Fucking My Reader On A Rainy Midnight
- 3 years ago
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One Rainy Night free porn video
Thunder crashed, rattling the window pane next to me. Rain pattered against it. I was eating supper alone in the hospital cafeteria. While I ate I read the box scores from the sports page as was my habit when I worked the four-to-midnight shift.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ asked a toffee-colored nurse. She was dressed in white scrubs.
Looking up from my paper, I replied, ‘Wouldn’t you rather sit with your own kind?’
‘You mean black folks, cracker?’ she snapped. Her voice hardened with irritation.
I answered with a chuckle, ‘Nope, other nurses.’
‘Oh,’ she sighed looking at several neighboring tables occupied by nurses dressed in blue scrubs. The hospital dress code required charge nurses to wear white scrubs while the regular floor nurses wore blue scrubs. She snickered then pointed to the faded eagle, globe and anchor tattoo on my bicep and added, ‘You are my kind.’
‘How’s that?’ I inquired.
She pulled up her sleeve to revel her own tattoo. It was a caduceus, a short staff entwined by two serpents surmounted by wings. In Greek mythology, Hermes had carried one. It was used these days as a symbol for the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In the middle of her staff was a large block-letter N for nurse and above the wings were the words, ‘Cheaters of Death’ and just below the staff was the word ‘MASH.’
‘Why sure, a fellow vet is always welcome at my table.’ I said, smiling up at her.
She sat down and held out her hand, ‘I’m Yolanda Davis.’
‘J.D. Rawlings,’ I replied, shaking her hand. ‘Were you with a MASH unit in Iraq?’
Yolanda nodded her head. Her gaze traveled over my face and searched my eyes. She asked, ‘How about you?’
‘Nah, I was with the Marines in the First Gulf War followed by a scenic tour of beautiful downtown Mogadishu a year later.’ I replied, watching Yolanda chew while she listened. My pulse quickened from her obvious approval. It had been a long time since a woman had taken an interest in me.
Yolanda was an ebony beauty in her late twenties. Her skin was the color of creamed coffee. She had a curvy hour-glass figure with big boobs, thin waist, and wide hips. All of which was stacked on a five-foot seven-inch frame. She had used a flat iron to smooth out her hair, parting it in the center and securing to the back of her head in a tight all-business-like bun. Her white scrubs attractively contrasted with her dark skin.
Pointing her fork at my tattoo, she asked, ‘In which illustrious shit-hole were you wounded?’
Small scars peppered the tattoo on my bicep. Reflexively, I rubbed my arm and replied, ‘Both actually. I picked up shrapnel crossing a minefield in Kuwait then got shot in Somalia.’
‘Shot where?’ Yolanda asked, forking another bite.
‘Left hip, um, can we talk about something else?’ I asked. My voice cracked with unwanted emotion. I picked up my coffee cup and took a long sip, hoping to flush a sudden bitter taste from my mouth.
‘Okay, how long have you worked here at Lakeside?’
‘I’ve been with the hospital four years.’
‘You’ve been a patient transporter the whole time?’
‘Yep.’
‘What’s wrong? No ambition?’
‘Lack of opportunity,’ I said getting up. I fumed, ‘You don’t know me, so don’t judge me.’
Yolanda tried to apologize, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean anything…’
I kept walking, aware that my attraction to the dark beauty was foolish. An old man’s fantasy, I scolded myself. It couldn’t have worked anyway I consoled myself. Not only was there the whole black-white issue, there was a significant age difference between us. Leaving the cafeteria, I made my way back to the Transportation Department to resume my shift.
Along the way I stopped in the men’s room to brush my teeth. Looking in the mirror, I took inventory. I wore a slate gray shirt over black trousers, the required uniform for patient transporters. Deep crow’s feet lined the corners of my eyes, bearing testament to a life filled with struggle. A jagged scar ran horizontally on my cheek just below my eye. It was a reminder of past sins. My dark hair was long and liberally salted with gray. I kept it pulled back in a ponytail. I was fit, the result of walking twelve miles a day. Every day I transported patients all over the hospital on a gurney or in a wheelchair. I smiled at my reflection, not bad for guy who would turn forty-one next month.
Transportation sent me down to the Emergency Room (ER) to take a patient for an x-ray. That was typical of most of the night work. I usually shuffled patients between the ER and various testing departments. After hustling several patients between the ER and Radiology, I was tasked with taking a patient up to the 12th floor to Yolanda’s ward. My heart lurched with an unwelcome excitement.
Once I got the gurney in the elevator, I noticed that the elderly man’s color had gone from rosy to pale to gray. He gasped and clutched his chest then fainted. Checking for a pulse, I hollered, ‘Hey, Mister!’
Finding no pulse, I immediately started CPR. I begged the elevator to go faster. After pushing on the patient’s chest thirty times, I stopped and gave him two breaths via mouth-to-mouth. I had just begun my third repetition of chest compressions when the elevator stopped and the doors opened with a loud ding.
