Letting Go - Part III

“Well... maybe I can help you with that?” His hands are still trembling slightly but he hopes she will not notice.

“Yes... please?”

He carefully moves a hand between her thighs and she opens up her legs willingly for him. She is already wet and warm and when his fingers involuntarily twitch against her she cries out and tries muffling it by biting into his shoulder.

Despite everything, he has to grin. “What? I want to hear you!”

She blushes, her eyes feverish. “This is a hotel. Other people will hear me, too.”

“I don't fucking care!” He has no idea where he takes the confidence from. He does care. About a lot of things. He does indeed not care about that, however. “You shouldn't fucking care! We will go downstairs to the bar afterward and if not everyone knows already what went on here I didn't fucking do my job right!”

Boldly, he dips a fingertip into her heat, moving his thumb in slow, imperfect circles at the same time.

She yelps. “Shit... yes, I mean... fuck, yes like that!”

It takes her only a few minutes pressing her lips together until she is gasping and moaning so loud he thinks even the deafest grandpa ten floors above them must be able to hear her. Her body shivers worse than his and her hips cant up and down against his trembling hand, unrelenting. Her fingers clutch at his chest, leaving red imprints through the fabric, as if they cannot keep from touching although they stay clear of his legs. When she gets close to orgasm she starts making small, high-pitched ‘Ah, ah’ sounds, her forehead wrinkling, and grabs his hand between her legs to increase pressure. She comes seconds later, with closed eyes and a small cry, shuddering through waves and waves of aftershocks with her face screwed up in simple pleasure, until her body falls back against his.

He caresses her neck, gently burying the fingers of his clean hand in the tight muscles and she groans, eyelids fluttering, and finally opens one eye.

“Sleepy?”

She shakes her head, stubborn.

“You must be jet-lagged. I get it if you don't-”

“Don't talk shit to me, man,” she says firmly, almost angry, and her eyes are suddenly spewing sparks. “I certainly did not rent this hotel room to sleep in.” Her hand moves over the half-hardness in his pants, very slowly and very gently. Very arousing.

“You are going to tell me when anything hurts, right?” she asks and there is the slight hint of uneasiness he usually gets when people figure out that he is different. But it is gone in the glimpse of an eye and he wonders if it has ever really been there.

His heart pounds in his throat and his cock twitches in his pants as her warm hand presses on the fabric. Yeah well, at least a part of his body seems to remember that he is young and male.

He nods. “I will. Promise.” His voice is not hoarse. Not at all.

“Wishes?” Her eyes are large and round.

“Um… if you could… what you did before… I…”

It does not hurt, at least not the bad kind of hurt. She slowly moves down along his body, unclothes him and plants kisses on his bare skin that tingle like crazy for minutes after her lips have vacated the spot. Wracked nerves can be an advantage for once, he guesses. She nuzzles his erect cock, sighing contentedly as she puts a hand behind it, and licks along the shaft, slowly. At this point he already feels close although no real action has happened yet, his hands twisted into the bedsheets, his legs quivering with the strain of keeping them still and he thinks he might snap in two at the wrong movement from her.

“God, you are so… perfect,” she murmurs and heat swaps around him at the words, covering him like a heavy blanket, soothing the ache for a moment. Her hands gently settle at the side of his hips and then she bows down properly, and it is all heaven and hell, warm and moist and she is making small noises around him.

He grunts garbled words, hands clenched into her shoulders, too gone to do anything else, too shy and self-aware to do anything more. They have talked about what they like but his mind is blank, he cannot seem to remember and the memory only comes rushing back when she grabs his hand and places it on her head, and one of hers wedges under his ass, urging him to buck up into her.

He tries, he wants so much to please her, he wants so much to come at this point that he would have fucked up into her mouth without restrain, both of his hands deep in her hair like they have dreamed of, together. But right now, all he manages is tugging at her hair because his hips will not move more than half an inch out of this position even on good days, and his trembling legs currently are too weak to hold his own weight, least hers.

He groans out his frustration, pawing the mattress helplessly.

She does not seem to care, though. She moans around his cock and he whimpers as the vibrations hit his core, his vision clouding with want. Dimly he realizes that she follows the pressure of his hand on her head and the feeble twitch of his hips under her, the rhythm growing frantic under his guidance. He feels incredibly aroused and angry at the same time, and for a second it is overwhelming. Why can he not have what other men have? Why can he not have full control over his body like everyone else? Just fuck his girlfriend like the guy next door?

But the sounds that she makes tell him she is all in and the soft hair under his hands is nice and yes, this is different than they pictured it, but he is different than he likes to draw himself online, so it only makes sense. And no, there will be no pounding her against the wall today, no pounding at all by the looks of it, no elaborate sex positions that involve her making a handstand or other fancy stuff, not even anything as simple as him being on top, but suddenly it does not matter because while this has been their fantasy, this is the reality and it is okay.

