Examined, Opened, and Filled (Too Close To Resist #12)

Examined, Opened, and Filled

My pussy had been itching since yesterday.

Not the metaphorical kind, though God knows I’ve got enough of that pent-up frustration too. I mean a real, maddening, under-the-skin itch.

It woke me at three in the morning, keeping me twisting in the sheets and shifting my legs just to chase a second of relief.

Walking across campus was even worse. I was forced into an awkward, tiny stride, cringing every time my denim jeans brushed the wrong way and set the flare-up off all over again.

I was convinced the whole world could read it on my face, that anyone passing by somehow knew exactly what had been tormenting me.

I’d tried everything from scrubbing myself in the shower with antibacterial soap that stung like betrayal, rinsing and rinsing until my vagina felt like a rubber glove to chugging coconut water from the overpriced café because some girl on TikTok with perfect skin and a ring light swore it balanced your pH and cured all infections from yeast to bad karma.

The itch just laughed at me.

What else can a broke college student do? I’d already accepted that my only option was to suffer nobly until my next paycheck from the campus bookstore came through. Maybe by that time I’d have scratched a hole through my underwear.

That was the plan, anyway. Then I found myself alone in the dorm room at two in the afternoon, and had other ideas. I’ve never examined my hoo-ha properly. Just mirror glimpses, upper view only, always in a hurry.

But my roommate has Chem lab until six. The four-hour kind with goggles, gloves, and total privacy. Which means I can finally spread my legs and get an uninterrupted look at whatever nightmare is going on down there.

For the first time all day, the timing felt almost perfect. If I was ever going to figure out what was causing this, now was probably my best chance.

And so, I grabbed my underwear and yanked it down in one quick motion, letting it fall around my ankles. I sat there fully unveiled, feeling strangely unfamiliar, as if my body had forgotten what it was like to be uncovered after being wrapped up all day.

I had never opened myself up like this, not even when I was alone.

I reached for the small hand mirror on my bedside table, the one meant for checking mascara smudges and lipstick caught at the corners of my mouth. Now, I was angling it between my thighs, adjusting the tilt until the glass finally showed me what I’d been too afraid to look at directly.

At first, it was only my face reflected back at me, eyes too wide, cheeks flushed with curiosity until I lowered the mirror.

There she was.

I’d expected something awful, something unmistakably wrong that would finally explain the relentless itching and give me a culprit to blame.

Instead, looking at myself so closely felt strangely intimate, almost like seeing my own body for the first time.

It looked softer than I’d imagined, a muted pink nestled within the darker folds, completely ordinary despite how much it had been bothering me.

Bringing the mirror closer, I squinted as I searched for anything out of place. A rash. A bump. A patch of irritated flesh.

Nothing. I shifted and spread my legs a little wider, trying to get a better angle.

SLAM.

The door flew open. It was my roommate, Nora.

She froze in the doorway, her tote bag slipping from her shoulder and hitting the floor with a thump. Her mouth fell open as her eyes dropped, landing on my crotch. They stayed there, wide and unblinking, as if her brain had short-circuited and couldn’t process where to look.

“Shit!” The mirror went flying, bouncing off the mattress, and disappeared somewhere near my pillow.

I scrambled upright, pulling my underwear back into place so fast the cotton twisted cruelly.

I could feel the heat pulsing in my ears, my throat, the tips of my breasts, a full-body shame that made my eyes water.

“Oh.” Nora clutched the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her standing. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to barge in.”

“You didn’t see anything.” My voice came out strangled like a cartoon character who’d just been flattened by an anvil.

She stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her.

“Something must be really bothering you, girl. I’ve never seen you spread like that before.

” A grin stretched across her face, the kind of grin that meant she was absolutely going to torture me with this for the rest of our lives. “You were committed.”

I pulled a pillow into my lap, hugging it like armor.

“Okay, I can explain.” I held up both hands before she could jump to an even more embarrassing conclusion.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been scratching a lot.

It’s—it’s probably some kind of infection.

Or maybe I’m allergic to the new laundry detergent. Or maybe I’m dying.”

Her grin faded, replaced by something almost maternal. “Did you get it checked?”

