Del’s widow, Donna dried her tears and surveyed the group of perhaps twenty people assembled at the graveside. She nodded to neighbors Carmen and Franco. She caught the eye of Del’s boss, Brad, who shook his head and shifted his gaze to the ground. She tried, but couldn’t force herself to acknowledge the stare of her husband’s orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Ferguson. He was doing his best to melt into the crowd. Standing beside him was a young blond woman Donna recognized as a resident from Valley View Hospital. She was bouncing a chubby five or six-month-old baby on her hip.

Off to the left was a group of ten or twelve people Donna didn’t recognize. She assumed they were perhaps executives from Del’s work and their spouses. They certainly were well-dressed: black suits, black dresses, and black umbrellas. Donna wiped a tear or raindrop from her cheek and looked harder at the group.

REWIND FIFTEEN MONTHS

I awoke at six when the rounding orthopedic surgery team entered my room. I recognized Dr. Kim (all business this morning). A tall gentleman introduced himself as Dr. Ferguson, the attending orthopedic sports physician. Three medical students seemed like bumps on a log.

Dr. Kim read a quick clinical summary from an iPad; then carefully pulled back the sheet to expose his Ace-wrapped thigh. She demurely tucked Dr. Dick under the sheet and donned a pair of nitrile gloves. Using bandage scissors, she peeled off the wrap, exposing the two gross wounds. The ends of the greasy, yellow gauze packing hung from each like uncooked bacon.

Dr. Ferguson leaned in to inspect the gore, arose, and uttered, “Have the nurses rewrap it, home health for dressing changes, office next week.” Dr. Personality then walked out the door.

A clerk walked in as I was finishing a typical hospital breakfast of weak coffee, Tang, a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal, and two links of turkey sausage. She suggested she would be handling my discharge. She looked at her tablet and mumbled, “You’re Mister, ahem; I think I’ll just spell your name: R-e-n-e D-e-l-a-c-r-o-i-x. Is that correct?”

“You can call me Del.”

She repeated the admission wallet biopsy, detailed the home visits by a member of the orthopedic team, and asked about my conveyance home.

Whoops, I hadn’t given it much thought. Donna was still out of town, so I stated the obvious. I’d get an Uber.

Ms. iPad almost lost it, “No sir, that’s just not allowed. What if you have a medical emergency.”

What I thought was Donna (even if she came home a day early) wouldn’t be much help if I somehow had a conniption at the corner of Main and Sycamore; but what I said (with my fingers crossed under the sheet) was that I’d call my sister. She didn’t need to know I was an only child.

I didn’t want to impose on Carmen or Franco and I certainly didn’t want my boss to know I was “out and about” when Donna was out of town. I looked at my phone. The last person I’d called was Jean. Right, Roy’s Jean. What the hell? I hit redial.

Jean got pretty excited about the accident and the injuries. She lamented not forcing me to spend the night and sober up. I told her I was a big boy and any blame resided squarely with me. I asked for the favor.

Jean said she had an eight o’clock tennis lesson; but she’d ask Meg, who was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and nursing a hangover. I surmised she had stayed over. Being the prick that I am, I wondered whether I might have nailed her if I’d spent the night. My fantasy was interrupted by Jean. “Meg says sure. Give her an hour to finish her coffee and get showered. She’ll text you when she gets to Valley View.”

Meg was pretty spot on with her timing: sixty-five minutes. We shared small talk on the way to my house. Each of us avoided mentioning sex. About the most she suggested was, “We missed you.”

Meg helped me in and pulled out a kitchen chair for me. “You look like you could use a good cup of coffee. Had breakfast yet?”

I told her not really and detailed the hospital’s idea of food. She went “Bluh” and suggested I get cleaned up while the coffee was brewing.

I must have looked incredulous. She read my mind, “I guess you didn’t know I’m a nurse. Yes, you can shower! You can remove the shoulder immobilizer for bathing. Just keep your arm near your chest. You said you have a dressing on your leg? Saran Wrap. Get started. I’ll be in in a jif.”

