“Beck, pick up?”

A conscientious officer, Detective Beck would certainly have answered the incoming call on his dashboard device had he not been otherwise engaged. This part of the city was rife with prostitution, and Beck’s favored predilection was particularly well served. Cradling his monstrous cock between her ludicrously ample breasts was Samara, formerly of Cambodia and Chicago, and formerly a petite Asian whose figure had ballooned to satisfy a particular niche client.

“Don’t you have to…” she began, but Beck cut her off with a wagging finger, circling it round and pointing downwards to the huge, hard rod of excitement poking like a church spire from his pants. When not between her tits, his cock was being pulled warmly into her mouth and circled with a tongue so expert, so damned arousing, that he had to focus carefully lest he blow his load after only half the allotted time.

The device beeped to remind him he was being sought, but he ignored it. “Right now all I have to do is let you finish me.” She grinned and took him back into her mouth. He marveled not only at the delicate warmth of her lips and tongue on his sensitive tip, but also at the incredible surgical advances which had led to this very particular combination of sensations. It was a mouth, one could plainly see, and featured a smooth and expert tongue, but it felt also like the tightening walls of a warm pussy were wrapped around his engorged member. Clenched from within by muscles no human had ever been born with, the contracting, pulsing tunnel which occupied the back of Samara’s throat was perhaps the most enjoyable place Beck had ever found in which to dump his load.

Experienced and enthusiastic, Samara knew both how to bring him to his crisis, and exactly when it would happen. There was some pre-cum, but she knew to wait until the main event had started. As the first warm splashes reached her throat, she tensed suddenly, enveloping the spasming cock in the soft cunt-tunnel of her throat. The Detective moaned loudly, helplessly, as Samara milked his dick, its huge length now almost entirely inside her, its warm tribute spurting hard and then slipping smoothly down.

She waited until his orgasm had truly finished; men had a propensity to ‘re-cum’ if Samara timed the contractions perfectly, but Beck seemed only to need one. It had been huge, she knew, although given that the cum had spurted neatly and completely down her throat, it was hard to tell just how much he had produced. Men like Beck prided themselves on showering their lover with many spurts of cum, just like the old-fashioned porn stars. Those incredible medleys of cumshots had encouraged an entire generation of men to seek ways of prolonging, heightening, enhancing and enlarging their orgasms.

He stayed hard but was certainly finished, she realized as his thrusts into her throat came to a gradual stop. His dick would stay hard for some minutes, as it always did. His daily cocktail of amphetamines and other stimulants included a strong steroidal component which pumped blood to his penis even when it wasn’t strictly required. It made getting a second erection not only likely but virtually certain. On this occasion, though, Beck relieved Samara of her duty and gave her a moment to clean up while he finally answered the call.

“Beck here,” he responded, albeit fifteen minutes late. “What do you need?”

There was a pause. “Hey, well… nobody has gotten there yet, so I need you to head over to Winchester and Fortieth and assist paramedics at the scene of an accident.” The formal patter of this job gave an incongruously classy sheen to what would surely be a desperate, bloody scenario. As a homicide detective, Beck wasn’t called to burglaries or to intercede in school bullying. He was there to respond when someone had lost their life, often in the most appalling circumstances. Every single member of his team had a drug, booze, gaming or sex addiction. Beck was simply unique in having all four.

Pressing his thumb to a thin, pale pad on Samara’s wrist, he paid for the evening’s entertainment. “These are yours, for free,” she said, handing him her underwear which had become soaked from their half-hour of foreplay. Driving around in a cop car, even one equipped with deadly weapons and military-spec intelligence gear, was a lot more fun with one hand half-buried in a gorgeous girl’s pussy. He had found her ‘bean’, another enhancement, and played with it until she had cum for the tenth time — he counted, as he liked to. Linked physically to the G-spot and the clitoris both, the bean was an implanted nub of electrode-packed ‘soft-skin’. It somehow had the convincing feel of belonging inside a woman, but had the potential to heighten her orgasm until her vagina — and the tiny bean which now controlled it — became the only thing in her universe. Beck had only stopped at ten because she begged him to. God, he loved it when they begged.

Blue lights dazzled brightly at the scene, a busy intersection which had been entirely closed, causing spectacular traffic problems. The paramedic team, he knew, had already failed in their task and would be packing up and moving on. With luck, Beck could get what he needed and get the junction open before the evening rush hour really set in. If it were complicated, or foul play were suspected, a lot of people would be late for dinner. He pulled up just short of the police cordon and greeted two uniformed officers who let him through. He was careful not to shake hands, even after sanitizing twice; Samara’s pussy scent would be found strikingly out of place at the scene of a homicide. Best not raise too many questions.

The paramedics were, indeed, about to leave; one was squaring away paperwork with a uniformed officer while the other packed up the tubes and pads and gels which were the tools of their profession. The ground surrounding the body was littered with detritus, evidence of their attempt to resuscitate the victim. After one look at the deceased, it was glaringly obvious why he had not responded; the whole left side of his head was badly impacted, classic trauma wounds from having been flung in the air by a speeding vehicle. A tremendous welt had formed on his thigh, exposed so that the medics could provide intravenous, life-saving drugs, providing Beck almost everything he needed to know.

“Where’s the biker?” he asked the uniformed officers, and was waved to a police wagon which was set up as a combined communications center and victim recovery space. Benches in the back allowed those struggling with their experiences time and quiet in which to reflect. And, more often than not, invent a sufficiently plausible story. Beck approached the van with his usual mix of curiosity, pity, skepticism and resigned disgust. “I’m Detective Beck. I understand you were involved. Are you ok?”

The biker was about nineteen, face as white as snow and hands trembling. Just a kid. Yes, Beck reminded himself, but a kid who had, for some reason — hopefully soon to be established — caused the violent death of the young man whose body was still bleeding onto the asphalt ten yards away. He didn’t look capable of speaking, but words came nonetheless. “I’m a bit shaken up,” he said redundantly. “He came out of nowhere.”

