MY SISTER JEAN
Chapter 4 -- The Hike
Hiking up the switchback climbing from Fourth of July
Lake, I watched Jean in front of me. More correctly, I
watched Jean's legs and the movement of her buttocks. She
was a few feet in front and above me on the steep, dusty
trail.
We'd broken camp a few hours ago after having spent a
couple of lazy days in a remote part of the Sierras. It was
our family's custom to pack into remote areas at least once
or twice a season and this was the first time Jean and I had
gone alone. With no agenda save a couple of day trips and
some reading, we'd had time to further our connection. I
suppose it's not unusual for siblings to know each other
very well on some levels while being almost strangers on
other levels. It was that way with Jean and me.
For as long as I can remember, she'd been my older
sister... aloof, superior and occasionally condescending.
As with most of us, the position of apparent superiority
was assumed to cover the usual teenaged feelings of
insecurity, of being "less than."
I'd taken on a completely different persona in the
family. I was the joker, the hero and, deep in my own mind,
the lecher...the closet rake. A few months before, in an
attempt to expand my licentious sphere and engage Jean in
some "dirty talk," I'd turned up the intimacy current.
Unexpectedly, we'd literally fallen into some near-explosive
sexuality. While our "fooling around" had had sudden
intensity, we'd not really "done the deed" and since then
our connection was clearly more tender, yet guarded.
In my loving moments, I'd welcomed the chance to
continue our process of a deepening relationship. In my
horny moments, I'd looked forward to escalating our
previously ill-defined sexual connection. In short, I was
hot for my sister and hoped she was too. What an opportune
time, I thought, to explore our sexual side.
Jean, however, had reservations. Oh, she'd shown that
she was capable of intense sexual response once before when
we'd been fooling around on the couch and it'd progressed
into a short-lived voyeuristic masturbation. But since that
time, as if frightened by the unplanned and seemingly
uncontrollable force of the experience, she'd drawn back.
Her response to my plaintive entreaties of, "Oh, come
ON, Jean . . . why won't you let me..." (fill in the
blanks) were met with a smile and her reasonable position of
wanting to go very slow.
"Billy, you *know* I love you. You're my kid brother
and the sweetest boy in the world. You're sexy and, most of
the time, you're kind to me. But...(damn, there's always a
"but" that follows such a good start)...but, this is scary
stuff. I don't know what's right and what's wrong. I know
how I feel, but that doesn't make it right. Won't you give
me some space, please?"
When she said "please" to me with that certain sincere,
loving tone of voice, I was a goner. "Okay, okay. But
don't blame *me* if I'm limping around all the time." (As
if there were blame or that I'd really be limping. The major
organ limping in me was not my dick... it was my brain!)
We'd gone skinny dipping each day in the freezing
high-Sierra, snow-fed lake. It was so cold that my pecker
had attempted to crawl back into my abdomen. My cremasteric
muscles - that thin sheet of muscle that envelopes the
spermatic cord and testes - had gone into such intense
spasm from the cold that each day, on dashing back out of
the water, I was doubled over with pain. It didn't help my
sense of dignity or my macho image when Jean'd point and
laugh at me. (I've since come to see the wisdom that warns:
"It's okay to laugh in the bed room, but not to laugh *and*
point.")
Anyway, my unflagging desire to see Jean nude was
answered, but I was so blue and shivering that I could think
only of jumping back into my sleeping blanket. (My
suggestion that Jean and I zip our mirror-image sleeping bag
together elicited no more than a twinkle and a smile coupled
with a mute shake of her head.) So the wish that I carried
with me on the backpacking trip that I see Jean naked had
been filled each morning...when my dick was a negative
impression. The rest of the time, she'd managed to change
clothes out of my presence. While we'd talked into the
night, she wouldn't let me even cuddle her. Rats! I was
frustrated. Still, I was having a wonderful time. What a
collage of feelings.
Too, I thought I'd get a chance to spy on her peeing.
Remember me? I'm the horny little kid who presses his ear to
the bathroom door to listen to his sister take a leak? Yep.
That's me. I'd almost come in my pants from smelling her
panties and once, when finding some of her pale yellow urine
and a used tissue in the toilet, I'd jacked off right into
the bowl...taking all of ten or fifteen seconds.
Out here in the great outdoors with no bathrooms, not
even an outhouse, I'd surely get to peek at her...I thought.
So far, no dice. Either she's got a holding tank for a
bladder, or she was adept at slipping away. I, on the other
hand, believed that the only bad publicity was no publicity.
I used every chance to casually take a whiz when I was
around her. Oh, I didn't come up and piss on her shoe, but
I did things like continue a conversation, turning just a
little aside as I took out my pecker and peed on a tree or a
rock. She didn't comment on my little exhibitionistic
streak and I couldn't really tell if she was watching or
not.
No cuddle, no peeks, no peeing. Shit! I just wasn't
getting what I wanted and was feeling sorry for myself and
not a little petulant. So I employed the short form of the
Serenity Prayer and said, "Fuck it." It was, after all, all
right. Here I was, in God's indescribably beautiful
mountains on a primo day with my dearest friend and best
buddy, and I was petulant. Boy, talk about an ungrateful
wretch!
