Drift (caption) - part 2 (Patreon)

The damp towel is where I dropped it on the bathroom tile. I leave it and walk out into the hallway. The cold finds the wet patches on my skin. The width of my pelvis makes a different stride, and I adjust the angle of my knees to keep my balance as I walk toward the bedroom. The soft tissue of my inner thighs rubs together with every step. My breasts sway. The weight pulls against my upper chest.

The bedroom's cold. The streetlamp is still putting the same pale orange rectangle across the foot of the unmade bed. I walk past the mattress and slide the mirrored closet door open. The track grinds in the quiet.

A stack of faded college t-shirts on the top shelf next to three pairs of gray sweatpants. Blue hospital scrubs on the far left, then jeans in different washes, then clinic clothes. I bought the dark denim at a mall in the suburbs. The scrubs smell like the detergent the hospital uses.

I reach past the scrubs. Clinic day, not a surgical rotation. I slide a velvet hanger off the rod with a pair of charcoal slacks on it and pull a slate-gray blouse out of the row of shirts.

I open the top drawer of the heavy oak dresser and go past the cotton briefs and the seamless thongs to a set of black microfiber. I pull out the bra. The underwire is rigid under the fabric. Arms through the straps, reach behind my back, the small hooks catch their loops. I pull the band tight and let it snap against my ribs. The cups take the glandular tissue. I reach inside the fabric and lift the mass so it sits right inside the underwire. My balance changes again, pulling my posture back. The band digs into the skin below my sternum. I take a slow breath and my chest pushes against the garment.

I step into the leg holes of the microfiber panties and pull them up over my thighs and the flare of my hips. The waistband snaps against my skin. The cotton gusset presses against the vulva.

The heat in my pelvis flares instantly. The friction of the microfiber against the labia sends a sharp signal straight up the pudendal nerve. Wetness returns, coating the inside of the cotton gusset before I've even finished pulling my hands away from my waist. The edge of the bra cups rubs against the hardened areolas with every fractional movement of my torso.

I freeze with my hands still near my hips. I'm getting ready for work. I'm an attending physician with rounds at seven in the morning.

There's an intention in my head that doesn't seem mine. A sharp spike of want. Snapping an elastic waistband shouldn't set off a systemic response, and I shouldn't want to touch myself standing in my own bedroom at five in the morning. The throbbing pulls my focus off the clock.

I make myself move. I take the charcoal slacks and step into them. The material catches on my hips. I pull the zipper up and the teeth lock. The waistband sits high and compresses the soft flesh of my stomach. The fit shapes the lower half of my body and shortens my stride. I put the slate-gray blouse on and button it. The fabric drapes over the swell of my chest.

I walk to the vanity table in the corner of the bedroom and sit down on the padded velvet stool. The mirror gives me a woman in clinic clothes. The face is mine. The high cheekbones, the soft jawline. I pull the leather makeup bag out of the vanity drawer. The routine is in the motor cortex. I put a light layer of liquid foundation on and blend it outward, then take the mascara wand out of the tube and coat the lashes.

I'm applying cosmetics. I'm preparing a face for fluorescent hospital lighting. But the intention, that persistent urge, is feeding on the friction of my thighs against the slacks. It feeds on the restricted feeling of the underwire. I'm aroused by occupying this flesh, by the sheer femininity of the reflection in the glass. The slick wetness leaks into the microfiber underwear.

I put the mascara wand down on the glass top of the vanity and stare at the reflection. I refuse to engage with it. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. I need to finish getting ready and put my shoes on and walk out the front door.

The urge thickens. I know I shouldn't give in. I know this is an absurd reaction to a Tuesday morning.

My right hand drops to my lap. The wool-blend fabric of the slacks pulls taut across my thighs. I can't go to work like this. I can't walk the halls dictating charts with this going on between my legs.

Sliding my hand up my thigh, I press my palm flat against the front of the slacks right over the pubic bone. The dull pressure sends a severe jolt up my spinal cord.

I reach for the small metal zipper at my waist and pull it down. The tight compression releases instantly. Hooking my thumbs under the waistband, I push the slacks down over my hips, leaving them bunched around my knees. I slide my fingers under the elastic waistband of the microfiber underwear. Slick moisture coats my skin immediately.

I press two fingers against the swollen flesh of the vulva. My fingers slide easily against the slick vestibule. I part the outer lips and find the hardened hood of the clitoris. The skin is hypersensitive to the slight pressure of my own hand. I trace a slow circle around the nub. A sharp intake of air catches in the back of my throat. I lean back against the vanity stool. The fabric of the slate-gray blouse pulls tight across the heavy swell of my chest. My other hand comes up to grip the edge of the vanity table, the polished wood cool beneath my palm. I drag my middle finger down the slick cleft and back up again. The friction against the swollen tissue sends a shudder through my thighs. The intention in my mind latches onto the physical feedback. I spread my knees wider. The bunched fabric of the slacks restricts my calves.

The jolt makes my vision blur. I close my eyes and stroke the hardened nub. I'm along for the ride now, feeding on my own libido. Every slight pressure is a flare of heat. I pull off the rest of my clothes and drop them to the floor, gripping a breast with one hand and pinching my nipple. I press two fingers deeper into the wetness. The tight internal muscle closes around them. I pull my fingers out and slide them over the clitoris again in a steady, unbroken rhythm. My hips rock forward on the velvet stool to meet my hand. Sweat forms on the back of my neck.

I speed up the rhythm of my fingers. The blood pounds heavily in my ears. The muscles of the pelvic floor contract. The tension winds tighter in my lower abdomen until a violent spasm wracks my hips. The heat radiates outward from my core and washes down over my thighs. I gasp, pulling the cold air into my lungs. My fingers slip away from the slick skin. My thighs tremble against the vanity stool.

I slump forward and rest my forehead on the cool glass of the vanity table. My hand drops to my side. The slick moisture begins to dry on my fingertips. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads 5:42. I have to put my clothes back on and go to work.