I adjusted my uniform for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon, the stiff fabric chafing slightly against my skin in the humid air of the ambulance cab. It was my third week on the job as a paramedic, and honestly, the thrill I'd imagined—saving lives, adrenaline-pumping rescues—hadn't materialized yet. Most calls were routine: elderly folks with chest pains, minor fender-benders, nothing that got my heart racing. Skylar, my partner, sat in the driver's seat, her fingers tapping idly on the steering wheel. She was everything I aspired to be—confident, quick-witted, with a no-nonsense attitude that hid a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Don't worry, newbie," she'd said earlier with a smirk. "It won't stay boring forever. Things always heat up when you least expect it."
As if on cue, the radio crackled to life. "Unit 47, respond to motorcycle accident on Highway 12, mile marker 8. Single rider down, possible entrapment. Over."
Skylar's eyes lit up, and she hit the sirens without a second's hesitation. "See? Told you." The ambulance lurched forward, tires screeching as we peeled out of the station lot. My pulse quickened—not just from the speed, but from the unknown ahead. We weaved through traffic, the wail of the siren echoing off the buildings, and I gripped the door handle, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling in my chest.
We arrived at the scene in under ten minutes, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows over the asphalt. The motorcycle—a sleek black Harley—lay twisted on its side, skid marks painting a chaotic path behind it. And there he was: the rider, pinned beneath the heavy frame, his helmet cracked but still on his head. He groaned softly as we approached, his leather jacket torn at the shoulder, revealing a glimpse of tanned, muscled arm.
"Easy there," Skylar called out, her voice steady and authoritative. We knelt beside him, assessing quickly. I checked for breathing—steady, if labored—while Skylar felt for pulses and fractures. His name was Nick, we learned from his wallet: 28, local address, no emergency contacts listed. He winced as I gently removed his helmet, revealing tousled dark hair matted with sweat, sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, and piercing blue eyes that flickered with pain... and something else.
That's when I saw it. As Skylar lifted the bike just enough to free his leg—God, she was strong—I couldn't help but notice the bulge straining against his jeans. Not just any bulge; it was massive, the fabric tented obscenely, the outline of his cock clear and throbbing even through the denim. My cheeks flushed hot, a rush of warmth spreading between my thighs despite the professionalism I tried to cling to. How the hell was that possible? Adrenaline from the crash, maybe? Some weird physiological response? But there it was, undeniable, pulsing with each shallow breath he took.
Skylar caught my eye, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Looks like our patient's got more than a bruised leg," she murmured, her voice low and laced with amusement. Nick groaned again, shifting slightly, and the movement only made his erection more prominent, the zipper of his jeans looking like it might give way any second.
"We need to get him stabilized," I said, my voice shakier than I'd like. But as we worked—splinting his leg, checking for internal injuries—his arousal didn't fade. If anything, it seemed to grow, his hips twitching involuntarily, a soft hiss escaping his lips. The air around us thickened, heavy with the scent of gasoline from the bike, mingled with the musky, masculine sweat from his body. I could feel the heat radiating off him, his skin slick under my gloved hands as I palpated his abdomen for tenderness.
"Alexa," Skylar said softly, her hand brushing mine as we positioned the backboard. "You see that? He's not gonna make it to the ER like this. Tension's too high—could complicate things." Her words hung in the air, loaded. I knew what she meant; we'd joked about the "paramedic oath" in training—the Hippocratic ideal twisted into something more... hands-on. Do no harm, but relieve suffering, right? My heart pounded, a forbidden thrill coiling in my belly.
Nick's eyes met mine, hazy with pain but sparking with desperate need. "Please," he rasped, his voice rough like gravel. "It hurts... everywhere." His gaze dropped to his crotch, unashamed, and I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
Skylar nodded at me, her expression encouraging. "We've got this. It's our job." She glanced around—the scene was isolated, no other vehicles in sight, the highway quiet in the late afternoon. With careful movements, we eased him onto the stretcher, but instead of loading him right away, Skylar's hand hovered over his belt. "Let's take care of the immediate issue," she whispered.
