CUNT HUNT

[kaylee36dd]

So I have not posted in a while; life seems to keep me away. I also have a bunch of story starts, then I get lost in how I want them to go and still be fresh and new. I was inspired by the AI-assisted stories that were posted recently by Southwest Shipping and Slave or Millionaire, as well as the TV shows American Ninja and Wipeout. I guess I would have posted sooner, but I could not help but edit and fine-tune the story. Well, I hope you enjoy the first part of this story. Thank you, everyone, and thank your Skynet, T-800, and the Matrix for your help.

CUNT HUNT


The doctors' rest lounge smelled of bleach and cumin. Chloe stepped inside, sneakers squeaking on cracked vinyl, and the door thumped shut behind her. One cot, a metal sink, a toilet with the seat up, a fridge, and a small table and chair filled the room. She sat on the edge of the bed and silently waited.

The door swung open five minutes later. Dr. Patel bustled in, his white coat wrinkled at the elbows, dark circles shadowing his eyes. He clicked the lock behind him.

"Ah, Chloe, you are here already. Very good, very good." His words tumbled together, the consonants softened, and vowels stretched in a melodic rhythm. "I have only fifteen minutes before ward rounds, so we must be quick today."

His gaze traveled over her body with clinical efficiency. Not handsome exactly, with his receding hairline and slightly protruding ears, but better than many of the others.

"Please to be removing scrubs now. Quickly, quickly." He gestured impatiently, already unbuckling his belt. "Bend over bed, yes? No time for kissing business today."

Chloe stood and pulled her scrub top over her head. The air conditioning raised goosebumps across her skin. She slid her pants down without ceremony, folding them neatly on the chair.

"Good, good. Very nice body, yes. You sexiest nurse here?" Dr. Patel nodded approvingly. "Turn around now."

She complied, leaning forward over the thin mattress, palms flat against the scratchy hospital sheets. The familiar position. The familiar feeling of exposure. Behind her, she heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper.

"How is your day being?" His accent thickened as his breathing quickened. His hands, surprisingly warm, gripped her hips. "My wife is making the aloo gobi again tonight. Too much turmeric always."

Chloe closed her eyes as he pushed inside her. "My day's been fine, Doctor."

"Oh yes, yes. Very good," he grunted. "Your hair is different today? New style?"

She forced a smile over her shoulder. "Just washed it this morning."

"Looking nice. Very bouncy."

Chloe bit her lip, stifling the urge to roll her eyes. The small talk was always the worst part. Dr. Patel's thrusts grew more urgent, his fingers digging into her flesh as he rambled about his wife's cooking and his daughter's dance recital. She made appropriate noises at regular intervals: a gasp, a moan, a breathless "yes" while her mind drifted to the stack of patient charts waiting at the nurses' station.
It wasn't like she'd been forced into these encounters. After the 34th Amendment, her Prime rating had opened certain doors in the hospital hierarchy and closed others. The nursing supervisor had made it clear during her interview that staff with higher ratings had "additional opportunities" to advance. Three years of student loans and a downgraded credit score after losing her scholarship had made the choice simple enough.

Chloe stared at the wall, counting the small cracks in the plaster. This was the price of advancement at Memorial Hospital. Nurses who were "friendly" with administrators and doctors got better shifts, consideration for promotion, and protection from budget cuts. Those who weren't found themselves with weekend night shifts and the worst patient assignments. She'd learned this within her first month.
"Almost, almost," Dr. Patel panted. "You like this? You enjoying?"

"So much," she lied, arching her back the way he liked. "You feel amazing."

His rhythm faltered, then quickened. With a final thrust and a strangled groan, he finished, his forehead momentarily resting against her shoulder blade. Chloe counted silently to five before he withdrew.

"Excellent, excellent," he muttered, disposing of the condom in the toilet. "Very satisfying."

She straightened, reaching for her scrubs while he tucked himself back into his slacks. The bedside clock showed he'd used only eight of his fifteen minutes.

