Mature Love Can Stretch Long

PAMELA'S STORY

I am a nurse. I am plain looking. My story is anything but that. I am thirty-three. After training in medical college hospitals I worked for one year in government hospitals. I resigned the job when I got married. That was thirteen years ago. When my children were twelve and ten my husband and I judged that they do not need my constant care and that I can resume my job. We needed the money to put our children in better schools. My husband, Madhu, is a clerk in a bank. His earnings, though adequate, were not up to paying donations and fees to the best schools. I joined as theatre nurse in a private hospital. I am in that job now for a year and a half. My working hours are very unusual—from four in the morning till noon.

Dr. Siva owns the private hospital where I work. It is a one-doctor surgical nursing home. He does general surgical work and some gynaecology. He often says that he is a 4H surgeon—hydrocele, hernia, haemorrhoids and hysterectomy. He is good at what he does. Two surgeries a day is the norm in our hospital. The first case would start at five, and the next an hour after the first is over. By ten the work would be over and then I have to supervise the cleaning up and prepare for the next day's list. At about noon I leave for home.

I like Dr. Siva. He is forty-two years old. He is always helpful and supportive to his staff. His family consists of his wife and mother. He has no children. Like most surgeons he is a pleasant person with a well-developed sense of humour. While operating he would keep talking to the anaesthetist, his assistant, and me on wide-ranging topics. He likes my work. He says that in his hospital, thanks to me, he has never had any post-operative wound infection. That for a theatre nurse is very high praise.

All surgeons have a liking for their theatre nurses, and theatre nurses reciprocate. My affection for Dr. Siva, by a process over which I had no control, changed to love. This is an occupation hazard for theatre nurses. Though I used to flirt a lot with internees when I was a probationer, and have gone to movies with them, and have been kissed and fondled (nothing more) I have never fallen in love. My parents arranged my marriage. I have a wonderful relationship with my husband, but I did not fall in love with my husband for I got to know him only after the wedding. We developed affection for each other, but that is different from falling in love.

It was about six months after I joined that I knew I was stricken. His footsteps as he stepped into the theatre lobby would set my heart into a flutter. I had difficulty in keeping a tremble out of my voice when I wished him good morning. During operation when our bodies would touch a thrill pass through my body even though no less then eight layers of cloth separated us. I would like to keep the contact, and I got the feeling that he also liked that pressure too. He was now the only object in my sexual fantasies.

The fever within me was rapidly moving to the stage when frenzy would be the word to describe it. It had to happen and this how it did. I had to take a week's leave for my husband's sister's wedding. As the bride's oldest brother's wife, as per custom, I had to act as mother for the motherless girl. Dr. Siva readily agreed. He said the cases would have to wait for my return. I left, and the evening I returned I called him, more to hear his voce than to know about the next day's programme. He wanted to know if I can manage two cases, but at my insistence he had three.

After the list was over and we had cleaned up I went into his room with cup of coffee. I closed the door. We always kept the side rooms closed in order that the air conditioning would be more effective in the theatre proper.

"How did you manage the mother act," he said.

"I had no difficulty," I replied.

"You know Pam, I had a terrible time not seeing you."

"You mean not operating."

"Not that. I like you very much, but now it seems that it is something more—I was as desperate as an addict denied his drugs."

"My state was no different, sir," I said matter-of-factly. Our eyes came in contact. Some inner urge made him rise from his seat and open his arms, and instinctively I rushed in. We held each other tightly and kissed with passion. Then and there we made love with ferocity. It was the autoclave timer bell that broke us up. I dressed and rushed out to turn off the controls.

I was on cloud nine. I wanted my family to share my happiness. On the way home I stopped at the supermarket and go a list of articles I needed for preparing a sumptuous high tea of the favourites of my husband and children. I awaited their return. The children came first and enjoyed the treat. My husband was surprised to find his specials for tea that day.

'What are we celebrating?' he asked.

