“Here, this will relax you and help the heart do its work.” I watched as the syringe slow pumped the drug into the vein of my arm. It did relax me, but at the same time it put me into heat. I felt the muscles of my anal passage loosening, inhibitions evaporating, and waves of sensuality rolled over me. My eyes went to Dr. Keller, who was looking sexier to me by the second. He was tall, trim, and handsome—a mature Adonis, graying at the temples, his eyes a bewitching hazel, his skin tanned and glowing with health. He had strong hands, with long, sensuous fingers, and a smile that gathered you in and made you want to spread your legs for him. I had spread my legs for him both before and after the surgery.
“This is a lovely, freeing drug,” he murmured.
“Yes, doctor, it is,” I agreed, my mouth feeling woolly and my answer nonsensical. I got the impression that was why Keller prompted me to say something—to gauge how far gone I was.
He was more than my heart surgeon. He was the god who gave me more life.
I felt myself going hard. I could get to where I begged for whatever was in that drug cocktail. Ever so slightly I felt my pelvis tremble and move. Dr. Keller put a hand, with those long, slender fingers of his, on my thigh, high up, on the inner surface. I ever-so-slightly spread my thighs for him, willing his hand to take possession of me, knowing now that, in time, it would.
Our eyes were locked. He was continuing to gauge how mellow I was becoming from the drugs—how soon his hand could move farther up.
I knew he wanted to fuck me again. His program at this private hospital was based on sexual pleasuring therapy, and he’d made no bones about enjoying treating me. It had been Dr. Keller who had sought me out when he’d heard I was retiring with a serious heart condition and had told me how I could cut the line for a heart transplant. “It would be my pleasure having you in my program, I assure you. I have admired you for years.”
What I found is that he’d wanted to fuck me for years, and now, thanks to my heart giving out on me and him coming to the rescue, he could, whenever he wanted to—and he had the means to make me want it too. And here, in the far north woods of Maine, we could be whatever we wanted, do whatever we wanted, with each other. Thanks to Dr. Keller and his fast-track heart transplant program, I could live longer—and better than I had for years of pretending there was nothing wrong with my health.
Thanks to the drugs and to something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I could release all inhibitions and open my legs to the doctor—and any other man—whenever they wanted me to. All my life men had been attracted to me, but I had held them at bay. Not so now, since coming to this private hospital. Now I couldn’t get enough of it—and men were still attracted to me.
Would a slight touch on the inner surface of my thigh have caused me to spread my legs for an obviously randy doctor in my “before-the-transplant” life? Not on your life. Although I’d always known I preferred men and the stance of a subversive, I’d been cool as ice, not letting men I desired get close to me. This was a whole new life for me.
“Are you still seeing these hallucinations?” He was stroking my inner thigh.
“No, not really,” I answered. It had been a mistake to tell Dr. Keller about them at all, and, no, I hadn’t stopped seeing them. And there had been other things too, feelings from the heart—from the heart that wasn’t mine. I don’t know why I wasn’t being straight with Dr. Keller on this. I was open with the therapist about it, and surely he coordinated with Keller on treatment. There had been no secret that the therapy would be a sexual one—that every man I came in contact with on the staff here would and could fuck me. The indulging in sexual desire was supposed to promote my jest for life. The surprise to me was, with the help of the drugs and some other aspect of my new life I couldn’t define, I was easy for them, letting them fuck me if they indicated they wanted to.
I was lying on my back on the bed in my plushly outfitted private bedroom in Dr. Keller’s private hospital on the edge of the dark woods leading to Baskahegen Lake, near Maine’s border with Canada. Very isolated. I had a picture window overlooking the manicured grounds and the seemingly encroaching dark woods. That was another thing that made my new heart flutter—the view of the woods, forbidding and foreboding for some reason, some reason known only by my heart. That had started the night of the full moon when I had awakened to see robed figures walking into the woods.
But back in the present, Dr. Keller have thought the drugs had taken over with me, as he was running his hands all over my body—intimately.
