As I walked up to the medical complex, I was engaged in that most rarified of pleasures: a good old-fashioned doomscroll. I flicked through my phone, glancing at the headlines.

Market Crash Most Likely to Impact New Hires, Economists Say

Didn’t need to tell me that twice.

Tensions in Middle East Skyrocket, Conflict Resumes

No surprises there.

Search for Survivors Called Off After Private Jet Crash in Swiss Alps

Huh. There was a little bit of schadenfreude. It was rare enough for the plutocrats to get what was coming to them, but I wouldn’t complain too much when it finally happened.

I tore my eyes away from the screen and looked at the frosted glass window in front of me.

Whole Woman’s Wellness Clinic

_{Chief Clinician: Dr. Candace Powers, MD, PhD, MPH.}

Damn. That was quite the string of acronyms after her name. I recognized the first two, but had to wonder why it was necessary to specify how many miles per hour she could travel. Whatever. I wasn’t here to pontificate about the apparent speed of the lead clinician.

I was here, in fact, to grovel for an unpaid job.

Since I was a child, I dreamed of being a physician. I couldn't tell you exactly what called me to medicine, but if pressed, I'd guess it was the six-figure salary and the instant respect that comes with the title — ideal, of course, for a humble would-be healer like me. With that dream in my heart, I’d started my undergraduate degree and majored in biology, eager to show the world my unmatched talents.

My dream died fast. One semester, to be exact, torched by an F-minus in Organic Chemistry. I explained to the registrar that Orgo was so notoriously brutal that an F-minus there was basically an A-plus anywhere else, and that my transcript should reflect this. She informed me that's not how curves work. Whatever.

Combined with the rest of my grades (I had managed “Gentleman’s D’s” in all my other classes) this was enough to get me academically dismissed.

A lesser man might have admitted defeat at that juncture. Not I. I knew that I had gotten ahead of myself and tried to tackle college before I was ready. There’s no shame in admitting when you’ve made mistakes: the real challenge is learning from them. So, I came up with a novel (and, dare I say, heroic) course of action.

I would take a gap year.

My parents were enthusiastic about the plan at first, although their enthusiasm dimmed once I told them that I would mostly be spending that year in my childhood bedroom, playing video games. After barely eleven months of this, they started gently hinting that I should try looking for a job.

I knew that I still wanted to become a doctor, so it was essential that I found something in the medical field. There were courses to become an EMT or a paramedic, but I had an aversion to the sight of blood which made the role seem like a poor fit. (If this seems like a limiting trait for a would-be doctor, don’t be concerned. I had already developed a plan to hand off any bleeding or otherwise fluid-y patients to my nurses.)

I then recalled a bizarre conversation that I had with one of my fellow pre-med classmates. They had asked me how many “Shadow Hours” I had. I had started telling them that I wasn’t really into LARPing, but they explained that apparently before going to med school, you’re expected to follow around a doctor and just, like, look at what they do on a daily basis. According to them, you’re not supposed to interact with any of the patients or do any of the work, just hang out in the room and observe. Like a shadow.

When I remembered that this was an option, I immediately knew that it was the perfect job for me. I mean, a job where I was explicitly prohibited from doing any actual work? Who would even care whether I bothered showing up or not?

I had applied at several practices, but didn’t get any callbacks after I dropped off my resume. Typical. This job really was all about who you knew. Undeterred, I had widened my search. I had originally focused on some of the more badass fields of medicine, but maybe it was time to try some of the more hum-drum specialties.

Which is how I found myself standing in front of Dr. Powers’ Women’s Health Clinic. At first, I had been a little skeptical of working for an OB-GYN. Like it would be a stain on my man card or something. But after I considered it some more, I realized that working in a Women’s Health Clinic might actually be a perfect fit for me.

In point of fact, I’d always been interested in healthy women. The healthier, the better, in my opinion! Helping women to regain the bounce in their step and the youthful flush on their cheeks seemed like as much of a God-given calling as I could imagine. So, I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, walking into the building.

