Milking My Brother

I felt another huge wave of sympathy for him, that he'd had to do this for several weeks now. Poor guy. It was a miracle he remained so cheerful. Even something that was supposed to be as simple and relaxing as a shower had been contorted into a bizarre ordeal.

"OK, pants off, I guess," I said, and positioned him at the entrance to the shower cubicle, facing away from me.

I loosened the drawstring of his joggers and went to pull them down in as dispassionate a manner as I could; trying to remember the indifferent way our Mom used to dress and undress us as kids. It was a menial task, I told myself - no different than feeding him a spoonful of tea, or lowering the blind on his window.

He wasn't wearing any underwear and as I went to pull his pants down the first time, they wouldn't budge because his flaccid junk seemed to be in the way. No big deal, I thought, trying to remain calm. I just need to allow the waistband to balloon out further in order to get past whatever was hanging down there.

On the second attempt they slid easily down to his ankles and he stepped out of them. There was no harm done. I hadn't had to see or touch anything - although for a moment I had been forced to contemplate his private parts. But I tried to let go of the fleeting thought he must be packing down there.

As I removed his joggers I couldn't help but note that my head was a few inches away from his perfectly sculpted bum. I took a moment to admire its charm (seeing as I was down there anyway). It was a thing of considerable beauty - supple and firm, like a Renaissance statue. Nothing weird about acknowledging an exemplary male ass, I told myself.

The next few moments were conveniently filled with practical concerns, which helped to distract from any awkwardness. I pointed the shower jets away from his body while he stepped into the cubicle and put his elbows up on the rack.

He was so tall that he was forced to lean slightly forward rather than stand up straight, which meant that his lower back and ass were presented to me, like somebody waiting patiently to be flogged.

His back was so thick and muscular, I couldn't help but notice. But so what, I decided. I'm merely admiring a healthy example of the male physique. It's not like I need to be weirded out by it.

I moved the shower head back into position so that his body was coated in warm water, and I poured a serving of shower gel into my palm and lathered it up.

"OK, soap incoming," I said.

I re-directed the shower head again, so that his body was out of the way of the jets. I think I hesitated before placing my soapy hands on his back. But I told myself once more, this is not about you, Alice. This is about a disabled person - a dear member of your family, for whom you are merely trying to provide a modicum of dignity and normality.

And with that, I placed my sudsy fingers on his shoulder blades and began to lather his back in soap. It felt impressively solid and unyielding beneath my hands. I could feel each contour of his muscular lats and rhomboids, and the elegant centipede of his spine.

I chose to use a deliberately heavy hand in order to remove any possibility of sensuality. This was not a massage. It only needed to be functional, not appealing. He didn't say much while I spread the foam across his back. Although I did wonder if he noticed me linger a little longer than necessary on the region, owing to my trepidation about moving on to the rest of him.

I decided it was best just to dive in, so I let my soapy hands work their way around his flanks and up to his chest. It wasn't easy to reach the top of his shoulders without getting myself wet, but I figured that was the least of my concerns. I soaped his armpits, chest and washboard abs. They were all rock hard; it was like lathering a suit of armor.

"OK, feet!" I said.

He lifted his left foot back towards me. I gave it a quick soap, not quite feeling an appetite to go in between the toes.

"Right leg," I said.

He switched legs and presented me with his right foot and I gave that a soaping too.

I was trying to imagine myself as a robot. I was like a version of Alexa, I thought, just washing his body rather than shuffling his playlist. My own feelings were immaterial and I tried to let them pass without reflection, like clouds in the sky.

Once he had placed his foot down, I returned to his left side. Beginning at his ankle, I used my hands in a circular motion to soap up the trunk of his leg. He parted his feet to give me better access. I was careful to stop midway up his thigh, for fear of bumping into anything on the other side that I didn't feel ready to touch.

I worked so fast that one might have imagined we only had a limited amount of time. But it only had to be a perfunctory wash. It was about making sure he was clean and comfortable, not immaculately pristine. I wasn't about to enter him into a contest for best-washed brother.

