Room 503

Copyrighted 2001. This story may not be posted, traded, or published without the written permission of Suzie Samuels.

Bernard had been a paraplegic since the ice storm of 1999. On that twisty-turny section of I-95 in West Virginia he'd rolled his tractor-trailer rig down the side of the mountain. He had been less than three miles from home. So close but, so far. If only he could turn back the clock. For a long time he had railed on why fate had dealt him this horrific hand. Much of the time, he was filled with hate and morose for what he had lost. The truth was, he was lucky to be alive.

Bernard had been a big strapping man of six feet give or take an inch or so. He’d been the solid outdoors type that kept himself in excellent shape. He had muscles in all the right places. His fellow truckers used to laugh at him when he’d carefully chose his meals making sure that he ate just the right balance of foods. If someone ordered coconut cream pie he'd gulp down his food and leave. He knew his weaknesses and he did not want to test his willpower to the breaking point.

Bernard had been in love with the adventurous Sheila. He worshipped her, but they’d never married. Now he couldn't remember whose fault it was that they'd never formalized their living arrangement. It just never happened, not that the wedding ring would have made a whole lot of difference, but then he could have said he had been married. Bernard thought it might have made a difference. It would have added to his sense of martyrdom or so he supposed. They'd been together for several years; as long as the money and the good times rolled she'd stuck with him.

Sheila had walked out when the Doc said, "sorry my boy, but life isn't fair and you're going to have to face the fact that you'll never walk again." Sobbing, Bernard had buried his face in his hands, his life shattered. He cried for what fate had stolen from him while in the prime of his life. At twenty-seven his whole world had crashed and burned just like his rig. How dare the Doctor say he was lucky to be alive?

He expected to feel Sheila's hands encircle him as he wept. He expected her to cradle him to her bosom as she ran her hands through his light brown hair. He assumed she would keen with him, cooing in her melodious tone, "Bernie you'll be OK, I'm here. We'll make it."

Nothing. Just the Doctor's monologue about why he was paralyzed and how life would be different but would continue, "Bernard you must remember, you're lucky to be alive at all, after that crash. But you can be retrained and you'll live a productive life, you'll see. We'll start your therapy and rehab right away. Honest Bernard things will work out"

He wept. His heart was broken. He was inconsolable.

Seven months and three days later, the rehab center graduated him. They proclaimed him ready to take his place as a productive member of society. They, his counselors, even had a job all lined up for him. He didn't go.

His apartment was gone, the landlord and Sheila had cleaned him out. Having been an independent hauler, he, like many of his trucker-brothers, worked without adequate resources for rainy days, so there was little money to maintain the lifestyle he'd shared with Sheila. But of course she wasn't there, so what did it matter where he went or how he lived? He was just a shell. His rehabilitation counselor had called him emotionally bankrupt.

He did have some disability insurance and if he was frugal he could get by without going to that hateful job. Fortunately the policy had given him enough that with careful budgeting he'd been able to rent what was called an efficiency apartment in an old building that had a working elevator. Well, it worked most of the time. When it didn't he was stuck in his apartment. Today he was stuck. But that was OK because he wasn't going anywhere. He was watching.

On that rainy day he dismally looked around his apartment and he knew why they called them efficiency apartments. He could reach everything without moving. With a shrug he reconciled there was only himself and he seldom had any company so it was okay. He did miss the old place and he missed the freedom of the road even more. Mostly, though, he missed Sheila.

He heard Sheila had married well within months of walking out on him. She had sent him an announcement, but it he didn't receive it until two weeks after he was released from the rehab center. It had taken a while for them to forward it on to him. He wished they hadn't bothered. He threw it in the garbage. Initially he wanted to hurt her but through prayer he had tried to reconcile her marriage.

Bernard was lucky his apartment was on a corner and his living room was in the turret of the old place. He had a box seat to watch life. Sitting in the center he could watch the world go by. On sunny days it was a warm cozy place, but on days like today it was draughty. However he just wore his winter coat so he could people-watch and see and hear his beloved big rigs flying up and down the freeway just a block over. He was saving his money for a CB radio.

