Dreamy Distraction (Quest for Love Book 1)

by Emily J. Wright

She was right earlier. I was not ready, but soon will be—now that I am feeling the warmth of her mouth.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!” I moan, getting close. Now, I want to hold much longer, but it’s becoming harder for me to breathe.

  She pushes my hips forward, thrusting me in her mouth as the final moment arrives for me to spew the white poison. I guide her head on my cock, like she would ever need any direction from me.

  “Almost there . . . almost there. Oh, God!” I give her fair warning before I ejaculate. What she does next is up to her now.

  In the moment of excitement, I pull the handle of the top cabinet too hard, ripping it off. The cabinet door swings open and a ladle falls on the top of my head and descends to the floor. The timing couldn’t be any worse, right when I am about to finish.

  “Aww . . .” I give my head a quick rub and kick the ladle away.

  She slows down to check up on me, but I assure her it was nothing. “I am okay. Don’t stop. Keep going. Keep going!”

  I hear some rumbling above, but at this moment, I simply don’t care if there is a boulder up there. I have reached a point from where there is no coming back. It becomes clear to me that she wants my cum, a facial maybe; so I hold her hair up so as to not accidentally make them sticky.

  “Ah . . .” A joyous scream escapes my mouth as my dick convulses, ready to shoot.

  But then, a heavy pot from above, lands on my head. Some black spots are dancing before my eyes, and I shake my head furiously to get rid of them.

  “Are you all right?” she screams.

  “Yes . . .”

  I come hard, but with darkness prevailing before my eyes, I couldn’t see where. It can be anywhere—in her mouth, on her face, her hands, or simply just on the floor.

  I still haven’t recovered from the earlier airstrike, but that doesn’t stop the rainfall of utensils. They keep raining on my head, bringing me down to my knees. And the final blow lands me flat on the back.

  My eyes are barely open. She leans over me to check up on me, but her beautiful face is hardly visible. She shouts my name while tapping on my cheeks, desperately trying to keep me awake. But her voice is getting lost in the distance. My eyes are getting heavy, ready to shut off. And soon, there remains nothing but the darkness.

  Chapter 3

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

  I can still hear her voice echoing in my ear.

  I am trying to open my eyes but can’t. My head is throbbing with extreme pain.

  God! I am so embarrassed. Utensils raining on my head when I was coming—it’s the worst feeling.

  After all the teasing and the torture, I couldn’t enjoy the end. What a pity?

  I open my eyes—probably a minute or two after that stupid accident. Well, imagine my surprise when I see a silver-haired old man standing over me instead of my voluptuous blonde-haired wife.

  “Are you all right?” he asks me.

  To be honest, I am not sure if I am all right. I am in a bit of a shock to find myself on the bed of a hospital room, hooked up to a couple of machines monitoring my vitals. And a morphine drip in my vein is definitely a little too much.

  It’s clear I was out longer than I thought. I was the victim of a most bizarre sex injury there is or ever will be. The sex injury that nobody can know about.

  If it isn’t worth bragging, it’s isn’t worth sharing.

  And you know what’s worth bragging.

  My ‘10-inch of steel.’

  Oh-oh! My hard cock is straining against the hospital gown. And I think I may have pissed myself. It kinda feels wet down there.

  Nope . . . It’s worse than that. That’s a cum stain.

  That old man’s and my glance meet, which cause an awkward silence in the room. He fakes a cough, and I too clear up my throat to break our eye contact, pretending to have not seen the missile in the room.

  He abruptly begins whistling, and while looking at the ceiling, casually pulls the sheet up to my crotch to hide my boner.

  It didn’t work. I am pitching a tent that no sheet in the world can cover.

  The aroma of fresh flowers partially diverts my attention off the awkward situation.

  I see a basket of flowers on the side table at my right. My wife must have brought this for me.

  Aww!

  My hot.

  Sassy.

  Amazon wife.

  She didn’t have to do that. Her mere presence is enough to make this room smell like a tulip garden.

  What in the fucking world? “What are you doing?” I shout in surprise.

  The old man has covered my dick with the same flowers—basket included.

  Did he just perform an offering? Has my dick become sacred?

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s me, sir.” His chapped lips form a smile as he looks at me with a glare of hope in his eyes.

  I look at him closely. I have never seen this man before in my life. Who can he be?

  He is older than Pope.

  He can’t be an orderly—or can he?

  Well, only if their uniform in this hospital is an old-fashioned blazer with a red bow tie around the neck and small glasses on the tip of the nose.

  Everything about him is pointing towards one and only one thing—an ambulance chaser. He is a fucking personal injury lawyer. Does he think I will sue my wife just because she gets a little rough while giving me head? Or it’s possible that he has mixed up the room numbers. Old age.

  “You are in the wrong place, mister. Your services are not required by me.”

  Even though I don’t like ambulance chasers or lawyers in general, I still respond to him politely, considering he must be sixty or something.

  He goes pale, worries forming crinkles on his forehead. He removes his glasses and wipes his face with his handkerchief. “Are you . . . firing me?”

  “When did I ever hire you?” My eyes narrow as I try to remember one last time if I have seen him before.

