The air in the room shifted the moment her hand touched me.
Mrs. Miller's fingers were cool, trembling slightly as they wrapped around the source of my agony. For the last twenty-four hours, my existence had been defined by the abrasive, raw friction of denim against sensitive skin.
But this? This was heaven.
"Oh..." I let out a ragged breath, my head falling back against the wall.
Her grip was tentative at first, like she was holding a loaded weapon. She squeezed, testing the impossible hardness of the condition Doctor Evans had inflicted on me.
"It's so hot," she whispered, her eyes wide as she looked down. "And so... angry."
She started to stroke. Slowly. Up and down.
The relief was so intense it bordered on pain. Every slide of her palm smoothed out the jagged edges of my frustration. My hips moved on instinct, bucking slightly to meet her hand.
That small movement seemed to break the dam inside her.
Mrs. Miller—the bored housewife, the soap opera fan—vanished. In her place was a woman starving.
She dropped to her knees on the hospital floor. There was no hesitation now. She didn't just touch it; she devoured it.
She took me into her mouth with a hunger that was shocking. She bobbed her head frantically, making wet, slurping noises that echoed in the quiet room. She gagged, pulled back, and went right back down, treating me like a meal she hadn't tasted in years.
"Fuuuuck," I hissed, my hands tangling in her messy hair.
It was intense. It was too good. But barely a minute in, she stopped.
She pulled back, breathless, a string of saliva connecting us. She stood up, her eyes glazed over.
"Not like that," she muttered, her voice thick. "I need... I need to feel it."
She didn't wait for my permission. She shoved her hospital panties down. They were already soaked, clinging to her thighs as she kicked them away.
For a second, she froze. She looked at her wedding ring glinting in the fluorescent light. A shadow crossed her face—guilt. She was thinking about the husband who never visited, the man who smelled like another woman's perfume.
The guilt turned into something else. Anger. Spite.
She looked at me, her eyes burning. "Take me."
She scrambled onto the edge of the bed, spreading her legs wide.
I didn't need to be asked twice. I moved between her legs, the scent of her arousal hitting me like a drug. I grabbed her hips, my thumbs digging into her soft flesh, and pushed forward.
"Oh god!" she screamed, muffling the sound with her own hand.
I was huge. Too huge. But she didn't back away. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper, forcing me to stretch her.
It was a frenzy. There was no romance, only friction. I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back. She dug her nails into my shoulders, leaving red welts.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sound of skin against skin filled the room.
"Yes! Yes! Make him regret it!" she moaned, her words disjointed.
She came almost immediately, her body seizing up around me, milking me. But I couldn't finish. The experimental drug in my veins made me into a machine. I pounded into her, chasing a release that felt miles away.
She climaxed a second time, her toes curling, her eyes rolling back.
"I'm close," I gritted out, the pressure finally building to a breaking point. "I'm—"
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
The sound was faint, but unmistakable.
High heels on tile. Coming down the hallway.
We both froze.
"Nurse," Mrs. Miller whispered, her face draining of color.
I didn't think. I ripped myself away from her—leaving her gasping at the sudden loss—and scrambled backward.
"Bathroom," she hissed, pointing.
I grabbed my clothes and dove into the small ensuite bathroom, locking the door just as the main door to the ward handle turned.
I pressed my ear against the wood, my chest heaving, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Mrs. Miller?" A cheerful voice called out. "Checking vitals."
There was a rustle of sheets. Mrs. Miller was acting.
"Mmm?" she groaned sleepily. "Wha... time is it?"
"Just midnight rounds, sweetie. Go back to sleep."
I heard the beep of a thermometer. The scratch of a pen.
I looked down. I was standing in the dark bathroom, half-naked, holding my dirty clothes. And I was still hard. Painfully, brutally hard. The interruption had killed the momentum, but not the erection.
"Okay, rest well," the nurse said.
The door clicked shut. The footsteps faded away.
I waited ten seconds, then opened the bathroom door.
Mrs. Miller was lying on the bed, the sheet pulled up to her neck. She was staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
I walked over to her. The adrenaline was still pumping. I wanted to finish. I needed to finish.
I reached for the sheet.
"No," she said.
She grabbed the hem of the sheet and held it tight. She looked at me. The hunger was gone, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.
