anthelester121 wrote: ↑Mon Aug 21, 2023 12:18 pm
I know this has been said so many times, but I can't stop myself from praising again how exceptional neverdoubted's works are. They are miles ahead of the average erotic literature. The immaculateness, the tiny details, the aesthetics are hard to parallel. Thank you for gifting us these magical stories. Looking forward to many more (including a completion on the Thornwood Saga, I don't think it will ever be displaced as my favorite story :p ).
Wow! That's very kind. I hope the rest doesn't disappoint.
~ ND
I placed her shoes on the chair next to me and draped her dress over my lap. She had picked a conservative pair of chaste, white panties just in case she ended up having to show them off during her physical. No chance of that happening now that they were in my lap.
I picked up her bra for inspection. She had been complaining all spring about her bras growing too tight. But I was in charge of the budget. And because we didn't have any extra money, I was making her wait until the start of school to get new ones. She was growing so fast in the chest department; it would have been frivolous to buy them before the very end of summer. She had adapted by going braless most of the time and only put them on when she absolutely had to.
I palmed one of the still warm cups, amused to find how naturally it fit in my palm. I idly mused how helpful it would have been if I could track her chest development by assigning her a number or something. It didn't even occur to me to find the tag and check her bra size. Heck, I didn't even know bras came in specific sizes until I was in tenth grade! But that's a story for another time.
Some more people entered the waiting room, and I quickly hid her bra and panties I had been fondling inside the dress and folded it over so that it just looked like a big pile of chiffon.
Every time someone appeared in the doorway or walked down the hall, I looked up to see if it was her or her doctor coming to find me. Ten minutes, then fifteen, I waited. It was nerve-wracking, but I don't know why I was surprised. After all, they do call it a "waiting room" for a reason.
When I didn't hear any news after twenty minutes, I started to get worried. She should have been done by now. How long does it take to show a doctor you can touch your toes and screen your scoliosis-es? As I reached across an empty seat for a different magazine from the end table, I heard something flutter to the floor beneath me. It was Lucy's release form! I had been so focused on her clothes that I had forgotten to leave it with her for the doctor to sign!
Acting without thinking first, I hustled back to her exam room and burst through the door only to find two strangers inside and no Lucy. Luckily, they were both fully dressed at the time.
"Oops! Wrong room," I apologized, and backed out of the room as quickly as I could.
Then it hit me. The nurse said she needed the room cleared for other patients. The doctor must have taken Lucy upstairs! On a mission, I looked around for a stairwell and eventually found it around a couple corners. I headed up, not even thinking to go back to the waiting room and grab her clothes first. That release form was the only thing on my mind.
The nurse had mentioned something about a building remodel. There was more evidence of it upstairs than down. The worst part for me was that someone had come through and taken everything off the walls so they could repaint them. Not a single door was labeled and there were no signs to follow. One turn up there and I was immediately lost in an endless maze of unmarked offices.
With my concern growing, I searched frantically up and down the hallways for any sign of my missing sister. But every door looked identical to the one before it. There weren’t even any windows to peek through and see what was behind them. I got disoriented multiple times. Just when I thought I had mapped the layout in my head, I would turn a corner expecting to be back at the original stairwell only to find another long hallway.
After at least fifteen more minutes of fruitless searching, Lucy actually found me. She stepped right out from one of the doors, still completely naked, and nearly bumped into me.
"Mikey!" She looked relieved to see me, but also a little frantic herself. Her head was still wrapped in the bandage and there were little red circles on her chest where I guessed the doctor had attached some sensors. True to my instructions, she wasn't covering herself, but kept her arms at her sides with her hands balled anxiously into fists. Her whole body was glowing with the exertion of recent exercise. But her puckered pussy, hairless as always, sported a little extra shimmer. Seeing that always made me smile.
"Are you finished?" I asked, holding up the form, "where's the doctor? He has to sign this."
She pointed at the door but had more important topics to discuss. "Can I please get dressed now? ...Where's my dress?"
