Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
"You'll feel a pinch," Doctor Anderson says, and Laura grips the edges of the exam table, her knuckles white.
The room is cold. The overhead light burns bright, aimed directly between her legs. She is naked from the waist down, her feet in the stirrups, the paper gown bunched around her hips. She has been in this position for ten minutes, and every second feels like an hour.
She came alone this time. Helen offered to drive her, to sit in the waiting room, to hold her hand. Laura insisted she would be fine. She is thirty-two years old. She is an adult. She can handle a simple medical procedure without a chaperone.
She regrets it now.
Doctor Anderson sits on the stool between her legs, his face hidden behind a surgical mask.
His hands are steady, his movements precise.
He has already numbed her cervix with a local anesthetic, but the needle stung, and the pressure of the speculum is still there, a cold metal presence stretching her open.
"Just a little more," he says. "I know it hurts. I'm right here."
His voice is calm, soothing. It should be reassuring. Instead, it makes her skin crawl. There is something about the way he says her name, the way his eyes crinkle above the mask, the way his gloved hand rests on her inner thigh like it belongs there.
She stares at the ceiling. Fourteen tiles. She counts them again. Still fourteen. She thinks about the library, about the cart of books waiting to be shelved, about the overdue notices she needs to send. Anything but what's happening between her legs.
The instrument inside her moves. Laura gasps, her hips jerking involuntarily.
"Try to stay still," Doctor Anderson says. "I'm almost done."
His free hand presses down on her lower belly, holding her in place. The pressure is firm, grounding. His thumb traces a small circle just above her pubic bone, and Laura's breath catches. That's not medical. That's not necessary. But she doesn't say anything. She doesn't know how.
"You're doing beautifully," he murmurs. "Just breathe through it."
She breathes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Her chest rises and falls. Her hands ache from gripping the table. She can feel sweat beading on her forehead, trickling down her temples.
"There," he says finally. "All done. The polyp is out."
Laura exhales, her whole body sagging with relief. The speculum slides out of her, and she feels empty, hollowed out. The pressure is gone, but the ache remains, a dull throb deep inside her.
Doctor Anderson removes his gloves and helps her sit up. His hand rests on her lower back, warm through the thin paper gown.
"The hard part is over. Now we focus on healing."
He hands her a tissue. She takes it, dabbing at her eyes. She didn't realize she was crying.
"The aftercare is simple," he says. "No intercourse for six weeks. No tampons. No heavy lifting. The bleeding should stop within a few days, but you might have some spotting and cramping."
Laura nods, still catching her breath.
He pauses, tilting his head. "But there's something else we should discuss. The tightness I noticed during your exam. That's not normal, Laura. That's a condition. And it's treatable."
Laura's stomach drops. "What do you mean?"
"Your pelvic floor muscles are abnormally tight.
It's called vaginismus. It can make any kind of penetration painful or impossible.
It's often rooted in psychological factors.
Fear, shame, trauma." He says the words gently, like he's handling something fragile.
"Given your history, it's not surprising. "
Laura's face burns. She wants to deny it, to argue, but she knows he's right. She has always been tight. She has always been afraid. Her body has been a locked door for as long as she can remember.
"It's treatable," he says again. "But it requires consistent therapy. Dilator work, pelvic floor exercises, regular check-ins. I can help you with that."
"How?" The word comes out small, scared.
Doctor Anderson smiles. "Lie back down. I'll show you."
Laura hesitates. The procedure is over. The polyp is gone. There is no medical reason for her to stay on this table, no reason for her to put her feet back in the stirrups. But his voice is so calm, so confident, and she wants so badly to be fixed.
She lies back down.
She stares at the ceiling, counting the tiles, trying to slow her racing heart. Doctor Anderson pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. The sound of the latex snapping against his wrist makes her flinch.
"I'm going to examine the surgical site," he says. "Make sure everything looks good."
His fingers part her folds, gentle but insistent. Laura winces. She is sore, tender from the procedure, and his touch stings.
"You're so tense," he says. "Even now, after everything, you're fighting me. Your body is fighting me."
He shakes his head sadly. "That's not healthy."
His fingers slide inside her, slow and deliberate. Laura gasps. She can feel every knuckle, every movement. He probes the walls of her vagina, pressing against the tight ring of muscle that clenches around him.
