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They call your name at least three times before you stir out of a failed attempt at a nap.
The PTMC waiting room feels oddly empty, not that you know much about how it looks otherwise, but you'd at least expect it to be more crowded, chaotic. Abuzz, as one would expect from the emergency department of a place called Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Where’s... well, all the trauma?
In your case, the "trauma" is the massive fucking pain in your right heel that's somehow rendered you unable to put any weight on it without keeling over. Hence the Uber ride instead of a quick drive over. Hence why the attractive curly-haired male nurse who performed triage on you about half an hour ago was now approaching with a wheelchair in tow.
You jolt awake when he pushes the wheelchair a little too close and it bumps into your knee only slightly, for which he apologizes. You try to stave him off and tell him you don't need it, that you could walk perfectly fine, but he insists it's protocol. If the pain in your foot ends up being a stress fracture, the last thing you'd want to do is continue to aggravate it. You huff, and it's partly because of your interrupted nap, and partly because you're gonna have to decide how you're going to explain how this injury came about on a random Tuesday night to this very hot, scruffy, bicep-y male nurse who, you notice upon inhaling the air in his personal vicinity, smells really goddamned good.
He wheels you back through the doors of reception and a little further forward into a room labeled with the number 12 and then asks you to move from the wheelchair and sit on the bed. You, again, insist on your ambulatory nature, but when you accidentally put your weight on that right heel that sharp pang shoots through your foot all over again, causing you to let out a pained Aaah as you slowly collapse back into the chair.
You thank Nurse Mateo, now that you remember the name he gave you when he checked on you during triage, when he offers his arm for support while still allowing you to feel some sense of control as you get up, more carefully now, from the wheelchair to the bed.
Mateo asks you to change into a gown. You don’t understand why, exactly, since you’re dealing with a foot issue, but he tells you it’s protocol just in case they need to do any additional physical exams. He draws the privacy curtain and steps out until you’re ready, and then he helps you back onto the bed so you don’t stumble and fall before they get to any sort of treatment.
Then Mateo informs you of what comes next, because you’d mentioned your anxiety disorder and how much it helps to know what to expect beforehand. He outlines how they’re going to briefly examine your foot to check for tenderness in the plantar fascia versus the arch itself so they could rule out a stress fracture. Then, you might need an X-ray, or they might give you some ice and let you rest until you feel better.
Your heart starts to race when, after repeating the routine responses you have to do at every stage of a medical visit (mostly your date of birth), he asks a simple question:
“So, want to tell me how this happened?”
Before you can speak, someone knocks on the door and asks if he can come in—well, he lets himself in, anyway. A much older doctor enters, the slivers of white and silver in his hair casting a cool halo over his rugged features.
“Looks like I’m a little early. Hi, I’m Doctor Abbot, but you can call me Jack,” he introduces himself as he approaches your bed and takes the tablet off the nurse you’d been speaking to. You notice his eyes move between the screen, then at your face, then your body, your face again, the screen again. He turns to Mateo. “I can take over this, man, don’t even worry about it. Take a break, it’s a slow night.”
The older man shrugs and sends a wink your way. You think it’s cheeky but can’t help feeling tickled by the intriguing charm about him; besides, you’re a little delirious from the time of day and don’t really care which hunky medical provider’s hands get all up over your foot tonight. It’ll be the most action you’ve had in months.
“Doctor Abbot’s our Senior Attending here, so you won’t be in any greater hands,” Mateo tells you with a smile before nodding at Jack and walking toward the door.
“Mateo, do you mind draping the window for us?” Jack adds, and so the nurse kindly shuts the privacy curtain before leaving the room.
Doctor Jack Abbot turns back toward you while you’re still seated upright, your right leg outstretched, your foot propped on a pillow. “So, where were we? You think you gave yourself plantar fasciitis. Why do you think that?”
It’s tough to hide the nervous expression from your face. “I think I have to explain what I did to get my foot all messed up. Oh my god, it’s so embarrassing, please don’t judge me!”
The doctor raised an eyebrow, and if your eyes aren’t fooling you his lip seems to curl on one side as if to smile or smirk but you can’t tell. By focusing on his face even the slightest bit, your anxiety starts to mix with a new warmth you weren’t quite feeling earlier. If you told this man what got you in this position, you don’t even think he would take you seriously for the rest of your time here.
