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"He's recovering from surgery. His home nurse is attentive, thorough, and very hands-on with his care."
The accident breaks my leg in three places.
A drunk driver, a red light, six weeks of metal pins and surgical recovery. I'm twenty-eight years old, I live alone, and I can't walk to the bathroom without help.
The hospital assigns me a home nurse.
Her name is Gloria.
She arrives on day one with a rolling suitcase and a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
"Mr. Torres? I'm Gloria Washington. I'll be taking care of you for the next six weeks."
I'm lying on my couch, leg elevated, doped up on painkillers. I blink at her through the pharmaceutical haze.
She's not what I expected.
Fifty-something, Black, built like a woman who enjoys her own cooking. She's wearing scrubs that do nothing to hide her figure—wide hips, thick thighs, breasts that strain against the fabric. Her hair is natural, cropped short, with streaks of gray at the temples. Her face is kind, round, framed by glasses that magnify warm brown eyes.
She's got to be two-sixty at least. Maybe more.
"Nice to meet you," I manage.
"You won't think so when I'm making you do your physical therapy." She sets down her bag, surveys my apartment with a practiced eye. "Alright. Let's get you set up properly."
The first week is hell.
Gloria is relentless. She has me doing exercises that make me want to cry. She monitors my medication, my diet, my bathroom schedule. She sleeps in my guest room and appears at my bedside at 6 AM like clockwork.
But she's also... warm.
She tells me about her life—thirty years as a nurse, two grown children, a husband who died of cancer five years ago. She makes me soup from scratch and sits with me while I eat it. She plays cards with me when the painkillers make me too foggy to watch TV.
And I start to notice things.
The way she smells like lavender and something muskier underneath. The way her hands feel on my skin when she checks my vitals—soft, warm, lingering a second longer than strictly necessary. The way she looks at me sometimes, when she thinks I'm not paying attention.
By week two, I'm having dreams about her.
By week three, I'm having problems hiding them.
"Time for your bath."
I freeze. We've been doing sponge baths—she helps me with the parts I can't reach, which is most of them. It's clinical. Professional.
It's also torture.
"I can manage on my own now," I lie.
"Your incision sites need proper cleaning. Doctor's orders." She wheels over the basin she's prepared, steam rising from the water. "Come on. You know the drill."
She helps me sit up, helps me strip off my shirt. I'm wearing boxers, but they do nothing to hide—
"Well." Her voice is different. Lower. "Someone's feeling better."
My face burns. "I'm sorry. I can't—it just—"
"It's a natural response." She wrings out the sponge, starts on my shoulders. "You're a young man. It's been three weeks without... release."
"Can we not talk about this?"
"Why? Because it embarrasses you?" She moves to my chest. The sponge is warm, her touch gentle. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Devon. Bodies do what bodies do."
"You're my nurse."
"I'm a nurse. I've seen everything." She works lower, across my stomach. My cock is fully hard now, tenting my boxers obviously. "I've helped patients with this before. When they can't take care of it themselves."
I stop breathing.
"What?"
"Part of holistic care." She sets down the sponge. Looks at me with those warm brown eyes. "You're in pain. You're stressed. You're frustrated. All of that slows healing. If I can help relieve some of that frustration..."
"Gloria—"
"You can say no." Her hand rests on my thigh. Warm. Heavy. Inches from where I ache. "I won't mention it again. But if you want—if it would help—"
"Yes." The word comes out before I can stop it. "God. Yes."
She doesn't rush.
She pulls down my boxers carefully, mindful of my injured leg. My cock springs free, hard and desperate. She studies it with a clinical eye, then wraps her hand around it.
I groan.
"When's the last time?" she asks, stroking slowly.
"Before the accident. A month? Longer?"
"Poor thing." Her grip tightens. "Let's take care of that."
She strokes me with practiced hands—firm, sure, knowing exactly how to work me. Her other hand cups my balls, rolling them gently. I'm leaking already, pre-cum slicking her palm.
"That's it," she murmurs. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."
I watch her—this beautiful, thick woman, my nurse, jerking me off on my own couch. Her breasts sway with the motion. Her face is focused, intent.
"Gloria—I'm going to—"
"Already? That's alright. You need it." She speeds up. "Come for me, Devon. Let it go."
I explode.
Ropes of cum shoot across my stomach, more than I've ever produced. She strokes me through it, milking every drop, until I'm shaking and spent.
"There." She reaches for a towel, cleans me up with the same efficiency as everything else. "Better?"
"Yes." I can barely speak. "That was—"
"Part of your treatment plan." She smiles, pats my thigh. "Now. Let's finish your bath."
It happens again the next day.
