Show and Tell
After a short time, Denise got up, stretched (very sexily in her emerald
baby doll) and said she might go take a bath.
This left me and Lissa alone together, watching tv. About 5 minutes
later, Lissa said, “I don’t know why but for some reason I’m more
embarrassed with my mom about these panties than with you.”
I looked at her, as if surprised she’d brought the subject back up.
“Don’t worry about it, Lissa. That’s sort of understandable – she’s your
mom… she’s more in a position to be judgmental, maybe.”
Lissa pondered this, as if surprised the situation could have somehow
led to a ponderable idea. Or perhaps she was disconcerted by the way that
I’d provided a logical rationalization for what was in fact an untruth –
obviously, given what was going on, she certainly did NOT suffer from
embarrassment around her mom in actuality. If anything, the opposite –
whatever the opposite of embarrassment is.
“That actually makes sense, uncle Jason,” she finally said.
“What, you expected me not to make sense?” I joked.
She grinned, relaxing. “Very funny,” she jibed back. Pause. “So do
you want to see them?”
I decided there was no point pretending I didn’t know what “them” was. I
decided to emphasize what was going on… or whatever was pretending to be
going on: “You’d be ok showing me, now, as long as your mom’s not here?
You really don’t have to. It was just a silly idea.”
She nodded.
“Regardless, I think you’re worried, needlessly. You’ve got a very cool
mom.”
Lissa shrugged. “I know… I just… ”
“No big deal.”
I saw that the things I’d said had set some wheels turning, in her head,
and she was starting to get cold feet again. And… it occurred to me
that that had been my intention… to give her cold feet again. To make
it more difficult for her… to make her REALLY want it. Maybe it was a
strange, indirect way of teasing myself with the situation.
“They really do, like, kinda show allot,” she said in a quiet voice.
“So I saw.”
“So it’d be a little like you seeing me naked down there,” she
continued.
“I can imagine,” I said, just as softly. Gently.
“Would that embarrass you?” she asked, raising her eyes and meeting
mine.
“A little, yes,” I admitted.
Shy smile. She seemed surprised by this admission, but pleased too.
“I don’t have a lot of, like, hair down there, yet,” she confessed.
Hmm… she was insecure about this? She’d flashed the guy at the mall,
I recalled. She’d seen how her mom shaved. She’d seen Finn’s stories,
talking about how what a turn on a lightly haired pussy was. Perhaps she
was only trying to reflect what she expected her uncle Jason to think she’d
be insecure about.
Then again, maybe she was, whether intentionally or not, just trying to
build tension… provide as accurate a verbal picture as possible prior to
letting me see. The tension was delicious, I admit.
I stayed quiet, and she continued, “you can sorta see the outline of,
like, the labia and everything.” One of her little vocabulary words from
yesterday. I couldn’t resist, and began to recite, as best I could from
memory, the definition she’d had written down.
Lissa giggled. Then, taking a deep breath, “so, do you want to see or
not?”
I knew I could make it difficult for her, by leaving the choice to her,
or resisting. I was tempted, but in the end, I took pity on her, and
simply uttered, “sure.”
Perhaps the most verisimilar would have been if she’d raised her
nightshirt right were she sat, on the couch, several feet away. But she
had a second part of this task, I knew, and so I wasn’t surprised when she
stood up from the couch, and came over to the armchair where I was sitting
before raising her nightshirt, a mere arm’s length in front of me.
She held the nightshirt above her belly button, revealing her tiny waist
and still modest hips. The bikini cut panties were lacy and light blue,
but had these almost utterly transparent patches, so that her sparse,
black-haired pubic bush was plain against her pale caffe-latte skin. Very
few hairs extended to the labia, and thus these were fairly clearly
outlined in the tight cloth – they were more engorged than I’d visualized
(though given how she’d spent the day masturbating in restrooms and
dressing rooms, not really very surprising).
“Doesn’t leave much to the imagination,” I finally said. “They’re very
cute,” I added, picking a word I hoped this would resonate well with her.
She showed some spark, then. Growing confidence, with blossoming
arousal, I suspected. “They’re so smooth and silky,” she said, running her
hand cautiously just below the upper rim, careful not to actually “touch
herself” to my view. “Feel it,” she suggested, running hand across the
other way.
I hesitated. She understood enough to realize this hesitation was a
demonstration of my own personal weakness, not some failure of hers. She
spun 180 degrees, looked at me over her shoulder, and ran her fingers on
the back panel. “I like how they make my butt look,” she commented.
“They make it look very nice,” I agreed. My heart was leaping. I bet
hers was, too.
