



                                     MY SISTER JEAN

                                     by BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)

            ____________________________________________________________


            
            Chapter 1  --  Jean's Panties


                  Holding up the soiled panties I'd lifted from the wash
            hamper and with an exaggerated voice of wonder, I asked,
            "What're these?"

                  My sister, Jean--older by two years--blushed and shot
            back, "You jerk!  What do you think they are?  Give me my
            panties...right now, Billy!"

                  Jean and I had always been close and shared most
            things, but the conservative atmosphere that surrounded
            things sexual in our home had placed a "forbidden" charge on
            things like underwear...and bathrooms . . . and (gasp),
            private parts.  Added to the mixed messages we'd received,
            was the clear awareness of our parents' sexuality, for, when
            my father returned from a long sea trip, they'd always "get
            it on." Ostensibly, their sexuality was not in the open, but
            in fact, they were careless and we were aware of both of
            them as sexually active people. But we never spoke of it.
            That heightened awareness was to add spice to our own little
            games.

                  Holding up the white cotton panties to the light, I
            examined the crotch in an affected fashion and said, "Hmmmm,
            what's this white stuff?"

                  "BILLY!  Stop that this minute, you little rat.  God!
            You're dirty."

                  I loved her discomfort and as her kid brother, I loved
            this fleeting moment of power.  Sensing I was on a roll, I
            held the panties up to my nose and made a loud sniffing
            sound and added, "Boy, this smells sexy."

                  Would this stratagem work?  I was dragging out of the
            closet a specific point of sexual tension that had been
            building between us for a long time.  It started for me, I
            think, when we were wrestling and I had become aware of the
            distinctive "girl smell" Jean had, seemingly coming from her
            bottom.  I'd wrestled in earnest but as usual, I was
            distracted. Everywhere I touched, it seemed, was soft or
            feminine.  She, on the other hand, wasn't distracted. She'd
            finally whipped me with a scissor-lock. I was trapped with
            my head between her thighs, looking up into the tight crotch
            of her shorts.

                  "Give? Give?" she chanted.

                  "Never!  Not on your life," I insisted.  Give up?
            Heck, I wanted some more time so close to her secret girl
            spot.  Reaching around her bare thigh, I tried to insert my
            hands between her legs near the stretched bottom of her
            white shorts. I'd already made out that all she had on were
            short shorts and panties glimpsed under a too-large, baggy
            sweat shirt.

                  Making a tickling sound as I touched the inside of her
            thigh, I got her laughing a moment, relaxing her strong leg
            muscles.  I lunged-- not back and away-- rather, I pushed my
            head in and higher up, bringing my nose right up to her
            bottom.

                  "Now I really gotcha," she chortled.  "Give?"

                  Got me?  I smiled to myself. Who's got whom here?
            "Never!" I mumbled from the confines of her sweaty crotch,
            inhaling her smell, the sexy, girl aroma.

                  Smelling her panties that I'd snitched from the soiled
            clothes hamper was always a turn-on, but smelling her this
            closely, in real-time, was almost overpowering.  I forgot to
            struggle and gave myself over to the erotic moment. Seeing
            the leg of her panties under her shorts, a few light brown
            hairs sticking out, I wondered, has she any idea what I'm
            seeing?

                  Jean suspected something was going on.  "What are you
            *doing*, you little shit?"  And then she shrieked as I began
            to run my finger tips under the pant leg, touching her panty
            crotch, all in the guise of tickling.

                  "Tickle, tickle, tickle," I lied, trying to make my
            mind work on two separate levels.  Pretend we're wrestling,
            but bury my nose in her crotch.  I was desperate to smell
            her, to touch her, to see her sex and I didn't really know
            how to go about it...other than this game.

                  Still shrieking with laughter and repeating,
            "No...no...no . . . ," she was trying to keep me pinned and
            get away from my tickling at the same time.  "Oh, God,
            don't.  I'll wet myself.  Stop.  Please stop."

                  Wet herself?  What did she mean?  It was then that I
            became aware of another smell, the unmistakable faint scent
            of pee.  Cripes, was she peeing in her pants?  Craning my
            head back, I attempted to look at the white crotch right in
            front of my face and could see a wet place as big as a plum.
            Then, before I could see anymore, she quickly disengaged and
            ran from the room, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

                  As I'd often done in the past when I knew we were
            alone, I'd listen at the thin bathroom door.  Once again I
            heard the familiar hissing of her pee hitting the porcelain
            bowl.  Other times she'd make a louder noise when her
            squirting pee splashed in the water and I couldn't figure
            out why it changed from time to time.  Did she sit
            differently?  Could she really aim it? I didn't hear the
            noisy toilet paper roll as I anticipated.  Rather, it was
            quiet. Straining, I imagined I could hear her breathing, but
            it may have been me. After several minutes of silence, I
            then heard her pull on the toilet paper, a long pull
            followed by another short silence.

                  The bathroom door knob rattled, surprising me, for
            she'd not flushed the john.  She *always* flushed -- that
            was my signal to get out of there. Oh, shit!  I'm caught, I
            thought, my heart suddenly in my throat.  Yet, she'd paused
            just a moment, allowing me to scamper away. Then the door
            opened with a bang and Jean, walking out of the bathroom,
            stepped over me.  I could see the half moons of her ass
            cheeks as she stepped over my upturned face.  She simply
            dismissed me with a casual, "Jerk!"

                  As she rounded the corner and passed from sight, I
            jumped up and went into the bathroom.   The lid was up on
            the john and when I looked in I was thrilled to see pale
            yellow water and a folded-up wad of toilet tissue. There it
            is, I thought.  There's her pee!  I stood looking at it,
            thinking about how it got there and I just couldn't not jack
            off.  I was too primed, I was ready to explode with sexual
            tension.  It must have taken about ten seconds of
            frantically stroking my teen-aged hard-on for me to squirt
            my jism into the yellow toilet water.  That's it.  I was
            hooked.  My sister had me by the balls on a downhill drag
            and she didn't even know it.  Jean's panties and Jean's
            peeing, at that moment, became firmly linked in my mind with
            an immense sexual charge.

                  Later, I tried to talk with her about our wrestling but
            I wasn't surprised when she just wouldn't talk about it at
            all.  Still, we both knew something had changed and a new
            tension, a sexual charge, had been established.  For me, I
            became obsessed with trying to see Jean naked, or up her
            dress or under a pantleg.  If that's all you think about and
            you live in such closeness with another person, the rewards
            are frequent.  Yet, looking was one thing, but not enough.
            I wanted to up the ante.  I wanted so much to smell her
            again and more, I wanted to talk with her about it! I just
            wanted to talk dirty.  And heaven knows, I wanted to watch
            her pee.

                  She rarely got to go to the john without me being aware
            of it and listening at the door.  The sound of her peeing
            was an aphrodisiac for me --instant woody!  Even the muffled
            sound of her soft farts gave me a thrill.  I came to know
            her micturition habits born of the certainty of long
            experience.

                  For me, a ritual was established.  After school, Jean
            would always change her clothes including her underwear,
            leaving the soiled garments in the bathroom hamper.  As soon
            as she'd come out, I'd go in, lock the door, and fish out
            her panties.  Then, with my own pants down around my ankles
            and sitting on the toilet, I sniffed her panties as I played
            with myself.  It had been years since I'd caught a glimpse
            of her bare pussy, but my active imagination played that
            tape over and over, seeing the pussy hair and her
            little-girl slit slowly open, the lips swelling and moist.
            With my nose close to the odor of her "private place," I
            smelled the heady scent of her sex.  I beat off every day,
            often twice, trying to think of a way that I could get Jean
            to play with me.

                  She'd become increasingly aware of my voyeuristic play
            over the weeks and pretended indignation when I tried to
            look up her dress, but I sensed her stance was more pro
            forma than real.  Else why did she sit so carelessly when I
            was around?  Why did she bend over in front of me so often
            the tight crotch of her shorts pulled up into the crack of
            her ass and then ask me some nonsense question that I might
            look her way?   She sure didn't act that way when Mom was
            around.

                  Still, I knew her "rules"-- the rules of our
            household-- don't talk about it.  We could play the game and
            pretend we weren't doing anything, but we couldn't openly
            acknowledge it.  She might sit carelessly, reading a book,
            and I might sit on the floor in front of her,
            surreptitiously watching the junction of her thighs and
            catching a peek of her panties...but I couldn't openly let
            her know I was doing this. That angered her -- me drawing
            attention to my interest in looking up her dress.  It was
            part of this teenaged seduction, part of our forbidden
            incestuous play...pretend it isn't really happening.

                  Much later, Jean was to tell me that she knew exactly
            what she was doing and what I was doing.  She was very
            aware, very excited and more, thrilled and scared at the
            same time.  She wanted to escalate the game herself, but it
            just had to be in a way she could square with her
            hypertrophied sense of morality...it just isn't so if you
            don't admit it.

                  So, if we couldn't openly own up to our kinks, we could
            beat around the bush (as it were) and teasingly approach our
            horniness.  At that time, I didn't know that Jean wanted to
            play as much as I did.  I thought the burden of seduction,
            of guile, was mostly upon me.  And, functionally, most of it
            was.  Like so many boys, I thought I was the only one who
            was this sick.  I was the only one who hung around the
            bathroom door or sniffed their sister's underwear and then
            had wet dreams about it. Cripes!

                  Clearly, I needed a plan.  I just couldn't wait around
            forever.  I suppose I had the typical teenager's impaired
            tolerance for delayed gratification.  I needed something
            more direct, less subtle... something to address the topic
            in a frontal fashion, yet maintain the denial.  Her
            underpants were the key to this, I thought.  She knew, I
            suspected, that I played with them in the bathroom, but the
            secrecy of my masturbation habits didn't allow the
            eye-to-eye confrontation I wanted.  Time to crank up the
            intimacy rheostat. I'll somehow use her panties as a tool of
            seduction.

                  Think about it for a moment.  Panties.  They've
            *always* carried a charge.  Girls giggle about them and boys
            have an unflagging interest in them.  They're secret.
            They're naughty.  And they're sexy as all get out. They're
            worn right next to "that place."  They get "dirty" with . .
            . you know, those things kids don't talk about
            easily...pee... pussy juice...skid marks.  My sister Jean
            *knew * of my horny fascination with her undergarments, both
            on her as well as in the dirty-clothes hamper, so they'd be
            a natural, I reasoned.  Further, it wouldn't be too far out
            --  not like just out-and-out grabbing her as I'd really
            like -- and I could retreat if she was really offended.  (I
            was limited in the cojones department as a kid, that's
            clear.)  Thus, my need for an oblique scheme.


                  Now, back to the soiled panties: Spreading the crotch
            of her white cotton underpants over the palm of my left hand
            and examining them obliquely to the light, I asked, "Is this
            a spot of pee I see?  Did you pee in your panties, Jean?
            Did you have a little accident, big sister? Did you..."

                  Whop!  Something hit me in the face.  She'd thrown the
            first thing that fell to her hand, thrown and hit me right
            in the face, with -- you guessed it -- another pair of her
            panties!

                  Pulling them from my face as I staggered back in a
            theatrical fashion, I looked at them.  These were pink rayon
            with lace around the top and the legs.  "Oh, do you want me
            to do a crotch check on these as well?"

                  She went ballistic.  "You rat.  You stinking, little
            rat.  You're sick. You're a twisted little shit of a brother
            and I wish you'd fall into the toilet and be washed out to
            the dump and I'd never see you again and I'd get your room
            and I wouldn't have to wait forever for the bathroom while
            you..." Red-faced and sputtering, she leaned across the
            folding table to grab her panties from me.  Her shirt front
            fell away.

                  As part of her Saturday, stay-at-home,
            no-one-will-see-me uniform, she was wearing one of my old,
            baggy and stretched, sweat shirts. Perhaps because we were
            doing the wash, and it was a Saturday when no one was
            around, she'd not worn a bra.  I could see her tits!  Down
            the gaping front of that sweat shirt, I could see all of her
            tits and her front, right down to her belly button.  Her
            breasts were medium-sized and her nipples were large and
            erect.  I can see them in my mind's eye yet today.  Bending
            over the table, her arm outstretched, blushing and angry,
            her white breasts swayed.  At that moment, they weren't the
            breasts of a young, teenaged girl; they were the breasts of
            a sexual woman and I wanted to touch them! There was
            silence.  I don't know how long it lasted...seemed like long
            minutes.  Jean, looking into my eyes, angry, hurt, confused
            and yes, aroused.  I'm holding her panties and looking down
            her shirt, mesmerized by her breasts, by her nipples. I
            stared.  I stared and didn't say anything.

                  I was acutely aware of my cock.  It was hard.  Hard and
            pressing into the edge of the table, bent in my pants and
            hurting a little. Unbidden, my hips pushed into the table
            harder, pushing my hard-on sideways, the tip of my dick
            suddenly springing up toward my belt.  Now I was
            unconsciously dry humping the damn table, holding Jean's
            panties and staring at her tits. Nothing subtle here.  I was
            trying to fuck the damn changing table and couldn't stop.
            Didn't want to stop.

                  Following my eyes, Jean looked down and saw her own
            breasts, fully exposed.  With a sudden inrush of breath, she
            slapped her hand over her shirt, closing the top.  At the
            same moment, I extended my hand to her with her panties, as
            if to give them up.  Falling for that, she reached for them,
            pulling her hand away and the shirt fell open again. And
            again, I could plainly see her bare boobs with their very
            prominent, eraser nipples.

                  Still grinding my cock against the hard table edge and
            watching her breasts sway as she stretched farther to get
            her panties, I pulled back a little, just out of her reach.
            And again, time was frozen.  Her breasts, now pink in the
            wave of her blooming embarrassment, were there in front of
            me, one slightly flattened against the table by her chest as
            she leaned across, the other swaying free, the nipple
            prominently erect. I humped still and she looked.  Just
            looked and looked.  The only sound was our breathing.  Both
            of us, I think, were mesmerized by the erotic charge of what
            was happening, and we didn't even really know *what* was
            happening.

                  My world narrowed.  Through slitted eyes I could see
            only her breast. As down a tunnel, her voice came to me in a
            hoarse whisper, "Billy, you're doin' it, aren't you...you're
            doin' it and you're gonna come, huh?"

