Tim™ retweeted
I started eating my sister’s pussy before she got married. She still won’t let me fůck her.
It began a few months before the wedding. We were alone. She was stressed, lying on the couch in tiny shorts, no panties underneath. I sat next to her. My hand slid up her thigh. She didn’t stop me. I pulled her shorts down. Her pušșy was already swollen and wet, lips glistening. I buried my face between her legs for the first time. I licked her clit slow, then sucked it hard while I tongue-fůcked her hole. She came hard and fast on my tongue, thighs shaking, juices flooding my mouth. She pushed my head away after and said, “That’s all you get. You’re not fůcking me.”
I've been an emergency room doctor for twelve years.
Nothing prepared me for the patient who refused to tell me his name.
He was brought in just after midnight.
Late sixties.
No ID.
No phone.
No wallet.
Just a torn jacket and a deep cut across his forehead.
Every time I asked for his name, he'd shake his head.
"It doesn't matter."
"We need your information," I said.
He smiled weakly.
"Take care of the others first."
There were three accident victims that night.
He insisted they be treated before him.
Even though he was bleeding.
When things finally quieted down, I walked back to his bed.
It was empty.
He had disappeared.
All he left behind...
Was a sealed envelope with my name written on the front.
I had never seen the man before.
So how did he know my name?
Tim™ retweeted
I fucked my neighbor’s pregnant wife. It’s what I’ve always wanted. She’s 7 months along.
Her husband was at work. She texted me to come over. I walked in and she was in a tight tank top stretched tight over her swollen belly and heavy, full breasts, nipples already hard and pointed through the fabric. She looked at me, breathing heavier, and said, “I’ve been so fucking horny. My pušșy’s been wet all day. He won’t touch me. I’ve wanted your cock for months. Fůck me.”
Tim™ retweeted
Why is his nails so dirty
Every Christmas morning, the same man walked into our hospital carrying a single red rose.
He never came to see a patient.
He always asked to visit Room 312.
The strange part?
Room 312 had been empty for years.
At first, I thought he was confused.
I gently explained that the room had new patients now.
He smiled and said,
"I know."
"I only need five minutes."
Hospital policy usually didn't allow it.
But something about the way he spoke made me ask my supervisor.
She nodded.
"Let him in."
When he walked into the room, he placed the rose on the windowsill.
He closed his eyes.
Whispered,
"Merry Christmas, my love."
Then he quietly walked out.
After seeing him do this for the third year in a row...
I finally asked,
"Who are you talking to?"
He looked at me with tears in his eyes and replied,
"My wife."
What he told me next is something I'll never forget.
Every Christmas morning, the same man walked into our hospital carrying a single red rose.
He never came to see a patient.
He always asked to visit Room 312.
The strange part?
Room 312 had been empty for years.
At first, I thought he was confused.
I gently explained that the room had new patients now.
He smiled and said,
"I know."
"I only need five minutes."
Hospital policy usually didn't allow it.
But something about the way he spoke made me ask my supervisor.
She nodded.
"Let him in."
When he walked into the room, he placed the rose on the windowsill.
He closed his eyes.
Whispered,
"Merry Christmas, my love."
Then he quietly walked out.
After seeing him do this for the third year in a row...
I finally asked,
"Who are you talking to?"
He looked at me with tears in his eyes and replied,
"My wife."
What he told me next is something I'll never forget.
Tim™ retweeted
My wife caught me fůcking our cook. She didn’t fight. She took her clothes off and joined us. That’s when I knew she was bisexual.
The cook was in her early thirties, thick, always flirting when my wife wasn’t around. One afternoon my wife was supposed to be out. I had the cook bent over the kitchen island, dress up, fűcking her deep and raw. She was moaning, pushing back onto me, when my wife walked in. She stopped in the doorway and just watched.
Tim™ retweeted
Is he really her husband
I fucked a 65-year-old widow. I thought she wouldn’t make it through, but she still had it in her.
She lived alone down the street. Soft body, gray hair, always friendly when I walked by. One evening she invited me in for coffee. We talked. She looked at me and said, “It’s been years since anyone touched me. I’m old, but I still get wet. If you want to, you can.” I didn’t hesitate.
Tim™ retweeted
I accidentally sucked and fůcked my landlord’s wife. I was drunk. I thought I was walking into my own apartment. She’s 45.
I came home late, half-drunk, and used the wrong key. The door opened. I stumbled inside thinking it was mine. She was on the couch in a robe, watching TV. I didn’t realize until I was already in the living room. She stood up, confused. I mumbled something about the wrong door. She didn’t kick me out.