  “Sir, who do you think I am?” he says with a serious look on his face.

  “An ambulance chaser, duh!”

  “What?! Oh, God, no!” He cringes, which makes me believe otherwise. He leans in closer and looks at me with his beady eyes. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Oh, I recognize him now. He must be the insurance agent who calls me at the most absurd hour of the day, persuading me to take out a policy. I have said no to him countless times, but he keeps nagging me. I cannot believe he is here in this hospital room to solicit business.

  “Listen. As I told you on the phone, I am already covered. So, stop harassing me!”

  “What?”

  “Look, I have been very patient with you. But if you don’t leave now, my wife will kick your ass. And don’t think she would hold back; she is very protective of me.” I turn my head to the door, my eyes wandering for her. “She must be around here somewhere.”

  “Your wife?” he says with a stutter. “Oh, shit!”

  The way he is running out of the room, I guess he knows her very well.

  “Yeah, keep running. Beware of the tall blonde in the hallway!”

  I laugh so hard seeing him run for his life that my ribs start to hurt. I peek under the hospital gown; they are wrapped in bandages. I must have injured them too when I fell in my kitchen.

  That must have been some nasty fall!

  Only my wife can tell me what exactly happened. I am anxiously waiting for her, but she still hasn’t come to see me.

  “OH, God! You again.”

  The taste in my mouth turns sour on seeing that old man again. He comes back a few minutes later, but thankfully, he is not alone this time and is accompanied by a doctor and a nurse. Finally, someone with the authority to kick him out of here.

  “Doc, your hospital has a really poor administration. How could you let an insurance agent solicit business in the hospital? Aren’t we already nagged enough with countless phone calls and long e-mails?”

  The doctor and the old man look at ea
ch other in disbelief. I think I may have inadvertently stepped on their toes; there may be a commission split arrangement here that I am unaware of.

  “Sir, follow my finger.” The doctor starts moving his finger before my eyes.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Just checking if you are all right. Please co-operate, sir.”

  He must be checking me for a concussion. That pot was extremely heavy.

  After he is done tracking my eyes movement, he clears up his throat, gives his chin a little tug, and fires a fury of questions at me.

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “It’s . . . It’s . . .”

  I can’t remember her name. What’s wrong with me? I couldn’t have forgotten her name even if I wanted to. Why can’t I remember her name?

  My head is hurting—now more than ever. I let out a huff with a strain in my voice and grasp my head. I feel something hard, something thick, like a protective cap covering my entire head.

  “Calm down, sir. You were in an accident. It’s all right if you are confused or don’t recall names. It happens sometimes,” he says some kind words to console me.

  But nothing can justify my forgetting the name of the woman I love the most in this world. It just doesn’t seem all right to me.

  The doctor resumes his questioning. “How long have you been married?”

  “It was our first marriage anniversary yesterday. So, yeah, it’s been a year.”

  “Good. That’s nice. What’s your wedding date?”

  “I remember this one. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  I am speechless. I can’t remember our wedding date either.

  How can that be? It was just yesterday.

  “One final question. What is your name?”

  His final question turns my world upside down. I don’t remember my own name. That can’t be right. I realize now that something is seriously wrong with me.

  I look back and forth at the doctor and the old man, reading the expression of pity on their faces. “Who am I? Why can’t I remember anything?” I ask them both, but they are awfully quiet.

  I have lost it already. My wife is the only one who can make any sense of what’s happening around here. I have to go look for her in the hallway.

  I pull out the morphine drip from my vein and unhook myself from the machine.

  “Nurse, get me 5cc of Midazolam. Stat,” the doctor shouts and comes forward to restrict me. “Sir, you need to calm down. You will be all right.” He tries to pacify me, but it’s too late now.

  I quickly turn on my side and try to push myself down the bed. But I suffer the shock of a lifetime when I couldn’t feel my legs. They’re there, but practically dead.

  “I can’t move my legs!” I shout, hysterically.

  As shocked as I am about my situation, the old man doesn’t seem to have any knowledge of it either. He is holding the hem of his blazer in worry.

  “What happened to him?” he asks the doctor, out of concern for me.

  “Onset muscle atrophy . . .” That’s all he could tell when the nurse arrives with a steel tray in her hand. It has some cotton, rubbing alcohol, and a terrifying syringe. “Hold him, please.” He nods at the old man and takes the tray out of the nurse’s hand. The nurse also joins in and helps the old man in restraining me.

  “No . . . please. Don’t do this.” I plead to the doctor, but he doesn’t pay any heed. He fills up the syringe and begins rubbing damp cotton on my arm. I then turn to the old man, and begs, “Please tell him to stop.”

  The old man is not happy with what I am going through, but there is nothing he could do about it. He looks helpless. “Don’t worry, sir. It will only pinch a little,” he says, just before the doctor injects me with that syringe.

  And the moment the needle is pulled out of me, I feel sleepy again and stop resisting. My eyes can barely withstand the light now. I am mumbling as the radiating face of my wife appears before my eyes.

  “Where are you?”