Just then, a nicely dressed man in a white coat stepped into the hallway.
"You must be Michael," said the man, stepping around Lucy so he could formally greet me, "I'm Dr. Alabar."
He was young and not bad looking, with wire frame glasses and a vaguely foreign, possibly European accent. He didn't seem the least bit rattled by Lucy's nudity. He offered his hand, and I nervously shook it. I found his demeanor non-threatening. Maybe naked physicals were normal in Europe?
"I'm glad you're here. I would like to discuss something with you in private, if you don't mind." That didn't sound good.
He walked across the hall and opened a door to what must have been a private consultation room. I dismissed my sister by saying, "your things are in the waiting room. You can get dressed, but don't you dare leave that room! I don't want to be running around looking everywhere for you again, ok?"
Her solemn nod reminded me that she still thought I was giving her dare-style commands, like the one about not covering up. It brought me comfort knowing I would at least be able to find her when it was time to leave. I watched the naked patient pad silently down the hall until her pale bottom jiggled out of sight around the corner, then I turned to meet with the doctor.
He motioned me to a seat when I entered the room. "Is everything ok?" I asked shakily.
"I just wanted to ask you what you can tell me about her condition," He replied casually.
I gulped. "Uh...what condition?"
"So, you don't know? Fascinating!" he responded enigmatically. He had been holding Lucy's file. He now opened the folder, laid it out on a small writing desk, and scribbled something."
"I'm not a psychiatrist," he clarified, "so this is not exactly my area of expertise. But I have reviewed your sister's medical file, and after observing her, I believe I have an accurate diagnosis. Your sister suffers from Persistive Waxing Concupiscence Syndrome. I remember learning about it from a case we studied in med school - exceedingly abnormal...it ended quite tragically. I never thought I would see it in person."
I gasped. I didn't have a clue what most of those words were, but I did know what a tragic end was. Not good.
The doctor continued, completely unaware of how alarming his big, scary words might sound to me, "while the presentation differs slightly, your sister exhibits key markers which bear an uncanny resemblance to the other case. The most notable are her unconventional augeo-biological stimulus-response mechanisms. But I find it fascinating how certain of her stressors, particularly related to compulsory corporeal exposure, have come to be linked to what appears to be a nominal and healthy sexual expression. If I were still a grad-student at a research institution, I would jump at the chance to study her further and see if I could form a concrete connection between the two. A noteworthy paper could likely be published about her condition."
My head was spinning. Half the words he was saying were gibberish and the other half sounded terrifying!
"When I first met her, and I pressed her on why she refused to wear the standard issue hospital gown for her physical, your name came up. She mentioned it was suggested to her by you as a particularly challenging form of dare. Tell me, is this something you two regularly engage in?"
I nodded my head slowly, unsure where he was going with this. Was I about to get in trouble?
"And you just think these up on your own? It's not part of any treatment plan assigned by her psychiatrist?"
This time I shook my head and said, "Uhh...Lucy doesn't have a psychiatrist." I hoped he wasn't about to say she needed one to live. How would we ever be able to afford something like that?
He made another note in her file but did not seem too concerned to hear she didn't have a psychiatrist. "I observed signs of arousal throughout the physical. Her reaction was strongest near the end when I asked her to follow me to the second floor. Even then, she refused my offer of a gown and insisted on going without. Are you able to identify the signs of female arousal response? Have you observed such signs in your sister during her dares?"
I nodded again. No point in denying it now.
"And have you witnessed her achieving an orgasm in response to being given or completing a dare?"
This time, I didn't even have to answer. He could see the truth in my blush.
"Fascinating!" he exclaimed again - his favorite word - and began writing furiously and chattering, mostly to himself, at the same time, "-so, the sexual stimuli are not affected. But that means the hormones which encourage sexual reproduction beginning with puberty which should normally be expressed by the exercise of masturbation or sexual intercourse, should have been completely blocked by her WC. They should have built up into an endocrine storm. The key...must be the formation of new chemical pathways!"
