Bad Candy Striper

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Hello, ‘Claire’ here with another autobiographical memoir, a quick but quite unromantic journey into the behavior of a young, borderline sociopath. Harmless deeds, or so I thought, soon got out of control, and were allowed, no – encouraged – to escalate. Of course the names of the participants have been changed.


Ignition off…parking brake on…car door locked…unlock side door…bolt it behind me…into the kitchen…drop purse on the table. I was lucky to have made it home, and not simply pulled over and masturbated on the side of the road. I’m not going to make it to my bed…I raise my skirt to my waist, collapse face first onto the carpeted stairs and plunge my hand into my soaked panties. As I furiously begin to work my clit, I recall the events of the last hour, and how I got to this point, pathetically approaching orgasm as those in the framed family portaits on the wall watch me, ashamed.


Unlike most eighteenth birthdays, mine, in the early spring of 1990, was most inauspicious, partially spent in the hospital. I wasn’t sick, and I wasn’t working – at least not for money – I was a ‘candy striper’, a nostalgically uniformed, volunteer gopher that helped out the busy nursing staff by ostensibly delivering flowers, mail and feeding patients. I didn’t exactly volunteer – I was forced into the weekend duty as part of a punishment during my senior year of high school.

The past February, my mother, an emergency room nurse, was not happy when she got a call from the sheriff’s department of the next county. I had been found passed out, wasted, adjacent to a pool of vomit in a stranger’s garage one Wednesday morning. I was supposed to have gone to the library with a friend to work on a research paper, and Mom was already worried sick that I hadn’t come home that Tuesday night. I did work on the school term paper, but the neighbor of my friend had several college football teammates visiting, and we soon joined the drunken, impromptu soirée. Luckily the male partygoers knew I was still underage, or the clothes that kept me from hypothermia and a fertilized ovum may have ended up scattered to the winds. Sadly it was not my first blackout. A happier than average girl, I wasn’t burying any demons in the substance abuse. I was petite, subtly curved and pretty enough – fairly short brown hair and brown ‘doe eyes’ – to be pursued by the horny boys; I just liked to party.

My mother, with minimal assistance from my absent, alcoholic dad – I got my craving honestly – worked full time at the hospital and also on weekends as a hospice nurse to pay for my private school tuition. She had almost zero social life, essentially because of me, and we were living check to check. Of course as a narcissistic and deceitful – I remain so to a degree – teenager, I didn’t give a damn about all her sacrifices and had maintained my flippant, shitty attitude. When she arrived to pick me up, I advised her I just wanted to go home and sleep it off. Once we were out of sight of the sheriff’s office, she stopped the car just to slap the hell out of me about a dozen times. I had never seen her so pissed off. My head hurt so bad I almost passed out. On the drive home, she refused me any painkillers and took an indirect, hour-long route, pausing only so I could puke out the open car door a few times. She didn’t mince words, calling me a lazy, self-centered, conniving, ungrateful slut. She lectured me on the direction my life was going, and the STDs or baby shit-filled diapers that awaited me. Working with hospital patients until summer – and longer if I fucked up again even minimally in the mean time – would give me a new appreciation for how good I had it, she reasoned.

I was given a choice: Finish the rest of the year at the city’s rough public high school, or complete my secondary education at the veritable country club I was currently attending, and volunteer at the hospital Saturdays and Sundays. I was already grounded until graduation, so volunteer it was.

There were two shifts for candy stripers – morning – an impossible-to-be-on-time-for 7 to 3 was the busiest. I learned the ropes quickly – like keep a spare uniform hanging in your locker in case you get bloodied or puked upon – or worse. My striped peers mostly considered themselves future doctor or lawyer’s wives, and were consumed with trivial social crap. Since I didn’t act like a spoiled princess when asked to mop up a puddle of piss off the floor, it made the staff believe I possessed some kind of maturity. They sent me on errands, knowing I wouldn’t spend a half hour on a hallway phone gossiping on the way. When looking for supplies the morning of my birthday, I found a spare but functioning computer terminal in a surplus third floor office used for storage. This turned out to be my present to myself.

