I Touched Myself in the Exam Room During the Night Shift

I work in a private clinic, in the nursing department, and for years I’ve had to rotate through eight-hour shifts. The night shift is the one that wears me out the most and the one I like the most at the same time. It wears me out because of the fatigue, because of the dead hours that stretch all the way to dawn. And I like it because, when everything calms down, the whole building seems to belong only to me.

That night I was on with Renata, a coworker I get along with well and who has the virtue of not talking too much. The start was chaos. Admissions, checks, one emergency after another. We went back and forth without sitting down for a second, and when two in the morning finally rolled around, the hallway fell silent.

—I’m going to lie down for a bit on the examination table in three —I told her, leaning on the counter—. I’m dead. If anything happens, yell for me.

—Go ahead, take it easy —she said without looking up from the computer—. Not a mouse is moving here.

Exam room three was empty at that hour, like almost all of them. I closed the door behind me, though I didn’t lock it, and turned off the main light. Only a floor lamp in the corner stayed on, that warm, low light that invites you to close your eyes. I took off my shoes, adjusted my scrubs, and flopped onto the table with a long sigh. The thin mattress creaked under my weight.

I pulled out my phone more out of habit than desire. I wanted to distract myself for five minutes before letting myself sink into a short nap. I started scrolling through my social media, not paying much attention, until one image stopped me cold.

It was a drawing. An artist I didn’t know had posted a scene so explicit that I found myself staring at it without blinking. A young woman, kneeling and naked, with big breasts and her legs spread open. Behind her, a man held her by the throat with one hand while with the other he squeezed one breast. The linework was precise, almost obsessive in its details. Every line seemed designed to provoke.

I stood there, mesmerized, for longer than I wanted to admit. And then something shifted inside me, that low tug in my belly I recognize right away.

I want to be that girl.

The thought came through on its own, without permission. I didn’t want to be her as a spectator. I wanted to be her as the main character. I wanted to feel that hand closing around my neck, that other hand squeezing me, that absolute surrender to someone who decided for me for a while.

I opened the artist’s profile almost without thinking. There were dozens of posts in the same style, one after another. Some more suggestive, others outright explicit. And luckily, since they were drawings, none of them had the censorship that ruins photos. Everything was out in the open, with no pixels or cropping.

I kept going through them one by one. In one of them, a woman was being penetrated by a huge cock, drawn with such detail —the marked veins, the taut skin— that I got the absurd urge to run my tongue over the screen. I laughed at my own reaction, but the laugh died quickly. It wasn’t funny anymore. I was completely in it now.

I’m used to porn. I watch videos, I look at erotic photos, and of course they turn me on. But I had never gotten this aroused by simple drawings. There was something about letting my mind fill in what was missing, about imagining the weight of that body, the sound, the breath on the back of my neck. Fantasy did half the work and did it better than any camera.

I realized I was breathing differently. Shorter, more shallow. The uniform, which a little while ago had seemed rough and annoying, now clung to my skin in a different way, and every time I changed images I felt the fabric brushing against my hardened nipples. I lowered the screen brightness, I’m not even sure why. No one was going to walk in. Or that’s what I wanted to believe.

I ran my thumb over the screen almost tenderly, as if I could touch what I was seeing. I thought about how long it had been since anyone had touched me like that, without rushing, paying attention to every reaction of my body. Too long. And that thought, the thought of being left alone, of having no one that night, tightened my desire even harder.

I felt the wetness before I touched myself. That unmistakable sensation, the heat concentrating between my legs, my underwear beginning to give way. I shifted on the table, pressed my thighs together, and for a second I tried to convince myself I could hold out.

I wasn’t going to masturbate at work. That’s what I told myself. That was the rule I’d set for myself without needing to say it out loud.

I brought my hand to my pelvis and started rubbing lightly, over the scrubs pants. The idea was to calm the urge, ease off some of the pressure, and put the phone away again. Just a little friction to get the thought out of my head.

Of course it didn’t work. It never does.

Within a few minutes of rubbing, I realized the fabric was already damp too. The pressure, far from easing, had grown. Every movement of my own hand reminded me how far I was from wanting to stop. I glanced sideways at the door. Closed, but not locked. Anyone could push it open.

That thought, which should have stopped me, was what finally pushed me over the edge.

Without wasting any more time, I slipped my hand inside my pants, under my underwear. The first direct contact sent a shiver up my spine. I was soaked, much more than I’d expected. I ran two fingers along myself, slowly, feeling them slide, and had to press my lips together so I wouldn’t make a sound.

I went up to my clit and pressed it with my thumb while I pushed my fingers in. I wanted to stay quiet. I really did try. But the moan slipped out anyway, low and rough, and my heart shot up from the scare. I froze for a second, listening. Nothing. Only the distant hum of a machine and the silence of the hallway.

Then I really started moving. I was sliding my fingers in and out faster and faster, twisting myself on the table, with my other hand gripping the edge of the mattress. I bit back my breath, held it in, let out the quietest moan I could manage. The mere possibility that Renata might walk over here, or that some on-call doctor might pass by the door, had my nerves on edge. And that tension, instead of shutting me down, made me even hotter.

I closed my eyes and went back to the drawing. I imagined the hand on my throat, the fingers that weren’t mine, the deep voice telling me in my ear what I had to do. The fantasy blended with the reality of my own hand until I stopped being able to tell one from the other.

I kept at it for a good while, right on the edge, drawing it out on purpose. I could feel the orgasm getting closer and I’d hold it back, let it recede, then chase it again. I’m not sure why, but at one of those moments I decided to change positions.

I got down from the table with my legs shaking and braced myself against the examination room desk. I spread my legs a little wider, found my balance, and went straight for my clit. No detours. No patience.

I pressed my fingers right there, on that exact spot that drives me crazy, the one I know better than anyone. I moved them in small, firm circles, exactly the way I like it, and I knew right away I wouldn’t last much longer. The pleasure concentrated, rose, became unbearable.

The orgasm hit me hard. I had to cover my mouth with my other hand to muffle the scream that was about to come out. My legs went weak and I held on to the desk while the trembling moved through my whole body, wave after wave, my fingers still pressed against me.

When I finally managed to open my eyes, I felt the wetness running down the insides of my thighs. I stayed bent over the desk for a moment, panting, waiting for my body to obey me again.

I took a few minutes to get my breathing back to normal. I straightened my scrubs, ran my hands through my hair, looked at myself in the dark reflection of the window to make sure nothing gave me away. My soaked underwear rubbed against me with every movement, and my sex, still sensitive, faintly throbbing from everything I’d just done to it, felt incredible.

I felt the wet fabric stuck to my skin again and almost wanted to start over. I would have stayed there all night if I could. But duty was calling, and the shift didn’t end on its own.

I put my shoes back on, took one last deep breath, and opened the door. The hallway was still empty, the white light from the tubes humming as if nothing had happened.

—Did you get some rest? —Renata asked when I got back to the counter, without looking up.

—A little —I said, feeling the heat rise to my face—. Enough.

She nodded, oblivious to everything. I sat down beside her, grabbed a form, and pretended to concentrate. But inside, I was still smiling, with a new secret tucked away under my scrubs, already thinking about how much time was left until the next quiet night.