"The other patient experienced frequent endocrine storms which drove him to erratic and dangerous behaviors. Because of the tragedy that befell him as a result, he didn't live long enough to gather meaningful data. Your father likely suffered a similar tragedy, for that matter. You can understand why I was eager, since the syndrome is hereditary, to see if both children had inherited the same genetic markers. But I now see, just from sitting across from you, that it sadly does not appear to be the case. A shame. Two subjects would have provided such insight!"
I could feel tears welling up. Was my sister…dying?! Pressing his glasses back onto his nose, the doctor really looked at me for the first time in a while and saw how petrified I must have looked.
"My apologies," he was quick to say, "my bedside manner is still a work in progress, and I sometimes forget I am no longer in the world of academia. I'm only working here temporarily as repayment for my student loans. I'm sure, sadly, being a public health facility, the county clinic would consider such a research assignment frivolous, and never pay for it, no matter how intriguing her case may be. Please allow me to explain why I don't think she is in any real, physical danger."
I wiped my eyes and gave him a chance. But on the inside, I was still reeling.
"Lucy has a different wiring than most people," he said, trying to dumb down his explanation enough that even I could understand, "her condition blocks certain chemicals inside her body from being expressed as they normally would. When she experiences an onset of her WC symptoms, those chemicals, which have nowhere to go, simply build up inside her body and could affect her behavior in unpredictable and potentially dangerous ways."
"Think of the human body like a sports car with an engine capable of producing immense horsepower when it is revving. Lucy is by all accounts a fine specimen, and her engine, her body, is in excellent condition. But her axle has been disconnected. So, the wheels never turn no matter how much she revs, and the heat just builds up.”
"This is where your ingenuity and willingness to help her is really quite admirable! By introducing these regular dares to Lucy at a young enough age, pre-pubescence at least, you appear to have stumbled upon a way to effectively redirect her chemical pathways before her condition began to emerge. The dares may have other consequences on her life, but at least you figured out another way to reconnect her wheels! For that, young man, you deserve to be commended. You may have a bright future in the medical field."
Dr. Alabar held out his hand and I shook it. But I didn't feel proud of his commendation. I felt sick. Something was wrong with Lucy? Something to do with her sexual development?! He stood up as if the consultation had ended and I started to panic. I still had so many questions.
I was only fifteen and he had just dropped a lot of responsibility on me. I needed more than just a firm handshake and a pat on the back. "B-b-but, how do I help her? Does she know about it?"
He gave me an answer, but because he had already shifted back into doctor-speak, I struggled to follow along.
"It is unclear what causes the symptoms to manifest. The patient in the case study didn't live long enough to gather meaningful data on that matter and there's just too little research available for me to form a solid conjecture. However, coincidence with the onset of puberty could be significant and could indicate that a patient may eventually outgrow the condition as they mature."
"For Lucy, if it hasn't already happened, the periodical manifestation of her symptoms will likely continue to expropriate nominal sexual response and function until the two are inextricably linked. However, assuming her symptoms are managed properly, I have no reason to believe she couldn't live a long, fulfilling life. But as for telling her about her condition, it won't make much difference. The chemical imbalance makes self-awareness of the syndrome nearly impossible. That's why she's lucky to have someone like you around who cares about her and is willing to help."
As he started to gather up the paperwork and tidy the space, I sensed I was running out of time for answers.
"Wait a minute," I begged, "that's it? Can't you do something to fix her?"
He contemplated my question then shook his head. "You could send her in for intensive inpatient psychotherapy. But even that would just be palliative. I'm afraid there is no known cure for WC. But don't worry. She is in otherwise excellent physical health and appears to be a very well-adjusted young lady. The risks to her are more social, now, than physical."
I furrowed my brow at that news. How was that any better?
"Let me explain," he said, "uncontrolled endocrine overload would drive her to reckless and dangerous behaviors. These behaviors, combined with a temporarily diminished capacity for risk-management, could be misinterpreted and make her susceptible to exploitation by others."
