by Chelle Bliss
The way his dick stretches me, I wonder if I tore, but when he pulls out and pushes back inside without as much resistance, the pain and fear vanish.
I wish I had a fucking video camera in my ceiling to capture the moment because it’s just that good. I want to see how his hips move as he thrusts into me. The way his ass clenches with each pump.
God, it has to be a thing of beauty.
His arm curls under the back of my knee, and he brings it close to my chest without any resistance from me. I can feel him slide in deeper and my back arches to meet his depth. When he pulls out, he twists slightly, sending his dick upward and right into my G-spot. I see stars and my breath hitches. My head spins and the air vanishes from my lungs with each pass of the monster against my most sensitive area.
Everything inside me curls, along with my toes. My body shakes, impaled by him and underneath him, completely at his mercy. My body chases his with each movement, never wanting it to end.
He grunts, pounding into me, and I grasp the sheets to get a grip on something, anything. Each thrust of his dick is sharp and satisfying. The bed squeaks and my head comes closer and closer to the headboard with every push. If I survive his fucking, I’ll probably pass out from head trauma, but at least it will be a happy memory.
I can’t stop it. The orgasm crawls up my spine, and everything inside me seizes. The way he looks at me, the happiness on his face is too much to bear, and I close my eyes to avoid his gaze. Digging my head into the pillow, I ride out the most amazing orgasm of my life.
He doesn’t stop or back down as I cry out, gripped by ecstasy. That isn’t Bruno’s style. He picks up the pace and thrusts deeper to the point I can’t breathe and my cries of passion become silent. I bear down, unable to control my body, and feel every motion as I try to fill my lungs with air but fail.
Even as I start to come down from the aftershocks, he continues, unrelenting in his pursuit. Within seconds, another orgasm builds and I fear this one might ruin me forever. Never has a man given me more than one without some rest between, but in true Bruno fashion, he can’t be like anyone else. It isn’t his style.
My body acts on its own as the second and more intense orgasm rips through me. Just as I’m about to reach the top, Bruno follows, grunting the most guttural and feral noise I’ve ever heard.
But I don’t respond, I am too lost. Lost in the feeling of him inside me, almost crushing me with his weight while he comes, and enjoying every minute.
He lies with his entire weight on top of me before he pushes himself up and hovers over me. His arms strain and every vein along his skin pops to life as if reaching for me.
The look in his eyes is too much for me to take. I try to look at him, but I can’t. Really, I try, but something happens that I can no longer deny. I realize I like him. Like, really like him.
Unable to take the warmth in his eyes, I lose it. Tears spill down my cheeks and I can’t stop them. My lips tremble and my eyes burn with each falling tear. I don’t just cry; sobs wrench from my throat. Underneath him, I bawl like I did when I beat on his chest.
Why do I have to realize I like him now? Why, when I’m facing my death, do I figure it out? It isn’t fair.
I know I have cancer. I also know Bruno isn’t the man everyone thinks he is and I always assumed him to be. He’s something more, someone bigger and kinder than I ever thought possible.
More importantly, he makes me forget for a little while that I am about to have the fight of my life—and for my life. He alone makes me want to live. I want to survive.
I know at that moment that I want to be Bruno’s. If I want to make it a reality, I have to do everything in my power to beat a disease I feel powerless against.
He holds me while I cry, not bothering to talk me down. Through the tears, I can see the look of confusion and concern on his face, but I can’t explain myself.
He repeats, “Shh. It’ll be okay.” His words mean to console me, but they make me cry harder.
Nothing will be okay again.
When I don’t have any more tears left, I pass out against his chest. The warmth of his body and the sound of his heart beating lulls me to sleep with thoughts of how I don’t want to say good-bye.
* * *
I’m too scared to look at him when I open my eyes. My face is puffy from the pity party I had after he gave me the best fuck of my life. You’re a mess, Cal.
He probably thinks I’m insane, and maybe I am. Who does that? Who has two amazing orgasms and then cries like a baby?
Even though I’m staring at the ceiling, I know he’s staring at me, and I can’t take the awkward silence on top of my earlier meltdown. “I’m sorry,” I tell him and close my eyes out of embarrassment.
He reaches out and tenderly touches my cheek. “Don’t be.”
I still can’t look at him and focus on the ceiling fan slowly turning above us. “I didn’t mean to cry.”
“Happens all the time,” he quips.
I look at him with my eyebrows drawn together and grimace. I’m sure, out of the hundreds of girls he’s been with, someone has to be nuttier than me. “It does?”