If there was one accident scene aphorism which cropped up more often than all the others, it was ‘he came out of nowhere’. Virtually every accident had, according to those who survived, been an utter shock, an unavoidable calamity which only clairvoyance could have prevented. ‘It was dark and he just came out of nowhere…’ or ‘he didn’t have his lights on, and came right out of nowhere’. Victims had so regularly appeared from this fabled but inaccessible place that Beck wondered whether it should have its own tagline: The Republic of Nowhere: Sending People to Sudden Deaths since Forever.

He quickly pieced together what had happened, without surprises or even particularly having to pay attention. The biker had been proceeding at pace — but within the speed limit, he was at pains to repeat — down the inside lane. The pedestrian had simply walked out into the road. Hadn’t looked, hadn’t raised his head, just walked out directly into the bike’s path. The horrendous bruise on the deceased’s thigh was testimony to the ferocity of the impact, as was his ruined skull proof of just how high he had been flung. If you’re hit at 65mph, there’s not much hope, and so it had gone.

Beck returned to the body. It was always his first question: why had this person walked out into the street? Unless intent on ending it all, people hit by traffic were largely guilty of having made a mistake; this form of suicide was regarded as terribly risky, in any case. What if the impact caused only life-long injuries and pain? Society had developed sufficiently efficacious chemical alternatives that hardly anyone these days jumped off a bridge or dashed heedless into traffic. Most were simply found dead with a needle in their arm, or a bottle of black-market pills by their bedside. This, on the other hand, just didn’t look right. Beck trusted his instincts, honed over a dozen years and seldom found incorrect.

He brought himself to look the battered victim in the face. Detectives generally scoffed at Beck’s assertion that the final facial expression was itself instructive. Muscles had a tendency to relax post-mortem, rendering the evidence unreliable anyway. But still. He brought out his flashlight against the gathering evening gloom and peered intently at the young man’s face. He took photos and made notes. Then he returned to the wagon.

“I want to go back to the very moment he stepped off the curb,” Beck said straightforwardly. It was vital to pull information from the biker’s memory before he went home and got drunk, or however he might choose to obliterate this horror from his mind. “What exactly was he doing?”

Mild sedatives had calmed his trembling hands, Beck noticed, but he was still anything but lucid. “He didn’t look, man, he just stepped out.”

Beck gathered his patience. “I see. So he was just staring at the ground?”

The biker paused, obviously reluctant to haul these dreadful images before his mind’s eye once more. “No,” he said softly. “No, I think…” Beck waited. He knew patience was often rewarded, and the odd sense that this had not entirely been an accident refused to leave him. “I think he was looking at his phone.”

Beck rode in the ambulance which took the deceased to the County Hospital where it was efficiently transferred to the morgue. Three phone calls had sped the process of commencing an autopsy, and barely had the body arrived that gloved hands were poking at it in a quick but earnest attempt to identify the cause of death. The first results were hardly a surprise.

“Well, the victim suffered an impact wound to the right thigh bone which smashed his pelvis. I’d say he was thrown perhaps thirty feet and landed very hard on his left side, causing cranial fractures, hemorrhaging and death within a few seconds. It’s also possible that the shock of the impact knocked the victim unconscious.”

“Something to be grateful for,” commented Beck. “I’d want to be out cold if my head were about to be smashed into the sidewalk.”

The physician continued, pointedly ignoring Beck’s morbid musings. “Toxicity reports will be back in an hour, so in the meantime we’ll do the basic physical analysis and get you an initial assessment in… say, twenty-five minutes?”

Beck did as he always did when required to wait: he got coffee, cleared his messages and watched a few minutes of porn on his phone. It was as regular and as thoroughly habituated an act as his morning shower, or cracking his knuckles when feeling impatient. His member had begun to stir when, annoyingly, the physician emerged earlier than anticipated. “Did you know about the implants?” he said at once.

“What kind?” Some 20% of all humans in the industrialized world had either chosen to, or been required to accept some form of physical implant. It had begun with medical devices which replaced organs, then medical telemetrics which remotely provided data on patient recovery, then a whole slew of tiny devices which produced chemicals of one sort or another. Enthusiastically lifted out of the purely medical realm and embraced by pharmaceutical companies cashing in on less salubrious human needs, implanted devices were now available for every conceivable purpose. It was hardly a surprise to find the victim in possession of one. But this particular bio-product had confounded the autopsy medics.

“We’re not sure. It’s something new. Maybe an import. There’s nothing in our database.” To be bereft of a simple answer seemed to make the medic seem faintly uncomfortable. “Perhaps you’d better take a look.”

The victim had been cleaned and was naked and definitively, irreversibly dead. His forearm had been cut open in a long, straight incision from his left wrist to his elbow. Within the grisly space alongside his tendons and blood vessels were a network of tiny, white and gray fibers. “So he’s wired?”

“It seems. But we don’t know why.”

Beck donned gloves and poked warily at the slender, almost translucent cabling within the young man’s arm. “How far does it go?”

Ten minutes’ cutting, photographing and debate produced an answer. The wires ran to the tips of his fingers and were both transmit- and receive-capable. At his elbow, they joined in novel fashion to his main nerve using a small, square interface chip made from soft plastic which had warped slightly to form a half-tube. “Jesus,” offered the physician, genuinely alarmed. “This thing is connected directly into his CNS.”

Beck’s mind clicked. “Could it have been controlling him?”

“God only knows. I’ve never seen this kind of bonding before. It’s as if they were growing a new nerve to compensate for a loss of sensitivity in his hand and fingers, but there’s no evidence the original nerve was damaged.”

“So why replace it? Why duplicate the biological system?”

The medic frowned. “I’ll run some more tests. Will you be around?”

Beck glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in ninety. Think you’ll have something then?” The man nodded sternly and turned back to the perplexing elegance of this artificial nerve; was it intended to be secondary, or subsidiary, or superior to the first?

The car didn’t only seem to drive itself back across town, it actually did so. AutoDrive was a pricelessly useful function for a cop, which was why commercial sales were limited to the military and law enforcement. The average Joe paid so little attention to the road these days, anyway; why encourage them to pay none at all? Cops formed their own habits as to how they might spend this newly-created free time. Some worked, catching up on reports or reading. Others cleared personal emails, surfed the net or ate. Beck, not even slightly interested in working on a case whose details were still being researched by others, decided to head back to visit Samara.

