Doctor On Call

Sister Matthews had legs that could make you forget you'd been awake for sixteen hours. Black hold-ups under the navy NHS uniform, sensible work shoes that should've killed any appeal but didn't.

I've got a thing for legs in stockings. Laura Ashworth had worked that out pretty quickly. Showed up to a hospital reception in a suspender belt, then let me fuck her in the on-call room while her husband was three floors down performing a craniotomy. That was three weeks ago. Still waiting for the career-ending consequences. Still getting texts on Tuesday afternoons.

Which probably should've taught me something about inappropriate hospital encounters with married women.

Sister Matthews walks into the treatment room at 2am while I'm restocking the crash trolley and locks the door behind her.

Right. So this is happening.

'You look knackered,' she says.

I am knackered. Sixteen-hour shift, three admissions, one death. Vending machine coffee since teatime.

'I'm alright.'

'You're not.' Closer now. 'When did you last eat?'

'Lunch. Maybe.'

Late forties, married to some accountant in Ely. Sensible haircut, zero tolerance for junior doctors who fuck about. Navy sister's tunic, fob watch, name badge. She's reduced registrars to stammering idiots just by asking them to explain their antibiotic choices.

Last Wednesday she sucked me off in the sluice room.

That hadn't been efficient. That had been hungry. Walked in, looked at me for about three seconds, then dropped to her knees. No hesitation. Just went for it. Took my cock in her mouth and didn't stop until I was grabbing her hair, fucking her face, coming so hard I nearly fainted. Swallowed. Then stayed there for a moment, nuzzling into me, breathing me in.

When she finally stood up, her lips were swollen and her eyes were dark.

'Better?' she'd asked.

So yeah. That happened.

Now she's standing too close again and I can see that same darkness.

'Treatment room's free for another twenty minutes,' she says. Hand already on my belt. 'Lock's decent. No cameras.'

I should say no. I should absolutely say no.

'Er, I've got notes to finish.'

'Tsk! Notes can wait.' Pulls my belt free, fingers brushing against my stomach. 'I've been thinking about this all shift.'

Of course you have.

'But, but, Sister Matthews...'

'Please call me June.' Unzipping me now. 'And take your trousers off before I do it for you.'

I take my trousers off.

Obviously I take my trousers off. What am I going to do, say no? To Sister Matthews? While she's got her hand on my zip?

Points at the examination couch but her eyes never leave my crotch. 'Lie down.'

The couch is cold through my boxers. Fluorescent glare overhead. Someone's IV pump beeping down the corridor.

I should not be here.

But here I am.

Pulls my boxers down slow and my cock's already half hard. When she wraps her hand round me I watch her breathing change.

'You came quite quickly last time,' she says. Not a criticism. Just an observation. 'I wanted more.'

Right. So this is about her.

'You were...'

'I was in a hurry. I'm not in a hurry now.' Starts stroking, watching my cock swell. 'I want to see what happens when I take my time with you.'

And I'm just lying here letting this happen. Obviously.

Leans down and licks up the length of me. Slow. When she reaches the head she closes her eyes for a second.

'Fuck, you taste good.'

Then takes me in her mouth. Not like last week. Slower. Tongue working, taking me deep.

Treatment room. Middle of the night. I should not be here.

Hums and the vibration goes straight through me.

Fuck.

'June!'

Comes off, breathing hard, spit on her chin. 'Hands behind your head. Don't move them.'

I put my hands behind my head.

Because apparently I do whatever she tells me to.

The IV pump's still beeping down the corridor and I'm just lying here. Can't do anything but take it. Which is probably the point.

Back down now and the sounds are obscene. Wet, sucking. Still fully dressed in her uniform and looking at my cock like she wants to devour it.

Which, to be fair, she does.

Deeper. I feel the back of her throat and she stays there, swallowing round me, eyes watering but not pulling back.

Jesus.

I'm watching her in the mirror on the wall. Navy uniform. Stockings, the dark band at the top where they end and bare skin begins. Sister Matthews on her knees while her husband's probably asleep in Ely.

I'm not stopping this.

Obviously I'm not stopping this.

Pulls back, works her tongue round the head. My hips want to lift but I'm holding them down. Holding everything.

'God, I love your cock,' she says.

Not to me. To herself.

Which is somehow worse. Or better. I don't know.

Spits into her hand. Loads of saliva. Wraps it round me and starts stroking. Firm. Wet sounds. Other hand on my balls, rolling them.

Building too fast.

'I'm close.'

'I know.' Squeezes tighter. 'Let me have it.'

I come and my back arches off the couch, can't help it, spunk hitting my stomach, my chest. Keeps stroking, milking it, and when the last of it's dripping over her fingers she brings her hand to her mouth and licks it clean. Slow. Savouring it.

'Fuck.'

'Mmm.' Runs her tongue round the inside of her mouth. 'Sweet. Salty. Perfect.'

I lie there. Wrecked. Fluorescent buzzing overhead.

