The Man in Blac

The night hung to the Man in Black like a blanket of solitude and emptiness. No matter how fast he rode there was no way he could throw it off. The road, like those he traveled before, was black and solemn and giving of the illusion that it was the same patch of road ever one hundred yards or so that was added to the road ahead seamlessly by some mad design. Even the trees echoed this hypothesis, repeating in size and shape like part of some Atari game.

The Man in Black’s features were obscured by the darkness and the shadows that hung to his face. He had eyes that always seemed in shadow and hair that blended into the night like a magical imp. In light or dark his features never changed. His eyes bore no laugh lines nor did his mouth bare effect of even one frown. It was like he was not real, not flesh and bone but rather a false thing, a creature of myth. His muscles were defined, rough. His skin dark and chiseled. More than one person who saw him thought of Michelangelo or some other sculptor.

He shut off the light and drove by whatever light diffused through the clouds. He drove this way for some time, enjoyed it and welcomed the sensation of heightened senses that animals feel who hunt at night. It was not during this time that he fell off the bike. That was later when he turned the light back on. When he did, the loop of trees, road, trees road was finally broken by a deer that stood broadside on the road. His last thought was a curse to the light that froze the deer to the road. When you are the only source of light besides the moon, he thought, nothing good can come from it. Nothing that mesmerizes a creature like this can be good.

What was given to him now was a sensation of motion without any sense of where or when. This confused him because, if nothing else, he always knew motion. Knew it at birth. Knew it like a breath because that was the only other constant beside the organ that pumped blood under his skin. He had realized the sensation of motion at birth and mastered it. It was how he was able to operate his bike without light. It was how he knew there was no way to pass the deer at his current velocity and was able to ascertain the exact tree that would stop his flight. But now the sensation of motion stayed with him after he stopped, after his helmet cracked in two, after his mind told him he had stopped. It was not his motion that confused him, or not all him motion. Now it seemed night itself moved.

The night that once covered now hung over his body which was now by the side of the road. Like a lover the blackness, the night, mounted him, and like any decent man he acquiesced to her demands. He was adaptable that way. He adapted to the road, to the solitude of darkness and would adapt to the night as a lover. After all what little was known to him, he could take what was given with little complaint.

Debra Henning was a nurse for St. Mary’s Hospital, in Lubbeux, Texas. She was a nurse now for a few months, straight out of Texas State U, out of the arms of the predictable yet loving pitcher for the Texas State WildCats Aaron Busings, into the arms of the Second Floor. It was the floor for the people who were for the most part a little stiff as she said to her friends. Coma patients or those who just didn’t want to move much were those she watched over.

She was not there when the Man in Black moved into room 312. She did hear of him though. His name was unknown. No id, no one yet to come calling for him and for the past two days in ER his fingerprints came up without a match. This was why he was now known throughout the hospital. That, and all the nurses wanted to see him, see the man who came in all in black: black leather, black jeans, black hat. All of that was off now (he now wore a white hospital gown), but everyone still called him the Man in Black. At least the women did. The men called him John Doe. Those who felt threatened called him by other names. He was unable to tell anyone his real name because he was on the third floor, now under Debra’s care, which meant he was in a coma. It was not a bad coma, as comas go. Not that he could tell anyone that. In fact, if you were to wake him up and ask him how the coma was going, he would say “fine”. But then it was a blow to his head that put him there and it was up to him to figure out when it was time to wake up, pull up his boots, and get back on the bike. Till then, it was up to Deb to make sure he was fine during the graveyard shift.

Deborah was very willing to do whatever it took to make him happy during his stay. Told him so the first night she met him as she checked his vitals. Everything’s ok here she told him as if he was intent on his recovery. What she didn’t tell him that night or the next couple of nights as she went in and out of his room was how often she found an excuse, any excuse, to visit him. His face was ok, the helmet took a lot of the damage, and the only real damage was superficial. The doctors told the nurses who asked (her included) that he suffered no real damage and should wake up from the coma anytime now. John Doe was lucky enough not to brake anything but was unlucky enough to hit his head the right way to put him to sleep for the better part of a week.

It was the sixth day he was in the hospital. Deborah came in to check the equipment and talk to him as usual. It was a few months since the breakup, and since then she was like a desert, high and dry. And this man with no name, no history, looked like he was made of granite. She looked him over again as she did everyday, and felt the usual ache below her stomach that resulted from the Man in Black. His sleep was deep, deeper than any other. Yet she knew it was not painful, at least not for him. A dull ache, long and low, almost feral in its camouflage made its existence known to her. It crept toward her unknown until it made her wet between her thighs. It was months since a man touched her, and now this need was directed toward the Man in Black. She heard that he was well endowed from the nurses that fought to wash him during the afternoon shift. His skin, they say, is tightly drawn over his muscles. And his penis…

She drew aside the cover and looked at his penis. It was long, yet was –like the man attached to it— without conscious thought, action. Limp and listless like a rope that hung over a docked boat.

