3. Chapter 3
One week. Seven days of thinking about the bag in my closet, the one I bought online and hid under a folded sweater like contraband.
Seven days of touching myself at night and pulling my hand away when it got close, because Dr. Ragalski didn't say I could finish.
He didn't say I couldn't. But something in the way he said same time next week made the rule feel real anyway.
Exam room three smells the same. Alcohol swabs and that faint undertone of latex. I sit on the edge of the table with the paper gown loose around me and the bag in my lap, and I can't stop picking at the zipper pull with my thumbnail.
When he comes in, the room gets smaller. It always does. He's got the chart in one hand and a coffee in the other, and he sets both down without looking at them, because he's looking at me. At the bag.
"You brought it."
"I—yes. Like you said." My voice comes out thin. I clear my throat. "It's the one I bought like you said."
"Let me see it." He shrugs off his lab coat and drapes it over the back of the chair. Underneath, the white shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and the veins in his forearms stand out like something drawn.
I open the bag. The dildo is small—barely five inches, flesh-colored, with a suction cup base and a curve to it. I picked it because it's the size of my boyfriend.
He picks it up with two fingers, turns it in the light, and laughs. Low. Not unkind, but not gentle either.
"This is what you've been trying to take."
"I don't—" I bite my lip. "Not since the first time when it didn’t fit."
"No. I can tell." He sets it down on the tray beside the speculum and the lube, and when he looks back at me, his eyes have gone from clinical to something else, that glacial blue heating at the edges. "Lose the gown. On your back. Feet in the stirrups."
I do it. The paper crinkles under me, and the stirrups are cold against the arches of my feet, and the position opens me to the air and to him, everything on display.
He pulls the stool up between my legs. No glove this time.
He pours lube into his palm and slicks his fingers, and then he's inside me with two, easy as breathing, because I'm still stretched from last week. Still slick. Still his.
"Good girl," he says, and my whole body tightens around his fingers. "You're already wet. Did you touch yourself thinking about coming back here?"
"Yes."
"Did you come?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—you didn't say I could."
He goes still, just for a second. Then he adds a third finger, working it in slowly, and the stretch is so wide I make a sound I've never made before, something between a gasp and a whimper, and he watches my face while he does it.
"That's the truth of you," he says. "You wanted to be good for me more than you wanted to come. So tonight you'll do both."
He reaches for the dildo with his free hand. He doesn't put it between my legs. He brings it up to my mouth, presses the tip against my lips, and says, "Open."
I open. The silicone is cold and tasteless, and he pushes it in past my teeth, slowly, until it bumps the back of my throat and I gag around it.
He holds it there. His other hand is still in my pussy, three fingers buried to the knuckles, curling up against that spot that makes my hips lift off the table.
"That's your boyfriend's size," he says.
"That's what you're so desperate to take.
You can't even get it past your tongue. So we're going to fix that too.
" He pulls it out an inch and pushes it back in, and I suck on it because there's nothing else to do with my mouth, and he smiles down at me.
"There she is. Look at you, taking it in both holes at once. You were born for this."
He fucks my mouth with it in a rhythm that matches his fingers, and the wet sounds fill the room, and I can't close my eyes because he keeps telling me not to.
"Eyes on me. Don't you dare look away." So I watch him watch me, and my jaw aches, and my pussy clenches around his fingers every time he pushes the toy deeper, and I feel something building low and hot that I'm not allowed to chase.
"You're close," he says. It's not a question.
"Please—"
"Please what."
"Please let me."
He pulls both hands away at once. The dildo slides out of my mouth with a wet pop, and his fingers slide out of my pussy, and I'm left open and empty and shaking on the table with my feet still in the stirrups.
"No," I say. It comes out before I can stop it, thin and cracked, my hips still twitching around nothing. "No, please, I was—I was being good—"
He doesn't answer. He sets the dildo down on the tray, slow, deliberate, like he's setting down a scalpel, and then his bare hand comes down flat on my pussy.
Hard. The slap lands wet and loud in the little room, and I scream — not from pain, not exactly, from the shock of it, the sting blooming hot across my clit and my lips and everything he just emptied out.
My feet jerk in the stirrups. The paper tears a little under my ass.
He does it again. Same spot. The second one's worse because I know it's coming and my body arches up into it anyway, chasing it, and he sees that. He always sees everything.
"There it is," he says, low. "You don't get to decide when you've been good. I do. Say thank you."
"Thank—thank you—"
Third slap. My thighs are shaking so hard the stirrups rattle.
He spreads me open with one hand, thumb and forefinger peeling my lips back, and slaps the bare swollen center of me with the other, three more times in a row, steady as a metronome, and by the last one I'm not saying words anymore, just a high keening sound that I've never heard myself make.
My pussy feels like it's glowing. Like he's lit something under the skin.
"Look at that," he says, and his voice has gone rough at the edges, the clinical flatness burned off it. "Pink and puffed up and dripping down your ass. You liked that. Don't lie to me."
"I liked it."
"Say the whole thing."
"I liked it when you spanked my pussy." My face is on fire. I can feel it in my ears. "Doctor."
Something moves across his face — approval, hunger, both.
He pushes the stool back with his heel, stands, and leans over me so his shadow falls across my whole body, and he slides two fingers into me without warning, then a third, and this time there's no slow working-in.
He just fills me. Three fingers to the knuckles, all at once, and the stretch rips a sob out of me, and my back comes off the table.
"Breathe," he says. Then he starts to fuck me with his hand.
Not gentle. Not exploratory. His palm slaps against my clit on every stroke, and his fingers curl up into that place that makes my vision go white at the corners, and the wet sound of it is obscene, loud, echoing off the tile.
"That's it," he says. "That's my good girl.
Listen to how wet you are. You hear that?
That's you taking three fingers like you were built for it. "
I'm gripping the edges of the table. My knuckles are white. Every thrust pushes a sound out of me I can't hold back, and he's watching my face the whole time, cataloging it, and I can feel the orgasm coiling up behind my ribs, tight and hot and inevitable.
"I'm—" I gasp. "I'm going to—"
"Don't you dare," he says. "Not until I say so. Hold it."
And then he goes faster. Harder. His forearm flexing, the veins standing up, three fingers ramming into me at a pace that has no mercy in it, and I'm trying to hold it, I'm trying so hard, biting my lip until I taste copper, and then his thumb presses down flat on my clit and something inside me gives way — not the orgasm, something under it, something deeper and stranger, and I feel a hot gush spill out of me around his fingers, soaking his hand, running down between my ass cheeks onto the paper.
He stops. Fingers still buried. We both look down.
"Oh," I say. Small. Horrified. My whole face is burning. "I—I didn't. I've never—"
He pulls his hand out slowly and holds it up between us, dripping, shiny to the wrist, and he smiles — a real one, the first real one I've seen on him, and it does something terrible to my chest. "You squirted," he says. "All over my hand. You didn't know you could do that."
"No." My voice is barely there. "Is that—is that normal?"
"It's what happens when a woman finally lets go.
" He wipes his hand on the paper beside my hip, unhurried, then presses two fingers to my mouth.
"Clean them." I do. I suck my own taste off his skin, salt and musk and something I don't have a word for, and he watches me do it with his eyes gone dark.
"That's the first time," he says. "It won't be the last. Same time next week. "