Hospital Debauchery

The late afternoon sun sank low, washing the quiet suburban street in a warm golden glow that spilled across Thorne's house.

Devon eased his sleek black car to a stop, the engine's soft hum fading into silence, and stepped out, his crisp shirt and black pants clinging to his lean, muscular frame, every movement deliberate, before he could climb the porch steps, his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket, demanding his attention. He pulled it out, his dark eyes flicking over the screen with cool curiosity, the notification from Blissville Hospital stark in black text.

"Dr Elias Thorne has been suspended indefinitely pending investigation into professional misconduct." Devon's lips curved into a slow, predatory grin, his teeth catching the fading light, a glint of triumph in his gaze.

He knew the truth behind the board's polite wording, Thorne was fired. Phase one was completeHe pocketed the phone with a quick, satisfied flick and strode to the door, his knock firm and heavy.

The door swung open moments later, revealing a woman in her early forty, her figure soft and rounded, dressed in a modest floral blouse buttoned to the collar and a knee-length skirt that spoke of church suppers and quiet Sundays. Her brown hair was swept into a tidy bun, a silver cross necklace gleaming at her throat, a quiet testament to her deep Catholic faith, worn like a shield against the world's temptations.

Her face was warm and open, her eyes bright with kindness but tinged with curiosity as they met his. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice gentle, carrying a soft midwestern tone that echoed with the comfort of hymns and whispered prayers, her hands folded neatly in front of her, as if ready to offer a blessing.

"I'm Devon Aldridge," he said, his voice smooth and warm, extending a hand with a charm that could unravel even the devout, his smile disarming yet sharp with purpose, making her pulse quicken just enough to notice. "I work with your husband, Dr Thorne, at the hospital."

Her eyes lit up faintly in recognition, Thorne had grumbled about Devon, his skill a thorn in his side, his confidence a quiet insult. "Oh, I'm Theresa Thorne," she said, shaking his hand with a firm grip. "Elias isn't here right now. He's had a tough day, from what I heard on the phone earlier. Can I tell him you came by?"

Devon's grin sharpened, his dark eyes locking onto her, "Actually, Theresa, I'm not here for Thorne. I came to see you."

Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face, "Me? Well, alright, come in. I'm sorry for leaving you out there." She stepped back, gesturing him into the cozy living room, a sanctuary of faith and family.

A wooden cross hung prominently on one wall, its grain worn smooth by years of reverence, a Virgin Mary statue stood on the mantel, surrounded by flickering prayer candles, photos of Theresa, Thorne, and their child lined the shelves, smiling at baptisms, church retreats, Christmas masses, all bathed in devotion.

The air carried the comforting scent of fresh-baked bread from the kitchen and a hint of lavender from her prayer incense, a stark contrast to the hospital's sterile chill.

"Water? Tea? Which should I get you," she asked, already moving to the kitchen with practiced ease.

"Water's fine, thanks," Devon called, settling onto the floral sofa, its cushions soft and welcoming, like sinking into a pew after a long sermon.

She returned with a glass on a small tray, and then she sat across from him in an armchair, hands folded in her lap.

"So, Devon, why are you here?" she asked, her tone warm and polite, infused with the kindness of someone who lived for her faith and family, her eyes meeting his with open curiosity.

Devon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low and earnest, his eyes holding hers like a confessor drawing out a secret. "Theresa, I can see you're a woman of true faith, a Catholic who's poured her heart into her marriage, her kids, her God. This house, your cross, those photos, they show a life built on love and trust. But Thorne's been hiding things from you, things that would tear your world apart."

Her face paled, her fingers tightening around her cross, twisting it as if it could anchor her against his words. "What do you mean? Elias is a good man. He provides, goes to church with me, leads our prayers. He's not perfect, none of us are but he's a very good husband and father."

"He's a liar," Devon said softly, his voice heavy with feigned pain as he pulled out his phone, showing a screenshot from the disk, Thorne with a woman, his face twisted in pleasure, just clear enough to shock. "He's been cheating, Theresa, not just once, but over and over. He bragged to me at the hospital, said he slept with my wife, laughed about it like it was a game. Nurses, patients, secret clubs where he does things that would sicken you. He's been fired today for it, his medical license about to be pulled. He's betrayed you, your marriage, your vows before God. While you're praying for him, he's spitting on everything you believe in."

"He slept with your wife?" She uttered.

And in response Devon nodded his head.

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she gripped her cross, her lips trembling with a whispered prayer, "Lord, have mercy…"—her voice cracking. "No, it can't be true. Twenty years we've been married. We raised our kids in the church. He swore before God, took our vows seriously. This is a mistake."

Devon reached across the table, taking her hand in his, his touch warm and steady, stirring a forbidden warmth in her chest she tried to blame on shock. "I know it hurts, Theresa. I felt it too when he bragged about my wife, like he'd won something. But you don't have to just take it. You're a beautiful woman, full of life he's ignored for years. You can show him what he's thrown away, make him feel the sting of his betrayal. It's not about sin, it's about justice, about waking him up so he begs for forgiveness."

"Let me show you what it feels like to be wanted, to be seen. You deserve that, and he deserves to know what he's lost." Devon said.

Her eyes stormed with pain, anger, and a spark of desire she tried to bury, but Devon's words hit deep, Thorne's betrayal felt personal, raw, a wound she could share. "It's wrong… I'd be sinning. But if he did this to you, to me… he needs to hurt too, to repent." Her voice shook, anger winning over faith.

