Two Nurses, One Night at The Hospital #2
Wren put her hands on Mara.
Not gentle. Palms on Mara’s waist over the top, then under it, skin, the soft give above her hip bones. Mara was hot there. Damp in the small of her back where the top had stuck. Wren dragged her thumbs along the waistband and felt Mara’s stomach jump.
“You’re wet too,” Wren said. “Don’t lie.”
“I didn’t lie.” Mara’s voice had frayed. “I told you not to drip through your pants. I didn’t say I was dry.”
Wren’s knee pushed between Mara’s thighs. Scrub pant on scrub pant. She felt the heat of Mara’s cunt through the layers, a concentrated filthy warmth, and she ground up into it once, hard, just to hear what Mara would do.
Mara did a sound. Short. Caught. Her fingers bit Wren’s upper arms.
“Door,” Mara whispered.
“Then be fast or be quiet.”
Wren kissed her.
Not the almost from the alcove. Mouth open.
Tongue. Mara tasted like the mint from the pocket bottle and the coffee she shouldn’t still be drinking.
Wren sucked her lower lip and Mara’s hips jerked against her thigh.
The seam of Mara’s pants had to be sitting on her clit.
Wren hoped it hurt a little. Hoped it felt as rude as Wren’s own seam felt every time she took a step.
Mara broke the kiss and put her mouth on Wren’s throat instead, just above the collar, and bit.
Wren’s pussy clenched so hard she saw white at the edges. A fresh slick pushed out of her. She could smell herself in the med room now, salt and musk under alcohol wipes, the smell of a girl who needed to get fucked and was still wearing a full uniform.
Mara’s hand found Wren’s badge reel where it still clipped empty to the pocket. She tugged it. The reel zipped. The tug pulled Wren’s top tight across her tits.
“This is what you wanted when you told me to fix your net,” Mara said against her skin. “You wanted me to own a piece of you in a room with no lock.”
“I wanted your fingers in my cunt.”
Mara’s laugh was air. “You’ll get them. Not on a counter with Pyxis cameras.”
She still shoved her thigh higher.
Wren rode it. Tiny rolls. Ugly. The wet cotton of her underwear mashed against her clit and she was so swollen it bordered on sting. She could cum like this. She knew she could. Sixty seconds of grinding on Mara’s leg in a med room with both badges on the counter like they’d already been fired.
Mara’s hand slid up Wren’s ribs and covered her tit over the top. Squeezed. Not nice. The kind of squeeze that said she wanted the bra gone and couldn’t have it. Wren’s nipple dragged inside the sports bra and she whimpered into Mara’s hair.
“Quiet,” Mara said. “You cum on my leg in here and I will smell it on you at the desk. I will smell you and I will still have to smile at the intern.”
“Then stop moving your thigh.”
Mara didn’t stop. She pressed in a slow circle that put the hard line of her own pubic bone against Wren’s. Two cunts, four layers of cheap fabric, no skin, and it was still so filthy Wren’s mouth fell open.
Footsteps.
Not close. Not far enough.
Mara stepped back like she’d been burned. Wren’s thigh felt cold where Mara had been. Her badge sat on the counter. Mara snatched both, clipped Wren’s back on first, too high, crooked, the photo upside down for one stupid second before she flipped it. Then her own. Hip. Exact.
The closer hissed. A day-shift leftover nurse stuck her head in, older, bored.
“You two living in here? I need a set of tropes.”
“Saline,” Mara said, and her voice was almost normal. Almost. She tossed the bag like her mouth hadn’t just been on Wren’s throat.
Wren turned to the tower so nobody would see her face. Or the dark spot she was sure had started on the front of her pants. She pulled the tropes with hands that wanted to shake and did not let them.
The other nurse left.
The door closer sighed shut.
Mara didn’t kiss her again. She stood close enough that their badges tapped. A smaller click than before. Worse, because they both heard it on purpose.
“You almost came,” Mara said, looking at the Pyxis like it was a chart. “I felt you start to go.”
Wren’s laugh was wrecked. “You going to finish it in the bathroom like we’re fifteen?”
“No.” Mara’s eyes cut to her. Dark. Honest. “I’m going to let you sit in it. Walk 412. Feel it squish when you bend. Think about my badge in your hand.”
Wren picked up the tropes. The plastic wrapper stuck to her fingers.
“Your sock’s slumping,” Wren said, because if she didn’t say something filthy-adjacent she was going to put her hand down her own pants in front of the camera.
Mara looked down. The left compression sock had rolled a finger-width at the cuff, a soft ugly ring above her shoe.
She didn’t fix it.
“Then you’ll have something to do at the desk,” Mara said. “After the pressor. Not before.”
She walked out.
Wren stood in the hum of the fridge with her badge sitting wrong on her chest and her clit beating against wet cotton and the taste of Mara’s mint still in her mouth.