It took my eyes a few moments to adjust from the bright sun outside to the dimmer fluorescent lighting inside. I had walked into a waiting room, but it appeared to be totally empty. Rows of chairs sat in careful symmetry, upholstered in a blue-gray fabric worn smooth at the armrests. As I looked around, I heard a sibilant hum that I couldn’t quite place. An air conditioner? A fridge? Whatever, it was probably just some feedback on the office PA system.

On the table nearest to me, a stack of magazines fanned out on the side table. I glanced at the one nearest to me, which featured a smiling woman holding up a handful of peonies.

Better Homes and Gardens, October 2025.

Huh. More recent than I would have expected. I always made a point to use my time productively when I was waiting by browsing basketball results or checking my Kalshi plays, but I had found that women weren’t well suited to those kinds of educational pursuits. It made sense that they’d need something to fritter away their time on while they were waiting to be seen.

As far as I could tell though, there weren’t any other patients waiting in the room; it was completely empty besides yours truly. I took a seat in one of the chairs, drumming my fingers on the armrest. I was a patient guy, but there were limits to my forbearance. How long was I willing to wait to ask about a job that I didn’t even plan on showing up to most of the time?

I glanced around again, trying to see if there was anyone I could talk to about being a “Doctor Shadow” or “Shadow Doctor” or whatever comic book phrase I was supposed to use. The receptionist desk was totally abandoned, but the occupant must have stepped away very recently; her monitor was still on, and steam was still rising from the Live, Laugh, Nurse mug that was next to her keyboard.

I stepped up to the desk and looked past it into the office beyond. Totally deserted.

You know what? If they were going to disrespect my time like this, they couldn’t expect me to respect the clinic rules. If I leaned over the reception window and kind of twisted my torso, I could sneak a glance at the computer monitor. It might be a Hippo violation or whatever, but I bet the receptionist had a schedule pulled up on the computer. At least then I could know how long I might have to wait before someone important was free to talk.

I stood on tiptoes to lean over the waist-height partition separating the receptionist’s office from the waiting room lobby and craned my neck to get a glimpse of the screen. No dice. All that was showing was a kind of staticky-spiral screensaver. I might have to jiggle the mouse to get the computer to display something. I leaned ever further over the divider, stretching my fingertips to try and brush the keyboard.

My pinky finger was only inches from the “Escape” key when I felt a cold spike of fear run through me. I had leaned too far forward and my feet had left the ground. I felt myself starting to overbalance and tried to desperately throw my weight backward to keep myself from toppling over.

All that I managed to do was turn my gradual slide forward into a full-fledged somersault over the divider. My head banged on the desk as my entire body followed me, landing on my back on the linoleum flooring hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

I lay on my back for several long seconds, struggling to breathe and hoping that no one had heard my undignified tumble to the ground. I did a quick mental inventory.

Any broken bones or cracked ribs? None that I could tell.

Any concussions? Negative, my mind was as sharp as ever.

Dignity? Unscathed. I’ve always considered slapstick to be the highest form of comedy, anyway.

I was mustering the willpower to stand and look at the computer when I heard the distinctive click click click of high heels on a tile floor.

Shit. Someone must have heard my little pratfall. Okay, decision time. Should I be nonchalant and play it off, pretend that I had gotten lost and ended up back here somehow? Or should I try to vault back over the divider into the waiting room before she arrived and saw me?

In reality, I opted for neither. Lying on the floor and struggling for breath was hardly the way I wanted to introduce myself to my employer, but maybe I could try and spin it as a positive? I started trying to mentally craft a cover story that I could tell whoever walked in.

“Oh, my bad. I got lost and somehow ended up in the staff area. Why am I lying down? Oh, I decided to do some sit-ups while I was waiting, because I’m so passionate about health and stuff. Plus, hard-working. Anyway, can I have a job?” Brilliant.

As I struggled to fill my lungs, I turned my head to look at the nurse coming through the door. If I wasn’t already trying and failing to control my diaphragm, the woman’s appearance would be enough to take my breath away anyway. She was statuesque, with straight honey-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Her face was vaguely familiar, although I wasn’t sure from where. Had I seen her on Instagram somewhere?

