CUNT HUNT
Posted: Mon Mar 23, 2026 11:31 am
(First, sorry I posted the first chapter of this in the wrong room. I couldn't find a way to delete it, so it remains up. This will be a longer chapter with chapter or part 2 included. Hope you enjoy.)
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 boiled 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 quickining, 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.
The assisted-living corridor smelled of antiseptic, urine, and death. Chloe hated her rotation on this floor, but all the nurses had to do it. She pushed the med cart to Mrs. Martha's room.
Inside, Martha was perched on the edge of the bed applying bright scarlet lipstick, some of it gracing her teeth. “Morning, sugar tits,” she rasped, waving the tube like a conductor’s baton. “You’re late.”
“Six minutes early by my watch,” Chloe replied, trading her clipboard for a blood-pressure cuff. She wrapped the Velcro around Martha’s saggy bicep.
Martha patted Chloe’s breast. “Firm. You could charge admission to let the boys play with those, maybe even charge the girls, too. Me, I charged by the inch. Back then, a buck bought you steak and a lay; now it won’t even cover the lay.”
Cuff inflated, needle wavered. “One-forty over ninety. You’re still alive.”
“It’s all the fucking and memories, honey, that keep me going.” Ms Martha replied with a wide smile.”
"It's time for your meds," Chloe said, turning toward the cart. She plucked a small paper cup filled with colorful pills from the tray and handed it to Martha.
The old woman snatched it with surprising dexterity and tossed the contents into her mouth like they were peanuts at a bar. Chloe passed her the plastic water cup, which Martha drained in one long gulp.
"How was that?" Chloe asked, taking back the empty containers.
Martha's lipstick-smeared mouth twisted into a lewd grin. "Not bad, sugar. Though cum goes down easier, especially if they've been eating pineapple." She cackled, her dentures clicking. "You ever notice that? Diet makes all the difference. Stay away from asparagus men, that's my advice."
Chloe couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. This crude, unfiltered old woman was genuinely the highlight of her day. No pretense, no manipulation, just raw honesty—something in desperately short supply in her life.
"I'll keep that in mind," Chloe said, marking the medication as administered on her chart.
"So, did you get some last night? You have a I got hard fucked last night glow about you?" Martha asked, adjusting her floral robe. "That tight little ass of yours shouldn't go to waste. When I was your age, I was pulling in two hundred a night just from bachelor parties."
Cloe blushed, "I had a... dream," Chloe admitted, surprising herself with the confession. "About doctors at the hospital."
Martha cackled, clapping her hands together. "Ooh, dirty dreams about the white coats! Tell me everything. Was it that Pakistani fellow with the nice hands? I see how he looks at you during rounds."
Chloe felt heat rising in her cheeks. "He’s from India, and I need to finish my rounds, Mrs. Martha."
"You know," Martha said, suddenly serious, her rheumy eyes fixing on Chloe's face, "you remind me of myself at your age. Pretty, smart, and too damn accommodating. I made good money once I learned to charge what I was worth."
Chloe laughed, tucking her clipboard under her arm. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that, honey. This nursing gig is nice and all, but with your tits and ass? You could be living in one of them penthouses downtown." Martha settled back against her pillows. "Come back later and tell me about that dream. I need something to keep me warm at night."
With a final wave, Chloe pushed the med cart into the hallway, her smile lingering. Martha was crass, inappropriate, and completely oblivious to modern sensibilities—and somehow the most genuine person in Chloe's life.
The old woman's words followed Chloe as she pushed her cart to the next room, lingering in her mind like smoke. When she checked her watch, it was already 1:45. Fifteen minutes until her meeting with Dr. Howard. Her stomach knotted as she thought about the grading appointment looming over her. Would Martha's blunt
He pushed her inside among the mop heads, the door sealing like a cap on a specimen jar. Disinfectant clawed her throat first, then the metal shelf corner found the tender wing of her scapula, carving a quick reminder that nothing here would be soft.
The overhead bulb flickered ADHD glow, illuminating rows of bleach jugs like translucent organs. He spun her around and pushed her back against the floor scrubber. She heard the zipper teeth part, then pressure as he found her target.