She fixed nothing.
She went to 412 and bent to the pump and felt exactly what Mara told her she would feel.
0500 tasted like burnt coffee and the inside of a microwave.
The break room was a box with a sticky table and a fridge full of other people’s labeled sad.
Wren sat anyway. Her badge was still clipped a little high from Mara’s hands.
Every time she looked down she saw the photo and thought about it lying face down on the med-room counter while she ground on Mara’s thigh.
Her pussy had not calmed down. Two hours of walking had smeared the wet into a thin tacky coat. When she sat, the seam of her pants tucked up between her lips and stayed there. She wanted to shove her hand in and rub until she came in the ugly chair with the TV muted on a weather loop.
The door opened.
Mara came in with two cups and no expression and set one in front of Wren like it was a medication.
“Drink. You look like you’re about to fall over or start humping the table.”
“Those are my two options.”
Mara sat. Not across. Adjacent. Their chairs were too close for the size of the room. Mara’s knee found Wren’s under the table and stayed.
Compression sock. Tight fabric over calf. Warm from being walked in since 1900. Wren felt the ridge of it through both layers of pant and her brain went straight to filthy — Mara’s heel in her mouth, the sock rolling down, the pale trapped skin underneath smelling like rubber and sweat and girl.
Wren wrapped both hands around the cup so she would not put them under the table yet.
“Evans spiked,” Mara said. “I already called. You don’t have to get up.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
Mara’s mouth did that almost-smile that was not kind. “Because you’re sitting on a soaked crotch and you don’t want to stand.”
Wren looked at her. Twenty-one year old night nurse. Hairnet back on, crooked now, one strand stuck to her cheek. Throat unmarked where Wren wanted a bite to show.
“You told me to sit in it,” Wren said. “I’m sitting in it. My cunt’s a mess. The front of these pants is going to look like I pissed if I stand up fast. That what you wanted to hear at five in the morning?”
Mara’s knee pressed harder.
“Yes.”
Under the table, Wren let go of the cup.
Her hand found Mara’s shin. Not skin. Scrub pant, then the hard cylinder of the sock underneath. She followed it down to the ankle, then back up to where the cuff sat, a tight manufactured edge trying to stay put after eight hours.
It had slumped again. Same left leg. A roll of fabric, damp at the top from sweat.
Wren hooked two fingers under that roll.
Mara went very still. The kind of still that felt like a held breath over a clit.
Wren didn’t pull the sock up. She didn’t pull it down. She just sat there with her fingers under the cuff, pad of her index finger on the hot skin the sock had been covering. Fine hair. Heat. The indent of elastic already pressed into Mara’s calf.
“Wren.”
“You said after the pressor. Pressor’s done.”
Mara’s hand dropped under the table too. It landed on Wren’s thigh, high, thumb in the groove next to Wren’s pussy, not quite on it, a threat. Wren’s hips tried to scoot forward and Mara’s grip said no.
“You put your fingers under my sock in a break room with a door that doesn’t lock,” Mara said, quiet, filthy in how flat it stayed. “You want someone to walk in and see you petting my leg like it’s my cunt?”
“I want it to be your cunt.”
“I know what you want. You wanted it in supply. You wanted it on the Pyxis. You’re going to want it on the bench in the locker room with your socks around your ankles and my mouth on you.” Mara’s thumb inched inward. The seam of Wren’s pants. The soaked ridge of her. “Not yet.”
Wren’s finger moved anyway. A small stroke under the cuff, up and back, like she was soothing an IV site and not trying to make a 21 year old nurse leak in her chair.
Mara’s breath changed. Not a gasp. A cut.
Her thighs shifted and Wren felt it, a tiny open-close, as if Mara’s pussy had clenched and her legs wanted to follow.
“You’re dripping too,” Wren whispered. “Don’t give me the speech if your sock is the only thing keeping you from spreading.”
“My sock is staying on.”
“Until when.”
Mara’s thumb rubbed once. Direct. Over Wren’s clit through pants and wet cotton. One pass. Enough to make Wren’s whole body jerk and slosh coffee against the lid.
“Until I take it off you,” Mara said. “Not the other way around. You don’t get to strip me in a room with a vending machine.”
Wren’s laugh came out broken. “Then take your hand off my clit.”
Mara didn’t.
She rubbed again. Slow. Mean. The fabric dragged. Wren’s clit was so raw from hours of neglect that the pass bordered on too much and she still chased it, hips lifting off the chair an inch.
Footsteps in the hall. Fast. Sneakers. Not Evans. Not a pump.
Mara’s hand left her like a slammed drawer. Wren yanked her fingers out of the sock cuff so hard the elastic snapped back against Mara’s calf with a little slap.
The door opened on the intern, hair wrecked, holding a printout.
“412’s family is in the lobby asking who the night nurses are. Charge wants a face.”