MY sister JEAN

Chapter 1 -- Jean's panties

Holding up the soiled panties I'd lifted from the wash

hamper and with an exaggerated voice of wonder, I asked,

"What're these?"

My sister, Jean--older by two years--blushed and shot

back, "You jerk! What do you think they are? Give me my

panties...right now, Billy!"

Jean and I had always been close and shared most

things, but the conservative atmosphere that surrounded

things sexual in our home had placed a "forbidden" charge on

things like underwear...and bathrooms . . . and (gasp),

private parts. Added to the mixed messages we'd received,

was the clear awareness of our parents' sexuality, for, when

my father returned from a long sea trip, they'd always "get

it on." Ostensibly, their sexuality was not in the open, but

in fact, they were careless and we were aware of both of

them as sexually active people. But we never spoke of it.

That heightened awareness was to add spice to our own little

games.

Holding up the white cotton panties to the light, I

examined the crotch in an affected fashion and said, "Hmmmm,

what's this white stuff?"

"BILLY! Stop that this minute, you little rat. God!

You're dirty."

I loved her discomfort and as her kid brother, I loved

this fleeting moment of power. Sensing I was on a roll, I

held the panties up to my nose and made a loud sniffing

sound and added, "Boy, this smells sexy."

Would this stratagem work? I was dragging out of the

closet a specific point of sexual tension that had been

building between us for a long time. It started for me, I

think, when we were wrestling and I had become aware of the

distinctive "girl smell" Jean had, seemingly coming from her

bottom. I'd wrestled in earnest but as usual, I was

distracted. Everywhere I touched, it seemed, was soft or

feminine. She, on the other hand, wasn't distracted. She'd

finally whipped me with a scissor-lock. I was trapped with

my head between her thighs, looking up into the tight crotch

of her shorts.

"Give? Give?" she chanted.

"Never! Not on your life," I insisted. Give up?

Heck, I wanted some more time so close to her secret girl spot. Reaching around her bare thigh, I tried to insert my

hands between her legs near the stretched bottom of her

white shorts. I'd already made out that all she had on were

short shorts and panties glimpsed under a too-large, baggy

sweat shirt.

Making a tickling sound as I touched the inside of her

thigh, I got her laughing a moment, relaxing her strong leg

muscles. I lunged-- not back and away-- rather, I pushed my

head in and higher up, bringing my nose right up to her

bottom.

"Now I really gotcha," she chortled. "Give?"

Got me? I smiled to myself. Who's got whom here?

"Never!" I mumbled from the confines of her sweaty crotch,

inhaling her smell, the sexy, girl aroma.

Smelling her panties that I'd snitched from the soiled

clothes hamper was always a turn-on, but smelling her this

closely, in real-time, was almost overpowering. I forgot to

struggle and gave myself over to the erotic moment. Seeing

the leg of her panties under her shorts, a few light brown

hairs sticking out, I wondered, has she any idea what I'm

seeing?

Jean suspected something was going on. "What are you

*doing*, you little shit?" And then she shrieked as I began

to run my finger tips under the pant leg, touching her panty crotch, all in the guise of tickling.

"Tickle, tickle, tickle," I lied, trying to make my

mind work on two separate levels. Pretend we're wrestling,

but bury my nose in her crotch. I was desperate to smell

her, to touch her, to see her sex and I didn't really know

how to go about it...other than this game.

Still shrieking with laughter and repeating,

"No...no...no . . . ," she was trying to keep me pinned and

get away from my tickling at the same time. "Oh, God,

don't. I'll wet myself. Stop. Please stop."

Wet herself? What did she mean? It was then that I

became aware of another smell, the unmistakable faint scent

of pee. Cripes, was she peeing in her pants? Craning my

head back, I attempted to look at the white crotch right in

front of my face and could see a wet place as big as a plum.

Then, before I could see anymore, she quickly disengaged and

ran from the room, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

As I'd often done in the past when I knew we were

alone, I'd listen at the thin bathroom door. Once again I

heard the familiar hissing of her pee hitting the porcelain

bowl. Other times she'd make a louder noise when her

squirting pee splashed in the water and I couldn't figure

out why it changed from time to time. Did she sit

differently? Could she really aim it? I didn't hear the

noisy toilet paper roll as I anticipated. Rather, it was

quiet. Straining, I imagined I could hear her breathing, but

it may have been me. After several minutes of silence, I

then heard her pull on the toilet paper, a long pull

followed by another short silence.

The bathroom door knob rattled, surprising me, for

she'd not flushed the john. She *always* flushed -- that

was my signal to get out of there. Oh, shit! I'm caught, I

thought, my heart suddenly in my throat. Yet, she'd paused

just a moment, allowing me to scamper away. Then the door

opened with a bang and Jean, walking out of the bathroom,

stepped over me. I could see the half moons of her ass

cheeks as she stepped over my upturned face. She simply

dismissed me with a casual, "Jerk!"

