Mmmmmm....rubber glove
But...
Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings are heaven. Mook A had surgery eight months ago and he has a wound that is healing slowly and so on those blessed three mornings a home nurse comes to tend to him.
Ohmyohmyohmy. Look, just because she's a different species doesn't mean I don't know she's gorgeous. (Hey! They say some guys fuck sheep!) She's little and has this wonderful, smooth, white skin—unlike the Mooks who are huge and hairy and lumpy. She's got this great hair she ties back but which still falls a little in curls around her face. Such a waste...not only because she's not a dog and married and has kids but because she does intimate stuff on the Mook and the idiot faggot doesn't have the wherewithal to pop a boner!
Anyway, when the nurse comes I get to cozy up to her and she smells good and skritches my head. But then the Mook jams a cookie up a Kong's arse and pitches it into the living room and shuts the door. Sure, I'm distracted for a bit but then I hear him and her talking and laughing and I go nuts.
'Til yesterday.
The room adjoining the living room is also closed off but only by something jammed under the door. This time it was a wadded up New York Times Magazine and I worked it and yanked it and got it out and shredded it for good measure (it being that Commie paper, after all). Then, once in that room, there was a folding room divider; a couple of whacks of my nose and paws and—bingo!—I'm in the kitchen. And there's the door and she's behind it and that door is shut. But here's the thing: in this apartment, where everything is crooked, nothing ever really shuts. So I took a run and biffed into the door and there she was! My beauty!
But what the fuck was she doing!!!???
It was something that involved bending and spreading and naked arse and rubber gloves and her lovely face waaaaaaaaay too close to something ugly of his.
Well, this required further investigation up close. "We've got a visitor," she cooed and, "We have to keep this sterile." The last time I heard that word it was bad and my legs crossed reflexively. But I had to see—its a dog thing—so I nuzzled up to the bed which was serving as an operating table.
My beloved nudged me aside! Playtime! "LÉO! LIE DOWN!" the Mook roared, "NOW!"
Judging from his position, hers and all the medical paraphernalia all I could think was: Make me.
She worked on when I noticed—ohmyohmyohmy!—on the other side of the nurse was a little trash bin full of used bandages and gauze pads, rubber gloves and plastic syringes! Lunch time! And it all smelled so divine!
"He's in the garbage," she said to the Mook's arse and she nudged me again. Food and fun! The Mook was shrieking at me now but in a cute way so the nurse wouldn't know how monstrous he really is. I finally settled under the nurse's chair because, despite the food and her intoxicating presence, I was utterly fascinated by what she was doing to the Mook. I suddenly thought about the sheep-fucking guys. If my sweetheart could get up close and personal with this atrocity in front of me, maybe—just maybe!—I had a chance.
And then she was done and quickly the Mook was dressed and hauling me into his arms (not for love) and emptying the trash in the bin outside. There was the goodbye!-goodbye!-see-you-next-time! thing and I was left alone with the Mook and my thoughts.
My life is bliss! Giner! Nurse Angel! Sure, there's that naked Mook-arse messing up the image but that's like a fart: a stink that blinds but eventually dissipates to make everything else smell even more wonderful.
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