Page 29 of Downpour

She was, arguably, terrible at her job. And yet, she was the only person in a year and a half who had done a somewhat acceptable job of tolerating me.

She still talked too much, but at least she didn’t expect a response.

I wrapped my hand around my dick and let out a slow exhale. Thoughts of her filled my mind as I worked my shaft up and down.

My motions were inconsistent, but that didn’t keep the pressure from simmering in my groin.

Goddamn, she was beautiful.

The other day, she had rolled over in the grass and laid on her stomach. I got to stare at that ass for an hour. I groaned as fantasies of her tangled in bedsheets filtered through my mind as my dick grew harder and harder.

My shoddy attempt at jerking off didn’t matter. Within seconds, I was coming to the thought of Brooke. Her hair tossed. Her skin flushed. Her lips parted and panting.

It had been a long time since I’d wanted a woman.

It had been even longer since a woman had wanted me.

I finished washing off and cut the water. Usually, I would have used the bars and pulleys to get out of the shower, but the steam—and the orgasm—had loosened me up a bit.

I closed my eyes and ran through the gamut of mental exercises my physical therapist made me do before we worked on my legs.

Focus on the muscles. Remember what it felt like. Isolate those feelings and focus on each part of the movement.

I focused on my left knee like it was a diagram in a science class. I envisioned bending it to plant my foot on the shower floor. I thought about bending forward and pushing up to stand.

I had spent most of my therapy hours that week in a standing body brace, with my legs being worked like a baby who had gas. I had random bouts of muscle spasticity that made my therapist hopeful. I chalked it up to optimistic delusion.

But part of me held onto those threads of delusion too.

I gripped the wall bars and slowly, slowly focused on lifting my hamstrings and quads. My left thigh raised off the plasticshower seat. I squeezed my eyes shut even harder as I planted my foot flat on the textured shower floor. An odd sensation pooled in my ankle—or at least what I thought was my ankle.

I pushed up on the bars, lifting my body with just my arms, keeping the bulk of my weight off my legs.

Slowly, I kept a hold on the shower support bars but released some of the strain on my arms.

Goddamn it. My knees hurt like a bitch.

I gritted my teeth and didn’t dare open my eyes as I slowly opened my left hand and let go of one bar.

Rivulets of water streamed down my body. The non-slip coating on the bottom of the shower didn’t matter. It was still slick as shit, and I wasn’t going to take a chance and fall.

But maybe…

I peered through lowered lids as I lifted my foot and took a step.

Holy shit.

I took another breath. My knuckles on the support bar turned white as I shifted my weight and focused on my right knee and hip. I planted my right foot on the floor and, with less hesitancy, put my weight on it.

My arm was stretched behind me. I couldn’t take another step without letting go.

But I was standing.

I grabbed the next set of support bars and pulled myself out of the shower the way I had managed to do every other time.

I hadn’t told my family about any of the progress I had made, and swore my therapy team to secrecy.

What happened if the electrodes in my back stopped working? What happened when I got old and my body gave out faster than the average person? What would happen if my muscles went back into paralysis?

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