“How does this feel?” he murmured, “Are you fine with this?”
“Yes, doctor. That feels good.” My voice sounded detached from me, like it was coming from somewhere else in the room.
He traced the incision for the transplant lightly with his fingers. We were well past me being embarrassed or inhibited about that glaring imperfection on what had been a beautiful body on public display for over a decade. We pretended that he was checking on my circulation, making sure the new heart was pumping everywhere it should be—that it was working as well for me as for the young man it had come from. They had told me the donor was a young, fit man to assure me that, if my body didn’t reject the organ, it would serve me for many decades more, but they wouldn’t tell me anything beyond that about him. They wouldn’t even tell me who he’d left behind so that I could thank them.
“And this?” He had loosely encased my cock with his hand and was slow stroking it. It was hardening for him.
“Yes, that’s fine,” I murmured in my faraway voice.
It was all hush hush and private. I had jumped the line. It had cost me dearly, one-point-two-million dollars up front and ten thousand to the private hospital each month I survived the surgery—until I didn’t. I had no one to leave my fortune to so I might as well indulge myself on the way out—assuming that was where I was headed in the short or near term. They had assured me that it was money being given to heart research—research on prolonging life after a transplant.
I could live here, in privacy and isolation, as long as I wanted. But I could afford it. I had just recently, upon the diagnosis of a bad heart—a very bad heart—retired at the peak of my eleven-year, very lucrative career as an international-level high fashion male model, notable for my pouty, sultry Byronic looks.
Keller had locked the door behind him when he entered the room. That was the signal to me that we would be having sex. I had initially voiced concerned about that. Should a man, even though still in his early thirties, who had a replacement heart, be exerting himself by having sex. Dr Keller had said that in this phase, a month beyond the surgery with no evidence of rejection, it was fine—that, in fact, it was prescribed—it was at the base of the treatment at this private institution.
“With what you’re paying, would I prescribe anything that didn’t prolong your life?” he asked. He was smiling when he said that and I shared in the laugh.
And then, both of us having realized the spark was there since before the operation, he decided he was the one to deliver the prescription.
But that was another of the “change of heart” mysteries I was anguishing over and telling Dr. Keller nothing about and the therapist not everything about. I had been gay curious before the operation, but now I was almost nymphomaniac about it—or satyriasis, I think the term for male nymphos was. Now I wanted it from a man all of the time. Was that something the man whose heart I now had was and I wasn’t before the surgery, or was I just so grateful at having been given a second go at life that I had thrown over all of my inhibitions and given full reign to my natural instincts?
How much of a man’s innate behavior was his heart? Could I, in part, be the heart donor as well as myself? Did I lose some of me—the reticent me, it seemed—by losing my own heart? If the donor was promiscuous, would that make me so too? If not, something was making me promiscuous post-surgery. Was it just the drugs they injected in my veins?
He was stroking my cock a little more vigorously and I was panting. A hand had gone under my waist and snaked down to my crack. The pad of the finger had found and was lightly stroking my hole.
One of my recurring visions, often brought on during sex with Dr. Keller and others here, made me retain the worry that it was the something involving the donor. Sometimes at the height of sex a vision of a small ship—motoring off the coast—a party boat floated into my mind. What I would see were all men, some old, some young and naked. And the older men were using the younger ones. Invariably my perspective would be from that of one of the younger rent-boys. I would be lying in Dr. Keller’s embrace, his arms around me, my legs hooked on his hips, his mouth moving down my throat to my nipples, and his dick inside me, pumping, and I would be having a vision of being in the same position on a party boat, but with an older, uglier, heavier man than Dr. Keller fucking me in the same position. It was all strange to me—not just the sexual positioning but the party boat and the ocean images. Before the change in hearts, I hadn’t known anything about party boats on the ocean.
I never could remember having any dreams before the heart surgery and my stay in this hospital of a man actual fucking me. Now, such dreams were recurring.
