My story begins ten-years-ago when my sister, Celia, phoned one winter evening. She was unemployed and seriously in debt with her credit cards. The phone company was threatening to cut off her phone, her car had been repossessed and the landlord was about to evict her.
I didn't really like the woman but she was, after all, my sister. I listened to her tale of woe. A winter gale howled around the building. It was cold as the Arctic outside.
"Could you help me, please," she pleaded?
Well, what could I do? "Sure, I replied, how much money do you need?"
"Oh Mike, I don't want to take your money. I just need a place to stay for a few days.
Against my better judgement, I heard myself say she could use the spare bedroom with the ensuite bathroom.
"Oh Mike, you are a sweetie," she said.
The next day Celia arrived with half a truck-load of furniture, books, dishes and assorted cd's. I had furnished my condo to suite me and didn't appreciate her showing up with a load of junk but I figured she had enough trouble right then and didn't complain. Looking back on it, I'm sure she knew I'd be upset but women have a way of getting around a man and she had me outsmarted from the start.
She stayed mostly out of sight for the first couple of months... I wondered where she went because she didn't arrive home until after I was asleep. I discovered later that she was afraid I would think she was in the way. She stayed in bed, in the morning, until I left and then she went to the library or a movie in the evening. If she thought it too early to arrive at the apartment she would sit in a doughnut shop until she was sure I'd be asleep. She caught a nasty cold being out on winter nights. The cold became pneumonia.
Her coughing awakened me from a deep sleep. It was a deep, chesty, barking cough. Right in the lungs. Hell, I thought, she's not going to make it through the night with that cough.
I dressed and knocked on her door. She opened it and one look was enough to prompt me to say: "Come on, we are going to emerg to see a doctor." She didn't argue.
The doctor told me to confine her to bed for 10 days, make sure she took her antibiotic and keep her inside until the weather warmed. We arrived home at two in the morning. I phoned the office, left a message, said I had a family emergency, and took two weeks vacation time. The next day we slept till noon. I arose, cooked some hot cereal, made some coffee, poured some orange juice, put the whole works on a tray and went to her room. She looked bad. Her temperature was up, she was wet with perspiration and she was incoherent when I spoke to her-this was one sick woman. She took her medication, drank the orange juice and went to sleep.
I phone my own doctor for advice. He said, give her aspirin, all the fluids she could drink and have someone give her an alcohol rub to bring her temperature down.
So there I was, standing in her room, with a bottle of methyl-alcohol, wondering where to begin. I poured some on the washcloth and proceeded to gently pat her forehead, cheeks and neck.
"Oh, that feels so cool," she said.
Relieved to hear that she was coherent, I replied: "Doc Jones' orders are aspirins and alcohol rubs till the temperature is normal."
A couple of hours her temperature was still 104.5. I told her I'd have to use the alcohol again. To my surprise, she sat up and undid the buttons on her pyjama top. In response to my surprised look she sighed and with resignation written all over her face, said: "If you are going to give me an alcohol rub then you must cover enough skin area to be effective."
I protested that I wasn't a pervert. I wasn't into lusting after my own sister. I finished by saying I'd be embarrassed to rub her bosom.
Celia gave me a tired, sick look and said: "Oh, for heavens' sake Mike. I'm too sick for this nonsense. I'm too sick for lust or sex or anything else. My temperature is at least 104. I need to bring it down. Close your eyes if you have to but give me an alcohol rub. You are my brother, for Pete's sake."
That's exactly what I did. I closed my eyes and said to her: "Okay, take of your top and I'll keep my eyes closed." She wasn't too sick to laugh out loud.
"Mike, you are so straight," she said.
I gently patted her chest, yes her breasts, with the alcohol soaked cloth and I guess I lingered longer than I should have. I mean, even with my eyes closed, I could feel that the cooling effect of the alcohol had made her nipples erect. Her breasts seemed firm and I could tell that the areola had swollen and the nipples had hardened. Okay, I confess, I opened my eyes-but just the tiniest bit. I must say, Celia has a spectacular bosom, so round, so high, so beautifully contoured, not even a hint of droop, white, flawless in every way. Just a hint of blue vein under translucent skin with pink nipples surrounded by dusty pink areola that puffed when I caressed it. Her breasts were like those of an adolescent girl, yielding yet inviting, firm yet soft.