She stood, hands trembling, unbuttoning her blouse slowly, revealing a simple bra stretched tight over her full, heavy breasts, the soft curves of her body hidden for years under modest clothes. Her skirt dropped next, showing plain panties that hugged her rounded hips. She stepped out of them, standing naked, her body soft and lush, full breasts with dark, pebbled nipples, a gentle curve to her belly, thighs thick and inviting, a quiet sensuality that hit like a shockwave. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, every curve screaming a beauty she'd kept locked away, now unleashed in defiance.

Devon's cock surged, straining hard against his pants, a full, aching rise at the sight of her, her body more tempting than he'd imagined, a hidden fire under her churchgoing shell.

"God forgive me," she whispered, voice thick with guilt and need, moving to him, fingers shaking as she undid his shirt, peeling it off to reveal his chiseled chest, her hands tracing his abs with a hunger she didn't know she had.

Devon stood, lifting her with ease, his arms tight around her soft waist, carrying her up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Thorne, the door closing with a quiet snap, the cross on the wall watching in heavy silence.

An hour and a half later, the front door groaned open with a mournful creak, and Elias Thorne staggered across the threshold, a gutted ruin of the man he once was. His suit, once a crisp badge of authority, was a tattered mockery, buttons ripped clean off, leaving jagged holes, tie swinging loose, stained with sweat and streaked with dirt, fabric torn at the seams, crumpled and soaked with the bitter salt of his tears.

His face was swollen, red and raw from hours of uncontrollable sobbing, cheeks etched deep with dried tear tracks. His life had been obliterated in a merciless barrage, the call from the hospital board, a cold, robotic voice confirming his firing, an email from the medical council, words like "gross misconduct" and "ethical violations" burning into his soul like a brand, texts from colleagues flooding his phone with venomous jabs, "Toilet slave Thorne, how's the gutter taste?" "

Hope you enjoyed your leash, chief!" and news alerts exploding online, his name trending across medical forums and local media as a punchline, a scandal, a laughingstock. Everything he'd fought for, his title as chief, his iron-clad respect, his carefully crafted empire was pulverized, reduced to ash in a relentless storm, leaving him a hollow, trembling shell stumbling through the sanctuary of his own home, shoulders slumped under the crushing weight of absolute ruin.

He collapsed onto the couch with a bone-jarring thud, the cushions sagging under his defeated bulk, his body wracked with fresh, heaving sobs that tore from his chest like wounded cries. His hands clawed at his face, nails digging into his skin as he muttered broken, desperate prayers, "God, please, have mercy… save me from this hell…"

His swollen eyes darted aimlessly, searching for something, anything, to anchor him in this nightmare, then froze, snagging on a flash of fabric on the floor. Theresa's floral blouse, tossed carelessly near the coffee table, its familiar pattern a stab to his gut. He blinked hard, breath catching in his throat, his mind sluggish with grief. "What… why are her clothes down here?" he mumbled, voice low and trembling, as he leaned forward, squinting through the haze of his bloodshot eyes.

But then his gaze caught the rest, a shirt, crumpled in a defiant heap beside Theresa's skirt, her lace panties lying twisted nearby, and a black trousers discarded like a final, mocking insult, the pile forming a damning trail that snaked toward the stairs.

His face contorted, shock slamming into him like a freight train, his eyes bulging wide with raw, unfiltered horror as his breath came in sharp, panicked gasps. The air seemed to thicken, choking him, as his mind reeled, refusing to process the truth. He lurched to his feet, nearly tripping over his own shaking legs, and stumbled to the pile, his movements jerky, like a puppet with cut strings.

"No, no, no, this can't be happening, not now, not her!" he croaked, his voice splintering into a high-pitched wail, each "no" a desperate plea to rewind reality, to erase the evidence before him.

His hands trembled violently, fingers twitching as he crouched, hovering over the clothes like they might burn him. He reached out, hesitating, then snatched Theresa's blouse with a frantic grip, clutching it to his chest as if it could deny the betrayal.

The faint lavender scent, her scent, the one he'd breathed in for years hit him like a brutal fist, confirming it was hers, His eyes darted to the shirt, the

fabric taunting him. His breath hitched, a sob catching in his throat as he dropped the blouse, hands now shaking so badly he could barely hold them still.

His gaze shot to the stairs, the dark hallway above looming and a tidal wave of terror crashed over him, flooding his chest, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs.

He prayed, begged, it was a lie, a cruel trick conjured by his fractured mind, anything but the truth that gnawed at his soul.

The thought of what might be happening upstairs twisted his insides, each possibility a fresh wound, Theresa, his Theresa, with another man, in their bed. His pulse roared in his ears, a deafening drumbeat, his vision blurring with unshed tears as faint sounds drifted down from above soft, unmistakable moans, the rhythmic creak of their matrimonial bed, each noise a dagger plunging deeper into his heart. "Please, God, no…" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Despite the paralyzing dread that locked his knees, he forced himself forward, each step a battle against the terror clawing at him. His legs wobbled, as he shuffled toward the stairs, the floorboards creaking.

His knuckles were white, as he took the first step, then another, slow and deliberate, each movement dragging him closer to the truth he dreaded. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark hallway above, the moans growing louder, the bed's creaks more insistent, each sound shredding what little remained of his world, leaving him teetering on the edge of collapse, a man walking to his own execution.