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On Valentine’s Day, a lonely nurse rediscovers her brother
This is my entry into the Literotica Valentine’s Day Contest 2021. I hope you like it, and please vote!
Warning: This story contains healthy doses of exhibitionism as well as incest, and one group sex scene
I used to be married. Bernard and I were high school sweethearts, then on-and-off collegiate lovers, then bride and groom right after college. It lasted until we divorced at age 27, citing irreconcilable differences. Her name was Maribeth, and I couldn’t blame Bernard too much: Maribeth was pretty, sexy, and in fact his dream woman. We had no children, so it made it all fairly easy. More power to him. Damned, however, if I would put up with something like that.
Bernard got off easy. His stay in the hospital was only two days, and even though everyone knew I had put him there, he never told the cops it was me. That, you see, is love; or maybe it’s guilt. My Hoosier sister Nancy says it’s male masochism. I don’t know which it is, and I don’t care. Good riddance and may he rot on the garbage heap of the dregs of humanity. God knows, he has lots of company there.
I’ve been constructing a life for myself in New York, in a small apartment, it being all that I can afford. I even found a doormat that has my name (Michelle) on it, and now visitors can wipe their feet on my name, instead of on me. I’m a big fan of the power of symbolism. I don’t, however, have many visitors during this age of the pandemic.
Indeed, with the pandemic raging all around us, I’m now alone, living a solitary, hopelessly depressing life. I cook for myself, and believe me, when you’re living alone, it’s hard to get motivated to make a nice meal for yourself. It’s ironic, because I love cooking, and I love eating good food even more. I’ve kind of found a work-around to my problem: Sometimes I make it more interesting by cooking topless. It saves my blouses and my bras, if there’s the occasional splash, or spill, and it makes the cooking a little erotic, and not so boring.
My apartment is on the fourth floor, and if the lights are on, I suppose people on the fourth, fifth, or sixth floors across the street can see me. People on higher floors can, too, but only if I’m near the window, which I rarely am. Trust me, cooking topless makes cooking for one person a lot more fun. I get to think about who might see me, and what they might think if they do. It hopefully brightens up their lives, too. Win-win, right?
With the new topless cooking tradition, I make dishes that take more time, with more steps involved in their creations, and get titillated (so to speak) as I imagine people watching me, and in particular my boobs, as they bounce around my tiny kitchen. Then the next day or two I have leftovers accompanied with erotic memories of my fantasies while cooking.
I never knew if anyone saw me cooking topless, and I also never knew if anyone who might have seen me cooking so attired (or better, not attired) was even interested. That innocence, however, came to an end, one day much later, when I met my neighbor Douglas from across the street, in the Fairway supermarket one afternoon.
Douglas recognized me, introduced himself, explaining that he lived across the street, and he would often see me cooking. He let that hang. We made a little small talk and finally I asked him, “Do you enjoy my shows?” Douglas was around his mid-fifties, elegantly graying at his temples, thin, and fit.
“I love them, Michelle. They’re the highlight of my day. I bought a telescope with a camera attachment to better appreciate them. Is that okay with you?” he asked. Before I could reply, he added, “You really must meet my son Michelangelo, although he goes by Mike. You two might really hit it off.”
“I’ll try to give you a special show this evening,” I replied.
“I’ll tell Mike. He comes over from time to time, and he loves your shows, too,” Douglas said.
“I can imagine,” I said.
At this point however, I was blissfully ignorant of Douglas, or his son Mike, and their sophisticated voyeuristic ways. The way my mind works, the fantasies it generates are more interesting than any reality might have been. Reality, in fact, might have been freaky. After all, I’m a reasonably attractive, relatively young woman, in my late twenties/early thirties, with (modesty aside) great boobs, and if someone enjoyed my shows, he (or she!) might be anywhere from 18 to 85 years old. Who needs that kind of reality?
I should mention my profession. I’m a nurse, and I work at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, New York City. When I say ‘upper,’ I do indeed mean upper: It’s at West 168th Street, in Harlem. It’s not a super dangerous neighborhood to live in, but a single woman should always be prudent, and alert, when walking alone. You never know, do you?
