Brothers And Sisters Ch 06 1

She smiled, patted my not-quite-hard but no-longer-soft dick, and said, "You DO want to see more, don't you?"

"Is my sister in any of them?" I asked.

She giggled.

"No, Honey," she said and then giggled, "Honestly, I think Lindsey is probably still a virgin. She was never able to come to grips with her size like Chelsea did," and, again, I had to stop and think to translate "Chelsea" into "Mom."

"I saw Mom and Dad, Don, you," I said, thinking, "Who else in the family?"

She smiled and turned back to the computer.

She scrolled, stopped, scrolled some more, and double-clicked.

Once again, the pure quality of production struck me as the camera moved slowly along the aisle beside a series of booths at what was obviously a dark, intimate bar. The lights were low, the soft babble of voices in the background was subdued, and a woman was singing in the background, a passable rendition of Julie London's

Cry Me A River

.

The man across the table, as the camera focused, was, well, "substantial," is a good word. He looked about 50 with the iron-grey hair that men hope they get since it just screams "MATURITY AND WISDOM." He was handsome in a rugged cowboy way. His voice when he spoke was deep and coarse, sort of like Sam Elliot in his younger days. Christ,

I

had a crush on him.

"You blew a fifty million dollar deal," he was saying to the blonde woman sitting across the table from him, "and there are consequences for an error like that. You understand, don't you?"

The screen flashed to the blonde as the director used the "shot/reverse shot" technique to follow a conversation.

My breath caught.

My cousin Marji was my first crush. When I was 13, a large hormone in tennis shoes as my grandmother described puberty, and spending part of my summers in a small town in the Colorado Rockies, Marji had her driver's license and, unlike most 16-year-old girls didn't mind my 13-year-old self tagging along. She is tall, a natural blonde with that honey-blonde hair that makes you think of Amanda Seyfried or Connie Britton. And she is gorgeous. She's by far the prettiest woman I have ever known personally with that great mane of hair, a generous mouth, straight teeth, piercing, wide-set blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, tiny ears, and a button nose.

In the summer, we swam a lot and in her two-piece suit, not a string bikini or a buttfloss thong but a two-piece, I had seen that she had small, high breasts, broad shoulders, a ridiculously small wasp waist, flaring hips, and an athlete's legs.

I was in lust, in love, smitten, taken, head-over-heels, crazy, stupid over her.

And she reciprocated not at all. I think she had to be aware, but she never showed any interest.

And now here she was, looking into the camera, a young woman of 22. She was still as pretty and with makeup, something she hadn't worn that summer, I wouldn't have been surprised to see her on the big screen instead of in this untitled video on a computer monitor.

"I understand," she said, her eyes looking directly into the camera and, therefore, into mine.

Aunt Rita chuckled and patted my cock where it suddenly came erect.

"Give me your panties," the man said.

She said nothing, just scooted over on the booth seat.

"Where do you think you're going?" the man asked, a bit of a snap in his voice.

"To the bathroom?" she said, the upward tone at the end of the sentence turning it into a question.

"Sit. the. fuck. right. there. and. give. me. your. fucking. panties," he said, his tone making each word a separate sentence.

Her eyes got big.

When she didn't move for a couple of seconds he snapped, "NOW!"

Her shoulders slumped in surrender and I thought,

"Damn, that's some good acting."

And then I had a follow-on thought,

"If it IS acting."

She scooted back, centering on the seat, and bent over, her hands disappearing under the table. It was almost painful to watch as she squirmed and struggled. At one point her chin actually touched the table top while she tried to comply with his demand.

I realized that part of the "consequences" she was paying was the humiliation of what she was doing, there in a public restaurant. The booth sat against the wall so there was a degree of privacy that she wouldn't have had if they had been sitting at a four-top table in the middle of the floor.

Finally, she sat back up straight and handed her panties across the table to him.

He smiled and held them up, inspecting them as if they were some rare art item he was considering buying. They were a pinkish beige color and most of them was a kind of fishnet of very fine threads, The opaque crotch was the only part that had any substance.

Finished with his inspection he folded them and tucked them into his shirt pocket.

"Now your bra," he said, the camera focusing on him now, his eyes holding mine. Hell, I was ready to try that double-jointed thing women seem to know and unhook my OWN bra. He had that kind of presence.

