A new-age nurse isn’t just a contradiction in terms. It’s batshit crazy; mysticism ain’t ever medicine. Yet this Emergency Department nurse has gone rogue, surrendered to the counter-cultural zeitgeist and weaved astrology into her fucking decision-making. All because a newbie I’d mentored had waxed lyrically about star signs.
That trainee nurse had been born under a water sign—Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces, in case you’re interested. One day in the hospital cafe, she’d proclaimed that her birth date blessed her with emotional intelligence, intuition, and sensitivity. Which apparently meant she’d been born a card-carrying member of the zodiac’s creative healers.
She filled my stunned silence by sharing that, as a deeply empathetic nurturer, she was destined to be a nursing great. I’d almost barfed, and for once, the hospital food wouldn’t have been held responsible.
Then, having discovered I’d been born in March, her eyes lit up. “You’re fire. Those zodiac signs—Aries, Leo and Sagittarius—have intense passion and boundless energy. Naturally charismatic and action-oriented, too.”
Which didn’t sound half bad. Except well-designed mumbo jumbo aims at making everyone feel they’re receiving a personal message.
Her brows furrowed, then she’d added, “Of course, we couldn’t sleep together.”
I’d been a little flirtatious when recounting some of my weekend shenanigans, so her comment wasn’t out of order. But, that said, she was just being illogical. “Surely that’s a decision made during an early date.”
“No, no, no. Fire is compatible with air. Water and earth are a match too, of course. There’s no future in dating one’s sexual opposites.”
My brows took a turn at furrowing. “I don’t get why you’ve dismissed half the population without knowing them.”
“A water babe craves meaningful connection, gazing upon her lover’s soul. I want to feel emotionally safe and cry during sex. Fire and air don’t try to float that boat.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe she’s right; that’s not my sort of happy ending. “So, I’m different, how?”
“You’re the initiator, the dominator. Fire is spontaneous, adventurous and vigorous. Sex for you can be performance as much as an emotional connection.”
Wow, it seems mumbo jumbo can be spot on. “It’s elemental, my dear Watson.”
She didn’t get the joke.
Over the following days, I’d pondered my past. Well, more accurately, I tried to recall the birthdays of past lovers. And came to a remarkable conclusion: the best sex of my life had indeed been with those born under the air and fire signs.
I excitedly shared those insights with hubby. His eyebrow rose precipitously. He sucked on his bottom lip. I’ve known him long enough to read that body language: my beloved wife is cray cray, but I’d better dance carefully around that particular insight.
After a pause for reflection, he finally assembled some carefully chosen words. “You may have had more lovers than most …”
Of course, I interrupted. “Just searching for my soulmate, darling.”
His tone took an acerbic turn. “Written in the stars, were we?”
I couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re air and I’m fire, so the reality is we’re zodiac compatible.”
“Be that as it may, one would have to bonk a statistically relevant sample of those four elements to prove that fire belonged with air, and not with water and earth.”
“How many, smartie pants?”
“A thousand to fifteen hundred people make for a well-designed political poll.”
“Shit, I’d better get my skates on then.”
He smirked. His hand landed flush on my pert posterior.
I giggled and wiggled. Sucked in a deep breath. “Ahhhh, that’s the air that fans my fire.”
For that verbal dexterity, he spanked me ever so hard, precisely thirteen times, apparently once for each of the zodiac signs and the last for my attempt at elemental wit. My bittersweet sighs then turned into a whimper when he suddenly tugged my yoga pants and black thong down to the floor.
Resting my elbows on the kitchen bench, I glanced back at his turgid member. “Fire burns brightest when air quickly inflates.”
“Which demonstrates exactly why wit wasn’t mentioned as a fire sign characteristic.”
As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t debate that outrageous comment. For, with one thrust of his hips, he impaled his cock deep in my slick pussy. Then fucked me deep and hard, his hips slapping against my soundly spanked arse until we simultaneously exploded in pleasure.
