MY JEAN
BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
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Chapter 9 -- Jean's Surrender
"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 stunningly 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 Jean modeling some thong-style 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 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 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 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 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.
Suddenly, it was very quiet. 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 whispered 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 as I walked up behind her.
Then, looking into her eyes, I said softly, "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 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 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 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, 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 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 butt 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 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 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 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 and
I could see the soft hair of her between her legs. I traced
a pattern up from the inside of her knee to a 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. One
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 your secret places . . . 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 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 slowly, 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 . . . 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 suddenly sounded loud.
The musky odor of her 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 . . . 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 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.
I couldn't 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 . . . yet it seemed to
go on and on.
"Gonna' come, 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 come, holding my cock right inside her lips,
stroking my shaft with her hand.
"The better to taste you," she explained to me later.
I wasn't aware that I'd slipped to my knees. I had a gray
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 9
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