Free Use Nurse

Chapter 1

The ER was a symphony of controlled chaos—the sharp beep of a cardiac monitor, the rattle of a gurney’s wheels, a resident’s tired voice calling for labs.

The air smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee, undercut with the faint metallic tang of blood.

I’d memorized this place in two weeks: the shortcuts between bays, which supply closet had the good gloves, the way the fluorescent lights hummed in F-sharp.

It was my new home.

My new escape.

And right now, I was counting down the minutes until I could crawl into my cold, empty apartment and pretend I didn’t notice how much I was dreading it.

I adjusted the stethoscope around my neck, my fingers brushing the stiff fabric of my fresh scrubs.

St.

Vincent’s.

The name alone had weight, a reputation for excellence that had lured me here after the paperwork was signed, after the last of my self-respect had been packed into boxes.

I was good at this.

The best, some said.

My hands never shook during a code, my mind never fogged under pressure.

I was the nurse you wanted when the shit hit the fan—the one who could intubate a crashing patient with the same calm precision she used to ice a cake.

David had been handsome, in a forgettable way.

Soft hands.

Softer stomach.

The kind of man who asked permission before touching me—even after two years of marriage.

“Is this okay?” he’d whisper, fingers hovering over my hip like he was afraid I’d shatter.

I’d stopped telling him the truth somewhere around month six.

Yes, it was fine.

Yes, I came.

No, I didn’t want to try that position.

By the end, sex had become a checklist: lights off, missionary, fifteen minutes of careful, apologetic thrusting, then a kiss on the forehead and a mumbled “good night.” I’d faked every orgasm for the last year of our marriage.

He never noticed.

That was the part that still stung—not the betrayal, but the invisibility. I’d stopped missing it. Stopped missing him. Stopped missing the idea of being wanted at all.

The ER hummed with its usual chaos—monitors beeping in arrhythmic pulses, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, a paramedic shouting for a bed.

I’d been here for fourteen hours.

My back ached.

My eyes burned.

But I’d stopped feeling tired somewhere around hour ten, replaced by a hollow numbness that had become my default setting.

Then I heard it.

At first I thought it was a code. The rhythmic thud of a compressor. But there were no shouts, no running feet. Just…

wetness.

A low groan, muffled.

Then another.

My hand froze on the IV bag.

I knew that sound.

I hadn’t heard it in person in years, but my body remembered.

Every nerve ending prickled to attention, my pulse spiking in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with something darker, hungrier.

But I didn’t.

Something kept me rooted to the spot—not curiosity, not professional concern.

Something lower.

Something that had been asleep for so long I’d forgotten it existed.

My pulse thrummed in my throat.

My palms were slick.

And instead of leaving, I crept closer to the sound.

I should have walked away.

Should have called out, Hello? Should have done anything but what I did next.

I dropped into a squat, my knees pressing into the cold linoleum, my breath shallow.

The gap between the bottom shelf and the floor was just wide enough to see through if I tilted my head.

The scene unfolded like a fever dream.

Sarah Bennett—Head ER Nurse, mentor, the woman who’d shown me the ropes during orientation—was bent over a gurney in the shadowed corner of Bay 3, her scrubs hitched up to her waist, her red caduceus pendant swinging with every thrust.

A doctor I didn’t recognize stood behind her, his white coat discarded on the floor, his hands gripping her hips so hard I could see the white imprints of his fingers blooming pink against her dark skin.

Another doctor, younger, with dark hair and a five o’clock shadow, stood in front of her, his cock buried in her mouth, his fingers tangled in her curls as he guided her movements.

The older doctor’s back was slick with sweat, his shoulder blades shifting with every thrust.

He was handsome in a weathered way—silver at the temples, a sharp jaw, the kind of face that had been fucking its way through hospital staff for decades.

The younger one was leaner, his body all nervous energy, his hips jerking like he was barely holding on.

Sarah took them both like she was born for it—her mouth working the younger man’s cock with expert precision, her hips pushing back to meet the older man’s thrusts.

The red caduceus at her collar swung in a hypnotic rhythm.

Thwack, thwack, thwack.

A signal.

A brand.

I wanted one.

I told myself to leave.

Counted down from five.

Four.

Three.

My fingers twitched at my sides.

Two.

I thought about David, about all the times I’d pretended not to want more.

One.

My hand slid beneath the waistband of my scrubs.

My hand moved before I could stop it.

Fingers sliding under the waistband of my scrubs, past the elastic of my panties.

I was already wet—embarrassingly, shockingly wet.

I shouldn’t be touching myself to this.

I shouldn’t be watching at all.

But my fingers found my clit and started circling, and I pressed my forehead to the cold wall and hated how good it felt.

Hated how my hips rocked forward, how my breath came in short, sharp bursts, how my body was betraying me in the worst possible way.

I came.

Not quietly—never quietly, not even when I was alone.

My pussy clenched around my fingers, once, twice, three times.

My vision blurred at the edges.

I bit down on my lip, tasted copper, felt the sting all the way down to my chin.

My thighs shook.

My breath came in ragged, silent gasps.

The sounds from the gurney didn’t stop.

Neither did my body. Wave after wave after wave, until I was sagging against the wall, my hand slick, my face burning, my clit still pulsing with aftershocks.

I pulled my hand out.

Stared at my wet fingers in the dim light.

Disgust rolled through me—hot and immediate.

What the hell was I doing? I was a professional.

A nurse.

I didn’t hide in alcoves and finger myself to the sounds of my coworkers getting fucked.

I stumbled to the staff bathroom, locked the door, and stared at my reflection.

Flushed cheeks.

Dilated pupils.

Lips parted like I was still gasping.

I looked like a woman who’d just been fucked—not a woman who’d fucked herself in an equipment alcove.

My hand was still trembling.

My thighs were still slick.

And when I turned on the faucet and watched the water wash away the evidence, I caught myself smiling.

But even as the shame hit, something else was already blooming underneath it.

Want.

Pure, undeniable want.

I wanted to be the one bent over that gurney.

I wanted someone to grab my hips, to take without asking, to use me like I actually mattered.

Like I was desired.

I smoothed my scrubs, wiped my hand on a towel, and walked back to the crash cart like nothing had happened.

But my thighs were still slick.

My clit was still throbbing.

And I knew—with absolute, terrifying certainty—that I’d be back in that alcove tomorrow night.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hoping someone would finally see me.