The Night Nurse – Jasmine relieves Cock stress

Kyle, the charming night nurse, coaxes a lonely teen, who’s drugged, into trading her body for relief. But her memories are a lie, masking his taking of her.

Disclaimer: Welcome to a world where forbidden desire is the only rule. This story is part of a collection where all lines are meant to be crossed. If you keep reading, you're already on the other side.
Reader discretion is advised.
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To read the previous ‘The Night Nurse’ stories just tap on my name.

The low, steady hum of the coffee maker, punctuated by the occasional hiss of steam, was a welcome reprieve from the incessant beeping of monitors. Sandy, Ellen, and Casey huddled around a table, their styrofoam cups offering a comforting break from the go-go-go of their evening.
"It's a damn shame about Maya Connors," Ellen said, shaking her head. "The 'Hot Chick,' For a fourteen-year-old, she’s gorgeous. And to be violated like that... while being locked away in her own mind."
"It's definitely him," stated Sandy, the oldest of the three with two decades of nursing etched into her weary expression. She was certain Maya's brother was the one violating the comatose girl.
"He's sweet, though," Ellen countered, a blush creeping up her neck. "And… hot. You can see it runs in the family."
The absurdity of the comment hit them, and the three nurses broke into a fit of exhausted, hysterical laughter.
"That's what Sandy is implying!" Casey shrieked, nearly sliding off her plastic chair. The break was well-earned, and the gossip was a potent drug.
"What are you girls cackling about?" asked Will, a male nurse from a nearby table, having picked up the name "Maya." He craned his neck, eager for the juicy details. Kyle and Peter, sitting with him, leaned in, their interest piqued.
"Maya Connors," Ellen offered, hesitant to fan the flames but unable to deny the grim reality of what Sandy and Casey claimed to have found. "We think something happened."
"Casey, is it true?" Will pressed, his eyes wide.
"Well…" Casey began, drawing out the word.
"We can't say for sure," Sandy cut across her, trying to regain control of the narrative they'd already unleashed.
"You cleaned her mouth the day before," Casey pushed, leading the witness. "We were about to leave it for another day because we were so tight on time..."
"Yes, I did," Sandy admitted, her voice dropping. She hesitated, her gaze flicking around the room. "And... it did smell." She couldn't bring herself to say what she was thinking, not in front of the younger nurses, and definitely not in front of the men.
"You smelled cum on her breath," Casey finished for her, her voice flat and certain. "And the only person who was in that room that night, after we cleaned her mouth that morning..." She let the accusation hang in the air, a noose waiting to be tightened.
"Her brother..." Sandy finally whispered, putting her face in her hands. The shame of it felt heavy, even if it wasn't hers to carry. She might have been in her forties, but she wasn't blind. The brother was hot, and he'd been flirting with her all week.
"So, what? He fucked her mouth? How?" Will asked, genuinely confused. "She's a veg, lying in a coma. There's no response. How could he even...?"
"Unless he jacked off into it," Peter offered from the side, more to himself than the group.
The three female nurses looked at each other, a shared, grim understanding passing between them.
"No, stupid," Ellen said, a sharp edge to her voice. "Her mouth would have responded. Her lips would have closed. He could fuck her mouth." When she looked at Will and Peter, the light of dawning comprehension—and a hint of horror—appeared in their eyes.
"Fuck," Will breathed, running a hand through his hair. "I never would've thought that was possible." Then another light went off in his eyes, a darker one. "And her own brother... wow."
"Okay, enough of this gossip," a voice cut smoothly through the shock. "Brenda will chew my ass out if I'm late." Kyle rose from his chair, giving his friends and co-workers a cool, easy nod. He walked out of the staff room, the door swinging shut behind him.
Once in the hallway, the smile finally broke across his face. It wasn't the warm, charming smile he gave his patients. This one was cold, sharp, and triumphant. He had a single, satisfied thought echoing in his mind.
Oh, sweet Maya!

The fluorescent lights of the children's ward hummed their eternal, monotonous song. Sixteen years old and a veteran of a body at war with itself, Jasmine stared at the ceiling tiles, tracing the cracks with her eyes. The private room had felt like a luxury at first, a quiet escape. Now, its silence was a weight. She’d give anything for the chaotic chatter of other kids, or even the worried fuss of a parent. The magazines lay unread, their glossy pages mocking her. The TV was a static box of noise. A thousand miles away, her foster parents were tinny, sympathetic echoes on a bad phone connection. Her friends were living a life of curfews and school dances. Here, the only curfew was the night shift, and the only dance was the slow, agonizing waltz of her own pain.
Then there was Kyle.
