I Need to Process This

This story is a complete fantasy, but I hope you enjoy it. Please comment and vote. Thank you.

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The contrast between me and my sister Melanie could not have been more pronounced. She’s two and a half years older than I am, and for as long as I could remember, she had been the apple of everyone’s eye. It helped that she was tall and slim, pretty and clever, good at school, successful at sports, and popular with other kids. Unlike me.

I was your classic late developer. Until I was about 14, I was small and weedy, anywhere between three and six inches shorter than my peer group, thin and pallid. Spotty as well. And where Mel had luxuriantly thick dark hair, I had a sparse gingery pelt that always looked untidy: I shaved my head from the age of 16, which helped a bit.

Maybe it was because of my physical shortcomings, but I was also crap at school, and regularly got poor marks and bad reports. It was as if the gods had conspired to give Mel everything that I lacked – and then some.

It didn’t help that we went to the same school, and maybe it was because of this that Mel bullied me mercilessly. Her favourite insult was when she called me “Little Davie – The runt of the litter” and, in front of her many friends, would announce that I wasn’t really her brother, and that I was adopted. Much to everyone’s amusement.

I knew it wasn’t true because I had seen my birth certificate, and hers, and we were both born to the same parents. But it still hurt, especially as her friends may have thought it was true, and because I had no-one to back me up.

Our father had died in an industrial accident when I was five and Mel was nearly eight. Our mother was awarded substantial damages, part of which she used to pay for our education – hence Mel and me being at the same private school.

I couldn’t really remember dad, but according to my mother he was tall and tough, a former soldier and rugby player, and was very popular with everyone who knew him. She said this in a slightly wistful way when looking at me… another contrast.

When I was 14, things got even worse between me and Mel, if that were possible. It didn’t particularly bother me, and I’m not going to talk about it here — just use your imagination. But Mel clearly just forgot what she’d done, and that added to the hurt.

In fact, her contempt when she saw me became even pronounced, and she took to ignoring me completely. Although we lived in the same house, we might as well have been living in different cities. Different countries even. Sadly, even with my limited knowledge of these things, I could see that Mel was turning from a girl to a beautiful young woman, whereas I seemed to be stuck in perpetual childhood. Peter Pan without the ability to fly.

She sailed through her GCSEs, left our school and went to a nearby sixth-form college to do her A-Levels, which meant I saw her even less. After a time, she would be studiously polite when we met, but refused point-blank to indulge in any conversation. I thought “Fuck it, I don’t care” but I did care, and it made me feel desperately sad.

Meantime I put in a growth spurt, and between my 14th and 16th birthdays I grew seven inches taller and 50 pounds heavier. I had a ravenous appetite to go with it, but I ate well, thanks to my mother. I also became quite good at some sports, played rugby for my school and won a couple of cups in local swimming competitions. These went on the sideboard with Mel’s dozen or so larger trophies won in county tennis championships. As you might have expected.

In due course, I got a decent crop of GCSEs – not as good as Mel’s of course – and went to the same sixth-form college, although she had left by then. Around the time I started my A-Levels, she came back from a gap year working in Nepal, although being away in a Buddhist community had not taught her much about family affection and kindness to others. When she got back, I asked if she had had a good time, and she simply said “Yeah, OK,” and carried on talking to my mother.

Mind you, while she had been away she had become absolutely stunning to look at. She had grown her naturally wavy, rich dark hair, and with her beautiful bone structure she looked like a model. Her figure had developed as well, filling out in all the right places, and she looked gorgeous. Still a miserable fucker though.

Anyway, three weeks later she went off to Cambridge on a scholarship to read for a degree in Politics, Philosophy and Economics, although she could just as easily have done modern languages. There was already talk of her joining the diplomatic service or the Cabinet Office when she got her (almost inevitable) First.

While she was at Cambridge, I finished my A-Levels and before I went to university (no, not Cambridge: Manchester, reading Maths and Computer Science if you must know) I did a gap year working for Microsoft in Germany. That Christmas, I came back home for a few days, and Mel was there with her boyfriend, Doug, a big Scottish guy whom she’d met in her first year at Cambridge.

