Dr. Tony Mercer’s clogs squeaked against sterilized floors as he dodged a rattling medication cart. The high-care wing’s alarms bleated like distressed lambs—Room 312 again, probably another febrile seizure. He pivoted toward the sound, coat flapping behind him, but a firm hand caught his elbow.“Your crisis is in Room 207,” Nurse Patel said, her tablet glowing with vitals. “Low-care transfer from Pediatrics. Code Brown.” “Since when do low-care littles get routed here?” Tony thumbed antiseptic gel across his knuckles. The sharp lemon scent cut through the hallway’s sterile fog. “Since her caregiver called in a favor. It’s Mobius’s girl.” His stethoscope slipped. The cold weight hit his chest with a thud. Katie. Room 207’s door wheezed open. The scent hit him first—cloying artificial cherries from the pink disinfectant spray, undercut by something sour. Cotton balls toppled from the counter as he shoved past, eyes scanning the crib. She wasn’t crying. That registered before anything else—the absence of wails, the lack of tiny fists pounding mattress bars. Katie lay curled on her side, Hello Kitty leggings rucked up to reveal a swollen belly. Her thumb trembled near her mouth but didn’t quite make it past chapped lips. “Hey, bug.” Tony crouched, wincing as his knees crackled. Thirty-two going on sixty. “Mobius texted me you weren’t feeling sparkly.” Dull eyes tracked his voice. Four-year-old headspace today, he guessed—the way her pink sneakers stamped imaginary brakes when he touched her wrist. “Temp’s normal,” Patel murmured behind him. “But she’s been dry-heaving. No bowel movement in six days.” “Six?” The pulse under his fingers jumped rabbit-quick. “She’s low-care. Why wasn’t this flagged earlier?” “Mobius thought it was anxiety. Kept giving her apple juice.” Tony’s tongue pressed hard against his molars. Caregiver blind spots. Always the juice, the crackers, the she’ll go when she’s ready. He palmed Katie’s abdomen, feeling the rigid curve beneath soft skin. “Okay, supergirl. Let’s get you comfy.” The exam table whined as he lifted her—lighter than last time, definitely underweight. His palm spanned her ribs too easily. She flinched when the paper crinkled beneath her. Not a sound. Not a tear. Wrong. High-care littles screamed during enemas. Sobbed over suppositories. This silent trembling scraped his nerves raw. “Hey.” He trapped her sneaker between his palms, rubbing warmth into the sole. “Remember when Mobius let you frost those unicorn cupcakes? You painted my hair glitter pink.” A faint snuffle. Her toe flexed against his thumb. “Think you’ve got a cupcake belly now.” He tapped her distended stomach, watching her eyes widen. “Too many sprinkles clogging the pipes. Gotta help them out, yeah?” Her legs jackknifed when he reached for the leggings. “Easy.” Tony stilled, hand hovering. Patel passed him a sensory brush—bristles like kitten fur. He drew circles on Katie’s shin until her muscles unclenched. “Just checking your tummy’s map.” The waistband rolled down. Rash bloomed across her hips, angry and speckled. Tony’s gut twisted. “No diapers?” Patel shook her head. “Caregiver report says she’s been toilet-trained eighteen months.” “And crapping rabbit pellets for six days.” His finger skirted the rash’s edge. “She’s impacted. Full manual disimpaction. Prep the oil.” Katie’s whimper punched through his sternum. “Shhh. Story time.” Tony fumbled his phone free. A Bluey theme song chirped to life—Mobius’s hacked playlist with extra bass. He wedged the device under a stack of gauze, screen angled toward her. “Bingo’s got a tummy ache too. Let’s fix both, okay?” Distraction worked. Sort of. Her hips still rocked anxious arcs while Patel positioned the bedpan. Tony slicked his glove with mineral oil, wrist deep in warm gel. “Count Bandit’s sneezes for me.” His index finger breached her, met immediate resistance. Hard pellets packed like shrapnel. “One... two...” Her knees slammed together. “Easy. Easy. Bingo’s on episode three—remember the sprinkler bit?” Patel’s hand clamped Katie’s thigh, but the little girl jerked like a hooked fish. Tony gritted his teeth. “Mobius