Chapter 3: The rugby player's relief
The door to Harry’s room clicked shut behind her, sealing his grateful, shattered silence inside. The hallway’s fluorescent glare felt accusatory. Ellie’s scrubs were a ruin. The blue cotton was plastered to her torso, soaked through with a thick, opaque white that was already cooling into a stiff, crusted map against her skin. It clung to her breasts, heavy and cold, the sheer volume of Harry’s release obvious in every stiff fold of fabric. She could smell it, a sharp, salty tang cut with antiseptic, and feel the prickle of drying fluid tightening on her collarbone.
She didn’t look down. She walked.
Her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, a steady rhythm against the backdrop of moans from behind other curtains. She passed the nurses’ station without turning her head. Paul glanced up from a chart, his eyes widening for a split second at the state of her top before he quickly looked back down, his pen scratching furiously. No one asked. No one commented. The rules had all been rewritten.
Room 12. Ben Carter. Former rugby player. Admitted two days ago. Aggressive symptom presentation.
She pushed the door open.
The room was identical to Harry’s in its sterility, but the energy was completely different. Where Harry had been a quiet pool of shame, Ben was a storm contained by sheets. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with the dense muscle of an athlete now tense with a different kind of exertion. The thin hospital blanket was tented grotesquely over his lap, and he was writhing, a slow, agonized twist of his hips, his head thrashing side to side on the pillow. A sheen of sweat coated his chest and arms.
He heard the door and turned his head. His eyes, a stormy blue clouded with pain and frustration, locked onto her. They traveled down, taking in her appearance, the sodden, stained uniform, the fiery hair tied back in a practical but messy ponytail. His gaze lingered on the stiff, white-soaked fabric molded to her chest.
A harsh, ragged breath escaped him. His hips gave another involuntary jerk. “Fucking hell,” he groaned, his voice rough. “What happened to you?”
“Long shift,” Ellie said, her tone neutral, almost casual, as she moved to the sink. She began washing her hands, the routine motion a anchor. The soap foamed white, clean and simple. “How’s the pain, Ben?”
“How does it look?” he snapped, then immediately winced, frustration turning to apology. “Sorry. It’s… it’s a constant pressure. Like I’m gonna explode. And it itches. Deep inside. Makes me want to…” He trailed off, grinding his teeth.
She understood the unfinished sentence. She’d heard its echo in a dozen rooms today, seen it in the clenched fists and frantic eyes. “I know,” Ellie said. She approached the bed, the stiff front of her top cracking faintly with the movement. “That deep itch is the worst part. The pressure builds and the body doesn’t know how to relieve it except one way.”
Ben’s eyes tracked her, a mixture of shame and a desperate, hungry curiosity. He stared at the crusted mess on her scrubs. “Is that… from another patient?”
“Yes,” she said, no point in lying. Her voice was matter-of-fact as she reached for the edge of the thin blanket. “It’s just a symptom, Ben. Like a fever. Nothing to be ashamed of.” She met his gaze, her green eyes holding his. “Let me help you with that.”
She pulled the blanket down.
Ben’s body was a landscape of tense, coiled muscle, his athlete’s frame taut with strain. His erection jutted from a nest of dark curls, thick and impressive by any normal measure. But next to the memory of Harry’s shocking, veined pillar, it looked almost manageable, a robust but standard insult.
The true horror was lower.
His scrotum was a monstrous, purple-black sac, swollen to the size of a cantaloupe and straining against skin that gleamed like overripe fruit. It dwarfed his erection, a grotesque anchor of pain. Veins snaked across the taut surface, throbbing visibly. "Jesus," Ellie breathed, the clinical assessment slipping for a second. Harry's had been bad, but this was a quantum leap in severity.
"Yeah," Ben grunted, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "It feels like they're full of cement. Hot cement." He watched her face, searching for revulsion. He found focused calculation instead.
Her calculated look hardened into resolve. Without hesitation, she pulled the stiff, crusted scrub top over her head and unhooked her bra, letting both fall to the floor. She knew he would blow a big load; the monstrous, purpled swell of his scrotum promised a violent release. "Alright, let's help you," Ellie said, her voice all business despite her nakedness. Ben gasped, his eyes locked on the drying streaks from Harry still visible on her skin.
Ben’s gaze didn’t just take in her nudity; it devoured the evidence crusted on her skin. The opaque, chalky streaks from the old man’s spent cum formed a stark, dried web across her chest and stomach. “That’s… is that all…” he rasped, unable to finish the question, his own monstrous need making the answer both horrifying and exhilarating.