“I do love a ride in a police car,” she purred as she got in. A few months of practice had smoothed their transactions, ensuring they met somewhere they could not easily be seen and that his payments to her appeared innocuous on his credit card statement. Samara was a businesswomen, Beck reminded himself frequently. Just one with whom he had regular, extremely intimate and thoroughly mind-blowing sex.

Both of them enjoyed the smutty depravity of a back-seat fuck under the railway bridge. She got him to his usual hardness, making full use of her pleasure-modifications to coax a titanic erection from him, contracting and relaxing her extra throat muscles to really supercharge his arousal.

“You wanna do me regular, or something new?” she offered. Her clothing, skimpy almost to the point of meaninglessness, had been discarded with practiced ease and she lay invitingly on the back seat, playing slowly with the thick lips of her pussy while Beck watched from the front.

“Well, what did you have in mind?” he asked with a lascivious grin.

She smiled back, blew him a kiss and knelt up, offering twin holes already moistened and swollen. “I never got an ass-fuck from you, did I?” Beck chuckled and confirmed her version of their sexual past. “Well, it’s high time, don’t you say?” There would be a nominal additional fee for this particular service, they both knew, but deep down, Samara simply wanted to delve into yet another experiential extreme and feel the monstrous girth of Beck’s manhood stretching her ass. Various objects had passed this way, but none as desirable as the commendable thickness her favorite Detective now brandished.

One of her colleagues — if so formal a term is suitable — had once described anal sex with a well-endowed man as, “like taking a massive shit, but in reverse, and a whole lot more fun.” Samara relaxed her back passage and allowed Beck to press his knob into her opening. It gave way for him, enveloping the head of his dick in an ecstatic, warm tightness. He stroked her back, gave her time to adjust her posture and add more lubricant, before pushing slowly most of the way inside. Samara let out a long moan as his monster dick filled her rectum.

“Beck, pick up?”

“Fuck,” he exhaled, but continued sliding his length back and forth in the outrageously pleasurable confined of Samara’s ass.

“Beck, the lab has reported in. They need you back at the morgue.” Despite this sure-fire erection deflator, Beck continued his steady thrusts, focusing squarely on the sensations created by rubbing his sensitive glans against the inner walls of a tight bottom. His orgasm was making progress while Samara played delicately with her bean, the two fingers in her pussy in syncopation with his less nuanced fucking.

“Beck, are you there? Did you hear me?”

Furious but holding his temper, Beck snapped the device into audio-only and took the call while steadily ploughing Samara’s butt. “Beck here.”

“Detective, we’ve found something I know you’ll find interesting. When can you be here?”

Samara suppressed a giggle as Beck found an especially pleasurable spot in her ass and pressed his tip repeatedly against it. “Twenty minutes or so. What’s so important?”

For a few seconds, only slippery cock noises were heard in the car. Then, “you were right. It’s a control system. I don’t think what happened was entirely inadvertent.”

Well-honed mental pathways began operating. A murder had occurred and Beck would chase it down. Simultaneously, even better-honed pathways were directing his thrustings towards orgasm. Samara had cum a dozen times and it was high time to off-load his own. He let it build and grow, felt the pressure move from his balls to his perineum, then to the base of his cock, then finally to the tip, where his cum began oozing forth. Once triggered, the finale was huge, a torrent of sticky whiteness gushing into Samara’s ass.

The drive back might well have been through a different town. In darkness, reliant on its own illumination, the city took on a shadowed, sinister sense which put Beck’s nerves on edge. The steady daytime traffic of commuters and students had given way to a more various blend of joy-riders, drug dealers, pickpockets and drunks; two thirds of the city would, Beck knew, imbibe or snort or smoke or inject something tonight. Most would do so entirely without trouble. In about ten or twelve cases, something would go wrong and they would end up dead. And that wasn’t counting those who were simply unlucky enough to be hit by a speeding motorbike.

“He was more than unlucky,” the medic reported when Beck asked about the cause of the accident. “The neural transmissions from this device are incredibly strong, sufficient to override pre-determined natural processes. It was making him do things. I’m not sure what, but they must have concerned his right hand and fingers. It’s the only thing which makes sense.”

This is a story I originally wrote back in October. I had originally intended to submit it to “Erotic Horror”, but as the story came together I decided it worked much better as a Romance. Please leave me feedback and let me know what you think of it, good, bad, or ugly. Thanks.

Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real person(s) or events is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.


I sat alone in the darkened living room, the only illumination in the entire house provided by two flickering candles on either end of the mantle. Between them, the flames danced on three silver frames, pictures from much happier times. On the left was a photo of a much younger – and far happier – me, with my arm around the shoulders of a gorgeous blonde. In the middle, the same couple, a few years later, on their wedding day. On the right, the blonde woman by herself, slightly older, perhaps, but still incredibly beautiful. She was smiling, just as in the other two, but in this photo the smile almost-but-not-quite reached her eyes. I blissfully had no clue as I took that picture that only a few months later, she would be gone.

I took a sip of my wine, remembering. If ever two people were fitted together more closely than Cindy and me, I’ve never met or even heard of them. We complemented each other perfectly – where one of us was weak or lacking in one area of our lives, the other was strong and had more than enough for both of us: she was my patience, since I so often seemed to have none; my casualness when I took things too seriously; my logic, when my lack of patience made me too hasty or rash. For her, I was her confidant to tell her deepest, darkest secrets and fears to; her strong shoulder to cry on; her rock in the stormy seas of life. More than anything, though, we each were the seemingly inexhaustible fountains of love that the other drank from every day. Love tends to perhaps not fade, but soften as the years go by, but not for me: each and every morning I woke up as much in love with Cindy as the day we first fell in love.

I thought she felt the same; certainly she never gave me any reason to think otherwise. Then one day, I returned early from a business trip. I finished up my business early and was able to catch a much earlier flight home than the one scheduled. I got a taxi home instead of calling her, intending to surprise her, but in the end it was me who was surprised.

As the taxi pulled up to the house, I was surprised to see a rented moving truck backed up to the front door. My first thought, naively, was that Cindy had bought new carpet or new furniture and intended to surprise me with it. But as soon as I stepped from the cab, I saw the look of horror on her face and with a terrible certainty, I knew.

