The Demotion Ch. 02

Dear Reader:

I hope that you enjoy this newest chapter. An anonymous Literotica reader commissioned this 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!

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The Demotion, Chapter 2

I woke up with my face in a damp pillow. The night before, after my first day at the new job, I came back to my hotel room, spent the afternoon on my phone, then cried myself to sleep. I rolled into a fetal position, then begrudgingly pushed myself up and onto the edge of the bed.

Gazing out the small hotel window, I took stock of where I was. Just a few days ago, I was the youngest trauma care physician at a prestigious hospital in southern California. I contemplated how proud I was of the little badge I had worn, boasting "Janet Nguyen, MD." But after an errant social media post offended a powerful director, he had transferred me to a small hospital in the Philippines, put under the supervision of a nurse, and forced to wear a traditional nurse uniform. I wanted to quit, but I knew that if I offended Director Haught any further, I'd be lucky to find a job cleaning bed pans in a nursing home.

I stood and examined myself in the floor-length mirror that was adjacent to the bed. I was wearing naught but my mismatched underwear from the day before--a purple sports bra and lime-green lacey panties. Not a classy look, but I had elected for comfort. Unfortunately, this dark and colorful undergarment was not suitable for the uniform. Diwa hadn't said anything the day before, but I worried that my underwear could be visible through the fabric. I dug through my luggage and found a pair of white, lacey panties and a matching bra. This was much more suitable for the uniform that I knew I'd be relegated to for... who knows how long.

Looking back in the mirror, I scanned my body. I was young and fit, but I was no Diwa. My body was more pair shaped--thick thighs with a petite waist and bust. I wasn't "thicc" like the kids were saying these days, but if someone slapped my ass, it would certainly jiggle. By contrast, Diwa--the angelically stunning nurse that was put in charge of me--had a body like an hourglass. Her uniform betrayed thick, muscular thighs leading up to a snatched, petite waist. Her bust was a 34DD at least; even in her modest uniform, one could see her cleavage above her top button. I thought about her long, dark hair that shone with a subtle shade of deep purple when she passed by an open window.

Diwa fascinated me. I convinced myself that she occupied my thoughts merely because I had a 'girl crush.' I wanted to look more like her, walk like her, and conduct myself with the same confident charm. But I would quickly learn that my feelings for her were something more.

Before getting dressed, I decided that some yoga was in order. I couldn't help my natural body shape, but daily exercise couldn't hurt. I had thought that my self-consciousness about my body had ended in high school. I didn't understand why I was giving my appearance so much thought now. I reasoned with myself that, even if I couldn't control what I wore, I could at least control how I looked in it. I could at least look as lovely as possible. Not like Diwa, of course, but as best as I could.

Having worked up a mild sweat, I showered and prepared for the day. I typically wasn't the type to wear much makeup--I was never willing to put in the daily effort, and I was resistant to it for philosophic reasons. But today felt different. I started with foundation and blush. For some reason I couldn't describe, I wanted to look as appealing as I could for Diwa and Dr. Ramos.

Hearkening back to my sorority days, I carefully applied contour to accent my cheekbones and slim my face. I applied eyeliner and a light layer of eye shadow to compliment the look. I brushed my hair and pulled it into a tight, smart ponytail. I thought that this would most compliment the ridiculous headpiece that they made us wear.

With my makeup and hair complete, I had a decision to make about my outfit. I examined the closet, pathetically holding the four pantsuits that I had been able to pack. Since earning my MD, I had taken pride in my outfit. I had gone for the powerful, 'Rodham' look. But why should I bother putting on a stuffy pantsuit, when I would immediately be forced to don a demeaning nurse uniform upon arrival at the hospital? Aside from the inconvenience, I knew that it would add to the sting to downgrade from a power suit to a traditional nurse uniform, while my male colleagues were donning pants and button downs. No. I turned away from my closet and pulled some yoga pants and a tank top from my luggage. I was going for comfort today.

I then dug through the small compartment in my luggage containing my socks. As a doctor, I always prided myself in my professional attire. I was known for my smart, snappy pantsuits. But I like to keep a bit of my playful personality underneath. Specifically, I was fond of novelty socks.

