Being up at Greg's became my job. It's good work if you can get it. The days were mostly filled with his rehabilitation. Three days each week he spent four hours in rehab and the other four days a week and each afternoon, I was the one in charge of his rehabilitation, if you didn't count Greg.

He seemed pretty focused and determined to get himself back to his former glory. If Greg minded pain he didn't seem to show it. He pushed himself beyond his limits as a matter of routine. My workout was watching him drive himself. I frequently winced or refused his orders to assist him in his self-torture. This always brought on an argument.

For some reason purposely hurting him wasn't something I could do no matter how good for him he told me it was. This was where we had our most difficult moments. He would insist and I would refuse and he'd rant and rave, finding a way to accomplish what he wanted on his own and without the help he wanted from me. I suppose his determination did weaken my resolve at times but his pain stiffened it again.

The tears also became a matter of course and no less something I wanted to be responsible for. I was always a firm believer that there were human limits because there were things we weren't supposed to force our bodies to do. Greg had no such belief. There was nothing he thought he couldn't do, except maybe fly and walk without assistance. He believed if he thought he should be able to do it than he should be able to do it. His body often took my side and disagreed with him.

I stood by silently, offering what assistance I could but mostly this was a journey he was taking alone, although I made an easy target when the pain got too much for him or when he couldn't force his body to do what he wanted it to do. He would get particularly angry with me when I saw him cry. For some reason this angered him more than most other things but I knew the mountain he was trying to climb, and I didn't let his words get to me.

And usually this kind of anger led to him either achieving what he was trying to achieve, or the decision to give up and pursue more lusty objectives. Greg spent much of his working out time with an erection and the shorts he wore gave it a lot of room to roam.

How that worked I don't know but much about Greg was still a mystery to me. He'd be lying on the floor, doing something he couldn't do, and the head of his dick would be poking out of the leg of his shorts. He hated underwear because it was "too confining" and there was no jock that could hold him once he was erect.

Of course there is a certain point during sex when pain becomes pleasure and so it had to be something like that, but whatever it was, the came certain perks with his arousal, regardless the cause. Usually, after he got his meanest because he had failed to accomplish his goal, he'd then be at his best, rising to new heights, and needing me to assist him in reducing his lusty loins to a more manageable condition. We'd ride his fury until we could tame it so he could go back to what he had been doing.

How he could go back to lifting weights or stretching after we had been at our best together, I will never know. I usually like to take a break and catch my breath first, but not Greg. It was merely one more exercise in his day. I never knew if he was sweating because of the heat we created or from the exercise.

Walking in the house was becoming easier for him and I'd seen him eyeballing the too-small stairway that led up to his bedroom with determination in his eyes. I would cringe and hear him falling from top to the bottom in that narrow space. As of yet he hadn't made the effort but I knew it wouldn't be long and it would be one more thing I would refuse to help him do and he'd figure out a way to do it on his own.

I have to admit, while his legs hadn't shown any sign of muscle development, his upper body had come back immediately because he depended on his arms and shoulders to get around. While the most difficult exercises were for his legs, the ones he thrived on were bench presses and the curl bar. He'd sit watching his bulging biceps and doing one curl after another until his arms refused to bend.

Greg was responding well to the exercise done above his waist but progress was slow below the waist, well, below his crotch anyway. He had a great appetite for oral stimulation and that was during the exercise periods when he took those couple of minutes between sets. I could only get so far before he was ready to lift again, and after these sessions were completed, he was exhausted.

That's when I would help him into the shower and then he'd use the soap as lube and oral wasn't what he wanted at all. For some reason he had no trouble standing up as long as I was bent over in front of him, but as with all things, he'd developed a way to get the optimal leverage for our shower sessions.

We'd been at it for over three weeks when his father came in early one afternoon, nearly catching me servicing his horny son while he rested between bench pressing sets. Luckily he had been quicker than most times and we only got caught with me toweling him off. I was quick to get the toweling up above his waist and his spent iron had withdrawn back up the leg of his flimsy nylon shorts.

"Hey, Gregie, how you doing? Hi Martin," his father said as we blushed and I handed Greg the towel, wanting the evidence out of my hands. He gave me a dirty look when he took up wiping himself and ended up putting part of his load of cum that I'd neatly mopped up back on his stomach.

"Okay, Pop. What are you doing home so early," Greg breathed out his words heavily, still catching his breath and finally discarding the towel.

"Brought you guys something," the colonel said.