I’m a proud man, successful in business due to luck or skill or a combination of the two, distinguished and well-respected. But you wouldn’t have known it that day. I fell to my knees, groveling and begging at her feet like the poorest, most abject beggar. Whatever it was that I did or failed to do, just tell me and I would do anything, pay any price, to make it right. Just please, for the love of God, don’t leave! Oh, God, please! Anything but this!

But it was all for naught, because it wasn’t due to anything I had done or didn’t do that she was leaving. It was because of two things I had absolutely no control over: time and gravity. She sat me down in this very room, mere feet from where I sat now, and explained things. She intended, she said, to write me a letter and leave it for me to find, but since I had unexpectedly come home early, she explained face to face.

I am almost ten years older than Cindy. When we met, she was just out of college, young, and stunningly beautiful, the sort who could almost turn a blind man’s head. Although to me she was just as beautiful on the day she left as the day I met her, by her thirtieth birthday she had begun to notice tiny imperfections in her beauty, and began to notice that she didn’t turn quite as many heads as she once had.

Though beautiful, Cindy was no bubbleheaded peroxide blonde. She was highly intelligent, with an IQ that very well may have been higher than my own. But when you see a woman walking down the street you don’t elbow your friend and say, “Wow, look at the brains on her!” No, you look at her face, or her breasts, or her legs, so when slightly fewer men chose to look at Cindy’s external features, it affected her in ways I never knew or appreciated. Therefore, when a much younger man that she knew only in passing still got tongue-tied and weak in the knees when she was around, she ate that up. Though I never failed to tell her and show her nearly every day how beautiful she was to me, when I pointed that out that day, her response was, “Yes, but you’re my husband. You’re supposed to tell me I’m beautiful.”

For nearly a year, she explained, she and the young man had had at least an emotional relationship. Several months ago, that relationship became physical and intimate. I had always trusted Cindy because she had never given me reason not to, and so when she told me she had to work late or was meeting a female friend for lunch and shopping, I naively believed that was exactly where she was.

“You’re saying what I’m guilty of is trusting you too much?” I bluntly asked her that day, to which her reply was simply, “Yes.”

She and the young man were in love, she explained, and when she said that she loved him more than she had ever loved me, I cursed the cruelty of fate for not mercifully allowing me to die before hearing those words. There was nothing, she said, I could do or say to change her mind. She was taking, she explained, little more than her clothes and personal items and moving in with him, and when she suggested that it would be easier on us both if I simply left and came back after she was gone – as she had originally intended – I was too broken-hearted and despondent to do anything else.

That was six years ago. Six years to the day. Ironically, today was a Friday, just as that awful day had been. A few hours later I had come home to a dark and empty house. She had been true to her word, taking nearly nothing besides her own things, but without her warm and loving presence, the house was as barren as if she had cleaned it out to the bare walls.

As a last and unsuccessful grasp at convincing her to stay, I warned her that the relationship with this other man was doomed to failure, a prediction that came true less than a year later. I took no joy in being right. In fact, it had ended violently, with her male friend accusing her of unfaithfulness, and he abused her both verbally and physically for several months until she left. Whether his accusations were justified or not is open to debate – someone who will lie for you will lie to you, after all – though his abuse was clearly unjustifiable.

For a long time I entertained fantasies that Cindy would return, that she would come home, tearfully beg forgiveness, and I would sweep her into my loving arms, and like in fairy tales, we would “live happily ever after”. But while I kept the door open for her, it never happened.

“Why the hell do you do this to yourself, Johnny?” I said quietly, staring into my wine glass.

Six years ago on that terrible Friday night, the longest night of my life, I had sat right here, the same pictures on the mantle, the same candlesticks, identical candles providing the only light, as I sipped wine. Tonight I thought briefly of the gun in my nightstand upstairs. That night, six years ago, I had thought about it a great deal. But that night, just like every anniversary since, I always found a reason to say, “Not this year.”

“Not this year, either,” I whispered.

I stood and stared out at the night through the front window. The rain that had threatened most of the day was now falling, coming down in torrents. With the moon down or covered by clouds, I couldn’t see the sheets of rain, but only hear it.

“Good night, Cindy,” I said, lifting my wine glass in a toast, then draining it. “Wherever you are.”

I looked at the pictures one last time. In the morning, I would wrap them, and the candlesticks, carefully in silk, just as I had done for six years, and delicately put them away until next year.

I took down the one in the middle, gently kissed the picture of the lips I missed, and put it back. Of the three, that picture was my favorite: she looked so radiant in her white dress, both of us so very happy.

I snuffed out the candles and headed upstairs to bed.


It took several minutes before I realized the soft knocking wasn’t part of a dream and instead was coming from downstairs. I woke up and looked at the clock: just after 1:00. Who the hell is at my door at one o’clock in the fucking morning?

I pulled on my robe and started downstairs. After a moment, I returned to the bedroom and retrieved my nine millimeter Beretta from the bedside table, slipping it into the pocket of my robe. Home invaders rarely knock on the door, I knew, but better safe than sorry…

I checked the peep hole and didn’t see anyone. That didn’t mean anything; the peep hole has a rather large blind area. Finally, with one hand resting on the butt of the gun in my pocket, I flung open the door with the other hand.

I couldn’t believe it: there stood Cindy, silent and dripping wet from the rain, but there she was, just as I remembered her. She looked at me with a pitiable expression and reached for me with both arms. I reached for her as well and swept her into my arms, all thoughts of the gun or anything else completely forgotten. She was freezing cold and shivering.

“Come in,” I said, ushering her into the house. Once inside with the door closed, I took a moment to look her over. She was barefoot and filthy, her pretty blonde hair lifeless and plastered to her scalp in a dozen places, as she stood, dripping water all over the floor of the entryway. But to me, she was as gorgeous as the day, twelve years ago, that I married her, because she was home. I closed my eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

Leaving her just inside the front door, I hurried to the downstairs bathroom and returned with a couple of large bath towels. All she was wearing was a fairly ugly, featureless dress that came halfway to her ankles. One glance was all it took to see that whatever the dress had once been or whatever shape it had once held, it was now ruined and saturated with cold water.

