tagMind ControlThe Commander Ch. 03

The Commander Ch. 03


(Edited and Reposted on 29/01/2014)

This is my first erotic story -- I welcome all feedback.


I am pretty sure he was saying something, but all I could hear was a dull rush. The last words I remember clearly were "pancreatic cancer". I sat in the doctor's examination room while he continued doing whatever he was doing, which I now presume was explaining my options to me.

I had a friend with pancreatic cancer -- he lasted six months after the diagnosis. That was three years ago. It's a death sentence every time. I didn't need to hear from him what my options were. I was fucked.

Something changed. He was now silently staring at me, waiting for something. I returned to earth. I think he was waiting for me to speak.

"I'm sorry. I ... ah ... didn't hear what you said." A graceful bedside manner replaced his clinician's demeanor. He was obviously skilled at breaking this kind of news.

"I was explaining that we should do an explorative procedure as quickly as possible. I don't want to offer false hope, but there is a chance this type of cancer is treatable, or at least we can slow it down." He checked for my understanding before continuing. "We need to do a biopsy. I prefer to schedule one right away -- tomorrow if possible." He added for emphasis, "this cancer can be very aggressive -- we need to know exactly what we are dealing with as quickly as possible. But if there is a compelling reason to wait a day or two, we can hold off."

"Okay," I said, realizing even I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to.

"Okay to tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yeah ... no," I contradicted. "I need ..." I cut myself off from vocalizing that thought. "Can we do it on Wednesday?"

"As long as the O.R. has a slot," he agreed.

"O.R? Isn't this just a biopsy? Like just a needle, or something?"

"Most pancreatic biopsies are," he confirmed, "but in your case the location and nature of the cancerous tissue contraindicates a simple biopsy. We can't know what we're dealing with without going in and taking a look." He paused, gauging how much of the medi-babble I was taking in. I was mostly alert now, listening, so he continued. "We will do a laparoscopy. It is a relatively simple procedure in which the doctor inserts a camera and a surgical instrument through tiny holes in your abdomen.

"When I say relatively simple," he continued, "I mean compared to many surgeries, this is an uncomplicated procedure. But it is still surgery, which always has small, but definite risks. Risks come from a potential reaction to the anesthetics, a surgical site infection, and in any cancer surgery, there is always risk of metastasis." Dr. English (why do doctors always have such weird names?) spent another fifteen minutes explaining the risks, the reasons, the alternatives.

At last I asked him "What is the cost of doing nothing -- just wait it out?"

He didn't seem put off by the question. He took a moment before answering. "Our real problem right now is we don't have a detailed understanding of what you're dealing with. Your test results don't tell us if your cancer started in the pancreas or somewhere else, so we don't know how to treat it. If we don't know how to treat it, then it runs its own course.

"Don, I'm not going to sugar coat this. You have an uphill battle ahead of you, but right now, we don't even know which way is up, so there can be no battle until we go in there and take a look around." Dr. English was aptly named. He had a way of explaining complicated matters clearly.

My focus drifted back to my present hospital room. A pulled curtain across the middle of the room created the illusion of privacy between me and my fellow oncology roommate. Outside the window, a grey Friday afternoon beheld the infinite loop of a million faceless commuters plodding their way back home again, like streams of countless ants tracing along their insect highways.

My recollected conversation with Dr. English was on Monday. The biopsy procedure was scheduled for Wednesday morning, but an apartment fire with a roof collapse in the wee hours filled up the operating rooms with emergency surgeries, bumping me to Thursday morning. The procedure was uneventful. The doctors wouldn't tell me any results though, which I was taking to mean bad news. I figured they're waiting for the biopsy lab results to confirm what they already knew.

While the laparoscopic surgery was fine, the nurses started to worry at the fever I developed overnight -- possible signs of a postoperative infection, so the resident doctor ordered antibiotics and decided to keep me in for observation until I stabilized. Looks like I had the weekend with my thoughts. And with Billy.

Billy was my semi-private room fellow oncology patient. We spoke a few times. I'm guessing Billy is in his early thirties. Divorced, no kids. Billy had testicular cancer -- one of them had to go. I had heard Billy ask his doctor about having sex after the operation. I get the impression Billy considers himself a player, and the thought of losing half his manhood terrified him. I overheard his doctors tell him that everything will return to normal after a few months, but I could tell he didn't believe it.

