Hospital Debauchery

The next morning dawned bright over Blissville Hospital, the sun slicing through the tall glass windows of the main lobby, flooding the space with sharp, golden beams that glinted off the polished tile floors, doctors white coats fluttering, nurses scrubs swishing, interns anxious faces darting. The usual scent of antiseptic lingered, but it mixed with the rich, bitter aroma of fresh-brewed coffee spilling from the break room machines and the faint, greasy hint of breakfast sandwiches warming in the cafeteria microwaves, creating a heady brew that fueled the day's frenzy.

But today, the hospital wasn't just a place of healing, it was full of chaos, the corridors buzzing with an electric undercurrent of excitement, and raw ambition that transformed every corner into a hive of gossip. From the nurse's stations where clipboards lay abandoned amid frantic huddles, to the elevators packed shoulder-to-shoulder with wide-eyed interns craning their necks to catch snippets, from the cafeteria lines snaking with trays of half-eaten meals and spilled sugar packets, to the dimly lit supply closets where staff snuck quick breaks to vent, the entire building pulsed with talk.

The explosive scene in the auditorium the day before had ignited a firestorm that still raged, Thorne's humiliating downfall the spark that set the whole place ablaze. His name was on every lip, his begging moans from the video replayed in hushed imitations and crude reenactments, his firing and license revocation dissected and picked apart bone by bone.

Thorne was no longer the chief, he was a joke, a cautionary tale, a dead man walking in the eyes of his former colleagues, his legacy shredded and scattered like confetti from a party gone horribly wrong, his name now synonymous with disgrace, whispered with sneers or outright laughter.

In the bustling nurse's station on the third floor, a group of five nurses huddled around the counter like plotters in a conspiracy thriller, their scrubs in various shades of blue and green wrinkled from overnight shifts, charts and beeping monitors pushed aside as they leaned in close, faces alight with a mix of shock, glee, and fascination.

The station smelled of hand sanitizer and stale donuts from the night shift's leftover box, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly like the hum of their excitement. "Did you see his face when that video kicked in?" one nurse, a curly-haired woman in her thirties whispered, her eyes wide with dramatic flair, mimicking Thorne's bound posture by tying her stethoscope loosely around her wrists and thrusting her hips in a ridiculous parody.

"Bound like a holiday turkey, begging for more, mistress, whip me harder! I nearly choked on my gum, I thought it was a prank at first, like some bad office joke!"

Laughter rippled through the group, muffled as another nurse, a burly guy with a beard and tattoos peeking from his sleeves, chimed in with a deep, booming chuckle that shook his broad shoulders, "And the flip-out? Bet he's home now, practicing his 'toilet slave' routine for the unemployment line. Please, sir, may I have another handout?'"

The group erupted in snickers, a third nurse adding oil to the fire with a sly, wicked grin, leaning over the counter like she was sharing classified intel, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, "You know, I always knew he was shady, remember how he leered at those young interns, undressing them with his eyes during rounds? Now it all clicks. Probably been playing dom-sub in the supply closet for years, tying up charts instead of nurses, or worse, making them call him 'master' for better shifts. Gross!"

The chatter grew bolder, voices overlapping in a frenzy of mockery, "What a hypocrite, bossing us around like a king while he's on his knees for whips and chains!"

"His license revoked? About time, can't have a chief who begs for piss play running emergencies, he'd probably ask patients to dominate him for better care!" each comment digging Thorne's grave deeper, the nurses slapping the counter in amusement, one even pulling out her phone to replay a blurry clip of Thorne's auditorium freakout, imitating his high-pitched screams with exaggerated wails that had them doubling over in hysterics, tears of laughter streaming down their faces, turning his name into a synonym for disgrace, his career not just buried but exhumed, mocked, and spat on.

Down in the cafeteria, the gossip burned even hotter, a table of eight doctors and techs clustered over half-eaten lunches, their trays cluttered with coffee cups spilling dark stains, crumpled napkins smeared with ketchup, and phones propped up replaying blurry clips of the video, the room smelling of greasy fries sizzling on the grill, burnt toast popping from the toasters, and strong, bitter brew in the machines.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh, unflattering shadows on their faces as they leaned in, eyes gleaming with scandalous delight, forks forgotten mid-bite. "Suspended indefinitely? That's just fancy talk for fired and blacklisted forever," one doctor, a middle-aged man said with a shake of his head, his stethoscope dangling around his neck like a medal won in battle, his fork stabbing at a limp salad leaf with unnecessary force.

"But the license revocation? Board didn't waste a second, probably watched that video and puked their guts out. I thought he was just a power-hungry asshole, not a full-on kink king with a side of degradation!" A lab tech leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with scandalous delight, her scrubs stained with lab chemicals and a fresh coffee spill, "And the way he screamed in the auditorium, 'It's not me!' Like we couldn't spot his flabby ass and that ugly birthmark from a mile away, lit up on that big screen for the whole world to see. Pathetic! Bet his wife's divorcing him right now, or better yet, hooking up with someone who doesn't need a dominatrix to get his dick hard, maybe she's already packing his bags and burning his whips!" Laughter boomed around the table, loud and unrestrained, another doctor piling on with a snort that sprayed coffee, "Harsh? Hell no, it's karma served ice-cold! Guy's been strutting like he's God's gift, barking orders and stealing credit now he's the hospital's biggest joke. 'Toilet slave Thorne' that's his new title, trending on every group chat!"

