MY JEAN
BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
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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 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 .
. . aloof, superior and occasionally condescending. As with most
of us, the position of apparent 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 lecher .
. . 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 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 voyeuristic 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 and
the sweetest 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. It was so cold that my pecker had
attempted to crawl back into my abdomen. My cremasteric muscles
- that thin sheet of muscle that envelopes the spermatic cord and
testes - 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'd point and laugh at me. (I've sense come to see the
wisdom that warns: "It's okay 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 take a leak? Yep. That's
me. I'd almost come in my pants from smelling her and
once, when finding some of her pale yellow 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 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 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 bird 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 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 back down the mountain
toward our camp site, now barely perceivable.
In genuine relief, I moaned, "Ah," 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. "Hmmmm, 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 down while squatting in the same continuous motion.
My position, downhill from her, afforded me a bore-sight view
right between her thighs. Now for the second time in my life, I
had a clear view of her closely-cropped, curly, auburn-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 dribbled
out into the dust. The dribble increased and then a stream,
clearing her 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 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
continued to gain force and the hissing sound increased as
the gusher of ran over a rock and pooled at my feet. I was
struck numb. Not having the presence of mind I have now, 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.
Rather, she squatted there, 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 cleaver 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. She nodded only, with a little half smile.
Leaning forward, looking under her shorts bunched and pulled
apart above her knees, I softly patted her 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,
sound and looking up, I noticed that she'd closed her
eyes. I continued to "pat" her.
The lips of her 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 4
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