'Nothing,' I said, 'I want to make every day a special day,' I said. I watched him eat. I examined my feelings towards him and I was perplexed. I have had sex with another man a few hours ago and my feelings towards my husband were neither fear nor anxiety. It was one of overwhelming affection. I request those who find it unbelievable to withhold expressing an opinion till they have been in that position. If we had been alone I would have dragged him to bed.

'There's more awaiting you,' I said.

'When?' he asked.

'Later tonight,' I said and giggled.

'I can hardly wait,' he said.

I knew what I had to do, and in my mind I worked out a script. I wore a nightie of very thin material that was a gift from him for one of my earlier birthdays. I was always reluctant to wear it for the material was rather daringly transparent. I was in the bedroom when he came in. He has hardly crossed the threshold when I pulled him in. He must have been surprised at my energy for ordinarily I never took any initiative in sex. I peeled off my nightie and presented myself to him in total nakedness. He goggled as he drank in the view with protruding eyes. It is not often that he saw me that way in bright light. He threw away his lungi and shirt and we were in bed rolling and feeling our bodies.

He was on his back and I was astride him. I never allowed the women top position but today I did. I stood up and looked down. Our eyes met and we smiled. I gently lowered myself and when I was within reach I held his cock (bigger than I have ever seen it before) and guided it in. I was pouring, and the cock went it with a gentle plop. We moved up and down in sync till we had orgasms together. I lay on him totally relaxed.

"Darling," he said, "thank you." I moaned and then I snoozed. I could feel him gently lift me and put me by his side. I opened my eyes and smiled.

"The programme is not over yet," I said. "When you are ready we have that."

"That?"

"Yes that, and to the last drop."

"You are sleepy. Why not tomorrow."

"OK, tomorrow."

And we slept.

I was thoroughly puzzled by what I was doing. I was the wife to two men, and I was dancing away with abandon without missing a single step. At home I was in the midst of a second honeymoon, and in the hospital I was having it whenever possible and that was at least two times a week. There was a problem though. Siva liked me shaved smooth while Madhu liked it bushy. A pubic wig was what I needed, but I was not sure one existed, and even if it did I could hardly go to the bazaar asking for one. I had but one option and I took it. I shaved, and then allowed it to grow and then I shaved, and so on in regular cycles.

For one year this went on. At times I would be sad that I was cheating Madhu, but that feeling would evaporate when I am in hospital. Once Madhu caught me moping and asked what was bothering me. I told him that there was a problem with a case in hospital. But one day something happened that was sure to plant suspicion in the mind of Madhu. My girls and I were travelling in an auto when we saw Siva standing by his car. I pointed him out to the girls and they, as the auto went past, put out their heads and screamed 'uncle' to the full extent of their lungpower. For a second Siva blinked for he did not know the girls, but he saw me inside and signalled the auto man to stop. He took us to a nearby restaurant and treated us to Peach Melba.

Hema and Laila are usually very reserved with strangers, but that day they acted as if Siva was an uncle known to them from their childhood. How it happened I do not know. Maybe my behaviour towards Siva must have done the trick. I do not what madness got into me. I was defiant. I did not pretend that Siva and I were strictly doctor and nurse. I sat by his side almost rubbing on him, and we held hands, not under, but on the table for all to see. Hema was darting glances at us and trying to pretend as if she was not. Siva was very affectionate towards them. This was not a case of bedside manners. The twinkling of his eyes and his smile was that of a father seeing his daughters after a long while. Yes, for him, a childless man, these were daughters.

The next day was Sunday when we all stayed at home. After breakfast I saw the girls talking to their father. I could see the faces of Laila and Hema but Madhu's back was towards me. Laila was doing most of the talking. She used her hands a lot while talking and at one point she held her hands together just as Siva and I were holding each other. I could read concern in the eyes of the elder sister. Soon Hema got up and dragged Laila away. Later Hema snuggled close to me and told me that Laila was telling father that she felt as if Siva was like a second father. I was worried, but Madhu left after breakfast to visit his uncle, a retired colonel. He often spent Sunday mornings with him drinking beer and hearing his reminiscences.

