The Fever

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I find the sensation of cold wind on a feverish forehead orgasmic. I often wish I had a fever simply to experience the sensation; nothing in life is comparable. Even today, after lying in bed for nearly two days, wracked with fever and malaise, I yearn to open my bedroom window. I know it’s not good for me, that it probably makes things worse, but I still lust after it. Only the presence of my caring, and more logical lover is hindering me from doing so. Every time I get out of bed — accompanied by its squeaks and groans — she runs in to make sure that everything is okay. My one opportunity, my one hope, is when she goes out around three to run her daily errands. When she leaves and I’m sure she’s gone, that’s when I’ll do it.

Time drags on as it only can whilst you’re in bed and unable to move. My stomach seems to have settled down, but I still feel hot and achy all over. To pass the time I watch the discovery channel, whilst every once in a while casting a forlorn glance at my window, which has frosted over from the cold. After an eternity of waiting, the red analog numbers on my clock finally read three, and I hear Van stir in the other room. Her footsteps down the hall each sent shivers down my spine as my anticipation grows. Her face appears in the doorway.

“Hey, Miss Sick, how are you feeling?”

“I’m still alive,” I say, attempting a smile.

She grimaces sympathetically, “I’m about to go and run some errands. Anything I can get you before I go – glass of water, some Tylenol, or maybe put on a movie for you or something?” She moves closer, sits on the edge of the bed.

“Nope, I’m okay for now.”

She puts her hand on mine, “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m feeling a little better, in fact.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll be back in an hour or two; do you want me to pick up anything for you while I’m out?”

“No thanks Vanessa, I’m alright. Have fun!”

She laughs, “I’ll try. You just stay in bed. Get better!” She leans in and kisses my forehead. “Oh, you’re still burning up,” she says, “One sec, I’ll be right back.” She leaves and I can hear her footsteps go into the bathroom. She comes back with a face cloth soaked in cold water. “Here you go Lapin,” she says and puts the cloth on my forehead.

“Thanks,” I say, smiling gratefully, but internally cursing her kindness.

“I’ll be back as quick as I can! Love you!”

“Love you too Van!”

“Ciao, mi amore.”

“├Ç bient├┤t.”

She leaves and I’m finally alone. As soon as the door closes, and I hear her key turn in the lock, I throw off the face cloth and sigh. As the coolness of the water had soothed the burning, I decided to wait for a while, to allow the temperature of my skin to rise once more.

You’re probably thinking I’m crazy, and you’ve every right to assume that — it’s a logical assumption and it’s partly true; I am crazy. However, anyone who’s been sick for a long time knows that you want to take every pleasure, or every opportunity to make yourself feel better. Would sticking my head out the window into a nearly subzero wind make me better in the long run? No, probably not, but, it will make me feel better immediately — for sure. In my mind immediate gratification is worth the prospect of prolonged suffering.

Besides, I see myself — a lot of the time anyways — as a strictly sexual being, so many of the things I do to define myself are sexual in nature. Think of the existentialist view on the absurd: there is no meaning to be found in the world aside from what meaning we give to it. I choose to give my world a sexual meaning — so placing my face into a cold wind, should it give me sexual pleasure, is a rational thing to do, despite my ill and fevered condition.

But no more of this — the window beckons. I rise from my bed, my prison, and shed off the beige comforter like a set of skin, becoming intensely aware of how much warmer I’d been in its embrace by how cold the room is in comparison. My pyjamas Ankara escort — pink flannel, emblazoned with little brown teddy bears — provide some relief, but not much; this is exactly the feeling I’d been waiting for, on a lesser scale. The best comparison I can think of is getting near beer when you wanted moonshine.

My breathing quickens, my heart beats heavy in my chest; my nipples erect, becoming visible beneath their fabric confines. The light of the outside world shines in through that wonderful portal, reflecting itself within my eyes. I’m caught in a trance, drawn inescapably forward. Each of my footfalls on the grey carpet is like the gentle, familiar caress of a lover’s tongue, and each sends a shiver of delight up my spine; mere feet divide me from my goal, but it takes a lifetime for me to reach it, as I want to savour each and every second of the journey; I’m a hedonist at heart.

My body enters a state of hypersensitivity — no doubt brought on by the fever, but also by my arousal; I’m so horny my thighs are slick with fluid from my sex, and my nipples are begging to be kissed. My knees are wobbly as I approach the sill, and I collapse onto it rather than sit down; the main difference between the two being: one implies control and the other a distinct lack thereof. Things are now certainly well beyond the realm of my control.

