Hospital Sponge Bath

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This is an absolutely true story. As such it doesn’t have exaggerated sexual escapades but rather a description of a sensual experience received at the hands of a hospital nurse.


I woke up on my back looking up at a non-descript white acoustic tile ceiling. The tile surfaces were textured rather than punctured with pencil-sized holes. Too bad, I thought, the holey ones would have given me something to count while I lie here. The room was dimly lit by incandescent light, warmer in tone than institutional fluorescent. I noted those details in an attempt to remember where I was and why I was there. When I turned my head to my left to begin a survey of the room I noticed there was a tube inserted into my mouth.

I could hear a rhythmic wheezing past the end of my bed which corresponded to the pace of my breathing. All I could see to my left was a blank, off-white wall, four to six feet away. Then I remembered where I was and why. I had awakened from having open-heart bypass surgery. The last thing I remembered before my sleep was hearing my heart surgeon telling me at the cardiac cath lab that they would be bypassing somewhere between one and six clogged arteries supplying my heart muscle. “I’ll let you know how many when you wake up.” The wheezing was the respirator and the tube into my mouth was the respirator tube reaching into my trachea.

It must be night-time, I thought, since there wasn’t any noise of nurses bustling around outside whatever space I was in or of other hospital personnel or family members talking. I turned my head slowly from left to the right and saw that the wall on the right was no further away than the four to six feet I had seen on the left. I was in some vestibule of a room, likely a recovery room from surgery.

I heard a soft voice back to my left. “Awake now I see. If you are wondering where you are, this is the cardiac intensive care unit. Don’t try to talk, since the breathing tube through your trachea won’t let you. Don’t worry, we are going to take good care of you.” She was very pretty, her fair and flawless skin face framed by very dark brown or black hair, I couldn’t tell which in the dim light, which was either cut short or pinned up to the back of her head. I guessed her age at over 25 but less than 35. Even in the state I was in I tried to assess her body, one of those habits of mine and Mardin Escort of most men I knew. Slim to athletic was all I could tell with the white jacket she wore over some equally shapeless top. Not big breasted but not a flat chest either, B or C cups I guessed.

“I’ll be sitting at my desk at the foot of your bed for most of my shift tonight, but if you need something, just push this button,” she said as she slipped a small metallic cylinder into my left hand. The cylinder had a wire out of one end and a button the size of a dime on the other end. “Your job now is to get more rest. Assuming all goes well, we’ll take out your breathing tube tomorrow and transfer you to the stepped-down cardiac care unit.” I nodded my head and tried to smile around the tube, acknowledging her information as I fell asleep again.

I woke again suddenly, realizing I was not breathing. Did the machine stop working, I wondered? It was probably just a few seconds, but without breath it seemed like 30 seconds, and then the respirator resumed its rhythmic wheezing. That was scary, I thought, realizing that was the first time in this whole experience of heart attack and surgery that I was actually scared. Being transported to the hospital, examined in the emergency room and then in the catheterization lab before learning from my cardiologist and then from the heart surgeon that emergency bypass surgery would follow had not scared me. I hadn’t had severe chest pains and medical help had arrived quickly after my wife’s 911 call, so even though I had some anxiety along the way, alleviated by i.v. valium in the cath lab, I never feared I would die.

But when the respirator stopped, that scared me. Just a few minutes later it stopped again, as if it seized for a few seconds and again I couldn’t breathe. This time I pushed the button in a panic. I want to shout out, “The machine isn’t working,” but I realized I couldn’t speak. My raven-haired nurse was at my side in a moment. Her face was calm, so I figured she hadn’t noticed the respirator was malfunctioning. I had to let her know. I held up my hands and made a writing motion. She correctly interpreted my meaning, left for a moment and returned with a small pad of paper and a pen. I wrote, “Respirator not working. Can’t breathe.”

