Nursing Home Orderly Ch. 02

One of the fringe benefits of living at the Home was the food. Mom employed a lovely woman, Lila, who had skin the color of lightly creamed coffee and a face that retained a hint of her African ancestors. Mom always referred to her as a "mulatto," but later, when I learned that "mulatto" was an old term for a half black-half white person I thought that the antique term "quadroon" or maybe "octroon," terms that indicated one-quarter and one-eighth negro respectively back when such things mattered, would have been more appropriate.

Lila was in her 40s and seemed to enjoy my casual flirting. Anyway, she never objected when I asked for a special breakfast. The morning following my encounter with Mrs. Steen, I was famished, and she made me the omelet I had requested. She added four pieces of bacon on the plate, along with two slices of toast swimming in butter, and a big glass of orange juice.

My classes went well. I blew the top off of the curve in the test in my American Government class, reviewed how the heart works in Human Anatomy and Physiology, ran the lake in gym class, and back to the library for my English and study hall to find out more about Disraeli. Home at about 3:30, I saw Mrs. Steen working on one of her jigsaw puzzles while the other ladies watched As the Stomach Turns or some such nonsense. I gave Mrs. Johnson a quick shoulder rub, I guess to distract, and then gave Mrs. Steen a more prolonged shoulder rub while I whispered in her ear, "See you tonight?"

She giggled and said, "Oh, Honey, I'm an old woman. That's a once-a-week thing." I noticed that she didn't whisper or anything, and a couple of the other ladies looked over curiously.

"Oh, don't worry, Honey," she said, smiling and looking around, "Girls talk. I doubt you'll be lonely."

I wasn't sure what to make of all that, but I was tired, my body not yet adjusted to night work, so I went to my room, ate the sandwich I made in the kitchen, added my clothes to the pile on the chair, and crawled into bed.

And couldn't get to sleep.

I figured there's nothing like a good economics textbook to put you to sleep. I got up and sat at my desk. It worked. Before long, I felt my eyes getting heavy. I was about to close the book when I heard a light tapping at my door.

I didn't think, I just said, "It's open."

As Louisa, the upstairs maid, entered the room, I realized that all I had on were my shorts, but I didn't do anything stupid like try to cover up. It was too late for that, so I just met her eyes and said, "Buenas tardes, Louisa."

She giggled and rattled off a bunch of Spanish far too fast for me to follow.

I laughed and held up my hands.

"No mas," I said, "I just pretty much ran through my vocabulary."

"Okay," she said, "Meester Dabeed," she started, pronouncing my name in the Spanish way, her accent thick, "I just wan' to tell you, I can take your clothes an' put them in the laundry. Is all right."

"Oh," I said, "okay. How long will you have them?"

She giggled.

"Oh, back tomorrow," she said.

"Well, Gracias, Louisa," I said and reached for my pants. I pulled the belt free, emptied my pockets, and handed them to her. I was glad I didn't have to suffer the embarrassment of an erection as she took them and then the other dirty clothes from the chair.

"De nada," she said and left.

I was awake by then, so I spent another half hour studying the vagaries of price elasticity of demand before crawling into bed and going to sleep. I had the presence of mind to set my alarm before sleep took me.

The alarm went off at 9:30. I took a shower, went downstairs and found the plate Lila had left me, put it in the oven for a few minutes, and ate my dinner of some sort of meat, mixed carrots and corn, and mashed potatoes, washed down with that coffee from the office that was so strong I swear you could remove paint with it, chatting with Eve, the swing shift nurse that I would remember fondly later as I watched M*A*S*H on television and Hotlips did her thing.

She and Marilyn exchanged report, and then I was up to the second and third floor to make my first nightly check on my charges.

It was during my 1:00 a. m. rounds that I discovered just how deep my placiosexuality ran. I realized that my sexual pleasure derived from giving rather than receiving the first time I got a girl into the back seat. But after what happened last night, I realized how completely I felt that way. Hell, I didn't even get hard last night and came like a garden hose.

And now, as I entered the small ward on the third floor, I heard the quiet "creak, creak, creak" that every boy recognizes.

I padded in, silently on those fancy shoes, and followed the sound.

It was Mr. Rasmussen, easily 80 years old, one of those old men with wispy white hair who seems to shrink with each passing day.

I watched for a few seconds, my need to give him pleasure building.

