Two Strikes
Chapter 1

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual,

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Paul Elias had a future as a pro ballplayer -- at least until they sent him to Afghanistan. Now, he had to find a new way to make his mark in the world. But he would have good help.

Paul Elias had only known Ophelia for a few weeks, but he was already half in love with her.

So what, if Ophelia was black, quite a bit overweight and about the age of Paul's mother? She was the kindest and most considerate human being Paul had run into lately.

She was a nurse at the enormous east-coast Veterans' Hospital where Paul was a patient. Paul, just eight weeks ago, had lost both his legs to a land mine explosion in Afghanistan.

The first few weeks after that were just a blur -- sudden, incredible pain followed by some merciful periods of unconsciousness. Even when he'd been conscious, Paul had been so heavily drugged that life was just a fuzzy, vaguely pleasant drift through timeless nothingness.

But now Afghanistan was on the other side of the world where it belonged, and Paul -- what was left of him -- was stabilized, conscious, and beginning to cope with his losses.

There were lots of doctors, including some shrinks, coming around to talk to him, and most of them were decent- enough people. Paul was trying to listen to their advice, both medical and psychological. He was trying to teach himself to be grateful for being alive, instead of bitter about having lost both his legs, well-above the knees.

"You've got enough of your legs left to get excellent results from prosthetics," one of his doctors had told him. "You won't be doing any 100 meter dashes, but you'll be able to walk! With time, you'll be able to move around better than you think!"

Paul knew how to stun the Medicos, though. He'd just sit there, cheerful and cooperative, until the newest visiting physician asked him what, sooner or later, they all asked him: "What did you do before the army, Captain Elias?"

"I was a professional athlete," Paul would say, keeping his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "I was a baseball player."

He was waiting for one of the doctors to promise him that, with his soon-to-come high-tech artificial legs, he would be able to go from home to first in 3.4 seconds, just like he had in the old days.

Of course, none of the doctors was ever going to say any such thing.

Not that he really expected them too.

No, most of them, after innocently stumbling into asking that soul-wrenching question, would find some reason to leave his bedside, pretty promptly thereafter.

Everybody was pleasant to him, there at the Veterans' Hospital. Nothing quite like getting your legs blown off to make folks smile at you and say nice things. Paul was determined not to mope around, feeling sorry for himself. He did feel plenty sorry for himself, but he didn't want to show it, anymore than he could help.

And Ophelia Parker, his nurse, his friend, was the most pleasant of them all. He saw her more regularly than he saw any of the doctors, or the other nurses. She was there five days a week, and during the busiest part of each day. She was there when he got moved around for this test or that evaluation in other parts of the hospital, and she was there when they brought him back.

And unlike most of the smiles he got from the people who had occasion to visit his ward, Ophelia's smile was genuine. It was a smile of affection, not of pity. It was a smile of friendship. Oh, Paul knew that she was a professional employee of the hospital and that she was getting paid to take care of him and the other patients in the ward.

Didn't matter. The kind of kindness Ophelia Parker displayed couldn't be bought with hourly wages. She was a sweetheart.

Every weekday, Ophelia bathed the four men in Paul's little ward. Most of the time, they got sponge baths, right there in their beds. Once a week or so, three of the men, Paul included -- the three judged capable of being safely moved from their beds -- were bathed in a shower room, just off the ward. It was a big, fully equipped shower compartment with all the hand-holds and plastic seats necessary to accommodate almost any kind of disabled patient.

Paul remembered three of his weekly trips to the big shower room -- always accompanied by Ophelia. There might have been other such trips, earlier, but if there had been, he had no memory of them. The weekly full-scale shower was always a pleasant change from his otherwise humdrum hospital life.

But the other days -- the sponge-bath days, were actually even better. Ophelia's gentle, unhurried hands on his body were the closest thing to a sensual interlude that Paul Elias expected to experience, any time soon.

Not surprisingly, the sponge baths, very often, caused him to get an erection.

"I'm sorry," he would say, each time, to Ophelia.

Her response was always pretty much the same. "Don't you be sorry!" she would say, voice low enough that only Paul could hear her. "You be glad God didn't let them cocksuckers blow this pretty thing off, too, 'long with your legs!"

