Although it's evident he has a hard on.
Better not be from the twit waitress.
We've already pulled up to my front door when I am hit with an awkward realization. “Oh, Brian, I didn't think. How will you get home?"
"I can walk from here. It's just a couple of miles to my motel."
"No, you can sleep on my couch,” I insist.
"You sure?"
"I'd rather you did. I don't want to be alone … not completely."
I put out a pillow for him and a sheet.
"What time are you going to get up?” he asks me. “I'll make sure I'm gone by then."
"Thanks,” I smile. He's taken his shirt off. I feel weak. I wish I were stronger … I would go to him, let him fuck me with that hard on. Get it over with, this little thing between us. Then we can both move on.
I tell him seven … but I set the alarm for six. I'll want to check on Thomas, but maybe, secretly, I want to see Brian again, too.
I say good night and head off to bed. I'm just coming out of the bathroom in my pajamas around the corner from the living room when I hear him. I freeze, holding my breath. The lights are off, but I hear him breathing.
More rapidly. Sighing, too.
He can't be, can he?
I walk on tiptoes, as close as I can get. He's sitting on the couch, his body in shadow. It's too hard to tell, but I think I see his hand, stroking.
"Want to watch, Caroline?"
My pussy clenches. My heart stopped.
I've been caught.
"I know you're there. It's okay, come out."
I present myself. He turns on the light, leaning across the couch. He keeps his hand on his cock. He has a big hand, but an even bigger cock. Bigger and thicker than I imagined.
"You don't mind if I play a little, do you?"
"No…” My voice is a little high pitched. Thomas says I do that when I am secretly displeased or disconcerted about something but don't want to admit it.
For fuck's sake. It's my living room, though. How could I not mind?
"I just needed to unwind. I need to come about twice a day. What about you?"
"Some … something like that,” I mumble.
"Have a seat,” he says.
I do not feel in a position to argue.
I take up the recliner, which is kitty corner to the sofa. I have a perfect view.
"Are you bi, Caroline?"
"No.” How can he just carry on a conversation like this, while pulling his cock?
"Because I saw you looking at the waitress."
I stiffen. “I'm not bisexual,” I try to put an end to it.
"So why all that interest?"
"If you must know, I didn't like the way she looked at you. And don't you dare read into that. I just know the type, manipulative, a born user."
"Like Monica?"
"I didn't say that."
"Didn't have to. What was her name, anyway?"
"I don't remember."
"Yes you do."
"Mandee,” I say, unpleasantly.
"She was attractive, don't you think?"
"I told you, I am not bisexual."
"I bet you wouldn't mind her licking your pussy, though, if we had her here right now, as our little slave girl."
I feel the twitching. My nipples harden.
"She could crawl to you across the floor, after she sucks me off. Imagine that, Mandee, her little sleek body buck naked, a nice little collar on her throat, scampering over to you, trying to be a good little slut so we don't beat her ass."
I want it to be me attached to that cock but I don't say it.
"Touch yourself, go on. You know this turns you on.” He touched his nipples, one after the other. “You could have your lips here, and here, while Mandee does her thing, here.” His cock looks so god damn good, protruding through the opening in his jeans, right through the split in the zipper as he squeezes it, hard. “Go on,” he prods. “Do it."
I tuck my fingers under the waistband of my pajamas. I have panties on because of the male company. They are wet. I gasp as I feel it, my fingers being grabbed at by my hungry little cunt.
I come in record time. I try and keep it quiet, but he wants to hear, he encourages me. I moan, only half aware as he tears at my clothing. I end up bare assed on the soft chair, my legs hoisted up over the arm rests, pussy gaping, giving, over and over, letting him see and possess my deepest intimacies.
"That's it, Caroline, that's it,” he encourages. “Show me."
I feel shamed and aroused and just plain open, bleeding my fragile, edgy self. At a certain point I can't take any more and I come down from the ceiling of self-pleasuring.
He's just looking at me still, grinning, the over confident bastard. His eyes get that intense look that a man gets just before. It's all I can do not to run to him and swallow him whole, or at least give him my face and/or breasts to come all over.
It's a tissue instead.
Such a pity.
He closes his eyes as he releases himself, flooding the blue tissue with thick gobs of white sperm. I tear myself away. I yank up my pajamas. I manage to be long gone, locked in my room before he can open them again.
I take off the pajamas and stuff them deep in my hamper, deep as I can get them.
CHAPTER II
I call the hospital the minute the alarm goes off.
No change.
I have to do something so I cook breakfast. For Thomas’ son, asleep on my couch. He must be exhausted. I'm not sure where he came from to get here or how. A man only has one father and he lost so much time already. I can't bear to see him lose anymore.
He stirs a little. He's on his back. Chest exposed, just a fine line of hair over his pectorals. He has left the jeans on. And a fresh hard-on.
Damn, you forget what men in their twenties are like.
I sure got an eyeful last night. Watching him play with himself, my own fingers half buried in my pussy. I'd give anything to know what he was really imagining. I think he must have been imagining himself fucking the blonde when push came to shove. I sure would if I were a man. Who would pick a woman in her thirties, gravity assaulted, used goods, over a fresh little piece with bright eyes and a totally tight and screwable body? Me, I feel like I need a couple of screws drilled into me to hold me together.
It's funny, but I'm not thinking of the implications of our little exchange last night. I'm just cooking bacon, barefoot in my kitchen, in the oversized t-shirt and elastic shorts I put on in place of the pajamas. No, it's definitely not about Brian and me. It's about Thomas, I owe him everything. I exist to help him. And so does Brian. The whole fucking world revolves around him if you ask me.
Condition unchanged. Stable.
Whatever that means. He's made it through another night. That's another hurdle. Just a million more to go. The heart has to heal. He has to breathe on his own. There could be brain damage. He had a stroke; we don't know what that means. Blood was cut off to his spine, no guarantee he'll ever walk again.
I have already tried to call Monica; she's got her phone on voice mail.
Still trying to get over this whole there's-a-man-in-my-apartment thing. I would be naked now otherwise. Hell, I wouldn't be cooking. I would be eating cereal from a box, hunting for donuts at the convenience store.
I'm not a morning person. I need diet soda and space. Even with Thomas I can count the number of times on one hand we woke up in the same bed. And that was for logistical reasons more than anything. Can't explain why this is just not a part of us, not a part of me. I've never been married, never even come that close. Did as much as I could to keep men away, including the alcohol. Lots of sex, not much commitment. Forever in the wrong beds, nowhere relationships, pining after married men, preferring to believe their absurd promises of a future together than to risk anything real.
The proverbial rock bottom for me happened thirteen months ago and eight days. It wasn't as dramatic as you might think. Ironically, I woke up feeling fine, as I always do from a drunk. Never once blessed with a hangover I couldn't cure with a little caffeine. Fit as a fiddle, I went to run in the park on a Sunday morning. Up north, air exhaling in smoky rings.