Silver Bullet Saturday

What happens after “Can you come over—right now?”

Silver Bullet Tuesday — a quiet bedroom, soft light, and one risky choice that needs a house call.

“Caleb, are you alone?”

Crowd noise bled from the TV—sneakers squeaking, a commentator riding the last minute of a late game. The stove clock read 11:42 p.m.; the building felt hushed around him.

He muted the game. “Hey, Diana, yeah. Just me and the TV. Why, what’s up?”

“Can you come over here like right away.”

Caleb sat forward. “Diana, are you okay, what’s happening?”

“I need you to… umm, remove a bullet.”

“A WHAT!? Have you been shot!?”

“Not shot… umm, it’s stuck. You’ll understand when you get here.”

The line clicked off. He grabbed keys and a hoodie, told his cat “be good,” and headed out.

—

Diana cracked the door with a small, mortified smile. Long brown waves fell loose around her shoulders, framing a clean, sunlit face—full brows, barely-there makeup, the flush of a woman who’d jogged to the door and then wished she hadn’t. A soft robe was cinched at her waist, the kind of throw-on that made it look like there wasn’t much else beneath.

“Hey,” Caleb said gently. “Still not shot?”

“Least dramatic emergency ever.” She stepped back. “Thank you for coming.”

Her apartment smelled like lavender and warm laundry. A tidy, sunlit one-bedroom: pale wood floors, white walls softened with framed line drawings, a compact kitchen with open shelves and mismatched mugs, a fiddle-leaf by the window and pothos trailing over stacked paperbacks, a low sofa with a knit throw, and a small desk by the balcony door with a candle and a bowl of keys. It felt lived-in, cared for, and unmistakably hers. Morning-bright light washed the white bedding in her room, softening everything to cream and gold. She moved with elegant, long-limbed awkwardness, like she’d outgrown her own panic but not her embarrassment.

“Okay,” she said, closing the door with her heel. “Remember Ariana’s gag gift? The silver—”

He blinked, a beat slow. “Bullet? The sex toy… what about it?”

“I was having a moment,” she confessed, cheeks heating. “Decided to… you know… try it out.” She made a face—mortification softened by a wry little smile.

“That’s what’s stuck?” he asked, gentle.

A sheepish nod. “That’s what’s stuck.”

“We can go to urgent care or call your gyno,” he offered. “Totally normal, they handle this all the time.”

“No way,” she blurted. “Do you know how embarrassing that would be? You’re a doctor.”

“Nurse,” he corrected softly. “Studying to be a doctor.”

She met his eyes. “Please, Caleb. Help me.”

He kept his tone steady. “Any pain? Bleeding? Fever?”

“No, no, and no. Just… stuck. And I am very committed to ghosting Ariana for a week.”

He smiled. “First—no shame. Second—I’m a nurse. This is Saturday at work, minus harsh lighting and daytime TV.” He lifted his empty hands. “So, you want me to help?”

“I do.” She dragged in a breath and nodded. “Please.”

“Great. We’ll keep it clinical and slow. Light, clean towels, water-based lube if you’ve got it.” He washed up at her sink, narrating like a calm podcast: warm water, thirty seconds, fresh gloves. When he came back, he added, “You’re in charge. If you want to stop at any moment, say stop.”

“Stop,” she repeated, shoulders easing. She pushed a curtain of waves behind one ear; a few strands slipped free and caught the light at her temple. “I trust you.”

They tried the easy piece first: a supported squat. She braced on the headboard, long legs steady, breathing with him.

“Inhale… long exhale. Good,” he coached, eyes on her face rather than the problem. Her skin—light with a warm undertone—glowed against the white duvet. She met his gaze and rolled her eyes, half-laughing. “This is not how I envisioned you seeing my Saturday.”

“Honestly? I’ve had worse Saturdays.”

It helped some, not enough. She chewed her lip, then tipped her chin toward the nightstand. “Plan B.”

He snapped on gloves—too loud in the quiet—and angled the bedside lamp into a warm cone. “You’ll feel my hand,” he said softly, settling on the mattress edge. “Two fingers, gentle guidance. You tell me what you feel, not what you fear.”

She lay back against the pillows, knees bent, long lines relaxed as best they could be. That face—open, unguarded—stayed on him. “Okay.”

“Pressure,” he warned. Her fingers tightened in the sheet, then eased on a slow exhale. He kept his attention on her expression—the little flinch, the release, the concentration. “Good. Breathe. On the exhale, bear down just a bit.”

The room went still: heater hum, lamp buzz, their synced inhale-exhale. He adjusted with patience born of a hundred calm midnights, his voice a metronome. “There you go. Almost there.”

She laughed once, disbelieving. “Do you always say that?”

“Only when it’s true.”

