Coma 8

I didn't know how he'd managed to get me into a pity fuck. I had tried to let him down easy, working toward that for a couple of weeks, nearly as long as our fling had been going on. I didn't think it was my fault that the daddy he'd been two timing left him when he found out. I hadn't known Timothy was in a partnership when we started up our arrangement.

It had been a good arrangement, though. Timothy MacLaren, an orderly at the Bermuda hospital, King Edward VII Memorial, in Bermuda's capital city of Hamilton, was a cute, young trick of nineteen—a Devon-origin, sunny-dispositioned former British sailor, who had been initiated in the Navy and mustered out in Bermuda for his transgressions, was very cuddly and submissive, and he was capable of taking what I had. Some rough-and-tumble British sailors had had their way with him and trained him to complete submission before the Royal Navy decided he was bad for shipboard decorum. In the weeks we were at it, all I had to do was walk into the room and he'd lie on his back, roll his pelvis up, and spread his legs. After several days of such easy compliance, the joy of the taking tended to get a little boring, though. I didn't have to work for it or seize it from him.

I didn't know at the time that he had a live-in arrangement with a Jamaican jewelry store owner, Julius, thirty years older than Timothy. It had started between Timothy and me with a quickie up against the wall of a supplies closet in the hospital where, as a visiting American doctor, I was an orthopedist. Timothy came on to me. We'd happily found that I was as thick and long as his Julius was and that he could quickly adjust to me and take me with his knees hooked on my hips when most other young men took it with much more difficulty. Timothy had been a great lay; I just stood there, holding him and providing the hard shaft, and he fucked himself on it, taking me deep and increasingly vigorously while he whimpered and dug his claws into my shoulder blades. The climax was explosive and fully satiating. It was the start of a lovely affair.

How was I to know that he had an arrangement he relied on for his living or that cuddly would turn into clingy?

I knew he'd be sobby getting the "it's been nice, but so long" news, so I had him drive me out to near Robinson's Marina on the George's Bay peninsula jutting out into the Little Sound southwest of Hamilton Harbour. I had friends who lived off Evans Bay Road on a small cliff above the sound, where there was a good view of the marina and the water-skiers who did their thing in the quiet waters of the sound. The friends were in Florida, so I had Timothy pull his Mini-Cooper convertible—which Julius no doubt had given him and hadn't thought yet to pull back from him when he tossed the young man out of his house—behind the house to the edge of the cliff, where we could look out to the George's Bay peninsula to the east and Hamilton and its harbor to the northeast.

He was near to hysterics when I said it was over, crying of how he was completely abandoned now, how I had toyed with him when he had thrown himself at me, and how my misuse of him and lost him his berth with the Jamaican jewelry shop owner.

"Julius will never take me back now," he wailed.

"I rather think he will," I said soothingly. "I'm sure it will all work for the best." I did think the Jamaican would take Timothy back. He was a big black bull, and, like me, he was hard pressed to find a cute young piece who could open enough to him to take it all without fainting away.

To shush Timothy, I put my arm around him, drew him to me as we sat in the front seat of the Mini-Cooper, and nuzzled his neck. Although he quieted down, cuddling him was a mistake. Before I knew it, we were kissing and he had unzipped and exposed me and was stroking me—and I was doing the same with him. Erect and panting, I made no move to stop him when he rolled over into my lap in the passenger seat of the Mini-Cooper, straddled my lap, and slowly descended his channel on my thick, long, hard shaft. A full journey down to the mingling of curly bush hairs—his blond and mine a reddish auburn—and then a gasping rise until I was afraid I was going to lose him. Then a full descent again. Up down, up down, and I was lost. God he was good.

We were fucking—or, rather, he was fucking himself on me—and moaning and sighing. He disengaged his lips from mine when he knew he had me and, with a contented sigh, burrowed his mop of blond hair into the cleft of my bare chest. I looked out over the sound as he fucked himself on my shaft and I waited for the cum to rise and for the explosion I knew the little vixen could pull from me. That didn't mean, though, that I was going to take over the keep of this expensive little toy. He'd just have to beg Julius to take him back.

Up down, up down. Groan and sigh. I grasped his waist and started helping with the rise and fall, making it rougher, more vigorous. Lifting him and slamming him down.

"Yes, yes. Fuck me. Gititgitit!" he cried out. And I was fully into getting it.

