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My Sister Jean and I, Chapter Five
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.
This story continues to deal with teenage sexual behavior between a
boy and his sister and the emergence of their fascination with
peeing.
If you find this topic to be offensive to your sensibilities, please
resist the inevitable outrage by . . . not reading the ruddy thing.
BillyG and Jean had been nudged closer and closer to the truth of
their own sexuality and, in the burgeoning trust and affection they
were experiencing, were approaching a physical intimacy as moths to a
flame . . . hesitant, tentative yet compelled.
Billy, ever eager - read horny - was quick to admit his
fascination with his sensual sister. Jean, no less interested, was on
the brink of surrendering.
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 terribly
sexy and extremely provocative. Most baffling, it had seemingly just
happened, out of nowhere. I was jazzed 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 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? Hmmm. 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 . . . why 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 words piss as in take
a . . .' 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 hers.
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 hers, 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.
"Hmmm, 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. More often, 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.
leared 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 magninimus.
"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 am 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?"
"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
did 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.
Just 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, "Comon, 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."
<End of Chapter Five>
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