“Exquis,” I thought, as my eyes wandered the small but smartly attired apartment. Seeing how another lives is always illuminating. At first blush it was clear Paige lived an orderly life. “I can only wish,” I thought, reflecting on the relative disarray of my own.

“You like to cook,” I observed, anxiously glancing about at the kitchen’s legion of culinary gadgets.

“Mmm, I like to eat even more,” Paige answered, sprinkling devilish laughter into the mix as she glanced down at herself. Her hands wafted over wide hips and came to rest with a slap on her firm buttocks. Turning to face me she asked, “Does it show?”

Having taken the liberty of scrutinizing her lithesome body earlier that evening, I knew otherwise. “Um…no. It doesn’t show. You’re so trim,” I answered jealously. Hinting skepticism, she smiled. “You’re just trying to be nice,” she added, backing me up against the counter top. “Anyway, I still like your answer.”

“Do you like to eat?” she murmured. “Or perhaps you prefer to be eaten ….” She planted a sultry kiss firmly on my lips and slipped her tongue into my mouth. She tasted good to me, a combination of champagne and affection. The heat from her sex flirted with my pelvis.

Finding no resistance, she probed deeper. I was taken by her assertiveness and breathing heavily, I held onto her shoulders even after our mouths disengaged in self-defense.

“Come with me…I want to show you something,” she entreated. Taking my hand, she led me to the next room where I caught sight of the bed whose spread had been turned down as if in anticipation.

“So wonderful, I love them,” I ventured softly.


“Satin sheets,” I answered.

Seating herself and crossing her long slender legs, she asked, “What do you find…wonderful about them?”

Leaning, I ran my hand over the glossy spread and smiled at her. “They feel slippery. Like cum, only fabric.”

“I’m already in love with your sense of humor Jordan; ‘cum – only fabric!'”

She smiled so totally, not one of those repugnant smirks, but a real smile that lighted a CoverGirl face. “Come, sit next to me,” she invited, patting the spread with her hand. I sat.

Moving herself close to me and gently curling my hair behind my ear, she riveted me with her dazzling blue eyes and impish air. Then, as if revealing some secret insight, she confided softly, “After tonight, when I slip between my sheets, I’ll conjure wicked images – ill-fated girls in bukkake videos, swimming helplessly in a sea of yucky man batter.” We screwed up our noses in unison but our eyes stayed fastened.

Suddenly, she was on her feet again, stacking layers of downy pillows against the headboard. “Have to change. I’ll just be a minute. Stay here,” she instructed.

I reclined back, my gaze following her shapely butt as she retreated to a walk-in closet.

Closing my eyes and only half-listening, I took little notice of popping snaps and the occasional hanger bouncing along the closet’s metal rod as I reflected back to that annoying exchange at the party.

Paige, plainly skilled at infiltrating hidden meaning in the conversation of anyone in her presence, had latched onto a thinly veiled revelation from earlier in the evening, swiping what amounted to little more than a trifle from a parting exchange between me and my former lover like a cobra might snatch up an unsuspecting bunny happening by. I worried she might be too much for me. Anyway, it didn’t matter as I was here now.

“You comfy out there?” she called.

“Yes, Paige, I’m good. Why don’t you dress out here? I want to watch.”

Conveniently disregarding my question, she called back to me, “Give me another minute, all right?” Her voice seemed distant, muffled by the closeted enclosure; her way of politely excluding an unwelcome request. Then suddenly, her voice rang clearly. “Because I wanted to surprise you, that’s why.” Her declaration was as posed as the feminine form now posturing in the very doorway through which she had vanished minutes earlier. “So…is this what you had in mind?” she asked suggestively.

Upon her reappearance, my thoughts, which had a tendency to diffuse when left to their own devices, quickly reordered themselves. My deficient reply, an inane grin.

Standing in the doorway, her ghostly form radiated white light that seemed to emanate from deep inside her, pouring through the filter of my senses as if fluorescent thought.

I reacted with a stumbling gasp, “Whites! So, so beautiful.”

Browsing her curvaceous figure, my eyes wandered its splendor as I struggled to answer her question. “Yes Paige, that’s it; exactly as I pictured,” which in an erotically frightening sort of way meant she had read me almost too perfectly, something that made me uneasy in a relationship still raw.

