The New York City Boy Scout

"If you promise not to turn me in, I'll show you by practicing a little unlicensed medicine."

"Yeah, sure."

Roger maneuvered his chair behind my chair, and I felt his hands on the back of my neck. "Feel these ridges here?" He ran his finger down my spine. "We look for the little bumps that aren't in the right place. We call them subluxations. To put it in lay person's terms, your back gets out of whack. The hard part is getting them back in with a little bit of pressure, without messing anything up. Let's see how your back is..."

I felt him run his fingers up and down, but it was awkward -- my chair, his. "Take off your shirt, and turn your chair around."

My head was a bit fuzzy. "My shirt?"

"Yeah, so I can see your back. Don't worry, we're both trained medical professionals, if maybe a little rusty!" That seemed hilarious, and we all cracked up.

I did as he asked, unbuttoning my shirt, turning the chair to straddle it, and now he could work on most of my back. "Let's see..."

I felt his fingers moving, and for a moment had an image of someone playing a piano, like on ivory keys of bone, and random phrases popped into my head -- tickling the ivories, as his hands were making me ticklish. I looked over at Helen, and she smiled. "We get dinner, you get an adjustment, no insurance paperwork needed!"

That seemed funny too and then -- all of a sudden -- I felt him press on my back, and the pressure built, and I heard -- or felt -- something shift, and it was over.

"Your back's actually in pretty good shape, but that was an adjustment, in case you were wondering. If I had to guess, I would say that you don't really have issues with your spine - but rather, it is your muscles that are your problem -- am I right?"

He was indeed. Years of being hunched over a desk, amateur sports, hiking with heavy packs, slouching...all on my tall frame, 6' 4", often left me with aching shoulders, or knotted lower back muscles, or a never ending throbbing in a spot between my shoulder blades.

"That's more Helen's territory than mine. Honey?" Roger wheeled his chair back to the table, and Helen took his place. I felt her hands, clinical, on my lower back, pressing in like she was checking the firmness of a mattress, and then up, inch by inch, until she reached my shoulders, the place where the straps of my pack would rest, and I couldn't help myself -- I winced a bit under the pressure, more because she caught me by surprise.

"Boy Roger, you may have signed off on him, but our chef's back muscles are a mess. Bill, what did you do over here?" Helen was squeezing my right shoulder.

She wasn't "rusty" at all -- she was amazing. "How could you tell? I broke my right shoulder playing football years ago -- it always aches."

"I'm guessing that it never healed right -- just off by a little bit -- and the muscles overcompensate as a result. It would be like clenching your fist all day -- no wonder it hurts."

I saw Roger looking at Helen, smiling. "Isn't she great? Best PT I ever met. She can fix anything."

"Like my busted-up shoulder?"

"Honey, show him." Roger was looking at her and nodding, with admiration, encouragement and a smile as he poured himself another glass of wine. I felt her hands shift; they gripped my shoulder, and I felt strong thumbs pressing into the soft, aching spaces. I really hurt for a minute, little jabs of pain, and I tensed up.

"Relax Bill. This is going to hurt if you stay all tensed."

I summoned one of the techniques I used during my crisis work -- I took a deep breath in, through my nose, let it fill my stomach, and exhaled through my mouth. And again. And again, and as Helen rubbed my shoulder it went from slightly painful to warm and hypnotic.

I finally let go, and relaxed -- something I never do. I'm nearly always on my guard, but the wine, the darkness, the long trip, and yes, the therapy on my aching shoulder -- it all came together, and I inadvertently let a small grunt of satisfaction escape from my lips. "Mmmphh."

I could see Roger, nodding in time with Helen's hands. I could see Helen's reflection in the window, as she stood behind, looking down as she worked on me. "Helen, sounds like Bill's back really needs this -- why don't you have him stretch out on the floor so you can properly work him?"

I protested in a half-hearted way. "No, look it is late, I don't want to intrude..."