When I had finished the trunk of his right leg, I wondered about his ass. Was I supposed to wash that too? Surely I wasn't expected to get into the crack? And was I supposed to wash his bits? I mean, we hadn't discussed either region specifically, apart from as a joke.

The idea suddenly made me uncomfortable. Surely I could not be expected to clean his intimate areas? But if I didn't, who else was going to do it?

One day at a time, I told myself. There is always tomorrow. And a day without soap in those places is not going to hurt him. At least he'd got some warm water on everything.

"Is that good?" I asked him

"Er ... yes," he said. "That's fine."

I could detect from his tone that it wasn't ideal. But he was too kind to force me outside my comfort zone, and too embarrassed to invite me outside of his.

I repositioned the shower head and averted my eyes for him to turn and rinse his front side, after which he returned to face the wall. It was like he'd been banished to stand in the naughty corner.

"You still have suds in your armpit," I said. "No, the other side ... Ok you got them."

I turned off the shower jets and told him to wait a moment. I stood with a towel outstretched, using it to block my view as he stepped backwards from the cubicle and let it envelop his waist. I tied it around him and used a second towel to begin drying his back and chest and then his legs. If his body were a geographical region, I was careful to stay above and below the equator.

When it was over, I felt oddly proud of myself. It had been minimally awkward in hindsight. And if anything, his body language had suggested it was more embarrassing for him than me. I wasn't the one naked and vulnerable after all.

Perhaps my proudest accomplishment was that I hadn't had to lay my eyes on his junk. Although I will confess it took a fair amount of self-control not to steal an innocent peek, out of curiosity. But I resisted.

Now I just had to get his pajamas on. I removed the plastic umbrella-sleeves from his arms, and while the towel was still around his waist, got him to step into the clean shorts, pulling them up safely beneath the towel. Finally I put him in a fresh T-shirt.

"Voilà," I said, when he was respectable again.

It was hardly the most fun experience of the day, but it had been nowhere near as awkward or humiliating as I'd feared. The entire time he'd been naked could not have been more than three minutes - hardly an endless ordeal for either of us. We can do this for a week or so, I thought. It's not going to get weird.

"Thank you so much Alice," he said sweetly.

He sounded apologetic and I felt bad all over again that none of this was his fault or his choice. Poor Jacob. We would look back on this one day and laugh.

I helped the patient back through the hallway to his room and sat him down on the bed.

"OK," I said. "All clean. Your nurse is going to bed now."

"Thank you, Sister Alice," he said, and we both laughed.

"I'll see you in the morning. If you need anything in the night, shout out, OK?"

"I'll be good. Thank you. You've been amazing today."

"Goodnight buddy."

I felt pleased with myself as I walked back to my room. The only downside had been that despite doing my best to avoid it, my own clothes had got pretty drenched. My jeans and top looked like I'd taken a shower in them myself. I made a note to be more careful on that front the next night.

For some reason, when I was lying in bed I found myself replaying the shower scene. Not in a weird way, you understand - although I guess it was a bit weird that it would be on my mind.

But I kept thinking about the fact I hadn't dared apply any soap to his junk or his ass crack. And it wasn't so much that I felt guilt or remorse about the fact, but a general awareness that I couldn't avoid those areas every day, could I?

Wouldn't he eventually have to say something? Knowing my brother Jacob, he was too decent and polite to bring it up. But I didn't love the idea he wouldn't be clean down there because of my own hang ups. I would hate it if I couldn't splash some soap and water on my bits, especially in the hot weather we were having.

What did the nurses do? What had Mom done? I was not about to ask either of them. And I already knew the answer: they acted like grown ups and washed their patient properly, without behaving like Primadonnas and thinking only of themselves.

I will do better tomorrow, I told myself. For Jacob's sake.

I will put my aside my ego and wash my brother's ass.

Saturday

It was particularly humid the next day.

Jacob came downstairs and spent the morning with me. I positioned a fan by the sofa to try and cool us both down. But we were pretty uncomfortable. It hit 103° at one point in the early afternoon, and being trapped in his plaster was making Jacob's forearm itchy.

