Doctors orders

The Dishy Doctor

Of course, germs have a wicked sense of humour, and they chose to strike closer to home – or rather, closer to my heart. I’d been seeing a rather dishy doctor, the sort of man who makes you suddenly feel unwell just so you have an excuse to see him. He lives in Fulham, in one of those smart, tidy flats that somehow still feel masculine, and practises at King’s College Hospital. Tall, dark hair, that easy smile consultants use to break bad news gently, and hands that look like they were made to be rested on your skin. We’d managed a few dates – dinners, drinks, a stolen kiss here and there – the sort of slow-burn courtship that promises all sorts of wonderful fireworks later.

Then, predictably, real life intervened. He caught a chest infection from one of his patients – occupational hazard, he said wryly – and suddenly my glamorous doctor was reduced to a wheezing, coughing patient, signed off work and ordered to rest by his own colleagues. He sent me an apologetic message, saying he’d have to cancel our night out. Bed, antibiotics, and no excitement had apparently been prescribed.

Plan B: Bedside Manner

Now, everyone knows doctors make the worst patients. They’re stubborn, they diagnose themselves, and they’re convinced they know better than anyone else. True to form, he insisted I shouldn’t come over because he didn’t want to pass anything on to me. I could hear the frustration between his lines – he’d been genuinely looking forward to our date. That’s when inspiration struck.

If he couldn’t come out, I’d simply bring the date to his bedside.

Plan B formed in my mind with delicious clarity: a Candy Striper–style outfit – sweet, striped and just this side of respectable – a perfectly perched little matching hat, a pair of stockings that clung to my legs like a second skin, and a bedside manner that Florence Nightingale herself would have envied. If he was going to be a patient, I was determined he’d be the most pampered, indulged patient in London.

We had originally planned to go to the theatre, then have a late dinner. He’d mentioned getting thoroughly drunk and making a night of it, followed by a meal at Nobu to soak it all up. Instead, I painted on a soft, reassuring smile, slipped into my role-play uniform, and packed a small bag with a few ‘nursing essentials’ – scented body lotion, a thermometer, and a couple of surprises he definitely wouldn’t find on any hospital ward.

By the time I reached his building in Fulham, night had settled over the city, and the streets glowed under the orange wash of streetlights. I straightened my hat, smoothed down my skirt, and rang the doorbell.

Arrival at the Patient’s Bedside

From inside, a faint, hoarse voice called out, “It’s on the latch.” He sounded utterly pathetic – and utterly ripe for attention.

I let myself in and climbed the stairs, the soft click of my heels echoing on the steps. As I approached his bedroom, his door was half-open, and I followed the sound of his coughs and sniffles.

He looked adorably miserable, propped up against a mountain of pillows, hair rumpled, cheeks slightly flushed with fever. The second his eyes landed on me – the uniform, the stockings, the hat tilted just so – the change was almost comical. His brows lifted, his mouth dropped open slightly, and for a moment, he seemed to forget to cough.

“Oh, you poor old soul…” I tutted gently, slipping into character as I approached the bed. My voice took on a soft, sing-song nurse’s tone. I leaned over him, adjusting his pillows with exaggerated care, letting the neckline of my uniform dip just enough to give him an undeniable eyeful of cleavage.

“I thought you needed some proper care,” I murmured, smoothing the duvet over his chest. “You do look terribly unwell. Someone really ought to look after you.”

His eyes were wide, flicking from my face to my neckline and back again. “I, uh… I’m not that bad,” he protested weakly, then ruined it with a small cough. “But I suppose… a little attention couldn’t hurt.”

“Let me take your pulse,” I said sweetly, picking up his wrist and pressing my fingers against his skin. I held it a little longer than necessary, drawing closer, letting the scent of my perfume drift over him. “Ooooh,” I whispered theatrically, lips curving into a teasing smile, “it’s rather fast. Must be my bedside manner.”

He laughed, the sound turning into a half-cough, half-chuckle. “You’re not exactly standard NHS issue,” he said, eyes dancing.

Playing Doctors and Nurses

There’s a special kind of thrill in playing Doctors and Nurses with a man who actually is a doctor. It’s not simply a matter of giving a bed bath or pretending to conduct a full-body examination. Real doctors have their own instincts, their own professional habits – and they’re very good at turning those into something deliciously intimate.

He tried, at first, to stay in his role as the stoic patient. I fussed over him, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, pressing the back of my hand to his brow to ‘check his temperature’, and scolding him gently for not resting properly. I tucked him in, straightened his sheets, and insisted he take his medicine, all while finding little excuses to let my fingers brush along his skin.

But there’s only so much a man can take when confronted with a flirtatious Candy Striper who seems determined to nurse him back to health with every trick in the book. Before long, the line between play-acting and reality blurred, and his professional composure began to melt away.

He started to respond in kind, his doctor’s eye running its own ‘checks’ as he reached to adjust my collar or smooth an imaginary crease from my skirt. His hands lingered when they didn’t have to. His questions became softly suggestive: whether I was sure I’d had all my injections, whether I needed a full check-up myself, whether a nurse was allowed to enjoy her work that much.

Real doctors, it turns out, know exactly how to conduct an examination that leaves very little unexplored.

A Very Effective Cure

By the time I was done ‘treating’ him, my patient was looking considerably less fragile and much more like the very healthy, very attentive man I’d first agreed to go out with. His breathing had certainly changed – deeper, slower, altogether more satisfied. The antibiotics might have been helping, but I like to think my particular brand of care and attention played a rather crucial role in his recovery.

In the days that followed, his messages took on an entirely different tone. He declared himself fully recovered, of course, and insisted that as soon as he was officially back on his feet, he owed me a complete check and examination of my own – top to toe, inside and out, as thorough as any private consultation.

Lucky old me: a full body MOT from a dishy doctor, and I don’t even have to pay to go private.

Your Prescription for Role-Play

So if you ever find yourself in need of one of our naughty fetish or role-play escorts, consider this your prescription. From playful ‘apprentice’ nursemaids to strict matrons and every fantasy in between, we have just the right lady to tend to your every need. Whether you’re feeling a little under the weather or simply in need of some intensive one-on-one care, we’ll send someone who can mop your brow, lift your spirits, and have you feeling on top of the world – and very much back to your usual self – in no time at all.