Seens as its you.
The kettle whistled in the empty kitchen. John stared at the water stain on the ceiling, tracing its familiar shape for the hundredth time.
Joanne bustled in, her nurse's bag thumping onto the worn armchair. "Morning, John. Paper's on the side." She peeled off her coat, revealing crisp blue scrubs. Her movements were efficient, practiced. She checked his blood sugar first, the prick sharp and quick on his finger.
He watched her work. He remembered her at ten, scabby knees and tangled hair, building forts with his granddaughter in the garden. Now her hands were steady, professional, but her eyes still held that same spark of mischief. She’d brought him soup when he was ill after his wife passed, sat with him through long silences.
Her brow furrowed as she examined his feet, her head bent low. John’s gaze drifted, lingering where it shouldn’t. The soft curve of her neck, the hint of cleavage beneath her V-neck top. Heat flooded his cheeks, followed by an unmistakable tightening beneath the thin blanket. He shifted, trying to hide it.
Memories flickered unbidden: Joanne at seventeen, radiant in a shimmering emerald prom dress, a photo tucked in his granddaughter’s album. That image had sparked something unexpected in his lonely nights – a forbidden warmth, a yearning for touch he’d buried under guilt and age. Now, with her kneeling so close, the fantasy felt terrifyingly real.
He shifted again, the coarse blanket scraping against his sensitive skin. The movement drew her gaze downwards. A flicker of recognition crossed her face – not shock, not anger, but a weary resignation mixed with a faint, knowing amusement. She’d seen it countless times before, this involuntary reaction to proximity, to care, to the simple fact of her youth and vitality in these quiet, fading rooms. "Happens more often than you'd think, John," she murmured, her voice low and matter-of-fact, her eyes meeting his with startling directness. "Occupational hazard."
She finished inspecting his feet, her touch clinical yet gentle, then stood smoothly. The air crackled with unspoken tension as she gathered her blood pressure cuff and stethoscope, the mundane sounds suddenly loud in the silence. She didn’t rush, her movements deliberate as she placed each item back into her worn leather bag. He watched the muscles shift in her forearm, the curve of her neck as she bent slightly. The erection hadn’t subsided; it felt like a physical accusation under the thin cotton sheet.
Finally, she snapped her bag shut with a decisive click. Turning to him, she leaned one hip against the edge of the dresser, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. "Right then," she said, her voice crisp, cutting through the heavy quiet. "Last patient done. Anything else you need today, John?" Her eyes held his, steady and unflinching, waiting.
John felt the flush creep up his neck again, hotter this time. The sheet tented over his lap felt impossibly thin. He swallowed, a dry click in his throat. A reckless impulse, born of a decade of loneliness and the sudden, shocking proximity of possibility, surged. He managed a shaky smirk. "Well," he rasped, the words thick, "I haven't felt the touch of a woman in a long time." He held her gaze, the bravado thin as rice paper.
Joanne didn't flinch. One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted slowly, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily breaking through her professional composure. Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, more a bemused assessment. "John," she stated, her tone remarkably level, almost conversational, "are you actually asking me to jerk you off?" She tilted her head slightly, studying him like an unexpected, slightly baffling specimen.
A nervous chuckle escaped him, high-pitched. He gestured vaguely towards her with a trembling hand. "Well, it's your fault it's stiff, isn't it?" he offered weakly, trying to cloak the raw request in a joke, his eyes darting away then back, searching her face. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, without a word, Joanne turned back to her bag. She unzipped it again, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a small, practical tube of moisturiser. The soft *thwip* as she unscrewed the cap was deafening. "Seems as it's you, John," she said, her voice low and utterly calm as she approached the bed, a dab of white lotion glistening on her fingertips. "Just this once." John’s jaw went slack, his breath catching in his chest.
Her own heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic counterpoint to her outwardly steady movements. *Why? Why am I doing this?* The question screamed inside her skull as she stood beside the bed. He was Mr. Henderson, her best friend Sarah’s grandad, the man who’d given her ice pops on hot summer days and patted her head awkwardly when she cried over scraped knees. He was frail, diabetic, eighty-three. This was madness. Utter, professional-suicide madness. Yet her feet stayed rooted, her hand holding the cool lotion didn’t retreat.
*Because he asked?* The thought felt flimsy, ridiculous. She’d refused countless inappropriate requests before. *Because he looked so… lost?* That lonely desperation in his eyes when he’d spoken, the raw ache of isolation she saw daily in her patients, maybe it had snagged something deep inside her. Or was it the sheer, shocking absurdity of it? The defiance against the sterile routine? Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the edge of the blanket.