He was different. The day nurses were a blur of efficiency, their hands gloved, their smiles perfunctory and snappy small talk. They saw her chart, not her. But Kyle… Kyle saw her. He’d saunter into her room, a break in the sterile routine, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "So, Jaz," he'd say, his voice a low, warm rumble, "did you finish that book or did you decide the hero was too much of a dick?"
He remembered. He always remembered. He’d listen to her cynical rants about the absurdity of daytime television and laugh, a genuine, throaty laugh that made his whole face light up. It didn't matter that her jokes were often bitter and sharp; he laughed like she was the funniest person he’d ever met. That laugh was a balm on the raw, lonely parts of her soul.
Tonight, the pain was a living thing. It coiled in her muscles, a hot, vise-like grip from the atrophy, the cruel betrayal of her own flesh. She was trying to be strong, to bite her lip, but a whimper escaped.
Kyle was at her side in an instant. He had come to administer her nightly injection, a cocktail of immunosuppressants that felt like fire. "Atrophy pains?" he asked, his voice soft.
She just nodded, tears of frustration pricking her eyes. "It feels like my legs are full of broken glass."
He set the syringe down on the tray. And gave her a look,"The gloves are a necessary evil, but I feel they are cold and clinical on the skin you know? Make you feel like a science experiment." He looked at his own blue-gloved hands, then back at her. "Would it be okay if I took them off? Just for the massage. I'll be careful."
Jasmine’s breath hitched. The other nurses would never. It was against every rule. But the thought of his bare hands on her skin, a touch that wasn't clinical or detached, was overwhelmingly tempting. She managed a small smile and nodded.
He stripped off the gloves, his movements deliberate. His hands were warm, his fingers strong but gentle as they began to knead the muscle of her calf. The touch was electric. A jolt went through her, a current that had nothing to do with pain. It was the first intentional, skin-to-skin contact she’d had in months that wasn't from a doctor probing for a problem. It was human. It was intimate.
She closed her eyes, a single tear tracing a path down her temple. This was more than just a massage; it was a lifeline.
He worked his way down to her foot, his thumbs pressing into the arch. She let out a soft sigh of relief. As he set her foot gently back on the bed, he leaned down. Jasmine tensed, expecting him to stand. Instead, she felt the soft, warm press of his lips against the top of her foot. It was just a peck, quick and chaste, but it sent a shockwave through her that was far more powerful than the massage.
He looked up at her, his expression unreadable. "Just making sure my favorite patient knows she's cared for," he said softly, before moving to her other leg.
From that night on, the gloves came off whenever they were alone. It was their secret. When he adjusted her IV, he’d lean in close, his face just inches from hers, his breath warm on her cheek as he checked the drip rate. "Almost done," he'd whisper, the words meant for her alone. Then, he would press a light peck to her forehead.
These small, chaste kisses quickly became a common occurrence, a ritual of his care. A peck on the hand after he took her blood pressure. A quick one on her shoulder as he fluffed her pillows. Each one was a spark, and with every touch, her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, hopeful bird. She found herself staring at his mouth, at the full curve of his lower lip, and a dizzying, desperate thought would take hold: I want him to kiss me.

He was always in her space, a constant, reassuring presence. He’d bring her a contraband cup of an energy drink (her favorite), winking as he placed it on the nightstand. "Our secret," he'd mouth. He was the ally, the confidant, the one person in this sterile world who saw her. The attraction was no longer a flicker; it was a bonfire, and she was burning in its heat.
Tonight, however, the fire was pain. A different, more vicious kind. The autoimmune flare-up was a monster, and it was tearing her apart from the inside out. She was curled into a fetal ball, sobbing, the sounds ripped from her throat raw and animalistic.
"Jaz, hey, look at me." Kyle was there, his voice cutting through the haze of agony. He gently turned her face toward him. "Breathe. Just breathe with me."
"I can't," she gasped. "Please, Kyle, I can't. Make it stop. Just… just let me die."
He held her gaze, his expression a perfect mask of deep, heartfelt concern. "I can't let that happen," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
What she didn't know was that he had been subtly cutting back her pain medication for the last hour, and the crisis was having the desired effect.
"But I can make it stop. I can get you something. Something real. Not the baby stuff they've been giving you." He was lying, of course. He’d simply give her what he’d withheld, plus a little something extra to make her more compliant.
Her tear-blurry eyes focused on him. Hope, dangerous and sharp, pierced through the pain. "What?"
"It's a strong painkiller. Not on your chart. I'd have to… borrow it. If I get caught, I lose my license, Jaz. I lose everything." He let that hang in the air, the weight of his supposed sacrifice. "But I can't stand to see you like this. I'd do that for you. But I need to know you're with me. That you get what this is. That you trust me."
He was offering her a miracle. He was risking his career for her. The thought was so overwhelming, so intoxicating, it almost eclipsed the pain. He was her hero.
"What can I do for you?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperate need to be worthy of his sacrifice. "For such a risk."