“I’m sorry I can’t read that,” she said. Dammit, I thought, you can Mardin Escort Bayan read doctors’ chicken scratching, you ought to be able to read mine. I realized my anxiety and my drugged state might have caused my usually excellent (ha!) handwriting to be illegible. I reached for the pad again and spelled out my message more carefully.

“Oh, no. It’s working OK. It just catches pockets of fluid in your lungs sometimes and sucks it out. That’s what you’re feeling. The respirator is actually doing its job when that happens.”

I lifted my chin and then nodded to convey, “Oh, I see. Okay then,” and tried to smile again.

“Would you like me to give you a sponge bath now? It will help you relax.”

I wanted to say give me a week and I’ll give you a tongue bath, but of course the tube in my throat prevented it. I just nodded yes.

She left my visual field for a minute or two and returned to my right side, carrying a wide plastic bowl with warm water and a soft cotton washcloth. I could hear rather than see what she was doing. She lifted the washcloth out of the water, lathered it with soap and began with my neck, reaching across me gently to scrub the left side, then under my chin, to the right side and then lifting my head to wash the back. She then rinsed her cloth and wiped the soap off my neck, in the same order in which she began.

She then rolled the light cotton blanket and sheet covering my torso, repeated the lathering of the cloth and held my wrist to raise my right arm. I lifted it on my own but she said, “No just relax. Let me move everything.” I gave myself over to her full manipulation and, for me the unprecedented sensual feeling of being washed by a woman. I wasn’t even ticklish when she washed my armpit. After my right arm she washed my right side and belly, with the same ritual of soapy cloth followed by a warm water rinse, avoiding the surgical tape over the staples mending the incision in the middle of my chest.

“Reach over with your right hand to the bed rail on the other side and help me roll you so I can reach your back,” she asked. I rolled just enough that she could wash the right side of my back. When she was finished, she walked around to my left side and repeated her early steps with my arm, ribs and back. Once my torso was done she patted me dry with a fluffy towel, Escort Mardin re-covered me and moved to my feet.

As she uncovered my legs performed her loving wash of my left foot and leg, I began to wonder how intimate this bath would be and if I would become embarrassingly aroused. I had never had a professional massage so I had no idea what my bodily response might be even in the best of times. I found I didn’t care whether or not I became aroused. The feeling of her caresses as she washed me was sensual and lovely but I wasn’t feeling sexy. Having a tube through your mouth and throat to your lungs and a ten inch gash through your breastbone can take the sexiness out of any experience.

She accomplished washing the underside of my leg by lifting my calf onto her shoulder. This enabled her to scrub my bottom and she was not shy in scrubbing the crack of my ass. The process was repeated for each leg. If this were fiction I would describe how she slipped a soapy finger into my anal ring while engulfing my mammoth rod into her mouth. But that didn’t happen. She did wash my balls, the perineum under them and my mostly flaccid penis, slowly and carefully. I would have hummed or moaned in appreciation if the tube through my vocal chords had not prevented it.

I wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful I didn’t sport an erection. I had a mix of feelings: happy I didn’t embarrass her or me with a stiffy but sad I didn’t get hard so she might take pity on me and give me a soapy hand job to completion. I mean, that would have relaxed me, right? But I supposed it wouldn’t be good for her resume to have killed a heart attack patient, even with such a kindness. I was happy I had enough circulation in Mr. Happy that he hadn’t shrunk to the size of her thumb when she was handling him. I’m not huge but I’ve got enough ego to be proud of my just-above-average length and girth. At least I wouldn’t be the subject of funny stories nurses tell at drink fests with their colleagues trading stories on the smallest dicks they’ve seen in their work.

When she toweled off my lower half and covered it with the sheet and blanket, she came up to give me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. I bent my elbow to take her hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze. It was the only thing I could do to show my appreciation for a wonderful and sensual, at once stimulating and relaxing experience. I drifted off to sleep again, awakening only momentarily when the blasted respirator tube caught and sucked another blob of fluid out of my lungs during the night. When I awoke fully in the morning my nighttime angel was gone, yielding to the next nursing shift.

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