by Hawke, Jessa
The erection that is thrusting deep inside of me, suddenly becomes more urgent. When I look over my shoulder I can see that it is Valdeze who is spearing me from behind and giving me so much pleasure. Behind him, though, is Zac, and from his movements, and the lust on his strained face, I can tell he is buried deep inside Valdeze’s ass. This is such a strange ménage à trois, two hunky, sexy men, one fucking me and the other fucking his friend.
I ride back on Valdeze’s erection, pushing it deeper and deeper inside of me until it hits a spot inside of me, which gives me so much pleasure. He is so deep now that it hurts, but not in a bad way. In fact, it hurts so good and serves only to increase the pleasure flooding through me. I can feel the inevitable building up inside of me and I know my orgasm is rapidly approaching. From the grunts and heavy panting of the two men behind me, I can tell they are close too.
Someone’s arm, I don't know who’s, neither do I care, reaches under me and directs itself to my pussy. Fingers search out and find my little love bud, and then slide on the wetness, this sends even more waves of hot passion through me. The sensation of one man teasing my clit, while the other has his cock embedded inside of me, is one sensation too much. The electric pulses from my clit, send wave after wave of pleasure through me, and my orgasm thunders through my body like a tornado, electrifying every single nerve ending. I scream out my climax and desire, not caring if anyone can hear. Just as I feel my orgasm is starting to fade, the two guys behind me give out animalistic grunts, and I feel Valdeze’s cock swell even thicker, as he pumps his hot seed into me. He pushes my orgasm to a new extreme, as my body shudders and quivers in pure orgasmic passion.
We all three, are now spent and exhausted as we collapse onto the bed. A sticky, sweaty and completely satisfied pile of human flesh.
Chapter 7 A Big Splash
The guys have to go to some promo event, but me, I’m exhausted, so I stay behind to rest a while, readying myself for the firework event this evening.
After another shower and short sleep, I feel refreshed again, and luckily the guys come a knocking, right about then.
They want to clean up before going back out, so Zac orders room service, and I get to enjoy coffee and cake, while looking out the large window from about thirty floors up. Darkness has cloaked the city, whilst I wasn’t looking, and the lights are twinkling, making the view spectacular.
Once the boys are ready, we go down the elevator and board a coach that is to take us back to the football ground.
More food and socializing as the winners are introduced to some of the other professional footballers. However, Zac and Valdeze never leave my side and we enjoy the amazing firework display together. There are a few youngsters in the crowd, as this is also a family event.
That part of the evening ended early and the coach takes us back to the hotel, where we are all staying. Zac drags us off to the swimming pool, where there’s a large open bar and a few Jacuzzis set around the place. We mingle with their friends, as this part is a private affair and locks out to the rest of the hotel guests.
As the night moves on, so too does the drinking of alcohol. Inhibitions are soon lowered, as well as clothing. Before too long, most of us are skinny dipping in the pool. Amazingly, I am no longer conscious of my large size, and I feel completely happy being naked around the others. Receiving a few admiring looks from the other guests, female as well as male, helps of course.
Throughout the evening, I swim around naked and enjoy the bubbling water in the Jacuzzi, with the other naked guests. It’s a wonderful feeling, walking around with so much freedom, I wonder to myself if this is a regular occurrence for the hotel as they don’t seem bothered by so many naked people.
I’ve actually lost sight of my two guys as the crowd has grown. I end up next to another hunk of a football player in one of the Jacuzzi’s, and enjoy his company. Before too long my two chaperones return, stripping off and joining me in the hot bubbling bath.
“So, where did you two disappear to?” I ask.
“We had to go see to our wives,” Valdeze replies.
I look on, stunned at such news. How could they sleep with me if they’re both married?
“Shut your mouth, Ursa, or you’ll swallow us all up. He’s just kidding you,” Zac says to me. “We just have to keep going off to the publicity sessions that we’re booked in for.”
I’m so relieved that I haven’t had an affair with a couple of married men, that I splash Valdeze for putting me through those moments of worry.
“That’s it,” he says, splashing water back into my face. “This woman, is in need a good spanking,” and he lunges at me.
Screaming playfully, I run out of the Jacuzzi trying to escape him, my breasts, heavy and pendulous, swing before me. He soon catches me up and I feel his arms wrap around my middle as he firmly picks me up, no mean feat in itself, and jumps straight into the pool with me. The water is freezing, after the hot jacuzzi, and I can feel goosebumps break out all over my body, while my nipples stiffen so hard they hurt, but I don't care. I’m laughing so much and I soon recover. The rest of the evening is spent in the company of my two favourite footballers.
Before returning to our rooms we all dress, to enable us to look respectable as we make our way through the hotel. Of course, the boys come back to mine.
