom was running full and on an impulse, I
pulled off my boots and dropped my feet into the coolness of the runoff.
As often happens around the sound of running water, soon I had to take a
leak. I smiled at myself, standing knee-deep in the stream, my dick
out, watching the arc of my stream as it splashed into the water.
"How pleasant," I thought, and closed my eyes, feeling the breeze
and listening to the forest sounds. An image of Jean and my mom, tanned
legs stretched out, flashed and without choosing, I fell into that
reverie. They were both very attractive women and I'd become
fascinated, even mesmerized, with my sister Jean in the past year.
Actually, fascination is not a strong enough term. Our natural
affection and apparent mutual horniness had led us into "almost doin'
it" several times but so far we'd restricted ourselves, mostly just
talking about it with an occasional sexual foray into limited but very
intimate touching. Except for the time she gave me a blow job . . . or
the time I kissed her pussy. Yeah, I guess you could say that was a tad
more than intimate touching, huh?
I slowly became aware that I'd stopped peeing and was standing
there, holding a now-erect cock in my hand. "You're hopeless, Billy," I
concluded, "a hopeless horndog."
Turning back to get my boots, I stepped on a round river rock that
suddenly turned, dumping me on my ass in the stream. "Shit!" It was
summer, but the runoff was cold!
I got up slowly, looking down at my soaked shorts, water running
out of my shorts, down my legs and thought, "No way I'm going for a long
walk this way. Guess I'll go back and change."
Returning home, Jean and Mom were no longer sitting on the back
deck, so I stripped off my wet clothes on the side deck and before going
in to change, I decided to take a soak in the hot tub. "They must have
gone to the tennis courts," I reasoned.
As I was folding back the cover of the tub, I heard the back slider
door open and then close followed by Mom's voice. I was startled, not
so much that I'd be caught bare assed - that was no huge deal - although
I don't think my mother had seen my bare butt in a while. What startled
me was a word or two I'd overheard. Sounded like "something horny." I
couldn't imagine my mother and my sister having a conversation that
included the concept of horny. Shows how much I knew.
I stepped into the tub, making no effort to be quiet, but I guess
the noises I made were masked by their own conversation, for they didn't
acknowledge my presence as they settled into the lawn chairs, just
around the corner of the house from me.
The acoustics made no sense, but I was aware I could hear them
clearly, even the tinkle of ice in a glass. Just as I was about to
speak up to them, to let 'em know I was there, I heard Mom say, "So, how
long has this been a problem?"
"The horny thing?" Jean asked.
"That's the topic, I think," Mom replied with a smile in her voice.
A chair scraped and then it was quiet for a long ten seconds. Mom
was patient, I knew. Finally Jean replied, "Gee, I don't know, but I've
been aware of these, um . . . feelings for the last couple of years.
Another pause, briefer. "But now it's . . ." She stopped.
"More intense?" Mom offered.
"Yeah. Sure is. Sometimes it seems that's all I think about."
"Some older people would say that's not a problem . . . that's a
blessing!" Mom laughed. Then asked, "So then, what IS the problem?"
"Golly, Mom . . . you know. I'm, uh, itchy and restless and I have
these . . . you know, urges. And then I begin to think I'm bad. That
these thoughts are wrong. I just feel bad and I'm all mixed up."
I heard the chair squeak and envisioned Mom leaning over to lay her
hand on Jean's thigh. "Baby, we've talked a little about this before,
but I guess it's time to share in more detail. Remember what I told
you, girl? Those are natural feelings. They're right and they're good.
There's nothing dirty or wrong about sexual feelings. It's your
humanness shining through. Most of the discomfort and emotional pain
people experience about sexual things arise in their own heads. Keep it
in the forefront of your mind, baby. Sex is not a moral issue."
"Mom, I get that. Or at least I think I do. I accept myself and
I'm happy to be a woman and I'm really happy that I have you for a mom.
It's just that . . . well . . . it's not an intellectual thing. Cripes,
it's not even an emotional thing!"
"What thing is it, baby?"
"It's a physical thing! You know. Horny!"
As if slapping her forehead, mom said, "Oh! I'm beginning to get
it. You're *horny*. I mean, *physically* horny, and it's bothering you,
right?"
Where was Mom when I was suffering from an ingrown hard-on? How
come we never had this kinda talk? Probably because I never told the
truth, I thought as I sank deeper into the hot tub. I *should* announce
myself. This was sneaky. Yet, it was probably too late to speak up
now, I reasoned, so I just sat there quietly and listened. My mind can
rationalize almost anything.
"*Bothering* me is an understatement. I'm a nervous wreck and
don't know what to do about it."
"Does masturbation help?" asked Mom reasonably.
"Sometimes." Then Jean laughed and added, "And then sometimes it
seems to just feed the fires!"
Mom gave a wry laugh and said, "I know what that's like."
"You too?" Jean asked with a note of incredulity in her voice.
"Well, it's not so bad now . . . but I remember . . ."
Jean interrupted, "So, what'd you DO? What do I do?"
"Baby, I've tried not to tell you now to live your life. I've
tried to give you principles by which to live. That's still true. Just
WHAT you do is up to you, but there *are* guiding principles."
"Such as?"
"Remember I told you that among adults, sexual activity is not a
moral issue, that whatever they do is OK if they follow a few rules.
Remember the rules?"
"Uh . . . that we talk about it and not hurt each other?"
"Yes, that's part of it. There must be mutual consent. For that
to happen, you've *got* to talk about it. When I was young, it seems
that the rule was something like it's OK to do it, just don't talk about
it. Kinda the braille approach to negotiation."
Interrupting again, Jean asked, "Are we talking about *doing it*?"
Mom laughed again, that throaty, sexy laugh, and said, "Well,
that's only *part* of it. We're talking about sexual activity, whatever
it is. Doing it - intercourse if you will - is just one of the sexual
activities to which I'm referring. Actually, I'm talking in a broader
sense. Whatever it is we do with each other sexually, we need to talk
about it, to negotiate. We need to make sure it's OK and that we're on
the same page. Probably one of the biggest mistakes we make in human
relationships is to assume we know what the other person is thinking,
and then worse, to *act* as if our assumptions were correct."
"OK, I'm with you so far. What else?"
"Of course, we need not to hurt each other, or allow ourselves to
be hurt."
"Hurt? Like in getting a disease? Or hurt as in physical hurt?"
Jean giggled. "Like spanking?"
"Both. We'll return to things like spanking in a minute, but it's
clear, I hope, that you've got to be very, very careful. Sexually
transmitted diseases *are* a big deal. You've got to be willing to talk
to your potential sexual partner about their sexual history as well as
your own. You have a right to ask for proof of a recent AIDS test and,
when you're sexually active, you've got to be willing to show your own
proof."
Then, signaled by her low laugh, I detected that Mom was switching
mental gears.
"But what I was thinking about at the moment was sexual *play*."
"Play?"
I knew what *I* thought of when sexual play came to mind, but I
couldn't imagine what my conservative mother was alluding to.
I heard Mom take a deep breath and then let it out slowly, as if
preparing to launch into a difficult topic.
"Baby, I always knew we'd have this conversation, but I hadn't
planned on it this soon. I kept putting it off, I suppose waiting for
the right moment. I guess this is it."
"What, mom?"
"I've always told you that we're only as sick as our secrets, that
honesty will set us free. Still, there are parts about being an adult,
and more, being a parent, that seem to require some measure of
restraint. I always thought I'd tell you some things when you had a
need to know."
"Mom! You're beating around the bush. That's not like you. Like
you always say to me, 'Spit it out.' You were talking about sexual
play. What do you mean?"
"Yes, play - as in erotic power exchange. You know, your dad and I
tease each other about this when we think you two aren't around, but I
know you've overheard us, haven't you?
"Uh . . . I guess . . . maybe a couple of times."
"A couple of times per week would be more like it," Mom suggested,
laughing. Then, a little more seriously, she went on, "Your dad is a
very strong man, even a dominant man. I consider myself a strong woman
- and I am - but when your dad and I play, he's the dominant partner,
the Top if you will."