And the day after that.
By the end of week three, it's become part of our routine. Bath, physical therapy, meals—and Gloria's hands on my cock, bringing me relief I didn't know I needed.
But I want more.
I want her.
"Gloria."
It's late. She's about to go to her room, and I'm lying in bed, unable to sleep. She pauses in my doorway.
"What is it, honey? You need something?"
"Come here."
She crosses to my bedside. I reach out, take her hand.
"I want to touch you."
She goes still. "Devon—"
"You've been taking care of me for a month. You've touched me, helped me, made me feel—" I squeeze her fingers. "I want to give something back."
"I'm your nurse."
"And I'm a man who's been falling for you since you walked through my door." I pull her hand to my lips, kiss her palm. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel this too."
She's quiet for a long moment.
Then she sits on the edge of my bed.
"My husband was the last man to touch me," she says quietly. "Five years ago. I've told myself I'm too old. Too fat. That part of my life is over."
"It's not." I push myself up, ignoring the twinge in my leg. "You're beautiful, Gloria. Every inch of you."
"You're high on painkillers."
"I haven't taken anything since this morning. I'm stone sober and I want you."
She searches my face. Whatever she finds makes her eyes shine.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay."
I undress her slowly.
The scrubs first—revealing a practical bra and underwear, nothing sexy, but containing a body that makes my mouth water. Then the bra, and her breasts spill free—massive, dark, hanging heavy against her chest. Her belly is round and soft, marked with years of life. Her hips are wide, her thighs thick, everything about her generous and warm.
"Beautiful," I breathe. "You're so fucking beautiful."
"Devon—"
I pull her down beside me. My leg protests, but I don't care. I kiss her—soft at first, then deeper—and she melts into me.
"Lie back," I tell her. "Let me take care of you for once."
I kiss my way down her body.
Her neck. Her shoulders. Those magnificent breasts—I spend long minutes on each one, sucking and licking while she gasps beneath me. Her belly, soft and warm, covered with my kisses.
And then lower.
She spreads her legs for me—thick thighs parting, revealing wet pink flesh framed by dark curls. I settle between them, careful of my leg, and look up at her.
"Five years?"
She nods. Eyes already glassy.
"Then I have a lot of making up to do."
I lower my mouth to her.
She tastes like heaven.
I lick into her, and she cries out—loud, surprised, like she'd forgotten this was possible. Her hand finds my head, grips tight.
"Oh God—Devon—"
I worship her. There's no other word for it. I lick and suck and probe, learning every fold, every response. Her thighs shake around my head. Her hips roll against my face.
"Right there—right there—don't stop—"
I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—so tight—and blazing hot. I curl them upward, find the spot, work it while my mouth stays on her clit.
"I'm going to—" She breaks off into a moan. "I'm—oh God—"
She comes.
Her whole body convulses. Her thighs clamp around my head. She makes sounds I've never heard from a woman—primal, raw, released. I work her through it, gentler now, feeling her shake and shake.
When she finally stills, she's crying.
"Gloria—" I push up, alarmed. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." She pulls me down, kisses me through her tears. "No, you beautiful man. You didn't hurt me at all."
"Then why—"
"Because I forgot." She cups my face. "I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be touched. To feel like a woman and not just a body that takes care of other bodies."
"You're a woman." I kiss her forehead. Her cheeks. Her lips. "The most beautiful woman I've ever known."
"I'm fifty-four years old."
"I know."
"I'm your nurse."
"Not for much longer." I settle beside her, pull her close. "And when you're not—"
"What?"
"When you're not, I'm going to take you to dinner. And then I'm going to bring you home and do that again. And again. For as long as you'll let me."
She laughs—wet, surprised.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she kisses me—soft, sweet, full of promise.
"Let's get your leg healed first. Then we'll see about the rest."
Six weeks later, I walk her to her car.
No crutches. No wheelchair. She's taught me well.
"So," I say. "You're officially not my nurse anymore."
"Officially not."
"Which means the ethical restrictions are lifted."
"They are."
I take her hand. "There's a restaurant downtown. Italian. I'd like to take you there tonight."
She smiles—that same warm smile from day one, but different now. Fuller.
"I'd like that too."
I pull her close, right there in my driveway, and kiss her. Soft. Slow. A beginning, not an ending.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For taking care of me."
"Thank you." She cups my face. "For reminding me I'm worth taking care of too."
She gets in her car. Drives away.
And that night, at the Italian restaurant, I tell her I love her.
She says it back.
Six months later, she moves in.
A year after that, I marry her.
My nurse. My lover. My unexpected everything.
Some accidents, it turns out, lead you exactly where you're supposed to be.