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My Sister Jean and I, Chapter Eight
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.
My Sister Jean
Chapter Eight - Victoria's Secret
by BillyG, September 1995
"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 made still more taut by her exaggerated
bending. Checking immediately for panty lines, I noted she was
wearing high-cut, French-style underpants.
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?"
Perhpas 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 think, because
we enjoyed the prolonged seduction, the tease, than we had any
thought of abhorrent incest.
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 cumming 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 grey
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.
"Hmmm, 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 Chapter Eight
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