Sitting in his wheelchair he could watch the kids go to school at the end of the block or the old women shuffling in and out of the church next door. In the opposite direction, down the block, was an old-fashioned community pub that had a patio and on nice days he could watch the old farts placing chess or Chinese checkers. Sometimes on his good days, he'd join them.

Opposite him was a hotel. Fifty years ago when this had been a better section of town, more upscale, The Windsor Hotel had been the center of its social life. Now it looked liked a tired old dowager that was out of money but still attempted to put on the face of respectability. It was only five stories and since he was in the penthouse of his four-story building, he spent a lot of time watching the comings and goings at The Windsor.

They made the best smelling French fries. When he received his disability check he’d dress in his Sunday best then splurge by ordering large fries, a rib-eye steak and a draft. For those few minutes every week he was a dime store millionaire when buying a couple of the hangers-on a draft also. They’d become his only friends. One of them would always push him home, though they seldom stayed. He would have enjoyed the company, but they could walk. He was alone. Occasionally one of his drinking buddies would wave up at him from the street. It made it all worthwhile.

The first time he saw her, he was finishing his solitary lunch and the boys were swarming looking awaiting his statement, "the next round's on me." Across the bar cum dining room he watched as she stood with her back to him, but he knew.

She was dressed to the nines in a full-length mink coat. Her hair was the same, still a mass of cascading flaming red curls. It looked like she'd lost weight, hard to tell with that coat, but her legs looked more slender. Her stance said, look at me. He didn't think she had seen him in the darkened room. It was enough that he had seen her. He knew it was his Sheila. His heart soared. He pushed back from the table, about to roll out to meet her, when she turned and walked out the door. His last glimpse of her was through the spray of the old- fashion fountain. "Sheila," the words died on his lips. His heart crashed.

That day he didn't finish his lunch nor buy his buds a drink. He rolled himself back to his apartment through the February slush. No one volunteered to assist him and he was too proud to ask. The elevator was broke again and he had to stay his rage until the repairman was finished. That night he drank two beers, blowing the budget, but who cared. "Why was she there? Had she come to meet me and then lost her nerve?" He'd have called her, if he had a phone and if he knew her last name. Instead he mourned her all over again. He was bereft.

The next time he saw her he'd just returned from his daily constitutional, his roll around the block. He watched her get out of an uptown cab and tiptoe into the Windsor through the slush. Bernard sat with his fingers crossed for several hours hoping against hope that he'd see her again. Finally he had to pee so bad his teeth were floating.

At dusk he wheeled himself over and asked Paul on the front desk what room she was in. He was going to go knock on her door. He was sure he was there to see him. There was no one by that name registered. He wished he'd saved that announcement. But Paul, the friend that he was, told Bernard that she had left about two hours ago on the arm of a tall well-dressed older gentleman.

Paul forestalled Bernard's question by saying, "my lips are sealed. Our guests deserve to have their privacy protected; it is The Windsor's policy." Leaning over the counter, he whispered, "but I'll tell you this much, even though I shouldn't. It was their third time this month." He smiled and condescendingly patted Bernard's hand. Bernard rolled out in a rage.

He missed Paul saying, "next Wednesday, one o'clock." Paul shrugged and turned to his next paying client with a solicitous smile. "May I be of assistance sir?"

Bernard was broken hearted. He'd been sure that Sheila was lurking around just trying to get up her nerve to seek him out. Well, that's what he tried to tell himself. Now he was curious. 'Why was she here on the other side of town? Why the Windsor?' he mused catching his image in the darkened windows. Normally he stopped his neighborhood surveillance at nightfall, supposedly to make some dinner for himself, but the truth of the matter was, he didn't like seeing the reflection of himself in the wheelchair.

He watched. He waited. He ate. He even cleaned the windows as high as he could reach. He waited. He prayed he'd catch another glimpse of her. He waited.

Good things come to those that wait! One week to the day, the weather was typical for March, snow on the ground in the morning but by noon it's too warm for a coat. He watched holding his breath as a Yellow Cab pulled up to the front door. The sun caught her red hair creating a halo as she exited the cab. She looked even more beautiful.