Spending most of my meal breaks there alone under the guise of reading pulp paperbacks, I figured out an administrator’s password after only a few attempts. almanbahis adres Computer access level security back then wasn’t what it is today. The green-on-black screens gave me menus for nearly everything in the hospital. I was able to create a fake sign on, so my shenanigans couldn’t be traced back to my hacking victim, whose password was a numeral added to the name of the boyfriend – who had the audacity to ask me out – she never shut up about. I found and played with the stripers’ schedules and had myself moved to the shift that began at 3 P.M. I also assigned myself to the assisted living wing, the calmer, residential, long-term care facility of the hospital, where the patients were stable, partially mobile and those that weren’t had generally completed the day’s bowel movements before my shift began. I thought my new assignment would be much quieter and at least allow me time to read the aforementioned trashy novels I liked, but found out I was mistaken on the very first weekend.

This new wing was mostly snoozing, elderly women, but there were a few men. One turned out to be my grandfatherly crush, I imagine it could be called, Mr. Wheeler. A widowed, silver-haired man with a missing right hand, he could not speak due to some prior throat surgery and used a cane to get around. One night after nine, I overheard an incident from a partially opened door.

“Mister Wheeler! You stop that now! Oh, Mister Wheeler!” a nurse’s aide said in a scolding, angry tone. “Take your meds and I’ll be back to clean you up.” She said, sighing and annoyed. “I’m getting tired of you doing this at pill time! Do you want me to start sending in a male orderly in here to clean you off? I didn’t think so! Now you behave!” I heard a rhythmic wheezing from the old man – all that was left of his laugh.

Cheerfully mopping up a disconnected colostomy bag spill in front of the gagging princesses was one thing, but the intimate cleanup of a shit-filled adult diaper was another. I stepped quickly away, but to no avail. The aide called out to me.

“Oh good! Claire! Accident in two-seventeen!” Mr. Wheeler’s room.

Assuming his bowels or bladder contents had cascaded to the floor, I opened the janitorial closet and began to drag the mop and rolling bucket out. The woman explained it wasn’t that bad, ‘thank God’, and all I would need was some wet towels and to help him change his pajamas. Armed with a stack of towels, I stepped into room 217 and shut the door. I looked over at my patient and ascertained the nature of his ‘accident’, and understood her comment about the unneeded mop.

There was no feces, and no urine. The old man had masturbated, and apparently in the presence of the nurse’s aide delivering his meds. Suddenly this job had become interesting.

It should be noted at this time that I was not without interim male companionship. Upon the legality of his actions – the largely un-remarked occurrence of the eighteenth annum of my ungrateful corpus leaving the womb, my ex-boyfriend’s thirty year old, mid-divorce boss had been parking his plumbing van a few blocks away, and surreptitiously visiting me when alone at my mom’s house. At least one evening per week he thoroughly demonstrated his pipe laying – as the expression goes – and facial ejaculatory skills on me.

Mr. Wheeler’s lower pajama top was splattered with translucent white fluid, as was his sole hand which rested next to his still-exposed, semi-erect dick, leaning out to the side like a passed out drunk – ironically it was my familiarity with incoherent drunkenness that landed me in my current situation.

“Ugh! Gross!” I said loudly, back over my shoulder. The old man’s chest quaked with his strained, muffled laughter. The old pervert apparently enjoyed torturing the female staff ‘at pill time’ by jerking off right before – or during – their arrival with his medication, which was of course on a routine schedule each night. To paraphrase an old saying – one girl’s disgust is another girl’s thrill. I felt cheated, having missed the squirting show that created the archipelago-like pattern in front of me.

His deviant grin flattened when I dragged two bare fingers across the back of his hand, garnering a nice blob of his fragrant semen. I turned my fingers upward and balanced it in midair to keep it from dripping off.

I realized he must have thought I was going to fling it at his face. His expression changed to one of contempt.

“Are you gonna tell on me?” I asked sweetly, then brought my fingers to my jaw. His thick, gray, overgrown eyebrows lifted.

He shook his head, looking at me quizzically. His eyes were what I call a ‘cold’ blue, a very dark shade like that of a clear night sky.

“Good,” I said as those eyes widened in surprise as I winked at him, then parted my lips and slid the sperm-laden fingers down my extended tongue. His then-lukewarm semen was salty and creamy, no different than that of younger men. Bravo almanbahis yeni giriş to his elderly balls.

He now realized my ‘gross’ outcry was a smokescreen to mask my enjoyment of the task at hand.