Knowing it was going to get very hot by midday, and
that we had a twelve-hundred-feet climb out of that basin,
we'd packed and started early after a good breakfast and
tanking up on mountain water, both in our bellies as well as
our canteens.
Jean was a surprisingly strong hiker and often, on
long, uphill climbs, she'd naturally take the lead. So it
was that I was watching the roll of her hips from close
behind as we were forced to take occasional extra long
step-ups on the trail. Her short-shorts, already revealing,
had climbed up on her ass, framing the white, half-moons of
her buttocks above her tan thighs. The crotch of the shorts
seemed to thin to a narrow band between her legs. I already
knew (from my snooping) that Jean had thong-type Bikini
panties so I didn't expect to see them as we trudged along,
but they were a green vision in my mind.
Except for the chatter of an occasional bird and the
scrunch of our boots on the trail, there were no sounds...if
you ignored my panting. We'd settled into that
semi-comfortable, endorphin-enhanced pleasant walk-climb. I
was sweating lightly, feeling good, watching Jean's sweet
ass checks bunch and relax in front of me and thinking, I
can't believe how beautiful and sexy this girl is. And
she's my sister! How lucky can a guy get?
I am not the one with the cast-iron bladder in the
family. It's almost a joke that Billy has to take a leak
more frequently than anyone else. Jean was not surprised
when I called out, "Pee break."
"Okay. I could use a breather anyway." She swung her
pack to the ground and turned back to look back down the
mountain toward our camp site, now barely perceivable.
In genuine relief, I moaned, "Ah," as I peed into the
dust on the side of the trail. Jean, this time, was clearly
watching me so I made an extra production of "shaking it"
when I'd finished. "Hmmmm, that felt good," I added in a
redundant fashion.
To my surprise, she said, "I've gotta go too. Don't
watch."
It might have been easier if she said, "Don't breathe."
Was she kidding?
"Okay," I answered, turning only my head away, still
watching her movements in my peripheral vision. Yet another
surprise. She didn't step off the trail; there was a bush
ten or fifteen feet away, but she didn't use it. And she
didn't turn away from me.
My head pulled back to watch her, not even pretending
to look away. She unbuttoned the side of the short-shorts
and, with her thumbs hooked into the top, pulled the yellow
shorts and white panties down while squatting in the same
continuous motion. My position, downhill from her, afforded
me a bore-sight view right between her thighs. Now for the
second time in my life, I had a clear view of her
closely-cropped, curly, auburn-haired pussy. After a
weekend of horny frustration, hard-ons and surreptitious
masturbation, I was getting, without guile, a look at Jean's
treasures. Full on, up close...and damn personal!
For a moment, nothing happened. Her smooth anus pushed
out just a little as she strained and then a trickle of pee
dribbled out into the dust. The dribble increased and then a
stream, clearing her pussy lips and arcing out several
inches in front of her started that familiar hissing. It
was happening. I was getting a chance to watch Jean pee for
the first time in my life. Something that I'd fantasized
about, something that I'd failed to do with deception was
happening right in front of me. The erotic intensity of it
was gut wrenching. My cock, trapped in my Jockeys, had
erected so fast that it suddenly hurt.
Something caused me to look up. Jean was looking right
at me! Her clear, ice-blue eyes were looking into mine,
into my soul. Her eyes seemed to ask, "Is this what you
wanted, Billy? Do you want to see me pee, Billy?"
For all I know, she'd been saving it for a long time.
Her urine continued to gain force and the hissing sound
increased as the gusher of pee ran over a rock and pooled at
my feet. I was struck numb. Not having the presence of
mind I have now, I forgot to touch it, forgot to dip my
finger into the pool and taste it. I just stared,
dumfounded and struck terminally horny. It didn't last for
minutes, it just seemed that way. In comparison, mine was a
piddle. Her's was a production.
It slowed and stopped after one final, small squirt as
she clenched her bottom, making her little rose bud wrinkle.
If I'd expected her to stand suddenly, hiding herself, I was
wrong. Rather, she squatted there, uncovered, hovering
over the trail of now-wet dust and rock.
"Well?" she asked. It sounded so loud in the sudden
quiet of the mountain, I was startled and looked at her
dumbly. "Is that all you've got to say," and you could hear
the smile in her voice. "Do you have a tissue?" she added.
Gaining my sodden wits, I said something cleaver like,
"Sure... if you let me help."
Pulling some Kleenex from a side pocket, I took the few
steps to her. She hadn't replied so I simply kneeled in
front of her and extended the tissue in my hand between her
legs, watching her eyes. She nodded only, with a little
half smile.
Leaning forward, looking under her shorts bunched and
pulled apart above her knees, I softly patted her pussy
slit, slowly, from front to back. I was acutely aware of
her warmth and her breathing, now quickened. I was even
more aware of her pubic hair brushing across the tops of my
fingers.
Unthinking, I dropped the tissue and traced a
feather-light touch along the inner lips of her cunt. Jean
made a soft, sucking sound and looking up, I noticed that
she'd closed her eyes. I continued to "pat" her.
The lips of her pussy were swollen and slick and they'd
opened up a kind of blossoming. Laying the pulp of my
middle finger along the length of her cunt, cupping her mons
in my palm, I slowly pushed in. It was like pushing my
finger all they way into China...or a ripe Papaya.
Now, years later, when I think of love, I think of
this.