                  I heard her but I didn't.  It was too late.  I was gone
            and it never occurred to me to even attempt to slow this
            runaway avalanche of feeling. It began somewhere deep
            inside, gathering force and rumbled up and a core of heat
            poured out my cock in near-painful pulses, once, twice, a
            third and then a fourth spurt.  I came, spurting jet after
            jet inside my Jockeys and the jism pooled and ran back down
            the shaft of my cock, 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.




            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...uh,  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.

                  "Geez, 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 said 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.




            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!"




            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 since come to see the wisdom that warns:
            "It's okay 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, "Ah," 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.  "Hmmmm, 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,
            dumfounded 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 okay boy stuff.
            But peeing? Hmmmm.  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.

                  "Hmmmm, 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 okay 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 okay
            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."




            Chapter 6  --  My 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 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. 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 okay...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,  'Oh...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.
            Although 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."




            Chapter 7  --  Jean's Backside


                  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 and asked, "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 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 kiddin'...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 singsonged her Germanic
            entreaty.

                  Plunging in again, I asked, "Is *your* ass erotic,
            Jean?  I mean, have you ever touched yourself there...uh,
            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 was 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 okay 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 okay. 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.

                  "Oh, 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."




            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...uh, 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 Macys,
            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 gray 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.

                  "Hmmmm, 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."

                  "Scaredy 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 made 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 breathe.  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."




            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
            downhill 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...what'sa
            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 signboard
            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 was 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 waistband, 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 forever 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
            gray 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."




            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 fake 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 gray 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 licked 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 whacked 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.  "Okay," 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 of 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 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,
            "Jeez... 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?"




            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 hard-on.  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 fingertips, 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."

                  "Okay, okay," 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 you 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, "Okay?"

                  "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
            hard-on 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 wanted 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 woody 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.




            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, "Hmmmm."  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 unfocused 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 okay
            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
            okay 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?"

                  Her 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.



            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 pheromones 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
            conscience.'

                  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 lying here, horny and hard and I've wrapped
            your panties around my hard-on.  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
            jackrabbit.  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!"



            Chapter 14  Billy's Rationalization

                  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 woody 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 at 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 fingertips 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 okay, 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.

                  "Okay, 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.

                  "Okay, sure," I agreed, "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 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, okay?"

                  "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 hard-on.

                  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."




            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 okay guy. I knew I was okay, 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, okay?"  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 noises 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 eyebrow 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.

                  "Okay, okay...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."

                  "Okay, 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, uh...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
            hyperventilation!

                  "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 okay.

                  "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 that, 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 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 okay...I'm okay...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?"




            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 lethargy 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 would 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 needn't 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 how 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 okay 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
            okay 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 okay
            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."

                  "Okay, 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, okay?"

                  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.

                  "Okay.  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."  Okay?  A sexy conversation can be
            viewed as having sex.  Mutual masturbation can be viewed as
            having sex."

                  "Okay, 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, "All right.  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."

                  "Okay.  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 okay. More than okay, 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?"

                  "Hmmmm...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 statistical 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, okay? 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
            okay.  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* okay."

                  "You *are*...you are okay.  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, okay?"

                  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?"




             Chapter 17  Mother Confronts Billy

                  My mother said something to Jean in a low voice, then
            nodding her encouragement, gently pushed her away.  Jean
            glanced at me, eyebrows furrowed in a worried expression,
            then back at Mom.  Our mother, in a slightly louder voice,
            said, "It's okay, Jean.  It'll be okay.  Now go on in and
            let me talk to Billy."

                  I suppose one of the more dreaded expressions I might
            hear from my mother would be, "I'd like to talk to you."  I
            immediately catastrophize, leaping far into the future,
            thinking of what bridge I might live under and if I can
            really stay alive selling pencils.  If I sank any lower into
            the hot tub, my head'd be under water.

                  Mom walked over to the tub and said, "Well, this caught
            us both by surprise, didn't it?"

                  I made a millisecond eye contact and numbly nodded.

                  "Billy, we have to talk and there'll never be a better
            moment than this.  Don't you agree?"

                  Again, the acquiescing nod, still not meeting her eyes.

                  "Tell you what...you get dressed - get warm - and we'll
            also sit on the back deck.  It'll be private."

                  And then she added with a chuckle, "Unless someone's
            sitting in the hot tub."

                  After donning sweats, I walked the final mile to the
            guillotine and waited for Mom.  How could things have gone
            so wrong, so fast, I wondered as I sat there, remembering
            that a short while ago everything had been normal?  Or had
            it?  I suppose not.  My addict's mind wanted to think that
            nothing was wrong, but the more-normal kid who lived in my
            head suggested otherwise.

                  "For Christ's sake, Billy.  You've been trying to get
            into Jean's pants for months - your sister for cripes sake!
            And you think that's normal?  And then Jean tells Mom and
            *she's* gonna think it's normal? Yeah, right."

                  My impending suicide was thwarted by Mom sitting next
            to me and laying her hand on my arm, saying. "Try to calm
            down, Billy.  It's going to be all right.  Believe me."

                  Do they tell you to be calm before your exiled?  Gonna
            be all right under the goddamn bridge?

                  I tried to talk and croaked instead.  "Uh...I don't
            know what to say...I didn't..."

                  "Didn't plan this?"

                  "Plan it?  I couldn't have imagined it!"  Then I looked
            at her and added, "I don't know what to say."

                  "Try starting with the truth, why don't you?"

                  "The truth?  You KNOW the truth.  Jean told you the
            truth.  It's true, what she said.  Except that she took too
            much responsibility for what we did.  I was the one that was
            pushing it all the time."

                  "Billy, Billy...I'm not sorting out who did what.  And
            I'm *not* attempting to apportion blame.  It's not a blame
            thing...at least as far as I understand it.  But I need to
            know more.   That's why we're talking."

                  I glanced at her.  She gave me a soft smile and
            squeezed my forearm.  I still didn't know what to say so I
            did what I did best.  I just sat there like a lump.

                  "Son, I always knew I'd have these personal talks,
            these talks about sexuality with Jean and I suppose I
            assumed that your dad would do the same with you.  I know
            now that that's probably an erroneous assumption. Your dad
            is very smart and he's well educated and quite articulate,
            but as you know, there's an unapproachable emotional side
            that shields him from things like this.  I'm afraid he'll
            never get it together to chat with you.  So, like it or not,
            you get me."

                  "Mom, you know I can't talk to dad about things like
            this.  Cripes, I don't know how I can talk to *you* about
            it."

                  "We'll do okay, Billy.  Let's start with general
            things.  I gather you don't disagree with Jean's story, at
            least not in most ways."

                  I mumbled, "No, I agree...at least mostly."

                  "Do you have anything to add?  Anything that might help
            me see things better?"

                  I was about ready to admit I didn't have a thing more
            to say, that there was nothing I could add to the story.
            Instead I began talking. "Mom, I can't tell you how much I
            care for Jean.  I'd do anything for her and I never wanted
            to hurt her.  Oh, there's a part of me that thinks of sex
            all the time - and Jean's a sexy girl, I can't deny that -
            but below that, I care for her too much to ever allow myself
            to hurt her."

                  "I know that, Billy.  I never doubted that."

                  "You see, we just became really close, really good
            friends.  I needed someone to talk to about...about my own
            feelings.  I knew Jean would never make fun of me and that
            when the chips were down, she'd support me.  As I would
            her."

                  "I know that, too."

                  "We talked about it and talked about it.  We didn't fit
            any mold of how a brother and sister oughta be, at least
            about sex, but it just happened that way.  We thought that
            if we always told each other the truth and if we always
            cared for each other, we'd be all right"

                  "Go on, Billy."

                  "Gee, Mom...the rest is about...you know...sex."

                  Smiling, she said, "Yes, I'm getting that."

                  "But, I feel funny.  Talking about sex with you, I
                  mean."

                  "Billy, you heard me tell Jean that sex is not a dirty
            subject. Private, certainly.  And at times, very intimate.
            It's true that we don't talk about it with just anyone, but
            not because it's wrong, or bad or dirty.  It's private.
            Well, this conversation is private.  What you say here will
            stay here.  No one else will hear what you tell me unless
            you tell them.  I know kids think that *they* invented sex,
            that their parents got off the sexual boat yesterday...and
            mostly that's not the case.  At least not with me.  I'm a
            sexual woman.  I was a sexual girl and not much has changed.
            They still do it the same way last I heard."

                  I could feel my face burning.  I didn't look at her and
            mumbled, "Yeah, I guess so."

                  "Guess so, SHIT!"

                  My head shot up and I turned to look into her flashing
                  eyes.

                  "Don't patronize me, Billy...don't be so damn superior.
            I don't know everything, but I'll bet a nickel I've seen
            more, imagined more and done a darn sight more that you've
            ever thought of.  I'm an intensely erotic woman and proud of
            it!  You could do a damn sight worse than talking with me,
            dude."

                  My mouth fell open.  I stared at her, astonished, open
                  eyed.  I stuttered.

                  "So let's start over, shall we?  I'll respect you.  I
            expect no less from you.  Okay?"

                  Finding me tongue, I stumbled over my words.  "I'm
            sorry Mom.  I didn't mean that...I never thought...Cripes, I
            don't know what I'm trying to say.  But I AM sorry for my
            attitude.  Forgive me, please?"

                  "Forgiven.  Now let's get down to plain talk.  Don't
            beat around the bush.  Whatever words you'd use with your
            buddies, with Jean, you can use with me.  Don't give me any
            of that penis-vagina crap.  Say it like it is, okay?"

                  Wow.  Where did this woman come from anyway?  I've
            never seen her like this.

            How do I talk with her?  I mean, how can I turn around a
            life-time of behavior?

                  "Well...okay, I'll try...no...I'll DO it.  What were we
            talking about anyway.  I forgot."

                  "I think you were trying to tell me that you wanted to
            screw your sister."

                  Gulp.  "I hadn't thought to say it in just those
            words...but yes, I guess that's about it.  But I didn't!  We
            never did it.  Honest!"

                  Softer, "Yes, I believe you, Billy.  You don't have to
            convince me. What I'm more interested in is how you support
            each other, about how caring you are for each other.  I'm
            far less concerned about conventional morality than I am
            about our capacity to love and care for each other.  No
            matter what you two have done, if you've done it with
            honesty and love, things will be all right.  I just don't
            want you to sweep it under the rug, that's all.  So tell me,
            where do you see this going?"

                  "In the long run?  I've no idea, Mom.  It's pretty
            clear to me, all I can handle, the only thing I can control,
            is my actions right now. I've been told over and over to do
            the footwork and let go of the outcome, that there's no way
            I can control the outcome of anything.  So, I've no idea
            where this is all going.  But I do know this.  I *can*
            control who I am and what I do today."

                  "And what does that mean to you?  In terms of you and
                  Jean?"

                  "Well, it means that I can show up each day and tell
            the truth. That I can think of Jean's welfare more than I
            think of my own.  That I can be a man today.  Or at least
            try to be."

                  "You know, kid, I think you may have a chance.  A
            chance in life that is.  It may surprise you, but I've been
            watching you a long time and I think you're a good guy at
            heart.  More, you're a good guy in your actions.  So, tell
            me, how do you see yourself...no, how do you FEEL about
            yourself and your sexuality"

                  We'd been talking just long enough for the terror of
            the moment to have abated in me.  My mouth wasn't as dry and
            I could breathe in and out, even unconsciously.  I'd slipped
            into that place where I wasn't considering what I was
            saying.  I was just letting it happen.  Of course, had I
            seen this, I'd have frozen.

                  "Mom, I know I've never received any judgmental stances
            from you or from Dad.  You never told me - us - that sex was
            bad or a moral thing. Yet, I've received that message
            repeatedly from lots of other places. You know...school, TV,
            and especially church...places like that. I've never
            attempted to weigh you against them, but I suppose I *have*
            been influenced by those messages, those shalt nots."

                  "Yeah, it's impossible not to hear them.  They're there
            and on all levels. You okay with it now or are there still
            demons to be reckoned with?"

                  "Mostly I think I'm okay.  At least, I'm not aware of
            any really deep issues.  I suppose there are the
            superficial, social-shame issues. You know, the fear of
            ridicule or rejection if I break social taboos. I'd be
            red-faced if I left my fly open, but I wouldn't be
            emotionally crushed and wouldn't think I was a bad or evil
            person."

                  "Boy, your mind floats away, doesn't it?  At times,
            you're so darn cerebral, Billy.  Let me ask this.  How do
            you feel when you spring a woody around Jean?  Or when you
            have a wet dream?"

                  "It's still difficult to forget you're my mother.  I
            keep forming phrases in my mind that I hope won't be too
            offensive.  I'll try to be real, Mom.  How do I feel about a
            woody?  When it's Jean?  At first I was embarrassed. Then I
            came to accept it.  More, to enjoy it.  I began to look
            forward to the sexy feelings I'd get around Jean.  I was
            always trying to look up her dress or catch a glimpse of her
            breasts...uh, tits."

                  "Sounds pretty normal to me."

                  "Anyway, whatever it is, I was stuck with it.  Jean
            told you.  We sorta drifted into being more open and even a
            little sexual with each other.  I felt wonderful.  For the
            first time in my life I could be honest with another person
            about my sexual feelings.  I loved it."

                  "And you wanted to jump her bones?"

                  "Yeah.  Something like that.  I admitted to her right
            away that I wanted to...you know."

                  "Fuck her?"

                  "I think that's the expression I used, yes."

                  "And she didn't want to?"

                  "No.  She wanted to.  And I wanted to.  But both of us
            were scared. She more than me.  I told her that I supported
            her all the way, but that I was so terminally horny, that if
            she ever gave in, I'd give in.  It was kinda a threat, huh?"

                  "Or a promise."

                  "Hmmmm, hadn't thought of it that way.  Whatever.  We've
            played bathroom games.  I love watching her.  I know she
            told you.  We've had oral sex - once for her and once for
            me.  And, oh yes, we dry humped once in the grass on the
            hill above the house.  We both seem to enjoy the thrill of
            seduction, of almost doing it.  That make sense?"

                  "Billy, you don't have to tell me every little detail,
            although I must admit that I enjoy hearing about it.  Brings
            back memories.  Really what I wanted to do is gauge how open
            and honest you kids were with each other.  To get an idea if
            you might hurt yourselves or each other."

                  "And what do you think, Mom?  We a danger?"

                  Laughing, "Probably are, but I must say, you're both
            psychologically more healthy than most adults I know.
            Certainly better adjusted that I was at your age.  I'm
            impressed with you.  Still, I'm concerned for both of you.
            This is dangerous stuff.  You know that, don't you?"