"And?"
"I meant to have this talk with you someday. Now appears like a
good time. When we play - and we play a lot, your Dad and I - I enjoy
being the little girl. I like to be told what to do. Perhaps it gives
me permission to do the naughty, the forbidden, things I'd really like
to do anyway. Then, I like to be tied up at times. I love the feeling
of helplessness. And - this is a little embarrassing - I like to be
spanked!"
"Really? Bare bottom? How embarrassing. Does it hurt?"
"No, baby, that's the point. It's pleasure. I love it. It's a
huge turn-on. The whole thing works only if there is trust and love and
understanding, and most important, communication. Without that, we're
left to our own imagination, and for me, that's a dangerous place to
hang out.
"Oh, if he struck me in anger, it would hurt. I'd really hurt.
But it's done with love and I love it . . . I love the intense
sensations. I once heard a woman describe herself as a sensation slut
and that gave me a shiver, because . . . well, because I could relate."
"Wow. That's . . . uh, far out. I mean, that's really neat, Mom!
I had no idea. Tell me more."
"Baby, I'll tell you as much as you want to hear, but first I want
to get on with the principles of good sexual behavior, OK?"
Rats! I thought my parents were so conservative that they'd never
done anything and now I was hearing of an exciting side of their
personalities of which I knew almost nothing. I wanted to hear more.
"OK. No hurting then. Of course, that seems only right. What's
so difficult about that?"
"Usually not much, but sometimes we really have to look within
ourselves and question our motives . . . to be careful we're not hurting
someone when we think our motives are good. I don't know about you, but
my ego often wears blinders."
"Yeah, I can see how my ego gets in the way sometimes too. What
else?"
"Well, the next thing is a bit more abstract, but we've got to be
careful not to be exploitive."
"Mom, I know what "exploitive" means, but how's it apply in this
case?"
"Let me give you an example. Let's say you've agreed to have sex
with someone - and *having sex* doesn't necessarily mean having
intercourse. I regard all sexual activity as "having sex." OK? A sexy
conversation can be viewed as having sex. Mutual masturbation can be
viewed as having sex."
"OK, I get it . . . it's a definitional thing."
"Yes, and for purposes of our conversation, that's how we'll define
it. Anyway, let's say you've talked this over with someone, you both
want it and you agree you -'re not going to hurt each other. Now here's
the rub. You're 18 and he's . . . let's say he's 12."
"Mother!"
"Get off your high horse, miss. It's happened. Lot's of times.
But that doesn't make it right. He's too young. He might think he
knows what he wants, but he can't really know. If you had consensual
sex with him, that'd be exploitive."
Jean laughed and said, "Alright. So I can't get it on with
Johnny."
Johnny was the boy next door. At 15 he was a year younger than I.
I held my breath.
"Johnny's a cute kid and he *looks* older than he is. Heck, he
looks older than Billy, but I know he's not as mature. I'd put Johnny
on the borderline . . . as least as far as age was concerned. But I'd
not pick someone like him for different reasons. I think of him as a
kiss-and-tell kind of guy. You've got a reputation to take care of,
girl."
"OK. Johnny's out." Jean then laughed and added, "He doesn't blow
my skirt up anyway."
By this time, I was almost frozen in my fascination. I couldn't
believe how open and candid my mom and Jean were being with each other.
I wished I could be that way with my dad, but I thought of him as too
stern, too busy, too unavailable. I wondered if Mom would ever let me
chat with her? Cripes, every time I thought I was so sophisticated, so
cool and knowledgeable, I discovered how little I knew. There was
probably a lesson in there somewhere, but I was too caught up in the
excitement of my eavesdropping.
Mom continued, "Let's not get too abstract here. We're talking
about *your* problem. What I'm trying to tell you is this. Being
sexual is OK. More than OK, it's good. You've just got to be careful in
life. You've got to take care of yourself as well as be respectful of
those you care for. This make sense?"
"Hmmm . . . I guess, in the abstract. I mean, I'm so darn horny
and masturbating does help, but not for long. I feeling a deep need for
. . . well, I not really sure for what, but I think I'm ready to start
letting down my defenses around the boys."
"Baby, it's been my experience that beyond some emotional point, my
well-considered intentions go out the window. My, uh . . . my pussy
thinks for me. So you might think you're *starting* to lower your
defenses and suddenly you'll find it's a done-deed, a fiat accompli.
Now, I'm not saying that there's anything really wrong about that, save
for a couple of big considerations. Like sexually transmitted diseases
- which can affect anyone - and the really big one, pregnancy."
"God, Mom . . . I wasn't thinking . . ."
"That's just it, baby. You weren't thinking and when *it* happens,
it won't happen because you've given it a lot of thought. Believe me,
it happens! And our awareness is largely after the fact. Our denial is
nothing more than a head-in-the-sand stance, a refusal to see life as it
really is."
"You sound like you've been there."
Jean said this with a provocative tone of voice, as if daring Mom
to tell the truth. And then I wondered, "Had *my* mother really
experienced anything like this, or was she preaching from some how-to
book?"
Mom paused, then replied, "I have. It's no big secret and I'll
share it with you, but not right now. It's tough enough staying on the
topic. And the topic is: Sex and Birth Control! It may not be clear to
you, but it is to me. It's time for you to see a gynecologist - you can
see mine if you want - and get on the pill."
"Gee, that sounds like I'm admitting I'm planning on, you know . .
."
"No, it's admitting that you're a sexual being, a human being and
it's just good sense. Jean, you're just like me and sooner or later
it's gonna happen."
And then, as if to honor the statical unlikeliness of such a
possibility, Mom added, "Even if it turns out you don't need it."
"Mom, are you giving me permission to get sexual?"
"You're almost an adult, Jean. You don't need my permission. I
know that you're going to do what ever you need to do, permission or
not, and that's especially true for sex.. I just want you to be a
responsible woman."
"You have this conversation with Billy, Mom?"
My ears shot up. How did *I* get into this topic?
Mom laughed again, seemingly not shocked. "No, I haven't, and I
can tell from his sheets that it's time. I had hoped that his dad
would, but I don't think that's going to happen. I know you and he are
very close. You two ever talk about sex?"
I held my breath.
Jean exhaled loudly. "Yeah. Quite a bit, Mom. I trust Billy and
I think he trusts me. He's my closest friend."
I didn't think Mom knew just how close.
"I understand that. My brother Jim was my closest friend. Still
is for that matter, except for your dad. We shared all our secrets with
each other. I'd expect no less from you two."
"Mom, did you . . . well . . . did you ever have any *special*
feelings about your brother? I mean, any sexy thoughts?"
"Of course, baby. Anyone who would tell you that he's not had
thoughts about family members is in denial or lying. It's natural."
And then, as an afterthought, Mom added, "Jean, I'm baring my soul
to you and I'm feeling a little uncertain myself. I don't want to drift
into revealing the confidences of others. But I'll tell you about *me*.
Yes, I've had lots of sexy thoughts."
"I sometimes . . ." and she trailed off.
"Sometimes have thoughts about Billy?" asked Mom.
"Whew!" An explosive gust of air and then a long pause.
"Uh . . . yeah . . . and even feelings, I mean sexy feelings." And
then Jean rushed on, "He's a neat guy. He good looking and well built.
He's kind and thoughtful and he knows my moods better than anyone . . .
and when he gives me a hug . . ."
"Get's your juices flowing, eh?"
"Mom!"
"Jean, Jean . . . remember, I've been there, done that. It's
natural, baby."
"You and Jim?"
"Sure. He still turns me on. Don't tell your dad, though, OK? I
mean don't tell *anybody*!"
"I won't tell if you won't tell."
Then after a another short pause, Jean added, "But there *is*
something I'd like to tell you, Mom. Actually something I *have* to
talk about and you're the only person I can talk to."
I could hear the wind blowing in the oak trees. Where was Jean
going with this, I wondered?
"I have a confession to make. I just gotta share this you or I'll
bust. I feel so darn guilty, I can't stand it."