The thin cotton felt alien under her touch as she lifted it. The reality of him, exposed and vulnerable yet undeniably aroused, hit her with a physical force. Her breath hitched. *Sarah would never forgive me. I’ll lose my job.* The consequences crashed through her mind, sharp and terrifying. But beneath the panic, a strange, illicit thrill hummed, a current of power and transgression she couldn’t name. Her thumb smoothed the cool lotion onto her palm, the scent of artificial flowers suddenly cloying in the close air of the bedroom. She hesitated, her hand hovering inches away.
"John," she whispered, her voice tight, barely audible over the frantic drumming in her own ears. Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any flicker of doubt. "Are you... absolutely sure? You understand this can *never* be spoken of. To anyone. Ever." The words hung, heavy and final. "Not a word to Sarah. Not a hint to the surgery. It dies here. In this room. Today." Her gaze was fierce, demanding absolute secrecy, the professional veneer cracking to reveal raw, desperate necessity beneath. "Promise me."
He blinked, the shock momentarily clearing the haze of desire from his eyes. The gravity of her demand settled over him like a sudden chill. He saw the fear warring with resolve in her expression, the tremor in the hand holding the lotion. This wasn't just a favour; it was a pact, dangerous and irrevocable. His throat worked, a dry click echoing in the silence. "I... I promise, Joanne," he rasped, the words thick with a mixture of shame and desperate longing. "Not a soul." He held her gaze, the bravado gone, replaced by a stark, pleading vulnerability. "Just... please."
A single, sharp nod. That was all the confirmation she gave. Then her touch, warm and slick, finally made contact. John gasped, a ragged intake of breath that sounded almost like pain. His body arched slightly off the mattress, a tremor running through his thin frame. It wasn't just the physical sensation, overwhelming as it was after years of solitude; it was the sheer, impossible reality of it. Joanne, Sarah's friend, the district nurse, *here*, doing *this*. Her movements were clinical at first, efficient, the lotion reducing friction. But as his breathing grew shallow, quick gasps escaping his lips, her rhythm faltered. Her own breath came in short bursts now, her focus entirely on the task, the world narrowing to the feel of him in her hand and the deafening roar of her own heartbeat. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, on the grey sky outside, anywhere but down.
The scent of the cheap, floral lotion mixed with the faint, ever-present smell of antiseptic from her bag and the mustiness of the old room. John’s eyes squeezed shut, then flew open, wide with disbelief and a dawning, almost painful intensity. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the bedsheet, knuckles white. A low groan escaped him, choked and involuntary. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, the blood pounding in his ears louder than the distant traffic. Every nerve ending screamed, the simple, forgotten pleasure magnified a thousandfold by its sheer unexpectedness and the profound taboo of its source. He wanted to speak, to say her name, to thank her, to apologize, but words were impossible. All he could manage were ragged breaths and the tightening coil of sensation deep in his belly.
Joanne’s jaw was clenched tight, her teeth grinding. *Just get it done. Fast. Clinical. Like a procedure.* But it wasn't. Her hand moved faster, driven by a desperate need to end the excruciating intimacy. Her skin felt flushed, hot despite the coolness of the lotion. The silence was oppressive, broken only by his increasingly urgent gasps and the slick, rhythmic sound of her hand. She risked a glance down, then immediately wished she hadn't. The sight of him, flushed and straining, the intimate reality of it, sent a unwelcome thrill through her. She focused on the mechanics, the angle, the pressure – anything to distance herself from the man beneath her touch, the man she’d known since girlhood. *Almost there. Please, let it be almost there.*
John’s eyes were wide, fixed on her face, drinking in every detail – the tension in her neck, the slight flush creeping up her throat, the way her lips were pressed into a thin line. The sensations were overwhelming, a tidal wave building after decades of drought. Gratitude warred with shame, desire with disbelief. He saw her discomfort, the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she refused to look at him. A sudden, reckless impulse surged through him, cutting through the haze of pleasure.* His trembling hand, resting limply on the sheet beside his hip, twitched. Slowly, tentatively, his fingers brushed against the crisp blue cotton covering her thigh where she stood beside the bed. He felt the warmth of her leg beneath the thin fabric, the firm muscle tensing instantly at his touch. His hand slid upwards, a clumsy, seeking motion along her outer thigh, rough skin catching slightly on the scrubs. It was a silent plea for connection, a desperate attempt to bridge the terrifying gap between patient and nurse, between loneliness and this impossible moment.