That’s his routine now. Having googled baby making, he’d concluded doggie-style was the most successful way to get his wrigglers close to my fertile egg. I had so enjoyed his steady diet of hammering my pussy from behind that it’d seemed churlish to point out that his theory wasn’t exactly rocket science.
Until now, that is; if he had us indulging in baby-making mumbo-jumbo, I could certainly indulge in a hall pass on his scepticism about star signs.
It’s odd how serendipity can strike while making perfectly ordinary decisions. My dermatologist was retiring, so I needed a new one. With melanoma running in the family and spending time outdoors, regular skin checks were just plain common sense. So, I’d asked around and heard of an experienced dermatologist who’d recently transferred to Sydney from Melbourne and consequently didn’t have a jam-packed patient list.
It may surprise you to know that ward work isn’t all about patient care for us nurses. Sometimes we’ve been known to gossip. Hospital secrets nowadays tend to evaporate like the morning dew, given our delight in knowing who’s up who and who is paying.
It transpired that one of the nurses on the ward knew the new dermatologist’s administrative assistant. Another nurse was a good friend of the doctor’s sister. And, lo and behold, I was flooded with fascinating information that wasn’t necessarily germane to a careful examination of my moles and freckles.
Doctor Sophie O’Hara was my age, mid-thirties, and apparently tall, slim and drop-dead gorgeous. She’d moved cities following her girlfriend’s work transfer. By all accounts, the dermatologist was a sweetheart; for instance, she’d presented her girlfriend with expensive diamond earrings on her Christmas Day birthday.
Google informed me her girlfriend was a Capricorn, an earth sign, in case you’re keeping score. It turned out that, as the boss of the zodiac, the super-organised Capricorns always make love the same way because it beats the hell out of fucking whenever the mood strikes them.
If that wasn’t strange enough, even worse was that earth idiots are a bit hoity-toity, looking down their noses at air signs for being flighty and noncommittal, and fire signs for being needlessly hotheaded. The doctor’s girlfriend sounded up herself to be honest.
For reasons we needn’t go into, I had access to some hospital records. It was relatively easy to find out that Doctor O’Hara’s birthday was the same day as my husband’s. As air signs, the stars had them pegged as unexpectedly kinky, getting off on erotica, breaking rules and making their partner orgasm hard. That’s hubby, no wonder I married him.
So the doctor was hot, into girls, and my elemental match. But, according to the nurse I had mentored, she was stuck in a sexually incompatible relationship. Perhaps those diamond earrings had just been a balm for the reputed sexual discord between earth and air.
There was only one way to find out. I told hubby about my plan. Shamefully, he started rooting for my failure. The good doctor, being immune to my zodiac-driven charms, was, according to him, what I deserved for harping on about astrology.
I’d deliberately made the day’s last appointment with Dr O’Hara. On arrival, the dermatologist was, according to the well-established practice of medical specialists, running behind schedule. So I offered to pay before my consultation, and the receptionist smiled gratefully. We both knew she’d be able to leave for home when I entered the consultation room.
“Annie,” Dr O’Hara said, when she eventually closed the consulting room door behind her, “I’m Sophie. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“And I, you. Gossip really is the most infectious thing in a hospital.”
“Ain’t that the truth. All good, I hope.”
“They said tall, slim and drop-dead gorgeous. Clearly an understatement.”
“Seems your reputation for flirtatiousness was the bigger understatement. So what brings you here?”
That she’d asked around about me seemed promising. “You checking me out.”
Sophie laughed, loud and sonorous. Her shoulders dropped, the day’s tension melting. “Tell me more.”
I explained my family’s melanoma history. With a grandfather, father and an aunt who’d had the most dangerous of skin cancers at a younger and younger age, I wasn’t taking any risks.
“Yeah, keeping up with regular skin checks is wise with your family history. You’d better strip then.”
Tentative, but maybe she likes to be flirtatious too. “Yeah, I heard you’re at your best with a naked woman.”
She giggled. Blushed too. “In my defence, that’s the job.”
I undid the first button of my blouse. She focused on the computer. As I languidly freed the second button, she surreptitiously glanced then quickly looked away.