Mom's voice got softer. "What ever it is, Baby, it's OK. I'll not
judge you. My job is just to love you. There is nothing, absolutely
nothing under the sun you can tell me that will change that."
Without pause, Jean blurted, "Billy and I have had sex, Mom! I
don't mean that we've *done* it . . . you know, had intercourse or
anything like that, but we have touched each other."
Oh-shit-oh-dear! At this point I felt a leaden weight in my
stomach. Busted! Grounded! Probably forever, if I wasn't run out of
town on a rail first. Jig's up. I waited for my Mom to scream.
Instead, Mom said, "I'm not surprised. In fact, I'd have been
surprised if you hadn't. You know, I live here too. I'm aware. I've
seen you two. I've seen how you act around each other. I even told you
that you remind me of myself . . . especially when I found your panties
in his bed."
Jesus! I thought I had hidden those. I immediately wondered, how
might I lie my way out of this one? When I'm confronted, blind-sided
like this, the *last* thing I think about is telling the truth. My
first instinctual response, after suppressing a survival desire to run,
is to make up a story, one that'll get me off the hook. Then later, I
have to spend so much energy backing out of the corner into which I've
firmly implanted myself.
"How do I remind you . . . you and Jim . . . your brother? You
mean . . you've had similar . . .?"
"Sure. Shocked?"
"Kinda . . . but not really. Actually, I'm pleased. Even
thrilled. I don't know . . . kind of makes *me* OK."
"You *are* . . . you are OK. And I love you, Jean."
Jean started to cry and I could hear Mom making comforting sounds.
The next little bit was lost to my ears. I envisioned Jean crying into
Mom's shoulder . . . Mom patting her.
Then Jean blubbered, "Oh, my . . . I don't know why I'm doing this,
but I'm so relieved and so happy. I feel so loved."
"Want to tell me what you've done, Baby?"
"You won't get mad?"
"No, this isn't about getting mad and you're not being grilled.
What we all need are safe places. Places where we can share our
secrets. Believe me, the more you share with me, the better you'll
feel. Just keep in mind, I love you and I'm not judging you. I don't
so much need to hear this as you need to share it."
I was feeling like a shriveled-up prune by now, wanting to run and
hide, disappear from the face of the Earth. Glancing down I noticed my
dick had disappeared!
Jean rushed on, "Well, it started off as an accident. At least, I
think it was an accident. Anyway, we were doing the laundry and Billy
got hard - he was looking down my shirt - and then he rubbed off on the
table looking at me, and then later we talked and he showed me his . . .
and I couldn't help it . . . I showed him mine, and . . ."
"Whoa. Slow down a little. Take your time. Breath."
Jean was on a confessional express and couldn't be slowed.
"Mom, I'm so excited, I want to get it all out at once. Anyway,
Billy was always listening to me pee in the downstairs bathroom - I knew
that. I didn't understand it, and I knew it was naughty, but I guess it
thrilled me. He said it turned him on. Sounds dumb but I guess that
made it exciting for me. Anyway, when we went to Fourth of July Lake
last year, I let him watch me pee one day. God! Is that kinky or what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Sounds like a chip off the old block."
"Dad?"
"Yes, but we're not talking about your Dad. We're talking about
you. Again, I'll tell you things about me, but your Dad's stuff is his
stuff. I feel free to talk about myself, but not your Dad and not my
brother. Understand? Now, anything else?"
"Yes. It get's a lot more intense. Like, I love flashing Billy,
you know? I flashed him wearing next-to-nothing at Victoria's Secret.
Wow, Mom. I felt all squishy inside. I know it gets him hot and that
gives me a sense of power. Makes me hot too. Weird, huh?"
"No. Not at all weird. That's what exhibitionism is for some
folks, Jean. Just another sexual game. More and more it seems, you're
just like me!"
"Well - this is getting more intense, Mom - one day I took his
thing in my mouth! I don't know how it happened. It just did."
Mom didn't gasp. She laughed. "You mean you sucked his *cock*,
don't you?
I gasped. Jean gasped.
"Yes . . . I guess that's what I really mean. It's just that I'm
not used to saying . . . things like that . . . and when I hear *you*
say it . . ."
"So, tell me, what's Billy's part in this? He the victim or the
perp?"
"Hah! Billy the victim? Hardly. He may act soft sometimes, but
he's tough as nails. I don't want you to think that he took advantage
of me. He didn't. I wanted it. All the time, I wanted it just as much
as him. Even more I bet!"
"So did that stud-son of mine touch you, get you off?"
"Oh yes! Several times. We even had phone sex once. What a hoot!
And a couple of weeks ago I asked him to trim my . . . my pussy . . . my
pussy fur. There! I said it. PUSSY!"
"Did he?"
"Trim my pussy?" Laughing. "No, we never got to it. Once he got
down between my legs . . . well, one thing led to another and he . . .
he sniffed around and . . ."
"He went down on you, right?"
"How'd you know?"
"He's his father's son."
"And that's pretty much it, Mom. I've *wanted* to do it with him.
All the time. But we haven't. I'm afraid to. I want to and I'm afraid
to. But I love getting sexual with him. God, he thrills me! I wish
there were some way we could just play with each other, satisfy each
other, and not really, well, you know . . . not really do it."
By this time I didn't know whether to strut or flush myself down
the drain. I just shut my eyes and scrunched down further.
"Baby, I'm glad for you - glad for your emerging sexuality and
mostly, for your willingness to tell the truth. Incest is *really* a
loaded topic. We can talk about the philosophical issues, and mostly,
that's what they are, philosophical issues. We can talk about the
practicality of your situation . . . or the lack of it.
"I'm not going to tell you that you're right or that you're wrong.
It's not about that. It's about feelings. And, as I've often told you,
feelings aren't right or wrong either. They just are. The only
intrinsic evil I see in life is an incapacity to love. Still, I want
you to promise me something . . . that you'll go slow, really slow with
this."
Jean cried some more. I got all choked up.
"Oh, God, Mom. I feel so much better. I still don't know what to
*do*, but I feel better, so much better. Thanks"
"Good. Now the next thing we've got to do is drag Billy out of the
closet. If he's anything like you, he's dying his own deaths."
Little did they know. Death sounded like a viable option at that
moment.
"What can we do? I mean I can talk with him. I *will* talk with
him. He's got to know that I told you our secret. But then what? Will
*you* talk with him, Mom? He has the same fears and the same concerns I
have. I know. We talk about it. And I know you'd be *so* much better
than Dad."
"I suppose I *could* - might even be fun - and Jim might be better.
Except he's away on a trip and won't be back for too long. Let me think
about this, OK?"
I could hear them pushing back the deck chairs as they stood up,
ready to leave. Suddenly, unplanned and completely unbidden, I called
out, "I'm in the hot tub. I've been here all along. I heard the whole
thing. I'm sorry."
Christ! What did I *do*?
Two heads looked around the corner at me scrunched down in the tub,
almost out of sight.
I ran on, "I'm sorry for eavesdropping. I didn't mean to be a
snoop. When I came back, you weren't here and I just jumped into the tub
. . . then you came out and began talking about sexy things. I lost my
head. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to listen to your private
conversation."
Jean and my mom looked at each other. Jean was red. No more than
me.
My mother broke the tension. She looked at Jean and said, "Well, I
guess this resolves *who* is going to talk with Billy."
Then looking at me, one hand on her hip, she smiled and asked,
"Well, stud . . . ready to spill the beans?"
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 and said, "Well, this caught us both
by surprise, didn't it?"
I made a millisecond eye contact and numbly nodded.
"Billy, we have to talk and there'll never be a better moment than
this. Don't you agree?"
Again, the acquiescing nod, still not meeting her eyes.
"Tell you what . . . you get dressed - get warm - and we'll also
sit on the back deck. It'll be private."
And then she added with a chuckle, "Unless someone's sitting in the
hot tub."
