The hospital corridor lights flickered once, then steadied. Julie adjusted her scrubs, the fabric tight across her hips as she walked toward Room 312.

Inside, Mr. Henderson lay propped against pillows, his arms encased in bulky casts resting on his chest. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool air. 

"Nurse," he rasped, voice strained. 

"I'm... it's urgent." His eyes darted to the plastic urinal bottle on the bedside tray, then away, jaw tightening.

Julie moved with practiced calm, snapping on fresh gloves. 

"Let's get you sorted, Mr. Henderson." 

She lifted the bottle, its sterile smell sharp. His hospital gown gaped open. Beneath, his cock lay flaccid against his thigh. 

"Deep breath now," she murmured, her fingers brushing warm skin as she positioned the wide-necked bottle. 

Her thumb traced the underside gently, professionally. A tremor ran through him.

He sucked in air, face flushing crimson. 

"Can't... nothing's happening." Panic edged his words. 

Julie kept her touch light, steady. 

"Pressure's normal," she soothed. 

"Just relax. Think of running water." 

Her other hand rested briefly on his taut abdomen, feeling the desperate tension coiled there. The overhead light gleamed on the cast material near his shoulder. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, warmth stirred beneath her fingers. A bead of moisture appeared at the tip. She angled the bottle lower, catching the first hesitant trickle.

The sound filled the quiet room – a soft, steady stream hitting plastic. Henderson exhaled, a shuddering release. Julie watched the liquid rise, her gaze unwavering. Her own pulse thudded in her ears. When the flow stopped, she capped the bottle firmly. 

"All done," she said, her voice low and even.

She peeled two moist wipes from the packet. Cool gel touched flushed skin. Julie cleaned him methodically, her touch light but thorough. She slid the cloth beneath his foreskin, exposing the sensitive head. Henderson gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Julie didn't pause, didn't look up. She wiped away the lingering dampness, the scent of antiseptic sharpening. Beneath her fingers, she felt the involuntary twitch, the faint tremor of response. She finished quickly, pulling the gown back down. 

"Clean and comfortable," she murmured, dropping the wipes into the bin. 

Henderson's jaw was clenched tight, eyes squeezed shut. Julie picked up the bottle, its warmth radiating against her thigh. 

"I'll be right back."

The fluorescent hum of the corridor felt jarring after the room's tension. Julie emptied the bottle in the sluice room, the liquid swirling down the drain. She scrubbed her hands under scalding water, watching the soap foam white and thick. Her reflection in the stainless steel tap looked flushed. She dried her hands slowly, deliberately, the paper towel rough against her skin. The walk back felt longer. She pushed open the door to Room 312.

Mr. Henderson lay rigidly still. His face was turned towards the window, but the thin hospital blanket tented unmistakably over his lap. He'd tried to tug it flat with his cast-bound arm, but the bulge was obvious – a thick, straining ridge beneath the fabric. His knuckles were white where they gripped the blanket edge. Julie paused just inside the doorway. Her gaze swept from the tense line of his shoulder, down the tented blanket, and back to his profile. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his temple. He didn't turn. The air crackled, thick with unspoken humiliation and something else, raw and urgent. Julie stepped forward, the soles of her shoes whispering on the linoleum. 

"Everything alright, Mr. Henderson?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral. 

His breath hitched. The blanket twitched.

He swallowed audibly, still refusing to look at her. 

"Nurse Julie," he began, his voice thick with strain. 

"I... I'm mortified. Utterly mortified." 

He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting hers – deep pools of shame mixed with desperate frustration. 

"This... reaction. It's not... I haven't..." He faltered, struggling for words, his gaze darting down to the undeniable evidence beneath the blanket before snapping back to her face. 

"It's been weeks. Before the accident. Since... well..." He took a ragged breath. 

"My wife passed away five years ago. Been alone since. This... this is just... embarrassment. Pure, simple embarrassment." His voice cracked on the last word. 

He looked utterly wretched, pinned by his injuries and his own body's betrayal.

Julie moved closer. She didn't glance down. Her focus stayed on his anguished face. She reached out slowly, deliberately placing her hand flat on his chest, just above the edge of the hospital gown. His skin was warm and damp beneath the thin cotton. She felt the frantic hammering of his heart against her palm. 

"Mr. Henderson," she said, her voice dropping to a low, soothing murmur that seemed to vibrate in the charged silence. 

"It's alright. Truly. It's just physiology. Stress, relief... it happens." Her thumb moved in a small, gentle circle against his sternum. 

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You need to relax." 