He nods, smiling sweetly and stroking my cheek. “Yeah. Most women cry after I’ve fucked them within an inch of their lives.”
“They do?” My mouth falls open and my eyes widen in horror.
“No, Callie. They don’t.”
I reach across and swat his arm with my hand for fucking with my mind. “You’re an asshole.”
The bed shakes as he laughs at my expense, getting a kick out of yanking my chain. “But it’s okay. I get it. You’re dealing with a lot of shit right now.”
I am dealing with more shit than I want to explain. I can’t tell him that part of my tears are about him. Bruno is Bruno. Even though I know he has a sweet side, I also know he is an infamous manwhore. Everyone knows it. I know it too. He is a flavor-of-the-day kind of guy.
He only feels sorry for me because I have cancer. Maybe I remind him of his sister and the struggle he went through with her. I need to remember that my battle is with my disease and not with trying to win him over.
7
Stage 3—Bargaining
It’s Monday and I’m sitting in the waiting room at the doctors’ office. I decide to start to have a little one-on-one with God just in case there is one. I haven’t believed for so long, but the fear of death makes me wish for something more.
If you can hear me up there, maybe you can spare me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go to church every Sunday. I’ll give to charity instead of buying my favorite shoes. I’ll even never have sex again.
I wince at my stupidity. But at this point, I figure anything’s worth a shot.
“Ms. Gentile,” a woman calls out from the doorway and gets my attention.
I rise and walk heavy-footed toward her, dreading the next hour of my life. It feels like the march from death row to the gas chamber. As if, at the end of the hall, everything I know might vanish before my eyes and life will cease to exist.
The nurse leaves me alone and promises the doctor will be in to see me shortly. I walk around the room and read every poster, trying to keep my mind busy while I wait. I check my phone four times after I run out of reading material.
The fifth time I check the screen, there’s a message from Bruno.
Bruno: Hey, beautiful. I’m thinking of you.
I can’t stop my smile. The man brings out that side in me. I type a message, read it to myself, and then erase it. What can I say to him?
When he left the morning after my meltdown, I couldn’t find the right words to say to him. I’ve ignored him and tried to keep myself busy and forget him.
I’ve failed, of course.
I was able to ignore him and resist the urge to call him and ask him to come over, but the keeping myself busy part has become a problem. I can’t keep my mind off the fact I’m sick long enough to focus on anything else.
I feel perfectly fine—that’s the weir
d thing. I’m not overly tired. No more than anyone else my age who works long hours. I don’t have any of the typical symptoms. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I still hold on to a small glimmer of hope that Dr. Craig’s wrong about my diagnosis.
Just as I send Bruno a smiley face text because words just don’t feel right, the doctor walks into the room and all happiness evaporates.
“Ms. Gentile, I’m Dr. Snyder.” The man in the perfectly pressed lab coat holds out his hand to me, and I take it only because I don’t want to be an asshole.
“Hi.”
What else is there to say? I’m not here for a pleasant visit. I just want him to cut to the chase and tell me flat out if I’m going to live or die. My life hangs in the balance, and I don’t need to discuss the weather or any of that bullshit. The only thing that matters is if I can be cured.
He sits down and starts flipping through my file, studying every page with indifference and ignoring me. I try to read his facial expression and figure out what he’s about to say, but I get nothing. I sit on top of the sterile examining table, twisting my hands in my lap and kicking my legs back and forth to get rid of my nervous energy.
Rebecca begged to come with me, but I told her no. I couldn’t do it. I don’t want anyone around me when I hear the news. I need to be able to scream, cry, or fall apart without anyone I know seeing, especially Bec.
He closes the folder and rolls his stool closer to me before clasping his hands in his lap and looking at me with a serious expression on his face. “I’ve reviewed all the tests and I can confirm that it is acute leukemia. Based on the recommendations from my team, we’ve come up with a treatment plan that will give you the greatest chance of survival.”
People always say that four-letter words are the most offensive, but in reality, there are worse things you can hear. Survivor is one of them. It’s not that I don’t want to survive; I do, but I don’t want that label forever.
Survival means fighting, and I don’t know if I have it in me. I’m strong, but I don’t want to have to battle an invisible enemy. It’s going to be exhausting, and I won’t come out on the other side the same person I was weeks ago. I’d forever be Callista “The Survivor” Gentile.
“Okay.” I swallow down the bile that has started to rise in my throat.
“You’re still in the early stages. You didn’t have any symptoms because it hasn’t gotten to the stage that would cause symptoms. You’re very lucky it was detected so early.”
