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JEAN02 hurt you you know was
"My Jean" copyright (c) 1997 by BillyG - All rights
reserved.
MY JEAN
BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
_________________________________________________________________
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Chapter 2 -- The Couch
I really liked Jean. Heck, I adored her. She was a
wonderful and I know she loved me as well. So it wasn't
an act when I set out to be her champion. I stuck up for her. I
defended her from my mom's sometimes erratic sense of fair play
and when my friends teased her, I'd only let it go so far. I'd
let those know that she was my and not to disrespect
her. Jean, at first, was uncertain, but her loving nature pushed
right through. She spoke to me with affection and began to
engage me in conversation, at first about inconsequential things,
but later about "boy-girl" things. Our relationship had been
changed. It was growing more "real," never to go back to our
sibling rivalry.
Oh, my behavior around her hadn't changed. I was still
trying to look down her blouse or up her dress. I still listened
at the bathroom door. But now, we were closer buddies. She
really liked me, so it was both easier to accept my aggressive
sexuality and harder for her to take offense at my shenanigans.
Added to that, I began to accept myself a little more and was far
less hesitant about letting her know that I was horny.
One afternoon, alone in the house together, she asked, "Can
we have a heart-to-heart?"
Grinning and with a pointed look at her left breast, I said,
"Sure, girl, I'd love to have a heart-to-heart with you. Your
place or mine?"
"Come-ON, you nit. Be serious. I need to talk with you, so
get your mind out of the gutter."
Sprawling out on one end of a large sectional in the living
room, I said, "Okay, okay, Sis. Sit and talk to me. What's
happenin'? What's on your mind? Boys? Yeah, I'll bet that's
what it is . . . boys, huh?"
Sitting opposite me and giving special attention to a button
on her shirt, she didn't make eye contact, a sure sign of her
embarrassment about something. "Well . . . kinda . . . that is,
I need to . . . well, I'd *like* to ask you some questions about
what think okay?" When Jean was uncertain of herself, she
often placed an interrogatory inflection on the last part of her
sentences as if to say, "You know?"
"Only if you share with me . . . tit for tat, girl. I'll
tell you things what you wanna know if you tell me what I
wanna know . . .and no mincing around either. Fair?" It was
always better to establish the rules of engagement with Jean.
More often, she was willing to give a little before the fact.
Before she became embarrassed and dug in, I wanted her tacit
agreement that if I were to tell her "all about boys," I wanted
reciprocity. I'd been pulling her in this direction for weeks and
she was ever less reticent to fess up.
"Well . . . okay, but don't get too dirty again, will you .
. . promise?"
"Heck no. I don't promise anything, except to be honest.
Where can you get a better deal than a promise of honesty? The
truth can't you, you know." I was shamelessly playing on
her sense of morality and fair play, trying to suggest that what
she had to talk about was probably just as "dirty" as my stuff.
(*I* didn't even believe that.)
Still pulling on the button, "Okay, little brother." Then
smiling, "I do trust you."
Mentally rubbing my hands, I thought, yes . . . trust me . .
. to try to get into your pants, big sister. Affecting a
nonchalant indifference, I leaned back (and almost fell off the
couch) and said, "Thanks. Now, shoot. What's on your mind,
woman?" (She loved to be called "woman.") Now that the general
topic was out of the bag and we'd established the ground rules,
she visibly relaxed a little more.
Swinging around, she put her bare feet on the couch near
mine and leaned her knees into the cushions, tugging her skirt
down. Out of my peripheral vision I noted that the hem of her
skirt had fallen in such a fashion that I could see well up the
back of her thighs. This has potential I knew but I'd have to be
careful not to be too openly leering at her legs, at least at
first.
Again, nervously tugging at the button on her shirt, she sat
silently for a moment, I imagined composing her question.
Whatever it was, she'd been thinking about it for days at least,
but now she had to compose the words. If nothing else, I was
patient. I waited without further prompting.
Finally, hesitantly, she stammered, "This is embarrassing,
but . . . when you . . . do you remember . . . uh, the time when
you . . ."
"The time when I came?" I offered.
Blushing and tugging more on the button, she nodded.
In a soft voice I admitted, "Yeah, well sure. How can I
forget? It was the neatest thing ever happened. What about it?"
"Uh . . . I've been wonderin', that ever happen before? I
mean, have you ever, uh, before . . . that is . . . oh shit! I
wanna know. Do guys, you know . . . jack . . . er, masturbate?"
Do . . . ? I couldn't believe it. It was too good to
be true. I'd been wondering for weeks how'd I'd get Jean to talk
about masturbation and now here it was, right out there, and
she'd asked me! Boy, was I going to have a good time with this
one. I thought it'd take a long time to get up to The Topic and
now, wham, here it was.
