The Diagnosis of No Diagnosis
I watched Eric's face in profile as he drove us home from another useless doctor's appointment. His jaw was set tight, his usual warmth gone. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. The extra weight he'd lost made his cheekbones too sharp. My heart ached seeing him like this.
"You should let me drive," I said softly.
"I can still drive, Lauren." His voice carried an edge of frustration.
Over a month of this. Watching my strong, vital husband fade away while doctors scratched their heads. Today's specialist, an immunologist, was just as baffled as the others. All tests normal. No answers.
I reached over and squeezed his thigh. Through his jeans, I could feel how much muscle mass he'd lost. My hand lingered, remembering how those thighs used to flex and thrust when we made love. Oh, how I missed that. I missed him inside me. But he barely had energy to walk some days, let alone have sex.
The phantom pains had started first. One day his shoulder would throb, the next his hip would seize up. The sites kept shifting, making it impossible to pinpoint. Then came the lethargy, like all his vitality was draining away. The appetite loss followed.
"Maybe we should try that holistic doctor I mentioned," I suggested carefully.
Eric's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "More tests. More bills. More nothing."
I drew slow circles on his thigh with my thumb, trying to soothe him. Even through the fabric, I felt the heat of his skin. At least the fever was down today.
My mind drifted to healthier times, just a few months ago. Eric taking me hard against the kitchen counter before work. The way he filled me so perfectly as I cried out his name. Now we barely touched beyond gentle caresses.
"I'm not giving up," I said firmly. "We'll figure this out."
He covered my hand with his briefly before returning it to the wheel. "I know, baby. I'm just..." He trailed off with a weary sigh.
Scared. We were both scared.
When we got home, I helped him up the front steps despite his protests. Inside, he collapsed onto the couch while I went to fix him some soup. He needed to eat something.
Looking at him sprawled there, I felt tears threatening. Where was my passionate, energetic husband? The man who used to pin me to the bed and make me scream with pleasure? Now he could barely stay awake through dinner.
I brought him the soup and curled up beside him on the couch. "Small bites," I encouraged. "Just try a little."
As I watched him struggle with even that simple task, I made a silent vow. I would save him. Whatever it took. I just had to figure out how.
Desperation and Dreams
I jolted awake, my neck stiff from falling asleep at the computer. The screen had gone dark, but I'd spent hours searching medical sites. Looking for anything that might explain Eric's condition.
Earlier, I'd managed to get him to eat half a bowl of soup before he'd retreated to bed. Even that small victory felt hollow. I glanced at the clock - 1:47 AM.
Quietly, I slipped into our bedroom. Eric lay sprawled on his back, his breathing shallow. The moonlight through the window highlighted how gaunt his face had become. My eyes traced down his body. The covers had slipped to his waist, leaving his chest bare.
I remembered how that chest used to feel against mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress as he took me.
Careful not to wake him, I slid into bed. Sleep came fitfully, my mind churning with worry. Then the dream began...
I stood in a sacred temple, ancient and dimly lit. Crystal-clear streams should have been flowing from ornate fountains shaped like women, their arms outstretched in offering. But the fountains stood dry, their channels empty and waiting.
A wizened old woman appeared beside me. "The vessels are empty," she said gravely. "The life-giving waters do not flow. Without them, the people will perish."
I touched one of the fountains. The stone was warm, almost alive beneath my fingertips. "I don't understand. Which waters?"
"The most sacred kind," she answered. "The kind that sustains and heals. The kind that gives life. The kind that flows from within."
Confused, I studied the female figures more closely. Something about their pose seemed significant, but before I could turn to ask the old woman what it meant, I jolted awake.
My heart was pounding as I stared at the ceiling. Beside me, Eric stirred but didn't wake. Morning light filtered through the curtains.
The dream images lingered vividly. Dry fountains. Empty vessels. The need for some kind of life-giving flow. "The kind that gives life... the kind that flows from within." The words echoed in my mind.
My eyes drifted to Eric's sleeping form. Life-giving... what was more life-giving than a man's seed? His essence that could create new life, that carried his very vitality. And how long had it been? Even before he got sick, we'd been so busy with work. Three weeks? A month? No wonder his life force seemed stagnant.
I thought about ancient Chinese medicine, how they believed in the flow of energy through the body. Blockages led to illness. In Ayurvedic traditions, regular release was considered essential for male health. Even Greek medicine emphasized the importance of balancing bodily fluids.