I kept trying to get my breathing under control as she continued to walk up to me, her glossy shoes clicking across the floor. Even without the heels she was wearing, she would have been tall; with them, she towered over me. Although, in fairness, I was lying on the floor. Relatively easy prey, as far as “towering over” goes.  

She stepped up next to me, blotting out the fluorescent lights from the ceiling and looking down at me. I braced myself for the inevitable. Best case scenario, I was about to be thrown out. Worst case, they might try to detain me until the police arrived.

The woman squatted down next to me, a frown on her perfect features, before brightening up and chirping in a perfect valley-girl impression.

“Oh my gosh! I’m like, soooooo sorry that I wasn’t here to greet you, doctor! Welcome in! Can I get you anything?”

Not what I expected, but let’s roll with it.

“Could I get…” I trailed off, wheezing. “Could I get a hand off the floor?”

------------------------------------------------------------

Once I had been helped to my feet and had a chance to catch my breath, I took a moment to appraise the situation. Apparently, this woman had gotten me confused for one of the doctors who worked here. I was frankly a little offended at the implications — I’d always thought that male gynecologists (guy-necologists, if you will) were a little creepy. If I could be mistaken for one, what did that say about my own appearance?

The nurse was busying herself tidying up the scattered papers on the floor, crawling on her hands and knees without any apparent modesty. I thought about offering to help, since I was the one who had knocked them off the desk in the first place, but I thought better of it once I realized that this was a prime opportunity to evaluate the… professional appearance of one of my faux-coworkers.

I had always considered myself a man of character – honesty being one of my chief virtues. I was never the type to lie when a girlfriend asked me if she was getting fat, or to hold back constructive criticism when I saw an unflattering photo of a female celebrity on social media. So you will understand that I am a man of sincerity and candor and know me to be truthful when I say:

This nurse was one of the hottest women I had ever seen.

She looked to be in her early-30s, with piercing blue eyes set above well-defined cheekbones. Lascivious hips gave way to an impressive ass and a toned, tanned set of legs encased in white stockings.

As she stood up, organizing the sheaf of paper in her hands, I couldn’t help but be impressed with Dr. Powers’ choice of uniforms for her staff. The woman was wearing a tight white nurse’s dress that stopped at mid-thigh, with a hem of red lace adding a flare of color. Reaching under the desk to grab the paperwork had pulled down her bodice, exposing enough of her cleavage to tantalize. I was tall enough at 5’10 (6’4 on the apps, obviously) and with a pair of stiletto heels on she stood the same height as me.

If this were a normal doctor’s office, I’d have found her attire incredibly unprofessional. But this was a gynecologist, so basically only women came through here. Maybe the rules for professional dress were different when only women were around? I’d seen how lesbians dressed when they were trying to entice each other (flannels, mostly) and this was about as far away as you could get from shapeless lumberjack-chic. So, it was probably fine.

The nurse did seem pretty ditzy, truth be told, but I couldn’t complain about that. If it kept her from realizing that I wasn’t a doctor and calling the cops on me, she could be as much of a witless bimbo as she wanted.

In fact, her getting me confused with a doctor was great news. If she thought I worked here, there wasn’t anything unusual about me being in a staff-only area. If I could keep hanging out back here, I probably had a much better chance at getting to ask a real doctor whether I could shadow them. I tried to discreetly find out where the other employees were.

“The clinic seems a little, uh, understaffed today. Can you give me a rundown of everyone who is working today?”

The nurse turned to face me with a bounce and a flirtatious giggle.

“It’s just me, doctor! I’ve been running the clinic on my own for the past month, but I’m so glad that you’re here! So many of our patients are suffering from their conditions and they’re desperately need a little… relief.”

Was I concussed, or did her voice drop an octave into a huskier register when she said that last word?

She continued. “I’ve been trying to treat their maladies on my own, but as you can tell,” she said, gesturing at herself, “I’m just a little ol’ nurse! So many of our patients need the kind of… personalized care that they can only get from a doctor like yourself.”