Not tempted by the following buttons, she cracked once the last one was undone. Her eyes lingered momentarily on the curve of the under-boob peeking bra-free from my gaping top.
Having nibbled on the bait, she hurriedly picked up her iPhone. Stared at the pretty face smiling out at her.
Placing my blouse on the chair, I loosened my pleated skirt; the sound of the zip echoed in the hushed room.
When the skirt fell to the floor, I turned and bent over to pick it up. Pondered if she’d transfer her gaze from her girlfriend on the iPhone and onto my taut derrière with the pale blue thong string that charmingly vanished between my cheeks.
When I laid the skirt on the chair, she quickly busied herself on her computer. Too late, I knew she’d checked me out.
I smirked. “Thong on or off?”
“On is usually considered the professional approach.”
“Mmhmm. Surely off leads to a more thorough examination.”
She nodded; a moth drawn to the flame. I slid the pale blue thong down my legs. Scrunched it into a ball, dropped my underwear on the chair, and nonchalantly lay down on the examination table.
Her move.
Her fingers were gentle, almost sensual, as she repeatedly parted my hair and thoroughly examined my scalp. As she moved onto the freckles on my face, she said, “I adore the streakiness of your light and darker blond hair.”
“It’s natural. In my teens, the hairdresser said dirty blond. It wasn’t clear if that was a type of colouration or a prediction about my future.”
Sophie smirked, her eyes lighting up. “Both can be true, you know. Your skin is great so far.”
After finishing my neck and arms, her gaze landed on a prominent mole just below the areola of my right nipple. As she intently stared at it, her breath, a gentle zephyr, swirled over my nipple. It perked. She noticed.
“I’ll keep an eye on this mole, Annie.”
“You too. Seems everyone likes to perv on my boobs.”
Sophie’s smirk quickly faded. “Let’s put flirting aside for a minute. I want you to keep this mole out of the sun.”
“No topless sunbathing?”
“Not any more. It’s okay for now, but seriously, don’t risk it. Do you mind if I take a picture of the mole for comparison purposes over time?”
“Sure. Am I now allowed to make witty remarks about you perving over images of my tits?”
“Promise me you’ll seriously deal with the risk of this mole, then, yeah, I’d like that.”
Oh, that’s bittersweet. “God, the first time I’ve been confronted by my own mortality.”
“Remember that first-stage melanoma has a high probability of successful treatment. Sensible precautions and continuous checks greatly improve those odds.”
“We’re trying for a baby.”
“All the more reason to be risk-averse. Don’t be despondent, your future is in your hands. Let’s check out the rest of your skin. Smile, Annie.”
I managed a smile, watery and weak. The minx blew her warm, sultry breath against my firm nipple. I whimpered, and suddenly wondered who exactly was seducing whom.
Sophie moved to my feet; every nook and cranny was investigated. Up my legs her gaze travelled, and it was a relief that no more moles were photographed.
Finally, her eyes reached my mound. Paused. Stared hesitantly at my pussy lips, which no doubt were glistening with arousal.
I locked eyes with her. “Tell me.”
“You’re so confident. Reputedly sexually adventurous. I knew I’d like you, but now you’re here …”
I’m fire, baby. “What stops you?”
“My girlfriend. Your husband. Years of conditioning.”
The straitjacket that is earth and water, maybe? “Hubby is cool with our kinkiness; we don’t have secrets. Bet you’re an aficionado of lesbian seduction porn?”
She blushed, endearingly. “How did you guess? She doesn’t know.”
Jesus fucking Christ, this is so written in the stars. “Patient and doctor confidentiality is our obligation, remember. Take the chance to make those fantasies come true.”
Sophie sighed. Her mouth landed ever so softly on my pussy. She held it there, seemingly savouring my arousal as it leeched onto her tongue. Then she looked up at me, her lips glistening, her eyes smouldering. “I don’t want to hold back anymore.”