She was delectable and in minutes had transformed herself, discarding the starkly-contrasting black bow mini dress of the party animal I had just met into the crisp majesty of an accomplished R.N.

Though originally regarding myself as merely the evening’s convenient stranger, I now wanted to believe that donning her uniform was a gift, a welcome; something only for me.

To my cluttered mind, the nurse in whites – THE image of purity – appeared as Mary Immaculate, wrapped as she was in a freshly-laundered uniform, something my senses took a moment to absorb, as my eyes roamed its tight fit, emphasizing firm breasts whose nipples surged in a vain attempt to escape their disagreeable confinement; its short skirt ending provocatively at mid-thigh and baring long, white-stockinged legs.

Her nurse’s cap and polished white pumps punctuated the confident professional. With stethoscope draped about her neck, she appeared half-nurse and half-waitress as her latex-sheathed hands balanced a menacing surgical tray whose contents lay loosely hidden, covered by a fluffy white towel.

“Ready for your examination, Jordan?” she inquired ominously.

Ready or not, the sight of her made me wet.


It all had to begin someplace, and that place was the party earlier that same evening. There, employing my most resourcefully executed sneaky glances, I had systematically assembled pieces of her body’s enigma. She intrigued me and had only caught me staring once, snaring with her own, my careless glance. There were women everywhere; some I even knew, but she wasn’t one. Our eyes met; mine flitted away, but returned to hers, which, to my delight, had remained fixed.

Sauntering over to Wenda, and looking floorward, I registered the standard inquiry. “Don’t stare,” I murmured firmly. “She’s already caught me once, so give it a second and then tell me her name. Are you listening?”

“Which?” Wenda asked a little too naively.

“Don’t fuck with me Wenda. That girl standing near the piano; the one with the black hair. Who is she?”

Wenda smiled in that savagely tender way of hers and took a sip from her glass before casually searching the crowded room for my would-be trophy. “Ahh…that’s Paige, Paige de Villeneuve,” she observed. “Do you want her?”

“You’ve had her, haven’t you,” I said blankly.

“Maybe,” Wenda added, her rapid blinking confirming the unmistakable. Before she dissolved back into her role as hostess, I put her on notice. “I have to meet her.”


Everyone was drinking pink champagne from fluted glasses; the ten-inch ones that snap in half if someone sneezes. Balancing elegant silver trays on raised fingertips, three nude waiters, the only men present, lubricated the evening with booze, all the while dodging grabs from increasingly intoxicated women.

“Nude” wasn’t exactly accurate as the boys wore tasteful red bow ties; an engaging addition, I thought, to the party’s ambience. Most interestingly, each sported a respectable dick, not exactly “apparel,” but somehow worn, nonetheless. Needless to say, the floppy appendages swayed all about, drawing the attention of every girl present.

I was especially taken by Hernan’s, as he was cute and uncircumcised. I never knew why, some Freudian thing I suspect, but uncut attracted me, something which dated to Justin and that first blowjob in the shower. There wasn’t much about men that spoke to virtue, but a malleable foreskin offered something to play with, something to draw back, to search under.

Anyway, it surprised Sheree Winton that never once did any of the waiters display even the semblance of an erection, and it wasn’t as though we weren’t all hoping to see one, because we were.

“Can you believe these boys?” she asked, reaching to tap the butt of Jorell as he darted by.

I didn’t envy them. Just college kids, they waded through a gaggle of lesbians to scoff up a few extra bucks on the weekend. Amusingly, from time to time an entire tray would crash to the floor, as one of the girls grabbed hold of an innocent scrotum. I even did it once, to Mr. Steel-buns. Everybody laughed. He didn’t care and readily accepted the fifty bucks I tipped him.

It wasn’t until shortly after ten or so that it finally happened. Simultaneously and possibly quite by accident – although I couldn’t swear to it – Paige and I both reached for the solitary remaining flute on a passing tray.

Our fingers fumbled at the stem, our eyes met and the room transformed itself into that scene from “West Side Story,” where we, like Maria and Bernardo, abruptly found ourselves alone in a crowd, frozen in a time-current in which no one else truly existed and where everyone simply stopped moving; where the couple instantly melded into one person residing in separate but henceforth immaterial bodies.