I wandered back to the master bathroom and tried to remove the brace using only my right hand. No go. Well, at least I can get the shower warmed up and brush my teeth, I thought. Right. I gave up and was ready to call my private duty nurse, when lo-and-behold, there she was in the doorway with a smirk on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand, “You’re quite the invalid. Here, be careful, it’s hot. Sip it while I get you out of that gizmo.”

Meg proceeded to remove the wide Velcro chest component and slip the sling off my neck. I put the Java down begrudgingly on the vanity and squirmed out of the ridiculously large scrub top the hospital had given me. Meg stood in front of me and placed her hands on my pecs. “Um. Let’s get you out of your dad’s bottoms.” They were like large clown pants.

She slowly ran her hands down my hairy chest and across the ridges of my six-pack to the drawstring. She pulled with no loosening, “It must be knotted.”

Like a good nurse, she dropped to her knees and began struggling with the knot at eye level (or mouth level in my way of thinking). It finally gave. “Thank goodness,” I thought.

Meg slipped her hands under the waistband and lowered the scrubs. By that time, I had a semi-boner that caught as she worked my pants lower. Without hesitation, she reached in and extricated my meat and similarly without hesitation, brought the head to and into her mouth.

Meg knew her way around a big cock. She circled the base of my scrotum with her left thumb and index finger. Initially, this was with light pressure. As she sucked more vigorously and sped up the tempo of her jerking, she tightened the grip on my ballsack and pulled my avocados toward the floor. I was gritting my teeth and starting to see stars; when she mercifully released my nads, backed her lips off my purple sex tool, and uttered, “I almost forgot. You’re injured.”

Meg wrapped my thigh in Saran Wrap and tested the water temperature. “Hop in. I’ll be right back.”

The warm water felt great. What was even better was the sight of Meg when she returned. The only thing she was wearing was a big smile. She stepped in and offered to help. I moved toward the back of the shower and surveyed my helper. She was some kinda fit: maybe 5’ 5” and 110 pounds soaking wet (joke intended). Meg obviously spent a lot of time at the pool. Except for the white lines up over her pelvic bones and a tiny white triangle above her pussy, she was brown as a berry. Each breast was the size of a halved Valencia orange, adorned with a Hershey kiss nipple. I couldn’t wait to suck their sweetness.

Meg seemed eager to help her patient. She pressed her thin body against mine, reaching down to angle my eight inches off to the side. With both arms, she encircled my chest, locking my arms against my torso. She rose on her tiptoes. “Be a good boy. I’ll give you a shower you won’t forget.”

With that, she shampooed my scalp, running her fingers through my curly hair; all the while French kissing me. When I started to use my hands to return the attention, she broke the kiss. “Uh-uh, I’m in charge here.”

In a nutshell, that was the way we spent the next fifteen minutes. Meg soaped and massaged me from one end to the other and I stood like a Greek statue (with two exceptions: a had a huge boner, not covered by a fig leaf and I was panting like a marathon runner).

Meg knew I was about to bust a nut, but cruelly (well, not really) stated, “Look, but don’t touch.” She proceeded to shampoo her short, seal-like hair, leaning backwards to rinse her scalp. The water and suds ran down her face and breasts. She followed their path with her hands; first across her breasts (pausing momentarily to lightly touch each nipple), then down her belly to her shaved pubis. She licked her wet lips and locked eyes with mine, “Uh-uh,”

Meg put the bottle of Dove body wash into my able right hand and simply said, “Soap.” I squirted a large load onto her upper chest. I could feel my cock bounce with each spirt. I longed to empty my balls in a similar fashion.

Meg slowly washed her entire body; paying particular attention to her tits, ass, and pussy. She leaned over and washed her right leg from top to bottom and back. Warm water ran down her crack. Instead of repeating this technique for her left leg, she placed her foot up on the tiled bench. “You can wash this leg.”

She took the bottle of body wash and squeezed a generous wad (like a ten-day load) onto her ass. I wasted no time. I rubbed the soapy lubricant over her tiny ass cheeks, then leaned close into a semi-doggy position, placing my cock between her thighs. I slowly (two can play this game) washed her ass, her upper posterior thighs, and anus. I felt her body heave slightly. I leaned over her back and whispered, “You’re a very dirty girl.”

