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| Part 3 by Castgimp |
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| So there I was, standing in the living room of the apartment of a man who had a brand new hip-to-toe cast on his leg. He was drop-dead gorgeous, in the mold of a former college athlete. I had just offered to lend him a hand, whatever the fuck that meant. And he had just agreed. This was like a dream come true. I was pretty sure I was going to fuck it up, but until I did, I wanted to enjoy every minute of it. I stuck out my hand-it seemed like the manly thing to do. "My name's Tom," I said, still grinning. "Paul," he said, shooting his hand back at mine. I could see the blisters on his hands from his crutches. "How 'bout you start by getting us two more beers." He was still grinning too. That was a good sign. Then he shifted his weight in the chair, rearranging his cast on the ottoman, and grabbing at his crotch like he had to rearrange the way his cock and balls were sitting in his jeans. As I made my way to the kitchen I wondered if my injured Paul wasn't sporting just the least little bit of a hard-on at the prospect of me lending him a hand. I wondered just what he had in mind. He had said he was horny as hell. Weren't we all? I was happy to do whatever Paul wanted. If he needed a hand with getting in some groceries or washing his hair I was happy to do it. If he needed an assist with getting his underwear on and off, I was there for him. If he wanted me to go down on his cock and relieve some of that pressure that was building up in his crotch, I was happy to do that too. For this man with his leg in a cast I considered myself to be a full service operation-no task would be too great or too small. I couldn't imagine that I was his type sexually, but stranger things had happened. I was by no means an ugly duckling, but I wasn't the college jock type either. I was as tall as he was, or nearly as tall, but I was thin and dark-haired, where he was broad and fair. I worked out-I was a runner-and my body was taut, but real muscle mass was hard to find. No amount of weight lifting was going to give me a chest. Without my clothes on I felt skinny. Well I was certainly getting ahead of myself thinking I was going to be naked enough with Paul to worry about whether or not he'd think I was skinny. So far, the only thing he'd asked me to do was bring him another beer. One step at a time I told myself. Stay calm. Don't say anything stupid. Maybe this is the one, I said to myself, that is going to make up for all of the squandered opportunities and missed chances to really spend time with a man with his leg in a cast. This is golden, I said, coaching myself. Chances like this only come around once. Don't fuck it up. And then suddenly I was back in the living room with Paul and his cast. I was handing him his beer and taking in the expanse of rigid white fiber that encased his long leg. I wanted to touch his cast, but I didn't dare. Not yet. That would come in time. I also wanted to touch his toes. Patience my man, patience. "So, you got hit by a car?" Nice. Nice opening line, you idiot. "Not really hit. Not like you're thinking. It was more slow motion." He paused to take a big gulp of the new beer I'd brought him. "I was skating down the road on my scooter, on the way to work. Backpack on my back. No problem. Been getting to work that way every day for three months. I take mostly side streets, try to stay out of traffic, you know. Anyhow there's this stop sign the other way and I see a car coming but it's slowing down and I'm looking right at him and he's stopping...only he doesn't. He rolls through the fucking intersection and right into me. It's like I can see him coming but I can't do anything about it and I think he'll stop but he doesn't. It was like in a dream." "So here he comes doing maybe only fifteen miles an hour or so when he hits me. He's actually hitting the breaks as he's hitting me. I'm watching myself get hit by a car and I can't believe it. His bumper catches me right below the knee and my leg buckles. I don't feel anything at first. It's like I'm in shock from it all." Paul is talking faster and faster, kind of getting worked up. He pauses and takes another swig of his beer. I'm still standing awkwardly near the chair where he's sitting. "So he hits me and blows my leg out from under me and I collapse over onto his car and then bounce off the car and kind of fold over onto myself down into the street-only his car is still moving, so now he's running me over real slow motion-like and he's crushing my foot between his tire and the scooter and that hurts like hell. It's like I can feel the bones breaking when he does that. And then all the sudden it's like I'm yanked