Chinese Nurse Home Visit

Anton knocked once and waited, the strap of his nurse’s bag biting into his shoulder. He was twenty-eight, and the afternoon heat had already started to cling to the collar of his pale blue scrub top. When the door opened, the man on the other side was taller than the chart suggested, broad through the chest, and leaning on a single crutch with the easy impatience of someone who hated needing it. Errol was thirty-five. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, his T-shirt stretched over a solid stomach, and one leg of his gray sweatpants was pushed up above a brace that looked more decorative than necessary.

Their eyes met and held.

Anton’s pulse jumped. Errol’s did the same. It was not subtle. The air between them tightened, warm and immediate, the kind of recognition that skipped politeness and went straight to want. Errol’s mouth curved. Anton’s did too, slower, more careful, and no less hungry.

“Home visit for the knee,” Anton said. His voice came out lower than he meant it to. “I’m Anton. You’re Errol.”

“That’s me.” Errol stepped back, crutch tapping, and let him in. The apartment smelled like clean laundry and coffee. Sunlight lay across a wide couch. “Doctor said you’d check the incision, the swelling, all that. I was expecting someone older. And less—” He looked Anton over, openly, from the sharp line of his jaw to the way the scrubs sat on his hips. “—distracting.”

Anton shut the door. Heat moved up the back of his neck. “You say that to every nurse who walks in?”

“Only the ones who look at me like that.”

Anton did not deny it. He set his bag on the coffee table and washed his hands at the kitchen sink while Errol lowered himself onto the couch, the motion careful, the brace clicking. When Anton came back, gloves on, he knelt on the rug between Errol’s knees and tried to remember he was here to work. The chart said recent arthroscopy, limited swelling, good range, pain managed. The man in front of him said something else entirely: the slow spread of his thighs, the way he watched Anton’s mouth, the thick quiet that had already turned shameless.

“Brace off,” Anton said.

Errol unfastened it himself, watching him the whole time. Anton’s gloved fingers found the small healed incision along the outer knee, cool and professional for exactly as long as he could manage. Then his hands moved higher, checking the quadriceps, the warmth of the thigh under thin cotton. Errol’s breath changed. Anton felt it. He pressed gently along the muscle and let his palm linger a second too long.

“Any tightness here?” he asked.

“Plenty,” Errol said. “Not all of it is the knee.”

Anton glanced up. The look between them was naked now, no exam room between them, no one else in the apartment. He slid his hand inward, clinical on the surface, nothing clinical underneath. The inner thigh was hot. Errol’s cock had already started to thicken against the soft gray fabric, impossible to miss from this angle, and Anton’s own was answering, heavy and insistent inside his scrubs.

“You should tell me if anything hurts,” Anton said, and his thumb stroked once, slow, along the seam where thigh met groin.

“Nothing hurts,” Errol said. His voice had gone rough. “Keep going.”

Anton did. He mapped the muscle with both hands, spreading Errol’s legs a little wider under the excuse of the exam, and every pass of his gloves dragged closer to the swell of Errol’s cock. The tension sat between them thick enough to taste. Errol’s hand flexed on the cushion. Anton’s mouth was dry. Neither of them looked away.

“You’re hard,” Anton said quietly.

“So are you.” Errol’s eyes dropped to the front of Anton’s scrubs and stayed there. “And you’re still touching me like you want to find out how hard.”

Anton smiled, small and wrecked. “I do.”

His gloved hands stayed on Errol’s inner thighs, not moving away, not pretending anymore. The checkup was still happening. So was everything else. Errol shifted, opening himself further, and the sound he made when Anton’s knuckles brushed the base of his cock through the sweatpants was low and grateful and completely willing.

“Then stop being polite about it,” Errol said.

Anton looked at the handsome, flushed man under his hands and felt the last of his restraint go thin. The apartment was quiet. The door was locked. Errol was watching him like he already knew how this visit was going to end, and Anton, kneeling there with his pulse in his throat, knew it too.

