

     MY SISTER JEAN

     BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)

     _________________________________________________________________
     


     Chapter Eight  --  Victoria's Secret
     

          "Look at the ass on that one, will you?"

          That got my attention.  I'd been reading the Sunday paper
     over coffee and fruit with Jean at a street-side cafe.  We'd
     ridden our bikes down from our home in the hills behind the
     University in the cool of early morning and had stopped for
     coffee.

          Glancing up at Jean, I followed her gaze over my shoulder
     and turned to look at "the ass" she was pointing out.  In our
     increasing comfort with each other, we'd come to accept our
     growing sexuality and that, at root, we were both voyeurs of a
     sort.  Jean knew of my fascination with girls' butts and
     delighted in pointing out to me those she thought were of merit.

          She, in turn, was an inveterate crotch watcher.  The day
     before at the mall she'd nodded toward a guy sprawled out near a
     fountain.  He was wearing jogging shorts that were pulled up into
     his crotch, outlining an impressive bulge.  "Is that all cock,"
     she asked, "or do you think he's got huge balls?"

          The girl Jean had pointed out to me was bending over a
     nearby table, cleaning the glass top.  I was peripherally aware
     that she was wearing a loose tank top, but what captured my
     interest was the shorts. They were white, very short and very
     tight with the crotch pulled into the crack of her ass and made
     still more taut by her exaggerated bending.  Checking immediately
     for panty lines, I noted she was wearing high-cut panties.

          I grinned at Jean, giving her a subtle thumbs-up sign and
     whispered, "Boy, I'd love to sidle up behind her and grab her
     hips."

          She smiled and rolled her eyes as if to say, "Yeah, yeah,
     yeah . . . we know."

          Sensing she wanted to chat, I sat back in my chair and
     sipped my coffee, looking at her over the rim of the cup.  Her
     hair was wind blown and her shirt was a little damp from our last
     sprint.  Looking at her breasts, I admired her nipples.  Despite
     wearing a sports bra - she'd flashed me that morning before
     leaving home  - her nipples, when erect, were very evident.
     Pointedly staring at her prominent nips for a moment, I looked in
     her eyes and said, "It's not cold."

          "Then I must be horny?" She finished.

          "Jean, you're always horny!"

          "Billy, I am not!" she retorted but with a smile that gave
     the lie to her denial.

          Glancing over my shoulder  - the girl was gone  - I said,
     "Well *I* am."  And, as if indignant, added, "Thanks to you!"

          Placing her spread hand flat on her chest she replied in a
     surprised voice, "Moi?"

          "You are a piece of work, woman . . . yes, you!"

          Abruptly changing the subject, she dropped her hands to her
     lap and asked, "Are you sweaty?"

          "As a horse," I replied.

          "You're so graphic, Billy.  And you know what I think of
     when you mentioned a sweating horse."

          "A sweating mare?"

          "A horse's cock!"

          "Jean, I know we're both fairly kinky at times . . . but a
     horse?"

          Flipping her hand in an impatient gesture, she answered,
     "Not *really* but there are times when my imagery takes over.
     Like, the sexual power of a horse's cock comes to mind, you
     know?"

          "You mean like me slipping it into the ass of that waitress?
     The one with the beautiful butt?"

          Perhaps because Jean knew that I'd never "slipped" it into
     anything, save my hand, she gave me a puzzled frown.  She
     replied, "I guess so . . . something like that . . . not real,
     but sexy and powerful.  Like, I don't really want a horse's dick,
     but I like the thought of it . . . it gets me wet.  Does the
     thought of you doin' it to that girl's behind get you wet . . .
     er, hard?"

          Answering with an exaggerated gesture, I "adjusted" my cock
     in my riding shorts and smiled.  Jean and I had come out of the
     closet with each other . . . admitted our fascination with sexual
     things, our masturbation, peeing fantasies and anal eroticism.
     But we'd never actually "done it." We'd not done the deed.  More,
     I thought, because we enjoyed the prolonged seduction, the tease,
     than we had any thought of abhorrent incest.  Jean, as it turned
     out, had reservations.

          I was crazy about Jean.  Because she was a little older, I
     deferred to her in many ways, most of them unthinking.  She was
     later to tell me that because I was assertive and appeared so
     self-confident, she'd started to re-think the unquestioned
     assumed roles.  We'd let down all sorts of protective fences on
     our camping trip to Fourth of July Lake. We'd always accepted our
     love for each other.  It was only in the last months that we'd
     come to accept our sexual feelings for each other. Still, it
     remained mostly verbal.  And teasing.

          Constrained by the outward conventional morality around our
     house, we took some delight in an unconventional exhibitionistic
     teasing. Jean, who was most enamored with her own breasts, took
     delight in flashing me. Bending over wearing a loose top, running
     from her room to the bathroom wearing a skirt and bra, idly
     running her fingers inside the edge her blouse into her cleavage
     . . . all these things were done to entice and tease.  And I
     loved it.  Still, she knew that my major interest was her
     beautiful full butt.  She professed ignorance.  "Oh, come ON.
     Who's interested in BUTTS?"  she'd ask.