I shifted my soapy hand around her torso; first grasping her small breast, pinching her right nipple. She turned her head. “Harder.”

My nurse supported her leaning body by placing her left hand up on the tile wall. She licked her right-hand index and long fingers and added her saliva to the precum that was flowing from my cock head. She spread both around its sensitive surface, simultaneously pulling it up against her clitoris.

I began to slowly hump her, stimulating her anus and pussy lips with the dorsum of my prick. I envisioned its large gnarly vein tickling her rosebud as it rubbed back and forth across the winking surface.

Meg squeezed her thighs more tightly around my love muscle and pressed my expanding mushroom more forcefully against her clit. She looked back over her right shoulder and panted, “Faster, harder.”

I shifted my only serviceable hand to the top of her right shoulder for counterbalance and began to pump her taint like a blind chihuahua. I was getting very close to an embarrassing premature ejaculation. I took a deep breath and shifted my focus to a spot of dirty grout just above Meg’s head; anything to keep from cumming. Unfortunately (or not) she growled, “Now, now. Stick it in my pussy.”

Our movements were anything but coordinated. I pulled back as Meg bent past a right angle with her face approaching her flexed left thigh. She was astonishingly able to direct my cock head between her labia and into her vagina. Otherwise, I ran the risk of fracturing my ramrod or violating her back door.

I made two short strokes to test the water and was ready to settle into a good fucking rhythm, when Meg froze. She tightened her body, held her breath for what seemed like ages, and then raised her right hand in a “stop, don’t move” sign. She lowered her hand to her clit and gurgled, “No, no. Not yet. F*ck, I’m cumming.”

Her exclamation was all I could handle. I buried my meat balls deep and added my orgasm to hers. I collapsed onto her back.

After Meg left, I took a short nap and then made a light lunch. I took my BLT, a bag of Lays waffle cuts and a bucket of Coors Banquets out to the patio. The sun felt great on my chest and back (I’d ditched the shoulder immobilizer). I was on the brink of dosing off again, when the doorbell rang. I yelled, “I’m around back!”

Lo and behold. It was handsome, bubble-butt Lars.

“Hey, stranger. What’s it been, twelve hours?”

“Thereabouts,” I answered. “Whatcha up to? No good, I’m betting.”

“I thought I’d drop by and see if you could use a little more therapy. Maybe we can bill your insurance plan! Bubba, you’re getting red. Better come in out of the sun.”

With that, Lars grabbed the bucket of Coors and headed into the kitchen. By the time I had closed the gate and retrieved my plate, Lars had made himself at home. He was sitting up on the island, drinking a Banquet, cock and nads flopped out of his cargo shorts. “Come on, Pops. You know what to do.”

I put the plate down, as Lars scooted backwards. His position allowed me to go down on his delicious-looking slab of man meat, supporting myself with my right forearm on the Corian. It wasn't ideal, but neither of us were griping. He fisted the base of his two-inch wide cricket bat and pulled my head down toward the beautiful, precum-dripping cock head. I ran my tongue along the slit, then around the head. I savored the salty sweetness of his lubricant, but I wanted more. I wanted to taste and swallow the ultimate reward of his seed.

I willingly lowered my head and opened my mouth to accept his meat. It really wasn’t necessary for Lars to force my mouth onto his weapon, but his dominance heightened my pleasure. “Suck it, Pops. Take my load.”

And I did suck it, allowing Lars to fuck my mouth. And I did take his load. I swallowed the first three ropes; but the sheer volume of his subsequent four or five ejaculates simply oozed out of my mouth, onto my chin and splatting onto the countertop. I tried to suck the last of his jizz from his prick, but he pushed me off. “Too sensitive, Pops.”

Lars was a man of few words. He said thanks, zipped up and asked, “Where’s the door? By the way, Kim has home health duty this week. Don’t let her hurt ya.”

