Hospital Debauchery

Devon stood at the center of the theatre, his gloved hands steady as he made the final, precise adjustments to the straightened limbs, the extreme bowlegs, a condition where the knees bowed outward like the exaggerated arcs even when the ankles met.

It was now transformed through a masterful surgical procedure, the bones realigned in a defiant conquest over nature's cruel twist. The once deformed limbs lay perfectly parallel.

He stepped back, peeling off his blood flecked gloves with a satisfying snap, his voice cutting through the rhythmic beeps of monitors and the collective exhale of his team like a conductor's final, triumphant note. "Good job, everyone. Flawless execution. Let's get him to recovery and monitor for any post-op surprises, I want updates every two hour."

The nurses and assistants exchanged nods and relieved smiles, the tension dissolving into quiet, admiring chatter as they wheeled the patient out, "Dr Devon nailed it again," one murmured, but Devon's mind was already elsewhere, the surgery a mere interlude, the healing was done, and now it was time to pivot from salvation to sabotage, to unleash his meticulously crafted plan.

The hospital's main auditorium was an arena repurposed for the staff meeting, configured like a dimly lit cinema hall with tiered rows of seats sloping downward toward a stage where a large projector screen loomed in front.

The lights were subdued to a soft, amber glow that bathed the room in an intimate haze, focusing attention on the podium while casting the audience in partial shadow, the air buzzing with the low murmur of gathering staff, conversations about grueling shift changes, baffling patient loads, and elusive weekend plans blending into a hum of professional camaraderie laced with underlying fatigue.

Nadia Ruiz stood at the podium, her hair pulled into a tight, elegant bun that accentuated the sharp, chiseled lines of her face, her eyes scanning the crowd with a blend of unassailable authority and subtle, flickering unease as she adjusted her notes on the new policy changes,stricter protocols for patient consent, resource allocation, and ethical reporting, all designed to tighten the hospital's operations like a noose around inefficiency. Her posture was impeccable, but a faint tremor in her fingers betrayed the storm within.

Devon slipped in through a side door, his presence drawing a few curious glances from nearby colleagues who whispered appreciatively, "Did you hear Dr Devon pulled another insane surgery in the theatre."

"He's actually a God among us. One hundred percent win rate."

Meanwhile, Devon moved with purposeful nonchalance, claiming a seat near the back where the shadows were deepest, enveloping him like a cloak, his diamond-studded watch catching a fleeting glint of light that sparkled like a conspirator's wink.

As his eyes met Nadia's across the room, she faltered mid sentence during her opening remarks, her gaze darting away like a startled deer fleeing a hunter, a flush creeping up her neck to stain her cheeks a deep, betraying crimson.

She'd been avoiding him since the gala, the memory of their encounter still haunting her every glance, her body betraying her with an involuntary shiver even now, her thighs clenching under the podium as flashes of his cock plunging deep, filling her with hot spurts, resurfaced unbidden, her vagina tightening with a mix of shame and unwelcome heat.

Devon only smiled, a predatory curve of his lips that promised he hadn't forgotten either.

In a shadowed corner, Sophie and Helena were locked in a heated, whispered exchange, their voices hissing like steam despite the public setting, the intensity drawing furtive glances from those nearby.

Sophie's blonde hair whipped with each vehement gesture, her top straining against her full breasts as she leaned in aggressively, her face a mask of righteous indignation.

"How could you let him do that, Helena? After what I told you he did to me. He's a manipulative prick, a walking disaster, and you just rolled over for him like some cheap thrill!"

Helena's hair were tied back in a practical ponytail that bobbed with her defensive shakes, crossed her arms tightly, her hazel eyes flashing with defiant fire. "It's not like that, Sophie, you don't understand what happened And don't act like you're innocent, I saw the both of you."

Their argument simmered with electric intensity, words flying like sparks, "You're betraying our friendship!" "You're jealous because you want him!" drawing a few sidelong glances from nearby staff who pretended not to notice, but the room's dimness and the growing crowd masked the full drama, their words a private storm brewing in the larger gathering, the air around them crackling with unresolved tension.

Thorne entered last, his paunchy frame squeezing into a seat near the front with a huff of self-importance, his face set in its usual mask of smug authority, his tie perfectly knotted as if to strangle any doubt of his superiority, oblivious to the storm brewing like thunderclouds on a deceptively calm horizon.

He adjusted his cuffs, and nodding to a few colleagues, Nadia cleared her throat, her voice steadying as she launched into the presentation, the projector humming to life with crisp slides outlining compliance measures, bullet points flickering across the screen in professional sans-serif font, her words flowing with practiced eloquence:

"These changes will ensure our institution remains at the forefront of ethical care…"

Devon waited, his heart a steady, rhythmic drumbeat of anticipation, each thump syncing with the ticking clock on the wall, until a staffer near the projector booth, a young tech with headphones slung around his neck, his face buried in his phone stepped away for an urgent call, the device buzzing insistently like a harbinger of disruption.

The room's dimness concealed Devon's approach as he rose silently, slipping into the booth like a shadow, his movements fluid and unseen. With deft, surgeon's fingers, he inserted the disk into the player, the device whirring softly as it loaded, a low vibration that thrummed through his palm like the pulse of impending doom, his smile widening into something wild, his eyes glinting with malicious glee.

He retreated to the edges of the room, melting into the audience just as the staffer returned, none the wiser, resuming his seat with a puzzled glance at the controls.