I saw her eyes getting red and wondered for an instant what crying would do to her makeup. Part of me wanted to rush to her aid, to get her out of this. But part of me wanted to see her tits if I'm being honest here.

She reached down and started tugging her blouse, untucking it from the business skirt of her business suit.

The camera panned and caught other customers at the table across the aisle, sitting below the raised area where the booths were lined up, and one matronly woman was watching Marji, her eyes wide and her lips parted slightly as she watched.

I heard my phone ring but ignored it.

On the screen, my beautiful cousin had leaned forward and her hands were behind her in that double-jointed way women seem to learn with their first training bras to unhook her bra.

"Hello," I heard Aunt Rita say as Marji started doing that other thing women learn as part of their breasts coming in, that magic as one arm disappeared under her blouse and she squirmed around a little before pulling her bra out from under the blouse.

"Oh my God, that's wonderful," Rita said, distracting me just as the bra was starting to emerge.

"Of course," she said, "we'll be over in a little while."

"Okay, Pervert," she said, grabbing the mouse and turning off the video, "we need to get moving."

I was so captivated by what I was watching that I literally shook my head, pulling myself away from what my cousin was doing to pay attention to what my aunt was saying.

"What?" I snapped.

"Your sister is awake," she said.

"Oh," I said and I'm a little ashamed to admit that my first thought was,

"Well, I guess she'll be in charge of the money now."

"David," Rita said, and for the first time since the accident she seemed angry, "at least pretend you are happy."

"You're right," I said, and I meant it, "I'm an asshole. What did they say?"

"Only that she's awake and we should go to the hospital later this afternoon. They need some time to get her cleaned up and, I imagine, run about a zillion tests," she said.

She held my eyes for a long ten-count, I could almost see her evaluating me.

She smiled.

"Don't worry, Honey," she said and patted where I was still hard after my aborted viewing of the video with Marji in it, "we have time to take care of you."

She stood and I stood and she took hold of my hard dick. Then, in a foreshadowing of my future, she literally led me by the cock into the bedroom.

"You know," she said, turning to face me as we entered the bedroom, wrapping both arms around my neck and pulling me down for a kiss, "a man should spend at least as much time on his knees as he asks his woman to."

I laughed softly, said, "Not exactly subtle, aunt-o-mine," and eased to my knees.

She did the little sidestep, getting her feet a little more than shoulder-width apart, her hips pushed forward a little.

"My days of subtlety are behind me," she said, her fingers in my hair, pulling me to her.

I gave her what she wanted.

Okay, I gave her what I very much wanted to give her.

We hadn't showered yet, and her normal womanscent had a hint of body-needing-a-shower under it, an earthy scent I liked.

My face was buried in the lush thicket of her pubic hair and something about the scent of her body, needing a shower, hit me right at the brain stem. My hands on her ass squeezed and I pulled her to me, burying my face in her. I could taste the saltiness of her excitement and hear the pattern of her breathing change as her hips started rocking against my face.

"Oh yeah," she said, bending her knees, pushing herself against me as her fingers in my hair pulled, hard, pressing my mouth to her, "this is going to be a good marriage."

I was sucking now, almost nursing, enjoying the swelling of her labia in my mouth, the feel of the hard little button of her clitoris against the tip of my tongue, the feel of her thick natural lubricant on my tongue. I swallowed, noisily, making her giggle a little as she pressed me even harder against her.

Her orgasm filled my mouth, her release changing from warm and thick to thin and watery when she came. I swallowed and then just bathed in her pleasure until she was spent.

She was laughing breathily as she crawled up onto the bed, holding her position on all fours, and making soft "woof woof" sounds.

I took her doggie fashion from behind, pumping hard at first and then setting up a slow rhythm. With each thrust, as I pulled out I would slap her ass, not a hard spanking but enough to leave pink handprints before I came, pumping deep into her and then laying across her back when I finished, making her carry my weight.

I reached around and squeezed her breasts, tugged her nipples, as I slowly softened and eventually slipped out.

"Damn," she said, rolling onto her side, giggling softly, "we're getting pretty good at this."

I laughed and said, "Maybe we should get married."

