It’s Thursday afternoon. You’ve been in the hospital for two days.
A stupid accident—a ladder slipped while you were cleaning the gutters, a fractured wrist, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion that kept you overnight for observation.
Nothing life-threatening, just enough to make you helpless. Your left arm is in a cast from knuckles to elbow, your right shoulder immobilized in a sling. You can’t feed yourself, can’t scratch your nose, can’t pull down your own pants.
Your wife, Holly, left yesterday morning for her conference in Denver. She kissed your forehead, promised to call, and said she’d asked her sister to check in on you. “Peggy will bring you some things from home,” she said. “Be nice to her.”
You like Peggy. Everyone likes Peggy. She’s Holly’s younger sister by five years, but she’s always felt older—calmer, more settled, the kind of person who knows where the extra towels are in your own house. She has a way of moving through a room that makes everything seem already decided.
The door opens without a knock.
“There you are,” Peggy says, as if she’s been looking for you all morning. She’s carrying a tote bag and a small paper sack. She’s dressed in soft-looking jeans and a cream-colored sweater, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looks like she just stepped out of a catalog for comfortable living.
“Hi, Peggy,” you say, trying to shift in the bed. The sheet is tangled around your legs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, smiling. She sets the bags on the chair and comes to stand beside the bed. Her hand rests on your forearm, just above the cast. “Holly told me what happened. Poor thing. Does it hurt?”
“Not too much,” you say. “Mostly just… inconvenient.”
“I bet.” Her eyes scan you—the cast, the sling, the hospital gown that ties in the back and never quite covers enough. “Have they been taking good care of you?”
“I’m sure they are.” She pulls the chair closer and sits, leaning forward. “Holly was worried you’d be bored. She asked me to bring you your tablet and a charger. And I brought you some proper pajamas—the ones with buttons. I thought you might be tired of this drafty gown.”
She says it so matter-of-factly, as if changing your clothes for you is the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. You’re practically an invalid.
“Thanks,” you say. “That’s really thoughtful.”
“Of course.” She reaches into the tote and pulls out the tablet, sets it on the bedside table. Then she produces the pajamas—light blue cotton, button-up top, drawstring pants. “Do you need help changing now? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You hesitate. A cold, sharp dread pools in your stomach. You’re in a hospital gown, naked underneath. The thin cotton is the only thing between you and complete exposure.
Peggy seeing you like that—it’s unthinkable. She’s not just family; she’s Holly’s sister. Your wife’s younger sister.
The idea of her seeing you naked, of her hands on you, tying your clothes, it sends a jolt of pure, electric shame through your system. Your heart hammers against your ribs. You can feel a hot flush creeping up your neck. It’s too much, too intimate, too wrong.
“I can wait for a nurse,” you say.
“Don’t be silly,” Peggy says, already standing. “I’m here. Let’s get you sorted.”
You are helpless. Truly, utterly helpless. You can’t even pull the sheet up higher without struggling. And she’s standing there, calm, certain, holding the soft blue pajamas like an offering.
Her tone leaves no room for argument. It’s gentle, but final. She reaches for the ties at the back of your neck. “Lift your head a little, sweetie.”
You obey. The gown loosens. She pulls it down over your shoulders, careful of your sling, and lets it pool around your waist. The air is cool on your chest.
“There,” she says, as if she’s just accomplished something simple and good. She doesn’t stare, but her eyes don’t avoid you either. They take you in the way a nurse might—clinically, kindly. She picks up the pajama top. “Arms in, one at a time.”
You maneuver your right arm slowly through the sleeve, then she helps guide the left through the other, easing it over the cast. She buttons the front, her fingers quick and competent. The cotton is soft against your skin.
“Now the pants,” she says. “This might be tricky.”
She doesn’t wait for you to agree. She pulls the sheet down to your ankles, exposing your legs, the hospital gown bunched around your waist. The cool air hits your thighs. You’re naked underneath. Completely.
Your heart is a frantic bird in your chest. You can’t move your arms to cover yourself. All you can do is lie there, exposed, while Peggy looks at you with that calm, assessing gaze.
“Let’s get this gown out of the way,” she says, her voice low and practical. She unties the last of the strings at your back and eases the cotton up over your hips. You feel the fabric slide across your skin, and then it’s gone. She folds it neatly and sets it on the chair.
You are naked in front of your wife’s sister.
The shame is a hot, liquid wave that washes up your neck, floods your face. You want to curl into a ball, but your body won’t obey. You stare at the ceiling, jaw clenched, breathing shallow.
Peggy doesn’t comment. She picks up the pajama bottoms, shakes them out. “Lift your hips for me, sweetie.”