Tim™ retweeted
He was caught
xitter.cf/AlphaAuura/status/2111…
結婚式の前夜、彼女は亡くなった父親の古い携帯電話に、一通の予約メッセージが届いていることに気づいた。
送信予定日は、彼女の結婚式の前日。
差出人は、3年前に亡くなった父親だった。
メッセージには、たった一言だけ書かれていた。
「明日、彼を本当に信じていいか確かめなさい」
彼女は画面を何度も見直した。
父親は生前、婚約者の亮介を気に入っていた。
「お前を大切にしてくれる人だな」
そう言って、結婚を誰よりも喜んでくれた。
だからこそ、彼女にはメッセージの意味がわからなかった。
翌朝、彼女は予定より早く結婚式場へ向かった。
控室に入ろうとしたとき、廊下の向こうから亮介の声が聞こえた。
「式が終わったら、すべて話すつもりだ」
彼女は足を止めた。
電話の相手が尋ねた。
「本当に彼女に言うのか？」
亮介はしばらく黙っていた。
「言わなきゃいけない。もう隠し続けられない」
I was the only nurse on the night shift who didn't get frustrated with Room 214.
Everyone said the patient pressed the call button too much.
Some nurses rolled their eyes.
Others joked,
"He's going to wear that button out."
Every ten or fifteen minutes...
The light would come on again.
Sometimes he wanted water.
Sometimes he wanted his blanket adjusted.
Sometimes...
He didn't seem to need anything at all.
One night, another nurse sighed and said,
"He's just lonely."
I decided to find out for myself.
I walked into his room, pulled up a chair, and asked,
"Can you tell me why you keep calling us?"
The 79-year-old man looked at me for a long moment.
Then he quietly said,
"I don't need anything."
"I just get scared when the room is too quiet."
What he told me next changed the way I responded to every call light for the rest of my career.
I've been a pediatric nurse for eleven years.
I've received flowers.
Chocolate.
Thank-you cards.
But the gift I treasure most cost less than a dollar.
She was six years old.
Tiny.
Terrified.
She'd been admitted after being diagnosed with leukemia.
Every time I walked into her room, she'd ask the same question.
"Am I going home today?"
Every time, I'd kneel beside her bed and tell her the truth.
"Not today."
"But we're one day closer."
Some days she'd smile.
Other days she'd cry.
On the hardest days, we'd sit on the floor together and color while her medicine slowly dripped into her IV.
One morning, she handed me a folded piece of paper.
"It's for you," she whispered.
I thanked her and slipped it into my pocket, planning to read it later.
I had no idea...
That simple drawing would stay with me for the rest of my career.
Later that evening, after my shift ended, I unfolded the paper.
It wasn't just a drawing.
She had drawn me standing beside her hospital bed.
I was wearing blue scrubs and a big smile.
Above my head, she'd written in shaky handwriting,
"This is my hospital mom."
My eyes filled with tears.
At the bottom of the page, there was one more sentence.
"When I'm scared, she makes the scary place feel smaller."
The next morning, I brought the drawing back to show her.
She smiled proudly.
"I knew you'd like it."
I laughed.
"I love it."
She looked at me for a moment and quietly asked,
"Will you still remember me when I go home?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Always."
She reached for my hand.
"I'll remember you too."
At that moment...
I realized children don't measure healthcare workers by titles or degrees.
They remember the people who made them feel safe when the world felt frightening.
Tim™ retweeted
This scene is very funny
彼女は、恋人と別れた後も、毎週日曜日になると彼の母親の家を訪れていた。
それを知った新しい彼氏は、ある日、彼女に尋ねた。
「もう別れて3年だろ？ どうして、まだ元彼のお母さんに会いに行くんだ？」
彼女は少し考えてから答えた。
「約束したから」
「何の約束？」
彼女は何も言わず、バッグを手に取った。
3年前、彼女の恋人だった健太は、突然の事故で亡くなった。
二人は結婚する予定だった。
指輪も選んでいた。
新居も探していた。
そして、健太が亡くなる1週間前、彼は彼女にこう言った。
「もし僕に何かあったら、母さんのことを時々気にかけてくれない？」
彼女は笑った。
「縁起でもないこと言わないで」
健太は真剣な顔で答えた。
「母さんは強い人に見えるけど、本当は寂しがり屋なんだ」
それが、最後の約束になった。
I've been a nurse for nine years.
Out of all the patients I've cared for...
There's one I'll never forget.
He was an 82-year-old widower.
Every evening, just before the day shift ended, he'd ask the same question.
"Is the night nurse working tonight?"
At first, I thought he was just lonely.
When I told him I was covering the night shift, he'd smile and say,
"Good."
"But if it's someone else..."
"Tell them not to worry. I'll wait."
He never explained what he meant.
One night, while helping him settle into bed, I finally asked,
"Why do you always wait for the night shift?"
He looked at the empty chair beside his bed.