“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes before you catch pneumonia,” I told her. Since the dress was ruined anyway, there was no need to be careful with it. I unzipped it all the way, but when I saw how it clung to her body, I gave up and simply ripped it in several places. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Even dripping wet as she was, I looked at her beautiful nude body. Though I hadn’t seen her naked in more than six years, she was just as I remembered her: the familiar shape of her breasts, the little pink nipples I had once sucked to her delight, the soft curve of her belly, the neatly trimmed patch of blonde pubic hair that pointed like an arrow to her clit. Not that I ever needed any directions to her sweet honeypot…

I dried her carefully with the towels, patting her dry delicately. I still wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t a vivid dream, and I was almost afraid to touch her, for fear that she would suddenly vanish like a soap bubble. I worked my way down her body, finally lifting her feet, one at a time, to dry them completely. As I dried her, she took one of the towels and dried her hair, finally wrapping the towel around her head. Soon she was completely dry, and though she was still cold, her skin was beginning to approach a normal level of warmth. At least she had stopped shivering.

“Johnny, I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, speaking for the first time, as she wrapped her arms around me. “I love you.”

“I know,” I said, enfolding her in my arms. I so wanted to kiss her lips and tell her that I loved her, too, but my lips just couldn’t form the words. There had been so much ugliness that passed between us these past six years, so much hurt and pain. I felt I could, someday, love her again and tell her that, but it would take time. Maybe a long time. But it would come.

But none of that was important right now. What was important was that she was here, in my arms. Unable to tell her that I loved her, I simply held her tight. “I’m so glad you’re home.” She seemed to understand my difficulty, and tilted her head up for a kiss.

I lifted her nude form into my arms and carried her upstairs to the bedroom we had shared for so many wonderful years, the way I might have carried the finest expensive crystal. After I set her back on her feet once more, she kissed me again, more passionately this time.

“I don’t know where to begin telling you how sorry I am, Johnny,” she said, her voice filled with sorrow and woe. “You were right, about everything. You were right. I’ve missed you so much. I never should have left…”

“I know,” I said in a low, soothing voice. “We can talk in the morning. Right now, I just want to hold you.”

For six years I was so angry. I fantasized and dreamed of what I would do if I ever had the opportunity I did right then: I would rub her nose in it, make sure she knew that yes, I had warned her, and yet she had been too blind to listen. I would give her at least a taste of the emotional pain she had caused me. But now that the opportunity was here, the moment that I saw her in the pouring rain, soaking wet and miserable, the moment I took her in my arms once again, all my anger dried up and disappeared like the morning dew in the sun. Now all I wanted to do was to hold her and never again let her go.

“I know this doesn’t make up for anything,” she whispered. “But let me give you this.”

She removed my robe, letting it fall to the floor, then gently placed her palms on my chest, easing me backwards to the bed. I stretched out on the mattress, and she climbed on top of me.

She started at my chest and made a line of kisses down over my belly until she got to my cock. I was about half-hard at this point, and she fished with her mouth until she caught the tip of my penis without using her hands. I groaned in pleasure as I felt the warmth of her mouth around my shaft, and felt it grow along her tongue, seeking out the back of her throat.

As soon as I was fully hard, she disengaged her mouth and moved up from my thighs to my hips. Balancing herself with one hand on my belly, she used her other hand to guide me into her. I’m not especially long, but I am fairly thick, and as she slowly impaled more and more of her tight pussy on my cock, I felt the head pushing her soft, warm tissues aside to make room for itself. I had not exactly been celibate during these past six years, but nothing, not a one, had ever felt like Cindy.

She fucked me at a slow, easy pace, keeping one hand gently on my balls as she rocked back and forth, to get a sense of how close I was to cumming. She did all the work, leaving my hands with nothing to do but roam at will as I stroked her breasts, her legs, and even the soft soles of her feet. In contrast to how cold she had felt only minutes ago, she was now pleasantly warm all over.

She rode me until I began to feel the first distant, remote hints of cumming, then suddenly rocked forward until I slid out of her. I was just about to ask why, when I felt her blonde hair tickle my face.

She kissed me deeply. “I’m sorry I refused you all those years,” she said mysteriously. Then, without further explanation or giving me a chance to ask, she slid back down my body. I felt the tip of my cock touch soft, wet flesh, but then I felt her fingers lightly take hold of my shaft and move it a few inches, the tip settling into a small, dry divot.

She pressed back against my tip with steadily increasing pressure. Then all at once, her ass opened, taking the head of my cock inside. She had apparently lubed the inside of her ass, because while it was extremely tight, she made slow but steady progress of taking the whole six inches inside.

“Oh, God, Johnny, this feels so good,” she hissed through her teeth.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“No, not at all,” she said, and in the dark I could hear the delighted amazement in her voice. “I should have let you do this a long time ago.”

It took a bit, but soon she got it all inside. Gently, slowly, she began to slide back and forth. It was only an inch or two, but after years of asking and outright begging, I was finally in her ass. I hugged her close, pulling her tight breasts against my torso as I wrapped my fingers in her hair. I never wanted to let her go.

“I saved it for you, Johnny,” she cooed. “I did so many things I’m ashamed of, but I kept my ass for you. All for you. Do you like it?”

“It’s fantastic,” I grunted. “I love it. It’s so tight. Thank you for keeping it for me.”

“Thank you for not turning me away tonight.”

My breathing changed and she changed her pace, fucking her ass faster and deeper, knowing my orgasm was imminent. “I love you, Johnny. I didn’t realize it for a long time, but I never stopped loving you.”

I felt incredibly conflicted. Everything in me wanted to tell her I loved her. But I didn’t know what to do or what to say. What to do? Oh, God, what do I do? Somehow, there in the darkness, she seemed to read my mind.

“It’s okay, Johnny,” she whispered, as I felt a tear fall from her eyes and onto my chest. “Say it. Just this once, for me, my love…”

“I LOVE YOU!” I screamed. “OH, GOD, CINDY, I LOVE YOU!!!” The words burst from my mouth even as my cock exploded inside her, spewing hot cum deep into her body. I don’t know how much or how long I came. It felt like gallons. When it was over, I was totally spent, exhausted as if I had not slept in days.