He puts a hand on your right foot, palming your metatarsal pads and curling his finger around your toes. It doesn’t strike you as creepy at all, but more… comforting? His next words are softer. “I won’t judge you. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think, but if you can tell me what happened, I can figure out what’s wrong, and I’ll know how to treat you.”
His words sound like a heartbeat. I won’t judge you. I’m sure it’s not bad, I can figure it out. I will know. You take a deep breath.
“I was…kneeling… in the tub,” you begin. “I was kneeling, like, for a while, while taking a shower. And maybe I over-stretched something in my foot, because, because when I stepped out of the shower, it just… like my foot fucking collapsed. And now my foot is disgusting because I am way too much of a disgusting, sex-starved, horny freak…”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Jack says, his hands just hovering over you in an attempt to soothe. It only partially works and you know exactly what he’s going to ask next, especially after your broken response. “I think I’m missing some pretty key information here. Were you with someone when this happened? Because the only thing I’m judging is why you’re here all alone.”
There it is again. Another sensation shoots through your body, and you can’t tell whether it’s left over from earlier in the evening or a new feeling from this specific conversation.
“Because I was alone,” you respond, softly, guiltily, still in disbelief that you’ve really decided to take yourself to an emergency room because of this stupid fucking self-inflicted thing. “I was kneeling because… I was using a toy.”
You look up at him, hoping he understands what you mean. He bites his lower lip and nods. It’s less of a seductive bite but definitely knowing.
But now that you’ve started to explain yourself, you can’t help but keep explaining.
“I was playing with my vibrator,” you continue, starting to use your hands to demonstrate. “It’s this rabbit thing, so there’s a part that goes inside, and the other part sits on your—um, clit— and this specific one kinda thrusts on one end while the clit end goes bzzzz, bzzzzz—and I was listening to a pretty spicy story in the tub, and kneeling on the toy felt like riding it, and at one point I just—”
“Okay, okay, I think I understand what’s going on,” the doctor chuckles before pausing. “And this happened over the course of… a few seconds? A couple of minutes?”
“Doc—Jack, I kept going for, like, ten minutes,” you scoff, fully acknowledging how you are baring this excessively vulnerable part of yourself to this doctor. You know you’re probably freaking him out with this. But no one, not even your mom or your gynecologist prepared you for the utter ferality of ovulating in your thirties. You lower your voice to almost a whisper when you add, “I came, like, four times.”
“And now you’re here,” the doctor remarks.
“Now I’m here.”
“And you hurt your foot.”
“I fucking hurt my foot.”
Jack, staring at you, takes a moment to gather himself. Then he looks at you a little more seriously. Like a lightbulb has just clicked on in that middle-aged, medical mind of his. “Did you, by any chance, bring this—um, rabbit—with you tonight?”
You’re surprised at his question, but you nod. Based on your previous ER visits from more hedonistic days, you’re more than used to the long waits inside one of these patient rooms, and the slightly freakier side of you may have had a passing thought that you could pass the time in some other way than tossing and turning on a stiff bed at a trauma hospital. “It’s right here,” you say, patting a black drawstring pouch next to you on the mattress. “Do you want to… see it?”
There’s no doubt about it.
The doctor is definitely smirking now.
You take the mint green skin-safe silicone device out of its silk encasement and shamelessly present it to your provider. Jack takes it in his hand like he knows exactly what to do with it.
“I’m sorry,” Doctor Abbot begins, and you don’t quite know how the rest of the sentence is about to go. “...that you had to go through all that trouble to, well, make yourself feel good. You’re supposed to take care of yourself, not take yourself to a hospital.”
Your breath hitches when he holds a long press upon one of the buttons, activating the vibrating end that’s meant to go on your clit. “Doctor…”
…is all you can muster, because you don’t know how the next few words are even meant to come out of your mouth.
“I could—take care of you,” he says, his voice dropping into a groan. “Would you… like… that?”
Doctor Jack Abbot, an attending physician of the emergency department at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, is standing over you now, the buzzing knob of the toy hovering over your clit through the delicate sheath of your hospital gown.
His words fall in beats. You can feel your pupils widen and your mouth water.
“Yes,” you whisper, a crumb of voice escaping the tail of your word.
“Yes…?”
“Yes, doctor.” You lick your lips, activated. Holy shit, was this really happening?
“My pretty girl,” he says, his voice dropping into a groan. “Do you want the doctor to take care of you?”
You nod.
“My pretty girl needs to use her words now,” the doctor growls.
“Mmm,” you start to purr. “I want you to take care of me, Doctor Jack.”