                  "Intellectually I do, but emotionally somehow I think
            I'm okay. I'm not trying to argue with you.  Just trying to
            tell you how I feel."

                  "Yeah, I can see that.  So what I'm going to do for the
            moment is nothing.  I still think there's the potential for
            harm here, but I'm not going to fall back on some
            shame-based sanctions.  I love you two guys and I trust you.
            Trust that you'll try to act honorably.  But please
            understand, I'm not telling you that everything's all right,
            that there's no problem, no worry.  What I am telling you is
            that I understand what you're feeling and what you're
            facing.  I want you to continue to show caring respect for
            Jean, and she for you.  I know you have no control over you
            sexual feelings. They're just there."

                  She put her hand on my arm, I guess for emphasis.
            "Around me, you two guys can be yourselves.  You don't have
            to hide your affection.  My brother Jim is cool.  I'll talk
            to him.  He'll understand.  It's your dad I'm less certain
            about.  So prudent judgment would suggest that you stay
            underground around him, at least about the sexual stuff
            between you and Jean.  Okay?"

                  I sat there, more dazed than not.  I couldn't believe
            how we'd gone from some place of utter fear to rational
            communication.  About sex. With my Mom!

                  "Mom, right now I'm so confused.  It's clear, I need
            help.  I'll do whatever you tell me to do.  I'll do it your
            way."

                  "Thanks for the vote of confidence, guy.  How about a
            compromise? Let's do it *our* way.  And for that to happen,
            we've got to keep avenues of communication open.  You've got
            to be able to talk to me and I've got to be able to talk to
            you, each of us without apprehension. This can't be the last
            talk we have on the subject.  Do you agree with that?"

                  "Agreed, but I know if I wait until the moment *seems*
            right, I may wait forever.  Let's make a date.  Right now,
            for later.  Tomorrow say? Even if it's just a brief check
            in, I'll feel better if I know I have a date to talk with
            you...about sex.  Okay?"

                  "Boy, a date with my son!"

                  "I'm not gonna bring flowers or anything."



            Chapter 18  The Trip to Little Cayman


                  The movie had started in the main cabin and the
            American transcontinental flight from San Francisco to Miami
            had quieted for the first time since Jean and I had boarded.
            Quite often when we'd traveled with our parents, and
            particularly with our status-conscious father, we had flown
            first class, but this time we were paying for the trip from
            our own meager savings and we were firmly planted in the
            main cabin. Had there been a steerage class, we might have
            been there, so strained was our budget.

                  Jean and I were on our way to Little Cayman, south of
            Cuba, for a week of SCUBA diving.  We'd been to The Wall at
            Cayman before with Mom and Dad and as with most kids, we'd
            paid no attention to the cost of anything.  This time, our
            parents had given us permission to go there alone, but only
            if we paid our own way.  Something about 'the value of the
            dollar.' Boy, was that an education!

                  I was idly looking out the window, seeing nothing, and
            Jean was sitting next to me.  An older guy with a paunch and
            earphones on was quietly snoring next to her.  Glancing
            around, most of the passengers were either sleeping or
            caught up in the adventures of Mel Gibson.  It seemed like a
            safe time to talk.  I put back the arm rest between us and
            leaned over to Jean.

                  "Are you surprised Mom let us go?" I asked.

                  "Together, on this trip?  Because of our talk you
                  mean?"

                  "Yeah, that," I said.

                  In a moment of mindless unburdening, Jean had confessed
            to our mom that we'd been fooling around with each other,
            but we hadn't 'gone all the way.'  Cripes, our secret was
            out!  I thought the jig was up, but I'd underestimated our
            mother.

                  Subsequently, she cornered me. What could I do?  Partly
            in fear and partly because I didn't know how to lie well, I
            told her the truth, expecting the world to fall in on me.
            'Your own SISTER?'  Yet, she hadn't gone ballistic.
            Actually, she remained warm and loving, reminding me of my
            responsibility to Jean and to myself and not threatening us.
            Oh, we'd spoken of the potential consequences of our acts
            and the need to be mindful of our actions.  But she never
            once said, 'Don't do that.'"

                  "Not really," Jean said after a pause.  "I mean, she
            does trust us."

                  "How do you mean?"

                  "Well, we've been truthful with her...about us, I mean.
            And she's always been out front with us.  She as much as
            told me that she can't really *make* us do anything...that
            we'll do whatever it is we're going to do, no matter what.
            And she trusts that we'll be responsible." After a pause,
            she added, "Mom's always been good at that - making us
            responsible for our actions, I mean."

                  "Yeah, I know that.  At least intellectually.  But
            emotionally, I'm still a bit surprised.  I guess I thought
            we'd get grounded, say for the next ten years or so."

                  "Wanna hear another shocker?  Try this one on for size.
            Mom insisted that I start taking The Pill.  'Not that I
            think you're going to do anything for sure, but you never
            know, she said.'"

                  "You're on The Pill?" I asked, excited.

                  "I just said..."

                  "Then you couldn't get pregnant if we..."

                  "Billy!  We're not going to DO anything!  How many
            times do I have to tell you that?  This was Mom's idea, not
            mine.  And in any case, it's not for YOU!"  Her tone was
            uncharacteristically sharp.

                  I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Okay, okay.  I
            get it. Don't get mad."

                  Jean turned to stare at me, her eyes blazing and then
            she softened. "I'm not mad.  Not really.  I just don't want
            you to take me for granted, that's all."

                  The attendant offered each of us a blanket.  We
            accepted and Jean spread her's over her lap before
            continuing.  "When I asked Mom if we could go on this
            vacation together, she never mentioned 'our situation.' She
            never said we shouldn't be together or that we
            shouldn't...well, you know."

                  "Make love?"

                  She glanced sharply at me.  "Anyway, I told her we
            wouldn't.  She shouldn't worry, I said."

                  "What's that got to do with me taking you for granted?"
                  I asked.

                  "Oh, I don't know!"  She sounded a little exasperated.
                  "Just don't!"

                  "Can I have your peanuts?"

                  I watched the corners of her mouth twitch, trying not
            to smile. She recognized my paper-thin ploy to distract her,
            to change the subject.

                  Handing me the small bag of peanuts, she said, "You owe
                  me."

                  "For the peanuts?"

                  "No, you jerk.  For talking Mom and Dad into letting us
            take this trip alone."

                  "Whatever your price, it's a bargain," I replied,
            settling back in my seat.

                  Still, I thought it seemed a little unreal, almost too
            good to be true.  It just didn't fit my concept of how
            things worked.  After we'd confessed to Mom our sexual
            desires, it didn't fit my preconceived notion of the usual
            parental response.  But then Mom's responses often didn't.
            I couldn't remember how many times I'd screwed up, expecting
            to catch hell, only to have her give me one of her calm
            talks.  Inevitably, I'd end up taking more responsibility
            for my stuff than I wanted to. Didn't she know?  I just
            wanted to be totally irresponsible and do the things I
            wanted to do and when I wanted to do 'em.  That was usually
            right NOW.

                  I suppose our taking this vacation together wasn't all
            that much different from the times we'd spent home alone
            together, I reasoned. Yet, the sex addict in me wanted to
            put some other spin on it.  Like we'd been given permission
            or something.

                  I looked over at Jean.  She had her seat back partially
            reclined and was quietly resting, eyes closed.  I watched
            the rise and fall of her bulky sweatshirt.  To be truthful,
            I was really watching the rise and fall of her breasts,
            seeing them in my mind's eye, full and heavy, yet
            extraordinarily firm.  Jean had told me that the women in
            our family all were blessed with firm, youthful breasts.  I
            could only speak for Jean, a peek once or twice at Mom and
            oh yes, our Aunt Peg in the hot tub. Yeah, they'd all have
            been picked out of titty line-up as being related.

                  Unconsciously, I made it my business to check out Jean.
            From long practice, I'd come to accurately recognize when
            she was wearing a bra, as she was today.  It wasn't that her
            tits sagged or anything obvious like that. It was more I
            think that her bra pushed the sides in a little, maybe so
            they didn't get in the way?  But more I noticed subdued
            movement.  She was missing that subtle sway when she walked.
            As we were carrying our shoulder bags toward the departure
            gate today, she'd caught me checking her out.  She flushed,
            smiled and then nodded in silent confirmation at my unasked
            question.  Jean had once admitted that she was pleased that
            I always checked her out.  I thrived on small encouragements
            like that.

                  Just a bit later, a young girl in a micro skirt dropped
            something in front of us and as she bent over at the waist,
            I saw a flash of red. Jean nudged me and smiled.  Red
            panties.  Were they thongs I wondered? And why red? Had her
            boyfriend instructed her in how to dress when she met him at
            the airport?  That and no bra, I'll bet.  My imagination ran
            on.  He'd told her to trim her pubic hair, rouge her nipples
            and leave the top buttons open.  Man, I was just getting
            warmed up!

                  "Billy, come on back!"

                  "Uh...yes...my mind wandered for a moment." I said
                  sheepishly.

                  She smiled and said in a low voice, "The whole airport
            could see that."

                  The trip to Miami was best described at tedious and we
            arrived almost on schedule.  Between planes, we called home
            and left a message that everything was going all right.
            Jean bought a few post cards and I mostly looked at the
            dark-skinned, good-looking girls gliding and swaying about
            the airport.  I loved the colors of all the people.  Even
            the airport colors looked like something out of a TV Program
            about Miami.  Watching one particularly exotic girl jiggle
            past me - I imagined from Havana - I had an image of
            dusky-skinned teenage girls rolling large cigars on nubile
            firm thighs.  I didn't know if they did it that way, but I
            liked the image.

                  Jean nudged me in the ribs and whispered in my ear,
            "Lookit the ass on THAT one!"  It was one of those
            small-waisted, firm-cheeked honeys that wore jeans so tight,
            it defied understanding.  I mean, how in hell they get 'em
            on, anyway?

                  I turned and smiled at her, making a brief salivating
                  look.

                  "Down, boy," she advised.

                  "If I could WILL it down, my life would be simpler."

                  "If you could only will it UP..." she countered, then
            looked away, blushing.

                  "It'd always be up...at least around you." I finished
            in a slightly louder voice.

                  "You!"  She pretended mock indignation.

                  The Cayman Air flight took off on schedule, an unusual
            occurrence, I thought.  The relatively brief flight over
            Cuba and down to the Caymans was uneventful, the very best
            type of trip.  When we landed in Grand Cayman, the air was
            sweet and warm and the people friendly and colorful, but
            still, we thought of the tourist part of that Caribbean
            island much as we thought of Miami Beach, which is to say,
            not very much.  We were anxious to move on to a more remote,
            less developed part of the islands.

                  From past experience, we reserved some trepidation for
            the connecting flight from Grand Cayman to Cayman Brac and
            the short jump to Little Cayman.  We remembered it as a
            chancy and casually run affair. An unusually tall, former
            horse-transportation aircraft converted for human use served
            as the Mexican bus equivalent of the local island shuttle.
            Well, kinda converted as we remembered and our memory served
            us well.  I looked around large, stall-like interior of that
            curious plane, half expecting to see an old, dried-up horse
            turd kicked into a dusty corner but the only thing I saw was
            a crushed Coke can and some candy wrappers.

                  After landing on Little Cayman, almost a grass strip
            carved out of the jungle, we taxied to the terminal.  That's
            an overstated name for the small wooden shack sitting next
            to a weedy graveled area.  With only twenty- some permanent
            inhabitants on the island, there'd be no taxi cabs, but I
            needn't have worried.  A moderately rusted and beat-up old
            pickup that belonged to Pirate's Pub was there to meet us.

                  Surprisingly, all our gear made it through the multiple
            plane changes. As surprisingly, Jean traveled almost as
            light as I did, in marked contrast to our aunt or our
            mother.  "Casual clothes, that's all I packed," Jean assured
            me.  Even without tanks and weight belts, the rest of the
            gear was heavy, bulky and clumsy.  That was the price, we'd
            been taught, for the safety of taking your own gear on a
            dive trip.  I was pleased when several guys standing around
            swarmed over our gear and loaded it into the truck and it
            appeared they were pleased with the tip.

                  Pirate's Pub was run by a delightful, robust,
            full-of-life lady from Texas named Gladys Howorth.  She'd
            studied in several internationally known culinary institutes
            and her meals at Pirate's Pub were justifiably famous.
            Still, for all of that, I'd not have traveled so far just
            for the atmosphere and her cooking alone.  It was the Wall I
            was after. I've heard that there are three premiere dive
            spots in the world, at least for wall diving.  There's the
            Red Sea for one, then parts of the Great Barrier Reef were
            highly ranked and finally, in our hemisphere, there's the
            Wall off Little Cayman.

                  I read that the Wall dropped off into the depths,
            falling 6,000 feet straight down.  That was academic, of
            course, but what made it so fantastic was the
            impossible-blue water there with constant 100 feet plus
            viability. That together with the rich and varied marine
            life in and around the pockets and caves on the Wall made
            for some of the most spectacular diving anywhere.  Happily,
            there was no drift current as in Cozumel, so you could hang
            out anywhere without having to work against the drift.  If
            the Dive Master became confidant of your abilities, you
            could dive alone with your buddy and return to the boat when
            you were ready.  Rarely did we have dive groups larger than
            six to eight people and often, there'd be as little as four.

                  We'd been to the Caymans a couple of times before with
            our parents and friends.  Jean was a strong swimmer and a
            naturally talented diver. We'd been diving buddies for years
            and were very comfortable with each other's abilities.  We
            just floated around effortlessly using so little air, often
            we were in the water for fifteen or twenty minutes after
            other folks had depleted their tanks' air supply.

                  "Think Margi's still here?" Jean asked on the ride
            through the jungle. She'd had taken off her sweatshirt and
            was down to a skimpy sleeveless T- shirt.  My arm was over
            her shoulder and I had a good view of the top of her white
            bra as well as a good portion of her cleavage. It never
            ceased to thrill me.

                  Margi?  Margi had been a small, very attractive female
            Dive Master who came from Colorado.  We'd met her last year.
            I'd developed a crush on her then but aside from recognizing
            me as an experienced diver, I don't think she even know I
            was alive.  She was a couple of years older than Jean, and
            that put me out of the running.  Some good-looking 'older
            guy' had monopolized much of her time when we had been there
            the previous year. No, I hadn't forgotten Margi.