He had laughed out loud, the first time Ophelia had said that to him. "If they'd blown off any more of my legs," he told her, "they'd of sheared off part of my Little Buddy, there, too! It's a good thing I'm not hung like a porn star, I might' a lost a' inch or two!"

Ophelia surprised him, the time he'd said that. She had grasped his erect organ in her hand and squeezed it lightly. "You got yourself a nice piece of sausage, there, Captain! I see more of them things in a week, workin' here, than most women see in a lifetime, and for a white boy, you big, honey!"

Then she leaned over him, still with his penis held lightly in her hand, and spoke to him very softly: "Y'know, God gives our black boys big ones, mostly. I think it's 'cause He knows that Life don't oftentimes give them boys a whole lot 'a other good things."

Her body shielded their little intimacy from the other men in the ward as she whispered, "... but He treated you right good, too, Cap'n Paul! Maybe The Lord knowed you was gonna run into some bad luck, down the road."

"Maybe I'm just part black, my own self," Paul said, smiling at her.

"Could be! Could be," Ophelia replied, laughing. "But it wadn't nobody in your fam'ly tree, real recent, I don't think! That there 'the pinkest organ I ever did see! The ones I seen -- or, leastwise, the ones that's seen me back -- they a whole lot darker meat than that!"

And then Ophelia would laugh at her own remark, and, almost reluctantly, she'd release his still-hard shaft from her gentle grasp, make a show of reverently tucking it away and covering it over with his green cotton hospital gown, and, after that, with the sheets and blankets.

And then she'd reward Paul with a final smile and go about her business.

Well, who wouldn't fall in love with a woman like that?

In addition to the professional staff, there were occasional hospital volunteers who'd come around to the patients with magazines and newspapers, and sometimes with light snacks, working their way through the wards. Most often, these were motherly type women, or elderly men. They were kindly souls, trying to do a little good in the world while there was still time.

Today's visitor, however, was an eye-opener. She was a young woman, tall, well-dressed, attractive, mid-20s -- somewhere in the neighborhood of Paul's own age.

She had long, dark-hair and vivid blue eyes, and although Paul was half-sitting-up in bed with both his gauze-covered stumps outside the covers, she didn't cringe or look away. She looked right into his dark eyes, smiled, and said, "Hi, I'm Lois Silverthorn. Would you like for me to read to you?"

Lois Silverthorn had no magazines or newspapers to distribute. Instead, she had a thin little book, with the forefinger of her hand tucked in to mark her place.

She waited for his answer.

"Well -- yes, I'd be delighted if you'd read to me," Paul told her. "But are you sure you're in the right place? I mean, none of us in this ward has any damage to his eyesight. And I can hold a book myself, and stuff. So -- reading to me would be nice, but it's hardly, y'know -- necessary."

"Oh, I know this isn't the blind ward," she said. "It's just -- it's what I do. I'm a volunteer, and I like to read aloud, and some of the patients seem to enjoy it."

Uh-ohh! Paul was becoming mildly alarmed. Maybe this woman was some kind of religious nut-job, come to read to him from the Watchtower, or load him up with some other variety of fundamentalist claptrap.

"What's the book?" he asked.

She smiled. "Oh, it's -- it's poetry. It's e. e. cummings! Do you know him?"

As a matter of fact, Paul did. He might have been a jock, but he had, indeed, been to college, and he had, indeed, heard of, and briefly read, the poetry of e. e. cummings. Paul thought Cummings was a bit of a kook, but he had found him more interesting, on balance, than most of the poets to whom he'd been exposed.

"I know a little bit about him," he told Lois Silverthorn. "Please do read me a poem or two."

"Any requests?"

"I couldn't identify a single one by name," Paul said. "You choose!"

She did. She evidently knew the book intimately (it wasn't very lengthy) and she quickly located, and spiritedly read aloud, several short compositions by the strange Mr. Cummings.

"He's not bad," Paul said. "And you read him well. As I recall, he doesn't punctuate much, or capitalize words, and his poems are often shaped into patterns on the page, rather than arranged in coherent sentences. He must be hard to read aloud."