I had met him a couple of times, and he seemed like a decent bloke, and he was clearly another high achiever. Good with the chat, as well. He was always charming to my mother and appeared genuinely interested in me and my future career. Mel, of course, spent as little time as she could in the same room as me.

Before they left to spend New Year with Doug’s parents, he caught me and Mum on our own, said he wanted to ask Mel to marry him and asked for our blessing. Mum burst into tears of delight, while I simply said, “Welcome to the family” and shook his hand. Part of me felt a sense of loss, which is strange because, if you think about it, I’d lost Mel years before.

The following October I went off to university. I had a great time at Manchester – brilliant city, great university – with the only slight downer coming during my second year, when Mel got married, and out of the blue she sent me an email asking if I would give her away. She said she had wanted our mother to be the person who did it, but Mum had said it had to be a man. Mel said that Mum had also ruled out our Uncle Charlie, threatening that unless I was asked, she would not to go to the wedding at all. Grudging isn’t the word for it.

I mean, I didn’t want to give her away — in truth, I didn’t actually want to go to the wedding – and I wished Mum had kept her nose out of it. I felt like writing back to Mel and telling her the truth, because it was clear she didn’t want me anywhere near her “special day”. But I couldn’t do that to Mum and, you know, it gave me perverse pleasure to accept the invitation, because I knew it would piss Mel off. Especially as I intended to do the job perfectly.

So, on a warm Summer’s day, I arrived at Mum’s house in the bridal car to collect Mel. She looked absolutely breathtaking in her dress, which was both clingingly sexy and suitably demur. I wanted to tell her so, but she seemed half-scared, and I thought slightly angry, so I just kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t like that much either.

We had a couple of pictures taken outside the house and then, on the way to the car, I turned and said to her “Look, it’s going to be fine.” I stopped and we looked intently at each other (strangely, like we were in love) and I said, “I promise, I will not do or say anything that would remotely embarrass you. OK?”

Suddenly there were tears in her eyes and a doubting look on her face. “Please,” she said. “Let’s get this over and done with,” and walked to the car. Oh well, what the hell, I’d tried.

The rest of the day was OK. I was charming to everyone and made a superb brother-of-the-bride speech, even if I do say so myself, with a few good jokes and some kind and thoughtful remarks about our late father, our mother, and about Mel and Doug. I proposed a toast, got a round of applause, and sat down next to a proud and tearful mother.

After the meal, I chatted to a few of Doug’s Hooray Henry workmates — he’d got himself a massively well-paid job working in the City of London – and I danced with Mum and with a couple of the bridesmaids. Mel continued to avoid me, although she did thank me for my speech.

I stood and watched the dancing for a while. Mel had shed her veil and let loose her hair, had a few drinks, and was dirty-dancing with every man in the place. She looked really sexy. If she had a bra on, it wasn’t particularly confining, and her breasts bounced rhythmically to the music. I found myself imagining her naked — as, I guess, did every heterosexual man in the room, though in a less weird way than me. Doug, meanwhile, was standing drinking Scotch with his mates, looking extremely handsome, albeit rather drunk, in his kilt.

Fairly soon, though, I got fed up with all the noise and the drunks. Mum was happy enough, tearing up the dance floor with her gay friend Billy, and because I didn’t fancy any of the single women, I went back to my hotel well before midnight.

Laying alone in my bed, my thoughts turned to Mel, about what had happened when we were younger and about how gorgeous she had looked tonight. The thought of her naked body was impossible to lose, and I could see in my mind’s eye her full breasts, slim waist, flat belly and beautiful arse. I felt an erection growing, and I started to play with my stiffening cock, imagining that it was Mel’s hands on me again.

Strangely, I suppose, I didn’t have any feelings of guilt or shame, just sheer pleasure. I built slowly to a climax and the orgasm was incredibly intense, one of the best I had ever had, and I shot stream after stream of cum on to my belly. My last thought before I went to sleep was that it was such a pity she didn’t like me. Although she would probably not have indulged me again even if she did.

The morning after the wedding, I checked out of my hotel, went to say goodbye to Mum and drove back to Manchester. Mel and Doug went off on honeymoon to a private island in the Seychelles — a wedding present from Doug’s investment-fund boss, who owned the island.