                 "I hope so, but doubt it.  They've had a new Dive Master
            every time we've been here.  They're such a bunch of
            gypsies."

                  "Would you like to *see* her again?" she asked,
            grinning at me.  We both remembered the time Margi had been
            helping a sea-sick diver into the boat and  couldn't tend to
            a broken bikini bra strap.  I couldn't see the diver, just
            Margi's full breast.  I remembered how tan she was, except
            her breast which was startlingly white.  Mostly, I
            remembered her nipple.  It had been very large, thick and
            meaty, jutting out from her pebbled areola.

                  I whispered in her ear, "Remember her nipple?"  I may
            have been talking about Margi's breast, but it was Jean's I
            was eyeing as I peered down her shirt.

                  "I KNEW that's what your were thinking, you hound dog!"

                  Jean loved to play the innocent, obliquely referring to
            something sexy and then pretending moral outrage.  We knew
            the game well.

                  When we arrived at Pirate's Pub, the efficient crew had
            us moved into our room in a jiffy.  We'd asked for two
            adjoining rooms, but knew we'd take whatever was available.
            I was tickled when Gladys put us in a single large room with
            two double beds.  Our quarters was one half of an octagonal
            building in the palm trees quite near the beach.  I
            remembered how soothing the waves and the night sounds were
            there.

                  "Well, babes, it looks like we're stuck together.
                  Mind?"

                  "Of course not, but don't get any ideas," she replied,
            not looking at me as she swung her luggage onto the bed.

                  "Jean, ideas are all I have." I protested, opening my
            large carry-on bag. Filling the drawers and sorting out
            gear, I added, "You don't think I can really stop
            *thinking*, do you?"

                  Jean held up some brief, sheer panties I'd never seen
            before, and studied them for a moment.  "It's not your
            *thinking* that concerns me, big guy."

                  "Where'd you get those?"

                  "Victoria's Secret.  And you know what I'm talking
                  about."

                  "Hot!"  I paused and then continued, "And no, I don't
            know what you're talking about.  Sex, sure.  And us.  But
            what about it?  I thought we had a deal?"

                  A little while back we'd agreed to explore our
            sexuality, out of the closet as it were, just as long we
            honored each other's limits. That of course meant mostly me
            respecting her limits.  I'm not sure I had any. At least I
            hadn't bumped into them yet.

                  Jean stopped unpacking and just looked out the screened
            window at the filtered light reflected off the water.
            Periods of silence were common between us and I didn't pay
            any attention until I saw her shoulders shake. When I walked
            in front of her I saw her eyes were screwed tight and a
            couple of tears were running down her cheeks.

                  When my shadow crossed her face, she opened her blue
            eyes that were shiny wet and just looked at me as she
            brought her fingers up to her face.  I gathered her into my
            arms and held her without speaking.  She sobbed silently for
            a few minutes and then put her arms about my neck burying
            her head below my ear.  I ran a hand up and down her back,
            softly kissing her hair and making crooning sounds.

                  "I'm sorry, Billy.  I know I'm being such a bitch.  You
            don't deserve that.  Thanks for your patience with me."  She
            hiccuped and then laughed.  "And yes, we *do* have a deal.
            That hasn't changed. Tell you what, I'm a little bit scared
            and my period's about to start. I always get a little
            'touchy' for a day or two this time of the month. God, I
            *hate* to think I'm a PMS-er!  Can you put up with me?"

                  I almost asked her what my choices were, but held off,
            thinking she didn't need any of my sophomoric humor.
            Instead, I continued to hold her close and said, "Jean,
            there's not a serious problem on the horizon. Think about
            it.  We're alive and well, we're together, and this is the
            first day of a to-die-for vacation.  I love you...you know
            that, but I want to say it anyway.  There's no agenda.  We
            can dive or not dive. Sleep or not sleep. Wanna be with me?
            Cool.  Wanna be alone a little, that's cool too."

                  "Oh, Billy!  I don't what to be alone!  What ever I
            say... however I act,  I came here to be with you.  Don't
            leave me, promise? I'm sorry I've been a shrew, but I'm
            feeling better already.  Maybe I just had to let the
            bitchiness out, huh?"

                  Nodding, I said, "All I really know is how I feel and
            that works for me, babe.  The letting it out, I mean.  If I
            carry it around, stuffed, not letting go of it...well, it
            just festers.  I can maybe hide it for a little while, but
            it'll erupt if I don't own it.  Know what I mean?"

                  She nuzzled my neck before letting me go and then
            spinning around, she said something like, "Whew...I feel so
            much better.  Thanks, Billy."

                  I sat on her bed and picked up a pair of her lacy
            panties.  Holding them up to the light - I could almost see
            through them - I commented, "This is how all this started,
            what, a couple of years ago?"

                  Jean gave me a particularly wicked smile and said,
            "They're the *clean* ones.  I'm *wearing* the ones *you*
            want, you perv."

                  I was pleased to have the old Jean back and told her so
            on the way to the main house to register and see if we could
            get a late snack. Gladys keeps an open bar for her guests
            and while we didn't drink much on a dive vacation, we
            stopped by to see who was there.

                  "Why, it's the two porpoises," sang out a woman's voice
            from back of the bar.  "Welcome back," yelled Margi, loud
            enough for everyone to hear. As often follows a loud noise,
            it suddenly became quiet and I was aware of the curious
            stares of several people.

                  Margi typically didn't wait for a reply.  She ran on,
            "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Billy and Jean, two of the
            nicest people, first rate divers and if anyone needs help
            and I'm not around, ask either of them."

                  Margi rounded the bar and ran into my arms for a bear
            hug.  As usual, she was wearing a pair of shorts and a loose
            T-shirt sans bra.  I wondered if she even owned a bra?

                  I asked her, "Do we get paid for that?"

                  "What's your price?" she whispered in my ear.

                  "You and me to go diving alone some time this week." I
            returned in a similar whisper.

                  "Did he ask you to go diving alone with him?" Jean sang
            out in a voice not heard by more than half the room.  "He
            was hoping you'd be here, Margi."

                  Margi smiled at me and with a broad wink said, "That
                  right, big boy?"

                  Before I knew it, Margi took Jean aside and they
            immediately fell into a heads-together conversation.  Their
            body language suggested I talk with someone else so I
            introduced myself to a bearded bear of a man who was sipping
            a drink and chatting with a sun-bleached, tan woman I
            guessed in her thirties.

                  "Hi.  I'm Ian and this's Jan."  Turning to her, he
            added, "Sorry Jan, I don't know your last name."

                  She extended her hand to me and gave me a dazzling
            smile.  "Jan'll do. Margi told us today that you and Jean
            were expected.  She thinks highly of both of you and your
            wife."

                  I laughed.  "Jean's my sister."

                  Ian added, "Yes, there's a strong resemblance in your
            eyes and mouth. You've much the same facial bone structure."

                  "That may be, but I don't see it.  All I see are the
                  differences."

                  We looked over at Jean and Margi.  Jean was sitting
            back in her chair and her skimpy T-shirt hugged her breasts
            and prominent nipples.

                  "Yes, there *are* some differences," observed Ian as he
            looked at Jan and me with something approaching a leer.

                  "Ian doesn't miss much it would appear," said Jan with
                  a wry smile.

                  Neither do I, I thought as I ran my eyes over her shirt
                  front.

                  "And neither do you," Jan added.

                  I held my hand palms up and looked up to heaven for
            support. "Busted," I said.

                  We chatted for a few minutes until Jean returned and
            said, "Billy, we're all checked in and I've got us some
            snacks.  I'm really beat. Think I'll go back to our room and
            nibble before crashing.  You?"

                  "I'm tired too.  I'll go with you."  Turning back to
            Jan and Ian, I said good-night and, "See you in the
            morning."

                  Walking back through the palm trees I could hear the
            electric generator chugging away in the distance.  I'd
            forgotten how isolated this place was.  I wrapped my arm
            around Jean's shoulder and asked, "What were you and Margi
            talking about with such intensity?"

                  "Wouldn't you like to know?"  Her smile underscored her
            teasing, yet there was again a faint edge to her voice.  I
            fell silent, oddly put off a little.

                  Just before entering our room, Jean stopped and asked,
            "Well, wouldn't you?"

                  "Like to know?"

                  "Yes, I thought you be dying to know what Margi said."

                  "Yeah, I suppose I am, but to tell the truth, I'm
            feeling a little disconnected.  You're my best friend and
            I'm picking up strange energy from you.  I'm so used to
            being on the same wavelength, I don't know how to behave
            when we're not."  I paused and then went on, "Shit!  I don't
            know.  Maybe it's me.  Do you think it's me?  'My being a
            jerk?"

                  I'd learned that no matter what the other guy said or
            did, anytime I was upset, it was axiomatic that something
            was wrong with me, that I had a part in it somewhere.
            Usually it meant I wasn't accepting life on life's terms.
            Things weren't going my way and I was being petulant.

                  "You're right, Billy.  Things *are* off kilter a
            little.  I feel it too.  You know what I think it is?"

                  "No, I don't guess I do," I answered, a bit more
            interested, for Jean's ideas were often right on.

                  "Think about it.  Here we are, together...actually,
            sleeping in the same room...with all this history behind
            us...that moth and the flame history. We've been flirting
            with each other forever it seems. Mom knows.  And we know
            that she knows.  I'm on the pill.  Cripes, Billy! I'm scared
            witless.  I think you are too and that's what's wrong with
            us.  That's the tension we're feeling, don't you think?"

                  "It's certainly true that despite my resolve not to
            have expectations, they creep into my mind.  You know, I've
            told you about the sex addict guy that lives in my head?
            Well, he's up there having a field day while the good guy,
            the rational guy is frightened.  Wanna call a time out?"

                  "Good idea!  Mom always told us we could start our day
            over anytime we liked.  Let's start our vacation over,
            okay?"

                  "Deal!  And Doctor Billy prescribes a good night's
            rest, starting right now."

                  She gave me a high five and we walked into our room.
            Without lights, we turned down the beds and I went into the
            john to take a leak. When I came out, I could see Jean's
            shadow in bed.  I wanted to hug her good-night, but was
            still feeling a little tender and, afraid of rejection, I
            slipped into my own bed.  "'Night, Jean."

                  "I can't believe you're not curious about what Margi
            said about you." Jean provoked me, assuring my night's
            sleep.

                  "About me?  Did you guys talk about me?"

                  "Well, I didn't get to say much.  Mostly Margi talked.
            I did tell her that we didn't have secrets from each other
            and suggested that she not tell me things she didn't want
            you to hear, but she said, 'Oh, what the hell,' or something
            like that."

                  "Jean!  You're gonna drive me batty at this rate."

                  "Well, she's definitely interested in you."

                  "Yeah, right.  Last year I couldn't get her attention.
            She was always hanging around with that other guy."

                  "You mean he was hanging around her!  Oh, she was aware
            of you all right, but because you're younger and a guest,
            she was afraid to let you know."

                  "Let me know what, for cryin' out loud?"

                  "That she was...uh, interested in you."

                  "I admit it.  I'm dumb.  What does 'interested' mean?"

                  "Maybe this'll help, my stud-muffin brother.  She asked
            me if you were a virgin."

                  "Oh Jesus!  You didn't tell her, did you?"

                 "You bet I did.  Girls are worse than guys when they
            think they're getting someone, some guy, for the first
            time."

                  "And you think she's gonna get me?"

                  "Only if you're willing, big boy...only if you're
                  willing."

                  "And, making believe all of this is true - which I
            doubt - how do *you* feel about this?"

                  "I'm jealous.  I'm thrilled too, but I'm really
                  jealous."

                  God, I'd *never* understand women!

                  "Jean, part of me is pleased.  That you're jealous...I
            mean, that you care that much.  And another part is asking,
            about WHAT?"

                  "Don't ask me to explain this, Billy.  I don't
            understand it either. I guess I'm jealous that you're
            interested in her...that's part of it.  But more, I'm
            jealous that she can do things with you and I can't."

                  "Do things?  Like in..."

                  "Yes!  Like in!"

                  Jean fluffed up her pillow and then slammed it down,
            turning away from me.  In the dim light, I could see the
            sheet had pulled up and exposed her tan back side and the
            her white panties.  Or were those panties? No, that was
            Jean's pale ass I was staring at.  She was naked as a jay.

                  I'd worn my briefs to bed, more out of propriety.  Or
            was it embarrassment?  I never wore underwear to bed and
            suddenly I was aware of my hardness, bent in my shorts.  I
            pulled them off slowly and dropped them by the side of the
            bed.

                  I spoke at her back in a low voice, "I've been trying
            to get into your pants for half my life it seems.  You're
            the sexiest woman in the world to me.  I'd do anything for
            you and you're jealous of some woman who's older than you
            even, who asked a few questions about me.  Talk about
            driving beyond your headlights!"

                  She flounced back, facing me.  Darn, now I couldn't
            look at her butt. "Oh no I'm not!  Women *know* these
            things.  She's hot for you. She's already asked if we could
            get together tomorrow night."  And then she mimicked Margi's
            deeper voice, '. . . so we can get to know each other
            better.'  I know what she wants to get to know better!"

                  My dick, I hoped.  I saw no inconsistencies in that.  I
            knew I loved Jean and was terminally hot for her, but my
            dick was interested in every good looking girl on the
            horizon.  That had nothing to do with love or anything like
            that.  This was all about my desire to penetrate some girl's
            soft, wet and itchy pussy.  Fuckin' in other words.

                  "That might be nice.  Do you wanna?" I asked.

                  "Heck yes, I 'wanna'," she replied, now mimicking me.
            "I like Margi too.  She's fun and outrageous - braver than
            me and I know we'll enjoy her. But I'm still a little
            jealous. Don't worry, it won't stop me from having a good
            time."

                  Then, turning away again, she concluded, "Now go to
            sleep, won't you? I'm completely worn out and I'll get
            cranky if I don't get a night's rest."

                  The muted washing of waves on the beach drifted through
            the palms and I could hear the soft night sounds as I lay
            back, hands behind my head, looking at the ceiling fan
            slowly turning.  Where was this going?

                  The only thing I knew with certainty was that it wasn't
            going the way I had dreamed it up.  But then, things rarely
            did.  The upside of that disappointment was grounded in the
            reality that when things didn't turn out the way I wanted
            them, what I got was far better than what I wanted.

