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o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don't believe in categorizing things. "I don't want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don't type things myself."  I think it's  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.                   o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

My Sister Jean I (mf-teens sibling sex play)
By BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
 
***

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 acutly 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.  
     
Continued in part 2...