Joanne froze mid-stroke. A sharp intake of breath hissed between her teeth. *No. Nonono.* Every instinct screamed to recoil, to slap his hand away, to run. But the promise hung heavy in the air – *just this once*. And beneath the panic, a cold, pragmatic thought surfaced: *Let him. Maybe it’ll hurry this along.* She forced herself to stay still, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Her gaze remained fixed on a water stain on the far wall, her hand resuming its mechanical rhythm, faster now, harder. The feel of his dry, papery fingers exploring the curve of her hip, sliding towards her waistband, was an invasion far more intimate than the act itself. She focused on the physical sensation of her own hand moving, the slick glide, the increasing heat beneath her palm. *Focus on the task. Finish it. End it.* She leaned her weight slightly into his touch, a silent, grudging permission, hoping his clumsy exploration would push him over the edge faster. Her breath hitched as his fingers fumbled, hesitant, beneath the hem of her scrubs. The violation was profound, a betrayal of her body, but of everything she was. Yet she leaned into it, her hand moving with frantic urgency now, a desperate piston. *Come on, come on.* She could feel the tremors building in him, the tension coiling tighter beneath her touch.
John’s fingers, emboldened by her stillness, traced the swell of her buttock through the thin cotton. The shape was firm, taut beneath his tentative touch – a shocking, electric contrast to the frailness of his own body. His thumb pressed experimentally against the muscle, feeling its resilience. A choked sob escaped him, part pleasure, part overwhelming grief for the decades lost, for the impossible, stolen intimacy of this moment. His other hand scrabbled weakly at the sheet, seeking purchase as sensation threatened to drown him.
Joanne flinched, a full-body tremor rocking her. *Too far. Too far.* But stopping meant prolonging this nightmare. She squeezed her eyes shut, tilting her pelvis slightly forward, pressing herself harder against his exploring hand. *Do it. Just get it over with.* Her own hand worked him relentlessly, the rhythm jarringly clinical against the backdrop of his desperate touch. She felt his fingers curl, seeking the waistband of her scrubs pants. They slid beneath the elastic, rough and dry against the sensitive skin of her lower back. The contact was startlingly intimate, skin on skin. Her breath hitched again, sharp and involuntary. His palm pressed flat against the small of her back, radiating heat. She could feel the tremor in his touch. It wasn’t exploration anymore; it was an anchor, a plea. He pulled her fractionally closer, his hips lifting off the bed to meet her relentless strokes. The groan that tore from him was raw, primal.
Her own body betrayed her. A treacherous heat pooled low in her belly, a slickness gathering between her thighs that had nothing to do with the lotion. Shame flooded her, hot and acrid. *This is John. Sarah’s grandad.* The thought screamed inside her skull, yet her hips pressed back against his hand almost instinctively, seeking the pressure. The friction of his palm against her skin sent sparks up her spine. Her rhythm faltered for a split second. *Focus!* She snapped her eyes open, staring blankly at the water stain, forcing her hand faster, harder. The slick sounds grew obscenely loud.
John gasped, arching off the bed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above her hipbone. "Joanne," he choked out, the name ragged, desperate. His eyes locked onto hers, wide and pleading. "Please..." It wasn't clear what he was begging for – release, forgiveness, or simply for her to understand the storm inside him. His thumb brushed the swell of her buttock again, higher this time, grazing the sensitive curve just below her waistband. She felt him pulse beneath her hand, a sudden, violent throb against her palm. She was doing it. She was doing this to John Henderson. She was grinding against his hand like some cheap thrill.
His fingers trembled against her skin, clumsy and insistent. They hooked into the loose k not of her scrub pants' drawstring. Before she could react – before she could even process the violation – he tugged. The k not slipped free with a soft whisper of fabric. The waist loosened instantly. His hand, rough and dry, slid beneath the loosened fabric, past the thin barrier of her cotton underwear, seeking the forbidden heat between her legs.
Joanne gasped, a sharp, strangled sound. Her body locked rigid. *Stop him. Stop him NOW.* But her own treacherous hips tilted forward, pressing instinctively against his seeking touch. His fingertips brushed coarse curls, then found slick, swollen folds. The contact was electric, shocking. A jolt of pure sensation tore through her, obliterating thought. Her knees buckled slightly. She caught herself on the edge of the mattress, her other hand still moving mechanically on him, slick and fast.
