cumming inside the hottest girl on the psych ward…

This was 2018. I was twenty, and psychologically unsound, on medical leave from NYU, where I’d been studying—you guessed it—psychology. I’ll avoid getting too deep into the weeds of doom and gloom, but in essence, my roommate and my Cog Sci professor had teamed up to get me 5150ed, after noticing in me a nasty cocktail of recklessness and sleeplessness. I am told I presented as methed-out. Paranoia, rambling, bizarre sexual escapades that I now do not recall. I blame most of it on the stimulants I’d been abusing for midterms. Some of it on the yet-undiagnosed bipolar. In any case, they weren’t wrong to send me up the hill.

I’d been on the ward at New York Presbyterian for three days when Elsie was admitted. By then I’d pretty much evened out. I’d slept for around forty hours straight when I arrived, thanks mostly to the Ambien, and that alongside an antipsychotic regimen was enough to slow my roll. The psychiatrist wanted to hold me for a few more days to make sure I was without adverse effects from the new drugs. When I protested, he told me, verbatim, “Relax, Peter. Right now what you’ve got is forty-eight hours to plan nothing, be accountable to no-one, to do and think about whatever the hell you want. You know when in life you’re going to have that kind of time again? Never, that’s when.”

I told him I appreciated it, but I wasn’t a person who needed that sort of thing. I was ambitious, chronically unsettled; I didn’t crave down time. I wanted to get back to school, so I could become a better shrink than him one day, I thought to myself.

I left the office, and standing out in the hallway like a crash-landed angel was Elsie. She was dwarfed by the blue gown, her copper hair tufting out wildly. I noticed her feet, how they ducked outwards almost in protest, the grippy socks too big on her.

“I want my clothes,” she was saying to Joleen, leader of the squadron of big Dominican nurses.

“They’re still getting checked over in inventory,” Joleen replied. “Oh, Peter. Perfect. Why don’t you show Elsie around? She’s in 402, with Angela, but I believe Angela’s in a group right now. You can tag in, can’t you?”

I waved the little redhead along down the great white hallway and tried to keep from sweating. She clomped after me like an angry Shetland pony.

“When will they give me my clothes back?” she grumbled.

“This is the cafeteria,” I said, gesturing towards the square white dining room. “Probably in about an hour. They have to comb through it all for blades and string-like things.”

“What a pain,” sighed Elsie. “I was looking forward to showing you my little black dresses.”

I sputtered, pulled at my collar, unable to come up with a clever volley to return to this gorgeous but disheveled girl, who clearly was not currently in the market for little black dresses. She had something of a skater vibe about her, I guessed.  And she’d tried to kill herself. This I knew without even asking, knew on a psychospiritual plane. An overdose, I was assuming, from the absence of bandages. Little Elsie had become worn out with the world, not sad so much as bored, and what was I supposed to say to a girl like that?

“This is the group room,” I said. “Down there’s the nurse’s station, which I’m sure you’ve seen. Med room’s tucked away back there.” I kept leading her down the hall until we reached 402.

“Here you are,” I said. “They’ll bring your stuff in later, once they’ve checked everything.”

“And where in this lovely cul-de-sac do you reside?” Elsie asked.

“Oh. I’m 405. Right across the hall.”

She nodded, and pressed her lips together in what must have been the approximation of a smile. I went back to 405, where my schizophrenic roommate Louie was mumbling the words to “Ring of Fire” on a loop, and rubbed one out under the covers while I pretended to take a nap. I came quickly, pulling the head of my cock out of my boxers at the last minute, emptying myself onto my stomach. Pretending it was Elsie’s stomach.

The next day she sat down at my breakfast table. She’d gotten her clothes back; now, she was wearing massive, parachuting sweatpants and a tight little Yankees tee-shirt. Her torso was narrow, her boobs far apart, palm-sized.

“What does a person do around here when they’re bored?” she asked.

“Why else do you think they call them board games?” I replied.

We played Life, Mancala, Sorry. We watched two hours of Family Feud and only stopped when our eyes hurt. I gave her the lay of the land, which patients to avoid, which nurses would slip you Trident, the janitor who let me nap in his mop closet whenever Louie was having an episode.

“A mop closet?” she said.

“Yeah. It’s right next to your room, actually, the door before 403.”

“Does it lock?”

“It’s supposed to be locked all the time, but Max usually forgets at night.”

“I mean, does it lock from the inside?”

The Monopoly hat fell from my hand. I blinked at Elsie. She’d brushed her hair, and now it was more of a mane than a wasp’s nest. With her freckles and her sharp, elfin features, she looked almost woodland. She shrugged. I shrugged back. I bought a hotel on Atlantic Avenue and that was that.

I caught Max in the hallway that afternoon and explained the situation to him.

“Don’t worry your head about it,” he said, in his moony way. “Live large, brother.”

Thank fuck it was a Saturday. Anyone who’s been institutionalized knows that weekend staff are essentially people they drag in from street corners to babysit. And these were *overnight* weekend staff, which made them all the more gloriously incompetent. When I slunk into Elsie’s room that night, though many of the ward’s security cameras must have caught my prowling, the hall was dim and empty, and we made it inside the closet without rousing a soul.

For a little while we just stood there in the dark, among the brooms and industrial vacuums, soaked in the smell of lemony bleach.