‘Code Blue!’ I shouted to the nurses behind their station.
Yolanda was the first nurse into the elevator. She climbed on the gurney and straddled the patient and took over CPR as I wheeled the gurney off the elevator. Another nurse brought a manual resuscitator and begun bagging breaths into the patient. While yet another wheeled a portable defibrillator around the counter. She handed the paddles to Yolanda who hit the patient with 150 joules of electricity.
He involuntarily arched his back in response to the shock. It brought his heart back into sinus rhythm. With a loud gasp he started to breathe on his own. While the patient continued to improve, Yolanda got on the phone and arranged for his transfer to the cardiac ward.
After complimenting the rest of the nurses for a job well done, Yolanda accompanied me to the cardiac ward just in case the patient coded again. She said, ‘You know you did save his life.’
Chuckling, I said, ‘You were the one with paddles.’
Arriving on the cardiac ward, I couldn’t help, but watch the oscillation of Yolanda’s big bubble butt as she led the way off the elevator. Despite the seriousness of the situation I felt a stirring in my loins. She briefed the cardiac charge nurse while I wheeled the patient to his room. By the time I left Yolanda had already returned to her floor. I was disappointed.
My shift ended at midnight and I hustled through the pouring rain to the bus stop using my newspaper as a makeshift umbrella. The bus was on time and I gratefully boarded. It had been a long night and I slumped in my seat exhausted. As the bus rounded a corner I saw an economy car pulled alongside the curb with its emergency flashers blinking. A black woman dressed in white was struggling to change a flat tire in the rain. I recognized Yolanda immediately and cursed out loud. I yelled to the driver, ‘Stop the bus!’
The bus hadn’t gotten up to speed, but it still took a second or two for the driver to bring it to a complete stop. He didn’t mind. The bus only had a couple of passengers at that hour and he had already collected my fare. As I went down the steps, he waved and said, ‘Adios.’
I was thoroughly soaked when I reached Yolanda’s car. Tapping her on the shoulder, I asked, ‘Need a hand?’
Startled by my sudden appearance, Yolanda came up swinging the tire iron. I threw up arm to protect my face and took the blow on my forearm. I grabbed her arm as she drew back to swing again and hollered, ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Oh, J.D. I’m sorry,’ she apologized then added, ‘This isn’t the best neighborhood for a woman to have her car breakdown.’
Nodding, I agreed, ‘I know. Let me have that.’
She surrendered the tire iron then watched as I went to the jack and lowered the car back to the pavement. She objected, ‘Hey Jarhead, I just got this thing jacked up.’
‘I know that’s the problem. You need to bust the lugs before you jack it up. That’s why the wheel kept spinning on you.’
She nodded, ‘Good to know.’
Twenty rain-soaked minutes later I had the tire changed. Yolanda asked where I lived as I got into the passenger’s seat. I directed her to Fairfax Street where I rented a studio apartment above a garage behind a two-story Victorian house. After asking how far she had to go to get home, I said, ‘Why don’t you come on up. I have some sweats you can wear home. They won’t fit you, but at least they’ll be dry. You’ll catch pneumonia if you stay in those wet clothes.’
Yolanda agreed and threw the car in park. We raced the raindrops and each other up the stairs to my apartment. I hurriedly unlocked and opened the door. A bolt of lightning raced across the sky and illuminated the night.
Before surrendering the tiny bathroom to Yolanda, I grabbed a towel for myself. Closing the door to the bathroom, she said, ‘Thanks.’
I stripped in the kitchen. My soaked clothes wetly smacked the linoleum. Picking them up, I wrung them out in the sink. I dried my nude body vigorously with the towel before slipping on a pair of shorts. After wrapping my long hair in a towel, I dug the sweats and another T-shirt out of my chest-of-drawers for Yolanda. I heard the shower running when I knocked on the door. I called through it, ‘I have your sweats and I’d like to get the hair drier.’
‘Come on in. The door’s not locked.’
The bathroom had a sink, a toilet, and shower, just large enough room to turn around in. The door to the shower was made of crystal-styrene. It was translucent, but not see-through. Taking a moment, I admired Yolanda’s full figure, barely discernible behind the refracted glass. I licked my lips as her dark breasts where pushed against the door while she rinsed in the shower stream. Shaking my head to clear it of lustful thoughts, I sat the clothes on the toilet seat lid. Then I grabbed the blow dryer from the cabinet. I asked above the spattering water of the shower, ‘Do you mind if I dry my hair. This is the only mirror in the apartment.’
‘Knock yourself out. I don’t mind running up your water bill. This hot water feels marvelous.’
I quickly dried my long hair stealing glances of Yolanda’s body as she washed in the shower. My cock grew hard despite the fact that her figure was little more than a shadow behind the opaque door. It had been a month since I had been with a woman and I had had to pay for the privilege then. Once I was finished, I left the blow dryer on the lid of the toilet tank for Yolanda.