"I... I can't," she whispered. "I cheated. I actually did it."
"You enjoyed it," I said, my voice rough.
"That makes it worse," she said, a tear leaking from her eye. She turned away from me. "Please. Stop. I can't do it again."
I stood there, vibrating with frustration. My balls ached. The pressure was back, a dull, throbbing headache in my lap.
"You said I could stay," I said.
"You can stay," she murmured into her pillow. "Just... don't touch me."
I let out a curse under my breath.
I walked to my empty bed, threw myself onto the mattress, and stared at the ceiling. The sound of her quiet sobbing filled the room.
I didn't sleep. I lay there, throbbing, until the first gray light of dawn started to bleed through the curtains.
I left before the sun was fully up.
Mrs. Miller was still asleep, her face buried in the pillow. I looked at her one last time—at the woman who had used me to get back at her husband—and felt a strange mix of pity and annoyance.
I slipped out of the room, dodging the morning shift nurses, and made my way down to the basement.
Henderson was already there, smelling like stale coffee and cigarettes.
"You're early," he grunted, not looking up from his clipboard. "Good. I got a ticket here that needs doing."
He ripped a piece of paper off the pad and handed it to me.
Job: HVAC & Plumbing Maintenance Location: Urology Department, 4th Floor. Issue: Sink drainage and heating coil malfunction.
"Urology?" I asked, reading the slip.
"Yeah. The dick doctors," Henderson laughed, a wheezing sound. "Go fix their sink. And don't stare at the nurses."
I grabbed my tool belt—which Henderson had generously rented to me for ten dollars—and headed up the service elevator.
The Urology department was different from the general ward. It was quieter, with plush carpets and soft lighting. It smelled expensive.
I found the break room listed on the ticket. The sink was indeed clogged, and the radiator in the corner was making a banging noise.
I got to work.
Blueprint Vision: Engage.
I saw the clog immediately—a buildup of coffee grounds and hair in the u-bend. I knelt down, opened the toolbox, and started unscrewing the pipe.
"Excuse me?"
The voice was cool, authoritative, and smooth as silk.
I looked up from under the sink.
Standing in the doorway was a woman. She was wearing a white coat, but unlike Doctor Evans, she wore it open. Underneath was a sharp, professional blouse and a pencil skirt that hugged curves that were dangerous for a hospital environment.
Her badge read: Dr. Lena Sterling, Head of Urology.
She was beautiful, in an intimidating way. Glasses perched on a sharp nose, hair pulled back in a tight bun.
"I'm the handyman," I said, wiping my hands on a rag. "Fixing the sink."
"I can see that," she said. She walked into the room to pour herself a coffee.
As she passed me, I stood up to give her space.
I had forgotten one thing.
My jeans were loose. I had bought them a size too big from a thrift store on my way up to accommodate my... issue. But as I stood up, the fabric pulled tight against my thigh.
The condition I had woken up with was still there. It hadn't gone down since the incident with Mrs. Miller. If anything, the vibration of the pipes had made it worse.
Dr. Sterling turned around, coffee cup in hand. Her eyes dropped to my tool belt.
Then, they dropped lower.
Her eyes widened behind her glasses. She was a Urologist. She looked at penises all day long. She knew what a normal bulge looked like, and she knew what a medical emergency looked like.
She didn't look away. She stared.
"You're in pain," she stated. It wasn't a question.
"I... it's a condition," I muttered, trying to adjust my belt to hide it. "Side effect of some meds."
Dr. Sterling took a sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving my crotch. A slow, clinical curiosity spread across her face.
"I've never seen a vascular response that aggressive," she murmured. She set her cup down on the counter. "And I've seen everything."
She took a step toward me. The air in the room suddenly felt very thick.
"Does it hurt?" she asked softly.
"Like hell," I admitted.
"And you're here to fix my sink?"
"Yeah."
She smirked. It was a devilish look that cracked her icy professional mask. She reached out, her hand hovering just inches from my zipper.
"Well, Mr. Handyman," she purred. "I believe in a fair exchange of services. You fix my pipes..."
Her hand closed over me through the jeans.
I gasped, my knees buckling. Her grip was professional, firm, and knowledgeable. She knew exactly where the pressure points were.
"...and I'll fix yours."