He makes a beeline for the armchair in a corner as soon as they enter her hotel room, sinks down in the soft cushions, suppressing a sigh of relief. His left leg has started acting up during the last minutes and he is afraid it might get ready for something nasty.
She offers him something to drink from the mini bar but he declines.
"Ah, the meds, right?"
He flinches because this is closer to the truth than he likes, but he catches himself and nods stiffly.
"Does it hurt? Your leg?"
"N-no... Sometimes. A little."
She watches him quietly for a second, then proceeds pouring herself a whiskey.
The alcohol makes her more at ease and this somehow transfers to him as well, his muscles relaxing and the pain receding into the distance again. They decide to go forth as they have done online and she ends up stripping and doing a hot and decidedly funny dance in front of him while he slouches in the armchair, grinning and feeling his cock getting hard in his pants, the material suddenly uncomfortably tight.
“Uh-oh,” she says and playfully bats her eyes at him as she advances, her grin sly. “That must really start to hurt.”
She is split naked as she stops in front of him, her body as wonderful as he had always dreamed of, more perfect than he could have ever known, even if he had high-speed internet and HD video. He reaches out with one hand, very carefully, and places his fingertips on the side of her thigh, lets them wander over the pale, unblemished skin, following the perfect curve. She shudders and his breath hitches for a moment, fingers freezing. Both of them do not move, breaths sounding loud in the otherwise quiet room, until her hand raises and her palm cups his cheek, the thumb moving in slow circles over his sharp cheekbone.
He has to summon all his conscious efforts to not flinch back from her. How could he think she would ever like him? Who would want to love what has become of him? Even though she does not know the truth, isn’t the ongoing desolation evident? The broken bits and pieces of his body screaming at her to turn and run because something is wrong?
But she does not shy away, no, she smiles at him, genuinely and fond. „This is... this is so amazing...” she whispers and swallows. „I cannot believe we are actually... I mean you and me, in one room and I can... I can feel you.” She giggles at what she has said, shaking her head at herself.
He does not answer, his throat tight and he knows he could not find words even if he managed to make a sound.
Her hand moves down, to his neck, and skids over his chest and his nipples, making him yelp, a tiny, throaty sound of surprise. She massages his shoulders, fingertips digging in deeply and sensually, and he cannot help but realize his breathing accelerates and flattens, and his eyes start to droop. Maybe, just maybe... But he is fooling himself.
“Let's make this better, won't we?” She murmurs and her hot breath directly in front of him nearly makes him jump because she is unexpectedly close, her face inches from his.
The fact that she is still there, still touching him seemingly without finding him disgusting, is unbelievable to him and even so much better than he had ever hoped for in the lonely nights when they could not Skype. Both of her hands are moving further down, her body slides over his and she kneels in front of him, moving in between the V of his legs, her fingers gliding over the waistband of his pants and settling over the bulge, the heels of her hands gently applying pressure.
His head falls back against the support of the armchair and he groans, a low, breathless sound. His cock is full and aching in his pants, straining against the confinement, pulsing in the warmth from her hands that seeps through the fabric.
This cannot be real.
She hooks one finger under the waistband. “Can I?”
Against what all rules of logic might tell him, this is real.
Her warm hands are real.
His throbbing cock between his legs is real.
Her smile is real.
He lifts his head again and nods a few times too often. Shit, yes. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes grow a hint darker as he watches. “Please…” He does not care about how broken he sounds.
She pops the button, opens the zipper and lifts the elastic of the shorts a little to finally free him. Precome is dripping down the shaft and she coops it up with one finger, smearing it over the head until he whimpers. His breath is gone the moment her hand fully closes around his erection but it slams right back into him when she bows down and sucks the tip into her mouth.
“Ah -- ah… Oh fuck, oh yes - yes, shit...” He inhales and exhales as if he is running for his life, panting, his heart racing in his chest and pumping even more blood to his cock, making him more desperate for relief than ever. He clenches his fingernails into the soft fabric of the armchair and closes his eyes against the overwhelming image of her bent over him, her eyes trained on him, large and round. When she starts moving he knows he will come like this in no time, with her warm tongue sliding up the length slowly and her cheeks hollowing out when she takes him deep. His hips buck up feebly although he tries to restrain himself and he stutters out incoherent words.
He does not care anymore if this is real or not, he simply does not want it to stop ever.
And just then there is something else.
Something sharper than the lusty warmth spreading through his body, an accompanying sizzling heat starting in his shins, moving up to his thighs and down again to his feet from there, a prickling, nasty sparkling that makes him gasp before he can swallow it.
No, no, no!
She does not stop, bobbing her head a bit faster now but he can barely feel it anymore, her sweet lips drowned out by the stabbing pain that is pulsing through his lower body.
Fuck, why does it have to be now?! He balls his hands to fists, burying his fingernails in flesh in the hope it will help him keep still, let him ride this out without her noticing. He has to push through this, it must be possible.
