“That does feel nice,” he says, right before another wave of agony assaults him. “Owww.”
“I told you it was a painful procedure with a long recovery,” I gently remind. I hate to say I told you so, but I really did.
“Lucia said she didn’t feel a thing.”
“Lucia is superhuman. She once had an ovarian cyst the size of a tennis ball. Had been living with extreme pain for months before mentioning it to anyone.” That was also around the time we were doing a lot of drugs, so that may have had something to do with it.
“I just want it to go away,” he moans.
“How about we try this? Take a deep breath and concentrate on my hand touching you.” I roll his soft balls between my fingers, gently massaging, tugging lightly at his scrotum while one finger slides smoothly over his perineum. He raises his knees to give me better access. My other hand continues stroking his cock. “How does this feel?” I ask.
“Good,” he says sulkily.
“And this?” I lean down to take his meaty shaft in my mouth for a few nice long pulls, coaxing his dick into full turgidity. Precum weeps from his tip, and I lap it up, teasing his slit with my tongue.
“That’s nice too,” he says, thrusting upward to chase the sensation of my mouth. “Please don’t stop. Everything hurts so much, Cassius. I need you to make me feel good.”
It’s nice to be needed.
“I’m not stopping, Adam, but I am going to pause.” I sit up to address him. “I’m going to play with you, then pause, play with you, and pause. I’m going to do this for a long while. And when you eventually come, you’re going to feel so much better, I promise.”
“Keep touching me,” he says with a desperate snuffle that has him crying real tears.
“Whatever you want, darling.”
For the next couple hours, I edge Adam for the first time, taking him from extreme pleasure to extreme pain, until he’s trembling and twitching all over, a fine sheen of sweat coating his magnificent body. It’s definitely against the doctor’s orders for him to exert himself like this, but when else will he have this unique opportunity to experience the full spectrum of what I can provide? And I suppose some part of me does enjoy seeing him cry true tears of anguish. The begging is music to my ears. The raspy tenor of his voice as he chokes out an aching sob makes me so fucking hard, I fear I may stain my trousers. My poor, helpless Adam would let me do whatever I want to him in this vulnerable state, and of all the things I can imagine—some of them quite sordid—allowing him the simple pleasure of an orgasm is practically a sacrifice on my part.
When Adam finally releases into my fist, I clutch the pearly deposit in my palm, then smear his ejaculate all over him, knowing I’ll be the one to bathe him later. I lean down to kiss the salt from his tear-stained cheeks. “Feel better?” I ask.
“A little,” he admits grudgingly.
“Just imagine a couple of weeks from now, when your face is fully healed, and all the bruises have faded. Imagine looking at yourself in the mirror, your favorite one right here in this room. What will you see?”
“Perfection,” he says like a true zealot.
“That’s right. Absolute perfection.”
* * *
The first fewdays of Adam’s recovery are simply magical. I prepare him soft foods, since chewing hurts his face, and spoon-feed him his meals like a baby bird, coaxing him to eat more and then wiping his mouth for him. His appetite is diminished due to the pain, but I’m confident it will pick up again soon enough. I give him a laxative with plenty of fluids and when it kicks in hours later, I escort him to the bathroom for his first post-op bowel movement. There, I dab the beads of sweat from his forehead and use the bidet to flush him out. I sponge bathe him the first day, and on the second, I ease him into the tub where I’m able to take my time washing every muscle, cleft, and divot of his beautiful body. I even clean his ears for him, gently running the tip of a cotton swab over every waxy dip and fold. I floss and brush his teeth, dress and undress him, rub lotion onto his skin, and perform his nightly skincare routine, careful to avoid his nose of course. He is my very own living doll, and even though he looks atrocious for the time being, I’m confident that when he’s fully healed, we can do this sort of thing again. I have the drugs to render him similarly helpless.
Lucia visits on the third day of Adam’s recovery with a tasteful bouquet of flowers that I place in a vase next to Adam’s sickbed. Adam is propped up by pillows watchingSunset Covewhile I give him a pedicure. Such lovely feet. The mirror, Adam’s favorite, is turned toward the wall. Similarly, I’ve draped cloth over all reflective surfaces and commandeered his phone. For his own mental health, he’s not allowed to look at himself until he’s fully healed.
Adam immediately starts complaining to Lucia about the enormous pain he’s in with a surly edge to his voice. Lucia, bewildered, inspects the pill bottles with a critical eye, opens the cap to get a closer look, and then aims her scrutiny at me.
Oh dear.
“Lucia, darling, will you come help me prepare lunch?” I ask. I resume the episode for Adam and shut the door behind me, so he won’t be disturbed by our conversation.
“Cassius, what in the actual fuck?” she hisses when we reach the kitchen island.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I tell her with the utmost calm.
“What the fuck have you been giving him because those sure as shit aren’t pain pills.”
“I’ve got Adam’s recovery completely under control,” I assure her. “His pain is being adequately managed, and as you can see for yourself, he’s receiving top-notch care.”
“That’s fucking sick. You’ve got a disorder.” She braces her hand on the countertop as if she, herself, were going to be ill.