I almost didn't notice the drama unfolding down in the sound. But then, after I tensed, jerk, and fired off deep up inside Timothy, I realized what I was seeing down on the water. There was a water-skier in trouble down there. His boat had brought him too close to the rocks of the shoreline, he'd lost his balance, and he'd careened, floundering, off the tow rope and toward the rocks. A slight, beautiful-bodied young man stood in the stern of the boat and flopped out into the water. It was obvious he couldn't swim, but he was thrashing his way toward the rocks to where the skier was now floating, face down.

Pushing Timothy off me and back over to the driver's seat, I growled. "There's a skier in the water and in trouble down there. Drive us down to the marina as quick as you can." Timothy knew I meant business as I pulled out my cell phone and, first, called the hospital's ambulance boat that was kept, ready to be dispatched, at the Hamilton pier and then the police on 911. Timothy was well-trained as an orderly. He didn't panic. He switched modes as quickly as I did, and we were down in the marina within two minutes.

As I dove into the water, I heard the separate tones of the ambulance and police boats speeding from the Hamilton Harbour. I got to the two men—one young and one appreciably older—in the water near the rocks below Evans Bay Road before the emergency boats reached us. The younger man was floundering, but he'd managed to reach the older one, the man who had been water skiing, and get him flipped over so his head was out of the water. The older man's head was bleeding badly. He was unconscious.

It was all I could do to handle them both before emergency help arrived. That didn't keep me from noticing, however, that the younger man was a black-haired, Apollo beauty, and, without intending to, getting a good feel of him in trying to bring his floundering body under control.

What can I say? He and the older guy had interrupted a good fuck with their water sport drama. Not interrupted, exactly, as I'd gotten a good ejaculation—if a wholly unintended one—with Timothy. But I didn't normally restrict my shoot-offs to one. That had been a nice aspect—well, just one of several, if I was honest—about Timothy. He'd always stayed with me until I was fully drained.

* * * *

"Is he going to be all right? I mean, is he ever going to wake up again and recognize anyone . . . recognize me?"

"I can't say, Kyle," I answered. "I'm an orthopedist, not a neurologist. But Dr. Walker said this could go either way and we probably wouldn't know for days." Walker had told the luscious young man all of this already, but Kyle did look glazed at the time, like he wasn't all here yet himself. He certainly looked all here. I'd taken the ambulance boat with him and the older man, Sir Edmund Sedgwick, who I recognized once we'd gotten him out of the water. Sir Edmund owned and operated the exclusive forty-room Rosedon Hotel on Pitts Bay Road on the northern shore of Hamilton Harbour, in the thick of high life in the Bermuda capital. We'd met—usually at one of the private gay hook-up clubs hidden here and there on the island. We were both tops, so our meetings hadn't been intimate, although I had heard rumors that he wasn't above sharing a young man with another top. I hadn't seen him at the clubs recently and had heard he had settled down in a relationship. If it had been with this young dark-haired beauty with the alabaster skin sitting across the hotel bed with me, I could see why Sir Edmund had taken himself out of circulation.

"His head has taken a nasty hit. His chances all depend on how his brain decides to respond—says Dr. Walker. If it swells, he may not come out of the coma. If not . . . well, we shall see. The coma is a good thing. It forces him to rest without moving around."

"I suppose," Kyle Riley said. He was leaning over the bed, holding Sir Edmund's hand, and I saw a tear drop on the pristine-white sheet. Sir Edmund was in one of the hospital's VIP rooms, as was befitting his position in Bermuda society. The cream of Bermuda society was able to pretend his sexual proclivities didn't exist. I had already ascertained that Kyle, an American, like me, but barely twenty, unlike me, who wouldn't see thirty-five again, worked at the hotel. I highly suspected he also worked under Sir Edmund in bed, and I had ached for him to do the same for me from the moment I dragged him out of the Little Sound.

I had inadvertently gotten a good feel of him while we were struggling in the water and he must have been aware of that and been aroused to me by that from the way he looked at me and clung to me in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

We had gotten to the hospital quickly, which had been critical for Sir Edmund's condition. Both the medics and Kyle had credited that to me, first, by getting to them quickly and second, by having the clout at King Edward VII Memorial Hospital to quickly call the ambulance boat to us and then to clear the way to the hospital, where I was a doctor. I was quite all right with the look of gratefulness Kyle gave me, as, from the moment I groped him in the water, I was lost in lust. But the young man's primary concern and attention had gone to Sir Edmund, and I could see that I wouldn't win points with Kyle in trying to interpose myself between them. The older Englishman must have some connection with the young American that transcended financial support. But then I'd heard that Sir Edmund was an accomplished lover, even at an age that was well north of fifty.

