Chapter 8: Victoria's Secret

"Look at the ass on that one, will you?"

That got my attention. I'd been reading the Sunday paper over coffee and fruit with Jean at a street-side cafe. We'd ridden our bikes down from our home in the hills behind the University in the cool of early morning and had stopped for coffee.

Glancing up at Jean, I followed her gaze over my shoulder and turned to look at "the ass" she was pointing out. In our increasing comfort with each other, we'd come to accept our growing sexuality and that, at root, we were both voyeurs of a sort. Jean knew of my fascination with girls' butts and delighted in pointing out to me those she thought were of merit.

She, in turn, was an inveterate crotch watcher. The day before at the mall she'd nodded toward a guy sprawled out near a fountain. He was wearing jogging shorts that were pulled up into his crotch, outlining an impressive bulge. "Is that all cock," she asked, "or do you think he's got huge balls?"

The girl Jean had pointed out to me was bending over a nearby table, cleaning the glass top. I was peripherally aware that she was wearing a loose tank top, but what captured my interest was the shorts. They were white, very short and very tight with the crotch pulled into the crack of her ass and made still more taut by her exaggerated bending. Checking immediately for panty lines, I noted she was wearing high-cut panties.

I grinned at Jean, giving her a subtle thumbs-up sign and whispered, "Boy, I'd love to sidle up behind her and grab her hips."

She smiled and rolled her eyes as if to say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah... we know."

Sensing she wanted to chat, I sat back in my chair and sipped my coffee, looking at her over the rim of the cup. Her hair was wind blown and her shirt was a little damp from our last sprint. Looking at her breasts, I admired her nipples. Despite wearing a sports bra - she'd flashed me that morning before leaving home - her nipples, when erect, were very evident. Pointedly staring at her prominent nips for a moment, I looked in her eyes and said, "It's not cold."

"Then I must be horny?" She finished.

"Jean, you're always horny!"

"Billy, I am not!" she retorted but with a smile that gave the lie to her denial.

Glancing over my shoulder - the girl was gone - I said, "Well I am." And, as if indignant, added, "Thanks to you!"

Placing her spread hand flat on her chest she replied in a surprised voice, "Moi?"

"You are a piece of work, woman... yes, you!"

Abruptly changing the subject, she dropped her hands to her lap and asked, "Are you sweaty?"

"As a horse," I replied.

"You're so graphic, Billy. And you know what I think of when you mentioned a sweating horse."

"A sweating mare?"

"A horse's cock!"

"Jean, I know we're both fairly kinky at times... but a horse?"

Flipping her hand in an impatient gesture, she answered, "Not really but there are times when my imagery takes over. Like, the sexual power of a horse's cock comes to mind, you know?"

"You mean like me slipping it into the ass of that waitress? The one with the beautiful butt?"

Perhaps because Jean knew that I'd never "slipped" it into anything, save my hand, she gave me a puzzled frown. She replied, "I guess so... something like that... not real, but sexy and powerful. Like, I don't really want a horse's dick, but I like the thought of it... it gets me wet. Does the thought of you doin' it to that girl's behind get you wet... uh, hard?"

Answering with an exaggerated gesture, I "adjusted" my cock in my riding shorts and smiled. Jean and I had come out of the closet with each other... admitted our fascination with sexual things, our masturbation, peeing fantasies and anal eroticism. But we'd never actually "done it." We'd not done the deed. More, I thought, because we enjoyed the prolonged seduction, the tease, than we had any thought of abhorrent incest. Jean, as it turned out, had reservations.

I was crazy about Jean. Because she was a little older, I deferred to her in many ways, most of them unthinking. She was later to tell me that because I was assertive and appeared so self-confident, she'd started to re-think the unquestioned assumed roles. We'd let down all sorts of protective fences on our camping trip to Fourth of July Lake. We'd always accepted our love for each other. It was only in the last months that we'd come to accept our sexual feelings for each other. Still, it remained mostly verbal. And teasing.

Constrained by the outward conventional morality around our house, we took some delight in an unconventional exhibitionistic teasing. Jean, who was most enamored with her own breasts, took delight in flashing me. Bending over wearing a loose top, running from her room to the bathroom wearing a skirt and bra, idly running her fingers inside the edge her blouse into her cleavage... all these things were done to entice and tease. And I loved it. Still, she knew that my major interest was her beautiful full butt. She professed ignorance. "Oh, come ON. Who's interested in BUTTS?" she'd ask.

She knew the answer. Me. Often it was evident that as some reward or sign of affection, she'd honor my fetish. She'd suddenly sit in my lap, squirm for a moment, and then run away, laughing. Once, when running from the bathroom wearing only her bra and panties, she met me (ever watchful) in the hall. Before disappearing into her room, she suddenly pointed her back side at me and bent way over. Her already brief panties almost disappeared in the cleft of her ass, and outlining the pooching bulge of her mons. I retained the after image of that for a long time. Several times, playing with myself on the toilet, stroking off, that image came to mind and pushed me right over the edge. I'd think to myself, "Jean, I'm coming for you."

So we'd progressed to that point in our honesty where we admitted our masturbation and our kinks, but we appeared to remain hesitant and a little fearful of actually "doin' the deed." Oh, I knew I really wanted to be sexual with Jean... to touch her, to play with her, but I was afraid she would think it was "really sick." We circled the edges of our desires, admitting some, denying others.

Jean broke into my brief reverie, "Let's stop at the mall on our way home. I'd like to check out Victoria's Secret."

"Oh, ugh. Where they have all that, uh... girl stuff?"

"Don't be a jerk. I've seen you checking out my lingerie. Actually, maybe you're more interested in the soiled ones!"

"Busted!" I grinned at her.

We rode our ten-speeds back to the shopping center, me contriving to ride behind Jean, admiring her trim, firm ass and thighs. Now, close to noon, the shops would be open, but because it was Sunday, the hard-core shoppers wouldn't be out in force yet.

Locking our bikes in the racks on the edge of the mall, we walked slowly, staying in the cool shadow of Macys, checking out the other morning people. I've always maintained that the healthy, alive folks are out early. This was no exception. Falling into our comfortable role of people watching, we admired the bodies of many of the other strollers. Some were young, and some were older. Most were fit. I find particularly appealing the looks of healthy and fit older women. By older, I meant Mom's age... you know, older.

Mesmerized by the firm, long legs of a woman with streaks of gray in her hair, I was nudged out of my sexy musings by Jean's voice: "Are you listening?"

Again, I gave her my grin of being caught and said, "I guess I wasn't. Sorry. I'm listening now, sweet sister."