Nadia's voice trailed off mid-sentence about ethical reporting, her words hanging unfinished, "And with these protocols in place, we can ensure…"—as the policy slide dissolved into static, the screen flickering like a glitch in reality, then resolving into something far more sinister, a grainy video that hijacked the auditorium, its audio crackling to life with ominous clarity.

At first, the audience murmured in mild confusion, a ripple of "What's this?" and "Technical glitch? Someone fix it" spreading through the rows like a gentle wave, a few chuckles breaking the surface. But as the footage clarified, a blindfolded man bound to a chair, his body exposed and tense, sweat beading on his skin. the whispers sharpened into pointed speculation.

"Wait, is that… Elias Thorne? No way," someone in the front row muttered, leaning forward with squinting eyes, their voice carrying just enough to ignite the spark, a match dropped into dry tinder. Confirmation erupted like wildfire consuming a forest. "Holy shit, yeah, look at the birthmark on his shoulder, that's definitely him! And that paunch, unmistakable!"

Gasps spread like contagion, phones emerging from pockets like weapons drawn in a duel, screens lighting up the dim room in a constellation of glowing rectangles as the woman in latex entered, her flogger cracking with a whip-like snap that boomed through the speakers, making several jump in their seats.

"You pathetic little worm," she sneered on screen, her voice dripping with icy contempt, each word amplified to fill the auditorium like a judgment from on high.

Laughter bubbled from the back, tentative at first but swelling into a roar, "Oh my God, Thorne's a sub? The big bad chief likes getting his ass whipped like a naughty schoolboy?" escalating to outright mockery that ricocheted off the walls, "Beg for it, you worthless slave! Sound familiar, Elias? Is that how you run your department?" a nurse mimicked in a high-pitched falsetto, her colleagues snickering and adding fuel: "Toilet slave? That's our boss? No wonder he's always full of shit literally!" another quipped, the room devolving into unbridled chaos, jeers and shocked laughter mixing with horrified gasps like a cocktail of outrage and schadenfreude.

"This is disgusting, how did this get here? Someone's getting fired!"

"Fired? pass the popcorn, this is better than Netflix!" Phones recorded greedily, flashes popping like paparazzi strobes in the dim light, illuminating faces twisted in glee and disbelief, the video's depravity fueling the frenzy, Thorne licking boots with slobbering devotion, swallowing spit with greedy gulps, begging for more humiliation in a voice that cracked with pathetic desperation.

"Look at him grovel like a dog, bet he practices that in staff meetings, rolling over for the board!" "What a freak our chief's a human urinal? Explains the bad breath and the constant power trips, compensating much?"

The chants started low but built, "Toilet slave! Toilet slave!" a rhythmic mockery that swept the room, staff pounding their seats in unison, the auditorium transforming into a coliseum of ridicule.

Nadia stood frozen at the podium, her eyes wide with unadulterated horror, her hands gripping the edges like lifelines in a raging sea, her knuckles white as bone as she turned slowly to the screen, her mouth falling open in a silent, gaping shock that drained the color from her face.

The room's uproar crashed around her like relentless waves on a sinking ship, her voice lost in the din as she fumbled blindly for the remote, her fingers slipping in panic, the policy meeting forgotten, obliterated in the tidal wave of scandal that threatened to drown them all.

Thorne sat stupefied in his seat, his face draining of color to a ghostly, ashen pallor, his eyes bulging like saucers ready to shatter as the realization struck him like a physical blow from an invisible fist, his body rigid as if electrocuted, every muscle locked in frozen denial.

"No… this can't be happening… not here, not now…" he whispered, his hands trembling on his knees like leaves in a gale, sweat beading on his forehead immediately.

Then, the crash, the dam of his composure burst in a spectacular explosion, and he bolted from his seat with a roar that tore from his throat like a wounded animal's cry, "Nooooo!" He tripped over his own feet in a comical yet tragic flailing sprawl, his arms windmilling wildly as he crashed to the floor with a resounding thud that silenced the room momentarily, his paunch jiggling like jelly as he hit the tile face-first, papers from his lap flying like confetti his tie flipping over his head like a noose gone wrong.

Scrambling up on all fours in a frantic scramble, his tie askew and dangling like a limp snake, his face beet-red and contorted in apoplectic rage, he rushed the stage like a mad bull charging, arms flailing wildly in desperate swipes, knocking over a water pitcher that shattered in a spectacular spray of glass shards and splashing liquid, the explosion soaking his pants in a humiliating wet spot that spread like an ink blot of shame, drenching his crotch and drawing fresh howls of laughter from the crowd.

"Stop it! Turn that goddamn thing off now, you idiots!" he screamed, his voice cracking into a high-pitched wail, veins bulging in his neck like twisted ropes ready to snap, spittle flying from his lips in frothy arcs as he pounded the projector with his fists, the machine whirring defiantly under the assault, dents forming on its casing as the video rolled on mercilessly, his on-screen self begging for degradation in a loop of eternal humiliation.

"You don't understand, it's not me! It's a fake, a goddamn setup, I'll sue every last one of you bastards!" But the laughter swelled anew, a deafening roar, mocking chants of "Toilet slave! Toilet slave!" rising from the crowd like a tribal war cry, staff pounding their seats in unison with rhythmic thumps that shook the room, phones capturing every embarrassing second of his meltdown in high-definition glory, "Look at him lose it! Epic fail!" "Piss yourself yet, chief? Or is that for your Mistress?"

Devon had already slipped out, the next phase of his plan now in motion, a cascade of destruction set in motion with the elegance of a masterstroke, Thorne's screams, now topping the uproar like a siren's wail of despair, and this was music to his ears.

He had promised seven days of misery and he fully intended to fulfill that promise he made.