She straightened her skin-tight green leather skirt by giving it a tug and then running her hands down over her thighs suggestively. Bernard remembered Sheila's love for all things leather. Just her actions evoked memories of her heady woman-scent combined with the leather's tannin, as he'd ease off her tight leather slacks. He was afraid to give into the urge to close his eyes and just relish in his memories of her scent. She might disappear.

Sheila looked his way and shook her head letting the brisk breeze blow her fine hair off her face. Bernard hated to admit it but she looked radiant. She wheeled. She raised her hand in recognition. In her high heels she sashayed towards the tall older gent who was approaching. He looked familiar.

Bernard paid him no attention; he had eyes only for his beloved. Sheila had always had the best looking legs and she still held the record, thin, almost dainty ankles that curved up into the well-defined calves of a dancer. Bernard remembered fondly her solid thighs without an ounce of fat and the softest skin on the inside of her thighs just where they met her bush. Her ass looked nicely rounded with absolutely no sag. His mouth watered thinking about the tart taste of her nectar.

He hung his head in defeat. His life was over and she was living hers. The floodgates opened and he sobbed.

Idly, through tear soaked eyelashes, he continued his vigil. Movement caught his eye. Lazily, automatically, hardly even being aware of his actions he glanced across. His breath caught. His heart rate accelerated. He felt it echoing in his ears. Straight across was a window with open drapes that reminded him of how a stage was framed. He felt like he was being given a private performance. It was like one of those peep shows, but this one was live and he intimately knew the female lead. He worried his lowered lip.

He adjusted his chair reaching for his binoculars. Carefully he cleaned the lens never taking his eyes off the play. His Sheila was in the arms of the salt and pepper hair man. Their embrace was familiar; he just knew this wasn't their first time. He raised the glasses, adjusting them, sharpening the focus. It made it seem like he was sitting on the windowsill. Bernard had a box seat to the seduction.

He watched as hands kneaded his Sheila's leather-clad ass. In his mind's eye it was his hands doing the kneading just like he'd done for years until that fateful decree. They might have been welded together at the lips, their kiss was intense lasting far longer than he thought possible. Sheila's mini slowly rose ever higher until the lacy tops of her black hose showed. She obviously was wearing a black garter belt. Bernard watched as hands other than his worked her skirt higher and higher bunching it at her slim waist until her bare ass showed.

"Oh Sheila," he moaned remembering the feel of her soft translucent skin. Sheila was athletic and therefore had muscles in all the right spots too. Bernard's hands opened and closed as he imagined kneading her tanned ass. Sheila always had a tan, summer and winter, and he remembered there were never any tan lines. Sheila thought tan lines were sacrilege. He vicariously kneaded her ass pulling her up and onto his cock.

Reaching down to his crotch he felt his flaccid cock lying useless between his legs. Momentarily he was surprised, he'd been sure he had an erection, he could feel it. It felt wonderful. It gave him hope. "Fuck," he growled. If only he'd been born with a longer at rest cock then perhaps he won't feel quite so castrated with this lifeless piece of spongy tissue. "Fuck!" he screamed to the heavens. He pounded the arms of his wheelchair. A solo sob escaped as once again he faced his disability.

"It should be me touching Sheila," he screamed. He slumped broken in his chair, gasping, attempting to still the tears.

Slowly he put the glasses back to his eyes focusing on the stage across the street. Sheila was standing looking out the window stark naked. It was as if she was looking right across at him, but he knew that she could not see in as his apartment was in darkness. He was glad the couple was not conserving electricity. He hoped they continued without turning off the lights.

The tall gray haired man approached Sheila and wrapped his arms around her playing with her nipples. Bernard remembered the wonderful half moan of ecstasy and half groan of pain that Sheila made as her nipples awakened. He remembered how wet she'd become just from nipple manipulation. He wondered if this man who was nuzzling her neck could make her as wet.

As if on cue his fingers snaked down slowly, teasingly, over her still taut tummy, stopping to circle her bellybutton before progressing. Bernard watched as the interloper's knee pried Sheila's legs open. She took the hint, adjusting her stance, giving him access to her nether region. Bernard noticed that now Sheila was nude between her legs. He sadly shook his head; he'd loved her bush of golden red curls down there.