overfeeds the fiber when she’s anxious. Mac and cheese with flaxseed, right? Made bricks.” The first clump gave way with a wet pop. Katie’s back arched, breath hitching. “There’s the first sprinkle.” Tony held up a glistening marble—hard, fissured, exactly as he’d feared. “Ten more and you beat Bingo’s high score.” Her whine crescendoed when he hooked a larger mass. The smell unfurled—musty, sour, clinging to the roof of his mouth. Patel gagged subtly into her mask. “Mobius mentioned she’s scared of...” A glance at Katie, now chewing her collar. “Rumble seats.” Tony paused. “Car rides?” “The vibrations. Last time...” Oh. His glove dripped ochre. “You think she associates the feeling with...” “Her parents’ accident. Yeah.” He swore under his breath. Of course Mobius would’ve told the nurses. Of course he’d forgotten. Katie’s heel dug into his ribs. “Shift change.” Tony ripped off his soiled glove. “Disimpaction’s halfway. She needs a glycerin drip, but we can’t tube her in this state.” Patel eyed the rash. “Diaper protocol?” “Against Mobius’s care plan.” “She’s macerating.” The truth hung between them—raw skin, infection risk, a little girl too terrified to let her body function. Tony touched Katie’s ankle. “Hey, bug. Wanna try astronaut panties?” Her nose wrinkled. “Special moon pants. Keep your tushie safe while the medicine works.” He brandished a disposable brief—generic white, no babyish prints. “Like Band-Aids for your bottom.” Silence. Then, a wobbly nod. Progress. She fought the diaper. Of course she did. Hissed when the tabs fastened, slapped his shoulder when he tested the fit. “All done.” Tony lifted her, ignoring the heat radiating through the padding. “Now we wait for...” Her gasp cut him off. Hands fisting his scrubs, face buried in his chest—he felt the cramp before the smell hit. Hot pressure against his thigh, the diaper sagging with wet, earthy clumps. “Good girl.” His palm circled her back. “Let it all out.” Patel scrambled for wipes. Katie shook, silent tears soaking his collar. The mess spread—hot, impossibly copious, chunks pressing against the diaper’s confines. “Almost there.” Tony rocked her, nose full of peat and iron. “You’re doing so good, Katie-Cake.” Her fingers dug into his neck. He felt the exact moment her body surrendered—a gush of slurry, then softer expulsions. The diaper swelled, warm against his forearm. “Epic score.” He reached for the tabs. “Let’s get you...” Her whimper stopped him. Patel frowned. “She’s still clutching you.” “Need to assess the...” Katie’s hips jerked. A fresh cramp? But her face had changed—lips parted, pupils wide. Tony stilled. The diaper shifted against his hand—not just mess now. A rhythmic pulse. Subtle. Insistent. Oh. He pressed gently. The padding rustled as her hips rolled. “Report says she’s never...” Patel whispered. “Mobius never mentioned?” “Trust me, he’d have bragged.” Katie’s breathing quickened. Her head lolled against his shoulder, hot cheek smearing tears. Tony’s thumb found the swollen bud through damp cellulose. “Shhh.” He traced the nub—slow, clinical circles. “Does this feel better?” Her nod was almost imperceptible. “Good girl.” His other hand cradled her skull. “Just helping your body relax.” Patel edged toward the door. “I’ll, uh... chart the bowel movement.” The click of the latch echoed. Katie’s legs splayed. Her back arched, driving his finger harder against the diaper. A moan escaped—thin, reedy, torn between relief and shame. “Easy.” Tony adjusted his grip. “No rush.” But she was rushing. Humping his hand now, desperate friction painting her thighs with slick. He’d seen this before in high-care patients—touch starvation translating to misguided self-soothing. Her hips stuttered. “There you go.” He nuzzled her hair, avoiding eye contact. “Let it happen.” The diaper squelched. Her whole body locked—a silent scream against his neck—then slumped boneless. Tony counted the aftershocks. Seven... eight... nine. “Better?” She nuzzled his pulse point. He should’ve put her down. Should’ve called Patel back. Instead, he carried her to the sink, diaper sagging, and started the lukewarm tap...



