Scrubs, secrets and submission

While everyone else on the ward clocks in their rounds and grabs a sandwich from the break room, Jordy’s got a different kind of hunger. He doesn’t eat lunch.

He *is* lunch, and he's been saving himself for Daddy all damn day.

In those tight blue scrubs that hug every curve like they were custom-made for temptation—and yeah, maybe they were—he walks the halls like a good boy should: quiet, professional… with just a subtle sway in his step that only I know means he’s already thinking about me again

And oh yeah—he is.

Constantly.

Between patient checks and chart updates? His mind is under my hand. When he leans over to grab supplies? That ass clenches—practicing for me. And during shift change, when no one’s looking? He sneaks into an empty supply closet camera out, pants halfway down, sending me real-time updates of what my favorite nurse has on underneath:

A jockstrap.

Matching blue.

Ridiculously tight.

Pulled snug so his cock hangs just right and his hole stays visible through thin fabric… because discipline isn’t just encouraged—it’s *expected*

“Everyone thinks I’m checking vitals,” he whispers in a shaky voice note. “But really? I’m just trying not to come from thinking about your cock.”

And baby? That desperation? That uniform hiked up in secret hallways? The way his breath stutters when I tell him not to touch?

That’s not healthcare.

That’s worship.