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Date: Sat, 26 Aug 1995 07:17:51 UTC
Subject:  Repost: My Sister Jean VIII (mild adolescent m/f incest)
Lines: 345

 
 
     Apparently a quirky modem sent ASCII text in such a manner that it was
uuencoded by my server.  (Or at least I hope that was the problem.)  I'm
attempting to repost this chapter in non-code. 
 
 
 
 
My Sister Jean 
 
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 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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