My thoughts were interrupted by the nurse who came in to check my vitals. She's 50 pounds overweight and I could smell traces of cigarette smoke on her breath. I am always intrigued by such ironies. She checked my IV drip, blood pressure, and temperature -- 102.3. She asked if I needed anything for pain -- I vaguely ached all over from the fever, but I was fine otherwise, so I declined the offer. There wasn't much for her to do for Billy -- he arrived that morning as a pre-op patient -- his nut-ectomy was scheduled for Saturday morning. They took him away earlier on Friday for a manscape shave, but health wise he was an ordinary guy waiting for someone to cut his left ball off -- not much for the nurse to fuss over.

"I'll be finishing my shift in a few minutes," announced the nurse on her way out. "Claire will be your night nurse."

"Okay," I replied.

"Do you know Claire?" Billy asked after the nurse left.

"She was on last night."

"Nice?" I knew what he was asking. The guy was still fixating on his sun setting manhood.

"Cute face. Hot little hard body."

"Ah man," he moaned. "On the night before. If only ..." he couldn't bring himself to finish the impossible thought.

"You never know," I mused. Billy didn't dignify my optimism platitude with an answer, but he had no way of knowing I was in the early stages of planning a going away party for Billy's left nut.

Claire checked in on me at just after 6:30. Late twenties and five foot five, I'd guess. Green eyes, clear complexion. Her sharp bangs and shoulder length straight black hair framed her long face attractively. Think of Demi Moore in Ghost, but with green eyes and longer hair, and you get the picture. Even with the typical loose nurse attire, you could tell Claire was slim, firm, and fit. She had very slim hips. I imagined supple, strong legs beneath those baggy scrubs with a perfect round ass. Small breasts -- I am more of a mid to large size breast man, but I imagined Claire's were perky and shapely.

Claire was pleasant and talkative, but all business. No flirting, no innuendos. She frowned at my temperature -- 102.1.

She visited on the bottom of every hour to take my vitals. Every time Claire came in I made idle conversation, and asked innocent details about her. In five visits I found out Claire was born and raised locally. Single, no kids, one cat. She had never travelled abroad, but wants to see Europe. She got her nursing degree two years ago at Heymount College. Still paying off her school loans. Speaks only English. Works out at the gym regularly. Has a sister in law school. Doesn't smoke. I mentioned I could smell it on my earlier nurse, and that got Claire going -- to her it isn't irony, it's personally irresponsible. Her parents are still alive and have a cottage on a lake I have never heard of about 3 hours away. She alternates between three and four 12-hour shifts week to week, which she enjoys because of the built-in long weekends.

I noticed Billy took a keen interest in my fireside chats with Claire. He was too nervous to sleep anyway, so he was wide awake when Claire came in at 2:30 in the morning. The deep night time is slow. Many patients don't get checked when they sleep, but they checked my fever every hour like clockwork. I hadn't done the usual background checks on Claire, but my pleasant banter didn't raise any flags, so I took a chance.

Every nurse has a routine. With Claire, the pulse was the last thing she checked. So when she held my wrist to feel my heartbeat, I lay back on my bed let my vision collapse into a long, dark tunnel. I was expecting the disorientation as I jumped Claire, so I steadied myself against the bed, looking down upon my own peaceful body.

I pretended to finish up the pulse check, and then in Claire's voice said "all good", a common phrase she used. I looked around, checking if I might have missed anything, but everything looked in order. I walked to the door like Claire does every time, but instead of leaving, I closed the door. There is no lock on patient doors. I then went into the attached bathroom and closed that door. I wanted to give Billy a little show. I pulled Claire's stethoscope from around her neck and stuffed it into her shirt pocket. Then I took off her shirt and bra. I was wrong about her breasts -- they weren't small and shapely, they were nearly flat with long, hard nipples -- they looked like pencil erasers. If it weren't for her dazzling facial features, Claire could easily pass for a man wearing just Jeans and a T-Shirt. Oh, well, they would have to do.

I left Claire's bra in the sink and pulled her top back on. I opened the bathroom door and went to the door to the hallway and checked through the small window -- all clear. I walked with Claire's professional gait to Billy's side of the room, and pulled the curtain around his bed so prying eyes couldn't see from the hallway. Billy was following Claire's every move with wide eyes. At last, I slipped inside the curtain enclosure.