His left leg jumps and he yelps as the scathing pain drives tears into his eyes.
She stops at once, her lips popping off with a sad sound and she looks up at him, brows furrowed. "What- Are you okay?"
He refuses looking at her, staring at a point over her shoulder, his fingers gripping the armrests of the chair tight. In his peripheral vision he can see the muscles in his left leg twitching under the thin fabric of his pants, caught in a vicious cramp, and at that moment his knee locks, kicking his left foot forward forcefully and he has to bite on the insides of his cheeks to not cry out from the pain. All the while, numbness and crazy tingles have taken hold of his right leg, rendering it useless for as long as this lasts.
A metallic taste spreads in his mouth as he tries to figure out what he is supposed to do now. Fuck. This has happened before, countless times, but usually he has been at home, sitting or lying down and he has had all time of the world getting comfortable to get up again, even move again, which could take a while. He has certainly never experienced this in public, which is probably due to the fact that he spends most of his time at home, and he has most certainly never had it while in the same room with the girl of his dreams. Due to obvious reasons, one of them being that said girl has to take a ten hours flight to get in the same room with him.
So why now? Why?
"Is it your leg?" She asks, worry lacing her voice, and backs away cautiously. "Shit, did I do something wrong? Which one is it?"
He does not answer. She is sitting back on her heels and watches him in the armchair, observes him writhing with something very different from pleasure.
"It's not a sports' injury, is it?"
He exhales a shuddering breath, defeat plummeting in his stomach. After a while he shakes his head. He does not know what to say. God, what did he get himself into? She is never going to forgive him. Not now. If there has ever been a chance she could be okay with it, could maybe accept him, he has lost it due to his own stupidity and pride. If only he had never started this from the beginning… If only they had never met online.
The realization that it is over, that the pretty picture he has painted for her shattered to pieces, hits him hard and he gasps for air.
He tries to tuck his deflated dick back into his pants, tries to close the fly with sluggish fingers while every shift triggers new waves of pain running up his legs. His stomach is queasy and he hopes the pain will not make him nauseous. Vomiting in front of her in her hotel room would surely be the only thing missing to make her hate him for all eternity.
If there is a possibility to hate him even more, after all he has done.
He has never wished so much he could just grab his things and go, flee from further humiliation and hide somewhere, indulging in his self-hatred, alone. But sitting is all he can do right now and even that is painful enough. He feels naked and vulnerable, although she is the one with the clothes off.
She watches him silently for a while, then clicks her tongue and sits on the bed, her wonderful full breasts swinging a little. "Is there anything that helps?"
"No," he say, tonelessly, and tries to hide a hitch of breath as the pain lashes out again. "It takes time. Maybe... Maybe stretching out..."
"Okay. Can I do anything for you? Help you?"
He shakes his head, biting on his lips. He cannot bring himself to look at her although he appreciates her asking, even now. But she cannot mean it, not really. She surely is just being polite.
They sit in silence for some minutes and eventually she wraps herself into the blanket, turning away from him, facing the wall. He waits for ten, fifteen minutes, teeth clenched, until the sharp stabs have tuned down to an annoying prickling that after a while ebbs away to a background hum and, without daring to look at her, he scoots forward and slowly, elaborately, pushing himself off the armrests and the cane, gets into a standing position.
She has moved back to sit up against the headboard, watching him without a word.
People usually think that the reason why he needs the cane is that his legs do not work properly, but that is not true. Mostly not. In fact, his legs work okay, more or less. He is very much aware that he walks stiffly, with his knees and hips aching and a noticeable limp due to general weakness in his left leg. But if it were only for that he could probably do without a cane. However, usually his balance is off or his vision goes to hell or both at the same time, and he needs the cane simply to tell him where his body is in relation to the floor. Only when he sways or stumbles because of that lack of balance does he actually put weight on it. Or if he gets tired, which happens often. But in general this is the only reason for the cane and in fact it is all the cane provides, seeing that it is not much more than a flimsy piece of wood, the stability it provides more illusion than actual support.
At home he often uses a walker, more increasingly lately as he has to admit, especially so in a situation like now. Because yes, when he is being frank, right know his legs do not work. Not really. But damn him and his ego, of course he never takes the thing outside with him. He would rather not go outside at all if it meant taking the walker.
Scratch that. He does not go outside at all. Period.
Usually not. And it just needed today to remind him why.
With gritted teeth he forces his protesting legs to take the two steps to the bed, knuckles white around the cane's head. His left knee is still bent at some degree, refusing to straighten out, and his right leg starts quivering when only his foot so much as touches the ground. He nearly collapses on his way over, pain flashing through his wrist as he tries to make up for his numb leg by leaning heavily on the cane. He would have crashed right into her if she had not made space in the last second, scooting aside on the bed before he more or less falls down on it gracelessly. If the distance to the bed had been one more step he would have landed face-first on the carpet.