"Well, I'm an admirer of his, and pretty familiar with these poems," she said, "but you're right -- he's not the easiest to read, or to quote from."

She seemed to know how many Cummings' poems, read aloud, were a sufficiency, and soon she relaxed, put down the book, and just talked to him.

This was new in Paul's hospital experience: A non-medical-professional, non-relative, under-forty female person, sitting down, there, just to talk to him.

Very nice. She hadn't even left his bedside yet, but already, Paul was wondering if she'd ever come back.

Probably not.

"Lois -- Silverthorn?" he said. "Interesting name. Where does it come from?"

"Native American name," she said, proudly. Four generations back, my great-great grandfather was a Delaware Indian, out somewhere in eastern Ohio."

"Unusual, isn't it -- for the Indian names to stick? To be carried down as family names?"

"Yes it is. Well, I guess it is. I haven't run into very many such names in my travels."

"Nor I."

"Your name is 'Elias?'" she said.

"Yes," Paul said. "My forebears are from Syria."

"Guess that accounts for the dark hair, the dark eyebrows--"

"Beetle-brows," Paul said. "I'm a very ethnic kinda guy."

"You a Moslem?" she asked, a little timidly, Paul thought. She was probably hoping he wasn't.

"Nope. My parents are -- or were -- Catholics. Not very religious. Maybe we were Moslems, farther back, I don't know. Me, I'm a confirmed Bedonsun."

"A -- Bedonsun? I don't think I've -- heard of them," Lois said.

"We're not a very well-organized sect," Paul said, smiling. "Our main tenet of faith is to always stay late in bed on Sunday -- hence, the name -- Bed-on-sun."

There was a pregnant pause while Lois Silverthorn digested that bit of foolishness and, finally, gave Paul a tentative smile. "So you're not -- particularly -- religious," she said.

"Faithful, though, Paul insisted. "You can check me, on any Sunday morning. I'll be right here!"

Paul found out a lot about Lois Silverthorn that day. She was a third-year law student at the prestigious University of Pennsylvania, nearby. Her father and mother were both lawyers, although Mom wasn't practicing, and hadn't, for many years. Lois' older brother, Raymond, Jr., was (guess what?) a lawyer, too, practicing in his father's firm in Philadelphia.

"Just a bunch of Philadelphia lawyers," Paul summarized. He knew it wasn't a brilliantly clever remark, and she surely had heard it before, but it was the best he could come up with, lying there on his back with incipient bedsores from too much lying there.

On his goddamned back.

But Lois was sunny and cheerful, and they were getting along famously. She asked Paul where he'd gone to school, and he told her, the University of Kentucky, in Lexington.

Did his folks come to visit? Yes, they did, but it was a long ways -- over 500 miles -- so they could only afford to come every three weeks or so. They'd come on weekends, and stay overnight. That was frequently enough, Paul told her. It was as often as he wanted them to come.

It was difficult for him, when they came, he explained. His mother would cry a lot. She'd come in, all smiles, every time, and Paul could tell that she was determined that she wouldn't cry.

Not this time.

Mother Cheerful, that's who she was determined to be! And Paul really tried to help her. He stayed as upbeat and as cheerful himself, as anybody could possibly expect him to be!

He would save up jokes, for Dad, that he had found in the New Yorker, or heard on television, and he would strive to make the visits as painless -- for all three of them -- as he could manage.

But, eventually, his Mom always cried. She knew it wasn't the Right Thing to Do. She couldn't help it.

Paul forgave her for it, he told Lois Silverthorn. But, he admitted, it really was depressing as hell!

But Lois Silverthorn and Paul Elias were becoming fast friends. He felt a little guilty, monopolizing her hospital-volunteer time, there, turning on all the charm he could muster, trying to keep her from deciding to do what he could not do -- get up and walk away.

So they got over the awkwardness of the "Mom always cries" story and were both ready to move on to something a little more upbeat.

And of course, that's the moment that Lois chose to ask him The Question: What sort of work did Paul do, she wanted to know, before his Army Reserve unit had been sent off to Afghanistan?

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Romantic / Heterosexual /