"Welllllll," she said, and the predatory grin on her face made it hard to tell if she was joking, "let's see how your sister is. Marrying a rich man is one thing, marrying a poor student while his sister takes care of everything is another."

I looked into her eyes, searching for a clue.

She giggled and said, "Oh, don't pout. In any case, I'm going to keep you around." She gave my now soft cock a squeeze and rolled out of bed.

"Now come on, lazy," she said, offering her hand, "let's clean up and check in on the lovely Lindsey."

We showered, dried, combed, and shaved as needed, and headed for the hospital.

At the reception desk, I identified myself and the grandmotherly lady consulted a handwritten note.

"Have a seat," she said, "Dr. Johnson will be right with you."

"What happened to Dr. Phillips?" I asked and Rita filled in my ignorance.

"He was the ER doc," she said.

"ER?" I asked.

She chuckled softly.

"He was the Emergency Room doctor," she said, "his job was over when she was stable."

We sat then in those uncomfortable chairs anyone who has ever been in a hospital waiting room recognizes. I looked around at the insipid art on the walls, passed on a six-month-old

People

magazine, and just waited.

Fortunately, the doctor came out before any permanent spinal damage could be done by the torture devices called chairs.

"Mr. Morgan," he said extending his hand, "I'm Ben Johnson."

Christ, this guy looked like he was about two years older than me.

I stood and shook his hand.

He looked at Rita so I did introductions. "This is my aunt, Rita Rogers."

They shook and he said, "Come along to my office."

His office was small and institutional. I couldn't see a single personal item in it.

"Please, sit," he said.

We sat and he started.

"Okay, the good news. Your sister is physically fine. She has a few bruises, a fat lip, and will likely lose one of her teeth but other than that, the belts and bags did their job," he said. "She was belted in and, well, her size added a little padding to absorb the blows she took."

It turned out to be Rita who picked up on the salient point.

"You specified 'physically,'" she said, "what does that mean, exactly."

The smile he gave can only be described as a "sad smile."

"Look this over and I'll answer your questions," he said.

The paper he handed me was a form, actually. The heading read TBI EVALUATION.

I looked up and asked, "TBI?"

"Traumatic Brain Injury," he said.

I felt a little rush of adrenaline at that, but I didn't say anything.

Along the left column were a series of acronyms that meant nothing to me. There was a combination of cryptic notes and numbers in the right column. Underneath there was a handwritten note that read:

Physical condition - Concussion and hairline fracture above the temporal bone. Generally, well within standards. Minor contusions. A single laceration to the left cheek will require future plastic surgery.

Retrograde amnesia - significant and spotty.

Anterograde amnesia - apparently complete.

Apparent post-trauma IQ - about 90.

Medium level narcolepsy.

Hyperactive sexuality.

I really had no idea what any of that meant so I looked at Rita who was reading beside me.

"Concussion?" she asked.

"She took a couple of hard shots from the airbags," Dr. Johnson said. "I'm not sure what caused the fracture but it should heal just fine. There is no separation. Think of it as a crack, not a break."

"And the amnesia?" she asked.

"That's where it gets tricky," he said. "The retrograde amnesia is what you probably think of as amnesia. There are holes in her memory and the week before the accident is completely gone. Her last memory seems to be going to work on Wednesday before she came out here."

He stopped and looked at both of us, eyebrows raised, silently asking if we had any questions.

"We would expect," he went on, "that to clear up, or at least mostly clear up, over time. Typically in trauma-induced amnesia, the memories come back except for those immediately around the trauma."

Another pause.

"The anterograde amnesia is another thing," he went on, "so rare we don't have a lot of information to go on. What it means, in the simplest terms, is she can't form new memories."

Another pause.

He smiled.

"Have you ever seen that movie,

Fifty First Dates

?" he asked.

I looked blank. Aunt Rita nodded and I saw her eyes flick up and right as she thought.

"Ohhhhhhh," she said, drawing out the vowel.

"What?" I asked.

"It's too much to explain right now," she said, "we'll watch it when we get home."

Doctor Johnson started again. "Her case is extreme and her memory resets when she sleeps."

"What about this 'post-trauma IQ - 90' entry," Rita asked.

He turned very serious again.