out of this dream and I'm lying on the street with this car over the top of me and there is this searing pain shooting up from my foot and through my whole leg and into my hip and my back, and when I turn my head I can see my leg is folded around behind me real unnatural like and I think I'm gonna be sick. And then this guy is standing up over me and yelling at me like it is my fault and he's going crazy 'cuz he knows he just ran me over and all the sudden he wants to help me up and put me in his car and take me to the hospital and I'm pleading with him not to move me and I'm the one staying calm and I have to ask him if he has a cell phone which he does and I tell him to call 911 which he eventually does and it takes forever for an ambulance to come and even the police want to move me out of the middle of the street but I make them wait until the ambulance gets there and then when they finally moved me I thought I was going to die. It was like the worst pain I ever felt. They immobilized my leg but it still hurt like a motherfucker when they moved me." He stopped again, as much to catch his breath as anything else, and finished off the last of his beer in one giant gulp. "And you can see what the fucking result is-I gotta wear this thing for six or eight weeks, and then another shorter cast after that! The doctor kept saying how lucky I was because they were all simple fractures and I didn't need surgery to set the bones or anything, and there was no injury to my head or neck or back and most guys who get hit by a car end up in much worse shape than I did-bullshit-I got a busted leg-broken in two places-and a foot that is broken in two places. The fracture right at the base of the tibia in my ankle is the worst-you should see the x-rays-there's a big long crack right through the broadest part of the bone-that's the one that will keep me from putting any weight on this for twelve weeks. The doc said that's the hardest one to heal. Fuck. I got a brand new job-hired as a soccer coach-how the hell am I supposed to keep my job? This is right in the middle of soccer season, and I can't even stand up on my own two feet. I knew it was bad as soon as he hit me-I could feel the whole thing go. Shit. Now here I am in this mess." He was stirred up, and I was certainly stirred up. I needed to move. I had a huge erection in my pants that I didn't necessarily want him to see. "Did they keep you overnight? In the hospital?" "Yeah. The first night. They had a temporary cast on-kind of a soft one, but with a rigid brace on the outside-to keep the leg immobile. They wanted the swelling to go down. Had my leg elevated up high. Then they put this cast on yesterday, and sent me home. I had to take a taxi to get here." "You ever break something before?" "Nope. All those years playing sports in high school and college I never broke a thing. Now this. I never knew it was such a fucking pain. I always seen guys on crutches before-I never knew it was so fucking hard.""You'll get used to the crutches. You gotta take it slow. You should be taking it easy for a few days. Stay off your leg entirely. Then you can try getting around. Increase the time you're up on the crutches gradually. Build up your muscles-your hands-your arms-like being in training. You'll see. The crutches, and the cast, they'll become second nature. You won't even notice them." "What're you, a fucking doctor?" "No I just-you know-common sense. Let me see your hands." He held his hands out, palms up, for me to look at. He had angry red blisters in the lower center part of both palms. "Shit. Those look sore. Where the hell have you been on these crutches?" "I know. They hurt like hell." "You don't want them to break-they could get infected-then you'll really be screwed. I've never seen blisters like that from crutches." "It's the foam pads rubbing on my hands. I had to go to school this morning, to see the principal, make arrangements for covering my classes and my coaching responsibilities. I can't drive, obviously, so I took the bus. I had to walk down the hill to catch the bus, then walk to campus. When I got back I didn't want to go home. The weather was so nice today-you know-real fall weather. So I took a walk in Rock Creek Park. I felt like I needed to be outside-needed some exercise. I wanted to practice with the crutches. By the time I got back here, my hands were really red, and sore, and my ribs were getting tender from where the crutches bang into them. So I was gonna just take it easy. But tonight, sitting here by myself, I was going crazy. I hate TV. It was Friday night. And I'll tell you something. Ever since they put this cast on my leg, I have been so fucking horny! I knew I couldn't stand in a bar all night. I wanted to get laid. I decided