Greg sat up and leaned forward with his forearms pressed against his thighs and the sweat continued to roll.

"What?" Greg asked still breathing heavy.

"Come on out to the back porch," the colonel said, retracing his steps back through the house.

Greg stood and after a few steps he reached for me and I took my place under one arm so he could lean on me while he walked. Once we got to the kitchen where it was too narrow for me to stay beside him, he pulled away, grabbing my crotch for good measure before propelling himself with his arms until he got out onto the back porch.

"Cool!" Greg exclaimed, looking down at the driveway.

When I got out back, there were two brand new silver mountain bikes parked in the driveway. The colonel was busy lifting Greg off the porch and down to ground level so we didn't have to wait for him to scoot himself down by using his ass against the steps and probably for fear that Greg might try to jump or fly down if not immediately assisted.

I could see the look in Greg's eye as he moved around both bikes, measuring them with his eyes. After a complete examination, he claimed one as his. What made the difference, I don't know. They were identical in every way as far as I could tell. My mind wasn't really on how great the bikes looked but how a guy with one knee that refused to bend was going to peddle it, but I didn't really want to know the answer because I knew Greg.

"You think he's ready for this?" I asked his father with concern laced through my comment.

"He'll be ready and they'll be here. We'll keep them back in the shed so they aren't out in the weather," the colonel said.

"Hell you will. I want to ride," Greg announced.

"Greg!" The colonel said.

"What!" Greg argued.

"You're not to ride one of these until we clear it with your physical therapist. This is for when you can."

Fat chance, I thought. You didn't wave bait in front of Greg's face and not have him grab it. I was surprised at his father's naivete with his son. Perhaps I knew him too well and perhaps he'd been away from home for too long, but I knew better, and there was one more thing for me to worry about, but I wouldn't have to worry for long.

"You boys check them out while I change."

"Help me up, Martin," Greg asked excitedly.

"Greg!" I said.

"I only want to sit on the seat for a minute."

Yeah, right, I thought.

He had to use me for an anchor and go through some rather bizarre contortions to get his legs on the proper sides of his bike. I helped him scoot back up on the seat once this was achieved and with one leg straight as a board and the other bent up on its peddle, all his equipment slipped out from under his too short shorts. Of course I had to stare at it and it was actually nice seeing it soft for a change.

For the past few weeks it was only soft occasionally after an orgasm and then that didn't last long. It wasn't as formidable looking as a soft appendage but he was still bigger soft than I was hard and its tan color was certainly inviting and lovely and even the major vein seemed relaxed and casual. Of course I needed to get my mind off his crotch before his father returned, and so I kept my hands to myself except where it was necessary to touch him.

"Come on, Martin, I could use a little help here," he said, not taking his eyes off my blushing face.

"Greg, your father's here. Cut it out."

"I really don't have any urge to put on a show for my old man, but if you really cared you'd help me get my shorts over it before he comes back."

His plea was a red herring and once I got to the task at hand, he started to stiffen and giggle, because in that position there was no way those shorts were going to cover that dick. I gave it the good old college try until his father was clearing his throat as he came down the steps, and if that wasn't bad enough, Greg was half hard, making matters worse after my failed effort to get him put away.

"Help me get off," he said.

"Greg!" I fussed angrily.

"Off the bike, asshole."

"Oh!" I said, letting him wrap his arms around me while dragging the bad leg back on the same side with the only half bad leg. Once this was accomplished he used his hand to pull his shorts down as far as they'd go in an effort to cover up the evidence of our duplicity.

"He trying to ride already?" The colonel asked.

"Just trying out the seat," Greg said, trying to keep me in a position that hid his rising fortunes from his father.

"Don't let him get too carried away before we check with his physical therapist. You know, Greg, he'll go as far as you let him," his father said, inspecting one bike as Greg grabbed my ass and giggled in my ear, while I blushed even more.

"Trying to keep him from getting carried away isn't easy," I said as Greg continued his activity behind my back, while his father was getting on one of the bikes to ride it toward the street.

I took this opportunity to guide Greg back onto the back porch and into the seclusion of the kitchen with Greg doing all he could to make the task difficult. First he played with my ass and then my dick and the giggling got louder as I became more frustrated. I stopped to lean him against the kitchen table and the front of his shorts were poking out in a familiar posture.

"I wish you'd cut it out," Greg implored.

"What?" I growled.

"Getting me all hard up all the time. You could have a little appreciation for the fact my father is here, and while you're at it, you can squeeze a few times if you want."

"Greg, your father is right outside."