Roger immediately dismissed my protests. "C'mon, you made us dinner. It is the least we could do. Besides, we took an oath to serve those in need!" We all laughed, and got up.

Helen tossed a comforter from the couch on the floor, and told me to lay on it, face down. From the floor I watched as she slipped off her shoes, and then, all at once, she was on my back. I could feel her bare legs along my ribs, and the soft folds of her dress all around her. She leaned forward and pressed her hands, her arms, and her body weight into my shoulder, down against the comforter, against the wooden parquet floor, and I felt my muscles giving way, methodically, smoothly.

And as she leaned forward I felt her hair on my back, softly brushing against me, and I caught her perfume. I couldn't tell what fragrance it was; I didn't need to know what color her hair was, or how old we were, or anything more, as I had stopped thinking.

She subtly changed her touch, from pointed fingers working out hard knotted muscles, to fingertips, tracing the lines of my sinews, and I felt like I was melting. I heard Roger..."Helen gives a really good traditional massage, too," and all I could do was mumble my assent from against the comforter, and I noticed that I was starting to drool a bit, blissfully at peace.

I came back to my senses when I felt Helen climb off my back and whisper in my ear "time to roll over." I rolled over, and then she straddled me again, her hands on my chest. I heard one of the candles sputter out, and could again feel her skin against mine, her thigh against my ribs, her dress around her.

"Bill, I need some feedback...open your eyes...look at me...is this good?" I opened my eyes, and another candle sputtered out, leaving just one on the dining room table. As I looked at her she ran her hands up my chest, and over my nipples, and I felt them stiffen and a little surge of electricity run down into my stomach. "Is it?"

"Oh yeah, very good." And I could tell, even in the darkened room, that her nipples were hard, and as she kept running her hands up and down my chest she was rubbing against me, under her dress, back and forth so slightly.

I felt myself growing excited and started to worry that my old jeans wouldn't hide much, though the dimly lit room might spare me the embarrassment.

And then Roger reached over to take Helen's hand, and looked at her. "Honey?"

She nodded, and said only "Yes."

Roger turned to me in his chair. "She's quite something, isn't she?" Indeed she was, and the way I was thinking about her...as she sat barelegged rubbing on my stomach, caressing my chest with her free hand, my nipples hard as bullets...she was quite something. "And she needs more than I can give her...we'd like you to help us with that."

With those words, as if on cue, Helen reached behind her with her one free hand...and cupped me through my jeans, holding my balls, full from months of celibacy, my swollen, aching cock...

I couldn't think clearly, at all. "How do you want me to help?"

Roger made it simple. "Let her have what she wants," and she squeezed me as he spoke. "We're all grown ups...we're medical professionals...this is what we both want. And this is what she needs."

And with that, as if to erase any doubts that may have been lingering, Helen pulled her dress up over her head in one smooth motion, as if she had rehearsed. She was wearing exquisite lingerie, smooth satin pink with a lace edge, a demi bra that displayed her breasts as if they were fresh oysters waiting to be slurped, her nipples and areolas half visible. Below, a small pair of matching pink panties, satin with lace trim, and when she leaned back to pull her dress off I could see a small patch of dark pink fabric where her wetness had soaked through.

Roger wheeled to my feet, and pulled off my loafers, and socks, and she unbuckled my belt. She tapped my bottom. "Pick up..." and I rose up enough so she could pull down my jeans, and my shorts, and as my hard cock sprang loose she grabbed me, wrapped her hand around me, and turned around as she straddled my stomach. She leaned down to engulf me in her mouth, and I couldn't hold back -- I just moaned in sheer pleasure as her warm, wet lips slipped over the sensitive head of my swollen cock.

It was now my turn to satisfy my hunger -- as Roger and Helen had not eaten in days, I hadn't been satisfied in months, maybe years, too much hard work, and living alone on the 15^th floor when I wasn't traveling. Roger wheeled back up, and was caressing her shoulder...and I thought I heard him say "I love you baby" but I was lost in my own pleasure, and I didn't even notice that he helped her pull her panties off.

