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He finds himself in lust with a shemale.

Told him so the first night she met him as she checked his vitals. Everything's ok here she told him as if he was intent on his recovery. What she didn't tell him that night or the next couple of nights as she went in and out of his room was how often she found an excuse, any excuse, to visit him. His face was ok, the helmet took a lot of the damage, and the only real damage was superficial. The doctors told the nurses who asked (her included) that he suffered no real damage and should wake up from the coma anytime now. John Doe was lucky enough not to brake anything but was unlucky enough to hit his head the right way to put him to sleep for the better part of a week.

It was the sixth day he was in the hospital. Deborah came in to check the equipment and talk to him as usual. It was a few months since the breakup, and since then she was like a desert, high and dry. And this man with no name, no history, looked like he was made of granite. She looked him over again as she did everyday, and felt the usual ache below her stomach that resulted from the Man in Black. His sleep was deep, deeper than any other. Yet she knew it was not painful, at least not for him. A dull ache, long and low, almost feral in its camouflage made its existence known to her. It crept toward her unknown until it made her wet between her thighs. It was months since a man touched her, and now this need was directed toward the Man in Black. She heard that he was well endowed from the nurses that fought to wash him during the afternoon shift. His skin, they say, is tightly drawn over his muscles. And his penis...

She drew aside the cover and looked at his penis. It was long, yet was -like the man attached to it- without conscious thought, action. Limp and listless like a rope that hung over a docked boat.

She knew it may not respond to her touch, and thought that this was one of the few times a penis wouldn't. There was still the urge to touch it, to get tactile sensation from it, feel the ridges impressed on it like it was marbleized stone. She surprised herself as her hand dipped below and held it, weighed it like it was fruit. In fact she wanted to smell it as well. She wanted the penis to impress all her senses if not the hole that ached for it. She caught her need, held it like his penis, and checked it. It was late, after midnight, most everyone was gone, which meant the world was open to all possibilities. Logic reined her in, but decided to let her touch him as a form of diplomatic compromise.

She traced him. She felt every curve, ran over the vein that felt like a small mountain, long and winding. Her vagina expanded, swelled as if in preparation. The man in black showed no movement besides the deep and regular breaths. She thought he was a lifeless machine. All she needed to do was find the right switch and bring him to life.

Her other hand ran up his leg deftly, over smooth, bulged skin, and began to trace the man's testicles. He was full, had been for a week now, without release. He was unconscious -been so since they found him- yet she knew that as long as a man was still alive, still breathing, a man's balls still did their jobs. Coma or no Coma

She felt a new emotion: Pity. He needed release. She needed release. In helping herself, she would be helping him. This is what being a nurse all was about, right? Easing pain, easing all kinds of... She trailed off. She bent over and -aiming the limp flesh that caused all this- ran her tongue over the head. Then she withdrew and, making sure no one was around, shut off the overhead night.

The Man in Black smelled of the inexpensive hospital soap, yet had that unmistakable odor of masculinity that can creep up and overcome anything else. She brought it up with her tongue, massaged it out of him in slow, long strokes. It went to her brain, welcomed and washed over all inhibitions.

She unhooked her belt and eased her hand underneath the fabric, into the source.

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