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Operating Room Session
26/08/21 21:59 🌴
©MaxineDee
Stranger sex in surgery call room.
We roll our last down the halls of the operating room toward recovery long after most of the other surgeries have ended. I drag my feet slightly, tired from operating since twelve hours before. I lay my lazy left hand on the side of the gurney, gently directing it through the few remaining beds waiting for the rest of the other long surgeries to be done. I sigh deeply after giving report of the case to the post-op nurse in Recovery: hardly any blood loss, we lifted the top of her vagina, we tightened the muscles wrapping around her pelvis. I am so brain-dead I don't want dinner. I just want to lay down. I have been up for almost a full day and I take call again tonight.
I swear a little too loudly when I remember I have left the keys to the on call sleep room back in the OR room from which we came. I proceed back there huffily, leaving behind the annoyed looks of the recovery nurses as well as their glares of disapproval. I, however, sincerely doubt any patient waking up from fentanyl and morphine gives two shits which profanities I blurt.
Passing by OR on the way to the room where I came from, I notice this surgeon I have seen a number of times around the hospital. I recall vaguely listening to him lecture about pre-operative care of patients with pace makers, or artificial heart valves or some such topic. I don't even realize I have stopped walking to look in through the glass window of the bright room. There he is, orchestrating the many catheters and tubes to the machine for bypassing the heart and lung so they can operate on the tiny vessels of the delicate coronary vascular system. I see on the screen in the room that the pulse has returned on their patient. They must have just gone off bypass. They are handing him the large needle drivers loaded with the thick wire they use to close sternums.
I startle a little when I feel a small trail of wetness along the left corner of my mouth. I swear again when I realize that I am drooling. I look around, wiping the corner of my mouth and thank my gods that there is no one else close enough to witness my subconscious lust for this tall man controlling the sleeping, trusting body of his patient. When you specialize in gynecologic surgery, the last thing you need is any more shit from general surgery residents who already find you odd and creepy for your interest in the tunnels and planes of the pelvic floor. My last few dates consisted of interrogations of my career choice, "Why the hell would you want to specialize in that?" and "So, you look at fucked up pussy all day?"
Just as I am about to walk away, the surgeon raises his head up. When he looks at me, I see the horn rimmed glasses with the telescopic inserts that these good old boys still wear. I start to giggle as I mentally replace his silly operating glasses with Groucho glasses and an attached moustache. He bows his head slightly and I see his incredibly bright brown eyes narrow at me. He raises one eyebrow and then lowers it so slowly, that is how much control and isolation he has of his actions. And then I swallow, wondering about the gentleness of his hands. Right then, he rams a long needle driver through the sternum. Then I think about the power in his hands. I lick and then bite my bottom lip and I feel the place deep in my own pelvis begin to turn. I swallow again and I wonder about the strength and reach of his slim, long fingers.
Still looking directly at me, bossing the other residents and various assistants, his eyes don't leave mine. He lays out a right hand delicately and they smack a long stainless retractor into his hand. He grasps it with his palm and I can't help notice its resemblance to the thick, shiny stainless steel toys I keep tucked into my drawers at home.
My annoyance at myself for paying attention to this man...
©MaxineDee
Stranger sex in surgery call room.
We roll our last down the halls of the operating room toward recovery long after most of the other surgeries have ended. I drag my feet slightly, tired from operating since twelve hours before. I lay my lazy left hand on the side of the gurney, gently directing it through the few remaining beds waiting for the rest of the other long surgeries to be done. I sigh deeply after giving report of the case to the post-op nurse in Recovery: hardly any blood loss, we lifted the top of her vagina, we tightened the muscles wrapping around her pelvis. I am so brain-dead I don't want dinner. I just want to lay down. I have been up for almost a full day and I take call again tonight.
I swear a little too loudly when I remember I have left the keys to the on call sleep room back in the OR room from which we came. I proceed back there huffily, leaving behind the annoyed looks of the recovery nurses as well as their glares of disapproval. I, however, sincerely doubt any patient waking up from fentanyl and morphine gives two shits which profanities I blurt.
Passing by OR on the way to the room where I came from, I notice this surgeon I have seen a number of times around the hospital. I recall vaguely listening to him lecture about pre-operative care of patients with pace makers, or artificial heart valves or some such topic. I don't even realize I have stopped walking to look in through the glass window of the bright room. There he is, orchestrating the many catheters and tubes to the machine for bypassing the heart and lung so they can operate on the tiny vessels of the delicate coronary vascular system. I see on the screen in the room that the pulse has returned on their patient. They must have just gone off bypass. They are handing him the large needle drivers loaded with the thick wire they use to close sternums.
I startle a little when I feel a small trail of wetness along the left corner of my mouth. I swear again when I realize that I am drooling. I look around, wiping the corner of my mouth and thank my gods that there is no one else close enough to witness my subconscious lust for this tall man controlling the sleeping, trusting body of his patient. When you specialize in gynecologic surgery, the last thing you need is any more shit from general surgery residents who already find you odd and creepy for your interest in the tunnels and planes of the pelvic floor. My last few dates consisted of interrogations of my career choice, "Why the hell would you want to specialize in that?" and "So, you look at fucked up pussy all day?"
Just as I am about to walk away, the surgeon raises his head up. When he looks at me, I see the horn rimmed glasses with the telescopic inserts that these good old boys still wear. I start to giggle as I mentally replace his silly operating glasses with Groucho glasses and an attached moustache. He bows his head slightly and I see his incredibly bright brown eyes narrow at me. He raises one eyebrow and then lowers it so slowly, that is how much control and isolation he has of his actions. And then I swallow, wondering about the gentleness of his hands. Right then, he rams a long needle driver through the sternum. Then I think about the power in his hands. I lick and then bite my bottom lip and I feel the place deep in my own pelvis begin to turn. I swallow again and I wonder about the strength and reach of his slim, long fingers.
Still looking directly at me, bossing the other residents and various assistants, his eyes don't leave mine. He lays out a right hand delicately and they smack a long stainless retractor into his hand. He grasps it with his palm and I can't help notice its resemblance to the thick, shiny stainless steel toys I keep tucked into my drawers at home.
My annoyance at myself for paying attention to this man...
