Chapter 5

“It is a form of grace to become nothing but a task”
—Kim Stanley Robinson, Icehenge

MONDAY MORNING, my home nurse showed up promptly at seven. Dad had already gotten me out of bed and helped me with morning toilet before he left for work. I was glad to be up and mobile in my chair but it was going to suck getting up before Dad went to work every morning. Still, Em was out the door to school at about the same time so I figured I’d better get used to it. Pey’s school didn’t start till nine. I guess that meant Em would get home earlier, too.

Molly was a big Irish redhead and I was in love from the moment I saw her. She was in her mid-fifties, I guess, and built like a brick. She was big but you’d never confuse her for fat. The first time she lifted me up to put the bedpan under my butt convinced me of that. She was strong as an ox. But her hair was still red and the spray of freckles across her nose just begged to be kissed. Damn it! V1 gets off on an old lady and V3 gets a hard-on. V2 is going ‘Oh, yuck!’ Except he was dead, so that didn’t count. She efficiently finished cleaning me up and gave my cock a pat before she fastened the diaper.

“That should provide you with some motivation to get healed,” she said. “You need to get your arms out of those casts so you can take care of little Jacob. You know, it’s the national pastime for boys of your age.”

After that, I was hard and red. I wondered if I could convince her to give me a helping hand, so to speak. Or mouth. She had full lips and a mouthful of white teeth that I was sure were her own. I could just imagine what it would feel like when she slipped those lips over my cock and started stroking me with her tongue.

“Ow!”

“Yes, you’ve lost some mobility in your shoulders. We’ll have to work on extending them more every day. When you get out of those casts, it’s not just your flute you’ll want to finger. You’ll want to reach up over your head. Maybe even throw a ball. And you’re tight as a fiddle string. We need to do some torso stretches.”

My physical therapy with Molly took most of the morning. I was exhausted and wanted to nap after lunch.

“Why don’t you nap here on the sofa while I watch a soap?” she said.

“How am I going to get on the sofa?”

“How do you think?” She scooped me out of my chair with ease and laid me back on the sofa in a position where I could also see the TV if I so desired. I didn’t but it was nice to be with her while I napped. Finger my flute? Yeah.

It was two o’clock when Em got home from school. Molly had me back in my chair and was holding her purse when Em walked through the door.

“Well, I’m off then. See you for another round of torture in the morning, lad,” Molly said. She was out the door a minute after Em walked in.

“Who was that?” Em asked.

“Nurse Molly, my daily torturer,” I laughed. “She’s really a sweetheart and took good care of me today, but she’s on the clock.”

“You need anything before I change clothes?”

“Naw. I’m fine for a few. I’m happy to see you, though.”

“Keep that thought because I left school without pissing and I’m about to burst.” She hurried down the hall and I heard the bathroom door close. I was still pretty wrung out from half a day of PT and an hour of studying, but it really was nice to see Em in her school clothes. She was wearing a blue blouse and sweater that matched with skin tight jeans that did everything to accent her cute shape. I berated myself for the kinds of thoughts I had about my sister. I reminded myself that she was V3’s sister and not some common girl I’d see on the street. And besides, I was sixty-three years older than her and had no business lusting after a seventeen-year-old. Damn it! If I kept that attitude, I’d never be able to date when I got out of this contraption.

“Hey,” she said coming back into the room. She was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of cut-off sweats. Her legs were ... luscious.

“Hey, yerself. Good day at school?”

“What are you, my mom? It was frustrating.”

“I thought you were good in school.”

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s ... um ... I was thinking that I’d burn off some ... uh ... fuck! I usually go to my room and jill off when I get home from school. You need some relief?”

“After the torturer was done with me today? I’d love some. Do you mean ... Are you willing to do me? I don’t want to cut into your private time, I mean. I can ... you know ... wait ... if you want.”

“In about five minutes, I’m going to have my panties around my ankles and three fingers buried in my twat. That leaves my other hand free if you want to join me. But Pey gets home in forty minutes. We need to do it now.”

“Yeah. Please.”

“Let’s do it in your room.”

I followed her down the hall, maneuvered my chair past the door and backed it into my room. By the time I got there, Em had her sweats off and was mauling her breasts with one hand while she stroked her slit with the other.

“Get over here close to the bed. We have to work out a position since you aren’t in bed.” I backed my chair up next to the bed in the position she directed me to. She quickly got the velcro closure of my little skirt open and unfastened the diaper. Just seeing her come in from school had me chubbing but seeing her with no pants on brought it to full attention. “I think I know how to do this and not be too stressful,” she said. With that, she sat on the bed, scooted down toward me, and put her right leg on my left shoulder. This close, she could still use her right hand on my cock and her left in her pussy. She squirted some lotion on her hand and started stroking as she lay back on her bed and got her other hand busy in a very wet pussy.

I could tell it was very wet. It was only about a foot in front of my face. I kept leaning forward to see if I could smell her. The sounds were great and the visual of her wide-open pussy was beyond belief. If it wasn’t for that visual, I might not have come. Sitting up with one leg stretched out in front of me isn’t the best jack-off position. But Em’s hand and the sight of her pussy as she got herself off were enough. She squealed and came again when my first shot hit her in the right buttock.

“Oh, God! You squirted on my butt!” Then she started laughing. “I forgot to get a washcloth and it’s going to run all the way down my leg by the time I get to the bathroom. Wow! That was a real charge! Be right back.” I could watch her bouncing butt with my come dripping down it all day.

Between school and homework and physical therapy, Em and I didn’t get together the rest of the week. I watched with dismay as she passed my room dressed in a miniskirt and tight top to go out for her Friday night date. I was seriously infatuated with my older sister.

When you can’t walk and your arms don’t move, life can be seriously boring. I loved my time in the power wheelchair because I could move from room to room. I could eat meals with the family in the dining room. I could watch television in the living room. But I couldn’t stand up by myself. You wouldn’t believe how much you depend on your arms when you change from standing to sitting to lying down. If someone, Dad or Nurse Molly, stood me up, I could stay there for a few seconds. But if I got the least bit off balance, I’d go from standing to lying down in a catastrophic manner. I felt confined all the time and I could tell Mom and Dad got tired of having to move me around and tend to my toilet.

The bell Em got me helped me get attention without yelling myself hoarse if I was in a room by myself. Em had carefully written on my cast the circumstances under which I could ring the bell. She had sequences as well. One ring, two rings, non-stop ringing. Each event I rang for had its own sequence. In general, one ring with a second not less than five minutes apart, meant that I’d like someone to talk to or I needed to ask a question. Someone would get to me as soon as they could but if Mom had three things cooking on the stove and was trying to pull something out of the oven, it might take a few minutes before she could make everything safe enough to answer my call. The second instance, five minutes later, would simply remind people that no one had responded yet.

At the other end of the spectrum, Em had written the few things that would merit non-stop ringing. Pain that I can’t stand. My room is on fire. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. (I think she was being facetious, but it reminded me that in the nursing home we all wore emergency communicators around our necks.) At the bottom of the list she’d written, ‘Nightmare.’

The problem, as I discovered later that night, was that when I had my nightmare, I couldn’t ring the bell.

I was suffocating. It always started that way. I couldn’t tell if I had air in my lungs and couldn’t exhale or if my lungs were empty and I couldn’t inhale. It made no difference. No air was going in or out. I was going to die here in the dark.