Dear Reader:
I hope that you enjoy this newest story. The following story was commissioned by an anonymous Literotica reader. Please DM me if you would like to commission a story.
The following is an erotic work of fiction that may be unsuitable for some readers. Additionally, it may contain trauma cues for sensitive readers. All people and entities are fictional; any similarities with real people or entities are unintentional. Enjoy!
---
The Demotion
As my flight descended into Bacolod, I looked like a passenger suffering from motion sickness. I sat hunched over with my elbows on my knees and my hands cupped over my face. But I wasn't sick. Nor would I have described myself as distraught. No, I was wallowing in self-pity.
Less than six months ago, after internships and residency training at the most prestigious research hospital in Southern California, I had finally landed a job as a trauma care physician. Indeed, a few years prior, after four grueling years in medical school, I had earned the titled of "MD." I still remember my (and my parents') tears of joy at those ceremonious words, "Congratulations, Dr. Janet Nguyen."
Dr.
Janet Nguyen. No longer just "Janet Nguyen the med student" or "Janet Nguyen, the intern." From that moment onward, I could proudly display a little sign reading, "Janet Nguyen, MD" on my desk.
But the pride of this achievement was short-lived. A few short months after being employed by St. Timothy's, a private hospital in Los Angeles, I made a social media post disparaging the effects of a brand-new type of energy drink.
"Please, for god's sake, do not let your children drink this garbage!"
I meant no harm by the post. And the science is clear--this stuff is
terrible
for children. I'm active on social media, and this was just one more public health announcement from a young MD.
My optimism was misplaced.
The following morning, the hospital coordinator stormed into my office. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" She nervously moved her glasses up against her reddening face.
"Uh, nice to see you too, Gladys," I muttered. I was taken aback by her tone. "What's going on?"
"Well, Janet," Gladys spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable as if she were speaking to a toddler, "you made a post insulting a popular energy drink. The company who makes that drink is owned by Vincent Haught." She emphasized the name as if it were extremely important.
"And am I supposed to know who this
Vincent Haught
is?" I made no attempt to hide my annoyance.
Gladys gave me an exacerbated look. "W-what? He's the chairman of the St. Timothy's board!"
Shit.
Gladys continued, "Do you understand what you've just done? Do you get who you just pissed off? This guy can not only fire you--he can make sure that you're never employed as a doctor anywhere again."
My face went completely flush. I gulped. I would have otherwise been outraged that an energy drink mogul saw on the board of directors for a hospital. But I was too terrified of losing the fruits of all my labor, everything that I'd put into my education, to be outraged at the moment.
"Look," Gladys lowered her voice and stepped closer to me, "you're a great doctor. Everyone knows that you're a great doctor. But Haught is known to have a vindictive streak. I'm in your corner here, Janet, but there's not much I can do here."
I'd heard nothing more about the incident for several weeks. That is, until I received an email from our staffing department. Apparently, St. Timothy's parent company also owned a hospital in the Philippines. Specifically, the company owned a charity hospital in Negros Occidental, a particularly rural province of the Philippines. My position was to be transferred to serving that hospital, effective immediately.
I immediately picked up the phone and called Gladys.
"Hey Gladys," I was looking at my computer screen in disbelief, "I was hired to serve here in LA. What the hell does staffing think it's doing, trying to send me to the Philippines?"
"It's coming straight from the top," Gladys sighed over the phone, "I'm so sorry, Janet. This should only be temporary."
"Look," I replied, "I'm not moving abroad for this job. If this is how it's going to be, St. Timothy's can all another doctor."
"Not if you want to be employed
as
a doctor," Gladys quickly replied. "Look, you're not the first person that this has happened to. If you quit now, Haught will make sure that you couldn't even find work as a fry cook. He's a powerful person and you have no idea how connected he is. Just tough it out for a few weeks, then request a transfer back to the States. This will all blow over by then."
