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| Part 6 by Castgimp |
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| There was the small matter of clothes. At this point I was still naked except for my flimsy hospital gown. It was against the rules, but the social worker felt sorry for me and snagged a pair of green hospital scrubs for me. It took two nurses to hold me and help me pull the loose fitting green pants up over my cast and naked bum, but I was grateful for their help and was happy to finally have some real clothes covering my pesky cock, who even after two days of being surrounded by men with broken legs was still stretching and straining and making a general nuisance of himself every time a newly injured patient was introduced to the ward. The only remaining detail was transportation. The social worker wanted to arrange for an ambulance to transport me back to the hotel, but my insurance company decided they would not pay for that, and so in the end we settled on calling a taxi. To be honest, as happy as I was to be leaving the hospital, it was a little sad. There was a camaraderie among the guys on the ward that I was going to miss. I also wasn't looking forward to spending two weeks alone in a hotel room while my leg began to mend. I stood up on my crutches only long enough to shuffle to the men's room and take a leak. It was the first leak I'd taken standing up since I'd fallen, and it felt good. It gave me at least a small sense of independence. I was discouraged, however, by how clumsy and foolish I felt using the crutches. I'd spent so much time admiring guys on crutches that I'd always assumed it was easy. And Scott had moved so gracefully and so naturally on his crutches that I just assumed I would as well. Instead I felt awkward and uncertain, and even crutching the short distance down the hallway to the restroom tired me out. In fact it was a welcome relief to ease myself down into the wheelchair and prop my leg up on the metal support and let myself be wheeled down the hallway toward the exit. I held my crutches next to me, knowing that I would have to learn to use them sooner rather than later, and use them effectively, because I was going to be relying on them for quite a while. The orderlies helped me into the backseat of the waiting taxi, and less than half an hour later, I found myself back at the hotel, installed in a handicap accessible suite. I was lying in bed, on top of the covers, with my leg propped up on two pillows. My crutches and wheelchair were beside the bed where I could reach them if I needed them. The room was great, and I had a view of the Pacific Ocean, but I was, as I had feared, very much alone, and bored. I couldn't bring myself to watch daytime TV and the room didn't have a VCR. I wondered if I could get the hotel concierge to rent one for me. I didn't have any books with me either. Perhaps the concierge would do a bookstore run for me. I had my laptop, and considered logging on to see what kinds of email had piled up at work in my absence, or at least surfing the net for a while and visiting some of my favorite casting sites, but even that prospect somehow seemed hollow and depressing. I didn't want to know what was happening at work, and after spending two days on an orthopedic ward with lots of real guys in real casts, the idea of looking at .jpgs of guys in rec casts just didn't do anything for me. Besides, I had all the cast I wanted right there on the bed in front on me. After about an hour of staring at the ceiling I knew I had to get out of bed or I would lose my mind. I looked at the wheelchair but decided I would instead begin to master my crutches. I was unsteady as I pulled myself up, but I was determined to conquer them. I moved slowly across the room, carefully placing the crutches ahead of me and then slowly swinging through and coming to rest tentatively on my right foot. As I moved back and forth across the room I began to get the sense that with time and practice I could indeed get used to moving like this, and might even be able to get pretty good at it. The hardest part was holding my broken leg out in front of me. If I let it hang down and swing freely, my leg throbbed as the blood pooled there. I could ease the throbbing if I lifted the leg slightly and held it out ahead of me, but the plaster cast was so heavy that I could only do that for a few steps at a time, and then I had to rest it. I opened the closet to see what they had done with my stuff, and sure enough there were all of my dress clothes hung neatly in a row. I moved over to the drawers underneath the TV and pulled them open one by one. Whoever had moved my things from the other room had taken the time to fold and carefully arrange all of my clothes. My socks were neatly lined up in the top drawer, and my T-shirts and workout shorts were in the drawer below, and below that, even my underwear had been folded and placed carefully in a drawer. The bottom drawer seemed to contain the dirty socks and underwear and T-shirt that had been piled in the bottom of my closet in the old room. They even put away my dirty clothes, I was marveling to myself, when I recognized Scott's underwear in that bottom drawer. It was the pair he'd peeled off the night before in the bathroom-the very same pair that I'd worried about when I was lying in the bathtub waiting for help to arrive. I reached down and picked up the white shorts and instinctively brought them to my nose. Suddenly I could smell Scott, and it was like he was right there in the room with me. I inhaled deeply through those shorts and in the most visceral way his open wet mouth and his hard dick and his tight ass and his broken ankle and his long toes and his broad smile and his hard cast were all there in the room with me, and I was suddenly filled with an emptiness and a despair I had never felt before. I know I was over-tired. I hadn't really slept in two days. And I was stressed by my own circumstances. But I had thought that I was still in control. Apparently I was wrong. The next thing I knew there were hot tears rolling down my face and my throat was a tight ball of muscle and from my chest a loud pinched sob erupted and I found myself standing there, leaning on my crutches and crying inconsolably as I inhaled through Scott's discarded undershorts. It was not a pretty sight, and I was embarrassed and startled by my outburst. I was glad that no one was there to see me. With effort I managed to bring my crying under control, and I wiped my snotty nose with Scott's underwear. The mini-bar in front of me seemed to hold the answer. I pulled the door open, breaking the little plastic seal on the handles, and grabbed all three of the little bottles of scotch that were inside. I trudged back to the bed, dumping my crutches on the floor, and hoisted my leg back up