"Is it getting better?"
He nods, looking at the ceiling. He has pulled his legs up, one after the other, with tears of frustration and pain in his eyes, and managed to straighten his left knee somewhat, trying to counteract the cramp. It helps. He is lying on his back now, next to her, while the hand's width of air between them seems larger than the ocean she crossed.
A few more minutes of silence follow. Finally he exhales shakily.
"It's MS," he says.
Strange enough, saying it out loud now it has lost all of its power. He knows he has already lost, lost her, lost everything. It is suddenly easy to confide in her when he does not have to worry about her reaction anymore. He takes a deep breath for the first time and feels a pressure lift from his chest that he did not even know was there.
"I'm sorry. I should have told you."
She looks at him. “MS…” she repeats, but she does not ask what it entails, as most people do. Others directly burst out into tears, assuming he will under guarantee die soon, but she just chews on her lip and watches him. Then she shifts, moving under the blanket next to him and he flinches surprised as she puts her hand on his still quivering left thigh and massages it in slow circles. First he is stiff, confused, but then he sighs involuntarily when he feels the tight muscles melt into her gentle touch.
It takes him some time to understand where her hand is moving.
It stops and she looks up at him. She is lying comfortably next to him, her head propped up in one hand, the fingers of the other lazily hanging over his groin area. "Hm? Do you want me to stop?"
Her eyes are large and clear.
He blinks and swallows. "No... Yes... No!" She lifts her eyebrows. "I mean... Aren't you... angry?"
"Hm... A little. I had hoped you would tell me earlier. But I understand. And I am glad you did it now."
"You... You have known?" He squirms to sit more upright and get a better look at her. She kneels next to him and arranges the pillows in his back until he is propped up comfortably.
"Yes, of course," she says matter-of-factly, then faces him again when he is struck silent at that, chuckling at his surprise. "No details, but I knew something was up. I know you don't work much, because you text at the oddest hours. But then there were stretches of time when I heard nothing of you, nothing at all, and you never told me about the reasons. Sometimes though when we talked right after that, you were... all over the place. Something was off, I could tell, you were kinda weird, your speech... Anyway, that vanished after some more time, always."
He blushes and clears his voice. "Oh..." He remembers those occasions, as much as he would like to forget them. He had still been recovering from a particularly bad episode but could not wait to see her. He cannot believe she had realized his problems for what they were although now it seems obvious.
She grins. "Once you called me from a hospital. A freaking hospital and you expect me not to notice?"
He sighs and feels unbelievable stupid. She must think he is so wretched and dumb. "I’m… fuck, I’m so sorry…”
He blinks at her but she just chuckles, her eyes sparkling and leans into the pillow next to his, grinning. „It was cute.”
He feels a wicked giddiness welling up inside.
“So... You are... okay with this?" He waves his hand in a vague direction and grimaces. "I mean... No questions? No second thoughts? I… honestly I would understand. You don’t… you don’t have to take me on as a charity case."
His entire body tenses at the thought. Is that the reason why she stayed? Why she even crossed the ocean in the first place? Is she just being nice to the guy who might be stuck in a wheelchair within a few years, or months… or weeks? He almost has to gag at that. His therapist is trying to get him to look at wheelchair models. “Just in case.”
He has refused every time, up to now.
She snuggles close to him, her eyes concerned now. She buries her nose in the crook of his shoulders, the scent of her hair making him dizzy, more than he already is. "Honey… I have always wanted you. After I found out… I only wanted you more," she breathes into his ear.
He mildly shakes his head but he does not ask her what she means, because their gaze has met for a fraction of a second and her eyes have darted away and he knows how it feels not to want to go into much detail. And yes, also because she has started nibbling his earlobe gently and it does very funny things to his body.
“Yeah... yeah...” he mumbles and brushes the back of his hand over her shoulder, the side of her chest, down to her waist, admiring everything that is her.
If she did this out of pity, would her heart still race so fast he can feel it under his fingers? Would her body radiate heat like a damn oven? Would she shiver at his touch, stifling a moan as their eyes meet again?
“Give me... give me a few more minutes, okay?”
“Sure,” she says and slots her wonderful body against his. “Only...”
“Huh?” His fingers glide over the curve of her ass, making her breath hitch and her hips buck up slightly.
“I don't think I can wait,” she whispers and pierces him with big and apologizing eyes, and he notices her hips have started to move imperceptibly against his thigh as if on their own accord.
“Oh...” he croaks, heat flushing his cheeks.
No. No one can fake that look. That look like she is about to drown. It touches something inside him. Makes him completely hers, absolutely will-less. Except for one thing.
All he wants is to transform that look into the epitome of bliss.
“Well... maybe I can help you with that?”
--> Part 3
--> Part 3