Better Than Before

(All characters are at least 18 years old. Warning: Prostate fingering.)

-----

The doctor paged through the sheaf on the clipboard. He looked baffled, unable to project the all-knowing authority of his white coat with his embroidered name. "I never thought you'd get this far, Murphy," he said. "And

definitely

not this soon."

The young man smiled. "Maybe you don't give enough credit to your treatment, Doc. I never knew stuff like this existed. Electro-stim? Sure feels weird at the time, but it must be doing something."

"You're too kind," said the doctor, sounding annoyed. "I still have to caution you about too much optimism. You might never get out of the wheelchair. Be ready to accept your limit, whatever it is." His eyes shifted slightly to the left. "And that goes for the support network, too. Cheryl, you've done a great job of boosting Murphy's morale through all this, but you have to be prepared, emotionally, if there's a setback."

"I understand, Doctor," said the young woman. "But we have our hopes. My husband and I still hope to have a family, and for Murphy to be the children's strong, active father."

The doctor wondered if what he'd said had entered the couple's ears. "Hope," he said, standing. "Well, all right, see you in two weeks." He shook the Donavans' hands, and left the interview room, still puzzled by what he saw on the clipboard.

Behind him, Murphy and Cheryl shared a glance. Knowing. Mischievous.

Cheryl briskly guided Murphy's chair out of the room, moving on to the next items on the schedule. In the same building, Murphy had his scheduled electro-stim session. Then Cheryl whisked him into the car, deftly folding the wheelchair and hefting it into the trunk, and drove to the physical therapy franchise. After getting him into the chair and through the door, Cheryl drove to her dance class.

As always, she was relieved that this class was taught in an inside room. She would not have wanted anyone out on the sidewalk to see her doing this.

Her energy was even higher when she picked Murphy up.

He noticed. "You liked this one?"

She limited herself to a raised eyebrow. "Not as much as you will."

Once they were home, the workday began. The apartment wasn't large, but it was long, so Cheryl could sit by the back door while Murphy parked the wheelchair by the bay window in front. This way each could talk on the phone and refer to their laptops without disturbing the other, and resolve at least a few complaints when customers called their help lines.

Cheryl logged off first, and made dinner. When Murphy wheeled in to the kitchen, she asked, "Feel anything in the legs?"

"Twinges now and then. Like yesterday. In PT today, hand-walking on the bars, I could balance on each leg taking full weight, but I didn't actually feel anything but pressure. I guess in the bones."

"That means the muscles are strengthening," she said, all businesslike, ladling stew into bowls. "They'll be able to move everything when the time comes."

The rest of dinner conversation was about work. Each vented about angry callers to whom they had to be nice.

At dinner's end, Cheryl picked up the bowls and leaned to kiss Murphy on the forehead. "Go get in the mood," she told him.

Murphy wheeled into the living room, feeling skittish for the first time that day.

This must be working,

he told himself.

Doc Hansen said as much, by not understanding why. If this gets me back on my feet, it's worth it. And nobody else has to know.

Moving the chair through the bay and the living room, he closed all the drapes and blinds. He set the chair to face the TV, and locked the wheels. He picked up the remote and clicked through to what had become very familiar.

The screen glowed to show him a golden-haired woman dancing in a silvery wrap dress. She looked a little like Cheryl. Older than his wife, but still in what he'd call her prime. She moved to jazzy, instrumental music, heavy on the brass.

Murphy pulled his belt free of the buckle.

The dancer twirled, the dress fanning out from her legs. Then, from hand movements he couldn't quite make out, she detached the dress, and on the next spin it flew away from her body.

Murphy got his elbows on the armrests, and extended his upper arms enough to lift his trunk above the chair seat. His hands pushed his pants and shorts down to his thighs. Just past the transition point, from where he could feel things in contact with his legs, to where he couldn't.

The dancer, now in a spangled bra and thong, quick-stepped forward. The camera pulled back, showing in the lower foreground the torso and thighs of a man lying on his back. Nude.

Murphy couldn't help but glance at his own lap. His prick was immobile, but he could feel various sensations, twitches and flexings, around there.

He kept his hands away.

The dancer rubbed up against the man in the foreground. Soon she doffed the bra and thong, while still moving to the music.

Murphy licked his lips as her breasts leaned close to fill the screen.

The dancer lifted into view the man's penis. After some licks and strokes, maintaining the rhythm, she threw a leg over the torso and mounted the man.

Murphy pulled off his sweat shirt. What he felt below his navel was still chaotic and uncontrolled, but now more intense and widespread.

The dancer inserted the penis in her hairless vulva, and rode it, lush breasts bobbing, still timed to the music.

Murphy gripped the chair arms, knuckles going white.

Then there was a louder burst of music, from the speakers all around the living room.

Murphy unlocked the chair and moved it, to center it below the exercise structure that now sprawled across much of the room's space, like a swingset that was mistakenly assembled indoors. He grabbed the handholds that descended from the structure like a gymnast's still rings, hefted himself out of the chair, and lowered his damaged spine onto the low, narrow weight bench.

He was now aimed at the hallway, and from there, Cheryl swooped in, white bathrobe showing her bare legs.

As she approached her husband, she told herself her usual excuse:

It's like acting, in a school pageant. This doesn't have to be me. I'm only doing this for him.

This helped her justify her excitement, which she had also tried to deny during the dance class.

Cheryl pulled away Murphy's pants and shorts. She lifted his legs, and secured them in slings also attached to the structure above. He took what control he could, using his hands on the floor to center his back on the bench. This didn't alter his awareness that his raised, splayed legs revealed to the open air his cock, balls, taint, and asshole, none of which he could move.

