After Hours

The start of my journey as a horny resident.

Residency is supposed to wring the sex out of you. Long shifts, no sleep, charts stacked higher than my rent notices. I should’ve been at home, eating leftovers, passing out on my books.

Instead, I was still in scrubs, walking through the park at midnight, the fabric clinging with sweat from a run that didn’t burn out the ache.

It always starts the same: heart hammering, blood too hot, body refusing to shut down. I tell myself I’m just walking. Just clearing my head. But I know better.

The shadows don’t lie.

I’ve had a man press me into the wet grass before, the taste of him mixing with the night air. I’ve been pulled into an alley, brick biting my palms while hands dragged me open and rough. Once, in the back room of a bar, the bass still pounding through the walls, I came so hard against a stranger’s chest I nearly bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.

I shouldn’t want those nights. I shouldn’t need them. But I do.

Because in the hospital, I’m Dr. Lukes. Clean. Professional. White coat, pen light, practiced smile.

And out here? Out here I’m just Jac. Broke. Horny. Too far gone to pretend I don’t need to be touched.

If you stay with me here, I’ll tell you more. The details. The nights I don’t admit out loud. Some of it will be written. Some of it I’ll read into your ear. And sometimes, when I can’t hold it back, you’ll hear me touching myself while I do.

My hope? That when I come, you come with me.

Love,
Jac