She held his gaze, her expression calm, professional, reassuring. Beneath her hand, his frantic heartbeat began to slow, fractionally. The rigid tension in his shoulders eased a tiny bit. The bulge beneath the blanket remained starkly present.

She withdrew her hand slowly. 

"Try to rest," she instructed softly. "I'll check on you later." 

She turned and walked out, closing the door quietly behind her. The corridor felt strangely cold after the humid intimacy of the room. Julie leaned back against the cool wall for a moment, just outside his door. Her own pulse thumped hard against her ribs. Her mind wasn't on physiology or professional detachment. It was filled with the phantom sensation of his skin beneath her fingers, the frantic beat of his heart, and the impossible-to-ignore image burned into her memory: the thick, straining outline beneath the thin blanket, echoing the impressive length she'd guided into the bottle earlier. A slow, deep breath escaped her lips. She pushed off the wall and walked towards the nurses' station, her hips swaying unconsciously. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but all she could hear was the echo of his strained confession: 'Weeks. Alone.' And all she could see was the long, thick shape tenting that hospital blanket.

At the station, Julie mechanically charted his output. The numbers blurred before her eyes. She picked up a pen, tapping it restlessly against the countertop. 'Tap. Tap. Tap.' Each click seemed to sync with the remembered tremor in his thigh beneath her professional touch. She tried focusing on the mundane: restocking gauze, checking the schedule, reviewing charts. But the sterile smell of antiseptic wipes suddenly carried the phantom scent of male sweat and raw need. She poured herself a cup of lukewarm coffee from the communal pot. It tasted bitter. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to think of grocery lists, laundry, anything mundane. For twenty silent minutes, she fought the tide, forcing her mind away from the forbidden image of the restrained, vulnerable man in Room 312 and the powerful, involuntary response he couldn't hide. The taboo thoughts receded, inch by inch, replaced by the dull rhythm of the night shift.

Just as the tension in her own shoulders began to ease, just as the phantom sensations faded into the background hum of the hospital, a sharp, insistent 'ping' cut through the quiet. Julie’s head snapped up. The call light panel above the station flashed a bright, accusatory number: 312. Her breath caught. The lukewarm coffee cup slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, hitting the linoleum with a dull thud and splashing brown liquid across her white shoes. She stared at the illuminated number, frozen for a heartbeat. Room 312. Him. Again. 

The carefully reconstructed wall of professionalism crumbled instantly. Her pulse roared back, loud and insistent, drowning out the buzzing fluorescents. Every nerve ending felt suddenly alive, hyper-aware. What now? What could he need? The possibilities, both innocent and utterly fraught, tumbled through her mind in a dizzying rush. She grabbed a handful of paper towels, wiping mechanically at the coffee stain on her shoe, her eyes fixed on the glowing light. It felt less like a request and more like a summons.

The walk back felt charged, electric. Julie paused outside Room 312, her hand hovering over the door handle. She took a deliberate, slow breath, steeling herself. Professional. Calm. Detached. She pushed the door open.

The dim night light cast long, distorted shadows. Julie’s gaze flew instantly to the bed. Her carefully constructed composure was shattered. Mr. Henderson lay exposed, the thin hospital gown shoved haphazardly aside. His erection stood rigidly upright, impossibly thick and proud against his abdomen, glistening faintly in the low light. It cast a grotesque, enormous shadow across his own chest and the plaster cast encasing his arm – a dark, undeniable silhouette of desperate need. His face was flushed crimson, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes wide with panic and utter humiliation. He’d clearly been trying to reach himself, judging by the tangled mess of the gown top twisted around his immobilized arms. 

"Nurse Julie!" he gasped, his voice choked and desperate. 

"I... I tried... God, I'm sorry... I tried to... relieve it myself... couldn't... couldn't reach... please..." 

The raw plea hung in the air, thick with shame and unbearable pressure. His hips gave an involuntary, helpless thrust against nothing. 

"Help me. Please."

Julie stood frozen in the doorway, the sterile corridor light framing her silhouette. Her mind raced. The consequences flashed – suspension, termination, scandal. But the sight before her, the sheer vulnerability and raw desperation, ignited something deep within her own neglected core. The insatiable hunger she kept carefully leashed roared to life. A slow, deliberate breath escaped her lips. Her eyes locked onto his, seeing the terror, the need. Without a word, she stepped fully inside and closed the door firmly behind her. The click of the latch was deafening in the sudden intimacy. Her movements were swift, decisive. She crossed to the window, pulling the blinds shut with a sharp rattle, plunging the room into near-total darkness save for the single, dim night light bathing the bed in its soft, illicit glow. The outside world vanished.

