Edge of Despair

"Is there anything else I can do for you now, Mr. Williams? Anything at all. This is a private room and it will be lights out. No one is scheduled to check on you for two hours—and that would be me anyway."

"You could provide a bigger tree," I mumbled. "And you can call me Kil. Everyone does." My full first name was Kilroy, but everyone called me Kil. It seemed to fit for an aggressive black running back for the Atlanta Falcons—or at least that's what I'd done before this afternoon. Now, I had no idea what I'd do. I hadn't found a tree big enough.

"Thanks, Kil. As it says on the white board over here, I'm Scott, and I'm your nighttime nurse's aide." He'd been hovering over me for enough time to make me think I was his only patient in the hospital. He was a cute little blond piece, though, so I didn't mind that. I never minded when cute little blond pieces gave me attention. That's what had put me in the predicament, not, I'm sure, what the club managers had given as a reason—that I'd had just one too many concussions in the game for them to keep me on for next season.

"And let's try not to think about the automobile accident. We all know that booze doesn't mix well with driving. Let's just see what the test results come out to on any internal injuries. Let's just assume all of the cuts and bruises are superficial and nothing is going on underneath. In the meantime, lights will be off and I'm here for you—anything you want."

Accident. So, they were going to play it as an accident. Whatever.

He kept offering something. Could he know? Could he know the real reason the Falcons were letting me go—from the only life I knew, the only skills I had—that one of the club's major shareholders had discovered I'd been fucking his son? A big black bull like me, all sculpted muscles and big cock, on his cute little, barely legal blond son? Well, Ben had come after me, sniffing for it. I hadn't seduced him.

"Thanks, Scott, I think I'm good. Just tired. So very tired of it all." I felt like crying. I couldn't let this guy—or anyone—see me crying over this. Why couldn't I have found a bigger tree to drive into?

"The monitor there, the big red button. You need anything, anything at all, just press that. I'll come running." And then he was gone and I was in the dark wondering where the hell my life could go from here. Being a professional football player was my whole life. I'd never get a position on another team—for either of the reasons I was being let go, because there had been too many concussions and because I was an active bull top. What else could I do? Why hadn't I found a bigger tree to plow into?

I hadn't pushed the button at 2:00 a.m. in the dark, but the young, blond orderly—Scott was his name?—must have heard my badly suppressed sobs. He was there by my bed, in the dark, putting his arms around me, and whispering, "There, there, it will all look better in the morning."

I had to admit that it already was a little better. I had a fetish for small, blond submissives. Scott was meeting that criteria precisely. But why did it seem like he knew something about me and was waiting for me to realize something?

* * * *

It was still dark, not quite 5:00 a.m., the next morning when Scott came back into the room and woke me. I'd been awakened at 3:00 for him to take my vitals too, and he, once again, had asked if there was anything else more specific he could do for me. This time he appeared with a basin of soapy water.

"The doctors will be in by 8:00 to consult, and it would be best—if you let me—if you were cleaned up better and your bedding replaced. Are you OK with me giving you a sponge bath?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I said, although of course my first thought went to how I would keep myself from going hard being sponged by a small, cute blond like Scott. Being a football player with physical trainers and all—and not having any reason to not be proud of every aspect of my glowing, cut, chocolate-brown body, I was used to being intimately touched. It usually wasn't by a type of guy I had a fetish for, though.

I failed in any attempt not to go hard while Scott was sponging my body off. He didn't say anything. He didn't hold back from giving me a good sponge bath and then changing my bedding and gown before leaving. It was going light outside when he was done and had taken my vital signs again.

I woke up to the voice of Dr. Craig saying, "Are you awake, Mr. Williams?"

"I am now," I answered.

"Well, I have very good news for you. We couldn't find any internal damage from the . . . accident . . . you had. There's always the danger of concussion, though, and, with your history we think you should stay in the hospital for a couple of more days for observation and a few more tests."

"Umm, OK," I answered. What did it matter? I had nothing otherwise to do now anyway. My life was in shambles. He wasn't fooled, I could tell, by the way he skipped over the "accident" word. I knew I would still be in the hospital for a couple of more days on a watch that went beyond the physical.