“No.” I picked at a loose thread on the pillowcase. “I can’t afford it. The campus clinic wants fifty dollars just to see me, and my checking account currently has eleven dollars and a dream.”

Nora went quiet. She pulled out her phone, her thumbs immediately flying across the screen. The sharp clicks of the keyboard filled the silence, each one making my stomach sink further.

“There,” she said, sliding the phone into her pocket with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “It’s set.”

“What do you mean?”

“I made you an appointment with my dad.”

I blinked. “Your dad?”

“He’s a gynecologist. Private practice, downtown. You can get checked for free.”

“Nora, I—”

“Get ready. We’re leaving in five.” She grabbed her keys from the hook by the door and was gone, clattering down the stairwell before I could form a coherent protest.

I stared after her.

How could this day possibly get any more humiliating? First, I’d been caught with my legs spread by my own roommate. Now I was being dragged off to see her father. Of all people.

And, unfortunately, I knew Nora well enough to know there was no point arguing. Once she decided something needed to be done, it was happening. So I grabbed my things, took a last look around the room, and headed downstairs.

She was already sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing the smugly patient expression of someone who knew she’d won.

I climbed into the passenger seat.

The car ride was its own special kind of hell.

Nora’s red Honda Civic smelled faintly of vanilla air freshener and old textbooks.

The radio played softly, some pop station cycling through the same five songs, but neither of us was really listening.

From time to time, she glanced at me, opening her mouth like she wanted to say something reassuring, then apparently thinking better of it.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said at a red light on Fourth Street.

“Yes, I do,” Nora said. “You look miserable.”

“I just… your dad, Nora. It’s weird.”

Nora clicked her tongue. “Mary, he’s a professional. He’s seen thousands of vaginas. Trust me, you’re not going to be the most memorable thing he sees today.” She paused, giving me a pointed look. “To him, it’s just another Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” I repeated weakly.

“Tuesday,” she confirmed, turning into a parking garage.

I’d known Nora’s father was a doctor. But a gynecologist? A male one? I’d always assumed he was an orthopedic surgeon, or a dermatologist. Something that dealt with knees or rashes or ear infections, definitely not that.

A few seconds later, she pulled into a spot and switched off the engine. I stared through the windshield at the clinic entrance, wondering if I could convince her I’d be perfectly fine without medical attention.

Apparently not.

Nora was already unbuckling her seat belt. “Come on.”

I sighed, snatched my bag, and followed her out of the car.

The clinic chimed as we entered, a ding that felt like it was announcing my shame to the entire block. Nora breezed to the front desk, leaning over to hug the receptionist, a woman with blonde hair and reading glasses. “Hey, Margie. This is my roommate, the one I texted about.”

Margie smiled at me in a way that made me want to sink through the floor. “Fill this out, honey. And don’t worry, Dr. Jude’s the best. He’ll take good care of you.”

She handed me a clipboard with a pen attached to it by a spiral of plastic cord.

The form asked questions I didn’t know how to answer.

Date of last period? I counted backward, my brain empty.

Number of sexual partners? I wrote 0 with such force I nearly tore the paper.

History of STIs? I stared at the letters until they blurred.

Suddenly, the door slid open.

Dr. Stephens stepped into the hallway, chart in hand, his white coat hanging open over a slate-gray button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

He was tall, obviously where Nora had gotten her height, with broad shoulders and an athletic build that made the professional clothes look unfairly good on him.

Dark hair, silvering at the temples, gave him the kind of distinguished look that somehow made him more attractive instead of less.

But it was his face that caught me off guard.

A strong jaw. A straight nose. Faint laugh lines gathered at the corners of his eyes, softening features that otherwise looked almost intimidatingly composed.

His eyes moved over the file with professional focus, unaware of the effect he was having on me.

Even his hands caught my attention, veiny and steady as they turned the pages with practiced ease, the kind that looked equally suited to building furniture or performing surgery with effortless precision.

He found Nora first, softening with warmth that transformed his whole face. “Nora, you didn’t tell me you were coming by.”

“Surprise,” she said, standing to hug him. “I brought you a patient. My roommate’s got an itch that won’t quit.”