After donning sweats, I walked the final mile to the guillotine and
waited for Mom. How could things have gone so wrong, so fast, I
wondered as I sat there, remembering that a short while ago everything
had been normal? Or had it? I suppose not. My addict's mind wanted to
think that nothing was wrong, but the more-normal kid who lived in my
head suggested otherwise.
"For Christ's sake, Billy. You've been trying to get into Jean's
pants for months - your sister for cripes sake! And you think that's
normal? And then Jean tells Mom and *she's* gonna think it's normal?
Yeah, right."
My impending suicide was thwarted by Mom sitting next to me and
laying her hand on my arm, saying. "Try to calm down, Billy. It's going
to be alright. Believe me."
Do they tell you to be calm before your exiled? Gonna be alright
under the goddamn bridge?
I tried to talk and croaked instead. "Uh . . . I don't know what
to say . . . I didn't . . ."
"Didn't plan this?"
"Plan it? I couldn't have imagined it!" Then I looked at her and
added, "I don't know what to say."
"Try starting with the truth, why don't you?"
"The truth? You KNOW the truth. Jean told you the truth. It's
true, what she said. Except that she took too much responsibility for
what we did. I was the one that was pushing it all the time."
"Billy, Billy . . . I'm not sorting out who did what. And I'm
*not* attempting to apportion blame. It's not a blame thing . . . at
least as far as I understand it. But I need to know more. That's why
we're talking."
I glanced at her. She gave me a soft smile and squeezed my
forearm. I still didn't know what to say so I did what I did best. I
just sat there like a lump.
"Son, I always knew I'd have these personal talks, these talks
about sexuality with Jean and I suppose I assumed that your dad would do
the same with you. I know now that that's probably an erroneous
assumption. Your dad is very smart and he's well educated and quite
articulate, but as you know, there's an unapproachable emotional side
that shields him from things like this. I'm afraid he'll never get it
together to chat with you. So, like it or not, you get me."
"Mom, you know I can't talk to dad about things like this. Cripes,
I don't know how I can talk to *you* about it."
"We'll do OK, Billy. Let's start with general things. I gather
you don't disagree with Jean's story, at least not in most ways."
I mumbled, "No, I agree . . . at least mostly."
"Do you have anything to add? Anything that might help me see
things better?"
I was about ready to admit I didn't have a thing more to say, that
there was nothing I could add to the story. Instead I began talking.
"Mom, I can't tell you how much I care for Jean. I'd do anything for
her and I never wanted to hurt her. Oh, there's a part of me that
thinks of sex all the time - and Jean's a sexy girl, I can't deny that -
but below that, I care for her too much to ever allow myself to hurt
her."
"I know that, Billy. I never doubted that."
"You see, we just became really close, really good friends. I
needed someone to talk to about . . . about my own feelings. I knew
Jean would never make fun of me and that when the chips were down, she'd
support me. As I would her."
I know that, too."
"We talked about it and talked about it. We didn't fit any mold of
how a brother and sister aughta be, at least about sex, but it just
happened that way. We thought that if we always told each other the
truth and if we always cared for each other, we'd be alright."
"Go on, Billy."
"Gee, Mom . . . the rest is about . . . you know . . . sex."
Smiling, she said, "Yes, I'm getting that."
"But, I feel funny. Talking about sex with you, I mean."
"Billy, you heard me tell Jean that sex is not a dirty subject.
Private, certainly. And at times, very intimate. It's true that we
don't talk about it with just anyone, but not because it's wrong, or bad
or dirty. It's private. Well, this conversation is private. What you
say here will stay here. No one else will hear what you tell me unless
you tell them. I know kids think that *they* invented sex, that their
parents got off the sexual boat yesterday . . . and mostly that's not
the case. At least not with me. I'm a sexual woman. I was a sexual
girl and not much has changed. They still do it the same way last I
heard."
I could feel my face burning. I didn't look at her and mumbled,
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Guess so, SHIT!"
My head shot up and I turned to look into her flashing eyes.
"Don't patronize me, Billy . . . don't be so damn superior. I
don't know everything, but I'll bet a nickel I've seen more, imagined
more and done a darn sight more that you've ever thought of. I'm an
intensely erotic woman and proud of it! You could do a damn sight worse
than talking with me, dude."
My mouth fell open. I stared at her, astonished, open eyed. I
stuttered.
"So let's start over, shall we? I'll respect you. I expect no
less from you. OK?"
Finding me tongue, I stumbled over my words. "I'm sorry Mom. I
didn't mean that . . . I never thought . . . Cripes, I don't know what
I'm trying to say. But I AM sorry for my attitude. Forgive me,
please?"
"Forgiven. Now let's get down to plain talk. Don't beat around
the bush. Whatever words you'd use with your buddies, with Jean, you
can use with me. Don't give me any of that penis-vagina crap. Say it
like it is, OK?"
Wow. Where did this woman come from anyway? I've never seen her
like this.
How do I talk with her? I mean, how can I turn around a life-time of
behavior?
"Well . . . OK, I'll try . . . no . . . I'll DO it. What were we
talking about anyway. I forgot."
"I think you were trying to tell me that you wanted to screw your
sister."
Gulp. "I hadn't thought to say it in just those words . . . but
yes, I guess that's about it. But I didn't! We never did it. Honest!"
Softer, "Yes, I believe you, Billy. You don't have to convince me.
What I'm more interested in is how you support each other, about how
caring you are for each other. I'm far less concerned about
conventional morality than I am about our capacity to love and care for
each other. No mater what you two have done, if you've done it with
honesty and love, things will be 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
woodie around Jean? Or when you have a wet dream?"
"It's still difficult to forget you're my mother. I keep forming
phrases in my mind that I hope won't be too offensive. I'll try to be
real, Mom. How do I feel about a woodie? When it's Jean? At first I
was embarrassed. Then I came to accept it. More, to enjoy it. I began
to look forward to the sexy feelings I'd get around Jean. I was always
trying to look up her dress or catch a glimpse of her breasts . . . er,
tits."
"Sounds pretty normal to me."
"Anyway, whatever it is, I was stuck with it. Jean told you. We
sorta drifted into being more open and even a little sexual with each
other. I felt wonderful. For the first time in my life I could be
honest with another person about my sexual feelings. I loved it."
"And you wanted to jump her bones?"
Yeah. Something like that. I admitted to her right away that I
wanted to . . . you know."
"Fuck her?"
"I think that's the expression I used, yes."
"And she didn't want to?"
"No. She wanted to. And I wanted to. But both of us were scared.
She more than me. I told her that I supported her all the way, but that
I was so terminally horny, that if she ever gave in, I'd give in. It
was kinda a threat, huh?"
"Or a promise."
"Hmmm, hadn't thought of it that way. Whatever. We've played
bathroom games. I love watching her. I know she told you. We've had
oral sex - once for her and once for me. And, oh yes, we dry humped
once in the grass on the hill above the house. We both seem to enjoy
the thrill of seduction, of almost doing it. That make sense?"
"Billy, you don't have to tell me every little detail, although I
must admit that I enjoy hearing about it. Brings back memories. Really
what I wanted to do is gauge how open and honest you kids were with each
other. To get an idea if you might hurt yourselves or each other."
"And what do you think, Mom? We a danger?"
Laughing, "Probably are, but I must say, you're both
psychologically more healthy than most adults I know. Certainly better
adjusted that I was at your age. I'm impressed with you. Still, I'm
concerned for both of you. This is dangerous stuff. You know that,
don't you?"
"Intellectually I do, but emotionally somehow I think I'm OK. I'm
not trying to argue with you. Just trying to tell you how I feel."
"Yeah, I can see that. So what I'm going to do for the moment is
nothing. I still think there's the potential for harm here, but I'm not
going to fall back on some shame-based sanctions. I love you two guys
and I trust you. Trust that you'll try to act honorably. But please
understand, I'm not telling you that everything's 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 judgement would suggest that you
stay underground around him, at least about the sexual stuff between you
and Jean. OK?"
I sat there, more dazed than not. I couldn't believe how we'd gone
from some place of utter fear to rational communication. About sex.
With my Mom!