John groaned, a deep, guttural sound torn from his chest. His eyes were wide, fixed on her face, drinking in her shock, her involuntary response. His fingers explored with desperate, clumsy urgency. He traced the outer lips, dipped shallowly into the wet heat he found there, his thumb finding the swollen nub hidden within. He rubbed it in rough, frantic circles, driven by instinct and decades of pent-up longing. The scent of her arousal mingled sickeningly with the floral lotion and antiseptic, thick in the close air.
Joanne whimpered. Shame warred with a terrifying, undeniable surge of pleasure. Her hand on him faltered, losing its rhythm. She felt her own wetness coating his fingers, felt the rough pad of his thumb grinding against her clit. It was too much. Wrong. Profoundly wrong. Yet her body arched, pushing against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure. Her breath came in ragged gasps that matched his own. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of his face – the desperate hope, the raw need – but the sensations overwhelmed her. Her inner muscles clenched involuntarily around the tip of his probing finger. *No. No, I can't...* But her hips rocked against his hand, betraying her. Her own touch on him became frantic, jerky, a desperate counterpoint to his clumsy exploration. The room dissolved into sensation: the slick slide of her hand, the rough pressure of his fingers inside her, the frantic drumming of her own heart. She was lost, adrift on a tide of forbidden pleasure and crushing guilt.
Her own breath came in shallow gasps now, matching his. The coil inside her tightened, a traitorous echo of his impending climax. She squeezed harder, twisting her wrist slightly, wanting it against him, a choked cry escaping her lips.
John’s fingers, slick with her arousal, plunged deeper. He fumbled, pushing two fingers inside her with a desperate urgency that stole her breath. The sudden stretch, the intimate invasion, sent a shockwave through her. Her hips bucked forward instinctively, as she arched over him. Her free hand braced against the headboard, knuckles white. A low moan tore from her throat, raw and involuntary, muffled only by her clenched teeth. His thumb found her clit again, rubbing rough, frantic circles. The dual assault – his fingers thrusting clumsily inside her, his thumb grinding against her sensitive nub – shattered her remaining control. Pleasure, sharp and undeniable, ripped through her guilt and shame.
His eyes were wide, locked on her face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and torment. "Joanne," he gasped, his voice thick with wonder and desperation. "Feel it... feel you..." His thumb pressed harder, faster, mimicking the frantic rhythm of her own hand on him. The scent of sex filled the room, thick and cloying.
John’s hips bucked violently off the thin mattress. A ragged cry tore from his throat, raw and primal. His release hit her like a sudden spray of warm rain. The first thick pulse splashed across her cheekbone, hot and startling. The next streaked across her chin and the crisp blue cotton of her uniform top, stark white against the fabric. More landed on her collarbone, dripping down into the hollow of her throat. The smell, sharp and musky, mingled sickeningly with the floral lotion and antiseptic still clinging to her hands. She flinched, eyes squeezing shut instinctively against the intimate assault, but her hand kept moving, milking him through the shuddering aftershocks, her own fingers still buried deep inside her, moving frantically.
Her own climax slammed into her a heartbeat later, triggered by the shocking heat on her skin and the relentless pressure of his fingers. It ripped through her, fierce and convulsive, silencing her choked sob. Her hips jerked forward against his hand, grinding hard onto his thrusting fingers as her inner muscles clenched rhythmically around them. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, muffled against her own clenched teeth. She rode the wave, trembling violently, her forehead pressed against the cool metal of the bed frame, her other hand still gripping him loosely, slick with his release. The sensations were a brutal collision – the shameful pleasure tearing through her core, the cooling stickiness on her face, the rough intrusion between her legs. She felt utterly exposed, violated, and terrifyingly satisfied all at once.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by their ragged breathing. John slumped back onto the pillows, utterly spent, his eyes glazed, a dazed smile playing on his lips. His fingers slipped limply from inside her. Joanne jerked back as if scalded, stumbling a step away from the bed. Her uniform was splattered, her face sticky. She stared down at her trembling, glistening hand – the one that had touched him – then wiped it furiously against her stained scrubs, smearing the mess. The reality crashed down: the cooling semen on her skin, the ache between her legs, the violated intimacy of her own body. She looked at John, his frail chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression one of bewildered bliss. Fear, cold and absolute, washed over her. *What have I done?* The thought screamed inside her skull, louder than any heartbeat.
