That didn't work very well. I wondered if it was okay to sit her up. I'd never seen anybody do that. I figured out why when I tried to get her to sit up. She was as limp as a wet dishrag, and tended to slump sideways like she was made of warm Jell-O. I ended up going to get all the pillows in the house and propping them around her to get her upper torso in a position where I could get to her hair from the back.The only way I could do that, though, was to climb up on the bed behind her. I did that and joked about how we were in bed together. Then I brushed her hair. I counted the strokes out loud, so she'd know I did a hundred.I got her all situated again, but left the pillows in her room so I could do that again later. All I could think about was her boobs, which I complained about. Then I went outside and ran around the house until I was sweating. I got something to eat, but was still thinking about her boobs.So I went and read her another story.I chose Doctoring Brother this time,. A memory prods me, of when I was younger. Before women, before sex, but after the discovery of pleasure. I remember the motion and the feeling; the pure wanton release of youth, and the unbelievable frequency of it. I blush, remembering the stiff stained sheets; proof of the act, or sometimes just the dream.I lie on my back, calm and sure in the warmth, and slide my hands down my skin. There's a certain inevitability in the movement, despite the fact that I'm convinced I could stop.Fingertips slide gently over the cloth at first, proud of the bulge, and the subtle leak from its tip. There's a sensitivity that's almost feminine at this point, where every touch produces a mental gasp, despite the almost complete lack of movement. The very tip of one finger, the very tip of one cock.I tease myself from the outside in. Sometimes a thin sheet helps, an additional covering to numb the pulse. I rub, slowly but surely; sliding fingers down the sides of the solid shaft; tracing the familiar.
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