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. I swallowed down a couple ibuprofen with the last of a warm Banquet and cracked open a cold one. I settled down in an easy chair and turned on the Jaguar’s game. Trevor had just been sacked for a loss. No surprise there.

I awoke six hours later with a crick in my neck, a dry mouth and a growling stomach. I got out of the chair carefully like a hundred-year-old man. Everything and I mean everything was either stiff or painful or both. I limped to the kitchen and opened the frig. Nothing looked good. I grabbed a bottle of Poland Spring and chugged it, refrigerator door still open. I confirmed there was nothing appetizing for dinner.

I grabbed my cell off the charger and called Tucci’s; fully intending to order just a pizza for delivery. I did order a large thin-crust pie with everything except pineapple (Who eats pineapple on a pizza?). The anonymous, sweet, and young voice on the other end detailed all the specials I couldn’t live without. Before we disconnected, I’d added a dozen BBQ wings, toasted ravioli, breadsticks, and a mega chocolate chip cookie.

I grabbed another bottled water and hit the john. I splashed water on my face and ran my wet fingers through my hair to tame my bed head. I brushed my teeth and gargled with Scope to remove the last traces of Lars’ spunk. After chugging down the second Poland Springs, I actually felt almost human and had an appetite.

The doorbell rang. I knew Tucci’s was fast, but not Domino’s fast. I opened the door with a five-spot in my hand. “Sorry, I can’t accept tips,” said Dr. Kim with a big grin on her face. “Are you gonna invite me in or just stand there?”

She was carrying two bags: a canvas Valley View Orthopedics tote and a brown paper bag with two bottles of wine. She made herself at home. “Where’s the frig? Let’s get this chilling while I change your dressing. Maybe we could order in.”

I explained that I was expecting food any minute. Her response? “Fine. Let’s eat first and play doctor later.”

Dr. K made herself at home: first placing the White Haven into the freezer for a quick chill and then setting the table. As I was retrieving a couple stemless glasses from the bar, the front doorbell rang, signaling Tucci’s delivery. We traded the pie, Italian sides and the warm cookie for a five spot tip and I closed the door.

Long story, short? We enjoyed a pleasant Italian meal and both developed a buzz. While the wine was chilling, we had toasted modern medicine with shots of Dead Rabbit Irish hooch; then drank one and a half bottles of wine with dinner.

Kim (we’d dropped the “Doctor”) volunteered to clean up and simply told me to head back to the master bedroom and get ready for the dressing change. I take orders pretty well, particularly from a big-titted blonde; so I head back and stripped down to my birthday suit.

Kim wasted no time heading back. When she saw me lying on the bed, buck naked, she laughed and asked, “What am I going to do with you?”

“I can think of about a dozen things,” I stated.

Kim got to work. She isolated my thigh with blue paper drapes and removed the Ace wrap and dressing with large surgical scissors. She donned sterile gloves and looked me in the eyes. “I won’t bullsh*t you. This is going to smart. Think happy thoughts.”

Well, just like “pressure” and “a little bee sting”, “smart” didn’t come close to describing the pain of changing the packs. I evoked the deities and asked just how many times I’d need this done. “You don’t want to know,” she said.

Kim cleaned up her mess and went down the hall to wash her hands. When she returned, she was holding the half-full second bottle of wine. She placed the Sauvignon blanc on the bedside table and sat down on a nearby ottoman. Her big tits struggled to escape her knit top as she leaned forward to remove her cowgirl boots. She kicked off both boots, then stood and turned ninety degrees. I knew she was teasing me. She arched her back while removing the scrunchie from her ponytail. This silhouetted her elevating jugs and put her long nipples into full profile. She looked over her shoulder while cupping both mams in her hands. “You like these, don’t you?”

My mouth was dry. All I could do was lamely nod.

Kim moved closer to the bed. She undid each of the straining pearl buttons of her croptop with an almost excruciating slowness. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until she released the third button, allowing her massive jugs to drop into view. I let out an embarrassing “Oh, lord.”