All of the nurses during the dayshift were women. They all ogled me. They knew who I was. Professional football was big business in Atlanta. I had been a star player. I was a big, strapping, body-sculpted black dude, so I'd always gotten a lot of attention. News that I was bisexual and covered men hadn't come out yet. Neither had the news that I'd been released by the club the previous day. The nurses used any excuse they could to drop by, and others in the hospital did, as well. By the evening change of shifts, I was exhausted from the fawning of others and, after Scott had come on shift, taken my vitals, and asked me yet again if there was anything—anything at all—he could do for me, it was lights out and I drifted into a fitful sleep.

Sometime in the darkest of night, Scott reappeared, turned on a light, and took my vitals again. When he turned out the light, though, he didn't leave.

"The doctors say there is no internal damage—just rest and relaxation for you for the next couple of days. I can help with the relaxation," he said. He'd brought lotion. "Here, let's get this gown off. I know what you need."

He indeed knew what I needed from someone at that moment. Pulling up a chair so he could sit beside me in the dark, he gently rubbed my body down. I couldn't help from going hard.

He made clear that that wasn't a problem for him—just the opposite. "Just relax and let me help you," he murmured. "I know what you need." His lotioned hand went down to my groin while that other one was massaging my bulging pecs. He grasped my cock and stroked me off.

"Relax. Go with it. I know how you swing."

I was panting and moaning low, but I made no effort to stop him. It was clear now what sort of help he was offering all along. I let him slow beat me off and, when I grunted that I was going to cum, he took my shaft in his mouth and swallowed my wad.

He didn't leave me then. "There, that's what you need," he whispered. I couldn't deny that. "I'm here to give you whatever you need. I know you are tense from something that goes beyond the accident. I know it wasn't an accident. Tell me what the problem is. Maybe all you need is someone to talk to about it."

I told him. I told him of being released by the club, not just because of my concussion history but also because I'd fucked the son of one of the club's majority shareholders. Scott listened attentively.

"So, you have a thing for young men," he said. "I thought so, and I've heard rumors about you and what you like."

"Yes, young, small, blond men."

"Like me?"

"Yes, like you," I said, "Which is why I haven't stopped this. I'm sorry. I shouldn't let you do this." He was slow stroking my cock again and I was hard.

"I like doing this. I have a thing for black men with magnificent bodies and gigantic cocks," he said. "I wish we could do more. You're hard again. You're really virile, aren't you? Gotta have a lot of it, don't you?"

"Yes, sorry. Afraid so."

"Don't be sorry," he whispered. And then he took my shaft in his mouth and gave me head again, while I moaned and sighed and held his blond curls between my hands, guiding the head moving on my cock.

When he'd sucked me off again, he asked, "What is it that you really fear? You've set yourself publicly as a major sports figure. Fans will understand the concussion issue on why you have to stop playing. You went to college, didn't you? I read that it was Virginia Tech and that you have a degree in communications. Right?"

"Yes, but—"

"That gives you options. There is game announcing and commercials. You made big bucks over your seasons. Is that money gone?"

"No, I've got a good nest egg," I said. "It's more having a vocation—something to do. Football was all I've ever had, all I've ever needed."

"Not all, I don't think," Scott murmured and then laughed. "You want young men like me to fuck, I think."

"I suppose you're right."

"This change in your life opens that up. Lots of sports stars are coming out gay now. You can come out and live your life as you please. The public will accept that."

It was getting light outside again. "I suppose," I said. "Something to think about."

"Yes, I really have to go now. But think about all this—and every night you're here, I'm here to serve and relax you. I should have one more night of duty, but I can call in favors and be here for you every night you're here. I'll take care of your need."

I was only there one more night, but Scott went well above and beyond the call. He didn't just suck me off. He shed his clothes, climbed on top of me, saddled himself on my loins, and rode me in a slow, sensual Cowboy fuck.

Later in the morning, near the change in shifts, he came in, took my vitals, and said, "I hear they are releasing you later today."

"Yes," I answered. "And I want to thank you for—"

"I won't see you again, then. I'll go off rotation as scheduled. I'd like you to meet someone, though, now, if you're willing." He turned and brought in a man in a suit. "This is Mr. Granger. He's with a PR firm. I think you'll want to talk to him about possibilities to use your sports fame and college training in a new direction, now. Will you talk with him?"

"Yes, Scott. But I want to—"

But Scott had turned and left the room. I was bed bound and in a gown that didn't close in back. I couldn't run after him.

But I certainly wanted to.

