Silent Partner Part 1 – MF/cheat, noncon, slow burn/long, impreg

Part One

I first met Ethan in autumn. The property on which his house was set, I remember well, was littered with oak trees and his front yard was positively ablaze with reds, yellows and oranges on that first day I drove my Toyota up his front drive. The spectrum of color was simply dazzling in its array. Cruel winters in the northeast are certainly compensated for by a spectacularly beautiful fall.

On that day, it was Ethan’s mother, Emily Morris, who met me at the front door. She had been anticipating my arrival and was keen to go out shopping – for Thanksgiving supplies, she had said – while I sat with her son. We had gotten to know each other a bit by phone; I had a precompiled list of questions about her son’s case history and she inquired about my skill set and qualifications.

“Good afternoon,” she said, displaying a kind smile and producing her small, pale hand in greeting. Her hair, which caught the light of the midday sun, was absolutely dyed and not its once natural red, but this didn’t betray her age, which I guessed to be about 70. There were other signs, like worry lines around the eyes and the tiredness that dwelled there that told me that, although she was unmistakably trim and fit for her age, she had been through quite an ordeal.

I warmly took her hand in my own, surprised by her firm grip. “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

I’m a nurse. Specifically, I’m a home hospice nurse with a license and degree in practical nursing. I used to work in a hospital setting, for several years in fact, but found it to be far too hectic, with a tireless number of hours contributed without equivalent pay. I earn more now, working privately, than I did before and I have the chance to continue my degree in my spare time.

Ethan, Mrs. Morris’ son, is a comatose patient. About a year prior, he had been riding a motorcycle and was struck head-on by a drunk driver. The fact that he lived at all was a minor miracle, but he had never woken up after the accident. Rather than keep her son in a clinical setting, Mrs. Morris chose to keep him at home under her own watchful eye. After seeing her home, I knew it certainly wasn’t a matter of expense. Clearly, she loved her son and wanted the best care for him. I could certainly appreciate and respect that.

“He’s in here,” Mrs. Morris said, ushering me through several breathtakingly-decorated rooms of her home, “Lovely day, isn’t it? I have the windows open. If it gets too cool, please feel free to shut them. Ethan just loves the fall.”

I scurried to keep up with her as we streaked through the rooms of her home. For a woman of nearly 70, she appeared to have the stamina of a horse. “Yes,” I replied, “You have such a lovely home, Mrs. Morris.”

“Emily,” she corrected me as we arrived, with me slightly out of breath, at her son’s door. “Thank you. He’s just in here.”

We entered a large room, which was richly-decorated with oiled panel walls, several bookcases filled to the ceiling with books of every color, a writing desk and, of course, Ethan’s hospital bed, which was placed in the center of the room facing a large picture window which lit the room.

Ethan was in a raised position in the fully-electric bed, supine, with his eyes naturally closed and both hands placed limply in his lap. He looked slightly younger than his 28 years, as had been described to me by his mother, and was ruggedly handsome, with neatly-combed chestnut hair, a stern jaw and cleft chin. Though not present in his relaxed state, I was certain that he possessed dimples on his cleanly-shaven cheeks. I was curious to note that he was wearing a checked pajama top, rather than a gown.

“I keep him dressed,” Mrs. Morris said, most likely reading my eyes, “Ethan positively despises doctors and hospitals. When he wakes up, I don’t want him to realize he’s dressed in one of those horrible hospital gowns.”

I nodded understandingly. Clearly, she went through quite a bit of effort to see to her son’s care. The room was immaculate and her son neatly groomed. Supplies were stacked in cubbies on the wall and a book rested on the writing desk next to the bed. I pointed to it. “Is that—”

“His charts, and a log,” she interjected, “I note everything down, including date and time. I’d like you to do the same.”