Then she takes him deep, the tip of his cock touches the back of her throat and he comes, spurting in her mouth, unable to warn her safe for a startled gasp. His hips spasm and her lips stretch around his pulsing cock as the orgasm rips through him, pleasure hot white behind his closed eyelids.

He stammers excuses when he comes down, chest heaving and limbs weak, the last bit of pain that has been lingering washed away, but she swallows and smiles and climbs up to snuggle close to him.

“You can sleep,” he whispers after a while, smiling and lazily trailing one hand down her back, his fingers diving into her soft hair.

She sighs into his chest, eyes closed. “I don’t want to.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

She lifts her head and blinks at him, her eyes small. “Aren’t you tired at all?”

“I…” He does not think he has ever not been tired during the last months, but at the same time he cannot seem to fall asleep, for hours on some nights.

He chooses not to answer.

She yawns. “Tell me something about you.” She shifts her body even closer to his, tucking the blanket tighter around them. Her warm legs melt against his right, the sensation warbled and strange with his leg still being mostly numb.

He sighs and lets his head fall back into the pillow. “You know most of me already.”

She chuckles. “I think you missed telling me an important part.”

He stiffens next to her. “Believe me, this part is very boring.”

“You can leave it to me to decide about that.”

He forces his hands to relax around her curves, his heart beating loudly in his chest. “I really don’t think you want to hear it.”

“Try me,” she says, still smiling up at him. One of her hands has sneaked down to his thigh and the muscle twitches as she touches the skin, more because she caught him in surprise than because of his condition.

“Well…” He really does not like talking about it. What is he supposed to say? Does she want a medical description of his immune system attacking myelin? Should he go into details about the injection he is about to get starting tomorrow, a drug that might maybe make his vision more stable but could also cause new, and horrifying symptoms? Does she want to talk about the future?

“Is it primary progressive or relapsing-remitting?”

He exhales a long breath, concentrating on the warm presence of her hand on his leg. Seems like he can jump the introduction. “It’s complicated,” he answers.

As he tells her about the difference between relapses and bad days, and about spinal taps, MRIs and brain lesions, ever repeating doctor’s visits and a different interpretation every time he talks to another medical professional, the countless misdiagnosis and uncertainties along the long journey he has been on since last year, he realizes that he has not talked to anyone outside of the medical profession about it, not in this depth. Not to his closest friends. Not even to his parents. They either seem overwhelmed from the facts, as non-threatening and simple as he might put them, or they start to grow bored as soon as he goes into detail.

She does not. She listens to all he has to say, nods along, laughs at the funny bits and cries out in outrage at the terrible parts. She asks questions, seemingly not afraid of the answers, and he realizes that although he still does not enjoy talking about the disease, it grows easier with every word, and with every second he talks, the pressure inside his chest eases.

He tells her about one of his deepest fears, going blind, that had driven him to the doctor in the first place. She clutches his arm as in reflex, then lets go again. “How is… how is your sight now?”

He smiles at her concern. “I can see you just fine. That’s all that counts, right?” He does not need to tell her that it might not stay that way, he can sense that she has concluded that already.

In the middle of the night they call room-service and eat greasy burgers on the bed because there is only one chair in the room, giggling like children whose parents are out for the evening.

When he has finished his burger he shifts, moves the empty plastic container and soda can to the side and wipes his hands on the wet towel that she brought to clean them both before. “Uh… huh…”

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I… uh…” Oh damn it, he is an adult, isn’t he? “I need to go to the restroom,” he says, not looking at her.

To his amazement, she chuckles. “Bottle?”

“What?”

She grins at him, shaking her head. “Shall I bring you an empty bottle?” she asks.

“Wha- no.”

He does not think he can do that. Maybe someday, when they have spent more hours together, a lot more hours, and no secrets whatsoever left. But right now he hopes he can avoid having to take up measures as drastic as peeing into a bottle while his girlfriend is lying next to him.

He pushes to sit up on the mattress, groaning when the room starts to spin on cue. He slowly moves his legs out from under the covers and over the edge of the bed, the feeling of the floor against his naked soles giving him some orientation, the moment of vertigo passing. His right leg is still tingling but his left feels okay.

“Do you need help?”

He wants to decline again but then he takes a look at the distance from the bed to the closed bathroom door and he has to admit that yes, he probably might indeed need help.

She is almost as tall as he is, he realizes when he loops his left arm over her shoulder. Her right arm sneaks around his waist, settling like a warm comfort against his back. She is strong, so much stronger than he will ever be again, and she pushes him into standing in the same moment that he tightens his hand around the cane. When the world around him becomes a swirl of colors and he staggers through the first step before he is even prepared to move, she is there, a constant weight against his body that prevents him from falling. He lets her take some of his weight after that, and trusts her to worry about the direction, concentrates instead on moving one feet in front of the other without stumbling. They are both still naked, and her body feels soft but reliable, her skin warm and smooth against his.