She spun back around and grinned at me, causing me to look away from her
crotch to her dark, too-wise eyes. “Do you think they’re too tight?” she
asked, and slipped a finger under the edge, ran it a few inches and
withdrew it, letting the lacy cloth snap back down.
“They’re supposed to be tight,” I extemporized.
“They give me a bit of a wedgie, though,” she commented, and daringly
ran a fingertip along the evident valley between her labia.
“That’s just your natural shape,” I said, reassuringly. Yes, her
natural shape when highly aroused and engorged. Not something I felt I
should mention. “You wouldn’t want them to be baggy,” I pointed out.
She giggled briefly at this. “True.” Pause. “You really should feel
them,” she said, running her finger along a sort of diagonal from left
inner thigh to right hip bone, right over the mons veneris. “So silky –
but textured.”
So – god – I relented, and reached out, and traced the path her finger
had just taken, but in reverse – right hip to left inner thigh, right over
the little hill of venus, feeling the way her fuzz pooked out the cloth.
She shuddered, slightly. Shut her eyes, for a very long 2 seconds. I
decided not to point out that I could see a bit of moisture darkening the
lacy cloth, at the crotch.
“Nice, huh?” she finally said.
“They’re very nice, Lissa.”
Without warning, she dropped her nightshirt again. She’d fulfilled her
task – she was done. Though it was evident she was enjoying herself
immensely, too, and more than a little aroused – she appeared to have a
sufficient level of ambivalence that she wasn’t planning to go one step
beyond.
But then, she genuinely surprised me – she reached up under and scooted
them down, stepped out of them: left foot; right foot. And handed them to
me, in a little wad.
She was already halfway out of the room by the time I managed to
stutter, “hey, why are you giving these to ME?”
She turned from the hall leading to her bedroom, and said, quite
flirtatiously, “Oh, I NEVER wear panties to bed, uncle Jason.” Like it was
the most obvious, self-evident thing in the world. “You can put them in
the hamper in the bathroom. They need washing. Feel them, I think they
got a little damp in the crotch.”
And with that, she disappeared into her bedroom. I sat with the panties
for a little bit, but somehow resisted the urge to raise them to my face or
feel the crotch. Finally, I briefly ran the cloth between my fingers,
feeling the moisture I knew would be there, then raised them to my nose and
inhaled, memorizing the scent forever.
Actually, I never really had been much of a panty fetishist – but, I
reflected that night – I could be persuaded. Indeed.
The next day was Saturday. I wondered which of the girls would do which
task, and I daydreamed about seeing either of them naked.
I was incredibly turned on – the throbbing in my groin was persistent in
a way that I had experienced few times since adolescence.
Certain that I’d be unable to sleep, I stayed in the armchair in the
living room, pulled out my laptop and fired it up.
Unfortunately, the neighbor’s wifi I was bootlegging was being balky, so
I was unable to go online. Frustration upon frustration! I spent a bit of
time working on my document – the one recording these events. I had about
caught up to the current moment, at least in draft form, when Denise padded
out in bare feet from her bedroom, now wrapped in her robe, naked
underneath, I supposed. I wondered if she’d decided to repeat last night’s
adventure, without Finn’s prompting.
Seeing me in the living room, she plopped down on the couch across from
me and pulled her warm blanket over her lap. I minimized a few
incriminating windows (not really concerned she’d see, but just in case, I
guess), but kept the laptop open, and looked up.
“Working again?” she asked.
I nodded. “Have a nice bath?”
“Very relaxing,” she grinned.
I wasn’t sure what made me say what I said next… perhaps I wanted to
see how she played it off. “After you left, Lissa gave me the fashion show
she chickened out on, earlier.” Pause, then I went on, “I suppose you’re
right about her teasing me, after all.”
Denise looked a little surprised that I’d brought it up, but not
displeased. She just met my eyes, and said, with mock-seriousness, “you
were kind, I hope?”
“I tried to be,” I answered.
There was some silence… but not uncomfortable, just reflective,
late-night quietness.
“Reminds me of when I was 14,” she finally said, a very low voice –
almost a whisper.
“Ah,” I responded, trying to encourage her to go on. “You hinted at
something, last night.”
She chuckled. “Oh, yeah. I really went through a phase when I was
definitely testing things,” she said.
When she didn’t continue for some time, I decided she was waiting for
permission to tell her story, so finally I said, “what did you do?”
“It’s very embarrassing,” she confessed, shyly.
“It might give some me some insight to Lissa,” I suggested. I thought
this a brilliant gambit – it made my interest seem less prurient, somehow.
This seemed to be exactly the sort of rationalization Denise was hoping
for. She plunged into her little story.
“Well, when I just turned 14 I was really just developing. I think i
started a little late – at least compared to Lissa. You probably don’t
remember.”