Lucky? How could he say such an absurd thing? The only way I’d be lucky is if the lab made a mistake and I didn’t have it at all. To say I’m lucky because it was caught early is like saying, “You’re lucky we only had to take half your leg and not the whole thing” to an amputee.
I feel tears threatening, but I push them aside and wrinkle my nose. “So now what?”
“First, we’ll do leukapheresis and then a course of chemotherapy. If there are still leukemia cells in your bone marrow after the chemo and leukapheresis, then we’ll start another course of chemo and possibly a stem cell transplant.”
I love how doctors talk to patients as if we know what the hell any of it means. I mean, I do because of my job and education, but he doesn’t know that.
I know what leukapheresis means. They’ll drain every ounce of my blood and try to clean the leukemia cells, which are in my white blood cells, before returning my blood back to me. It’s a temporary measure. Many times, it is used to help give the patient the best chance of remission while the chemotherapy is doing its job. And by that, I mean killing the good and bad cells inside me.
“We’re going to be aggressive in your treatment. You’re young and can handle it.”
It’s nice that he feels I can, but I’m not so sure. “So that’s it?”
“Yes. We’ll take it one step at a time. We need to schedule you for the leukapheresis and then start chemotherapy as soon as possible. Every day is precious, and time is critical.”
Working in a lab has put me on the other side of this battle. Dr. Snyder’s on the front lines. I wonder if he has grown immune to the struggles and anxiety this disease causes people on a daily basis. The news, no matter how “lucky” to hear it, is still devastating.
“Do you have any questions?” he asks as he rolls his stool back and grabs the folder from the counter.
“I don’t.” I know everything I need to about the treatment and my chances of survival.
“Nurse Stockton will be in shortly to discuss your hospital stay and bring you literature about what to expect.”
“Thanks.” Anger laces my voice, and I can’t hide it. I don’t feel cared about. I feel like a cow herded into a pen before the slaughter. I’m just another patient and not a human being. By the time I walk out of the medical building, I’m completely numb and the anger has vanished.
If I can make it five years with the cancer in remission, I’ll survive until old age, but five years is a fucking long time. Every day I’m going to wake up and wonder if it has returned and if it is slowly killing me. How can I do it without going completely mad?
I pound my fist on the floor of my apartment, laying my head down in the puddle of tears that has grown on the hardwood.
Why do I have to go through this?
It’s unfair.
Why me?
I can’t do this. I don’t have the will or the strength.
To lie in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines as they pump every ounce of blood out of me and return it to my body… I just can’t. Even if I make it through that, I’ll have to endure chemotherapy.
Doctors make it seem like medicine when it’s really poison. It kills everything—the good, the bad, and everything in between.
I could die, and I’m fucking pissed about it.
Who will even care besides Becca? I have a few friends, but other than them, I have no one. My parents are gone. I have no family. Who will visit my grave or attend my funeral?
I’d leave nothing behind. Just a fabulous shoe collection my friends would ravage before my body was even cold, let alone six feet under.
I have no one.
It’s better this way. I don’t want anyone else to be sad. I’ve had enough sadness and fear in my life for a small army.
I’m a complete mess.
I could die.
The thought paralyzes me.
I sob until I have nothing left, but I still can’t move. I check out the ceiling and try to catch my breath like a fish gasping for air.
I can hear my phone ringing in my purse that has fallen somewhere near the couch, but I don’t have the strength to crawl to grab it. I don’t want to talk to anyone anyway.
Focusing on a single spot, I lie there, transfixed by the nothingness that surrounds me.
I’m too young to die. People my age aren’t supposed to; it’s unnatural. I’d been sold on the fairy tale that I’d live a long life. I always thought I’d have more time, but I know I don’t have much left.
In forty-eight hours, I’ll check myself in to University Hospital to have the blood sucked from my body, along with the added bonus of my first treatment of chemotherapy.
I need more time. I’m not ready for everything to start.
Time is something I’ve always taken for granted. I’ve never thought about it. I always figured I’d have more of it and that it wasn’t in short supply. Little did I realize how precious it truly was until it was too late.
When I wake, I realize I’ve wasted more time I’ll never get back.
Would death be like sleeping? Just nothingness? I rarely dream. It’s as if I don’t exist when I sleep. Is that how it is going to be once I succumb to the cancer that is killing me?
I know the process won’t be like a dream, but once it is all over, is that how it’s going to be? I’ve never believed much in God, but for once in my life, I want there to be something else.