Kim wasn’t done with her striptease. She started to unbutton her cutoff 501’s, then turned 180 degrees. She slid her hands into the back of her Nashville honkytonk shorts and inched them down over her creamy white cheeks. After they had dropped to her ankles, she extricated one foot and with the other, kicked the cutoffs across the room.

Kim adjusted her stance, widening the space between her legs and leaning slightly forward. She squeezed both cheeks, slapped the right one, then shifted her fingers to the front. With her spread-leg position, I could see she was diddling her dangling labia.

Kim turned back toward me and took a step closer, such that her pussy was no more than two feet from my face. She had a near-full bush, trimmed only at the edges and yes, her carpet matched her drapes. I started to rise up on my right elbow and rotate toward her love patch; but Kim had other ideas. She took a step back and said, “Whoa, Bud. We’re not done with your treatment.”

Kim retrieved the wine bottle from the nightstand. She leaned over the bed and with her thumb partially obliterating the mouth, drizzled the nectar over my nipples and down my torso. She filled my navel and then liberally coated my fully erect cock and balls. I could feel the cool vino dripping down my taint toward my pucker.

The good doc took a long chug, finishing the wine. After replacing the bottle on the bedside table, she leaned in for a sensuous French kiss. I could taste the wine on her lips and tongue. She broke the kiss, but not the contact. She licked my chin and neck, then down my chest to both rock-hard nipples. She flicked each with the tip of her tongue, then sucked each in earnest. Before I could ask her to bite them, she’d moved on down to my navel and the twitching cock head lying immediately above it.

It was obvious Kim had spent a considerable amount of time around dicks. Using just her thumb and index finger, she lifted my meat an inch or two. This allowed her to probe my belly button with her tongue and to lick the adjacent dorsum of my schlong. I raised her hair to keep it out of the residual wine and to give me an unobstructed view of her expert work.

Just when I figured she was ready to suck my cock and take my load, she turned toward me, smiled and teasingly said, “It’s time to get serious. Scoot down a little.”

I grabbed my pillow with my good hand and wiggled down about eighteen inches or so, putting my size elevens over the foot of the California king. Kim climbed aboard, facing away. At first, she sat on my chest, her creamy butt cheeks a tantalizing foot from my face. She began to slowly jack my shaft with what seemed to be just her thumb and index. I felt her rub another finger across my pee slit and then utter, “Delicious.” Presumably, she was sampling my precum.

Kim put both hands on my belly and began inching backward, while raising her cheeks off my chest. I could hear her toes drop down between the mattress and padded headboard. Her rosebud and twat were just above my face. My doctor asked, “Am I hurting you?” as she lowered her privates directly onto my mouth. I wasn’t in a position to answer.

Kim knew what she needed. I extended my tongue with the tip initially against her taint. She rocked back and forth, alternatively stimulating her clit, labia, and anus. She settled onto my face with increased pressure and picked up her pace. Just when I thought I was going to be a victim of snatch asphyxiation; she stiffened, shuttered, vocalized an “oh”, then slumped forward with her massive jugs onto my belly. She raised her ass into a jockey position, allowing me a good view of her wet pussy and anus.

My Energizer Bunny regained her composure quickly after her rocking orgasm. She raised her head and chest off my belly so that she could look back between her legs. “Your turn”, was all she said.

Kim crab-walked down my body until her crotch was just over my boner. She reached back with her right hand and directed my cock head between her labia. Instead of immediately settling down onto my shaft, she began teasing her still hypersensitive lips and clitoris. I could feel the warmth and wetness. She then directed my dripping sex tool against her nubby anus. She settled her reverse cowgirl position a fraction of an inch onto the saddle, such that I could feel the very tip of my member start to expand her back door. She rocked her pelvis slightly and inched slowly down onto my impaling weapon. She paused for a few seconds, then leaned forward with her hands on my knees. She flicked her hair and looked back. “You know what to do. Give me a good fucking.”