The group roared, adding more fuel with wild, over-the-top speculations, "Wonder if he'll start a side gig as a BDSM model, posing for 'Chief in Chains' calendars?" "Or write a memoir, 'From Chief to Chained, My Whip-Smart Career Down the Drain'!" the mockery relentless, shredding Thorne's dignity to ribbons, phones dinging with shared memes of his face photoshopped onto submissives in leather, his name now poison, his legacy a laughingstock that spread like a virus through every department, ensuring he was a dead man walking in the medical world, his career not just ended but mocked into oblivion.

Even in the quieter, hidden corners, like the dimly lit supply closet where two orderlies snuck a quick smoke break amid stacks of bandages and cleaning supplies, the air hazy with cigarette smoke and the sharp smell of bleach, the talk was brutal and unfiltered.

"Man, that video was straight fire, insane level of crazy," one orderly, a lanky kid in baggy scrubs, said, puffing out a cloud of smoke that curled toward the vent like Thorne's evaporating dignity. "Thorne begging to be pissed on? That's our boss? No wonder he was always such a dick, compensating for his kink, probably got off on bossing us around like we were his subs."

The other, an older guy with a potbelly, a graying mustache, and a perpetual scowl, laughed, "Fired on the spot, license yanked, boom, erased! Hospital's better without that creep slinking around, leering at everyone. But hey, who's snagging his job? I heard applications are pouring in like rain during monsoon season."

The man shook his head, exhaling a long, lazy drag that filled the cramped space, "Don't bother dreaming big, man. My people are telling It's for Aldridge." The chatter turned to envy and awe, the closet's dim bulb flickering like the dying light of Thorne's career.

The hospital wasn't just running, it was electric with the scandal, the chattering relentless and all-consuming, Thorne's firing and license revocation dissected in every hushed corner, every hurried exchange between shifts.

Some called it too harsh, their voices laced with false sympathy, "He was a jerk, sure, but revoking his license? That's his whole life wiped out over a kink, the board went nuclear on him."

"Nah, he deserved every bit of it, derogatory act like that? Hospital can't have a chief who's into whips and chains, it's a liability, a stain on our reputation that'll take years to scrub clean!" Others added fuel with gleeful malice,

"Bet there's more dirt, I heard he was into even weirder stuff, like group sessions in the basement after hours. Good riddance, we can actually breathe without his ego sucking up all the oxygen!"

Amid the Thorne gossip, another hot topic scorched through the halls, the open chief of emergency surgery position, a coveted prize that had everyone buzzing with ambition, envy, and cutthroat scheming. Applications flooded in overnight, favors called to board members with urgent whispers, phones lighting up with pleas and promises that echoed through the corridors like desperate bids in an auction. In the break room, a group of ten surgeons and residents huddled over steaming coffee mugs and half-finished bagels, their voices low but feverish, the air thick with the smell of burnt toast from the toaster oven and stale donuts from the vending machine.

"I sent my application at midnight, I got solid connections on the board, my uncle's golf buddies with two of them," one said, a cocky resident his scrubs rumpled from a long shift, leaning back in his plastic chair with a smug grin, sipping his coffee like victory was already his.

"Me too," another chimed, a veteran surgeon stirring sugar into her cup with a frantic clink of the spoon, her eyes darting around. "Called in a favor from my old residency director, he owes me big time after I covered for him last year."

But rejections came fast and furious, phones dinging with denials like bad news bombs exploding in their hands.

"Turned down already? What the hell my application was perfect!" He grumbled, staring at his screen in disbelief, his face falling like a deflated balloon.

Words spread like sparks in dry tinder, igniting more chatter,"Did you hear? Devon might be the new chief. My uncle at Riverside general hospital applied and got shut down flat, like they laughed in his face over the phone."

"Same here, my nephew's out, said it was pointless, board didn't even read his resume."

"I told them not to bother if Aldridge was in the mix. It's a total waste, he's got the skills, the charisma, the whole package. No one's beating him. the guy's a machine turning disasters into miracles."

The hospital filled with jealousy and awe, "He hasn't even been here long, and now chief? At his age? That's some fast-track bullshit, probably slept his way to the top."

"Jealous much? Face it, he's earned it, he saved that case last week single-handed, while Thorne would've botched it."

"Still, it's rigged, I've been grinding fifteen years for a shot like this, kissing ass and covering shifts!" But despite the gripes and grumbles, everyone agreed deep down, Devon deserved it. His talent was undeniable, a force that silenced doubts, his name whispered with a mix of envy and respect, the air buzzing with the thrill of his inevitable rise, some even slapping high-fives at the thought of a young gun taking charge, while others plotted petty sabotage in hushed tones.

The man of the moment stepped into the hospital, the automatic doors sliding open with a smooth whoosh that seemed to announce his arrival, his presence cutting through the gossip. Heads turned in unison, whispers died mid-sentence like candles snuffed out, eyes followed him as he walked the halls, his blue shirt crisp and fitted to his broad shoulders, his stride confident and unhurried, the air shifting around him like he already owned the place, his diamond-studded watch flashing under the lights as if winking at his victory.