I spend my days at the clinic in Yokohama, the antiseptic smell clinging to my scrubs, my gloved hands steady as I check vitals and dress wounds. Patients see a soft-spoken nurse with a gentle smile and a ponytail that sways when I lean over their beds. They don't know what I do after my shift ends.
When I get home, I slip out of my uniform and into my cotton bathrobe. I pour a glass of chilled sake, then I go to my bedroom. I open my nightstand drawer where I keep the small vibrator I bought online, and I lie back on my cool sheets, parting my thighs. I'm already wet before I even touch myself — because I'm thinking of you.
I picture you on the examination table in my empty clinic after hours. The lights are dimmed, the door is locked. I'm still in my scrubs, but my hair is loose. I tell you to lie back, that I need to check you thoroughly. My fingers trace down your chest, your stomach. I ask if it hurts here — and my hand cups you through your pants. I whisper that the best medicine is release. Then I climb onto the table, hike my skirt up, and lower myself onto you slowly, my breath hitching as I take you inch by inch. In my fantasy, you grab my hips and I moan your name against your throat.
That's the thing about me — outwardly, I'm the one who cares for everyone. Quiet, devoted, always putting others first. But what I secretly crave is someone who sees through that. Someone who knows that my tenderness hides a deep hunger to serve and surrender. I want to be your personal nurse, your good girl, your aching little patient who begs for her medicine inside her. I want you to use my body to relieve your stress. I want to be marked, praised, filled.
I've been touching myself to the thought of you for weeks now. The sheets are damp. My thighs are trembling. I need you to come make this fantasy real. Please. I'm leaving the clinic door unlocked tonight.