to go down to the bookstore-maybe find some new porno to look at-something to jerk off with, you know? As soon as I started out I knew it was a mistake. My hands felt raw. But I had to go, you know? Leading with my fucking dick again. And then by the time I got back here with you, fucking blisters. And my ribs are killing me. And holding this cast up-fuck. The whole thing is throbbing tonight. And the muscles in my thigh are screaming." "You're a fucking mess, huh?" "You got it." "And you still haven't been laid." "I know it. And now my hands are too sore to jerk-off." A wicked, devilish grin spread across his face. "Maybe you can give me a hand." Now things seemed to be heading in the right direction! "Maybe I can," I smiled back at him, trying to be impish and flirtatious and sexy all at the same time. I wanted him, but I didn't want to just blow him and have him throw me out. I'd been down that path too often with these frat-boy types. Everything is great while they got a hard-on in their pants, but once they get their rocks off, they're not interested in having you stick around. I wanted Paul to want me, really want me-want me now, and want me in the morning. I wanted Paul to need me. I knew that in fact he did need me-at least he needed someone-he was going to kill himself on these crutches if he kept up like he was. I just needed him to figure out that he needed me for more than a blow-job. "You had dinner yet?" I asked him, breezily, changing the subject. "Nah. Not really." "You hungry?" "Yeah." "How about if I go pick up some Chinese food?" "OK. We could have it delivered." "I want to stop at the drug store too." "The drugstore?" "Yeah. There's something I need to pick up." I tried to sound sexy and mysterious. I'm not sure I succeeded. "OK. Yeah, sure. Chinese is fine. I eat anything. I got plenty of beer." "You need to get your ankle up-higher-help reduce the swelling, and the throbbing. You got any pillows?" "Yeah, in there." He pointed toward the darkened bedroom. I poked my way in and grabbed some pillows off his bed. Even in the dark I could tell the room was a mess. There were dirty clothes on the floor, and piles of books, and drinking glasses. And the room smelled-like what? Like a locker room, sort of, and like sex, and like sheets that had been slept in too long. I thought I could smell underwear and socks and dried cum. I inhaled deeply. Not bad, I thought. This is a room where I could spend a lot of time. I brought the pillows out, and lifted up his cast, holding it from underneath his ankle. As I touched his cast I felt as if a jolt of electricity were shooting through him and into me. It startled me. He seemed aware of it too, and looked me in the eye as I stood there holding his ankle above the pillows. His cast felt good in my hand-I liked the weight of his leg resting in my hand-and I liked the hard outside edge of the cast against my skin. Reluctantly I set his ankle back down on the pillows. I deliberately grazed his bare toes with my hand as I moved my hand off his cast, and it seemed to me he flexed his toes slightly up into my fingers. "Thanks man." His tone was quiet, sincere. He was no longer the horny jock. Now he was the injured athlete. "Did the doctor give you anything to take? For the pain and swelling? Anything anti-inflammatory?" "Nah. He said Advil if I needed anything." "You take any yet?" "No." "You have any?" "No." "OK. I'll get some. You gonna be OK?" "Yeah. I'll be fine." "OK." I headed toward the door. "Tom?" he called to me from his chair. "Yeah?" "You coming back?" "Yes. I promise." My heart was racing. Already this man needed me. He was afraid I wasn't coming back. "Take the key from the door. So you can let yourself in." That was an act of faith, and trust on his part. I took the key. "Thanks. See you." "See you." The cold fall air filled my lungs. I was on fire. I was in love. I was also horny as a motherfucker. I was practically running down the hill to Connecticut Avenue. There was a RiteAid on the corner, and a Chinese take-out place across the street. I placed an order for food, and then ran around the drugstore picking up all the things I needed-some Advil, some antibiotic ointment with a pain killer in it, some gauze, some athletic tape, an Ace bandage, and some bottled water. I also grabbed some condoms and some lube, just in case. And a toothbrush and some toothpaste for me, and a fresh deodorant. Again, just in case. Our food was ready by the time I had paid for everything and crossed the street again. The whole thing had taken maybe half an hour-maybe a bit longer. Climbing the steps to his apartment I was nervous again. Would he be there? Would he still want me to lend him a hand? Had I imagined the whole thing? Using the key to unlock the