I graduated the following year, and almost immediately got myself a job with a boutique software company in Manchester – so I didn’t even have to move. While I’d been at university I’d had a few girlfriends, but nothing that lasted. Then I met Julia, a really stunning blonde, at the end of the week I started work, when I was taken out for a celebratory meal by my new (all-male) colleagues. She was out with a few mates on a hen-party night, and we moved in on them after our meal. Julia smiled, and that was it for me. Within half an hour we were on our own in a nice quiet bar exchanging phone numbers and crafty feels.

We met up for lunch the next day and spent Saturday afternoon in bed at my place. Julia was sexy as fuck, with neat little breasts and pale pink nipples. Going down on her, I found out that she was a natural blonde, and that she loved having her pussy licked. Giving oral was something I had learned to be good at when I was at university – one particular girl used to insist on at least half-an-hour of it before we fucked – and Julia appreciated my skill-set. I teased her clit with my lips, and stuck my tongue deep inside her, spreading her labia before gently inserting my finger.

Slowly Julia worked up to a climax, her muscles tensing and her breathing getting shorter and shorter. I could hear her starting to moan, and it gradually got louder. My hands were on her breasts and her belly, then my fingers were inside her. As she neared the end, I licked her clit faster and faster, taking it between my lips, nibbling it and flicking with my tongue.

I pressed down with my hands on her stomach to frustrate her movement, but she bucked up with her hips as she came, almost losing my mouth in the process. I kept licking and chewing and nibbling and sucking as she screamed with delight and begged me to stop.

I love female orgasms. No two are ever the same, but Julia’s was up there with the best of them.

She slowly ebbed downwards as I kissed the inside of her thighs, and brushed my tongue gently over her labia, causing her to tremble sharply. I moved up her body, kissing her belly button and each pink nipple, the side of her neck and then her ears, before coming to look her in the face.

Her eyes were misty, fulfilled, and she was still panting heavily through half-open lips. She laughed breathlessly. “You’ve done that before, haven’t you, Davie?” I said I might have done it a couple of times, and she replied, “Well, are you going to fuck me in a similarly skillful way?”

Now, there’s a problem. Like I say, I’m good at oral, and love doing it, but I had never been much good at fucking. To be honest, it never felt as enjoyable as wanking, but I had to give it a shot. It was what was expected.

As I leaned forward to kiss Julia, I suddenly thought of Mel. God knows why, but as I took Julia in my arms, and she smiled up at me with her dreamy eyes, I could see Mel’s beautiful face. There was a bit of a resemblance, although Julia was blonde and Mel had dark hair, and Mel had bigger tits, and was much prettier.

OK, so there wasn’t much resemblance at all, but the thought made it for me. I kissed Julia behind the ears, and imagined it was Mel I was kissing. My erection grew bigger and harder. I closed my eyes, and I could feel my sister in my arms, and as Julia’s legs closed around me, I imagined they were Mel’s toned thighs holding me.

I’d never had a fuck like it in my life, and it just got better and better. I felt Julia/Mel coming again as I pumped her harder, and as she lifted her arse to expose more of her pussy, I plunged right in, up to the hilt, shooting a load of my cum into her. Mel/Julia/Mel screamed in delight, biting my shoulder in her ecstasy, shuddering with delight.

Slowly, we both came down and as we did so, Mel disappeared. “I hope you’re disease-free,” said Julia, with a rueful smile. “I prefer condoms on the first fuck, although that was wonderful.” I told her not to worry, but that we could both go to the local std clinic the following week just to have a full check-up. She said it wasn’t really necessary, but I thought it would be a good idea. Apart from anything else, I was clean, but she might have a dose of the clap. Know what I mean?

She turned out to be fine, as was I, and we went out together for about 18 months. The sex was always me imagining Mel, and it got so that I could actually see her face instead of Julia’s when I was fucking her, which was weird. Eventually Julia and I drifted apart, and she found someone else, as did I. Through my 20s and into my 30s, I had various girlfriends, none of whom lasted more than a year or so. But whenever I made love, no matter what the girl looked like, I thought of Mel, and whenever I wanked, I thought of her.

Over time, the real Mel became almost an imaginary person, although I did have some photographs of her. But I only saw her once after her wedding, at Uncle Charlie’s funeral; she hardly spoke to me at all, and left almost immediately after the cremation.