Suddenly the door to the room swung quickly open. A nurse stuck her head in. “Please keep your comments to yourself, Miss Martin. Just get him cleaned up and changed.”

“Yes ma’am, sorry.” I said, hoping I wasn’t dribbling sperm out of my mouth.

“Oh, I guess this is your first time with a…an adult accident,” she said. “Do you need me to get someone else?”

“No ma’am, under control!” I said in a melodic voice, going to the room’s sink and turning on the hot water. I soaked a hand towel but left it on the plastic tray, returning to the patient.

I was tempted to simply raise his hand and slurp the sperm directly off it, finger by finger – hell, I wanted to lean down and suck his glazed, snoozing dick until he shot again – but caution warranted a distance.

So, I continued with the finger-to-mouth-transfer routine on his wrinkled hand a few times, slowly sucking on my digits as he watched intently, his grin having returned. I stopped short of touching his cock directly, however.

Alas, the retrieval process soon became frustratingly slow, as the cooled fluid had thinned, and was flowing downward, becoming lost in the nest of gray pubic hair.

“Sure you’re not gonna tattle on me?” I asked, beginning to wipe his hand with the warm towel, the saline, almost comforting taste of his semen on my palate. “I’ve got an idea.”


Charles Winston Wheeler was an Army Infantry veteran and World War II POW, I read on his confidential computerized records. Over the years he had multiple hospital stays, once for a bullet removal and later a stabbing wound, and several from motorcycle accidents, all in California during the 1950s. Recent comments on his record ranged from ‘a tendency to abuse alcohol’ to ‘inappropriate behavior with female staff members’. I also saw where his wife of thirty-two years had died three years earlier.

“Hi, Mister Wheeler!” I said, stepping into his room the next Saturday night. I had precious little time for us to carry out our scandalous arrangement. I clutched a couple books, as ‘reading aloud to him’ was our cover story, in case of an interruption.

He smiled broadly and nodded. He had been busy. Shifted onto his right side, his vein-encrusted, hard, reddish dick appeared from his opened pajama fly, anchored by a gray nest of pubic hair. Wrinkled fingers gripped and yanked on it. It looked close to seven inches and was appropriately thick. It would certainly do the job if we had met under much different circumstances.

Mister Wheeler’s loss of his right hand was within the last few years, and he never learned to write with his left, so the subsequent inability to speak left his communications limited. His voice was now a small board, a crude homemade piece of pine with the alphabet in a matrix in the middle, and some common words like ‘please’, ‘yes’ and ‘no’ around the periphery.

During the slippery cleanup of his ejaculation the prior week, we negotiated a deal of sorts, leading to our current rendezvous. He agreed to only masturbate, at least to completion, in my presence.

“S,H,O,W” He stopped stroking and tapped on his board.

Time for me to hold up my end of the bargain.

Our candy striper uniforms were hideously out-of-style and juvenile, but still I got a modicum of respect when wearing mine in public on the way to or from the hospital. I donned a borrowed, older pair of my mom’s white shoes, ugly but comfortable, and white panty hose. The main component was a seersucker, to-the-knee pinafore dress with its narrow red vertical stripes, worn over a white blouse or Oxford shirt.

For the unfamiliar, a pinafore dress is a skirt constructed with a bodice above that waist is open-sided, essentially a bib with wide shoulder straps, which can be joined to a similar bib on the back, or in this case, the straps crisscross and attach at the rear waistline. I guess the idea is to allow a blouse of any weight or sleeve length to be worn beneath. At one time they were a service industry staple, also worn by maids and waitresses, if old movies are any indication.

As Mr. Wheeler happily stroked his cock, I stood at his bedside and slowly slipped my hand beneath the open-sided pinafore and pushed the top three buttons through their holes on the white Oxford I was wearing. I then pulled the bib away from my neckline and leaned forward, giving the elderly man a look at my shallow but optimistic cleavage as created by the B cups. His speed increased a bit but then he stopped and reached for his board. He was afraid I wasn’t going to deliver the full extent of what I had promised.

He resumed yanking on his dick as I winked, raised up and my hand dove beneath the striped pinafore, tucked it almanbahis giriş out of the way and slowly, teasingly pulled the white shirt out to the side, revealing half my smooth-cup bra. I dug a finger into my nipple, then tugged at it through the fabric, causing it to bulge against the thin, shiny polyester.