“I don’t need anything…” he began, his voice trailing off. He let the pause hang in the air, a hook waiting for her to bite.
“Tell me,” she pleaded, her eyes wide. “What is it?”
He smiled, that warm, disarming smile that had first drawn her in. "I just want to make you feel amazing." He leaned closer, his hand stroking her hair. "Let me take care of you. All of you."
The implication was a stone dropping into a deep, still lake. The ripples spread through her, a confusing mix of fear and a profound, desperate desire to please him. This hit at the core of her issues with men; she never crossed that final line, always holding back. One of her foster dads used to shower with her... She pushed those memories away. She looked into Kyle's dark, sincere eyes and saw her savior. She nodded, a slow, tearful dip of her chin.
"Okay," she breathed. "Yes."
The relief on his face was immediate. "Thank you," he whispered, and then he kissed her. It wasn't the kiss she had fantasized about—soft and romantic. It was hard, possessive, a sealing of a deal. His tongue forced its way into her mouth, claiming her. When he pulled back, his eyes were different. The warmth was gone, replaced by a fire she'd never seen before. Not dissimilar to the look she saw during those showers with her foster dad.
But she was starting to feel better. The peaks of the pain were gone, and something else was there, too.
He went to the door, checked the hallway, and then it quietly closed. The memory of the soft snick of the bolt reminded her of those evenings in the bathroom, and it was the loudest sound she'd ever heard.
But that wasn't Kyle, she told herself. He cares about me. I want him. Don't I?
He returned to the bed, his movements casual. He pulled back the blanket, his eyes raking over her thin hospital gown. "Let's get this off you," he said, his voice hungry with need. He helped her sit up.
He tugged the gown up, over her head, leaving her naked and exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights. She instinctively tried to cover herself, but he gently but firmly pinned her wrists to the mattress. "No, no, Jaz. Don't hide from me. I want to see you—you look incredible."
She forced herself to lie still, her heart hammering. This was the type of man she'd been looking for, one who saw her and wanted her. Why was she fighting him?
He let go of her wrists and began to touch her. His hands were gentle, arousing. She loved his skin on hers. He squeezed her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, which hardened involuntarily. He saw it and a predatory smile touched his lips. "See? Your body knows what it wants."
He leaned down, his touch surprisingly gentle. He took a nipple in his mouth, his lips soft, his tongue swirling in a slow, deliberate circle. A jolt shot through her. She arched her back as her pussy caught fire; she was so wet. Her hands went to his hair, combing her fingers through it. But part of her still wanted this to stop. The intimacy was incredible—she was being taken, just like her foster dad had taken her in the cascade of water. And she’d grown to love it then. As she was loving it now.
Against her own will, her hand slipped past his belted pants and dove down into his boxers, taking his hard cock in her hand. She felt him moan into her breasts.
He sucked her nipples with more vigor, and then she felt it: the first tremors through her pussy. As she orgasmed.
He straightened up, his own breathing a little heavier. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. After removing his boxers, his cock was free. It was hard, thick, and jutting from a thatch of dark hair. He stroked it a few times, his eyes fixed on her exposed body.
She could barely absorb what was happening, her mind a fuzz as orgasmic pleasure coursed through her.
"Please," she whispered, the word barely audible. The next word didn’t come. Stop!
He stopped and looked at his watch. “20 secs, you should feel it all,” he said, his voice slippery. This was the second phase. The first drug was dulling the pain and making her compliant. This one would erase her memory. He reached down and kissed her again—this was the tender Kyle she would do anything for. When he pulled back, his dark eyes searching hers, he asked, "Are you feeling it?"
And she was. The sharp, stabbing pains were dissolving, thank God! But something else was happening, too. She was feeling loose, her limbs heavy, and a slow, syrupy arousal was beginning to bloom deep inside her. She felt like she was getting drunk, her thoughts blurring at the edges.
His mouth was hot against her, a shocking, wet heat that sent a jolt through her drug-fogged mind. His tongue found her clit with practiced pressure, circling it before moving down to suck on her sensitive lips. He alternated between broad, flat strokes and the hard, focused press of his tongue tip, massaging her sex with an unnerving, expert attention. Her body, now loose and pliant, arched into his mouth, a traitorous moan escaping her lips. The drug made everything feel distant, like she was watching it happen to someone else.
Just as she felt herself teetering on a dizzying peak, he pulled away. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace, climbing onto the bed, his weight settling over her. He positioned himself between her legs, which were now slack and easy to push apart. He felt the head of his cock press against her, probing, then finding the slick entrance of her pussy. He didn't prepare her. He didn't try to make it easier. He just pushed.