Joanne bustled in, her nurse's bag thumping onto the worn armchair. "Morning, John. Paper's on the side." She peeled off her coat, revealing crisp blue scrubs. Her movements were efficient, practiced. She checked his blood sugar first, the prick sharp and quick on his finger.
He watched her work. He remembered her at ten, scabby knees and tangled hair, building forts with his granddaughter in the garden. Now her hands were steady, professional, but her eyes still held that same spark of mischief. She’d brought him soup when he was ill after his wife passed, sat with him through long silences.
Her brow furrowed as she examined his feet, her head bent low. John’s gaze drifted, lingering where it shouldn’t. The soft curve of her neck, the hint of cleavage beneath her V-neck top. Heat flooded his cheeks, followed by an unmistakable tightening beneath the thin blanket. He shifted, trying to hide it.
Memories flickered unbidden: Joanne at seventeen, radiant in a shimmering emerald prom dress, a photo tucked in his granddaughter’s album. That image had sparked something unexpected in his lonely nights – a forbidden warmth, a yearning for touch he’d buried under guilt and age. Now, with her kneeling so close, the fantasy felt terrifyingly real.
He shifted again, the coarse blanket scraping against his sensitive skin. The movement drew her gaze downwards. A flicker of recognition crossed her face – not shock, not anger, but a weary resignation mixed with a faint, knowing amusement. She’d seen it countless times before, this involuntary reaction to proximity, to care, to the simple fact of her youth and vitality in these quiet, fading rooms. "Happens more often than you'd think, John," she murmured, her voice low and matter-of-fact, her eyes meeting his with startling directness. "Occupational hazard."
She finished inspecting his feet, her touch clinical yet gentle, then stood smoothly. The air crackled with unspoken tension as she gathered her blood pressure cuff and stethoscope, the mundane sounds suddenly loud in the silence. She didn’t rush, her movements deliberate as she placed each item back into her worn leather bag. He watched the muscles shift in her forearm, the curve of her neck as she bent slightly. The erection hadn’t subsided; it felt like a physical accusation under the thin cotton sheet.
Finally, she snapped her bag shut with a decisive click. Turning to him, she leaned one hip against the edge of the dresser, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. "Right then," she said, her voice crisp, cutting through the heavy quiet. "Last patient done. Anything else you need today, John?" Her eyes held his, steady and unflinching, waiting.
John felt the flush creep up his neck again, hotter this time. The sheet tented over his lap felt impossibly thin. He swallowed, a dry click in his throat. A reckless impulse, born of a decade of loneliness and the sudden, shocking proximity of possibility, surged. He managed a shaky smirk. "Well," he rasped, the words thick, "I haven't felt the touch of a woman in a long time." He held her gaze, the bravado thin as rice paper.
Joanne didn't flinch. One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted slowly, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily breaking through her professional composure. Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, more a bemused assessment. "John," she stated, her tone remarkably level, almost conversational, "are you actually asking me to jerk you off?" She tilted her head slightly, studying him like an unexpected, slightly baffling specimen.
A nervous chuckle escaped him, high-pitched. He gestured vaguely towards her with a trembling hand. "Well, it's your fault it's stiff, isn't it?" he offered weakly, trying to cloak the raw request in a joke, his eyes darting away then back, searching her face. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, without a word, Joanne turned back to her bag. She unzipped it again, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a small, practical tube of moisturiser. The soft *thwip* as she unscrewed the cap was deafening. "Seems as it's you, John," she said, her voice low and utterly calm as she approached the bed, a dab of white lotion glistening on her fingertips. "Just this once." John’s jaw went slack, his breath catching in his chest.
Her own heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic counterpoint to her outwardly steady movements. *Why? Why am I doing this?* The question screamed inside her skull as she stood beside the bed. He was Mr. Henderson, her best friend Sarah’s grandad, the man who’d given her ice pops on hot summer days and patted her head awkwardly when she cried over scraped knees. He was frail, diabetic, eighty-three. This was madness. Utter, professional-suicide madness. Yet her feet stayed rooted, her hand holding the cool lotion didn’t retreat.
*Because he asked?* The thought felt flimsy, ridiculous. She’d refused countless inappropriate requests before. *Because he looked so… lost?* That lonely desperation in his eyes when he’d spoken, the raw ache of isolation she saw daily in her patients, maybe it had snagged something deep inside her. Or was it the sheer, shocking absurdity of it? The defiance against the sterile routine? Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the edge of the blanket.