Dr. Keller’s mouth and hands had glided down my body and his mouth closed over my erection. I lifted my pelvis to him, wantonly rocking against his face—two beautiful men locked in a gorgeous coupling.
“You have such a glorious body,” the doctor murmured.
My arms raised above my head, my hands grasping the top of the headboard, my back arching. I was open, vulnerable to whatever he wanted to do with my body. He had unbuttoned his white coat and he was naked, lean, hard-bodied underneath. He was in full, long and thick erection. He was fit, in his late forties, and movie-star handsome.
He was climbing up on the bed.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I murmured, aching for him in my newly acquired need for having a man’s cock moving inside me. He stretched out beside me in reverse on the bed. I reached down, grasped his cock, and stroked it as he gave me head. I moved my hand then around to his buttocks and squeezed, signaling that I wanted him on top of me. He moved over me, hovering over me in reverse. I took his cock in my mouth and we sixty-nined to the sounds of moans and small gasps, coming mostly from me.
He turned and rose, going up on his knees between my spread legs. I arched my back and begged, “Yes, yes, fuck me. Screw me.”
Keller laughed, shrugged off his white medical coat, becoming magnificently naked. He held there, splitting open a condom packet and crowning himself. He ran one arm under my waist, raising my pelvis to him and grasped the back of my neck with his other hand, arching my head back to where I was looking at the ceiling, with the view of the woods outside my large glass window in my peripheral vision. The atmosphere beyond the window had become gloomy and windy. The trees were swaying, and the rain was starting.
I cried out as he thrust up inside me. His face was buried in my throat, his teeth rasping across my carotid. And he was fucking me, hard and deep. I dug the nails of my left hand into his bicep and grasped my cock with my right hand and stroked myself off in the rhythm of his powerful thrusts. The rain became a storm outside the window. The trees on the edge of the forest were whipping around.
“Take it! Take it all! Ravish me!”
The vision appeared, on the ceiling, of the party boat and the cavorting by the men and the old, ugly, heavy man embracing me, inside me, but as Keller’s thrusting became more vigorous, more insistent, more consuming, the vision, as it sometimes did, but only with Keller, morphed into a more frightening one. A robed and masked figure—the mask a cruel wolf’s head—hovered over me, me lying on some sort of stone slab in a clearing in the woods, the clearing ringed by other robed and masked figures. My arms and legs were restrained at the four corners of the slab. The robed figure was on top of me, fucking me, his masked face hovering close over mine. The glint of a knife raised overhead. The mask being pulled off at the moment of Dr Keller’s cry, quick withdrawal, the jerk of the condom, and release of his seed on my belly.
The affirming exclamation of “You’re so fine. What a sweet lay! I always knew you would be.”
Then the cool down, as his lips and hands moved slowly down my body, lapping up his cum, taking me in his mouth again, and me holding his head to my crotch as he sucked me to my own completion and then rose, pulled on and buttoned his medical coat, once more becoming Dr. Keller, the head of the institute, and left me alone in my room, staring at the raging storm and the woods outside and trying to still the beating of my heart—the heart I shared with someone else, someone maybe trying to tell me something—someone certainly more needy and promiscuous than I ever had been.
Already, though, I was craving cock again, looking back at the closed door, wanting Dr. Keller to come back and fuck me again—or maybe the therapist Kumar Gupta, although I didn’t normally—or hadn’t before the new heart—found South Asians appealing; or even the orderly, John, who had promised to make copies of my case file, including the identity of the donor, on the sly in exchange for sexual favors. He didn’t have to ask for that. He was a hunk. I would have taken his cock without favors. I would pay him for sex. I could afford it. I wouldn’t have even thought of that before the new heart but it was all I could think of now.
The change in me scared me stiff. I wanted cock. I needed cock. But the change frightened the hell out of me.
But then the door was opening, and John was sliding into the room, locking the door behind him, placing a file on the table by the door, and pulling his blue tunic over his head. He was making a delivery and demanding the pay for doing so.