"But since Lucy can come to you and ask for a dare whenever she feels the onset of her symptoms, and because she is critically able to achieve an orgasm by performing a dare, her newly formed chemical pathways will remain open, and her condition should be manageable. As I said, she's fortunate to have someone like you in her life who truly cares enough about her to ensure she always has a way to manage her WC without taking advantage of her."
He thought for a moment, then pulled a big, important-looking notepad out of his pocket and started writing. "Unfortunately, by now her pathways appear to be inextricably linked to physical exposure. I do see your predicament in that regard and I'm afraid I can't do much to help you there, societal norms being what they are. But I can at least offer you this. I hope you will find occasion to benefit from it."
He handed me the note which had been handwritten on clinic letterhead, complete with official county seal on top. I tried to read his cursive but couldn't make out anything other than to identify that he had signed it at the bottom. It felt like an empty gesture. I needed answers, a prescription, a plan; anything but some stupid letter! Standing up, I folded his note and resentfully shoved it in my pocket. I assumed I would never look at it again and it would never come in handy. How was I supposed to know that very letter would be my salvation before the day was out?
He ended our consultation by offering some final advice.
"I suppose there is a marginal risk of her body building up a tolerance to your treatments, requiring ever greater forms of exposure to manage her symptoms. But the build-up of toxic chemicals resulting in an uncontrollable chemical imbalance should always be the greater concern. The worst thing you can do, when her symptoms begin to manifest, is undertreat her. So, as difficult as it may seem, you shouldn’t hold back. Even if she resists, it's for her own good."
After that, he signed the school's medical release form and wished me well. He had given me so much information - so much responsibility. I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders as I descended the stairs. Of course, I loved my sister and would do anything for her. But I was only fifteen! I could barely take care of myself. What if I messed up or made a mistake? Suddenly, I felt very tired. I needed to go somewhere and sit alone for a while and think.
I returned to the waiting room expecting to find my sister dressed and ready to go home. I saw her clothes still draped over the chair where I had left them. But Lucy was nowhere to be found!
jojo12026 wrote: ↑Tue Aug 22, 2023 12:52 am
Lol. I googled PWCS and it brought me to spirituality web pages and EWTN.....Time for Lucy to get some treatment!
I should have known somebody would try to look it up. If it makes you feel any better, Mikey struggles to find information on it, too. At least you're in good company
I scanned the whole room, hoping I had missed something. It was a weekday and still early, so there wasn't a huge crowd waiting. But the clinic was starting to fall behind schedule and, as more patients were forced to wait their turn, the numbers swelled. At least two dozen people were sitting in clusters around the long, depressing room. Lucy was not among them.
I may have overreacted to her absence, but in my defense, I was in a fragile state. Putting the news of her condition out of my mind as best I could, I gathered up her things and began to scour the halls in search of my naked sister for a second time that day. I checked the bathrooms thinking she might have seen the crowd and chickened out. But the indicators outside both showed "vacant" and she wasn't hiding within.
After searching every corridor in the clinic zone at least twice, I began to widen my search to other parts of the facility. The only possible explanation I could think, unless she got abducted or something (God forbid), was that after coming downstairs, she had gotten turned around exiting the stairwell and went the wrong way.
To test my theory, I returned to the stairwell and purposely headed in the wrong direction. The hall eventually intersected a larger corridor. I made a right-hand turn and started walking. This corridor made several questionable zigs and zags and had a distressingly high number of offshoots. But by following the color of the carpet, I was able to stay on what appeared to be the recommended path.
I kept walking, unable to imagine Lucy would have come down this far. Surely, she would have sensed something wasn't right. But then again, she was pretty bad with directions and under a lot of stress. In her naked state, she was probably too distracted by the surprised reaction of every person she encountered along the way to wonder why it was taking so long to reach her desired destination.
The further I went, the more convinced I became that something bad had happened. Also concerning, I began to gradually notice a change in signage as I walked. The posters informing you about the dangers of smoking were replaced by warnings about the consequences of drunk driving and encouragements to always wear your seatbelt.