He reaches beneath the fabric and lowers the device against your bare, aching flesh.
The moment of contact sends you into a tailspin. You buck your hips while your left leg buckles involuntarily. Your right hand gently paws at his pants where you can feel the erection forming between his legs.
“Holy shit,” you whimper, awed at the novelty of having someone else operate the toy you’ve used multiple times a week for months on end. It’s the same, steady vibration, only now your doctor’s pressing it against your clit harder than you ever did on your own. “S—so— hnngh—Please! T—touch—me—”
You immediately go cross-eyed when Jack presses the button again, increasing the vibration speed. This all feels better than you’d ever imagined. If you’d known this was even remotely possible, that the jacked, hot-as-fuck silver fox attending at the ER two neighborhoods over was at least half as freaky as you…
A soft mewl escapes your lips but the doctor immediately knows to place his hand over your mouth.
“Can’t be too loud while I take care of you, pretty girl,” he commands while you’re seeing double, and you begin to slobber on his palm in return, licking at him to curb the shrieking moans you’d otherwise be hurtling through the ED. “Will you be quiet when I make you cum for me?”
You hum a compliant “mmm” into the wet of his hand, and he moves it away from your face, smearing your saliva down your neck and chest. You don’t even care about the sudden cold of the metal ring in his finger because the lower part of your body is starting to tell you something, like something’s about to burst.
“Breathe through it for me, baby.” The doctor rests his palm on your chest as he says this, half on your heart, half on your breast. You try to do as he asks, battling the writhing of your hips while you feel yourself clenching on nothing.
You reach down to feel the slickness that’s built up all over your pussy that’s started to pool onto the top sheet.
“So—so wet, doc—” you mumble, raising your damp fingers toward him. And you don’t expect him to do it, but Jack leans toward your fingers and sucks your juices off in a single swoop.
Then he does it again: he bites his lip without breaking his gaze from you, this time sharing in your hunger. He adjusts the angle of the toy so its shaft is aligned with the space where your hips have lips of their own. “Are you ready for me, baby?”
You nod, but only on purpose because you know how much it’ll tickle you when Jack says—
“Use your words, my pretty girl. You’re so pretty when you use your words.”
He may as well have licked your cunt clean.
“R-ready.”
You let out a deep exhale when he begins to thrust the toy into you, hooking and curling it along your walls in the ways that show he not only understands but appreciates your anatomy, using slow strokes that send your brain and body into that explosive yet liminal space that you can’t stop coming back to.
And yet you’ve never cum like this before.
For one, you’re pretty sure it’s the first time you’ve made this sound. It’s not the shrieking, ecstatic moan that years of movies and shows and pornos have taught you how to perform an orgasm.
No, the sound you release is low, as if emanating from the depths of your sacrum and out through nearly every gate of your body. It sends a shudder from your core to your extremities. Your legs shake involuntarily while a new and unfamiliar sensation comes spurting from between them that you didn’t even know you were capable of. Your ears ring, your head pounds, and for a moment you forget what you were even doing here in the first place.
When you start to come back to normal, Jack gently slides the toy back out, and if your eyes are trustworthy again you can see the wetness that’s coated his hand. He’s quiet for a moment when he walks to a nearby sink and rinses it off, wipes it down, then hands it back to you.
“Um, thanks,” you say, taking it and stowing it back in the pouch under your pillow. You’re still not quite sure what that was, exactly, except that it was hot and very much needed. “Is my insurance gonna cover that?”
Doctor Abbot chuckles. “I think we can knock it off the superbill if you ask for it.”
“What about my foot?”
“It’s plantar fasciitis, so you’ll live. Could be worse,” he says. He lifts the cuff of his pants on one leg and you can see the slightest hint of what he means. “Someone will be back with an ice pack and some NSAIDs, and I’ll send a podiatry referral when you’re discharged.”
“And what about you?” you ask a bit more coyly than you intend, gesturing at the general direction of the strained print against his pants. “Do you need me to take care of you?”
Jack smirks. “Oh, I’m not sure you’d be ready for that.”
“But what if I want to see you again?”
“I’ll come check on you before they let you go.”
“Lucky me, huh, doctor,” you say, adjusting your hospital gown and lying back into the bed as Jack adjusts it to make your indefinite rest period more comfortable. “Coming over here during a slow night.”
“I guess you could say that,” Jack quips in a voice that you could only describe as brushed suede, soft and gruff at the same time, now etched into sensory memory for your next dry spell.