Like their attraction, ours was immediate and had the potential to be just as habit-forming. A momentary lapse of reason, it harbored an intensity every romantic covets. Whatever it was, we merged and I somehow managed to breathe in the rest of her form, noting deep blue eyes set wide apart, long legs, the riddle of whose confluence I instantly wished to unravel, the blackness of her hair and an elfin waist, which I – mistakenly, I later discovered – judged to be cinched tightly by some modern-day variant of a Victorian corset.

She smiled. I smiled. “Here, you take the champagne,” we blundered in chorus. “No, you,” we both insisted, laughing gleefully.

An hors d’oeuvre tray happened by and I lifted a caviar-smothered wafer. In an audition of sorts, I nibbled before handing it to her, wondering if she’d bite; but especially wondering whether she might snack at the previously injured corner. I wanted her to in the worst way.

Briefly holding the brittle crucible with delicate fingers, she fixed on me and consciously rotating it, raised the cracker to parted lips. She watched me in a telling sort of way, then snapped the cracker in half with perfect teeth. “So good,” she commented. Eve’s apple, I mused. It was the second step on our communion path.

“Wenda told me you work at the clinic. You’re Paige, right?”

“Mmm…you know my name, a promising sign. I like it if somebody I like knows my name. Am I going to like you?” she asked, swaying her hips in sensuous undulations as she nipped the cracker a second time. “Anyway, yes, I’m a nurse at Eastside Medical.”

“Gynecology, right?”

“Oooo…correct again! That’s twice. So you’re familiar with…my work; interesting.”

“Surely. I mean, I did ask about you after our eyes met earlier. I think nurses are hot. But tell me something…”

“You do? What makes you think we’re hot?” The twinkle in her eye betrayed she already knew the answer.

“I don’t know…maybe it’s putting myself in somebody’s hands. Whenever I’m examined, I get goose bumps. Then there’s the uniform. Things are so casual now, but traditional nurse uniforms are, you know…do you ever wear them?”

“Rarely,” she said before pausing for thought. “Maybe, though. For you I might put one on. But you didn’t answer me before. Do I like you, Jordan?”

“I think you…”

“Anyway, if it’s whites you want, we’ll have to get out of here.”

The commanding chemistry tugged at us. I hadn’t hooked up with anyone in months but a hook-up wasn’t what this felt like. There was more to it, or at least that’s what I chose to believe. But we were well-mannered and for appearance’s sake remained another half hour – the best we could manage after the champagne scuffle.

With spontaneity’s freshness distilling its own excitement, we surreptitiously plotted our escape and after finally getting up the nerve, we sheepishly drew close to our hostess. “We really have to run,” I shouted over the noise and music which overwhelmed most conversation anyway.

Wenda recognized what was happening and as usual, interfered. “Leaving already? But you haven’t had dessert! And how sweet is this?” she observed, happily, blinking her eyes in friendly mockery while deliberately drawing unwanted attention to what was meant to be a discreet exodus.

She obviously didn’t mind the early departure but used it as an opportunity to heighten the volume of her typically restrained voice. The entire room stopped itself in place to gawk at us. “Bitch,” I thought, smiling.

“And Jordan, I know how much you like your dessert,” she added sardonically, alluding to the world’s most poorly-kept secret. It dated back to the Christmas party.

In that instant our common memory popped to the surface like a buoy and in an exchange of glances, we each recalled how we had slipped away together, leaving the busy club’s first floor for the privacy of a banquet-room upstairs, where Wenda played lead in the role of dessert…

The burn started at my chest, its heat rising into my neck and face as Paige in a flash, gleaned the secretive meaning transferred as if by code during the infuriating exchange. Wanting to break from the meddling Wenda, I needed one thing, to evaporate from this place with the catch of the day.

But by then, she had already shifted gears and was addressing Paige, whose concentration had perked as her search engine silently ransacked Wenda’s thinly-veiled but obviously calculated leak.

Looking back at me, Wenda continued, “And Paige, you must understand that Jordan will do anything – anything – for a sweet, creamy dessert – won’t you, Jordan?” I glanced pleadingly at Paige, whose lazy eyes betrayed that she’d already heard the story.

Opting for straightforward escape and jolting Paige by the hand, I uneasily declared, “Let’s go Wenda!” Seconds later, we were descending the steps of the brownstone. “I hate that slut,” I cried. Paige smiled coyly.

