Cravings in Scrubs

Zara woke up aching.

Not just between her legs—but everywhere. Her throat was raw from begging. Her thighs still trembled when she moved. Her sheets smelled like sex and silk, and her body radiated aftershock.

And yet...

She wanted more.

The message came in just before her shift.

From: Unknown 
Subject: Today. No bra. No panties. Wet. Stay that way.

She didn’t hesitate.

She wore her tightest scrubs. The thin mint-green material clung to every inch of her body, stretching taut across her full breasts and round ass. Without fabric underneath, her nipples were visibly peaked—hard and flushed. Between her legs, she was bare, shaved smooth, and already glistening.

The walk to work was dangerous.

Every step of her thighs rubbed friction into her clit. Every gust of wind teased her through the fabric. By the time she reached the hospital doors, she was soaked and flushed, her inner thighs tacky from arousal.

No one could tell.

Not yet.

She passed coworkers with smiles. Nurses waved. Doctors nodded. But she barely saw them.

She was vibrating on the edge of awareness, high on submission, soaked in risk.

At the nurse’s station, she bent over the counter to sign a chart, knowing exactly how her ass arched behind the thin scrub pants. She felt eyes. She didn’t look.

Later, in the break room, she caught Mason watching her. He didn’t say anything. Just watched the way her breasts shifted beneath her top when she reached for her water bottle.

Zara didn’t smile.

She didn’t need to.

She walked past him slowly, letting her chest brush his arm.

He inhaled.

She didn’t stop.

Each room. Each round. Each interaction—it was like playing a game where she was the only one who knew the rules. But the thrill built, hour by hour.

Her thighs were wet. Her breath tight. She could barely keep from moaning when she bent down to pick up a fallen pen in Room 212.

By the end of her shift, she was dripping.

And then came the final message:

From: Unknown 
Subject: Come home. Naked. Door unlocked. On your knees.

Zara left work in a fog of desire.

She didn’t stop to think.

Because tonight—he wasn’t going to deny her.

Tonight, he was going to claim her.

Zara unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside completely naked.

No shoes. No bag. No key lanyard around her neck.

Just her glistening skin, flushed from a day of near-constant arousal, her very tanned complexion glowing under the hallway light. Her thick, sculpted thighs trembled slightly as she stepped onto the cool tile floor, the smoothness between them wet and glistening. Her long, dark hair was disheveled from her walk—swept over one shoulder, revealing the elegant curve of her collarbone and the swell of her bare, natural breasts, their round weight soft but firm with peaked, aching nipples.

She shut the door behind her and dropped to her knees, as instructed.

The carpet scratched faintly at her skin. Her toned stomach fluttered with anticipation. Her arms rested at her sides, palms up, chest proud, back straight. She was posed like a sculpture of obedience—one built from fire and need.

She didn’t call out.

She didn’t ask where he was.

She simply waited.

And then—he stepped from the shadows.

He didn’t say a word.

He circled her slowly, boots thudding gently against the floor, his presence like a storm moving around her stillness. He stopped in front of her. She could see him now, from this low angle—black pants, dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. A belt. A bulge beneath the zipper. His hands, large and veined, flexed at his sides.

Zara stayed still.

Waiting.

His fingers moved to his belt, unfastening it slowly, letting the leather slip through the loops with a hiss. He tossed it to the side. Then unzipped.

She kept her eyes forward, just as she’d been trained.

"Open," he said softly.

She did.

He pushed into her mouth with a growl of satisfaction, one hand threading through her hair, pulling her forward until she took all of him—deep, gagging, drooling. Her full lips stretched wide around his length, slick and parted with hungry desperation.

Her eyes watered. Her thighs clenched.

She moaned around his cock.

He thrust slow at first—controlled. Then faster. Her saliva pooled, dripping down her chin, wetting her bare chest as he used her mouth like it belonged to him. Because it did. He held her in place, her dark lashes fluttering, throat convulsing as she fought not to choke.

He pulled out just before she lost it.

Zara gasped. Cried out.

He lifted her by the hips and tossed her onto the couch like she weighed nothing.

“Face down. Ass up.”

She obeyed instantly—hands gripping the cushion, back arched, her gorgeous, athletic body framed in a perfect curve. Her plump ass was high and ready, glistening between her spread thighs. Her muscles twitched beneath the soft sheen of sweat across her tanned skin. She was soaked—her entrance fluttering with each breath.

He knelt behind her and dragged his tongue up her slit, slow and rough. Zara cried out, eyes wide. He devoured her like a man starved—eating her from behind with deep, purposeful licks, tongue curling inside her, mouth clamped over her clit until she was bucking uncontrollably.

She nearly came.

"Not yet," he snapped, landing a sharp slap across her ass that made her scream.

Her pussy clenched violently.

He slid two fingers inside her, then three—pounding her open as she writhed beneath him, her moans rising, growing wilder with every thrust. Her breasts bounced beneath her with each movement, nipples dragging against the couch fabric, heat rising like smoke from her skin.

Then finally—he stood, grabbed her hips, and pushed inside her.

Zara screamed.

He filled her in one brutal thrust. No warning. No hesitation. Just claiming.

She clung to the cushions, sobbing with pleasure as he drove into her over and over again, deeper, harder, faster, the sound of his hips slapping her soaked flesh echoing off the walls. She screamed his name. He never gave it. Only growled commands, held her hair, spanked her until she was whimpering, her legs shaking, her cunt twitching around him uncontrollably.

He flipped her onto her back without pulling out, pushed her legs over his shoulders, and fucked her harder—slamming into her soaked pussy until she broke beneath him, climaxing over and over again, her voice gone, her body boneless.

When he finally came inside her, it was with a low groan and a sudden stillness. He pressed his forehead to hers, panting.

“You’re mine now,” he said.

Zara couldn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Because she was.