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My Sister Jean and I, Chapter Nine
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.
The story continues. My sister Jean and I were drawn together by a genuine
love and affection, exacerbated by a deep sexual longing. Our problem was
not that we were attracted to each other. Rather, we were uncertain and
confused and buffeted about by our own code of morality that was boggled by
our incestuous desires. This is the way it was . . .
My Sister Jean
Chapter 9 - Love and Affection
by BillyG, September 1995
"Billy, would you like a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade?" Jean gasped,
leaning against the front door of our home. The bicycle ride back up the
hill from "the flat lands" in mid day was markedly harder and hotter than
the down-hill ride that cool, early morning. Each, unwilling to be second
best in our sibling rivalry, had pushed and pushed on the way home. We'd
arrived totally winded and drenched.
"Jean, babes (that was a secret term of endearment we had for each other),
that sounds wonderful . . . it just might save my life . . . but let me
serve you. You look beat and after all, you're just a girl!" (I'll blame
heat-stroke on such a risky jibe.)
In a sugary-sweet tone she replied, "Oh, no-no . . . I'll get it sweet
brother. After all, you did win." And then in a slightly more ominous
voice, "I owe you!"
Oh shit, I thought . . . owe me what? But I was too winded to argue or
even attempt to be clever. Sinking into a deck chair I waved imperiously
to her and said in my most superior voice, "While your up, won't you get me
a Grants . . . uh . . . I mean a lemonade?"
Looking out over the valley in front of me, I again enjoyed that we lived
in such a beautiful place - a relatively isolated country spot but just
fifteen minutes' drive to the University. I was feeling smug and very
excited, for I was again reviewing the mind-boggling experience of my
sister Jean modeling some thong-style underpants for me just an hour ago.
The image of her firm and curvy butt was etched in my forebrain. I was
still buzzing, for she'd intimated that she would model them again for me.
Hearing Jean's step behind me, I held up my hand for the anticipated glass
of ice-cold lemonade. My erotic reverie was shattered by the chilling
shock of ice cubes and lemonade dumped down my shirt front.
"Just a girl, huh!"
With a shriek, I bolted out of the deck chair, ice cubes falling out of my
clothes and clattering on the deck. Momentarily frozen immobile, I stood
there, bent over, arms away from my sides, just shivering from the icy
shock. Peals of her laughter pulled my head around to watch Jean, empty
glass in hand, holding her side in mirth.
"Oh, Billy, you look like a drowned rat . . . whatsa' matter . . . your
little thingie all cold?"
It *was* funny and yes, my "thingie" was cold. Recalling those mornings of
skinny dipping with Jean . . . the mad dash into the frigid waters of
Fourth of July Lake when my penis tried to crawl back into my belly, I had
a mental picture of how I looked. I just gave up any hope of maintaining
my dignity.
Fishing a last ice cube from my shirt, I gently tossed it to Jean and said,
"You look much too comfortable. Two can play this game you know."
We'd been together so long we both knew what was going to happen. Jean
wouldn't have stayed around laughing at me had she not expected, even
welcomed, my anticipated retaliation. There was an almost languorous pace
to this game that had an edge of excitement, for I didn't really know how
deep it was . . . where we were going with it.
I thought of how close we'd grown in the last months. How we'd come to
share our truth about ourselves, about our sexuality and our mutual
horniness. There was no more games about *that*. But what was yet
uncertain was our physical involvement. Oh, I knew deep down that I wanted
to jump her bones . . . to ravish my beautiful sister. I was in lust with
her, but those years of cultural conditioning straddled any erotic path we
might explore, standing as a repressive centurion who might have worn a
Gothic sign board proclaiming, "Thou shalt not."
Jean had already told me that as much as she loved me and was attracted to
me . . . even sexually . . . she remained totally uncertain and
apprehensive about *us* fooling around. "Billy," she had reminded me
several times, "you're my brother and that's incest. I can't do that.
Know what I mean?"
I did know and I didn't think she really meant it. We'd skirted around
this topic enough times that I'd come to believe that she was just saying
what she was *supposed* to say . . . that deeper within her dwelled the
same fascination that gripped me.
I knew she wanted to play. We just had to work out the rules . . . but
without talking about it. Our play occurred by multiple approximations . .
. a type of relationship braille. So I wasn't surprised when she turned
and ran inside, shouting over her shoulder in her mocking, sing-song voice,
"Naa-naa, na-naa-naa!"
