MY JEAN
BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
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Chapter Eight -- Victoria's Secret
"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 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 and made
still more taut by her exaggerated bending. Checking immediately
for lines, I noted she was wearing high-cut panties.
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 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 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?"
Perhaps 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, fantasies and anal eroticism.
But we'd never actually "done it." We'd not done the deed. More,
I thought, because we enjoyed the prolonged seduction, the tease,
than we had any thought of abhorrent incest. Jean, as it turned
out, had reservations.
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 . . . 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 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 coming 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 . . . 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 women. By older, I meant Mom's
age . . . you know, older.
Mesmerized by the firm, long legs of a woman with streaks of
gray 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 in
the window of Victoria's Secret.
"Hmmmm, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 . . . 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 (which I never saw again. Didn't do much
for me either.)
When I handed her the slip-of-nothing 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 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 it for you again today . . . if 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 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 8
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