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It was late afternoon on one of his few days off, and all attending physician Jack Abbot could think about was Samira Mohan. Or more specifically, think about trying not to think about her. And it wasn’t fucking working, quitting drinking had been great for so many reasons but when it came to drowning out thoughts that one really shouldn’t be having damn it it would’ve been useful to have a bottle of whiskey on hand.
Bruno, the dog he had been forced into adopting, was curled up at his feet. Residual limb propped up on the coffee table, some crappy baking show quietly playing in the background of his sparse apartment. Mostly empty, except for a large leather couch which was both too expensive and too big to truly justify having, and the before mentioned wooden coffee table.
The dog was a good distraction, heavy and warm, soft. She would be so soft, her skin like caramel melting to his touch, Jack could practically feel his catholic guilt rising from the dead to haunt him about this.. Infatuation as he was thinking it. Her hair would be soft too, she probably had some complicated curl protocol, was that sexist to assume? Fuck now he’s a sexist old man instead of just a creepy one.
Her hair, inky black spilling across his pillow as he would trace her waist with his calloused hands and oh fuck, this was what couldn’t happen. He couldn’t allow himself this, this dirty habit. Stick to smoking Jack, stick to jerking off in the shower, don’t think.
Is this the sort of thing you’re supposed to talk to your therapist about? Mark, his VA recommended counsellor surely had better things to think about then whatever this was. He probably had an age appropriate wife and 2.5 kids and a dog that didn’t smell like shit no matter how many baths he was given.
A cocktail of antipsychotics and other meds designed to structure his brain into something more palatable awaited him at the dining table he had ever so thoughtfully shoved in a corner and covered in other junk. Samira wouldn’t like that, she would want someone with a dining table in the middle of a room like a normal fucking person, someone who owned more than two chairs, one reserved for her boss and one for her boss in law.
He didn’t deserve to call her that, Samira. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman, he would treasure her like she so deserved. Treat her better than anyone before, do everything for her. Grovel at her feet for more ways to help, to work, to be of service to her. Beg for a chance to be the floor under her feet, stable and solid for her to lean her weary weight on.
He needed to cleanse himself, get rid of this filth that paraded in his mind. Could go to church? But that risked seeing too many people, and would undoubtedly result in him crying dry tears to sleep. Shower then, let the soapy water wash away his desire.
He pushed up from the couch, grabbing the forearm crutches that rested on the side and carefully stood up, without disturbing the big lump of dog at his feet.
Making his way down the hall, the bathrooms dim lights flickered on as he leaned the crutches against the weathered sink. His shirt came off first, an old thing from some charity walk Robby dragged him into back when they had a little more will to live. Pulling it over his head he looked at himself in the mirror, just a pale expanse of skin covered in freckles and skinny silver scars. Samira didn’t need this, didn’t deserve to be weighed down by his trauma.
Pants came next, usual brown cargos slipped over his residual limb as he sat down on the edge of the toilet seat. Dark raised lines, horizontally framing his good legs and upper thigh. Memories of a younger man, with a lot on his shoulders and a little less on his feet.
Devoid of clothing now, he stepped into the small shower cubicle. He had avoided renovating it for years, so instead a red stool sat in the corner as his “accomadation” to himself.
The water was cold to start with as he first turned it on, brutally so as the faucet flicked up to spray him straight in the face. He sputtered with the impact, salt and pepper curls plastering to his forehead with the cool spray, as water began to drip down the hard planes of his body.
He stood up, pushing off the stupid stool. Always hated sitting in the shower, would rather risk breaking (another) bone that have to use something like that.
Samira wouldn’t like that, she would want him to sit down. She cared so much, it hurt to watch her deal with such empathy in a department that didn’t usually reward that. Robby used to be like that, is that what drew him to Samira? That empathy? The idea that if she could care so much for every patient, she could care for him too?
Fuck.
He pumped twice on his body wash, lathering himself in the sandalwood scent. Would she like it? Would she shower with him? Would she like his smell? His skin? Would his scars bother her, or would she kiss them better.
This was dangerous, thinking about her like this. Her skin against his. He would massage the knots in her tired back, kneel at her feet and rub his fingers into her tight calves. What would she smell like? Taste like? Would she let him put his mouth on her? Could he earn that?
He imagined what it would be like, her running fingers through his hair, as she held him down onto her. He would take it all, anything she gave him he would devour. Warm, messy kisses tasting like soap and shower water.
Warmth pooled in his stomach, his cock growing hard in his hand as he loosely stroked himself. Disgusting, he can’t do this, he can't let this happen.
He slumped into the red chair, wrapping his dog tags around his hand he tugged on them, keeping himself on a short leash, away from the dangerous road.
His hand found it’s way back down, up and down he took the chain of his tags into his mouth and bit, suppressing filthy sounds.
He dug his nails into his forearm, scratching into it as he sped up his pace. Curses and moans coming off his tongue, would she mind? He’s always been a talker, she would feel so good he would need to tell her.
Faster, it just needed to end. Maybe as soon as he came he would be resolved, guilt free and no longer plagued with this filth. Samira Mohan would leave him be, to his quiet house and his layered medications.
Or would she stay, would she force his head down on her, would she let him eat her out like she deserved. Would she let his hands do what his words couldn’t, let him bring her from orgasm to orgasm like she so deserved.
Hot cum sped over his shower floor as he fucked up into his hand, bucking his spent hips as shivers ran through him. No great clarity became him, just the cold reality that he was fifty and jerking off to a woman half his age.
He cleaned himself up, drying off and dressing in the clothes from earlier.
Then, he packed up his go bag and drove himself to the hospital for his shift, where he would be forced to make eye contact with Mohan even after what he’d just done.
The end!!