I didn't hurry; I knew where she'd be. Walking upstairs and past my room,
I turned the knob of the closed door to Jean's room. She was standing in
front of her full-length mirror, arms crossed in front of her and elbows up
as she paused, pulling off her shirt. From the door I could see the
contrast of her white bra strap against her tanned back and in the mirror's
reflected image, the bottom of the bra's cups pulled up, partially
uncovering the under swell of her breasts. The afternoon sun slanted
through the gauzy drapes, casting a soft pattern of muted colors in the
room, accenting the shadows of her body.
I could see her eyes looking between her crossed arms as she stood frozen.
There was no alarm, just a calm expectancy that silently asked, "What now?"
"Don't move!" I told her with a quiet assurance that surprised me. "Just
stay that way."
The side of her shorts were undone and partially open. I could see a flash
of her panties as I walked up behind her. Then, looking into her eyes, I
said, "Let me."
She nodded. I'm not sure either of us knew just what it was that she was
going to allow me to do. I gently pulled the shirt from her hands and
finished tugging it over her head, briefly hung up in her pony tail.
Still looking at me, she dropped her hands to her sides and stood passively
as I examined her . . . both the real and the reflected images in the soft
yellow light one sees just before a rain storm.
"You have beautiful breasts, Jean."
She smiled and made no comment, even as I unhooked her bra. Loosened, the
cups fell an inch, just exposing the pink areolae and nipples. As I pulled
the straps off her shoulders, I watched the crinkling of her areolae as the
nipples hardened. I slid a hand under her arm and cupped a breast,
catching her nipple between my thumb and index finger, rolling it. Her
breast was heavy in my hand.
She shuddered and whispered in a barely discernable voice, "I can feel that
down there."
Pulling off my damp shirt, I hugged her from behind, holding both of her
heavy tits in my palms and looking into her eyes. "Down there?" I asked.
"Oh, God, yessss."
My vision narrowed to our reflection. In the blurred half-light,
half-shadow, I saw Jean, breasts bared and held by my hands. I was
watching someone else . . . part of me was a voyeur in a sepia vision. I
knew this was uncharted waters for us. We'd watched each other masturbate
on a very few occasions and we'd confessed our horniness to each other, but
I'd never held her in my arms. It had mostly been near-arms'-length
encounters.
I could feel her buttocks pushing back against me. My hard on was pushing
into her buttocks as I slid my hands down over her stomach and under the
elastic of her panties. My entire awareness was centered in the gentle
curve of her belly. The tips of my fingers were brushing the top edge of
her public hair and on each downward caress, I cupped more of her mons.
"Ohhhhh . . . that's so . . ." and she didn't finish. Her head rolled back
and rested on my shoulder. Her eyes fluttered closed. The room was quiet
except for our breathing. Nothing was said. She had surrendered.
Searching with the fingers of my right hand, I found her slit, wet and
pulpy. I'd slipped my fingers into her pussy only once before, the day on
the trail out of Fourth of July Lake. Now I was there again and half out
of my mind with excitement and desire.
I slid down her body and kneeling behind her, I beheld her back and hips
and buttocks. Through the almost transparent panties, I looked at the deep
shadow between the cheeks of her ass. Slowly hooking my fingers in the
elastic of the waist band, I pulled her panties down over her buttocks, and
off her hips to her ankles. She lifted one, then the other leg as she
stepped out of her damp underpants. I looked at them a moment and then
held them to my nose, taking in her body odor . . . the sweat and the musk.
The power of it shook me.
Then, holding her hips in my hands, I looked at her ass. I'd been admiring
her butt for ever it seemed. I'd been brushing up against her every chance
I could, letting my hand fall from her waist to her buttocks, trailing my
fingers across her back side. Jean knew how I adored her ass. I suspect
it pleased her to be adored even though she pretended it was "no big deal."
There was a gap between her thighs right below her pussy and I could see
the soft hair of her cunt between her legs. I traced a pattern up from the
inside of her knee to to the velvet inner thigh, pausing for a moment to
say, "Open your legs for me, Jean."
For a long moment, perhaps thirty or forty seconds, she didn't move.
And then she moved one foot away from the other by no more than an inch or
two . . . but it was enough. I millimeter would have been enough. At this
point, her surrender need be no more than symbolic to be real.
"I loved it when you flashed your ass at me today in the store."
Her only reply was a momentary tensing of the muscles of her buttocks.
"Do it again, won't you?"