"I'm watching him ride a bike out in the street. I won't ride the bike without you approving it. Just squeeze the damn thing before I lose the urge."

"You'll listen to me," I said, feeling the heat rolling off him.

He had stopped giggling and now stared at me. He took my hand and pulled it onto the front of his shorts, forcing himself against it with undulating hips. I really wasn't squeezing it. My fingers just grabbed onto it hard but I wasn't really squeezing as I held on and ended up with my chest against his chest and my lips against his lips, and there we were.

The harder he kissed me the tighter I had to hold on and in a minute we were both panting and trying to stop but there was a second kiss and then a third and then his father was starting up the steps as Greg and I looked at one another desperately wondering how we got ourselves into these messes.

I pushed him down in the chair and sat in the one facing him so his father couldn't tell what we were up to.

"What are you doing sitting in her," the colonel asked with that laughter in his voice. "It's so tiny in here you can't breathe."

He looked at the expression on Greg's face and then the one on mine and if he couldn't see the problem, he was blind, but he just kept moving until he was in the dining room and then went out of view.

"I need a shower," he said, moving further away.

"Fuck!" Greg whispered, moving his hand up and down on his dick. "Fuck. I want you so bad right now."

"Greg, you just finished ten minutes ago. Put it on hold."

"Something about you lights my fire, Martin. I can hardly be around you that I don't want you."

"Cut it out. Don't you ever quit?"

"I wish I could. You think I like being horny all the time. Fuck, I laid up in that hospital dreaming about this and now that it's here, I can't get enough. Every time I think about it I want it."

"I don't feel comfortable with your father roaming around," I said.

"Yeah, he only takes five minutes in the shower. He doesn't have someone like you to put ideas in his head. This puppy isn't going down until we do something."

"You sure?"

"If there's anything I'm sure of it's that. You should have left it alone," he complained, inspecting his hard on in a way that I couldn't miss it.

"I should have left it alone. You were the one that started it."

"So, you don't have to do it every time I get horny," he explained. "Good God, Martin, we'd be doing it all the time. You need self-control."

"Yeah, I do," I said. "I'm afraid I do. I can't not touch you if I get a chance to. I spent a lot of time thinking about doing it with someone too."

"Who?" he asked, smiling that self-assured cocky smile.

"Let me see. Doug? Kent? Or was it ... "

"You prick. You know it was me. You've been hot for me since the day we met," he said, sure of his facts.

"Whatever you say, Greg. Who am I to argue with you?"

"You agree with me. How about agreeing to suck on this for a minute and maybe it'll take the edge off."

"Wow, that was nice," the colonel said, drying his hair as he burst into the kitchen.

The waistband on Greg's shorts snapped as he let go after pushing them back up over his dick.

"You two still in here. Gives new meaning to togetherness don't you think? I need something cold," he said, removing a beer from the fridge and retreating to the dining room.

"I need a shower, Martin," Greg yelled, feeling the front of his shorts that were now tenting out.

"You just had a fucking shower," I yelled back at him and this made him frown.

His father started laughing at our outburst. He probably suspected we were both a little touched in the head. Greg sat across from me with a long face, after I shot down the shower idea because he was too damn loud and his father wouldn't have any trouble figuring out what we were doing. As long as it was out of his father's sight Greg didn't care as long as there was someone else he could blame.

He sat facing me with his legs crossed at the ankles, looking quite normal. His eyes sparkled, the slight sneer was on his lips, and, as usual, the bulge was obvious in his shorts. He was sweating again, but Greg could sweat with no effort at all. There was a relaxed nature to him that I liked. Once I shot him down on something, he'd get quiet and accept his limitation and my control. It never last long so I enjoyed it when I could.

"I'm hopeless, aren't I?" He asked softly. "I do need a shower."

"I need some rest, Greg. I'm sore on both ends. Can't you take a break?"

"You're usually more willing to cooperate."

"You seem to need more and more instead of getting satisfied," I said.

"Yeah, I noticed that too. You think I need to slow down?"

"I need to slow down. I understand you've been out of the game, Greg, but I have limits."

"I was wondering if we'd get to this point. So, how long do I have to wait? I mean give me a hint so I can know if I need to jack off or not."

"Greg!"

"Martin!"

"When we go to bed," I said.

"That's cool but I'm getting tired already," he said, letting his leg rubbed against mine as he watched my eyes watch him. "Your lips say no-no but the bulge in your pants says maybe."

