Chapter 8: Mae Visits the Dentist
The dentist’s office parking lot was a sea of cracked asphalt under a flat, white sky. Tom killed the engine and the silence felt different here—charged with a low-grade, medical hum. Mae hadn’t spoken since they left the house.
“You good?” Tom asked, his hand coming to rest on the specialized headrest near her temple.
“Peachy,” she said, the word clipped. Her gaze was fixed on the clinic’s door. “It’s just cleaning and a check. Dr. Evans is fine. It’s fine.”
“It’s fine,” he echoed, a quiet affirmation. He got out, deployed the ramp, and secured her chair. The transfer from the car seat back to the wheelchair was a smooth, practiced pivot. He knelt, checking the positioning of her feet on the footplates, adjusting the denim of her overalls where it had caught under the thigh harness. His touch was clinical, but his thumb stroked once, softly, over her knee. A private signal.
She nodded, a sharp little jerk of her helmet.
Inside, the air was cool and tasted of spearmint and aluminum. The receptionist, Linda, a woman with kind eyes behind large glasses, looked up and smiled. “Mae! Right on time.” Her gaze flickered to Tom, familiar and welcoming. “Hi, Tom. You can both head straight back. Room three is ready.”
“Thanks, Linda,” Mae said, her voice warmer now, engaging with the ritual.
The hallway was a blur of beige and motivational posters about flossing. Room three’s door stood open. It was larger than a standard exam room. The centerpiece was the chair—a heavy, sculpted piece of equipment that looked like it belonged in a spacecraft or a boutique BDSM dungeon. It was upholstered in a soft, wipeable charcoal gray fabric. Thick, padded armrests extended out, each with multiple D-rings and straps secured with heavy-duty buckles. The headrest was deep and adjustable, with lateral supports. A bright, articulating light was suspended above it like a mechanical insect.
Dr. Evans was waiting, washing his hands at the sink. He was a tall, lean man in his fifties with a calm, unhurried demeanor. “Maeve,” he said, turning and drying his hands. “Looking well. And Tom. Good to see you.”
“Doctor,” Tom said, giving a brief nod. He positioned Mae’s chair next to the exam chair, locking the wheels. This was the handoff point.
“Okay, Maeve,” Dr. Evans said, leaning a hip against a counter. “Quarterly check and clean. No X-rays needed today. Anything giving you trouble? Sensitivity?”
“No,” Mae said. “Everything’s felt normal.” Her hands were tight on her chair’s armrests.
“Excellent. We’ll get you settled.” He nodded to his two dental assistants, Cara and Ben, who entered quietly. They were both in blue scrubs, their movements economical and confident.
This was the part Tom had to stand back for. It was a clinical procedure, a transfer. His role was observer, advocate, but not participant.
“Alright, Maeve, on three,” Cara said, her voice cheerful and firm. “One, two, three.”
With a smooth, coordinated heave, they lifted Mae from the wheelchair, supporting her under her arms and knees, and placed her into the center of the exam chair. Her denim overalls rustled against the vinyl. They immediately began arranging her. Cara pulled the leg rest up, so Mae’s knees were bent, her feet flat. Ben adjusted the back, tilting her into a semi-reclined position. They worked around her with a respectful efficiency that held no surprise, only routine.
Then the restraints.
First, the broad lap belt, clicked snug over her hips, pinning the bib of her overalls flat. Then the straps for her thighs, just above the knees, the buckles clicking with a solid, plastic sound. Next, her arms. They placed her forearms into the padded troughs of the armrests. Soft, wide Velcro straps went around each wrist, securing them without cutting off circulation. Another set went around her biceps, anchoring her upper arms down. She was laid out, open, immobile.
Tom watched her face. Her eyes were closed behind her goggles, her breathing deep and controlled through her nose. This was the worst part for her, the transition into absolute vulnerability. The loss of agency.
“Comfortable?” Dr. Evans asked, his voice a neutral probe.
“Sure,” Mae breathed out, the word thin.
“Okay. Head support now.”
Ben wheeled over a separate, U-shaped padded frame. He slid it gently behind Mae’s head and neck, then clicked it into brackets on the top of the chair. It cradled her helmet, holding her skull perfectly still. A final strap went across her forehead, just above her brows, securing her to the headrest. She was now fully immobilized. Every possible point of movement had been gently, firmly negated.
Tom felt a familiar pang in his chest—a mix of awe at her courage and a fierce, protective ache. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, saying nothing.
Dr. Evans pulled his stool close. “Alright, Maeve. Let’s get that guard out and have a look.”