"First and maybe last," I said to Mr. Granger, who now was standing by my bed. "It's probably about to break that I'm gay—a power top—and so you may not want to talk to me."

"My firm specializes in gay clients," he said. "It can be an advantage if handled carefully. I most definitely want to talk with you."

* * * *

"So, you came back to Heretics, and I understand that you are managing to set some deals through Granger's PR firm."

"Scott. It's Scott, isn't? I tried to find you but the hospital wouldn't release any information on you. I wanted to think you for Granger and for . . . well, you know."

I was two weeks out of the hospital, on the mend both physically and mentally. I had come out during the media coverage on both my "accident" and being released by the Falcons, and the backlash hadn't been anywhere close to what I had expected. It already was yesterday's stories, and any real friends I'd ever had were still real friends. This had all been eye-opening for me. I'd been a surface guy. I hadn't thought much beyond myself to anyone else.

Scott turned out to be a good illustration of this.

I was back in balance enough and was horny, so I returned to one of my favorite gay sports bars in Atlanta, the Heretic, on Cheshire Bridge Road. I was feeling confident enough to go on the hunt again. And, once again, I was hunting for a small, more beautiful than handsome young blond guy. A guy just like Scott, who had taken such good care of me in the hospital.

And here he was, saddling up beside me at the bar at Heretics. Scott.

"Yes, the hospital has rules about ongoing staff and patient contact. They protect us from patients coming for us for whatever reason—although I'm sure they weren't thinking of any possible reason you might like to see me again."

"Sorry, again," I said. "You were so good to me. You knew exactly what I needed and you gave it all. I have no idea how you would know—"

"You don't remember me at all, do you?" Scott asked, interrupting.

"Excuse me? Yes, I remember you—from the hospital." I was a little taken aback. I wasn't good at remembering names and I'd remembered him from the hospital. Before this "accident" I'd pretty much taken others for granted. It was because he was so giving and so cute—and had held me up when I was at my darkest in the hospital—I'd remembered his name. I'd tried to get the hospital to tell me who he was and how I could get hold of him.

"Not from the hospital. From here. Months before the hospital."

"I don't understand."

"Apparently not. It's why I knew what you needed in the hospital—and why I was so free in giving it. It wasn't the first time we'd been together—not the first time I gave you a blow job or that you fucked me. The New Orleans Saints game last season—the one you scored two touchdowns in and wound up here at Heretics, drunk as a skunk and on the prowl. Don't you remember?"

"I remember the game and going partying, but I don't . . . oh, shit, you were the guy I took home from here and fucked the stuffing out of, aren't you?"

"Yes. You didn't even ask me my name then. You took what you wanted. And I gave you everything because I'm a big fan and you have what I wanted too."

"Shit, I'm sorry. It was all about me then, wasn't it? Honest, I'm trying to change that. I've been forced to relook at my life and rebalance it. You've been a big part in that turnaround. Can you possibly—?"

"Do you still, more-or-less sober and recovering emotionally have any interest in a guy like me?"

"You are exactly the kind of guy I have interest in," I answered. "As drunk as I was after the Saints' game, I went for what I wanted that night here at Heretics—and it was you. It still would be you."

"Good, because I'm still a big fan of yours. You're still all that I would want from a guy."

"So, you're saying—"

"I'm wondering if you still live in that fancy penthouse apartment not far from here."

I did, and it didn't take us long to get there.

* * * *

He gave me everything. Still a bit bruised, I sat, naked, at the end of the bed, as he did most of the work. He was small, and beautiful, and slim, and extremely flexible. He nestled into my lap, my thick, black cock deep inside him, stretching him, fully possessing him, as his legs encased my hips and he dug his heels into the bedspread to give him leverage for fucking himself on my cock. He was arched over on his back, jutting out from my lap, where I held his hips in my hands, my clutching palms squeezing and separating his butt cheeks as much as possible to give me maximum access in the stretching of his channel with my shaft. Arched over toward the floor, the palms of his hands pressed into the carpet, Scott was athletically fucking himself on my cock.

Before we both blew, he had turn over, face down to the carpet, using the leverage of his toes in legs streaming behind my hips to move on the cock, while his torso was cantilevered over the floor at the foot of the bed and I held his wrists in my fists.

One thing was clear to me now. I was never ever again to discount a treasure like Scott. He was my saving hero. As long as he wanted big black bull cock from me, he would get it.