There is a first time for everything, even for the promiscuous.
Not for the first time, I woke up with a strange man in my bed. This one I called Mr. Face, for the heavy-handed way that he’d Photoshopped his profile picture.
We had slow and sultry morning sex, which in my book is some of the best sex there is. When I first awoke, Mr. Face was still asleep. We were naked, snarled in my tangled bed sheets. He was lying on his back; I rolled over and threw my leg over him. Sitting up, I rocked back and forth, dragging my pussy up and down his penis until he was hard all over again. Face was awake now. He looked up at me. We made eye contact, and he smiled sleepily.
I grabbed a condom off the side table, and he fumbled the wrapper open and rolled it down his erection, almost, but not quite, breaking the spell. He hadn’t wanted to use one the night before, but I had insisted.
My pussy was drenched. Juicy-wet and hot and wide open. As slowly and as deliberately as I could stand to, I eased myself down onto his big fat cock. It felt glorious.
Mr. Face, apparently, agreed. I could feel his hips bucking underneath me as he started to hump. He was straining, thrusting up into my pussy, spearing me with that delicious thick hard cock, building toward a crescendo.
I was having none of it. I grabbed him by the wrists, pinning him to the bed. I leaned over, letting my tits dangle in his face. I wanted to be in control. I worked my hips back and forth, up and down, riding him like a cowgirl atop a bucking bronco.
Face groaned something inaudible and struggled underneath me as I slowly, steadily fucked him. I wanted his hands on my butt, I wanted his finger inside my asshole, but I wasn’t about to release his wrists. He had almost made me come the previous night. Almost, but not quite.
I was close. Really close. I maintained a steady rhythm, savoring the sensation of the textures of his cock sliding in and out of my pussy. I was about to explode all over his gorgeous dick. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, bearing down on him… So very close!
He wrenched his hands free and reached around my back, pulling me close and burying his face in my tits. He thrusted wildly, completely screwing up my rhythm, and shot off deep inside me. There is nothing -nothing- I like better than the sensation of a naked cock exploding inside my satisfied pussy, filling and overfilling me with hot cream; but I’d know this dude less than 12 hours, and I wasn’t about to take his word for it that his junk was clean. Slutty, yes. Stupid, no.
My own orgasm startled like a skittish bird, and fluttered away out of reach as the last residual twitches wracked through his body. Oh well, the day was young. This was still salvageable. My clit throbbed hungrily. My ovaries fairly ached. It was high time to discover what Mr. Face could do with his tongue.
Mr. Face squirmed out from under my limp and non-skinny body, exiting my juicy hole with a pop. His dick was already soft. Not making eye contact, he sat up and tossed the slimy, spent rubber into my bedside trashcan. He got up, located his underpants, and started getting dressed. I knew at that moment with one hundred percent certainty that I would never see him again. This was not my first time around the block.
Oh well, his loss.
He was gone, and I was sweaty, sticky, horny, and running late for work. Time to kill three birds with one stone. I turned the shower on hot, grabbed Samuel out of his drawer, and stepped inside, relishing the sensation of warm water spraying on my skin. I was about ready to relish some other sensations too.
If I’ve learned one lesson in my 24 years of life, it is to never ever skimp on sex toys. Samuel was expensive, a week’s worth of retail-hell take home pay, but he’s never let me down. We’re old friends now. I moistened his suction-cup base and stuck him with a -squirk- to the injection molded plastic wall of the prefab shower stall.
Samuel protruded obscenely from the smooth white plastic surface of the shower wall. He looked even bigger than he really was, long and thick and black and ripped. I wondered if he bore even a passing resemblance to Mr. BiLingual, my date for the coming evening. One of the wonderful things about unwrapping a new boy is discovering the differences in his details: the equipment may be all basically the same, but the variations are endless and delightful.
I suppose this is the part where I should make my excuses. I was a slow starter, a late bloomer. I didn’t date at all in high school. And then when I did discover sex and drugs and punk rock music, I became for a time exclusively a pussy-licker. I played bass in a hardcore punk band and toured the US and Canada for a few years, making a lot of noise, and sleeping in the back of a van, and fucking a lot of girls. Then I got my shit together, went to college to be a nurse, discovered a long-suppressed interest in male anatomy, and simultaneously entered a long dry spell. And then I discovered the internet.
The internet is just teeming with boys who will happily fuck you, even if you aren’t a ‘traditional beauty’, or a life-size Barbie doll; even if your body type is what the dating sites euphemistically refer to as “Rubenesque”. They may not want a second date, or ever call you back, or respond to your horny and salacious texts, but they’ll definitely fuck you on the first date. And that, by and large, is just fine by me.