               Grasping my hard-on through the sheet, I fell asleep.




            Chapter 19  Margi


                  Whatever tension there had been the previous day
            between Jean and me was quickly dissipated in a day of
            glorious diving on the Wall at Little Cayman.  Our group was
            uncharacteristically small.  Margi, of course was our Dive
            Master.  Ian and Jan joined us and that was it, just us five
            while Gladys' other guests choose to take the day off.

                  Margi said she'd like to dive with us and asked if we
            might stay well within a safe profile, for she wanted Ian
            and Jan to stay closer to her. My selfish desire to not be
            encumbered with less experienced divers was far outweighed
            by the fun of having Margi along to point out those
            fascinating sights visible only to the knowledgeable.  By
            the end of the day, we returned in high spirits, laughing
            and affectionately kidding each other.

                  "God!  Don't you two BREATHE down there?" Jan asked on
            the trip back.

                  Jean answered, "Sure we do, but not as often I guess."

                  Jan protested, "I don't see how you do it.  I get a
            little short of breath just with the excitement of it all.
            And then there's the work of the sport..."

                  "If you're *working* at it, you're not doing it right.
            It can be almost effortless and if you're not working hard,
            then you're not using up a lot of air."

                  They fell into a conversation with Jean explaining that
            they both carried far too much weight.  Soon their
            conversation had become a distant buzz. I'd tuned out.

                  A hand touched my shoulder and I turned to smile at
                  Margi.

                  "How's it feel to be back, Billy?"

                  "I can't tell you how alive I feel.  It's somewhere
            between wonderful and unbelievable"

                  "Jean told me that you thought I was a snot."

                  I was embarrassed.  "Well, 'snot' wasn't exactly the
                  expression."

                  "Stuck up?  Indifferent?"

                  I couldn't see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but that
            she might see me better, I lifted my glasses as I spoke to
            her.  "First, I'm sorry.  I apologize.  I had no right to
            expect anything special.  You've always been friendly and
            fair with me."

                  Margi reached out and touched my arm.  "No, no...please
            don't think of this as a complaint or a confrontation.  It's
            just that I want us to be friends and I don't wanna appear
            stuck-up."

                  I still had a lot of questions about her last year's
            behavior, but in the spirit of cooperation, I extended my
            hand and said, "Let's do be friends."  I wondered if I
            sounded as stiff as I felt?

                  She ignored my hand and grabbed me behind the neck,
            pulling us together for a quick kiss on the lips.  "It's a
            deal."

                  A deal?  Now I had a deal with two women, I thought to
            myself, but certainly different deals.  The earlier deal
            with Jean had to do with sexuality.  This one with Margi had
            to do only with being friends... or so I thought.

                  Back at Pirate's Pub as we were washing our gear, Margi
            proposed getting together that night after dinner to listen
            to a few new CD's she had recently purchased.  "I know
            you've heard "Enigma" but I've only caught a few cuts on the
            radio back home.  I'd love to hear all of it with you two
            guys."

                  I'd been thinking how Jean and I might spend a little
            time together but when she replied to Margi with warm
            enthusiasm, I put that expectation aside for the moment.
            And if I was entertaining any remote hopes of getting to
            know Margi better - you know, as in making out - it'd have
            to be another day.  Oh well. <sigh>

                  Sure enough, right after an extraordinary meal from
            Gladys, Margi came over to our table and said, "We still
            on?"

                  Jean glanced at me and then without waiting, said, "You
            bet!  I'm looking forward to it.  Aren't you, Billy?"

                  "Sure am," I replied with all the confidence of a man
            who has no idea just what he's looking forward to.  If
            nothing else, I was willing to let things unfold without my
            direction.

                  "Cool!  I'll get some CD's from my room and come right
            over to yours, okay?"

                  "See you there," Jean called to Margi's retreating
            back, then turned to me and asked, "Ready?"

                  "Uh...I'm ready to go *back*.  Is there somethin' else
            I should be ready for?"

                  Jean gave me a funny smile and said, "What do you
                  mean?"

                  "Nothin' I guess," I answered, getting up from the
            table, still with the faint notion that there was something
            I was missing.  But then, that wasn't a new feeling.  There
            were times when I thought that if an instruction book had
            been passed out on 'How to do Life,' I'd missed it.

                  It'd cooled off a little after sunset but the
            oscillating fans still created a downdraft of sweet, cooling
            air and I sprawled out under one, arms out thrown.

                  "I'm going to take another shower," said Jean.  "If
            Margi gets here before I'm done, entertain her, okay?"

                  I could hear her humming some tune in the bathroom
            through the open door.  A moment later, her clothes came
            flying out the doorway, piece by piece, landing in a
            disordered heap by her bed, panties last and on top of the
            pile.

                  If I got up and peered around the corner, I'd likely
            catch her nude, I thought and then smiled to myself.  We'd
            grown increasingly casual about dressing and undressing in
            front of each other, but I still thought in terms of trying
            to peek at her.  There seemed to be something naughty and
            delicious about peeking.  If I called her, she'd probably
            walk out nude, but it just wouldn't be the same.  Maybe I
            needed to get away with something. I was pondering that when
            I heard Margi's voice outside the screen.

                  "Hi, Billy.  Can I come in?"

                  "Sure, come on in, but I'm not dressed for company."  I
            suppose I offered that as an excuse for wearing nothing more
            than the shorts I'd left on.

                  "You naked?" she asked with a little excitement in her
                  voice.

                  "Nope.  Got shorts on."

                  "Darn," she said as she walked through the door.
            "Thought I'd get even for you gawking at my boobs last
            year."

                  "Margi, if it'd be an acceptable exchange - my being
            naked for the chance to look at your boobs - why I'll take
            'em off right now!"

                  She laughed but didn't reply to that.  Instead, she
            asked, "Where's Jean?"

                  I cocked my head toward the bathroom door and almost on
            cue, the shower started.  "She's freshening up."

                  "I think it's really neat that you guys are so open and
            comfortable with each other that you share a room this way.
            I wish I had a brother like you."

                  Gesturing toward the pile of discarded clothes on the
            floor, I said, "Jean's not exactly a neat freak as you can
            see."

                  "Wait'll you see my room," Margi replied, rolling her
                  eyes.

                  I caught that she didn't say, 'If you could see my
                  room.'

                  "Let me ask you something, Billy.  I mean, it's kinda
            personal. You mind?"

                  I shrugged.  "Don't know.  Guess you'll have to ask and
            find out. If it is, I'll tell you, okay?"

                  "Well, it's like this.  I'm a girl and I'm aware of
            what guys do, especially around other girls.  Good lookin'
            girls, I mean."

                  I nodded.  So far, I understood the words by not the
            direction. "Yeah?"

                  She wasn't making eye contact with me and I thought her
            cheeks were a bit pink.  Was she embarrassed about
            something?

                  "Uh...yeah.  It's like they're always, uh...checkin'
            'em out, you know?"

                  I shook my head to indicate that I didn't know.

                  "YOU know," she protested, "Like they're always looking
            at their figures and all."

                  "So?  I do that all the time."

                  "But your sister?"

                  "Why not?" I asked.  "Don't you think she's good
                  lookin'?  I sure do."

                  "Well...sure...but...I mean, doesn't it sometimes
            bother you that she's so good lookin' and you two are so
            close and all?"

                  "Margi, you think I'm gay or somethin'?"

                  "God, NO!" she almost shouted and then blushing, added
            in a quieter voice, "No, not you.  That's not what I mean.
            I mean, you're all guy and she's a...a really sexy girl and
            all.  Don't that bother you?"

                  I was beginning to catch her drift.  "I think I see
            where you're going with this.  You're wondering how I can
            travel with Jean and be so physically close to her and not
            be...excited?  As that it?"

                  Nodding, she answered, "Yeah, somethin' like that."

                  In an unusual and unbidden action, I walked over and
            picked up Jean's panties from the pile of clothes and held
            them to my face a moment before chucking them into her lap.
            "Things like this you mean?"

                  Margi gasped, literally gasped and stared at me with
                  round yes.

                  Jean's voice sang out from the bathroom over the sound
            of the shower, "Margi, he trying to embarrass you with my
            panties?"  She laughed. Margi was holding Jean's panties and
            looked confused.

                  Jean continued, "He did that with me a few years ago.
            Don't let him get to you."

                  I jacked my thumb toward the bathroom and rolled my
            eyes, then I said, "We tease each other a lot."

                  Holding up the panties, Margi asked, "Like this?"

                  "The first time he did it, he held them up to his nose
            and smelled them!" Jean stood in the bathroom door, a towel
            wrapped around her body and one on her head, her face shiny
            and beaded with water as she smiled at us.

                  "Smelled them?"  Margi asked, eyes wide with
            astonishment.  Then turning to me, she asked, "Did you
            really?"

                  By this time my face was burning.  Jean and I were
            frank with each other and save our little talk with Mom,
            we'd not come out of the closet about our mutual attraction
            to each other.  Where was Jean going with this?

                  Attempting to put on a bold face, I said, "Yes.
            Really.  I guess it's the pheromones."

                  "Fero...?"

                  Jean chimed in, "The scent of a woman's sex that
            appeals to a man, that turns him on.  You know, Margi.
            You've smelled yourself, I'm sure."

                  By this time, Margi was as red as I was and with Jean's
            accusation that *she* had a sexy odor, she began to fidget,
            looking back and forth between us and then at the panties
            she still held, perhaps wondering how's she'd get out of
            this.  She was probably used to guys hitting on her, perhaps
            even girls, but she hadn't ever encountered a situation
            quite like this, I was sure.

                  "No...well...sure, doesn't everyone...but who...I mean
            yuck, who *wants* to smell *that*?"

                  "Billy does," Jean offered, sitting on the bed and
            drying her hair. With her arms up, the tops of her breasts
            were pulled out of the towel a tantalizing bit.  I watched,
            fascinated, wondering what the hell kept the towel up
            anyway?

                  Margi looked at me as if to ask again, really?

                  "Sure he does.  Most guys do, don't they Billy?"

                  Jean was dragging me into this loaded conversation,
                  like it or not.

                  "I can't talk for 'most guys,' but it's true.  There's
            something powerfully attractive about the feminine odor.
            More than attractive, it's exciting.  Maybe I'm a perv.  I
            don't give a shit.  I love it."  I finished that declaration
            in a rush.

                  "I don't know...I mean, I was always so embarrassed..."
            Margi started.

                  "Yeah, me too," Jean piped in, "but my stud muffin
            brother here gave me a different view of it."

                  I was watching the towel slip by millimeters, hopefully
            waiting and not certain whether to be proud or embarrassed
            by Jean's disclosure.

                  "*That's* what we were talkin' about," Margi jumped in,
            "I never knew anybody like you two...I mean...brother and
            sister... and so close. You know?"

                  "Let me ask *you* something, Margi?"

                  Margi looked up at Jean and nodded.  I thought I could
            see Jean's areola peeking from the top of the bath towel.

                  "Do you think Billy's a sexy hunk?"

                  Christ, I wished they'd stop talking about me in the
            third person . . . like I wasn't even there!

                  Margi slid a glance in my direction and then idly
            wrapping Jean panties around her finger, blushed and nodded.

                  "Well, so do I," Jean declared.  "Because he's my
            brother doesn't change that."  She hitched the towel up an
            inch or so and continued, "He's also my best friend.  I'd
            trust him with my life and I think he feels the same way.
            There's nothing...well, almost nothing... that I can't talk
            with him about.  We share are feelings, Margi... our deepest
            feelings and I know he'll never judge me.  We LIKE each
            other.  Does that make sense to you?"

                  Margi was looking unfocused at the window, seeming to
            contemplate her thoughts.  "Yeah...it makes sense...it's
            just that..."

                  "Just what, Margi?"

                  "Well, I don't know...I mean, I never had a connection
            with anyone like that.  Someone I could trust, I mean.
            Someone who wouldn't take advantage of me, I guess."

                  "We *are* lucky, aren't we, Billy?"

                  More at ease now, I could smile and say, "A professor
            of mine often says, 'It's better to be lucky than good.'"

                  Jean rubbed her hair vigorously and the towel dropped
            into her lap, her full breasts bouncing, the nipples erect.

                  Margi gasped.  I stared.

                  Jean looked down, laughed and said, "Oh screw it."

                  It was silent for a few moments as we all were acutely
            aware of this fork in the road.  Jean had upped the ante.
            Now it was in our laps.

                  I ran with it.  "Don't you think Jean has beautiful
                  tits, Margi?"

                  Margi appeared to be reeling from one emotional blow to
            another, stunned, not knowing whether to run or stay.  She
            asked Jean, "Doesn't that bother you?  Billy looking, I
            mean?"

                  "It woulda a couple of years ago," she answered,
            mimicking Margi's pronunciation a little, "but now it
            doesn't.  In fact, I like it!"

                  "But it seems so...so sexual, don't you think?"

                  "I hope so!" Jean replied with a chuckle.  "That's some
            of the fun of it. Oh, there's a real comfort in not being
            tied up in false modesty, but above that, there's a sweet
            charge that we admire each other."

                  "It sounds like...I mean, I've always been so shocked
            at the idea of..."

                  "Incest?" Jean asked, cutting to the chase.

                  Margi again looked at the floor and made a ball of
            Jean's panties. "I wasn't going to call it that," she
            protested, "but SOMEthing like that I guess."

                  "Would it make you feel any better if I told you that
            Billy and I don't fuck?"

                  Jean almost never used the "F" word with me.  I was
            startled to hear it come out so easily.

                  Margi became beet red and sputtered in her confusion,
            "I didn't think...I mean..."

                  "Bullshit!"  Jean said with a large smile.  "You see
            Billy and I sharing a room, me half-naked in front of him,
            admitting that he turns me on...you you're telling me you
            didn't think...?"

                  It was getting too warm for me, despite the fact that
            we were talking about my favorite subject, me.  I fell back
            on what I did so well.  I ran. "You girls can continue this
            chat.  I'm going to take a shower." They hardly looked up.

                  Retreating into the bathroom, I stripped, and copying
            Jean's actions, I threw my shorts and briefs out the door as
            if to say, "Here's MY underpants, girls."  Brave, huh?

                  I strained to hear what they might be saying, but their
            voices were reduced to a muted murmur, so I gave up and
            jumped into the shower. Starting out hot and then finishing
            up with a cold shower, I felt physically renewed.  As often
            happened, I'd sprouted a woody in the shower, perhaps
            because I so religiously washed it.  So, drying off I took
            my time, waiting for the boner to subside.