When I had finished with her front she rolled on to her stomach and I rubbed her shoulders and slowly worked my way to her lower back. I was surprised that she began to tremble as I patted her just above her pelvis. Sick as she was, I noticed her hips move ever so slightly, just a flutter really, but more than a couple of times. No, I thought, I'm just a dirty old man. She was just getting comfortable-right? But, all the same, it appeared that she had almost begun to wriggle her hips and had trouble controlling the impulse.
I did notice that she has beautiful shoulders. Nicely rounded deltoids without being too muscular, firm lats and softly protruding shoulder blades. Her arms are like the arms of a Doulton figurine, not muscular but sweetly rounded and blemish free. Her upper back tapers downward to a beautifully slender waist which in its turn meets the sweetly feminine outward curve of her pelvis while her behind is firm and smooth, shaped like an inverted heart, not a hint of cellulite.
As I finished, she sighed contentedly and her slow even breathing told me she was asleep.
When I took her temperature a couple of hours later it had fallen to 100. I was mightily relieved.
I hadn't ever thought of Celia in a sexual way. She had always been my brat sister. As I stood in the doorway of the bedroom I felt strange, lustful yet guilty, aroused yet embarrassed, at peace but troubled.
Celia recovered as the days passed. She kept her pyjama tops on and I kept a respectful distance.
It was the contest that changed things. I had recently bought some new clothing at a trendy downtown mens' store and had been automatically entered into a contest in which the prize was two weeks in a secluded Bahamian resort. I won. The flight and accommodation was for two persons. I thought a trip to the Bahamas was just what Celia needed to fully recover from the pneumonia. Celia was thrilled. She had just celebrated her 30th birthday. I was 35. It was an apropos birthday present
Yes, I gave her my credit card to buy some vacation clothes. I have to admit, we seemed closer. Affection that I didn't think we had for each other was suddenly there. If we were walking along a street together, she would impulsively squeeze my hand and when I looked at her, our eyes would meet and I would feel an intimacy I had not previously known. Sometimes she would hug my arm and pull me to her bosom. There were other times when she would think I wasn't aware of her observing me and I would look up suddenly and surprise her and she would appear a little flustered, smile and look away. Times, when I would look at her when she was unaware and my stomach would do a slow roll as I saw the sweet contour of her breast, the line of her thighs and hips, the soft curve of her belly where it joined her thighs. Once or twice she stood on tiptoe, unexpectedly, say when we were in an elevator or waiting in a line, and lovingly kissed my cheek. When we were walking together we held hands, like lovers. I guess you could describe our relationship as loving, non-sexual. I think we grew comfortable with each other's company.
She did, however, model some of her vacation clothes for my benefit. I guess the outfit that intrigued me was a cotton, print caftan with a zipper down the front. As she modelled it, with a seductive smile, she slowly lowered the zipper to reveal the soft curve of her bosom. Next, she modelled her Victoria's Secret underwear and finally a bikini that covered the tips of breasts and provided a tiny triangle of fabric front and behind for the bottom. I could see her pubic hair curling around the front of her bikini. "Better shave," I advised her. She made a face and stuck here tongue out and went off muttering about how men were so unromantic.
The vacation resort was paradise. A group of secluded Bahamian out-islands with a security guard to ward off uninvited visitors. We arrived about eleven in the morning and by noon had settled in... We decided to go for a swim. As we headed for the beach the conversation drifted into topless and nude bathing. I observed that in French locales the femmes either went topless or nude. She didn't reply. When we arrived at the beach I noticed a big water-skiing raft about two-hundred yards from shore. "Let's swim to the raft," I suggested. About 100 yards out I stopped and turned around to see how Celia was making out. She was about 20 yards behind and swimming strongly. "Come on Celia, it's now or never," I said. A second later I heard her shouting, "Mike, Mike."
.... There is more of this story ...