This happened a year ago. My husband was usually busy at his mobile shop, so I had to accompany my mother-in-law to the hospital’s OPD for her routine check-ups. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and warm plastic chairs, and the waiting felt longer than it was. That day, I met a doctor there. He was quite young, probably between 25 and 30. He was well-groomed, confident, and good-looking, the kind of neat that makes a white coat look deliberate. While discussing my mother-in-law’s health and prescribing medication, his gaze kept drifting towards me. I felt it land and stay a second too long, and something under my skin went tight. I felt a bit strange and even uncomfortable. I decided to ignore it.
He chatted cheerfully with my mother-in-law, explained the medication, and told us to let him know if there were any issues. His voice stayed easy, almost kind, while his eyes kept finding me again. As we were leaving, he wrote his number on the back of the prescription slip. The pen moved slow. Handing it to me, he said, “Get the medicines and show them to me once. I’ll explain how to administer them.” His fingers brushed the paper into mine and did not quite pull away at once.
At the time, no improper thoughts crossed my mind. I assumed it was just a casual gesture perhaps he was simply a kind person. I took the number, bought the medicines from the pharmacy, and returned. The slip felt heavier in my hand than paper should. I showed them to him with my mother-in-law present; he explained the dosage and handed them back, close enough that I caught the clean smell of his soap. On my way out, I glanced back. There were no other patients around at that moment. He looked at me too and gave a faint smile. Heat climbed my neck before I could stop it. I just made a face and walked away.
For the next few days, I kept thinking about that number. I would open the slip, read the digits, and close it again, my pulse doing something stupid in my wrist. The truth is, I had always been a bit slutty by nature, even though I had boyfriends and physical relationship before marriage. That old pull was still in me, quiet until something woke it. So when this doctor showed interest, I also found him attractive in that way, and I was curious and interested in taking things further with him as well. My stomach kept turning over with it, half nerves, half want. I didn’t call him directly, though. One night, out of the blue, I sent a message on WhatsApp. The screen lit my face in the dark. The conversation started and gradually progressed, small words at first, then longer ones, until I was checking the phone more than I meant to.
Then, one day, we met for the first time. We had lunch together. I remember the clink of plates, the way he watched my mouth when I spoke, and how ordinary the table felt while my hands would not stay still. After lunch, we went to his flat. The door closed behind us and the room went quiet in a way the hospital never was.
He did not switch on the main light. Afternoon came in through the curtain and laid a pale strip across the floor. I stood with my bag still on my shoulder, heart knocking so hard I thought he could hear it. He took the bag off me and set it on a chair. Then his hand came to the side of my neck, thumb under my jaw, and he kissed me. It was not a careful kiss. His mouth was warm and sure, and when I opened for him he made a low sound and pulled me in by the waist until my body was flat against his.
I kissed him back. My hands went to his shirt and stayed there, gripping. He walked me backward until my calves hit the bed. I sat because my knees had gone soft. He stood between my legs and looked down at me, the same faint smile from the OPD, only closer now, and darker. “You kept the number,” he said. I nodded. I could not get a full sentence out.
He undid my kurta from the top, one button, then the next, slow enough that I felt every inch of air on newly bare skin. My bra was plain. He did not seem to care. He pushed the cups down and bent his head, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue dragging, then sucking until it tightened and a sharp pull went straight between my legs. I held the back of his head. My other hand clutched the sheet. He switched sides and did the same, teeth just grazing, and I heard myself make a small broken sound I did not plan.
His hand slid under my salwar. Fingers over the cotton first, pressing where I was already wet, then under the edge. Two fingers parted me and he exhaled against my chest like he had been waiting to feel that. “Already,” he said, almost to himself. He rubbed slow circles on my clit, then slipped one finger in, then a second, curling, while his thumb stayed on me. My hips lifted without permission. The room smelled like his soap and my own heat. I came the first time like that, sudden, thighs shaking around his wrist, face turned into his shoulder so the sound stayed small.
He pulled his fingers out and sucked them clean while he watched my face. Then he stripped the rest of my clothes off and his own. He was hard, thick enough that my stomach flipped again when I looked. I reached for him. He let me stroke once, twice, then caught my wrist and laid me back.
He kissed down my stomach and settled between my thighs. His tongue was patient at first, flat and slow, then tighter, flicking, then sucking my clit while two fingers worked back inside me. I grabbed his hair. My legs tried to close and he held them open. The second orgasm rolled longer, wetter, and I said his name without meaning to, or maybe I only gasped it. I still do not know which.
When he came up, his mouth was shiny. He kissed me and I tasted myself. He reached to the side table, tore a packet, rolled the condom on. Then he lined up and pushed in. The stretch made me gasp and grab his arms. He stopped halfway, breathing hard, forehead against mine, and waited until I nodded. Then he sank the rest of the way. Full. Deep. I felt him everywhere.
He fucked me slow at first, long strokes, watching my face each time he bottomed out. The bed made a soft sound. My nails marked his shoulders. When I wrapped my legs around him he changed, hips snapping harder, one hand under my ass to tilt me, the other braced by my head. Every thrust knocked a sound out of me. Sweat gathered at his throat. I came again with him buried deep, clenching around his cock, and that pulled a rough curse out of him. He drove through it, faster, until his rhythm broke and he pressed in and stayed there, shaking, coming inside the condom with his mouth open against my neck.
We stayed like that until our breathing slowed. He pulled out carefully, tied the condom, and dropped it in the bin. I lay on his sheet with my kurta somewhere on the floor and my pulse still wild in my throat. He brought water. We did not talk much. My body felt used in the exact way I had been curious about, warm and loose and a little stunned. That meeting didn’t stop at just conversation and lunch.
Now, whenever I think back to that day, it feels a bit different. Sometimes, I even feel a sudden flush of heat. It’s just an old memory that came to mind today. 🌝