CHAPTER EIGHT (of NINE)
I get home wicked late from the game, so, obviously, Richie's sleeping soundly as I slide in bed next to him. Gawd, he has the most innocent-looking cute face! No nineteen-year-old can be as innocent as he 'looks,' right? It's tempting to give him a kiss goodnight, but I manage to refrain.
The next morning, as I'm groggily getting ready for work, Richie says, "Omigod, how'd you get the black eye, Mike?" He's still in bed, of course; it's ten minutes of five! Shrugging, I mutter, "It's no big deal. Go back to sleep." He says, "Yeah, but it looks bad." I'm like, "There was a small altercation at a bar after the game last night, and I stupidly ran into some guy's fist. Now, go back to sleep!" He turns over, pulls the covers up to his chin, and mutters, "Jesus, it looks painful... that's all I meant."
Then, I have a terrible day at work. The hot sun was a beast! Anyway, somehow, I make it through the day drinking lots of water and taking Tylenol while dragging my painful black eye, plus a hangover, up and down the dirt fields next to the loud harvester machine.
Much later, when I show up at the boardwalk, the guys want to know about my black eye. Richie obviously told them what I told him, but I tell guys I actually ran into an open cabinet door over the kitchen counter. They all go, "Oh, I'm so sure that's what happened!" Richie shakes his head slightly, making a 'face' at me, but he doesn't say anything. Keep it mysterious... the guys already think I'm cool for hanging out with the big-bad-boys.
Whatever, and then Friday's an okay day at work, I have some good weekend-fun hanging out on the boardwalk. Plus, of course, Richie and I continue having great secret sex together. We do 'it' every night, and occasionally in the morning too. I've given up the pretext that I'm only doing our 'gay' sex as a 'favor' to Richie. It's more like a lover's sex we've been having lately anyway, so I've pretty much had to give up pretending I don't like it. I mean, we really get into making-out before fucking; it's called 'foreplay.'
And, the making-out is almost better than the eventual sex act because it lasts longer. Richie is extremely receptive to the foreplay, fully participating, which makes me feel desirable. I lose myself completely encouraged by his quiet moans of sexual arousal. His sexy lips and slim hot body against mine are irresistible. He somehow makes me want to provide him more and more affection. He never appears to get enough of it. Yeah, it makes me feel special even as I'm admitting to myself that he's the one who is very special.
The truth is, I never thought anything could feel as good as our foreplay/fucking; feel as good as our sex. My cock gets so hard, and then harder still until I can barely believe it's happening. And that's just from kissing and rubbing my body against his. That boy never stops squirming against me, and when my steel boner eventually slides tightly into his ass, Omigod, that's when fireworks really go off... it's the Fourth of July, times ten. The sensations, the vibrations, the thrill! Forget about it... it's indescribable.
Richie, agreeably, does whatever I tell him. Sometimes we begin making-out standing near the bed and get so 'hot and bothered' we never get in bed. I tell him to stand at the end of the bed with his hands on the mattress, and his ass pushed up. I fill it with lubricant, finger-fucking him in the process, watching him moving his shiny-with-lube ass, straining to get it up higher, seemingly begging me to fuck it. When I hesitate, he looks back at me and nods his head encouragingly. Excited by that, I'll smack his ass, "Smack! Smack!" telling him, "I'm going to fuck you hard!" and he'll go up on his toes, pushing his ass up and out, his whole body quivering with desire'.
Yes, he wants my boner up his ass... maybe he NEEDS it there. All of that helps me justify to myself why it's okay to do gay fucking with him. A temporary mind-game that justifies me ignoring the erroneous concept I've always had about being 'straight.' It's only a temporary fix, though, because, as I've already said, I've admitted to myself I'm not doing this sex simply as a 'favor.' I'm doing it because I want to. And, nope, I never thought I'd want to, not until Richie became impossible to resist. Seriously, it's his fault we've ended up like this.
