MY JEAN
BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
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Chapter 1 -- Jean's
Holding up the soiled 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 . . .
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 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 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
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 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 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, aroma.
Smelling her 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 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 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 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 hitting the porcelain bowl. Other
times she'd make a louder noise when her squirting 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 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 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 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 into the yellow water. That's it. I was
hooked. My had me by the balls on a downhill drag and she
didn't even know it. Jean's 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 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 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 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 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 . . . but I
couldn't openly let her know I was doing this. That angered her
me 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 as a tool of seduction.
Think about it for a moment. Panties. They've *always*
carried a charge. giggle about them and 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 . . . . . . juice . . . skid
marks. My 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 I see? Did you 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 and I wish
you'd fall into the 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
from me. Her 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 and her front, right down to her belly
button. Her 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 swayed. At that moment, they weren't the of a young, teenaged girl; they were the 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 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 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 fell open again. And again, I could plainly see her
bare with their very prominent, eraser nipples.
Still grinding my cock against the hard table edge and
watching her 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
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 and Dad, or her 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
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
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