It was daunting being a trainee nurse in the busy A&E ward, straightening my uniform in the staff room and giving myself a last slick of lip-gloss I strolled into the ward to begin my nurses rounds.
The ward was buzzing, new patients were coming in and out and the usual pack of doctors were floating through the ward, taking notes and discussing the new admissions.
In the midst of the new faces I saw him. He was a doctor I had gone for a drink with, we had ended up kissing furiously in the car afterwards but had never got together another date since.
He caught sight of me then and smiled dangerously. I went about my nursing duties and at one point needed to call him in for his advice on an absconded patient.
Naughty Texts
At coffee time I felt a buzzing in my pocket. A new text message showed up, it was the doctor.
“You look beautiful.” He said. Then another buzzed through. “I really want to fuck you now.”
I was shocked, but really turned on.
Later, while I was topping up my nurses notes, he came over and watched me intently while I wrote, feeling his eyes on me made me bristle all over and I felt my thighs ache with longing, my head filled with naughty fantasies which unravelled bit by bit in my head as he watched me with his eyes brimming with desire.
“Nurse, can I have your assistance with some medication administration in the drug cupboard?” The doctor asked. My matron looked up from her desk, curiously watching us. The doctor stepped forward, leaning into the matron’s ear.
“Matron, I’ve noticed how good this nurse is at her IV fluids and I want to supervise her with one of my patient’s particularly important medication.” Matron’s face cleared, she instead nodded proudly at me and we walked off to the drug cupboard, next to the laundry room.
When inside, the doctor locked the door.
Inside The Drug Cupboard
“I have something more important to discuss with you.” The doctor said, coming towards me and cupping my face in his hands, he brushed my cheeks and my lips, with his rough finger.
Before I knew it we were kissing, mouths open and passionate, taking each other’s tongues deep and pressing into each other with desire.
The doctor pulled my uniform open, the poppers giving way easily so that my black lace bra was exposed. I threw the uniform on the floor and he grabbed my breasts, teasing them with his tongue and moaning with longing.
I groaned, hot and aroused, reeling in the fact all my fantasies were being realised. We knew we didn’t have much time, so we didn’t bother undressing, the doctor undid his flies and dropped his trousers and I got on my knees and took him in my mouth.
The doctor groaned as I worked up and down, softly and then fast, taking him deep in my mouth. He grabbed my hair and worked my head in the motion, letting me take him deeper.
Pulling me against the wall, the doctor undid my trousers and began to touch me softly, awakening me more and making me wet all over his fingers.
He then entered me fast, knocking me hard against the drug cupboards. He pounded me over and over and I moaned, breathless and in ecstasy, while he touched me from behind, stimulating my clitoris. Pushing deeper, he grabbed my pelvis so I could feel the full length of him and he hit my G spot over and over which slipped me into an amazing pre-orgasmic state, my whole body reacted and I came, long and loud.
We could hear people outside wanting to use the drug room and all of a sudden the dangerousness of the doctor got the better of him and he took his cock out and came all over my back, stifling his moans of pleasure.
We fumbled for our clothes, giggling to each other as we dressed. The doctor took out some drugs from the cupboard and we feigned nonchalance as the door rapped angrily.
“Hello? Why is this door locked.” It was the matron. Even in the doctor’s world a matron is not somebody to upset, my stomach flipped.
A Lucky Escape
The doctor unlocked the door and the matron barged in, looking around at us.
“Oh, sorry did I lock the door? I have a habit of doing that, don’t want patients and relatives in taking drugs from here.”
“Ahah I see.” Matron said uneasily.
The doctor’s pager beeped and he made his apologies and strode out, sending me a wink over the matrons shoulder.
Matron came towards me, with a knowing look on her face, she settled against the desk where I was standing and eyed me, hesitating to speak.
“Mine was a surgeon named Rahul. Most amazing experience of my life. Enjoy it while you’re young.” With that she strode out, leaving me alone and glowing all over.