The thin cotton felt alien under her touch as she lifted it. The reality of him, exposed and vulnerable yet undeniably aroused, hit her with a physical force. Her breath hitched. *Sarah would never forgive me. I’ll lose my job.* The consequences crashed through her mind, sharp and terrifying. But beneath the panic, a strange, illicit thrill hummed, a current of power and transgression she couldn’t name. Her thumb smoothed the cool lotion onto her palm, the scent of artificial flowers suddenly cloying in the close air of the bedroom. She hesitated, her hand hovering inches away.
"John," she whispered, her voice tight, barely audible over the frantic drumming in her own ears. Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any flicker of doubt. "Are you... absolutely sure? You understand this can *never* be spoken of. To anyone. Ever." The words hung, heavy and final. "Not a word to Sarah. Not a hint to the surgery. It dies here. In this room. Today." Her gaze was fierce, demanding absolute secrecy, the professional veneer cracking to reveal raw, desperate necessity beneath. "Promise me."
He blinked, the shock momentarily clearing the haze of desire from his eyes. The gravity of her demand settled over him like a sudden chill. He saw the fear warring with resolve in her expression, the tremor in the hand holding the lotion. This wasn't just a favour; it was a pact, dangerous and irrevocable. His throat worked, a dry click echoing in the silence. "I... I promise, Joanne," he rasped, the words thick with a mixture of shame and desperate longing. "Not a soul." He held her gaze, the bravado gone, replaced by a stark, pleading vulnerability. "Just... please."
A single, sharp nod. That was all the confirmation she gave. Then her touch, warm and slick, finally made contact. John gasped, a ragged intake of breath that sounded almost like pain. His body arched slightly off the mattress, a tremor running through his thin frame. It wasn't just the physical sensation, overwhelming as it was after years of solitude; it was the sheer, impossible reality of it. Joanne, Sarah's friend, the district nurse, *here*, doing *this*. Her movements were clinical at first, efficient, the lotion reducing friction. But as his breathing grew shallow, quick gasps escaping his lips, her rhythm faltered. Her own breath came in short bursts now, her focus entirely on the task, the world narrowing to the feel of him in her hand and the deafening roar of her own heartbeat. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, on the grey sky outside, anywhere but down.
The scent of the cheap, floral lotion mixed with the faint, ever-present smell of antiseptic from her bag and the mustiness of the old room. John’s eyes squeezed shut, then flew open, wide with disbelief and a dawning, almost painful intensity. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the bedsheet, knuckles white. A low groan escaped him, choked and involuntary. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, the blood pounding in his ears louder than the distant traffic. Every nerve ending screamed, the simple, forgotten pleasure magnified a thousandfold by its sheer unexpectedness and the profound taboo of its source. He wanted to speak, to say her name, to thank her, to apologize, but words were impossible. All he could manage were ragged breaths and the tightening coil of sensation deep in his belly.
Joanne’s jaw was clenched tight, her teeth grinding. *Just get it done. Fast. Clinical. Like a procedure.* But it wasn't. Her hand moved faster, driven by a desperate need to end the excruciating intimacy. Her skin felt flushed, hot despite the coolness of the lotion. The silence was oppressive, broken only by his increasingly urgent gasps and the slick, rhythmic sound of her hand. She risked a glance down, then immediately wished she hadn't. The sight of him, flushed and straining, the intimate reality of it, sent a unwelcome thrill through her. She focused on the mechanics, the angle, the pressure – anything to distance herself from the man beneath her touch, the man she’d known since girlhood. *Almost there. Please, let it be almost there.*
John’s eyes were wide, fixed on her face, drinking in every detail – the tension in her neck, the slight flush creeping up her throat, the way her lips were pressed into a thin line. The sensations were overwhelming, a tidal wave building after decades of drought. Gratitude warred with shame, desire with disbelief. He saw her discomfort, the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she refused to look at him. A sudden, reckless impulse surged through him, cutting through the haze of pleasure.* His trembling hand, resting limply on the sheet beside his hip, twitched. Slowly, tentatively, his fingers brushed against the crisp blue cotton covering her thigh where she stood beside the bed. He felt the warmth of her leg beneath the thin fabric, the firm muscle tensing instantly at his touch. His hand slid upwards, a clumsy, seeking motion along her outer thigh, rough skin catching slightly on the scrubs. It was a silent plea for connection, a desperate attempt to bridge the terrifying gap between patient and nurse, between loneliness and this impossible moment.