She knew it may not respond to her touch, and thought that this was one of the few times a penis wouldn’t. There was still the urge to touch it, to get tactile sensation from it, feel the ridges impressed on it like it was marbleized stone. She surprised herself as her hand dipped below and held it, weighed it like it was fruit. In fact she wanted to smell it as well. She wanted the penis to impress all her senses if not the hole that ached for it. She caught her need, held it like his penis, and checked it. It was late, after midnight, most everyone was gone, which meant the world was open to all possibilities. Logic reined her in, but decided to let her touch him as a form of diplomatic compromise.

She traced him. She felt every curve, ran over the vein that felt like a small mountain, long and winding. Her vagina expanded, swelled as if in preparation. The man in black showed no movement besides the deep and regular breaths. She thought he was a lifeless machine. All she needed to do was find the right switch and bring him to life.

Her other hand ran up his leg deftly, over smooth, bulged skin, and began to trace the man’s testicles. He was full, had been for a week now, without release. He was unconscious –been so since they found him- yet she knew that as long as a man was still alive, still breathing, a man’s balls still did their jobs. Coma or no Coma

She felt a new emotion: Pity. He needed release. She needed release. In helping herself, she would be helping him. This is what being a nurse all was about, right? Easing pain, easing all kinds of… She trailed off. She bent over and –aiming the limp flesh that caused all this— ran her tongue over the head. Then she withdrew and, making sure no one was around, shut off the overhead night.

The Man in Black smelled of the inexpensive hospital soap, yet had that unmistakable odor of masculinity that can creep up and overcome anything else. She brought it up with her tongue, massaged it out of him in slow, long strokes. It went to her brain, welcomed and washed over all inhibitions.

She unhooked her belt and eased her hand underneath the fabric, into the source. This time she walked to the foot of the bed and gingerly crawled on it till her head was directly over his cock. This position enabled both to get what they needed.

She held him again. This time she took him all the way in her mouth, sucking and lapping, drawing, forcing the blood toward the head. By now her attitude was brazen; caution was a hair width from defeat. The need was insatiable and demanded no quarter. Still she did everything slowly, deliberately as not to jar the Man in Black awake or to jostle him about.

Suddenly her manipulation drew attention from The Man in Black. His penis grew in her mouth. She pulled back, stopped playing with herself too and stayed motionless like a cat, eyes locked on his face.

--Don’t wake up, don’t wake up--

Her mouth still watered, and saliva dropped onto the head. His face was without change. The odor of masculinity increased in strength, drawing her back toward his cock. She went back down without looking away from his features and licked up her saliva from his half-revived manhood.

She returned to easing his pain and easing her own.

Soon it was apparent this wasn’t enough for her. She could keep this up till The Man in Black exploded in her mouth, but her pity, her need to help him and his full balls, would only go as far as she got something out of it as well. Her fingers – normally suitable for those cold nights – would not fill her tonight.

She quickly removed herself from the bed and lowered the bed quickly (she was not sure how long a man in his condition could keep an erection without continual sensation and she didn’t want to start again from scratch) The bed was now set at its sturdiest and could now hold the both of them even if he was awake. She mounted him. It initially hurt; not from his size but rather from the extreme care and length she went to go as slow and controlled as possible. She was able to set herself on her hands and knees to move as her urge demanded without moving him, jostling him no more than taking his temperature or changing his bandages.

After a few minutes of this slow agony, she gained greater control over him and the situation. She watched the monitor, making sure to keep his heart rate below a rate that would sound the alarms at the front desk and end this momentary tryst.

She flushed and perspired. The realization that she controlled the whole act, from his erection, to his heart rate to his ultimate release, made her insides quake. Usually it was the man who controlled the act. The man who started, then stopped, then fell asleep or smoked or left. Aaron, after every winning game, would fuck her like that. The Man in Black was like a captive audience, and she knew just what to sell him, make him buy as much as she wanted, when she wanted. Her nipples hardened. She was wetter than she thought possible. When she discovered she was in complete control, her lips contracted a couple of times and she felt it run down his shaft.

--God, I wish he could suck my nipples-- She closed her eyes, licked her fingers and brought them to her nipple. She had large nipples that were very sensitive. She imagined his lips and tongue probing her, sending her to higher, wetter heights. He sucked on them, twisted them, bit them. More of her juices escaped the grip she had on his hard cock. She would have to find a way to change his sheets when she was done.

She never felt as horny as this. She looked again at the monitor and brought his heart rate to the limit before sounding the alarm. Her urge was at its crescendo, and she brought him to his own. She felt his cock stiffen more and his load build up to the breaking point.

She came first and her resulting spasms pulled his cum out of him, into her. It was all she could do not to scream. She leaned forward and instead moaned into his mouth. She no longer cared if he were to wake up, knew in the back of his mind that if he didn’t before, he wouldn’t now. She pushed into his mouth and gave it to him as if breathing life back into him. He didn’t move.

A few days later he did awake and soon afterwards disappeared in the middle of the night on her day off, somehow evading the nurses and the security guard stationed on that floor. He somehow was able to get his bike too, which was only slightly damaged and was parked in the lot. Management was angry since there was no record of who he was found anywhere, and him gone there was no way, besides the Man in Black himself they would ever get paid. The nurse, however, was fine with his disappearance. It was better that way. She only wanted to help, and there other men that needed her help just as much.