“Pass It On”
PART FOUR
Samantha Cord timidly approached the door of the bus toilet.
She had been sleeping fitfully since the bus had left Atlanta, and when she awoke, Roger was not in the seat next to her. After waiting for more than hour for him to return, she had finally gotten up herself.
At Roger’s insistence, they had sat in the second row of seats from the front, away from the rest of the bus’ passengers. Not that there were that many to begin with.
As Sam walked back toward the door of the restroom, she passed a large woman covered by a blanket, apparently dreaming of something nice, as she was smiling in her sleep. A few rows back from her, an older man was also asleep, also smiling. Beside him, a girl that could be his daughter turned restlessly, her face covered in sweat.
Beyond that there were several rows of empty seats. The only other passengers on the bus sat in the next-to-last row: a young Hispanic couple, both asleep, the young woman with her head in the man’s lap, her legs curled up into her chest. A few more steps, and she stood in front of the door of the only place left that Roger could be.
She raised her hand to knock…and then hesitated.
When Sam and Roger had gotten married five years earlier, he had been a caring and romantic person, always bringing her flowers, calling on the phone, taking her away for weekends in the country where they would rarely leave the bed.
The last few years, though…they had seen a deterioration in their relationship. As the economy had tightened and money had gotten scarce, Roger had changed. No more flowers. No more weekend trips. Fewer and fewer phone calls. Their sex life had dwindled to once a week, if he was in the mood.
Through it all, Samantha had held on to her belief that things would get better. Even as he ignored her, she kept trying to show him how much she loved him. Keeping house. Cooking. Kissing him, touching him.
And then he had hit her.
She had only wanted to remind him that his mother was coming by for dinner; she had walked into the den and walked in front of the television, saying his name….
She explained the bruise on her face to his mother as a misadventure in the shower.
It had happened a few times since, and each time he had gotten down on his knees and begged her forgiveness, promising it would never happen again. And each time, she forgave. Wondering about when the next time would come.
So she hesitated, knowing that the next time could come any time.
But he had been gone so long….
She knocked.
Once.
Then again.
“Roger? Are you in there? Are you okay?”
Unlike Denise Burcham, Roger Cord felt no pleasure after his body was invaded.
His body was on fire, each nerve flooded with severe pain.
If Cord were aware enough to reason, he might have understood that the creature had used his cock as a convenient gateway, but that its true target was his brain. And, with the shortest distance between two points being a straight line, his spinal cord provided the most perfect pathway from his nether regions to his spongy control center.
And so, Roger Cord was simply a mass of quivering flesh, writhing in pain on the floor of the toilet, when his wife knocked on the door.
“Roger? Are you in there? Are you okay?”
Roger Cord, the man, was in no position to answer that question.
The creature that was slowly squeezing itself up Roger’s spinal cord was in no position to answer it either.
Sidney Wickington just smiled…and began to move his lips.
“Sam….”
She heard Roger call her name through the door.
“Roger? Honey? Is something wrong?” She pressed her head against the door, trying to hear him.
“I think I fell. I’m not sure. Hard to think….”
“Can you open the door, sweetheart? I’ll come in and help you.”
There was a long pause.
”Roger! Talk to me!”
“I think I can move enough to open the lock. Stand back.”
She stood back a step; a minute passed, then two. Until finally, she heard the lock click on the door, and the sign changed from “occupied” to “vacant.”
Samantha opened the door and stepped inside.
When you are in a room the size of a closet, 3/4ths of which is taken up by a sink and toilet, there isn’t much room to sprawl.
Yet, Roger Cord was indeed sprawled in the toilet, his head lying against the base of the metal toilet bowl, his legs above his head, resting against the cabinet under the sink.
Had Samantha taken a moment to think, she might have wondered what Roger could have been doing that would have possibly gotten him jammed into this position.
Instead, she immediately knelt down beside his head. “Honey, are you all right? What happened? Can you move?”
“Ohhhh, my head. Keep it down a little bit, okay? I have a serious headache!”
She lowered her voice slightly. “Can you move?”
“I think I can, if you help me. You’ll have to help me turn a bit, so I can push myself up.”
She pulled his legs outward from where they rested against the sink, enabling him to push his body into a sitting position, with his legs blocking open the door.
At that point, she noticed his cock. Out of his pants. Pointing at her.
“You…you…you’ve got a hard-on!” she gaped.
“I’ve got a headache! Who cares about my cock?”
Under normal circumstances, Samantha would have been more concerned with whether her husband was seriously hurt. However, he had been holding her wrist ever since she had helped him turn over.
And his hand was covered in ‘soap.’
As was his cock.
In short order, three things happened:
Roger found himself on the toilet seat, to make himself more comfortable;
Samantha was on her knees, Roger’s cock buried up to its hilt in her throat;
And Roger found himself sporting a wolfish grin. Just like Sidney Wickington.
The sign across the bridge said “WELCOME TO LOUISIANA.”
Mr. Greene never even noticed.