He was amazed at the display these two were putting on right in front of the window. He wondered how many of his neighbors were watching their performance as well. He'd find out later. There'd be talk. He just hoped old Mrs. Jenkins was busy with her soaps or she would be on the phone complaining about the obscenity taking place in room 503. He prayed that the old woman would mind her own business because he wanted to see it all.

Long fingers unlike Bernard's thick workingman's fingers opened Sheila's labia. He watched as they circled her clit. Obviously Sheila enjoyed it; she pushed forward against the stranger's hand. Bernard could hear his Sheila moaning, in his mind he could hear her breathing quicken. With his spyglasses glued to his eyes he watched as this still faceless stranger's fingers pushed into her pussy. "Ah, to hell with her, I can call it her cunt now. In fact she is a cunt. My gawd she's suppose to be married and here she is fucking someone on the wrong side of town," he said aloud putting more emphasis on every word. "Cunt, cunt...!" he continued vehemently. It felt good to rage at the woman who'd betrayed him.

Glistening wet fingers appeared. They approached Sheila's mouth circling her lips. Her tongue licked the length of his offering. Slowly she sucked the proffered index finger into her mouth. Bernard remembered the vacuum she had when she chose. She repeated with the stranger's other finger. Her green eyes looked like she was dreaming of something else. He hoped she was thinking of how she'd suck his fingers and then his cock before Bernard would settle in for his snack. Bernard remembered how she used to exclaim that sucking his fingers filled her mouth fuller than her previous lover's cock.

Redipped fingers approached the stranger's mouth. For the first time Bernard focused on Sheila's paramour, he wished he hadn't. "Holy shit! Can't be!" he stared, his eyes half closed as he dug through his memory's data bank. "How's that possible?" He shrugged, "anything's possible. But Sheila fucking Doc Smith-Jones. Why? How long?" He laughed right out loud, his boisterous belly laugh bouncing off the walls.

"Well, I'll be damned, now I've seen it all. Sheila and old Doc going at it. I wonder if she's still married?" he mused aloud. It was his habit to talk to himself aloud; he did it as his form of company since he was always alone. He readjusted his chair.

"Gawd, she's still the hottest slut I've ever seen."

Bernard reminisced about the Doc. He had seemed so aloof when he'd been Bernard's ortho specialist after the accident. He tried to remember if he had ever seen either Sheila or the Doc giving sideways glances at the other back then. He hated to admit they could've fucked in the next bed and he likely wouldn't have noticed. The Doc had kept him pretty doped up for a long time and he'd been unconscious for several days before that too. Maybe he'd offered Sheila solace on his examining table or maybe she'd been the initiator.

She'd never been able to go more than a couple of days without a good fuck. In fact he'd given up long hauls in order to keep her happy in bed, but then it suited him too. They'd been well matched in bed. "Hell we spent half our life fuckin' and the other half wishing we were fuckin'."

Bernard was in awe of the older man as he easily lifted Sheila into his arms. She pulled the drapes shut, as he turned moving towards to the bed.

He pounded the arms of the chair, "for fuck's sake why'd she do that?" He so wanted to see her get fucked. "Damn it to hell." He carefully placed the binoculars on the table.

Rubbing his eyes he ruminated about what to do with the knowledge. He wanted to track her down and let her know that he'd seen it all. He was sure he could if he called where she worked. Maybe he could get some money out of her or would it be better to just tell her hubby about what a slut he'd married. "Maybe it's the Doc I should go after," he said as he chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Well that's why I've seen her on Wednesdays, he likely takes the afternoon off. All Doctors do, don't they?" he nattered away to himself.

"Wonder how old that shit is anyway? I bet he's over fifty. What's Sheila see in an old man like that? Wonder what happens when it's golf season? " He laughed at his joke. He remembered Smith-Jones loved golf.

Bernard remembered that the man had been in wonderful physical shape back when he'd been his Doc. Bernard had hated him, though as a doctor, he’d been nothing but caring and compassionate. Bernard still hated him because he was the one that had decreed the verdict that he'd never walk. He sat pummeling the arms of the chair at the unfairness of life wishing not for the first time that he could slug that man.