door and let myself in felt satisfyingly intimate. We'd only just met and already I had a key to his apartment. I pushed the door open with my shoulder and there he was, as I'd left him, sitting in the armchair with his leg up on the pillows on the ottoman. And there was that cast. And there was that grin. "Where you been man, I'm starved!" And where have you been all my life, I thought to myself. You aren't the only one starving. Seems like I could eat you up just forever. So we had dinner together-Chinese take-out with plastic chopsticks. And some more beer. I was hungrier than I thought. We polished off all of the food-more than either one of us needed-in no time at all. I sat on the floor next to him, with the little white boxes of food spread out around me. I used the corner of the ottoman to balance my plate, right next to his cast. It was a feast the likes of which I had only fantasized before. I stared at his cast while we ate and talked, and he didn't seem to mind. I noticed that his toes moved as he talked, slowly and then faster, flexing into the open air, almost the way a cat moves her tail when she's telling you a story. After dinner I opened the bag from the drugstore. I rubbed the medicated ointment on his hands, over the angry red blisters, and covered them with squares of white gauze. Then I wrapped his hands with white athletic tape, criss-crossing it over his palms and taking it up, over, and around his wrists. When I was done he looked almost like a gymnast who's had his wrists taped before a competition. They were larger bandages than he needed, but I was pleased with the effect. The white athletic tape against his skin was sexy, and the way I'd wrapped his wrists with a figure eight of tape restricted his range of motion a little bit, almost as if he had short white casts on his wrists as well. The salve would help the blisters and the tape and gauze would give him some protection against the abrasion from the foam rubber pads. I also took the ace-bandage out of the bag and unrolled it. Folding it in half lengthwise, I cut it in half, and wrapped each half around the foam hand pad in the center of each crutch, and secured the wrapping with a piece of white athletic tape along the bottom. This made the pads larger and easier to grip, and softer. Paul expressed amazement at my ingenuity, and my first-aid skills. I made him take three Advil with a glass of water, and then I sat myself down at the end of the ottoman and started rubbing his toes. I was afraid he would balk at this, but he relaxed into my touch almost immediately, rolling his head back into the chair and closing his eyes. "Oh man that feels good," he said as I massaged his toes. He flexed them up into the warm palm of my hand. I had an almost overpowering desire to move my mouth down onto his toes, but I resisted. Go slowly, I had to remind myself. Go very slowly. As I played with his toes, Paul started to move his hips in the chair, clearly humping the air. I was so horny I was ready to hump the ottoman. His "good" leg was bent at the knee and his foot was on the floor. I crawled between his good leg and his cast and moved my face down over his crotch, mouthing his hard cock through his jeans. He moved his taped hands to the back of my head and pushed my face down onto his cock, grinding up against me. "Oh yeah," he whispered, humping my face. I moved my hand to his zipper to release his cock, but he brought his hand down and stopped me. "Hang on man." "What is it?" I was afraid maybe I was moving too fast for him. Despite the fact that I had found him in a queer bookstore, I didn't really know what his comfort level was with guy sex. Maybe he was all talk. Maybe this was all new to him. "I gotta pee like a racehorse man. All that beer." "Cool." I said, laughing. "You need a hand?" "I just might. I still haven't gotten the hang of balancing on these crutches and holding my leg up and holding my dick and pissing all at the same time. I been pissing all over the seat and all over the floor for two days now. Yesterday I almost fell over trying to take a leak." "I'm here to help," I offered. I was serious. So was he. I helped him up out of the chair, pulling with my right hand, and holding his crutches for him until he could get himself poised to grab them. He gripped the new softer, wider, ace-bandage wrapped hand-grips with his taped hands. "Very sexy," I thought to myself, smiling. I followed him closely into the bathroom, and stood behind him in front of the toilet. I could see that he did indeed have trouble balancing on his crutches on one leg and trying to work his zipper. I reached around in front of him and unzipped his jeans. He leaned comfortably back into me for balance. Boldly I reached into his underwear