The Night Shift
The fluorescent lights in Ward B had been replaced with emergency strips that cast everything in amber. It was one of those rare nights where the hospital held its breath — no new admissions, no emergencies, just the hum of monitors and the distant footsteps of orderlies making their rounds.
Dr. Mehta had pulled a double shift, and the exhaustion had settled into her bones like cement. She retreated to the on-call room on the third floor — a narrow space with a single cot, a desk, and a lock on the door that she always tested twice. The room smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee, but after sixteen hours, it could have been the Taj Mahal.
She was unbuttoning her lab coat when the knock came. Soft, precise — three taps with a pause before the fourth. She knew who it was before she turned the handle.
“I brought chai,” he said, holding two cups from the canteen, steam curling upward. Dr. Kapoor from Ortho. They had been dancing around this for months — charged silences over patient charts, fingers brushing during handovers, text messages at two AM that started clinical and ended in ellipses.
She took the cup and stepped back, letting him into the room without a word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound was louder than it should have been — a full stop in a sentence that had been building for twelve weeks.
“You look exhausted,” he said, and there was concern in his voice that had nothing to do with professionalism. He set his cup on the desk and reached for her shoulder — a gesture that could have been comforting, neutral, deniable. But his thumb traced the line of her clavicle, and the plausible deniability evaporated.
She did not respond with words. She put her cup down next to his and placed both hands flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the cotton of his scrubs. It was fast — the same accelerated rhythm she heard through stethoscopes daily, but this time it was for her.
The kiss happened the way a held breath releases — sudden, inevitable, and accompanied by a rush of relief. His hands found the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his scrubs, bunching it at his shoulders. The chai grew cold on the desk while the room grew warm.
The on-call room was never meant for this. It was six feet by eight, a monastic cell with a cot that creaked at the slightest movement and walls thin enough to hear the nurses’ station three doors down. Every sound we made was a gamble — his intake of breath when my fingers found the drawstring of his scrubs, the soft thud of my stethoscope hitting the linoleum when he pushed the lab coat off my shoulders, the way the cot protested beneath our combined weight like a disapproving chaperone.
“Someone will hear,” I whispered, and the whisper itself felt illicit, intimate — a frequency reserved for confessions and conspiracies. His mouth was against my neck, tracing the line of my pulse, and I could feel him smile against my skin.
“Then be quiet,” he said, which was both a challenge and an impossibility. The risk was part of it — the knowledge that at any moment a pager could shriek, a code could be called, a knock could come. We were professionals in a professional space doing something profoundly unprofessional, and the dissonance between who we were in the hallway and who we were behind that locked door was intoxicating in a way that no substance could replicate.
His hands were surgeon’s hands — precise, unhurried, accustomed to working in high-stakes environments where a millimetre matters. He mapped the topography of my body with the same focused attention he gave to X-rays and MRI scans, finding the fracture lines where I came apart. I bit down on my own hand to muffle the sounds, tasting the latex residue of the gloves I had worn earlier, and even that clinical taste became part of the experience — hospital and hunger intertwined.
The fluorescent light in the hallway cast a thin line of yellow beneath the door, and in that line I could see shadows pass — feet in soft-soled shoes making rounds, the wheels of a medication cart rolling past. Each shadow was a held breath, a pause in our rhythm, a reminder that we were separated from discovery by nothing more than a pressed-board door and a lock that could be overridden with a master key. We resumed each time the shadow passed with a renewed urgency that made the near-miss feel less like an interruption and more like a dare.
Afterward, we lay tangled on that narrow cot, his arm beneath my head, both of us staring at the ceiling tiles with the dazed expressions of people who have just gotten away with something magnificent. His pager sat silent on the desk. The chai was cold. Outside, the hospital hummed its nocturnal lullaby of monitors and ventilators, indifferent to the small revolution that had taken place in room 3B.
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It was so good and the way you narrated everything gave me a huge hardon.
Thank You !!