He let his palms settle high on those warm inner thighs and held them there, gloves smooth, pressure deliberate. Errol’s cock jumped under the cotton. Anton’s own ached. The spark from the doorway had turned into something shameless and mutual, and neither of them was interested in putting it out.

Errol’s hips shifted again, a small helpless roll toward Anton’s hands, and the admission came out of him rough and unashamed.

“I’m so fucking turned on I can barely sit still,” he said. “You walk in looking like that, get on your knees between my legs, and touch me like you already know what I want. I’ve been hard since you said my name.”

Anton felt the words hit low in his gut. He stayed where he was for one more breath, thumbs stroking the tender skin just beside Errol’s cock, feeling the heat through the thin sweatpants, feeling how badly Errol wanted this and how badly he wanted it back. Then he smiled, slow and sure, and peeled the gloves off one finger at a time. The snap of latex was loud in the quiet room. He dropped them on the coffee table and set his bare hands back on Errol’s thighs, skin to skin this time, warmer, hungrier.

“I want you too,” he said. “I wanted you the second you opened the door. If you want me to stop, say it now. If you don’t, I’m going to kiss you, and then I’m going to take these clothes off you, and you’re going to let me.”

“Don’t stop.” Errol’s hand came up and caught the front of Anton’s scrub top, pulling. “I want all of it. I want you.”

Anton rose onto his knees and kissed him.

It was not careful. Errol’s mouth opened under his at once, hot and eager, and Anton licked into it with a low sound he didn’t try to hide. Errol tasted like coffee and want. His free hand slid into Anton’s black hair and held on, not guiding so much as claiming, and Anton answered by biting his lower lip and soothing it with his tongue. They kissed like men who had been waiting longer than an afternoon, messy and deep, breath breaking between them. Errol groaned into his mouth when Anton’s palm finally cupped him through the sweatpants, thick and fully hard now, the shape of him unmistakable.

“Off,” Errol muttered against his lips. “Get this off me.”

Anton broke the kiss only long enough to drag the T-shirt up and over Errol’s head. The chest underneath was broad, lightly haired, nipples already tight. Anton bent and mouthed one, then the other, while his hands shoved the sweatpants down. Errol lifted his hips to help, careful of the knee and careless of everything else, and the pants and briefs came off together. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed, a clear bead already shining at the tip. Anton wrapped his bare hand around it and stroked once, slow, from base to crown, and Errol’s head dropped back against the couch with a broken curse.

“Your turn,” Errol said, reaching. “I want to see you.”

Anton let him. Errol yanked the scrub top off, palms skating over Anton’s chest, his stomach, the lean muscle of his sides. Chinese and twenty-eight and flushed down to his collarbones, Anton looked nothing like the polite professional who had knocked. He stood long enough for Errol to shove the scrub pants and briefs down his thighs. His cock was long, darker at the head, already wet. Errol stared at it, licked his lips, and pulled Anton back down into another kiss that was all teeth and tongue and greedy hands.

They stripped the rest of the way between kisses, socks kicked aside, clothes heaped on the rug. Skin met skin. Errol’s hands mapped Anton’s ass and pulled him closer until their cocks slid together, slick and hot. Anton rocked against him, panting into his mouth, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other wrapped around both of them for a few filthy strokes that made Errol shake.

“Tell me you want this,” Anton said against his jaw, because he needed to hear it again with both of them naked and shaking. “All of it.”

“I want it,” Errol said, immediate, certain. “I want your mouth. I want your cock. I want you to fuck me on this couch until I can’t think. Yes. Now.”

Anton kissed him again, harder, and Errol kissed back like a man who had already decided. Hands roamed. Mouths opened. Consent sat between them as plain as the heat, spoken and answered, and neither of them was backing away from it.

Anton kissed down Errol’s chest, slow on purpose, tasting salt and clean skin, pausing to suck a mark just above one nipple until Errol’s fingers tightened in his hair. He kept going, over the soft give of Errol’s stomach, down the trail of hair, until his mouth hovered at the flushed head of Errol’s cock. He looked up. Errol was watching him with his lips parted, chest rising fast, one hand still in Anton’s hair and the other fisted in the couch cushion.