It wasn't a homosexual desire. I didn't get hard or anything. But I felt that pressure low in my belly building up, much as it had the night before with Mrs. Steen.

I closed the distance, working at being quiet, and stood over him. He was really a handsome old man with the chiseled features that made me think he probably started bagging cheerleaders at about 13 when he made the football travel team. I could see his hand moving under the sheet, slowly stroking himself. The bed made that little "creak, creak, creak" sound as he did it.

"It's better if someone else does it," I said softly.

His eyes flew open, and he surprised me by blushing.

"David," he said, his eyes darting around, refusing to meet mine, "I just..." and he trailed off.

"Mr. Rasmussen," I said, leaning forward until I knew I would fill his field of vision, "it's okay. We all do it," I remembered that line from something I'd read, "but it is better if you don't feel it with your hand."

"David," he said, and now his eyes met mine, "I'm not a queer."

I smiled and said, "Neither am I, but I'm being paid to take care of you guys."

I paused and for the first time I touched him, just a light touch, brushing stray hairs away from his forehead, and then covering his shoulder, and slowly, carefully, rubbing down his arm, following its shape, toward where his hand was busy.

And there it was again, as it had last night, a warmth spread, low in my belly. It was sexual, of course, but not with a need to conquer, to claim, and, more importantly, to fuck. It was a gentle sensation, a response to the pleasure he was already starting to feel at a soft, erotic touch.

"Please, Mr. Rasmussen," I said, trying to put all of the need I was feeling into my voice, "let me take care of you."

I stopped when my hand reached his wrist. I knew, without any idea at all how I knew, that I needed his consent now.

"Please," I said again, holding his eyes, waiting.

He smiled then, and said, softly, "What the hell, I'm 82, why not try a first?"

I couldn't have stopped the grin that spread across my face as I watched him lace his fingers behind his head and close his eyes.

"You really are a handsome man," I said, lightly brushing my fingertips across the stubble on his cheeks. "You should shave, comb your hair, and come down to the second floor. You'd be a hit."

He smiled.

"Really?" he asked.

And I had a thought.

"I think I'll organize a dance," I said.

"I was a good dancer," he said.

"I'll bet you were," I said, brushing my fingertips across his cheek again.

I tickled that soft skin under his chin and then moved my hand slowly down his chest, pressing lightly, feeling his nipples harden under my palms.

That warmth in my belly flared when he sighed, a deep, long exhalation, and I could feel that stirring in his belly from what I was doing. He jerked a little when I pinched his nipple and groaned when I twisted. But his hips rocked too, and the pleasure seemed to pour off of him.

"I'll stop if you want me to," I said.

He chuckled, a young sound from his old lips, and said, "Don't you dare."

I grinned, and twisted harder, making him cry out softly.

"Shhhhhhh," I whispered into his ear, my lips close enough that I figured he could feel the puff of air, "You'll wake the others and we'll be caught."

He inhaled sharply as I twisted, wanting to make sure I gave him sensations through old nerve networks.

I held that pressure, watching his face as his eyes got big and focused on mine, and that warmth in my belly changed to pressure.

I let my fingertips trail down his belly, probing his belly button, a very deep innie, and then scratching lightly at the thatch of his pubic hair.

I was surprised to find him completely soft. His dick was a stub, pointing straight up, and he twitched when I touched it.

Then I thought, "Hell, the guy's in his 80s, probably hasn't got it up in years," and the urge hit me, almost a compulsion. I wanted to give him something he hadn't had in a long time.

I pressed down with my palm, pushing his glans down, compressing the shaft, knowing this was a sensation I enjoyed.

Nothing happened.

I patted his thighs gently, just below his balls, and said, very softly, "Spread your legs, Mr. Rasmussen. Let me help you."

I watched his face as he licked his lips, his forehead creasing. I thought he was thinking, and then he did as I asked and spread his legs.

I thought, "Yep, gravity always wins," as I cupped his balls, not very big, hanging low in his loose scrotum. I thought if I looked, I'd see them almost touching the sheet, hanging loose along the crack of his ass.

I didn't squeeze or lift them. I just traced the line between his balls with my fingernail, dragging it slowly up, almost tickling him, and that pressure in my belly flared when I got to his cock and realized that what I was doing was working. Oh, he wasn't truly hard, but he wasn't completely soft either.

This time, I did cup his balls in my hand, squeezing very gently, surprised at how small they were. I wondered if mine would get smaller when I was in my 80s.