I dug through my little pile until I found my favorite: a cute little pair of corgi socks. They were light blue with rows of corgis, each facing away such that you could see their cute little corgi butts. Even if I couldn't maintain my reputation for professional pantsuits, at least I could keep that little slice of my personality under the uniform.

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A few minutes later, as I sat in the back of the cab, I mentally went over the events of the prior day. Dr. Ramos, my new boss, had put me under the supervision of a nurse. A NURSE. I, and MD, was to be 'mentored' by Nurse Diwa. To make matters worse, staff misidentified me the entire day as 'Nurse Janet,' not 'Dr. Nguyen.' Adding insult to injury, they had forced me to wear a traditional nurse uniform. That damned uniform. That awful, white, form-fitting uniform.

On the bright side, I hadn't had to do any real work. Nurse Diwa took me on a tour of the facility. Given the sheer size of the facility, the tour took a surprisingly long time.

But I couldn't stop thinking about how Diwa and I ended the day. Back in the locker room, Diwa had pulled a measuring tape from her pocket.

"Arms up, Love. We need to make sure we get this tailored."

I considered the revelation that Diwa had grown up in the United States. Why did she have such a strong Southeast Asian accent?

I couldn't help but notice that her fingers unnecessarily grazed my body as she wrapped the tape around my waist.

"Very good, Janet! Such a lovely figure." She was strangely complimentary as she moved the tape down to my hips, then up to my bust. As she held the ends of the tape in both hands, there was no reason that her knuckles grazed my ass as she pulled the tape down and away from me.

As she softly wrapped the tape around my collar, her thumbs drew little circles on the back of my neck. This sent chills down my spine. The entire exercise seemed pointless, as the uniform's collar was cut to show the inside of the shoulders, coming nowhere near the neck.

As Diwa measured my arm length--also unnecessary, given that the uniform sported short sleeves--the sensation of Diwa's hand resting on my shoulders unnerved me. I couldn't put my finger on why.

"All done, Sweetie! You've been a great sport about this." Diwa winked at me. I couldn't help but return her genuine, infectious smile.

"Thanks, Diwa!" Why did I thank her? She was only doing this so that my uniform could be tailored to flatter my proportions. I didn't want to wear that uniform. And I told myself at the time that I didn't want to look flattering for anybody.

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My mind snapped back to the present as the cab came to a sudden stop.

"Narito tayo!" The cab driver held out his hand behind him.

I fumbled through my purse and handed him a small wad of cash. The driver seemed disappointed with the amount I handed him, but I blithely opened the door and let myself out. It's not like the hospital compensated me well for my work here, and the cost of not owning a car was adding up quickly. I would need to find some other way to get to work. Or find a different place to live.

I hurried through the hospital doors. Conveniently, Diwa was at the front desk, explaining something to the receptionist. Upon seeing me, the receptionist nodded in my direction and gave a knowing glance to Diwa. As Diwa spun around and saw me, her face lit up.

"Oh my god, hi Janet! It's so good to see you this morning!"

I couldn't help but return her contagious smile.

"Hi Diwa! It's good to see you too. What's on the agenda for today?"

"Great news, Hun. Your uniform is finished. How'd you sleep last night?"

I wondered if the bags under my eyes were visible from under my foundation and primer. 'Makeup is no substitute for good sleep,' my mother would always say. But I tried to cover up the signs of the night before regardless.

"Not as great," I admitted, "I'm staying in a crappy little hotel, and the bed isn't exactly five-star material."

"Yeah, I hear you, Honey. They don't pay us nurses much at all." Diwa shook her head and smiled her infectious smile.

Diwa's acceptance made absolutely zero sense, given that she was a credentialed doctor from a major U.S. city. But her empathy--and that charming smile--made me feel much better. Something about it made me feel closer to her. Like a warm comradery that I could viscerally feel.

But it also occurred to me that she had used the phrase, 'us nurses.' Was I a nurse here? Was that my literal job title? Not that I had any problem with nurses; while that term means different things in different countries, it's still a decorated role that requires schooling. But I was a fucking doctor. And so was she. Why was she so cool about this?

I snapped myself out of my rumination. "So how do you do it, Diwa? Do you own a car here?"

"Oh god no! Here in the Philippines, you need to pass this godawful practical driving test. I'm not even going to try."

"Then how do you get to work?"

"Dr. Ramos drives me! He is so thoughtful and considerate. I really don't know what I'd do without him."