Sensing I had wandered too far into the DMV side of the complex, I planned to turn back at the end of the hall. But around that last corner, a sign hanging from the ceiling made my blood run cold. It read "DMV Waiting Room" and had a big arrow pointing at a heavy door. I couldn't help but wonder. Was Lucy really stupid and/or disoriented enough to confuse the two completely unrelated waiting rooms?
I rushed up to the metal door and pressed the horizontal bar in the middle. A latch clicked and I was able to swing it open and step through. As the door swung shut behind me, I surveyed the new room.
Compared to the relatively small clinic waiting room, the DMV was positively cavernous. There had to be at least a hundred people filling rows and rows of seats along the back and nearly that many more standing in a long line that snaked toward the far wall of clerks. Workers who crisscrossed the room kept their head down so they wouldn’t have to entertain questions from the depressed visitors who were clutching precious stacks of paperwork and pleading for an estimate on how much longer they would have to wait.
The whole place was soul-sucking. I knew because I had been in this room about a month before. I had waited in those exact chairs for what seemed like hours for my number to be called and had stood endlessly until I made it to the front of that exact line so I could get my hardship license. But today, I was here on a different mission.
I saw Lucy right away. It wasn't hard with her pale, naked body, sun-bleached blonde hair, and white bandage shining like a sexy beacon – the only interesting thing to look at in an otherwise gloomy room. She was sitting in a chair, blushing profusely, staring unblinking into the folds of an open magazine, and making a noble effort to pretend like she wasn't flashing her entire naked body to the rest of the room.
On a bad day, she is objectively a strikingly beautiful young lady. She has been turning heads since she was a little girl. Receiving a lot of attention everywhere she went was nothing new to my sister. But that's nothing compared to the stares she was receiving by having strolled naked into the middle of the DMV! Everyone was staring at the unusual sight of the mental patient with a knockout body reading a magazine without a stitch of clothing on as if it were an everyday occurrence. It sure beats staring at the balding head of the person in front of you in line.
Over the next couple minutes, I pieced together what had transpired. As I had guessed, she had taken a wrong turn at the stairwell and wandered the halls until she found this door. Mistakenly assuming it would take her to the clinic waiting room and her clothes, she eagerly dashed through, only to find herself the main attraction for a crowd of lucky onlookers.
At that point, her choices were limited. The one-way door behind her had already latched closed and the other exit across the room would have taken her outside and even further from her clothes. Left with no better option, she grabbed a magazine and sat down as if it had been her intention all along to do some casual, naked reading in front of two hundred bored citizens. But really, she was praying constantly that I would quickly locate her and come to her rescue.
As soon as she saw me holding her dress, she saw her prayer had been answered and cried out in relief. I was nearly as relieved to see her as she was me. Well, maybe not quite since I was holding all her clothes and she was still completely naked. Jumping to her feet, she lunged at her dress and scrambled into it, not even bothering to waste time on her underwear. So much for pretending it didn’t bother her, I guess.
Since we couldn't return the way we came, we crossed the room and went through the door leading to the main DMV lobby. It didn't matter since everything was connected to the same parking lot anyway. We reached the lobby and were almost out when an unhappy man in a brown uniform blocked our path. He was a security guard and had every intention of detaining us for disturbing the peace.
"I don't know what kind of prank you two think you're pulling," he said with a gruff voice, "but the cops have been called and are already on their way."
He was past his prime and looked like someone who drinks too much beer, but he was stout. I doubted we could overpower him and get through that door. Lucy looked on the verge of a breakdown. She had been through a lot by that point. A trip to the city jail to answer a bunch of questions about why she had taken off all her clothes and wandered around some government building would have probably broken her. Seen as her accomplice, I was probably in just as much danger. Fortunately, I still had my wits about me and tried to mount a defense of her behavior.
