The Demotion Ch. 01

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.

I approached the receptionist to introduce myself.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Janet Nguyen. This is my first day. I was told that I need to ask for a 'Nathaniel Ramos'?"

The woman at the counter looked at me, confused.

"Sino kayo at ano ang suot ninyo?"

"Oh," I replied, "you don't speak English. Okay no problem. Let's see if I can find somebody."

"Excuse me," the nurse from before had finished her conversation, and thankfully spoke English, "you must be Nurse Janet! So nice to meet you, I'm Diwa!"

Diwa's tone was subdued, as if she were whispering. I wondered if she didn't want the patients to hear her speaking. And despite her conspicuous Pinoy accent, she spoke in perfect English. She conspicuously eyed my outfit.

"Hi Diwa," I reached out my hand, "and it's Dr. Janet Nguyen."

"Ah, I see," Diwa responded as she shook my hand, "it's lovely to meet you! I'm so happy that you will be joining us! Let me take you to Dr. Ramos, the floor supervisor."

As Diwa walked me down the hall, I noticed that every female staff member I saw wore a traditional nurse outfit. By contrast, the few men I saw wore button downs and ties, several with white medical coats. The fact that the button-down shirts and ties varied in style and color suggested that the men chose their own outfits, whereas the women's outfits were a 'uniform.'

As Nurse Diwa brought me into an office, I saw a dark-skinned man sitting behind a desk, looking at his screen over a pair of thick rimmed glasses. His hand rested against the side of his face. His eyes were narrowed, as if he were engaged in a complex task.

"Dr. Ramos," Diwa knocked on the door, "Janet is here. Janet, meet the floor supervisor, Dr. Ramos."

Dr. Ramos blinked at us as if Diwa had broken him out of deep concentration. He looked at me for a moment, then blinked several times in bewilderment as he looked, wide-eyed, up and down my pantsuit. I would typically interpret that gesture as rude or creepy, but something about Dr. Ramos made me interpret his staring as genuine bewilderment. And I had noticed before in the waiting room that a few patients gave me similar looks. Was there something particularly interesting to him and to everyone else about me or my outfit?

"Thank you, Diwa," Dr. Ramos blinked and shook his head. Given the man's lean frame and bookish appearance, I hardly expected him to have such a resonating baritone in his voice. "I can take it from here."

"Nice to meet you," I stepped forward confidently toward Dr. Ramos and extended my hand, "I'm Dr. Janet Nguyen. I've been assigned to work for you here, temporarily." I'd hoped that by adding, 'temporarily,' I could somehow manifest--either to the institution or to the universe generally--that I would be heading home to the U.S. soon.

"Of course," Dr. Ramos stood up and extended his hand in return, "I'm Dr. Nathaniel Ramos. I'll be your supervisor while you're here. Please, have a seat." I was surprised by how tall he was when standing up. He gestured to a small chair opposite from his desk.

My heart skipped a beat at the phrase, 'while you're here.' I had no reason to believe that Dr. Ramos knew what the higher ups had planned for me, but hearing someone else put it that way felt like honey dripping from his lips.

"I'm going to be fully honest with you, Janet. You don't speak Filipino, and you don't have any connections with the people or culture here. I have no doubt that you're a brilliant woman and a highly qualified doctor, but if you can't communicate with patients and you can't communicate with most of the nurses, putting you to use might be tricky."

His words were music to my ears. "I know, right? I mean, I'm happy to help where I can, but honestly, I'd do much more good back west." I wanted to plant that seed as often and as deeply as I could.

"No, Janet" Dr. Ramos replied, sizing me up, "Despite the logistical barriers, I'm actually glad that you're here. St. Timothy's put me in charge of you, and I can put you to use."

Well, shit. An unnerving sensation grew in my stomach. I, a decorated graduate from an American medical school, was at the mercy of this random Filipino doctor. I was already on thin ice with St. Timothy's and with Director Haught. Albeit indirectly, I knew that Dr. Ramos could--if he chose to--end my career with one email to Director Haught. And Dr. Ramos clearly wanted me to be here working for him. To add insult to injury, I didn't know whether he was checking me out as he eyed me, or whether he disapproved of my outfit. I also didn't understand why he insisted on calling me 'Janet,' even after introducing himself as 'Dr. Ramos.'

Dr. Ramos perked up when he saw Diwa walking in the hall past his office. He stood up and waived her in.

"Diwa," he called, "come show Janet to the locker room. Get her set up for her first day. Janet, Diwa will be your mentor for a while until you've learned the ropes."

Wait, 'mentor'? I was confused. Diwa is just a nurse. Why was she being assigned as my 'mentor'? And why did I need to go to a locker room?

