by Y. Cormick

You stare at me as I spread out across the bed, my naked breasts damp with sweat that’s as much mine as yours. The fan blasts us from the windowsill, tousling your hair and raising goose bumps on my bare skin. You touch me and it makes me shiver.

I want you to come closer but the wheels of your chair slam against the bed frame. You’ve removed your shirt and I can see the outline of the firm muscles of your chest. Your pecs, your delts, your biceps... hard like rocks under your skin. Eight years of living in a wheelchair has transformed your body.

“You want me, Andy?” I whisper.

You can only nod. Eyes wide and eager. You’re 21 years old and I’ll be your first after today. I’m 19 and you’ll be my eighth. As in, one two three four five six seven guys I’ve fucked before you. I never planned it this way, but neither of us are particularly surprised. You are the sexiest man I’ve ever met. And I know how you feel about me.

I unzip your pants, which is what you’ve been waiting for. I’ve only seen your penis once before, when I “accidentally” walked in on you in the shower. Truth: I wanted to see you in the shower chair. I wanted to watch as the water blasted your broken legs, your firm chest, plastering hair to your skull. You were lifting your bony leg and soaping it up with your hands, simultaneously examining your thighs for red or broken skin. It was a second before you noticed me and I had to mumble my apologies and leave. You were embarrassed. You assumed what I saw had disgusted me. You wouldn’t look me in the eyes for a week.

Your penis isn’t as hard as the others. The other seven. The last one was so hard that he could have fucked me right through his blue jeans. With you, I have to work at it. I lick you slowly, keeping my eyes on your face to measure your reaction. Your legs begin to tremble against your will. “Janie...” you murmur, too loud.

“Quiet,” I say. “They’ll hear you.”

You grin at me. With my lips on your member, nothing else seems to matter to you. “So what?”

“So I don’t want to get kicked out and neither do you. Where do you think you’re going to go? You’re a fucking paraplegic.”

You shake your head irritably. You can’t take it when I tell you things you don’t want to hear. “Just suck me off, Janie, will ya?”

I already know the details of why you can’t walk. I know about the skiing accident, the broken back, the two week coma, the year when you really thought you might walk again. I know about all the times you wet your bed because you couldn’t hold it in like you used to. Most importantly, I know what and where you can still feel. I know that you can flex your right foot a bit, although not well enough to drive without hand controls. It’s easier that I know, because you don’t have to explain like you do with the other girls. I’m nothing like the other girls.

And though you’d never admit it, I know how much being with me means to you. How much you’ve wanted me and longed for me. I watched you become a man, watched the dark hair grow on your chest and face, heard your voice change and deepen. Your arms grew and so did your legs, even though you couldn’t feel them. There were other things that changed too, things I couldn’t see through your baggy blue jeans, but I noticed the way you started looking at me. I’m no dummy—I knew that there was a clear shot of my upstairs window from your room. The open shades were for your benefit alone.

I spread your legs for you. They move easily and now I have all the room I need to thrust your dick down my throat. I feel your hand in my hair, your fingers interwoven with the bleached strands. “I love you, Janie,” you say. Your left foot drops down against the floor and you try to lift it up enough to put it back on the rest, but you can’t. I don’t know why you bothered trying, except to impress me. I run my hand over your chest, feeling your abs fading as I reach your belly button, the skin turning soft and flaccid. I’ve heard you cum hundreds of times through the walls of the house and I know you’ll be too loud, but I pray you won’t cry out my name, at least.

I never planned to be your first. When you were eighteen and had never had a girlfriend, I set you up with Laura Martin because she was cute, she was easy, and she had a thing for college guys. I confess she wasn’t initially enthusiastic about going out with “Janie’s crippled older brother”, but that never stopped her before, especially after I reassured her that you could get it up. One thing I’ll never know is what happened during the date, but Laura simply said, “Sorry, Janie, I’m not into pity sex.”

You’re getting closer to cumming, so I stop. I lift my face to look up at you. It’s a vantage point that I’m unaccustomed to... it is usually you who looks up at me. “Are you ready, Andy?” I ask.