He was hopeless but I was worn out and even if I wasn't, there were limits, and we couldn't spend hours each day having sex. I was sure of that, although I wasn't sure I wanted to wait until bedtime. Maybe I did need a shower after all and then I wouldn't have to put up with him all evening.

Much to my surprise and joy, Greg didn't mention the bicycles the rest of the day. We had a relatively quiet evening and watched television late into the night. The first thing in the morning I took him to rehab and I watched and waited, letting his physical therapist put up with his antics. I was sure someone like Greg had to channel his endless energy somewhere, and after all those months being down, he was never down for long any more.

On the way home we stopped for greasy burgers and Cokes. He was still able to savor the delicacies when they only made my stomach feel bloated and overfilled. By one we were on the way back home.

"I asked about the bikes," Greg said when we neared the pillars that marked his narrow lane.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"Good exercise. It will work out the knee really well, maybe give me a larger range of motion."

"That wouldn't be hard, you can hardly bend it as is."

"It bends a lot more than it did. It bent even further today," He assured me.

"Greg, I was there. It hardly bends. He said two to three months just to get back limited motion in that knee."

"It's been way over a month. Besides, I heal faster than the average bear."

"It's been 26 days, Greg. I can count and you didn't do therapy the first week at all."

"Yeah, unfortunately," he said, looking out of the side window, demonstrating his displeasure with me once again.

"You're like a kid," I said.

"I heard you liked little boys," he said, turning to glare at me.

"Yeah but a little more mature than you, thank you."

"Why do you always have to argue with me?" He asked.

"I like to think I bring reason to your insanity."

"I'm going to ride it with you or without you. Doesn't matter to me."

That was about all that needed to be said on that. When we got home instead of having me help him into the house, he grabbed the crutches from the backseat and headed for the garage, which was actually a storage shed since the cars were always parked in the driveway.

The best thing to do was leave him alone at times like these. I watched out of the kitchen window as he awkwardly rolled the bicycle into the driveway directly in front of the window where I stood. He leaned one crutch against it and started working on the logistics. How in the hell could a guy with two bum wheels get on a bicycle? Of course he couldn't and he fell on his ass to prove it, and from that position he stared up at me as he lay there on the ground, struggling to get up, knowing that in about one-point-two-five- minutes, I'd be on my way to his aid.

Greg could get up any time he felt like doing it, but it was a lot more fun, acting crippled and waiting for my help, which he knew was only a minute or two away. He was probably surprise I didn't rush right to him to make sure he was okay, but I'd seen him fall enough times to know when there was a chance he might have actually hurt himself.

"What are you staring at?" He asked as I stood over him.

"Not much," I said, staring back at him.

"Fuck you! If you won't help me, just ... fuck you, Martin."

"Promises, promises."

"Oh, fuck you."

He rolled over and started to get up but predictably fell onto his better side. He made a godawful sound way out of proportion to anything that was happening and then he whimpered like a little puppy for me, turning his head to make sure I was taking it all in and to see if I was going to rescue him from himself.

I was still standing in the same spot, watching the performance with an almost complete knowledge of all of Greg's moves by this time. He got an exasperated look on his face as soon as he realized I wasn't buying it.

"Fuck you!" He growled. "Give me my crutches ... please! I can get up by myself."

I gathered up his crutches and helped him up. He stared at the bicycle as he stood there and I knew if I didn't give in to him we'd spend the day arguing about how he could if I would only help him. I had other ideas for what I wanted to be doing that afternoon and arguing with Greg wasn't it.

"Okay, but the first wince or hint of pain, and you're done," I said firmly.

"God, you're a pussy. I don't know why I put up with it. No pain, no gain Martin. You don't know anything."

"I said, I'll help you ride the bike. The first wince or hint of pain, and you're done," I said firmly. "That's the only deal you're going to get, Greg."

"Okay! Okay! Just help me get on it."

While getting on a bike might seem like a relatively simple project, you've never tried it with a guy who had one knee that wouldn't bend at all and his good leg wasn't much better. But there came a time with Greg when it was better to give in to him rather than go continuing the battle that wouldn't end until he got his way anyhow.

Once he had his ass on the seat he was relatively helpless. The straight leg stretched across the pedal with it resting just below his calf. His good leg was on the ground, supposedly holding him up, but I wouldn't take any bets on it.

"Well, you going to help me or what?"

"Help you what?" I asked. "You can't ride unless you can get your feet onto the pedals. I may not know anything but I know that."

"Help me get my foot on the damn pedals then," he ordered angrily.