"It's all a misunderstanding," I insisted, motioning to her head bandage for sympathy, "we were here at the clinic and...and, look!" I shoved the signed paperwork which I hoped would be enough to corroborate my story into his hands. The guard read Lucy's release form with a skeptical eye. I could tell that note alone wasn't going to be enough to convince him. Pulling out all the stops, I grabbed the note from Dr. Alabar from my pocket and quickly added it to bolster my case. Even though I didn't have a clue what it said, a little extra legitimacy couldn't hurt.
The grumpy guard had to put on his glasses before he could read the scrawled writing. When he had finished, he looked up at Lucy with a surprised expression then read the note all over again. Finally, with a contemplative "hmph", he returned our belongings and waved us through without another word.
Neither one of us said anything on our walk back to the car. I was stunned. I think we both were, but for different reasons. All I could imagine, as we drove home in silence, was that something in Dr. Alabar's letter had convinced the man to let us go.
When we got home, I dropped her off, but didn't feel like staying. I needed some alone time to process everything Dr. Alabar had told me about Lucy’s alleged condition. But I also wanted to know more about that letter. I had been wrong to be so dismissive of its value. I vowed to sit down and take the time to interpret his handwriting. I had to know what the good doctor had said.
I drove in circles for a while. Driving for pleasure was technically against the terms of the hardship license, but mindless driving is great for clearing your head. It was worth the risk that day. My sister had just been diagnosed with an incurable illness - the same one that likely killed our dad. A million thoughts were hitting me at once.
I kept replaying the meeting with Dr. Alabar, trying to pick out the important parts. Lucy was sick. But I had to remind myself that he had insisted she wasn't seriously ill. Her condition could be managed - with my help. That is, if I could even believe a word he said.
I ended up at the library, a good, quiet place where I could think without interruption. I was always good at researching things and needed to get organized. So, upon entering, I made sure no librarian was nearby and swiped a gently used manila folder as well as some blank papers from the copier behind the book checkout counter. I was going to make my own file on Lucy Marie Jenkins.
First things first, I took a closer look at that letter. It seemed to be the key. I found a quiet table way back among the less frequented sections where I wouldn't be disturbed and slowly began to transcribe Dr. Alabar's physician’s scratch into actual words. I wasn't the best cursive reader to begin with, so it took a while. But here's what the letter said:
"To whom it may concern,
Lucy Jenkins is a patient under my care. She has been diagnosed with a chronic medical condition which she is currently able manage with prescribed treatments. Lucy is in otherwise excellent health and her condition does not prevent any level of strenuous physical activity. However, due to the unique nature of her condition, her symptoms, when manifesting, may impede her ability to wear clothes.
Please excuse her from regular uniform and attire regulations during those times. Her condition should not be considered dangerous or harmful to herself or others. Her symptoms do not require intervention to treat and will pass in time. Pursuant to the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, discrimination against her in this matter is prohibited.
Respectfully,
Dr. Diederick Alabar M.D., MRCP"
Welp, that was one mystery solved. I might not have been otherwise convinced by the authoritative claims contained in that letter. But I had witnessed firsthand how it stopped the DMV guard in his tracks. I couldn't argue with results like that.
Still, I was left with more questions than answers. Could I trust Dr. Alabar's expertise, or would another doctor tell me something else? Going to some private practice for a second opinion would have cost money - money we didn't have. Fortunately, if it was knowledge I was looking for, I was in the right place. So, I turned to the library itself for guidance.
By then, I knew my way around our city library. This was before the Internet put everything at your fingertips and it took a special skill set to navigate the forest of dead trees which were soaked with inky wisdom. Treating the letter with a newfound respect, I smoothed out the wrinkles it had begun to suffer while in my pocket and used a paperclip to secure it unfolded inside the manila folder. Then I headed to the Medical Reference section to look for clues.
My attempts at direct information on Persistive Waxing Concupiscence Syndrome were a dead end. I couldn't find any evidence that the stupid thing even existed! Waxy carbuncles was about as close as I got, and that's not anywhere near the thing Lucy supposedly had. I had a little more success looking up the definition of each word separately. After carefully writing all four words and their full definitions on the same page, I felt like I could start to make sense of Dr. Alabar's diagnosis, even if I wasn't yet sure I could trust him. He had seemed competent and sincere. But that did not automatically make him a reliable source.
