Part 5 by Castgimp

He switched on the light board behind his desk and suddenly the anatomy of John's ankle was lit up over his head. "The ankle joint, as you may know from your first aid class, is composed of three bones, the talus, the tibia and the fibula. These bones, as well as the bones of the foot, are connected to each other by ligaments, which support the ankle. It is these ligaments which are damaged when someone has what we call a sprained ankle. Most ankle sprains are not serious, and involve the partial tearing of one of more of the ligaments that support the ankle. Most often the anterior ligaments are torn or strained when someone falls and twists an ankle. Look here. On your friend's x-ray you can see that his anterior, lateral and deltoid ligaments are all torn. This is very unusual." He was pointing at the x-ray over his head. "Additionally, there is a hairline spiral fracture of the lower tibia, here." He paused, and looked directly at me. "This sort of traumatic injury can only be the result of violent forced dorsiflexion, or twisting." He paused again. There was a long silence, while I looked at the floor, and the doctor looked at me. "You should know, Mr. Patterson, that your friend's injuries are very serious. He may need surgery. His athletic career is in jeopardy. He will be in a cast for ninety days or more, and then he will face months of physical rehabilitation." There was another awkward silence. I didn't know what to say. I could feel my face burning with shame. "Think on this Mr. Patterson." "Yes sir." I was sweating, and felt sick to my stomach. "There really is nothing more you can do now. Should you gain any further insight into the origin and cause of these injuries, feel free to contact me. If not, I do not expect to see you on the grounds of the hospital again. That is all Mr. Patterson. You may go." I walked out of his office and out of the hospital into the cold afternoon air. I found myself gasping for breath in the cold. My heart was racing and I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples. I didn't know what to think. I was scared. I felt terribly, terribly guilty about John's injuries. I also felt terribly certain that I would never see him again, and that filled me with a despair that seemed limitless in its blackness. I would likely be thrown off the wrestling team, expelled from university, and perhaps even thrown in jail. How could I have let my own sick sexual perversion so completely take over my actions? How could I have hurt another human being just because it made me hot? Perhaps I was really sick. Maybe I was the one who should be hospitalized. How could I ever live with myself again? What would I tell my family? They would disown me once they found out the truth about who I was and what I had done. I decided I would head out to California, maybe San Francisco, and disappear. Maybe pick a new name. I considered briefly heading straight to the bus station that afternoon, without even going back to my apartment. In the end I lacked even the courage to actually flee, and so I returned to my apartment, about as dark and desolate and depressed as I had ever been. I pulled the phone jack from the wall as soon as I was inside the door. I couldn't face the thought of having to speak to anyone. It was just a matter of time until the calls began. Once the word was out, the phone would start to ring. I pulled down the blinds as well, to block out the light, and to prevent people from looking in. And then I sat on the couch in the relative dark and covered myself with a blanket and curled up in a fetal position and just simply stared across the room at the wall. I didn't move. I didn't eat. I didn't even really think. I just withdrew. Eventually I must have fallen asleep because I awoke sometime in the middle of the night needing to take a leak. After rousing myself from the couch, and relieving myself in the bathroom, I climbed into my bed. I could smell John on the sheets. I could smell John and his sweat and his cum and almond oil. Certainly I could hear his moaning and his purring and his anguished grunting as he shot cum up and over his belly. I found I was hard thinking about him, and that outraged me. How was it at a time like this that I could still be focused on my pecker? I vowed I wasn't going to touch myself, wasn't going to jerk off, no matter how hard or how desperate I felt. I rolled over on my stomach and buried my hard-on in the sheets and buried my face in the pillow and cried myself to sleep. Truly, I thought, no one could be more miserable than I was, unless it was poor John, broken and alone in the hospital. I kept a pretty low profile all week. I went out of my room as little as possible. When I went out, it was just to go to class, or to wrestling practice. I didn't talk to anyone I didn't have to. It was like living under siege. I kept waiting for something bad to happen. I was pretty sure that sooner or later someone was going to come get me. I