She pressed my knees apart. I felt my sticky folds unglue. Then she devoured me, sucking my inner lips, which were so slick they slipped from her mouth.
So she licked from perineum to clit. God did she lick, again and again. Lashed my folds with her tongue, then suckled on my clit. Her finger, smeared in my juices, teased the sensitive ridges of my arse-hole, sending shock waves to my throbbing clit.
My hands pressed against her head. Mashed her pretty face into my needy cunt. I arched my hips. My body spasmed. I flooded Sophie with a supernova orgasm.
When I recovered my breath, she was staring up at me, smirking, her mouth glistening with my cum honey. “Didn’t appreciate how good breaking the rules would feel.”
“Welcome to the naughty girl club. We’re not going to heaven, but we’re having way more fun.” I slipped off the examination table and reached into my handbag for my purple Feeldoe.
“Oh my God, you planned everything. Last appointment, ensured my receptionist left early, and packed a sex toy.”
The swaying doe jutted lewdly from my pussy as I stalked across the room. “I was a scout; the motto is be prepared.”
She smirked. “Your confidence is such a turn on.”
“Not just confidence, control too. Get naked, Doctor.”
Sophie quickly shed her clothes. Licked her lips as she stared at my crotch. “My girlfriend can’t abide anything phallic.”
“You’ve missed cock, then?”
“Yeah, I’m a non-practising bisexual. That girlcock in your tempting twat is the best of both worlds.”
“Deep down you’d like to be a bit slutty, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, always in my dreams. Never have in real life.”
“Then I’m going to use you and make you cum so very hard.”
Sophie didn’t reply. She just whimpered, turned, and bent over. Her petite tits crushed into the examination table, and she spread her legs to invitingly present her dewy pussy.
What’s a girl to do?
I thrust the horse end of the Feeldoe deep into her slick cunt. Reached forward and wrapped my fingers in her hair. Then we rutted, totally feral as my hips slapped against her bum as I took her deep and hard, again and again.
She whimpered, she moaned, she thrust back on the girl-cock pressing the pony end against my g-spot.
She screamed my name. Her body shuddered. That triggered me. We came together ever so hard.
When we’d recovered our breath, I wrapped her in my arms and kissed her softly, tenderly. “Any regrets?”
She snuggled against me. “None. Apart from not checking the moles on your back. That’s unprofessional. But, like me, you don’t work Wednesdays.”
Wow, she knew my work schedule. “You’ve researched and planned as much as I did, haven’t you?”
She blushed and I melted. “More hoping than planning. But everything I heard about you was like my fantasies had materialised on my patient list. And today you somehow understood how ripe I was.”
“I promise you I’ll never sunbathe topless again.”
“Good, your dermatologist is bossy about not lying in the sun. Your lover is just as bossy about indoor nakedness. Don’t you dare hold back, I’m done with vanilla.”
“That’s me, kink you can count on.”
Something about my body language must have given me away. When I opened the front door of our apartment, hubby raised his eyebrow. He sweetly kissed me. “Don’t tell me fire hit a home run?”
“Seems so, beneath the dermatologist’s ice maiden exterior, there’s a repressed air sign who craves being allowed to breathe.”
“Seduction success clearly hasn’t improved your wit. You do know this doesn’t prove astrology’s accuracy.”
“Fair. The elemental signs have served me well; the good doctor wants to catch up on Wednesday. But I’m not pushing my luck. Sophie didn’t once mention star signs while examining my skin. So, I’m sure she’d be as unimpressed with my astrology dalliance as you are. But …”
“But, what?”
“She misses cock.”
I felt my husband swell against me. “She knows those baby-making wigglers of yours have to be mine until I’m up the duff. But, then …”
“Then what?”
“Then she’s yours.” Hubby’s cock throbbed against my hand.
If mumbo jumbo got me laid, then it should be up to the challenge of getting me pregnant. “Want to make babies doggie-style, darling?”
“You do realise doggie-is-best isn’t scientifically proven?”
“Yes, silly. It’s also mumbo jumbo. But, like astrology, it’s just so much fucking fun.”
