                                           MY SISTER JEAN

 

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.  
     

                                     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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.


                               * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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!"


                                  * * * * * * * * * * * * *         
MY SISTER JEAN

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 pheromone 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."
     

                                 * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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 that 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, at least not with the same impregnable strength.  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."
     
                                                                               
                                    * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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 part way 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 the 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 were 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."


                             * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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 make 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."


                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MY SISTER JEAN

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 down-hill 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 sign board 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 were 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 waist band, 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 for ever 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."


                       * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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 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?"



                             * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
MY SISTER JEAN

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 finger tips, 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 was wanting 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.
     

                             * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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.


     
                             * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
MY SISTER JEAN

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 laying 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 jack
rabbit.  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!"

               -- End of Chapter 13 --

     
MY SISTER JEAN

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 finger tips 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."

         





     
                       MY SISTER JEAN -- 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 noise 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 eye brow 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?"


                                  END OF CHAPTER 15
     
     
         

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?"

      