“You know this isn’t a romantic thing, right?” Elsie said.

“Of course not,” I replied.

“This is a time-killer. This is just something to do.”

“A bored game.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why they sent me here.”

She moved closer to me. Every step she took equated to another inch my dick rose.

“I’m not here to love anyone,” Elsie muttered, resting her cheek against my chest, and I wondered if by “here” she meant the ward, or the world.

I wrapped my arms around her. I’m 6”2, and I estimate she was around 5”3, so we slotted right into each other. I rubbed up and down her back, my hands bumping over the knobs of her vertebrae, catching on the elastic of her pants. When I slipped my thumb underneath she gave a little mewl and pressed her hips forward. I could literally feel the cleave in her pussy wrap around my erection. I moaned into her mouth. That was when she reached up and bit my earlobe.

Like animals scrabbling for offal, we tore each other’s clothes off. Her body was tight and narrow, but her hips rounded out to perfect arcs. I took her breasts in my hands and squeezed, thumbing circles into her pert nipples. She let her head fall back and groaned. With her left hand she reached down to grab my ass and pull me closer. My bare dick was now resting on her ginger mound, my balls slapping gently against her hole every time we shifted. My tip oozed precum into her belly button.

Dancing around mop buckets, I lifted her onto a short metal shelf abutting the wall. She leaned back, and I pried her knees apart, burying my face in her crotch. The door was thick, the closet deep, but we had agreed to keep things as quiet as we could. When Elsie moaned, it was breathy and thin, her mouth parted and eyes shut, whispering *yes, yes, more*. Her anatomy was such that I could fit my tongue a ways up her pussy, swirling around the walls. After a while her knees squeezed in to clasp my head.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, “I’m close.”

I needed no more encouragement. I went ham, sucking her clit for all I was worth, until I felt her pussy start to spasm around me, and she clamped a hand over her mouth and squealed into it.

When she’d come down from her orgasm she hopped spryly off the shelf and pushed me to the floor. She laid me down. Kneeled over me. She wiped some of the wetness from my chin, grinning. She kissed my clavicle, my ribs, my hipbone. My dick twitched up to meet her neck.

“Jesus fuck,” I murmured. She was dangling her tits over my shaft, having them tickle the tip like dreamcatchers. “I need to fuck you.”

“You sure?” she said slyly. She reached down to cup my balls and I knew that if we didn’t start boning here and now, I’d lose it all over her.

“Yes,” I said. “Now.”

She slid her hand up to my dick and lowered herself onto me. The feeling of being nestled in her up to the hilt is one I’ve never been able to achieve again—the closest I’ve come to spontaneously blowing my load in a fit of angelic fury. I could feel her darkness, her wetness, her heat, and by being inside of her it was also my darkness and wetness and heat. I could feel her cervix, just shy of my tip, and when she started to bounce I could feel it boop me like a blotter. My hips jerked upwards, and she made a guttural sound.

“I want you to cum inside me,” she said, without any of the porny whining I’d heard from other girls. The way Elsie said it was stark and matter-of-fact, almost animal in its plainness. It was as if she were asking for a glass of water.

I flipped us over, pinning her to the cement, and began to jackhammer into her almost involuntarily. It was humping at its most basic level, my whole body pressed against hers, my balls slapping her asshole. She scratched at my back, moaned into my ear, grabbed my butt a few times just to try and get me deeper. I felt cum pooling in the base of my dick. The pressure was indescribable.

“Oh my god, right there,” Elsie groaned, as I felt my upper crotch make direct contact with her clit. “I’m gonna—I’m cumming!”

She tensed beneath me, wrapping her legs around my torso like a squirrel monkey, and the pressure in my cock began its immortal journey upward.

“I’m gonna cum, too,” I said breathlessly. “I’m about to cum.”

“Please, inside me, I wanna feel it,” she moaned.

I kept ramming her, kept clutching her coiled body, until the dam inside my painfully hard cock broke open—-*I’m cumming, I’m cumming!*—and my load shot like a missive into her cervix. It was the hardest I’ve ever come in my life. I must have been jizzing for a full minute. I could feel my hot streams painting her pussy walls, and all I could do was moan and bury myself deeper inside of her, until I thought I might literally break her open.

For a while afterward we lay there, on the grimy floor of the janitor’s closet, catching our breath, looking up at the unlit overheads as though they were stars.

“What do you do?” I asked her finally. “You know, in the real world.”

“We don’t need to talk about those things.”

“Okay.”

“Mostly I try to stay alive.”

“How hard could you really be trying, if you ended up here?”

For a moment I worried I’d offended her, but she rolled towards me and laughed a light, spritely laugh.

“Touché.”

“Hey. Thanks for tonight.”

“No. No thank yous. This wasn’t any sort of trade-off.”

“Just something to pass the time.”

“Exactly.”

In the morning, in the 6AM med line, I looked for Elsie, but she was nowhere to be seen. I left my place in line and went to find her roommate, Angela.

“Got released about an hour ago,” Angela told me. “Evidently her parents came for her. Seemed like real uppity folks, the constipated Westchester kind.”

I wish I had a better story. I dream, sometimes, about what happened to Elsie, where she turned up, but the dreams always end sadly, and in my honest heart, I’m not sure if I want to know.