

     MY SISTER JEAN

     BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)

     _________________________________________________________________
     



     Chapter 15 - The Pussy Barber


          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 gray 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 unfocused 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, "Hmmmm  . . . ," 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 aversion 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 15






