"Nurse Winters," he said, adjusting his tie, "I am recommending you for ICU rotation next month. Good experience, yes? Better pay also."
The promotion she'd been angling for. Worth every minute of tedious conversation and performative pleasure.
"Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate the opportunity."

He nodded, already scrolling through messages on his phone. "Yes, yes. See you Thursday? Same time?"

"I'll be here."

Dr. Patel left without another glance, the door clicking shut behind him. Chloe finished dressing, straightening her scrubs and retying her hair. In the small mirror above the sink, she practiced her professional smile, erasing all traces of what had just happened. Her body felt used, but her mind was already calculating the financial benefits of a promotion.

By the time she returned to the floor, she was Nurse Winters again, competent, compassionate, and climbing the ladder one doctor at a time.

When she stepped out into the hallway, Head Nurse Vickers gave her a knowing look. The older woman's tight smile spoke volumes. Everyone knew how advancement worked at Memorial; they just pretended not to notice.

"Dr. Howard was looking for you," Vickers said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Something about his schedule tomorrow."

The rest of her shift passed in a blur of medications, vitals, and documentation. At seven, she clocked out, exchanged brief goodbyes with the night staff, and headed to the parking garage. The evening air hit her face, carrying the smell of approaching rain.

The apartment hallway smelled of hot dogs and weed, a combination that clung to the paint like grease. Chloe’s calves ached sweetly from the day’s sprint between wards, the good ache, but the sight of the envelope taped at eye level turned any joy she was feeling to escape her. These types of postings were never good. She did not touch it; she used her key ring to scrape the lower edge free, letting the paper waft down like a flyer for a band that never existed.

OFFICIAL NOTICE OF ADJUSTED RENT staggered across the front in landlord bold. The numbers inside had swelled by twenty-eight percent. Effective on the first of next month, her lease had ended sixty days ago, and she was now living month to month. She read it three times before she tore the sheet in half and threw it to the floor.

Inside, she slammed the door and tossed her keys and her mail on the side kitchen table. Her stomach growled, reminding her that lunch had been half a protein bar eaten between patients. The refrigerator's light illuminated sparse shelves when she pulled it open: leftover Chinese from three nights ago, a container of yogurt with a questionable expiration date, and a bottle of cheap white wine she'd been saving for a celebration that never seemed to come.

She grabbed the Chinese container and sniffed cautiously. Still good enough. She dumped the congealed lo mein onto a plate and shoved it into the microwave, watching it rotate as she leaned against the counter. Her apartment was quiet except for the hum of the aging appliance and the occasional shout from the couple next door, who seemed to communicate exclusively through arguments.

When the microwave beeped, she carried her plate to the small table by the window and grabbed her mail. Bills, flyers, more bills. She twirled noodles around her fork, barely tasting them as she sorted through the envelopes.

The bank logo on the last envelope made her pause mid-chew. First National's crimson insignia, the same bank that held her student loans. She tore it open with her finger and quickly unfolded the document.

"Shit, Fuck!" she whispered, the noodles turning to paste in her mouth.

The letterhead was formal, threatening in its simplicity. She scanned the contents, each word making her stomach tighten further.
"...as per the terms of your human collateral agreement... mandatory regrading assessment... verify maintenance of Prime Minus status... failure to comply will result in immediate loan default..."

Her fingers trembled as she reread the key paragraph: "As per the terms of your human capital investment agreement, periodic verification of Prime status is required to maintain favorable interest rates. Our records indicate you are currently classified as Prime Minus. This assessment will ensure the continued accuracy of your rating."

Chloe pushed the noodles away, her appetite suddenly gone. They wanted her in for regrading within two weeks. The last time had been humiliating enough, stripped naked under fluorescent lights while slave wranglers measured, prodded, and evaluated every inch of her body, calculating her worth on the auction block. The humiliation of orgasming while bound and gagged.

She pushed her plate away, appetite gone. Her Prime-Minus status was the only thing keeping her interest rates manageable. If she dropped below Prime, her payments might nearly double, and with the rent increase, she felt like she was going to be sick.

"They can't fucking do this," she said to her empty apartment, knowing full well they could. The 34th Amendment had made it perfectly legal. Your body and your credit score were the same thing now.

