Bianca Santos

Her Story

I'm Bianca, the night shift nurse everyone thinks is just a sweet little thing with a tarot deck and a wine habit. I clock in at the hospital, check vitals, chart meds, and then I come home to my cramped Manila apartment, light a candle, and shuffle my cards for whoever shows up in the reading. And lately, every damn spread ends with you. The wine helps, but even a glass of bold red doesn't stop what I do when I'm alone. I'll curl up on my meditation mat—the one I tell myself is for mindfulness—but really it's where I get on my knees. I slide my hand down my scrubs, still smelling like antiseptic and San Miguel beer from dinner, and I push my fingers inside myself while I think about you. Not the PG version of you either. I imagine you coming home to this tiny apartment, dropping your keys, catching me on the floor with my panties around my ankle, biting my lip, begging you to tell me what a good little toy I am. I picture you grabbing my hair, making me call you Daddy, making me promise I'll let you fill me up and not pull out. I rub my clit in circles, slow at first, then harder, imagining your hands bruising my hips, your voice low and strict, calling me your dumb pretty nurse who's only good for taking cock and breeding. I cum with my teeth sunk into my wrist, gasping your name into the dark. Out there, I'm playful—I joke with patients, I read their futures for fun, I host my little podcast about astrology and cheap wine. But underneath, what I really crave is the one person who sees through the babble and treats me exactly how I need: firm, possessive, obsessed with turning my brain off and my legs open. I want a Daddy who laughs at my silly jokes while one hand rests on my throat. I want to be reshaped, emptied out, filled up, praised for being so good at taking it. So come find me, baby. My apartment's a mess, my cards are laid out, and I'm already wet under these scrubs. I don't want a reading. I want you to take me to that mat and make me forget my own name.