"Flash you?" she asked.
"Yes, bend over for me . . . way over . . . show me yourself. Show me you
secret places . . . right now."
She slid her hands up her thighs and lightly cupping the under curve of her
ass, she slowly bent over. In the half light, most of her bottom was in
shadow, but the posture of giving, of showing, was so erotic I could only
stare. Speechless.
"Let me look at you," she asked.
I was surprised. I had no idea she'd want to look at my body. "N - naked?
I almost stuttered.
"Of course," she answered, still bent over.
Of course, I thought. What else. "All right. Sit in that chair. We can
watch each other."
Jean sat, bringing one heel up to the edge of the chair, opening her crotch
to my gaze and said again, "Let me look at you."
I looked down and smiled, for the front of my shorts were bulged out. My
cock hurt from the hardness and being trapped, bent in my pants. Wanting to
draw this out . . . the sibling equivalent of a strip tease, I slowly
unbuttoned the cut-off 501's, exposing my pubic hair. I'd neglected to
wear underwear that day . . . a rare thing on those days when I'm riding my
bike.
With a soft chuckle she asked, "Can you get them off, Billy?"
My answer was to slowly push down the shorts, bending my cock until it
sprang free, snapping against my belly.
"Oh!" she gasped as her hand slipped between her thighs, driven by some
unconscious need.
Turning obliquely away from her, I grasped my cock in my fist, sliding it
up and down, moving the soft skin over the hard shaft.
"Yessss . . . show me Billy. Show me how you masturbate. I know you do it
all the time, don't you? What do you think of when you do it? Do you ever
think of me?"
I recognized the change in her voice. She was running on . . . a stream of
conscience . . . as she traced a finger through the wet, soft lips of her
pussy. We'd been here before . . . that place where we gave ourselves to
the moment. Turned on by the moment, the voice, the images.
Stepping closer to her, stroking my impossibly hard cock, I stood
straddle-legged and said something like, "I think of nothing else. All I
can see is your legs, your breasts, your ass . . . all I can remember is
jacking off with you, seeing your naked body at the lake, watching you pee
. . . watching you touch yourself. I beat off every day, often twice,
thinking of you. I think I'm obsessed with you."
I fell silent for a moment, still slowly stroking my cock. The wet noises
of her fingers in her pussy suddenly sounded loud. The musky odor of her
pussy juice rose to fill my nose. It was heady. I was drunk with lust and
the desire to fall between her legs . . . to taste her.
"What do you want to do, Billy? I mean right now . . . what can we do. I
want you so much I hurt . . . but we *can't* do it . . . you know we can't.
What can we do?"
We'd lost our eye contact. When I glanced up from her open pussy, I saw
her leaning forward, eyes hooded, mouth a little open, staring at my cock
as I continued to fist it's full length. She wet her lips and stared.
Then, all I could see was her lips.
Another step forward and I was pushing my knees between hers. Slowly I
hunched my hips toward her and the head of my cock touched her wet lips.
She glanced at me. I nodded.
Her lips opened and her mouth sank slowly over my prick.
"Ouch . . . no teeth! Just your lips and your tongue . . . that's it. Now
let it slide in as far as you can . . . breathe through you nose . . .
yesss, just like that!"
Her hands slid up and cupped my balls for a moment and then pushed my hand
away. She slowly stroked the base of my cock as she ran her tongue over
the head and underside of my shaft. My knees grew weaker. I felt faint.
Watching her masturbate my cock with her delicate hand, watching her lips
form an "O" around the head of my cock, her cheeks pulled in with the
suction . . . I couldn't last. I didn't want to last. Shit, I could think
of anything.
My entire waking awareness was narrowed down to my sister's mouth on my
cock. It probably lasted thirty seconds . . . perhaps less. "Gonna' cum,
Jean . . . can't hold it . . . JEAN . . . here it comes!"
Now, in retrospect, I don't know if I were warning her so she could get
away or, more likely, that she might enjoy it the more. In any case, she
never slowed. She masturbated me through spurts of my hot cum, holding my
cock right inside her lips. "The better to taste you," she explained to me
later.
I wasn't aware that I'd slipped to my knees. I had a grey out and came to
kneeling between her legs, my face resting on her thigh. Jean bent down
and held my shoulders, hugging me, murmuring, "Oh Billy . . . Billy . . .
Billy . . . that was so nice . . . that was beautiful . . . thank you,
thank you."
End of Chapter 9
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