"This is the problem," he says. "Right here. Your body is holding on so tight. It doesn't know how to let go."
He withdraws his fingers and reaches for something on the tray beside him. Laura lifts her head, trying to see. It's a small, smooth object, no bigger than her pinky finger. Silicone, she thinks. Medical grade.
"This is a vaginal dilator," he explains. "It's designed to help relax the pelvic floor muscles. We start small and work our way up."
He holds it up so she can see. It looks harmless. It looks like nothing. But the thought of it inside her makes her stomach clench.
"This will help," he says. "But it's not just about the physical. The tightness is psychological. Your fear has made your body a prison."
He positions the dilator at her entrance, the tip pressing against her. Laura's breath catches.
"Breathe," he says. "That's it. Let it in. Stop fighting."
He slides it in slowly, watching her face. The dilator is cold and smooth, and it stretches her in a way that borders on painful. Laura's eyes fill with tears. She doesn't know if it's pain or shame or something else entirely.
"You're doing so well," he murmurs. "Just relax. Your body is responding."
His thumb brushes against her clitoris, light as a feather. Laura jerks, a jolt of sensation shooting through her.
"Can you feel that?" he asks. "The way you're opening for me? That's progress."
He moves the dilator in and out, a slow, steady rhythm. His thumb circles her clitoris in time with the movement. Laura's hips buck involuntarily. She grips the edges of the table, her knuckles white, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
This is wrong. She knows it's wrong. A doctor shouldn't be touching her like this. A doctor shouldn't be making her feel like this. But her body doesn't care about should or shouldn't. Her body only knows the pleasure building between her legs, hot and urgent and impossible to ignore.
"That's it," he says. "Let go. Stop fighting."
Laura squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn't want to see his face, doesn't want to see the way he's looking at her. But she can feel him, can feel every movement, every touch, every inch of the dilator sliding in and out of her.
The orgasm builds slowly, a pressure low in her belly, spreading outward through her limbs. She tries to hold it back, to keep some part of herself separate from what's happening. But it's no use. Her body betrays her, arching off the table, her mouth opening in a silent cry.
She comes with a shudder, her muscles clenching around the dilator, her whole body trembling. The pleasure is sharp and overwhelming, and it leaves her gasping, tears streaming down her face.
Doctor Anderson withdraws the dilator slowly. He sets it aside and helps her sit up, his hands steady and professional. He hands her a tissue.
"You did very well today, Laura," he says. "I'm proud of you."
The words hit her like a physical blow. A rush of warmth floods her chest, followed immediately by self-loathing. Why does she care what he thinks? Why does his pride matter? She barely knows this man. She should be horrified by what just happened. She should be running for the door.
Instead, she sits on the edge of the table, her legs dangling, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She feels hollowed out, emptied, like something essential has been scooped out of her.
"We'll need to see each other regularly," Doctor Anderson says. "This isn't a quick fix. But I'll be with you every step of the way."
He schedules her follow-up appointment. Two weeks from now. Same time, same room. Laura nods, unable to speak.
She gets dressed slowly, her fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. Her clothes feel strange against her skin, too tight, too rough. She can still feel his fingers inside her, the ghost of his touch lingering in the most intimate parts of her body.
She walks out of the clinic on shaky legs. The sun is bright, blinding. She squints against it, fumbling in her purse for her phone.
She calls Helen.
"I need to talk to you about Doctor Anderson," she says.
"What's wrong?" Helen's voice is sharp with concern. "What happened? Are you okay?"
Laura opens her mouth. The words are there, right there on the tip of her tongue. He touched me. He made me come. He said it was therapy, but it wasn't. It wasn't.
But she can't say it. She can't find the words. Because what would Helen say? What would anyone say? That she's overreacting. That she's misinterpreting. That Doctor Anderson is a saint, a professional, a man who has delivered babies and saved lives.
"Nothing," Laura says finally. "It's fine. He's very... thorough."
She hangs up before Helen can respond. She sits in her car, staring at the clinic door, feeling the ghost of his fingers still inside her.
The parking lot is quiet. The sun beats down on the windshield.
And Laura sits there, frozen, unable to drive away, unable to go back, unable to do anything but sit and shake and wonder what the hell just happened to her.