My mother tried to bring us together over the years, but eventually gave up. When I went home, Mel was away with Doug in some exotic place, or she was unable to visit. And whenever she visited my mother, I only found out afterwards.

But she was always there. Always.

The phone call came one Friday morning in May, just after my 32nd birthday. “Hello Davie.” I recognised the voice but couldn’t place it. “It’s me, Mel. I’m sorry, but Mum is in hospital. She’s… I’m really sorry, but there’s no way to make this easy. She’s dying, Davie. Mum’s dying. I thought you needed to know, and it needed to be me who told you.”

It seemed like Mel was talking from a long distance, her voice bouncing off walls, as she explained that Mum’s appendix had burst. She’d had severe peritonitis and then sepsis, which had hit her hard, and all of her vital organs were closing down. The doctors had said that she had a few days at the most. Possibly hours.

I said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. A couple of hours. Three at most. Is this your mobile?” Mel said yes, and she would be there around the same time as me. We agreed to meet at the hospital. I spent half an hour sorting out work issues, going through stuff with my business partner, Jim, then went home, packed a bag and I was on my way within an hour of putting down the phone on Mel.

On the drive, I had to keep wiping the tears out of my eyes. Poor Mum. I’d seen her just a few weeks previously, and she had seemed really happy. She’d been a staff nurse now for more than thirty years. She loved the responsibility, and was determined to stay on even when she got to retirement age in a couple of years’ time.

She’d talked about Mel and how sad she was that we were not closer, although she emphasised that she was still very proud of both her kids. And now she was dying, and for that reason I was going to see Mel for the first time in more than 12 years. Where’s the justice in that?

I got to the outskirts of the town where we’d grown up and rang Mel. She said she was on a train, and it would arrive in ten minutes. I offered to pick her up, but she told me to go to the hospital and she’d meet me there. That didn’t promise well for the next day or so, given that I would pass less than 200 yards from the train station.

It was the hospital where Mum had worked, and she was in a private room, hooked up to god knows what machinery, with drips and lines and wires coming out of her whole body. She was thin and pallid, and her skin was the colour of parchment. I came close to her, and she opened her eyes. “Hello Davie,” she whispered. “Are you all alone?”

“I am at the moment, Mum. Mel’s on her way, she’ll be here in 15 minutes or so.”

Mum smiled gently and whispered again “I’m glad. I’ll just rest if that’s OK. ‘Til she’s here.”

Mel arrived within 25 minutes, hot and breathless but looking gorgeous, and Mum woke up on cue. She smiled and said, “I’m so glad to see you both together. You should always be together.”

There was an uncomfortable silence while Mel and I looked at each other. Mel spoke first: “Don’t worry. Davie and I will be together, Mum. Promise you.”

“Yes, Mum,” I said. “Mel and I will always be together, for you.” Mel looked at me and gave a slight but uncertain smile. God, she was more beautiful than ever.

Mum’s skin was translucent, and I could see the tracery of veins on the back of her hand. She closed her eyes, and a smile played on her lips. “That’s good. It’s what I always wanted. All I’ve ever wanted.”

Mel and I sat on either side of the bed, each holding one of her hands. A couple of minutes later, a nurse came in and said the doctor wanted to have a chat with us. The nurse, meanwhile, was going to take some measurements. The doctor was brief and brutally to the point. Our mother had deteriorated rapidly over the previous 48 hours, and she was being kept alive thanks to modern science and computers. Everything was closing down, and it just was a matter of time before she died. “It could be hours, it could be days. Possibly a week. Almost certainly no longer than a week. I’m sorry. She’s very special to us and we are doing all we can to make her comfortable. But that’s all we can do.”

I heard my voice coming from miles away. “But she’s only 60. How can she die at 60 in this day and age?”

He was explaining patiently about the impact of peritonitis and sepsis on the body when the nurse came hurrying in, demanding his presence. We rushed back to stand outside the private room where two nurses and a couple more medics were messing around with Mum’s tubes and bottles. On the digital screens, lines were going up and down in an irregular fashion, and some lights were flashing red. Slowly things calmed down, and the medical people relaxed as the flashing stopped and the lines took on a more regular form.