She is to pose as your girlfriend and drive you out in a wheelchair

"That already sounds like something I would not be authorized to do. What on earth do you have in mind? What could I do in this? I'm a nurse."

"Simple," you answer smiling, "You get hold of a wheelchair, some cosmetics, plonk me in it with a fancy get up so I don't look like me (and do the same to yourself), wheel me out then drive me the hell away just a couple of blocks downtown. If the Hounds of Doom at the Gates ask questions, I'll drool a bit, and you can tell them I'm your fiancé and I'm nearly recovered from a stroke or something. They'll look right down their noses at us and forget we ever existed."

She's gaping at you. You thought she might not like it. On the bright side, that wide open mouth of lightly shaded lips brings a nice image to mind.

"Quite out of the question. You want me to make unauthorized and unjustified use of a mobility device that might become in demand at any time for one of our motor-compromised patients, to then practice visual deceit upon both myself and you, and then to pass myself off as the bride to be of a drooling half-wit?" and then she adds "Not that I have any prejudice against individuals suffering from mental troubles whether natural or resulting from trauma, but that is how it will be perceived. There are cameras watching the entrance you know, and they start recording as soon as the door opens. My family are sure to be watching. You would have me bring forth their wrath upon my person by disgracing their good name! I cannot abide it."

Of course, her outrage only serves to exacerbate your lust, as her angry gesturing and sparse pauses for breath have resulted in the agitation of her generous bosoms.

"You're quite sure you refuse?"

"Crystal clear. For suggesting something like that Mr Smith, I don't care if the Editors in Chief of those damned tabloids breach the hospital and come here to find your petrified little self. You have 48 hours to get out of this establishment or find accommodations in the private wing. Good day." And she walks out of the room.

You only wonder how much her arse cheeks wiggle when she walks briskly as she just did.

It's Monday. Depending on how things go you might be leaving today. It all depends on how quickly your actions take effect. You can afford to have things go relatively slowly after all. It's only tomorrow you can expect to be actively kicked out. Time to get down to business. At the usual time for your morning walk amidst a snapshot of a single moment inside the hospital, you mentally formulate your will: stop. It's gotten to the point where you can actually tell that the air has stopped moving around you. It feels different both when you are still and when you start moving. You get out of bed and right away shove off your body the thin white hospital gown, letting it drop to the floor. You walk out of your room and go a roaming around the building, armed with a weapon of mass destruction: your heavily battered phone, the only item that was on your person that still maintains some semblace of functionality, cracked screen and hull notwithstanding. By now you know more or less where Nurse Watkins is likely to be at this hour. It was by entering her office and snooping earlier last week just that you discovered her name was "Minnie". And she's in there now, as she should be. Frozen in the middle of a call, sat at her desk.

You take her phone from her hand, and set it down on the desk where it is joined by yours, then pull her chair back a little. You slacken her arms, articulating them, simulating movement, stretching the fibers and tendons to rid them of the tension they were under during normal time, until they flop down to her sides when you let them go. Next you attend to her hair. It's in an elaborate sort of rear-top-of-the-head bun, held fast by a small metal object. You pull on it and it slides free. Nothing happens. A few strands of hair fall loose, but most of it stays up. You're tempted to give the whole thing a good shake, but given there are many different layers of hair and they might not all unfreeze together, that might cause knots. Instead, you very lightly run the tip of your finger across the top layer. It works, and the bun ripples out of existence until the brown mass hangs loose from Miss Watkins' head, naturally draping over her shoulders and beyond.

You move up a little closer from behind now, and, taking care not disturb her head lest it drop and snap her neck, reach down to her chest and... let gravity take over. The weight of your arms pulls both your hands back toward you, and they come to rest on two soft mounds of flesh. The nurse's breasts melt at your touch, and their temporally suspended weight takes hold once more. They're heavy, meaty, but infinitely welcoming to probing fingers, even through the uniform and the bra beneath. You slide your hands up and down the nurse's bosoms for a little, taking in the sensation, taking in all the sensory data available insofar as the layers of clothing allow, in anticipation of the real thing. You then work your way down from her collar, button by button, opening up her shirt, partly removing the first obstacle. Her internal covering is the same colour as the external layer, a white lacy bra with lateral and shoulder straps. You slowly push your two bony spiders into the space between the fabric and the flesh. The stretching material pressures your fingers, pushes them into the delicate skin beneath. You rub against two little nodules of tissue, hardened nipples exhibiting the trappings of arousal regardless of the host's say. You drag the bra cups downward a little way, and elbow the vertical straps to slip off the shoulders to avoid them breaking. Final obstacle on the northern territory eliminated. Time to remove the wreckage.

