Scrubs...
(This is one of my favourite J/O fantasies of my friend Mark, a
pre-med student at Queen's University in Kingston and his seafoam
green scrubs...)
It was just after three in the morning, and after a gruelling
5 hours observing in the O.R. he smelled of stale, salty,
man-sweat? Striping off the surgical mask formed against his jaw,
the scent of late-night coffee permeated still into his
nostrils, he inhaled deeply. The musk of the lockerroom filling his
lungs. Water marks displayed under his armpits as beads still
trickled down his brow, through his five o'clock shadow, his neck and
into the underlying cleft his chest made where both pectorals met. He
inhaled again. His paper-cotton scrubs, clinging to his body in places
that left little to the imagination. Sticking to his frame like a
second skin. His body ached to be released. With skilled hands he
reached up and tugged at the left shoulder of the scrub top, allowing
fresh-air to breathe against his torso. The beads still, ever so
incessantly, inching their way downward and under his waistband. He
kicked off his sneakers, one at a time. His fingers reached and
scratched at his right breast. A slow scratch that simply soothed and
brought momentary relief to his taunt muscles. He stretched in a
restless manner, as his thick fingers tugged at his waistband. Each
digit inserting one at a time, separating the paper skin. The skin
clinging to his middle and the small of his back, just over his
glutes. He could feel the grit within the cleft of his ass and begin
to smell the musky aroma of his crotch. A growing, manly odour that
seemed to make his inseam that much tighter. What he had ignored for
so long, had seemed to take on a life of it's own, so testosterone
will do. Gravity seemed to help free the bottoms from his cotton
briefs, over his ass-cheeks and onto the cold locker floor. He stooped
and sat for a moment on the wooden bench to remove his tube-socks.
The tops of which had matted down the hair upon his shins. He sat up
and looked down at the contrast that showed. The growing bulge within
his Calvins seemed to stand out (literally and figuratively) from his
tanned abdominals. He scratched at his crotch, again a primal scratch
that brought only momentary relief, but was necessary. Minutes later
the briefs were also pooled with his scrubs upon the locker floor.
Bare feet padded across the tiled floor and under the showerhead. As
his hands slowly massaged and tugged at his muscles, lathering,
sudsing scrubbing and stroking his trembling body. The steam rising
and rising?
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