The young man was shivering a bit. He had come in soaked to the skin from his impromptu swim. I'd ordered up a hospital orderly's outfit for him, but the cotton material was thin. I'd insisted on him taking a shower before putting the light-green draw pants and pullover top on, as he'd been in the water of the sea, and I'd managed to stand at an angle that accorded me a full view of him showering. He quite evidently realized I was observing him, because he posed for me in the shower. His sweet little body was as perfectly formed as I had imagined that he would be. Naked he wasn't as pale as it had seemed he was when I pulled him out of the water. He was lightly tanned, but this was primarily evident because there was the outline of a skimpy bathing suit at his pelvis that showed just how alabaster his skin tone could be. I longed to play in that zone with my lips. It was no exaggeration to say that I had immediately been smitten by the young man.

Observing the tan lines from a Speedo on a great body—and being given the opportunity of following the lines with the tips of my fingers and my tongue before centering my attention—was a fetish of mine. I ached to get this young man under me in bed.

"You're shivering," I said. "I'm sorry I didn't find more substantial clothes for you. We'll have to get you home, where you can change into something of your own. I can drive you there." How I would like to take him home. My Jaguar was, indeed, here. Timothy had picked me up at the hospital for the drive out to George's Bay. I briefly thought of Timothy and what had happened to him in all this—but only briefly. A cutoff of our encounter by a medical emergency was probably the best of all exits in the circumstances.

"I can't leave Edmund . . . not until there's some change—either way," Kyle answered.

"It could be days," I said. "But we'll discuss that later."

"Thank you again for saving us," he said. "I don't know how I would have gotten Edmund out of the water if you hadn't been there."

"You did seem to be floundering a bit," I answered.

"I can't swim," he said, sheepishly.

"And yet you jumped in the water without hesitation to try to save Sir Edmund."

"Yes." It was said quietly, and his gaze turned to the man in the coma, a handsome, manly man despite his age. I could see the love in the young man's eyes. I ached for someone to love me like that. Not just anyone, though, I reasoned. I would die for the young American Adonis to exhibit a love for me that he was revealing for Sir Edmund. There, at the moment, I realized that it was more than lust I felt for this young man, Kyle Riley. This was what love felt like. I was smitten and lost to him and it had all happened within the splash of the water in the Little Sound.

And I wasn't so thickheaded that I wasn't able to connect this circumstance—my falling for someone irrevocably taken unless the gods took Sir Edmund away from us—with what had happened before the George's Bay rescue when I had rather callously been breaking off with a young man who proclaimed the same sort of affection for me. It was a plotline worthy of Shakespeare. I wasn't accustomed to being either smitten or placed in a dilemma.

I wanted Sir Edmund to recover. Certainly, I did.

But I wouldn't have rejected being gifted the sexy young Kyle Riley as a reward for having saved Sir Edmund's life. In my mind I already was tonguing the young man's Speedo tan lines.

* * * *

"At the motor court, turn to the right rather than the left. We have a cottage at the edge of the hotel grounds over there."

I followed Kyle's directions and arrived at a one-story bungalow at the top of a cliff down to the harbor with a marvelous view from the back terrace. The young man hadn't bothered to pretend he lived someplace other than with Sir Edmund. I had convinced him that there would be nothing happening with the older man's coma for days, at least, and that he was in good hands at the hospital—that Kyle needed to get some rest and certainly needed to get a change of clothes and something to eat at least. We'd stopped at a restaurant with an outdoor dining area overlooking the harbor after we'd left the hospital. The conversation had been terse and a bit awkward, but polite. The stumbling block seemed to be the "gay" thing—how clearly did I understand his relationship with Sir Edmund and, seemingly incidentally, what was my orientation. I pretty much settled that by noting what clubs—all gay—where I usually encountered the hotel owner.

"Do you want to come in?" he asked when I pulled up to the cottage door on a circular gravel driveway.

"Yes, I'd like that," I said, but what I thought was "Bingo."

"There's a bar over there," he said as we entered the cottage, which was elegantly furnished and covered with oriental rugs. "You can fix us drinks if you like while I change. I'd die for a scotch rocks."

