Urgent Care

The Vybe Urgent Care waiting room was a miserable slice of life--flu-ridden bodies slumped in chairs, someone sniffling in the corner, an old dude with a wrapped-up hand reading The Daily News like this was his morning routine. The walls were beige, the air reeked of antiseptic, and the only entertainment was a Law & Order rerun on the mounted TV.

And right in the middle of it, Zachary Noah Rannis sat with an ice pack to the back of his head, knowing, knowing deep in his bones, that Carina Marie Delvecchio was about to ruin his fuckin' life.

Because where the fuck did she get those fuckin' scrubs?

"Carrie." His voice was dead serious. "Where'd you get those fuckin' scrubs?"

She grinned--big brown eyes alive with mischief, lips curving around her perfect white teeth, hoops dangling as she tilted her head. The stethoscope around her neck definitely wasn't hers, and the scrubs--oh, they absolutely didn't fit. The V-neck sagged, exposing the deep swell of legendary tits it was never meant to contain. The drawstring pants sat low on her hips, her tight, do-nothin' abs on full display.

She sat beside him, clipboard in hand, adjusting the fake glasses perched on her nose like she was officially on the clock.

"Alright, babe," she said, flipping through the intake forms. "Let's talk pre-existing conditions."

Zach groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh, here we fuckin' go."

A guy in paint-stained jeans glanced up. A woman three chairs down stared. The old man in the corner snorted, intrigued.

Carrie clicked her pen. "Okay, first things first--"Tiny cock." She underlined it three times, nodding to herself. "That's gotta be documented."

A nurse walked by. She paused. Frowned. Kept walking.

Zach clenched his jaw. "Carrie--"

"Now, now," she chided, patting his thigh, "it's important to be thorough. This is science, babe."

He groaned louder, dragging a hand down his face.

"Oh! You know what else? You got that Verbal Orgasm Syndrome."

His head snapped up. "What the fuck is that?"

"Oh, it's serious," she said, nodding gravely. "Severe case. You nut in your fuckin' jeans every time I talk shit about that little dick." She made a tch sound, shaking her head. "Honestly? It's a huge problem... well... not huge."

The old guy wheezed.

Zach turned fully to her, horrified. "I hate you."

Carrie ignored him, already on a roll. "And, babe, let's not forget the Persistent Repetitive Motion Syndrome."

Zach stared. "What?"

She flipped the clipboard around, pointing at the note she'd actually written:

- Severe Chronic Jerkin'

"Babe," she sighed, leaning against his shoulder. "So much jerkin'. My poor fuckin' wrist--I'm out here doin' physical therapy after every time I gotta work that sad little thing."

Someone snorted behind them. Zach buried his face in both hands.

Across the room, an angel named Gary, all dark curls hiding dark eyes, turned the page of his magazine. He had work to do. Important work.

But this? This was worth watching.

Carrie nudged Zach, "I swear to God, my dominant hand's gonna look like a Popeye arm by the time we hit thirty. I have to train my left hand now. Gotta stay ambidextrous for when your pathetic-ass stamina fails me."

Zach made a choked noise. "I am begging you to stop talking."

"Oh, you want me to stop talking?" she echoed, faux-shocked. "Babe, if I stopped talking, you wouldn't be getting laid at all."

The old guy in the corner nodded. "That's the truth, son."

Carrie, delighted, forged ahead. "We should list all associated conditions," she mused, scanning the intake form. "Let's see... Fragile male ego--obviously related. Probably exacerbated by the primary issue. Self-esteem trauma--secondary but recurring. Increased risk of blue balls?

Zach exhaled sharply through his nose.

Carrie smirked, tapping the clipboard against her thigh. "See, you say that, but let's be real."

And then she leaned in.

Lowered her voice just enough to make it worse.

"I could be sittin' on top of you," she murmured, voice dripping with filth, her breath hot against his ear. "Tits pressed against your fuckin' face, pussy absolutely soakin' wet--and what am I doin'?"

She let it hang there. Let the heat settle.

Zach's breath hitched.

"I'm talkin', babe," she whispered. "Just talkin'."

His entire body went tight.

"Talkin' about how deeply unsatisfying it is," she went on, eyes locked on his, letting every single word sink its hooks in. "Talkin' about how I gotta work for it, grind myself just right, 'cause you sure as fuck ain't hittin' anything on your own."

Zach's throat worked. "Carrie."

"And the best part?" She licked her lips, slow and deliberate. "You love it."

Zach's fingers clenched around the ice pack. "Carrie."

She giggled, tapping the clipboard like she was wrapping up a diagnosis. "Mmm. Yeah, that's gotta go under Frequent Flare-Ups."

The guy in paint-stained jeans stood up and left.

Carrie sighed dramatically, flipping the intake form to the next section. "Oh, babe, we forgot to list potential treatment options."

"Carrie."

"Let's see... Surgical enhancement? Nah, that'd be elective. Daily testosterone therapy? Won't fix the... root... problem." She paused, pretending to think. "Oh! How about--Ongoing verbal reinforcement and humiliation?"

Zach made a sound like a dying animal.

"Ohh, look at that, babe--recommended daily dosage: relentless!" She gasped, eyes going wide. "Oh no... looks like you're already maxed out!"

The old guy wiped a tear from his eye. "Son," he wheezed, shaking his head, "you need to marry that girl."

Zach groaned. "I did. I already fuckin' did."

Carrie beamed, handing the clipboard off to a stunned nurse. "Alright, babe, all set! Just let 'em know if you start experiencin' any sudden swelling. Oh--wait." She grinned. "Nevermind. That won't be a problem."

Zach sat there. Destroyed.

Carrie stood up, adjusting the scrubs that barely contained her tits. She turned back to him, patted his shoulder, and leaned down one last time.

"Everyone here," she whispered, voice smug and sweet, "knows who the real man in this relationship is."

And with that, she strutted out.

Zach didn't move. Couldn't.

He was ruined.

The old man let out a long whistle. "Damn shame," he muttered, shaking his head. "Boy ain't never gonna recover from that."