You try. It’s awkward with your injuries, but you manage a slight upward tilt. She slides the soft cotton under you, her hands efficient, her touch impersonal. Then she stops.
Her eyes have dropped to your groin. You follow her gaze.
Your cock is hard. Not just half-hard. Fully, unmistakably erect. It stands up from your body, small and eager and utterly betraying you. You’d been so focused on the shame of exposure you hadn’t even noticed your own body’s response. But it’s there. It has been there the whole time.
Peggy doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t look away. She just observes, her head tilted slightly, as if studying an interesting specimen.
“Oh,” she says, her voice soft, almost pleased. “Look at that.”
You want to die. Right here, right now. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she murmurs. Her hand comes to rest on your thigh, warm and steady. “It’s a natural reaction. Your body’s been through a lot. It’s confused. Stressed. It does what it does.”
She says it like she’s explaining a weather pattern. There’s no judgment in her tone. Only observation.
Her eyes linger on your erection. “You’re a little one, aren’t you?” she says, not unkindly. It’s a statement of fact. “Sweet and small. Just like a little bird.”
The words should humiliate you. Instead, something in her tone—the warmth, the acceptance—takes the sharp edge off the shame. It becomes a fact, just like the cast on your arm. A condition.
“Holly never said,” Peggy muses, almost to herself. Then she looks at your face. “Does she like it? Your little guy?”
You can’t speak. You swallow, shake your head slightly. You don’t know. You’ve never asked. You’ve always assumed.
Peggy’s expression softens with something like pity. Not for you. For Holly.
“Poor Holly,” she says quietly. Then she smiles, a small, private smile. “But you’re eager, aren’t you? Look at you. All hard and ready, even in a hospital bed.”
Her hand moves from your thigh, comes to rest just beside your hip. Not touching you there. Not yet.
“We need to get these pants on you,” she says. “But you’re like this. That’s going to be difficult.”
You close your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhh. No sorries.” Her fingers brush your flank, a soothing stroke. “It’s just a problem we need to solve. And I think I know the solution.”
You open your eyes. She’s looking at you with that calm certainty.
“You need to come,” she says simply. “Don’t you?”
The word hangs in the sterile air. Come. It’s clinical, direct. She might as well have said urinate.
“You’re all worked up. It’s understandable. You’re in pain, you’re helpless, I’m here touching you.”
She says it all as if reading from a checklist. “Your little guy wants release. And if we don’t give it release, you’ll be tenting these pajamas all afternoon. That’s no good for anyone.”
You can’t believe this is happening. Your wife’s sister is sitting beside your hospital bed, discussing your need to ejaculate as if it’s a matter of changing a dressing.
“I can help you,” she says. Her voice drops, becomes even softer, more intimate. “Would you like that, sweetie? Would you like me to help you take care of it?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mind is a white roar of panic and want.
“Your small penis is answering for you,” she whispers. Her eyes flick down again. Your cock twitches, as if on cue. A drop of precum glistens at the tip.
She sees it. “See? You’re leaking. You’re so ready.” She leans in a little closer. “I’ll make it quick. I’ll make it feel good. And then we’ll get you dressed and you can rest. Doesn’t that sound better?”
It does. God help you, it does. The pressure between your legs is a steady, aching throb. The idea of relief—of her hand on you, finishing what your body has started—is so potent it makes you dizzy.
“Nod if you want me to,” she says.
You nod. Once. A tiny, desperate movement.
“Good boy.” The endearment slips out easily, naturally. “Now, I’m going to touch you. Just relax. Let me do the work.”
Her hand moves. Not to your cock immediately. She picks up the pajama bottoms again, spreads them open. “Lift your hips, just a little.”
You do. She slides the fabric under you, up to your thighs. Then she lets go of the pants and her hand finally, finally, wraps around your erection.
It’s warm. Soft. Her fingers are gentle, almost tentative at first. She doesn’t stroke. She just holds you cock, her thumb rubbing lightly over the slick tip, spreading the precum.
“There,” she murmurs. “That’s it. Just like that.”
You let out a shaky breath. Your hips jerk involuntarily, pushing up into her hand.
“Uh-uh,” she chides softly. “No humping. Not yet. Let me get you started.”
She begins to move her hand, a slow, firm up-and-down. It’s not the frantic grip you use on yourself. It’s measured. Controlled. Her eyes are on your face, reading every flinch, every gasp.
“You’re so sensitive,” she observes. “Every little touch just… sends you, doesn’t it?”
“It’s okay. You can hump now. Go ahead. Hump my hand. Get yourself off.”
Permission granted, your hips buck upward, driving your small, hard cock into the tunnel of her fingers. She tightens her grip just slightly, guiding the rhythm, matching your thrusts.
