Two Nurses, One Night at The Hospital #4
Not cruel. Directing. She rolled her hips and fucked Wren’s tongue in small dirty circles, using her face.
Wren let her. Opened wider. Let her nose smash into Mara’s pubic bone.
Let the wet sounds fill the little room — suck, slurp, the obscene kiss of a mouth on a soaked cunt.
“I’m going to cum on your tongue,” Mara said. “Standing. Socks on. Door locked. You swallow what I give you.”
Wren nodded against her, mouth too busy to talk.
Mara came like she charted. Sudden. Complete.
Her thighs locked around Wren’s ears and a broken noise punched out of her, high and then bitten off.
Her cunt pulsed against Wren’s lips in thick rhythmic squeezes and fresh slick spilled onto Wren’s tongue, hotter, thinner, and Wren drank it because she’d been told to and because she wanted it.
Mara’s fist in her hair kept her there through it, grinding her clit on Wren’s mouth until the pulses turned into shivers and she had to yank Wren back by the hair or fall.
Wren sat on her heels, gasping, face shining, tits out, chin dripping.
Mara looked down at her like she’d committed a crime she intended to repeat.
“Get up.”
Wren got up. Legs stupid. Pants still half down.
Mara pulled Wren’s underwear back over her messy pussy with two fingers, a nurse’s gesture turned filthy, then tugged the pants up and tied the drawstring too tight.
She dragged Wren’s bra down over her wet tits, then the top.
The fabric stuck to the spit on Wren’s nipple.
Mara zipped herself. Winced when the seam hit her clit.
They dressed the rest of it wrong on purpose.
Wren clipped Mara’s badge on her own chest.
Mara clipped Wren’s on her hip. Hairnets stuffed in pockets instead of put back on.
Hair down, a little wrecked. Wren’s mouth still tasted like Mara.
Mara’s fingers still smelled like Wren when she washed them in the rust-ringed sink, too fast, not enough soap.
Mara unlocked the door.
The hall was empty. A pump beeped somewhere like nothing had happened.
At the desk Mara slid Wren’s real badge across the laminate until it tapped Wren’s knuckles.
“Locker room,” she said, already looking at the screen. “Not tonight. I want you wrecked when we have time.”
Wren took the badge. The photo looked like a liar.
She sat. Charted 412 with her knees still pink from tile and her tongue still carrying Mara’s cunt and her socks still on, tight, waiting for the night somebody rolled them down.
They worked two nights like a closed chart.
Wren came in Tuesday with her hairnet on straight and her badge on the correct pocket and the taste of Mara’s cunt still living in her memory like a fever that wouldn’t break.
Mara was already at the desk, 21 years old and blank-faced, clicking through vitals like Wren had not been on her knees on dirty tile swallowing her.
“You’re in 408 and 410,” Mara said. “I’ve got 412.”
“Copy.”
That was the conversation.
It lasted until 0110, when they both reached for the same blanket warmer and Mara’s chest hit Wren’s back.
Full contact. Tits to shoulder blades through navy polyester.
Mara’s breath at Wren’s ear, not words, just air, and Wren’s pussy went wet so fast it felt like a reflex consult.
Mara’s hand landed on Wren’s lower back to squeeze past the warmer.
Fingers spread. Low. Almost in the crack of her ass over the pants.
Then gone.
Wren stood there holding a warm blanket that smelled like scorched cotton and tried to remember how to walk.
Wednesday was worse because it was quieter.
No codes. No families in the lobby. Just the long ugly stretch of night and two girls who had already seen each other ruined.
In the hall outside 410, Mara’s left sock slumped again. Same cuff. Same roll. Wren didn’t think. She crouched.
It looked like nursing. It was not nursing.
She hooked the fabric and pulled it up Mara’s calf, slow, palms sliding over the tight weave, feeling the muscle underneath, the heat trapped by hours of compression.
Her thumb traced the indent the sock had left.
She wanted her mouth there. She wanted to bite the line.
She wanted to roll the sock the other direction in front of God and the call-light panel.
Mara looked down at her.
Not a charge-nurse look. A look that said I came on your tongue and I have not stopped thinking about putting you on a bench.
“You done playing dress-up,” Mara asked, voice for the hall.
Wren stood. Close. Too close. Their badges tapped and they both flinched like it was a mouth.
“Your sock was down.”
“My sock is always down. You didn’t crouch for a sock.”
Wren’s face went hot. Lower, she was already a mess again, underwear clinging, clit fat against the seam because Mara had said locker room two nights ago and then given her nothing but this.
The med room almost ended them.
Wren went in for insulin. Mara was already there drawing something yellow into a syringe. The door closer hissed. Twenty seconds of almost-privacy.
Mara capped the needle and didn’t move out of the way.