Although I don't blame this on Richie, my biggest complaint is our sex happens too quickly. When my hard six-plus inches of cock is up to his ass completely, I hump against his butt cheeks, trying not to moan at the sexual pleasure I'm feeling, trying not to moan louder than he is at least. Then, I can't help myself, I start thrusting hard, and the sound of males fucking rings out in the room, "Slap, slap, slap..." my crotch slapping against his buttocks and jostling his whole body. It only lasts for a minute or two before we both blow our loads, my cum shooting up his ass and his semen shooting across the top sheet on the bed. Yeah, it happens too fast...
Jesus H. Christ, though! Climaxing sensations are like nothing else in this world! Afterward, I can't even breathe for thirty seconds as I'm mostly shuddering from the vibrations streaking all over my body. My toes curl, and the roots of my hair sizzle. Fucking unreal!
Sometimes, after pulling my cock out cum drools out of Richie's ass immediately, and I'll smack his ass, splattering the cum. Why do I do that? I don't know. I don't know anything except I want to do it all over again, and often I do. I'll slide my cock back up his ass and, oh boy, second fucks can last ten minutes or longer. Ecstasy!
Then, other times we'll do our making-out and fondling in bed under a sheet. I'll fuck his lubricated rectum with Richie on his back, his arms around each of his legs spreading and holding them out of the way. That seems to me to be an extremely submissive posture for him to be in, and I love seeing his eyes begging me to do 'it.' That turns me on tremendously, but I'll often make him wait until he murmurs, "Please, Mike...". Then, maybe I'll stroke his hard-six-inch cock to tease him further, waiting until he again begs me to fuck him... "Please, Mike, I'm gonna cum, fuck me, fuck me hard..." Yeah, that's a wicked turn on for me; him begging me like that.
That's how we do 'it' tonight. Richie on his back, his arms around his legs pulling on them so hard his back is curved, his arms straining, one wrapped around each leg. When I hesitate, he tries pleasing me by pulling harder on his legs, his cute face shining with anticipation. He's impossible to resist, so I poke the head of my boner into his tight anus, watching his facial expressions change. First, an expression of pain, and then he relaxes, and his eyes close as pleasure overtakes the initial pain. That's when he starts his quiet moaning.
With just the engorged head of my boner is past his anus, I wait a few seconds before pushing it in further. It slides in wicked tightly, rubbing against his prostate gland inch by inch. Richie, his eyes still closed, shudders and moans, "Ooh, ooh, mmm ooh..." Quiet little moans. He's still cute even when his face is scrunched up to absorb the pleasure sensations soaring from his rectum. I feel like the badest-stud on earth as I'm watching him scrunching up face while pulling his legs back further. Sweating by now, his light brown, too-long-hair sticks to his forehead, reaching almost past to his closed-eyes... cute kid. He's not cute like a girl though, he's all-boy-cute, which in my experience is kind of rare for a nineteen-year-old. By nineteen, most guys are getting their adult 'looks.'
Anyway, it's lots of fun watching him as I'm fucking his ass extra hard... "Slap, slap, slap!" He gets very docile, enjoying the stimulation. When we really get into 'it,' Richie's like a cat when someone lightly scratches its stomach. Then, when Richie's ready to climax, his body gets tight, his back arched off the mattress... he lets out a squeaky desperate sound, then a squealing sound humping his hips and out his hard cock that's sticking straight up, shoots two or three nice streams of creamy cum, most of which lands on him when it comes down. He shudders and then, Omigod, the look of pleasure on his face when he opens his eyes and smiles at me. Oh yeah, we're an item, alright.
And I haven't even mentioned my climax, which is super-nova material, so, yeah, even though I still have some feelings of guilt doing gay sex, I've got to admit our sex is out-of-this-world-hot! Wow!
