Chapter 8 #2
Doc regards her like something he’d wipe off his shoe, then huffs. “Yes, just do exactly what I did.” Then to me he adds, “Unless there’s any adverse change in your injuries, I’ll just leave the spare bandages and antiseptic here. I’ll be back to see you the day after tomorrow.”
I take some pleasure in seeing him pack his own bag and carry it away.
I’m still staring after him, wondering whether Bronwyn will really benefit from being freed from these trips to treat me, or whether I’ve lost her the support I could have given her as an understanding friend, when Trixie leans over me.
“Apart from changing your dressings, is there anything else I can do for you?” Her hands cup my dick in blatant suggestion.
Pushing her roaming fingers away, I reject what she’s offering. “Think you’d take my breath away, darlin’.” I grin. “Literally, after what Doc said.”
As she laughs, taking my words at face value, I grow cold inside. What the fuck will reduced lung capacity mean for me?
It currently means I get breathless doing things at a snail’s pace that I used to take at full stretch.
Walking up stairs, I have to stop at the top to get enough oxygen to take the final steps to my room.
What if I don’t improve? What would my life look like if I couldn’t do all the things that mean so much to me?
Like fuckin’, fighting, and assing around with my brothers?
After a week of Doc coming, first every other day, he drops it down to a couple of times a week when he’s satisfied the risk of infection has passed.
Trixie’s taken up the slack and helped me with my bandages, which, to be quite honest, I could now do myself, but why should I?
I might not be up for anything strenuous, but I like having her hands on me.
What man wouldn’t? That she plays nurse scantily dressed, pussy lips showing as she leans over, and her tank top struggling to contain her tits when she straightens up, I admit I enjoy the scenery.
Today I’ve been too tempted, my dick threatening to hammer its way out of my pants, so I took her up on her offer to give me some relief using her mouth.
No exertion on my part required. Except, when I dump my load down the back of her throat, I end up seeing stars even though it was far from the best blow job I’ve ever had.
I can’t catch my breath for a couple of minutes, and wonder whether this is how I’m going to die.
Reduced lung capacity fucking sucks.
Mortified, as she was the one who saw me gasping and, according to her, turning blue in the face, she’d rifled through some leaflets the doc had left for me, and which I’d ignored.
“You need therapy,” she tells me. “It says here there are exercises that can help.”
“Like what?”
Her brow furrows as she reads, mouthing the words as if she’s sounding out every syllable in her head.
I take it literacy isn’t one of her skills, not that it’s needed for her role in the club.
And I’m the last one to criticise. I’m almost as bad as her when it comes to reading, though I’ve come on since I left home – teaching myself, starting with comics, then progressing to magazines, and even books when I’m in the mood.
I’m still slow, but at least I can manage most words.
“I think it means you’ve got to do more than just limping down to the clubroom and sitting your ass at the bar. Walking, swimming…”
“Where the fuck am I going to walk to? Have we suddenly sprouted a pool because I haven’t seen one around here before?”
“Are you not even going to try?” she challenges me.
Okay, so she’s got a point. I can lie here complaining, or do something to help myself.
I snatch the leaflet from her and begin to peruse it for myself.
High-intensity interval training… well, even the thought makes me cringe.
Jumping rope? I’d pass out if I tried. Yoga?
Hell, that’s for bitches, not for a big fucker like me.
Pilates… same goes. Oh, here’s something I could do – weight training.
It even suggests something simple like carrying cans around.
I’ll just have to practice lifting a few more beer bottles.
While drinking the contents, of course, now I’m allowed since I’m no longer on antibiotics.
Wait, there’s something else. Breathing exercises, now those I can do without making an idiot of myself.
She’s right, though. I’ve got to do something. While riding a bike isn’t particularly challenging, I’m not confident I could easily get on and off without getting stronger. What’s a biker without his two wheels?
I feel a pat on my hand and notice I’ve been lost in my thoughts, as Trixie is getting up to go.
“I’ll leave you to read that shit for yourself.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I add the last word belatedly, but she’s already out the door.
Diaphragmatic breathing? Now that’s one I had to mouth out. Alternate nostril? What the hell is that? Pursed lip? Fuck. The list goes on. I never realised there were so many ways to get air into your lungs. I thought that was just something your body did automatically.
