Disclaimer: This is explicit material intended for adult readers. If your are below the age of 18 do not read.
Author’s Note: This is my first MC story I’ve written, so I’d appreciate any and all possible feedback. Drop me a line at MCBridger@hotmail.com.
The Bridge
Chapter One
Part One
I was seventeen when my life ended, and seventeen when I was born. I’m not going to pretend like I wasn’t afraid. I remember the car crash; a flash of light, the sound of screeching metal, a moment of indescribable pain, and then darkness.
When I woke up weeks later in the critical condition wing of the hospital things were a blur. There were my foster parents, hovering over me, both of them with tear-streaked faces. I reached up a hand to them, but something was wrong. I couldn’t feel my hand. Hell, I couldn’t feel anything.
I suppose that was when the fear set in. My heart-rate sped up, and a neurologist came striding into the room to check my vitals. Hushed conversation with my parents for a moment before he turned to me, staring straight into my eyes.
“Elliot,” he breathed. “I’m sorry son. You’re paralyzed from the neck down. You’ll be able to carry on conversation in a few more days, but from now on this is your situation.”
My next few weeks were ones of slow recovery, first in the hospital and eventually at home. After my cuts stopped bleeding and my bruises faded, I was finally becoming accustomed to my situation. Every tiny need, every nominal action, was now infinitely out of my grasp.
I kept to myself. I didn’t bother my parents much, asking for a meal three times a day, otherwise content to lay in my room with the television on. My first visitor came six weeks after my accident, when my mother deemed me healthy enough to entertain.
Cheryl was a girl from my school, one of the only girlfriends I had ever had, and still a close friend. She stood five foot three, dwarfed by my five foot eleven stature. Thick locks of auburn hair pooled limply around her dainty frame. Today she wore a low cut v-neck blouse, revealing the curves of her well-proportioned body. It made me ache with the thought of what I could never experience again.
“Elliot?” she whispered, standing in my doorway.
“Come in,” I said, giving her a crooked grin and jerking my head towards a chair.
“Are you…in pain?” she asked nervously, sliding into the seat.
“No Cheryl, I can’t feel anything.”
Her eyes filled with tears, which surprised me. She always had been compassionate, one of the sweetest girls I knew. It was nice to have a friend like her.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, grabbing my hand. “I didn’t mean to…I wasn’t trying…I’m glad you’re alive.” She finished.
We spent the rest of that evening carrying on congenial conversation. For the first time in a few weeks I was laughing, smiling, and getting to be in a good mood. Cheryl sat with her hand clasping mine the entire time.
When it was time for her to leave she stood and looked down on me. She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, letting her lips linger for a moment. She turned.
And the most peculiar thing happened. As her hand slipped from mine, I swore I could have felt the faintest hint of a tickle on my palm.
The months passed slowly. I was determined to finish my education, and so studied diligently at home on my computer working with voice recognition software. I had visitors almost daily, friends come from school to catch up on the latest happenings. I never looked forward to a person’s visit more than Cheryl’s, though. We’d become pretty close.
During my months of study I became restless. My dreams were tormented, and my waking hours were filled with thoughts of running and jumping and kissing. Even if my brain couldn’t feel it, I knew my body was there, waiting to be used. And so I began to build The Bridge.
That’s what I call it now, but not what I called it back then. Back then I thought I was going insane. How could I explain what was happening? I couldn’t explain it to myself, let alone my family or friends.
I’m sure there’s some metaphysical explanation of The Bridge. I lay awake sometimes thinking about it. I think it really comes down to the brains ability to want something badly enough. And I’ve never wanted anything so bad.
It started off slowly. I would concentrate. I would breathe. I would feel my awareness extend outside myself and then probe my body from the outside. I got my first breakthrough when I felt my fingers, crying out to be mastered by a will. And suddenly I felt my fingers, was my fingers, and I moved, each digit curling in to make a fist. And I was still there.
Forming The Bridge was a strange sensation. For weeks I controlled my conscious thoughts, honing them, focusing intensely on movement. Each movement, each spastic jerk of my hand or leg, felt like manipulating a puppet. But I could feel the feedback, could feel my skin, could feel my body. I knew it was a matter of time and practice.
One night I waited for my parents to leave the house, assuring them I would be fine by myself for a few hours. As soon as they left I built The Bridge again, and extended my mind farther than I ever had before. I moved both arms, both legs, coordinating them together, and PULLED. My legs swung to the edge of my bed and finally I was sitting upright, trembling with barely contained excitement.
