Purity of a Man

A safe behind a picture, how cliche right? Everyone is always telling me how this picture is too severe for the bedroom. It has cockblocked me on several occasions during my youth when I still had vigor. Although there was some silver lining to its presence. Some females were actually turned on by it; they're the ones I kept around. It's a print of an original painting titled "Judith Slaying Holofernes". It was created by a most famous and skilled painter of the Baroque era, Artemisia Gentileschi. I fell in love with the painting during my college years when I studied abroad in Florence. It was housed in the Uffizi gallery; positioned at the end of a hallway parallel to the Arno River. During sunset, years of potent history reflect from the rivers surface. Artists, astronomers, and engineers that would monumentally change the course of history all gazed into that river at some point. And at the end of that hallway, a depiction of woman slitting a mans throat with a powerful sword. Perhaps it was the contrast between how men are capable of such beauty yet still fall victim to crude desires.

Don't feel guilty for opening a dead mans safe; I left it unlocked for a reason. Paper money would do me no good in the underworld and the devil needs no written proof that one is depraved.

In case you don't already know my name is Joseph Kalb and I was a nurse at this psychiatric hospital in Connecticut. I still am a nurse here; I say was because the truth is not something I plan to reveal in my lifetime.

We have all sorts of psychotics in my hospital. Patients that attempt to hack off limbs on the daily; even patients that walk around their rooms on all fours, mooing (A condition known as boanthropy). Imagine? Shit, I wouldn't mind. I'd fake spells of cowness during a full moon, like a werewolf; then when the sun awoke I'd claim amnesia. How wonderful it would be to get fed and comforted by all the pretty nurses at the asylum. As I'd be munching on airy grass growing on top of tiled floors, nurses would pet me and I'd brush against their smooth, silky legs. If I was feeling naughty I'd crawl under them, lose the hooves, hook my fingers around the bottom of their panties and yank.

I know I digress but it's important you know the type of man I. Thoughts like these are only natural when you pair a covert sex addict with psychiatric hospital.

Without further background, I give you my story:

"Day-dreaming again I see," Dr. Oz, a senior psychiatrist, said to me as he walked into the hospitals cafeteria one night.

My eyes were shut as I sat in a folding chair, feet up on the lunch table, hands resting on my stomach. Dr.Oz was a large man; it was as if an eclipse had blocked the sun when he came over me. Once my conscious noted this absence of light, my eyes slowly pried themselves open.

"It's just one of those days captain," I said, replying to his remark.

"Agreed."

It was dark and stormy. The outside world doesn't penetrate this place, for it's always enveloped in glum. The storm just provoked exhaustion.

"Did you see Patrick Werner today yet?" Dr.Oz asked.

"No, is anything wrong with him?"

"Yesterday he started to act up a bit; it may have been because he sensed the impending storm—I want you to take note of how he behaves today."

"Of course, he'll be the first one I check on during my nightly run."

"Thank you Joseph."

I swiftly sprang up on my feet, nodded at the doctor, then made my way out of the cafeteria.

Patrick Werner was the only one of his kind at our practice. An official name for his disorder hadn't been coined yet. Dr.Oz simply referred to it as a territorial disorder. At the sight of something he'd want to have, whether it'd be a trash can, stapler, lamp or piece of land, he'd whip his cock out and start tugging till finish on said object. One could logically compare it to dog marking his territory by urinating on it. Whenever this claimed object was touched or moved a fit of rage would ensue. It's not so strange really. Healthy men naturally cum on or in their partner. The thought of another man dropping his load on our enrages us; it's not uncommon for this situation to result in murder of the adulterer. I honestly felt for the guy. Staff frequently takes things away from him, and they move stuff around. If I thought the same of a trash can as I do a women, I'd go mad myself.

After exiting the cafeteria I made my way towards his cell. He was always calm whenever I saw him. But it was a dejected calm. He'd either sit in his chair head down, chest slumped over his thighs, or lay fetal position on his bed. The duties I had during my runs varied amongst patients. For Patrick, my only obligation was to wash him. His room was at the end of one of the halls on the third floor. About as far as you can get from the security desk in the main lobby on the first. His was a quiet and desolate hall. The patients there were well-behaved compared to the rest.

As I came to his door and looked through the barred window I saw he was pacing back and forth. "Dr.Oz was right, you do seem a bit agitated," I mumbled to myself. Inclement weather never did the ward's patients any good. He paced around the room in the nude, his semi hard cock in his left hand. Besides the scoliosis he developed as a result of keeping his back hunched, he was a beautiful man. The sheen on his glossy brown permanently sun-kissed Brazilian skin glistened in the light of the cell. Thin but his features were long and strong; his muscle definition was so intricate, Renaissance sculptors wouldn't have been able to come close in their renditions. Usually calm, but now agitated, he panted like a dog. I felt bad for him. His sole reason of being was to nut. His aspiration was to be this supreme owner. No different from your average tycoon; only instead of paper money, his payment was in seamen. And even though he got away with claiming ownership of various objects around the ward, he had still yet to claim the most enticing property of them all, a women.