"Greg, how are you going to get your foot on the pedal? You knee won't bend that far."

"You put it on the pedal for me. God, do I have to think of everything."

"Earth to Greg! Your knee won't bend, Greg."

"It will if you make it bend. Ben helps me bend it. You would if you cared."

"Ben's a physical therapist. I'm your boy-toy. I somehow don't think that qualifies me to fuck with your leg."

"Boy-toy," he said, starting to laugh hysterically. "Boy-toy?"

"That's what I feel like," I said, standing back up after examining the location of his leg versus the pedal. "No way is that foot going on that pedal."

"Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!" He yelled into the afternoon air, exasperated that I couldn't see it his way.

"You're foot is eight inches short of reaching that pedal. It ain't going to happen," I said.

"It will if you help me," he shouted impatiently.

"All right. Hold on to me," I said, moving back down to address the task at hand. "My foot's on the ground," he assured me. "I'm fine. Do the other foot for me."

I shoved one hand up under his knee and I put the other one on his ankle, using a fulcrum approach. I applied firm pressure behind the knee and tried to bend his leg far enough to accomplish what he wanted. A sharp sound came from him and I immediately stopped, looking up at his painful face.

"What! I'm just clearing my throat. It doesn't hurt at all," he said, twisting away from me.

"If you make me hurt you I'm going to kill you. Got it tough guy!"

"Jesus, Martin, does the word pussy mean anything to you?"

"Just Martin will do," I said, going back to the unpleasant task.

This time he muffled the sound but grabbed onto my shoulder when the good leg went bad. I was now all that was between him and a face full of driveway. I should have known better. I should have called it off and told him we were done for the day, but I could never say no to Greg.

"Had enough," I said, letting his leg go for the time being.

"No! I can do this if you'd just help a little. What, you afraid my leg'll get better and I won't need you anymore, or what?"

"Fuck you, Greg," I growled, grabbing his leg in the same fashion as before, forcing the foot up until it rested awkwardly on the pedal.

His knee was bent further than it had been bent in a year. He leaned away from me at a strange angle, still holding my shoulder in a vice like grip, and I thought his muscles were so tight he might shatter. The look on his face told me he was in serious discomfort.

"You had enough now? We'll try again tomorrow," I said, with my hand on his heel ready to push it off the pedal.

"No! I'm fine," he said through clenched teeth. "Help me ride it."

"Greg!"

"Are you going to help me or do I do it myself. I don't need you," he said nastily. "I'm going to do this no matter what you want."

"Fuck you," I said, being use to his tantrums.

"Just hold me up and push the bike so the pedal turns."

"Greg!"

He just glared at me. I was ready to dislodge him from the pedal but what was the point? He'd just fall trying to do it by himself if I wouldn't help him and it was way too early for his parents to show up to tell him no. I was sure we wouldn't get far because he was already in serious distress.

I suppose I'm not as bright as I like to think I am, because anyone in their right mind wouldn't have been a party to Greg's insanity. I was sure I was in my right mind but there was a part of me that wanted to help him no matter what, even when the help he wanted was insane. I knew it was insane but that didn't stop me, even knowing the outcome before we started.

Of course I had no idea of the seriousness of the outcome, so when I stood under his strong right arm and started to propel him along, I went very, very, slow because I fully expected him to say you can stop now almost immediately, but that's not what he said.

We had gone all of two feet when Greg let out this inhuman howl, like some wounded animal. I suppose I kept moving forward for a few inches before I got the message that made me sick at my stomach, and that was before he made the same sound even louder a second time.

"Get me the fuck off here," he screamed. "Stop it. Stop it."

I frantically tried to get the bike on its side without hurting him, but by that time his body and face were contorted into some crazy shape as he tried to stop the pain anyway he could.

Once I had him on the ground, I crawled across him, slapping his foot off the pedal it was wedged against.

His leg made this weird sound before his scream deafened me.

I sat in the driveway with his head in my lap as he cried. I totally regretted my part in whatever foolishness we'd been up to. I had no idea what we'd done or if it would inhibit the healing that was already going at microscopic speed. Why does one become so smart directly after being so stupid?

He cried and I held him and I cried, feeling bad and stupid and foolish for always giving in to him. I knew it was almost always the wrong thing to do, but this time it was worse than just being wrong. Greg didn't want to be a crip for the rest of his life, and I might have just made certain he would be.


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"Discovering Love" Copyright © 1 September 1997 OLYMPIA50. All rights reserved.
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