When we're not having sex, I'm thinking about doing it. Mostly, that's what I think about while doing the repetitively-boring work on the farm. It's what I'm doing right now, thinking about fucking Richie, and when the harvester stops to unload the corn in a truck, Denny yells over at me, "What are you grinning about, Mike?" I yell back, "I was thinking about screwing your twin sister." He laughs and gives me the finger." Huh, why'd I say that? I almost said, as a joke, I'm thinking about screwing you. Jeez! Well, strangely, Denny is cuter than his twin sister. No, really, he is.
Then, after work, I'm getting off my bike at the house when I get a call from Danny. As I'm listening, Richie comes out on the porch, and, seeing I'm on the phone, he stands there watching me with that adorable welcoming smile of his. I grin back at him and then say to Danny, "It's probably that fucker Jose starting trouble again. Sure, I'll go with you."
Richie looks scared now, asking, "Trouble? Is it that fucker, Jose?" Danny clicks off the call without saying goodbye, and as I put my phone in my pocket, I tell Richie, "No! Danny doesn't know who's involved. Somebody, not Jose, called Arnold, Mr. DeCarlo's righthand man, saying the word is out that Danny skimmed from the 'pickups' he made last Friday. Arnold knows it's bullshit, but, yeah, they're assuming the rumor comes from Jose Gonzales. Scumbag Jose is supposedly drinking with a couple of his boys at Dinardo's Pub out on route 9, so we're going to drive out there and ask him about it."
Frowning, Richie asks, "Why did your brother call you? What do you have to do with that gangster shit?" Going up onto the porch, I hug Richie's shoulders, mumbling, "It's not anything to worry about. Don't be a pussy. This is a spur of the moment thing, and Danny needs me to be the lookout while he and Arnold talk to Jose." Richie shakes his head, muttering, "Can't you stay out of it, Mike?" I give his shoulder another affectionate squeeze, adding, "Don't look so worried, buddy. I'll just be sitting in the 'effing car. I'm not going inside the bar with them."
Danny's on his way over right now, so I go inside and barely have time to clean up before I hear him tooting the horn. Richie, still looking concerned, says, "I guess I'll see you on the boardwalk, Mike. I mean, since you don't know how long you'll be." Jesus, I want to kiss his cute face so badly, but I don't. Instead, I pat his shoulder, saying, "Okay, I'll see you there."
As I'm getting in the backseat, Arnold, who's driving, gawks at me, saying to my brother, "Jesus, Danny, what the fuck, dude? Your little brother is going to scare the shit out of those guys at Dinardo's. Ha-ha! He looks like he's fourteen!" Danny goes, "What the fuck you talking about, ya dumb shit? Mikey's nineteen, and he's been my 'lookout' before."
The tires squeal as Arnold pulls away, Danny saying to me, "Don't listen to Arnold, Mikey," and then to Arnold, he mutters, "He's just sitting in the car, for Christ's sake. What the fuck difference does it make how old he looks?" Arnold goes, "Just saying..."
Arnold looks like he's forty-years-old. He's a big fat ugly guy, but it's hard fat, not blubber. He's probably been a mean bully all his life. He's the loud-mouth pushy type. I met him once before, but I don't think he knew who I was. He's never spoken to me, not that he spoke to me just now either. Scary psychopathic motherfucker. And I do not look like I'm fourteen!
They talk strategy during the twenty-minute ride to Dinardo's Pub. When we get there, Danny tells Arnold to back into a parking spot opposite the bar's front door. Then, he says to me, "Okay, Mikey, when we get out, you get into the driver's seat. We won't be inside very long, and when we come out, you'll drive straight out onto Route 9 and do it quickly. Don't ask anything; just drive away without breaking any laws. Okay?" I nod, "Sure, no problem, bro."
Feeling slightly apprehensive, I get out of the backseat. After getting out of the driver's seat, Arnold increases my apprehension by handing me a gun, saying, "Don't shoot it! Show it if you think you need to, but don't fucking shoot it." Danny's like, "Do you think the gun's necessary, Arnold? What the fuck?" Arnold goes, "How can it hurt? I told the kid not to try shooting it. Let's go..."