He was young and muscular. He had nothing in looks to melt over other than his bodybuilder’s body, but it was dark in the room and he was in erection. He mounted the bed, turning me over onto my belly and raising me onto all fours. And then, as I cried out, “Spike me; screw me!” he mounted me from behind and above, penetrating, holding me firm in his embracing, muscular arms, and fucked me like a dog in high heat.
I had no disquieting visions while John fucked me—mostly just the wanton pleasure of having a strong, young cock working inside me. I did have a vision of a lawn under a tree, overlooking an ocean of water, and of a finely cut muscular, young body on top of me and inside me accompanied with a sensation of pleasure. I gave myself fully to John, with no reservation, in my seemingly new, post-surgery life.
We fucked with exuberance, with me giving no thought during the fuck to what, if anything, such vigorous exercise was doing to my new heart. As we came almost simultaneously, me realizing he was barebacking me and not caring, my heart beating hard and me not caring, the storm broke beyond the window and the sun beamed forward. I lay back, fully open to him, spreading my arms and my thighs in a sacrificial pose, jerking and gasping at each release of his youthful, virile, hot cum.
As the light dimmed again to a sunset, I rose from the bed, alone now and mellow, and pulled on the athletic shorts and loose T-shirt with the hospital’s logo on it that was the standard apparel for patients in treatment. We also normally went barefoot, prompting me to highly suspect the uniform had more to do with keeping us from roaming outside of the building than to make us comfortable. I stood at the window, waiting for the call to dinner. As I stood there, I saw the hospital’s midnight-blue Mercedes sedan, with the smoked windows, drive up and John and another orderly come out of the hospital entrance and help an infirm man out of the car and into the building. I recognized him, a professional basketball player who had dropped out due to unspecified bad health. It must be his heart, I thought. He could afford to jump the line for a new one just as I had. There would be another transplant surgery in the next few days.
* * * *
“Here, this will relax you and help the heart do its work.” I watched Dr. Gupta hover over me as I stretched out on the couch in his office as the effects of the pills blossomed within me and spread to my extremities. Dr. Keller used the syringe; Dr. Gupta used the pill; John used the raw power of his cut body. All brought out the churning in my core from me. The warm sensuality of the drug immediately started to course through my veins. I sighed and spread my thighs. The handsome, dark-skinned young doctor, having pulled his chair up close to the side of the couch, placed his hand high up on my thigh. His index finger sought and found where the head of my engorging cock was and pressed at the urethra slit inside the thin material of the athletic shorts.
Gupta was more subtle than the others, but he got there just the same as the rest.
The doctors and orderlies here certainly knew how to get and hold my attention. This had not been me before the transplant—and before whatever drugs they were giving me.
“You seem reticent today, Philip,” Dr. Gupta said, pulling his hand back from my inner thigh but only to let it glide over my body, mostly under the material of the scant clothing I was wearing, almost as if the T-shirt and athletic shorts weren’t even there. I was trembling and shimmering, knowing this session would move to penetrative sex, and welcoming that. The Indian had his own ways of mastering and penetrating me.
“You have kept yourself in magnificent shape for your age. The suppleness of a teenager,” he murmured.
Yeah, except for my heart, I thought bitterly. That had given up on me far too early.
How many people’s psychologists fuck them on the therapy couch, I wondered. Probably more than one would imagine, especially if you considered mind fuck as well as the physical. Dr. Keller had told me up front in the introduction process that sex therapy was at the base of the philosophy his private hospital treatment operated on. At the time—before obtaining the young and wanton heart—I had brushed this aside, assuming that, preferences notwithstanding, I was not a highly sexed animal. At the time I was interested in getting a new heart, not sex. Well, on this side of acquiring a young heart I certainly was interested in getting the sex—and sex was how I was willingly being controlled and treated here. That and the drugs . . . and the isolation. Who knew that, in an atmosphere like this, isolation would heighten the need for sexual connection with another? I wouldn’t know how to begin escaping this place, or how to do so barefooted.