“Yes it is,” Ellie said, her voice dropping to a husky, conspiratorial register as she stepped closer to the bed. She looked down at her own crusted skin, then back at his swollen, throbbing flesh. “And let’s add yours to it.”
Her hands, cool and sure, grasped his shaft. It was hot as a brand in her grip, a solid, pulsing weight. She guided him between her breasts, which were still streaked with the ghostly white trails of the old man’s suffering. The contrast was obscene: her skin, soft and pillowy, marred by dried evidence of another man’s crisis, now enveloping his own desperate, virile heat.
She squeezed her tits together around him, creating a slick, tight channel of flesh. A broken groan tore from Ben’s throat, his head slamming back against the pillow. “Oh, god, yes… that… that feeling…”
“Feels like what it’s for, doesn’t it?” Ellie murmured, beginning a slow, rocking motion of her upper body. Her breasts engulfed him, the softness a devastating counterpoint to his rigid ache. The dried residue on her skin cracked and mingled with the fresh sweat now beading between them. “Your poor balls look ready to burst, Ben. I can see the veins throb.”
“They are,” he gritted out, his hips starting to pump upward in tiny, frantic jerks, trying to drive himself deeper into that soft, heavenly pressure. “Fuck, they’re so full it’s agony. It’s all just… backed up.”
“Then unload it,” she commanded, her rhythm becoming more deliberate, a smooth, up-and-down slide that used the full, heavy weight of her 34I cups. She leaned forward, letting her nipples brush against the base of his shaft. “Pump that thick, cum right out."
“Gonna fucking drown you in it,” Ben snarled, the words ripped from a place of pure, animal desperation. His muscular abdomen clenched, a rigid topography of tension. His hips pistoned upward, driving his shaft brutally through the slick, tight channel of her breasts. The slap of wet skin filled the sterile room, a rapid, obscene counter-rhythm to the beeping monitor.
Ellie moaned, low and encouraging, squeezing her tits tighter around his furious rhythm. “I want to see it,” she gasped, looking down at where he disappeared between the pale, marked swell of her flesh. “I want to see those swollen fucking balls deflate. Shoot it. Now.”
His breath hitched, a raw, scraping sound. A profound shudder wracked his entire frame, starting in his thighs and surging upward. The first spurt wasn’t a warning.
It was a declaration.
A thick, rope-like jet of pure white erupted with shocking force, arcing high over her collarbone to slap wetly against the base of her throat. It wasn’t like Harry’s; this was denser, whiter, like liquid plaster shot from a cannon. The heat of it was searing.
“FUCK!” Ben roared, his head thrashing.
The second spurt followed instantly, a massive, gloppy volley that splattered directly across her left nipple, coating the areola in a sudden, opaque mask. The third hit her sternum with an audible splat, the viscous glob spreading instantly across her skin.
“Yes! Just like that!” Ellie cried, her professional composure incinerated by the sheer, brutal volume of it. She kept milking him with her tits, her hands now kneading her own flesh, smearing the fresh, hot cum. “Feed it to me! Empty those cement bags!”
“Can’t… stop…” he grunted, his body seizing.
The fourth and fifth spurts came in a rapid, gushing pair. They painted a thick, dripping stripe from her chin down to her navel, a hot, white road map of release. The weight of it, the shocking substance, began to pull at her skin, dripping in heavy strands toward the floor.
“So much,” she whispered, awe and hunger twisting her voice. She leaned forward, letting the sixth violent eruption hit her directly in the mouth and across her cheek. The taste was intensely salty, profoundly bitter, and cloggingly thick. She swallowed what was on her lips, her eyes locked on his contorted face.
“Covering you… fucking painting you…” Ben gasped, his vision blurring.
The seventh jet was the longest, a continuous, pulsing fountain that rained down over both her breasts, sheathing them completely in a glistening, opaque second skin. It pooled in her cleavage, a warm, sticky lake.
With a final, gut-deep groan, the eighth and last massive spurt shot out, less a rope and more a dumping cascade that soaked her lower abdomen, dripping down into the top of her scrub pants. The torrent finally subsided into a weak, shuddering ooze.
Ellie’s chest and stomach were a uniform, glistening white landscape, utterly obliterated. Thick ropes and puddles of cum dripped slowly from her chin, her nipples, the curve of her under-breast. She was plastered. Breathless.
