My Sugar Daddy With a Twist. Part 8.

Part 8

It happened so fast, yet every moment burned into my memory, like a frame by frame in a horror movie, etched in searing painful detail.

One moment, I was stepping onto the sidewalk, showing off my long legs,  the crisp morning air sharp in my lungs, the click of my heels echoing like a metronome. The next, a blur of motion, a man on an electric bicycle, impossibly fast, silent, coming toward me like a missile.

The impact was brutal. He hit me square on my left leg, the force of slamming into me like a freight train broke my tibia and fibula on impact. My ankle twisted grotesquely beneath me, the joint bending in a way it was never meant to, bones snapping with a sickening, wet cracking noise that made my stomach churn.

Pain exploded up my leg, white-hot, electric radiating through my body like a shockwave. I crumpled to the pavement, my hands instinctively reaching out to catch myself, but the sidewalk was merciless. 

My breath caught in my throat, a sharp, gasping sound, as I clutched my broken leg, my fingers trembling against the swelling that was already distorting the shape of my leg and ankle. My stocking was torn, the sheer fabric shredded, revealing the sickening purple bruise blooming beneath it. My shoe, my beautiful, red pump was shattered, the heel snapped clean off.

The cyclist was gone. No apology. No backward glance. Just an eerie silence, as if he’d never been there at all.

I lay there for what felt like an eternity, my body trembling, my breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. The pain was overwhelming, pulsing in time with my racing heart, drowning out the faint sounds of the city waking up around me.

And then the cold realization. The cyclist had been too fast. Too clean. Too perfect.

And I was left with a broken leg. “It can’t be…”

I looked down at my leg, horror coursing through me. My foot was bent at an unnatural angle, the ankle swelling grotesquely beneath the sheer fabric of my stocking. 

“Help,” I gasped, my voice hoarse, tears blurring my vision.

Minutes later, I was in an ambulance, my leg immobilized in that huge inflated brace, the pain still throbbing.

16 hours later I was in my hospital bed, the cast was heavy. It went from toes to thigh, the smooth black fiberglass gleaming under the harsh hospital lights. My leg was elevated, suspended in a sling to keep the swelling down I think, but it didn’t matter, the weight of the cast pressed into my skin, unyielding, suffocating.

The doctors were kind but clinical. Multiple fractures, they said. A bad one. Six to eight weeks, maybe more, of immobility. Crutches. Physical therapy etc.

The nurses fussed over me, adjusting the blankets, checking the IV, but I barely noticed. My mind was reeling, my thoughts jumbled, spinning around one inexplicable fact, the cyclist had never stopped to check on me… He was on a mission.

And then Kent walked in.

He was immaculate as always, dark suit, crisp shirt, tie perfectly knotted, but his expression was softer, gentler. He was almost in pain for me.

“Vivian” he murmured, crossing the room in a few quick strides. Something cold crawled up my spine, even as he reached for my hand, his fingers warm against my skin.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low, concerned. I told him, my words halting, fractured. The cyclist. The fall. The breaks. He listened intently, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. When I finished, he sighed, his shoulders sagging just slightly.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said, his voice firm, resolute. “You don’t need to worry about anything.”

I nodded, but the coldness in my chest didn’t fade. Because as he leaned in, his lips brushing my forehead, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d known.

He’d known.

And I didn’t know what terrified me more, the accident, my badly broken leg, the long black cast, or the man who’d arrived almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

Two weeks later, I feel like a doll in a glass case, displayed, controlled, trapped… and aching between my leg and cast. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, my tank top clinging to my breasts as I walked into my bedroom on my crutches. The black cast on my left leg from my foot to mid-thigh was a constant presence.

The pain from breaking my leg is nothing compared to the ache between my legs. I groaned, leaning the crutches against the wall.

No one warned me about the ache that wasn’t in my broken leg. The kind that throbbed between my thigh and cast, hot and insistent, especially when I was alone in my apartment with nothing but time and my wild imagination.

I was sprawled on my bed, finishing my latest erotic story on my laptop propped up against a mountain of pillows, my good leg bent at the knee while my broken leg lay stiff. The black fiberglass was cool to the touch, but my skin in the cast was beginning to itch like hell. 

The other itch…The one that had me squirming against the sheets, my vagina damp and swollen with need. I hadn’t been touched by Kent since before the “accident”. He wanted me in a cast and now, with my leg trapped in this damn prison, even masturbating felt like an Olympic sport.

I bit my lip, sliding my hand down my breasts, over the waistband of my sleep shorts. The fabric was already damp. My fingers brushed against the swollen lips, and I gasped, arching my back. God. Just that light touch sent a jolt through me. 

Part 9 to come
Ashley

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