Something had bothered me about the décor in the house as soon as we entered the cottage and I had time after I'd mixed the drinks to walk around the living and dining rooms and sun porch across the back of the house to figure it out. The artwork on the walls was borderline atrocious. But still, it was professionally framed, displayed, and lighted as if everything was a Monet, Cézanne, or Picasso. Picasso or Dali came closest, although I'm not too sure that was comparison the artist was going for. They all seemed to be by a single artist, not one I'd seen represented in galleries on the island, though. It could be considered abstract if it weren't pretty clear that it wasn't meant to be. The display was inexplicable because I knew Sir Edmund to be an art connoisseur, with expensive tastes. Nothing on his walls here met that criteria. Kyle cleared that up when he returned—wearing just a silk robe, which was less clothing than the hospital orderly's garb he'd been wearing before.

I was standing in front of a particularly large and garish lighted sloppy oil painting on a dining room wall when he appeared.

"So, do you like it?" he asked.

"The drink?" I asked, as I handed him his glass. "What's not to like about Glenfiddich?"

"No, not the drink. The painting."

Then it hit me and I managed an "It's interesting."

"It's mine; I painted it. I'm studying to be an artist," he said.

Of course you are, I thought. And at that point I knew it was hopeless to pull him away from Sir Edmund. Not only was it clear that he loved the British hotel owner, but it was equally clear that Sir Edmund was head over heels over Kyle. There would be no other reason a man of any art discernment would put this crap on his walls. That said, my esteem for Sir Edmund rose. He was a romantic. An old romantic, but a romantic nevertheless.

"Let's go to the sofa in the sun room," he said. "It's the most comfortable one in the house."

When we'd settled on the sofa, me at one end and he at the other—in just his loosely draped silk robe—I had taken a couple of swigs of great scotch, and had commented on how terrific the view of Hamilton Harbour was from here, he brushed the robe open almost all the way to the goods, and said, "You saved my life in the sea, and if Edmund lives, you will have saved his life too. I am grateful to you, and I want to find some way to thank you. I don't suppose you would want one of my paintings, though."

He gave me an amused look that told me that he wasn't the least bit naïve about his artistic talent and the value of his paintings on the wall of the cottage. "I didn't ask him to frame and hang them," Kyle said. "He wanted to do that."

"No, really. I was just doing my job. I'm just pleased that I was there to see you and Sir Edmund go into the drink."

"I think I can do more than that. Would you like to fuck me?"

I gagged on the scotch I was drinking and set the glass down on the cocktail table, my hand suddenly shaking. He opened the robe a bit further, showing his cock. He wasn't hung, but he was half erect.

"I know you fuck young men," he said. "Before Edmund went into the rocks, I was surveying the surroundings and saw you and that young guy in the car at the top of the cliff. You were fucking, weren't you?"

"I wouldn't want to take advantage of you," I said, trying to keep my voice steady and not directly responding to his question. "I've seen you with Sir Edmund. I wouldn't want to upset what the two of you have." How ironic, I thought. I hadn't had second thoughts about upsetting what Timothy and Julius had before I fucked Timothy. I didn't know about Julius before I fucked Timothy, but I didn't stop fucking Timothy after I knew about Julius. But now wasn't the time to think about that. I was alone in a house with a luscious young man who had raised one of his feet to the sofa cushion, which opened up my view to his cock and balls and a very sweet-looking anal hole. My hands were shaking and I was hardening up.

"I don't want to fuck you just because you want to show gratitude for what I've done for your lover." I did want to fuck him under any circumstances, of course, but I wanted to be noble about it, at least on the surface. I had no intention of leaving now before I'd fucked the lad.

"Are you saying you don't want to fuck me? What Edmund and I have doesn't include not doing it with someone else if we want to. Edmund fucks other men. And I know he would be grateful enough to you for what you've done that he would give you anything you wanted. You fucking me wouldn't make me love Edmund any less. Don't you want me?" He untied the sash of his robe and opened it fully to reveal his perfect little body. He was hardening up, but he wasn't keeping up with my progress in that department. He opened a drawer in a lamp stand beside the sofa, fished out a bottle of lube and a handful of condom disks. He then turned sideways on the sofa and spread his legs, positioning a pillow under the small of his back, elevating his pelvis. He was completely open to me. "Edmund would just want you to wear a rubber."