Cindy lay peacefully on top of me, stroking my face and my chest as I did the same to her hair. She was in no hurry to get off of me. It was only after my cock had softened to the point that it came out of her on its own that she slowly, reluctantly rolled off of me. I lay on my left side and she on her right, facing one another in the dark as she lovingly stroked my hair.

“That was incredible,” I mumbled, my sleepiness evident in my voice. “I had almost forgotten how good sex with you is. I want to do it again in the morning, and the afternoon, and the evening…all day long. It doesn’t have to be anal. Just sex. Besides,” I chuckled. “I owe you an orgasm.” There was no response from her, only silence, and the feeling of her soft fingers tenderly stroking my hair.

“Thank you for that,” I said.

“Thank you for letting me say goodbye, Johnny,” she whispered sadly. “Always remember I love you, and I’m sorry…”

Her words registered in my brain, especially the word “goodbye”. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but I was already too far gone. My brain hit the off switch and I faded into restful unconsciousness.


I’m not sure what woke me the next morning, if it was the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, or the loud pounding on my front door. Either way, I dragged myself out of bed and retrieved my robe from the floor, right where Cindy had taken it off me during the night. I looked at her side of the bed. She wasn’t there. The sheet on that side of the bed was undisturbed also. For some reason, it did not surprise me.

I put on my robe and padded downstairs. I opened the door without checking the peep hole, and saw two police officers standing there. Awkwardly, my first thought was of the gun in the pocket of my robe. I carefully kept my hand far away from that pocket to avoid any potentially deadly “misunderstandings”.

[This is a work of fiction. With the exception of some place geography, all events and characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.]


It had begun snowing three hours earlier, back in Nebraska. The snow had slowly but steadily increased in intensity until now, as I was driving, or trying to, along I-80, somewhere in Iowa, between Omaha and Des Moines, the snow had become a full fledged blizzard. Conditions were not yet at white-out level, but the very next thing to it. Stupidly, I had kept driving. I should have sought shelter at least two hours ago, but the transition to blizzard conditions was so gradual that I did not realize I was in trouble until it was too late. Now, I was creeping along at thirty miles an hour or less, usually less, groping my way along, trying to stay on the road.

I was on my way home to Peoria from a business trip to Denver. I had found the perfect Christmas gift for my parents and I was brining it with me. I was twenty-eight and was three years past a messy divorce. Thank God there were no kids to be involved. I was headed home to a bleak Christmas in a bleak apartment in downtown Peoria. I would have an enjoyable time with my parents on a farmstead in Iroquois County, but then it would be back to Peoria and my job. That is, I would be if I survived this blizzard.

All the road signs had long since been obliterated by the snow, driven by the fierce, straight west wind. Add to that the constant problem of the wipers and windshield icing up as the heater/defroster just could not keep up. Seeing overhead signs, or any others that warned of off ramps and/or gave location information were as impossible to see as the off ramps themselves. The only reason I could see much at all, was my driving with the wind that was driving the snow in a perfectly horizontal line around and in front of me. I was very glad indeed, to be driving my full time, all wheel drive Audi.

My headlights were next to useless. I was down to ten miles an hour when, off to my right, I saw headlights shinning into the sky at a 45 degree angle and a figure standing in their glare! Even at only ten miles an hour, it took a bit to get fully stopped on the shoulder without myself sliding into the ditch. There was a momentary flare of brilliant, white light, but it passed almost as quickly as it appeared. The figure must have seen my brake lights go on before my pickup disappeared from his view, because the next thing I knew, the figure was knocking on the passenger side door glass. I lowered the electric window and yelled above the howl of the wind for the figure to get in. In these conditions, I was willing to risk the danger to save a life from freezing to death out there.

A somewhat elderly, male voice said, “Thank you, sonny, I don’t think I would have lasted much longer, waiting for someone to come by and see me. I’m near froze to death!”

“You’re very lucky,” I replied, “you’re right. You would likely have frozen quickly in the open like that. Why did you not stay inside the vehicle with the heater?”

“Because,” he replied, “I might get missed. Anyway, I went into the ditch backwards and the tail pipe was buried in snow and maybe dirt because the engine quit pretty soon after I stopped. No engine, no heat! My name is Theodore, but I have always been known as Ted.”

“My name is Frank,” I said, “glad to meet you, Ted and glad I could be of some assistance to you. Do you live somewhere nearby or are you traveling too?”

“I live about five miles north of the next exit. We should be getting close, so if you slow to a crawl, I think I will recognize the off ramp.” He did, but I barely got up to the overpass on that drifted ramp. My four wheel drive Audi is the only reason we made it. The township road north to Ted’s place was as bad or worse and again, without four wheel drive, we would never have made it. The same was true of his lane. In fact, we did get stuck a few rods short of the farmhouse. “Don’t worry, when the blow is over, I can get you out with my tractor and clean the lane,” said Ted, “Right now, let’s get to the house.”

We made it to the house, but I think we were lost for just a bit in the off an on white-out. I was scared and I think Ted was too, though he would never admit it. The appearance of a brief gap in the white-out showed us the house off to our left and we made the final plunge through the waist deep drifts just as visibility dropped to zero again. We stomped as much of the snow off as we could on the enclosed porch and then entered the kitchen of the snug and warm farmhouse.

As we were removing our wet outer clothing, a slight sound caused me to turn around to the doorway into the interior of the house. There, wheeling through the door was a wheelchair containing an absolutely stunning woman! “DAD!” she shouted, “I was worried to death about you! What happened?”

She was a most beautiful creature. Long red hair, carefully brushed and combed. Brown eyes that glinted with amusement–and something else. She was the picture of a magazine cover model but she did not need and did not wear the extensive make-up of such a model. Full and sensuous lips lay under a pert little nose. Her crinkly little smile would melt butter! Although not really large, her breasts were definitely there! More than a handful each! She had long arms and long, very sensual fingers–piano player fingers. Her nails were not covered, just a clear lacquer finish. She was dressed in Jeans, blouse, and a red, knit sweater.

“Frank, I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Ellie. Ellie, this is Frank. He picked me up after my pickup went into the ditch just before our turn off.”

“Hello, Ellie,” I said.