And then she released me, with a "plop," and turned around to face me. She rose up...reached underneath...her hands on my cock...and looked at me, right in my eyes, and sank down. She was wet, soaking, and tight, and felt like a velvet explosion of pure ecstasy. She slid up and down my cock, riding me, and I reached for her breasts; she covered my hands with hers, and pressed me against her chest even harder, and I could feel her nipples as hard as cherries against my palms as she spilled from her satin bra.

Roger caressed her back, and she closed her eyes. He asked her "What do you want Helen?" and she growled it out -- "I want him to fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

Her words made me even harder -- that sultry growl, the language, the need. I reach up and pulled her down to me, and then rolled us over, all while I was buried between her legs -- and then I pushed up on my arms.

And now it was my turn to ask. "What do you want Helen?"

She was breathing heavily and had a look of unbearable anticipation on her face. "Fuck me, I want you to fuck me, hard, now, right here. I want you, I NEED you."

And I did -- I rose up and plunged into her, balls deep, pinning her, between her legs, to the floor, my weight on her, and I heard her gasp. "Are you OK?" I asked. I felt her hands grabbing at me in response, grasping at my back, and then settling on my bare ass, as she tried to push me out -- but she wasn't pushing me out, she was trying to get me to move in her. "More, more, more..."

I let myself go. I rose and fell, over and over and over, and I heard Roger urging her on, "fuck him baby, just like we both want," and she moaned, and turned her head, tossing it back again. Roger reached to squeeze her breast, which shook every time I plunged into her, and he pinched her nipples, first one, then the other.

She was wet, slick, tight, warm, that perfect envelope for my aching desire, and I couldn't hold back much longer. I reached down between us and rubbed her clit -- a quick touch at first -- and she bucked up against my hand like she was trying to swallow that too. I rubbed her again and she started to cum, a long, low moan that came up from her belly, her muscles gripping me between her legs, and I came too, spurting in her, once, then another spasm, and a third long shot of my desire and love filling her hot spaces.

I collapsed on her, and we turned to lay together, side by side. Roger caressed her hair, sweaty from our heat. She was still gasping, her chest heaving, and it seemed to take a long time for her to come down, almost as if she didn't want to.

We needed something to break the ice, even as we lay together in the darkness.

"You know what this means?" I asked.

Very softly, as if afraid to hear the answer, she asked "No, what?"

"Another cold shower. Was it worth it?"

And she and Roger, together, blurted out "oh yes" and we all laughed hysterically.

I eventually went back to my apartment that night, to give them time alone, but the power didn't come back on for more three days later -- days that flew by, as we continued to share the evening meal each night -- and each other. And even after the city returned to normal we continued to eat together -- not some regular, mundane thing -- my schedule was too busy for that -- but once a month, irregularly -- which kept it special.

Two years later Roger fell ill -- complications from the wheelchair -- and passed away. She took Felix and moved to be near their daughter in Florida, and her grandchildren. And then last week, out of the blue, an envelope arrived in the mail. There was nothing inside but the headlines from a local newspaper. It had been a bad hurricane season in Florida -- climate change, I suppose -- and the headline carried news of a forthcoming storm.

Written across the headline, in pink pen -- the same color, I thought, as her satin lingerie -- were little xx and oo marks, and two words: "Your stormchaser."

Now that somebody else lives in 15C, that Roger's gone, and that Helen's moved to Florida, I think it is OK to share our story. Thinking of them makes me think of true love -- and how we can't plan our lives. How, no matter how much we try to prepare, we sometimes just need to let life happen, and make the best of what befalls us. And most of all, thinking of them reminds me of how much I loved her, even as Roger was her soul mate. Those thoughts still put a warm knot in my stomach, one that's not found in the Boy Scout Handbook, and one that can't be easily untied.