Turning back to the bed, Julie’s gaze swept over him – the powerful erection, the flushed skin, the eyes begging for release. A slow, deliberate smile touched her lips, unseen in the gloom. Her fingers moved to the zipper at the top of her tunic. With a soft zzzip, she pulled it down several inches, revealing the swell of her cleavage and the straining curve of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her undershirt. A visual offering. A silent promise. She heard his sharp intake of breath. From a pocket, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves, snapping them on with practiced efficiency. Then, a small sachet of medical lubrication, ripped open with a sharp tear. The sterile, faintly sweet scent mingled with the musk of male arousal. She leaned over him, her breasts hovering tantalisingly close to his face, her gloved fingers slicking the cool gel. Her warm breath brushed his ear as she whispered, her voice a low, husky vibration that sent a visible shiver through him: 

"Just relax." Her slicked fingers descended towards the rigid, straining heat.

“I’ll take care of this.” She whispered.

Julie gently encircled his shaft with both hands. The latex was smooth, cool against his burning skin. Her thumbs pressed lightly against the prominent vein running along the underside. With soft, opposite twists of each hand, she began to massage the slick lube along his entire length, starting from the base. Her movements were unhurried, rhythmic – a slow, deliberate glide upwards, twisting inward, then sliding back down, twisting outward. The pressure was firm, encompassing, expertly coaxing. She felt the thick column pulse powerfully against her palms. A deep groan rumbled from Mr. Henderson’s chest, a sound of pure relief mingled with disbelief. His head sank back heavily into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping open again, drawn irresistibly downward. He stared directly at Julie's glistening cleavage, the exposed swell of flesh inches from his face, rising and falling with her slow breaths. The scent of her skin, clean sweat, and floral soap, mixed dizzyingly with the sterile lube and his own raw need.

Her hands continued their mesmerising dance. Up, twist inward, glide down, twist outward. The rhythm was hypnotic, relentless. Her thumbs pressed more firmly against the sensitive ridge beneath the head on each upward stroke. She watched his face intently – the slackening jaw, the deepening flush spreading down his neck, the way his eyes remained locked on her breasts even as his hips began to lift slightly off the mattress, seeking more friction, more pressure. A low, continuous moan escaped his lips now, punctuated by ragged breaths. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. Julie leaned fractionally closer, her breasts brushing lightly against his arm as her hands worked. The contact was fleeting, electric. His groan deepened, turning guttural.

Julie shifted her grip. Her left hand slid firmly down to the very base of his shaft, squeezing tightly, trapping the blood there, pulling his foreskin taut against the root. Her right hand abandoned the rhythmic glide. Instead, her thumb and forefinger formed a tight ring just below the swollen crown, slick with lube and pre-cum. She rotated her fingers slowly, deliberately, focusing entirely on the hypersensitive head. Her thumb pad rubbed firmly over the weeping slit with each rotation. Henderson gasped, his back arching sharply off the bed. 

"Oh, God!" The cry was raw, involuntary. 

His hips bucked against her restraining left hand. Julie held firm, her left hand a vise at the base, her right relentlessly stimulating the most vulnerable point. His cock throbbed violently in her grip, thick and hot as iron. She watched the desperate clench of his jaw, the frantic flutter of his eyelids. He was holding on, white-knuckled, against the inevitable tide. Five minutes felt like an eternity. His stamina was surprising, maddening. The tension coiled within him was palpable, vibrating through her latex-clad hands.

Julie leaned in closer still. Her breath ghosted over the slick, glistening head held captive by her rotating fingers. She could smell the musk, sharp and primal. Her gaze flicked up to his face, seeing the agony of restraint mixed with desperate pleading. Time for the final push. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her head. Her tongue, pink and soft, emerged. She traced a single, feather-light line from the very base of his straining shaft upwards, following the prominent vein, bypassing the tortured head entirely. Henderson whimpered. She paused, her lips hovering inches above his cock. Then, with agonising slowness, she dipped her head again. This time, her tongue made contact directly with the slick, hypersensitive underside of the crown – a firm, wet, swirling lick. Henderson cried out, a strangled sound ripped from his throat. His entire body convulsed.

Julie didn't stop. She licked again, broader this time, swirling her tongue firmly over the entire engorged head, tasting salt and sterile lube. Simultaneously, her right hand resumed its tight rotation just below the crown, intensifying the sensation. Her left hand squeezed the base impossibly tighter. The combined assault – the wet heat of her tongue, the relentless friction of her fingers, the vice-like pressure trapping the blood – shattered his control. 

"JULIE!" His roar filled the small room. 