Nurses, especially good ones, are in high tecavüz porno demand currently, in these days of the pandemic. I work long hours, dealing with the desperately ill, constantly, and it takes a toll. Besides being alert, because a mistake in the ICU can cost a life, I try to be loving and compassionate with the victims of Covid-19, and later their families. In truth, it’s exhausting, and in the evening, I often fall into bed, both sympathy and empathy drained low, and still half dressed.
My older brother Evan is also in the medical profession, being an MD, and he worked at the ICU of St. Vincent’s Hospital in Indianapolis. (I’m originally from Indiana, born and raised in a tiny hamlet north of Lafayette, known as Brookston.) I came to New York because of my former husband Bernard, who is now trying to rekindle things with me, but who is doomed to failure. Apparently Maribeth did not work out as he had hoped. Anyway, after the divorce, since I had a good job as a nurse at a great hospital, I just stayed in New York. Also, I love Dominican food.
I said my brother Evan ‘worked’ at the ICU, as opposed to ‘works,’ because Columbia Presbyterian offered him a job in their ICU. St. Vincent’s is an excellent hospital, with a good reputation for heart surgery, but Columbia Presbyterian is in the big leagues of hospitals, and since he had his little sister (me) there already, he accepted the offer. Rumors abound back in Indiana that his little sister might have played a role in his being hired, but I say rumors are just that: Rumors. It’s always best to ignore people’s nasty, wagging tongues. I mean, gossip is just that, right? It’s gossip.
My brother and I have different last names. My maiden name is Savoyard, but Bernard’s last name (which I still have) is Caruthers. Yes, we’re both from Indiana, but so too are 6.7 million other souls, so nobody would jump to the conclusion that we’re siblings. I always thought Michelle Savoyard was a classy name; it fits me. Michelle Caruthers kind of sucks as a name, but there it is. At least nobody suspects we’re siblings.
Rumors about my love life abound, too. After all, I was single after my divorce, lived alone, was surrounded by death and dying people day in and day out, and in desperate need for distractions, while too tired to find them. I projected vulnerability.
So perhaps it’s not surprising that rumor has it that I dated a doctor for a while, broke it off when I found he also had a girlfriend who wasn’t me, and then dated three more doctors in rapid succession. According to those rumors I was ‘passed around’ amongst the doctors, and that’s just a plain nasty thing for anyone to think, let alone to say, even if, in some sense, I guess it’s true.
The second doctor I allegedly dated, I had learned was married (according to rumor), and the third one I just didn’t like. Why sleep with a man you don’t even like? Just to have a man in your bed? Yes, I did it for a while, but then one day I stumbled over a small cache of self-respect, hidden deep inside my underwear drawer, and I finally kicked him out.
He didn’t like me that much, either, so he took it well. With
I enjoyed the sex — a lot — and that’s good, to be sure, but it’s not enough to stay together and to build a relationship upon. If there’s no affection behind sex, it’s ultimately unsatisfying, unfulfilling, or at least that’s the way I am made. The fourth and last Doctor-lover gave me an STD. That is, according to the rumors. Enough said, right?
Yet, after our break-up, Doctor
would come around, from time to time, when he was horny and wanted a quick and easy lay, with a sexy, pushover of a nurse. Yes, this insecure, lonely, and perpetually horny, and pathetic woman, would oblige him with some wild sexual romps. He’d bring flowers, I’d cook him a nice meal (topless, of course), we’d discuss the news of the day, and then it would be sex, sex, and more sex. I never again, however, let him spend the night.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. Sure, I was using him, but more importantly, I felt used. He was history, and I let him know in no uncertain terms. Cast iron frying pans were bandied about, and few things are more convincing than that.
I had been an easy target after my divorce. I was depressed, lonely, without much self-esteem, and most all I was vulnerable. I’m one of those women who always needs to have a man around, and not just for killing cockroaches at which, I’ve found, they are universally good.
I’m a touchy-feely person and — quite frankly — I need hugs. I need lots of hugs, and better still, if they’re loving hugs. I know, I know, I should have gotten a dog, but you have to walk a dog four times a day and I work 12 to 14-hour days. I hate cats, so let’s not go there. Anyway, dogs are not practical. Men are easier, and in addition, they can be imposed upon to relieve my near constant horniness. Let’s not forget, too, travesti porno that they’ll kill your cockroaches.