Curious, I nodded again in assent. “Certainly,” I said. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Supplies are kept there,” Mrs. Morris said, pointing to a cabinet, “just go by the schedule in the book. I’ll only be a few hours.” She smiled pleasantly, turned on her heels and started walking from the room. “Oh–” she said, stopping, “I like to talk to him. Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” I said, smiling reassuringly. She nodded and hurried out of the room, displaying the same energy in her step as before. I watched through the large, picture window as she left the house, got in her car parked next to mine in the drive, and began winding her way down the long, dirt driveway toward the main road.

I put down my bag on the desk and flipped open the leather-bound logbook. I inquisitively trailed a finger down its entries as I read, marveled by what I saw there. There was an entry every half an hour. “11:30 – no change, 12:00 – no change, 12:30 – opened windows, no change,” I read, gawking at Mrs. Norris’ dedication and, more likely than not, obsessive compulsivity. “Jesus.”

“Seems you’re due for a fresh catheter and a sponge bath,” I said aloud, noting the time in the previous day’s log, “might as well get to it.” Picking up the pen on the desk, I turned to the present day and noted, beneath noon’s entry, “12:30 changed catheter, sponge bath.”

I walked to the cupboard and, opening it, found a wash basin and supplies. There was no sink in the room, so I found my way to the on-suite bathroom and filled the ceramic basin with tepid water, squeezing Johnson’s baby wash into the swirling stream.

Returning to the room, I placed the basin on the bed next to Ethan and unbuttoned his pajama top, exposing a chest and belly prickled with baby-fine brown hairs that stood on end when exposed to the air.

“You certainly are handsome,” I said, remembering my promise to speak to Ethan aloud, and then winced slightly at my words. If he did indeed hear me, which I doubted, I had probably just embarrassed myself.

In fact, Ethan looked very similar to a younger version of my husband, Adam. Ethan was perhaps better built, with wider shoulders and more muscle, but the hair and face — he could easily be mistaken for Adam’s younger brother. I mused over this as while I washed him. “You look like very much like my husband,” I said, possibly in an attempt to correct my earlier statement, but rolled my eyes. Stupid.

I peeled back the coverlet, exposing the lower half of his body. I was amused to find that he was wearing similarly-fashioned pants, almost resembling a baby jumper with buttons running down the inside of his legs. Mrs. Morris had gone through either considerable expense at obtaining these clothes or had expended an inordinate amount of time making them. If it was the latter, kudos, she was definitely not without skill as a seamstress. Sighing softly, I began the laborious task of unbuttoning each leg and slowly extracting Ethan from his clothes.

Beneath, he was wearing an adult diaper. I peeled it off, grateful to find him clean underneath, and stopped suddenly in my tracks, my eyebrows raising considerably. The first thing I noticed was his considerable size. His penis hung heavy and long, stuck to the inside of one thigh. An audible hum escaped my lips as I considered it briefly. As a nurse, I was used to seeing all manner of male genitalia. The majesty of this particular one, however, was singular amongst all others. The second thing, and possibly the least surprising of the two, was the external catheter attached to its tip. Frowning slightly, I turned and consulted his charts on the desk.

Flipping through the pages of Ethan’s history, I was able to find that he had developed a raging bladder and kidney infection early on resulting from an improperly-draining foley catheter. Noting the requirement for more frequent changes, his doctor instead switched him to a Texas catheter. Nodding in agreement, I re-filed his charts in the cubby and returned to my work.

I continued by placing the basin of warm, soapy water between Ethan’s legs and began soaping him up from the feet-up. I unhurriedly ran the sponge up-and-down his hairy legs, appreciating the muscles, though presently languid from lack of exercise, beneath. I realized after a short time that all the while I was staring incessantly at his mammoth cock. I actually blushed when realizing this and purposefully tore my eyes away, focusing more on the task at hand. I chided myself for being mesmerized over a silly piece of flesh like a stupid school girl. There was work to be done and I needed to act more professionally, as I always had in the past.