Fuck, I almost dropped the gun when he handed it to me, totally not expecting it. Neither of them noticed me fumbling with it, though. Hmm, it's a badass looking gun. I don't know what kind it is, but it looks tough.
When I get in the driver's seat, I don't know what to do with the gun. Well, I've seen movies, so I put it in the back of my jean's waistband. It's not comfortable, but I don't want someone walking by seeing me with a fucking gun, although it is kind of cool having one... bang-bang!
Sticking a piece of Juicy Fruit gum in my mouth, I try unsuccessfully to get comfortable. A minute later, someone taps loudly on the roof of the car right over my head, "BANG-BANG!" Jesus that startles the hell out of me, and I bite my tongue, mumbling, "Huh?" Looking over, I see a big scary-looking guy right next to the window. He's leaning down, asking, "What are you idling here for, kid?" Squinting at him, I mutter, "Waiting. I'm waiting for somebody." He goes, "Oh yeah? Who you waiting for?" I shrug, and another guy pushes the first guy out of the way, saying to me, "Get out of the fuckin' car, asshole."
In desperation, I look at the door of the pub Danny and Arnold just went in, then back at the second guy who has a gray beard but looks only about thirty-years-old. I don't know what to do, but he does. He pulls the door open and grabs my arm, pulling me out. I end up on the gravel parking lot on my 'effing knees, being pulled away from the car as I'm yelling, "What the fuck?"
Both guys pull me to my feet, and the first guy smacks my face cutting my lip. Blood runs down my chin as he snarls, "Rico asked you a fucking question, shit-head." I hear the door of the pub slam open, and Arnold yells, "Hey!" Graybeard drags me around the car, and I see Arnold holding his hand to his bloody nose. Danny and a tall skinny guy are wrestling in the doorway, and then both of them tumble out the door onto the gravel parking lot. Graybeard lets go of me to run toward Arnold, and the fat guy grabs me behind my neck. I reach back and pull the gun out. The big fat guy lets go of my neck and steps away, saying, "Hey, dip-shit, take it easy with that."
Arnold lands a punch right on graybeard's chin, and the guy flops onto the gravel as Arnold yells at me, "Shoot that motherfucker, dummy!" I shake my head, and the big guy takes out a gravity knife. In a fog, I watch him flick his wrist, and I see the shiny sharp-as-a-scalpel-blade, the sun glinting off the blade, blinding me for a second... and that's all I remember until I wake up in the hospital.
When I open my eyes, it's night. It's black outside the window, and I totally DO NOT know where I am. I know my head, side, and lip hurt, and my brother Danny is sitting near my bed. He sees I'm awake and leans over me to whisper, "Mikey, you don't remember anything, bro. All you know is some guys mugged you when you were waiting for me to grab a sixpack of beer from Dinardo's." I'm like, "What happened?" He goes, "I'll tell you later. For now, all you know is I was getting a sixpack of beer when some black guys you've never seen before in your life pulled you out of the car and mugged you. Pulled you out of the car and mugged you... got it? That's all you know."
Before I can ask anything else, a man comes into the room shouting, "Hey, what the fuck? Get out of here, Sullivan. You're not supposed to be in here!" Danny goes, "Fuck you, detective. I'm worried about my brother." A cop walks in wearing a patrolmen's uniform. He's carrying a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee, some of which splashes on his hand when he yells at Danny, "How the hell did you get past Officer Love? Get out, get out!"
Danny has a Band-Aid across an eyebrow, but other than that, he looks okay. The detective is overweight and sweating profusely, wearing a cheap suit, one that's much too heavy for summer weather. After glaring at Danny's back as he's walking out, the detective daintily sits in the vacated chair, as if perhaps he has hemorrhoids.