So in retrospect, it’s not surprising that I was easy pickings for Doctor
. (I’m not using the names of the doctors.) Once I had discovered that Doctor
had a long-time girlfriend whom he loved, and that I was just a little extra pussy on the side, I was crushed. I had fallen for
, big time. He was my rebound affair, after the disaster that was named Bernard Caruthers. Doctor
, a good friend of Doctor
, comforted me once I had broken it off with Dr.
, and he too was a rebound affair, this time rebounding from Dr.
. That was how he too got into my panties. Then I learned he was actually married (his wife didn’t understand him, and all that bullshit), and I became a hopeless wreck.
I was more careful with Doctor
and checked out his love life six ways from Sunday. As I explained earlier, even though the sex was good, he was just not the man for me. At least, however, I was not in the role of some extra, side pussy in his case! Doctor gave me an STD, and that’s all you need to know about him!
There was another doctor, Dr. if you will, and in his case, I’ll tell you his name. He’s Doctor Smythe. Doctor Smythe came after me too, but his timing was horrible. I was still on medication from the STD Dr. gave me. I could tell that I could fall for Dr. Smythe, big time, but I was played out with hospital romances, and he never had a chance with me. He took rejection well, another plus for Doctor Smythe. I kind of wished he had been more aggressive, since had I met and dated him early, I could have avoided most if not all of Doctors 1 through 4.
So, I was single, highly vulnerable, insecure, and not seeing anyone, and nobody was killing my cockroaches for me. I had to stoop so low as to buy cockroach traps. This is when my brother Evan arrived in town. Indeed, I was off men, taking a vacation from being seduced and cruelly used by them, and in particular I was off doctors! Still, Evan is my brother, and not a love interest, and for family, of course exceptions are made. It was actually, in fact, nice to have some family in New York, since my parents and my sister still lived back in Indiana. It doesn’t hurt, either, that Evan is superb at killing cockroaches.
Let me explain a little about Evan. He’s a few years older, and when I was little I had a crush on him. Many was the night, as I fell asleep, I had girlish fantasies about my brother. When I got older, and discovered sex with Bernard, I would sometimes imagine I was having sex with Evan instead of Bernard. Those times if I would climax, the climaxes would be over the top.
However, all this fantasy about Evan truly scared me, since of course I knew very well that incest was wrong. Not only was incest a sin, it was a first-degree sin, not one of those minor sins like using the name of the Lord in vain. Still, the attraction was there, and actively repressing it as I tried mightily to do, was often insufficient.
My brother Evan had just broken up with his long-time girlfriend, so we had failed romances in common, too. Her name was Elle, which sounded a lot like my name, Michelle. Nobody was going to get confused, however, even if she did look startlingly like me. Their break-up was bitter, too, but nobody was sent to the hospital, so I figured Elle was not sleeping around on Evan. As it turned out, I was wrong about that. Evan’s temper is just more under control than is mine. Evan’s also one of those men who would never hit a woman. He might shoot one, but he would never hit her. Luckily, he didn’t shoot her, tempted though he was.
Evan took a taxi directly to his hotel and I met him there. The next day we arranged for me to meet him outside the hospital and to show him around. He wasn’t to start until Monday. He had, however, some bad news when I met him the next day: His housing arrangement had temporarily fallen through. He had planned to room with an old friend (Dawson; seriously, that’s what everyone called him) from college who was in New York and had a two-bedroom apartment, needing a roommate, but his friend had been seriously exposed to a girl with Covid-19, and he had to self-quarantine. I had fun imagining just what the nature of Dawson’s ‘exposure’ had been.
Evan couldn’t afford to stay at the hotel for two weeks. It was a Sofitel and expensive, and since most of the cheaper hotels in New York were closed due to Covid, he was shit-out-of-luck. Besides, even the cheaper hotels in New York are not that cheap!
Yes, he asked to stay with me. I truly did not want to share my apartment with my brother. There’d be no more cooking topless, nor wearing a short T shirt with no bra nor panties, while my brother was underfoot. On the other hand, he’d kill all the cockroaches with alacrity. Damn. What could I do, though? He’s family.
He came home with tumblr porno me after the hospital tour. I would have another 14-hour day tomorrow, but today I had off. I made us both dinner, and yes, I was fully dressed as I cooked. An apron protected my clothes. Whatever voyeurs who were out there would just have to live with the new reality. Sorry, guys.
