The on-call room door shut behind us with a soft snick that sounded louder than it should in the empty corridor.
John flicked the lock, then turned to me, the dim red exit light catching the sharp line of his jaw.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just reached into the locker beside the bunk and pulled out a small black bag.
The zipper rasped open, and my breath caught.
Inside lay things I’d only ever seen in private browser tabs: a sleek silicone vibrator, curved just right; a set of steel cuffs lined with soft leather; a bottle of lube that gleamed under the low light; a thin, flexible crop.
He set them on the narrow mattress one by one, deliberate, like he was laying out surgical instruments.
My pulse hammered so hard I could feel it between my legs.
“Strip,” he said quietly.