I took a ring of keys from a pocket on my scrubs and rummaged through them until I found the one to his cell. The agitation he displayed as I observed him behind the door seemed to get whisked away by my reveal. As I opened the cell Pat jogged over, threw his arms around me, and proceeded to lick my face like a dog. Pat liked me. I don't believe that any of the other nurses received this warm of a welcome from him. When he wasn't behaving I put a leash on him as a safety precaution before leading him to the communal showers at the other end of the hall. Trial and error proved that this was the only way to get him to the intended destination if he was agitated. Most of the time however, holding his wrist and leading the way was enough.

Once I had clawed this bipolar man-dog off of me, I grabbed his arm and we proceeded to make our way to the showers. No other nurses were there washing patients. This was reliving as many of the patients moaned in agony as water cascaded onto their body. Not Patrick though; he was so playful in the showers. As I turned on the water, like a puppy he jumped up and down splashing in the puddle formed around the drain. He tilted his head up towards the shower head and continued splashing, mouth agape, ingesting all the water he could. "Patrick relax," I said gripping his shoulders and planting him on the base of the shower. He calmed down but an expression of sadness flashed in his eyes. I now pulled the curtain over us, poured shower gel on the bath sponge and proceeded to lather his entire body. Even as a straight male this was a pleasure.

Frequently I thought and still think, where this special man came from. I looked into his files, their was no information on his background. For entertainment I'd come up with theories that explained his origin; one of them went as follows: Patrick was produced from a block of marble that was hexed by a witch. The night the sculptor finished his masterpiece and layed unconscious, lulled by the satisfaction of his accomplishment, this marble man came to life and out of newborn delirium ran out into the street, nude and raving. Shortly after a civilian saw this belligerent man flailing across town, he reported the scene. Officers came by and arrested this physical manifestation of male beauty and upon witnessing his beast-like mannerisms and inability to comprehend and formulate language, checked him into this ward.

Patrick closed his eyes when I started lathering around his groin. His cock folded up rather quickly. He was as easily aroused as a boy who had just struck puberty. Compared to the average adult male mind tainted by hours of porn, his arousal was pure. Once fully erect I started spongeing his 10-inch cock. The veins on it looked like a network of highways tirelessly coursing blood to keep its hardness on par with that of a diamonds. Perhaps I would've stroked it but I was too proud of my straightness. His eyes remained closed and now goosebumps emerged on his thighs. I took a towel and wiped him dry paying special attention to his still rock-hard cock. I don't know how the other nurses handle washing him when I'm not around. They must rush through it, paying no mind to his genitalia. That's why he must like me so much; I may not rub him out but I wash thoroughly and with grace.

Once he was dry off I dressed him in his bedtime clothes and led him out of the showers, now heading back to his room. At the end of the hallway I noticed a young female nurse pacing around aimlessly, looking confused. I unlocked and opened the door to Patrick's cell. Seeing that she was making no progress since Pat and I exited the showers, I shout out:

"Nurse may I be of assistance!?—this is a male only ward, you must be lost."

"Oh in that case yes," she replied. "Sorry I just begun my training, everything is still so fresh. I'm looking room D-202,"

"No worries, I've always thought the layout of this place to be obscure—the room your looking for is one floor down in the hall on the opposite side."

Patrick, standing next to me, is staring at her with his eyes pried open; his former sun-kissed face now enveloped in a white sheet. He's never been in a women's presence, at least under my control. The nurse thanked me and continued towards the elevator. Accidentally, her shoulder brushed against Patrick's as she passed. This quick contact resulted in a resounding shriek. In that instant Patrick broke free from my grip and thrashed around the perimeter. I was thrown back. The nurse screamed in terror as he gripped her hair and crotch and lifted her onto his shoulder. Before I was able to process what was going on, he had her in his cell, the door shut. I realize that the key is not in my hand anymore and scan the the hallway hoping to catch even a mere glint off the key ring. Nothing.