"Mom, right now I'm so confused. It's clear, I need help. I'll do
whatever you tell me to do. I'll do it your way."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, guy. How about a compromise?
Let's do it *our* way. And for that to happen, we've got to keep
avenues of communication open. You've got to be able to talk to me and
I've got to be able to talk to you, each of us without apprehension.
This can't be the last talk we have on the subject. Do you agree with
that?"
"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 needed have worried. A moderately rusted and beat-up old
pickup that belonged to Pirate's Pub was there to meet us.
Surprisingly, all our gear made it through the multiple plane
changes. As surprisingly, Jean traveled almost as light as I did, in
marked contrast to our aunt or our mother. "Casual clothes, that's all
I packed," Jean assured me. Even without tanks and weight belts, the
rest of the gear was heavy, bulky and clumsy. That was the price, we'd
been taught, for the safety of taking your own gear on a dive trip. I
was pleased when several guys standing around swarmed over our gear and
loaded it into the truck and it appeared they were pleased with the tip.
Pirate's Pub was run by a delightful, robust, full-of-life lady
from Texas named Gladys Howorth. She'd studied in several
internationally known culinary institutes and her meals at Pirate's Pub
were justifiably famous. Still, for all of that, I'd not have traveled
so far just for the atmosphere and her cooking alone. It was the Wall I
was after. I've heard that there are three premiere dive spots in the
world, at least for wall diving. There's the Red Sea for one, then
parts of the Great Barrier Reef were highly ranked and finally, in our
hemisphere, there's the Wall off Little Cayman.
I read that the Wall dropped off into the depths, falling 6,000
feet straight down. That was academic, of course, but what made it so
fantastic was the impossible-blue 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 hiccoughed and
then laughed. "And yes, we *do* have a deal. That hasn't changed.
Tell you what, I'm a little bit scared and my period's about to start.
I always get a little 'touchy' for a day or two this time of the month.
God, I *hate* to think I'm a PMS-er! Can you put up with me?"
I almost asked her what my choices were, but held off, thinking she
didn't need any of my sophomoric humor. Instead, I continued to hold
her close and said, "Jean, there's not a serious problem on the horizon.
Think about it. We're alive and well, we're together, and this is the
first day of a to-die-for vacation. I love you . . . you know that, but
I want to say it anyway. There's no agenda. We can dive or not dive.
Sleep or not sleep. Wanna be with me? Cool. Wanna be alone a little,
that's cool too."
"Oh, Billy! I don't what to be alone! What ever I say . . .
however I act, I came here to be with you. Don't leave me, promise?
I'm sorry I've been a shrew, but I'm feeling better already. Maybe I
just had to let the bitchiness out, huh?"
Nodding, I said, "All I really know is how I feel and that works
for me, babe. The letting it out, I mean. If I carry it around,
stuffed, not letting go of it . . . well, it just festers. I can maybe
hide it for a little while, but it'll erupt if I don't own it. Know
what I mean?"
She nuzzled my neck before letting me go and then spinning around,
she said something like, "Whew . . . I feel so much better. Thanks,
Billy."
I sat on her bed and picked up a pair of her lacy panties. Holding
them up to the light - I could almost see through them - I commented,
"This is how all this started, what, a couple of years ago?"
Jean gave me a particularly wicked smile and said, "They're the
*clean* ones. I'm *wearing* the ones *you* want, you perv."
I was pleased to have the old Jean back and told her so on the way
to the main house to register and see if we could get a late snack.
Gladys keeps an open bar for her guests and while we didn't drink much
on a dive vacation, we stopped by to see who was there.
"Why, it's the two porpoises," sang out a woman's voice from back
of the bar. "Welcome back," yelled Margi, loud enough for everyone to
hear. As often follows a loud noise, it suddenly became quiet and I was
aware of the curious stares of several people.
Margi typically didn't wait for a reply. She ran on, "Everyone,
I'd like you to meet Billy and Jean, two of the nicest people, first
rate divers and if anyone needs help and I'm not around, ask either of
them."
Margi rounded the bar and ran into my arms for a bear hug. As
usual, she was wearing a pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt sans bra. I
wondered if she even owned a bra?
I asked her, "Do we get paid for that?"
"What's your price?" she whispered in my ear.
"You and me to go diving alone some time this week." I returned in
a similar whisper.
"Did he ask you to go diving alone with him?" Jean sang out in a
voice not heard by more than half the room. "He was hoping you'd be
here, Margi."
Margi smiled at me and with a broad wink said, "That right, big
boy?"
Before I knew it, Margi took Jean aside and they immediately fell
into a heads-together conversation. Their body language suggested I
talk with someone else so I introduced myself to a bearded bear of a man
who was sipping a drink and chatting with a sun-bleached, tan woman I
guessed in her thirties.
"Hi. I'm Ian and this's Jan." Turning to her, he added, "Sorry
Jan, I don't know your last name."
She extended her hand to me and gave me a dazzling smile. "Jan'll
do. Margi told us today that you and Jean were expected. She thinks
highly of both of you and your wife."
I laughed. "Jean's my sister."
Ian added, "Yes, there's a strong resemblance in your eyes and
mouth. You've much the same facial bone structure."
"That may be, but I don't see it. All I see are the differences."
We looked over at Jean and Margi. Jean was sitting back in her
chair and her skimpy T-shirt hugged her breasts and prominent nipples.
"Yes, there *are* some differences," observed Ian as he looked at
Jan and me with something approaching a leer.
"Ian doesn't miss much it would appear," said Jan with a wry smile.
Neither do I, I thought as I ran my eyes over her shirt front.
"And neither do you," Jan added.
I held my hand palms up and looked up to heaven for support.
"Busted," I said.
We chatted for a few minutes until Jean returned and said, "Billy,
we're all checked in and I've got us some snacks. I'm really beat.
Think I'll go back to our room and nibble before crashing. You?"
I'm tired too. I'll go with you." Turning back to Jan and Ian, I
said goodnight and, "See you in the morning."
Walking back through the palm trees I could hear the electric
generator chugging away in the distance. I'd forgotten how isolated
this place was. I wrapped my arm around Jean's shoulder and asked,
"What were you and Margi talking about with such intensity?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Her smile underscored her teasing,
yet there was again a faint edge to her voice. I fell silent, oddly put
off a little.
Just before entering our room, Jean stopped and asked, "Well,
wouldn't you?"
"Like to know?"
"Yes, I thought you be dying to know what Margi said."
"Yeah, I suppose I am, but to tell the truth, I'm feeling a little
disconnected. You're my best friend and I'm picking up strange energy
from you. I'm so used to being on the same wavelength, I don't know how
to behave when we're not." I paused and then went on, "Shit! I don't
know. Maybe it's me. Do you think it's me? 'My being a jerk?"
I'd learned that no matter what the other guy said or did, anytime
I was upset, it was axiomatic that something was wrong with me, that I
had a part in it somewhere. Usually it meant I wasn't accepting life on
life's terms. Things weren't going my way and I was being petulant.
"You're right, Billy. Things *are* off kilter a little. I feel it
too. You know what I think it is?"
"No, I don't guess I do," I answered, a bit more interested, for
Jean's ideas were often right on.
"Think about it. Here we are, together . . . actually, sleeping in
the same room . . . with all this history behind us . . . that moth and
the flame history. We've been flirting with each other forever it seems.
Mom knows. And we know that she knows. I'm on the pill. Cripes,
Billy! I'm scared witless. I think you are too and that's what's wrong
with us. That's the tension we're feeling, don't you think?"
"It's certainly true that despite my resolve not to have
expectations, they creep into my mind. You know, I've told you about
the sex addict guy that lives in my head? Well, he's up there having a
field day while the good guy, the rational guy is frightened. Wanna
call a time out?"
"Good idea! Mom always told us we could start our day over anytime
we liked. Let's start our vacation over, okay?"
"Deal! And Doctor Billy prescribes a good night's rest, starting
right now."
She gave me a high five and we walked into our room. Without
lights, we turned down the beds and I went into the john to take a leak.