Joanne froze mid-stroke. A sharp intake of breath hissed between her teeth. *No. Nonono.* Every instinct screamed to recoil, to slap his hand away, to run. But the promise hung heavy in the air – *just this once*. And beneath the panic, a cold, pragmatic thought surfaced: *Let him. Maybe it’ll hurry this along.* She forced herself to stay still, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Her gaze remained fixed on a water stain on the far wall, her hand resuming its mechanical rhythm, faster now, harder. The feel of his dry, papery fingers exploring the curve of her hip, sliding towards her waistband, was an invasion far more intimate than the act itself. She focused on the physical sensation of her own hand moving, the slick glide, the increasing heat beneath her palm. *Focus on the task. Finish it. End it.* She leaned her weight slightly into his touch, a silent, grudging permission, hoping his clumsy exploration would push him over the edge faster. Her breath hitched as his fingers fumbled, hesitant, beneath the hem of her scrubs. The violation was profound, a betrayal of her body, but of everything she was. Yet she leaned into it, her hand moving with frantic urgency now, a desperate piston. *Come on, come on.* She could feel the tremors building in him, the tension coiling tighter beneath her touch.
John’s fingers, emboldened by her stillness, traced the swell of her buttock through the thin cotton. The shape was firm, taut beneath his tentative touch – a shocking, electric contrast to the frailness of his own body. His thumb pressed experimentally against the muscle, feeling its resilience. A choked sob escaped him, part pleasure, part overwhelming grief for the decades lost, for the impossible, stolen intimacy of this moment. His other hand scrabbled weakly at the sheet, seeking purchase as sensation threatened to drown him.
Joanne flinched, a full-body tremor rocking her. *Too far. Too far.* But stopping meant prolonging this nightmare. She squeezed her eyes shut, tilting her pelvis slightly forward, pressing herself harder against his exploring hand. *Do it. Just get it over with.* Her own hand worked him relentlessly, the rhythm jarringly clinical against the backdrop of his desperate touch. She felt his fingers curl, seeking the waistband of her scrubs pants. They slid beneath the elastic, rough and dry against the sensitive skin of her lower back. The contact was startlingly intimate, skin on skin. Her breath hitched again, sharp and involuntary. His palm pressed flat against the small of her back, radiating heat. She could feel the tremor in his touch. It wasn’t exploration anymore; it was an anchor, a plea. He pulled her fractionally closer, his hips lifting off the bed to meet her relentless strokes. The groan that tore from him was raw, primal.
Her own body betrayed her. A treacherous heat pooled low in her belly, a slickness gathering between her thighs that had nothing to do with the lotion. Shame flooded her, hot and acrid. *This is John. Sarah’s grandad.* The thought screamed inside her skull, yet her hips pressed back against his hand almost instinctively, seeking the pressure. The friction of his palm against her skin sent sparks up her spine. Her rhythm faltered for a split second. *Focus!* She snapped her eyes open, staring blankly at the water stain, forcing her hand faster, harder. The slick sounds grew obscenely loud.
John gasped, arching off the bed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above her hipbone. "Joanne," he choked out, the name ragged, desperate. His eyes locked onto hers, wide and pleading. "Please..." It wasn't clear what he was begging for – release, forgiveness, or simply for her to understand the storm inside him. His thumb brushed the swell of her buttock again, higher this time, grazing the sensitive curve just below her waistband. She felt him pulse beneath her hand, a sudden, violent throb against her palm. She was doing it. She was doing this to John Henderson. She was grinding against his hand like some cheap thrill.
His fingers trembled against her skin, clumsy and insistent. They hooked into the loose k not of her scrub pants' drawstring. Before she could react – before she could even process the violation – he tugged. The k not slipped free with a soft whisper of fabric. The waist loosened instantly. His hand, rough and dry, slid beneath the loosened fabric, past the thin barrier of her cotton underwear, seeking the forbidden heat between her legs.
Joanne gasped, a sharp, strangled sound. Her body locked rigid. *Stop him. Stop him NOW.* But her own treacherous hips tilted forward, pressing instinctively against his seeking touch. His fingertips brushed coarse curls, then found slick, swollen folds. The contact was electric, shocking. A jolt of pure sensation tore through her, obliterating thought. Her knees buckled slightly. She caught herself on the edge of the mattress, her other hand still moving mechanically on him, slick and fast.
