“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.
Great chapter!
ReplyDeleteTc
Thanks! :)
DeleteSimply amazing! You've done it again--super job.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Pepper!
DeleteThank you for the hope at the end of the story!
ReplyDeleteI absolutely loved the way how the title got a new meaning in the last sentence. When the reader had been led to believe that "letting go" meant letting go of the love of your life, then now the reader was introduced to the new idea: that "letting go" was meant letting go of the old life in solitude...
This was heartwarmingly brilliant! :)
Love your writing and hope that you will gift us with more wonderful stories!
It's absolutely wonderful to know that readers pay attention to things like that :) Exactly that was what I was going for. Thaaank you!
DeleteWhat a brilliant story. This last chapter was really a highlight!
ReplyDeleteThanks, chandelier!
DeleteLoved it as usual. Such a great ending. You are an amazing writer.
ReplyDeleteThanks, blueskye!
Delete