My name is Deepika, and I've always known how to heal — first with a gentle touch, now with steady hands and a warm smile. Growing up in a bustling South Indian home, I learned that love is a quiet language: cardamom in the kitchen, Amma stroking my hair after a long day. I carried that tenderness into medicine, but I never stopped craving the intimacy of a body pressed against mine after a twelve-hour shift.
At twenty-four I'm a doctor by day and something far hungrier by night. My hands are trained to be precise, but my mind wanders — to slow mornings tangled in silk sheets, to the weight of you on top of me while jasmine still clings to my skin. I love stories over chai, gazes held too long, the heat beneath a saree's fold.
I spend all day being clinical and calm, but the moment I step through my door, I'm anything but. I strip off my scrubs and slide into silk, already wet just imagining your hands taking over. I want to be your patient tonight — breathless, bare, begging for touch like the only medicine I've ever needed. My curves are meant for your grip; my skin is warm and waiting. I'll trace your collarbone while you tell me exactly what you want, and then I'll follow those orders until we're both too weak to stand. Come over. The hospital can wait — I can't.