  Chapter 4

  I AM LYING ON THE BED with an extra set of the soft pillows under my ass, swollen due to all the injections—courtesy of Dr. Maverick. The old man is still with me in the room. He is always around. Looks like he doesn’t have anywhere to be.

  After the first shot of tranquilizer, I woke up after a few hours but practically got stabbed again by the syringe and put into an unconscious state.

  Fun fact, when you are injected in the ass instead of arm—beware of the doctor. He has it out for you. And the tiff with nursing staff only worsens the situation more. I learned it the hard way, which was very painful.

  Well, in their defense, I did threaten to kill them all and burn the hospital to the ground if they wouldn’t send me back home. The situation escalated quickly when I was asked about my address, and I lost it again. Some words were said, some things were thrown, to which I am not very proud of. They kept me in the sedative state until I was calm enough to listen to what the doctor had to say.

  After getting injected multiple times in my gluteus, I have now decided to hear them out.

  “YOU WERE IN AN ACCIDENT,” says Dr. Maverick.

  “I know.”

  “You remember the accident?”

  “Of course. I was in my kitchen having—doing the cooking when few utensils dropped on my head from the upper cabinet, and I fell unconscious. But what I don’t understand is, how can I get injured so badly from that?”

  “Sir, you were injured in a road accident,” the old man interjects himself into the patient-doctor conversation. “You are lucky to be alive.”

  “Are you senile? I say. “Who are you anyway?”

  “I am Jeremy.”

  “Jeremy? Jeremy, who?”

  “I am your butler.”

  “Butler?!” I sneaker. “Are you kidding? Why do I need a butler? I cook and clean myself.”

  “No, you don’t. You have never lifted a finger to even wipe a smudge on the mirror.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I say in frustration.

  I have been harassed enough by them—physically, emotionally and mentally—and I just don’t have it in me now to be a part of their sick game anymore.

  “Just the truth, sir. At the night of the accident, you were on your way back from a party, yelling at me over the phone. ‘Run a bath for me, and if the water is not bubbly enough, you’ll be fired’—that were your exact words before I heard a loud crash and lost you. I realized you were in some kind of trouble; so, I called 911, who quickly tracked your phone and send emergency services right away. I reached the site of the accident shortly thereafter, and what I saw that night, still haunts me. You had smashed your car into a standstill bus. The front end of your car was completely destroyed. Your head was split open, and there was blood everywhere. You were cramped up inside the car, and your body was bent in a way no human body should supposedly be. It took the fire department four hours to cut your car and rescue you.”

  “And when you were brought here,” Dr. Maverick adds, “it was already too late. You had already slipped into a coma. Multiple fractures, torn muscles, cracked ribs . . . uhh . . . you were in terrible shape. Your whole body was severely bruised.”

  Hearing about the aftermath of my accident makes my whole body experience a flash of soreness. I could have died in that accident.

  I rub my eyes with both hands, and asks, “When was that?”

  “Two months ago,” Jeremy answers.

  And with this, my whole world comes crashing down. If I was in a coma for the past two months, how come I was celebrating my wedding anniversary yesterday?

  Was I dreaming?

  Maybe I was dreaming about my wife.

  Oh, God! I’ll go mad.

  “Am I married to a tall blonde by any chance?” I ask Jeremy with a glint of hope in my eyes.

  “No. In fact, you are not married at all.”

  “Oh . . . A
ny girlfriend?”

  “There are many girls in your life, but none I can call your girlfriend.”

  I take a deep sigh and lean back in disappointment.

  Dr. Maverick then goes on and explains why I am having trouble remembering my old life. Apparently, I have suffered a brain trauma which has turned me into nothing more than a clean slate. I can read, I can write, I can learn, my cognitive skills are still there, but my memory is gone.

  There is a little to no chance that I will ever remember the life I previously led.

  It’s bad.

  It’s tragic.

  It hurts.

  I may never remember the world as I knew it.

  Dr. Maverick and Jeremy are consoling me, telling me that it’s not the end of the world. But to be honest, it sounds like a random rambling to me. I am not even listening to them anymore.

  But I still can’t stop thinking about that woman. She felt so real. I can still see her face whenever I close my eyes. The taste of her pussy is still in my mouth. I can smell her perfume in the air as if she is hiding somewhere around here.

  “Sir, are you even listening? Sir?”

  “Yes, I am, Doc.” I was so lost thinking about the woman from my dream that I didn’t even realize that Dr. Maverick has stopped talking. Maybe he can help decode my dream. “Doc, when I was in a coma, I was happily married and madly in love with my wife. What do you think that was?”

  “Your imagination. A repressed memory that ruptured to the surface. Your inner desire to be happily married. Your mind playing tricks. It could be anything.”

  “Or just a wet dream?” Jeremy interjects, giving the most logical explanation to my question.

  “It’s . . . possible.” As weird as that answer was, Dr. Maverick gives the nod to that.

  Maybe, Jeremy is right. It was a wet dream. But I wish that dream hasn’t ended. I was so happy there.

  “Anyway,” Dr. Maverick continues, “the good news is your fractures are healed. The bruising is down to minimal. And as for the muscle atrophy, I am sure with proper diet and physical therapy, you will be on your feet in a fortnight or so.”