As she rounded the corner and passed from sight, I

jumped up and went into the bathroom. The lid was up on

the john and when I looked in I was thrilled to see pale

yellow water and a folded-up wad of toilet tissue. There it

is, I thought. There's her pee! I stood looking at it,

thinking about how it got there and I just couldn't not jack

off. I was too primed, I was ready to explode with sexual

tension. It must have taken about ten seconds of

frantically stroking my teen-aged hard-on for me to squirt

my jism into the yellow toilet water. That's it. I was

hooked. My sister had me by the balls on a downhill drag

and she didn't even know it. Jean's panties and Jean's

peeing, at that moment, became firmly linked in my mind with

an immense sexual charge.

Later, I tried to talk with her about our wrestling but

I wasn't surprised when she just wouldn't talk about it at

all. Still, we both knew something had changed and a new

tension, a sexual charge, had been established. For me, I

became obsessed with trying to see Jean naked, or up her

dress or under a pantleg. If that's all you think about and

you live in such closeness with another person, the rewards

are frequent. Yet, looking was one thing, but not enough.

I wanted to up the ante. I wanted so much to smell her

again and more, I wanted to talk with her about it! I just

wanted to talk dirty. And heaven knows, I wanted to watch

her pee.

She rarely got to go to the john without me being aware

of it and listening at the door. The sound of her peeing was an aphrodisiac for me --instant woody! Even the muffled

sound of her soft farts gave me a thrill. I came to know

her micturition habits born of the certainty of long

experience.

For me, a ritual was established. After school, Jean

would always change her clothes including her underwear,

leaving the soiled garments in the bathroom hamper. As soon

as she'd come out, I'd go in, lock the door, and fish out

her panties. Then, with my own pants down around my ankles

and sitting on the toilet, I sniffed her panties as I played

with myself. It had been years since I'd caught a glimpse

of her bare pussy, but my active imagination played that

tape over and over, seeing the pussy hair and her

little-girl slit slowly open, the lips swelling and moist.

With my nose close to the odor of her "private place," I

smelled the heady scent of her sex. I beat off every day,

often twice, trying to think of a way that I could get Jean

to play with me.

She'd become increasingly aware of my voyeuristic play

over the weeks and pretended indignation when I tried to

look up her dress, but I sensed her stance was more pro

forma than real. Else why did she sit so carelessly when I

was around? Why did she bend over in front of me so often

the tight crotch of her shorts pulled up into the crack of

her ass and then ask me some nonsense question that I might

look her way? She sure didn't act that way when mom was

around.

Still, I knew her "rules"-- the rules of our

household-- don't talk about it. We could play the game and

pretend we weren't doing anything, but we couldn't openly

acknowledge it. She might sit carelessly, reading a book,

and I might sit on the floor in front of her,

surreptitiously watching the junction of her thighs and

catching a peek of her panties...but I couldn't openly let

her know I was doing this. That angered her -- me drawing attention to my interest in looking up her dress. It was

part of this teenaged seduction, part of our forbidden

incestuous play...pretend it isn't really happening.

Much later, Jean was to tell me that she knew exactly

what she was doing and what I was doing. She was very

aware, very excited and more, thrilled and scared at the

same time. She wanted to escalate the game herself, but it

just had to be in a way she could square with her

hypertrophied sense of morality...it just isn't so if you

don't admit it.

So, if we couldn't openly own up to our kinks, we could

beat around the bush (as it were) and teasingly approach our

horniness. At that time, I didn't know that Jean wanted to

play as much as I did. I thought the burden of seduction,

of guile, was mostly upon me. And, functionally, most of it

was. Like so many boys, I thought I was the only one who

was this sick. I was the only one who hung around the

bathroom door or sniffed their sister's underwear and then

had wet dreams about it. Cripes!

Clearly, I needed a plan. I just couldn't wait around

forever. I suppose I had the typical teenager's impaired

tolerance for delayed gratification. I needed something

more direct, less subtle... something to address the topic

in a frontal fashion, yet maintain the denial. Her

underpants were the key to this, I thought. She knew, I

suspected, that I played with them in the bathroom, but the

secrecy of my masturbation habits didn't allow the

eye-to-eye confrontation I wanted. Time to crank up the

intimacy rheostat. I'll somehow use her panties as a tool of

seduction.

Think about it for a moment. Panties. They've

*always* carried a charge. girls giggle about them and boys have an unflagging interest in them. They're secret.

They're naughty. And they're sexy as all get out. They're

worn right next to "that place." They get "dirty" with . .

. you know, those things kids don't talk about

easily...pee... pussy juice...skid marks. My sister Jean

*knew * of my horny fascination with her undergarments, both

on her as well as in the dirty-clothes hamper, so they'd be

a natural, I reasoned. Further, it wouldn't be too far out

-- not like just out-and-out grabbing her as I'd really

like -- and I could retreat if she was really offended. (I

was limited in the cojones department as a kid, that's

clear.) Thus, my need for an oblique scheme.

Now, back to the soiled panties: Spreading the crotch

of her white cotton underpants over the palm of my left hand

and examining them obliquely to the light, I asked, "Is this

a spot of pee I see? Did you pee in your panties, Jean?

Did you have a little accident, big sister? Did you..."

Whop! Something hit me in the face. She'd thrown the

first thing that fell to her hand, thrown and hit me right

in the face, with -- you guessed it -- another pair of her

panties!