John groaned, a deep, guttural sound torn from his chest. His eyes were wide, fixed on her face, drinking in her shock, her involuntary response. His fingers explored with desperate, clumsy urgency. He traced the outer lips, dipped shallowly into the wet heat he found there, his thumb finding the swollen nub hidden within. He rubbed it in rough, frantic circles, driven by instinct and decades of pent-up longing. The scent of her arousal mingled sickeningly with the floral lotion and antiseptic, thick in the close air.
Joanne whimpered. Shame warred with a terrifying, undeniable surge of pleasure. Her hand on him faltered, losing its rhythm. She felt her own wetness coating his fingers, felt the rough pad of his thumb grinding against her clit. It was too much. Wrong. Profoundly wrong. Yet her body arched, pushing against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure. Her breath came in ragged gasps that matched his own. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of his face – the desperate hope, the raw need – but the sensations overwhelmed her. Her inner muscles clenched involuntarily around the tip of his probing finger. *No. No, I can't...* But her hips rocked against his hand, betraying her. Her own touch on him became frantic, jerky, a desperate counterpoint to his clumsy exploration. The room dissolved into sensation: the slick slide of her hand, the rough pressure of his fingers inside her, the frantic drumming of her own heart. She was lost, adrift on a tide of forbidden pleasure and crushing guilt.
Her own breath came in shallow gasps now, matching his. The coil inside her tightened, a traitorous echo of his impending climax. She squeezed harder, twisting her wrist slightly, wanting it against him, a choked cry escaping her lips.
John’s fingers, slick with her arousal, plunged deeper. He fumbled, pushing two fingers inside her with a desperate urgency that stole her breath. The sudden stretch, the intimate invasion, sent a shockwave through her. Her hips bucked forward instinctively, as she arched over him. Her free hand braced against the headboard, knuckles white. A low moan tore from her throat, raw and involuntary, muffled only by her clenched teeth. His thumb found her clit again, rubbing rough, frantic circles. The dual assault – his fingers thrusting clumsily inside her, his thumb grinding against her sensitive nub – shattered her remaining control. Pleasure, sharp and undeniable, ripped through her guilt and shame.
His eyes were wide, locked on her face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and torment. "Joanne," he gasped, his voice thick with wonder and desperation. "Feel it... feel you..." His thumb pressed harder, faster, mimicking the frantic rhythm of her own hand on him. The scent of sex filled the room, thick and cloying.
John’s hips bucked violently off the thin mattress. A ragged cry tore from his throat, raw and primal. His release hit her like a sudden spray of warm rain. The first thick pulse splashed across her cheekbone, hot and startling. The next streaked across her chin and the crisp blue cotton of her uniform top, stark white against the fabric. More landed on her collarbone, dripping down into the hollow of her throat. The smell, sharp and musky, mingled sickeningly with the floral lotion and antiseptic still clinging to her hands. She flinched, eyes squeezing shut instinctively against the intimate assault, but her hand kept moving, milking him through the shuddering aftershocks, her own fingers still buried deep inside her, moving frantically.
Her own climax slammed into her a heartbeat later, triggered by the shocking heat on her skin and the relentless pressure of his fingers. It ripped through her, fierce and convulsive, silencing her choked sob. Her hips jerked forward against his hand, grinding hard onto his thrusting fingers as her inner muscles clenched rhythmically around them. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips, muffled against her own clenched teeth. She rode the wave, trembling violently, her forehead pressed against the cool metal of the bed frame, her other hand still gripping him loosely, slick with his release. The sensations were a brutal collision – the shameful pleasure tearing through her core, the cooling stickiness on her face, the rough intrusion between her legs. She felt utterly exposed, violated, and terrifyingly satisfied all at once.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by their ragged breathing. John slumped back onto the pillows, utterly spent, his eyes glazed, a dazed smile playing on his lips. His fingers slipped limply from inside her. Joanne jerked back as if scalded, stumbling a step away from the bed. Her uniform was splattered, her face sticky. She stared down at her trembling, glistening hand – the one that had touched him – then wiped it furiously against her stained scrubs, smearing the mess. The reality crashed down: the cooling semen on her skin, the ache between her legs, the violated intimacy of her own body. She looked at John, his frail chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression one of bewildered bliss. Fear, cold and absolute, washed over her. *What have I done?* The thought screamed inside her skull, louder than any heartbeat.
5ヶ月前
