by Wilde, Ora
Just a kiss, Phoebe. Nothing more. There’s no harm there, right? Just a kiss. Just a little fooling around...
I requited his ardor with same amount of zeal. I met his tongue and frolicked with it; they were like two hummingbirds playing in midair, dancing to a tune that only they could hear, with their motions unrestrained.
Then his hand reached for the bottom of my shirt. He gently caressed my stomach, which made me feel uncomfortable. He noticed my unease, so he bit my lips once more and smiled... his way of assuring me that he desired me for who I was.
But his hand didn’t go up to reach for my breasts, unlike before. It went down, inside the brim of my jeans, inside the garter of my underwear, and towards the slit of my womanhood.
He noticed I was wet. How could he not? I was already dripping the moment I felt the softness of his lips and the fervor of his kiss.
With his fingers, he rubbed me down there... and it felt marvelously good... a lethal combination of unbridled arousal and desperate contentment.
Phoebe, what are you doing? You were only supposed to kiss? Why are you allowing him to do that to you? You know where it will lead, right?
He continued to run his fingers across my slit and I began to moan. His touch was tepid... like a constant reminder of how much he wanted me and how well he would take care of me.
Slowly, one of his fingers penetrated me and I let out a louder moan. He bit my lip once again to make me remember where we were... that though we were away from anyone’s sight, we were still within their earshot. With my eyes closed - relishing the beautiful agony caused by his intrusion - I gave him a slight nod.
Phoebe you have to stop! Right now!
His other hand went inside my shirt, reaching for my breast, sliding beneath my bra. He felt all of it... its fullness was bared for him to enjoy. His palm caressed every inch of my mound, savoring the smoothness of my skin and the sacredness of the area that no man has ever seen nor touched before. His fingers settled on my nipple, squeezing it with so much finesse that made me squeal with every pinch.
A bite of his lips. A reminder to be quiet, once again.
His finger went deeper into my vagina... so deep that I had to stop him.
“Slow down,” I whispered affectionately. I didn’t want to lose my virginity to a digit. That would be too memorable, for all the wrong reasons.
I felt his smile over my mouth one more time. He understood.
He withdrew his hand from my jeans and quickly unbuttoned his pants. He unzipped his fly and pulled down his trousers together with his undergarment - briefs or boxers, I couldn’t tell - just low enough to free his penis.
Then he grabbed my hand and led it towards his most private of parts.
His fingers slithered over mine as he positioned my hand over the shaft of his manhood. He closed his hand, pushing mine to a clasp... and I felt the entirety of his... his... his cock.
His very gifted cock.
I couldn’t even fasten my hand over the thickness of his hard-as-rock penis. The thought itself made me gasp. If I were to lose my virginity to him, would this be the instrument that he’ll use to claim my innocence?
Would it even fit?
Stop thinking like that, Phoebe! You know that this shouldn’t happen! He’s the only man you’re forbidden to long for. He’s untrustworthy, irresponsible, ruthless, heartless and a jerk! And don’t ever... ever... forget the fact that he’s your brother now!
His hand slid to my wrist and he guided it, up and down and up and down his shaft... a distance that was too sweeping to be real. But it was real. Was that the reason why the girls he threw away couldn’t forget about him? Because of his masterful prowess in bed? Because of the sheer size of his tool?
He let go of my wrist and my hand continued with the motion he thought. His lips left mine and he sank his mouth on my neck. I heard him moan... softly... tenderly... passionately... and the sound further stimulated my senses, leading my hand to stroke his penis even faster, more vigorous than before.
What I was doing seemed to have an intense effect on him. He dug his face on my neck even deeper. He squeezed my nipple even harder. His other hand pressed on my arm very tightly. He was panting, breathing heavier and heavier as I quickened my pace.
“Oh God... Phoebe... don’t stop...” he struggled to say and he started to lick the skin just below my ear, sniffing me in the process as if he wanted my fragrance to stay with him forever.
I did as he commanded... I didn’t stop... I just stroked it faster.
“Oh God... oh God... oh God...” he kept repeating until his words became incomprehensible.
Yet I didn’t stop.
His body hardened, making me feel the brunt of his entire weight. His hands became wildly restless, grasping anything that they could find... my cheeks, my hair, my shirt, my breasts...
Then, with a scream that was almost primal, it happened.
A gush of liquid bursted out from the tip of his penis, forming pools of stickiness on my arm and on my palm.
Gradually, his delirious motions ceased, and he rested on top of me.
“That was fantastic,” he murmured.
I smiled.
“Ready for round two?”