I had high hopes for Mr. BiLingual though. ‘Bi’ because he’d already confided to me that he was sometimes attracted to guys, and loved to take it in the ass (two factoids that were a huge turn-on for me); and ‘Lingual’, because he claimed to love eating pussy. A fact that, if found to be true, would be another huge turn-on for yours truly. On top of all that, he seemed like a genuine nice guy; he took the time to spell out words like ‘see you tomorrow’ (as opposed to ‘C-U tmrw’); and he hadn’t yet sent me a dick-pic. This fine fellow might just be a keeper.
Am I the only girl in the city who keeps a bottle of lube next to the shampoo in her shower stall? My pussy was still swollen and pouting open; my clit was buzzing and erect. As hot water streamed down my shoulders and back, I pried my butt-cheeks apart and backed up, easing Samuel’s significant girth and length gently but relentlessly up my horny asshole.
I played with my clit, rocking back and forth, enjoying the full-up, stretched-out sensation of being impaled. In my mind’s eye, it was Mr. BiLingual who was fucking me in the ass, and then, in an improbable feat of contortionism, he was suddenly licking my pussy at the same time. I started to come, frigging my clit in tight little counter-clockwise circles and bucking spasmodically back and forth on the dildo in my ass, howling loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood.
It was a good orgasm, well worth the wait. And then I quickly got clean and dry and into my scrubs, and got my ass out the door and uptown to the Children’s Hospital.
I arrived on the floor literally just in time for report, and was rewarded with a dirty look from my charge. Frigid old biddy that she is. I had two patients to care for that day: Hank, a 3-month old Down Syndrome baby recovering from a pneumothorax; and Female Child S__, a 32-week preemie who had been delivered by emergency c-section the previous night.
Hank and I were old friends. He was a sweet baby, and wouldn’t require a ton in terms of interventions. I looked over the stats for my new patient who did not yet have a name. Her mother had been in a car accident the night before, and was downstairs, recovering from surgery following a fractured pelvis. Her APGARs were 6/7; she weighed 1814 grams; all her vitals were within normal limits, she was getting O2 via nasal cannula, and the plan was to have her on room air by the end of the shift. She looked to be a ‘well-preemie’. It might not be such a bad day after all.
My asshole still tingled from Samuel’s invasion; my clit was pleasantly tender. I wondered what Mr. BiLingual was up to this morning; whether or not he had a big cock (which is nice, but not required), whether he’d jerked off yet, and whether he’d thought of me when he was doing it. Maybe after the main event later on, I’d put some gay porn on and we could watch each other jerk off. I love gay porn; I love watching guys masturbate; and I love the hungry look a guy gets when he watches me whack off. I’d love to watch how he touches himself, how he handles his cock, how it gets red and swollen and how his balls draw up tight when he gets really excited, and what he sounds like when he comes. He could shoot off all over my tits. Or into my mouth. Or, quite frankly, wherever he wanted to.
OK, this train of thought was getting me all hot and slippery and raring to go, and that was no good. I had work to do. I forced the sexy thoughts out of my mind, buckled down, and slipped into full-on Nurse Mode, and next thing I knew it was lunch.
Both my patients were looking nice and stable. I handed them off to Richard, who’d had a hot date of his own the night before, and since it was a nice day I went down to the park to get a bowl of soup, some fresh air, and some eye candy.
I sat on a bench and slurped my noodles, and watched the beautiful people walk by. If you know how to look, practically everybody is a beautiful person.
I wondered what it might be like to fuck Mr. BiLingual up the ass. Pretty hot, I bet. I own a strap-on, but I’d only ever used it on girls. I imagined getting down on my knees and sticking my face in between his taught little buns and licking his asshole, getting him all loose and wet and juicy, until he was just moaning for me to fuck him. Then I’d gird my loins, and his sweet blue eyes would get a little wide when he saw the size of the phallus projecting from my crotch. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” I’d say; and I would be.
He’d get down on his knees and suck my cock a little bit, which wouldn’t do much for my physically, but looks sexy as all hell. Then, when neither of us could stand to wait any longer, I’d lube up and slide my cock straight up his tight little asshole, savoring every whimper and whine, and then when I was all the way in, I’d start fucking him, grinding the base of the dildo against my clit with every shove, slowly at first, and then faster and faster and harder and harder, his hard dick flapping in the breeze, fucking the air in front of us with excruciating urgency, and then I’d reach around and grab his hard penis in my hand and jerk him off in time with my thrusting, and we’d both come at the same time, so fucking hard…
I was sopping wet, and more than a little tempted to finish myself off right there and then. I have a little pocket-rocket that is part of my kit, and I have used it at work before (a fact that might horrify some of my patient’s parents; but hey, would you rather have a stressed-out, sexually frustrated nurse, or a relaxed, satisfied, sated nurse caring for your sick baby?).
I didn’t use it though, for the possibly stupid reason that I wanted to be all revved up and ready to go for Mr. Bilingual. I wanted my first orgasm of the night to be the moment his bulbous crown penetrated my cunt; or when the tip of his tongue first found my clitoris. His choice.