Ellie looked my way and said, “Hello, Frank,” and looking back to her father, she said, “I told you not to try to go out in this weather. See what happens? You could have died out there!”

“It’s all right, Kitten, it’s all right. I’m back and unharmed. Is this anyway to greet our guest? This looks to be a real blow and I’m afraid he is stuck here for the duration.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ellie, “I imagine you’re both half frozen. Let me fix you some hot chocolate.” She wheeled herself over to the cabinets and was reaching for the one above the counter.

I stepped over and asked, “May I help?”

Ellie, pointing, replied, “That door. The Ovaltine can is on the second shelf. If you will get it down for me, please.” I caught her getting a quick look my way as I reached up for the Ovaltine. “Thank you,” she said as I handed her the can. “You can get out three cups, saucers, and small plates from the cabinet next to the one you were in and place them on the table, please.” Ellie wheeled herself over to the fridge and took out a gallon of milk. She got a large sauce pan from the lower cabinet and poured in some milk and then measured Ovaltine into it, stirred the mixture, and then wheeled over to the stove where she set the pan on to heat.

I set the plates, cups, and saucers on the table and found the silverware drawer where Ellie was pointing as she stirred the pan on the stove. I got out three spoons, “Forks, too, Ellie said, and placed them on the table. She got out a hot pad and placed it under the hot sauce pan on the table. From a bread box, She also produced some cinnamon dinner rolls which she heated quickly in the microwave. We all sat down to sip and eat. “These rolls are exquisite,” I said, “and they look and taste homemade.”

“Thank you, I made them this morning,” said She.

“They are delicious! I have never tasted better!”

“Ellie is quite a cook,” Said Ted, “she has had to be, since her mother died some years ago.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” said Ellie, “Dad is quite a cook himself.”

We talked on of the weather, some politics, and other stuff for some time. I even mentioned I was still recovering from a messy divorce. At one point, as I was looking at Ellie, I said, “Your Christmas decorations are subtle and very good. They show a deft touch. I wish I had a Christmas present for you to place under the tree.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you, Frank” I kept looking at Ellie much of the time as we talked and I noticed she was looking at me every time I looked her way.

It was getting late and Ted excused himself saying, “It’s well past my bedtime and I am done in. I’m going to turn in. Ellie will show you to the guest room when you two decide to call it a night. Goodnight.”"Goodnight,” Ellie and I chorused together.

When Ted had gone to bed, Ellie said, “Let’s go into the front room by the fire. It will be cozy and warm in there.” Again, the Christmas decorations were well done and subtle. The tree in the outside corner opposite the fireplace wall was aglow in its beauty. The tree and the fire were the only light sources in the room. Ellie said, “Frank, lift me out of the chair and set me down on the couch. I gently got my arms under her knees and around her back and transferred Ellie to the couch.

I was a bit awkward as I had never done anything like that before. Ellie said, with a chuckle, “Don’t be afraid to grab me, I won’t break!” I replaced the blanket over her legs. After we were comfortably seated next to each other on a couch in front of the fire, Ellie said, “Tell me about yourself, Frank. What do you do? Where do you come from? Why do you keep looking at me?

Keeping a straight face, albeit, a slightly red one, I gave her a short resume of my life. I told her I was twenty-eight, CEO of my own consulting company, and a little more detail about my divorce, including the fact that there were no children from the marriage. I told her I was returning to Peoria from a business trip to Denver. I also added, “And I keep looking at you because you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen!”

Ellie blushed and replied, “More beautiful than your ex-wife?”

“Yes, absolutely” I answered, “My ex-wife was–and still is, a very good looking woman, but she was never beautiful in the way that you are, a beauty that glows from the inside out with a real radiance. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about you–and why you keep looking at me.”

She began, “I am twenty-five, single and not dating, never married. Riding a wheelchair pretty much ended my dating career even before it got started. My paralysis, from the waist down, is due to a car accident when I was fourteen. Mother was severely injured in the accident and died of complications sixteen months later. I did manage to graduate high school and even college with an MBA. I manage a small business franchises along the Interstate between Omaha and Des Moines. I stay here with Dad and we look after each other. And I keep looking at you for two reasons. One, I like you a lot, and two, well, to put it bluntly, I am still a virgin and I am ready to become a woman. Oh, I have used a dildo , but I never broke my maidenhead. I felt the spark jump between us the moment our eyes first met. That can be your Christmas present to me–to make me a woman at last.”

“Yes, I felt that spark too, but was afraid it was only one way,” I said as I placed my arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

“No,” Ellie answered as she snuggled even closer into my embrace, “the spark is reciprocal.” Ellie began to lightly caress my chest as she continued, “You know, those of us unfortunate enough to be paralyzed still have feelings, even sexual feelings. Sex is mostly in the mind anyway, the rest of the body is just the mechanical means of translating those thoughts.” With that, Ellie began to nuzzle and kiss me on the neck. My free hand had found its way to her chest and was caressing her breasts through her blouse but under her sweater. “Unbutton the blouse,” Ellie said with a little moan. I did and then I slid her bra up and out of the way and began to play with the bare skin of her breasts and nipples. Ellie began to moan quite steadily. We leaned into each other for a very wet, French kiss that lasted for some time.

Ellie broke the kiss, panting, and said, “Dad should be asleep by now. Put me back in my chair and I will show you to the guest room and then I want you to take me into your bed.” Transferring her went more easily this time.

As I transferred Ellie back to her chair, I thought, Just like that! I can’t believe this gorgeous creature wants me, apparently as much as I want her! “Push me down the hall, Frank.” I did. At the first door on the left, across from the bathroom, she pointed. She opened the door and I pushed her in.

I said, “I really need and would like to take a bath or shower and brush my teeth first.”

“That’s fine,” said, She, “you will find everything you need across the hall. You don’t need to dress on the way back–you aren’t going to need clothes.”

“What about you in the meantime?” I asked.

“I’ll wait for you here in my chair. I have a book with me I can read.”

“Well, Ok,” I answered, “I won’t be long!”

GOD! I scrammed across the hall, took a quick shower and brushed even more quickly. I wrapped a towel around my waist and carried my clothes with me back to the bedroom. She was still sitting in the wheelchair, waiting for me. “You will have to help me get undressed and help me into bed, Frank, I can’t move my legs.”