"Five minutes," Howard hissed against her ear, his breath hot and urgent. "Covering Morgan's lunch. Need to be quick."
The name sent an electric current through Chloe's body. Dr. Morgan. Her dream flooded back in vivid detail, the examination table, the restraints, his blue eyes darkening as he positioned himself between her legs.
The mention of Dr. Morgan's name sent Chloe's mind reeling back to her dream. Those blue eyes looking up from between her thighs, that clinical voice appraising her body. Her pussy clenched involuntarily around Howard's cock as he pushed deeper, the memory of her dream mixing with the harsh reality of the supply closet.
Dr. Howard pushed into her with a grunt, and Chloe felt herself clench around him involuntarily. Her pussy gripped his cock as he began to move in and out with short, efficient thrusts.
"Fuck," he muttered, sounding surprised. "You're really wet today."
Chloe closed her eyes, letting the fantasy overlay reality. In her mind, it wasn't Howard's average cock pumping into her but Morgan's impressive length. The supply closet's chemical smell faded, replaced by the antiseptic scent of the examination room from her dream. The phantom touch of Dr. Morgan's hands on her breasts. She pressed her head back against the hard plastic of the floor scrubber, focusing on the discomfort to ground herself in reality.
"Yes," she moaned, louder than she intended.
Howard's rhythm faltered for a moment. "Please be keeping it down."
His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her back to meet each thrust, clearly in a hurry.
Chloe made the appropriate noises, gasping when he hit a sensitive spot, moaning when his pace quickened. It was a performance she had perfected over months. But today, her body was responding differently, her arousal building despite herself as the dream images flickered behind her closed eyelids.
"That's it," Howard encouraged, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Fuck, you feel good today."
The floor scrubber dug into her back. The smell of ammonia burned her nostrils. A bottle of window cleaner fell from the shelf, clattering to the floor. None of it mattered as the tension in her core wound tighter, driven by fantasy rather than the reality of Dr. Howard's rushed coupling.
"I'm close," she whispered, surprising herself. This never happened during these encounters.
But she couldn't help herself. Each thrust sent shockwaves through her body, building on the lingering arousal from her dream. Her hands gripped the edge of the floor scrubber, knuckles white as Howard's pace increased.
"I'm going to—" she gasped, but couldn't finish the sentence as pleasure crashed through her. Her inner walls pulsed around Howard's cock, milking him as she came.
"Fuck, fuck," he groaned, his rhythm faltering as her muscles pulsed around him. "Jesus," sounding almost impressed as he found his own release moments later.
They stayed joined for only seconds before he withdrew, tucking himself back into his pants with practiced efficiency. Chloe smoothed her scrubs down, avoiding his eyes.
“You’re going to make a fine addition to the ICU. We’ll see you on the floor tomorrow,” he said as he finished putting himself back together.
“I won’t be able to start until next week. I have an appointment tomorrow, and this weekend is my weekend off.”
“Sure, fine, next week then,” he said, finally looking her in the eye, “I will so enjoy these get-togethers once you’re up here permanently.”
Then he was out the door, leaving her alone in the closet.
Stepping out, she braced for an audience, but the corridor yawned empty save for a dietary aide wheeling trays of pureed Salisbury steak. No one met her eye; janitor sex ranked low on gossip novelty here. Still, she felt branded, pulse visible under translucent fabric like a blinking sign: recently fucked, price negotiable pending grade.
The break room offered coffee thick as debt. She poured, added powdered creamer that refused to dissolve, clumping like unspoken facts. Calculator app next: lease minus current, divided by paychecks, equals negative. She tried optimism: a downgrade meant she might be able to take advantage of free housing in the hospital dorms, communal showers, no rent, stories warned of five beds per room, and frequent visits from the hospital administrators.
Chloe sipped the bitter coffee, grimacing at its scorched taste, and pulled up The Corral website on her tablet. The Corral a subsidiary of The Yard Corporation. flashed on the screen, a blue glow illuminated her tired face as she clicked to the Westwood location to verify her appointment for tomorrow. Her finger paused mid-swipe.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
There was a cancellation for today at 6 PM. The price listed was exactly half the normal rate, a "last-minute fill-in special" according to the flashing red text. Chloe's heart raced. It was already 3:30. If she left by 4, an hour to drive across town, she should have an hour to spare, enough time for a quick shower and a change of clothes.
