When my sister Melanie was 15, and I was 13, something started to happen to her. She had been the gregarious one. The life of the party. With her thin but curvy figure, luxurious black hair, dark olive skin, and beautiful smile, she delighted everyone she came in contact with. One day, she said her legs felt a bit ‘weird.’ Within a few days, she started having trouble walking. She said it was like trying to slog through a swimming pool. My parents took her to a doctor, who had her check into the hospital for more tests. We were all very scared.
It turned out quite badly. She was going to die young, and it sent the whole family into a total funk for several weeks. It was Mel who brought us out of the darkness. She started living life again, even as she was dying. She smiled everyday, told jokes, and was if anything, even more outgoing than before. I’ve since learned that there’s something about facing one’s own mortality that makes one brave, bold, and dead honest – no pun intended.
She continued to decline. By the time she was 17, she had lost most of the use of her hands, and pretty much lived in her electric wheelchair. She needed around-the-clock attendance. At night, it was my parents. While I was in school, we had a hired helper for her. After school, between 3:30 and 6:30, it was my turn. There’s something about assisting your own sister in the bathroom that brings siblings close. Even though her care took me away from friends, basketball and all that, I loved her, and decided to make what was left of her life as perfect as possible.
In the afternoons, we watched some TV, or did some computer things, but not that much really. We mostly talked. We talked about everything. I really enjoyed her bold honesty, and she often made me laugh with her oddball light cynicism.
When she needed to pee, I’d get her on the toilet, and it would be I who would wipe her vagina. Taking showers got easier when we figured out that I’d get as naked as her, essentially spill her out of her chair and into the tub, and shower with her. I didn’t mind. In fact, I have to admit that when I first had to do that chore, I got secret chills that hardened my prick. She was the first girl who I’d ever seen without clothes. At first, I made it a point to twist away from her so that in case she looked back in my direction, she wouldn’t see my erection. I mean, how would I explain it? She was my sister after all, and disabled at that.
After a while, it just became a natural phenomen. I mean, I’d get hard almost every time I washed her, and she knew it, and neither of us cared or paid any attention to it.
One day, while feeding her at the dinner table, she asked how often I masturbate. We were so close that such a personal question seemed OK. With only the slightest embarrassment, I admitted that it was at least once a day, often shortly after our showers.
She then told me that she used to rub herself everyday too, but now she can’t. It took me less than a split-second to figure out where this conversation was going! Not wanting to embarrass her by making her ask, I simply said, “Hey Mel, I’d love to help you with that!” She breathed such a sigh of relief I almost broke down in tears.
Moments later, we were in the shower. This time, I didn’t simply swipe the washcloth between her legs a couple of times as I had done in the past. This time, I left the cloth on the edge of the tub, and washed her slowly, carefully, with my fingertips. With her instruction, I found her clit, and learned how to work it. She came right away, and laid, curled up like a kitten, and kind of shivering in the warm water in the tub for a good few minutes. Meanwhile, I sat on the edge of the tub, rubbed my hard penis furiously, and came right in front of her, almost on top of her, dripping my jizz into the bath water.
That was the first time. We must have done it a hundred more times, more often in her bed, rather than in the shower.
She showed me how to put a finger in her ass, and curl two fingers in her vagina against the inside front of her body, giving her some sort of internal orgasms. And I do mean that in the pleural. She was capable of 15 minutes of almost non-stop orgasms. I think it became her favorite joy in life, these masturbatory sessions with her brother.
I never asked her to repay me, but on four or five occasions, she took it upon herself to instruct me to position myself in front of her – since she could no longer move very well – and she’d give me wonderful blowjobs, which she seemed to enjoy as much as I did.
Over the next two years, she had seemed to stabilize, not getting much worse. One day, her doctor tried a new medicine that was supposed to help. But that afternoon, an hour after taking the new pills, something went terribly wrong. She started coughing, and having trouble breathing. An ambulance came. She died that night in the hospital of a heart attack. Imagine, a heart attack at age 20! They say it was the new drug, but I think it was better that she went suddenly and quickly, rather than the long continuing decline that might have been.