“Please,” Errol said.

Anton licked him from base to tip, a long flat stroke that made Errol’s thighs jump, then took the head into his mouth and sucked. The taste was sharp and clean. He worked his tongue under the ridge, hollowed his cheeks, and sank lower by inches, letting Errol feel every bit of it. Saliva slicked his lips. He pulled off, stroked with his fist, and went down again, deeper this time, until the head nudged the back of his throat. He breathed through it, relaxed, and took him deeper still, a slow, wet deep-throat that had Errol cursing in a wrecked voice.

“Fuck—Anton—your mouth—”

Anton held him there, throat fluttering, nose pressed to the warm hair at Errol’s base, then drew back with a filthy sound and did it again. He set a rhythm that was unhurried and devastating: down until his lips met his fist, up with suction that made Errol’s hips twitch, tongue swirling, one hand rolling Errol’s balls while the other stroked what his mouth left free. Drool shone on his chin. Errol’s cock throbbed against his tongue, thick and insistent, and every time Anton swallowed him to the root Errol’s stomach clenched and a broken sound tore out of him.

“I’m not going to last if you keep—” Errol gasped, tugging gently at his hair. “I want you inside me. I want to come with you fucking me.”

Anton pulled off with a wet pop, lips swollen, eyes dark. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for his bag, because some habits survived even this. The small bottle of lube he kept for dry skin was not meant for this, but it would do, and Errol watched him slick his fingers with an expression that was pure hunger.

“Turn over,” Anton said. “Hands on the back of the couch. Knee that needs it stays easy. Tell me if anything pulls.”

Errol moved, careful and eager at once, bracing his good leg and angling the healing one so the brace of muscle didn’t strain. He bent over the couch cushions, ass up, back arched, looking over his shoulder with his cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Anton knelt behind him and spread him open with both hands. The sight of him like that—flushed, waiting, wanting—made Anton’s cock jump.

He pressed one slick finger in, slow, and Errol groaned into the cushion.

“More,” Errol said. “I can take it. I want it.”

Anton gave him a second finger, then a third, working them in with steady twists, crooking until he found the spot that made Errol’s whole body jolt and his cock drip onto the rug. He fucked him open on his fingers until the tight ring of muscle gave and fluttered, until Errol was pushing back and swearing and asking for his cock in a voice that had gone hoarse.

Anton slicked himself, lined up, and pushed in.

The first inch was heat and pressure so intense he had to stop, forehead against Errol’s spine, both of them shaking. Errol reached back and gripped his hip.

“Don’t stop. I want all of you. Fuck me.”

Anton sank in the rest of the way in one long, powerful stroke. Errol cried out, not in pain, in the raw shock of being filled, and Anton held there, buried to the hilt, feeling Errol clench and pulse around him. Then he drew back and drove in again, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the sunlit room. He set a pace that was deep and relentless, long strokes that pulled almost all the way out before slamming home, each one punching a grunt out of Errol and a low moan out of himself.

“Like that,” Errol gasped. “Harder. God, you’re thick—don’t you dare go easy on me.”

Anton didn’t. He gripped Errol’s hips and fucked him in steady, powerful thrusts, the couch creaking, Errol’s ass taking every inch and asking for more. Sweat gathered at the small of Anton’s back. He watched his cock disappear into that tight heat and felt something savage and grateful twist in his chest. He reached around and stroked Errol in time with his thrusts, slick with precome, until Errol was shaking and babbling yes, yes, right there.

“Switch,” Anton said, voice wrecked, pulling out before either of them tipped over. “I want to watch you ride me.”

Errol turned, flushed and wild-eyed, and Anton dropped onto the couch, cock gleaming, thighs spread. Errol climbed over him facing away, reverse, and reached back to guide Anton’s cock to his hole. He sank down in one slow, devastating slide, taking him to the root, and the sound he made was almost a sob of pleasure. Anton’s hands clamped on his waist.

