My brother learned he had cancer during his physical examination while retiring from the Army. He was 45, a big, muscular, macho guy with a bluff manner and a confident air. Both he and I had married young, divorced, and had spent many years single. I was 42.
Our paths rarely crossed while we were adults, and I didn’t see him until several months into his treatment and recovery. My mother was living with him in Los Angeles and she asked if I could come out and stay with him for a week to give her a break. I thought it was the least I could do.
He looked better than I expected. He was bald from the chemotherapy, but he had always had his head shaved so that was not a shock. He had lost about thirty pounds and looked gaunt, but was in good spirits. “Chemo over,” he said, with a show of heartiness, “And I’m on the road to recovery.” I was less confident.
The first two days we were together we talked as we had not in many years and went out to a movie and I cooked a decent meal for him — my mother being a horrible cook, we joked. I slept on a pull-out couch in his one-bedroom, one-bath apartment.
My second night there I heard him shout in the night and rushed into his bedroom to see what was the matter. He was having a bad dream, thrashing around in his bed, agitated and sweating. I shook him awake, “Bob, please. Wake up. It’s only a dream.” The bedside light was on.
His eyes snapped open and he looked confused and, then, recognizing me, he pulled me to him and sobbed on my breast. I sat down on the bed and cradled his head in my arms and on my lap. “It’s the pain killers. And the chemo,” he said. “I have terrible dreams. I’m afraid of the dark.” He was still trying to catch his breath between sobs and his cheeks were streaked with tears. My soldier brother, always so sure of himself, was like a big baby.
I stayed with him until he was again sleeping soundly. I became aware that I was only barely covered. My bedtime outfit is a knee-length flannel nightgown with a scoop neckline and spaghetti straps. I wear it for comfort, not sexiness, but it was hiked up around my thighs where his head was resting and my breasts — which are large — were spilling out of the top. Bob was wearing pajamas tied around his waist and a few pubic hairs stuck out of the slit down the front. I wondered why men lost Hatay Escort the hair on their head after chemo but not their pubic hair.
As a single girl who traveled around the world on her job, I was accustomed to taking men where and when I found them. I had hopped into a large number of beds in my days. And so had Bob. He had been known is his early days as quite the lady’s man and he probably still had been before his cancer.
The next morning I was standing at the stove cooking breakfast — still in my night gown, but partly covered by a robe — when he came out of the bedroom and hugged me from behind. “Thanks for last night,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
I turned around and pulled him to me and kissed him on the forehead. “You’ve been sick, silly boy. That’s what I’m here for.” As I hugged him, I couldn’t help but feel the partial erection beneath the thin fabric of his pajamas. “So,” I thought, “he was not rendered totally incapable by the chemotherapy.” I mentally chastised myself for the thought, gave him another squeeze and felt my breasts pressing against his bare chest, and then announced that the coffee was ready.
We had a really fun day and I believed, for the first time, that my brother was going to get well. That night, we went to bed as usual, he in the bedroom, me on the couch, but about two a.m., I was awakened by the sound of his sobbing and talking in his sleep. I rushed to him and sat down on the bed and, again, cradled his head on my lap. He was sweating. I got a wet towel and began to wipe away the sweat on his face and shoulders. He slowly relaxed.
He stared up at me from my lap. “Thanks for being here. I wouldn’t want to go through this alone.” One arm went up around my neck and I leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. I felt the strap slip off my shoulder and my breast fell out.
“Oops,” said I, pulling the strap up.
He moved his hand from my neck down to my breast, squeezing it through the fabric. “I always enjoyed looking at your boobs when we were kids,” he said. “Big boys,” he laughed as he gave me another squeeze.
Our lips met, his head still in my lap, and I pushed hard down on him and his head ground into my groin. “My God,” I thought, “My brother.”
We unlocked our lips and he laid back, relaxing, his hand running over my breasts, Hatay Escort Bayan and down my side to where my nightgown was pulled up around my hips. I glanced at his pajamas. His erection was full, his penis sticking out through the fabric. “I haven’t had a woman for six months,” he said. “I don’t know whether I can do it or not.”