                  In the periphery of my vision, I saw motion out the
            bathroom doorway. Looking that way, I saw that a dresser
            mirror gave me a view into the room and the movement I'd
            noted was Jean and Margi.  Jean was holding up a bikini top,
            apparently offering it to our guest.  She'd lost the towel
            and was wearing only a pair of panties, while Margi was
            still wearing her shorts and a T-shirt.

                  I froze, aware that I'd walked into a scene.  I
            couldn't hear all the words, just a few here and there.
            Margi, who's back was to the mirror, was facing away from me
            while Jean offered a frontal view. Margi was shaking her
            head and Jean said something like, ". . . he's in the
            bathroom." She pushed the bikini top to Margi again who
            apparently needed just that much coaxing, for she said
            something and then pulled her T-shirt off.  I was right.  No
            bra.  I could see her bare back and the side of one breast
            as she accepted the top from Jean.

                  As Margi was looking down, adjusting the front of the
            bathing suit top, I glanced at Jean and found her looking
            right into my eyes!  She knew! Before I could move, she
            looked back and Margi and made some minute adjustment and
            then picked up the bottom of the suit and said, "Here, try
            this."

                  Margi glanced at the bathroom door.  Had she looked in
            the mirror, she'd have seen me, but she didn't.  I turned on
            the faucet in the sink and began making noises as if I were
            occupied, still watching the scene unfold in the mirror.

                  Again, making up her mind, Margi quickly skinned out of
            her shorts and panties and for a moment, I saw her bare ass.
            That might be her best feature, I thought.  It was like
            Jean's.  She had a narrow waist and jutting buttocks that
            were made more striking for their whiteness atop her tanned
            thighs.  As she stepped into the bikini bottom, I had a too
            brief view of her pussy through her legs.  Her lips appeared
            to be shaven and they were wonderfully prominent as she bent
            over.

                  I looked again at Jean who surreptitiously motioned to
            me to come out. Jean appeared to have a plan and was in
            control.  I didn't ponder the decision.  Instead, I wrapped
            a towel around my waist and stepped into the room.  "Nice!"
            I commented, staring at Margi.

                  They both faced me as one and Jean asked, "So, what do
            you think, Billy?  How's Margi look in something more
            glamorous?"  As she said this, Jean pulled the bikini
            bottoms from the back as if to 'adjust' them but what it
            really served was to pull them into Margi's crotch all the
            snugger.

                  Pointedly staring at the outline of her feminine slit,
            I leered and said, "Glamorous indeed."

                  To my surprise, Margi didn't protest Jean's blatant
            actions. Instead, she pointed at my crotch and said, "No one
            had to pull your towel tight, did they?"

                  In the excitement of the moment, I'd forgotten my
            woody.  I didn't have to look down to know it was making a
            prominent and unmistakable tent in the towel.  At this
            point, I didn't care.  Actually, I was feeling a bit proud
            of myself and said something like, "Well, it's you guys'
            fault!"

                  Jean, clearly the instigator in this play, kept things
            alive by pulling the string tie of Margi's top with one hand
            and snatching it off her body with the other, completely
            baring her pert tits.  "There!  Now we're even." Jean
            laughed and threw the bikini top to me.

                  Margi tried to cover her breasts for a moment and then
            gave up in laughter.  I was mesmerized by the two sets of
            tits in front of me. Jean's were larger and mostly tanned
            while Margi's were a bit smaller but with larger nipples and
            paradoxically, very white.  It was clear that her tits and
            her ass didn't see the sun very often.

                  "Truth or dare time," Jean announced.

                  "God, what else'we got to lose," asked Margi.

                  "Nothing much, 'cept our psychological defenses," I
                  suggested.

                  "Whadya mean, psychological...?  Margi asked sitting on
            the floor, legs crossed Indian style.  I liked how it pulled
            the crotch of her suit into her pussy.

                  "It's like this," Jean explained, "do you mind so much
            right now that Billy can see your nipples?"

                  Margi glanced down at her turgid, erect nips and said,
            "Well... not so much right now.  I mean, YOU uncovered
            me...and 'sides, your tits are showing too."

                  "That's just what I mean.  You have a psychological
            defense or even a justification for showing us your tits.
            My being bare makes it all right and more, since I uncovered
            you, it's not your fault."

                  Margi nodded.  I could see where this was going and sat
            down to watch with interest, mindful of the fact that the
            towel was not covering much.

                  Jean sat, also Indian style.  Her dark pubic hair was
            clearly evident through the thin crotch of her panties.
            "So, the end result is that we...Billy, actually...gets to
            see your nipples.  But . . ." then she paused for dramatic
            effect, "what if..." another pause, "what if I said to you,
            say as you were wearing a blouse or a T-shirt . . . what if
            I said to you, 'Margi, pull up your shirt and show Billy
            your tits.'? Then how'd you feel?"

                  "Oh...that'd be different.  I couldn't do that."

                  "Sure you could, and you'd love it.  That's the
            psychological part. It adds an edge.  It makes it more
            exciting.  Guys just know this, huh, Billy? Guys just know
            that the partially nude woman is far more exciting than the
            completely nude one, huh?"  She addressed the last part at
            me, seeking confirmation.

                  I replied, "Sure.  Why do you think Jean's just wearing
            panties? She coulda put on shorts, even a shirt if she
            wanted.  She knows how sexy casual undress can be.  More,
            it's the tease.  The psychological game adds to the tease,
            which, of course, adds a delicious edge to anything sexual."
            Turning it back to Jean, I added, "Aren't I right?"

                  "Of course you're right, you horny lech," she laughed
            and reached over to flip up a corner of my towel, exposing
            part of my scrotum.  "And if he wasn't sporting such a
            boner, you'd be able to see it too."

                  "You said something about Truth or Dare?" I asked,
            attempting to keep things rolling and turning the attention
            away from me.

                  "Yes!  This is no simple strip poker game.  Heck, we
            each have just one article of clothing on anyway, so getting
            totally nude is no big deal, but if we do this right, we can
            add several layers to the excitement by psychological Truth
            or Dare."

                  Jean didn't ask Margi if she wanted to play, she just
            continued to set out the rules.  I'd seen Jean's daring and
            strong side before, but never so pronounced.  I was usually
            the aggressive one but now I was quite content to see this
            assertive side of Jean express itself.

                  She finished, "So you see, it's nothing more than a
            form of spin-the- bottle."

                  "Can I watch someone else go first?" asked Margi, a
            little skeptically.

                  "Okay, I'll go first," I offered.  I'm so magnanimous
            at times.  I spun the bottle and it ended up pointing at me.
            "Nothing there," I said as I spun it again.  This time it
            ended up between Margi and Jean, but closer to Jean. "It's
            you, kid.  Truth or Dare?"

                  "Oh goody," cried Jean.  "I want a dare!"

                  "How'd I know you'd say that?" I smiled at Margi.
            "She's such an exhibitionist!"

                  "Come on, come on, big boy...what's your dare?"

                  "Okay, smart ass.  As I recall, you trimmed your pussy
            before coming down here, right?"

                  Jean gave me a wolfish grin and nodded eagerly.

                  "Then, your dare, should you choose to accept it, is to
            pull the crotch of your panties aside and show us!"

                  I knew Jean would milk this one.  She'd do it.  Hell,
            she *wanted* to do it, but more, she wanted to make a
            production of it.  She wanted to add some psychological
            tension to it.  I'd counted on that.

                  "Billy!" she exclaimed in mock indignation, "My breasts
            are one thing. Even my panties.  But you want me to uncover
            my...my sex and SHOW myself to you and Margi?"

                  I nodded gravely.  "If you dare,"

                  "But...but that's private!  I mean, that's so intimate,
            looking right at my..." and then she added in a very small
            voice, "my pussy."

                  Margi's eyes were bouncing back and forth between me
            and Jean, first my eyes, then her crotch.  She squirmed a
            bit.

                  "Would you tell anybody?" Jean asked.

                  "Not me," I answered in my best sincere voice.  "But
            Margi, she might. How about it, would you, Margi?"

                  Margi looked at us with wide, round eyes and slowly
            shook her head, "Not me neither," she intoned.

                  "There, see, you're safe with us.  Now show us, wimp!"

                  Jean looked dubious as her hand fell to her lap.
            Curling a finger into the crotch of her panties, she paused.
            Jean was giving me an opportunity to crank up the current, I
            knew.

                  Pointing, I said, "Say, Jean.  Is the crotch of your
            panties wet? You pee or somethin'?"

                  She flushed.  Perhaps she hadn't wanted me to turn up
            the intimacy current so high after all.  But her finger
            stayed there, pulling the material a few millimeters, enough
            to see the outside of one lip.  Margi stared, hypnotized.

                  Jean turned to Margi and explained, "He's up to his old
            tricks again. He'd embarrassed me with that one before.
            You'd think I'd get used to it, wouldn't you?"

                  I went for another notch on the intimacy rheostat.  "Is
            that you I smell, Jean?"

                  "See what I mean?" Jean said to Margi, who looked like
            she was ready to fall through the floor.

                  Turning to me, she announced, "Yes, they are wet and
            I'll let you figure out with what.  And for all you know,
            that's Margi you're smelling."

                  At that point, Margi reddened again and cupped her
            crotch as if she might stem the flow of odoriferous
            pheromones.

                  I sensed that Jean had taken this as far as it would go
            on our first Truth or Dare.

                  "Okay," she said, "this goes against my better
            judgment, but here's my trim job!"  With that, she pulled
            the crotch of her panties well to the side, exposing all.
            No cheap flash here.  I admired her bare pussy lips slightly
            parted by her position as well as the lush dark curls atop
            her mons for the full twenty or thirty seconds she gave us.

                  Shaking my head in admiration, I passed the bottle to
            Jean who let her panties snap back into her crotch.  She
            held the bottle in her lap, stroking the neck idly as she
            grinned as us.

                  Nodding to Jean's masturbation of the bottleneck, I
            said to Margi, "She always had a serious case of penis
            envy."

                  "You're darn right!" Jean agreed.  "I always wanted to
            be able to write my name in the snow."  Then she turned to
            Margi, holding the neck of the bottle in her fist and
            pointing it at her, she asked, "You ever write *your* name
            in the snow?"

                  Margi surprised both of us by saying, "Yeah, several
            times," and then she laughed, "but I could never dot the i."

                  "See!" Jean said to me.

                  See what, I wondered?  Yet, I liked the image of Margi
            trying to pee her name in the snow.  I wondered if there
            were some way I could work that into Truth or Dare...even
            without the snow?  Keep 'em off balance, Jean had once
            advised me.

                  "Now *I* get to spin the bottle."  She emphasized the
            "I" part, as if that had special portent.

                  I knew she'd somehow manage to skip Margi and that I'd
            be the next 'volunteer.'  Sure enough, when the bottle
            looked like it was going to stop near Margi, Jean grabbed it
            and said, "And that was one of my allowed practice spins."

                  Practice spins?  I never knew anyone who could make up
            Truth or Dare rules faster than Jean.

                  The next spin pointed at her and the third spin pointed
            roughly in my sector.

                  "Another practice spin?"  I asked, already knowing the
                  answer.

                  "Nope, big boy.  That was for real.  You're IT!  Truth
                  or Dare?"

                  I already knew that no matter what I picked, it'd be
            embarrassing. So I'd leave it up to fate, in this case, the
            second hand of my watch. I'd occasionally employed this
            scientific technique when I'd narrowed a multiple choice
            down to two equally attractive answers.  The second hand
            between twelve and six was Truth and between six and twelve
            was Dare. The random chance of my watch's second hand
            decided my fate.  "Truth," I declared with far more
            confidence than I felt.

                  Jean commented to Margi, "I know most of Billy's
            secrets already, so I need to ask a question in an area he
            and I haven't explored before."

                  That's all she needed to say.  I could see it coming.
            The 'new' element here was Margi.  The bottle hadn't pointed
            at her, yet she'd be pulled into Jean's web, I just knew it.

                  Trying to fend it off, I attempted a first strike.
            "She's gonna ask me something embarrassing about you,
            Margi."

                  Syrupy sweet, Jean agreed, "Of course I am.  We all
                  know that."

                  I wasn't sure Margi knew, but I sure as hell did.

                  Turning to our hapless guest, Jean started, "Can you
            imagine, Margi?" and then she pointedly looked me up and
            down, "that this overgrown kid, this lunk, once told me he'd
            like to put his nose in my CROTCH!  Is that sick or what?"

                  By this time, Margi was getting the picture.  She could
            see Jean's flair for the dramatic, for overstatement, for
            hyperbole.  She glanced at me through lowered eyelashes and
            smiled.  Probably a smile of sympathy.

                  Her voice raising, Jean went on, "I mean, my own
            BROTHER!  In my *crotch*!"

                  I looked at that crotch.  Now it was definitely wet.  I
            checked Margi's and I think it was as well, but the color of
            the bikini bottom made it difficult to say with certainty.
            So, Jean's gambit had something to do with me and Margi's
            crotch.  I mean, how many possibilities can you come up
            with?

                  "So, here's my Truth question, Billy!  Ready?"

                  As if my readiness made any difference.  I rubbed my
            eyes with my fingers and nodded.  Hell, it was like asking
            the man on the gallows if he was ready.  Everyone knew what
            was going to happen.

                  Being sure to include Margi in this, she asked, "And
            you Margi . . . you ready?"

                  Margi was still holding her crotch, I imagined more to
            keep my nose out than her scent in.  She nodded dumbly.  Her
            areolae were puckered and pebbled.  So were Jean's.

                  "Now Billy, I know you had the hots for Margi last
            year.  You told me so, remember?"

                  Grasping at straws, I asked, "Is *that* my Truth
                  question?"

                  "Hell no!  We're just setting the stage here and if you
            don't admit it, I'll tell her right now everything you told
            me last year!"

                  I couldn't remember the details of what I'd said last
            year and afraid I might have been more lurid than I'd be
            comfortable admitting, I caved in, just as Jean knew I
            would.  "Yes, that's true."

                  "What's true?" Jean goaded me.

                  "That I had the...uh...'hots' for Margi last year," I
                  mumbled.

                  "You hear that, Margi?"

                  I heard a breathy yes in reply.  Jean knew darn well
            that Margi had heard me.