When I came back from lunch, Richard handed back off to me. Hank had had a bowel movement and was sleeping quietly; baby S was running a slight fever and her respirations had increased. I thanked Richard, and put him on his own lunch break to go ogle hot guys, the pervert.
Little baby S was restless, and her O2 sat wasn’t where I wanted it to be. I called the resident and obtained an order to increase her oxygen rate. She wouldn’t be going on room air on my shift. ‘Where is your Mommy little one, where is your Dad?’ I wondered, ‘What will they name you?’ I had started thinking of her as Fiona, for my own baby sister, a habit that was not quite professional, but which was very hard to break.
An hour later, her alarm went off. In the NICU, alarms are constantly going off, but some are more alarming than others. Baby S’s respiratory rate was over 200, and her blood pressure was dropping like a stone. I called for the Attending.
Two seconds after I had hung up the phone, baby S went into cardiac arrest.
“Code Blue, Code Blue, Code Blue.” I stabbed the button on the wall behind the incubator. My teammates were already running, pushing the crash cart in front of them like it was a soap box derby racer.
I started chest compressions, Richard was on the rebreather. The resident looked as if he might faint. “Epi,” I reminded him. Please don’t faint, kid.
“Uh yeah, 18 mg epinephrine, stat.” Betty was already on it, pushing down the plunger on the syringe even as he spoke the words. “Where the fuck is the mother?”
Baby S’s vitals stayed flat as a North Dakota highway. We shot her up with another dose of epi; nothing. Dr. Segel, the attending physician, finally showed up, and the resident fairly oozed relief at no longer being in charge.
“Mom’s on the way,” another nurse, I’m not sure who, reported, “They’re wheeling her up from the PACU right now.”
“36 mg epinephrine, now.” “Should we intubate?”
Dr. Segel took off his stethoscope and looked up with sad brown eyes. “You can stop the chest compressions,” he announced. “She’s gone.”
I lifted baby S out of her incubator, pads and sensors and wires and tubes falling away like autumn leaves in the wind, and held her to my chest. I felt her heart flutter a few times, she twitched once or twice, and then nothing. She was gone. I held the small, limp thing in my arms until her mother arrived, groggy and weeping on her hospital bed. I handed the little body over to her, and she clung to it, clutching it like a life preserver in a storm-tossed sea.
It was the first time a baby had died in my arms.
I cried a little bit myself, but I had work to do. Hank still needed me, and there was a ton of paperwork to do. Then a 26-weeker fresh out of Labor & Delivery came onto the floor, and I took him over. He was on CPAP, and needed constant fussing over. Soon enough I had lost myself into Nurse Mode again, and then next thing I remember, I was giving report to the night nurse.
One of the first things they teach you is that you can’t take the job home with you. Up to now, that hadn’t been a problem for me.
Mr. BiLingual was even hotter than his profile pictures, which happens sometimes, and is always a nice surprise. Way better than the opposite, which happens a lot more often. He was charming, a little shy, cute, and funny, and we hit it off pretty well over Vietnamese food.
I always put out on the first date; it’s kind of a tradition with me. Besides, there’s hardly ever an opportunity on the second date; because there rarely, if ever, is a second date.
I held up my end of the conversation, but I kept thinking back to the little girl who’d died with no name to call her own that afternoon, and I was feeling distinctly unsexy. So I found myself in the unusual position of liking Mr. Bilingual quite a bit, feeling very attracted to him, and having no desire to fuck his brains out. Just at the moment.
He walked me home, and then made so bold as to ask if he could come up, just for a bit. “Sure,” I told him, “but I wouldn’t count on getting any hanky or panky.”
So he came up to my apartment, and we hung out on my disreputable old couch and had a drink and talked for a while, and that turned into cuddling, which turned into kissing and a little making out. We started to get into some dry-humping, and I kind of loved the urgent way his cock strained through the fabric of his pants. If he’d been a little more aggressive and pushy and unzipped, I probably would have given him a monster blowjob despite myself. I do love sucking dick! But he was a gentleman, and eventually I told him that it was really getting late, and he agreed and said he had to be at work in the morning, and so we said our goodnights.
“I had a really good time tonight,” he said, framed in my front door. “I’d like to go out with you again sometime soon.” His erection jutted out the front of his jeans, looking really quite fetching. And sizeable.
“Sure,” I said. “That would be awesome.” And then I closed the door and went to bed. It was the first time I’d gone out on a date with a man and not had sex with him. My loss, I guess. I suppose there’s a first time for everything.
I slept hard, and I slept long, and I was finally woken up by the chirping of my cell phone. I figured it was the charge nurse calling to see if I could cover an extra shift. I could and would; I certainly needed the money.
Actually, it was Mr. BiLingual on the phone. “Is it too early,” he said, “to ask you out on a second date?”
No, it was not too early. Definitely not.
What do you know, there really is a first time for everything.
(written and copyright by ME, Elsiewrites, suckas)