couldn't have told you who, or what they were going to do with me once they found me, but so profound was my sense of guilt and my sense of complicity in John's injury that I was sure there was going to be retribution of some sort. When I wasn't out doing the minimum that I had to do to get by, I was sleeping, or sitting in my room, in the dark, by myself. One positive benefit of my reclusive state was that I got caught up on my studies, which was a first. I also lost some weight, because I wasn't really eating. I couldn't stand going to the dining hall with all of those people, and I wasn't in the mood to cook for myself, so I mostly lived off of fruit and cereal that I could buy anonymously at the local 24-hour food mart. My first plan was not to go to class or to practice or anywhere. I was just going to wait in my room until I heard something, one way or another. But then I worried that my absence would be conspicuous, and might somehow hasten or worsen my punishment. I was, for all practical purposes, acting like someone who had just murdered someone and hidden the body. Clearly I had lost touch with reality. I can not say why for sure my dissociation was so great, but Dr. Braun had scared the hell out of me, and I wasn't taking any chances. I actually never thought the whole week would go by without a confrontation of some sort. In fact, I was sure that on Monday night when I showed up at wrestling practice the police were going to be there waiting for me, and that would be that. In a way I welcomed the end of the waiting. I strode into the gym feeling like the outlaw riding into the arms of the waiting posse. I was convinced that it would be best to just get it over with, whatever it was. To my surprise, however, there were no men in blue waiting for me. Just before practice began coach made a brief announcement that John had hurt himself over the weekend and would not be wrestling in the tournament and that was that. My heart was pounding in my head. I thought that for sure he would single me out in front of all the guys as the culprit. I waited in dread for him to rip my mask off and reveal my identity as a sick pervert. But he didn't. He didn't say anything other than that John was out of commission. He delivered it in as routine a manner as I had ever heard him deliver any news to the team. He might have been telling us that the bus was leaving at five instead of five-thirty. I was completely unsettled by the whole performance. Now I knew for sure that something bad was going to happen, and that this charade was all part of a plot to throw me off my guard. I went through the motions of practice completely distracted, trying to imagine what sort of confrontation they had dreamed up for me. Would they corner me in the shower, naked? Would it be outside, in the cold? Would they be waiting for me back at my room? Were they waiting, trying to break my will, hoping I'd turn myself in? Just as practice ended and coach sent everyone off to the showers he called me back. "Patterson. I want to talk to you for a minute!" This was it, I thought, finally. I was relieved. At least it would be over. I turned and walked across the gym floor toward coach, my eyes on the floor, unable to meet his gaze. He didn't say anything at all until I'd walked right up next to him. I thought I was going to blackout. "Listen," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I was over at the hospital this morning, to see John." I couldn't breathe. "It looks like they're going to keep him at least the better part of this week. John wanted me to tell you that he's OK. He doesn't want you to worry about him. He said you were a real help to him when he fell. Doesn't know what he'd have done if you hadn't taken care of him." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. None of this made sense. Maybe this was their way of trying to trick me into confessing that I had tortured John. "Listen Bob I know you and John haven't always seen eye to eye. I just want to say I'm impressed you overcame your differences with him to help him out when he was in need. Not that I ever thought you'd do any different than that." He squeezed my shoulder, and then slapped me on my ass. "Now get out of here, and get some sleep. You looked like hell on that mat this afternoon. We've got a tournament to win this weekend." And that was that. I didn't know what any of it meant, but I knew it must mean something more than what met the eye. What did coach know? What had Dr. Braun told him? What had John said? I couldn't make sense of any of it. My sense of anxiety didn't ease as the week went by, though I did sort of become used to feeling anxious. More than anything I wanted to go to the hospital and see John, but I didn't dare. I had this image of Dr. Braun waiting for me at the door with the police. I even considered briefly trying to hurt myself so that I would need some medical attention myself, but couldn't in the end bring myself to take that option very