I wish I could say I did; but truth be told, the combination of my injuries and her weight prevented me from moving my pelvis and its appendaged cock in an effective fashion. That didn’t seem to bother Kim. She pistoned up and down on my pogo stick to beat the band. Despite having ejaculated more than a half dozen times in the past thirty-six hours, I was starting to feel that “uh-oh” sensation deep in my perineum. Just as I was ready to announce my impending moment of nirvana; Kim exclaimed “I’m cumming”, pulled up off my squirting sperm whale and then collapsed back down onto my dick, this time into her white-hot pussy.

I awoke Monday morning with two thoughts: 1) I’ve gotta get Kim out of my house and 2) Who hit me in the head with a sledgehammer?

I looked to the left. The bed was empty. I looked to the right. An empty wine bottle was lying on its side on the bedside table. I felt better, well sorta.

I crawled to the head and looked in the mirror. I looked like sh*t warmed over. I grabbed a couple ibuprofen and dry-swallowed them. I was a mess. As I walked toward the kitchen, it was clear the entire house smelled like booze and pussy and jizz. Crap, Donna would be back in town in less than ten hours.

I figured the best plan was to open every door and window; plus get some canine help: hair of the dog.

I made myself a Bloody Mary in a thirty-two ounce Big Gulp cup (Ketel One, V8 juice, black pepper and a couple tablespoons of Seminole horseradish) and began airing out the sex den. Then the phone rang. Donna.

Well, there was no way to stall any longer. After the pleasantries, I explained that I wouldn’t be picking her up at the airport and why. After a mild meltdown, she calmed down, told me she loved me and that she’d get an Uber.

Donna and I hit the hay early. She’d gotten to the house around six-thirty, fawned all over me and we had a liquid dinner. Neither of us was hungry, but we both seemed to need an adult beverage (me a Banquet and she a Bacardi and Coke) to confirm the concept that distance makes the heart grow fonder.

I headed back to the master bedroom and hopped into bed, naked except for my thigh dressing. Donna followed after a couple of minutes, turning off lights, including our bedroom overhead. She entered the bathroom announcing she was going to rinse off the travel grunge. I heard her turn on the shower and start to hum an Adele song I couldn’t name.

After about five minutes, the water noise was silenced and after another five minutes the door opened. Donna stood in the doorway, backlighted by the vanity Hollywood globes. She grinned and asked, “Are you too hurt to f*ck your wife?”

“F*ck”? I had never heard her say the F-word. “Make love”, sure; but never “F*ck”. My answer? “Why don’t you slide in here and find out.”

FAST FORWARD FIFTEEN MONTHS

Donna wanted to blame Dr. Ferguson for Del’s death; but she knew, deep down, that cardiac arrest was a potential risk of general anesthesia. After Del’s accident, he had tried over a year of physical therapy to rehabilitate his dislocated left shoulder. He had had several additional orthopedic opinions. Each surgeon came to the same conclusion: live with the recurrent dislocation and pain or undergo a reconstructive operation. Finally, after almost fifteen months, Del chose the latter.

The surgery seemed to have gone smoothly. Del was a first case last Friday, going in at 7:30 am. Dr. Kim, the orthopedic resident who assisted with the surgery, came out to the waiting area at 9:15 and conveyed that all went well. Del would be in the recovery room for approximately an hour and then he’d be discharged with a prescription of pain medication. Follow up for staple removal would be in ten days.

Just as Donna was accepting her third cup of coffee from a Candy Striper, the hospital intercom blasted, “CODE BLUE, RECOVERY”. Donna had a sick premonition.

The widow’s focus on the well-dressed group standing across the gravesite was interrupted by her baby’s whimper. “Hush, Delia. Here’s your binkie”, she whispered.

Donna resumed her examination of the mourners. I tiny redhead was handing her baby to a nearby older woman who had the look of a matriarch. A tanned and fit-appearing woman with a severe Sassoon-type haircut was standing next to presumably her husband. He, in turn, was standing by a stroller. One step back was a tall, olive-skinned young woman who exuded confidence and old money. She too, held a baby on her hip.

Donna looked down at Delia; her cute, chubby, curly-haired and brunette six-month-old. And then came the realization: each of the babies across the grave could be Delia’s twin sister.