Chapter 2:
Prologue:
So when we last left our two favourite heroes, they were in the hospital getting a shaft-cast for Alan's damaged goods. After the couple's explosive failure at making love, Patrick decided to devote himself to assuring that Alan's broken manhood was reforged as a fortuitous claymore and not a flimsy dagger. During the long months that the couple referred to as the "cast" in darkness months, Patrick took to whispering to Alan's shaft-cast and stroking it as you would coals in a fire. All this occurred while Alan was asleep of course. Sometimes, Patrick would make tinctures made of crushed up Viagra in lavender oil that he would carefully pour into Alan's cast. The best part about the cast in Patrick's opinion was the fact that Alan could not feel his nether regions, thus allowing Patrick to practice his tonging and other techniques on his unsuspecting hubby. Alan, on the other hand, for all his genius could not figure out why his cast always smelled like flowers and stayed slightly moist. He put it down to the exuberant activity of his broken manhood inside the cast and spoke about it to no one due to his embarrassment. Although the timing is different, this second story takes place where the first story ended, at the hospital. Alan is finally getting his shaft-cast removed.
Chapter 02:
The doctor inserted a pair of long and sharp shears into the cast surrounding my shaft. I closed my eyes with apprehension as I prayed to god to not let this doctor accidentally cut off one of my balls. I felt a warm squishy hand squeeze my palm and my worries were pushed down towards my feet. I slowly opened my eyes and stared into the two deep brown pools that were Patrick's irises. I heard snipping and witnessed the scissors easily shearing through the moist cast. The doctor picked up the flimsy plaster covered with ginger curls and gave it a quizzical look, then tossed it in the trash. Patrick and I stared at my goods; it was like a beautiful butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Thicker and stronger and smelling slightly of lavender, I was confused but not upset. Patrick put his arms around my shoulders and leaned into me. "It's beautiful," he said breathless. I nodded silently in agreement. As the doctor inspected my beautiful butterfly, I smiled to myself in anticipation of testing it out.
We were waiting for this night for months. Since last year when Patrick's ass exploded during intercourse and I was shot across the room like rocket and I broke my manhood against the wall, I've been dreaming of this moment. Many nights when I'm trying to sleep, it's as if I can still fell Patrick around me. I have many dreams that I'm still inside him. My goods have been feeling it too, it's as if they're on drugs. Sometimes for no reason it will swell and flare up inside my cast. I guess it's what they say, once you do it once there's no going back.
Patrick and I entered our little home in London. He smiled his fat little piglet grin and began to saunter into the kitchen to make my celebratory hospital meal. I've been waiting almost a year, so I steel myself to wait a few more hours. Patrick's hips wag a little as he stirs his pot of couscous and his large calves pop as he reaches up into the cupboard for salt. I contain myself, but then Patrick rolls up his sleeves to get down to business revealing his pale chubby wrists, my business begins to swell in my pants and I decide his business is now my business. I pluck his spatula out of his short sausage fingers and place my head on his shoulder. My pulsating manhood warms his back, letting him know that I want more than just cuddling. My mouth brushes his ear and I whisper, "I'm hungry, but not for couscous." Patrick shivers against me and as I slip my hand under his shirt he shuts off the burners on the stove. I smile and he turned towards me.
"You win," he smiles and then I shut him up with a strong kiss.
Patrick and I shuffle as one large human blob towards the refrigerator. I press him against it and rip off his shirt, his fat little moobs are perky in the cool air. I pull off my own shirt and continue to kiss him. Patrick pulls my hips closer and we begin having a double sword battle with both our tongues and our pork-swords. When I feel as if my sword is going to rip through my pants, Patrick undoes the clasp on my jeans and unzips my fly. I stop kissing him, to pull him towards our bedroom but his face is already gone from view. Instead I feel him wet and ready around my manhood. I almost loose balance but instead I grab his hair and brace my hardness against his softness. I moan and feel my knees go a little loose. I feel as if I'm in both eternity and a split second. Patrick swallows and I pull him up of his knees and plant a kiss on his mouth and pull him towards our bedroom.
We collapse onto our bed and I bend forward. We talked about his moment many times over the past year after the last disaster and decided it would be safer if Patrick were on top. Unlike the practiced skill Patrick demonstrated in the kitchen, he couldn't seem to land his ship. After he missed for the third time and poked me in my left butt cheek, I reached behind myself and guided him in. My breath caught in my throat, it was way better than any of the bananas or shampoo bottles that we've been practicing with. Patrick must have felt something too, because he gave a little toot of pleasure. He removed himself for my behind and then reinserted with another toot. Each blast showed fireworks in my head. The toots became quicker and more forceful; I was beginning to see fireworks of every shape and color. As a blue and green striped Patrick firework careened across my heart into my vision, I felt Patrick shriek a primal and satisfied squeal of delight. His ass exploded. The firework vision of Patrick exploded and the force of Patrick's wind pushed my deeper into the cushioning of our bed. I felt two large baseball-sized objects enter my behind around the already present baseball bat. I grabbed both my butt cheeks in pain and passed out; before I passed out I saw a scene from my childhood where I hit a home run.
I woke up in the hospital with a throbbing pain in my behind. Doctors and Patrick came rushing towards me. Patrick's eyes were slightly glistening with tears. The night left scars on me, specifically in the form of stitches where they widened my butt-hole in order to remove Patrick's goods from my body. As I lay on my stomach on the gurney in pain, I called Patrick over. He looked scared and worried and my heart throbbed for him. I grabbed his warm fat hand and placed it over my heart. I pointed towards my bum with my other hand and said, "We don't need this." Placing my hand on his heart, I whispered, "This is all we need… and maybe a little bit of that performance you gave in the kitchen earlier on." Patrick smiled and I winked.