I reached down between us, running my hand into the spilt of his white medical coat, to find, not unexpectantly, that he was naked under the coat and in erection. He was an extraordinarily long-dicked man for a small-stature, berry-brown South Asian. I grasped his cock and slow stroked him as he let his hands glide over my body.
“Your introspection wouldn’t have anything to do with the visions you have been having, especially during sex, would it? Such visions are natural at this stage of your recovery.”
“What can you tell me about cellular memory theory?” I asked.
“Ah, you have been browsing in the hospital library.”
“Yes. Could that have anything to do with my visions? Do one’s memories reside in more than the brain? Does every organ and element of the body include some form of memory cells? Could a heart, for instance, retain some memories that, if removed from one body and inserted in another, could bring with it memories from the first person’s life?”
“Are you asking me if the visions you have could be memories from the one whose heart you received? One of the visions you say recurs—the robed and masked man and the flash of a knife—seems to disturb you more than others. Are you afraid you are being linked to the death of the young man whose heart you have?”
As he was speaking, Gupta reached over with both hands, took the waistband of my athletic shorts and pulled them off my legs. He then reached up and pulled the T-shirt over my head, leaving me naked on his couch. Every nerve in my body was on alert. He had a different technique from Dr. Keller’s. Keller’s fucking was more direct, powerful, demanding. Gupta was more subtle, more delicate, working the levels of arousal more. Keller made me come with his dick; Gupta could make me come with his hands and fingers and even with just his hot breath brushing my body.
I didn’t resist him. I wanted him inside me, even though what we were talking about concerned me deeply. My mind was struggling for focus on what I wanted to discuss, and Gupta’s hands were working against that—and winning.
“There, you’ve said it,” I whispered. “I have a young man’s heart. I want to know what young man. You know, I’m sure. How did he die?”
“Shush,” Gupta murmured, touching my inner thighs, first one and then the other, with the light brush of his fingertips. I moaned and spread my legs, bending them, placing my feet flat on the surface of the couch. His hand went under my buttocks, which I had slightly raised to accommodate him doing so. His index finger slid inside my channel. I raised my tail higher for him, using the leverage of my feet. He deftly moved his fingers, first one, then two, and three, inside my channel, as he laid his other hand on my brow and hovered his face over mine, capturing my eyes with his. I was panting and trembling—his captive.
“Cellular memory theory is just that, a theory, Philip. You mustn’t put too much store in it and you mustn’t tax your new heart in worrying about your visions. They will go away in time. You must concentrate on the present—how happy you are to be alive—and how alive you can be in taking your pleasures. Am I making you feel alive?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” I answered, breathlessly.
He stood, shrugged off his medical coat, and hovered over me as I watched him roll a condom onto that extraordinarily long erection of his.
“What do you think of my body, Philip? When you look at me, do you think of my thinness—almost to emaciation? Do you think of how brown I am or of my intellect. Or do you worry about my cleanliness or why the hair on my head is gray but my pubic hair is black? What do you think of first when you see my body?”
“I think of how extraordinarily long your cock is,” I answered honestly.
“So, I am just a cock long enough to reach you in your very core?”
“Well, not ‘just,’ but, yes, essentially.”
“And what do you really want from me when you come and lie on my couch and ask me questions like that about cellular memory?”
I could see what he was doing to curve my mind around like this, but I suddenly was very tired of these games and chose honesty. Besides, I could always claim that it was the drugs they gave me that focused my attention like this. “I want your cock inside me.”
Gupta laughed. “We will fuck now,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if it was just part of the therapy, which, no doubt, it was.
Then he was on the couch, under me, having deftly repositioned us both. I was saddled on his pelvis, penetrated deep by that long shaft of his, and, at the direction of his fingers touching me here, there, and there, riding him, slowly, sensually in the cowboy position, facing him, palming his pecs, my eyes still fully captured by his.