The night was warm and a light rain was falling, leaving the street slick and adding a hiss to the city’s natural background noise as cars scurried by. “Your place or mine?” I asked.

Already hailing a cab, Paige called from over her shoulder: “Mine. I need to show you something.”


Tugging at the belt of my tight-fitting denims, she whispered, “Take these off for me. I need to examine you.” More robotically than I would have thought possible an hour before, I fought with the zipper as she stepped back, apparently to amplify my image. Oddly, with that rearward step, her demeanor changed to near impassivity as sandals, pants, then panties were slid off and kicked away.

“The blouse and bra too,” she instructed. Hesitantly complying, a moment later I stood naked before her.

“Such a nice body, Jordan.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” she replied briskly. “Just a professional opinion. Now sit and open your legs.”

The polished sheet registered cool against my naked bottom as I sat, lifting, then parting my legs. “What’s next, nurse?” I asked with pseudo-naïveté.

Paige strode forward, carefully placing the mysterious tray on the nightstand before pulling a glass thermometer from under the towel. “Turn over onto your tummy,” she said, lubricating the glass tip with KY.

The goose bumps began again, as I obediently rolled over and, almost unnoticed due to the thermometer’s slenderness, she inserted it into my rectum. Then, taking my wrist, and scrutinizing her watch, she acknowledged my healthy heart-rate with a nod before withdrawing the measuring instrument. “99.6, you’re perfect! Let’s check your breasts. I assume you do a self-exam monthly, Jordan?”

I shook my head guiltily. Paige tutted.

I rolled a second time, intuitively covering my nipples with my palms as a look of sympathetic admonishment crossed her face. “Shyness Jordan? A little late for that, don’t you think?” Embarrassed, I let my hands drop away.

“That’s my good girl,” she said, before systematically moving the tips of her three middle fingers over my breasts in small overlapping circles. My nipples hardened and I reached for her face but she pulled away. Looking down at me, she said, “You’re a naughty patient, Jordan. Be still and let me finish.”

Compliantly I slid to the middle of the bed, allowing her enough space to continue her evaluation. She pressed firmly against the spongy tissue, pressuring my ribs as she varied the insistency of her finger pads, compressing here, poking there.

My eyes roamed to the partially concealed tray as her stethoscope traveled about and I wondered what surprises lay hidden beneath that towel. She anticipated my question, paused, then reached over and drew the downy cover aside. I panicked.

Looking up at Paige, I spoke resolutely. “An internal?” A pelvic. The idea struck me like a bolt of lightning as I locked onto the stainless steel speculum resting innocently just inches away.

“Good God, Paige! Listen…we’ve just met, you know? I mean, I realize tonight has become a little more than special but honestly, this?” The momentum of my words betrayed my nervousness.

My newly-found personal healthcare professional stood abruptly and stepped back to the doorway, displaying a sobriety in vivid contrast to my prepubescent unease. She crossed her arms over her breasts and spoke authoritatively. “You’re behaving like a spoiled teenager, Jordan. Just let me complete my exam and I’ll see to that creamy dessert you had with Wenda at the Christmas party. Let’s be honest. Isn’t it what you want?”

“Wenda had no right to tell you about that,” I snapped, but Paige deftly disregarded my fumbling admonishment.

“And it’s whipped cream, correct? It’s what you came here for. We both know it. Jordan.”

Her practiced bearing and self-assurance transfixed me, allowing for a coveted moment to reflect before calmly nodding my faltering agreement. With that, Paige returned and planted delicate kisses on my neck and shoulders, turning the agonizingly clinical into softness, before whispering, “Just relax now, Jordan darling. You’re tense, I can feel it. And let’s get those legs back up where they belong.”

“She’s so lovely,” Paige murmured as her gloved fingers parted my shimmering vaginal lips, lightly tugging at the folds of soft skin. Pressing down on my mons, she commented, “This may cramp a little, you understand.” With each of my arguments beaten back, I nodded guardedly.

Paige fondled the speculum, rubbing it with olive oil, poured from a glass beaker. Spilling several drops of liquid along the inner lips of my sex, she inserted the fearsome steel bills into the marginally cooperative channel.

Were it not for her business-like calm, demonstrating she knew her way around the intimidating utensil, I might have jumped from the bed and run naked and screaming into the street. Instead, I lay there, trusting in the unknown as she efficiently locked it in place with a couple of clicks and a swift spin. In seconds, I was open.