seriously. I missed John in every way. I thought about him night and day. I missed the sight of him, and his physical presence. I missed the fullness of his body and his smile. I missed his smell. I missed his moaning and purring and humping and screaming. I missed his ankles and his feet. I missed his whiskers and his warm breath and his underwear and socks and beautiful naked white-muscled ass and his hard cock bouncing and stretching its head and neck. I missed his warm sweet center opening to me and pulling me in deeper and deeper. My resolution not to jerk-off didn't last very long. In fact I reached the point where I could only fall asleep by slowly jerking off to fantasies of John. My favorite fantasy started in the gym with John and I wrestling, naked, in an earnest contest of strength. We slammed our sweaty glazed bodies together brutally, a match of equals, trying to gain a momentary advantage over the other. Our struggle aroused our lust, and our wrestling match dissolved into passionate lovemaking, in the middle of the gymnasium floor. Our open mouths clamped together as we struggled toward our climax, moving against each other, grinding. We always came explosively at exactly the same moment. I dreamed about John as well. One night my dream was so vivid it woke me, and even once I was awake I was unable to convince myself that it had not been real. I could just recall a fragment of the dream, but it felt more real than anything I had ever dreamed before. My finger was deep in John's ass, caressing his warm smooth muscle walls. I could feel the moist hot flesh, feel the soft tissue over the tight muscle. I pulled my finger out and pushed my erection inside where my finger had been, and felt the same warm wet soft hardness, the same ripples of flesh. His shaft was like a hard column of empty space, defined by the object that filled it. His insides molded themselves to fit my shape. I moved in my dream in that column of space as if it were my own home, my center, my soul. It was as if I had entered my own center. I belonged in that void. I made it full, and defined it. He moved against me, anxious to be filled, to be defined, to be loved. I woke up achingly erect, my face wet with tears. I moved my fingers instinctually to my nose. I could smell John on me still. I made it through the week, as if in a fog, jerking off and sleeping and going to class and wrestling practice and then eating a little and jerking off and sleeping some more. The first round of the wrestling tournament began Friday evening, with the semi-final rounds scheduled for Saturday and the finals for Sunday. One of the unanticipated results of my anxious week was that I had actually lost enough weight that I dropped a weight-class, and would now be wrestling in John's place, literally, in his weight-class and not my own. My first match was against a guy from central state that I had seen wrestle before. He was wiry. He wasn't strong, but he was fast. I knew I could out-wrestle him if he didn't beat me to the punch. My match went off about an hour and a half into the meet. I was not very focused or motivated, though I knew I could win. My opponent moved exactly as he should have, and took me down quickly, before I could react. He was on top of me almost as soon as we started. I knew I could reverse, and throw him off me, but pinned there beneath him I wasn't sure it was worth it. If I lost this early match that would be it for me for the weekend. I would be done. I could go back to my room and hide. I had just about decided not to exert the effort to try and throw this guy off of me, when my peripheral vision caught sight of something along the sideline of the mat that jolted me like lightning. His leg in a long white cast, John was moving along the edge of the mat on wooden crutches. I could see his toes. He moved forcefully on the crutches, throwing his weight forward on the wooden supports. His casted leg was bent at the knee, and he held his injured ankle up off the ground, pivoting on his healthy foot. He was wearing jeans, and a white t-shirt. I could see his shoulder muscles move and flex with the strain of hauling his body along. One leg of his jeans had been cut off, revealing the length of cast that went all the way from his foot up to the top of his thigh. "Let's go Bob!" he screamed. "Roll out of it! Move that guy! What the hell are you waiting for?" The whole thing took less than two seconds. I recognized his shape and the sound of his voice and the adrenaline of desire shot through me like fire. My opponent never knew what hit him. Exploding out of my pinned position I flipped my opponent, straddling his legs and chest, and pinned him squarely to the mat, holding him firm for the count. It was as fast and thorough a reversal as I had ever managed to pull off. The referee slammed the mat for my pin and I leapt up off the mat, pulling my opponent with me, shook his bewildered hand, and virtually whooped as I ran off the mat and over to