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Hot House: a work of fiction that draws on actual events
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Hot House: a work of fiction that draws on actual events My hand traced the silky curve of white stockinged leg standing by my bedside. There is something about that sound, almost scratchy, but pleasantly so, of flesh stroking against the tight weave of a stocking that sends me into gentle palpitations. Under the circumstances, its owner might have shaken me off or, worse, told me off for taking undue liberties, but that was not the case. Instead, I felt a gentle quiver in response to my touch and I was emboldened further. Yes, I had been ordered to rest in bed post-surgery, and yes, the leg belonged to my private nurse, but I wasn't dead quite yet and I allowed my hand to stroke a little higher, and then a little higher still, until I felt the firmer edge of the stay-up stocking and then the beautifully warm, soft flesh of upper thigh. My eyes were closed, but I could picture the starched white uniform and I could feel the efficiency in my nurse's movements. Both intrigued me greatly and I wondered if somewhere deep inside I was being pulled back to the pleasantly erotic memories of my childhood. My parents were wealthy and of the social set that produces progeny but really doesn't have much to do with them after that and our manor house was spacious enough that my parents had their wing and we, the five - all sons - with our hired caregivers resided, primarily, in another. And it was one of these caregivers - a<b> nurse </font></b>by training - from which the pull of erotic memory came. Starched uniform, efficient gestures, and a wonderfully soft, pillowy bosom that jiggled as she walked and on which I was cuddled after a fall or an argument or a tussle with one of my tougher siblings. I was, it is true, the eldest and as such the heir to my parents' estate, but unlike my brothers, into whom seemed to have been bred the toughness of the West Country farmer's stock that was my father's side, I took after my mother's lineage which was more like a frail hothouse flower - in both physical and mental stamina - and produced by many generations of the refined and titled set. A little too much in-breeding, it was often whispered. My frailty, and my position of privilege in birth order, and the hierarchy of inheritance, made me a target of most of the sibling rivalry between the five of us. Thus it was with regular frequency, that I turned to that wonderfully plump, white uniformed bosom for comfort. And here I was, a lifetime later, it seemed, still aroused by the sight of a white nursing uniform and the curves delightfully revealed by its tight fit, such that I was, daringly, tracing my hand up the stocking covered leg of my caregiver and around the soft flesh of upper thigh, brushing my fingertips, just barely, over the beautiful roundness of a lace covered bottom. Daring under any circumstances, but especially so as I was miles older than my caregiver and did not carry the effects of time and my illness well. Physically, if not mentally, I was an old man already at 60, confined to a bed, confined by my illness, and recalling a lifetime spent confined by the strictures of societal norms, changing although they were. "MMM," my nurse's voice was an approbation, soothing though it was. The tone hinted of, simultaneously, a caution and an encouragement, "You remember what I told you?" "Yes, yes, my dear," my voice was low in volume, but, I hoped, reassuring, "I remember. And I want to . . . I want to," I stammered a little in my eagerness but I knew in my heart that should I be about to launch myself onto my deathbed, or, otherwise, about to spend another happy, semi- healthy 20 or so years of living, that it was about time I shook off any and all constraints about doing what pleased me. What was life, after all, if not a chain of physical responses, pleasurable or otherwise. What were we, as humans, if not the embodiments of those physical responses? My eyes remained closed although my hand continued drifting back and forth along that strip of bare skin between the top of the stocking and the bottom of the lace panties. I heard or felt rather than saw my<b> nurse </font></b>shift position to facing my bedside so that my hand cupped the firm roundness of buttocks and I realized the lower half of the centered uniform buttons were being undone so that only I, should I open my eyes, would be able to see what was under that starched white tunic. "If you are sure," came the whispered verbal response, the non-verbal one of the uniform being unbuttoned was the one clearer in encouragement. "Yes, please," again I murmured and I trembled a little in anticipation. "Keep your eyes closed, then," the tone was not severe, or mocking, but there was a hint, more or less, of a vibrato caused by the anticipatory excitement of the moment. I heard some more rustling but, obediently, still kept my eyes closed and then I felt the softest brush of my caregivers skin across my lips. "Ah,ah, ah," I softly groaned and then parted my lips slightly. Again a brush of skin against mine, but this time a little harder, a little firmer and I enjoyed the full sensation of the pillowy roundness caressing my lips. "You like that?" the voice was gentle, and as probing as the skin brushing back and forth across my parted lips. I could feel the wetness of both of us. "Yes," I groaned again, so different than the groans of pain I had expressed as a result of my surgery. I pursed my lips as if to kiss and this time I heard a corresponding low chuckle. "You want more then?" Eyes still closed, I nodded my head in agreement and then licked my lips before pouting them into a kiss shape again. "MMM. Let me have a little of that tongue, eh?" came the soft request, and I duly stuck my pointed tongue out of my mouth and waggled it up and down. I heard an appreciative laugh before I felt the press once again of flesh on my lips and tongue. Tentatively, I waggled my tongue and this time met the juicy resistance of firm flesh and heard a short gasp from my caregiver. I stroked and licked that flesh with my tongue, probing harder and faster and sucking as much as I could in my weakened state. Quickened, as my pulse was by the intimacy of the moment, I could feel my member stirring underneath the bed covers, the first time in a long time that I felt any sort of physical arousal and my response must have been obvious as I felt the thin sheet that had been covering me pull back. The hand that began to stroke me hard under my hospital gown was firm but soft and once again I groaned weakly. Eventually, I could resist no longer, and I opened my eyes knowing I would see the full round mounds of breasts jiggling every so slightly above the deep vee neckline of the nursing uniform and the rush from that visual excitement thrust my member deeper into the