This wasn't the first time she'd gushed about Dr. Ramos. I wondered if there was something going on between the two of them. I didn't know why, but I didn't like that thought.

"So... do you just live on his way to work?"

"No silly! I live with him."

"Ah," I looked visibly crestfallen, even if I didn't understand why, "I didn't know that the two of you were together!"

"Oh no, he's married to a beautiful wife," Diwa laughed hard, as if I'd told some hilarious joke, "He just lets me live in his house. He has a huge place."

"Oh, that's nice of him," I was slightly relieved, "so he's like your landlord?"

"Sort of! He doesn't charge rent or anything. But he works crazy hours, so I help him and his wife with the housework. It's a gigantic place, really. Way too much for his wife to clean by herself."

Why was Diwa okay with this? This woman had an MD! But she was okay with being relegated to a lower status--one based on antiquated gender roles--both at work and when she got home?

I tried to mask my indignation. "That's still generous of him! How big are we talking?"

Diwa winked at me, "'How big is it?' Girl you're asking the right questions!"

I laughed.

"It's about ten bedrooms."

"Wow! That's big, even for a doctor."

She nodded with a slight head tilt, as if this were the most interesting gossip of the morning. "And I heard that the entire place cost around three hundred thousand U.S. dollars."

"What? That's it?" My jaw dropped.

"That's one of the upsides to this part of the world. Especially in such a rural region. Where I'm from, near Miami, three hundred thousand would barely buy you a broom closet."

"Yeah," I replied, jaw still agape, "same in Los Angeles. I was paying two thousand a month for a shitty apartment."

Diwa laughed, "you know, Dr. Ramos has some empty bedrooms. I could talk to him about letting you stay there."

I immediately declined. "I'll figure something out. And, frankly, I don't expect to be here indefinitely anyway."

Diwa rolled her eyes, "I said the same thing before I fell in love with the place. But even if that's the case, wouldn't it be better just to rent out a single bedroom from your boss than to sign a lease?"

She had a point.

"Let me think about it. I'd feel weird to impose that on Dr. Ramos." I noticed that referring to him as 'Dr. Ramos' felt natural, even though everyone at the hospital referred to me as 'Janet.'

"Sure, Janet. In any case, we need to get to it. This way, please!"

Diwa put her hand on the small of my back and led toward the locker rooms. I recalled how, the day prior, she had led me toward the locker room by taking my hand in hers. I was too stunned at the time to consider how strange it would have been to see us holding hands. But we only received smiles from the doctors and other nurses.

Dread filled me as we entered the locker room. I was becoming more accepting of my position, but the thought of wearing that fucking uniform still hurt. Diwa opened one of the lockers and pulled a uniform out that was wrapped in plastic and on a wire hanger. She walked toward me with a silly smile on her face, as if it were Christmas and she had the greatest surprise of the morning in her hands.

"Freshly tailored just for you, Janet! Go on, try it on! I want to see it on you!"

Why was she so enthusiastic about this?

"W-wow," I stuttered, shocked at this development, "I can't believe they finished it so quickly!"

"One of our girls moonlights as a seamstress. She does excellent work. And she works fast."

Janet laid the uniform out on the bench. I could see it, cruelly mocking me, through the thin plastic. The white, flat headpiece hung from the neck of the hanger along with the white, Mary Jane shoes. I looked down the white dress with a hem that would go too far above my knees. I glanced over the small, unnecessarily numerous buttons that ran down the front of the dress. I wondered whether it was an intentional design choice to make us take a long time putting the dress on. Why could this be? Did they want putting on that uniform to be a ritual for us? Was there a purpose behind making it such a lengthy part of the morning?

Diwa excitedly pulled the uniform from its plastic shell, opened a random locker door, and carefully hung the uniform on the corner of the door. Now that it was out of the plastic, she handled it carefully, as if scuffing or staining the white fabric would be a sin.

Diwa looked at me impatiently.

"Dress down, silly! It's not like you're wearing this over your yoga pants."

She laughed and shook her head as if I were the absurd one.

"Wait, so like, just right here? Are you going to watch?"

I was already in a mood over having to wear that thing. I was still a doctor. And a good one. And it wasn't fair that I was being relegated to a traditional uniform. Particularly one that was tailored to accent my feminine shape. That Diwa wanted to watch me undress only added to the humiliation.