“I don’t,” I smiled. “I was still a kid… not noticing such things, I
guess.”
“So, I guess somehow I had this sudden realization that boys looked at
me differently. And then one day, I saw dad with that same way of looking
at me, and I had this weird realization that it wasn’t just boys looking at
me, but all men. I suddenly felt very powerful. And… well, at the same
time, I’d realized I could do certain things, dress certain ways, and get
guys’ attention, but it also made me nervous to try at school – I was
terrified of being seen as a slut or something.
“So maybe cuz it was convenient, or seemed safer somehow, or I don’t
know why, I decided it was a good idea to test these things out at home. I
think I sort of thought of dad almost as the subject of an experiment.”
Denise laughed at this – she’d always been fond of the scientist
metaphor, and often seemed to approach her whole life as a researcher.
She’d majored in biology in college, and despite her current work in
corporate sales, she probably still saw herself as a scientist at heart.
Almost my opposite – I worked in programming and IT, but had studied
literature in college and saw myself as an artist at heart.
When she didn’t resume immediately, I prompted, “you always were doing
experiments.”
“Yep. True enough,” she laughed, and plowed back in. “So I started
doing the kinds of things you’ve seen Lissa doing – traipsing around the
house underdressed, saying flirty or dirty things… stuff like that.
Especially around dad. One time, mom pulled me aside and told me to knock
it off, said I was getting too old to lounge on the couch in a t-shirt and
panties, but she didn’t mention dad specifically. After that, I just made
sure she wasn’t around when I did it – but that added a new dimension
because it made it seem I was more specifically targeting dad with my
behavior. And I was curious to see how he reacted.”
There was another pause. I asked, “so… how did dad react?”
Another laugh, now more of a giggle. “Oh, he looked. Same as I’ve seen
you looking,” she teased. “It was about then I probably realized men look
at women at a level they don’t entirely control, consciously. Again…
made me feel powerful. It was exciting.
“Finally, there was this time, I think I was in the living room,
watching tv. I was in my cheerleading uniform, after Saturday practice, I
think – but I’d taken my panties off from underneath.”
She must have seen my eyes widen at this confession, because she
laughed. “Ha, I know, every man’s fantasy, huh?”
I nodded. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this,” I finally muttered.
Denise gave me a penetrating look. “Does it bother you?”
“It’s a little awkward. But very enlightening.”
She smiled. “So… dad came into the room, can’t remember, asking me
something, and for the first time I got the courage up to ‘flash’ him a
little. I mean, I’d gone around the house like that before, but had never
plucked up the nerve to do something like that.”
“Jeez, Denise.”
“And he totally freaked me out, cuz, unlike ever before, instead of just
looking guilty for a sec or trying to pretend he didn’t see, he said
something like, ‘I hope you didn’t got to practice that way.’ Of course, I
was mortified, and sat up straight and close my legs tight – which of
course gave away I knew exactly what he was talking about. Still, like an
idiot, I said, ‘what way?’ And so dad was forced to explain that he saw I
wasn’t wearing underwear. I could tell he was embarrassed and somewhere
between pissed off about my behavior and fascinated by it. The dad role
and man role in conflict inside him. But the pissed off dad part seemed to
win out. He was pretty cold, and told me to ‘be careful’ or something like
that.”
Because she grew quiet again, I finally prompted, “so what happened?”
With unexpected somberness, Denise shrugged. “Nothing, really. I
apologized, and said that no, I never went to practice that way. And
somehow, because of getting called on it, I was too embarrassed to ever do
anything like that again.”
“I see,” I finally said, and tried to smile disarmingly. “Ah, the
foibles of youth.”
Denise just nodded. Sensing that I was growing a bit distant, she said,
“Aw, poor Jason. Probably thinking why couldn’t I have ever done something
like that when you were older? I saw you checking me out, when you were 14
yourself. But by then, I’d found other things to do,” she laughed,
tauntingly.
With unexpected forcefulness, I surprised myself, saying, “you were my
first ideal of feminine beauty, Denise.”
Long silence. “Wow, that’s really sweet, Jason. Really sweet.”
The moment was suddenly very uncomfortable. I’d confessed too much, not
so much with the words as with the seriousness of the tone. Finally,
Denise rose from under her blanket and came over and pecked a kiss on my
forehead, very chastely, and said “Good night.” And went back into her
bedroom.
Heavy sigh. I went to bed, and was so horny I didn’t dare even tease
myself. I just lay down, and felt the throbbing at my groin, and pondered
the situation. I toyed with the ooze of precum I felt at the tip of my
cock, and elaborated a little fantasy of my sister Denise catching me and
watching raptly as I absently raised my sticky finger to my lips to taste
myself.
Finally, I drifted off to sleep.