our team's bench. I moved as if with electricity, floating above the ground. The coach slammed my back with a congratulatory smack. My teammates crowded around to offer their admiration for my stealth reversal, but I had eyes only for John. He was standing at the corner of the mat, beyond the bench, leaning on his crutches. I moved through the crowded sideline space past my teammates and over to John. When I got there, I paused, suddenly shy and self-conscious and unsure what to say. I stared at the ground, at John's feet. I saw him wiggle his toes as they stuck out from the end of his cast. Slowly I raised my gaze and met his eyes. He was beaming, a radiant smile stretched across his face. "Jesus Christ am I glad to see you," I managed, awkwardly. "Likewise," he smiled. I realized I was smiling too. We must have looked like two idiots, standing there grinning at each other. Or two boys in love. "Let's get out of here man." I moved my hand toward him, unsure where I was going with it. I grazed his chest lightly with the back of my knuckles. He moved his chest forward on the crutches, pushing back against my fingers. The shock of longing and lust and love and electricity passed between us, and I pulled my hand back, surprised by the intensity of the heat. "Nice match, Bob. Couldn't have finished him off better myself." "I never would have, without you. I saw you man, out of the corner of my eye, and that did it. He was history." "You're done for the night now here. Let's go." "My place?" "Sure." "Let me grab my stuff." I followed him out of the gym, watching him move on his crutches, watching his ass work to carry his broken leg, watching him move the stiff weight of his cast, watching him pause to breathe, leaning heavily forward on the crutches, balanced on one foot. It was all I could do not to knock him down in the street and fuck his lights out right there. He moved so gracefully. He reminded me of a bird at the beach, standing on one leg. His strong hands gripped the crutches, pushing and pulling in a delicate balance to propel him forward. I was as physically taken by him as I had ever been. I thought to myself that I could follow him anywhere. I was willing to walk behind him, watching him hump along on his crutches for the rest of my life. In the elevator of my apartment building he leaned back against the wall, resting, taking the weight momentarily off of his arms and hands. I couldn't help staring at his cast. "So," I said taking a deep breath, "that's quite a cast." "Yeah. Pretty big, huh?" "I was, um, you know, expecting one that just came up to your knee or something." "Yeah, me too." Just then the elevator door opened. As soon as the apartment door shut behind us I was crippled with uncertainty. I wondered if John's injuries were worse even than Dr. Braun had told me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and hug and kiss him and hold him and tell him how sorry I was. I also wanted to rip his clothes off and make love to his beautiful body, but I was suddenly afraid and unsure and my overwhelming desire intimidated me. John moved through the apartment and sat heavily on the end of the bed, balancing his crutches beside him. "Oh man does it feel good to be home." He stretched his arms up over his head. "I was really starting to hate that hospital. I really could have used some company." "Oh Christ, John, I'm sorry. I should've come. I just couldn't. Dr. Braun scared the shit out of me. He told me he didn't want to see me back in the hospital." "I know. He told me. He wanted me to press charges against you. What an asshole." "How did he know? I mean, how did he know it was me?" "I don't know. He knew I was lying from the beginning. Even before he looked at the x-rays." "Did they have to operate?" "No. Braun wanted to. But he gave me a choice. I said no. That's why I have this big cast. They were going to reattach the torn ligaments surgically. Instead they immobilized my whole leg. To give everything a better chance to heal on its own. That's why they kept me all week. To keep me immobile. They even had my leg up in traction for a few days, to help reduce the swelling." "Shit." I was relieved. I pictured John's alabaster ankle. I was glad they hadn't cut it open. I was glad there would be no scar. "It's sort of a risk. Braun said I might still need surgery later if it doesn't heal right. I'm supposed to stay off it completely this week, not even go around on crutches. But I wanted to see you wrestle man." He smiled that big grin of his. I moved over to the bed. John was sitting on the corner, his good foot resting on the floor, his injured ankle suspended in the long cast that was sticking out over the edge of the bed. I knelt on the floor between his legs, resting my hands on his thighs. "John I am so sorry about this. I'm sorry I hurt you man. I've been going crazy here worried. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had wanted to press charges John. I probably deserved it." "What the fuck are you talking about? I wouldn't turn you in man. I'm never turning you in. You're stuck with me man, bum ankle and everything." "Oh Jesus John I missed you." I buried my head in his crotch, resting my cheek on his thigh. "I missed you too you asshole," he said, running his fingers through my hair. "I was just worried you wouldn't miss me." "I missed you like crazy man." We moved up on the bed. John lay back, his arms over his head. I pulled his shirt up and off over his head, and unsnapped his jeans. He raised his hips and I pulled his pants and underwear down over his legs and feet and cast. I found his naked beauty arresting all over again. I pulled my own clothes off in a single swoop, unable to get naked fast enough. I fell on top of him, and he wrapped his arms around me. I liked the feeling of his hard cast beneath me. Our open mouths met in a hungry frenzied wet kiss, and our hard pricks knocked against each other, pressed tightly between us. Our hips moved together, pushing and grating and gyrating. I pulled my mouth off of his and moved down his body toward his feet. I traced his cast with my fingers. I moved to the end of the bed where I could see his whole body stretched out before me. I moved my hands under his broken ankle, and took his toes sticking up out of the white cast into my mouth. He moaned as I salved his toes with my spit. I could feel each long toe stretch and flex against the warm wet flesh of my mouth. I licked between his toes, lapping the skin and flesh right up to the hard edge of the cast where they disappeared. Then I took all five toes in my mouth at once, stretching my face and mouth awkwardly. "Ummm," he murmured, "just what the doctor ordered." "Yeah?" "Yeah. Fucking Braun told me to spend the week in bed." "Nice," I murmured back, playing with his long wet toes. "I still can't believe I broke your fucking ankle." "Get over it. It's barely broken." John was arching his back. From the end of the bed I could see him reach with his hard dick up toward the ceiling and the emptiness of the room. "Mostly it's just sprained. A big sprain. You were right all along Doctor Bob." "Umm. I like playing doctor with you." I moved my fingers up to the inside of his thigh. He moved his legs apart, and I moved up between his legs with my face, nuzzling his warm inner thigh and the hard cast that encased his other leg. "Oh Jesus Bob I've missed you." I moved my tongue up into the crack between his ass, and reached for his sweet musty manhole. He moved his ass against me. "Oh Jesus yes. Oh god I missed having you inside me." I pulled my mouth away and slid my finger into his warm flesh, into the space that was a hot empty column waiting to be filled. "I love you John." I was up next to him now, whispering in his ear. "I love your sweet ass. I love your ankles and feet. I want you with me always. I love your sweet long toes. I love your broken ankle man. I'm sorry I hurt you but I love your sweet cast. I thought I would die without you man. I won't hurt you ever again. I promise. I just want to be with you, inside you, inside your ankle and feet and toes and mouth and sweet asshole. Jesus John you are so beautiful and your ankle in a cast is so sexy it makes me weep and weak and seeing you walk on your crutches is soo fucking unbelievably hot for me and makes me so hard and the image of you with a broken ankle and a cast and your sweet toes sticking out is so fucking hot, and your leg with a cast on it is sweet sex to me John and I love you." I moved my finger in and out of John's ass, deeper and faster, as his hips moved up and down in response. He was stroking my cock and I was stroking his as I talked to him. Seeing his leg in that cast stretched out on the bed between us was almost more than I could bear. I was turned on like I had never been turned on before. "Jesus Bob fuck me fuck me fuck my ankle fuck my broken ankle oh christ you feel good inside oh fuck me oh god Bob I missed you I love you man." I was filling his empty space. My fingers were filling his void. His body filled my imagination. I held onto the image of him walking across the street on his crutches with his broken ankle in a cast. When I was close I rolled even closer to him so that I could feel the length of his cast against me and with my toes I could touch his toes sticking out from the end of his cast. He pounded my back and writhed on the bed next to me as I finger-fucked his sweet empty ass and he pulled my hand farther into him and pulled himself deeper into the pleasure and lost himself in a primal scream as he came in three explosive jets of life jism, and see him come was all I needed to push me over the final edge. I came grinding and pounding my hips against his wet warm abdomen. Gasping for breath, we collapsed in a pile of sweaty twisted limbs, reunited at last. I knew that wanted to sleep next to this man with his leg in a cast for the rest of my life. **

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