The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. If toxins had built up in his system, they needed to be purged. Like a fountain that had stood still too long, the pipes needed to be flushed clean. Get things flowing freely again.
Different cultures had different names for it - chi, prana, life force - but they all agreed: energy needed to move freely through the body. Blockages led to illness. And what bigger blockage could there be than weeks of stored up seed?
It seemed crazy, but I was desperate enough to try anything. If regular, thorough release could help flush the toxins from his system, I would milk him dry as many times as it took. I would be his healer, his fountain of relief.
I looked at my sleeping husband with new determination. Modern medicine had failed us. Maybe it was time for a more primal approach to healing...
First Treatment
Still in my morning robe, I gathered supplies from our bathroom - massage oil, hand lotion. My heart raced with nervous energy. This had to work.
Eric lay in bed where I'd left him, barely stirring when I returned. I sat on the edge of the mattress, touching his arm gently. "Baby? I want to try something."
He opened his eyes, those beautiful brown eyes now dulled with exhaustion. "What is it?"
"Just trust me?" I waited for his slight nod before pulling back the covers. He wore only boxer shorts, his body too warm lately for more. Even sick, the sight of him stirred something in me. I tugged his boxers down, exposing him.
"Lauren, I don't have the energy..." he started.
"Shh. Let me take care of you." I moved to straddle his thighs, my silk robe falling open slightly. His penis lay soft against his thigh, smaller than I remembered from his illness. I warmed the oil between my palms.
"Like an old water pump," I murmured, mostly to myself. "Just needs to get flowing again."
I wrapped my slick hands around him, one at the base, one gently circling his tip. Slowly, I began working him. Up and down, using every technique I knew he loved. My fingers twisted carefully around his cockhead, earning a small gasp.
Gradually, I felt him beginning to swell and harden in my grip. "That's it baby," I encouraged. My hands moved in constant motion, creating an endless sensation of pleasure. One hand following the other, base to tip, again and again.
His breathing quickened as I continued my relentless pace. I varied my technique - the "eternal tunnel" of my hands flowing down his shaft, then switching to long, drawn-out pulls designed to draw his essence forth. My smooth fingers bumped deliberately across his sensitive ridge while my thumbs paid special attention to his frenulum.
This was work, real physical effort, but I didn't care. I would save him. I would heal him. My hands moved faster, more urgently.
"Lauren..." he gasped. His hips lifted slightly off the bed.
"Let it go baby. Let it flow." I could feel him getting close, his cock iron-hard now in my grip. My hands never stopped their motion, pulling, stroking, demanding his release.
His whole body tensed. With a groan, he erupted. Hot spurts of cum shot forth as I continued milking him, determined to draw out every drop. His life force, his essence - I would drain out whatever toxins were making him ill.
When I tried to continue, to maintain his orgasm and keep him flowing, his hands grabbed my wrists. "No more," he gasped. "Too much."
I watched his cock already beginning to soften, spent. He needed rest before the next treatment. But I felt a flutter of hope. His color seemed better, his breathing easier.
Cleaning us both up, I kissed his forehead. "Rest now. But we're not done."
He was already drifting off to sleep. I sat watching him, planning the next treatment in my mind. Whatever it took, I would heal him. One orgasm at a time if necessary.
Looking down at my oil-slicked hands, I smiled. Sometimes the oldest medicines were the best ones. Now I just had to keep his fountain flowing...
Diminishing Returns
Two hours later, I slipped back into our bedroom. Eric was still sleeping, the sheets twisted around his waist. I shed my robe, leaving me in just panties. My breasts felt heavy, nipples tightening in the cool air. Even sick, he'd always responded to the sight of them.
I carefully pulled back the covers. He was still naked from earlier, his cock lying soft against his thigh. The massage oil waited on the nightstand. My hands trembled slightly as I warmed it between my palms.
Straddling his thighs, I started gentle. Just light touches, my fingernails trailing along the underside of his cock. Like clearing a blocked drain, I thought. Had to get things flowing properly again.
He stirred, eyes fluttering open. "What's going on?"
I held his gradually hardening cock in my hands, deliberately pressing my arms together to showcase my breasts. "Another treatment," I said softly.
His eyes fixed on my swaying tits as I began working him more firmly. I bounced slightly with the effort, knowing how my breasts would move. Even in his weakened state, I felt him responding.
"Fuck, Lauren..." he groaned.