I found this moment as exciting as any where I was on the verge of ‘accidentally’ flashing or fully exposing my tits unnecessarily – even more so than being naked specifically for sex, since a lack of clothes then was essentially a requirement, an expectation.

The lower band slowly rose and I revealed my youthfully firm – at the time I naively thought they would remain so forever – hemispherical breast and quite stereotypical and average-sized nipple – at least its color is a contrasting brown – to the masturbating old man. I had barely time to flick it with a fingernail when Mr. Wheeler gasped and began his orgasm. Part of our deal was the avoidance of a mess. The elderly man had agreed to shoot his semen onto a waiting plastic tray, one about the size of a magazine. It could easily be concealed beneath the blankets if someone walked in.

The old man jacked his fluid over the course of half dozen spurts into a beautiful oblong puddle, which glistened in the fluorescent overhead light, and squeezed out the last drop, breathing heavily. I left my tit out a few seconds as he stared at it, then I stuffed it back into my bra and quickly reassembled my outfit.

“Very nice,” I said, pulling the semen-splattered tray from beneath his retreating penis.

I then asked him a question on a topic that we hadn’t discussed earlier – the disposition of his sperm. I thought I would leave it as an improvised surprise of sorts.

“What should I do with this, Mister Wheeler?” I said of the waiting, scented spermatozoa, the tray held near my jaw.

“L,I.C,K” he tapped on his board.

“That’s what I hoped you would say,” I grinned. “Now spell it out exactly the way you way you would say it to me. Don’t hold back. You know how I like dirty talk.”

“LICK IT UP YOU HORNY LITTLE BITCH” he tapped, smiling.

I hummed a chuckle as I dragged my pointed – ugly, it’s been called – tongue up and down the puddle gathering his creamy fluid, showing it to him, making strings with my lips and spreading it across my upper teeth and letting it drip off, then finally swallowing.

Moments later I was in the hall, regrettably sucking on a few Tic Tacs to mask my semen breath.

The next night, Sunday, began in a similar fashion, but this time I upended the tray and poured his salty goo right into my open mouth, a risky move, I realized right after I did it, but fun nevertheless.


The following Saturday night he tapped out ‘SHOW ME YOUR BUSH’.

Soon I was raising my hemline and instantly his hand was yanking his cock outward and his gaze was fixed on my ugly white pantyhose, exposed up to my waist. My precise underwear I don’t recall, probably a sedate cotton bikini pair that I didn’t expect to be seen by anyone. They would have been visible beneath the center-seamed top of the white hose, which I tugged down to my thighs along with the panties.

While a forearm held up my dress, I embedded my fingers in my pubes and dragged my mound upward, which, I assume, increased the visibility of my clit. My protruding little monster has an open-ended but quite thick hood – the existence of which explains not only its bloated appearance but why it needs a near-beating to make me orgasm. I felt the pleasant cool air on my warming labia as Mr. Wheeler pumped out another load, breathing heavily. This night instead of moving the tray, I bent down and began to lick up his heated. fragrant sperm right from the tray where it sat on the white sheets, my tongue within inches of his shrinking, satisfied cock, my eyes looking frequently into his. This was the first dick so close to me that I didn’t internalize somehow.

Sunday night he tapped out ‘BUTTHOLE’. So, as he stroked madly, I spun around, bent over, hiked up my dress, and slowly lowered my hose and panties – lacy ones this time – and widely spread my cheeks, exposing and flexing my hairy brown crater. Yes I knew its setting and coloring, having masturbated in front of the mirror – a not infrequent habit – with a vegetable du jour or my homemade chair leg dildo.

Suddenly the door latch clicked. I quickly batted a book off his nightstand. It landed on the linoleum floor with a thud, and squatted down to retrieve it. The length of the dress hid the fact that my hose and panties were pushed down to my upper thighs, and the squatting would explain any checking that my skirt had descended properly – I hoped. It was also critical that Mr. Wheeler fling the sheet over his erection.

“I don’t hear much readin’ goin’ on in here,” one of the nurses said , pushing the door open.

“Luanne! You scared me!” I said, standing and displaying the large format book to her, a collection of black and white World War II photographs from Life magazine. “Basically just holding it open for him.” I said, pretending to search for a specific page.

“Well you need to…” she said, then paused, looking beyond me. “What is that?”

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