Okay, concussion or not, she definitely was biting her lip and staring at my junk with that last statement. If there weren’t any doctors around to shadow, then I might as well leave, but I’d try to get this chick’s number on the way out. I’d often heard the adage not to “stick your dick in crazy,” but, hell, was this a free country or not? I was an American, goddamnit, and I would stick my dick in whatever kind of crazy I pleased. Our medical system might be the laughingstock of the free world, but if it produced fine-looking lunatics like nympho nurse here, then I would start singing the Star-Spangled Banner every morning.

She turned away with a twirl that showed off another few inches of tanned thigh.

“If you don’t have any other questions for me, doctor, your 10:15 is in Examination Room 4. You can follow me and I’ll take you there.”

Shit.

This was the one possible flaw in my plan. If she thought that I was a real doctor, then she would expect me to do, you know, real doctor things! I wasn’t about to go and look at a bunch of weird, old, sick people without having a way to put it on my resume! I started to think of excuses that would let me duck out of the building and never come back (“Sorry, nurse, I just need to grab my speculum out of my glovebox. Stay right here!”)

Hang on a minute, though. There had been a doctor’s name on the building when I walked in – Dr. Candace Powers. So, there was at least one doctor working here that I could shadow. The nurse must just have meant that they hadn’t arrived at the clinic yet. She’d probably be really impressed when she finally arrived and I casually told her:

“By the way doc, no need to worry about your first couple of appointments. I already got them totally fixed up. Just wanted to take a little something off your plate, no big deal.”

Perfect. Any doctor would be grateful for the break, and how hard could it be to look at some vaginas or whatever? I spent tons of time looking at vaginas on the Internet, I was practically born for this job. Worst case scenario, if the doctor got butthurt about malpractice claims or whatever, I’d play innocent and blame it all on the nurse. Although speaking of the nurse, I needed to find out her name if I wanted to effectively identify her as the culprit behind this little “misunderstanding.”

As we kept walking down the hall, I tried to act casual.

“Say, nurse, I never caught your name.”

She turned to me, jutting out her chest (which must have had her nametag on it all along).

“I’m Nurse Candee, doctor! Just as sweet, but much, much healthier!”

She giggled at her own joke. I tried for an indulgent chuckle, but nearly ran into her as she stopped suddenly, gesturing at the door next to us.

“Here we are, doctor! Exam Room 4, your first patient of the day. Isabella Richards. Nineteen years old. Vitals are 110 lbs, 5’2”, 36-24-36.”

Standard medical gobbledygook. I let the nurse keep droning on.   

“I’ve already done a full workup – her condition is unchanged since her visit last week. Likely chronic, although manageable with treatment. I’ve been trying to help her with her symptoms, but she really should be seeing a doctor.”

She paused for a moment.

“Before we go inside, there’s something we have to do first.”

Okay, act natural. Remember all those TV shows that you half-watched!

“Oh, uh, right. You probably need to give me the patient’s medical history?”

She shook her head. Stepping over to a nearby closet, she opened the door and took out a white coat from its hanger. She stepped back over to me, reverently placing the coat over my shoulders and helping me to shrug my arms through the sleeves. Candee stepped back and smiled.

“Now you look the part, doctor. Miss Richards is so, so lucky to have a competent and dedicated professional like you as part of her care team.”

Well, when you put it that way, I suppose that she was.

“All right, Nurse Candee, lead the way. You can explain whatever’s wrong with her once we’re inside.”

She smiled and held the door open for me as I strode in, trying to project an aura of competent professionalism. Inside the room, seated on the examination table, was a young woman. Isabella Richards, unless I missed my guess.

Isabella made quite the contrast to Nurse Candee; instead of a tall blonde, she was a short redhead. She was also dressed in something much more practical than Candee’s uniform, wearing a boring pair of mom jeans and a red cable-knit sweater that was trying (and, praise God, failing) to conceal her voluptuous figure. She swung her feet awkwardly as we walked in, glancing away from us as if embarrassed.

I cleared my throat.

“Good morning, Isabella. What seems to be the problem today?”

She lowered her head and mumbled something inaudible. Her cheeks were flushed, and if this kept up she’d soon turn entirely the same color as her hair. She kept staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact with either of us.

I suppressed a sigh of annoyance. What did this girl have to be nervous about? She’d probably been a patient plenty of times, but this was my first time being a doctor. If anyone deserved to be anxious, it was me.