I did have one of the recurring visions as we fucked—the one of being on a party boat teeming with other men and being one of the younger men on my back with an older man on top of me, inside me, fucking me. In contrast to the usual vision, the man on top of me was Asian and was very, very good at what he was doing with my body. I was experiencing multiple ejaculations, far more in the dream than I could have mustered in real life. But then, Dr. Gupta could pull more ejaculations, more frequently, out of me in a session than Dr. Keller could. Gupta himself had a gentle, warm flow that went on forever and that I could feel, because he always barebacked me.
I did not bring up the more disturbing vision of the robed and wolf-masked man fucking me, restrained at wrists and ankles, on a stone slab and of the flash of a knife in the wooded clearing on a moon-filled night.
As I cried out and came—again and again in waves—and let my body collapse on Gupta’s, though, the fact of that disturbing memory came back to me. I had found out on my own more than that the heart I now had come from a younger man. I had read the copy of the file John, the hospital orderly, had brought to my room to exchange for sex. The file had identified the young man. He had no family. His address had been in Stonington, a waterside village on the Bay of Fundy down toward Portland. It was a fishing and tourist village. It easily could have been a base for pleasure chart boats, like the one in one of my visions. No occupation was given for the young man in the file. No cause of death was given. No family contact was on file. I intuitively knew that my new heart had come from a rent-boy—and one who was intentionally scrubbed from the files of existence, whether before or after his death or by his choice or not, I didn’t know.
I knew more now than before—but not enough more.
“Could it be that the young man’s heart I have could have been a male prostitute on the coast of Maine—going out on party boats with older men, like in my vision?”
I could feel Dr. Gupta tensing up. “What gave you that idea?” he asked. “Has someone said something to you?”
Could I take this as his admission that my supposition was true? Was I endangering John? “Just in thinking about cellular memory theory,” I said. “Because of my visions, which have no application in my real life. And the difference between what I was before the new heart and what I am now—like this, with you, now. I was never the wanton satyriasis before. I certainly am now.”
“Ah, still dwelling on cellular memory theory. I’ve told you. You were dying before and preparing for it—willing your life to wind down. You are full of life now and the sex therapy is part of that—bringing pleasure back into your life. Bringing life back into your life. Assuring you that you can have a normal life of sexual pleasure. You don’t have to hold back in concern for whether your new heart can take it.”
“How did this young man—originally a French-Canadian—die, Dr. Gupta? And, what also has been bothering me—when I arrived, there was a young man, Sean LeGrand, who was doing landscape work on the grounds. What became of him?”
Gupta’s body tensed up again. He was changing our positions, putting me under him, insinuated his knees between my thighs. “Where have you heard that your organ donor was French-Canadian?”
“The strangest thing, Dr. Gupta. French phrases are running through my mind. Somehow, I often know what they mean and that they are in a Canadian dialect. But I don’t speak any French.”
I knew I was way beyond the bounds here, that Gupta would know that someone was slipping me information they shouldn’t. But I wasn’t telling him all. Sean LeGrand had come into my mind because of a photo in the file John had given me. I wasn’t sure it—my organ donor—was of LeGrand, but it could have been. I never got that good of a look at the landscaper—but mainly because both times I’d seen him, he was being fucked under the bushes out on the grounds. He obviously was promiscuous and gay—just as I, with my new heart, now was.
Sean LeGrand was French-Canadian. He was young, handsome, and trim. He came from a seaside village. He was gay and promiscuous, quite probably a rent-boy. He was, as far as I could discern, missing.
“Sean LeGrand still works for us here,” Gupta said. “But he is out near the front entrance, working on redoing the stones in the rock wall out there.”
It was the last thing Gupta said to me in the session—or would permit me to say to him—before he took me into a close embrace, mounted and penetrated me again, and fucking me silly on the therapy couch in the missionary position, pulling waves of ejaculations out of me and contributing some of his own—long flowing, warm, gentle waves of contentment, his hands grasping mine and his fingers pulsing to the rhythm of his flow.