                  "So tell me, brother dear...and this is just a
            hypothetical question you understand...IF I'd asked you last
            year if you wanted to put your nose in *Margi's* crotch...if
            I'd asked you that, what would you have replied?"

                  My mind raced for an out here, partly for the fun of
            it, and partly because I was getting increasingly excited
            and increasingly sheepish.

                  "Nothing hypothetical about that question," I began.

                  Jean, in her best debating style, cut me off and said,
            "Answer the question please."

                  "Yes, you know I would.  I even said that last year."
            Actually, I don't think I ever said that, but what the
            hell...

                  Embellishing the lie, Jean picked up on it and said,
            "Yes, I remember that well.  You went on for the longest
            time how you'd like to sniff in her crotch and that you'd
            give anything to kiss her there." Turning to Margi, she
            added, "My brother's such a horn dog.  You'd better be
            careful of him, I tell you!"

                  Before Margi could reply, Jean picked it up again.  "So
            tell me, Billy. Now that you've got your poor innocent
            sister down to her panties, almost defenseless and now that
            you've maneuvered this guileless sweet girl here," gesturing
            to Margi, "into sitting in front of you in nothing but the
            skimpy bottom of my bathing suit...are you going to tell us
            that you've reformed?  That you're no longer interested in
            our...our girl places?  Do you expect us to believe that for
            a minute?"

                  "Of course I do," I remonstrated.  "I mean, think about
            it.  A guy as pure as me...as pure as the new-driven
            snow...a guy who helps little old ladies across the street
            and gives quarters to panhandlers . . . surely you can't
            believe that I entertain any thoughts other than chaste
            ones!"

                  Jean leaned over and ripped my towel aside, baring my
            hard-on.  It was almost quivering, so chaste were my
            thoughts.

                  "Now *there's* purity," Jean announced, pointing at my
                  woody.

                  I hung my head, still looking at Margi's crotch through
                  my lashes.

                  Adjusting the crotch of her own panties, Jean said, "So
            there!  Now we're ready for my question.  You ready?"

                  "No," I answered truthfully.

                  "Good," she replied.  "Here's the question..." and she
                  paused.

                  "You ever see a Truth or Dare game last so long on one
            spin of the bottle?" I asked no one in particular.  Margi
            shook her head.

                  As if I hadn't interrupted her, Jean continued, "...and
            the question is: Do you wanna go down on Margi tonight?"

                  Even though I saw it coming a long time ago, even
            though I had time to put on my emotional armor, it still
            struck with freight-train impact. Here's this girl we knew
            from last year, a girl we'd been diving with one day this
            trip, and we're near nude, sitting in a circle, me with an
            erection pointing to the ceiling and we're talking about my
            going down on her! This wasn't going the way I imagined it
            al all.  I was much better!

                  "Before I answer that - and I will - I'd like to ask
            Margi a few questions."  I knew Jean wouldn't object to this
            deviation of whatever loose set of rules pretended to govern
            this game.

                  "Of course.  You have that right." Jean pronounced with
                  authority.

                  Cripes, the only "rights" we had were those we made up,
                  I thought.

                  "Before I answer, there's a couple of things I'd like
            to know... so I can frame my answer better you understand."

                  "I understand," Jean said solemnly, again adjusting her
            panty crotch, flashing us in the process.

                  "Well, for starters, before I can speak to uh...'going
            down' on Margi..." I paused and she flushed, adjusting her
            own crotch, "I need to know, uh, Margi...have you had
            someone go down on you?"  I left it sexless on purpose.  I'm
            not sure why.

                  Margi looked at Jean as if to ask, do I have to answer?
            Jean nodded and made a get-on-with-it motion with her hands.

                  Margi looked at me a moment and then looked down,
                  nodding her head.

                 "Is that a 'yes'?" I asked.

                  She nodded again.

                  "Margi, I can't hear you," I protested.

                  "Yes!" she whispered, almost in a hiss.

                  Pushing it, I asked, "Many times?"

                  "Yes!" Louder.

                  "And now, most important, Margi, did you LIKE it?"

                  She pulled her legs up and leaned on her knees, her
            breasts smashed against her thighs.  She opened her mouth as
            if to speak, but nothing came out.

                  "Margi, I need to know.  My answer depends on what you
            say.  Did you LIKE it?"

                  She mumbled something.  I couldn't make it out.  "I
            couldn't hear that, Margi."

                  She looked up and almost shouted, "I LOVED IT!"

                  The tension in the room was thick.  I looked at Jean
            and she gave me a thumbs up sign.  Margi wasn't looking at
            anything, except perhaps that same spot on the floor.  I
            wonder if she had it memorized?

                  "Now I'm ready to answer your question, Jean.  But just
            in case I've disremembered it, would you ask it again?"

                  "I'll be glad to.  Do you remember what I asked,
                  Margi?"

                  Head down, she nodded vigorously.

                  "Good.  Then I think it'd have more erotic impact if
            you told Billy what my question was.  Why don't you do that,
            girl?"

                  Still speaking to the carpet, Margi said, "You asked
            him if he wanted to uh...go down on me."

                  "Tonight," Jean prompted.

                  "Uh...tonight," Margi added.

                  "Is that a question or a proposal?" I asked.

                  Jean smiled.  No one said anything for a moment.

                  "Margi?" I prompted.

                  Turning to Jean, Margi asked, "Do I hafta?"

                  "Margi, Margi.  You don't 'hafta' do anything.  This is
            a game.  We can say or do anything we want."  She paused and
            then added, "Just as long as its consensual and safe."

                  "Margi, it's okay to say no." I said, "Remember, it's
            just a fun game and we're all playing together.  No one's
            the victim here."

                  "Proposal," Margi mumbled.  And then without prodding,
            she said in a louder voice, "It's a proposal!"

                  "That Billy go down on you tonight?"  Jean asked.

                  "Oh shit!" Margi cried, "I don't know what you guys're
            gonna think of me, but I'm so on edge, I'm so damn horny I'm
            about ready to bust.  I really DO want Billy to go down on
            me.  Like now."

                  "And you, Billy?" Jean asked.  "You still haven't
            answered my question or even Margi's question.  Do YOU wanna
            bury your head between her thighs?  Do you want to tongue
            her pussy, Billy?"

                  By way of answering, I stood and pulled Margi to her
            feet, turning her back to Jean and held her by her
            shoulders.  I pointed to Margi's swimsuit bottom and without
            further prompting, Jean reached up and pulled them off her
            hips, letting the bikini puddle about her ankles.

                  Margi looked a question at me and I nodded.  She
            stepped out of them and now stood before me, totally nude.
            I held her by the shoulders at arm's length and looked her
            up and down.  Her dark-haired bush stood out in marked
            contrast to her white belly.  A thin line of hair pointed to
            her belly button.

                  Glancing down, I saw Jean pick up the swimsuit bottom
            and hold it to her nose.  "Ripe," she declared and threw
            them up at me.

                  I pulled them to my face as Margi squirmed before me.
            "Yes, quite ripe," I agreed.  "Now I know who I was smelling
            a little while ago."

                  Margi flushed again.

                  "Do you want me to leave?" Jean asked.

                  If she really wanted to leave, she wouldn't have asked.
            I knew that. But more, I *wanted* her to say.  She was a
            part of this seduction and I wanted her to stay with me, to
            stay with us.

                  "No, don't leave," I asked.  "After all, we've just
            spun the bottle twice."





            Chapter 20  Conclusion, A Resolution - Of Sorts


                  A sudden knock on the loose-fitting screen door sounded
            like a gun shot, loud and jarringly unexpected.

                  With a faintly British accent, a young man's voice
            called out, "There's a phone call for Billy or Jean."  And
            in another moment, "Anyone there?"

                  Jean and I looked at each other. I lifted an eyebrow
            that asked, 'Do you know?' She shrugged her shoulders as if
            to say, 'Beat's me.'

                    A naked Margi had slumped to her knees, one hand
            thrust between her thighs and the other unsuccessfully
            trying to cover her breasts.  We were all uncomfortably
            aware that whoever it was had only to step off the walk to
            look through the unshuttered screens to see the three of us,
            mostly naked.  We remained frozen.

                  "Anyone home?" the disembodied voice asked again, and
            again knocked.

                  Suddenly jarred from my inaction, I called out, "Okay.
            Be right there."  Turning to my sister and our friend,
            Margi, I held my hands out, palms up and whispered, "Stay
            here.  I'll be right back."

                  Jean placed her hand on my arm and asked in a
            surprisingly loud voice, "Where'd you think we were going to
            go?"

                  "Shit, I don't know...but wait anyway, okay?"

                  Jean smiled and nodded.  "Hurry back."

                  I slipped into some sailing shorts and a fresh T-shirt.
            As I was leaving, I glanced back to see Jean kneeling beside
            the cowering Margi. It occurred to me that if Margi wasn't
            concerned about her nudity, she might understandably be
            concerned about her job at this remote and high-priced dive
            resort.

                  Whoever had brought the message was gone when I went
            outside. Threading the darkened paths that connected our
            octagonal beach house with the larger central building, I
            reflected that only our Mom knew where we were. Entering the
            main structure, I walked into the bar where our hostess,
            Gladys, glanced up and nodded her head toward a phone
            receiver off the hook. "Your mom," she offered.

                  "Hello?"

                  "Billy?  How are you?  You and Jean okay?" It was Mom.

                  Damn, I should have called to let her know.  "I'm
            sorry, Mom..." I began but she cut me off.

                  "Don't worry about it.  That's okay.  Gladys already
            told me that everything's fine; I just wanted to hear your
            voice.  Or Jean's."

                  "We're fine."  And then searching for something to say,
            I asked, "Remember Margi, the Dive Master from last year?"

                  "Oh, yes.  I remember Margi.  I'm sure *you* do!"

                  It amazed me how my mother could put so much suggestive
            meaning into her voice.

                  Before I could frame an answer, she went on, "Gladys
            said that the three of you had gone to listen to CD's after
            dinner.  Having fun?"

                  Cripes.  Half a world away. Did we have any privacy?  I
            looked at Gladys and she smiled a conspiratorial, almost
            wolfish grin.

                  "Uh...yes.  We were..." and I didn't know just what to
            say. "We were...uh, playing a game."

                  "Truth or Dare?" Mom asked.

                  What the hell is this, I wondered?

                  "How'd you know?"  I asked, perplexed once again by my
            mother's seeming omniscience.

                  "I didn't, but it's what came to mind.  Probably
            because that's what I'd do in the same situation."  She
            paused and then went on, "You and Jean explore 'your
            situation' anymore?"

                  Our 'situation.' I was embarrassed.  Even though we'd
            had an open, heart-to-heart conversation about sex, Mom and
            me, I still found it difficult to be comfortably candid.

                  "Uh...nothing new, Mom.  We're okay, honest."

                  "Baby, I'm not checking up on you two.  I love you both
            and have confidence that whatever you do, it'll be all
            right.  Now get back to your party, tell Jean I love her and
            say hello to Margi.  And oh yes. Tell Margi not to do
            anything I wouldn't do...and that leaves her a lot of
            latitude. Bye." she ended up laughing.

                  "Bye, Mom."

                  I turned to leave and Gladys said, "Tell Margi to
                  relax."

                  "What?"

                  "Just relax, have a good time...that's all."

                  Once again I had the feeling that I wasn't completely
            in the know about what was going on.  Were we that
            transparent?

                  I was mulling that over in my mind as I walked the
            darkened path back to our room.  I noticed that the blinds
            were drawn and the room apparently dark as I let myself in.
            There was a yellow, dim light, a candle flickering on the
            night stand.  One of Margi's CDs was playing, a soft,
            melodic sound that I didn't recognize, but I liked.

                  "Hi, Billy," two voices intoned, almost in unison.
            "Welcome back," added Jean.

                  "Margi, Gladys says, 'relax'."

                  "What?"

                  "Relax.  She says to relax.  That's all.  You know what
            that's a about?"

                  "Uh, I'm not quite sure.  But she thinks I'm too
                  tense."

                  As I dark adapted, I saw Jean was sitting on the floor,
            legs outstretched, her back against the foot of the bed and
            Margi was leaning back against Jean in turn, between her
            legs.  Jean was holding Margi loosely, one hand over a full
            breast.  Both were naked as best I could see in the
            flickering light.

                  "We've been talking," Jean added, in response to the
            question unasked.  "Margi's been telling me about her sex
            life."

                  Margi squirmed, I thought uncomfortably, and looked
            down, not saying anything.

                  "Isn't that so, Margi?" Jean asked, nudging her breast.

                  "Oh, Jean...don't," she murmured so softly I almost
                  missed it.

                  "Oh, Jean, yes.  Billy would be pleased to hear what
            you've been telling me."  And then turning to me, she added,
            "Our little Margi's really quite experienced, Billy.  Shy,
            but experienced.  Right, Margi?"

                  She murmured something.  I couldn't hear her, so I
            kneeled between her splayed legs and said, "What was that,
            sweet girl?  What'd you say?"

                  "She'll tell you, Billy, but first she's got to be
            relaxed.  That phone call scared her.  Is everything all
            right?"

                  I nodded and offered no further explanation.

                  "Tell you what, Billy.  Pull up the ottoman there
            behind you and sit facing us.  Put your legs over Billy's,
            Margi so he can move in and be close.  Okay?"

                  Perhaps it was because of the dim, flickering candle
            light or perhaps Jean and Margi had come to some trust or
            understanding while I'd been talking with our mom because
            she didn't demur at all. Sliding up toward them, my own legs
            splayed, Margi lifted hers and dropped her thighs over mine.
            In turn, my legs were draped over Jean's.  My dark
            adaptation and the candle light enabled me to appreciate the
            furry core of Margi's pelvis in the process.

                  "Hmmmm, nice, Margi."

                  "Are you commenting on Margi's pussy, Billy?"

                  Margi gasped and I felt her trying to close her legs,
            but she was stuck in an open and exposed position.

                  Not waiting for a reply, Jean went on, "Tell Billy what
            you told me a few minutes ago, Margi."

                  "Oh, I couldn't..." she began but was cut off by Jean
                  immediately.

                  "Sure you can, girl."  Jean cupped both her breasts in
            her hands and rolled her nipples between thumb and
            forefinger.  She then turned her attention to me.  "I'll
            start." she began.  "Margi has always wanted to acknowledge
            her body as well as her sexuality.  She told me that making
            out in the dark is fun certainly, but not exciting.  She's
            attracted to the excitement.  Aren't you, girl?"

