Friday, 22 January 2016

Sick fuck

"How are you doing?" asked the receptionist at work, all earmuffs and furry gloves as she opened the front door from inside and I - very gratefully, as I was beginning to experience necrosis - stumbled through. Taking my coat off to hang on the precarious hatstand just inside, I opened my mouth to respond and found myself producing, not a cohesive answer, but rather a short, high-pitched squeak. It petered out into indifference and I tried again, resulting in a sound somewhat resembling an anaemic frog.

"You've lost your voice?!" she said as I pointed frantically at my throat. "But how are you going to work?"

In all honesty, I hadn't considered that. I knew that I was ill, and I knew how ill I was. But, throughout the bus journey there and the twenty minutes of standing around waiting outside, I'd been more concerned with remaining upright. I hadn't really tried to speak and didn't factor in the fact that I basically couldn't.

My girlfriend had left the house in the early morning, in order to go to work herself. Neither of us had had much sleep - I certainly hadn't had any - and she was much worse than I was at that point. Despite my protests, she still got up and left, leaving me with the distinct impression that my first instinct - to call in and say I wasn't well and had better not go in - was somewhat moot, since I have much less far to travel and wasn't feeling as bad as her. Getting up was a struggle. Getting dressed was a struggle. Getting to the bus stop was a struggle. Waiting in the cold nearly killed me. And yet here I was, at work, willing to try, even though it was abundantly clear that I couldn't.


I was sent home at ten minutes past nine.

As I made my way home - slowly, seeing as how the roads are covered with frost and the bus I take is sluggish at the best of times - I constructed a fantasy in my head in order to distract me from the fact that my throat was trying to make a forced exit through my chest. I'd get home and find that my valiant girlfriend had also been sent home despite all her efforts. She'd suddenly remember that it was #NationalHugDay (Twitter says it was, so it must be true) and give me a hug, which somehow would turn into a naked cuddle.

Naked cuddles are the warmest type, so they must have some amount of healing properties.

Inevitably, of course, there would be some kissing - why not, everyone likes kissing - and I'd find all the pain and shortness of breath and tight feelings in my chest rushing down to my gradually hardening shaft. She'd roll me onto my back and gently massage my penis, rolling my foreskin back and forth, every rub and squeeze compressing all the sickness into a smaller and smaller ball, coaxing it towards the head of my cock. Pain would mix with pleasure and I'd cry out, but she would gently lower her body down to sit on my hips, enveloping me in her warmth, soothing me with tender caresses to my chest as I pulse and throb inside her.

We'd rock together for a while, working through all the sore aches and chesty pains, and then there would be an orgasm, so volcanic and so unexpected that all the sickness would be let loose, shooting out of me and dripping from her, the final aches disspiating in the mass of sparkles and steamy heat that rises from the afterglow.

Effectively, I'd have my sickness fucked out of me.

This isn't, of couse, what happened. I was alone when I returned home and still so when I got into bed with buttered toast, a cup of tea and Identity Crisis. Finishing all these I fell into an uneasy doze, from which I roused myself with an unexplained bout of coughing. Finding nothing else to do - and lacking the motivation to move from the supine position I found myself lying in - I groped randomly for my crotch, masturbating gently to at least retreat into the haze of sexual pleasure. I wasn't even aiming to orgasm, but I did, aware a split-second too late that my breathing was more ragged than usual and my post-masturbatory coughs were more violent, sending shocks of pain directly through the thorax that I'd been trying to soothe.

I haven't tried to orgasm since. I also haven't slept. I've been sitting here with a dark cloud above my head, stochastically pausing to catch my breath or cursing at the world (quietly, as I can't speak loudly right now), trying for solace via tea and Halls Soothers. It's not been the best couple of days in the world, frankly... but I eventually did, at least, get my hug.

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