
     MY SISTER JEAN

     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 pant
     leg.  If that's all you think about and you live in such
     closeness with another person, the rewards are frequent.  Yet,
     looking was one thing, but not enough.  I wanted to up the ante.
     I wanted so much to smell her again and more, I wanted to talk
     with her about it! I just wanted to talk dirty.  And heaven
     knows, I wanted to watch her pee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

          I was 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.


     END 1