My hands trembled as I helped unbuckle his belt, the leather warm from his body heat. The zipper came down slowly, tooth by tooth, the sound amplified in the still air, building the anticipation like a slow fuse. His boxers strained against the release, a damp spot already forming at the tip where pre-cum had leaked through. I could smell it now—salty, heady, mixing with the earthy scent of his skin. Skylar pulled the waistband down, and there it was: his cock springing free, thick and veined, the head swollen and glistening, a deep flushed red that made my core clench involuntarily.
"Jesus," I breathed, unable to look away. It was huge, easily eight inches, curving slightly upward, the shaft pulsing with each heartbeat. A bead of pre-cum welled at the slit, trickling down the underside, and I watched it trail over the ridges of veins, mesmerized.
Skylar chuckled softly, her fingers wrapping around the base first, testing the girth. "Impressive, huh? Feel how hot he is." She guided my hand to join hers, and the contact was electric—his skin velvet-smooth over steel hardness, radiating warmth that seeped through my gloves. I hesitated, then peeled them off, needing to feel him bare. My palm encircled him, fingers barely meeting around the thickness, and he bucked slightly, a low moan escaping his throat.
"Slow," Skylar instructed, her voice husky now, her own breathing deeper. "Build it up." We started together, our hands moving in tandem—up and down, twisting gently at the head, spreading the slick pre-cum along his length. The texture was intoxicating: silky smooth at the tip, rougher where veins bulged, the skin shifting under our grip like living silk. Each stroke elicited a wet, rhythmic sound, the lubrication building as more fluid leaked out, coating our fingers.
Nick's chest heaved, his abs contracting under his torn shirt, revealing a trail of dark hair leading down to where our hands worked him. "Fuck... yes," he gasped, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut. I could feel every twitch, every throb, the way his balls tightened when I cupped them gently, rolling them in my palm—heavy, full, the skin soft and slightly wrinkled, warm against my touch.
The tension coiled tighter, slow and deliberate. Skylar leaned in, her breath hot on my ear as she whispered, "Squeeze a little harder here," demonstrating with a firm pump that made Nick arch, a guttural groan ripping from him. The air grew thicker, scented with arousal—his musk, our combined sweat, the faint metallic tang from the bike wreck. My nipples hardened against my bra, aching, and I shifted, feeling the dampness soaking my panties, the friction of my thighs only heightening the ache.
We picked up pace gradually, our strokes syncing into a hypnotic rhythm: long, languid pulls from base to tip, then short, teasing tugs at the head, thumbing the sensitive underside where the frenulum stretched taut. Pre-cum flowed freely now, sticky strands connecting our fingers to his cock, glistening in the fading sunlight. I watched, transfixed, as Skylar's tongue darted out to wet her lips, her free hand trailing up Nick's thigh, nails scraping lightly over the denim still clinging to his hips.
"Tell us how it feels," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, emboldened by the heat pooling in me. Nick's eyes locked on mine, dark with lust. "Like... fire. So good... don't stop." His hips thrust weakly into our hands, the movement limited by his injuries but desperate, the muscles in his thighs quivering under my touch.
Skylar's hand overlapped mine, guiding faster now, the slick sounds turning obscene—schlick, schlick—as we milked him relentlessly. I felt the build-up, the way his cock swelled even thicker, veins standing out like cords, the head flaring. "He's close," Skylar breathed, her fingers tightening. "Let it go, Nick. Give it to us."
With a strangled cry, he came—hot ropes of cum erupting from the tip, splattering across his abs, our hands, even catching on my uniform. The scent was intense, salty and musky, filling my senses as spurt after spurt pulsed out, his body shuddering, cock jerking in our grip. We didn't stop, drawing out every last drop, milking him dry until he sagged, spent, a blissed-out smile on his face despite the pain.
Panting, I withdrew my hand, sticky and warm, a thrill of satisfaction mingling with the unsatisfied throb between my legs. Skylar wiped her hands on a spare cloth from the kit, her eyes meeting mine with a shared secret spark. "See? Never boring." We loaded him into the ambulance then, his erection finally subsided, ready for the hospital. But as we drove off, sirens blaring once more, I knew this was just the beginning—my job had gotten a whole lot more interesting.