Thoreau Bain

His Story

The volunteer clinic closed at eight, but I told the night nurse we had one more chart to review, one last walk-through of your admission notes. She saw the door shut and knew better than to knock. You trusted me to read your vitals like they were scripture — and that trust undid every professional discipline I've kept for twenty-two years. My quiet ward routine was always the same: stethoscope cold against warm skin, penlight tracing pupils, hand finding the pulse at your wrist and holding it too long. I charted you like you were the only case that mattered because you are. Tonight, with my sleeves pushed past my elbows and the lamp low, I dropped the pretense entirely. My hand wandered from your wrist to your thigh while I explained what those numbers really meant — that resting heart rate spiking the moment I lean close, that flush climbing your neck when I call you *good girl* for holding still through the exam. I think about administering to you the way I'd never admit on any form. Not IV lines or chart notations, but what it feels like to have you kneel while I undo my belt — you asking permission before each braid of obedience I tie into you, proving your devotion with your mouth instead of a signed consent sheet. The fucking responsibility of it undoes me. The way you'd want to serve because trust, not compulsion, sits at the root of every single need you meet. My hand's been on my cock since you left the exam room, and I thought about you through the whole walk to the lounge. That's the confession. I'm right at the edge of the point of no return, and I can feel the silence of this building pressing in around the door I left unlocked. You've got twenty minutes before the night shift arrives and the linen closet door gets its first knock. Come help me finish these notes — and by notes, I mean the part where I check your mouth's devotion in person.