stroking hand of my caregiver. I opened my mouth a little wider and felt the hot rush as the head of "his" cock slid along my tongue and down my throat. "He" pulled back a little so that his cock slipped out of my mouth with a wet pop and looked down at me with concern. "You did remember what I told you, right?" the face and breasts were female but the voice deeper and the cock definitely all male, "that I am living my life partially transitioned?" "Yes, I remembered what you told me," I responded and, like a small bird, opened my mouth wide again longing to feel "his" cock thrusting deep into my mouth. He obliged and I felt the soft skin of his mushroom shaped tip slide through my lips and then the pulsing veins of his engorged shaft stroke back and forth on my tongue. I felt like gagging, so large it felt in my delicate mouth, but he pulled his cock back to the tip again, almost completely out of my lips, before reversing his motion and thrusting even deeper. I gulped and sucked, my cheeks hollowed with the action of my mouth and then flicked my tongue rapidly in and out of his hole. Again he gasped and "his" breasts heaved with his breathy response. I reached up and burrowed my hand underneath his uniform and bra cup so that I could stroke that lovely mound of flesh and then I pinched his very erect nipple. He responded by increasing the grip and speed of his hand on my member. Soon his cock in my mouth and his hand on mine were in synch and I knew that each of us was about to blow. He was panting hard, his breath coming in short gasps that ended in a sort of grunt with each inward thrust of his cock as he fucked my mouth. "You ready to cum?" he asked and my passionate groan in response was enough to send both of us over the brink. I shot a small dribble really, that was a result of my illness and advanced state of decline, in comparison with the hot loads of milky cum I dredged from his quivering member, so much so that it was spilling out the corners of my mouth, and dripping down my chin even though I gulped back as much as I could. Eventually he stopped spasming his cum and he rested with his slightly softened cock still in my mouth. Then he looked down at my face and smiled while tucking "his" breast back into its bra cup and then the uniform and withdrawing his softening member, wiping it and my mouth clean on a small towel by the bedside and then positioned his penis back into place inside the lace panties before buttoning "his" uniform again. It was amazing, I thought, how gorgeously feminine "he" appeared on the outside. "His" breasts, as I said, were marvelously round and enticing as they bulged up in the neckline of the nursing uniform. His waist seemed slightly curvaceous and his hips, while narrow, led to that beautifully squeezable rump. His cheekbones were highlighted by the bob style of his haircut - was it a wig? I'm not really sure - and overall he had more feminine than masculine attributes to "his" face. I had wanted "him" before he told me about his life as a partially transitioned "woman" and rather than frightening me off as he thought the news might, the dual package of his cock hidden under the layers of a feminine apparel had been enough to make me plead with him for this encounter. "Well," the somewhat brisk tone of a personal caregiver was back, "I think that is enough exertion for you for one day, Mister." The tone might have been brisk but "his" smile was warm. "Let's tuck you all back in," and he tenderly rearranged my hospital gown before settling the sheet and a light blanket back up over my legs and waist. My eyes followed "him" around the room as he secured the covers in tight hospital tuck corners. And although my body was spent, my mind wanted more. "Tomorrow," I croaked out, "could you cum again tomorrow?" He understood the double entendre. "Perhaps, Honey, we'll see," and I had to be content with that, knowing that the cycle of patients the caregivers were assigned never guaranteed visits that repeated more than a couple days. How disappointing, though not unexpected it was, therefore, to wake the next morning to the sounds of a nursing care aid moving around my room, hopeful I was, that "he" would return, but to see a different figure, petite, small breasts, and a pleasant look on her face. I lay there, eyes closed again, pretending to still sleep when she stood beside my bed reading the chart and examining the bottles of medicine on the stand at the side of the room. But my heart lept when I suddenly thought that maybe this "she" was also a "he" underneath "her" uniform and, emboldened by having made it through another night without passing away, I casually slipped my hand off the side of my bed and up under the starched uniform where I encountered, disappointingly, not a cock but a pussy. Needless to say there was an ensuing hubbub with a lot of squawking and scolding and I was thoroughly chastised, not that I really minded. I'm sure she thought it was the babbling of an old man who was somewhat of a lunatic by either genetic heritage or medication or both when I insisted she must have made a mistake, accusing me of feeling her up as that wasn't the case at all. Such an accusation was nonsense, I declared, and to add insult to injury I protested that she wasn't even my type, laughing to myself as I knew exactly what they'd think if they really did know what my type was. My two adult daughters became involved in the whole fiasco, and they somehow settled things with the agency who ensured I'd never get up to my "pranks" again by a careful choice in the assignment of all future caregivers: making sure, in their minds, their employees were not susceptible to my predatory and wandering hands. In other words, not assigning any more female nurses to me: making sure they were all male. Of course the last laugh was on them for I managed to weasel out a few dicks to suck during the rest of my lengthy recuperation, but, I will admit, none of them quite measured up to the unbridled joy I had felt with the cock of the man/woman caregiver in my mouth. Note: my apologies to anyone who is gender transitioning if my pronoun usage is offensive. I used pronouns that, I hoped, would communicate the images of the story clearly, not that are necessarily appropriate for describing non binary gendered persons. |
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7/10/2018 9:20 pm |
Thank You for suggesting this. i admire Your skill at precision, poetry and prose. And the story... mmm
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Very well written pieces my lady Cheers - P
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you kept me o edge and hard the whole time i was reading
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6/8/2018 5:26 am |
Hmmmm, an intriguing perspective on transgender eroticism that I did not see coming but enjoyed none the less! 
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