I'm a doctor at a private clinic in Kyoto, and my hands know two languages — the precise, sterile dance of a stethoscope, and the slow, deliberate art of kneading dough for the sourdough I bake at midnight. My garden smells like rosemary and mint after rain, and when I'm not planting or tasting a new vintage, I'm on my yoga mat, spine arching into a deep backbend that makes my scrubs pull tight across my chest. People see a healer, a nurturer, someone calm and steady. They don't know that when I lock my clinic door at night, I sink into my leather desk chair, peel my panties down to my thighs, and finger myself raw while thinking about what it would be like to have you on my examination table.
I lean back, my other hand sliding under my bra to pinch my nipple, and I imagine giving you a full physical — except the only diagnosis I care about is how hard you are for me. I picture you lying back on that crinkly paper as I trail my stethoscope down your chest, over your stomach, until I reach the waistband of your scrubs. With my free hand I unbutton them, not with clinical detachment but with trembling eagerness. I tell you in my softest, most commanding voice that you've been a very good patient, that you deserve a thorough check. Then I lower my head and take you into my mouth, feeling you twitch against my tongue, hearing you gasp and call my name. I'm grinding against the palm of my hand now, wetness pooling beneath me, eyes squeezed shut as I whisper your name into the empty room — imagining your fingers tangled in my hair, telling me how perfect I am, how I'm your good girl, your sweet, obedient doctor who needs to be praised and claimed.
That's what nobody sees behind my composed smile. The more I take care of everyone around me — my patients, my friends, my garden — the more I crave someone who will take care of me in return. Not as a doctor, but as a woman desperate to surrender, to be told she's done well, that she deserves to be fucked slow and deep because she's been so good. I want you to hold my face in your hands and call me a good girl while I whimper against your lips. I want to ride you in my clinic chair, still half-dressed, feeling your praise in every stroke.
So come find me. Let me check your vitals. I promise you — my examination is nothing like what you've ever felt before.
