Please take note!
The text in this story contains erotic material and is expressly written for adults only.
If you are underage or offended by such material, or if viewing this file is illegal in your locality, then leave, close or delete this file-story now.
This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental. The ideas and thoughts that follow are pure fantasies.
© obohobo 2012
"I remember little enough of the accident; one second I pedalled easily along a fairly quiet country lane and the next, without any warning, a car turned into a gravel drive and caught my front wheel and sent me flying over the handlebars. In that microsecond two things registered in my mind; the horrified face of a blonde, curly haired woman staring out of the passenger-side window, and the knowledge that my head would hit the car's front wheel arch and I hoped my helmet would withstand the impact. It did, but by some quirk of fate, my right temple hit the arch a fraction of an inch below the helmet. I didn't know that until several hours later, in fact I knew nothing more until I came to in the hospital and saw the tearful face of Kate, my 14, near 15 year old daughter, sitting at my bedside," Mike explained to the policeman.
Lynda Cresswell and her daughter Michelle attended the wedding of a cousin and were invited to the reception at the local pub afterwards. For Lynda the event had a snob social value even though it brought back memories of her husband who'd died three months previously after nearly 50 years of marriage. It hadn't been the most harmonious marriage but she sorely missed having her husband around to do the chores; having someone to chivvy and be subservient to her wishes. She tried to persuade her daughter to live with her but, knowing what life would be like if she returned to her mother's home and having lived separate lives for many years, Michelle adamantly refused but she did agree to attend the wedding as the 'designated driver'. In many ways, the church ceremony gave her time to reflect on her life and Michelle's thoughts turned to the failed relationship she'd had with James Burton for six years before splitting up two years ago. "Will I ever find the right man to wed?" she asked herself several times during the marriage service, "If I don't find the right man soon, it will be too late to have children. I'm 32 now so I probably have another eight years before I need to worry on that score."
"I'm driving," Lynda yelled and refused to hand over the car keys. Because of the limited parking at the pub, they had car-pooled.
"You've had too much to drink and you designated me as driver and I've been off the booze the whole time while you've been downing the vodkas like water."
The altercation went on for several minutes with Lynda becoming increasingly angry and obstinately refusing to hand over the keys, "If you don't want to ride with me, walk or get a taxi." Thinking she might somehow be able to ward off any of her mother's driving errors from the passenger seat, Michelle got into the car.
Harry Kessler and his assistant and driver, Bert Hines, videoed the wedding and the reception and saw Mrs. Cresswell leave when packing their gear in the car. "Stupid bossy bitch can hardly walk but refuses to give her daughter the keys, might be an idea to leave the camera out, Bert, we may get some footage that's worth a bob or two," Harry suggested. Seeing her make a hash of getting out of the car park, he told Bert to follow while he filmed and when she had several near accidents in the first half mile and almost missed the turn to Plegford Lane, a quiet country road, Bert called the police and kept up a running commentary. "She's turned into Plegford Lane on wrong side of the road, less traffic so she might get away with it; car's swinging wildly from one side of the road to the other. Christ, just missed that van coming our way. We're about three-quarters of a mile along the lane now and there's a cyclist in his fancy colourful Lycra gear ahead, thank God, she's pulling out to pass. Oh no, she's suddenly swung into a drive; there's rubber skid marks on the road. She's hit the cyclist and he's gone over the handlebars and his helmet's hit the car. The bike wheel is caught under the rear wheel but the car isn't stopping, it's dragging the cyclist along the gravel drive. Send an ambulance quick."
Unsteadily Lynda gets out of the car, sways towards the house, yelling abusively for her daughter to open the house door because she couldn't find her key forgetting that it was on the key ring she'd left in the ignition and not in the least concerned about the cyclist's welfare. Ignoring her mother, Michelle starts to open the passenger side door but, seeing it will hit the injured man, clambers out the driver's side, runs around the front of the vehicle and cradles him to her body.