The stakes were too high to blindly follow his orders. But I couldn't deny how uncannily accurate he had been grasping the nature of Lucy's relationship to dares as well as guessing at my likely involvement in them. He had diagnosed her with little more than a thin medical history and a few minutes in her presence. And he had barely interacted with me before declaring that I didn't have the same illness, even though it was supposedly hereditary! How could he possibly know for sure? So many questions - not enough information.
Returning to the reference books, I researched other hereditary illnesses in general. I don't mean to sound selfish, but I was relieved to learn how common it was for one child to inherit a condition while their sibling was completely unaffected. The reason for my concern was something Dr. Alabar had mentioned which had been bothering me ever since. It was about how WC affects masturbation.
According to the good doctor, Lucy's condition prevented her from masturbating. That's not quite accurate. Her condition prevented the normal flow of hormones that allow a person to climax when they masturbate. If I understood him correctly, she could still play with herself at night or in private. But the act would only cause those hormones to build up in her body with no release. No orgasm.
That's where my own issues happened to coincide. Oh, God, I can't believe I'm revisiting such an embarrassing moment in my past and sharing my private struggles with you! But I suppose you should know, for Lucy's sake.
As you know, I had, only a few weeks earlier, made the fateful mistake of letting Lucy give me a dare. She had kind of caught me in a compromising situation and I wasn't thinking clearly. Ever since that dare, I had started to notice some personal issues of a...sexual nature.
I'm not going into detail again about everything that happened to me that day. Let's just say, it was an incredible, unbelievably arousing experience which ended with my own body betraying me in the most embarrassing way possible. The dare officially ended a few days later, after I had repaid my debt for transgressions accrued. But that was not the end for me. I'm ashamed to admit it but, in the weeks afterward, I had begun to struggle with masturbation - particularly, with orgasms.
It started a couple days after my dare when I was in the produce section of the supermarket. A nice-looking woman, probably in her thirties, with a decently large chest walked up and started to peruse the lettuce. I had just stopped to sort my coupons and wasn't even shopping for lettuce. We had plenty of that home-grown.
Anyway, glancing down, I noticed the woman's nipples had started to stiffen under her top from the cold air drifting off the refrigerated display. Suddenly, a particular scene from my dare popped into my head. If you've been following along, you can probably guess which one. My penis grew fully erect in an instant and I had to steady myself to keep from passing out from the rapid loss of blood pressure.
I covered the gigantic bulge in my shorts and waddled away before she could notice it. It's not like I had never gotten an erection looking at a pretty girl or lady before. I was a healthy teenage boy. Things like that happened all the time.
The real problem began when I got home. My most obvious way of keeping my erections under control was regular masturbation sessions. Turning to that tried-and-true solution, I took a shower and began to play with myself. However, just as I was getting going down there, another image popped into my head. This time, I was staring deep into the eyes of the most honest, trusting girl you could ever meet and losing control of my body - defiling her in the most shameful way possible.
In reaction to those intrusive, humiliating images, I felt my consciousness automatically retreating into the safe cocoon of my deeper mind. That Zenlike state made a great insulator and stopped the images cold. Unfortunately, turning to the exact thing my brain had developed to help me avoid having an orgasm, obviously makes it very difficult to reach an orgasm!
My shower masturbation session ended in failure and started a dreadful pattern every time I tried after that. And with no relief, my erections became even more frequent and more of a distraction to daily life. It was mildly concerning. But my real concern was how I was going to manage once school started. Imagine going to school surrounded by cute girls with a near perpetual, raging hard-on.
I was almost to the point of turning to chemical solutions. In fact, I had already formed a plan for my next jack attempt. My intention, assuming Lucy made her team, was to swipe some of her special lotion while she was away at cheer camp for the weekend and see if that couldn't help me get over the hump, so to speak.