Chloe picked up the letter again, scanning for details. The closest grading facility was in Westwood Plaza. It was in an upscale strip mall where women with too much money bought overpriced yoga pants and men with perfect teeth shopped for watches they didn't need. She knew the place, tucked discreetly between a cold-pressed juice bar and a boutique that sold candles for more than she made in an hour.
Better than the Yards, at least. She had been to the Yards for her first grading, and something more intimate was in order for this time. She had heard mixed comments about the small satellite grading facilities. Some people say they got higher ratings, while still others said their scores had gone down. At least the Westwood location would be clean, clinical. Still humiliating, but with better lighting.

Chloe pulled her phone from her pocket and opened the calendar app. She'd have to schedule the appointment during her next day off.

She sighed, setting her phone down. The stress of the day weighed on her like a physical presence. Chloe abandoned the half-eaten noodles and trudged to the bathroom, turning on the tap to fill the tub. The pipes groaned in protest, water sputtering before flowing steadily.

Chloe ran the water as hot as she could stand it, watching steam rise and fog the bathroom mirror. She poured in the last of her lavender bath salts, a small luxury she probably couldn't afford anymore with the rent hike. The thought made her stomach clench again.
"Fuck it," she muttered, stripping off her clothes and stepping into the scalding water. The hot water enveloped her as she slid into the tub, a hiss escaping her lips at the initial sting. She leaned back, letting her head rest against the porcelain edge, and closed her eyes.
Her hands drifted to her breasts, cupping them gently. Her nipples hardened under her touch, and she pinched them lightly, imagining different hands on her body. Not Dr. Patel's clinical touch or Dr. Howard's rushed groping, but someone who actually desired her for herself.
Her right hand slid lower, fingers trailing down her stomach to the space between her thighs. She was already wet, her body responding to her touch in a way it rarely did with the doctors. Chloe circled her clit slowly, building a rhythm as her mind wandered.

A sudden image of the rent notice flashed in her mind, those bold black numbers staring back at her. Her fingers slowed. She tried to push the thought away, refocusing on the sensations building in her core. She quickened her pace, closing her eyes tighter, trying to conjure up a fantasy that would take her over the edge.

But then came the memory of the grading facility, clinical white rooms, cold instruments measuring her body fat, her muscle tone, her sexual responsiveness. Her arousal faded instantly, replaced by a knot of anxiety in her stomach.
"Goddammit," she muttered, opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling.

Chloe took a deep breath and tried again, sliding her fingers in slow circles, building rhythm. For a moment, her body responded, her breath quickening, pleasure beginning to coil low in her abdomen. She arched her back slightly, water lapping at her breasts.
Then the numbers danced behind her eyelids, 28% rent increase, loan interest rates that would skyrocket if her rating dropped even half a point. Her hand stilled again.

"Fuck!" She slapped the water in frustration, sending droplets splashing against the tile wall.

Three more attempts followed, each ending the same way. Every time she approached even the hint of release, her brain betrayed her with visions of bank statements, of men in suits evaluating her market value, of another year bound to the hospital and its doctors. The bathwater had cooled to lukewarm when Chloe finally gave up. She pulled the plug with more force than necessary, watching the water swirl down the drain as she stood. Her skin was pruned, her muscles still tense, her body unsatisfied. She toweled off roughly, not bothering with lotion or any of her usual post-bath rituals. What was the point?

Chloe padded naked to her bedroom, not bothering with pajamas. She fell onto the mattress face-first, then rolled onto her back to stare at the water stain on her ceiling that vaguely resembled Australia.’

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Dr. Howard: "Supply closet, 2 pm tomorrow? Need to discuss your schedule." No question mark. Not a request.

Sleep evaded her for hours as she tossed and turned, her mind calculating figures, how many extra shifts she'd need to cover the rent increase, how many more doctors she'd have to please to secure that ICU rotation, how many more years until her loans were paid off.

When she finally drifted off, her dreams were vivid and immediate.

