The Way It Should Have Been

I was saddened, as were his legion of fans around the world, to hear of the death of Dick Francis in February, 2010. As the UK Guardian obituary put it, "he showed a mastery of lean, witty genre prose." From the time my wife introduced me to his work almost forty years ago, I made it a point to acquire every one of his books. I prize my autographed first American editions. I admire his works, and in Ben Jonson's words, "do honor his memory on this side idolatry as much as any."

But I was deeply disappointed by the ending of his novel Come to Grief. He had written a magnificent erotic scene between Sid Halley, his injured hero, and India Cathcart, the journalist who tried to destroy him but came to love him.

Of course Francis did in three sentences what most writers would need several paragraphs. "The touch of her fingers on the skin of my forearm had been a caress more intimate than any act of sex. I felt shaky. I felt more moved than ever in my life." She had just put his artificial left hand back on what was left of his forearm.

But then she leaves. And Francis marries Halley to one Marina van der Meer in his later novel Under Orders. As far as I am concerned, India has more in her little finger than Marina has in her vagina.

However, read the novels. They are, flaws and all, well worth your time.

Over the years, though, my dissatisfaction remained. I thought out, again and again, how I wanted the novel to end. Of course, my proposed ending was destined for the desk drawer, if not the wastebasket, with an abrupt "impertinent clown!" as its epitaph.

But then came Literotica, and Celebrities fan fiction. So here is my version of what should have happened, with deepest homage to one of the best writers I ever read. Halley is in hospital recovering from a gunshot wound. India visits him there.

*

The ward sister said I'd be released next day or the day after. The tubes were disconnected, the electrodes and monitors removed. The endless "beep beep beep" was silenced at last. Several batches of medical students were walked through my room to peer at me. Their professor lectured them about my speedy recovery. If they were impressed, they didn't show it.

Finally, the next morning, the catheter was removed from my penis. I'd had no sensation there for days, shock being followed by the discomfort of having my sphincter held open to drain my urine into a bottle next the bed. I expect my prostate had shut down, but my testicles were jogging right along, as I thought about India Cathcart and the kiss we had shared.

It was ten days after Ellis Quint had died and seven since that kiss. India hadn't come, might never come.

I had nearly destroyed one beautiful, fragile girl, my loved and lost Jennie. Was India gone, too?

Don't give in, I told myself, never give in.

Rachel Ferns would live, they told me, the little leukemia girl in her bubble. I wanted to cry for joy, but I waited until night when no one could see the tears. Don't ever let it touch you, not love, not fear, not pain, not pity, not even joy. So neither foes nor loving friends could hurt you, I thought, echoing Kipling. I cried even more. I was dead, even though the bullet didn't kill me, I was dead before it ever came.

Now this morning the television was off. I was allowed to get out of bed and walk a short distance alone, unaided. I experienced for the first time in what felt like weeks the joy of pissing under my own will, having my penis, bladder, sphincter and prostate back. It really distances other pleasures. I lingered over the first free piss I'd taken since being shot, gave my penis a good hard shake, carefully washed my hands (I had the prosthesis on and used it to rub the other hand) and returned to bed.

I was too elated to sleep, when I heard the click of boot heels walking into my room. I looked up and smiled. India had come back.

Her clear fine white skin was fresh from the rain. Her light blue eyes sparkled from the brisk walk she had taken. Black Burberry raincoat and scarlet rain hat showed plenty of raindrops as she took them off and hung them behind the door, which she shut. Her long black shining hair fell straight down.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello, Sid."

"Come for tea, have we?"

"Yes, and to go on."

"Go on with what?"

"With what we left off."

She was wearing a black high-neck sweater, which set off the white skin of her throat and face. She removed it; she had no clothing underneath.

Her breasts were firm, taut, her nipples dawn-pink, slightly distended. Her abdomen was firm, the muscles gently defined without being a body-builder's project.

"Clearly the tea will have to wait."

"Yes," she said, "will the staff here leave us undisturbed?"

"Quite likely. I'm to be discharged tomorrow."

"Good, I'm glad. Are you going to your home, to the Admiral's, or would you like to come live with me?"

"I'll have to think about that last one."

"Don't strain your brain."

She reached for my left hand and shut off the battery. I remembered Ellis Quint doing that and shut my eyes.

"No, my love, my dearest, it's all right," she said, and leaned over to kiss me. Her tongue licked my lips, I opened them, and our tongues touched. She broke the kiss and stood up.

She carefully removed the prosthesis, kissed it, and carefully placed it on the dressing table. She unbuttoned at the back the knee-length skirt she was wearing, undid the zipper, and let the skirt fall. She had no clothing on but her black leather boots.

"Rest, darling, just rest," she said. Her mons was covered with neatly-trimmed black hairs. A slight glint of light showed in the pubic hair below her vagina, glinting off the liquid of the natural lubrication of a woman.

She kissed the stump of my left arm. She said, "Hush, dear Sid, hush."

She took the stump of my left arm in her right hand, kissed it again with her mouth open, and turned around. I admired her firm, curved buttocks as she moved the stump against them. Then she moved her left hand behind her, spread her buttocks, and took the tip of my stump against her anus. She touched herself there with me, moved toward me, rubbed the stump against her vagina so I could feel the wetness, and took my now-lubricated stump and tried to insert it into her anal passage.

"Ssshhh, darling, ssshhh," like a mother quieting her child. She whispered softly, in a little singsong voice, "quiet darling baby, hush baby."

She rubbed and touched herself with my left arm, until I could feel her moving her hips to stimulate herself further.

Then she turned around, still holding my left arm, and placed the stump against her vulva. She murmured and breathed gently, her eyes closed, moving the stump where my wrist had been against her soft, warm, wet lips. She managed to open her labia enough to get some of me in her, and rubbed my arm against her clitoris. She moaned and twitched , and finally convulsed, her breath hissing through her teeth and her body shaking with the orgasm.

"Now you," she said, and slipped back the sheets. Her eyes were bright, her mouth open. I was wearing the dreadful hospital gown that opens at the back. She untied the bow at my middle and folded the gown to one side.

It was the first erection I'd had in a week, and the hardness and pressure were joys to be savored. Whole again, a person again, a man again.

India climbed onto the bed, boots and all, straddled me with her long legs, and took my penis in her mouth. The warmth and softness enveloped me, as she gently moved her lips and tongue over me. My penis hardened even more. She stopped and kissed my penis and took each testicle in her mouth. Then she returned to my penis, nibbled the tip, and back through the head, with little gentle bites, down to the shaft behind it and back again. I thought I would ejaculate right there, but India stopped.

"No," she said. "Not there; in my pussy, I want it in my pussy," and impaled herself on me in one motion.

I gasped and let out an inarticulate cry. India moaned loudly, and proceeded to ride me as I had ridden at Aintree, firmly, joyously, winning the race we both wanted to win. Our voices rose, and then I felt the surge, as India's muscles clenched, her liquids shot from her over my straining penis, and my semen erupted. "Oh God oh God oh God!" she screamed, "give me your baby, I want your baby!" as I cried out in loud quick bursts. Our orgasm was explosive.

The door flew open and two nurses came bursting in.

"What do you think you're doing, Mr. Halley?"

I wanted to answer "What does it look like we're doing?" but remained silent.

India climbed off me and lay down beside me, curling up close to me in the narrow bed.

"Stop that at once!"

"I was just leaving," said India, but I held her.

"Ms. Cathcart is staying the night," I said. We kissed. It was more than a promise, it was a pledge.