When I came out, I could see Jean's shadow in bed. I wanted to hug her
goodnight, but was still feeling a little tender and, afraid of
rejection, I slipped into my own bed. "'Night, Jean."
"I can't believe you're not curious about what Margi said about
you." Jean provoked me, assuring my night's sleep.
"About me? Did you guys talk about me?"
"Well, I didn't get to say much. Mostly Margi talked. I did tell
her that we didn't have secrets from each other and suggested that she
not tell me things she didn't want you to hear, but she said, 'Oh, what
the hell,' or something like that."
"Jean! You're gonna drive me batty at this rate."
"Well, she's definitely interested in you."
"Yeah, right. Last year I couldn't get her attention. She was
always hanging around with that other guy."
"You mean he was hanging around her! Oh, she was aware of you
alright, but because you're younger and a guest, she was afraid to let
you know."
"Let me know what, for cryin' out loud?"
"That she was . . . uh, interested in you."
"I admit it. I'm dumb. What does 'interested' mean?"
"Maybe this'll help, my stud-muffin brother. She asked me if you
were a virgin."
Oh Jesus! You didn't tell her, did you?"
"You bet I did. Girls are worse than guys when they think they're
getting someone, some guy, for the first time."
"And you think she's gonna get me?"
"Only if you're willing, big boy . . . only if you're willing."
"And, making believe all of this is true - which I doubt - how do
*you* feel about this?"
"I'm jealous. I'm thrilled too, but I'm really jealous."
God, I'd *never* understand women!
"Jean, part of me is pleased. That you're jealous . . . I mean,
that you care that much. And another part is asking, about WHAT?"
"Don't ask me to explain this, Billy. I don't understand it
either. I guess I'm jealous that you're interested in her . . . that's
part of it. But more, I'm jealous that she can do things with you and I
can't."
"Do things? Like in . . ."
"Yes! Like in!"
Jean fluffed up her pillow and then slammed it down, turning away
from me. In the dim light, I could see the sheet had pulled up and
exposed her tan back side and the her white panties. Or were those
panties? No, that was Jean's pale ass I was staring at. She was naked
as a jay.
I'd worn my briefs to bed, more out of propriety. Or was it
embarrassment? I never wore underwear to bed and suddenly I was aware
of my hardness, bent in my shorts. I pulled them off slowly and dropped
them by the side of the bed.
I spoke at her back in a low voice, "I've been trying to get into
your pants for half my life it seems. You're the sexiest woman in the
world to me. I'd do anything for you and you're jealous of some woman
who's older than you even, who asked a few questions about me. Talk
about driving beyond your headlights!"
She flounced back, facing me. Darn, now I couldn't look at her
butt. "Oh no I'm not! Women *know* these things. She's hot for you.
She's already asked if we could get together tomorrow night." And then
she mimicked Margi's deeper voice, '. . . so we can get to know each
other better.' I know what she wants to get to know better!"
My dick, I hoped. I saw no inconsistencies in that. I knew I
loved Jean and was terminally hot for her, but my dick was interested in
every good lookin' girl on the horizon. That had nothing to do with
love or anything like that. This was all about my desire to penetrate
some girl's soft, wet and itchy pussy. Fuckin' in other words.
"That might be nice. Do you wanna?" I asked.
"Heck yes, I 'wanna'," she replied, now mimicking me. "I like
Margi too. She's fun and outrageous - braver than me and I know we'll
enjoy her. But I'm still a little jealous. Don't worry, it won't stop me
from having a good time."
Then, turning away again, she concluded, "Now go to sleep, won't
you? I'm completely worn out and I'll get cranky if I don't get a
night's rest."
The muted washing of waves on the beach drifted through the palms
and I could hear the soft night sounds as I lay back, hands behind my
head, looking at the ceiling fan slowly turning. Where was this going?
The only thing I knew with certainty was that it wasn't going the
way I had dreamed it up. But then, things rarely did. The upside of
that disappointment was grounded in the reality that when things didn't
turn out the way I wanted them, what I got was far better than what I
wanted.
Grasping my hard-on through the sheet, I fell asleep.
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 woman, I thought to myself, but
certainly different deals. The earlier deal with Jean had to do with
sexuality. This one with Margi had to do only with being friends . . .
or so I thought.
Back at Pirate's Pub as we were washing our gear, Margi proposed
getting together that night after dinner to listen to a few new CD's she
had recently purchased. "I know you've heard "Enigma" but I've only
caught a few cuts on the radio back home. I'd love to hear all of it
with you two guys."
I'd been thinking how Jean and I might spend a little time together
but when she replied to Margi with warm enthusiasm, I put that
expectation aside for the moment. And if I was entertaining any remote
hopes of getting to know Margi better - you know, as in making out -
it'd have to be another day. Oh well. <sigh>
Sure enough, right after an extraordinary meal from Gladys, Margi
came over to our table and said, "We still on?"
Jean glanced at me and then without waiting, said, "You bet! I'm
looking forward to it. Aren't you, Billy?"
"Sure am," I replied with all the confidence of a man who has no
idea just what he's looking forward to. If nothing else, I was willing
to let things unfold without my direction.
"Cool! I'll get some CD's from my room and come right over to
yours, OK?"
"See you there," Jean called to Margi's retreating back, then
turned to me and asked, "Ready?"
"Uh . . . I'm ready to go *back*. Is there somethin' else I should
be ready for?"
Jean gave me a funny smile and said, "What do you mean?"
"Nothin' I guess," I answered, getting up from the table, still
with the faint notion that there was something I was missing. But then,
that wasn't a new feeling. There were times when I thought that if an
instruction book had been passed out on 'How to do Life,' I'd missed it.
It'd cooled off a little after sunset but the oscillating fans
still created a downdraft of sweet, cooling air and I sprawled out under
one, arms out thrown.
"I'm going to take another shower," said Jean. "If Margi gets here
before I'm done, entertain her, okay?"
I could hear her humming some tune in the bathroom through the open
door. A moment later, her clothes came flying out the doorway, piece by
piece, landing in a disordered heap by her bed, panties last and on top
of the pile.
If I got up and peered around the corner, I'd likely catch her
nude, I thought and then smiled to myself. We'd grown increasingly
casual about dressing and undressing in front of each other, but I still
thought in terms of trying to peek at her. There seemed to be something
naughty and delicious about peeking. If I called her, she'd probably
walk out nude, but it just wouldn't be the same. Maybe I needed to get
away with something. I was pondering that when I heard Margi's voice
outside the screen.
"Hi, Billy. Can I come in?"
"Sure, come on in, but I'm not dressed for company." I suppose I
offered that as an excuse for wearing nothing more than the shorts I'd
left on.
"You naked?" she asked with a little excitement in her voice.
"Nope. Got shorts on."
"Darn," she said as she walked through the door. "Thought I'd get
even for you gawking at my boobs last year."
"Margi, if it'd be an acceptable exchange - my being naked for the
chance to look at your boobs - why I'll take 'em off right now!"
She laughed but didn't reply to that. Instead, she asked, "Where's
Jean?"
I cocked my head toward the bathroom door and almost on cue, the
shower started. "She's freshening up."
"I think it's really neat that you guys are so open and comfortable
with each other that you share a room this way. I wish I had a brother
like you."
Gesturing toward the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, I
said, "Jean's not exactly a neat freak as you can see."
"Wait'll you see my room," Margi replied, rolling her eyes.
I caught that she didn't say, 'If you could see my room.'
"Let me ask you something, Billy. I mean, it's kinda personal.
You mind?"
I shrugged. "Don't know. Guess you'll have to ask and find out.
If it is, I'll tell you, okay?"
"Well, it's like this. I'm a girl and I'm aware of what guys do,
especially around other girls. Good lookin' girls, I mean."
I nodded. So far, I understood the words by not the direction.
"Yeah?"
She wasn't making eye contact with me and I thought her cheeks were
a bit pink. Was she embarrassed about something?
"Uh . . . yeah. It's like they're always, uh . . . checkin' 'em
out, you know?"
I shook my head to indicate that I didn't know.
