The Patient in 214 Asked Me to Close the Door

This happened last week and I still haven’t told anyone. I’m writing it here because I need to get it out somewhere, and because if I say it out loud it sounds too incredible to be true.

I work as a nurse in a private clinic, on the cosmetic surgery floor. It’s a quiet job compared to other wards: the patients come in healthy, get surgery by choice, and leave two or three days later. Almost nobody is actually sick. That morning I was on the day shift, with half the floor empty and not much to do.

The day before, a woman named Carolina had been admitted. Early thirties, although she had that kind of beauty that makes it hard to guess her age. Blonde, very fair-skinned, with thick lips she must have had done at some point herself, and legs that seemed to go on forever. I received her at admissions, took her details, explained the schedules, and got her ready for the operating room. That afternoon she had a breast implant replacement.

—Is it going to hurt a lot afterward? —she had asked me while I was putting in the IV.

—A little, during the first few hours —I told her—. That’s what we’re here for.

She smiled at me in a way I didn’t know how to read at the time. I chalked it up to nerves.

***

The next day, after surgery, she complained that her left breast hurt quite a bit more than the right. She was wearing a compression bandage, so I gave her an extra dose of pain medication and let her surgeon know he should come by to check her.

The surgeon who had operated on her didn’t have the clinic’s best reputation. To be honest, he didn’t even have an average reputation. And he proved it again when he opened the dressing to check the wound.

What I saw wasn’t exactly neat work. The breast hadn’t ended up symmetrical and the incisions showed too much, more than they do when someone knows what they’re doing. Carolina looked at herself worriedly in the mirror and asked if that was normal. He told her everything was perfect, that it was just the swelling, put the support sports bra back on her, and left without really looking at her.

I went on with my shift. Gave out medication, checked on two other patients, filled in forms. A normal morning.

***

Two hours later, Carolina came out into the hallway in her pajamas and looked for me with her eyes. She was pale and looked unsettled.

—Can you come into the room for a minute? —she said in a low voice—. I wanted to ask you something and I don’t want to bother the doctor again.

—Of course, let’s go —I replied.

I went with her. We walked in and, as soon as I stepped inside, she closed the door behind me. I didn’t think anything of it: a lot of people prefer privacy when it comes to their body. I thought she was going to ask me about the scar, the stitches, when she could go home.

She went into the bathroom for a second and asked me to wait. When she came out, she had taken off the top of her pajamas and was without the bra. There were her two tits, still swollen from the surgery, with the fresh marks of the incisions and the nipples pink, large, standing despite the bandage.

I stood by the door, not quite knowing where to look.

—Do you think they look okay? —she asked me—. The left nipple looks more drooped than the other to me.

—Don’t worry —I said, trying to sound professional—. The breast is still very swollen. That’s normal these days.

—But is it going to look good? Tell me the truth.

—Yes, it’s going to look good. When the swelling goes down in the upper part, the nipple will settle forward again. It just takes time.

—And do you think it’s really swollen here?

Before I could answer, she took my hand and brought it to the upper part of her breast. She did it slowly, looking me in the eyes.

I carefully palpated the area, like any professional would have done, and confirmed that that part was indeed quite tense. Then she moved my hand. She took it to the other breast, but this time she didn’t let me touch only the upper part: she laid my palm over the whole tit, bare, and held it there with her own. I felt the hard nipple pressing into the center of my palm.

—Is this one swollen too? —she asked, not letting go of me.

There’s something here that isn’t a medical consultation.

What was starting to swell at that moment was me. I felt my cock tightening under my scrubs, pushing the fabric forward, and I knew that if I didn’t move it would show. And it did show. With her free hand she brushed my pants, as if by accident, and then it stopped being as if by accident: she squeezed the bulge from top to bottom, measuring what was underneath, and smiled when she confirmed I was already rock hard.

—My breasts aren’t the only thing swollen in this room —she told me, and she started stroking my cock through the fabric, with her whole hand, closing her fist around it.

My hand was still resting on her tit. I pinched the nipple without thinking, just a little, and she let out a long sigh that finished setting me on fire. I should have pulled away, I should have taken a step back, opened the door, made up any excuse. Instead I stayed still, letting her touch me, feeling the situation completely slip out of my hands.

She slipped her fingers under the waistband of my pants and boxer briefs all at once. First she grabbed my cock out in the open, closed her fist around it, and slowly slid it up and down, dragging my skin with the already wet tip. Then she went down to my balls and held them with a softness that made me close my eyes and bite my lip. I don’t remember the last time something so simple got me so worked up.

—Do you handle these emergencies too? —she asked in a whisper, almost laughing, while she kept jerking me off with her hand buried inside my pants.

I didn’t answer. I grabbed her hair at the nape of the neck, pulled her to me, and kissed her. Those thick lips I’d been glancing at since the day before were even better up close, soft and warm, opening against mine without the slightest hesitation. I slid my tongue in deep while with my other hand I kept squeezing her good breast, careful not to touch the incision, feeling her nipple getting harder and harder between my fingers.

—Take it out for me —she whispered against my mouth—. Take it out now, I want to see it.

I pulled my pants and boxer briefs down to mid-thigh. My cock sprang out, hard, the tip shining. Carolina lowered her gaze and bit her lower lip, that thick lip she’d had done, and without ever taking her eyes off it, she started jerking me off slowly, with her hand full around me, squeezing every time she reached the head.

—You’ve got a beautiful one —she told me, and it was the first time I’d ever heard a woman say it like that, without embellishment, as if she were commenting on the weather.