The wood of the sill is cold, freezing, and this sensation passes through my pyjamas as if they weren’t even there — quite literally freezing my ass off. I sigh, relishing the sensation, leaning my head towards the glass so that my cheek presses up against it; the cool embrace of it is so great that I swoon in delight, catching my breath.

One of my hands slips beneath the waistband of my pants and passes through the warm pocket between my body and the garment, seeking the warm centre between my legs. I plunge inside of myself, feeling the heat and wetness coexisting at my core, close my eyes and dissolve into the moment. I gently, quietly masturbate that way for a period of time, bringing myself to the precipice of an orgasm, and then playing around its edges; any misstep will send me plunging into that warm, black abyss.

It is only through intense self-control that I am able to hold off, step back from myself — figuratively speaking — and remember the real source of pleasure; my true purpose for sitting, perched like a cat, on the window sill: the wind.

My fingers come out wet and I take them in my mouth, tasting myself, before I open the window. My hands tremble as I take the cool metal crank in hand and turn, but in my excited state I cannot get it open, it’s sealed shut. I can’t figure out why it won’t open. A wave of dismay flows over me, threatening to wash away the built up pleasure and ruin all that I’ve done. I want to cry, to crawl back into bed and pass out, unsatisfied; if I can’t have the orgasm I want, then there’s no point in coming at all.

I’m about to do just that, feeling dejected and stupid, when the phone rings. This serves to do two things: first, it restores my ability to think — saving me from my sex-addled mind — allowing me to realize that the reason the window wasn’t opening is because it was locked, a situation which I remedy immediately; second, it caused me to stop, pick up the phone without thinking.


“Alice?” Van’s voice came over the line, barely audible over the music that I assumed came from her car; I think the song is Pornostartrek by USS.

“Yeah, hey Van,” I say distractedly, inches away from the open window.

“Where are you, what’s that noise?”

“What noise?” I became aware that I’d started masturbating again and that the wind blowing through the open window was loud enough to be heard over the line.

“Sounds like the wind. Are you outside?” Her voice was full of concern, and reproach.

“No, of course not, I’’m in the bedroom still; I just wanted some fresh air.” My fingers slid in and out, quickly Ankara escort bayan drawing me back to pleasure town, robbing me of my ability to think on the spot.

“What are you up to?” She asks, and I can hear her shifting gears.


“What?” Her voice rose, half in surprise and I think half in delight.

“Yeah,” I draw out the h, making it more like ‘yeahhhhh,’ trailing off as I exhale. “I’m doing it on the window sill, it feels fucking amazing.”

“You’re what? On the window sill? Why the hell are you up there?” She tries to sound angry, but I can tell she’s intrigued.

“I, oh god yes, I can’t explain it right now,” I pause, barely avoiding the slip that would’ve set me over. “Oh fuck, Van I love you, yes,” my fingers withdraw and I caress my labia, clit, squeezing my inner thigh before sliding back in.

“Oh, babe, you’re so turning me on, but I’m going to have an accident if I keep listening,” she says, “I’ve got to hang up now, but promise you’ll explain the window thing to me when I get back — I should be there in about half an hour.”

“Oh, shit, I promise Vanessa, I promise.”

“See you soon.”


I hang up and throw the phone away in one quick movement. The window is mine for the taking and I pull out the screen easily — the builders had clearly installed this screen based on price, not quality — and stick my head directly into the wind. That is enough for me and I slip, and fall, plunging over the edge.

The wind hits the hot, sweaty skin of my face like a freight train, causing my eyes to water and my vision to blur. I increase the tempo of my masturbation as my orgasm seems imminent; then, I explode. My body shudders, quakes, and I feel a rapid clenching of muscles around my fingers as I gush into my hand, and onto my legs. My toes curl and I lose feeling in my feet; I have trouble breathing. Then, quick as a flash, everything comes back — I break out of slow motion with a scream and a jerk that causes me to fall back into the apartment, onto the floor.

I lay there for a few moments, basking in the afterglow of my orgasm, feeling warm and tingly all over; my breathing is rapid and shallow, but gradually slows and becomes less frequent. Above me, cold air continues to rush in through the open window, and I shiver. The room has become frigid, nearly intolerable, especially since I’ve finished coming and the cold has lost its sexual appeal. I know I should get up and close it, and go back to bed, but the floor is just so comfortable that I’m trapped in a web of apathy.

The heater, controlled by the automated thermostat, kicks in and I feel a rush of warm air on my frigid toes — bringing them to life with a rush of blood and feeling. The pins and needles feeling is what re-awakens my desire, and before I know it I’ve got my hand between my legs again.