I exhaled sharply. "Fine. I'll go to the Philippines for a few weeks, then request a transfer back to California. Either way, I'm not staying there. I don't care
who
this asshole thinks he is."
"Be careful who you say that to," Gladys encouraged, "and again, I'm in your corner here. It's just for a few weeks."
--
Thus, here I was, moping on a plane ride to Bacolod, Philippines. After the plane landed, I sat in my seat, unwilling to stand up. I felt as if stepping off the plane would make my situation feel more real. I was correct.
When I eventually dragged myself off plan, the first thing I noticed was the oppressive humidity. At 27 degrees Celsius (81 Fahrenheit) and 89% humidity, I was already sweating through my blouse. After collecting my bags and heading toward Arrivals, I saw a young man--in his early twenties or late teens at the most--waive me down.
"¿Puedo llevar tus maletas?"
I looked at him, befuddled.
"Oh," he switched to English, "can I take your bags, Miss?"
I wondered whether he thought I was some dumb western tourist. "Sure. Are you a taxi driver?"
"Yes, Taxi!" We could at least communicate well enough to get me to my hotel. That would be enough for now.
When I arrived at my hotel, I couldn't help but dive into bed, push my head into a pillow, and scream-cry for a good five minutes. Why did I have to be here? What did I do wrong? I don't belong here! I belong back in LA. Back where my friends are. Back where I built a life.
I thought about how my grandparents--born into a farming community in Vietnam--worked so hard to immigrate to the United States to build a better life for my parents. Upon arriving to the U.S., they scraped together a meager living doing odd jobs, until my grandfather eventually opened a mechanic's shop. Passing that work ethic down to their kids and grandkids, I was not the first in my family to go to medical school.
Yet here I was, in a small hotel, about to start work in a small hospital in a small country in Southeast Asia. I cried myself to sleep that night.
The next morning, I felt better after my cry. As a doctor, I had the self-expectation that I would dress with class and in a way that commanded respect. I put on a smart, pinstriped pantsuit with a white blouse. I styled my hair into a tight bun. I expertly applied my makeup. I looked myself up and down in the mirror, inspecting for any imperfections. There were none.
I took a taxi to the office. As I sat in the back of the car, briefcase on my lap, I tried to cheer myself up with the good that I would do. After all, I went to med school so that I could help people. Working at a charity hospital would accomplish just that. Further, I wouldn't just be doing helping people in a wealthy community in LA. No, I could do good in a part of the world that needed it more.
The hospital itself was a larger structure than I had expected. I had read that the U.S. military had built a hospital here during the second world war, after which private companies had acquired the land and gradually expanded the hospital.
As I walked through the front doors of the hospital, I saw several patients lining the walls of the waiting room. A woman was standing near the receptionist's desk wearing a strange outfit. I recognized it as a traditional, white nurse uniform still used in some Southeast Asian countries. Her dark hair contrasted against a white, flat headpiece that stood about two inches on her head. It clearly served no practical purpose beyond aesthetic. Her dress was also white. It was framed at the top with a flat collar. Small, white buttons ran down the front of the dress--I could imagine that it took unnecessarily long to put on every morning. The outfit extended down to the woman's knees. On her feet were a pair of white Mary Janes with short kitten heals.
Underneath the antiquated outfit, I could tell that this woman was a bombshell. Her uniform was sinched at the waist, betraying a deep curve from her hips to her waist. The uniform seemed expertly tailored to pull in from the back, accentuating the curve of her lower back and the width of her behind. And while the lift in her kitten heals was subtle--it was probably the tallest heel she could comfortably wear during a long shift--it forced her to subtly arch her back, further accentuating her shape.
As she spoke to a patient--a man in his late fifties--something about the nurse's demeanor made her seem small and unimportant. As she spoke to a patient, she kept her hands together and folded by her waist. While she occasionally made eye contact with the patient, she mostly kept her gaze down toward his chin. She bowed slightly several times during the conversation. I had to stop myself from gawking at the exchange.
