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My Sister Jean and I, Chapter Four
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
For those of you who have read the first three chapters of my
burgeoning sexual involvement with my sister, Jean, you know that it
has been more cerebral than actual (my masturbating in front of her
once notwithstanding). Yet, the deliciously stimulating fact of the
relationship was that it was such an ongoing tease, slow in
development, highly charged and most important, I think, rooted in a
genuine affection, love and trust.
Having established my early kink, lurking outside the bathroom door
when Jean would pee, I'd slowly intensified the eroticism, part by
design, more by accident. What I hadn't fully appreciated early on
was Jean's interest in things sexual, and more specifically, peeing.
The following account moves into that area. If, of course, anyone
finds this discussion to be "off center" or "in poor taste" the
solution is patently obvious, ins't it?
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 a few feet
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 assumed 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 letch . . . 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
voyeurism/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 . . . a mad dash into the icy water, intense shrieking
followed by an even faster retreat to our tent. It was so cold that
my pecker had attempted to crawl back into my abdomen. My
cremasteric muscles - that thin sheet that envelopes the spermatic
cord and tests - 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
would point and laugh at me. (I've sence come to see the wisdom that
warns, "It's Ok 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 cum
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 Jay 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 way back down the mountain toward our
camp site, now barely perceivable.
Shrugging my shoulders to shake out the tight muscles, in genuine
relief, I moaned, "AHHH," 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. "Hmmm, 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 hips. Now
for the second time in my life, I had a clear view of her
closely-cropped, curly, brown-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 peeing
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, on reflection, I forgot
to touch it, forgot to dip my finger into the pool and taste it. I
just stared, dumbfounded 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 again. Rather, she
remained squatting, 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 clever 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. With a
little half smile, she nodded to me. I couldn't believe it! She was
giving me permission to wipe her pussy after she'd taken a leak . . .
right out here in broad daylight. 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
between her lips 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.
<End of Chapter Four>
<For those wondering, "Is that it? Is that all there is?"
The answer is no. The story goes on. In the long hours
driving home after this hike, Jean and I have the opportunity
to become honest and vulnerable with each other in depth . . .
to a degree that astounded me. I was then, and remain, dazzled
by the beauty and sensuality of that girl. So . . . I'll
attempt again to deal with the arcane skills required to
navigate this space.>
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