You nod eagerly. Your transfer from wheelchair to bed is fast and smooth. You haul your ass across to the bed while your legs stay behind. Then you pull your legs over onto the bed one at a time. I remember watching you struggle with that same movement in the year after your accident. I remember watching you slip and fall, glare up at me: “What? What the fuck is so fascinating?” You were 15, I was 13. You were in a wheelchair, I was just starting to attract boys. You hated me.

“Janie, help your brother tie his shoelaces,” Mom would tell me. I would oblige and you’d swat me away, insisting that you didn’t need my help. “For god’s sake, Andy,” Mom would say. “We don’t have all day... just let her do it.”

And you’d lean back in your wheelchair and sulk as your little sister tied the laces on the shoes you didn’t need. Now I’m untying your laces and you don’t seem to mind. You watch me as I ease your pants down over your legs. Your right leg twitches and moves slightly. The contrast between your emaciated legs and your strong upper body fascinates me.

“You sure you still want to do this?” you ask.

All those years, I knew you could hear me through the walls of our house. Stephen, Jeffrey, Jonel, Alex, Kevin, Cooper, and Nikko. Those were the seven who came before you. The first, Stephen, was when I was 15, you were 17. You sat across from me at the dinner table the evening after, our mother and father at either side of us, and you flashed me your best shit-eating grin. “You have fun this afternoon, sis?” you asked. And I kicked you under the table. Hard. You winced, but you couldn’t kick me back like when we were kids.

I see the way you look at me. It’s not just because you’ve never been with a woman before and you’re horny. I don’t believe that.

“I’m sure,” I say, climbing on top of you and straddling you. You’re losing your erection already, even though you’ve got a naked girl on top of you. “Come on, Andy,” I say, lifting my pert breasts so that my hard nipples are all in your face.

“It’s not enough,” you try to explain. Your eyes are filled with frustration. You expected me to understand. I should have.

I lower my head and start sucking you again. Whose idea was this anyway? Mine? Yours?

That girl you were pining after all semester in English lit turned down your dinner and a movie invitation today. I heard you crying across the walls of the house. You were quiet, yes, but I’ve gotten so used to hearing you. I came to your room and kissed the tears off your face. “Nobody will ever want me, Jane,” you said. “Nobody will ever love me. Because I’m in this fucking chair.”

“I love you,” I said. And I kissed your mouth. Your hands found my waist, drawing me closer. My fingers slid under your T-shirt.

You’re hard now. You ease inside me. You don’t fill me quite the way Stephen, Jeffrey, Jonel, Alex, Kevin, Cooper, and Nikko did, but you try to make up for it by the way you slide your fingers over my clit. Your eyebrows knit together and your eyelids flutter. The muscles in your chest flex and hold. I’ve never seen you look this way before, but I’ve allowed myself to imagine it.

You can’t move me the way they did. Your legs are mostly still, but your powerful arms move up to hold my hips and help you to thrust in and out of me. I play with your nipples as your breathing accelerates. “I’m gunna cum, Janie...”

Your fingers tighten around my hips enough to leave angry red marks behind, but I’m past noticing such things. The waves wash over me and I bite my lip hard to keep from screaming. Upstairs, Mom and Dad are watching the news.

Your lips part slightly as you have an orgasm of your own. “Oh Janie... oh fuck... Oh god...”

I collapse on top of you while you’re still inside me. Sweat plasters our naked bodies together. I lift my head to look into your eyes, which are the same color as mine. I’ve always believed yours to be prettier—you have the longer eyelashes, which isn’t fair, since you are the boy. You stroke my hair gently.

“Thank you, Janie,” you say.

You didn’t mean it that way, but your gratitude offends me. In your mind, your little sister has done you a favor. She gave you what no other girl could. Because she’s a good sister. You don’t believe I wanted it as bad as you did.

We don’t spend much time cuddling. It would look suspicious. You climb back in your wheelchair, still naked, and wheel yourself to the bathroom to take a shower. You hate what we just did. If you had a choice, you would have done it with that chick from English lit, not me. Not your baby sister. You think you’re sick. You think God will never forgive you for what you just did.

But I had a choice, Andy. I chose you.

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