That night, a night of the full moon, I woke in a sweat for no reason I could discern other than that French phrases I could not understand, cried out in anguish, had built to a crescendo in my unconscious brain. I rose out of the bed and went to the window, staring out at the slightly swaying treetops on the fringe of the dense forest surrounding the remote private hospital complex.
As I watched, a procession of robed figures, carrying lit torches, progressed across the hospital grounds and entered the line of trees at the opening of a path that had not been evident to me before. It happened so quickly and was so strange that, after they and the glow from their torches were swallowed up by the forest, I couldn’t be sure I’d seen something real happening and it wasn’t just another manifestation of the drugs I was being controlled with. What was real? What was fantasy? What was natural? What was evil and foreboding?
Shuddering, I went back to my bed, thinking that, scantily clothed and barefoot notwithstanding, the next day, in the sunlight, I would take that path to see where they had gone. Was there a clearing, with a stone slab and restraints, somewhere along that path toward Baskahegen Lake?
Lying in the bed, I listened to the beating of my new heart, unable to do more than doze, but able before morning arrived to forget I had been determined to follow the path into the woods or to believe that I had experienced anything more than had yet another disturbing, drug- and confusion-induced dream.
* * * *
“John usually brings me breakfast. Is he OK? And I think Dr. Keller will give me that shot. He’s supposed to be here in about a half an hour.”
I found I could get to sleep the previous night after all, and whatever I’d thought I’d seen out of my window in the night was just a big question mark now. I was addressing a big, black hunk who had come into my room with a tray that held not only my breakfast but also a syringe filled with the blue-tinted fluid that I had come to call my sex booster, not that, after my new heart, I had the need for anything to heat me up sexually. The muscled up black hospital attendant, in hospital-blue baggy sweat pants but bare-chested, and showing a gleaming Mr. Universe torso, was an attendant I hadn’t seen before. If he gave me that shot, it was telling me that he was the one who would be climbing in bed with me—and he looked a bit to big in every respect for my new heart to survive that.
“John is no longer with us. My name is Reggie, your new attendant. I’ll provide you everything you need—and I mean everything. You certainly are a looker. I was told you were a high-fashion model. You sure have kept those looks, haven’t you?” His pattering didn’t seem to require my participation so I kept quiet, trying to process the sudden “John doesn’t work here anymore” statement. I took another look at him. If he was anywhere near as big down below that he was in his Mr. Universe torso, I don’t think I could handle it.
He was standing close to me, holding the syringe pointed up the ceiling.
“What’s that outside the window,” he wondered.
“Stupid me, I looked.”
He plunged it expertly into my arm, and I could feel the sexual surge flowing through my veins immediately. I wantonly ran the palms of my hands over his bulging pecs. He laughed.
“Everything?” I asked. “Are you a big boy?” Before the plunge of the syringe, I think I wanted the answer to that to be “no.” Now, the drug coursing through me, I obviously was up to the challenge.
“Everything,” he declared. “I’m a prime stud. You’re our prize patient. Dr. Keller says you are pure gold in fees every month we keep you alive and pleasured. I will give you all the dick you can take.”
At least he was honest.
“And Dr. Keller won’t be able to visit you this morning. He’s in surgery. Another heart transplant.”
Ah, the pro basketball player. At that point a nasty possibility occurred to me. The pro basketballer was a famously notorious womanizer, with acknowledged by-blows scattered about the world. If this hospital was based on a program of sexual therapy, did it cater to straights as well as gays? I hadn’t encountered anyone but men—and men who seemed to be on the make for other men—in the time I’d been here. Was the sexual therapy claim just a ruse to control me? Had Dr. Keller determined that was how I could be controlled and manipulated and my bank account milked, knowing I would have done anything to get a heart transplant in time? There seemed to be too many men who obviously preferred men about to believe this was all smoke and mirrors for me . . . but . . .
“So, it is you and me for this morning,” Reggie was saying. “Does that disappoint?”
“No, not at all,” I answered, pulling myself away from what I had been thinking. I let my hands glide down his chest and his flat belly, running them under the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Oh, shit.” My sphincter puckered up.
