In a sterile hospital room, a woman with long, flowing hair lay on the bed, her small breasts exposed. She was a patient, recovering from a minor surgery, and she was utterly vulnerable. Her name was Samantha, a 25-year-old woman with a petite frame.
The door creaked open, and a tall, rugged man entered. He was the doctor assigned to her case, Dr. Jameson, a man in his early thirties with a reputation for his skillful hands.
“Good morning, Samantha,” he greeted, his voice warm and soothing. “How are you feeling today?”
“I’m okay,” she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just a little sore.”
Dr. Jameson nodded, his eyes taking in her exposed body. He felt a stirring in his loins, but he pushed it down. He was here to care for her, not to take advantage of her vulnerability.
But as he examined her, he couldn’t help but notice how her small breasts heaved with each breath, how her nipples hardened under his touch. He felt his resolve weakening, but he fought it.
Later that day, when he returned for his rounds, he found Samantha alone in her room. She was sitting up in bed, her long hair cascading down her shoulders.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m scared.”
