The hospital room stank of bleach, a cold box where Ethan lay, his body smashed up after a car crash that nearly ended him. Black ice sent his truck skidding, glass tearing his eyes to nothing, thirty-seven bones breaking--ribs, pelvis, spine, the works--while his insides bled out. He'd been out for three weeks, lost in a coma's black haze, close to death. Docs sewed violet corneas from some nobody donor into his sockets, saying he'd see again. They didn't mention the weird stuff, the kind that'd screw with his head and make his clothes fit wrong.
A fever hit him first, a hot itch waking him at 4 a.m., sweat soaking the sheets. His hands, shaky from weeks of tubes, felt his chest, expecting scruff, but his skin was slack, drained from lying still. His pecs were soft, a bit puffy from the doc's cuts or his body giving up. Touching them stung, sending a jolt to his crotch. His dick got hard, thank God, but panic twisted his gut. His voice, muttering "What the hell," came out thin, his throat smooth from the coma's tubes.
"This ain't right," Ethan growled, dragging himself to the bathroom mirror. His face looked beat--cheeks sunken, jaw soft, lips chapped but too full. Those violet eyes, glowing, gave him the creeps. He yanked off the hospital gown, stitches pulling. His body was a mess, hips a little wider, maybe from the pins in his pelvis, maybe just bloat. His ass was soft, muscle gone, its slight curve bugging him. His dick stood firm, leaking, but the skin below his balls was puffy, tender. Docs called it edema, fluid from the breaks, and said his hormones were off--estrogen up, testosterone down, thanks to the coma. His pelvis was "adjusting," bones settling in a way that didn't sit right.
In dreams, a woman showed up, eyes like those corneas, her shape blurry, voice low. "Let it happen," she'd say, her words brushing his skin, grazing his chest, his dick, somewhere deeper. He'd wake up, breathing hard, shorts sticky with cum, sheets damp. "Get out of my head," he'd snarl, grabbing his dick to stay grounded. But his body buzzed, restless.
Out of the hospital, Ethan hid in his apartment, avoiding mirrors. His clothes didn't fit--jeans hung loose but caught on hips that seemed wider in the wrong light. Shirts clung to his chest, a little puffy, maybe from water or new fat. He tried jerking off to porn to feel normal, but the old clips didn't work. His eyes drifted to the women, their shapes too close to his own soft spots, and his dick throbbed when his mind slipped there. He gripped his shaft, stroking fast to the guy on-screen, desperate to keep it straight. But his fingers brushed a sore nipple, the sharp sting making his cock pulse harder. His strokes slowed, deliberate, as he pinched the tender bud, the sensation shooting sparks through his groin. He came with a choked groan, cum spurting over his fist, a high moan escaping that wasn't his, leaving him shaky and pissed.
Her voice stuck around at night, smooth and low. "Feel it," she'd say, and his hands moved without him. He stood naked in front of the mirror, dick throbbing, chest a bit swollen, nipples hard and aching. His skin was too smooth, hair thinning, shoulders scrawny. His ass was soft, its faint curve--maybe from scars, maybe not--nagging him. His dick, still there, leaked as he fought the urge to touch more. "I ain't you," he spat at those violet eyes in the mirror, but they stared back, knowing.
One night, he broke. Half a bottle of cheap bourbon didn't quiet her; it cranked the heat, his skin burning, cock straining against his jeans. He stumbled to his bed, clothes hitting the floor, dick thick and heavy, already slick at the tip. "Just once," he lied, spitting in his palm and wrapping it around his shaft. The familiar grip grounded him, each stroke slow and firm, his thumb swiping the sensitive head, sending shivers up his spine. But his other hand roamed, tracing the faint bulge of his hip, then the puffy flesh of his chest. He grazed a nipple, the sharp sting making him hiss, his cock twitching in his fist. He stroked faster, gripping tight, but his fingers returned to the nipple, pinching hard, the pain mixing with pleasure as his balls tightened. Her voice was there, urging, "Keep going." His hand slid lower, brushing the puffy skin below his balls, raw and too sensitive, a faint slickness there, warm and wrong. His strokes faltered, breath hitching as he pressed a finger against that tender spot, the sensation overwhelming, like a fuse blowing in his brain. He came with a ragged yell, cum splashing his stomach, thighs trembling, body wracked with shame and a high he couldn't shake.
He tried to shut it out, staying inside, but the urges followed. At a bar, a woman's glance made his dick twitch and his chest throb. A guy's smirk had him squirming, picturing things he'd never touched. One night, he gave in, bringing home Jace--leather jacket, stubble, all swagger. "You're something else," Jace said, eyeing Ethan's hard dick and soft spots without a blink. Ethan wanted to slug him, prove he was still a man, but Jace's rough hands grabbed his ass, squeezing the soft flesh, and Ethan groaned, his cock leaking a wet spot on Jace's jeans.
"Do it," Ethan snapped, shoving Jace's hand to his dick, but Jace had other plans. He pushed Ethan's shirt up, mouth latching onto his puffy chest, sucking a sore nipple with slow, wet pulls. The sensation hit like a shock, Ethan's cock throbbing as Jace's tongue flicked the hard bud, teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp. "Don't stop," he begged, voice breaking, hating himself. Jace shoved him onto the bed, spreading his ass with strong hands, fingers digging into the soft, curved flesh. Ethan tensed, expecting pain, but Jace's tongue found the slick, tender spot below his balls, warm and impossibly sensitive. He licked slow, deliberate, probing the strange, wet heat, each stroke sending bolts through Ethan's core. His cock pulsed, untouched, pre-cum dripping onto the sheets as Jace's tongue pressed deeper, teasing that raw, alive spot. Ethan's hips bucked, a scream tearing out as he came, cum shooting across his stomach, body convulsing, her laugh sharp in his head.
After, Ethan lay there, sticky, dick soft but holding on. Jace slept, clueless about the storm inside. Lying beside Jace's snoring bulk, cum drying on his stomach, Ethan's violet eyes burned with shame. He wasn't this--a needy mess begging for it. He was a man, damn it, and he'd prove it.
