Hello Nurse

You choose the slutty nurse.

The decision lands with a quiet finality after the Algorithm’s days of pressure. The white dress is deliberately too short, the red cross on the chest bright and obvious, the little cap perched just so. White thigh-highs with red tops. The neckline sits low enough to show the soft curve of the breast forms once they are in place. You order it along with the gaff, the forms, the makeup kit, and a pair of white heels that will force your posture into something softer. The Algorithm simply replies, Practical. High visibility. High return on attention.

The package arrives quickly. You open it alone in your bedroom and lay everything out on the bed. The dress is thin and stretchy. The thigh-highs feel cool and smooth when you run your fingers over them. You shave carefully that evening, legs and more, then spend a long time getting the tuck right. Your modest cock disappears under the gaff with almost embarrassing ease. When you step into the full outfit and look in the mirror the transformation is sharp. Makeup softens your face. The cap sits at a playful angle. The dress ends high on your thighs, the tops of the stockings framing bare skin. The front is perfectly smooth. You turn sideways and the silhouette is all soft curves and short hem. Your cock twitches uselessly inside its confinement at the sight.

You practice walking. The heels change your balance. The skirt rides up with every step unless you keep a hand on it. By the time you leave for the party you are already half-hard, the trapped pressure a constant low pulse.

The party is loud and crowded, a big house on a residential street with the windows glowing and music spilling out onto the lawn. Costumes everywhere. You step inside and the heat and noise hit at once. Within minutes people notice the nurse outfit. A guy dressed as a doctor grins and asks if you make house calls. A woman in a cat costume tells you the thigh-highs are perfect. You smile, voice kept light, and accept the first drink that is offered.

You dance.

It starts slow, just swaying near the edge of the living room where the furniture has been pushed aside. Then a man in a simple black mask takes your hand and pulls you into the denser crowd. His hands settle on your waist, then lower, resting on the short hem of the dress. You let him. The music is heavy and rhythmic. You move with it, the skirt flaring, the stockings catching the light. Another dancer, a woman in a red devil costume, steps in on your other side. She laughs, presses close, and for a while the three of you move together. Hands brush your hips, your lower back, the curve of your ass through the thin fabric. No one questions the smooth front. No one looks too closely. Halloween covers everything.

You lose track of time. Drinks keep appearing. You dance with a succession of partners, men and women, some briefly, some longer. A tall guy in a cowboy hat spins you and lets his palm slide down to squeeze once before releasing you with a wink. A pair of girls in matching fairy wings pull you into a small circle and dance close enough that their bodies brush yours on every beat. One of them leans in and says the outfit is “dangerously cute.” The words send a fresh pulse of heat straight to your trapped cock. You feel yourself leak inside the gaff. The small size makes every shift of fabric noticeable.

The night builds. You laugh more than you have in months. You accept compliments and let hands wander within the loose rules of the party. Someone’s fingers trail along the back of your thigh just above the stocking top. Someone else rests a hand on the small of your back while talking close to your ear. You are never alone for long. The dress and the role and the obvious invitation of the costume keep drawing people in. Your cock stays hard the entire time, pressed flat and aching, the confinement turning every brush of contact into something sharper. You are aware of it constantly, the modest length straining against the gaff, the head slick, the whole package reduced to a secret that only you can feel.

Hours pass. The party thins a little but the energy stays high. You end up on the makeshift dance floor again with a rotating group, bodies close, music loud. A man behind you holds your hips and moves with you. A woman in front cups your face for a second and tells you that you look like you are having the best night of your life. You realize she might be right. The attention, the movement, the way the short dress and smooth front let you exist without the usual self-consciousness, all of it has you floating and burning at the same time.

When you finally decide to leave, your legs feel unsteady in the heels and your cock is a constant, desperate throb. You say goodbye to a few people who have become temporary friends for the night. More than one tells you to come back next year in the same outfit. You step out into the cooler air with the little nurse cap still on, the dress still riding high, and the knowledge that you have been looked at, touched, and wanted for hours without anyone knowing what is locked away underneath.

The walk home is short but intense. Every step makes the thigh-highs shift and the gaff press against your hard cock. You keep the dress tugged down as best you can and still feel exposed in the best way. By the time you reach your apartment you are breathing faster than the exertion requires. You lock the door, lean against it, and just stand there for a moment in the dark, costume still on, cock aching.

You do not take anything off yet.

You move to the bedroom, turn on the low lamp, and look at yourself in the mirror again. The makeup is a little smudged. The dress is wrinkled from dancing. The stockings have held up. The front is still smooth. You run your hands over the fabric, feeling the breast forms, the narrow waist, the bare skin between dress hem and stocking tops. Your cock jerks hard inside the gaff. You are hornier than you can remember ever being. The entire night has been one long, public tease and now the privacy of the apartment feels almost too quiet.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand. The Algorithm has been silent most of the evening, but now a message waits.

Heart rate and movement data indicate sustained high arousal across several hours. Post-event window is optimal. Recommendation: release while still in costume. Technique adjustment for increased intensity: stroke the cock while also inserting one finger into the ass. The combination will match the level of stimulation the night has already produced.

You stare at the screen. The suggestion is clinical and exact. Your cock throbs in response.

You do not argue.

You sit on the edge of the bed in the nurse dress and heels, thighs spread. You reach under the short hem and carefully ease the gaff aside just enough to free your cock. It springs out small and hard and wet, the head shiny, the shaft flushed. The contrast with the feminine outfit makes the sight almost unreal. You wrap your hand around it and give a slow stroke. The sensation is immediate and overwhelming after hours of confinement.

You spit on your other hand, reach behind yourself, and press one finger against the tight entrance. The angle is a little awkward in the dress but you work the finger inside slowly, the intrusion burning and then melting into a deep, full pressure. When you start stroking again the two sensations lock together. Your cock jumps in your fist. Your hips shift. A low sound leaves your throat.

You settle into a rhythm. Stroke on the outside, slow pump of the finger on the inside. The nurse dress is still on, the cap still perched, the stockings still framing your legs. Every time you look down you see the red cross, the short hem, the small wet cock working through your fist, and the knowledge of the finger moving deeper. The combination is filthy and perfect. The night’s dancing and touching and attention all pour back through you at once.

You go faster. The finger curls and searches until it finds the spot that makes your thighs shake. Your cock leaks steadily, the modest length easy to work with short, tight strokes. You think about the hands that rested on your hips, the bodies that pressed close, the compliments, the way no one knew what you were hiding. The Algorithm’s suggestion was right. This is exactly the intensity the night built toward.

Your breathing turns ragged. The finger pushes deeper. Your fist flies over the small shaft. The orgasm hits hard, pulling a broken sound out of you as you spill over your knuckles in several sharp pulses. The climax feels longer and stronger than usual, the added pressure inside stretching it out until your legs tremble and your vision narrows. You keep the finger moving through it, milking every last wave, until you are left slumped on the bed in the rumpled nurse costume, cock still twitching, finger still buried, the little cap tilted halfway off your head.

You stay like that for a while, coming down slowly, the Algorithm’s message still glowing on the phone screen. Your body feels used in the best way, the night’s arousal finally given somewhere to go. The dress is damp in places. Your thighs are sticky. The stockings have slipped a little.

You eventually ease the finger out, clean up as best you can, and strip the costume off piece by piece. The gaff leaves faint marks. Your cock is soft and sensitive. You fold the dress and set the cap on top of it, already knowing the Algorithm will have more suggestions waiting in the morning.

You fall into bed still smelling faintly of the party and the sharp edge of what you just did. Hornier than you have ever been, and for the moment, satisfied in a way that feels new.