Solitary Endurance
Five minutes pass after Althea leaves. 'It' is still standing rigid. The thin fabric of the patient uniform outlines the glans perfectly, and every brush of cloth against it as I move tears at my nerve endings. The sensation of her fingers—warm, soft, and slow as she applied the ointment, stroking the inside of my thighs—lingers on my skin like it's been etched there.
I lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights stab at my eyes, but it's better that way. If I close them, I know exactly what I'll see on the inside of my eyelids: the glimpse of skin through the gap in her uniform buttons, the thigh flesh spilling over her thigh-highs, the slow, swaying inertia of her breasts with every breath.
My right hand rests on my stomach. I don't know when it got there. My fingertips hover over the hem of the patient uniform top. Just a little lower, and they'd reach the base of 'it'. Just once. The whisper rises in my head. The one I've heard every night for the past month—the voice that's now indistinguishable from my own or its. Finish quick, and no one will know.
My heart races, my fingers tremble faintly as they drift downward. The moment my fingertips brush the fabric over my lower abdomen, something gleams in the corner of my vision: the leather restraints on the bed rail. And next to them, the red light of the nurse call button.
"If you're caught masturbating in secret, you'll face disciplinary action." Althea's voice echoes in my ears. "I'll be dropping by often, even outside treatment hours." Anytime. Without warning. Often.
I yank my hand back, grit my teeth, and press it to my side. My heart pounds against my ribs like a drum in my ears. It throbs in protest, a big pulse, and I feel a strand of Cowper's fluid leak out, soaking the inside of the patient uniform.
I endure. I squeeze my eyes shut, draw up my knees, clamp my thighs tight together, and endure. Five minutes. Ten. Time drags. The fluorescent hum and the air conditioner's low drone fill the room. Every faint vibration from the AC grazes the dual prostates deep in my pelvis, sending up waves of heat, but the intensity fades bit by bit. The pheromones are ventilating out.
Through the crack under the closed door, the AC circulates the air, diluting the lavender-and-milk scent she left behind. Around twenty minutes in, it finally starts to subside. Slowly, reluctantly. From full erection, it droops halfway, then further, until it's just limp. Not fully gone, but at least the outline no longer shows through the patient uniform.
I exhale a long breath. Tension drains from my body, sinking me into the mattress. I didn't do anything—just held back ejaculation—and yet my limbs feel heavy, like I've run a marathon. And I have to do this for a whole week?
I pull out my phone. The screen lights up with over forty messenger notifications—more than this morning. Mostly from the class group chat, plus a personal message from the class rep. I don't open the group. Instead, I go to my closest classmate, Soo-bin.
I stare at the screen. My fingers hesitate. What do I say?
My heart drops.
I add three sunny-face emojis. Emojis sent from a hospital bed with my lower body soaked in Cowper's fluid.
Next is Mom. I have to be even more careful with her.
Lies upon lies. My fingers tremble over the screen. If Mom finds out what hospital it is and hears the word "futanari" from her own mouth... just the thought twists my gut.
I make up a nonexistent hospital name. What if she searches it? It won't come up. Whatever, I'll deal with that later. This is the best for now.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling. My eyes burn, but I don't cry. Crying here would make it feel too real. Though I guess I already am a patient.
I give the class rep a brief explanation, and send the professor an official message: "Personal health reasons—hospitalized for a week." No disease name, just that. If the prof asks for a diagnosis, national special disease protections should cover medical privacy, right?
I kill time fiddling with my phone. I open the browser three times, type in search terms, then delete them. "Futanari treatment reviews." Deleted. "Ejaculation Control Magic Circle pain." Deleted. "Succubus nurse final expulsion." My face flushes before I even finish typing; I flip the phone face-down.
I open Nytube and play cat videos. One where a cat squeezes into a box. I'm watching mindlessly when an ad pops up—a female model introducing cosmetics. The line of her collarbone catches my eye, and my lower abdomen twitches in response. I kill the screen.
From 3 to 4 p.m., time crawls. The sun slants through the room window, orange light seeping between the curtains. The mana potion bottle on the shelf catches it, glowing purple.
At 4:30 and 5, I hit the bathroom twice. Urinating is a hassle—it won't aim right into the toilet, so I have to sit. On the seat, I'm scared it'll touch the water, so I lift it by hand, but that contact makes it half-rise again. I grit my teeth. Peeing is war.
By 5:30, I'm starving. That's when I realize I skipped lunch. All I had was a convenience store triangle kimbap before heading to school this morning.
Knock knock. I turn my head at the sound. My heart speeds up. The electronic lock clicks open, and the door swings in. Lavender and warm milk scent floods the room.
Althea stands there in the same outfit. But the orange sunset from the window dyes her pastel pink hair, making it look almost apricot—different from before.
"Did you rest well?"
Her soft voice breaks the room's silence. Althea peeks in through the open door, smiling. Her purple eyes under those droopy lids scan me over. She must see me sitting on the bed in my patient uniform, my slightly flushed face.
"It's dinnertime. Shall we head down together?"
As she steps in, her breasts jiggle with that one stride. The uniform top's buttons strain, a flash of skin between. I slide off the bed, slipping my feet into the patient slippers on the floor. Standing makes the Y-slit in the patient uniform bottoms gape with each step; I reflexively tug the top hem down over it.
"Yeah! I was starving to death!"
My exaggerated motion and too-high voice make Althea peer at my face again. Her gaze lingers on my eyes.
"Were you crying?"
My heart stops.
"N-no! Oh, uh, I was on my phone too long, eyes are just tired."
"I see?"
She doesn't press, just steps up beside me naturally, aligning our heights. The difference is stark—my eye level hits her shoulder. Turn my head, and the side of her uniform-wrapped breast is right there. The seam inside her cardigan pulls taut; lavender wafts from it. I fix my gaze straight ahead.
"The cafeteria is on B1. We take the elevator down."
Althea opens the room door and steps out first. In the hallway, the 4F pheromones—sweet and thick—envelop my nose again. Stronger than before. Maybe evening shift change, nurses crossing paths. My lower abdomen quivers faintly; it twitches reflexively.
Althea walks ahead. Following, I try to stare only at the floor. The floor only. But the rhythm of her hips swaying left and right under the cardigan keeps creeping into the top of my vision.