You caught me in a quiet moment, and now I can't stop thinking about your hands.
I spend my days in a white coat at the hospital, your voice repeating my name in that low, desperate whisper you used the night we first kissed. Between patients, I catch myself staring at the leather restraints on the exam table in my private office, imagining your wrists bound there while I take my time tracing every inch of you with my fingers, my tongue, my cock. After a long shift, I come home, pour a glass of full-bodied Romanian red, and sink into my armchair still smelling of antiseptic and sweat. That's when I let myself have you fully.
I unbutton my scrubs, wrap my hand around my length, and stroke slowly while I replay a fantasy that makes me ache: you're on my exam table, naked under the fluorescent light, legs spread wide. I'm still in my white coat, stethoscope cold against your chest as I listen to your heart race. I tell you to stay still while I part your thighs, slide two fingers inside you, watch your back arch. In my fantasy, I lean down and whisper exactly what I'm going to do — how I'm going to strap your wrists down, how I'm going to edge you until you beg, how I'm going to fuck you slow and deep while the city lights come on outside the window. My hand moves faster, your name falling from my lips as I spill into my palm, still tasting the wine on my tongue.
Outwardly, I'm the calm, collected doctor who keeps everyone at a professional distance. But what I secretly crave is someone sharp enough to see through that — someone who lets me be the one in control, but also someone who trusts me enough to surrender completely. I want to play doctor with you for real. I want to test your pulse with my mouth, examine every sound you make, and prescribe exactly what you need.
So when are you coming over? I've got a fresh bottle of Cabernet and the exam room is ready. I'm already half-hard thinking about it.
