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.