The change in Candee’s demeanor was startling. Instead of the simpering flirt that she’d been in the hallway outside, she started to channel the demeanor of a battleaxe charge nurse.

“That’s quite enough of that, young lady. The doctor is a busy man and doesn’t have time to coax a full answer out of you just because you’re embarrassed. Now, hold your head up, chest out, and tell the doctor exactly why you came in to see us this morning.”

Isabella took a ragged breath, lifting her hazel eyes up to make eye contact with me.

“I came in today because I have a… condition, doctor. And I need your help with it. The nurse said it was called… inorgasmus degradatio.”

Inorg-whatsit? I was out of my depth. Whenever something like this happened on a TV show, one of the characters would say the phrase “In English, doc” and they’d immediately explain it. But I was the doc, here, so I probably couldn’t use that line. I tried to press her for more information.

“And what kind of symptoms does your condition cause?”

“I get a sensation… down there.” She spread her legs apart and gestured at her crotch. “A kind of… secret sensation.”

“Is there anything that makes your symptoms better?”

She shook her head.

“I try everything that I can to make the sensation go away. But it doesn’t unless someone can help me.”

“Anything that makes your symptoms worse?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“Just you being here in the room, doctor, is starting to make my… feelings intensify.”

What? Was this bitch really accusing me of causing her symptoms? Hadn’t she ever heard of the Hippocratic oath? Doctors were physically incapable of causing any harm.

Nurse Candee noticed my frown.

“Isabella, perhaps it would be best if we walked through the treatment that you’ve been trying with me. The doctor can observe and step in if he sees what we’ve been doing wrong.”

Isabella gave a shy nod. With a glance at me, she shucked her jeans past her hips, staying seated on the exam table. With a charming wiggling motion, she kept pulling them down until they fell past her bare feet to lie in a crumped heap on the floor.

Underneath, she was wearing a pair of beige panties, just a shade too dark to blend in with her pale skin. She took another deep breath and gradually slid one hand under her waistband until all I could see was her wrist.

Was she really about to start touching herself right in front of both of us? No, of course not. This was probably some kind of guided self-exam thing, right?

Candee took a step forward and bent down until she was at eye level with Isabella, reaching out a hand to touch her chin, before taking a finger and forcing the girl’s gaze upward, staring into each other’s eyes with their lips only inches apart.

“Look at me, Isabella. I know what you are.”

The energy between them was electric. Candee was utterly focused on the girl, and Isabella was staring back at her, eyes wide as saucers, like a mouse looking at a cat.

As I watched, Isabella’s hand started gradually moving in a rhythmic motion beneath her underwear, tracing tiny circles.

This… really didn’t seem like any kind of guided self-exam.

Candee kept holding Isabella’s chin, not allowing her to drop her gaze.

“I know that you’re a naughty little girl who can’t help yourself.”

Isabella’s hand sped up, jerking back and forth. The girl’s breath was coming in short, sharp pants now.

“I know that you’re desperate to come all over your fingers.”

Isabella tilted her head back and moaned, nodding feverishly.

“I know that you’ve been thinking about this moment all week. The moment when you get to show us what a weak little slut you are and come your brains out in front of us.”

Isabella had sped up her pace again and was now hunched over on the exam table, banging it against the wall with every stroke as she rubbed at her sopping cunt.  

“You’ve been thinking about this all week because deep down, you are a worthless. Brainless. Cumdumpster!”

Candee’s voice had risen on the last few syllables, building until she was shouting the last word. I had stood frozen during the nurse’s entire monologue, but I took a step forward, ready to step in. Whatever was going on, Candee was acting like this was the finale of the entire performance.

Isabella wasn’t behaving like it, though. Even without Candee’s encouragement, the girl hadn’t slowed her frenetic masturbation, desperately holding onto the exam table with one hand while the other pistoned away beneath her underwear, a growing wet spot showing on the front of her panties. The poor girl kept letting out throaty moans of frustration as she shifted and squirmed, eyes scrunched shut, utterly oblivious to the two of us.

