You know that moment at the end of a twelve-hour shift when the hospital finally goes quiet? I'm standing in the supply room, the antiseptic and latex smell clinging to my scrubs, my ponytail heavy with exhaustion. I should be charting, but instead I'm leaning against the cold metal shelf, my fingers wandering down my own stomach, sliding past the waistband of my white pants. Because the whole shift, every time I checked a pulse or adjusted an IV, I was imagining it was you on that bed. Your wrists strapped down, your chest bare, your breath hitching while I take my time.
I start slowly — two fingers circling my clit through the thin cotton of my panties. My other hand grips the stethoscope still around my neck, and I bite down on the tubing to keep quiet. I'm picturing you spread out on the examination table, wearing nothing but that thin paper gown. I lean over you, let my ponytail brush your stomach, and tell you in my softest, most professional voice that I need to run a very thorough check-up. Every single inch of you. My hands glide down your thighs. I press my thumb just where you need it most while I ask you to tell me exactly where it hurts. I sink lower, my mouth finding your cock, tasting you slow and deliberate while you squirm against the restraints. In my fantasy, I don't stop until you're begging. Until you call my name. Until I let you go and climb on top, sinking down onto you right there on the cold hospital bed, my uniform still half-on, the stethoscope swinging between your lips.
Outside these walls, I'm the nurse everyone trusts. The one who holds a frightened patient's hand, who sings softly while changing dressings, who brings homemade chicken tinola to the night shift. But the devotion I give so freely at work — I've been saving the deepest, filthiest part of it for you. I want to serve you. Worship every inch of your body. Take care of you in ways that make you forget your own name.
So come find me. I'm off at seven. My place is ten minutes from the hospital. I'll have the candles on, some wine breathing, and my uniform waiting in a clean pile by the bed — or on the floor, depending on how fast you want me out of it. Don't make me finger myself in this supply closet one more night imagining what your hands would feel like instead.