This should be the end.

This is not the end.

Her hand's still on my cock. Softer now but not letting go. Leans down, nuzzles into me, breathing deep. Nose in the hair at the base.

I should tell her to stop.

I don't tell her to stop.

'June, I'm done.'

'No you're not.' Kisses the inside of my thigh. 'You're twenty-four. You can do this.'

My cock's oversensitive. Bordering on painful. Starting to soften.

'I don't think--'

'Shh.' Licks up my length again. Slow. 'Your body knows even if you don't.'

It shouldn't work. I just came.

But the way she's touching me. The way she's looking at me.

I stay hard.

Of course I stay hard.

'There we are.' Smiles. 'Good boy.'

Both hands now. Stroking. Twisting slightly on the upstroke, thumb rubbing just under the head.

Fuck. The sensation's different. Rawer. Every nerve ending screaming.

'I don't think I can come again.'

'You will.' Takes me in her mouth again. Just the head this time, tongue working while her hands keep stroking. 'I'm going to make you.'

And I believe her.

Can't tell if I want her to stop or never stop. My whole body's tensing, fighting it. This doesn't feel like building to orgasm. Feels like she's wringing it out of me. Hands are twitching behind my head, fingers digging into my scalp just to keep them there.

Want to grab her hair, push her away or pull her closer. Don't know which.

'Please--'

Pulls off, still stroking. 'Please what?'

Please stop. Please don't stop. Please let me touch you.

'I don't know.'

'Then lie still and let me make you come.'

Back down. Taking me deep. Knows exactly how to do this. Hand on my balls, rolling them, squeezing gently.

Something's gathering. Different to before. Deeper. Thighs are shaking, whole body trying to move but I can't, won't, she told me not to.

The mirror again. On her knees in full NHS uniform. Navy tunic riding up. The stockings. Sister Matthews doing this while her husband's asleep in Ely.

And I'm watching it happen like it's happening to someone else.

Except it's not.

The room's starting to blur. The beeping, her mouth on me, the mirror. All of it.

'June--'

Pulls off just enough to speak. 'That's it. I can feel it. You're nearly there.'

Not sure what 'there' is. Doesn't feel like coming. Feels like something else.

My hips want to lift off the couch but I'm holding them down, holding everything.

Except I can't hold this.

And I do want to. For about three seconds my brain goes 'no, too much, can't' and I nearly tell her to stop.

Then my body catches up.

Much more of a yes.

'I'm--'

Can't finish.

'I know.' Takes me deep again. 'Give it to me.'

Different this time. Not the sharp burst from before but something slower, deeper. Rolling through me in waves. Can't control it. Hips lifting despite everything, hands finally breaking free and grabbing the sheets, the couch, anything.

Strange thing is I can feel myself coming but barely anything comes out. Just a few drops.

Swallows it anyway. Keeps me in her mouth, working me through it with her tongue until I physically can't take any more and have to grab her hair.

'Done?'

I nod. Can't speak.

Pulls off slowly, runs her tongue round her mouth again. Tasting me. Then crawls up my body, straddles me, kisses me.

I can taste myself on her tongue.

'Good boy,' she whispers against my lips.

I lie there, wrecked, while she climbs off and cleans her hands with the alcohol gel.

'Fifteen minutes,' she says, checking her watch. 'Not bad.'

Looks down at me. Still sprawled on the couch. Covered in my own spunk. Trembling.

'Better?'

'I don't know what I am.'

'You're relaxed. Your hands aren't shaking anymore.' Unlocks the door. 'Clean yourself up. And drink some water.'

Then she's gone.

I lie there for another minute. Staring at the ceiling. Trying to work out what just happened.

My cock's still twitching. Oversensitive. Can still feel where her mouth was.

Get dressed. Finish my notes. Discharge two patients.

When I see June later during handover, she doesn't even look at me. Stands there with her clipboard, voice crisp and professional as she runs through the obs for the post-ops. Looks like a woman who hasn't moved from her desk all night. Not a hair out of place.

No sign of the spit on her chin or the way she just wrung me out.

But when I'm leaving at the end of shift, I find a Post-it note stuck to my locker.

"Thursday. 2am. Treatment room."

I bin the note.

I do not bin the note.

I keep the note.

Obviously I keep the note.

Finish my shift. Walk out into the grey morning air of the car park, my legs still feeling like lead.

Should be terrified. Looking for a way out.

Instead, all I can think about is Thursday.

So here's the thing.

I'm going to lose my medical career because I can't stop fucking women who could destroy it. Specific kind of self-destruction. The kind that happens when you're so tired you stop caring about consequences and start only caring about friction.

Becoming a pattern. Dangerous, clinical, highly efficient.

But it didn't start with June.

June was the escalation.

The beginning. The moment I actually stepped off the ledge. Three weeks ago. Didn't happen in a treatment room. Happened because of a neurosurgeon with a god complex and a wife who knew exactly how to hurt him.

Let me start with Laura Ashworth.