I held him for a long minute as thoughts of incest raced through my mind. “Fuck my brother? There must be something wrong, really wrong with that.” But I didn’t feel evil or depraved.
“I’d like to see,” he said, “if I can cum. I haven’t felt like trying. I’ve been afraid I couldn’t. It’s scary.” I could feel his bald head rocking back and forth on my lap, massaging my clitoris and I was moving in rhythm with him. My nightgown was riding up to my waist, my tits were hanging out over his face. His cock was engorged, thrust straight up into the air from his pajamas. I was ready — as I had been so many times before with so many men. But he was my brother!
“Don’t fuck me,” he said. “But make me cum.” And he buried his face in my breasts.
That persuaded me. It was not incest. It was helping a man — my brother — recover sexually from a terrible illness. I kept my nightgown on as a last shred of propriety. I scooted him over on the bed and laid down beside him, my head at his waist, my hips near his head. I pulled the string to open his pajamas and pulled them down over his feet. He turned toward me and I took his cock in my hand and felt up and down it, balancing his balls in my hand. Just masturbation. That was all right.
My thought of “just masturbation” died in an instant when he pulled my hips close to his face, brushed my nightgown aside, and I felt his mouth and tongue on my belly, working its way down into my pubic hair. His tongue flicked into my clitoris. “I’ll do the best I can for you,” he said.
“Your best is pretty good,” I said, laughing, my passion fully aroused, my dedication to sex complete. He wasn’t my brother now; he was a man, like any other and I wanted to fuck him. I took his cock in my mouth. His hands spread me apart and his tongue probed deeply into me. I rolled over on top of him, his cock still in my mouth and began to hunch, my clitoris seeking his tongue.
I wanted to feel his cock inside me, but I knew it wouldn’t Escort Hatay work this time. He was not completely hard — the lingering effects perhaps of his chemo — and so this time it was a sixty-nine. “Tell me how it is when I cum,” he moaned. “I want to know whether anything comes out.”
“I think it will.” I sucked him and enjoyed his tongue in my clitoris and when he was ready, his breaths coming hard and his strokes fast, I pulled away my mouth from his cock to watch him cum on my face. It wasn’t the most powerful spurt I had ever seen, but it was a good amount and I locked down on his cock with my mouth and sucked him dry. And then I cummed too, his hands on my butt pulling me down onto his extended tongue as I lurched up and down. He put his finger up my ass and that gave me another jolt of two of emotion.
I rolled off him in exhaustion. I’ve always been a wet and messy lover and the bed was covered with my juices, as was he. I wiped him off with my nightgown. “I think you’re healed,” I said finally.
“God, Carol. You don’t know how much I needed that. I feel like a man again.”
“Go to sleep,” I said. “You need to rest.”
I didn’t have to tell him twice. He was asleep in a minute. I turned the light out, snuggled against him, and he slept like a log the rest of the night.
When I woke up the next morning he was getting on top of me to try to fuck me. “Whoa,” said I. “You’re getting too ambitious. Take it easy.”
He looked at his half-flaccid penis and said, “Yeah, I guess so. But thanks for what you did for me last night.”
“My pleasure,” said I. I didn’t feel the least guilty. Nor apparently did he. I went shopping and ran a few errands than morning. When I came back after lunch, he was waiting for me. He was wearing his pajamas, but I could see the bulge. We kissed and he eased me toward the bedroom and by the time we reached the bed I had his penis in my hand and he was stripping off my blouse. We fucked then — and every night for the rest of the week. He was on the road to recovery.
That was twenty years ago. My brother recovered completely from cancer. The experience seemed to cure his roving and restless eye and he soon married a very nice divorced woman with two children and became a model husband.
I likewise married again to a wonderful man and settled down as a loyal and loving wife. But every couple of years at family reunions, my brother and I make an opportunity to spend some time together and have sex. He needs viagra now and I need a lubricant to easy his passage, but we fit together nicely. Like family.