Zamu ya Usiku
"He's recovering from surgery in a private ward. The thick night nurse checks on him every hour. By midnight, her checkups have nothing to do with medicine. By dawn, he's exhausted in ways surgery never caused."
The accident put me in Coast General Hospital for two weeks.
Motorcycle crash on Nyali Bridge. Broken ribs, fractured leg, internal bleeding that required surgery. I was lucky to be alive, they said. Lucky to have a private room in the recovery ward.
Lucky to have Nurse Zainab on night shift.
Zainab is not what you expect in a nurse.
Forty-four years old, divorced, working nights for fifteen years. She's thick in ways her uniform can't contain—heavy breasts straining the buttons, hips that brush doorframes, an ass that announces her arrival before she enters.
The first night, she was professional.
The second night, she lingered.
By the third night, she was sitting on my bed, and we both knew something had changed.
"You're healing well," she says, checking my chart.
It's midnight. The ward is silent. The other nurses are at the station, three hallways away.
"Thanks to your care."
"I've been doing this for fifteen years." She sets down the chart. "But you're the first patient I've wanted to... care for differently."
"Differently how?"
She reaches for the buttons of her uniform.
"Let me show you."
Her body emerges like a revelation.
Heavy breasts, dark and pendulous, spilling from a bra that's purely functional. Her belly cascades in soft folds—she's not trying to hide it, not anymore. Her hips flare wide, her thighs thick beneath the uniform skirt she's pushed up.
"I shouldn't do this," she says. "You're my patient."
"I'm a man who hasn't been touched in months."
"Three months for me." She moves closer. "Since my divorce. Since anyone looked at me like you do."
"How do I look at you?"
"Like you want to eat me alive."
"I do."
She climbs onto the hospital bed.
Carefully—avoiding my broken leg, my healing ribs. But she's not being careful about what she wants. She straddles my good leg, her thick thighs on either side.
"I check on patients every hour," she says. "That's the rule. Every hour, I make sure they're comfortable."
"Am I comfortable?"
"Not yet." She pulls her uniform over her head completely. "Let me fix that."
She tastes like night shift and need.
I pull her up my body until she's hovering over my face, her thick thighs framing my head. She's wet already—has been since she walked in, I realize.
"If anyone comes—"
"No one comes to the private ward at night." I grip her hips. "Just you."
I pull her down onto my mouth.
She screams into her hand.
Trying to stay quiet in the hospital, trying not to alert the nurses three hallways away. But my tongue is relentless, and she's been waiting three months.
"Ya Allah—right there—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
I eat her on my hospital bed, my broken body protesting but my mouth working. She comes in minutes—flooding my face, her thick thighs crushing my ears.
"Again—please—more—"
I give her more.
Push her through that orgasm into the next. She comes three times before she finally pulls away, gasping.
"You need—let me—"
She slides down my body.
Her mouth is skilled.
Fifteen years of night shifts, fifteen years of lonely nights—she's learned things. She takes me deep, her thick lips wrapped around my shaft, her dark eyes looking up at me.
"Nurse Zainab—"
She doesn't stop.
Works me with her mouth, her hand, her throat. I'm gripping the hospital sheets, trying not to thrust, trying not to hurt my ribs.
"I'm going to—"
She pulls back at the last moment.
"Not yet. I need you inside me first."
She mounts me like she's been planning this for days.
Maybe she has.
Careful of my injuries, she positions herself over me. Sinks down slowly, taking every inch. Her thick body settles onto mine, her weight a comfort, her warmth overwhelming.
"Finally—oh God—"
She starts to move.
She rides me in the hospital bed while the ward sleeps.
Slow at first—careful of my ribs, my leg. But the need takes over. She bounces faster, her massive breasts swaying, her belly rippling.
"I've been watching you for three days—"
"I've been watching you too—"
"Wanting this—needing this—"
She comes on me.
Clenches around me, crying out into her hand. I thrust up into her—ribs screaming, leg protesting—and fill her while she shakes.
"Hourly checkups," she gasps afterward. "That's the rule."
"Every hour?"
"Every hour." She's already recovering, already wanting more. "Four more checks before my shift ends."
"My ribs—"
"I'll be gentle." She's not gentle. "You'll survive. You survived that accident."
She mounts me again.
"Let's see if you survive me."
By 2 AM, she's checked on me twice more.
Each checkup involving her riding me, her mouth on me, her thick body pressed against mine in ways that have nothing to do with medicine.
"How are you feeling, patient?"
"Exhausted—"
"Good. That means the treatment is working."
She takes me in her mouth again.
At 4 AM, she brings another nurse.
"This is Fatuma," Zainab says. "She also works night shift. She's also... lonely."
Fatuma is fifty, thicker than Zainab, with gray in her hair and hunger in her eyes.
"Zainab told me about your... recovery methods," Fatuma says, already unbuttoning her uniform. "I'd like to assist."
"I don't think I can—"
"We'll see." Zainab climbs onto the bed beside me. "We have until 6 AM. Two nurses, one patient. Let's see how much healing we can do."
They take turns.
Fatuma's mouth while Zainab rides my face. Then switch. Then both of them at once—one on my mouth, one on my cock—while I drown in thick flesh.
"He's good—" Fatuma gasps.
"I know—why do you think I shared?"
"Don't stop—either of you—"
I fill both nurses before dawn.
First Fatuma—her thick body shaking as I explode inside her. Then Zainab again—her third time, screaming into her hand while the first rays of sun come through the hospital windows.
"The day shift arrives at six," Zainab says, dressing hastily. "We should go."
"Will you be back tonight?"
She kisses me softly.
"Every night until you're discharged. Hourly checkups. Doctor's orders."
"Which doctor?"
"Me." She smiles. "I'm the only doctor you need."
I stayed in that hospital for twelve more days.
Every night, Zainab came to my room. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with Fatuma. Once with a third nurse—Amina, sixty years old and twice as thick.
"Night shift solidarity," Zainab explained as three women took turns on my healing body. "We take care of each other. And our special patients."
By the time I was discharged, I was exhausted in ways surgery never caused.
"Follow-up care," Zainab said, pressing a paper into my hand. "My address. Come by next week. I'll check on your... progress."
"Is this standard treatment?"
"It is now." She kissed me one last time. "Night shift special. Available only to select patients."
I've been a select patient ever since.
Some injuries, it turns out, require ongoing care.
And Nurse Zainab never misses a checkup.