House Call
"He's recovering from surgery. She's his home nurse. He can't move, can't resist, can barely speak—and she knows it. Some bedside manner isn't in the training manual."
The accident leaves me bedridden for six weeks.
Shattered pelvis. Fractured spine. I'm lucky to be alive, the doctors say. I'm lucky I'll walk again.
Right now, I'm lucky if I can reach the TV remote.
They send a home nurse. Her name is Dolores.
Dolores is not what I expected.
When you think of nurses, you think young and perky. Scrubs and ponytails. Energy drinks and optimism.
Dolores is fifty-seven, five-foot-nothing, and easily two-fifty. Her scrubs strain across her chest and hips. Her gray hair is pinned back severely. Her face is lined with experience and something else—something knowing.
"Mr. Thornton," she says, reading my chart. "You're going to be a handful."
"I'll try to be easy."
"No, you won't." She sets down the chart. "Men like you never are."
Week One
She's professional. Efficient.
She changes my bandages, administers medication, adjusts my position when I can't move myself. Her hands are clinical—cool and quick, touching only what needs to be touched.
But I notice things.
The way her breathing changes when she leans over me. The flush that creeps up her neck when she bathes me. The way her eyes linger on my body—what's left of it under the bandages.
"You're staring," she says one morning.
"So are you."
She doesn't deny it.
Week Two
The sponge bath becomes something else.
Her hands slow down. The cloth lingers on my chest, my stomach, my thighs. She avoids the obvious places—my cock, my balls—but everything around them gets attention.
"Is this necessary?" I ask.
"Hygiene is critical for recovery." Her voice is steady. Her hands are not. "You don't want infections."
"That's not what I meant."
She meets my eyes. "I know what you meant."
She moves the cloth lower. Not touching, but close. So close I can feel the warmth through the fabric.
"Tell me if this is uncomfortable."
"It's not."
"Good." She presses slightly. "Then we'll continue."
Week Three
I can't move.
That's the reality. The brace keeps me immobile. The painkillers keep me foggy. I'm completely at her mercy.
And she knows it.
"I've been thinking," she says during morning care. "About your recovery. Your... circulation."
"What about it?"
"It's important to maintain blood flow." She pulls back my blanket. I'm wearing just boxers—it's all I can manage. "There are therapeutic techniques. Massage, stimulation. They're not in the standard protocol, but they're effective."
"Dolores—"
"Let me help you, Marcus." Her hand lands on my thigh. "You're helpless. Let someone take care of you."
Her hand slides higher.
I don't stop her.
She strokes me through my boxers.
Slowly at first, then faster as I harden. Her eyes are fixed on my face, watching every reaction, cataloging every response.
"That's it," she murmurs. "Just relax."
"I can't—I can't move—"
"I know." She frees my cock from the boxers. "That's the point."
She strokes me bare. Her hand is soft, experienced, knowing exactly how to touch me. I'm trapped in the brace, unable to thrust, unable to do anything but lie there and take what she gives.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," she says. "A young man, helpless, completely dependent on me. Unable to run away. Unable to resist."
"I'm not resisting."
"No." She strokes faster. "You're not."
I come harder than I have in years.
Week Four
She does more.
Her mouth. Her hands. Her body pressed against mine while she "checks my vitals."
She straddles me one morning—carefully, mindful of my injuries—and grinds against me while I'm powerless to respond.
"This is therapeutic," she explains, breathless. "Stimulation aids recovery."
"Bullshit."
"Maybe." She grinds harder. "Does it matter?"
I'm still in the brace. Still immobile. But I can feel her—her weight, her heat, her wet cunt pressed against my hardening cock.
"I want you inside me," she says. "I've been patient. Professional. But I can't wait anymore."
"I can't move."
"You don't have to." She reaches back. Frees my cock. Positions herself. "You just have to let me."
She sinks onto me.
She rides me while I'm trapped.
Her massive body bounces and jiggles. Her breasts swing above me, too far to reach, too tempting to ignore. She uses me like a toy—hard and fast, chasing her own pleasure.
"Fuck—you're so deep—"
I can't thrust. Can't grab her. Can only lie there while my nurse fucks herself on my cock, while her cunt milks me, while she moans above me like I'm the best thing she's ever felt.
"Gonna come—Christ—gonna come on my patient—"
She shatters. I feel her pulse around me, feel her juices flood down my shaft. And then I'm coming too—helpless, overwhelmed, filling her.
She collapses on my chest. I can barely breathe under her weight.
"Best therapy ever," she whispers.
Week Six
The brace comes off.
For the first time in a month and a half, I can move. I can sit up, stand, walk with assistance.
Dolores watches me take my first steps.
"You don't need me anymore," she says. There's something sad in her voice.
"What if I want you anyway?"
She looks at me. "Your recovery—"
"Is complete. The doctor said so." I walk toward her. Slower than I'd like, but I make it. "Now I want to show you what I couldn't do before."
"What's that?"
I kiss her. Deep. Hungry.
"I want to touch you. Hold you. Fuck you the way you deserve."
Her eyes go wide.
"Then show me."
I show her.
I bend her over my bed and take her from behind. I hold her hips—really hold them, grip them, feel every inch of her soft flesh. I thrust into her under my own power, making up for all those weeks of helplessness.
"YES—fuck—I knew you'd be like this—"
"Like what?"
"Hungry. Demanding. Real."
I pound into her. The bed shakes. She screams into the pillow.
This time, I'm in control.
And I make it last.
After
She's not my nurse anymore.
She's something else. Something more.
"Was this always the plan?" I ask one night. We're in bed together—my bed, in my house, where she practically lives now. "From the moment you saw me?"
"Not always." She traces patterns on my chest. "But once I touched you... once I saw how helpless you were..." She shudders. "I couldn't help myself."
"And now?"
"Now you're healed. You could find someone else. Someone younger."
I pull her on top of me. Feel her weight—all that glorious, heavy flesh.
"Why would I want someone else?"
She smiles. Sinks onto me.
"Good answer."
She starts to move.
Best recovery I ever had.