"We're all girls here! It's nothing I haven't seen before! I just really want to see you put it on."

I didn't understand, but I complied. There was something disarming about Diwa's genuine enthusiasm. I obediently kicked off my shoes and reached toward the hem of my yoga pants.

"Tsk tsk tsk."

I looked up to see Diwa shaking her head and clicking her tongue. She pointed down at my socks.

"Girl, what are those?"

I looked down at my little footie socks. My light blue socks with little corgis smiling up at me. My last effort at clinging to my identity. My last little piece of life back home.

"Um," I was confused, "those are my socks?"

"Janet, Love, you can't be wearing novelty socks to work. Don't get me wrong: OH MY FUCKING GOD they're adorable. But girl, we need to get you better socks. Here, I have an extra pair."

Diwa opened her locker and retrieved a pair of sheer, white socks. They came up to the lower end of the ankle and were hemmed by a subtle lacy ruffle.

"Come on," Diwa handed me the small articles, "put these on."

It was a small moment, but I was surprised by how devastated I felt. I loved my novelty corgi socks. As a doctor, I always liked to maintain professional attire. My parents had taught me that 'the clothes make the professional.' And I took that advice to heart. But I loved having a little piece of the real me under my sharp and professional pantsuits. I liked novelty socks. And my little corgi socks were one of my favorite pair. It was already humiliating for my work attire to be so demeaning. But to be stripped of these socks felt strangely like I was being stripped of my own identity. My personal quirks and sense of humor--albeit typically hidden under a professional persona--were being removed altogether.

I tried to hide the quiver in my lip as I pulled the socks off my feet. I felt a hand under my chin as Diwa lifted my face to look at her. She looked me in the eye for a good minute with her kind, understanding expression. She then stepped forward and embraced me.

"I know that it's hard," Diwa whispered in my ear, "it was hard for me too at first. When you're so well trained, when you're an accredited doctor, it's humiliating to be put in such a shitty, low position just because of your gender. And I fought hard against it at first. But something happens after the first few days. I can't describe it, but this will start to seem ordinary. And you'll realize that it isn't so bad not having to make decisions for yourself. This uniform is just the first step. You don't get to--have to--make the hard decision that every girl must make about what she'll wear when she wakes up in the morning. And here, the doctors will give you clear instructions on what to do. Honestly, once it starts to seem ordinary, I think you'll find it relieving."

I didn't want to admit it, but the responsibility of being a doctor at home weighed heavily on me. Back in LA, patients relied on my discretion and my interpretation of charts and scans to get better. If somebody misinterpreted something and that led to a patient's misdiagnosis, then it was on my shoulders. And that was a huge burden to bear.

Diwa released me from her embrace, then lowered herself to her knees. She lifted my foot to the bench and slipped the lacy white sock up to my ankle. She then lowered my foot to the ground and lifted my other foot to the bench so that she could slip on the other sock.

Something about this act of service made me appreciate Diwa's efforts. It wasn't her fault that we had to wear these. It wasn't her fault that I'd offended a powerful director. It wasn't her fault that I'd been shipped to the other side of the world to face a devastating demotion. But I believed that Diwa was there for me. She was a good friend.

"There we are," Diwa smiled as she rubbed and patted the side of my foot, before standing to face me, "now for the rest of the uniform!"

I pulled up my tank top and placed it on the bench. Diwa was sitting a little farther down. Her legs were crossed with her hands folded neatly on her knees. She was watching me intently with a serene--if not eerie--smile. I started to slide down my yoga pants.

"Ah," Diwa lifted her head with an approving nod, "I see you went with white today. Good thinking! When I first started, I only owned dark or loudly colored panties. Rookie mistake."

I laughed awkwardly, mindful of Diwa's eerily serene gaze on my body. I felt wildly uncomfortable with this woman--about whom I knew extraordinarily little--staring at me while I dressed down. But at a deeper level, I felt chagrin at my body. I wished that I had a slenderer figure, like hers. I wished that I were rocking the firm, sizable ass that she was. I wish that I had the same generous--if not suspiciously so--bust size. As a doctor and as a self-described feminist, I've always had mixed feelings about using surgery to modify one's body. But in this moment, I wished that I could be more of a bombshell for Diwa to look at.