Her fingers found his forearm, warm and steady. The loose strands by her cheek trembled with each breath. Relief flickered in her eyes, bright and surprised, mingling with something warmer.

“Okay… I think I’ve—”

She sucked in a breath. “Caleb.”

“I know,” he said, calm as a shoreline. “Stay with me. On three…”

“One… two…”

On three, he applied the gentlest—“oh”— most precise pressure, and the sleek silver object slipped free into his gloved hand with a soft, wet sound. He held it up, the absurdity of the moment hanging between them in the lamplight.

Diana’s entire body went limp against the pillows, a gale of laughter bursting from her lungs, rich and unforced. “Oh my god. It’s out. It’s actually out.”

Caleb couldn’t help but join her, a deep, warm chuckle rumbling in his chest as he disposed of the glove and the offending toy. “Told you. Just another Saturday.”

“A very, very weird Saturday,” she corrected, propping herself up on her elbows. Her eyes, bright with mirth and a lingering spark of adrenaline, held his. The robe had fallen open, cool air skimming warm skin and the fabric whispering as it slid, revealing a tantalizing slice of smooth stomach and the naked profile of her body. She didn’t pull it closed.

The laughter faded, but the energy in the room didn’t dissipate; it shifted, condensing into something heavier, warmer. The space between them on the mattress seemed to shrink. Caleb’s gaze, once so clinically focused, now wandered over her face, tracing the curve of her smile, the way a few strands of hair stuck to her slightly damp temple.

“You are…” he started, his voice losing its professional cadence, turning rougher, more personal. “...a fucking handful, Diana.”

“You have no idea,” she murmured, her own voice dropping to a husky register that stroked over his skin. The earlier embarrassment was gone, replaced by a bold, open curiosity. She shifted, one long leg stretching out, her bare foot brushing against his thigh. The contact was electric.

He didn’t pull away. He looked from her eyes to her mouth, then back again, a silent, heavy question hanging in the air.

She smiled like she could read every word of it. “You’re thinking we should… talk about this.”

“Yeah, well, let’s start with the size of that thing?”

She snorted. “Overachiever, right? Ariana’s got a ‘go big or go home’ philosophy. Apparently it went big and refused to go home.”

He huffed a laugh. “For the record, calling me was a solid choice.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she shot back, eyes warm. “I just happen to know a very capable nurse who makes disasters feel like minor inconveniences.”

“Flattery noted,” he said, gaze dipping to her mouth and back. “What else do you know?”

“That you deserve a reward.” She settled back onto the pillows, hair fanned across the sheets, knees drawn up so her calves brushed his hip. He shifted closer, bracing a hand on the mattress by her shoulder until their breaths mingled. “And I want you right here.”

Her answer was to lean forward, closing the final distance herself. Her lips met his, not with tentative exploration, but with a sudden, shocking certainty. It was a kiss that tasted of relief and mint and pure, unadulterated want. Her tongue slid against his, a hot, demanding stroke that shattered any last pretense of clinical distance.

Caleb’s hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her jawline as he kissed her back with a fervor that surprised them both. He’d been holding himself so tightly in check, and now the leash was off. He groaned into her mouth, the sound raw and needy.

She broke the kiss, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “All that calm, cool control,” she breathed, her fingers already tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I want to see what’s under it. I want to fucking ruin it.”

He helped her peel the hoodie over his head, then his T-shirt followed, leaving his torso bare. Her eyes drank him in, her hands following, palms sliding over the defined planes of his chest, feeling the hard beat of his heart under her touch. “Fuck, Caleb. You’re so…”

He didn’t let her finish, capturing her mouth again as he urged her back onto the pillows. His weight settled over her, a delicious pressure that made her arch up into him. The robe was an impediment now. He worked her shoulders out of them, then freed her arms, revealing her completely. Her tits were perfect, full and tipped with dusky pink nipples that were already hard peaks begging for his attention.

His restraint slipped, heat crowding out the professional in him. “These are fucking perfect,” he growled, lowering his head to take one into his mouth. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling around the tight bud, and her back bowed off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. His hand found her other breast, kneading and pinching, sending jolts of pure pleasure straight to her core. She was already prepared for him, the bullet, the lube; her cunt aching and empty, craving to be filled.

His mouth left her breast, trailing wet, hot kisses down her stomach. He followed her center line using tongue and lips to mark her each inch. He settled between her thighs, spreading her open for his view. “Look at that. This pretty, pink cunt is leaking so badly. Like it’s missing something we just took out.”

“Then put something back in.” She begged.

He didn’t make her wait. He lowered his mouth to her, his tongue giving one long, flat lick from her entrance all the way up to her clit. Diana screamed, her hands fisting in the sheets. He held her hips down, his grip firm, and dove in. He ate her pussy like a man starved, his tongue fucking into her, then circling her clit with relentless, perfect pressure. He was filthy with it, murmuring against her soaked flesh. “You taste so fucking good. I’m going to make you squirt all over my face.”