“Your pussy, so perfect,” she commented, scrutinizing my sex as if it were somehow unattached to the rest of me. “Don’t be afraid,” she added, and with the use of a slim penlight, she caringly peered into the cavernous portal between my legs. Then, as if searching for something, she pressed down on my stomach with her fingertips before exclaiming, “At last. There she is! That’s better!” She smiled as though she had just passed her clinical exam.

“What’s better?”

“Your cervix; I can see her now.” Her voice displayed a childish joy and with the speculum now firmly in place, she lowered herself expertly moving her tongue over my distended clit. Her cap fell away as I moaned and awkwardly reached for her hair.

“That feels good,” I groaned.

“Thank you, darling,” she murmured, pausing between licks.

“Not a compliment,” I joked. “Just a professional opinion.”

She laughed and said, “Want to see what she looks like?” Not waiting for an answer, Paige reached for a mirror in the nightstand drawer and efficiently positioned it to reflect the yawning cavity of my cunt. “There now…isn’t she pretty?”

“‘Pretty.’ I’ll give your description some thought,” I answered shyly.

“Nonsense, darling. Like most of us, you’ve probably never seen yours before.” She smiled before reverting to professional mode. “Anyway, I think she’s perfect. Can you see?”

Hesitantly glancing between raised knees, I gazed into the mirror, spotted the little donut but abruptly averted my eyes.

Paige laughed at my innocent reaction and slipped the mirror back into the drawer before returning her attentions to wet-nursing my clit, whose entirety she now lapped as a puppy might her mother’s nipple. Her thumb prodded at my backside and I lifted my bottom, allowing her entry. With a firm push, she slipped it into me.

Dull moans slid from my throat. I loved it, the way she handled my body, her hands never at rest, wandering from breasts to nipples, to anus, to navel to mouth. A woman’s gentle forcefulness and flawless momentum came with her onslaught and I grabbed at her hair as I might a mustang’s mane. Breathing heavily, I drew her closer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of her other hand, feeling its way to the tray on the night stand, in search of something. I watched as she grasped an unusual-looking utensil brought into the bedroom with the rest, a surgical device of some kind, also stainless-steel, which I had detected and wondered about at the start. I’d never seen anything like it before. It was a long, thin steel rod at the end of which was a tiny pear-shaped orb. Without taking the slightest break from her clitoral attendings, Paige raised it with her fingers and dangled it in front of me as if to say, “See this? I’m using it on you next.”

She then inserted the round end of the prying stick deep into my sex until it touched the outer surface of my cervical orifice. I let out a long, low gasp. Waves of pleasure saturated my uterus and surged through my body as she ran the spherical head over the vulnerable slit.

With that ominous maneuver, the dam burst and lifting my hips, I cried out to her between pounding breaths, “Paige, do it Paige, don’t stop…put it in me…there, yes, put it there!” With my panting submission, she pushed the stealthy device into my tiny os, at which point I instinctively reached for her hand but stopped abruptly as spasms of pleasure resonated through my tummy and my orgasm struck in waves of trembling as my anus contracted against the base of her firmly-planted thumb. My breath came in short bursts and my breasts heaved, keeping pace with burning lungs.

After that, all but essential breathing ceased and I shrieked in pleasure, my intellect momentarily becoming unglued from my body, as I drifted back from the heights to which the nurse had taken me. Still tightly gripping her hair, my insistence compelled her to struggle for consent to extract herself from my sticky clit, still engorged in confusion as the second of two intense orgasms rumbled through my body.

Slowly, I opened my eyes as she lifted herself away from my steaming sex, her mouth and cheeks covered with its juices, her red lip gloss smudged over her chin, all the product of my expert clinician’s efforts through a freakish hour.

Moving herself to my lips, she offered a final, tarrying kiss and I tasted myself, now a complex mixture of our two bodies. As her tongue explored my mouth, she manipulated the speculum and cervical probe, her skilled fingers disengaging them from my depths. In a moment, my body relaxed as we held each other in warm embrace.

Paige remained hushed, affording me time to calm and I sensed her satisfaction over what had just occurred. Kindness beamed from her face and she whispered into my ear, “Jordan, I haven’t forgotten my promise. I’m off to the kitchen now. It’s time for your dessert.”


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