I almost fell off the couch again in an attempt to look
casual. My dick was already stirring. Cripes, I could see the
bulge and I know that if she looked, she could as well. I was
now the one who was almost tongue tied. "Well sure
masturbate, Jean. At least everyone I know does, and all the
time, or at least that's what they say."
Jean gets restless when she's approaching an
emotionally-charged conversation and I was increasingly aware of
her legs as she shifted them back and forth. Abruptly, they
parted as she crammed both hands, straight armed, between her
thighs. I saw a flash of white, the crotch of her panties. It
was more than a flash. Actually, it was a several second look
and the poochy bulge that formed the crotch of her was
the sexiest thing in the world at that moment. My mind went
right back to the memory when my nose was smashed next to her
crotch and the olfactory memory kicked in. I could smell her, I
thought.
"And you?" she prompted.
"Geez, Sis. I'm a guy! Sure. That is, I mean, I have," I
admitted in an evasive way.
Tilting her head in way she had, she held out one hand, palm
up and said, "Oh, I supposed you did . . . I mean, the way
you're always trying to look at me and all. But what I was really
wondering was, uh . . . how?"
"How?" How what I wondered?
Now, her voice more certain, "Yeah. Just *how* do you do
it. I mean, the one time I saw you . . . you did it against the
table. Is that the way you *always* do it? I just wanna know."
Laughing, I replied, "That was the *only* time it happened
that way, Sis. That just happened. I didn't plan it. I don't
normally get off on the table . . . I usually do it . . . uh, the
usual way, you know."
With a trace of irritation she countered, "No, I* don't*
know. That's why I'm asking. I mean, if I knew, do ya think I'd
be asking? I know how . . . I mean, I don't know how
really do it."
For a moment I couldn't believe that Jean was that naive.
She *must* have known. But, maybe she is as inexperienced as she
says and I needed to give her support, not teasing.
"Okay, I think I understand what you want to know. It's
like this. You know what a hard-on is, don't you . . . when a
guy's dick swells and get hard . . . when he's all excited?
Well, when my dick's hard, I just wrap my hand around it and then
stroke it up and down. I almost always think of something sexy .
. . you know, fantasize while I'm doing it . . . and before I
know it, wham! I come . . . and, well you saw what that's like."
"You think of something sexy? Like what? A star or a
in Penthouse?"
"Well, I have thought of I've seen in sexy magazines,
but most of the time I think of someone I know, someone closer to
me, someone who is real and very sexy."
"Janey Pritchard?" she asked, naming the most outrageous
flirt in high school.
"Not Janey. She's okay, I guess, but she doesn't get me
off. No, I think of someone who's far sexier than Janey when I
jerk off . . . that's what call it, ya know . . . jerking
off."
Jean had succeed in pulling her button all the way off
and was absentmindedly working on the next one down. As her
opened and closed, I caught repeated glimpses of the swell
of her above the lacy white bra she was wearing. She
continued to shift around as she became more excited and had
dropped one foot off the couch while the other, still bent was up
against the cushion giving me a completely wide-open look under
her skirt.
She was wearing bikini-style panties, very low cut in front
and high on the sides. The darkness of her pubic hair was
plainly visible, for I'd picked the end of the couch with the
light behind me. Jean had to squint to look directly at me while
I had a clearly lighted, unobstructed crotch shot. The
conversation and the sexy view were getting to me. My pants were
clearly bulging out and I'd seen my glance at my crotch
several times and then quickly look away.
She persisted, "Who, then? Just who do you think of that
gets you all . . . uh . . . hard and . . . and horny?"
Was she fishing? Dropping my right hand to bulge of my
pecker and holding it pointedly, I said, "You."
"WHAT?" She gasped, her eyes wide in surprise, her hand
frozen with the pulled part way open. "What do you mean,
me? Billy, I'm your for cryin' out loud!"
Lowering my voice and looking hard at her, I rushed on,
"Sis, I *am* your and I still find you attractive. I
still find you *very* attractive, beautiful even. Why, you're
the most attractive I know and by far, the sexiest I
know. I can't help that and I can't help the way I feel. I care
for you and I love you. I'd do anything for you. I can't help
it you turn me on. When I see you, I feel warm. When I see your
or your butt, I get a thrill. When I think of you naked,
why I just get so darn horny . . . there's only one thing I can
do."
Jean sat, frozen, with one leg up which pulled the crotch of
her into her pussy. There was a natural silence. We
just sat and looked at each other. Now I was no longer trying to
sneak peeks at her panties; I was blatant about it. I knew she
could see me and yet, she didn't close her legs. I could plainly
see the penumbra of soft hair high on her thigh, above where she
shaved her legs. Then, looking at the crotch of her white cotton
bikinis, I could see a wet spot. She was getting wet. She was
getting excited, I was sure.
END 2