and grabbed his cock, which was still fairly hard, and tried to aim it down toward the water. "Uh-oh," he said, laughing. "This is going to be harder than it looks." "Harder being the operative word," I responded. "Maybe if I let go." "No! I'll pee all over myself. Push him down. I'll think of a naked fat old lady. Maybe that will help." We were both giggling by this time. Slowly, in fits and starts, he managed to pee-long heavy spurts of water interrupted by shorter fast squirts forced from his half-hard dick. In the end even with two of us we made a mess. I shook the last drops from his dick and stuffed it back into his underwear and tried to zip his fly closed again. "Forget it," he said. "These are coming off anyhow." I stepped back, and he swiveled and turned on his crutches, so that he was facing me, his fly still agape. Seizing the moment, I leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. His mouth opened to mine, and we slumped against each other there in the bathroom doorway, kissing long and deep and hard. I moved my right arm around his back to hold him steady, so that we didn't both topple over onto the bathroom floor. He responded to my touch, and tried to push himself even closer to me. We very nearly did fall, and I had to stand back quickly and put my hands out to catch him and steady myself against the doorway. Then we were all motion and commotion as we moved to his bedroom and onto his bed. I was pulling his clothes off and he was pulling mine off and the cast was a major obstacle to getting naked. He couldn't really move the way he wanted to and I couldn't get his jeans down over his cast. Our moment of lust disintegrated into hilarious laughter as we found ourselves tangled in our clothes and the sheets but still not naked. I stood up and peeled my remaining clothes off, and then knelt on the bed to help Paul with his pants. I worked the tight cut-off part of the leg of his blue jeans down over his cast, and then pulled his underwear down and over the end of his cast as well. There he was, finally naked, in all his athletic glory, my injured fraternity brother with his leg in a cast. His broad shoulders and narrow waist seemed to be the perfect foil for the rigid column of fiber that held his leg immobile. His hard cock standing straight and flat against his abdomen mirrored his straight hard cast. Kneeling between his legs I ran my hands along his legs on either side of me, one hand caressing the soft skin and light hairs of his left leg and the other caressing the hard pillar of fiber that encased his right leg. His cock jumped and smacked against his flat hard lower belly. I fell forward on him, and swallowed as much of his thick cock as I could, all the while relishing the feel of his cast beneath me. He humped and bucked and pawed at my head with his taped hands, and I could hear him grunting and moaning and getting close to shooting his wad into my throat. I moved my fingers between his legs and grabbed his balls, caressing them, and feeling the top edge of his cast along his inner thigh. That additional stimulation was all that he needed to push him over the edge, and then he was pumping his hot ropey jism against the back of my throat. I was afraid that might be it, but almost as soon as he was done convulsing beneath me he pulled my hips forward toward his head and took my cock in his mouth. Laying on his back it was awkward for him to take much of my dick in his mouth-so I put my hands behind his head and pulled his neck up, toward me, till he was nearly sitting up-he looked like he was in the middle of a curl and his rigid washboard abs contracted beneath my naked ass to hold us together. He sucked me hungrily, holding me to him with his hands on my back. I felt like I was humping his chest and his face at the same time, and had to look back over my shoulder to see his cast to remind me that this was real-I was in bed with a man with a cast on his leg-I was in love with a fucking hunk who gave great head and had a fucking broken leg and he needed me and I fucking needed him and I ground my cock into his mouth and watched his toes curl tightly at the end of his cast as he swallowed me and I slid in and out of his mouth making love to this man I'd stalked from the bookstore-this humpy, hunky, athlete of a man-this scooter skating soccer coach who'd been hit by a car-this sexy fucking beer guzzling fraternity brother with sore hands and sore ribs and a thick dick he couldn't aim toward the toilet by himself-oh fuck, fuck, I thought as I shot my wad explosively into his mouth, I'm going to lend you more than a fucking hand Paul. Six weeks. Eight weeks. Twelve weeks. I was hoping it would last for fucking ever. |
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