My breath caught when I felt his hips move, rocking forward a little, thrusting as if he were with a woman.

"Who was your first, Mr. Rasmussen?" I asked, keeping that gentle pressure on his balls.

"My first?" he asked, his eyes opening and meeting mine.

"Yes. Who was your first? Who did you give your virginity to?"

He smiled then, and I caught a glimpse of the awkward teenager with his first. "Trying to lose those awkward teenage blues," as Bob Seeger put it.

"Willa Swanson," he said, his voice soft but very clear, "she was 14, I was 13. I walked her home after school. Her mom wasn't home. And she was much more experienced than I was."

I could see it now, the handsome boy he had been.

"Close your eyes, Freddie," I said, using a pet name version of his first name, "and feel her hand."

I moved my hand to his chest and then, slowly, tentatively, trying to picture how a 14-year-old girl might do it, caressed my way down.

He hummed a soft, "mmmmmmm" sound.

"Mom won't be home for an hour," I whispered, trying to raise my voice to a higher pitch.

My hand crossed the border to his pubic hair, thick and coarse, and then I found him, not truly hard, but getting there. That pressure in my belly bloomed with the understanding of the pleasure I was giving him.

"You know what I want," I whispered, my hand squeezing gently and then moving down to lift and hold his balls.

"I know," he whispered, his hips rocking now.

"Say my name, Freddie," I whispered.

"Oh, Willa, please don't stop me," he whispered.

I squeezed again. He was full now, not quite hard, but full in my hand as I squeezed.

"Tell me you love me," I whispered, my voice breathy and high-pitched.

"Oh, Willa, I love you, I'll love you forever," and it worked. I felt him hard now, maybe not the polished steel rigidity he would have shared with that long-ago first, but fully erect as I started slowly stroking him. In my belly, the fiery pressure built.

"You have to pull out, Freddie," I whispered, "I don't want to get pregnant. God, Mom would KILL me."

"I'll be careful, Baby," he said, his eyes tightly closed, and I thought he was probably seeing her in his mind's eye.

He was fully hard now, and I squeezed, pushing down so his glans was fully exposed, the residual foreskin pulled away. I slowed my movement now, holding him tight.

"Stay inside me, Freddie," I whispered, "let me feel your love."

He shivered.

"Oh, Freddie," I whispered, "please be careful. My period was over last week, and if you don't pull out, I just know I'll get pregnant."

"I'll be careful, Baby," he whispered, throbbing in my hand, and the love in his voice made that pressure deep in my belly swell more. I could feel my pleasure building with what I was giving him. I was completely soft, but I could feel my face flushing with his pleasure.

"Oh, God, Freddie," I began stroking him, short strokes, squeezing hard as I did, "Baby, God, just like that, yes."

"Willa, Baby, easy," he whispered, "I'm trying to hold off, but you need to slow down."

"Oh, Freddie, I can't, it's never been like this for me before." I was squeezing hard now, short, fast strokes.

"Willa, please," he whispered.

"Freddie, please be careful," I whispered, my own hips starting to rock in concert with what was happening to his.

"Willa, God," he gasped.

"Oh, FREDDIE," I whispered, my lips almost touching his ear.

"WILLA," he cried, his voice barely audible as his hips jerked away and he came in a jet of hot, thin semen that crossed the back of my hand and up his belly almost to his chest. He had pulled out.

"FREDDIE," I responded, my voice as breathy, no volume, all warm air directly into his ear as my semen poured out, soaking my shorts and balls. I was still completely soft. This wasn't an ejaculation with the hard, muscular contractions like Mr. Rasmussen had just had. It was a release, perfect pleasure, and such perfect satisfaction that it left my knees weak.

"Oh, Freddie, thank you for being careful," I whispered.

"Oh, Willa, I love you," he whispered back.

I stood, slowly, looking down at this handsome young man, happy that for just an instant I could give him his girlfriend of so long ago.

As I watched, the years came back. His hair thinned, and his face lined.

He opened his eyes and smiled.

"Thank you, David," he said.

"You're welcome, Mr. Rasmussen," I said.

He chuckled and said, "After that? Call me Fred."

I grinned, patted his hand, and said, "You're welcome, Fred."

I bent, kissed him on the forehead, and said, "Sweet dreams."

He chuckled.

"Already had them," he said, "but I'll try to get back to them."

"G'night," I said, over my shoulder, off to finish my rounds.