Mae’s jaw tensed. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
The dentist’s hands, gloved in latex, came into her field of vision. With careful fingers, he unclipped the carabiner from her overalls strap. He then gently hooked a finger into the side of her mouth, finding the purchase point on the silicone. With a soft, sucking pop, he pulled the mouth guard free.
Mae’s lips remained parted. A thin string of saliva stretched and broke. She automatically tried to swallow, the motion restricted by the head frame.
“Good,” Dr. Evans murmured. He placed the guard on a sterile tray. “Now, the bite block.”
From another tray, he picked up a custom-fitted dental appliance. It was a smooth, hollow piece of acrylic, shaped to fit the arch of her teeth. He guided it into her mouth. “Open just a little wider for me… there.”
The device seated itself between her molars on both sides, propping her jaw open in a fixed, neutral position. Her mouth was now held open, her tongue resting helplessly in the basin of her lower jaw. A quiet, muffled sigh escaped her. This was the point of no return. She could not speak, could not close her mouth, could not turn her head. She was reduced to sensation and sound.
Dr. Evans flicked on the bright light, aiming it into her mouth. He selected a mirror and an explorer from the tray. The metal tools clicked.
“Beautiful tissue, Maeve. Really excellent.” His voice was calm, conversational. The scratch of the metal tool against her enamel was a tiny, deafening screech. “You’re doing great. Just going to check those margins on the molar crowns… all good. No decay.”
The high-speed suction whirred to life, a constant, windy roar. The hygienist, Cara, moved in with the ultrasonic scaler. The high-pitched whine vibrated through Mae’s skull, a dissonant buzz that traveled into her jawbone. Water from the tool sprayed, cool and shocking, and was instantly vacuumed away. She flinched internally, a full-body jolt that manifested only as a slight tension in her strapped-down shoulders. Her hands, hidden in the armrests, curled into impotent fists.
“Easy,” Dr. Evans soothed, though the cleaning continued. “You’re okay. Almost done with this side.”
Tom watched the procedure, his eyes on Mae’s face. A tear had escaped from under her closed eyelid and was tracing a slow path down her temple, disappearing into the padding of the head restraint. It wasn’t a tear of pain, he knew. It was a tear of sheer, overwhelming physical exposure. He wanted to reach out, to wipe it, but he stayed rooted. This was her battlefield, and she was occupying it with a stubborn, silent grace.
The cleaning seemed to last for hours. The taste of fluoride paste, gritty and artificial, filled her mouth. The suction tugged at her cheeks. Finally, the whining stopped.
“And we’re done,” Dr. Evans said, his voice warm with genuine approval. “Honestly, Maeve, this is the cleanest mouth I see all week. Your hygiene is impeccable. Given your… challenges, it’s remarkable.”
He carefully removed the bite block, then the suction tip. With a gauze pad, he dabbed gently at the corners of her mouth. “You can close whenever you’re ready.”
Mae’s jaw trembled as she slowly, achingly let it hinge shut. She worked her tongue, swallowing with effort. She didn’t open her eyes.
“Okay, let’s get you back.” Dr. Evans nodded to his assistants.
The reversal of the process began. The forehead strap released. The head frame was wheeled away. The Velcro on her arms rasped as it was pulled loose, the sound stark in the quiet room. The thigh and lap belt buckles were unsnapped.
On the count of three, they lifted her again, a dead weight of relief, and placed her back into the sanctuary of her own wheelchair. The familiar contours of the seat were a profound comfort. She slumped forward, bracing her helmeted head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. She took deep, shuddering breaths.
Tom was there instantly, a hand on her back, rubbing slow circles. He said nothing.
Dr. Evans finished his notes. “Everything is perfect. No issues. We’ll see you in three months.” He gave Tom a brief, professional smile. “Take care.”
Once in the hallway, Mae still hadn’t lifted her head. Tom pushed the chair, guiding them back toward the exit. In the lobby, Linda waved. “Bye, Mae! See you next time!”
Outside, the flat white sky had broken into patches of weak blue. The fresh air hit Mae’s face, and she finally straightened up. Her face was pale, her eyes weary behind the goggles. She fumbled on her overalls strap for the carabiner, her hands unsteady. Tom saw it, took the mouth guard from his pocket where Dr. Evans had handed it to him, and clipped it back on for her. His fingers brushed her chin.
She looked up at him, her green eyes vast and raw. She pulled the mouth guard free.
“I hate it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I hate every single second of it.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“And he always says it’s ‘remarkable’.” She spat the word out like a bad taste. “Like I’m a dog that learned a trick. ‘Remarkable’ that I don’t have rotten teeth.”
