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Subject: Title story: "MY SISTER JEAN. Chapter 1" Author: INCEST MAN 61537147
From: Family Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Date: Thu, 08 Dec 2005 10:03:26 +0000
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MY SISTER JEAN. Chapter 1 By Billy G 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, "Hmmmm, 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 sniffed 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. Continued..... 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.
End
Real INCEST : http://www.incesttabooo.com/