"YOU know," she protested, "Like they're always looking at their
figures and all."
"So? I do that all the time."
"But your sister?"
"Why not?" I asked. "Don't you think she's good lookin'? I sure
do."
"Well . . . sure . . . but . . . I mean, doesn't it sometimes
'bother' you that she's so good lookin' and you two are so close and
all?"
"Margi, you think I'm gay or somethin'?"
"God, NO!" she almost shouted and then blushing, added in a quieter
voice, "No, not you. That's not what I mean. I mean, you're all guy
and she's a . . . a really sexy girl and all. Don't that bother you?"
I was beginning to catch her drift. "I think I see where you're
going with this. You're wondering how I can travel with Jean and be so
physically close to her and not be . . . excited? As that it?"
Nodding, she answered, "Yeah, somethin' like that."
In an unusual and unbidden action, I walked over and picked up
Jean's panties from the pile of clothes and held them to my face a
moment before chucking them into her lap. "Things like this you mean?"
Margi gasped, literally gasped and stared at me with round yes.
Jean's voice sang out from the bathroom over the sound of the
shower, "Margi, he trying to embarrass you with my panties?" She
laughed. Margi was holding Jean's panties and looked confused.
Jean continued, "He did that with me a few years ago. Don't let
him get to you."
I jacked my thumb toward the bathroom and rolled my eyes, then I
said, "We tease each other a lot."
Holding up the panties, Margi asked, "Like this?"
"The first time he did it, he held them up to his nose and smelled
them!" Jean stood in the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around her body
and one on her head, her face shiny and beaded with water as she smiled
at us.
"Smelled them?" Margi asked, eyes wide with astonishment. Then
turning to me, she asked, "Did you really?"
By this time my face was burning. Jean and I were frank with each
other and save our little talk with Mom, we'd not come out of the closet
about our mutual attraction to each other. Where was Jean going with
this?
Attempting to put on a bold face, I said, "Yes. Really. I guess
it's the pheromones."
"Fero . . .?"
Jean chimed in, "The scent of a woman's sex that appeals to a man,
that turns him on. You know, Margi. You've smelled yourself, I'm
sure."
By this time, Margi was as red as I was and with Jean's accusation
that *she* had a sexy odor, she began to fidget, looking back and forth
between us and then at the panties she still held, perhaps wondering
how's she'd get out of this. She was probably used to guys hitting on
her, perhaps even girls, but she hadn't ever encountered a situation
quite like this, I was sure.
"No . . . well . . . sure, doesn't everyone . . . but who . . . I
mean yuck, who *wants* to smell *that*?"
"Billy does," Jean offered, sitting on the bed and drying her hair.
With her arms up, the tops of her breasts were pulled out of the towel a
tantalising bit. I watched, fascinated, wondering what the hell kept
the towel up anyway?
Margi looked at me as if to ask again, really?
"Sure he does. Most guys do, don't they Billy?"
Jean was dragging me into this loaded conversation, like it or not.
"I can't talk for 'most guys,' but it's true. There's something
powerfully attractive about the feminine odor. More than attractive,
it's exciting. Maybe I'm a perv. I don't give a shit. I love it." I
finished that declaration in a rush.
"I don't know . . . I mean, I was always so embarrassed . . ."
Margi started.
"Yeah, me too," Jean piped in, "but my stud muffin brother here
gave me a different view of it."
I was watching the towel slip by millimeters, hopefully waiting and
not certain whether to be proud or embarrassed by Jean's disclosure.
*That's* what we were talkin' about," Margi jumped in, "I never
knew anybody like you two . . . I mean . . . brother and sister . . .
and so close. You know?"
"Let me ask *you* something, Margi?"
Margi looked up at Jean and nodded. I thought I could see Jean's
areola peeking from the top of the bath towel.
"Do you think Billy's a sexy hunk?"
Christ, I wished they'd stop talking about me in the third person .
. . like I wasn't even there!
Margi slid a glance in my direction and then idly wrapping Jean
panties around her finger, blushed and nodded.
"Well, so do I," Jean declared. "Because he's my brother doesn't
change that." She hitched the towel up an inch or so and continued,
"He's also my best friend. I'd trust him with my life and I think he
feels the same way. There's nothing . . . well, almost nothing . . .
that I can't talk with him about. We share are feelings, Margi . . .
our deepest feelings and I know he'll never judge me. We LIKE each
other. Does that make sense to you?"
Margi was looking unfocused at the window, seeming to contemplate
her thoughts. "Yeah . . . it makes sense . . . it's just that . . ."
"Just what, Margi?"
"Well, I don't know . . . I mean, I never had a connection with
anyone like that. Someone I could trust, I mean. Someone who wouldn't
take advantage of me, I guess."
"We *are* lucky, aren't we, Billy?"
More at ease now, I could smile and say, "A professor of mine often
says, 'It's better to be lucky than good.'"
Jean rubbed her hair vigorously and the towel dropped into her lap,
her full breasts bouncing, the nipples erect.
Margi gasped. I stared.
Jean looked down, laughed and said, "Oh screw it."
It was silent for a few moments as we all were acutely aware of
this fork in the road. Jean had upped the ante. Now it was in our
laps.
I ran with it. "Don't you think Jean has beautiful tits, Margi?"
Margi appeared to be reeling from one emotional blow to another,
stunned, not knowing whether to run or stay. She asked Jean, "Doesn't
that bother you? Billy looking, I mean?"
"It woulda a couple of years ago," she answered, mimicking Margi's
pronunciation a little, "but now it doesn't. In fact, I like it!"
"But it seems so . . . so sexual, don't you think?"
"I hope so!" Jean replied with a chuckle. That's some of the fun
of it. Oh, there's a real comfort in not being tied up in false modesty,
but above that, there's a sweet charge that we admire each other."
"It sounds like . . . I mean, I've always been so shocked at the
idea of . . ."
"Incest?" Jean asked, cutting to the chase.
Margi again looked at the floor and made a ball of Jean's panties.
"I wasn't going to call it that," she protested, "but SOMEthing like
that I guess."
"Would it make you feel any better if I told you that Billy and I
don't fuck?"
Jean almost never used the "F" word with me. I was startled to
hear it come out so easily.
Margi became beet red and sputtered in her confusion, "I didn't
think . . . I mean . . ."
"Bullshit!" Jean said with a large smile. "You see Billy and I
sharing a room, me half-naked in front of him, admitting that he turns
me on . . . you you're telling me you didn't think . . .?"
It was getting too warm for me, despite the fact that we were
talking about my favorite subject, me. I fell back on what I did so
well. I ran. "You girls can continue this chat. I'm going to take a
shower." They hardly looked up.
Retreating into the bathroom, I stripped, and copying Jean's
actions, I threw my shorts and briefs out the door as if to say, "Here's
MY underpants, girls." Brave, huh?
I strained to hear what they might be saying, but their voices were
reduced to a muted murmur, so I gave up and jumped into the shower.
Starting out hot and then finishing up with a cold shower, I felt
physically renewed. As often happened, I'd sprouted a woodie in the
shower, perhaps because I so religiously washed it. So, drying off I
took my time, waiting for the boner to subside.
In the periphery of my vision, I saw motion out the bathroom
doorway. Looking that way, I 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 woodie. I didn't
have to look down to know it was making a prominent and unmistakable
tent in the towel. At this point, I didn't care. Actually, I was
feeling a bit proud of myself and said something like, "Well, it's you
guys' fault!"
Jean, clearly the instigator in this play, kept things alive by
pulling the string tie of Margi's top with one hand and snatching it off
her body with the other, completely baring her pert tits. "There! Now
we're even." Jean laughed and threw the bikini top to me.
Margi tried to cover her breasts for a moment and then gave up in
laughter. I was mesmerized by the two sets of tits in front of me.
Jean's were larger and mostly tanned while Margi's were a bit smaller
but with larger nipples and paradoxically, very white. It was clear
that her tits and her ass didn't see the sun very often.
"Truth or dare time," Jean announced.
"God, what else'we got to lose," asked Margi.