She calculated quickly. The money she'd save would cover almost a week's worth of groceries. The thought of walking back onto the floor, of checking Mrs. Rosenberg's catheter and Mr. Wilson's blood pressure, suddenly felt unbearable.
Without allowing herself to second-guess, she tapped "Book Now" and entered her credit information. The confirmation screen flashed with an obnoxious cartoon thumbs-up: "Appointment confirmed. Please arrive 15 minutes early to complete paperwork. See you tonight at Westwood Plaza! Remember to fast for 4 hours before your appointment!"
Chloe drained the rest of her coffee and headed straight for the nurse's station, where Nurse Vickers was updating charts.
Head Nurse Vickers frowned as Chloe approached the station, her face pale and her hand pressed against her stomach.
"I need to go home," Chloe said, pressing a hand to her stomach. "I think it was something I ate."
Vickers's eyes narrowed, suspicion evident in the tightening of her thin lips. "You seemed fine an hour ago.
"It hit suddenly." Chloe hunched her shoulders, making her face pale. "Bathroom three times in the last twenty minutes."
After a moment of scrutiny, Vickers nodded curtly. "Fine. I'll mark you down for sick leave. Get someone to cover your remaining patients."
"Of course," Chloe agreed quickly, already backing away. "Thank you."
Chloe slipped out of the hospital through the side entrance, avoiding the main lobby where she might run into someone who'd question her early departure. The automatic doors hissed open, releasing her into the humid afternoon air that clung to her skin like a damp sheet. She hurried across the parking lot, keys already in hand, heart pounding with the small thrill of escape.
"Come on, come on," she muttered, turning the key. Her ancient car protested with a grinding cough before reluctantly starting. The dashboard clock read 4:07. Plenty of time to make it home, then across town for her 6:00 appointment.
She pulled onto the main road, cranking up the AC that blew lukewarm air at best. Traffic was light as she merged onto the interstate, and she allowed herself to relax slightly, rolling her shoulders to release the tension built up from Dr. Howard's closet visit.
The radio crackled to life with a traffic update. "...major accident on I-6969 southbound near exit 217, all lanes currently blocked. Emergency crews are on scene, but motorists should expect significant delays..."
"No, no, no," Chloe muttered, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel as she rounded the bend and saw the sea of red brake lights stretching ahead. She was already committed to the interstate, with no exits for the next two miles.
Traffic crawled to a complete stop. Chloe checked the time: 4:25. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, calculating distances and alternative routes in her head. If this cleared quickly, she might still have time to swing by her apartment for a shower.
Ten minutes later, she hadn't moved more than fifty feet. The cars around her had become familiar neighbors in this temporary community of frustration. To her right, a man in a business suit was having an animated argument on his phone. To her left, a mother was passing snacks to whining children in the backseat.
Chloe pulled up the map on her phone. The accident had completely blocked the interstate. Police were diverting traffic, but the backup stretched for miles. It was now 4:35.
"Fuck it," she muttered, tossing her phone onto the passenger seat. She'd have to go straight to The Corral in her scrubs. The thought made her cringe—showing up for a regrading in work clothes, probably smelling like hospital disinfectant and whatever Dr. Howard had left on her.
By the time traffic finally began moving again, it was 5:02. Chloe's stomach knotted with anxiety. The half-price appointment slot would be gone if she missed it—money she desperately needed with the rent increase looming.
"Straight to the Corral," she decided aloud, checking the time again. No time to stop at home now. She'd have to make do.
She finally reached her exit at 5:17, but Westwood Plaza was still across town. She weaved through surface streets, cursing at every red light, every slow driver, every pedestrian who took too long crossing the street.
The digital clock on her dashboard seemed to accelerate.
The Corral occupied a discreet corner of the plaza, its entrance tastefully marked with a small bronze plaque rather than the garish neon of the downtown facilities. Chloe pulled into the parking lot at 6:12, cursing under her breath.
"Shit, shit, shit," she hissed, grabbing her purse and rushing toward the entrance.