"I hear you're going into surgery tomorrow," I said.

"Yeah," sulked Billy.

"You know, people who go through this procedure find that their full sexual performance returns to normal within a few months." I didn't know shit about what I was talking about, except I was parroting what I had overheard the doctors say earlier that day.

"Yeah," he offered politely, "that's what they tell me."

"No, seriously," I offered earnestly, "you're mojo will come back."

"I don't know," he huffed politely.

"Well, let's take a look," I offered in that condescending "we" nurse tone. I pulled his bed covers down to his knees. He was wearing one of those hospital gowns that ties up in the back -- the kind that comes down to your mid-thigh. I delicately lifted his gown away from his lower body, and folded it upwards, exposing his flaccid junk. I was trying to act professionally, like I knew Claire would. Billy was on his best behavior, trying desperately not to grow a boner. "Do you mind," I said, touching my finger to his shaved ball sack.

"No," he breathed hoarsely. I clinically inspected his scrotum, felt his balls and -- OH MY GOD! -- I could feel the lump. I nearly stopped everything, but then remembered my mission. I let go with my hand and erased the lump from my mind. I randomly poked and prodded a bit more around Billy's hairless groin, as if I knew what I was doing. Finally I encircled Claire's thumb and forefinger around the base of Billy's penis and squeezed gently but firmly.

"Does that hurt?" I asked.

Billy lay his head back and closed his eyes. "No," he croaked, and I could feel his member swell ever so slightly, but was still soft. Still with Claire's thumb and finger in a cock ring configuration, I pulled a gentle tug upwards and held it there.

"How about that?" I asked in Claire's voice.

Billy just shook his head no this time. "So this," I confirmed, starting to lightly jerk Claire's encircled thumb and forefinger up and down Billy's still soft shaft, "doesn't hurt a bit?"

"Oh God!" cried Billy, his eyes still closed.

Now I wrapped all Claire's fingers around his cock, and started jerking Billy for real. "Tell me if any part of this hurts," I instructed Billy, still in Claire's professional nurse tone.

Billy opened his eyes wide, looking directly into Claire's face to see if there was anything there beyond a clinician's professional curiosity. I held my gaze as neutral as I could, jerking Billy a little faster now. That did it -- the increase in Claire's tempo slammed Billy's cock into rock hard mode in a matter of seconds.

"Well," I said in a typical nurse's matter-of-fact and I-don't-care tone, "everything seems to be working," and I stopped jerking Billy. I released Claire's hand and pulled his smock back down over his rock hard junk. The fabric tented, and I wanted to laugh at the sight, but I had to remain professional.

"Oh my fucking God," Billy cried. "You have to be shitting me!"

"What's wrong?" I asked, still in Claire's diagnostic tone. "Do you feel any pain?"

"Fuck, no!" yelled Billie.

"Shhhhhhhhh!" I scolded him. "You don't want to wake your neighbor, do you?"

"I'm sorry, it's just that ..." he couldn't say it.

"It's just what?" I asked, still in her best nursing tone. I was driving the poor fucker crazy.

"I thought ... you know ... you were going to ..."

"To what?"

"You know ... you know."

"Tell me what you mean, otherwise I can't help you."

Billy went silent for nearly a whole minute, and I could finally see the 'Oh what the hell' light go on. "I thought you were going to jerk me off."

"Oh, Billy," I said apologetically, "you know I am not allowed to do that. What made you think ..."

"Because!" he yelled a whisper at me, "you were jerking me off!"

"I am so sorry, Billy," I apologized in the 'I am not really sorry at all' nurse's tone. "You must know I can never jerk you off. I was just checking to see if you had your mojo."

"Fuck!" Billy was pissed and hopelessly embarrassed. He turned his red face away from Claire. He couldn't face her any more. I had to bring this around now.

I stood for a moment, looking at Billy, and then I said. "No, jerking a patient off is totally against the rules." Then I reached down to the bottom hem of Claire's top, and hoisted it up over her head in a single fluid motion, showing Billy her A- titties. "But the last time I looked," in what I guessed might be Claire's 'fuck me now' tone of voice, "the rules don't mention anything about a blowjob."