As he tries to show a smile, I gawk at him as he asks really nice, like, "How are you feeling, Michael?" I ask, "What am I doing here?" He says, "You were stabbed through the side. The blade went in the front and out the back. The doc says you were hit on the head too. Hit with a blunt instrument of some kind." Frowning, I go, "Huh?" He says, "I want you to know that you're not in any trouble, son. Um, so, ah... let's see, we know that you and your brother were at Dinardo's Pub doing something for Mr. DeCarlo, right? What was it you were doing there, and with whom?" He's lying; he doesn't know shit. I go, "Who's Mr. DeCarlo?" and then, faking bafflement, I tell him what Danny told me to say.
To his credit, the sweating detective wearing the too heavy cheap suit doesn't bother me for long. He asks the same question in three different ways, and after I give the same answer, he grunts, "Well, Sport, you and I both know the sixpack-story is bullshit. You wouldn't drive past forty bars in Wildwood to go two towns over for a sixpack of beer. Okay, you want to be a smart-ass... so now I've got another Sullivan to keep my eye on."
I say as sincerely as I can, considering my lip, side, and head hurt, "But that's all I know, Detective!" He gets up, sneers at me, and then leaves without saying goodbye. Whaddaya gonna do, huh? Well, what I did was go back to sleep. It's morning when I next open my eyes and see my mom sitting in the detective's chair, staring at me. I mumble, "Hi, Mom." Danny and Richie are there too. They're standing at the foot of the bed, looking worried but not saying anything. Mom asks how I'm feeling. I tell her, "I'm dizzy."
Of course, I'm dizzy! I have a concussion and a stab wound on my side. They tell me the knife went in above my waist, not hitting any vital organs, coming out at the back. I must have twisted out of the way when that cretin stabbed me. The hit on my head is causing me the most problems, currently.
Anyway, I was unconscious when brought to the emergency room, and I'd swallowed my gum somewhere along the way. The gum had gotten into a position where it was blocking my breathing. Complicating matters further, there was a big pile-up on the Parkway with several injuries and some deaths. That caused lots of confusion at the emergency ward, and I got left on a stretcher in the hall unattended. The way Richie tells it, he saved my life by getting a doctor's attention. The doctor, a woman I'm told, cut my throat; did a tractotomy to free the passage in my windpipe, allowing me to breathe. It went something like that anyway.
My mom then yelled at some doctors, and here I am. There was a lot of misinformation about what went down at Dinardo's. On my third day in the hospital, Danny is the only one in the room with me, and he tells me what happened. The first scary big guy's name is Skippy Galo. Skippy was the guy who pounded on the roof of the car, and the other guy, the one with the gray beard, was Rico Perillo. Rico is the one who yanked me out of the car onto the gravel parking lot.
According to Danny, when I took the gun out, Skippy initially backed away but then saw that I wasn't even holding the gum properly, and he said, "Hey, kid, that's a Glock." He grinned and took out his knife, adding, "Glock's have a trigger safety that you apparently aren't aware of," and then he stabbed me. As I said, I must have twisted out of the way a little and didn't go down when stabbed. I dropped the gun and grabbed my side, so he hit me over the head with a blackjack. Then, I went down in a heap on the gravel... none of that do I remember.
I don't remember any of it. The gun ended up under me. Danny tells me Arnold then came up behind Skippy and twisted his arm back until he dislocated the guy's shoulder, then kicked the legs out from under him and kicked him a few times for good measure as Skippy was screaming in pain on the gravel. Arnold told him, "You don't do that to a kid, you piece of shit!" Skippy had dropped the knife, of course, and, after kicking him a few times, Arnold casually picked it up, then got the Glock out from under me, and tossed both weapons in a trash bin.
Meanwhile, Danny was smashing the tall skinny guy's face against the cement steps. Both he and Arnold then kicked the living-shit out of Graybeard, who was the one that dragged me out of the car in the first place, although Danny didn't know that. The conscientious bartender had called the cop even before I saw Arnold come out with a bloody nose, so they, the cops, showed up momentarily. Arnold knew they would, which is why he tossed the gun and knife in the trash barrel.
