Bullseye looks around, spies Trixie, who’s just appeared. He calls out, “Hey, Trix? Can you accompany Short and Doc to observe?”Thank fuck Prez is smart enough not to leave me alone with him.I’d trust Doc not to make my injuries worse as far as I could throw him, and in my current state, that would be measured in inches. Prez hasn’t finished. “Maybe we can come to some compromise, Doc. Trixie might be able to change his bandages herself, if you show her what needs doing?”
His eyes grow cunning. “As long as you pay me what I’m owed, I don’t care if you want a whore to treat him.”
And I’d prefer not to have botulism or whatever rubbed into my wounds instead of antiseptic. I’ll take Trix any day over him. She’s actually a good choice. She’s proved she’s more than just a club girl when she stepped up to support Pippa and helped her whip the other girls into shape. I’ve actually no doubt that if a task is explained to her, she’d have no trouble carrying it out. Inwardly, I sigh with relief that Prez suggested it. I might be a big bastard, but I’m actually nervous about being alone with Doc.
“He still needs medical attention.”
Prez shoots Doc down. “Yet you were quite happy having an unqualified nurse attending him. I’m sure Trixie will do just as well.” It’s a statement, not a question. “You come when he needs your expert assessment, and Trixie can help in the meantime. Short, take Doc to your room, and Trix, you go with them.”
Leaving Doc with no other option if he wants to keep the retainer, his only source of income as far as I know, I head past him. I make my way up the stairs, trying to walk steadily with no sign of limping when in truth my leg’s killing me.
I almost laugh at the comfort Trixie's following behind gives me. She’s club property, along with the other sweet butts and Pippa, of course, and us brothers are sworn to protect them. But under these circumstances,she’sprotectingme. I doubt Doc’sgoing to be gentle, but at least there will be a witness to any actual harm he does.
I’m right. The old bandages are ripped away and removed none too gently, and his hands are heavy and rough when he applies the new ones to my skin. But I am surprised when he offers me a tube to blow into, and then reads off the result.
“Your output is so poor, I’d guess your right lung is only working at twenty-five percent capacity,” he tells me. His manner changes, and he looks like the competent medic he’s supposed to be. “It could improve, but it looks like you’ll have continuing limited function.”
Forgetting my beef with him, I ask anxiously, “But I’ll be one hundred percent when I heal?”
His head shakes. “You’ll have scar tissue. When you’re healed, exercise may help, but your lungs will likely never work at full capacity again. You’ll have to learn to compensate.”
I’m not even sure what that means, but I’m determined to beat the odds and be as strong and fit as I used to be.
Trixie’s been silent, observing, but now her soft voice chimes in. “So, in the morning, I change his dressings, just like you’ve shown me?”
Doc regards her like something he’d wipe off his shoe, then huffs. “Yes, just do exactly what I did.” Then to me he adds, “Unless there’s any adverse change in your injuries, I’ll just leave the spare bandages and antiseptic here. I’ll be back to see you the day after tomorrow.”
I take some pleasure in seeing him pack his own bag and carry it away.
I’m still staring after him, wondering whether Bronwyn will really benefit from being freed from these trips to treat me, or whether I’ve lost her the support I could have given her as an understanding friend, when Trixie leans over me.
“Apart from changing your dressings, is there anything else I can do for you?” Her hands cup my dick in blatant suggestion.
Pushing her roaming fingers away, I reject what she’s offering. “Think you’d take my breath away, darlin’.” I grin. “Literally, after what Doc said.”
As she laughs, taking my words at face value, I grow cold inside.What the fuck will reduced lung capacity mean for me?
It currently means I get breathless doing things at a snail’s pace that I used to take at full stretch. Walking up stairs, I have to stop at the top to get enough oxygen to take the final steps to my room. What if I don’t improve? What would my life look like if I couldn’t do all the things that mean so much to me? Like fuckin’, fighting, and assing around with my brothers?
After a week of Doc coming, first every other day, he drops it down to a couple of times a week when he’s satisfied the risk of infection has passed. Trixie’s taken up the slack and helped me with my bandages, which, to be quite honest, I could now do myself, but why should I? I might not be up for anything strenuous, but I like having her hands on me. What man wouldn’t? That she plays nurse scantily dressed, pussy lips showing as she leans over, and her tank top struggling to contain her tits when she straightens up, I admit I enjoy the scenery.
Today I’ve been too tempted, my dick threatening to hammer its way out of my pants, so I took her up on her offer to give me some relief using her mouth. No exertion on my part required. Except, when I dump my load down the back of her throat, I end up seeing stars even though it was far from the best blow job I’ve ever had. I can’t catch my breath for a couple of minutes, and wonder whether this is how I’m going to die.
Reduced lung capacity fucking sucks.
Mortified, as she was the one who saw me gasping and, according to her, turning blue in the face, she’d rifled through some leaflets the doc had left for me, and which I’d ignored.
“You need therapy,” she tells me. “It says here there are exercises that can help.”
“Like what?”
Her brow furrows as she reads, mouthing the words as if she’s sounding out every syllable in her head. I take it literacy isn’t one of her skills, not that it’s needed for her role in the club. And I’m the last one to criticise. I’m almost as bad as her when it comes to reading, though I’ve come on since I left home – teaching myself, starting with comics, then progressing to magazines, and even books when I’m in the mood. I’m still slow, but at least I can manage most words.
“I think it means you’ve got to do more than just limping down to the clubroom and sitting your ass at the bar. Walking, swimming…”
“Where the fuck am I going to walk to? Have we suddenly sprouted a pool because I haven’t seen one around here before?”
“Are you not even going to try?” she challenges me.