“What?!”
Aside from his mastery in bed and the size of his penis, I guess he had an insatiable drive and an amazing stamina that made it very difficult for his girls to forget about him.
“Sir?”
A voice. From behind us. Just above the slope.
Oh shit!
Hayden quickly got up and fixed his pants, leaving me exposed to the eyes of the person who has intruded on our privacy. Instinctively, I covered my face with my hands. I didn’t want to be recognized... which was quite an impossibility.
“Oh. Hey there, Barton,” I heard him speak.
I parted my fingers to take a peek. Indeed, it was Barton, standing on the hill over us, as dignified as ever.
“Phoebe...” Hayden said. “It’s just Barton.”
I removed my hands and noticed the gluey substance that stuck on my cheeks and around my eyes. Hayden stared at me. His eyes widened before he bursted into laughter.
Crap! His sperm was all over my face!
Full of shame and guilt, I turned to look at Barton. He was as dignified as ever... but something else caught my attention.
Barton... his face was usually expressionless, something which I once dismissed as a trait required by his job.
But at that moment, he showed an emotion... a strong one. Was it disquietude? Was it worry? Was it helplessness?
No.
It seemed like he was...
He was...
Afraid.
“Sir!” he called Hayden’s attention once again.
“What is it, Barton?” he asked impatiently. “It’s not like this is the first time you caught me doing something like this.”
“Sir...” Barton repeated with terrified urgency. “You’ll have to come with me quickly.”
“What?” Hayden questioned. He hated being told what to do, especially if the order came from someone he considered as an underling. “Why?”
Barton’s reply made my heart stop as I discovered the reason behind his fear.
“It’s your father, Sir. Something bad has happened.”
Chapter 39
HAYDEN
“All I can say at this point, Mrs. Summersmith, is that we’re doing the best that we can for your husband.”
Martha suddenly bursted into tears. I can’t blame her. The doctor’s words, though inconclusive, were pretty grim. If he was well, or if he was at least good enough to survive this ordeal, the doctor would have mentioned it. But he didn’t. There was only one logical conclusion.
Phoebe tried to comfort her mother, but she continued to sob uncontrollably. She assisted Martha to the seat at the far corner of the row where I was sitting. I could’ve approached them. I could’ve told her something that would alleviate her worries. I could’ve tol
d her that we were in this together.
But I didn’t.
In a weird way, I found some delight in seeing her like that. Admittedly, though, I wasn’t as thrilled about it as I thought I would have.
Was it because I was likewise worried about my father?
I just sat where I was, looking blankly at the nurse’s reception desk as medical personnels passed me by. I hated what I was feeling. I hated that I hated him. I hated that I hated her. I hated that I couldn’t hate either of them at that time.
Phoebe probably mistook my pensiveness for grief. She approached me and caressed my back.
“He’s gonna be okay,” she said. “He’s a tough guy. He’ll get through this.”
Her kindness was nice, but it was hardly comforting. She wasn’t a medical professional to know that my father will pull through. I wagered that the next thing she would say was everything will be alright.
“Everything will be alright,” she murmured, just as expected.
But everything won’t be alright. The situation was too grave. The mortality rate was too daunting. And the prognosis was too vague that it dampened any hope that we can hold on to.
“You don’t know that,” I told her. “So stop saying it.”
She fell silent, but she didn’t show any sign of being slighted. She understood my reply. And she probably thought that I was brooding over the uncertainty of my father’s fate.
But I wasn’t.
I was mad.
I was mad because no one - and nothing - should cause him misery. That was my right, and mine alone.
“My grandma,” she started to share, “she suffered from renal failure too. But they were able to fix her. She lived for ten more years, and she was old. I’m sure your dad would -”
“Father,” I corrected her. “He’s my father.” The term dad was too personal, and we were never like that.
“I’m sorry... your father... he’s so much younger than my granny. He’s so much stronger. He has a better chance of getting through this.”
“You know what’s funny about this?” I asked her.
“There’s... there’s something funny about this situation?” she replied in shock.
“Yeah. I don’t think the old geezer even knew he had a kidney problem. I didn’t know. Your mother didn’t know. Emmy, her secretary, didn’t know. I think he was too busy to actually listen to what his body was telling him. I think he was even too busy to care.” I chuckled with that last line.
“That’s supposed to be funny?” she questioned once more, incredulous at how I was reacting.
I didn’t reply. I just looked away. She continued to stare at me, though, anger boiling out of her eyes. Heh. She’s probably frustrated. After all, she failed to climax.