He laughed, not pulling back when I found how hung he was and took the measure of him as he engorged. “I want you to know you’ll be my first black.”
“I want you to know that I’m big enough to make you suffer,” he said.
“I can already tell that.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good.”
With that, we moved away from talking and into action. Reggie turned me, facing down on the bed but standing at the foot of the bed. I moaned, stretching my arms above my head and bunching up wads of sheeting in my fists, as he went on his knees behind me and pushed his face between my butt cheeks. A beefy brown hand snaked around my hips, grasped my cock, and stroked me as he ate me out and I writhed under him. The sexing up drug was still coursing through my veins, but I had no need of that to melt to this black bull.
Then, proving out the bull part, he rose, stripped off his sweats, slapped a huge, jet-black erection on my buttocks and rubbed the underside of it up and down in my crack, across my greedy hole, as I shuddered, gasped, and begged for it. My sphincter was clutching and releasing, clutching and releasing.
With a laugh, he mounted, slowly and forcefully penetrated, embraced me from above and behind, running his hands down my stretched-out arms and grasping my wrists to hold me in place until I fully surrendered to him. He was every thick inch of what I had imagined. He filled me, spread and stretched me. He owned me, and all the time he was inside me, moving, I couldn’t think of anything but that he was inside me moving. That I was going to die—but that I was going to die gloriously happy and owned. He fucked the shit out of me. My legs went to rubber, but before I could collapse under him, he ran a beefy arm under my waist, lifting my feet off the carpet to dangle as he thrust, thrust, thrust and I writhed and cried out at how he was stretching me to the limit and killing me. Killing me good, as he well knew. I went to heaven, exploded, and came. He continued fucking and I went over the moon, exploded, and came again. The drug had that frequent reload effect.
When he was done, I melted into a puddle on the floor at the foot of the bed and he had to scrape me off the floor and pour me back onto the mattress.
Was I being manipulated here? I had admitted to Dr. Gupta during therapy sessions that I’d never been fucked by a black man before and that I’d had fantasies of being covered by a black bull. And here, when I was asking some questions they didn’t want to answer, had appeared a black bull to shoot me up with sexing juice and cover me and melt me down. And my source for information I had been seeking, John, was no longer here.
Of course I had visions again as I was being fucked, visions that brought me more in synch with my new heart than when anything else was happening to me. It wasn’t the vision of the robe, mask, clearing in the woods, stone slab, and flashing knife, which only occurred when Dr. Keller was fucking me, or the vision of older men fucking me on a party boat, but the vision of a younger hunk fucking me on the grassy bank running down to the ocean—and, with Reggie, the hunk of my vision was black. At no time did I feel more the promiscuous rent-boy associated with my new heart than when John or Reggie—young studs both—were fucking me.
If something like cellular memory in the donor heart was conveying something about the life of the young man whose heart now beat in my chest, that young man had had quite a sex life.
Later in the morning, I left my room, in search of Dr. Keller, wondering about who was involved in the surgery he had done—or was still doing. In a back hall I hadn’t been in before, I saw a line of closet doors with one slightly ajar. I had only gotten a glimpse of robes hanging in the closet with a wolf mask on the shelf above before Reggie found me there.
“There you are. You really shouldn’t be roaming around,” he said, as a strong hand closed over my wrist.
“It’s such a nice day. I think I’ll take a walk,” I said. “Maybe down to the entrance where I understand the rock wall is being rebuilt or maybe into the woods. I’ve seen where there is a path opening in the trees. Is the lake far away?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Reggie said, “no walking anywhere outside the building for patients.” And then he was taking me up in his strong arms, carrying me back to my room, laying me on my back on the bed, coming up over me, mounting and penetrating me again, fucking me so hard that I was having no visions beyond the reach of my own memory of the pleasure of his cock stretching, possessing, working me—or any possible begging memory of my shared heart.
Clearly Reggie was to be the antidote for thinking and asking about the possible existence and application of cellular memory theory.