Dr. Tony Mercer’s clogs squeaked against sterilized floors as he dodged a rattling medication cart. The high-care wing’s alarms bleated like distressed lambs—Room 312 again, probably another febrile seizure. He pivoted toward the sound, coat flapping behind him, but a firm hand caught his elbow.

“_Your_ crisis is in Room 207,” Nurse Patel said, her tablet glowing with vitals. “Low-care transfer from Pediatrics. Code Brown.”  
“Since when do low-care littles get routed here?” Tony thumbed antiseptic gel across his knuckles. The sharp lemon scent cut through the hallway’s sterile fog.  
“Since her caregiver called in a favor. It’s Mobius’s girl.”  

His stethoscope slipped. The cold weight hit his chest with a thud.  

*Katie.*  

Room 207’s door wheezed open. The scent hit him first—cloying artificial cherries from the pink disinfectant spray, undercut by something sour. Cotton balls toppled from the counter as he shoved past, eyes scanning the crib.  

She wasn’t crying.  

That registered before anything else—the absence of wails, the lack of tiny fists pounding mattress bars. Katie lay curled on her side, Hello Kitty leggings rucked up to reveal a swollen belly. Her thumb trembled near her mouth but didn’t quite make it past chapped lips.  

“Hey, bug.” Tony crouched, wincing as his knees crackled. Thirty-two going on sixty. “Mobius texted me you weren’t feeling sparkly.”  

Dull eyes tracked his voice. Four-year-old headspace today, he guessed—the way her pink sneakers stamped imaginary brakes when he touched her wrist.  

“Temp’s normal,” Patel murmured behind him. “But she’s been dry-heaving. No bowel movement in six days.”  

“Six?” The pulse under his fingers jumped rabbit-quick. “She’s low-care. Why wasn’t this flagged earlier?”  

“Mobius thought it was anxiety. Kept giving her apple juice.”  

Tony’s tongue pressed hard against his molars. Caregiver blind spots. Always the juice, the crackers, the *she’ll go when she’s ready*. He palmed Katie’s abdomen, feeling the rigid curve beneath soft skin.  

“Okay, supergirl. Let’s get you comfy.” The exam table whined as he lifted her—lighter than last time, definitely underweight. His palm spanned her ribs too easily.  

She flinched when the paper crinkled beneath her. Not a sound. Not a tear.  

*Wrong.*  

High-care littles screamed during enemas. Sobbed over suppositories. This silent trembling scraped his nerves raw.  

“Hey.” He trapped her sneaker between his palms, rubbing warmth into the sole. “Remember when Mobius let you frost those unicorn cupcakes? You painted my hair glitter pink.”  

A faint snuffle. Her toe flexed against his thumb.  

“Think you’ve got a cupcake belly now.” He tapped her distended stomach, watching her eyes widen. “Too many sprinkles clogging the pipes. Gotta help them out, yeah?”  

Her legs jackknifed when he reached for the leggings.  

“Easy.” Tony stilled, hand hovering. Patel passed him a sensory brush—bristles like kitten fur. He drew circles on Katie’s shin until her muscles unclenched. “Just checking your tummy’s map.”  

The waistband rolled down. Rash bloomed across her hips, angry and speckled. Tony’s gut twisted.  

“No diapers?”  

Patel shook her head. “Caregiver report says she’s been toilet-trained eighteen months.”  

“And crapping rabbit pellets for six days.” His finger skirted the rash’s edge. “She’s impacted. Full manual disimpaction. Prep the oil.”  

Katie’s whimper punched through his sternum.  

“Shhh. Story time.” Tony fumbled his phone free. A *Bluey* theme song chirped to life—Mobius’s hacked playlist with extra bass. He wedged the device under a stack of gauze, screen angled toward her. “Bingo’s got a tummy ache too. Let’s fix both, okay?”  

Distraction worked. Sort of. Her hips still rocked anxious arcs while Patel positioned the bedpan. Tony slicked his glove with mineral oil, wrist deep in warm gel.  

“Count Bandit’s sneezes for me.” His index finger breached her, met immediate resistance. Hard pellets packed like shrapnel. “One... two...”  

Her knees slammed together.  

“Easy. Easy. Bingo’s on episode three—remember the sprinkler bit?” Patel’s hand clamped Katie’s thigh, but the little girl jerked like a hooked fish.  

Tony gritted his teeth. “Mobius overfeeds the fiber when she’s anxious. Mac and cheese with flaxseed, right? Made bricks.”  

The first clump gave way with a wet pop. Katie’s back arched, breath hitching.  

“There’s the first sprinkle.” Tony held up a glistening marble—hard, fissured, exactly as he’d feared. “Ten more and you beat Bingo’s high score.”  

Her whine crescendoed when he hooked a larger mass. The smell unfurled—musty, sour, clinging to the roof of his mouth. Patel gagged subtly into her mask.  