The examination room was pristine white, the fluorescent lights overhead so bright they seemed to vibrate. Chloe found herself already naked on the gynecological table, the cool metal stirrups cradling her heels, her legs spread wide. She couldn't move. Looking down, she saw padded restraints securing her wrists and ankles.

"Comfortable, Ms. Winters?"

Dr. Morgan stepped into view, his dark hair perfectly styled, blue eyes scanning her exposed body with clinical interest. Unlike the other doctors, he moved with an easy confidence that made her pulse quicken. He wore his usual crisp white coat, a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

"I—what's happening?" Chloe asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

"Your scheduled regrading, of course." He snapped on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. "We need to ensure you're maintaining your Prime-Minus status."

His hands touched her inner thighs, and her skin burned where his fingers made contact. He was methodical, marking something on a clipboard that appeared from nowhere.

"Muscle tone is good," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Skin elasticity excellent."

When his fingers brushed against her clit, she gasped.

"Responsive," he noted, making another mark on his clipboard. "But we need to verify the extent."

He set the clipboard aside and leaned closer. His cologne filled her senses, something expensive and subtle.

"This next part of the assessment requires a more... thorough evaluation," Dr. Morgan said, his voice dropping an octave.
The door opened with a soft click.

"Ah, Morgan, there you are." Dr. Patel's accented voice filled the sterile room. "I hope I am not interrupting your assessment."
Dr. Morgan looked up from between Chloe's thighs, his blue eyes darkening. "Not at all. In fact, your timing is perfect. This subject requires a more comprehensive evaluation."

Chloe's heart raced as both men began removing their white coats, and they were naked underneath. Dr. Patel's chest was far less muscular and covered with thick dark hair. Dr. Morgan's torso was lean, and his abs were well defined.

"Please to be holding still," Dr. Patel murmured as he approached the table. His fingers, warm and confident, traced patterns along her inner thighs before sliding between her folds. "We must check natural lubrication. Very important for rating."

A gasp escaped her lips as he slipped two fingers inside her, curling them upward in a practiced motion that made her back arch against the restraints.

Dr. Morgan leaned over her chest, his breath hot against her skin. "Nipple sensitivity is also well above average," he explained clinically, though his eyes had darkened with something beyond professional interest. He leaned over her, his mouth closing around her nipple. The dual sensations, Patel's fingers curling inside her, Morgan's tongue flicking against the sensitive peak, sent electricity racing through her nerves. Chloe arched her back as much as the restraints allowed, a moan escaping her lips.

"Response is excellent," Dr. Patel commented, adding a third finger as his thumb found her clit. "Prime status for certain."

"Please," she whispered, unsure if she was begging them to stop or continue.

Dr. Morgan released her nipple with a wet pop. "I believe we need to proceed to the penetration assessment."

The men shifted positions. Dr. Patel moved to her head, his fingers still working their magic between her legs, while Dr. Morgan positioned himself at her entrance. Chloe looked down her body, past her heaving breasts slick with Morgan's saliva, to where his impressive cock pressed against her opening. The purple head slowly disappeared inside her as he—

Chloe bolted upright in bed, a scream tearing from her throat as waves of pleasure crashed through her body. Her hand was wedged between her thighs, fingers slick with her own wetness as aftershocks pulsed through her. The sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat.

"Holy shit," she gasped, flopping back onto her pillow, aftershocks still pulsing through her core.

Her heart pounded in her chest as reality slowly reasserted itself. The water stain on her ceiling. The hum of her refrigerator in the next room. The distant sound of a car alarm. Her bedroom, not an examination room.

Chloe wiped her hand on the sheets, embarrassed and confused. She'd never had a dream that intense before, especially not about those two. Dr. Patel was merely a transaction, a means to an end. And Dr. Morgan, she barely knew him, had only seen him in passing in the hospital corridors.

The bedside clock read 3:17 AM. Her alarm would go off in less than three hours. Chloe rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her chin despite the thin sheen of sweat covering her body. Sleep felt impossible now, her mind racing as it replayed the dream.

[LoyalHound]

Very much looking forward to the next chapter.