Nurse Bonnie Nows Her Caregiving

(Note: a followup to my earlier story "Better Than Leno.")

Burton stepped onto the train, clutching his folder from St. Stanislaus. The train was half full and he didn't feel like dealing with strangers, not after the news he'd gotten. Thankfully the little area at the end of the train, facing the driver's compartment with its locked metal door, was empty; he could have it to himself, to think. There was no seat but there was a raised surface and he set his folder down on it, staring at it glumly.

At the next stop Bonnie got on. The seats were too small for her, but there was a place to stand at the end. She squeezed her large behind around the passengers standing in the way and took up the space at the entrance to the driver's compartment.

Burton barely looked up but in a moment it registered, half-consciously, from Bonnie's blue top and polka dot pants that there was a nurse there. He'd seen plenty of nurses today at St. Stanislaus, he didn't really feel like seeing any more just now.

Bonnie caught something out of her eye— a folder that she had seen given out to many patients. Understanding Your Medical Condition, it said, with the St. Stanislaus logo on it. No doubt he had just come from one of the doctors offices, most of which were closer to the first of the two stops near the medical center.

But it wasn't only the brochure she recognized. From the man's glum, distracted look, she knew the kind of news that had to be contained in the folder. It wasn't good. It usually wasn't, if they gave you that brochure.

Burton idly flipped open the folder. Not that he didn't already know what was in there.

Bonnie saw the insert he was looking at. It had some scribbles on it she couldn't read. But she knew what it said at the top. Resources For Terminally Ill Patients. Her heart sank. The man wasn't young but he was far from old. He looked fit, reasonably, if a bit careworn. Like he had been taking reasonable care of himself for a ripe old age which he would never reach now. Sandy straight hair, tall and a bit lanky, even with a touch of middle-age spread. Like every woman, she checked the ring finger. Nothing there.

Suddenly he looked up and caught her eyes. She must have leaned too far forward to see it or something, but there was no pretending she hadn't been looking. Someone like this man deserved more than easy deception. She looked into his eyes, sympathetically, she thought. He stared back at her—offended, mystified, it was hard to read his blank, mute response. Impulsively she reached out her hand and put it on his, and poured all the sympathy and connection she could into the touch of her warm, soft hand on his cold, bony one.

Burton looked back at this woman who had suddenly, without a word, sought to express sympathy to him. His instinctive first thought, inevitably, was that she was crazy, and went around touching people on the subway randomly. But she was employed— by the very hospital he had just been in; her keycard identified her as Bonnie Lukowski, R.N.— and with the reassurance of some level of normalcy he had to admit that her gesture, on a bad day, was welcome. It was human, and he needed that. He made a smile, or something like half a smile mixed with eight other hapless and equivocal things, back at her.

Had he seen her there? He couldn't remember. She was a short, round, boxy woman, but he didn't mind that. What struck him more was that she had big, sympathetic eyes, and a kind of fleshiness that reminded him of a woman he had once known, who liked to have sex in front of a big picture window. That was how they'd met, in fact— apartments side by side, and she had begun putting on shows in front of his window. A strange way to meet someone, but it made sense in the city, where no one ever met anyone except in strange ways, he'd come to feel.

Bonnie looked back at him. The kind of crooked smile he made at her was heartbreakingly brave— a poor excuse for a smile, but reflective of a spirit that hadn't given up the fight yet. Having watched so many slip away, leaving life as if they were sorry to have been a bother, she felt boundless admiration for this man's efforts to stay vital in the face of what must have been his fears come true.

An idea came to her. It was absurd, obscene even. But really, what other way was there to cheat death and hold onto life? It was really the only tool we were given for that.

Cautiously, deliberately, she closed the folder and took the man's hands in hers. "I have given this brochure out too many times," she said. He started to speak and she pressed a finger to her lips. "Say nothing about it. Just come with me. You don't have to be alone today. I won't let you be alone with it today."

He looked at her quizzically. Was she really suggesting... but again, Burton thought, it is no crazier than how he'd met Andie, once upon a time. He was excited by the erotic side, to be sure... but also, yes, she was right. He could use a friend. A human connection. She took both his hands in hers, and they got off at the next station.

* * *

They were both silent as she opened the door to her townhouse and led him inside. He still didn't quite believe it was happening, but then she turned around to face him and it was unmistakable what she wanted. They kissed, awkwardly, since Burton was a good foot taller and they were in a narrow hallway.

They went further inside. Nothing about the simply furnished living room suggested that this was a common occurrence— a couple of framed and lightly faded art posters, a cat lolling with supreme indifference on a wicker chair.