The heat was helpful in a way because it served to reinforce my intention for his shower that night - that I was going to bite the bullet and wash his ass properly. Nobody likes to have a sweaty ass. So it was entirely in the interests of his comfort and hygiene to swallow my pride (if that's what needed swallowing), and give him the appropriate service. Although I still felt too uncomfortable to consider touching his balls.

It was a pretty lazy, uneventful day, in which we mostly watched TV while I slow-roasted a chicken. The one notable event was that I was required to change his eye bandages.

It was devastating unraveling the layers of white bandage that became increasingly yellow, then pink, as they grew closer to his wounded eyes. When I'd removed the protective gauze too, I almost wanted to burst into tears. The whole area looked so damaged and sore. His eyes themselves were blood-red, rather than merely bloodshot, but he insisted they didn't hurt as much as they previously had.

"Can you see anything?" I asked.

"A little," he said, his eyelids flickering to check. "But I don't want to test it yet."

"You shouldn't," I said. "Let's stick with what the Doctor said."

I used a compress to bathe his eyes gently in soothing balm, placed a fresh piece of gauze over each one, and then blindfolded him again with clean bandages.

"Oh buddy," I said, when I was done. "I'm so sorry you're dealing with this."

"It's OK," he said sadly.

I could tell it wasn't. But he was being brave as always.

"I couldn't do any of it without you," he said.

I squeezed his knee.

When we'd finished dinner, we sat down to watch a couple of episodes of the show we were binging together - Jacob listened rather than watched, while I attempted to describe the parts he might be missing. It was extraordinary how well he was able to follow the plot, despite not having seen a frame. His biggest problem was identifying which character was speaking out of the two male leads.

When the second episode had finished, it had gone 10 PM, and I said to him casually, "OK buddy. Guess it's bath time."

I was in a good mood that night, and felt oddly relaxed and unfazed about washing him again. I escorted him enthusiastically up the stairs and quickly began the whole rigmarole I'd learned from the night before: first slipping off his shirt (which was caked in sweat), then placing his hands into the two umbrella-gloves, then whipping down his joggers (I made sure to balloon them out this time so they didn't get caught on his private business). And finally, I maneuvered him into the shower cubicle where he put his elbows up onto the rack.

I felt like we had this down now; it was like a drill. We were going to be in and out in two minutes. And I'd been smart enough to wear a T-shirt and shorts myself, so that I could throw them in the laundry when they inevitably got drenched.

It didn't feel half as weird having my hands on his flesh this time, although I did register again how impressively solid his body was. But the whole thing just felt blessedly less awkward. It tends to be the unknown we find most stressful in our lives, and the ritual of his bathing already felt more familiar.

The only new twist tonight was that he wanted me to wash his hair. We decided to take care of that first. But even this wasn't as awkward as I'd imagined. He simply had to squat down a little more than usual while I shampooed and rinsed it. When it was done, I started on his body. I hoped my relaxed mood would help him feel less self-conscious.

"God, I wish I had your waist," I said, while soaping his solid core.

He laughed.

I lathered his back, sides and armpits, and smothered his chest with foam.

"Left foot," I said.

He produced it for soaping.

"Right foot," I said.

He obediently produced this one too.

Wow, I thought, this is a breeze. What was I getting myself in knots about?

I was just finishing the trunk of his second leg when I decided I wouldn't even hesitate, I was just going to lather up his ass like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I scooped a wad of suds from the back of his thigh and in one quick flourish, began to soap his masculine buttocks. I couldn't believe how firm they felt in my hands.

"I wish I had your ass too!" I said.

He laughed again.

It did feel kind of insane for a moment, standing with my brother's soapy ass in my hands. And it was even more insane when I let my fingers slide inside the crevice to wash his asshole. But I was in and out faster than a passing trend.

"OK. Done," I said, proudly.

I was stepping back to allow him to rinse the soap away when it caught my eye.

I only got a brief glimpse, but it was enough that I couldn't unsee.

Jutting out obscenely from his waist was the most enormous cock I had ever seen in my life. It was as hard as the barrel of a rifle and pointing to the heavens.