A raw, guttural scream tore from her throat as he forced his way inside. It was a searing, white-hot agony, far worse than the atrophy, worse than the IV needles, worse than anything she had ever felt. It was a burning invasion that split her in two. But even through the blinding pain, the drug was working, a confusing counter-current of pleasure that made her body clench around him. He grunted with the effort, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
There was no barrier. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face. She wasn't the untouched virgin he'd hoped for. Still, she felt incredible, and she was worth the wait.
He lay still for a moment, his weight crushing her, his cock throbbing deep inside her. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice hot against her ear. "You're tight. Tighter than I thought."
Then he began to move. The first thrusts were like fire, she wasn’t ready for you him. But once a deliberate, punishing rhythm was found her body betrayed her – his force was making her cum over and over again. The violation brought her back to that first time her foster dad forced her to face the shower wall, lifting her and driving himself into her, to the hilt. The bed creaked in protest. He wasn't making love to her; he was conquering her, a vessel for his anger, his frustration, his lust. He was taking out his cheating girlfriend, his shitty job, his entire fucked-up life on her broken body. And with the drugs he gave her, as she sank further under, she wouldn’t remember this.
"Tell me you want it," he growled, his hand wrapping around her throat, not squeezing, just holding it, a threat. "Tell me you like it."
Tears streamed down the sides of her face, into her hair. She couldn't speak. She could only make small, choked noises as he slammed into her.
"I said, tell me," he demanded, his voice hard.
"I... I want it," she choked out, the words tasting like ash. A small part of her mind, the part not yet drowned by the drugs, would remember this. It would remember her saying the words.
"Good girl," he grunted, and his pace quickened. He was close. He drove into her with a series of short, brutal jabs, then let out a loud groan. She felt him pulse inside her, a hot, flooding warmth that felt filthy and wrong.
He collapsed on top of her, his body slick with sweat, his weight making it hard to breathe. For a long minute, the only sound was their combined panting. Then, he pushed himself up, his softening cock sliding out of her.
He looked down at her, at her tear-streaked face. Her eyes told the story—she wasn’t all there anymore.
"Oh, Jaz," he said, his voice full of gentle concern. "Thank you for giving yourself to me... I care about you so much."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, a fatherly, comforting gesture that was more horrifying than the rape itself. "You were so brave," he whispered. "So amazing."
He relaxed for a minute, caressing and admiring her naked body. She was so beautiful; he could fuck her all night. He wanted to, but he had to get back to work.
But, as he hoped, he got hard again. There was one more thing he wanted from her. Something he loved so much.
He lowered the bed flat and reached over, moving her head to the side of the bed.
"Sweetheart, I want you to do one more thing for me," he whispered, knowing the words were seeds being planted in the fertile soil of her drug-addled mind. "And when you wake up, you are going to remember you insisted on this. You're going to remember you loved this moment."
He took his hard cock and slipped it between her lips. She closed around him, and her tongue couldn't help but move. It was intoxicating.
He started with a nice rhythm as he held her head and fucked her mouth, nice long strokes. Since this wasn't Maya, he risked it—he pushed into her throat. The contracting muscles felt incredible as she tried to swallow his cock. He fucked her mouth over and over again. Because this was his second orgasm, it took longer, and he loved it.
Then his cock pulsed and fired, shot after shot, into her throat. She swallowed every drop of him.
He pulled out, grabbed a wipe and cleaned himself. He grabbed an open can of coke, lifted her head, and poured some in, wanting to make sure to mask the taste of cum.
He stood up, pulled his pants back on, and walked over to the medication cart. He returned with a pre-filled syringe. "Here you go," he said, his voice all business again. "This will help continue to take care of the pain."
He injected the drug into her IV line. The relief was almost instantaneous, a cool, blessed wave washing over her, drowning any fire in her muscles. Her mind was still afloat, detached from everything. Her memories would be a fractured collage: his tenderness, her pleasure, her consent. He could write the rest from there.
He cleaned her up with a warm cloth, his touch gentle once more. Dressed her in a fresh gown. He pulled the blanket up to her chin, tucking her in as if she were a child. "Get some sleep, Jaz," he said, his voice a soft caress. "We're in this together. Always."
He unlocked the door and slipped out into the quiet hallway.
Jasmine lay in the blissful, chemical haze, the pain gone. Her mind was a jumble of sensations and feelings. She remembered Kyle's gentle hands, his mouth on her, the way he'd made her body sing. She remembered wanting him, giving herself to him. And she remembered him stopping, holding her, being tender. It was a beautiful, hazy memory, and she smiled as she drifted off to sleep, completely unaware of the brutal truth that had been carved into her body and mind.

The Night Nurse - 4
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My world is built on shared desires and whispered sins. Now, I invite you to add to the silence. Leave a comment with your thoughts on the story, or offer something more forbidden: a true experience. Let me weave it into the life of a character, giving your secret a new voice. [email protected]