                  Margi glanced at me and then tried to look up at Jean
            but couldn't manage fully. Jean nudged her again and she
            nodded.

                  "Aren't you?" prompted Jean.

                  "Yes."

                  "Yes, what?"

                  "Yes, I love the excitement."

                  "And?"

                  "And...I'm too embarrassed to ask for it."

                  Patiently, "For what, Margi?"

                  "For someone to tell me what to do." she said softly
            and then gaining some confidence, added in a louder voice,
            "I want to do things. All sorts of things, you know - sexy
            things - but I'm too shy.  It's not that I don't want to try
            things, everything, it's that I'm so embarrassed.  If
            someone, you, *makes* me do things...well, then I can't
            refuse.  It's like it's not my fault.  Then it's okay.  Know
            what I mean?"

                  "Good, Margi.  Now let me ask you this.  Are you
            willing to tell Billy what our deal is?"

                  Margi nodded, studying the rug in front of her, not
                  looking up.

                  "ARE you, girl?"  Jean nudged her again.

                  Margi suddenly looked up at me and stared for a long
            moment before saying,  "Yes, I am."

                  I touched her for the first time.  I placed my hands on
            the tops of her thighs and slowly stroked up and down.
            "Then tell me, Margi. What's the "deal' - the one you've
            made with Jean.  I'd like to hear you tell me."

                  She took a deep breath and blew it out.  Then another
            before beginning.  "I told Jean that I was so excited, so
            hot a little while ago - when we were playing Truth or Dare
            - that I would have done anything, and Jean asked,
            'Anything?'"

                  She took another breath and continued.  "When she asked
            me that, I was excited and afraid at the same time, but I
            guess I was more excited then frightened so I said, 'Yes,
            anything.'"

                  Jean continued to roll Margi's nipples in her fingers.
            They were swollen and dusky.  I hunched a little closer and
            ran my fingers over the tops of her thighs, ending just an
            inch away from her public thatch. "Go on," I urged.

                  "She asked me if I'd be your slave for the night, the
            two of you's slave.  I wasn't sure what that meant, but
            somehow it made me wetter."

                  She looked at me again and asked, "Know what I mean?"

                  "The slave part or the wetter part?" I asked.

                  "Uh...I figure you know about the wetter part.  I'm
            horny. But do you know about the slave part?  What does that
            mean to you?"

                  "No, Margi.  The real question is: What does that mean
                  to *you*?"

                  She looked down, nibbling on her lower lip and brushed
            the top of her pubic hair with her fingers.  "Well, I
            *think* it means that I have to do what you tell me to do,
            that I have no choice."

                  I traced a line across the top of her pubic bush,
            meeting her hand in the process.  She started to pull away
            but I grabbed her hand and pulled it back to the top of her
            pussy and held it there.

                  "Margi, it's important to know that you *do* have a
            choice. You always do.  This is a game.  That's all it is.
            And in this game, we play that you're a slave, our slave,
            and that you have to do the things we say.  Keep in mind, if
            you agree, we'll expect you to keep your bargain.  We'd
            never hurt you, but we might embarrass you and we just might
            make you even hornier.  But you do have a choice.  Do you
            understand that?"

                  After I removed my hand from hers, she resumed touching
            the area around the top of her slit, idly moving her fingers
            through her bush.

                  Oddly stronger, she went on.  "Oh, I know that.  And
            I've already made the decision.  That's the "deal" I made
            with Jean.  I'm yours for the evening and I have to do what
            I'm told."  Glancing back, she added, "Isn't this right?"

                  Jean answered promptly, "That's right, girl and the
            first thing I want you to do is play with yourself.  I'll
            play with your tits.  You play with your little cunny. Yes,
            show Billy your pussy."

                  Jean has assumed a firm, directing voice and I took my
            clue from that.  "While you're playing with yourself, Margi,
            tell us...when did you start masturbating?"

                  She ran the index finger of her right hand up through
            her slit.  In the yellow light, I could see her finger
            glistening with her wetness.

                  "Um...I'm not really sure.  A long time ago.  I was
            young.  I mean, very young.  Maybe eight.  Even seven.  I
            don't remember.  All I knew was that it felt really good and
            I knew I wasn't supposed to be doing that.  I didn't know
            why.  I don't remember anyone telling me not to touch
            myself, but I knew.  Maybe my girlfriend told me.  I knew it
            was naughty, but it felt too good to stop."

                  "Ever get caught?" Jean asked.

                  Margi slipped two fingers into her slit and then rubbed
            her juice on my hand as I toyed with her pubic hair.  When I
            looked at her, her eyes were glistening, intense and wide
            open.  She smiled a little.

                  "Several times.  It was embarrassing, but it also was
            exciting.  I think I *wanted* to get caught."

                  "Did you cum then?" I asked, holding my hand up to my
                  nose.

                  Her eyes glittered as she watched me.  I smelled her
            and then touched my tongue to my fingers.  She jerked.

                  Now a little more breathless, she answered, "I could
            cum as long as I can remember.  Just some were more powerful
            than others."

                  I wondered what she was trying to tell us, but before I
            could frame another question, Jean asked, "Tell us about the
            powerful ones, girl. Can you remember what made them that
            way?"

                  "Yes, I can...but I'm a little embarrassed to talk
                  about it."

                  Bending forward, I used my finger tips to pull open the
            lips of her pussy, watching her finger roll her clit.

                  "Then all the more reason to tell us," I interjected.
            "It's the stuff about which we are most embarrassed that's
            often behind the greatest erotic charge."

                  "Exactly," chimed Jean.  "Remember, you're our slave,
            so tell us everything girlfriend."

                  I presented the wet tips of my fingers to Jean.  She
            sniffed them and said, "I'm beginning to understand why you
            keep snitching my panties, Billy."

                  Margi looked back and forth between us, straining her
            neck trying to see Jean behind her.  I nodded to her.  "Go
            on."

                  "You guys make me forget what I'm saying..."

                  "The most powerful cums," I prompted.

                  "Oh yeah!  Well, it had something to do with the fear
            of getting found out.  That some one would catch me.  The
            closer I got to discovery, the more powerful my cums got.  A
            couple a times I got caught with my hand in my panties as I
            was about to cum and it shot me over the edge.  I just
            doubled up and groaned, it was so strong."

                  I scrunched a little closer again.  Margi had to lift
            her thighs even higher as I moved in.  She looked down and
            saw my cock, inches from her.  She tentatively reached out
            to touch me and I said, "In a moment. But right now, I want
            to look at you.  I want to touch you. Have you ever been
            this open for anyone?"

                  She shook her head and continued to look at my cock,
            now bobbing. I ran my finger through her slit.  It was
            swampy and the musky scent of her was filling the room.

                  "And have you *wanted* to show yourself this way? "

                  She nodded her head vigorously.  "All the time!  I
            don't understand it, but I *want* to be seen.  I put myself
            in positions where I'll be exposed and then almost die of
            embarrassment when I am.  And I keep doing it.  I get so hot
            sometimes I have to..."

                  "Masturbate?" Jean prompted.

                  "Yes.  I *have* to get off.  I even stick things up
            inside of me." She paused and then added, "God, I can't
            believe I said that!"

                  Turning her back to the moment, I asked, "Can you feel
            it in your pussy when Jean pinches your nipples?"

                  I nodded to Jean.  Margi gasped with the intensity of
            Jean's pinch. "Can you feel that in your little cunny,
            Margi?" Jean asked, tugging on her swollen nipples.

                  Margi bobbed her head and groaned, as she slid down a
            bit, pushing her cunt at my fisted cock.  I slid the head of
            my dick up and down through her wet slit and said to her,
            "Margi, bring yourself off for us. Show us how you cum.  We
            want to watch you, your pussy, your sweet cunt. Watch it
            drool.  Make it foam, girl.  Jill off for us."

                  She looked wildly at me for a moment and then
            surrendering, she threw her head back, her neck arched, tits
            thrust forward and slipped the fingers of her right hand
            into her cunt as she began rolling her clitoral hood with
            her left hand.

                  I began to tap on the engorged and jutting tip of her
            clit with the head of my cock, much as I'd done with Jean
            once a few years before. And like Jean had done, she began a
            grunting moan that sounded like, "Mmmm, uh, uh, uh," over
            and over, thrusting her hips at me, plunging her fingers
            into her swampy core.  My desire was surging.

                  As she slid forward again, I noted that Jean had pulled
            her hands away from Margi and into her own crotch.  At least
            it looked that way. I made eye contact with her and she
            looked almost pained. Her brows were knitted and she was
            biting her lip.  Her eyes were open and wild with passion,
            unfocused.

                  Margi had slid almost flat with her legs wrapped around
            me.  My cock had been pulled down into the crack of her ass
            as I mindlessly began humping at her sexy, wet warmth.

                  Jean pulled away and shifted position, now kneeling
            over Margi's head, her hand buried in her own cunt, frigging
            away, almost frantically.  Margi's unsupported head was
            thrown way back, neck hyper-extended, mouth open.  When I
            caught Jean's eye again, I nodded toward Margi's open mouth
            and Jean threw her leg over and lowered her cunt to Margi.

                  Margi immediately opened her mouth and started to suck
            on my sister's pussy as she continued to frig her own cunt,
            now with three fingers jammed in and still blindly humping
            the air.

                  Jean was moaning and grunting as she fingered her clit
            and Margi mouthed her slit.  No less intense, Margi
            continued to moan incoherently as she fucked her self with
            her bunched fingers, my hard cock rubbing the crevasse of
            her ass cheeks.  I wondered if she'd ever taken it up the
            ass.

                  I wrenched myself back, pulling away from Margi.
            Without looking, she pulled her mouth away from Jean long
            enough to moan, "No, please no."

                  I kneeled between Margi's legs and pulled them up,
            pushing her knees toward her shoulders, baring her open and
            swollen sex as she crammed her fingers into herself.  Just
            below was her ass hole, fringed with dark hair.  I was
            desperate to sink my cock into something.

                  "Margi, I'm going to fuck you.  You okay with that?
            Want me to sink my hard cock into you soft cunt, girl?"

                  She pulled back, took a breath and almost screamed,
            "YES! Yes. FUCK me--I want it--I need it.  Fuck me, please!"

                  Unthinking, I leaned over her, pushing the head of my
            cock below her fingers.  She pulled out and grabbed my cock,
            guiding it into her core as I slowly sank into her, no more
            than a head's depth.

                  "Want more than the head in there, girl?" I asked,
            trying to drive her crazy."

                  Jean's voice entwined itself in our reverie, "Fuck her,
            Billy! Fuck her while I watch.  Yes, fuck her while she eats
            me.  Oh, God.  Oh, shit.  This is so hot.  Put it in.
            More!"

                  "More, Margi?"

                  "Oh GOD, don't tease me.  I'm gonna die.  Push it in,
                  Please!"

                  I eased in another inch, maybe two.

                  "Yesss," she hissed and humped at me.

                  "Yes," echoed Jean.  "Oh Christ, Billy.  I've wanted
            this and I've been afraid of this for so long.  Fuck HER,
            Billy and think about fucking me!"

                  Bending forward and thrusting her hips out that she
            might see Margi better, Jean added, "Come on, girl.  Suck
            me.  Eat me while my brother fucks into your cunt.  Give me
            the fuck energy he's giving you. Fuck me with your tongue."

                  I lost all restraint as I pulled back and then slammed
            into her as hard as I could.  I touched something back
            there, in the back of her cunt.  She grunted and bucked
            under me as I began a trip-hammer pounding, kneeling between
            her splayed thighs, my eyes locked with Jean's as we climbed
            higher and higher onto some impossible pinnacle. I lost
            track of time.  I lost track of Margi.  It came down to just
            the two of us.

                  There was just me and there was just Jean, eyes locked,
            fucking and fucking, lost in the moment, lost in each other.

                  She started first, as her head fell back and she
            grabbed her own breasts, humping Margi's mouth, her moan
            drawn out to a rising crescendo.   I remember thinking for a
            brief moment that I'd watch this erotic sight, but my own
            runaway orgasm caught me by surprise.

                  I couldn't remember what we'd decided about her risk.
            I pulled out and fisting my cock, I stroked it once, twice
            and a third time when I exploded.  The first thick white
            rope of cum landed on Jean's thigh. The next on Margi's chin
            and throat and the last on her chest and belly. A few more
            dribbles ended up in my hand.  I looked at the warm white
            puddle in my hand and then reached out and wiped it across
            Jean's breast.  Her nipple was pebble hard.

                  We fell silent.  Frozen in the tableau, Jean sat back
            on her heels, freeing Margi's face.  I fell back on my heels
            and looked at the wreckage.  The only sound was our panting.
            I couldn't really tell which was mine.

                  Margi slowly lifted her head and make eye contact.  We
            looked at each other but didn't talk.  Couldn't talk.  We
            were drained.

                  Margi ran her finger through a glob of my cum on her
            chest and looked at it.  She looked back at me and then
            placed the tip of her finger in her mouth, tasting me.

                  Jean watched silently and then similarly picked up a
            clot of my jism with her finger and tasted it as well.

                  The CD was still playing, but I'd not heard it in the
            past while. Gradually I heard again the waves on the beach
            as I reentered reality.

                  I looked down.  I was still holding my cock, now soft
            and shriveled.  It looked almost pathetic, that once proud
            weapon now reduced to a soft, wet noodle.

                  Jean cupped her cunt and held it for a moment before
            asking in a whisper, "Well, stud, how do you feel now?"

                  "There are no words."

                  "We finally got to 'do it' Billy."

                  "Yeah.  I wonder if we'll ever get any closer, Jean?"

                  "I don't know, Billy.  Maybe not.  Maybe this is it.  I
            just don't know.  But I am sure of one thing..."

                  "What's that?"

                  "We'll never be able to go back.  You can't go home
                  again."

            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Epilogue

                  Because we're still very much alive, Jean and I,
            there's no real ending to this story.  Still, for now, it
            needs to end somewhere and this is it.

                  I've taken the remembering, the reliving, the healing
            of it all as far as I needed to.  I have other things to
            write, things aside and away from Jean.

                  More, I have a jazzy life to live and the vibrancy of
            the moment, the here and now, is more vital than the sweet
            memories of what once was.  Given then and given now, it's a
            no-brainer.  I'll go with the moment any day.

            BillyG