Chapter 9 The Farewell
I’d like to say that we behaved ourselves the rest of the evening, but no way. We spent most of the night fucking in the huge bed, in various combinations of coupling. Me and Zac, and then me and Valdeze, and all three of us together. We had a night of sexual depravation in the huge bed. In the end, we were all simply exhausted. Just before the dawn broke, we finally fell into a deep sleep.
When I awaken, around lunch time, there’s a little sadness inside of me. This is the last day of my visit, we will part company today. Despite my sadness, I have no desire to keep in touch with them. This was a memorable experience and one I will never forget, but it was just that, an experience in my life.
Because I don’t know anything about professional football, I really don’t know anything about these boys, and equally, they know nothing about me. I think it best we keep it that way, so I’m not going on the internet to find out if they really are married men. I don’t want to know. If they are, then I know I wouldn’t want a husband like that, but then I was the other woman on this occasion.
We all end up with a large group brunch, and I get to meet the other players and winners for the final time. This has truly been a marvelous experience, and I’ll only be telling my friends about so much of it. The rest I’ll be keeping to myself and storing in my life memories, only to bring up the images occasionally, well, maybe a lot to start with.
Just like the gentlemen that they are, my two guys take me to the airport in the luxurious limo. None of us are tearful, it’s been too good a time and it’s hard to believe it was only one night.
“I love you guys for making this so special for me,” I tell them, hugging each in turn.
“We had the best of times, Ursa, you want to keep in touch?” Zac asks me.
“No, absolutely not,” I tell him. “It was good, but I’m a respectable woman and I can't be seen associating with two dirty boys like you!” I laugh, and fortunately they do too. “Seriously, I’ve loved every minute, every thing we did, but you two have got busy lives, and me, well, believe or not, I’m a quiet girl with a quiet life. My memories will serve me well enough. Bye boys!” I yell, as I walk away, dragging my little suitcase on wheels.
I turn to see them waving, but they’re soon engulfed by autograph hunters clambering around to be in the company of two famous pro footballers. I smile to myself wistfully, thinking that I hadn't actually got their autographs, but what did it matter, I had received much more. Phew, what an adventure I had with the New York Tigers.
THE END
F
Falling Again
Oh God, my supervisor was going to kill me. I could not remember a sin
gle thing that she had told me, and I had no idea how to assist the hand surgeon and my future career was going to be over before I had even started.
Yup, that’s it. I couldn’t even survive two weeks as an intern. Wait, let’s back up here for a second. I tend to talk and think way too much when I’m freaking out.
I’m an occupational therapy student. Nobody knows what occupational therapists do, and the field is so broad that I’d have to go into about a million different research articles to tell you exactly what it is, but I’ll be nice. I’ll go the easy route. We help people do their daily tasks, whatever they happen to be. You need to shave your face but you had a stroke? Occupational therapy. You were in a car accident and now you freak out every time you have to go outside? Occupational therapy.
So how the heck did I end up involved in hand surgery? A most excellent question.
Basically, the way it goes in this profession is that one of the things occupational therapists do is become hand therapists. So if you break your hand, they splint you. If you rip a tendon, they help you with the aftermath so you can use the hand again. I think it goes without saying that hand therapists are the grand poo-bas of the occupational therapy scene. You know how they say on every doctor show ever made that surgeons are like the jocks of the medical profession? They’re hardcore, they’re gung-ho, they’re the popular kids, and they have the most money?
Hand therapy is like that. Except for, you know, not being a doctor thing. Which suits me just fine.
At my school, we’re lucky enough to pick and choose which internships we can apply to. Those poor sacks at other schools are so pit-scared of their administration that they cower down in fear and let their internship coordinators do all the talking. Not me. Even if my school was like that, I’m the kind of person who doesn’t just take a job sitting down. So basically, I did some research in the New York area and found out that there are ten hand therapists in the whole damn state.
Ten. As in IX. As in a one with a zero at the end.
I was overjoyed. That meant it would be super easy to narrow down the best one. And I found her super quick. Yes, she. Occupational therapy is a female-dominated field, but hand therapy is the one place you can find boys. Hand therapy is filed under the physical disabilities heading. Boys go into the physical disabilities field, where there are lots of broken bones and heavy lifting. And I am just fine with boys, being one of them and playing with them, let’s just put it like that.
On the phone, Elisa Ahmed was not what I expected. She had this soft little baby voice and giggled at the end of every sentence as she told me the medical clearance I would have to get and the anatomy I would have to review before the hospital she worked at would let me in. This was the woman who was at the top of her field in the most competitive state across the nation? Had she really passed the grueling, six-hour exam? And been supervising for over fifteen years? She sounded about as soft and fluffy as a corgi puppy, and about as ridiculous.
Still, stats don’t lie. Elisa Ahmed was the best, and if I wanted to go into hand therapy, I had to be among the best. So when I was approved for a thirteen-week internship at Middleton Hospital’s Occupational Therapy Department, I was thrilled. And nervous as fuck. If I did well here, I could be offered a job after graduation.
