Last Rites - Sex Stories

Last Rites

... clean up after him. But he’d be dead, so it really wouldn’t matter. Somewhere in the third month of living in his new residence, a public health official had come to check on him. They’d pounded on his door, yelling his name and demanding he open it. He’d tried to ignore them in the hopes they’d go away and leave him to die in peace and quiet, but they’d broken the door down anyway. Despite his loud protests, he’d been removed from his bed and taken to some antiseptic facility, supposedly for his own good. He’d blacked out long before the gurney had been wheeled out the doorway, only to wake in an unfamiliar room painted a cold colour of light green, attached to various machines and monitors, tubes running from intravenous bags to somewhere on his body. They sedated him through one of those liquid solutions coursing through his system, for he fell back into a dreamless sl**p almost immediately. Once again, time lost all meaning. Rod drifted in and out of consciousness, usually at the behest of some person asking him questions for which he had no answers. At first, he’d tried to communicate, but his lips wouldn’t form the words he wanted, and his answers never satisfied the inquisitor anyway. It wasn’t long before he stopped trying, stopped speaking, and began to resent the intrusions. All he was interested in was the comforting isolation of u*********sness, the peace and silence of that existence becoming like a haven for his tortured soul, and a way to ignore the growing ...

... list of perceived failures. How long he’d be kept under these conditions, he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter to him anyway, for to him, he was comatose enough to almost be dead, and any recognition of this clinical world they’d stuck him in didn’t really register. There were now only two states of his being; conscious long enough to understand that he wasn’t dead yet, and u*********s, where he was spared from his thoughts. He’d been in the ward for almost a year when he was finally released. The Health authority assigned someone to check on him twice a week, although he really didn’t feel that he was worth the effort or expense. But twice a week, once on Wednesday and again on Saturday, there was a woman that knocked on his door, demanding that she be granted entrance, then testing him and measuring all his vital signs. At first, he resented the intrusion, but over the months, he slowly began to accept, then look forward to the human contact she represented. She prescribed a diet that he followed, if only to keep her from nagging him about his weight and general condition. As time went on, he actually gained some weight, eventually tipping the scales at one hundred and thirty five pounds, although his muscle tone still left something to be desired. Over time, Rod actually began to look forward to the therapy sessions, and his contact with the woman that tried to help him. Her visits kindled a flame inside him, gave him a reason to carry on, to maybe even look forward to another ...