The glass doors parted silently. Cool air washed over her as she stepped into a reception area that resembled an upscale spa more than a slave grading facility. Soft music played from hidden speakers. The walls were painted a soothing sage green.
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 boiled 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 quickining, 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.
The assisted-living corridor smelled of antiseptic, urine, and death. Chloe hated her rotation on this floor, but all the nurses had to do it. She pushed the med cart to Mrs. Martha's room.
Inside, Martha was perched on the edge of the bed applying bright scarlet lipstick, some of it gracing her teeth. “Morning, sugar tits,” she rasped, waving the tube like a conductor’s baton. “You’re late.”
“Six minutes early by my watch,” Chloe replied, trading her clipboard for a blood-pressure cuff. She wrapped the Velcro around Martha’s saggy bicep.
Martha patted Chloe’s breast. “Firm. You could charge admission to let the boys play with those, maybe even charge the girls, too. Me, I charged by the inch. Back then, a buck bought you steak and a lay; now it won’t even cover the lay.”
Cuff inflated, needle wavered. “One-forty over ninety. You’re still alive.”
“It’s all the fucking and memories, honey, that keep me going.” Ms Martha replied with a wide smile.”
"It's time for your meds," Chloe said, turning toward the cart. She plucked a small paper cup filled with colorful pills from the tray and handed it to Martha.
The old woman snatched it with surprising dexterity and tossed the contents into her mouth like they were peanuts at a bar. Chloe passed her the plastic water cup, which Martha drained in one long gulp.
"How was that?" Chloe asked, taking back the empty containers.
Martha's lipstick-smeared mouth twisted into a lewd grin. "Not bad, sugar. Though cum goes down easier, especially if they've been eating pineapple." She cackled, her dentures clicking. "You ever notice that? Diet makes all the difference. Stay away from asparagus men, that's my advice."
Chloe couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. This crude, unfiltered old woman was genuinely the highlight of her day. No pretense, no manipulation, just raw honesty—something in desperately short supply in her life.
"I'll keep that in mind," Chloe said, marking the medication as administered on her chart.
"So, did you get some last night? You have a I got hard fucked last night glow about you?" Martha asked, adjusting her floral robe. "That tight little ass of yours shouldn't go to waste. When I was your age, I was pulling in two hundred a night just from bachelor parties."
Cloe blushed, "I had a... dream," Chloe admitted, surprising herself with the confession. "About doctors at the hospital."
Martha cackled, clapping her hands together. "Ooh, dirty dreams about the white coats! Tell me everything. Was it that Pakistani fellow with the nice hands? I see how he looks at you during rounds."
Chloe felt heat rising in her cheeks. "He’s from India, and I need to finish my rounds, Mrs. Martha."
"You know," Martha said, suddenly serious, her rheumy eyes fixing on Chloe's face, "you remind me of myself at your age. Pretty, smart, and too damn accommodating. I made good money once I learned to charge what I was worth."
Chloe laughed, tucking her clipboard under her arm. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that, honey. This nursing gig is nice and all, but with your tits and ass? You could be living in one of them penthouses downtown." Martha settled back against her pillows. "Come back later and tell me about that dream. I need something to keep me warm at night."
With a final wave, Chloe pushed the med cart into the hallway, her smile lingering. Martha was crass, inappropriate, and completely oblivious to modern sensibilities—and somehow the most genuine person in Chloe's life.
The old woman's words followed Chloe as she pushed her cart to the next room, lingering in her mind like smoke. When she checked her watch, it was already 1:45. Fifteen minutes until her meeting with Dr. Howard. Her stomach knotted as she thought about the grading appointment looming over her. Would Martha's blunt
He pushed her inside among the mop heads, the door sealing like a cap on a specimen jar. Disinfectant clawed her throat first, then the metal shelf corner found the tender wing of her scapula, carving a quick reminder that nothing here would be soft.
The overhead bulb flickered ADHD glow, illuminating rows of bleach jugs like translucent organs. He spun her around and pushed her back against the floor scrubber. She heard the zipper teeth part, then pressure as he found her target.
"Five minutes," Howard hissed against her ear, his breath hot and urgent. "Covering Morgan's lunch. Need to be quick."