Lung training machine? Now that sounds better than making myself sweat jumping rope, or a fool of myself by contorting my limbs doing yoga.
Searching online, I find they go for just a handful of dollars.
One that catches my eye even has decent reviews.
That’s got to be worth a try, and sounds more masculine than the other options.
I put it in the cart, checkout, and pay for it.
Next-day delivery, I’d be a fool to miss out.
Though, of course, I’ll have to send a prospect to the nearest drop point to get it.
Direct deliveries to the club are frowned on.
My reaction to that blow job has kicked my head into gear.
I can’t spend the rest of my life wheezing like an invalid.
After trying the breathing exercises for a while, frustrated because they don’t immediately help, I decide to get on with a new exercise, go downstairs and practice lifting beer bottles to my mouth.
But when I reach the bottom step on the staircase, I come to an abrupt halt.
It’s evening, so it’s not surprising most brothers are here, but usually they’d be congregated around the bar or the pool table, or in groups playing cards, or even the slot machines we’ve installed in the club.
Freak and his boy are often taking on all comers with their gaming setup in one corner.
Tonight, all brothers, club girls, and Pippa seem to have one purpose. They’re huddled in a group, most holding tablets, and there’s a general excitement I’ve not seen before.
The prospects are missing. Neither Heathen nor Knight is manning the bar.
Words is the first to spot me. He gives me a wave, looking far more animated than he usually does. Wondering what the fuck I’m walking into, I descend the last step and start walking over.
“Hey, Short!” Saint jumps up and offers me his seat when he sees me. “We’ve got a treadmill, elliptical, and rowing machine ordered.”
“And weights,” Freak puts in.
“Yoga mats!” Pippa states gleefully. “You know? I can’t wait to get back into that again.”
“You’re pregnant,” Saint observes.
“Lover, I’ll do it carefully. There are special programs for expectant moms.” Pippa leans over and gives him a kiss as she reassures him.
“I’m in on the yoga,” Heaven trills.
“Me too,” Star agrees. “But what about a pole? Can we get one of those?”
Sudden silence descends. Then, slowly, realisation dawns and smirks appear on my brothers’ faces.
“Add that too, Genie,” Rattler instructs, sporting a shit-eating grin.
“Done,” our tech brother, who’s apparently in charge of ordering all this stuff, confirms.
I might sometimes be slow on the uptake, but I’m not that stupid.
All this exercise equipment, except, hopefully, the pole, is being ordered on my behalf.
And a fuck ton of it. This makes my recent cheap purchase pale in comparison.
I toss a glare at Trixie, who turns a deep shade of red and looks away fast, refusing to meet my eye.
She’s betrayed my trust. She’d gone straight down and exposed my embarrassing predicament to my brothers.
But I can’t hold on to my immediate impulse to be angry at her.
Fuck, once she’d obviously betrayed my plight, my brothers rallied around to give me every chance they could to help me recover, or at least gain sufficiently functioning lungs.
A lump forms in my throat. Then a more serious thought hits me. “How much am I going to have to pay for all this shit?”
Bullseye looks up. “Nothing, Short. Sure, you’ll be the one to immediately benefit from it, but it seemed beyond time we had a fuckin’ gym in this club.” His gaze roams the room, pausing on each man in turn. “It will stop us getting out of shape and flabby.”
“Fuck off,” Piston says, rubbing his rounded stomach.
“Fighting keeps me fit enough,” Tempest refutes.
Overwhelmed, I don’t know what to say, though the practicality does hit me. “Where are we going to put all this shit?”
Freak barks a laugh. “Got the prospects cleaning out the old barn we’re not using. Just needs some fixing up and we’ll be set.”
My breath catches, not a good thing when the one thing I need to do is keep breathing, and I stagger to the chair Saint had offered up.
“Well, I’ll be fucked.” My face splits into a smile of its own accord. “I don’t know how to thank you, Brothers.”
Saint’s hand clasps my shoulder. “Just get fit again, Short. That’s all we ask.”
The almost solemn moment is spoiled when Rat calls out, “That stripper pole should be here in the clubroom, not in the gym.”
“Fuckin’ agreed,” more than one man calls out.