She pushed him onto a white leather couch and then made a gesture to say that she'd be back out in a moment. She disappeared into her bedroom and Burton found himself face to face with the cat. Was this actually happening? He felt it was just as likely that he had imagined it all.

She opened the door and came out in a black negligee, a lacy top and satin front only slightly concealing her broad, drooping breasts. She came over to him and he started to sit up to embrace her but she pushed him back down and climbed on top of him, rubbing her belly on his quickly hardening cock. She pushed her cleavage up toward his face and he nuzzled the center of her breasts while grabbing her behind in the satin panties.

She undulated up and down on his crotch, snuggling her breasts up against his face. She moved further up until her belly was in his face; he pushed the negligee up and kissed the soft, chubby roll of her belly. She pushed him back further into the couch, and almost flat, and then her crotch was in his face. He could smell her dampness as she rubbed her crotch on his chin and her pubic hair grazed his face.

He had his hands on her hips as she humped slowly against his face. He drew the panties to one side and her lips seemed to fall out, purple curtains of saggy flesh. He split them apart with his tongue and tasted her wet, metallic slit. She pushed against him, like she was fucking his tongue, and reached back and grasped the hard cock in his trousers as she bobbed up and down. Leaning back she moved forward on his face until his tongue was close to her asshole; he darted it down there and she moaned more, and then she was fucking his face with her ass as he stuck his tongue out as far as he could and she rode it with her ass like it was a mini-cock.

Nursing sure has changed since the last time I stayed in the hospital, Burton thought.

Then she was turned around and her whole big ass, panties off, was in his face, her big round cheeks enveloping his face as his tongue slid up and down her slit. She was tearing at his pants to get them open and he slid back down to her pussy, gushing wet by now as he slurped at it. Suddenly there was warmth all over his cock and she was sucking it into her mouth and gunning it with her hand.

A moment later they were in the bedroom and she was naked, tearing his clothing off him. She was short and rounded and if not to conventional expectations of body shape, her abundance in every direction was pleasing. They were on the bed and her body felt generous and loving as he ran his arms over the peaks of her breasts and hips and the valleys of stomach and pussy in between. She had his cock inside her in an instant and wildly she rode him up and down, her hair and saggy breasts and soft belly and hip fat all flying up and down with every stroke. He admired how lost she was in fucking, he didn't mind that he hardly seemed to be there, except as a cock inside her. That was just fine by him.

He came inside her and she squeezed him tight with her pussy as it happened. Then she rolled off him and they lay there, together, her panting. A moment later she had her hand on his half-soft cock and her other hand flicking at her clitoris. He leaned over and sucked on her broad flat tit as she did it; he slipped his hand between her crotch as well and as she rubbed herself, he slid a finger inside her pussy, then took it out and started rubbing the outside of her asshole with it. She moaned approval and seemed to suck the finger inside her ass as she rubbed, faster and faster, and then screamed her orgasm, slamming his hand inside her fat thighs as her ass quivered with each pulse as she came.

* * *

A couple of hours later Burton was walking back to the transit stop, clutching his papers. His whole outlook had turned around after this remarkable afternoon of serendipity. He started to say something to her, to explain to her whats he had done for him, but she put her finger on his lips (he whiffed her pussy on it instantly) and simply told him that whenever he needed her, whenever he needed a friend, she was available to him, without question or explanation.

It was a gift she had given her, at an hour of darkness. The meeting at the hospital had not gone well. He had worked for some years now as a copywriter for medical accounts, and he believed he knew a thing or two about what made the text for particularly grim situations both useful and sympathetic. But his rewrite of one of the hospital's grimmest publications, "Resources For Terminally Ill Patients," had been reviewed by some young marketing type fresh out of school who looked at him like he was a complete neophyte and hack at his business, and tore it apart line by line.

He had boarded the subway utterly dejected that what ought to have been a routine assignment had gone so badly, in a way that seemed aimed right at his self-worth. But how had this woman known that his professional day had gone so depressingly? Somehow she sensed it and what it meant, and gave him the most precious thing she had to offer, herself, her pleasure.

Here was a nurse who knew more about caregiving than all the marketers in all the expensive offices of St. Stanislaus, he thought. If she would do that for a mere copywriter after a bad meeting, just imagine how she cared for someone who actually had to read this brochure because their life was approaching its end. In that moment Burton understood what had been missing from his copy— the kind of human caring that Bonnie had shown him, and that he would, he hoped, have the chance to show her again very soon.