Ben collapsed, utterly spent, his body sinking into the mattress like a stone. The monstrous swelling in his scrotum had receded, leaving a sack that looked bruised and dangerously empty. He stared, panting, at the human canvas he’d created. “Holy shit,” he breathed, his voice shattered. “Look at you.”
Ellie looked down. She ran a hand from her throat down to her stomach, collecting a handful of the warm, glutinous excess. She held it up, watching it string between her fingers. “You weren’t kidding,” she said, her voice husky. She brought her fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate drag of her tongue. The bitter, salty tang made her shiver.
The bitter, salty tang made her shiver. She swallowed, the thick residue coating her throat.
Then her clinical focus snapped back into place, sharp and absolute. Her eyes dropped from Ben’s drained face to his groin. The realization hit her like a physical shock. Despite the catastrophic eruption he’d just produced, his cock still stood rigid against his stomach, throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. The monstrous swelling in his scrotum had receded from a cantaloupe to the size of two bruised oranges, but they were still agonizingly full, the skin stretched tight and shining.
“You’re not done,” she stated, her voice hollow with awe. “They’re only half empty.”
Ben let out a pathetic, agonized sob, his hands gripping the bedsheets. “It won’t stop,” he wept, the frustration twisting his handsome features. “It feels like there’s more. It’s just… stuck deeper.”
Ellie didn’t hesitate. She looked down at the waistband of her blue scrub pants, still clean, and knew what she had to do. The logic was simple, visceral. She didn’t want them covered, ruined like her top. Her fingers hooked into the elastic.
Her fingers hooked into the elastic. She pushed the scrub pants down her thighs in one motion, kicking them off her ankles to join the ruined pile on the floor. The only thing that remained was the red lace thong, a mere string bisecting the full, round swell of her ass.
She didn’t give Ben time to process her near-nudity or the dried, crusted history layered on her front. Moving with a purposeful efficiency, she climbed onto the narrow hospital bed. Her knees found the mattress on either side of his ribcage. She turned, presenting her back to him, and lowered herself until she was sitting on his chest.
“Look at you,” Ellie said, her voice dropping into a gritty, intimate register as she reached in front herself. Her hand found his still-thick shaft, her fingers wrapping around it with practiced ease. She began to stroke him, a slow, deliberate pull from root to tip. “Still so hard after all that. Your balls must be screaming.”
Her weight settled onto his sternum, a solid, real pressure against the frantic pounding of his heart. The damp, red lace of her thong was the only thing separating the full, warm swell of her ass from the sweat-slicked skin of his chest. He could feel the heat of her through it, a startling intimacy that made his breath catch.
“They are,” Ben gasped, his voice strangled. His hands came up, not to push her away, but to grip her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above the lace. His erection jerked in her fist, a thick, angry pulse against her knuckles. “It’s a different ache now. Deeper. Like they’re squeezing from the inside.”
Ellie leaned forward slightly, altering the angle of her stroke, her wrist working with a slow, twisting motion.
The view for Ben was the perfect, round curves of her backside, the red string of lace cutting deep. He could see the faint, ghostly streaks of white from the old man on the sides of her ribs, a forgotten map. Her hand moved on him, a steady, knowing rhythm.
“That’s it,” Ellie murmured, her voice a low thrum he felt through his chest. She squeezed her fist, a slow, twisting pull from the aching root to the slick head. “Just watch my ass while I work this fat dick. Think about where you want to put it.”
Her words, so crude and direct, shocked a gasp from him. His hips bucked upward, driving into her firm grip. “Ellie…”
“You’re not gonna last,” she stated, her pace increasing incrementally. Her thumb swiped over his tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum that was already thicker, whiter, like paste. “I can feel those swollen nuts tightening up in my hand. They’re cooking up another batch for me already, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he hissed, his fingers kneading the soft flesh of her hips. The pain was a deep, rhythmic throb now, syncing with her strokes. “God, it’s… it’s climbing.”
“Tell me,” she demanded, leaning backwards to put her weight on his chest, her ass rising slightly. The red lace grew damp where it met her skin. “Tell me what it feels like.”
“Like a fucking pipe about to burst,” he groaned, his head thrown back. “It’s not even pleasure, it’s just… pressure. Need.”
“Then let it burst,” she whispered, her words a hot, filthy promise in the sterile air. Her hand became a piston, a rapid, relentless friction that matched the frantic beat of the monitor. “Spill that thick, cum cream all over your stomach. Paint yourself with it, Ben. Show me what’s inside those aching balls.”