They reach the bathroom without incidents, and he switches to grab the side of the door instead of her shoulder.

“Thanks. I’ve got it from here,” he says.

“Hey…” she says and grins, lowering her arm that was around his back until her hand is lying on a butt cheek. “It was my pleasure. I’ll wait here, okay?”

“Uh… sure.” He looks from her grin into her sparkling eyes and cannot help but feel like he is doing her a favor and not the other way around.

When he opens the bathroom door again after having relieved himself, she is not there, though.

“Sorry, honey…”

He lifts his gaze to the bed and staggers against the doorframe. “Holy-“

She is lying on top of the covers, one hand between her spread legs and rubbing her clit, sweat glistening on her writhing body in tiny droplets. “I’m sorry,” she repeats in a breathy whisper, “I couldn’t wait…”

He feels dizzy as he slowly detaches from the doorframe and this time he is sure he cannot blame his condition.

“Do you need me to-“ she starts but he shakes his head.

“I got it,” he says, fixing her on the bed as he starts walking, placing his naked feet with care, his right leg shaking, but the knee does not buckle. “I do not think you should stop now.”

She moans and watches him shuffle slowly toward her, the cane thumping on the carpet where he rams it in.

“Need you – need you…” she whines when he has nearly reached her and he flings the cane on the floor and leans forward, landing with both hands on the mattress.

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he says, one hand gently curling around her ankle, making her yelp. “Come here.”

He guides her to scoot to the edge of the mattress and he lets himself down on his knees in front of the bed, ignoring the twinge in his stiff hips. She breathes heavily and bites on her lips as he coaxes her even closer to the edge, until her toes touch the ground and her butt nearly slides off and then he leans forward in between her knees.

It does not take long, with his tongue alternating between deep shoves and quick laps, her thighs are soon quivering near his head, her hands clutching the sheets. She moans and cries, demanding his hands shortly before she comes and he does as she wishes, burying two fingers in her, feeling her walls shuddering in near endless orgasm.

She keeps lying spread-eagled over the edge of the bed for a few seconds, her chest heaving, before sliding down the rest of the way to sit next to him on the floor and kisses him, deeply, her lips hot, her face flushed.

“Don’t tell me you are still not tired?” he mumbles, smiling. Fatigue is crawling into every fiber of his body, his hands are shaking and his vision has gone blurry.

“Mhhh…” she makes, her sweaty face buried in the crook of his shoulder. “I’m shattered. I guess I could sleep here…”

He thinks of the pain that lying in a bed which is not his own usually causes and shivers imagining what sleeping on the floor might do to his body.

“Just kidding,” she mumbles and picks herself up, groaning, and blinks at him still half-lying, half-sitting with his back against the bed, unmoving. “Come on, get your lazy ass up here.”

He chuckles tiredly and tries to mobilize last resorts. He fails at sitting upright or getting his legs under himself and in the end he lets her push him up bit by bit, until he is back on the mattress. He cannot find the energy inside himself to feel humiliated. Instead, when he catches her smiling to herself as she slowly lifts his legs up and tucks them under the blanket, a faint grin flickers over his face.

Before she crawls to him under the covers, having disposed the empty trays, the tissues and towels they have used to clean each other, he clears his throat. “Would you mind getting my meds?” he asks, words a bit slurred. He has told her about that, too, but it still feels strange.

She does not bat an eye. “Sure. In your jacket?”

He nods.

Afterwards they cuddle in the drowsy warmth under the covers, and they quietly talk about all kinds of things, easier things than before, and he realizes that the gaps between her whispered sentences and his short mumbled responses grow longer and longer with the minutes ticking by.

In the end she falls asleep like this, curled into a ball in his embrace.

He props himself up on an elbow and looks at her, not daring to move his legs from where they are tangled with hers because it might wake her up. He is determined to lie here, unmoving, until the morning sun bursts through the thick curtains, watching the curve of her shoulders and neck with the silky hair spilling over, and the sight of her peaceful face, her lips slightly parted and her eyes closed.

He guesses his therapist will die from shock when he tells him that he has had a great day. He certainly does not plan to go into details with him about the night but hell... if ever a night had been more amazing, he does not know about it.

His therapist will most definitely die when he tells him that there might be a chance that more amazing days will follow, among the less good days that he is sure are also waiting for him.

But that night he does not think about it. With her in his arms he cares about nothing, does not feel the dizziness and the looming pain, the fatigue further creeping up on him or the next cramps aiming to render him immobile. He does not worry about what is going to come, not the next hours, not the next week. Maybe not even the next months or years. He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of her hair and for a few hours he manages to let go.