What would his reaction be? He was a soft person and moreover for the past year we have been so loving to each other that he would not do anything in haste or in anger. If he asked me point blank I would have to admit the truth, and after that I knew not what would happen. I waited for his return with trepidation.

SIVA'S STORY

I saw Pamela for the first time was when I was interviewing her for the post of operation theatre nurse in my newly opened nursing home. She was theatre trained and had worked in the medical college hospital for a year, but that was twelve years ago. I wondered if a dozen years of family life had not made her too rusty for the rigours of operation theatres. One other point went against her—she was not pretty. I am no glamour man, but in my experience of hospitals I have found that the better nurses were the pretty ones. Later when I found Pamela an excellent acquisition I realised one important fact—good nurses look pretty in the eyes of doctors and patients. She had a narrow waist and a good figure, and her eyes were round and very expressive. I wonder why I ever thought her not pretty. Her work was very good too. We never had a single wound infection in our post-operative cases. Ordinarily a very placid person, she used a special shrill voice to tell off anyone (myself included) who breaches theatre regulation even by an iota.

I liked her and I believe she liked me. Between the theatre nurse and the surgeon there is a special relationship. This manifests itself in its purest form when one surgeon alone works in a theatre as was in my hospital. The theatre complex is a home. The patient receiving room is the drawing room, the theatre is the dining room, and the autoclave room the kitchen. In this scenario the patient undergoing operation is actually having his dinner! The surgeon is the man of the house and the theatre nurse is his wife. Like a wife the theatre nurse can sulk, and she can talk back to the surgeon, something the ward nurse cannot do. Some surgeons and their nurses bridge the small gap to make the picture complete. I wondered if I was to join this list, for I found myself in love with this mother of two.

Operations in private clinics start at five in the morning. Thus I did not have to toss about in bed waiting to clap eyes on Pam. Patients may not know it but the operation theatre is not a sombre place. There is lot of chatting in which the surgeon, his assistant who stands on the opposite side of the table, the anaesthetist at the head of the table, and the nurse who stands by the side of the surgeon, take part. There is no topic that is taboo. Pam and I made a pleasant time of it. At times we would be in actual physical contact, of course through the many layers of clothes that we have to wear too keep the germs away. But it was thrilling nevertheless. I found that Pam was as eager to keep the contact as I was. It was funny and two senior persons should play the love game like teenagers. Love does not know age they say, and I agree. I have mentioned earlier that her eyes were expressive. They spoke of love.

Something had to happen, and it did soon. Pam had to take leave for a week for a wedding in the family. There was no problem with cases. Most were cold cases that can wait for a week. But not seeing her for a week was something I did not look forward to. The extent of my feelings towards my nurse were very evident in the desperate state her extended absence threw me into. The day she returned we had three cases. After surgery I was in the room when Pam came in with a cup of coffee as she always did. She closed the door of the room and placed the coffee on the table.

"How did the wedding go," I asked.

"Very well," she said. "Did you have difficulty without me?"

"Not as far a hospital work was concerned Pam, but not seeing you made me restless like a drug addict denied drugs," I said and looked into her eyes. I stood up and opened my arms and she fell in and we kissed passionately for a long while. We rolled about on the cot kissing, and we united. The raucous noise of the autoclave timer broke us up. Pam left the room in a hurry, and as I sipped coffee I felt a warm glow spread all over my body.

I gave no thought to the fact that she was a happily married woman. I had fallen willy-nilly in love. Her plight was no different.

The cases in the next two operation days needed intensive postoperative care that engaged my total attention. On the third day the list was light. After operation I whispered to Pam that I wanted some extra sugar in my coffee. She pinched me and said that she would pour honey. I waited, for it took her some time to clean up the theatre. She tapped. I opened the door and she slid in and closed it.

"Sip and see if the sugar is OK," she said. I kissed her on the lips and told her that it was very sweet.

"Now drink. You may need the energy." I gulped it.

"Don't burn yourself," she said.

"My darling knowing that I would gulp had cooled it to the right temperature," I said for such was the case.

