Cravings in Scrubs

Zara didn’t shower.

She slept in the black lace, her thighs still sticky with cum, her nipples still chafed from friction. Her body smelled like sex—deep, layered, undeniable. She wanted to wake up drenched in it.

And she did.

Her phone buzzed before the sun rose.

From: Unknown
Today, five.
Room 417.
You will smile.
You will swallow.
You will not speak unless told.
Good toys don’t talk.

Zara didn’t hesitate.

She chose a different set this time—white lace, virginal and sheer, so delicate it practically melted into her skin. The bra left nothing to the imagination. Her full breasts strained against the soft cups, nipples already dark and tight from arousal. The matching thong was barely a thread, tied at each hip and nearly translucent—soaked before she even left the apartment.

She wore the tightest scrubs she owned. Light blue. Soft. They hugged her full curves like skin. Her thick thighs rubbed with every step. Her plump, round ass jiggled in the fabric. Her hair was brushed sleek and left loose, her lips glossed, her skin glowing.

She wanted to be seen.
But more than that—she wanted to be used.

All morning, the hospital was a blur. She moved through rounds like a ghost, focused only on her phone, on the text that pulsed through her mind like a second heartbeat.

Today, five.

By noon, she was soaked.

She made her way to Room 417.

Her thighs were slick. Her pulse raced. She could already feel the cum drying on her skin before it was ever spilled.

She stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit. No beds. Just a padded mat in the center of the floor, and a single straight-backed chair against the wall.

Two men were already waiting. Both masked. One sitting. One standing.

Zara closed the door behind her and locked it.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

She stripped without a word—pulling her scrubs off piece by piece until she stood in nothing but lace. Then she untied the bows at her hips and let the thong fall.

She knelt on the mat.

Spine straight. Thighs parted. Tits full and bare. Her nipples flushed and tight, rising with each breath. Her gaze lowered.

She waited.

A third man entered. Then a fourth. Then a fifth.

They surrounded her.

The first cock touched her lips.

Zara opened her mouth and let him in.

He fucked her face without warning—hard, deep, forcing her to gag, drool spilling down her chin. Another stepped behind her. He knelt, gripped her hips, and slid his cock inside her already dripping pussy.

They didn’t ask permission.

And she didn’t want them to.

They fucked her together. One in her throat, one in her cunt. Then they switched. Again. And again. They slapped her ass until it burned. Fisted her hair. Made her choke. Made her moan.

She was spit-roasted, soaked, filled, and dripping.

Used.

Exactly as she was meant to be.

When they finished—on her back, on her ass, on her face—she stayed kneeling.

Smiling.

Eyes glazed. Body wrecked. Owned.

Then her phone buzzed again.

From: Unknown
Good girl.
You’re ready for tonight.
The club opens at 10

Zara stood in front of the mirror, completely naked.

Her skin still smelled like sweat and cum. Her lips were swollen from being used. Her thighs ached. Her nipples were sore. But her eyes—dark, wild, hungry—looked alive.

She applied a hint of gloss to her full lips.

Then slipped into the outfit he’d left for her.

Black mesh. Collar. No bra. No panties. The dress clung to her like skin, sheer from shoulder to hem. Her full breasts jiggled freely as she moved, nipples clearly visible through the fabric. A slit down the side ran all the way to her hip, exposing the curve of her thick thigh and the wet shimmer between her legs.

At her door was a black envelope.

Inside, a note:

The collar means you’re owned.
The leash means they’re allowed.
Let them.

The address followed.

A private club. Hidden in the city. No signage. No windows. Just a dark metal door, guarded by a man who didn’t speak. He took one look at Zara, leashed and ready, and opened the door.

Heat. Music. Shadows.

She stepped inside.

The lights were low and red. Bodies filled the space—writhing, watching, performing. Some wore nothing. Others wore masks. Some stood on display like art. Others were tied, cuffed, whipped. Moaning.

She didn’t walk far.

A man approached. He took her leash.

She didn’t protest.

He led her through the crowd—her heels clicking on the floor, her ass swaying, every eye on her. Her nipples hardened under the heat of their stares. She could feel her arousal dripping down her inner thigh, visible to everyone, impossible to hide.

He brought her to a platform. A low bench. A padded stool. Nothing else.

He bent her over it.

She went willingly.

Another man stepped up behind her. No name. No words.

He lifted her dress. Exposed her dripping cunt.

He pushed inside.

She cried out. Loud. Raw. Unashamed.

Hands gripped her thighs. Spread her wider.

Another cock slid between her lips.

And just like that—she was open again.

On her knees.

Bent over.

Fucked from behind.

Used from the front.

The music pulsed with each thrust.

The crowd watched.

Some cheered.

Others waited their turn.

One man came on her face. Another inside her. She was flipped over. Spit on. Fingered. Stretched.

By the end of the night, she didn’t remember how many.

But she remembered the feeling.

Of being seen.

Of being taken.

Of being shared.

When it was over, she lay across the padded bench—legs spread, chest heaving, cum dripping down her thighs. Her eyes fluttered closed as the crowd moved on to the next scene.

Then she felt the leash tighten.

A whisper in her ear.

“You belong here now.”

Zara smiled.

She already knew.