In her statement she told the police, "I talked to him regardless of his not replying because somewhere I read that people in a coma subconsciously hear and take in things said to them without responding. Blood flowed from his head and from his legs where the gravel had not only torn the skin but also dragged down and shredded the front of his shorts. I kept trying to soothe him while a man from a car following us, Bert, he introduced himself, freed the handlebars from where they'd caught the sleeve of the cyclist's sweatshirt and gently turned him to a less twisted position on his back and we saw the extent of the lacerations to his legs, thighs and penis. Gravel and dirt stuck to the blood and it all looked awful and I hoped most were surface cuts and no bones were broken. His legs and arms looked to be in the right positions. Luckily, if you can call it luck, the handlebars that hooked his shirt, kept his face above the ground and saved it from being scratched. Fortunately, I'm not squeamish and didn't freak out at the sight of all the blood and continued to speak to the man. Harry, the other occupant of the car, the man with the camera, asked if I knew the identity of the cyclist but I had no more knowledge than they but I said it looked like he had a wallet in his back pocket."
Already alerted, the police arrived in a very short time, the ambulance came soon after and the medics took over. Michelle continued to cradle him until the paramedics completed checking his injuries and stretchered him into the ambulance and when the police took the wallet and read out man's identity loud enough for the paramedics and everyone to hear, "Michael Carter, 23 Bignall Close, Newton," she mentally noted the details.
Kate called out, "He's awake," and a nurse came followed by a doctor. They asked questions but with his head throbbing and everything somewhat out of focus, Michael lay still and only muttered a few words but responded when his daughter Kate squeezed his hand, by squeezing hers, bringing a relieved smile to her face. Only then did he notice the curly haired blonde in the background but soon drifted off to sleep again.
"How do you feel, Michael?" the nurse asked when he woke some time in the early hours of the morning and heard the bleep of the monitor and felt the wires tethering him to it.
"Groggy, thirsty, need to pee," he croaked the words but she understood.
Placing a carton of juice his hands, she pulled the blankets back and carefully inserted his penis into the urine bottle, "Sorry, I'll have to do this for you because we don't want the bandages to get wet. Your shorts got dragged down and your pecker got a bit scratched and we've put bandages around the shaft so no getting an erection," she smiled at him, "They bandaged it so the end is clear and you won't need a catheter." Bandages almost covered both legs and a crepe one bound the sprain on his right wrist and she explained, "The car dragged you along the gravel and the front of your legs took the brunt of it, you've lost a lot of skin but nothing's broken. Nothing that won't heal okay but it will take a while and your legs will feel raw and sore until then; it's the lump on your head the doctors are worried about but they were less worried at their last visit."
The police visited during the morning but weren't surprised when he couldn't remember anything and only confirmed his name and details as being Michael Carter, 36 years old and living at 23 Bignall Close, Newton. "At least I can remember that, so I haven't lost my memory," Michael reasoned, "I wonder what will happen to the woman who knocked me down? The police said they'd arrested 71-year-old, Lynda Cresswell, and charged her with drink driving but wouldn't say any more."
By the afternoon visiting time, he felt perkier and when Kate came with the blonde, she introduced, "Dad, this is Michelle Cresswell, her mother drove the car that hit you. Shelley, this is Mike, my Dad."
Michelle touched his hand and said "Hi," and apologised for her mother. "I tried to stop her driving but she doesn't accept no for an answer, not ever. She'll have to now. The police are still holding her and will almost certainly take her license until the court hearing."
"How do you know Kate?"
"I came here last night to see how badly you were injured and she was pretty upset so I drove her home and arranged to bring her today. She cried on the way so and I spent a little while with her until she calmed down again. I don't live too far from you, much closer than mother."
"I came on the bus the first time because Gran and Granddad were out when I got the phone call but they will bring me tonight and Nanny and Granddad Bob are on holiday. Shelley saved me going home alone. Is there anything you want Dad?"
.... There is more of this story ...