I honestly can't describe my shock. I became completely flustered. It was hard to process what the feeling even was ... My heart was a flutter, I was oddly out of breath; adrenaline was coursing through my veins.

It was a good job I hadn't decided to wash his junk, I thought. Especially now it had octupled in size. It was one thing for his sister to apply a quick squirt of soap to his flaccid bits, but quite another to have to touch that massive thing.

I stepped back quickly and said: "All done. There you go."

It was tricky to sound like everything was still normal. I turned off the jets and went to grab the towel, thinking the sooner I could cover him up, the better for us both.

Jacob himself seemed mortified. His sad, blindfold face was flushed beet-red, and instead of turning around to rinse off this time, he simply backed out of the cubicle in shame, asking for the towel to be placed around his waist.

It was a discomforting moment for us both, but one which remained unspoken - the elephant in the room (or at least its trunk).

As I held out the towel for him to reverse into, I don't know why - I suspect it was just human nature; the way people slow down to rubberneck a car accident - but I found myself glancing down to get a second view.

It was so fucking huge. To be honest, I didn't even know they came in that size. It was like discovering a whole new sub-species of them.

And my god, was it hard. It protruded in a near-vertical line from his crotch, way past his belly button, like a north-pointing compass.

'Jesus Fucking Christ!' I was desperate to say, but bit my lip and embraced him with the towel, tying it securely around his side.

I used a second towel to dry his upper body and back so I wouldn't have to reveal the massive thing again. And then I dried each of his legs from the ankle up. I went under the towel to dry his legs and was even more careful this time to stay away from the equator.

It was awkward to get one of the umbrella-gloves over the plaster of his sling, which meant having to stand beside him for longer than I really wanted to. And once again, I don't know why - apart from pure, healthy, human curiosity - but I couldn't resist looking down at his groin. The towel was forcing his dick up against his body, its outline so prominent and visible. It was almost more shocking than the glimpses I'd had of it in the flesh.

Why was he so hard? Should I be weirded out? I told myself to calm down. He most likely had no control. And it wasn't as though it was directed at me, or inspired by me. The fact he was so devastated was proof enough it was unintentional.

I decided on balance I should probably just ignore it. Maybe it had happened sometimes with his nurse, or even with Mom. It was human biology, after all. And he was a healthy young guy, with an apparent gold rush of testosterone.

Just as I was contemplating how to navigate getting his pajamas on over it, he told me sheepishly that he'd prefer to go to bed tonight in the towel. He said it was because it was so hot. And it really was hot, but his lie hung in the air (not the only part of him which did).

I led him to his bedroom and guided him to sit down on the bed. He swung his legs under the bedclothes and shuffled into a reclining position. With the assistance of a slight wiggle from his hips, I was able to pull the towel free from beneath the sheets without needing to expose him again.

I think we were both exhausted by the time I was done.

"Well, night," I said.

"Night," he said. His forehead was drenched in sweat. Possibly more than before I'd given him the shower.

"You OK?"

"I'll be fine. Thank you."

I couldn't fall asleep that night.

It wasn't the heat keeping me awake. It was Jacob's gargantuan erection. I couldn't get the image of it out my mind. And for some reason it was making me wet between my legs.

You are not thinking about Jacob, I tried to reason with myself, you are thinking about the appendage itself. It was a cock, after all and I was a woman. Any heterosexual woman should naturally and biologically feel a certain magnetic reaction to a cock, especially such a monumental one.

Hadn't that been my friend Traci's point? That a beautiful cock is a beautiful cock, no matter whose body it might belong to? And there was nothing weird about a single, adult girl fantasizing about a sublime cock. It was normal and healthy.

I had to remind myself how hard this must all be for my brother. Indeed, it was 'rock' hard for him. God knows what agony might have been going through his mind about it.

The shower I had given him had lasted even less time than the first one. It wasn't like we were milking anything. And he needed to be clean and comfortable. This was all a matter of basic hygiene. Other families take care of each other in way more extreme circumstances.

And yet I'll admit it was strange to have been so grossed out by the idea of his nude body at first, to now be lying in bed with a sopping wet pussy, imagining the thrill of my hands all over it ...