Wren should have stepped around her. She stepped into her. Mouths close. Coffee and mint and the ghost of pussy Wren could still summon if she thought too hard. Mara’s eyes dropped to Wren’s mouth. Wren’s dropped to the hollow of Mara’s throat where she wanted a fresh bite to live.
“Don’t,” Mara said, and it sounded like do.
Wren kissed her anyway. Short. Filthy. Open enough to taste her. Mara’s hand fisted the side of Wren’s top and hauled her in for one grinding second, thigh between thighs, two soaked crotches lining up through fabric, and Wren’s moan stayed in Mara’s mouth.
Footsteps.
They broke apart so hard Wren’s hip hit the Pyxis. Mara was capping nothing, hands busy, face professional. Wren pulled the insulin like her lips weren’t wet.
The tech wanted a flushes kit. Got it. Left.
The door shut.
Mara didn’t kiss her again. She stood there breathing through her nose, pupils blown, a crease in her scrub top from Wren’s fist.
“Sunday,” Mara said.
“What about Sunday.”
“0710. Shower’s empty on Sundays. Nobody from days clocks in early. You walk in with your socks on and you don’t take them off until I say.”
Wren’s cunt clenched so hard she had to lock her knees.
“That’s four nights.”
“I know how long four nights is. I want you wrecked when we have time. I already told you that.”
“I’m wrecked now.”
Mara’s gaze dropped to Wren’s pants, to the place the seam sat. She looked like she wanted to put her hand there and finish it against the med tower.
She picked up her syringe instead.
“Then stay wrecked,” she said. “Chart your sugars. Don’t follow me into another utility unless you want to get caught with my fingers in you and both our licenses on the shelf.”
She left.
Wren stood in the fridge hum with insulin in her hand and her mouth tingling and Sunday sitting in her head like a second pulse.
She charted the sugars.
She pulled Mara’s sock up one more time that night, in the hall, in front of nobody, and Mara let her, and neither of them said the word shower.
They didn’t have to.
0712 on a Saturday, not Sunday, and Wren still followed her.
The locker room lights were on. Voices in the far bank. Days coming in early anyway. Mara’s jaw went tight in a way Wren felt in her own cunt.
“Not here,” Mara said. “Car.”
They clocked out like coworkers. Hairnets in the trash.
Badges swinging. Compression socks still on under the pants because Wren had obeyed the part of the order she could obey in public.
The garage was concrete and cold and smelled like oil and old rain.
Their shoes scraped. Wren’s underwear was a wet rag.
She had been wet since Wednesday’s almost-kiss and it had only gotten meaner.
Mara’s car was a dented gray thing in the back row. She unlocked it. Wren got in the passenger side and shut the door and the world dropped to two girls in wrinkled scrubs and the tick of a cooling engine that wasn’t even on.
Mara didn’t start the car.
She looked at Wren’s mouth.
“Come here.”
Wren climbed.
Center console in the way. Awkward. Perfect.
She ended up half in Mara’s lap, knee jammed against the door, ass on Mara’s thighs, navy on navy.
Mara’s hands went under Wren’s top immediately, palms on bare waist, then up, over the sports bra, squeezing her tits like she’d been clock-watching for the right to do it.
Wren kissed her filthy. No hallway caution. Tongue and spit and the sound of two people who had waited four nights and were done being impressive. Mara bit her lip and Wren ground down, seam to seam, and the wet cloth between her legs dragged over Mara’s hip.
“Jesus,” Mara muttered into her mouth. “You’re soaked through. I can feel it on my pants.”
“You told me to stay wrecked.”
“I know what I told you.”
Mara’s hand shoved down the back of Wren’s pants, under the waistband, over bare ass, fingers sliding through the slick that had run back toward Wren’s hole. Not in. Just painting. Spreading it. Wren moaned into her neck and rocked, chasing the pressure of Mara’s thigh on her clit.
The windows started to haze.
Mara got Wren’s top up high enough to yank the bra over her tits and put her mouth on a nipple right there in the driver’s seat, sucking hard, wet, noisy.
Wren held the headrest and the oh-shit handle and let her, hips rolling, pussy making a mess of both of them.
The badge on Wren’s chest swung and tapped Mara’s temple.
Mara laughed against her tit, a dark little sound, and bit the underside.
“Fuck. Do that again.”
Mara did. Then she stopped, breathing hard, forehead on Wren’s sternum.
Her hand came out of Wren’s pants shiny.
Wren grabbed that wrist and licked her own slick off Mara’s fingers because she was past pretending she wouldn’t. Mara watched her do it with her mouth open.
“If you keep doing that I’m going to finger you in this parking garage,” Mara said. “And I am not fingering you in this parking garage. I already almost lost it in a utility. I’m not adding a security camera to the list.”
“Then take me back inside.”