Diwa lightly clasped my hand and led me out of the office. Dumbstruck by what I had just been told, I followed her with a stunned expression. As I stumbled behind Diwa, I couldn't help but appreciate the way in which her uniform clung to and accentuated her shape. While the uniform pretended to present a sense of antiquated modesty, the cut of the fabric divulged a sensual undertone.

After a few short moments, Diwa led me into an old locker room. The drooping paint and musty smell suggested that we were in one of the older wings of the hospital. The room was lined with teal-painted lockers, on each side of a long, wooden bench. It reminded me of my junior high school locker room.

Diwa looked at me patiently while I took in my surroundings. Eventually, she spoke.

"This is where you'll get changed every morning, Janet. We'll need to take your measurements so that the tailor can customize your uniforms. But the hospital staff cleans and irons the uniforms every day, so you don't have to worry about looking perfect for the doctors and patients."

I understood what Diwa was saying. But it sounded so absurd that I had difficulty comprehending it. After gawking at her like a deer in headlights for a moment, I stuttered in response.

"W-wait, uniform? I-I thought that I made this clear to you and Dr. Ramos, but I'm a doctor. I have an MD. I went to medical school. I interned at the top research hospital in Los Angeles. I got through my residency in only three years before I was hired--by that same hospital--as an MD. I'm not wearing a nurse uniform. And if you're going call Dr. Ramos as 'Dr.' Ramos, then you can call me 'Dr. Nguyen.'"

I could feel my face turning red and my brow furrowing as I spoke. And inexplicably, I felt guilty as soon as I finished. I felt as if, by communicating my anger, I had committed some faux pas. I looked down at Diwa's Mary Janes, which were pointing straight in my direction and slightly inward.

Despite my difficulty looking directly at her, I could see that Diwa was smiling patiently at me with her hands folded. She took a deep breath, then reached out and touched my chin with her thumb before moving her hand to rest on the side of my shoulder.

"I can see that this is hard for you. And I totally understand, Janet. You've lived in the west your whole life. And now that you're here, you might have some trouble transitioning to the way we do things. I get it, and I'm here if you ever want to talk."

Diwa turned to open a locker, then withdrew a folded, white nurse uniform. She also retrieved a headpiece and Mary Janes (in identical style to hers) and approached me with the immaculately folded pile.

My anger swelled again as Diwa handed me the neatly folded stack. I didn't want to wear a nurse uniform. Even if were only an RN, I would find this outfit too humiliating. Too old fashioned. Too degrading. But more so, I was not a nurse. I was a doctor. And a damn good one too.

But I was also cognizant of another feeling that grew inside of me. I was afraid that I wouldn't look as beautiful in the uniform as Diwa. She wore the outfit like the stunning bombshell who stood before me. Of course, I was young. I was fit. I received lots of attention--wanted and otherwise--from men back home. But I felt inadequate wearing the same outfit as the stunning woman who stood before me.

At a higher level, I wondered why that latter type of inadequacy weighed on me. I should have been singularly outraged that I--a fucking MD--was being called by my first name and forced into a traditional nurse uniform. But why did I have a greater sense of inadequacy from the fact that I wouldn't look as attractive in the uniform as Diwa? Why was that feeling more salient? I shouldn't care at all whether I look as enticing to patients or the doctors. I should be singularly focused on my academic and professional accomplishments being overlooked.

But as I took the uniform from Diwa, the first thing out of my mouth was, "Well, I bet I won't look nearly as good as you do."

What is wrong with me?

"Oh you," Diwa playfully swatted at my arm, "I'm sure you're going to look lovely. And once we take your measurements, I'm sure you'll be the spiciest nurse on the floor."

That comment brought me out of my stupor. I could feel my anger swelling again as I laid the uniform out on the bench, kicked off my shoes, and unbuttoned my blouse.

"I still don't understand why I have to wear this," I mumbled.

Diwa reached out and softly touched my chin. She lifted my face to look directly at her. With her thumb and forefinger, she placed an errant strand of hair behind my ear.

"I completely understand how you feel, Janet. When I first arrived here from Miami, I felt the same way. But the uniform will grow on you. And before you know it, you'll barely notice it. In fact, honestly, not having to worry about my outfit is one less stressor in my life. That's the best part of this place for us, really. You barely have to think about anything.

I was dumbfounded by this revelation.

"W-wait--what the heck? You're from Miami? B-but, your accent! What are you doing here in the Philippines?"

"Yep," Diwa's face lit up in a lively smile, "top of my med school at Miami U, then relocated here from St. Timothy's South Florida."