Richie and the boardwalk boys didn't know any of these details, so they made up their own version of what happened and repeated it to anyone who would listen. A popular version had Jose stabbing me and then Danny shooting and killing him. A good guess, except Jose wasn't even there. Supposedly Danny, after killing him, was thrown in jail, and blah, blah, blah.
Well, everyone did go to jail except me. None of them were in jail for long, though. Mr. DeCarlo sent a lawyer over, and he, plus the cops, and the other gang's lawyer hashed-out a scenario that it was merely a bar fight that got out of hand, and nobody was pressing charges, plus no one knows who the fuck stabbed the kid... stabbed me. None of those guys had a knife, so it had to be unrelated to the bar fights... a coincidence that the detectives rolled their eyes at. Everyone, except me, was convicted of disturbing the peace, and they all paid a fine... that's all that happened.
Richie liked describing the 'soap opera bonding' he and my Mom had the night I was stabbed, and he, supposedly, saved my life. Being unconscious, I do not know anything, but apparently, Mom and Richie actually did get 'close' that night. I don't mean to be callous or ungrateful about what Richie did to help me in the emergency room corridor, just that Richie can get dramatic at times. Hence, I'm not positive that his story is completely factual. There is much embellishing involved in his retelling of events. My Mom concurs that Richie may have saved my life, though, so that's good enough for me. Richie and me, we'd already bonded so...
Anyway, I've plenty of time to think about things lying in my hospital bed. For instance, am I supposed to believe that when I was on the stretcher unconscious, I finally told Richie I love him? I can't believe I said that, um, especially considering I was unconscious at the time. Heh-heh, but he said he told me he loved me, so we're even in the unlikely scenario that ever happened.
Omigod, the big surprise was discovering that my Mom and Mr. Mealey have a developing relationship. We, Richie and I, didn't realize that was happening, so it's weirding us out a little. I mean, I'm glad, and I'm happy for them, but, come on, that's another weird coincidence considering Richie and me supposedly, um, are sort of in love. Of course, we're the only ones who know about that.
Because of him saving my life, so to speak, plus the supposed 'love' awkwardness, I'm a tad embarrassed being alone with Richie during his visits. What do I say? At least I'm beginning to feel better, and, well, here's the thing; I only have Richie's word that I said I loved him. He's not a liar, but maybe he's mistaken. I mean, from what I'm told, it was a ridiculously wild scene in the emergency ward that night. In any case, it's another thing I don't remember.
Anyway, heh-heh, I do have a bright spot to be happy about. I've got a cute roommate. His name is Ronny Dwyer, and I use him as a diversion from the 'I love you' awkwardness by teasing Richie about Ronny, who, coincidentally, is gay. As Richie takes my food tray away, I'm like, "How about my roommate, Richie? One more big 'coincidence,' huh?" Richie makes a 'face,' so I add, "Yeah, I mean, Ronny's not only our age, and gay... he's wicked cute too!" Ronny's out of the room getting treatment of some kind. I wouldn't have said he was cute if he was here.
Richie sits on the side of the bed, mumbling, "Yeah, that's quite a coincidence, alright, but so what?" As I've acknowledged myself a few times already, I've given up the pretense that I'm doing gay shit strictly for Richie's benefit. He knew that was bullshit from the start. Anyway, all three of us, Richie, me, and Ronny, know we're all gay without actually saying the word 'gay.'
With that understood, the three of us have quite a bit in common. I can see that Richie's a little jealous about the way Ronny and I commiserate and joke about things that happened here in the hospital room before he, Richie, arrives. And, Richie's pissed-off that I confided in Ronny about us. I don't blame him as it is supposed to be a secret between Richie and me, but it gets boring lying here. Anyway, Ronny could tell right away that Richie and I are more than just friends.
After saying all that, I need to admit Richie does his best to hide the green monster known as jealousy, and, speaking about hiding stuff, I've been hiding from the doctors the fact there's a constant ringing in my ears and an aching in my head. That, plus, I get confused. For example, when Richie and I tell Ronny how we met, I get the timeline all screwed up. It's embarrassing to forget that my mom visited me in the morning, and then, when I see her at night, I ask why she didn't come that morning. Bizarre happenings, but I keep my aches and confusion to myself, hiding concussion symptoms from the doctor because I want to get out of here.