His hips slammed upwards violently against her restraining grip. Julie felt the massive pulse deep within the shaft trapped in her left hand an instant before the first thick rope of cum erupted violently, splattering hotly against her chin and neck. She kept her tongue swirling, her fingers rotating, as jet after jet pulsed out, hitting her cheek, her lips, her gloved hand holding him. The force was staggering. Henderson shuddered violently, gasping like a drowning man, his eyes wide and unseeing as the pent-up weeks, the unbearable pressure, finally exploded from him in hot, sticky waves. Julie held him through it, her movements slowing only as the violent spurts subsided into weak tremors, her face glistening in the dim light.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Henderson's ragged, gulping breaths. Julie straightened slowly, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she reached for the bedside wipes. The cool gel felt sharp against her heated skin as she meticulously cleaned her chin, her neck, her lips. Each swipe was deliberate, clinical. Henderson watched her, his face slack with exhaustion and profound shame. Tears welled in his eyes. 

"Julie... Nurse Julie... I... thank you... God, thank you..." His voice was a broken whisper, thick with emotion. She didn't meet his gaze yet. Her focus shifted to him. With practiced efficiency, she cleaned the cooling spend from his abdomen, his shaft, his inner thighs. Her gloved hands were gentle but impersonal. The sterile scent replaced the musk. She pulled his gown back into place, smoothing the fabric.

Finally, she stood back. Her eyes met his, still wet with tears. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then, slowly, deliberately, her fingers moved to the zipper of her tunic. She pulled it upwards, inch by inch. Her gaze locked onto his, forcing him to watch as the straining curve of her breasts, the flushed skin glimpsed earlier, disappeared behind the blue fabric. The zipper closed with a soft, final 'zzzip'. Her uniform was restored, the illicit offering withdrawn. His breath hitched. Julie leaned forward one last time. With a fresh, cool wipe, she gently dabbed the sweat from his forehead, her touch fleeting. "Sleep now, Mr. Henderson," she murmured, her voice low and calm, utterly professional. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with spent exhaustion. A sigh escaped him, deep and contented.

Julie gathered the soiled wipes and gloves, dropping them into the bin. She turned off the dim night light, plunging the room into near darkness. At the door, she paused, glancing back. Henderson's breathing had already deepened, evening out into the rhythm of sleep. His face, relaxed now, looked peaceful. Julie slipped out, closing the door silently behind her. The corridor's fluorescent glare felt harsh, blinding after the intimate gloom. She walked towards the nurses' station, the only sound the faint rustle of her scrubs and the distant, rhythmic beep of a monitor down the hall. The warmth on her skin beneath the uniform felt like a fading dream.

Reaching the station, Julie sank into the worn chair. The cool plastic pressed against her thighs. She reached for a chart, her fingers brushing the paper. That's when she felt it – a distinct, slick warmth pooling between her legs. Her breath hitched. She'd been so utterly focused on Henderson's release, on the mechanics and the taboo thrill of it, that she'd completely masked her own body's fierce response. The phantom grip on his shaft, the heat, the desperate sounds he made – they hadn't just been observed; they'd ignited her own neglected furnace. The realisation slammed into her, hot and undeniable. Her cheeks flushed anew, unseen in the empty corridor.

Julie stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly. She didn't glance towards Room 312. Instead, she walked swiftly, almost silently, down the hall towards the staff changing room. Her hips felt heavy, her steps purposeful. Inside the small, sterile room, she bypassed the lockers and went straight to the toilet cubicle at the end. She locked the flimsy door behind her, the click echoing in the small space. Leaning back against the cool metal partition, she didn't hesitate. Her fingers flew to the hem of her tunic, yanking it up roughly. Then, both hands hooked into the waistband of her tights and knickers, dragging them down to her knees in one desperate motion. Cool air hit her exposed skin, making her gasp.

Her right hand dove between her thighs, fingers finding the slick, swollen heat instantly. Her clit throbbed under her frantic touch. She circled it hard, fast, pressing deep into her tingling folds with desperate urgency. Her knees buckled, forcing her to brace against the partition. The image flooded her mind: Henderson’s strained face, the thick shadow on the wall, the pulsing heat trapped in her latex grip. A choked whimper escaped her lips. She slammed her left palm over her mouth, muffling the sound as her hips jerked violently against her own hand. The climax ripped through her, sharp and blinding, a wave of pure, shuddering release that left her trembling, gasping against the metal door. It was over almost as quickly as it began – a frantic, stolen moment. Panting, Julie rested her forehead against the cool partition. Her apartment's quiet solitude couldn't come soon enough. The fantasy was already replaying.