Except...

His cock had stiffened, and he flexed it.

He wanted to tell Cheryl, but she had just started a very nasty dance to Aerosmith's "Rag Doll," a hit long before they were born.

Unlike what Murphy had just seen on video, Cheryl's dance was close to him the whole time, above his head and along his sides, so he didn't have to crane his neck to see between his legs. He still didn't know what to think as he watched his wife, nearly always reserved and modest, sliding hands inside her robe and between her legs, while biting her lower lip. But she had his totally riveted attention.

Cheryl did her own spin-away of the robe, revealing lacy dainties she had been gifted at her bridal shower, and never wore until after Murphy's accident. She slid the robe down his belly and along the insides of his thighs, clearly looking for some kind of muscle reaction.

Murphy smiled, hoping she'd find out on her own about what he'd felt.

Cheryl spent the next few minutes doing things she'd never done before marriage, never even on the honeymoon. After detaching the bra in the back, she pushed her chest onto Murphy's face. He caught on, pulling the bra away with his teeth. She then shook the breasts, smaller than those in the video, anywhere and everywhere around her husband, mashing them at his mouth a few times. Then she peeled off her underwear and did the same with her buttocks, although she was sure that what she did wouldn't count as twerking.

Cheryl had legs shorter than the video dancer's, but they were long enough for her to stand athwart the weight bench and Murphy's body, with her feet on the floor. She lowered her crotch, now damp with more than sweat, to Murphy's face, and brought her hands and mouth to his prick.

As she put his glans in her mouth, Cheryl hoped at first that nothing would change, that his penis would do no more than expand from blood flow, and otherwise remain insensate.

No,

she told herself,

if it never improves, why do this at all?

Murphy didn't like to eat pussy. He had always avoided it. But starting with the first session of his wife's unique form of rehab, the excitement spurred him to do what he could, because she did so very much to revive him.

And, on that subject--

"It moved!" Cheryl yelped. "Did you do that?"

"Some of it, I think."

"Ohhhhh!" she said, shifting further down his body. Accomplishment thrilled her. As she stroked his phallus, it didn't just thicken. It stiffened.

He knew what was coming next. Even with his limited nerves and muscles, he hated it. But he couldn't deny that it seemed to work.

Pumping his dick with one hand, Cheryl drove three fingers of the other hand up his asshole.

He whimpered. But then he said, "It doesn't just hurt! Is that the prostate?"

"Sure is, Honey," she gasped. After three more yanks of the prick, she added, "Tonight, you're going in!"

"Really?" he wheezed. He'd been thick before, and felt it somewhat, when she'd jerked him. There was more of that now, but also heat, very familiar, long absent.

Cheryl pulled something out of her necklace. A foil square, which she opened with one hand and her teeth.

"A condom?" he croaked.

"No kids until you can walk!" she said, looking over her shoulder, panting, hair a total mess.

He thought he felt the latex as it engulfed him. Maybe the sliminess.

Unlike in the video, Cheryl faced away from him as she worked the shaft into her tunnel, arcing her spine to get full insertion, with her thighs up against his. And she kept cramming the fingers up his ass, which he could definitely feel, and wondered if she was shoving his prostate past his balls and into his putz.

Only now, with something thick sliding along her walls, pressing against them, did Cheryl realize how long she'd been empty there

Murphy felt more heat. A pinching sensation. Then something that made him yell.

Sometime after that, Cheryl faced front, feet on the floor on either side of the bench. She gripped his ears while kissing him, laughing while crying.

-----

In bed, close to nodding off, Murphy said, "I'm tired. Definitely the after-sex kind. Without feeling that much of the sex itself."

"You made love to your wife," she half-whispered, right at the limit of her bluntness in talking about sex. "Did you think you'd ever do that again?"

"You're 'mazing. Never gonna doubt you." Then snoring began.

Fatigue pressed down on Cheryl like an anvil. Yet contentment, and triumph, kept her awake. Now, being this close to gaining a lover for her body, she defied Dr. Hansen and had even more hope to gain a father for her children.

The settlement with the trucking company included six million dollars in punitive damages, but that was in deferred payments. The actual damages, going to medical and rehabilitative care, was being paid at once, as needed.

He's the six million dollar man,

she thought, looking at the dim shape under the blanket next to her. She had watched some episodes of that old TV show, and found them pretty boring. But she had adapted one of the show's catchphrases about bionic improvement.

I can make him better than he was before.

Her web searches, while Murphy was still in the hospital, were random. She grasped at anything that someone claimed was worth trying. She no longer remembered who had posted the assertion that, in a severe spinal injury, one should find something below the spine that responded to a stimulus, through nerves or muscles. Then force it to keep responding, so that it would arouse and heal other nerves and muscles, and the spinal cord itself. One recommended 'something' was fingering of the prostate gland.

By the time Murphy was home from the hospital, Cheryl had forced herself to get over her nausea and disgust.

She believed that she loved Murphy, or at least was happy to live with him. He was nice to her, even after losing the use of half of his body.

The only problem was, he had never been any good in bed.

She had never been able to tell him that.

He seemed to accept it when she had told him how good the sex was.

She had never had an orgasm.

Tonight, riding his prick, she felt new sensations, and thrills, and a pleasure that seemed like it promised more.

I can't feel good about my husband getting hit by a truck.

Can I?

He cooperated with all of her plans, and allowed her do awful things to him. She didn't like reaming his ass any more than he did. But...

She imagined Murphy walking up to her, taking her in his arms, and being very, very good in bed.

Cheryl now had her best reason ever, to keep acting like someone she wasn't, or hoped she wasn't. That's what she had to do to rebuild him. Better than before.