I remained on the floor for a minute, unable to grasp the situation that was unfolding before me. Nothing seemed real; it's as thought I was thrown onto the set of a horror film. Eventually I gathered myself and sprang to my feet. I ran over to the cell and what I witnessed was a polar contrast between agony and pleasure. The nurse was pinned against the ground, her face eating concrete. Patrick was holding her down; one hand pressed against the side of her face, the other pressing down on her spine just above her buttocks. Her white skirt was lifted up and her pantyhose ripped around her pussy. He was driving his huge cock down into her with no restraint. "HELP! SOMEONE HELP! NURSE WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!," she brutally pig-squealed like the singer of a death metal band. Her pussy however, told a different story. I could see that she was wet, beyond wet even, soaked. Her pussy juices were pouring onto Patrick's cock making it seem like he was drilling into water; resulting in a splashing sound every time it recoiled against her pussy.

I was simply standing at the door watching the scene unfold through the window. She couldn't see me, her face was pressed down opposite to the door, pointed towards a blank wall. I simply stood there and watched, awestruck and aroused. Patrick was the happiest I've ever seen him. He panted and let out a blissful bark with every five or so magnanimous thrusts. He wasn't going to get creative like the rest of us and flip through a volume of the Kama Sutra. His only motive was to bust in his new bitch and make her his own.

I know noticed the key ring by her feet. When he thrashed and threw me back, my keys must've been caught by a blow and projected into his cell. His arms now relented a bit and she was able to flip her head around towards the door. I instantly ducked my head down under the window and proceeded to crouch away praying that she didn't

catch a glimpse of me.

Afraid now that someone has heard the screaming and could enter the ward at any moment, I started running down the hallway towards the stairs, the screams of agony subsiding behind me. I skipped steps to save time, gripping onto the railing to prevent tumbling. I arrived at the security desk out of breath, panting. "Patrick—has got—the nurse," I said breathing heavily. "What!?," the uniformed lady at the desk exclaimed. "Patrick—he's got hold of the nurse and the key is locked in his room." She immediately called security through the PA system mentioning the severity of the matter. Five guards instantly shot out from the door behind her, now sprinting towards the staircase. "Follow them," she commanded. I ran behind.

By the time I got to the room three guards were crouched around her. "How hurt are you?," one asked. "Explain to me exactly what happened," another said. The other two were in a corner aggressively holding Patrick by his arms, cuffing him. He was so aware of his wrongdoing my heart dropped when I saw his whale-eyed expression and heard his pouts of forgiveness. The nurse was on the floor crying, sitting up leaning back against her arms which were planted on the ground. Her legs where spread open, knees slightly bent. Her pussy was leaking thick, healthy seamen onto the ground. I wished dearly that one of those cucks would scoop it up and taste it. Or if all five of the hardy guards dropped their morals along with their pants and gave her round two.

After she managed to contain herself enough to be coherent she looked directly at my face and cried, "Why were you so late!" The guards now shifted their gaze to me. In haste to avoid suspicion I said, "Patrick must've knocked me unconscious—last I remember I was lying flat on the ground—as soon as I came to my senses I sprinted down to the desk."

Epilogue

They put the weight of the blame on the nurse. She had no business there, it was not permitted. She was taught this in training. That was the unanimous verdict. They bought my story without hesitation. I was surprised that the notion of sending me to a specialist to examine for signs of head trauma was not even vocalized. I came out scot-free while the nurse would surely suffer from PTSD till her dying breath. I wouldn't be surprised if she landed in a ward just like this one.

What can you expect to happen when a careless female nurse brushes up against a man who's sex drive has been contained in a desolate ward? Who's brain lights up like the Northstar during neuroimaging when the doctor waves a picture of a single female butt cheek in front of him.

Even though the nurse was bawling while the guards surrounded her in the Patrick's cell, she must have felt some latent bliss being that she just got fucked by the purest form of a man; a man that only knows reproduction and nothing of complex emotions. That would explain why her pussy was wet even when her eyes rained tears.

Nowadays when I roam the asylum I pay close attention to employees expressions. The men are indifferent; between us it's as if the incident never even took place. With most of the women I've noticed tainted expressions. I don't believe that they doubt my recollection of the incident, but they flash me looks of disdain regardless. My reasoning is that since that fateful night, they take me for a weak man. Like I should've ripped apart my scrubs revealing an S on my chest, beam down the thick steel door with my laser vision, and disable poor Patrick from his nirvana. Thankfully not all women think this way. There are a few who even seem to playfully giggle when we pass each other in the hallways. I know who the real freaks are now.

I hope they haven't been too hard on Patrick; they shipped him somewhere out west. I'd love to visit him; see his eyes light up before he embraced me in his signature dog-like fashion. But this would raise too much suspicion. Also I worry that his former jubilance has turned stale with his new arrangements. Seeing this would only put salt on the wound and result in another story about me attempting to help a psychotic rapist break free; this one written from jail no doubt.