Pulling them from my face as I staggered back in a

theatrical fashion, I looked at them. These were pink rayon

with lace around the top and the legs. "Oh, do you want me

to do a crotch check on these as well?"

She went ballistic. "You rat. You stinking, little

rat. You're sick. You're a twisted little shit of a brother and I wish you'd fall into the toilet and be washed out to

the dump and I'd never see you again and I'd get your room

and I wouldn't have to wait forever for the bathroom while

you..." Red-faced and sputtering, she leaned across the

folding table to grab her panties from me. Her shirt front

fell away.

As part of her Saturday, stay-at-home,

no-one-will-see-me uniform, she was wearing one of my old,

baggy and stretched, sweat shirts. Perhaps because we were

doing the wash, and it was a Saturday when no one was

around, she'd not worn a bra. I could see her tits! Down

the gaping front of that sweat shirt, I could see all of her

tits and her front, right down to her belly button. Her

breasts were medium-sized and her nipples were large and

erect. I can see them in my mind's eye yet today. Bending

over the table, her arm outstretched, blushing and angry,

her white breasts swayed. At that moment, they weren't the

breasts of a young, teenaged girl; they were the breasts of

a sexual woman and I wanted to touch them! There was

silence. I don't know how long it lasted...seemed like long

minutes. Jean, looking into my eyes, angry, hurt, confused

and yes, aroused. I'm holding her panties and looking down

her shirt, mesmerized by her breasts, by her nipples. I

stared. I stared and didn't say anything.

I was acutely aware of my cock. It was hard. Hard and

pressing into the edge of the table, bent in my pants and

hurting a little. Unbidden, my hips pushed into the table

harder, pushing my hard-on sideways, the tip of my dick

suddenly springing up toward my belt. Now I was

unconsciously dry humping the damn table, holding Jean's

panties and staring at her tits. Nothing subtle here. I was

trying to fuck the damn changing table and couldn't stop.

Didn't want to stop.

Following my eyes, Jean looked down and saw her own

breasts, fully exposed. With a sudden inrush of breath, she

slapped her hand over her shirt, closing the top. At the

same moment, I extended my hand to her with her panties, as

if to give them up. Falling for that, she reached for them,

pulling her hand away and the shirt fell open again. And

again, I could plainly see her bare boobs with their very

prominent, eraser nipples.

Still grinding my cock against the hard table edge and

watching her breasts sway as she stretched farther to get

her panties, I pulled back a little, just out of her reach.

And again, time was frozen. Her breasts, now pink in the

wave of her blooming embarrassment, were there in front of

me, one slightly flattened against the table by her chest as

she leaned across, the other swaying free, the nipple

prominently erect. I humped still and she looked. Just

looked and looked. The only sound was our breathing. Both

of us, I think, were mesmerized by the erotic charge of what

was happening, and we didn't even really know *what* was

happening.

My world narrowed. Through slitted eyes I could see

only her breast. As down a tunnel, her voice came to me in a

hoarse whisper, "Billy, you're doin' it, aren't you...you're

doin' it and you're gonna come, huh?"

I heard her but I didn't. It was too late. I was gone

and it never occurred to me to even attempt to slow this

runaway avalanche of feeling. It began somewhere deep

inside, gathering force and rumbled up and a core of heat

poured out my cock in near-painful pulses, once, twice, a

third and then a fourth spurt. I came, spurting jet after

jet inside my Jockeys and the jism pooled and ran back down

the shaft of my cock, the warmth of my come bathing my dick

down to the root.

The roaring in my ears quieted. Dimly I heard the hum

of the refrigerator and then a car passing on the street.

Then my own breath, gasping. Opening my eyes I saw Jean.

She hadn't moved. Her eyes were wide open in astonishment,

her mouth slack. I could see her tongue behind her lower

teeth and still, her nipple, now almost purple against the

white background of her belly.

Caught in the terrible intensity of this unplanned

erotic high, we stood watching each other for a long minute.

Embarrassment began to flood my feelings. What had I done?

How had this happened? I never planned this. What would

Jean think? Worse, what would she tell mom and Dad, or her

girl friends? Suddenly, I was no longer horny. I was

scared shitless!

I looked away and then, as if it had broken a spell,

Jean spun away, muttering, "Ho-ly shit!" I stood there

alone with her panties in my hand, still pressed up against

the table, my cock wilting. Was I in for it?

My mind raced. Well I might be 'in for it,' but what's

done is done, I reasoned. I'm not going to turn back now.

It'd be hard to make it much worse and she just *might* be

turned on too, I reasoned. Gaining some shred of self

confidence, I decided to press any advantage I might have.

For some obscure reason, I decided that it was unlikely

she'd tell on me. For one, she'd be too embarrassed. And

for two, I thought she just might be a little excited

herself.

Knowing she'd want to be "offended" for a little while,

I gave her space and just smiled when she tried to brush me

off. While she was a little bigger than me (then), with the

instinctual certainty of the horny hunter, I knew she wasn't

as sure of herself and that she needed to be chased, to be

talked into being naughty. Well, I was just the guy.