          She knew the answer.  Me.  Often it was evident that as some
     reward or sign of affection, she'd honor my fetish.  She'd
     suddenly sit in my lap, squirm for a moment, and then run away,
     laughing.  Once, when running from the bathroom wearing only her
     bra and panties, she met me (ever watchful) in the hall.  Before
     disappearing into her room, she suddenly pointed her back side at
     me and bent way over.  Her already brief panties almost
     disappeared in the cleft of her ass, and outlining the pooching
     bulge of her mons.  I retained the after image of that for a long
     time.  Several times, playing with myself on the toilet, stroking
     off, that image came to mind and pushed me right over the edge.
     I'd think to myself, "Jean, I'm coming for you."

          So we'd progressed to that point in our honesty where we
     admitted our masturbation and our kinks, but we appeared to
     remain hesitant and a little fearful of actually "doin' the
     deed."  Oh, I knew I really wanted to be sexual with Jean . . .
     to touch her, to play with her, but I was afraid she would think
     it was "really sick."  We circled the edges of our desires,
     admitting some, denying others.

          Jean broke into my brief reverie, "Let's stop at the mall on
     our way home.  I'd like to check out Victoria's Secret."

          "Oh, ugh.  Where they have all that, uh . . . girl stuff?"

          "Don't be a jerk.  I've seen you checking out my lingerie.
     Actually, maybe you're more interested in the soiled ones!"

          "Busted!" I grinned at her.

          We rode our ten-speeds back to the shopping center, me
     contriving to ride behind Jean, admiring her trim, firm ass and
     thighs.  Now, close to noon, the shops would be open, but because
     it was Sunday, the hard-core shoppers wouldn't be out in force
     yet.

          Locking our bikes in the racks on the edge of the mall, we
     walked slowly, staying in the cool shadow of Macy's, checking out
     the other morning people.  I've always maintained that the
     healthy, alive folks are out early.  This was no exception.
     Falling into our comfortable role of people watching, we admired
     the bodies of many of the other strollers.  Some were young, and
     some were older.  Most were fit.  I find particularly appealing
     the looks of healthy and fit older women. By older, I meant Mom's
     age . . . you know, older.

          Mesmerized by the firm, long legs of a woman with streaks of
     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."

          "Scairdy cat," she chided as she dashed out in some sort of
     a mid-thigh sleep shirt (which I never saw again.  Didn't do much
     for me either.)

          When I handed her the slip-of-nothing panties she gasped and
     said, "Is this *all*?"

          "Quit whining, woman, and put 'em on, will you?"

          Holding my eye for a moment, she make up her mind and spun
     back into her booth.  "Don't go 'way," she admonished me.

          Go away?  She kidding?  By this time, I was ready to risk
     jail.

          "Excuse me, please," said a woman as she brushed past me
     walking into the changing area.

          Oh shit!  Jig's up, I thought.  Game's over.  And on the
     heels of that thought, Jean's doors swung open and there she was!
     Naked . . . or nearly naked.  Wearing only the thong panties!
     She stepped out into the hall, took a few steps toward me, and
     when six or seven feet away, swung around and posed with her back
     to me.

          I could see the waistband of the thong and the vertical
     strap disappearing into the cheeks of her ass.  Standing with one
     foot cocked, the asymmetry of her ass was so incredibly
     unexpected, and sexy that I was struck numb.  My throat was dry
     and my chest was tight.  Forgetting other people, forgetting
     getting arrested and going to jail . . . I stood there,
     entranced.

          There was my beautiful sister, showing me her ass in the
     most provocative way.  While I'd seen her butt several times, it
     was never with this sexual charge.  Never so blatant.  I was
     transfixed.

          Suddenly she bent over, pulled the thong strap out of the
     crack of her ass, and showed her ass hole!  I must be dreaming.
     This couldn't be Jean!  Jean's sexy certainly, but she wouldn't
     show me her bung hole in a public store like this.

          Then she was gone.  The entire thing took maybe fifteen or
     twenty seconds.  I was rooted there in the doorway, mouth agape.
     The same woman emerged from her cubicle a few moments later and
     saw me standing there, looking astonished and dumb.  She glanced
     over her shoulder to see what I was looking at and then passed
     me, smiling.  Did she know?

          I had to go outside to breath.  I felt I was about to burst.
     Jean continued to astonish me, to amaze me and delight me.  I
     felt so full of love for that girl, I couldn't see straight.

          A few minutes later, Jean emerged with a small bag and said,
     "I thought you'd be out here. Wanna know what I bought?"

          Hoping it was the thong, I said, "The white bra?"

          "Yes, that too, for me, but what I really bought was for
     you."

          Brightening, I said, "The thong!"

          Nodding, she said, "The thong . . . and I might have a
     chance to model it for you again today . . . if Mom and Dad go
     the City as they thought they might."

          That set my mind spinning.  It sounded as if we were making
     a date . . . a date to get nearly naked.  We'd had our little
     encounters and they'd all been spontaneous.  I'd wanted to "talk
     dirty" with Jean for a long time, and when we did, it wasn't on
     my terms . . . it just happened.  We'd "fooled around" a little
     and again, it wasn't when *I* wanted to.  We'd never, ever talked
     about getting together.

          The erotic possibilities were vivid.

          "Well, do you *want* to or not?"  Jean sounded a little
     annoyed.

          I realized that again I'd been thinking so intently that I'd
     not answered, except in my head.  Slipping an arm around her
     shoulder, I pulled her tight to me as we walked and said, "Jean,
     you must know that I'd *die* to have you model that bit of
     nothing again.  The answer is YES!  Yessss, I really do want to."

          Mollified, she grinned at me and said, "Well, let's get
     going, It's a long pull home."


     END 8