onto the pillows. And then I chugged those three little bottles of scotch, one after another, savoring the burn that choked me as I gulped the warm liquor. And then I lay my head back and let go, enjoying the slight swimming feeling I was experiencing, and finally allowed myself to drop off into a deep, black sleep. I was startled out of my sleep by what sounded like an alarm clock. I swatted at the clock, knocking it to the floor, before I was able to rouse myself enough to figure out that what was making noise was the telephone. For a moment I didn't know for sure where I even was, and then as I turned on the bed to reach for the phone and felt the sudden pain in my leg from the twisting, and the accompanying restriction of the cast, I remembered where I was and why I was here. I had no idea what time of day it was, or even what day it was for that matter. The daylight coming through the window was minimal, but whether that meant it was early evening or early morning I had no idea, and with the clock on the floor I couldn't even look to see what time it was. Finally I grabbed the phone, as much to stop the ringing sound as anything else. I realized that in addition to the pain in my leg I had a very bad headache. My mouth was dry and sour and it was hard to make myself speak. "Hullo?" I mumbled somewhat incoherently. "Mr. Weber?" "Yeah. What?" I was rubbing my eyes. I think the guy on the phone could tell he had just woken me up. "This is the front desk. I'm sorry to bother you sir, but you have a visitor." "What?" "There's a Mr. Norris here to see you, sir. Scott Norris." Scott? Jesus Christ. I sank back down onto the bed. I was happy and sick to my stomach at the same time. The scotch was sour in my stomach and I hadn't shaved or bathed in days. I wanted more than anything to see Scott. I wanted to have a chance to get cleaned up, but I didn't even know if I could manage that on my own. "Mr. Webber? Are you there? Shall I send him away?" "Yes. I'm here. I'm sorry. I mean no. Don't send him away." "Very well. I'll send him up sir." "Thank you. Wait!" "Sir?" "Can you...can you give him a key to my room?" "A key?" "If you would. It's just that, with my broken leg, it's difficult for me to get out of bed to let him in." I don't know why I'd asked. Of course I could have let him in myself. But I wanted him to have a key, and almost without thinking I had asked. There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Of course sir." "Thanks. Thanks very much." I closed my eyes and waited. About five minutes later I heard a plastic key in the door. The door swung open and there was Scott, leaning on his crutches and grinning sheepishly. "Hey buddy," he said, smiling, as he pulled himself into the room. "Hey." I couldn't believe he was standing there. "Jesus Christ look at you!" He was crossing the room toward the bed. "I know. Can you believe it?" "Look at that fucking cast!" By this time he was standing at the foot of my bed, staring down at my leg. "It's a doozy, huh?" "Christ! So what's the damage?" "Broken tibia. Mid-shaft." "Shit. I am so fucking sorry Mark. I feel terrible." "Hey . It's O.K. It's not your fault." "How long are you going to be laid up?" "They don't know man. Maybe twelve weeks. Maybe more." "Shit." He sat down heavily on the side of the bed, propping his crutches up on the wall next to us. "I am really sorry Mark." "It's not your fault! I'm just...I'm just glad to see you. I didn't...I didn't think I would." "I never should have left you there in that bathtub. I felt terrible leaving. I've been sick about it man. I shoulda stayed." "You couldn't Scott. You had to go. I know that. It worked out man. I'm OK." "Shit, look at you. I can't believe I did this to you." And then Scott's mouth was on top of mine, and my mouth opened to his, and we were suddenly two sex-starved teenagers mauling each other. It only took a moment for us to be right back in the middle of the sexual frenzy that had landed us in a heap in the shower 72 hours before. It was like I couldn't get far enough inside Scott's mouth. Scott was gentle but aggressive as he peeled my scrubs down over my legs and over the cast. I wanted Scott in me and on me and I wanted to be inside him and on top of him and it was like we couldn't make our skin touch hard enough and fast enough. My leg was broken and Scott's ankle was broken but we were fucking machines. It didn't seem to matter that I hadn't showered or shaved or brushed my teeth. It didn't seem to matter that my left leg was completely encased in plaster and that I was restricted to my back in bed, or that his left ankle was encased in hard white fiber. If anything the challenges of the casts animated our sex in a way that only heightened our sense of mutual arousal. Even with our injuries and our casts, our bodies seemed to fit together like they were made for each other. Scott knelt on the bed, facing my feet and straddling my legs, and backed his hard Marine ass up to my face while I tongued his tight ass-hole, my left hand holding his casted left ankle for leverage. Then he turned to face me, and kneeling over my crotch, lowered his spit-lubed asshole down onto my hard cock, his cast on our right side and my cast on our left. He proceeded to ride my hips, raising and lowering himself on my cock, while I thrust my hips up off the bed and deeper into him. As I got close I moved my head from side to side and could see our four crutches beside the bed, two on either side. And if I lifted my head I could see both of our casts, Scott's short cast encasing his kneeling leg, his bent toes sticking out of it and gripping the sheet as he thrust his hips, sliding up and down my cock, and my own, longer, plaster cast stretching between his legs and down the length of the bed where my toes stuck up toward the ceiling. Scott scooted his hips faster and faster, pushing himself down father onto my cock, and he began to groan and whisper "fuck, fuck, fuck" over and over again as we both approached orgasm. Suddenly, as if the dam had broken, the climax that had eluded us in the shower three days before now came crashing down over the top of us and we were both screaming and hollering and bucking as if there were no tomorrow, and instead of winding up in a heap on the bottom of the bathtub with my leg broken beneath us, we were both shooting big white ropes of jism and hoping it would never end. Afterwards, sweaty and sore, my leg aching and my back stiff and my cock raw, Scott lay beside me, his casted left ankle resting on my naked right shin, his arms hugging my chest, his chin nuzzling my ear. I lay there enjoying this amazing moment and hoping it would last forever. "I should have broken my leg a long time ago," I thought to myself as I reached over and stroked Scott's face. |
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