Evan complimented me on my cooking, and that made me smile. Actually, it was really nice to have him there, with me; I had forgotten how well we get on together. I no longer felt so lonely, nor depressed. Then came the dreaded discussion of sleeping arrangements.
I don’t have a couch, only a love seat, and neither of us could fit on it in a sleeping position. Evan is six feet, two inches tall, and I’m five feet, nine inches. I also fill out those 69 inches in the ways that men seem to appreciate.
The floor was not a good option, for a variety of reasons. I didn’t have an air mattress, nor a rollaway bed. I had nothing. I did, however, have a double bed, in my bedroom. It wasn’t Queen sized or anything, but it was a genuine double bed. It had one of those high-tech mattresses, and consequently it was super comfortable.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Evan said.
“You’ll catch your death of cold. No, you’ll share the bed with me tonight. Tomorrow I’ll get an air mattress or something. Or better, you can get one, since tomorrow I work from 6AM to 8PM,” I said. Evan never got an air mattress, preferring to spend the nights sharing a bed with me. Yet another example of the ancient phrase, ‘Hope springs Eternal.’
“I know you’re never supposed to say this to a woman, but Michelle, you look exhausted,” Evan said.
“How depressing! It’s this bleeping pandemic. The fun seems never to stop,” I replied.
“Look, you take your bed. I’ll use an extra blanket on the floor. It’s going to be cold tonight,” Evan said. My apartment is underheated, and drafty, too.
“I don’t have an extra blanket. We’ll keep each other warm in the bed. You can pretend I’m Elle, and I’ll pretend you’re another doctor-skunk I’m sharing my bed with,” I said. “After all, you are in fact a bona fide doctor. I hope to God you’re not a skunk, too,” I teased.
“Didn’t you do a little more than just sleep next to them?” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘them?'” I asked. Evan named the four doctors. It hadn’t taken him long to learn those little tidbits about my love life. He had only been in town for a day!
“Well, yeah, of course. I did a lot more. A man and woman in a bed together? I’m sure you can imagine what happened. You, however, while being the fifth doctor I’m sharing a bed with, are also my brother, so all we’re going to do is sleep. Got that, Evan?” I said.
“You’re very pretty, though. Sexy, too,” he teased, and he got a pillow thrown at his face in reply.
“I’m also your bleeping sister. I’m serious: All we do is sleep. Can you handle that?”
“Maybe. I don’t think incest is such a bugaboo, and you truly are sexy,” he said. “We could have a little fun you know?”
“Well, I’m glad you think I’m sexy, and apparently you also think that I’m a good candidate for casual sex, but you can’t try anything. I’m serious, because I’m a sexual pushover usually, and I don’t want to end up hating you, and myself, in the morning. So, we’re doing nothing, okay? Nothing,” I said.
“I can try,” Evan said, and he got the other pillow in his face.
“Try hard,” I said. “And succeed.”
“You got that right. I’m already hard at the idea of sleeping with you. No success with you yet, though,”
“You’re hopeless. Maybe you should in fact sleep on the floor, after all,” I said.
“I’ll be good. Michelle. Just joking around.”
Usually I sleep in this hyper sexy nightgown Bernard had bought for me. I had seduced the four doctors using it, too, although seducing them was like shooting fish in a barrel. I sure as hell was not going to wear it for my brother, however. My alternative was a longish T shirt. When I sleep in the T shirt, I’m usually naked underneath it, but since Evan was going to be in the bed too, I wore panties with it. Not a thong, and not my bikini cut sexy, lace panties, but I wore good old-fashioned cotton panties. They were white, with little roses decorating them. I really liked the panties, and they projected youthful innocence. They had been a birthday present, from me to me. They were a good choice to sleep in: No need to test my brother’s will power too severely after all. No mixed messages from me!
I had to be careful after the Riverboat fiasco some years ago. I got shivers just thinking about that goddam Riverboat. Evan is lucky he didn’t bring it up; he would have had his head chopped off. I do have a temper. Maybe he didn’t even know about the Riverboat incident? God, that would be wonderful.
My alarm went off at 5AM. I have to be at work, bright eyed and bushy tailed, right at 6AM. Since it’s a solid 15 minutes’ walk to the hospital, I have to leave the apartment at 5:45AM. That gives me time to make and eat breakfast, put on my face, and get dressed. No time to linger in bed, and to use the snooze alarm. There was one minor problem, however.
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