I pushed myself forward, feeling my legs propel myself upward until, for the first time in months, I was standing. I walked myself around the room, concentrating on moving my legs and arms, savoring the feelings, knowing that eventually controlling my body would become second nature. I cried for some time after that.
And when my parents came home, they cried too. It was a miracle, they proclaimed, as their son came waddling warily down the stairs to greet them. I had never seen them so happy.
Happier still was Cheryl. My first foray into school was like returning home. Pats on the back, kisses on the cheek, but Cheryl was by far the best part. For those first few days when I returned she barely let go of my hand.
I miss her to this day.
Part Two
Cheryl moved away halfway through my senior year. Her departure was sad. We made love the night she left. I cannot forget it.
I had taken her out to Baker’s Pond, the place where I first asked her out. We watched the sun set slowly over the tree line. She pushed me down into the grass and unbuttoned her shirt slowly, revealing her supple breasts to the cool night air. We kissed.
She unzipped my jeans and slid a hand down to grip me. I pulled her skirt from her legs, tracing my fingers up her thighs, eliciting a breathy groan from her lips. We made love then, matching rhythms and slowly building toward mutual climax.
Release was simultaneous, but it was so much more. That night I built another Bridge, with foundations as solid as my own. Stranger than being myself was being her. My thoughts extended into hers, meshing and tying us together permanently. I knew all that she knew, felt all that she felt, saw what she saw, but I was still myself. I knew instinctively anything I wanted from her mind was mine, but I left it alone.
I don’t know if she felt it. But I’m still aware of her. Maybe one day we’ll find each other again.
Part Three
Welcome to the present. I am Elliot, miracle boy and a monument to the wonders of what the human will can accomplish.
I’m eighteen now, finishing up my senior year. I still wonder about Cheryl sometimes, a little more frequently than I’d like to admit. But I’m not obsessed. I actually have a very active social life, and for a person with gifts like me, I get what I want.
You see, the first time I built the Bridge it was only an extension to myself. The second time I built it it was an unintentional emotional bond I formed. Later on I realized that I could build a bridge to anybody I want. And since The Bridge is merely the footprint of my will, it can operate outside the bounds of natural law.
Today I’m sitting outside at lunch hour feeling great. It’s a sunny afternoon and the sounds of people laughing fills the air. I carry on conversation with my friends and enjoy the spring air.
But some people just aren’t feeling so happy, and as I look across the courtyard I see one of my grade-school friends being pummeled by a jock. I cross the yard and come to a stop next to him, catching his fist before he can bloody my friend any further.
Harry fits the stereotype of a redneck. He wears his John Deer hat religiously, drives a souped-up 4x4 pickup, and drinks beer with his breakfast. He’s also a monumental douche-bag, and so I decide to teach him a lesson.
“Fuck off, Elliot.” He says, shrugging off my hand.
“No,” I say, pulling my friend Bryan from the ground and standing between them.
“I said ‘Fuck off’, man!” Harry emphasizes, shoving me mightily. I maintain my balance and turn on him.
His girlfriend Jamie giggles. Basketball captain. Pretentious bitch. Everybody hates her for a few reasons: she’s snotty, condescending, and easily the hottest chick in the school. God saw fit to complement her low IQ with outstanding physical assets. Her legs go forever, her breasts are the image of perfection, and her face is the portrait of an angel.
“What are you laughing at?” I ask, turning to meet her gaze.
“You, faggot!” She snorts.
Bitch. She’ll get hers.
Harry shoves me again. “Stop looking at my girl!” He turns on Bryan. “And you! Get your shit for brains together and get the hell out of my way the next time I tell you to move.”
He makes a move to punch Bryan again and time slows to a crawl. I can see Harry flexing his arms and throwing his weight into his punch. I concentrate and build The Bridge.
Harry’s mind is surprisingly empty. Not very hard to manipulate at all. I make a few minor attitude adjustments. A little less dominant, a little less impulsive. Still, there’s no teacher like pain.
As his arm comes forward I turn his fist in my direction. At this point the fight is out of his control, but that’s not how it feels for him. He thinks he’s moving himself. He’s actually the marionette here. It’s a weird thing, like a scripted fight. I’m controlling both combatants with one will, so obviously I’m in no danger.
As his fist misses my face I bring my knee into his gut, dropping him in one movement. His arm reaches out to grab at me but I dance back, cracking down on his elbow with my forearm.