“That’s it,” she says, her voice a low, steady murmur beside your ear. Her hand stays tight around you, a warm, guiding sheath. “You can move your hips now. Go ahead. Let your little guy find his rhythm.”
You hesitate, your body rigid with the effort of staying still.
“I can feel him,” she whispers. “Pulsing. Begging. He wants to push. So let him push. Hump my hand, sweetie. That’s what it’s there for.”
A shudder runs through you. Your hips jerk forward, a tentative, clumsy thrust.
“There,” she breathes, pleased. “That’s the motion. Again. Don’t think. Just let your penis do what it knows how to do.”
You thrust again. Harder this time. Your cock slides through her firm, slick grip.
“Good boy.” Her lips brush your earlobe. “See how easy it is? Your little guy knows exactly what he needs. He’s been so hard for so long, all coiled up and desperate. Let him have this. Let him use my hand to get himself off.”
You fall into a rhythm, your hips pumping steadily, driving yourself into the circle of her fingers. She matches your pace, her wrist turning slightly on the upstroke, her thumb pressing just so under the head.
“You’re doing so well,” she coaxes, her breath hot against your neck. “Look at you. So eager. So obedient. Your whole body is just… giving in. Isn’t it?”
You can’t speak. You can only nod, your forehead damp against the pillow.
“I know,” she says softly. “I can see it. Your legs are trembling. Your stomach is tight. You’re holding your breath on every thrust. You’re so close to the edge, sweetie. I can feel him getting thicker in my hand. I can feel every little twitch.”
Her words wind around you, tightening the coil in your gut. She’s narrating your ruin, and it’s the most intimate thing you’ve ever heard.
“Just like that,” she urges, her hand speeding up, meeting your frantic hips. “Don’t fight it. Let it happen. Let your little guy have his moment. He’s waited so patiently. He’s earned it.”
The words unravel you. The combination of her touch and her voice—soothing, approving, utterly in charge—sends you spiraling toward the edge faster than you thought possible.
“I’m— I’m gonna—” you choke out.
“I know, sweetie. I can feel it. You’re about to come for me.” She speeds her hand, her thumb pressing firmly under the head on each upstroke. “Come on. Let it go. Come in my hand. Show me.”
It hits you like a seizure. Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream locked in your throat. Your cock pulses violently in her grip, and hot stripes of cum shoot onto your stomach, your chest, her fingers.
She doesn’t stop. She milks you through it, whispering “good boy, good boy, that’s it, all of it,” until you’re spent, shuddering, collapsing back onto the mattress.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing. The smell of sex in the clean, antiseptic room.
Pegly looks down at her hand, coated in your release. She looks at the mess on your torso. Then she looks at your face, dazed and overwhelmed.
“There,” she says, satisfied. “All better.”
She reaches over to the bedside table, picks up a box of tissues. But then she pauses, sets them down. Instead, she brings her sticky fingers to your lips.
You stare at her, confused, your mind still fogged with release.
“Your mouth, sweetie. Open it.”
Her tone leaves no room for refusal. It’s gentle, but absolute. Your lips part.
She slides two fingers into your mouth, pressing them against your tongue. The taste is salty, bitter, unmistakably you.
“Lick,” she instructs, her eyes holding yours. “Clean them up. It’s good for you. Full of protein. Your body made it, your body should reclaim it. It’s the healthy thing to do.”
You hesitate, your tongue frozen.
“Go on,” she coaxes, her thumb stroking your chin. “Don’t be shy. It’s just you. It’s natural. Nourishing.”
Slowly, you close your mouth around her fingers. You suck them clean, the act intimate and submissive in a way that makes your spent cock twitch.
“Good boy,” she murmurs, her voice warm with approval. She withdraws her fingers, now glistening with your saliva. “See? That wasn’t so bad. Now you’ve had a little snack. Helps with the recovery.”
She smiles, a small, private thing, then uses a wet wipe from her bag to clean the rest of the mess from your stomach and chest. Her touch is gentle, efficient.
Then, finally, she pulls the pajama bottoms up over your hips, ties the drawstring. You’re soft now. Docile. The tent is gone.
She helps you lie back, adjusts your pillows, drapes the sheet over your legs. She looks like she’s just finished tucking in a child.
“All better?” she says, smoothing your hair back from your forehead. “You needed that. And now you can rest.”
You are hollowed out. Empty. You can’t even muster the shame anymore. It’s been replaced by a deep, bewildered gratitude.
She packs her things, slings the tote over her shoulder. At the door, she turns.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you,” she says. “And if you need help like that again… you just let me know. Okay?”
“Good boy.” She gives you one last, warm smile, and then she’s gone.
You lie in the soft blue pajamas, the scent of her perfume and your own sex still lingering in the air. You know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that nothing will ever be the same again.
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