"Look," he said, leaning forward a bit, "Lindsey drowned. She didn't 'nearly drown,' or 'almost drown,' she drowned. She was dead when that passerby managed to get her out of the car and still wasn't breathing on her own when the ambulance arrived. Fortunately, the guy was a veteran and at least had first-aid training and stuck with her. He did the CPR thing until the EMTs took over..."

I held up my hand.

"The what? And the who?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Sorry, we tend to talk in acronyms. He did cardiopulmonary resuscitation until the emergency medical technicians arrived," he said, clarifying. "They shocked her, hit her with adrenaline, pumped her full of oxygen, and got her back. But you have to understand, she was dead and her brain was oxygen deprived."

When I opened my mouth to say something he went on.

"And we don't know how long," he finished.

We all sat silent.

"Is she smart?" he asked.

"Class valedictorian, full-ride scholarship to LSU, and on pace to be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company," Rita said.

"Well," he said, "we tested her nine ways from Sunday and right now she's a little below normal. That's what the IQ number means, 100 is the average. So she's not dumb, but she certainly won't be the valedictorian this time. Think 'C' student with an occasional 'B.'"

He paused and I let that sink in.

Seeing my sister, the whiz kid, the girl who would correct me for everything from a mispronounced word to a damn comma fault in a paper as a C student was almost as shocking as the death of my parents and her own near-death experience.

"Narcolepsy?" Aunt Rita asked.

Dr. Ben smiled.

"She seems to drop off to sleep at random times which is a big deal for her since her memory resets when she sleeps," he said.

"Okay," Rita said, "and 'hypersexuality?'"

"Was Lindsey sexually active in the past?" Dr. Ben asked.

Rita laughed.

"That tight ass? Hardly. I think she's probably a virgin," she said.

"Well," he said, "here's the thing. The sex drive, well, actually the drive to procreate, is the single strongest drive in all living things. It's down there at the lizard brain level. Hell, it's down there at our DNA level. It's more powerful than the drive to survive. All of those inhibitions we have are the product of society. We see it all the time, especially with women. As the filters start to fail they give in to that drive. Hell, there's even a clinical term for it. We call it sexual disinhibition."

"And that's what's happened to Lindsey?" Rita asked. I sat quietly, still processing.

"Something like that," he said. "Look," he went on, "let's go up and check on her and you'll see what I mean. We'd like to keep her for a few days and run pretty much every test we can think of. She's a rare case and I intend to write it up."

"And then what?" my always-logical aunt asked.

"Well, and then it's up to you. She's healthy and can go home or you might want to find a facility for her," he said.

"A facility?" I asked, finally entering the conversation.

"Yeah," he said, "a group home for folks who need, well, let's say, extra support."

I couldn't think of anything else to say or ask so we followed him through the maze that is a modern hospital.

He opened a door and we went into a small, dark room.

"It's a one-way mirror," he said, pointing to what looked to be a window, "as long as it's lighter on the other side, she can't see us. We use it for observation."

I went to the window and looked.

And I goddam near fainted.

My mother was lying back on the bed, naked, her legs pulled up so that her knees touched her nipples, masturbating furiously.

It wasn't Mom, of course, but Jesus, Lindsey looked so much like her it was an easy mistake to make.

Dr. Ben flipped a switch and her voice came through, very clear.

"Oh fuck yes," she breathed, "now my tits," her eyes were closed and I tried to imagine the scene that was playing out in her mind's eye.

She took her hand away from between her legs and used both hands laid flat on her chest to grasp her right breast, high, right where it emerged from her body and started squeezing, forcing the mammary gland away from her body until her nipple and areola were stretched from the pressure.

"Harder," she whispered, and I watched as she squeezed harder until her breast started to darken.

"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she moaned, using her hand to jiggle what she held.

"Now finish me," she said very clearly.

She released her breast, still dark as it flopped to the side of her big body.

Then she used her left hand to pull the big roll of her belly up while her right found her pussy. She slapped herself, five quick slaps, smacksmacksmacksmacksmack, hard enough to make her nether lips redden before going for her clitoris, her finger moving so fast it almost blurred.

Some of the videos I watched had shown women cumming hard, you know, "squirting" is the word. But what my sister did as I watched through the observation window was in a whole different league.

She cried out the perfect vocalization of Charlie Brown's "Auuuuuuuugggghhhhhhhh."