Her dirty talk was a catalyst, breaking the last seal of his control. A guttural, animal sound tore from his throat. His body arched, every muscle corded.
His body arched, every muscle corded. The first eruption was a deafening sound in the quiet room, a wet, thick snap as a rope of cum as white and heavy as latex paint launched from his tip. It streaked across the space between them and smacked directly onto Ellie’s sternum with the force of a thrown egg, the impact shuddering through her small frame.
The second shot followed instantly, a violent splatter that painted her right breast from nipple to collarbone in a glistening, opaque sheet. Heat radiated from the spots where it landed, a shocking contrast to the drying, crusted residue from Harry that still filigreed her skin.
“It’s not stopping!” Ben roared, his voice cracking with a mix of agony and ecstatic release.
Ellie’s hand, slick with his pre-cum and her own sweat, slipped on his pulsing shaft just as the third jet fired. Her grip faltered. The thick white stream, meant for her stomach, instead caught her squarely in the hollow of her throat, the viscous fluid immediately dripping in slow, sticky strands down into her cleavage.
She swore, tightening her fist again, riding the bucking of his hips. The fourth and fifth spurts came in a gushing tandem. They plastered her lower abdomen, soaking the fine red hairs below her navel, the cum so dense it coated her skin like a layer of warm, salted glue. The sheer volume was already beyond Ben’s first cataclysmic release.
she gasped, her own breath coming in ragged pulls as she stroked him ruthlessly, milking the convulsing shaft. “Give it all to me. I want to see them go flat.”
Ben’s reply was a strangled cry. The sixth burst was a fountain, arcing up to drizzle over the tops of her breasts, mixing with the older, drying streaks into a horrific, layered mural of the virus’s work.
Her hand, overwhelmed by the slippery mess, slipped again just as the seventh powerful surge ripped through him. This one shot lower, a direct, drenching hit that soaked the front panel of her red lace thong. The fabric, darkened instantly to a deep maroon, the lace pattern vanishing under the opaque deluge. The heat of it seared her pubic bone.
The eighth and final shot was a weak but copious ooze that followed the same path, adding to the soaking pool in the thin lace, the excess flooding over the elastic edges to run down the inside of her thighs. It dripped onto Ben’s stomach with soft, warm taps.
He collapsed, utterly voided, his body releasing a single, full-body tremble before going limp. His scrotum, that monstrous purple sac, now hung like two empty, bruised pouches. His breath was a shallow, broken whistle.
Ellie released him and slid off the bed, her movements slow, deliberate. The air in the room felt cool on her wet skin. She stood for a moment, just breathing, looking down at the ruined landscape of her own body.
The evidence was staggering, a layered testament. Ben’s fresh release, a thick, pearlescent glue, dominated her stomach and soaked the ruined lace between her legs. It dripped in slow, heavy strands from her chin and breasts, where it mingled with the cracked, chalky residue of Harry’s older offering. She was a canvas of compounded filth.
She didn’t look at Ben. She walked to the small pile of her clothes. The black bra was a lost cause, stiff and stained. She left it. Her blue scrub top lay where she’d dropped it, a damp, crumpled rag. She picked it up.
The fabric was cold and alarmingly heavy, saturated through from Harry’ earlier deluge. It had begun to dry in stiff, crusted peaks. She shook it out once, a futile gesture that sent a fine, sour dust into the air.
she pulled the sodden top over her head. The chilled, stiff cotton slapped against her skin, an icy shock that made her gasp. It clung instantly, the rough, wet material pasting itself to the fresh, warm layers of Ben’s cum.
The sensation was profoundly unpleasant. The crusted patches from Harry scraped her nipples, while the new wetness from Ben seeped through, creating a cold, slimy union against her skin. The weight of it pulled the fabric taut across her chest.
Next, she bent and retrieved her scrub pants. These, at least, were merely damp from sweat and the dripping overflow. She stepped into them, pulling the elastic waist over her hips, sealing the soaked thong and the mess beneath against her body.
The uniform was complete. She was dressed. She stood there, a petite woman in a nurse’s uniform that was visibly, unmistakably ruined. The blue was blotched dark with wetness across the chest and abdomen, stiff with white in other areas. The scent was overpowering: sharp chlorine, salt, and the distinct, sour tang of spent seed.
"alright Ben i will check on you tomorrow"