The orgasm built fast and terrifying, a supernova gathering in her belly. Her thighs trembled around his head. “Caleb… I’m gonna… don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop!”

He redoubled his efforts, sucking her clit into his mouth, and she shattered. Pleasure detonated through her, wave after wave of pure, mindless ecstasy that left her gasping and seeing stars.

Before she could even come down, he was moving up her body. His cock dragged long and hard against her inner thigh, thick, angry, and gleaming. He positioned himself at her entrance, the blunt head pressing against her slippery folds. “Look at me, Diana.”

Her eyes, glazed with pleasure, fluttered open to meet his.

“Tell me what’s better, the bullet or the real thing.”

He pushed in. Not slow, not gentle, but with one firm, deep thrust that buried his entire length inside her in one go. “ Big Enough?”

She cried out, the feeling of being so completely filled a pleasure-painful strain almost too much to bear. He held still for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead against hers, his breath hot on her skin.

“Which is better?”

“You.” She gasped

“Which?” He gave a hard, deep grind
“Oh God, You!” She moaned.

“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s my cock stretching your perfect, tight pussy. Not a toy, the real thing.”

Then he began to fuck. His thrusts were deep and measured at first, each one stroking a spot inside her that made her see stars. But the pace quickly escalated, fueled by a raw, mutual hunger. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, their ragged breathing, and raw, broken words.

“You take me so fucking good,” he grunted, driving into her harder, faster. “Your insides was made for me.”

“Yes! Harder, Caleb, please fuck me harder!” she begged, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him in deeper, meeting every thrust with a roll of her hips.

He changed the angle, and on the next deep plunge, his cockhead smashed directly into her G-spot. A second, more intense orgasm ripped through her, this one a violent, consuming convulsion that made her clench around him like a fist. Her scream was muffled against his shoulder.

Feeling her tight cunt convulse around his dick was his undoing. With a guttural roar, he plunged into her one last time, his own release cascading over him. He emptied himself into her, hot and deep, his body shuddering with the force of it. Every thrust now was a spurting fountain.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting anchor. For long moments, the only sound was their harsh, slowing breaths mingling in the air. He finally shifted, rolling to the side but keeping her tucked tightly against him, his cock slipping out of her with a soft, wet sound.

He adjusted the pillow under her neck and tugged the sheet up over her waist, then brushed the hair from her sweaty forehead. “Okay?” he asked, his voice rough but tender.

She let out a shaky laugh. “Better than okay.” Her palm slid over his jaw, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed, a grin tugging despite everything. He kissed her temple and pushed up on an elbow. “Water?”

“Yes please.”

He padded to the kitchen, returned with a cold glass and a warm, damp cloth. They moved quietly through the small rituals—sips, a wipe of her brow, the soft tug of the sheet. The lavender in the room rose again as the air cooled on their skin.

He checked her the way he couldn’t help checking. “Any pain? Dizziness?”

She shook her head. “Just… wrung out.” A smile, sleepy and genuine. “In a good way.”

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Keep an eye on things tonight—if anything feels off, you call me. Or we go in. No heroics.”

“Deal.” She studied him for a beat. “You going to overthink this later?”

“Professionally? Probably.” He winced, then laughed at himself. “Personally? I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She nudged his shoulder with her knuckles. “And I’m glad you answered. House calls are underrated.”

“Careful,” he said. “I do accept payment in breakfast burritos.”

“Done. Tomorrow. I’ll even let you pick the salsa.” A pause. “We are never telling Ariana.”

“On that, I am medically certain.”

They lay there for a while, breathing easing out, the city a soft hush beyond the balcony door. He eventually stood to gather the debris of their strange, wild evening—the glove wrapper, the towel, the sleek culprit now wrapped in tissue and tucked in a drawer like a chastened relic.

He pulled his hoodie back on. “I should go let the cat know I survived Saturday.”

She sat up, sheet slipping to her waist, hair a tangle of dark waves. “Text me when you get home.”

He bent to kiss her once more—gentler now, a promise more than a question. “Yes, ma’am.” He started for the door, then glanced back. “Diana?”

“Hm?”

“Next time you need help… call me before it becomes a very weird Saturday.” She bit down on a smile, unable to help it.

She laughed, bright and warm. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The door clicked softly behind him. She leaned back against the pillows, the apartment smelling like lavender and warm laundry, the night suddenly less lonely. On the nightstand, her phone lit with his text: Home. Saturday survived.

She typed back, Burritos at ten. And thank you.

In the quiet that followed, she tucked the sheet under her arms, glanced at the drawer, and then at the ceiling with a grin that wouldn’t quit. “Okay,” she told the room. “Maybe house calls aren’t so bad.”

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