“He means it as a compliment,” Tom offered, though he understood the sting.
“I know what he means.” She sighed, a long, weary exhalation. She looked at the mouth guard in her hand, then slowly, deliberately, put it back between her teeth. She settled it with a click. She pulled the linen bib up from where it was tucked in and dabbed at her lips. The mundane gesture was a reclaiming of self.
She nodded toward the car, a silent command.
As he secured her chair in the back and helped her transfer into the custom seat, her movements were slow, drained. He hooked up her harnesses, and she leaned her head back, eyes closed.
He started the car, letting the heater blow warm air. “Grocery stop, or straight home?”
She didn’t answer for a full minute. Then she made a soft, considering sound around the guard. She held up two fingers.
“Two stops,” he interpreted. “Grocery, then home.”
She nodded, her eyes still closed. A single, fresh tear traced the same path down her temple. This one, Tom did reach over and wipe away with his thumb. She turned her face slightly into his touch, a silent thanks.
He put the car in drive, leaving the sterile world of the clinic behind for the mundane chaos of the supermarket, the next small, ordinary conquest of the day.
He put the car in drive, leaving the sterile world of the clinic behind for the mundane chaos of the supermarket, the next small, ordinary conquest of the day. The quiet in the car was dense, filled only with the low hum of the engine and the faint click of the turn signal. Mae kept her head against the headrest, eyes closed, letting the vibration of the road seep into her bones.
The raw, scraped-clean feeling from the chair was still there, a phantom echo of restraint. But as the streets blurred past, a different thread of memory began to unravel. It wasn’t the whine of the scaler she fixated on. It was the moment just before, when the last strap had been secured across her forehead. The absolute cessation of choice. The profound, irrevocable stillness that followed.
A strange heat, disconnected from the car’s heater, bloomed low in her stomach. She shifted slightly in the harness, the pressure of the full diaper—ignored during the appointment—now a prominent, warm presence. She replayed the feeling of the wide straps over her wrists. Not the fear, but the solidity. The way her struggles, her subtle testing of the bonds, had been met with unyielding firmness. It hadn’t been a fight; it had been an absorption. Her tension dissolving into the chair’s embrace.
“You’re quiet,” Tom said, his voice soft, cutting through her reverie. He glanced over, his eyes briefly leaving the road. “More than usual, I mean.”
She moaned around the mouth guard, a low, non-committal sound. She wasn’t ready for words. Her mind was traitorously circling the sensation of the bite block, the enforced openness. The complete vulnerability had been terrifying. Now, in the safe, moving capsule of their car, the terror was fading, leaving behind a peculiar, shame-tinged ache. Had she leaned into it? In the middle of the ordeal, had there been a fraction of a second where she’d stopped fighting the immobility and… accepted it? Welcomed it, even?
She re-lived the tear that had tracked down her temple. It hadn't just been from frustration or exposure. Part of it had been a release. A surrender so complete it bordered on physical. She let out another soft, muffled groan, this one longer, more thoughtful. Her hips pushed down minutely against the car seat harness, seeking pressure, amplifying the damp thickness between her legs. The layers of denim and cotton and plastic held everything in, a secret parallel to the medical restraints.
“Mae?” Tom’s voice held a question now, a layer of professional concern layered over personal intimacy. He knew her sounds, her silences.
She shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes shut. Not now. She needed to sit with this, this confusing, thrilling shame. She replayed Dr. Evans’s calm, authoritative voice. Open just a little wider for me. The command had been gentle, but it had been a command. And she had obeyed, instantly, without thought. A shiver, delicious and unwelcome, ran up her spine. She flexed her hands where they lay in her lap, remembering the Velcro on her wrists. She had pushed against it, just once, a feeble test. The restraint had given nothing. The helplessness had been absolute. And in that absolute helplessness, a part of her had… unclenched.
The car slowed, turning into the supermarket parking lot. The spell broke, but it left a residue, a heat in her cheeks and a quicker pulse in her throat. She opened her eyes as Tom found a spot near the cart return, the wide space designed for vans. The everyday world rushed back in—shopping carts clattering, a child laughing, the smell of asphalt and distant asphalt.
Tom killed the engine. “Ready for the gauntlet?” he asked, his tone light, trying to gauge her mood.
Mae pulled the mouth guard out, tucking it into its clip. She wiped her lips with her bib, the gesture automatic. Her voice, when it came, was a little rough, a little distant. “Yeah. Let’s get it over with.” But the words felt automatic, too. Her mind was still back in that chair, strapped down and open, discovering a dark, silent corner of herself she’d never dared to acknowledge.