The pain brought her to her knees, then pitched her forward, her face to the floor. If she had been in a yoga class, it would have been called Child's Pose and she would have been calm, relaxed, perhaps even in a state of bliss. Instead, she was rigid, either in the grip of a wave of agony, or simply in anticipation of the next horrid spasm.
"Breathe; just breathe," I urged. "Okay? In through your nose, count of four. Out through your mouth, count of four."
She seemed to be listening, but instead of relaxing, she whimpered in a strained, thin voice, "Oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuck!" I couldn't be sure, but I think she might have been crying, as well. Softly, though, so softly. "So damn much pain," she moaned.
"C'mon, sweetie, work with me here." I first remonstrated, then demonstrated, counting as I inhaled, by way of example: "One, two, three, four," I intoned. I exhaled, counting, still in a low voice, "One, two, three, four". She began to follow me, tentatively, counting along with me, perhaps relaxing, ever so slightly.
A couple of hours earlier that evening, Vee had called me in a panic. "I'm in deep shit here, buddy. I'm at the hospital and they say I've got kidney stones, and they're not big enough to justify a procedure, but they're big enough that they're going to be a bitch to pass." This had come out in a rush, as if she were racing something. Then the "something" had happened and the line went almost silent, and I could hear her subvocally, in a prolonged expression of quiet desperation.
"Don't move, Vee. I'll be there in..." I had reflexively looked at my watch. "I'll be there in ten minutes! Don't move; I've got you." Without pause, I had hung up and grabbed my jacket. The door had slammed behind me, hard enough to rattle the windows.
Now she was on my floor at the foot of the bed. The bed had proven impossible; she couldn't do it. She was utterly immobilized, wracked by paroxysms of pain.
Look, folks, please don't judge me, but I think there's something terribly wrong with me. "Damsel In Distress Syndrome, perhaps," I thought. No, that was too complimentary to me. I'm clearly,
clearly
one very fucked up human being. Seeing her there on my floor, she was obviously a damsel, and even more obviously in great distress. My heart was swelling with empathy for her. However, to my profound chagrin, that's not all that was swelling! I hated that I was immensely (and perversely) turned on. She was in pain, dammit! What was wrong with me? I put my hand on the small of her pretty back and gently massaged from side to side, across her aching kidneys. Her posture had the effect of making her fulsome backside look bigger than usual. I gaped at it, admiringly. In her yoga pants, it looked like a big, lovely valentine, a perfect visual representation of a perfect heart. My pants grew tighter.
I hated myself! As a distraction, I got up and fetched a couple of hand towels from the master bathroom, and dampening them, nuked them in the microwave I keep in the bedroom for late-night popcorn. I laid the warm towels gently across her lumbar area and was rewarded by her soft sigh.
See, it seemed that we had always been friends,
good
friends, relaxed and easy in each other's company. Yes, she was smart and funny, and
so attractive,
but we had never really crossed any romantic or sexual lines before, not
ever!
It had never even occurred to me. Now I was suddenly seeing her in a new light. She tensed again, as a fresh wave a pain wracked her poor body.
As I knelt by her side, I found one errant hand suddenly and inexplicably on her sweetly rounded buttocks. With my other hand, I held her face. I realized that I had always loved her face! It was even more exciting for me to cradle it now, at least as exciting as cupping her plump bottom. Her ragged breathing stopped and her head slowly turned to one side, looking at me over her shoulder. I felt self-conscious, now, realizing that she was fixing me with an appraising gaze with one wide eye. She wasn't objecting,
per se
, just observing. At least she didn't seem to be in pain in that moment. I moved my hand slowly and made some soothing sounds.
"Don't stop breathing, Vee," I said encouragingly. "In and out, slowly, okay?" My hand moved in what I vainly hoped was not too blatantly sexual. "How are you feeling?" I chirped.
"Not so bad, right now," she said in a very neutral tone. She kept me uncomfortably skewered with that appraising eye. With a mind of its own, my hand seemed to be now moving slowly up and down her soft buttock from top to bottom, for at least a minute. It was a very long minute, marked by her slow breathing. She didn't seem to mind, and I wasn't aware that I did either. My conscience was certainly unconcerned. In fact, my pants felt distinctly just a wee bit sticky. In the same soothing way, I slid my hand lower, stroking her thigh, and almost as if by accident, grazed her crotch, rubbing the outer lip of her vagina through the thin material of her leggings. She sighed and (Did I imagine it?) moved her hips ever so slightly, the pain of her kidneys apparently forgotten for the moment.
"That's right, slow breathing," I murmured. I looked down. There was no obvious panty line, and the shape of her vagina was clearly visible. With my thumb and forefinger, I gently pinched it, still stroking. She inhaled sharply and slowly exhaled, rising up from Child's Pose onto her elbows and knees. Her bottom was looking very, very nice, indeed!
"Keep breathing, Vee. One, two, three, four," I said, stupidly.
"One, two, three, four," she repeated, dutifully. "One, two, three, four. One, two, three, fuhhh..." This last was uttered with some contentment. "Fuhhh... FUHHH..."