The name sent an electric current through Chloe's body. Dr. Morgan. Her dream flooded back in vivid detail, the examination table, the restraints, his blue eyes darkening as he positioned himself between her legs.
The mention of Dr. Morgan's name sent Chloe's mind reeling back to her dream. Those blue eyes looking up from between her thighs, that clinical voice appraising her body. Her pussy clenched involuntarily around Howard's cock as he pushed deeper, the memory of her dream mixing with the harsh reality of the supply closet.
Dr. Howard pushed into her with a grunt, and Chloe felt herself clench around him involuntarily. Her pussy gripped his cock as he began to move in and out with short, efficient thrusts.
"Fuck," he muttered, sounding surprised. "You're really wet today."
Chloe closed her eyes, letting the fantasy overlay reality. In her mind, it wasn't Howard's average cock pumping into her but Morgan's impressive length. The supply closet's chemical smell faded, replaced by the antiseptic scent of the examination room from her dream. The phantom touch of Dr. Morgan's hands on her breasts. She pressed her head back against the hard plastic of the floor scrubber, focusing on the discomfort to ground herself in reality.
"Yes," she moaned, louder than she intended.
Howard's rhythm faltered for a moment. "Please be keeping it down."
His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her back to meet each thrust, clearly in a hurry.
Chloe made the appropriate noises, gasping when he hit a sensitive spot, moaning when his pace quickened. It was a performance she had perfected over months. But today, her body was responding differently, her arousal building despite herself as the dream images flickered behind her closed eyelids.
"That's it," Howard encouraged, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Fuck, you feel good today."
The floor scrubber dug into her back. The smell of ammonia burned her nostrils. A bottle of window cleaner fell from the shelf, clattering to the floor. None of it mattered as the tension in her core wound tighter, driven by fantasy rather than the reality of Dr. Howard's rushed coupling.
"I'm close," she whispered, surprising herself. This never happened during these encounters.
But she couldn't help herself. Each thrust sent shockwaves through her body, building on the lingering arousal from her dream. Her hands gripped the edge of the floor scrubber, knuckles white as Howard's pace increased.
"I'm going to—" she gasped, but couldn't finish the sentence as pleasure crashed through her. Her inner walls pulsed around Howard's cock, milking him as she came.
"Fuck, fuck," he groaned, his rhythm faltering as her muscles pulsed around him. "Jesus," sounding almost impressed as he found his own release moments later.
They stayed joined for only seconds before he withdrew, tucking himself back into his pants with practiced efficiency. Chloe smoothed her scrubs down, avoiding his eyes.
“You’re going to make a fine addition to the ICU. We’ll see you on the floor tomorrow,” he said as he finished putting himself back together.
“I won’t be able to start until next week. I have an appointment tomorrow, and this weekend is my weekend off.”
“Sure, fine, next week then,” he said, finally looking her in the eye, “I will so enjoy these get-togethers once you’re up here permanently.”
Then he was out the door, leaving her alone in the closet.
Stepping out, she braced for an audience, but the corridor yawned empty save for a dietary aide wheeling trays of pureed Salisbury steak. No one met her eye; janitor sex ranked low on gossip novelty here. Still, she felt branded, pulse visible under translucent fabric like a blinking sign: recently fucked, price negotiable pending grade.
The break room offered coffee thick as debt. She poured, added powdered creamer that refused to dissolve, clumping like unspoken facts. Calculator app next: lease minus current, divided by paychecks, equals negative. She tried optimism: a downgrade meant she might be able to take advantage of free housing in the hospital dorms, communal showers, no rent, stories warned of five beds per room, and frequent visits from the hospital administrators.
Chloe sipped the bitter coffee, grimacing at its scorched taste, and pulled up The Corral website on her tablet. The Corral a subsidiary of The Yard Corporation. flashed on the screen, a blue glow illuminated her tired face as she clicked to the Westwood location to verify her appointment for tomorrow. Her finger paused mid-swipe.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
There was a cancellation for today at 6 PM. The price listed was exactly half the normal rate, a "last-minute fill-in special" according to the flashing red text. Chloe's heart raced. It was already 3:30. If she left by 4, an hour to drive across town, she should have an hour to spare, enough time for a quick shower and a change of clothes.