This orgasm isn’t as good as the first, or as long lasting, but I feel better immediately afterwards — like the afterglow of the first times ten. However, unlike the first, this orgasm doesn’t bring with it a flood of apathy, rather, it restores me and gives me the energy to stand up and close the window. I gaze outside one last time, noticing how dark the sky had become, before closing and locking it; then, on an impulse, drawing the curtains.

I pick up the comforter and wrap it around my shoulders like an oversized cape, and walk out of the bedroom, the ends of it dragging behind me. I feel stupid, I feel childish, but I feel alive. And hungry, by god, I’m starving; having existed on a diet of soup and water for nearly fifty hours I yearned for some real food.

“But what to eat, hmm? I don’t want to aggravate my stomach…I guess a sandwich would be okay. Peanut butter and honey — sounds good to me,” I say to myself, going about the mundane task with unnatural enjoyment. Once finished, I put the sandwich, made with Kraft peanut butter and pain fran├žais, on a plate and grab a glass of water — sandwiches Escort Ankara are one thing, but dairy and upset stomachs are a definite no-no — and sit down on the couch in the living room.

Flicking on the TV I don’t bother searching out something interesting, preferring to eat first, so I’m suck watching the news. I’m not paying too much attention to what the news anchor is saying, I’m too busy voraciously devouring the simple sandwich. I catch the words “gang-style” and “murder” in between bites of sticky, sweet goodness, but it’s the words “break and enter” and “broad daylight” that really catch my attention. I put the sandwich down and watch closer.

The camera zooms into an apartment building that is just a few blocks away from my own, and goes on to detail how, just a few hours ago, two men in ski masks had kicked in the door of an apartment and gunned down the inhabitants with silenced sub-machine guns. I’m horrified by the prospect of such a brutal act of violence being committed in my quiet, peaceful neighbourhood, and I’m even more disquieted when I remember that I actually heard sirens around about the time this happened.

I suddenly wished that Van was home. I wished that I wasn’t alone, or at the very least, that I hadn’t put on the TV. My sandwich lies forgotten, half eaten, on the plate in front of me; everything seems suddenly to be too quiet, too serene. I try flicking the channel to something better, Much Music, but it doesn’t do too much. Images of bodies dancing a macabre dance to the sound of machine guns unloading, their tempo determined by the bullets impacting their bodies in sprays of blood.

I shudder. “Why the hell would you think that, stupid,” I admonish myself, “You know that those kinds of things bother you, so why dwell on them? The people who did this are long gone — do you think that they’d stick around and just wait for the swarms of police to come and arrest them? Hell no. And that’s another thing, there are swarms of police in the area, if anything happens, all you need to do is call and someone will be here in seconds. Think positive. Besides, Vanessa will be home soon and she’ll be expecting an explanation of your dirty little game. Yes, she will, and you’d better have one for her, you slut.”

I keep talking to myself as I bring the dishes from my meal into the kitchen. “Maybe if you’re lucky, she’ll go to bed with you, and you can share the joys of it with her. Can you just imagine it? Her tongue, her fingers, Jacques and Heinrich, all of you together under the covers; doesn’t that sound awesome?”

Jacques and Heinrich are the names of our dildos. I’d never owned one before I met her, and to make the idea of it more appealing to me, it was her idea to name them; I suggested we use funny cultural names for them. Mine is Jacques, bright green and battery powered, and hers is Heinrich, purple and also battery powered.

I’m not feeling so scared anymore, but a momentary lapse of dizziness passes through me, and I decide to go back to bed and wait for her. I’m halfway to the bedroom, comforter back around my shoulders, when the doorbell rings. I pause, thoughts of machine guns running through my mind, and it rings two more times. I hesitate, but I can imagine Van, burdened with bags, unable to get her keys, ringing the doorbell for me to open the door for her.

I run back to the door, a smile plastered on my face, and open it. The hallway is empty. “Vanessa?” I call out, peering around the corner, not wanting people to see me in my PJs. The emptiness of the hallway freaks me out, and I’m just about to close the door when a shopping bag hits me on the arm. Van appears – her arms full of bags.

“Jesus Van, you scared me!”

“Sorry — didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, stepping into the apartment and dropping the bags. “Feeling better?” She closes the door and locks it. She removes her coat and I take it from her, placing it on the rack.

“Yeah, I’m feeling better after my, umm, experience.”

She smiles at me knowingly. “About that, you know you owe me an explanation, right?” her grin turns mischievous, “But I think that a nice dinner is in order first, sound good?”

“Sounds great!”

To Be Continued…

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