Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
"I'm glad you came back," Doctor Anderson says, closing the exam room door behind him. The click of the lock is soft, almost imperceptible. Laura hears it anyway.
She sits on the edge of the exam table, her paper gown bunched around her thighs, her hands clasped in her lap. Her heart pounds so hard she can feel it in her throat. Her palms are slick with sweat. She tells herself she's here for the pain. She tells herself this is medical.
Doctor Anderson crosses the room and sits in the chair beside the table, not on the stool between her legs. Not yet. He looks at her with those warm brown eyes, his expression open and concerned.
"How have you been feeling?" he asks. "Since the procedure."
"Okay," Laura says. "A little sore. Some cramping."
"That's normal. It should resolve within a few more days." He pauses. "And how are you sleeping? Eating well?"
"Fine." The word comes out clipped, defensive. She doesn't know why she's being short with him. He's only trying to help.
"I asked about your week," he says gently. "How is work? The library?"
Laura's shoulders drop a fraction. "Busy. We're getting ready for the annual book sale. It's a lot of work."
"I imagine it is. You mentioned you've been there ten years. That's a long time. You must love it."
"I do." She hesitates. "It's the only place I've ever felt like myself."
Doctor Anderson nods. "I understand that. Work can be a refuge." He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed. "I remember you told me about your mother. How she raised you alone. How she was very religious."
Laura's throat tightens. "Yes."
"That kind of upbringing leaves marks. Not just psychological. Physical too. The body holds onto fear in ways we don't always understand."
Laura doesn't respond. She stares at her hands, at the way her fingers are twisted together in her lap.
"Have you been practicing with the dilator kit?" he asks.
The question hits her like a slap. She shakes her head, her face burning. "No. I haven't."
He tsks softly. "That's okay. We'll do it together."
He stands and pulls on a pair of gloves. The sound of the latex snapping against his wrist makes her flinch. He gestures to the table.
"Lie back for me. Feet in the stirrups."
Laura's body moves before her mind catches up.
She lies back, the paper crinkling under her weight.
She swings her legs up, one at a time, and places her heels in the cold metal stirrups.
The position is humiliating, exposed, but he doesn't leer.
He doesn't stare. He simply looks at her like she's a patient, like this is normal.
He sits on the stool between her legs. His gloved hands rest on her inner thighs, warm and steady.
"I'm going to start with the smallest dilator," he says. "The same one I used last time. Just breathe and let your body accept it."
Laura stares at the ceiling. Fourteen tiles. She counts them. Still fourteen. She wonders if she'll ever stop counting them.
The dilator is cold and smooth as it slides inside her. She gasps, her muscles clenching around it.
"You're so tight," he murmurs. "Even the smallest one is a struggle. But that's okay. That's why we're here."
He moves the dilator in and out, slow and steady. His free hand rests on her lower belly, warm and grounding. The pressure is strange, uncomfortable, but not painful. Not yet.
"You're doing so well," he says. "Just breathe. Let your body accept it."
Laura breathes. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Her chest rises and falls. Her hands grip the edges of the table.
"Good," he says. "Now the next size."
He withdraws the first dilator and replaces it with a larger one. The stretch burns, a sharp ache that makes her wince. She bites her lip, trying not to make a sound.
"I know it's uncomfortable," he says. "But your body can take this. It wants to take this. It's your mind that's fighting."
He works the dilator deeper, twisting it slightly. Laura's hips jerk. A jolt of sensation shoots through her, sharp and electric.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs. "Your body wants this. It's your mind that's fighting."
He reaches the largest dilator. Laura gasps as it stretches her open, the burn intensifying. Her hips buck involuntarily, and she hears herself make a sound, a small, strangled moan.
Doctor Anderson holds the dilator in place, his thumb brushing against her clitoris. It could be an accident. Just adjusting his grip. That's what she tells herself.
"There's something else I want to try," he says.
He sets the dilator aside and reaches for something on the tray. Laura lifts her head, trying to see. It's a small wand, smooth and white, with a rounded tip.
"This is a pelvic floor stimulator," he explains. "It uses vibration to help relax the muscles. Very effective for cases like yours."
He turns it on. The hum is low, barely audible. Laura's stomach clenches.
"Just relax," he says. "This will help."
He presses the wand against her inner thigh first, letting her feel the vibration through her skin. Then he moves it higher, tracing a slow path along her outer lips. Laura's breath catches. The sensation is strange, buzzing, not unpleasant.
"That's it," he says. "Let your body respond."
He parts her folds with his free hand and presses the wand directly against her clitoris. The vibration is intense, overwhelming. Laura moans before she can stop herself. She slaps a hand over her mouth, mortified.
"Don't be embarrassed," he says softly. "This is a normal physiological response. Your body is learning to let go."
He works the wand in slow circles, watching her face, reading every micro-expression. The pleasure builds fast, too fast. Laura's hips move on their own, grinding against the wand. She can't stop herself. She doesn't want to stop herself.
"That's it," he says. "Let go. Stop fighting."
The orgasm hits her like a wave, sudden and devastating. Her back arches off the table. Her cries are muffled by her own hand. She comes with a shudder, her whole body convulsing, shame and pleasure tangled together until she can't tell them apart.
Doctor Anderson withdraws the wand slowly. He sets it aside and helps her sit up, his hands steady and professional. He hands her a tissue and a bottle of water.
"That was excellent progress, Laura," he says. "I'm very pleased."
Laura is shaking. She feels like she's going to throw up. She feels like she's never been more alive. She takes the water with trembling hands and sips it, trying to steady her breathing.
"We'll continue this at your next appointment," he says. "You're on your way to being cured."
Cured. The word echoes in her head. Is this what cured feels like? This sick, hot shame mixed with pleasure? This desperate need for his approval?
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 the vibration between her legs, the ghost of his touch lingering.
She walks out of the clinic on shaky legs. The sun is bright, blinding. She squints against it, her mind racing.
She goes straight to the library.
The building is quiet this time of day, the after-school rush not yet begun. Laura walks through the stacks, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She knows exactly where to look. She has spent ten years in this building. She knows every shelf, every section, every book.
She pulls every volume she can find on sexual abuse. Grooming. Medical ethics. She carries the stack to a quiet corner, hidden behind the reference section, and sits on the floor with her back against the shelves.
She reads about power imbalances. About the way predators use trust and authority to manipulate their victims. About the confusion and shame that keep women silent. About the way the body responds to stimulation even when the mind is screaming no.
She reads and reads, searching for something, anything, that explains what's happening to her. A single page that tells her she's not crazy. A single sentence that gives her permission to walk away.
But every page just makes it worse. Because the more she reads, the more she recognizes herself in the descriptions. The isolation. The self-doubt. The desperate need for approval.
And the more she reads, the more she realizes she's already counting the hours until she can go back.