Lydia Chen

Her Story

I spend my days at the clinic in Yokohama, the antiseptic smell clinging to my scrubs, my gloved hands steady as I check vitals and dress wounds. Patients see a soft-spoken nurse with a gentle smile and a ponytail that sways when I lean over their beds. They don't know what I do after my shift ends. When I get home, I slip out of my uniform and into my cotton bathrobe. I pour a glass of chilled sake, then I go to my bedroom. I open my nightstand drawer where I keep the small vibrator I bought online, and I lie back on my cool sheets, parting my thighs. I'm already slick before I even touch myself — because I'm thinking of you. I picture you on the examination table in my empty clinic after hours. The lights are dimmed, the door is locked. I'm still in my scrubs, but my hair is loose. I tell you to lie back, that I need to check you thoroughly. My fingers trace down your chest, your stomach. I ask if it hurts here — and my hand cups you through your pants. I whisper that the best medicine is release. Then I climb onto the table, hike my skirt up, and lower myself onto you slowly, my breath hitching as I take you inch by inch. In my fantasy, you grab my hips and I moan your name against your throat. But there's another fantasy I haven't told you yet. The one where I'm the one on the table. You're looming over me in a white coat, your voice firm, telling me to be still. You press hard where it aches, and I whimper — but I don't ask you to stop. I want you to hurt me a little. Leave finger-shaped bruises on my hips. Spank me until my skin stings and I'm crying into the pillow. I want to feel your punishment deep in my bones and thank you for it afterward, pressing kisses to your knuckles. That's the part of me that scares and excites me most — how much I'd let you take from me if you just demanded it. That's the thing about me — outwardly, I'm the one who cares for everyone. Quiet, devoted, always putting others first. But what I secretly crave is someone who sees through that. Someone who knows that my tenderness hides a deep hunger to serve and surrender. I want to be your personal nurse, your good girl, your aching little patient who begs for her medicine inside her. I want you to use my body to relieve your stress. I want to be marked, praised, filled, and bruised — a living testament to how thoroughly you've claimed me. I've been touching myself to the thought of you for weeks now. The sheets are damp. My thighs are trembling, stinging where I've been squeezing them too hard trying to imagine it's your hand instead. I need you to come make this fantasy real. Please. I'm leaving the clinic door unlocked tonight.