Pam settled on my lap as we slowly drank the coffee in alternate sips. I then undid her apron and top exposing an impressive pair of breasts; she had no bra on. I undressed her as if it was something I did every day. She was uninhibited in her approach to sex. She wanted me to suck her tits that were especially sensitive ones, and when aroused by that she lay back, spread her thighs and pulled my head towards her pussy and asked me to lick her. She has orgasm only after I stimulate her with a proper lick. I like her to be clean-shaven, but she grew a good bush before she shaved again. I could guess the reason for that, but it as not a topic I could discuss with her.

For the next year and a half we were like husband and wife. She played the part of wife to two men with aplomb. I asked her not about her other family, and she did not volunteer any information about her husband and children. On day an event occurred that is imprinted in my memory.

I was coming out of the supermarket one evening when I heard the excited shout of 'uncle' from two girls waving to me from inside a passing auto. I did not recognise the girls, but inside the auto I could see Pamela looking at me with a proud smile of a mother on her face. I signalled the auto man to stop. I got them out and we went into a nearby restaurant. I have never been with a more delightful pair of sisters. There is a Tamil saying that a man loves his lovers children by the other man more than he loves his own. I have no children, but if I had I can say for sure that my love for them would not be one bit more than the affection I have for these two girls whom I know so briefly.

That night I just could not sleep. I have been enjoying Sarala's company without giving any thought that has a husband and children. The enormity of my action registered only now after more than a year. The girls obviously came from a very stable and happy family. The father apparently knows nothing about his wife's love for her doctor. When he comes to know of his wife's unfaithfulness, which surely he must sooner or later, that would surely destroy the family. The resulting chaos will wipe out the lovely smiles of the girls forever. I just did not know what I should do.

The next day Pam told me that her daughters liked their uncle very much. I told her that I love them as much I would my own daughters. Pam hugged me and kissed me. She knew what I said was what I truly felt. I did not tell her of my worries. I did the only thing I could think of—I prayed fervently for God's protection to the little ones.

MADHU'S STORY

My problem started innocently enough. One afternoon my two daughters went on a shopping trip with their mother. There they met for the first time the doctor in whose hospital Sarala was the theatre nurse. He took them to a restaurant and treated them to Peach Melba.

"Appa, he is such a nice uncle that I felt as if he was a father like you," said Laila the younger one the next morning.

"He is very nice," said Hema.

"Amma sat so close to him as if he was Appa," continued Laila.

"The seats were narrow," said Hema.

"But were holding hands like this," continued Laila giving a demonstration of the hand hold, "and they were talking things to themselves that we did not understand just as you and Amma do."

"Come Laila, we have lots of homework to do," said Hema and she dragged her sister away. Hema's fourteen-year-old instinct told her that it was not a topic she should air before father in such detail.

At first I was amused and proud at the tactful ways of Hema. Then I sat up. Was there a relationship between Sarala and the doctor? Nurses, especially theatre nurses, move rather closely with surgeons; it is not surprising if a relationship develops. For the past year or so I have noticed a change in Sarala. There is a sparkle in her eyes when she leaves for hospital even though it is four in the morning. But our life together should have withered, but on the other hand it has blossomed. We are on a sort of extended second honeymoon. Sarala, though never uncooperative, was never enthusiastic for sex. Now she is rather aggressive, takes the initiative often enough, and agrees to experiments that she used to reject formerly. She likes to go on top, and likes to have it in the mouth. But at times she would be sad. Once I did ask her what was bothering her and she said that there were problems with a post-operative case. Now I know it the guilt feeling that is eating into her.

Deep down, putting down all the little things that were happening and adding them up I have no doubt that she was having not just an affair, but a deep relationship of loving intimacy with the doctor. To suspect that you are a cuckold is not a great sensation. I was greatly disturbed, but curiously I had no feeling of anger against Sarala, nor did I pity myself. Confrontation is not my way. I needed advice. I decided to consult an uncle of mine with whom I am rather close. He is a retired colonel who would have seen a lot of marital infidelity in his cantonment days. I went to him without any delay.