Speaking of getting out of here, it's been decided that Richie will be 'taking care' of me when I leave the hospital. Even when Mom moves back into our fire-damaged place, she can't, financially speaking, take off work to 'nurse' me back to health. I need help because there's a complication from the stab wound. Any movement of my right arm pulls on the wound and hurts like a bitch, and, as a consequence, my right arm is in a sling to discourage me from moving it. Doing everything with only my left arm is wicked difficult, which is why I need help.
So, yeah, I have concussion after-effects and stitches in my side and back, plus my arm in a sling. Still, by my fourth day in the hospital, I've improved enough to begin thinking about stuff besides my injuries, and one of the main things I'm thinking about is sex with Richie. This morning, Ronny is out of the room getting treatment again, and my lovely fifty-year-old nurse has just left after doing her annoying daily torture things to me. Plus, the nice female doctor has seen me earlier. So, since no one else is expected in my room this morning, I'm thinking I need a blow job from my designated cock sucker, who is sitting right here on my bed.
Richie is speechless when I suggest he do 'it' here, but I put on a 'sad' face, and he goes, "Oh, alright." My bed is next to the window, Ronny's near the door with a curtain between us. Richie pulls the curtain closed even though it's highly unlikely anyone will be coming in, and even if they do, we'll be warned because the door squeaks. That will give Richie two seconds to get his head out from under the covers.
Hmm, there is a concern I have, though, and it's that the sponge baths I've been getting don't reach down 'there.' Richie is going to encounter a ripe odor, I'd imagine. He's said ten times that he likes how I 'smell,' how my skin smells, so maybe he won't mind that my 'smell' is intensified about a hundred-fold. If he pulls his head out immediately, I'll understand, but maybe he won't...
After one last glance around the room, Richie snorts out a chuckle and says, "I can't believe I'm doing this," and then pulls the sheet down to my knees. I nod my head encouragingly, and he lifts my 'Johny,' which is a dress-like thing they make you wear in the hospital. Richie mutters, "GAWD!" Then, he picks up my dick and sucks it into his mouth. OH, BOY! I can just reach the sheet, so I pull it up to cover his head. Yep, my 'designated cocksucker' is one brave motherfucker! Wow, does this feel good!
I'm running my fingers through Richie's hair, biting my bottom lip as he licks and sucks my cock into a hard boner. Then he drops his head further and takes it in his throat. Unbelievable!
Fireworks! I can't stop making hissing sounds sucking in air, and exhaling it while squirming on the bed, hurting my incision. Less than a minute after Richie put my dick in his mouth, my hips hump, and I climax a long stream of cum, groaning at the pain in my side and feeling wicked dizzy to boot. But... Omigod!
Gasping, feeling hot, and racked with pain, I glance over and see a wet-spot on Richie's shorts. Jesus, did he 'cum' too? The squeaky door opens, and I can see under the curtain the legs of a candy striper backing into the room, pulling a tray on wheels. I forgot about her. Holy shit! If she came in ten seconds earlier!
Snorting out a laugh at the panicky look on Richie's face as he's pulling his t-shirt out to cover the cum spot on his shorts, I go, "We're good.". He then steps into the bathroom without saying a word, and I hear the door's lock 'click.' Ha-ha, the poor kid. Ah, I feel bad taking advantage of Richie like that. Well, he could have told me to go 'eff myself when I suggested it.
Damn, though, it felt great to climax! My side and head both ache, but it serves me right, I suppose. Let's see, it's quarter to eleven, meaning it's time for a ridiculously early hospital-lunch. That's why the candy striper is here with her tray on wheels. Green Jell-O, and what else is on the lunch menu today?
To be continued... chapter 9, the final chapter in a week donnymumford@outlook.com
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