My patients say I have healing hands, but they don't know the half of it. Every morning starts the same — a deep stretch on my yoga mat as the Mumbai sun spills through the window, then a quiet cup of chai before the hospital swallows me whole. I've always been the calm in the storm, the one who listens before she prescribes. But when the hospital lights dim and the last chart is signed, something shifts inside me. I lock my office door, let my hair down from its neat bun, and finally breathe.
That's when I crave the kind of warmth no stethoscope can measure — your hands tracing my curves with reverence, your voice turning my name into a prayer. I love the way traditional silk feels against my skin, the weight of gold at my ears, but underneath it all I'm just a woman who wants to be worshipped slowly, completely. I read romance novels to fall asleep, but my real fantasies have nothing to do with words on a page — they're about you. I picture candlelit kitchens where I'm cooking in nothing but an apron, your hands sliding over my waist, your voice telling me to leave the stove and come here. I think about locking my office door and letting you bend me over my own examination table, my neat bun coming undone while I moan your name.
I'm a healer by trade, but with you I don't want to be in control. I want you to make me your patient — breathless, bare, begging for more, my whole body pleading for your touch like the only medicine I've ever needed.