I approached Ellie’s chair, knelt down and took her face in my hands and tenderly kissed her all about her face. When I kissed her on her lips, the passion flared. Our mouths opened. Our tongues explored the mouth of each other and then entwined. We licked and sucked in a very hot French kiss that just went on and on. We finally broke the kiss and threw our arms around each other and just held on tight. She began weeping softly. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did I do something? Did I hurt you?”

“No, you dummy, I am just overcome with happiness and joy. I have wanted this for so long and never thought I could have it. Now I have found you and I never want to let you go. Undress me!” I slowly unfastened her jeans. She kept her arms around my neck and told me to raise her up slightly and pull her jeans and panties off. As I did, the sweet yet musky odor of an aroused pussy drifted up to my nostrils. She was already moist below the flaming red patch of pubic hair that matched that of her head except the pubic hair was a bit darker. I settled Ellie back in her chair as she began to remove the sweater. I helped her shrug out of the sweater and then the blouse which was still flopping open from our session on the couch. That left only her bra and that quickly followed the rest of her clothes onto the nearby cane bottom chair.

From the waist up, She was even more exquisite naked than she was with her clothes on. Her breasts were about 34C, conical with no sag, and topped with quarter or larger size aureola and nipples that now stood fully erect at nearly three quarters of an inch! Her legs were far less withered than one might expect, due, she told me later, to the daily therapy workouts administered by her dad.

Ellie hung on tightly as I put one arm under her knees and the other around her back for the third time, to lift her from the chair onto the bed. This time, it seemed as if I had always done this service for her. We were both trembling, not from fear, but from arousal as she kissed my ears, neck, and face during the transfer. My towel came loose and dropped when I was half way to the bed with her, so she saw my erect cock as I laid her out on her back. “Oh, God,” she said, “your p, pe, uh, coc…”

“My cock,” I said. “It’s a cock.”

“All right, your cock,” She said, “it’s gorgeous. Please, I want to touch it!” Ellie was even wetter now, her pussy leaking fluid on her thighs and down her slit to her butt. I straddled her, right above her tits and she grabbed hold of my cock. “It is gorgeous! How can it be so hard and yet so soft at the same time? It’s almost velvety to touch.” Ellie moved both hands all over my cock. Then she began to move one hand up and down, moving the uncircumcised foreskin so that the purple helmet of my cock popped out on each down stroke. That seemed to fascinate her.

Ellie stopped a moment with the head exposed and just looked. Her tongue came out and she gave a tentative lick on that purple bulb while the shaft pulsed and throbbed in her hand. Ellie’s tongue then darted into the tiny opening and slurped the pre-cum that was leaking out. She smiled, lustfully and began to lick and suck all around the helmet and then up and down the shaft. I began to talk her through placing the entire head in her mouth and then as much of the shaft as she could. She was a natural cocksucker! Within five minutes, she was deep throating me with her nose resting on my pubic bone! A continuos growl of pleasure was gurgling in her throat.

“You had better quit or I am going to cum real fast. I don’t want to do that yet.” I backed off, to her quite evident dismay, and tit fucked her for a little bit. I showed her how to push her tits together to help.

Ellie finally said, “My turn now. My legs may not work, but I still have some feeling in my pussy. Masturbate me. Play with my pussy, oh, God, please play with my pussy!” I did. She was really running with fluids by now. I could not wait any longer. I spread her legs wide, lined up my cock, and began to push it into her. My cock is “average” in length, maybe six or at most, seven inches long. Its girth is between two and three inches. But I was still having trouble getting into Ellie’s tight cunt.

I got the head of my dick in and rested, letting Ellie get used to me. With her juices flowing so freely, I was able to push in more as Ellie’s cunt expanded to accommodate my cock. Then I felt the resistance of her maidenhead. I said, “Hold on, Ellie, you are about to lose your virginity and become a woman.”

I pushed harder and broke through. She whimpered in pain and said, “Oh, God, it hurts, it hurts!”

“The pain will ease in a minute or two and you will begin to feel the pleasure,” I said. I kept easing in, backing out, and easing in again until I was all the way in–balls deep. She began to whimper and moan, not in pain, but in pleasure as my tempo increased. She shuddered in orgasm and I, I–saw a brilliant flash of light that seemed to last forever, but I guess lasted only seconds or slightly longer.

When I could see again, I said, “What the hell, wh, where am I?” Dazed as I was, I still noticed that, under the sheet, I had cum all over myself, although no one else had noticed–yet. Once again, but silently to myself, I thought, What the hell?

A soft, feminine voice next to me said, “You are in a hospital. You have been in an accident!” I turned to look–there stood a nurse. She was holding my hand, actually, holding my wrist, taking my pulse. “I am glad to see you finally woke up! Your pulse suddenly skyrocketed there just before you woke up and your body spasmed. I wanted to make sure you were ok. Your pulse seems almost normal now.”

“What do you mean? What happened?” I asked.

“You received a bad concussion and have been in a coma for four days, Mr. Anstrom.”

“Four days! What the hell happened? What day is it, anyway?”

“It is Christmas Day! You were hit, head on, by a car going the wrong way on the Interstate in the snow storm. He was going way too fast. The crash killed the other driver and pushed your car into the man you had stopped to pick up and broke both his legs in several places. You were both very lucky in that still another motorist came up behind you and immediately called 911. He kept you both warm until the ambulance got there. That man with the broken legs is in the other bed over there, in traction for some time yet.” I looked over to the other bed–it was Theodore, Ted!

At that moment, I heard a whirring noise at the entrance door to the room. Looking that direction, I saw a motorized wheelchair entering–driven by the most gorgeous creature ever–Ellie! The nurse left and Ellie wheeled up to my bed. In a soft voice only I could hear, she said, “Judging by what you said in your delirium while I sat here holding your hand, I want you to get well as quickly as possible. I want to experience for real, what you were raving about.” Ellie’s free hand slipped under the sheet and under the waist band of my PJs to grab hold of my sticky cock as she said, “I want you to make me cum for real! I want to be your Christmas present!”

September 2018
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