I sever The Bridge. He lays on the ground, whimpering in pain. Jamie looks at me disgustedly and kneels down next to her boyfriend, helping him up. “What the hell did you do to him, you freak?! You’re dead!”
They leave the courtyard, and as they walk away I take the opportunity to admire Jamie’s ass. Bitch. I build another Bridge, this one to her, and plant a little suggestion.
Bryan turns me around. He’s got a bloody lip and the beginnings of a nice shiner, but he’s grinning widely. “Thanks, man.” He says, patting me on the back.
“No problem.” I say.
My victory is accompanied by a smattering of applause from the small crowd the fight drew. Everybody likes to see a fight, and everybody likes to see the jock go down. I was just happy to deliver.
I set my watch for six ‘o’clock and head home.
Part Four
5:50 and I’m driving back towards the school. I stop along the way to grab a couple condoms. Just in case.
I pull into the parking lot and use the front entrance. The school is deserted now, except for a few trolling janitors and a couple teachers. I make my way towards the gymnasium and take a seat on the bleachers.
Right at six ’o’clock my alarm on my watch goes off. The door to the gymnasium opens up and Jamie walks in. She’s in her sweats, coming back from a jog through the park. She makes her way into the girl’s locker-room. I wait a minute and follow.
I lock the door behind me. The lockers are all set up in rows, and I walk down them until I find her. She’s wearing nothing but her bra and panties and looks about ready to take a shower. When she sees me she screams.
“What the fuck are you doing in here you pervert?!” She raises her arm to throw a shoe at me but then freezes, slowly lowering her arm back down. My Bridge is still there, and she’s not calling the shots anymore.
The best thing about putting a compulsion on somebody is that you’re only placing vague objectives in their heads. They think up ways to accomplish those objectives and people are still unpredictable. I learned that a while ago.
“I’m sorry, Elliot.” She says, folding her arms in false modesty to cover up her rack. “I didn’t mean to shout.”
I lean against a set of lockers and sigh. “And?”
“And about today. Look, Harry is kind of a jerk sometimes, ya’know? He doesn’t mean it.” She bats her eyelashes at me and I almost lose it.
“Harry is Harry.” I state simply.
“Fine, ok? I’m sorry for what I said. I just get kinda worked up.” She tapped her foot nervously.
“Jamie, you’ve never been very nice to people.” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “You can’t just apologize and expect it to be ok.”
“But I mean it!” She says, indignant.
“I don’t think you do, Jamie.”
“Please!” She begs, desperate. “C’mon, I’ll make it up to you! I don’t mean to be a bitch. Lemme make it up to you!” She leans forward on her tiptoes, coming closer to me.
“I wouldn’t know how you could make it up to me…” I say, but I know perfectly well how she’ll try to make it up.
She turns around and snaps off her bra, obscuring my view for the moment. She cocks her head over her shoulder and rolls the sexiest look I’ve ever seen in my direction. “C’mon, Elliot. I can think of something.”
She turns around and I go rigid. She strides toward me, bare chest, perky nipples free from her bra. She wraps one arm loosely around my back and draws me in for a kiss. “Can’t you just accept my apology?” She pouts.
I shake my head.
“I’ll have to change your mind.”
Her lips kiss at my neck and she slides down my waist until she’s resting on her knees. She tugs at my belt and unzips my jeans, pulling my boxers down with a jerk. Her lips envelope me as she starts to bob her head up and down, working her neck faster and faster.
After a few minutes I feel myself building toward release. I step back onto my Bridge and make a few suggestions. She’ll do anything to suck me off from now on. She’ll dump that loser boyfriend of hers. She’ll make a real effort to become a better person. And she can’t tell anybody about what I’ve done.
She works me into the back of her throat until she’s taking me all down, her fingers teasing and stroking my shaft. I groan and let loose in her throat and she swallows it all hungrily. She looks up at me with her big eyes and gives me a toothy smile.
“Well Elliot? Call it even?”
“Not even close,” I say.
I use the Bridge to make her realize exactly what I’ve done to her. The smile vanishes from her face to be replaced with a contempt that sort of scares me. “You sick sunavabitch, how did you do this?” She’s angry and frightened, and I don’t blame her.
“C’mon Jamie. You’re too much of a prize to let go.” I chuckle and stroke her hair. “Now why don’t we have another go, I think I’ve got a little more in store for you.”
“Fuck you…” she sighs, licking her lips and taking me back into her mouth.