"Oh you sweet wet dream, you!" cried Billy. I hopped up on his bed and straddled his legs in kneeling position. I pulled his tented smock away, bent forward, and took his rock hard cock into Claire's mouth. He was average size -- about five or six inches. I have done enough of those, I am probably getting good at it.

I decided Billy had endured enough teasing. And Claire has been away for a while -- someone might start looking for her, so I went straight to work. I bobbed Claire's lips firmly up and down Billy's shaft, being careful not to let her teeth drag along that sensitive skin. Billy started moaning. I once had to stop and ask him to quiet down -- I was worried someone in the hallway would hear. Within five minutes of alternating sucking and jerking I could sense Billy was ready to blow. At last he ruptured, and I stayed on him, swallowing Billy's protein shake into Claire's stomach.

Worried about Claire's absence being noticed, I dismounted Billy's bed as soon as he was done, picked up Claire's top, went to the bathroom, and donned her bra and top. I gargled a little water to rid Claire's mouth of the semen after-flavor. I even remember to take her stethoscope out of her pocket and drape it around her neck again. Then I went back to Billy, and said "I have to check on the guy in the next bed. When he wakes, you can not say a word!"

"Okay," conspired Billy.

"In fact, Billy, we will never talk about this again. Not ever. Do not even try. Agreed?"

"You got it," he promised. "And Claire?"

"Yes," I turned to him.

"Thank you."

"Just remember," I chided in Claire's nursing tone again, "that mojo is coming back, okay?"

"Fuckin' okay!" he laughed.

Claire walked over to the patient in the next bed, picked up his wrist in the exact position she had before, and then I leaped back.

I looked over to see Claire stumble backward.

"Whoa!" I called out. "You okay?"

"I ... I guess ..."

"You were just taking my pulse, and then you nearly fell over," I commentated. "Do you want me to call for help?"

"Oh, no!" she chided. She had regained her composure. "I'm fine. You just stay there." And without another word, Claire walked out of the room smacking her lips oddly.

Having done my good deed, I was ready for bed. "Good night, Billy," I gently called out, but there was no reply. Billy was already fast asleep, building his energy for tomorrow's surgery.

As I tried to drift off to sleep, a dark thought clouded my mind. I began to realize what I did to Claire wasn't fair. It's not what you think. It's not about the blowjob -- if Billy kept his promise, she'll never know it happened, and it will never haunt her. It's about the loss of time. From Claire's perspective, she lost 20 minutes taking someone's pulse. That's not something that will go unnoticed. Nurses record the exact hour and minute in official medical records every time they do something. Claire had an inexplicable 20 minute gap in her memory and in her patients' charts.

With most people, like Jake from the grocery store, exact time is not such an important component of their everyday lives. Even Fiona can shake off a one-time lapse of consciousness. In Jet's case, I brought the time gap to his attention, and used it as proof The Commander exists. That time lapse will haunt Jet for all his days, which is what I wanted.

I do not want that for Claire. As a health care practitioner, Claire will know there is a short list of psychiatric disorders that can account for such a consciousness gap, and none of them is good. Oddly enough, mind-to-mind transfer will not be on that list. My going away present to Billy may have cost Claire her peace of mind. I should have done more homework before doing that jump.

I lay in my bed for hours without any hope of sleep. When Claire returned at 3:30, I asked if she was okay. She scoffed at the notion anything was wrong, but I knew she could never admit she harbored suspicions about her own sanity to a patient under her care. I couldn't face her after that, so I stared out the window into the black night for the whole time she checked in on me during her 4:30 and 5:30 visits. I never saw Claire after that.

The Commander had earned a penance he could not pay.

At 8:30 on Saturday morning the surgeon and the oncologist paid me a visit. The fever was not getting any better. They started me on an antibiotic Thursday morning, but the fever was not responding. Also the blood tests were back, showing a high white blood cell count, providing further evidence of an infection. If it didn't break soon, or if it got worse, they had to consider operating again to see if they nicked something while they were in there.

I figured that was the good news, and braced for the bad, but the biopsy results weren't back yet -- they were expected by the end of the day.

The chest pains started around 11 that morning. At first I just thought they were the aches and pains I was already feeling from the fever, but by noon the pain was becoming unbearable. By the time a nurse responded to my call button I was panting. I didn't realize I was sweating until she mentioned it. At one point I thought I might faint, and that is when they started taking things more seriously.

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