“Mobius mentioned she’s scared of...” A glance at Katie, now chewing her collar. “Rumble seats.”  

Tony paused. “Car rides?”  

“The vibrations. Last time...”  

*Oh.* His glove dripped ochre. “You think she associates the feeling with...”  

“Her parents’ accident. Yeah.”  

He swore under his breath. Of course Mobius would’ve told the nurses. Of course he’d forgotten.  

Katie’s heel dug into his ribs.  

“Shift change.” Tony ripped off his soiled glove. “Disimpaction’s halfway. She needs a glycerin drip, but we can’t tube her in this state.”  

Patel eyed the rash. “Diaper protocol?”  

“Against Mobius’s care plan.”  

“She’s macerating.”  

The truth hung between them—raw skin, infection risk, a little girl too terrified to let her body function.  

Tony touched Katie’s ankle. “Hey, bug. Wanna try astronaut panties?”  

Her nose wrinkled.  

“Special moon pants. Keep your tushie safe while the medicine works.” He brandished a disposable brief—generic white, no babyish prints. “Like Band-Aids for your bottom.”  

Silence. Then, a wobbly nod.  

*Progress.*  

She fought the diaper. Of course she did. Hissed when the tabs fastened, slapped his shoulder when he tested the fit.  

“All done.” Tony lifted her, ignoring the heat radiating through the padding. “Now we wait for...”  

Her gasp cut him off. Hands fisting his scrubs, face buried in his chest—he felt the cramp before the smell hit. Hot pressure against his thigh, the diaper sagging with wet, earthy clumps.  

“Good girl.” His palm circled her back. “Let it all out.”  

Patel scrambled for wipes. Katie shook, silent tears soaking his collar. The mess spread—hot, impossibly copious, chunks pressing against the diaper’s confines.  

“Almost there.” Tony rocked her, nose full of peat and iron. “You’re doing so good, Katie-Cake.”  

Her fingers dug into his neck. He felt the exact moment her body surrendered—a gush of slurry, then softer expulsions. The diaper swelled, warm against his forearm.  

“Epic score.” He reached for the tabs. “Let’s get you...”  

Her whimper stopped him.  

Patel frowned. “She’s still clutching you.”  

“Need to assess the...”  

Katie’s hips jerked. A fresh cramp? But her face had changed—lips parted, pupils wide.  

Tony stilled.  

The diaper shifted against his hand—not just mess now. A rhythmic pulse. Subtle. Insistent.  

*Oh.*  

He pressed gently. The padding rustled as her hips rolled.  

“Report says she’s never...” Patel whispered.  

“Mobius never mentioned?”  

“Trust me, he’d have bragged.”  

Katie’s breathing quickened. Her head lolled against his shoulder, hot cheek smearing tears.  

Tony’s thumb found the swollen bud through damp cellulose.  

“Shhh.” He traced the nub—slow, clinical circles. “Does this feel better?”  

Her nod was almost imperceptible.  

“Good girl.” His other hand cradled her skull. “Just helping your body relax.”  

Patel edged toward the door. “I’ll, uh... chart the bowel movement.”  

The click of the latch echoed.  

Katie’s legs splayed. Her back arched, driving his finger harder against the diaper. A moan escaped—thin, reedy, torn between relief and shame.  

“Easy.” Tony adjusted his grip. “No rush.”  

But she was rushing. Humping his hand now, desperate friction painting her thighs with slick. He’d seen this before in high-care patients—touch starvation translating to misguided self-soothing.  

Her hips stuttered.  

“There you go.” He nuzzled her hair, avoiding eye contact. “Let it happen.”  

The diaper squelched. Her whole body locked—a silent scream against his neck—then slumped boneless.  

Tony counted the aftershocks. Seven... eight... nine.  

“Better?”  

She nuzzled his pulse point.  

He should’ve put her down. Should’ve called Patel back.  

Instead, he carried her to the sink, diaper sagging, and started the lukewarm tap...

Dr. Tony Mercer, a dedicated physician at a specialized hospital, encounters Katie, a low-care little who is constipated and in discomfort. Despite her usual independence, Katie's condition requires Tony to administer a manual disimpaction, leading to a unique and intimate moment between them. After successfully relieving her discomfort, Tony discovers Katie's unexpected response to his gentle touch, leading to a tender and intimate experience.

A Doctor's Gentle Touch

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