I specifically wanted to wait until she was out of the house before making another masturbation attempt with Rivera Dave's lotion in hand. Ever since she caught me trying to use it last time, she kept a close eye on the jar. I also didn't want to do anything that might end up with me getting roped into doing another dare. Just the thought of it made me shiver.
In short, it's like my arousal system had gone haywire. But having just learned about Lucy's condition, I couldn't help but wonder if my own masturbatory difficulties weren't the first sign of PWCS beginning to manifest in me! Dr. Alabar had sounded confident when he told me I didn't have it. But could he have been mistaken? What if I was just a late bloomer and was destined to suffer the same fate as my sister?!
Before I got too carried away by fear and despair, I returned my focus to the task at hand. I ordered myself to stop wasting energy worrying about my personal tribulations. I was here to help my sister. To do that, I had to decide if I was going to trust Dr. Alabar. How could I know for sure?
I went back to the beginning to test his theory about how Lucy's condition came to be linked to dares in the first place. Best I could recall, it all started with that slightly creepy babysitter.
What was his name? Oh yeah! I got out a clean sheet of paper and, at the very top, wrote, "Kevin- Pajama Hide and Seek, Age 9".
It hadn't even been a dare, but by my reckoning, that was the first naked activity, or challenge, Lucy ever performed. And, in support of the doctor's theory, she had critically still been a few years away from puberty when it happened.
I went on to record every daring escapade I could remember along with the time and her age. The more I mapped out the ebbing and flowing of a recognizable pattern over the months and years, the more I believed it. How could I come to any other conclusion? My sister might really have PWCS.
I was willing to entertain that diagnosis as a possibility. She really might be incapable of achieving an orgasm on her own without a dare to help. What a wild thought! But if it were true, it is very likely we had both spent the same sleepless nights recently, struggling with a similar problem.
Our plights may not have been identical, I admit, but I could at least sympathize. Fruitlessly pleasuring yourself in the privacy of your own bed only to have to get up the next morning painfully aroused yet totally unfulfilled. It sucked! No wonder she kept coming back for more dares! How could I blame her if that happened to her on a regular basis? Dares might have been the only way she could get any sexual relief whenever her symptoms - her urge - came on. If I were in her desperate little shoes, I would probably be compelled to say those two little words every time, too, no matter how humiliating the previous dare had turned out!
A heavy weight settled over me as I considered the magnitude of accepting this reality. If everything the doctor had told me was true, I was the only thing standing between Lucy and some kind of toxic chemical imbalance overload.
As she came into her teen years, it would become more and more difficult to avoid major consequences. At some point, the wrong person would inevitably catch her in the act and she, I, or both of us, would get in big trouble. I was kinda surprised it hadn't happened already.
I would have to depend on that letter. Everything I made her do could be considered part of her treatment plan for a serious medical condition. And Dr. Alabar had essentially granted me formal permission, indemnity even, to continue her dares without fear of reprisal.
That was the best I could hope for at the moment. I wasn't ready to accept the prognosis that she had no other way to manage it. I would continue searching for a cure or alternate forms of treatment. Or maybe she would grow out of it like he wondered she might. Until then, the only thing I could do was keep giving her dares every time she came to me.
As I stood up and gathered my things, I thought about his final warning about undertreating her. Her dares had never felt so significant before. It had all been a game to me - a very entertaining and sexy diversion from life's boredom. But now, doing it wrong could be catastrophic and could even cost me my sister.
I suddenly felt very tired. I didn't have the mental stamina to wrestle with that responsibility. So, I vowed to put everything aside for the evening and face it all again tomorrow...after a good night's sleep.
I like the direction of the story a lot. Both siblings struggiling to orgasm and Mikey is now realising the stakes are only going to continue to raise. I hope embarrassment is plentiful on the road they are currently on.
(The not being able to orgasm alone really got my attention, I really hope you go into that idea a whole lot more. It was really good in the other story. I can't wait for more!)
I should have known somebody would try to look it up. If it makes you feel any better, Mikey struggles to find information on it, too. At least you're in good company 