I Always Will

Ghosts and Demons

Riley

It would be when Row is in London that I awake for the first time since the accident with a semi.

Christ. Halfway there without any effort at all, and Row is halfway around the world.

I feel the ache in my balls.

What to do? Hmmmm...

I recall the advice I was given last week.

Experiment, the Doc had said.

And when I say Doc, I mean the Gorgeous One.

She ever-so-casually asked me how things were going in the that department during our morning work call. After I spewed tea against my office wall, and suggested she look for another job, and she lectured me like I was one of Soundcrush instead of her boss, I begrudgingly gave her a quick summary of "how things were going."

Her advice was: experiment with all kinds of sexual activities--intercourse not necessarily being the endgame. Toys,  games, fantasies, she said. She said having entirely new scenarios would change the expectations, take the pressure off, and I might be surprised at how they altered my "physiological response."

In the spirit of experimentation, she sent me dozens and dozens of "ideas" by text. I couldn't help but snark back a few replies.  If Bodie ever sees that text thread he's probably going to kick my ass first and ask questions later. However, a few of the "ideas" were items I ended up ordering. They arrived while Row has been gone. I make a mental inventory. Mostly toys most appropriate for me to use on Row. But also a device for pumping me up, so to speak. And some arousal creams, and what not.

I consider.

Ach,  no. Let's just see what happens if I take matters into my own hands, so to speak.

"I guess it's just you and me, mate," I mutter to my member.

I put one hand behind my head and the other on my other head—as I think of what Row looks like naked. I can picture her vividly, as if she were here, her lithe frame straddling me. Her gray eyes darkened by lust. She's biting her bottom lip, her top one plumped and pinked from kissing me. Her thin torso yields up those gorgeous, petite but perfectly round tits. Creamy white and pebbly pink nipples. God, all of her skin perfectly porcelain. Not a tan line anywhere.

I grunt in satisfaction, imagining running my hands up her smooth thighs, grasping her hips, encouraging her to move against me. She's so small, so limber and so eager in bed. Moving her is effortless.

In a flash I can pull her down and have her underneath me and thrust inside her...and...

Aaaaaand... that's where the fantasy ends and so does my erection.

Because there is nothing flashy or thrusty about the way I can move now.

At least not pain free.

I curse a bit, rake through my hair and raise the head of my bed.

Slowly.

Every move I make so fucking slowly.

I know I should be incredibly grateful—considering my own stupidity—that I didn't put myself in a wheelchair for life. The doctors and my physical therapist are extremely pleased with my progress and optimistic about a return to full mobility. I'll most likely be able to walk with the orthopedic braces and no more than a cane in a couple more months, Blake projects. It might even be possible to return to full unaided mobility, they say. There's still hope that  more feeling will return in my lower extremities, they assure me.