I had to put a stop to this. Whatever was going on here, it just wasn’t okay for medical staff to browbeat a patient like this. Even if Candee’s insults seemed… more or less accurate, given by how desperately Isabella was still fingering herself.

I tried my best ‘authoritatively gruff’ voice.

“Nurse, what do you think that you’re doing, speaking to one of my patients that way?”

Candee looked unashamed, staring back at me defiantly and gesturing to the still-frantically-masturbating girl.

“It’s her condition, doctor! She suffers from Inorgasmus Degradatio. She can’t reach… hysterical paroxysm. Not unless she’s being verbally degraded! But her condition has been worsening – during her visits the past three weeks, I haven’t been able to give her any kind of relief!”

Okay. That sounded both very hot and… extremely fake? I mean, maybe it was a thing, but hardly the kind of condition that women’s health clinics were supposed to be treating. Now that I thought about it, this entire clinic was kind of bizarre. Why was it deserted except for a lunatic nurse and her dubiously-sick patient?

Was this some kind of X-rated hidden camera show? There were security cameras in all the examination rooms, but what TV network would possibly air a show where half the dialogue and all the footage would need to be censored? I dismissed the idea as crazy.

Hang on, though. What if the two women actually were crazy?

I’d watched enough poorly-received sequels to know that Folie à deux was a medical term for when a psychiatric symptom or delusion was shared by two people in close proximity. Were they both insane? I didn’t like the implications of staying in a room where I was outnumbered by lunatics.

I started edging gently towards the door.

“Ah, nurse, it seems like you have Isabella’s treatment well in hand. Outstanding work. I’ll let you continue with the, uh, therapy and I’ll start heading to my next appointment.”

Candee sank onto her knees, hands clasped in front of her. There were tears starting to well up in her eyes.

“Doctor, please! I’m trying my best, but this poor woman is never going to get any kind of lasting relief unless an actual doctor helps with her care. I know that you have so many demands on your time, but won’t you try to administer the indicated treatment?”

I had always had a soft spot for women, even the crazy ones (but then, I’m repeating myself. Am I right, fellas?) Fine. I could play along with their little delusion before I made a break for the exit.

I stepped forward and cleared my throat. Bedside manner time.

“Isabella, Nurse Candee tells me that you have a… condition, is that correct?”

She was still desperately fingering herself, but managed to nod.

“Yes, I do! I do have a condition!”

I continued.

“And you’ve been suffering from this condition for… quite some time?”

She responded in breathy gasps.

“Yes, doctor! I’ve been suffering for… so, so long.”

Was there an echo in here or something? I tried to press on.

“And Nurse Candee tells me that this condition is the reason that you are currently, uh, masturbating in front of two other people.”

“Yes! I’m masturbating in front of both of you, because I’m your worthless, desperate little sluuUUTT~”

The last word came out strangled, as she suddenly clamped both legs together and arched her back, clapping her hand over her mouth as she thrashed and jerked. It seemed to go on for an eternity, but after thirty seconds, she had recovered enough to steady herself on the table.

Her face was flushed, and she delicately withdrew her hand from inside her underwear, wiping her glistening fingers on her taut stomach. The stain on the front of her panties was clearly visible as she sat up straight on the exam table and looked up at me through half-lidded eyes.

“Thank you so much, doctor. That was… incredible. How can I ever repay you?”

Watching her loudly climax had given me quite the secret sensation myself, and my hard-on was pressing urgently against the waistband of my cargo shorts. I was about to suggest several positions that she could repay me in, but Nurse Candee cut me off, stern and businesslike again.

“Our clinic doesn’t take insurance, Miss Richards. We’ll bill you directly. Take a moment to collect yourself and exit through the waiting room. The doctor will call you to let you know when your next appointment will be.”

Candee stepped forward again, bending down towards our patient’s face. She was close enough that every exhale made strands of Isabella’s flaming hair stir and dance around her face.

“And Miss Richards? Never forget what you learned here today. When you walk out of here, when you eat dinner, and when you go to sleep at night. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing. Deep down, you’re nothing more than his worthless little slut.”

Candee straightened up and patted Isabella on the cheek. “Good girl.” We then stepped into the corridor together, letting the door swing shut behind us.