Now working more clinically, I grasped his flaccid penis in one hand and slowly and carefully peeled the catheter off with the other. Insertion and removal of the catheter operates exactly like a condom. This catheter was tight, as he was well-endowed not only in length but also in girth. The question of whether they had to special order one for Ethan’s size came to mind. I found this thought amusing, as I pictured in my head a person having to order an extra large external cath and the hilarious conversation that would surely result. Free now of all restraint, I carefully washed and rinsed Ethan’s penis and testicles, paying special attention to the bulbous, purple head at the end of his member and admittedly taking longer to do so than was professionally necessary.

Shock overcame me when I eventually realized Ethan’s manhood was becoming erect from my ministrations and I let go of it immediately, my eyes wide. These things do happen, and it had happened to me on more than one occasion in the past. When it did, it was best to just ignore it and soldier on swiftly. But those times had all been with awake, conscious people, not comatose ones. Quickly, my eyes flitted to Ethan’s. Still closed. There were no apparent signs of consciousness – no movement or muscle twitches, no flushing, no change in breathing. I returned my gaze to Ethan’s cock. It was still growing, thickening and rising like Lazarus from its resting place on his leg. Holy shit.

I sat in stunned silence for several minutes. Was it possible for comatose patients to get erections? Yes, it was entirely plausible – more than plausible, in fact, but in reaction to external stimulus? I wasn’t so sure. Still, my eyes flitted between Ethan’s face, looking for any tell-tale signs of waking, and his cock, which was now standing tall and proud, fully engorged. Several more minutes passed in stunned silence and his raging erection showed absolutely no signs of weakening. Instead, It continued to stand erect, pulsing silently along with Ethan’s slow, steady heartbeat.

As I marveled over this, a new thought crashed over me, instantly inciting terror. What if Ethan’s mother came home early? There was simply no hiding the colossus that was standing before me. I couldn’t, for instance, just throw a blanket over it. How bad would it look to return home from shopping to find the nurse you hired standing over your son bearing an enormous erection? Telling her, ‘yeah, he got hard, sorry,’ simply wasn’t an appropriate response. I sat there for a long while, simply willing Ethan’s erection to subside. It didn’t work. Finally, panic-stricken and knowing little else to do, I atypically decided to take matters into my own hands.

I stood up and sat on the bed next to him. Grasping his cock, I began pumping it up-and-down with my fist. I concurrently maintained concentration on the task at hand – making Ethan’s ‘problem’ go away – and the window overlooking the long driveway, scanning for Mrs. Morris’ return. In between these two tasks, I frequently ensured that Ethan remained properly comatose. It wouldn’t do for him to wake up and find his nurse tugging on his impressive tool.

I continued furiously fucking his cock with my hand for several minutes. I eventually gave up on the outside window and allowed my eyes to wander over his body while I worked, from his washboard abs to his broad chest and shoulders. Slowly, I became conscious of the fact that I was incredibly and inexplicably turned on. Just when I began to think that, although erection was entirely possible for a comatose patient, there was simply no potential for climax, his cock jerked in my hand. Following this, several strong streams of white shot from the tip of his cock, splashing against his belly and chest and running in rivulets down my hand and arm.

Breathless, I let go of his cock and watched, with some satisfaction, Ethan’s erection slowly begin to subside. I again explored his face. There was no change in his breathing and absolutely nothing else revealing the fact that he had just experienced an orgasm. Grabbing the basin and sponge, I first cleaned myself up and then Ethan, removing all traces of seminal residue before drying him off, applying a fresh cath and hurriedly re-dressing him.

I stared at the logbook for a long time, my mind reeling. I wondered, with some amusement, what Mrs. Morris would think if I acquiesced completely to her every request and jotted down in the book that her son had a rather explosive and messy orgasm. In the end, I picked up the pen and, noting the time, wrote my next entry for today’s date.

“1 p.m. – no change.”

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/6n224u/silent_partner_part_1_mfcheat_noncon_slow

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