As it turned out, my intuition was right. I had been oh so very correct in being nervous. Elisa Ahmed may have sounded like a sugar-covered marshmallow, but she was anything but. I realized this the very first day I began working for her.
Rules and directions and all the possible consequences of breaking a patient’s confidentiality—or their bones—came tumbling out of her mouth a mile a minute in perfectly even, clipped sentences, which was confusing, because she was still speaking in that baby doll voice. She gave me the world’s fastest introduction to the facility and told me that by the end of the second week, I’d be taking on ten patients a day, and that if I was truly interested in hand therapy, I’d have to do something to prove myself before my midterm at six weeks.
At lunch, someone whispered that she had fired the last three students who worked for her.
Physically, she was a pretty imposing-looking woman. She had the kind of ethnic European beauty that comes with big hair, breasts, hips and blue eyes, but from the no-nonsense dark pants and pale button-downs she wore underneath her pristinely white lab coat, you could tell she was the kind of person who took herself very seriously. And you knew that you better take her seriously, too.
I was still reeling from the sheer workload piled on to all the interns who make the decision to work in a hospital when Elisa sprang another firecracker onto my lap.
“Once a week, every week, we go over to the inpatient unit of the hospital to check out incoming cases with the hand surgeon.”
Hands. Surgeons. Inpatient unit. I swallowed hard. I tried to mask my confusion by nodding as if I were a perfectly competent student of occupational therapy rather than an intern about to wet her own pants.
“We leave in fifteen minutes. We walk over together. I’ll see you then.”
She was not kidding. In fifteen minutes, I had to run for my jacket and bag because Elisa Ahmed was giving me a very displeased look from the door of the rehabilitation center, where she stood, fully dressed and ready to go. The inpatient unit was four blocks away, and as we walked, she shot instructions at me rapid-fire.
“We go in, drop off our stuff, and head straight down to unit thirteen on the third floor. Do not speak directly to the surgeon unless he speaks to you. That being said, sometimes, he has medical students in his office, doing their rounds, so he may enjoy a question every now and then. Do not look over his shoulder when he reads X-rays. Step in, glance, then step back. When he reaches out, give him the white paper every patient gets when they walk into the clinic. When he gives it back to you, it means they need to be scheduled for an evaluation at our outpatient clinic, and that they are automatically one of our patients. Take the paper, go to the phone, dial eighty four eighty four, and while you wait for one of the front office staff to pick it up, ask the patient what day and time works better for them, then schedule them for the best available time. And then go back into the office.”
What? WHAT? Did this woman ever hear herself talk?
“And Mindy?” It seemed like a good a time as any to pretend my stomach was not roiling inside of my body, so I looked over at her and tried to smile. “This is a great opportunity to see our patients and find out what’s wrong with them before we even evaluate them.”
I nodded, trying hard not to betray the fact that my head was reeling from the sheer volume of information Elise Ahmed, certified hand therapist and hardcore chick with the voice of a sugar baby, had managed to stuff into just four short city blocks.
The first two patients went fine. My manner seemed to have ingratiated me with Dr. Hahn, the short, round little hand surgeon, so I managed to stutter out a few questions which he graciously answered, but for the most part, I just stood next to Elise as the doctor removed stitches from his surgery patients and informed them that they’d be wearing their casts for at least six more weeks, which meant that they were not going to be our—meaning occupational therapist’s—problem for a little while yet. I was afraid to breathe, let alone get close enough to the patients to examine their tendon repairs, and I was just sighing a sigh of relief when patient number three entered the room.
He was a youngish guy of about thirty, and he had broken his left middle finger seven weeks prior. He had gone to a doctor when it happened, and the medical genius had told him that it would heal over just fine and that he didn’t need any surgery. When Dr. Hahn unwrapped his hand, it was quite clear that this was very incorrect information. The finger was healing over, all right, but it was lapping over his ring and pinky fingers, making his hand appear more like a Franken-limb than anything else.
“What do I do, doc? Do I get surgery for it now?”
“I’d have to re-break the finger and you’d only get about 60%
of function back” was Dr. Hahn’s curt reply as he sat, typing away at his doctor’s note. Then, some measure of sympathy entered his face as the full extent of his words finally registered in his trained-to-be-cold surgeon’s brain. “But if I don’t operate, it doesn’t grow straight, but you can use the hand.”
At that moment, Elisa stepped in, all blond hair and professional calm. “If you come therapy, we can get the strength in your hand back. The finger will be more crooked, but you’ll be able to use the hand for all your daily things—shaving, dressing, eating. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a driver,” said the patient, terrified at all this information. “That other doctor, he mangled me?” For a split second, it was as if his anger had exploded and suffused the whole room, and the look on Elisa’s face told me she felt exactly as I did—trapped by this man’s misfortune.