She calculated quickly. The money she'd save would cover almost a week's worth of groceries. The thought of walking back onto the floor, of checking Mrs. Rosenberg's catheter and Mr. Wilson's blood pressure, suddenly felt unbearable.
Without allowing herself to second-guess, she tapped "Book Now" and entered her credit information. The confirmation screen flashed with an obnoxious cartoon thumbs-up: "Appointment confirmed. Please arrive 15 minutes early to complete paperwork. See you tonight at Westwood Plaza! Remember to fast for 4 hours before your appointment!"
Chloe drained the rest of her coffee and headed straight for the nurse's station, where Nurse Vickers was updating charts.
Head Nurse Vickers frowned as Chloe approached the station, her face pale and her hand pressed against her stomach.
"I need to go home," Chloe said, pressing a hand to her stomach. "I think it was something I ate."
Vickers's eyes narrowed, suspicion evident in the tightening of her thin lips. "You seemed fine an hour ago.
"It hit suddenly." Chloe hunched her shoulders, making her face pale. "Bathroom three times in the last twenty minutes."
After a moment of scrutiny, Vickers nodded curtly. "Fine. I'll mark you down for sick leave. Get someone to cover your remaining patients."
"Of course," Chloe agreed quickly, already backing away. "Thank you."
Chloe slipped out of the hospital through the side entrance, avoiding the main lobby where she might run into someone who'd question her early departure. The automatic doors hissed open, releasing her into the humid afternoon air that clung to her skin like a damp sheet. She hurried across the parking lot, keys already in hand, heart pounding with the small thrill of escape.
"Come on, come on," she muttered, turning the key. Her ancient car protested with a grinding cough before reluctantly starting. The dashboard clock read 4:07. Plenty of time to make it home, then across town for her 6:00 appointment.
She pulled onto the main road, cranking up the AC that blew lukewarm air at best. Traffic was light as she merged onto the interstate, and she allowed herself to relax slightly, rolling her shoulders to release the tension built up from Dr. Howard's closet visit.
The radio crackled to life with a traffic update. "...major accident on I-6969 southbound near exit 217, all lanes currently blocked. Emergency crews are on scene, but motorists should expect significant delays..."
"No, no, no," Chloe muttered, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel as she rounded the bend and saw the sea of red brake lights stretching ahead. She was already committed to the interstate, with no exits for the next two miles.
Traffic crawled to a complete stop. Chloe checked the time: 4:25. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, calculating distances and alternative routes in her head. If this cleared quickly, she might still have time to swing by her apartment for a shower.
Ten minutes later, she hadn't moved more than fifty feet. The cars around her had become familiar neighbors in this temporary community of frustration. To her right, a man in a business suit was having an animated argument on his phone. To her left, a mother was passing snacks to whining children in the backseat.
Chloe pulled up the map on her phone. The accident had completely blocked the interstate. Police were diverting traffic, but the backup stretched for miles. It was now 4:35.
"Fuck it," she muttered, tossing her phone onto the passenger seat. She'd have to go straight to The Corral in her scrubs. The thought made her cringe—showing up for a regrading in work clothes, probably smelling like hospital disinfectant and whatever Dr. Howard had left on her.
By the time traffic finally began moving again, it was 5:02. Chloe's stomach knotted with anxiety. The half-price appointment slot would be gone if she missed it—money she desperately needed with the rent increase looming.
"Straight to the Corral," she decided aloud, checking the time again. No time to stop at home now. She'd have to make do.
She finally reached her exit at 5:17, but Westwood Plaza was still across town. She weaved through surface streets, cursing at every red light, every slow driver, every pedestrian who took too long crossing the street.
The digital clock on her dashboard seemed to accelerate.
The Corral occupied a discreet corner of the plaza, its entrance tastefully marked with a small bronze plaque rather than the garish neon of the downtown facilities. Chloe pulled into the parking lot at 6:12, cursing under her breath.
"Shit, shit, shit," she hissed, grabbing her purse and rushing toward the entrance.
The glass doors parted silently. Cool air washed over her as she stepped into a reception area that resembled an upscale spa more than a slave grading facility. Soft music played from hidden speakers. The walls were painted a soothing sage green.