You walk around the chair to face Miss Watkins. Her expression is unchanged, as you would expect, frozen mid-sentence with a bored eye-roll. Plan B may require dealing with that somehow. You pull her forward by the shoulders, only a half inch, because you don't want to displace enough weight that her head lulls forward. Her neck muscles are frozen holding her skull from a particular angle, and you don't know how much displaced gravity will cause them to fail. With her back a few centimetres away from the chair it is now possible to remove both the uniform shirt and lacy bra without too much trouble.

On to the southern lands. You pick a bare-chested Nurse Watkins up out of her chair and completely off the ground, then gently set her back to earth on the floor, taking care to provide support for her head on the way down. As expected, her neck eventually fails and her skull becomes a loose weight on your arm shortly before touchdown. After ascertaining that there is no damage you set about removing the remainder of the uniform, plain white trousers and basically unbranded white converse shoes. Presently she is in such a state of undress that the only part of her body still left to the imagination is what lies between her legs. Time to lay the groundwork for Plan B.

You pick up your phone and get it to switch on. It takes a little bit of a fight to get your pin code in through the fractured touch screen, but it works. You're about to take a shot when you remember: the face! Putting the phone back on the desk, you kneel beside Miss Watkins' head. You close her eyes. You close up her mouth and slacken her jaw. You relax the muscles of her face, one by one. Soon she looks asleep. Now you can take the pictures. You get back up, grab your device, and take a multitude of snapshots. You capture an ensemble view, a closeup of her breasts, of her panties, and a view of her whole upper body, chest and face in focus and recognizable. That should be sufficient.

Finally you pull on the final remaining piece of cloth, and drag a pair of white panties down the nurse's thighs, and off her little feet.

You doubt youself. Should you go so far? Is it absolutely necessary? Would Plan B suffice? Can you live with yourself after this?

Yes of course you should. It was always going to be enough to get a few inappropriate snapshots and brandish them around all over the place, you just wanted an excuse. Let's get into this pronto.

You look back up, your tracing back along Miss Watkins' legs, past her feet, shins, knees, thighs, and to the junction. Not a single hair along the way (at least nothing visible without magnification), and nothing at all in the love valley. The slit is clean shaven. You crawl towards it, parting the nurse's legs with your body. You lower your face, and lower it more, breath in, dive. You take her in, take her flesh in your mouth, her lips between your lips, you snake your tongue inside her, taste her, consume her, absorb, inhale her. You moisten her, wet her with your own drawl, draw her own wetness from the depths of her pussy, coax arousal out of her unknowing person, tease her clit, munch on her slit, cover her with spit, make her sloppy, so sloppy, so slick your face gets slick.

You crawl further upwards. Drag your face up, along Watkins' flat, toned stomach trailing slobber, up beyond, rooting in her ample cleavage, up, all the way to her pretty, as yet unblemished face. You hold your weight on one arm, while you reach down to take aim, you lick the nurse's lips apart, then simultaneouly thrust your cock into her pussy and tongue into her mouth.

She feels good. She tastes good. She smells good. You bury yourself in her, sliding in and out, varying velocity, faster when you feel number, slower as you near climax. You smother yourself with her, smother her with yourself, lowering your body so your skin rubs against hers. Finally you allow yourself to cum, stepping up the pace, getting close, and then deliberately slowing too little too late, until an incandescent stream of pleasure courses through your cock and explodes deep inside Minnie Watkins' soaking wet pussy. Several seconds it lasts, your semen blasting out again, and again until you feel it overflowing and getting in the tight space between the skin on your rod and the internal vaginal membrane, getting it even slimier. The sheer intensity of the orgasm gets a surprised grunt out of you.

Frenzy waning rapidly, you pull out, and start to breath normally again. Under your hoarse breaths you barely hear a wet 'plop', and look down to Watkins' soiled cunt. Thick, white, unusually viscous cum is slowly leaking out and onto the floor in big globs. Your cock twitches one last time at the sight, but you grimace at the next thought it provokes: you're going to have to clean that up. Oh well.

After a short and quickly successful quest for some sort of hygenic wipes you clear the scene. Re-clothe your nurse. Re-seat her, or rather attempt to and fail miserably. Realising that you can never return her to the position she was in you decide to make it look natural. You place her on the chair, then, always taking care her neck doesn't break, let gravity guide you. You let her slouch, then slide further and further out of the chair until her weight unbalances it. You let the chair collapse and set the body where you think it should lie had it fallen in real time. You take the desk's telephone and make it hang off the edge by its cord. Job done. You recover your own portable telephone and leave the office, setting out for your own room. Upon arrival, you triumphantly snap your fingers, for real.