A Complicated Affair

The sound entered his ear, swirled through his brain, flowed, eddied around his groin, and sank to his toes. He felt, rather than heard. A mouth touched behind his lobe and trailed to his shoulder and his nerve ends rippled with it. A sense of silk swept across his chest. Coolness licked and a streak of flame ignited his genitals. A major case of elephantiasis. A hand, too small, smoothed and moved. He tensed. The mouth angled over his chest, his stomach and almost ... almost ... frustration exploded.

She was back. And a little bolder. Thank God for dreams. Hands and mouth strayed but still would not commit themselves. A repeat performance for both. She touched, he exploded, and oblivion.

Why couldn't he see? Or move? It wasn't fair, giving him the dream and not letting him make full use of it. She was tense. Relax, I'm not going to bite. I wish I could. She stretched lengthwise against him, pelvis pressing his hand, leg imprisoning his, the rise of her breast pushing into his bicep and chest. Hand caressing his cheek. She felt good. She smelled good. He could smell. Things were improving.

She left his side to settle on his hips and slow motion warmth sent a spiralling shock to every extremity. His hair stood on end, his teeth clamped. She impaled him to the bed. Her weight shifted. She lifted his head and folded her arms under. Her mouth tested his. He felt her tongue probe while, all the time, her body moved. Her weight eased. His heart thumped around its cage. Cool fingers gripped and guided. She lifted away. No, don't stop! Back again, trying carefully. Perspiration ran like tears from his face and body. He wished he could scratch. He wanted to gulp air and all he could do was lie like a slab. She needed help and all he could do was sweat.

Everything in him was being drawn to one spot. There would be nothing left. Everything except the husk would be in her. And she was a dream. He'd never be able to find himself because she didn't exist. Can't do it. Stop! Fingers caressed and opened his mouth. Then he forgot to be scared as smooth skin brushed his cheek and pressed past dry lips. Creamy firm skin. The sweat was back. So was the sound. He listened. It washed through him. He let her take him.

If this is punishment for something, God, I've had enough. Don't let her touch me. Don't touch me! Hands and mouth. That cool burr in his ear but this time he would ignore it.

'Come on, gorgeous, I know you know I'm here.'

Words! He was straining.

'Okay, gorgeous ...' A whisper. Had he heard it? 'You can do it. I have every confidence in you.' What? She breathed 'Torture time again' into his ear and kissed his palm. Each finger, his wrist, the crook of his elbow, was feted. And then she turned them on herself. He could feel her cheek, her neck. Her breast was perfect. Life would be perfect if he could just move his fingers.

'Stubborn,' she murmured, raising goose bumps from his chin to his ankles. He was deeper than ever in the dream, acutely sensitive to the least move and touch. Nothing covered him. The thought that he was flat on his back naked to her gaze was erotic in the extreme. She stroked his thighs and blood rose and stained where she had been. She was teasing. He held his breath waiting to be touched but she teased. Heaven sent hell. Her tongue and fingers traced whorls across his ribs. She was watching. Waiting to see how long it would be before he snapped. Any second if she didn't do something.

She nibbled her way down, hand massaging him to the consistency of glue. Tentatively her mouth wandered. When the tip of her tongue connected the shock lifted him off the bed.

She must have stared for a full minute. He bore holes through closed lids staring back. He could feel every knotted muscle on his drenched body. Softness sucked him in and exquisite intensity flooded out thought. She took an unendurable breath and arching wildly he grabbed her with both hands.

A bright light shone in his skull.

'David, can you hear me?'

He jerked his head and the light clicked off.

'David, I'm Dr Fryer. How are you feeling?'

'F ... f ...' He tried clearing his throat. It hurt. A glass appeared, along with a nurse to hold it. Cool water. He tried to smile his thanks and croaked, 'Where am I?' Just like the idiots you see on television when it's perfectly obvious.

'You were in a car accident. Do you remember anything?'

The doctor enunciated slowly as though talking to a halfwit. He lay back and closed his eyes, the effort of having his head held tiring. It was swirling. He was confused.

Accident? The memory of night, not being alone, the car swerving off the road, twisting and bouncing. He struggled with the thought and with trying to voice it. 'There was someone else.'

The doctor and nurse exchanged a glance.

'A friend?'

He thought about it. 'No.'

Another glance.

'I'm afraid he didn't survive the crash. You were extremely lucky. A passing motorist witnessed the accident and managed to pull you free.'

The doctor waited.

'Free?'

'Your car was alight. You received superficial burns to the face and neck but they've already healed.' He added 'No scarring' as though it might be a concern.

The nurse patted his hand. He looked at her and back at the doctor feeling like a three year old.

'That's enough for now. Sleep. I'll be back in the morning.'

He was in a hospital. He tried to think where but his brain was clogged. He couldn't get past the idea of having escaped being burned to death. He must have been unconscious. He could remember being in the car, his head hurting and ... grappling with the wheel. The whole bloody mess flattened him.

He was making a poor attempt at trying to get out of bed when the doctor and nurse from - when? - entered and pressed him back.

'You're not in any state to get up, Mr Cameron.'

'I want to leave,' he said, resisting, feeling sick.

The nurse clamped his shoulders and the doctor looked over his glasses. 'You've been unconscious for six weeks. You wouldn't make it as far as the door.'