Once I closed the bathroom door, Yolanda turned off the shower. Soon I heard the blow dryer whining again. While Yolanda finished in the bathroom, I got a couple of glasses from the kitchen cabinet, a bottle of lemon juice from the fridge and a bottle of whiskey off the counter. I poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass then topped it off with lemon juice. I sat shirtless at the small kitchen table next to the window and watched the rain come down.
Yolanda opened the door to the bathroom wearing one of my old white T-shirts. The material of the shirt was sheer enough to make out her dark areolas obvious. The cooler air of the kitchen immediately hardened her nipples, tenting the material of the shirt. She filled out my sweat pants real nice although the legs were a bit too long for her. The extra length was bunched up at her ankles. Since Yolanda wasn’t wearing any panties the gray jersey material invaded her cunt, gripping her labia in a succulent camel-toe that made my mouth water.
She had taken an elastic hair band and put it around her hairline then she had pulled her kinky hair through it into a cute afro puff. Pouting, she ran her fingers through her hair and said, ‘Since you don’t have a flat iron, this is the best I can do. I’ll just have to be happy to be nappy.’
‘You look like a Nubian princess to me,’ I said, aware that she wanted me to find her desirable.
‘I’d tell you to kiss my ass White Bread, but you’d fall in love with me and I would never get rid of you.’
‘Sit down and have a toddy. It’ll warm your innards.’
Smiling, Yolanda sat down across from me. Shed took the proffered glass. Sipping its contents, she puckered her lips in response to the sour lemon taste. She said, ‘Not bad.’
‘My granddaddy drank one of these every day and he lived to be ninety.’
‘Thanks for stopping and helping me,’ she said. She looked about my small apartment then turned her attention to me and asked, ‘What’s your story?’
‘I ain’t got no story. I’m just a working stiff trying to make a living.’
‘No wife?’
I shrugged. ‘Once upon a time, but it ended a long time ago.’
‘Children?’
‘A daughter, I haven’t seen in fourteen years.’ I cleared my throat and asked, ‘Can we change the subject?’
‘Sorry.’ She cocked her head and pushed my loose hair off my shoulder to examine the jagged scars hiding beneath it. Impressed she said, ‘They patched you up pretty good, IED?’
Shaking my head, I said, ‘IEDs are a part of your war, not mine. We were up against the Republican Guard not insurgents. My platoon wandered right into a minefield. I stepped in a hole the same time the Marine in front of me set off a Bouncing Betty. Because I got tripped up, I was low enough to escape the worst of the blast. My kelvar saved me from getting completely shredded by the shrapnel like the poor bastard in front of me.’
A bright flash of lightning streaked across the sky. The echo of thunder followed. Goose bumps raced up my arm. I shivered and took a hard pull on my drink. I fought to stay in the present instead of drifting off into a bad night over twenty years ago.
Yolanda leaned sideways and inspected the top of my other scar. She pulled the waistband of my shorts down a bit to get a better look then asked, ‘Somalia?’
‘Yeah, we were running food convoys out of Mogadishu into villages out in the bush. My squad was sent to clear some mud huts next to the road, an obvious spot for an ambush right?’
Yolanda nodded and took a sip of toddy then she took my hand in hers. Her touch was tender.
‘Anyway, the warlords had been using food as weapon for so long and the locals were so desperate…’ I choked on the memory, but continued, ‘… anyway we got in a firefight. I ran through a doorway of a hut right into a 12 year-old child-solider with an AK… we both pulled the trigger at the same time… I survived and he didn’t.’
I poured more whiskey into my glass and gulped it down. The burn of the whiskey calmed me.
She touched the scar on my cheek and asked, ‘Kuwait or Somalia?’
‘Got that one in Mansfield Penitentiary,’ I said without emotion, sipping my drink again.
Yolanda’s expression betrayed her shock. She eyed the distance from the table to the door. Letting go of my hand, she asked, ‘Why were you in the pen J.D.?’
‘Manslaughter.’
Wide-eyed, Yolanda’s voice quivered, ‘That’s all you’re going to say?’
‘Not much to say, once I got out of the Marines I came home. I got married and got a job. Not long after our daughter was born, my wife and I went out for an evening. We were at a tavern that had pretty good fish on Friday nights. They had a live band that night, so we stayed. I went to get us a couple of beers at the bar. Some guy asks my wife to dance. I returned with the beers and saw this guy with his hands all over my wife’s ass. So I go out on the dance floor and bust a beer mug over his head. I cracked his skull, he died and went to prison for manslaughter. My wife filed for divorce soon after I was lock-up.’
After a long pause, Yolanda softly said, “I’m so sorry for you.”
‘Don’t be, I paid for my transgressions,’ I replied.
Alma
- 25.11.2022
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