Then he quietly said,
"Because that's when my wife used to visit me."
I froze.
His wife had passed away five years earlier.
Then he looked at me and whispered something I'll never forget.
"I know she's gone..."
"But every night, someone sits in that chair and reminds me that kindness never dies."
A few weeks later, his condition began to worsen.
He knew it.
So did we.
One quiet night, he asked me for a small favor.
"Could you open the top drawer?"
Inside was a neatly wrapped box with a note attached.
He smiled.
"If I don't wake up one morning..."
"Please give this to the nurse who is on duty."
I promised I would.
Two nights later, his room was empty.
He passed away peacefully before sunrise.
After the family left, I remembered the box.
Inside was a silver pin shaped like a tiny lantern.
There was also a handwritten note.
"To the nurse who was with me at the end..."
"You probably think you were only doing your job."
"You weren't."
"You became someone's family when they needed it most."
"My wife used to say that the best nurses don't just check vital signs..."
"They remind people they're still seen, still heard, and still worth caring for."
I held the note in silence.
In all my years as a nurse...
No award had ever meant as much as the words of one grateful patient.
I wore the little lantern pin on my badge the next night.
One of the younger nurses noticed it.
"That's beautiful," she said.
"Who gave it to you?"
I smiled.
"A patient."
She looked surprised.
"You got that for saving his life?"
I shook my head.
"No."
"I got it for sitting beside him when he was afraid."
That answer stayed with her.
Months later, I watched her kneel beside a frightened little boy before surgery.
She wasn't giving medicine.
She wasn't checking his chart.
She was simply holding his hand until he stopped crying.
As she stood up, I noticed something on her badge.
A tiny lantern pin.
She had quietly bought one for herself.
Then another nurse did the same.
Before long, lantern pins began appearing all over our ward.
Not because they were part of the uniform.
But because they reminded us of something easy to forget.
Patients may not remember every medication we give.
They may not remember every procedure we perform.
But they'll never forget how we made them feel on the days they were most afraid.
And sometimes...
The smallest light is enough to guide someone through the darkest night.
Every Thursday at exactly 9:00 a.m., an elderly woman came to my clinic.
She never missed an appointment.
The strange part?
She wasn't sick.
Her blood tests were normal.
Her heart was healthy.
Her blood pressure was better than mine.
Yet every Thursday, she'd sit in the same chair and politely wait for me.
One morning, I finally asked,
"Mrs. Carter... why do you keep coming here?"
She smiled.
"Because I have an appointment."
I checked her chart.
There wasn't one.
I assumed she was confused.
"It's okay," I said gently.
"I think there must have been a mistake."
She looked at me with tears in her eyes and whispered,
"No, doctor."
"There wasn't."
Then she reached into her purse and handed me an old photograph.
The moment I looked at it...
I understood why she'd been coming to the hospital every Thursday for the last eight years
The next Thursday, I arrived early.
She was already there.
Not in the waiting room.
In the pediatric ward.
She was kneeling beside a little boy who had just finished chemotherapy.
She handed him a small toy dinosaur.
"I heard you were the bravest patient on this floor," she said.
His face lit up.
Later that morning, I found her sitting with an elderly man whose family hadn't visited in days.
She simply held his hand.
No speeches.
No advice.
Just quiet company.
Before she left, I asked,
"How do you know exactly what people need?"
She smiled.
"I don't."
"I just remember what my husband needed when he was here."
"A smile."
"A hand to hold."
"Someone willing to stay."
As she walked toward the exit, I looked around the hospital.
The nurses smiled when they saw her.
Patients waved.
Children ran to hug her.
She had never worked a single day in medicine.
Yet she healed hearts in ways no prescription ever could.
That's when I realized...
Sometimes the greatest medicine isn't found in a bottle.
It's found in a person who chooses to show up, week after week, for people they've never met.
One Thursday, she didn't come.
At 9:00 a.m., her usual chair was empty.
The nurses kept glancing toward the door.
The volunteers asked if anyone had heard from her.
Something felt wrong.
Around noon, I received a call from her daughter.
She had passed away peacefully in her sleep the night before.
A few days later, the family invited the hospital staff to her memorial service.
I expected a small gathering.
Instead, the church was full.
Former patients.
Nurses.
Doctors.
Janitors.
Families she'd comforted during the hardest days of their lives.
One by one, they stood to share stories.
Not about what she owned.
Not about what she accomplished.
But about a kind word...
A hug...
A handwritten note...
Or the simple fact that she stayed when everyone else had gone home.
As I left the service, I thought about the promise she made to her husband years earlier.
She had kept it.
Not by forgetting him.
But by making sure that every Thursday, someone else felt a little less alone.
And in doing so...
She became the kind of healer no medical degree could ever create.