***

Without letting go of her hair, I guided her downward. Carolina let herself be led as if she’d planned it from the beginning, and maybe she had. She knelt in front of me, on the cold floor of the room, tits bare and the incision marks on display, and looked up at me with her mouth slightly open before she started.

She stuck out her tongue and licked me slowly, from base to tip, with the whole flat surface of her tongue pressed against the vein underneath. She repeated the motion three, four times, staring straight into my eyes, until my cock was shining with saliva. Then she went down to my balls, took them into her mouth one by one, sucked them with her cheeks hollowed, and came back up with her tongue wrapped around the head.

—Fuck me with it —she told me, looking up from below, mouth open and tongue out—. Fuck me with all of it.

I put my hand on the back of her neck and pushed slowly. Those thick lips closed around my cock and I felt it enter the wet heat of her mouth centimeter by centimeter. She swallowed it little by little, without gagging, until the tip touched the back of her throat. She stayed there for a second, with her nose flattened against my stomach, and then pulled back, sucking hard, cheeks hollowed, saliva running down her chin.

I had to brace one hand against the wall. The other was still tangled in her hair. Every time she took me all the way to the back of her throat I lost my breath, and I had to clench my teeth not to make a sound. Because that was the problem: I was at work, on my shift, with a door that was the only thing separating me from a hallway full of people. If someone walked in, if someone even knocked, my career would be over right there.

This is insane. I have to stop.

I didn’t stop.

Carolina started sucking me off at a rhythm that left no room for doubt: she went up and down with her whole mouth, sealing her lips around me like a tight ring, spitting saliva over the tip every few motions so it would slide better. When she took my cock out of her mouth she jerked me off with her hand while running her tongue over my balls, and then she shoved me all the way back in at once. She looked up at me the whole time, eyes watery, smiling around my cock every time I let out a moan.

I grabbed her hair again, with both hands this time, and set the pace myself. I started fucking her mouth. I went in and out at the speed my body demanded, without holding back, driving my cock to the back every time. She took it, not pulling away, letting herself be used, her throat opening to receive me and her snot and saliva mixed together running down her chin and onto her operated tits.

—That’s it, fuck my mouth —she managed to say when I gave her a second to breathe—. Don’t hold back.

I lasted much less than I would have liked. The mix of risk, forced silence, and the image of her kneeling there with her tits out and my cock disappearing between those thick lips pushed me to the edge in a matter of minutes. I felt the orgasm rising from my balls, felt my whole abdomen tighten, and I warned her in a low voice, gritting my teeth.

—I’m coming —I moaned—. I’m coming in your mouth.

She didn’t pull away. On the contrary: she tightened her lips harder around my cock and pressed her tongue against the underside, waiting. The first spurt came out so violently my whole body shook. I emptied myself into her mouth in thick streams, one after another, gripping her by the nape so I wouldn’t let her go. Carolina swallowed part of it, let the rest overflow from the corners of her mouth, and kept sucking the tip gently until I stopped spilling, wiping the last drops off me with her tongue.

I pulled away slowly, my heart still pounding against my ribs, and my cock dripping saliva and semen. Carolina got to her feet, went into the bathroom for a second, and came back running the back of her hand over her lips, calm, as if nothing that had just happened mattered in the least. I caught a glimpse of a white thread still shining at the corner of her mouth, and she pointed it out to me laughing before wiping it off with her finger and licking it.

***

I straightened my clothes as fast as I could and got ready to leave, my head spinning and a mix of guilt and euphoria I didn’t know how to handle. But before I could reach the door, she stopped me with a hand on my arm.

—Wait —she said—. You’re going to have to do something about this.

She pointed to her breasts. With all the movement, the bandage and the dressings had shifted and were damp. She looked at me with a half-smile.

—You’ve got work to do and you need to change my dressings. It can’t all be pleasure, right?

I laughed under my breath, more out of nerves than anything else. I went to the dressing cart, found sterile gauze, clean dressings, saline solution, and gloves, and went back in, closing the door again. This time I washed my hands for real, put on the gloves, and focused on what I had to do.

I carefully removed the old dressings, cleaned the incision area, and saw that, beyond the swelling, there were no signs of infection or bleeding. I put the new ones on one by one, pressing the edges just enough so they would stay in place. She watched me the whole time, looking amused, saying nothing, following every movement of my hands with nipples still hard from what we had just done.

—You’re a lot more careful than the doctor —she commented.

—Bare minimum —I said, not looking up.

I explained what she had to watch for at home, how often she should take her medication, the warning signs that meant she had to come back in. Everything correct, everything professional, as if the hands now arranging her dressings weren’t the same ones that five minutes earlier had grabbed the back of her neck to fuck her mouth.

—Thanks for the care —she said when I finished, holding back a laugh.

—It’s my job —I answered, and stepped out into the hallway trying to look like nothing had happened, with the taste of her lips still on mine and my legs weak.

***

Carolina was discharged the next day. She signed the papers, greeted me with a perfectly normal handshake in front of the administrative clerk, and got into a taxi. We never spoke again.

Every now and then I think about the surgeon who left that work half-finished, and how, without knowing it, he was the one who set everything in motion. If he had done his part properly, she would never have come out into the hallway looking for me with an excuse, and I would still be the boring nurse on the morning shift.

I’m not proud of what I did. I know it was wrong, that I crossed a line that should never be crossed, that I could have lost my job and a lot more. But every time I pass room 214 and see it empty, waiting for the next patient, I can’t help remembering that morning when a question about a scar ended with a freshly operated patient on her knees, swallowing my load without dropping a single drop.