I work as a traveling nurse in an ICU. If you’re not sure what that means, either go watch on episode of ER or Grey’s Anatomy, or look it up.
Since you’re pro’ly lazy like me, I’ll just tell you: intensive care unit. Yup, I care for the totally fucked up, those who put their heads through the windshield at 80 miles an hour, swallow six bullets in a five-second gunfight, or maybe accidentally fall over railroad tracks at just the right time and lose their lower half. The part with all the sex tools. Does this bother you? If so, please turn the channel now.
My name’s Ivy Britton and I’ve been doing this for—let’s see, do we count the failed internship right outta college?—okay, forever. I’m less than 40 and just over 30. All right, I’m 36. But I still turn heads. Not lately, though. Fact is, I can’t get a guy to look at me long enough to strike up a conversation, much less an erection.
Yesterday, that all changed. . . .
Vanessa came up to me at lunch and sat down across from me, dying to know how I got those frown lines on my mouth. Hafta admit, she made me laugh a lot. I love to laugh, too. Would prefer it be with a cute guy, though, not the horniest nurse in the hospital. Van brags about shagging 10 guys a week. If you do the math on that, it’s something like 1.43 guys per day. I dunno which part of a guy would comprise only 43%, but if it involves Van, I can guess.
Anyway, Van came up to me at lunch and told me of this surefire way to get laid. Of course, I’m all ears. My nipples even got hard just thinking about the prospects. She said to meet her at two am, when all the residents and interns were dead off their feet in the lounge, sleeping area, or wherever they could find space away from patients and nurses.
After making my rounds with my three patients in ICU, I made my way up to the fourth floor where Van told me to meet her. I’d never been up there before. In fact, I wasn’t even sure there was a fourth floor. She was up there in the stairwell, making sure I was on time. Van lead me into a darkened corridor, past the sleeping attending nurse, who was snoring like my dad used to after a six pack of German skunk beer. We were giggling like ten little girls at a sleep-over, until she shushed me with her hand to her mouth.
We were outside an unmarked room. She opened the door and motioned me to follow. Duh. On the other side of this curtain was the most beautiful man I’d ever laid my baby blues on. A sleeping prince, if there ever were one. Instinctively, I picked up his chart and examined it carefully: David James Patterson, 33 years old.
Not really wanting to know what brought him here, I looked down the page and saw it in bold letters: Automobile Accident. Comatose. The date of admittance was more than two months ago. He’d been basically brain dead for 67 days.
I almost cried when I read that and looked at his peaceful face. That perfect face. I wondered who his family was, whether he had a wife, children. Did anyone miss him?
I must’ve been thoroughly engrossed in my examination of his chart, because I failed to notice Van pulling up his covers and whipping out a small black box of some sort. She then attached two electrode leads, one to the base of his penis and another one three inches farther down his pubococcygeus muscle, that lovely strand of meat that contracts during the human orgasm.
Mortified was I, because I recall nearly yelling at Van, something like: “The fuck you doing, girl!?”
Van would have nothing of it. She just shushed me again and climbed aboard Dear David.
I didn’t bother asking her what the hell she was doing, because it was pretty damned obvious: her little black box hummed like a microwave oven, sending some juicy electricity down those electrodes, which then raised this poor man’s penis to an extraordinary altitude.
Didn’t whip out a ruler to measure it, but it looked longer than a magnum of Moet & Chandon, a good ten inches. Holy Shit!
Van shoved his thing up into her, and I was wondering whether it would all fit okay but she seemed to take it all in pretty well ‘cos she was riding this dead man like a crazed rodeo cowboy on his last joy ride.
It didn’t take Van long to pop her cork, maybe two minutes. After she was finished, she lay over Dear David, exhausted as a boxer who’d just done 15 rounds in a title fight.
What was I doing, you ask? I was still stunned as hell, just standing there holding that stupid chart, looking down on Van and the man she just raped.
Was that really rape? I mean, if the guy were awake and sane and could actually see this girl, he would’ve blown a gasket. Van’s a gorgeous girl. Rape? I don’t think so. Would she go to hell when she passed from this life? Fuckin-A. And I couldn’t wait to go with her.
No sooner did Van get off Dear David than I climbed aboard. Did I mention, very carefully? It’d been a loooong-ass time since I had some guy inside me, mind you, so I was tight. Hell, that was the least of my worries. I wondered out loud—I know it was out loud ‘cos Van answered me right away—where the hell I was gonna put all that stud-meat, but it really didn’t matter, she told me. Just push down a little at a time, see how he feels inside, then push a little more until he was all the way in.
Jesus-Fuckin’-Christ, this man was huuuuge! By the time I was sitting completely on top of this horse’s cock, it felt like he was touching my heart. No shit. Sorry for swearing, but I needed a little emphasis.
Van got behind me on the bed and pulled me up slowly, encouraging me to pump it up and down. Pretty soon I had my own rhythm going, and was enjoying it like nothing I’d ever tried in my life. There’s something to be said for putting something that big between my legs and just doing what I wanted to with it, without having to please the man inside me. I was in complete control, or at least I thought I was until the thing went limp for a short moment.
Van pulled me off him a sec and powered him up again with her little black box and two chargers. Daaaaaaamn! Soon as he stood at attention again, I was right on him. I took my time, too, unlike Speed Racer Van. She was getting pissed at me, mostly ‘cos of all my moaning and writhing for ten long minutes.
She finally yanked me off Dear David and had to hike up my panties for me ‘cos I was so spent. My legs shook like a leaf in a hurricane for the longest time, giving Van enough time to give Dear David a nice sponge bath, taking generous licks with her mouth in between wipes.
After watching her for about ten minutes, I took a few myself. Gawd! Having that cock inside my mouth was more than I my poor underworked hormones could handle, ‘cos I pushed Van aside and went to work on that cock again for the next ten minutes, sucking every ounce of life out of it. I wished Dear David would’ve come in my mouth, but he was, well, sorta dead at the time.
Settled for another delish orgasm myself, and Van spanked me good for hogging him. She did do me a nice favor and played with my nipples while I got off again. Wow, that was a first for me, having a girl touch me like that. Too bad Dear David was out of it: he could’ve had two beautiful and horny girls at the same time.
Well, it’s been a few months since my first comatose patient, which I gladly shared with Van, but I can’t say it’s been my last.
Wish I could say the same for Van, but she got caught one night by some comatose guy’s wife who wasn’t into threesomes. . . .
MEET YOUR AUTHOR
Tripsy South is the author of the novel SUICIDE TANGO. Trained in physics at a cool surfer university, she lives and plays in Los Angeles where she’s a freestyle writer/editor and copywriter. Ring her here.