“Move,” Anton said. “Use me.”

Errol did. He rose and dropped, ass slapping against Anton’s hips, riding him in a filthy reverse-cowboy rhythm that let Anton see every flex of his back, every clench as he took that long cock again and again. Anton thrust up to meet him, driving deep, one hand sliding around to fist Errol’s dripping cock, the other spread over his stomach to feel himself moving inside. Errol braced his hands on Anton’s knees and fucked himself harder, head thrown back, moans spilling out of him without shame.

“You feel so good,” Errol panted. “So deep—Anton, fuck—”

Anton sat up enough to mouth the sweat at Errol’s shoulder, still thrusting, still stroking. The angle made Errol cry out and grind down, chasing it, and for a few blazing minutes there was nothing in the room but the wet sound of their bodies and the rough praise they kept giving each other. Anton was close. Errol was closer. Anton wanted more of him, wanted to see his face when he came.

“On your back,” he said. “I want your legs up. I want to watch you take it.”

Errol climbed off, shaky, and Anton guided him down onto the cushions, careful of the knee even now, even shaking with need. He hooked Errol’s good leg over his shoulder and eased the other high, folding him open, pinning him there with his weight and his hands. Errol looked up at him, wrecked and smiling, and nodded.

“Do it. Pound me. I want to feel you come in me.”

Anton pushed back in and didn’t hold back.

He fucked Errol hard, long strokes turning short and savage, hips snapping, the couch thumping the wall. Errol’s legs stayed high, pinned, his hole gripping Anton’s cock on every thrust. Anton bent and kissed him through it, messy and breathless, then straightened so he could watch: Errol’s face slack with pleasure, his cock slapping against his stomach, precome smearing his skin, the place where they were joined shiny and obscene. Anton drove into him again and again, angling to hit that spot, and Errol came apart under him.

“I’m—fuck—I’m coming—”

Errol’s cock jerked and spilled in thick white stripes across his own chest and stomach, pulse after pulse, his ass clamping down so hard Anton saw white. Anton fucked him through it, chasing his own edge, and then he was there, buried deep, coming with a broken groan, filling Errol’s ass in hot spurts that seemed to go on and on. He kept thrusting through the aftershocks, shallow and shaky, until he was spent and Errol was trembling under him, both of them soaked and gasping, the room ringing with it.

Anton stayed inside him while they came down, forehead pressed to Errol’s, both of them laughing a little, breathless and stunned. When he finally eased out, a trickle of his come followed, and Errol made a soft, satisfied sound at the feel of it.

They caught their breath against each other, skin sticking, hearts slowing by degrees. Anton kissed him then, long and unhurried, tasting salt and the last of the urgency, and Errol kissed him back with a hand cupping his jaw like he didn’t want the afternoon to end just because their bodies had. Anton pulled a clean cloth from his bag, warmed it at the sink, and came back to wipe Errol down with careful hands—chest, stomach, the tender place between his thighs—gentle where he had been rough, murmuring nothing in particular while Errol watched him with heavy, fond eyes.

He helped Errol back into the sweatpants and T-shirt, easing the fabric over the knee, settling him against the cushions with a pillow under the leg. Anton dressed more slowly, scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess, the professional look thoroughly ruined and neither of them pretending otherwise. He wrote his number on the back of a clinic card and set it on the table. Errol picked it up, thumb brushing the digits, and smiled.

“Next scheduled visit is in ten days,” Errol said. “You’re still my nurse for that one.”

“I’ll be here,” Anton said. He leaned down and kissed him once more, soft at the corner of his mouth. “And if you want me after the checkup, not just during it, you already have my number.”

Errol caught his wrist before he could straighten all the way, eyes bright, voice low and sure.

“Then tell me the truth before you go—when you walk back through that door, are you going to examine my knee first, or are you going to bend me over this couch and fuck me like you already own me?”