"Nothing much, 'cept our psychological defenses," I suggested.
"Whadya mean, psychological . . .? Margi asked sitting on the
floor, legs crossed Indian style. I liked how it pulled the crotch of
her suit into her pussy.
"It's like this," Jean explained, "do you mind so much right now
that Billy can see your nipples?"
Margi glanced down at her turgid, erect nips and said, "Well . . .
not so much right now. I mean, YOU uncovered me . . . and 'sides, your
tits are showing too."
"That's just what I mean. You have a psychological defense or even
a justification for showing us your tits. My being bare makes it all
right and more, since I uncovered you, it's not your fault."
Margi nodded. I could see where this was going and sat down to
watch with interest, mindful of the fact that the towel was not covering
much.
Jean sat, also Indian style. Her dark pubic hair was clearly
evident through the thin crotch of her panties. "So, the end result is
that we . . . Billy, actually . . . gets to see your nipples. But . .
." then she paused for dramatic effect, "what if . . ." another pause,
"what if I said to you, say as you were wearing a blouse or a T-shirt .
. . what if I said to you, 'Margi, pull up your shirt and show Billy
your tits.'? Then how'd you feel?"
"Oh . . . that'd be different. I couldn't do that."
"Sure you could, and you'd love it. That's the psychological part.
It adds an edge. It makes it more exciting. Guys just know this, huh,
Billy? Guys just know that the partially nude woman is far more exciting
than the completely nude one, huh?" She addressed the last part at me,
seeking confirmation.
I replied, "Sure. Why do you think Jean's just wearing panties?
She coulda put on shorts, even a shirt if she wanted. She knows how
sexy casual undress can be. More, it's the tease. The psychological
game adds to the tease, which, of course, adds a delicious edge to
anything sexual." Turning it back to Jean, I added, "Aren't I right?"
"Of course you're right, you horny lech," she laughed and reached
over to flip up a corner of my towel, exposing part of my scrotum. "And
if he wasn't sporting such a boner, you'd be able to see it too."
"You said something about Truth or Dare?" I asked, attempting to
keep things rolling and turning the attention away from me.
"Yes! This is no simple strip poker game. Heck, we each have just
one article of clothing on anyway, so getting totally nude is no big
deal, but if we do this right, we can add several layers to the
excitement by psychological Truth or Dare."
Jean didn't ask Margi if she wanted to play, she just continued to
set out the rules. I'd seen Jean's daring and strong side before, but
never so pronounced. I was usually the aggressive one but now I was
quite content to see this assertive side of Jean express itself.
She finished, "So you see, it's nothing more than a form of
spin-the- bottle."
"Can I watch someone else go first?" asked Margi, a little
skeptically.
"OK, I'll go first," I offered. I'm so magnanimous at times. I
spun the bottle and it ended up pointing at me. "Nothing there," I said
as I spun it again. This time it ended up between Margi and Jean, but
closer to Jean. "It's you, kid. Truth or Dare?"
"Oh goody," cried Jean. "I want a dare!"
"How'd I know you'd say that?" I smiled at Margi. "She's such an
exhibitionist!"
"Come on, come on, big boy . . . what's your dare?"
"OK, smartass. As I recall, you trimmed your pussy before coming
down here, right?"
Jean gave me a wolffish grin and nodded eagerly.
"Then, your dare, should you choose to accept it, is to pull the
crotch of your panties aside and show us!"
I knew Jean'd milk this one. She'd do it. Hell, she *wanted* to
do it, but more, she wanted to make a production of it. She wanted to
add some psychological tension to it. I'd counted on that.
"Billy!" she exclaimed in mock indignation, "My breasts are one
thing. Even my panties. But you want me to uncover my . . . my sex and
SHOW myself to you and Margi?"
I nodded gravely. "If you dare,"
"But . . . but that's private! I mean, that's so intimate, looking
right at my . . ." and then she added in a very small voice, "my pussy."
Margi's eyes were bouncing back and forth between me and Jean,
first my eyes, then her crotch. She squirmed a bit.
"Would you tell anybody?" Jean asked.
"Not me," I answered in my best sincere voice. "But Margi, she
might. How about it, would you, Margi?"
Margi looked at us with wide, round eyes and slowly shook her head,
"Not me neither," she intoned.
"There, see, you're safe with us. Now show us, wimp!"
Jean looked dubious as her hand fell to her lap. Curling a finger
into the crotch of her panties, she paused. Jean was giving me an
opportunity to crank up the current, I knew.
Pointing, I said, "Say, Jean. Is the crotch of your panties wet?
You pee or somethin'?"
She flushed. Perhaps she hadn't wanted me to turn up the intimacy
current so high after all. But her finger stayed there, pulling the
material a few millimeters, enough to see the outside of one lip. Margi
stared, hypnotized.
Jean turned to Margi and explained, "He's up to his old tricks
again. He'd embarrassed me with that one before. You'd think I'd get
used to it, wouldn't you?"
I went for another notch on the intimacy rheostat. "Is that you I
smell, Jean?"
"See what I mean?" Jean said to Margi, who looked like she was
ready to fall through the floor.
Turning to me, she announced, "Yes, they are wet and I'll let you
figure out with what. And for all you know, that's Margi you're
smelling."
At that point, Margi reddened again and cupped her crotch as if she
might stem the flow of odoriferous pheromones.
I sensed that Jean had taken this as far as it would go on our
first Truth or Dare.
"OK," she said, "this goes against my better judgement, but here's
my trim job!" With that, she pulled the crotch of her panties well to
the side, exposing all. No cheap flash here. I admired her bare pussy
lips slightly parted by her position as well as the lush dark curls atop
her mons for the full twenty or thirty seconds she gave us.
Shaking my head in admiration, I passed the bottle to Jean who let
her panties snap back into her crotch. She held the bottle in her lap,
stoking the neck idly as she grinned as us.
Nodding to Jean's masturbation of the 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 woodie.
I hung my head, still looking at Margi's crotch through my lashes.
Adjusting the crotch of her own panties, Jean said, "So there! Now
we're ready for my question. You ready?"
"No," I answered truthfully.
"Good," she replied. "Here's the question . . ." and she paused.
"You ever see a Truth or Dare game last so long on one spin of the
bottle?" I asked no one in particular. Margi shook her head.
As if I hadn't interrupted her, Jean continued, " . . . and the
question is: Do you wanna go down on Margi tonight?"
Even though I saw it coming a long time ago, even though I had time
to put on my emotional armor, it sill struck with freight-train impact.
Here's this girl we knew from last year, a girl we'd been diving with
one day this trip, and we're near nude, sitting in a circle, me with an
erection pointing to the ceiling and we're talking about my going down
on her! This wasn't going the way I imagined it al all. I was much
better!
"Before I answer that - and I will - I'd like to ask Margi a few
questions." I knew Jean wouldn't object to this deviation of whatever
loose set of rules pretended to govern this game.
"Of course. You have that right." Jean pronounced with authority.
Cripes, the only "rights" we had were those we made up, I thought.
"Before I answer, there's a couple of things I'd like to know . . .
so I can frame my answer better you understand."
"I understand," Jean said solemnly, again adjusting her panty
crotch, flashing us in the process.
"Well, for starters, before I can speak to uh . . . 'going down' on
Margi . . ." I paused and she flushed, adjusting her own crotch, "I need
to know, ah, Margi . . . have you had someone go down on you?" I left
it sexless on purpose. I'm not sure why.
Margi looked at Jean as if to ask, do I have to answer? Jean
nodded and made a get-on-with-it motion with her hands.
Margi looked at me a moment and then looked down, nodding her head.
"Is that a 'yes'?" I asked.
She nodded again.
"Margi, I can't hear you," I protested.
"Yes!" she whispered, almost in a hiss.
Pushing it, I asked, "Many times?"
"Yes!" Louder.
"And now, most important, Margi, did you LIKE it?"
She pulled her legs up and leaned on her knees, her breasts smashed
against her thighs. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing
came out.
"Margi, I need to know. My answer depends on what you 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."
End 19
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