Patricia steadied herself as she stood up straight. Looking over her shoulder she saw the light was flashing down the other end of the ward. She began to shuffle toward the far end of the ward, making sure her knickers would not drop to the floor. The butt plug was making it very awkward. She had a deep aching in the pit of her stomach. Although it was contrary to all she stood for, all she knew, she was very wet. Extremely wet.Once again she had to endure the lewd comments and whistles from the male patients.It seemed like an age before she got to the far end of the room.The patient was a much younger man. Late twenties. Extremely athletic looking.“Nice tits,” He said casually reaching up and giving each tit a squeeze. “So, err… where are my tablets?” Patricia glanced over her shoulder. There. At the far end of the ward sat they tray with all the medication. She knew in an instant what she had to do.But first she had to let the patient finish fondling her breast.Two more trips, the. With each slow sip his head grew weightless. He looked around the oak-paneled room. The young solitary drinker at the end of the bar disappeared. He spotted a newspaper at the end of the long bar. He read about Protestants and Catholics feuding in Northern Ireland, an epidemic in Sudan, a beautiful young Israeli woman arrested for depicting Muhammad as a pig. And how beautiful this woman looked in the paper. Dark hair, lightly frizzed and flowing to her chest. He could not deny her beauty, a woman who actually thinks amidst chaos, a woman willing to die for what she believes, and yet this preposterous beauty would never find him, for if they walked upon the same pavement on any street in the world they would find themselves staunch enemies. And he would never speak with her, never touch her or kiss her.For what seemed like hours he stared at her photograph. His sips turned into frantic gulps just staring at her, regardless of her radical opinions or her hatred of Muslims, no matter.
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