“You can’t always blame him for what happened to your mother, you know.”
What?
What did she just say?
Was she talking about my mother at a time like that?
I turned back to look at her, meeting her fury with my own.
“Don’t ever talk about my mother,” I told her sternly. At the back of mind, I was reminding myself to keep things cool... to not lose control... to regulate my breathing before rage completely possessed me.
I expected her to back down. But she didn’t. She continued to defy me.
“You know very well that your father didn’t kill your mother, Hayden,” she answered back, almost yelling. “Your father is a good, good man... more than you’ll ever know... more than you’ll allow yourself to know.”
“For the last time, I’m warning you! Stop talking about my mother...”
“Or else what? Answer me. Or else what, Hayden? I know every trick in your damn book. What can you possibly do to me that’s worse than what you’re continuously doing to your father?”
I didn’t know what I could’ve done at that moment, but I was sure it would’ve been something I’d regret later on. I could’ve slapped her. I could’ve condemned her mother and outed her for the gold digger she truly was. I could’ve told her that she’s just a plaything to me, a passing fancy that has worn out its use.
But the doctor went out of the ward and Martha stood up from where she sat to approach him. Phoebe got up, as well, and joined her mother. And as luck would put it, all three of them converged right in front of me. Fuck!
“Mrs. Summersmith,” the doctor started to say. “I’m afraid I have some... not so good news... that I will have to deliver.”
Shit! Just say what you have to say!
“What is it?” Martha asked, with tears still dripping from her eyes.
“Mr. Summersmith is near end stage renal failure,” he answered. “We will have to replace his kidney as soon as possible. And I do mean... as soon as possible. We can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“Then do it!” Martha replied. “You have my permission. Where’s the waiver I have to sign?”
“It’s not that easy, Mrs. Summersmith,” the doctor somberly tried to explain. “There’s a waiting list for kidney donors.”
“H-How long is the waiting list?”
“Ninety-three thousand people are currently listed.”
“How long will that take?”
“Around five to six years.”
Martha began to sob wildly once again.
“Doc, my husband... he can pay to get ahead of that list,” she desperately pleaded. “It doesn’t matter how much it will cost... just get him a new kidney... please...”
“Martha,” the doctor called her by her first name, which would seem to indicate how hopeless the situation really was. “I know who your husband is. He provides jobs for hundreds and thousands of people... and a few of my relatives work for some of his enterprises. But you have to understand... there are things that money cannot buy, and this is one of them. If he’s allowed to pay his way to be first in the list, it would mean the lives of the people who should be ahead of him.”
Martha almost fell on her knees in despair, were it not for her daughter who held her arm, preventing her from collapsing. The burden of helplessness was just too much for her, it seemed.
“I just wish we discovered his kidney problem earlier,” the doctor added. “But as it stands, he was only brought here today, and it might be too late.”
“We just saw him on the floor,” Martha recalled, her words almost unintelligible because of her crying. “He was unconscious. He didn’t even complain about anything before that.”
“His blood was poisoned,” the doctor elaborated. “His kidneys have already failed to cleanse his system. I’m sure, though, that he has been feeling some kind of symptom for months, or even years, before today. Maybe he was just... afraid... to acknowledge it.”
“What if we can find a donor?” Phoebe suddenly suggested. “Would that help?”
“Well... yes, for as long as it’s from a healthy donor and we have an above fifty percent match,” he replied.
Their eyes lit up with the glimmer of hope that was given. They started to whisper amongst themselves, naming names of the people they knew who’d be kind enough to donate a vital organ of their bodies in a matter of hours.
I wanted to call their attention to how idiotic their discussion was.
At least a fifty percent match. A procedure that can’t wait until tomorrow. A donor who should be in good health.
Oh fuck this crap!
I always hated being a mere spectator.
“I’ll do it,” I said as I sighed, raising my hand to remind them that I was there.
Martha and Phoebe looked at me as if I was some kind of Jack-In-The-Box who sprang right in front of them, bearing a surprise that they knew was too good to be true. Phoebe’s expression was even more priceless... those beady eyes as wide as the sun and that look that conveyed both admiration and dread.
“Hayden...” was all Martha could say.
“I’m sorry... who are you?” the doctor asked.
I didn’t want to tell him that I was his patient’
s son, but Martha spoke on my behalf.
“He’s Hayden... Hayden Summersmith. He’s our son.”
Our son? I could’ve given her hell for that, but I restrained myself from doing so.
“Well... that would work,” the doctor interjected. “I can schedule you for preps immediately. But I have to ask... are you sure about this?”
