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Subject: incest story: "MY SISTER JEAN. Chapter 1" 365539
From: INCEST MAN <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Date: Thu, 27 Nov 2008 23:15:38 +0000
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/
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.
Dark family relations: http://www.incesttabooo.com/