Chapter 2: The Speculum Examination
The silence after he washed his hands was profound. Moira lay limp, the paper stuck to her sweat-dampened skin, staring at the continent on the ceiling. Her body hummed, a live wire of spent sensation and vibrating shame. He had called it treatment. He had scheduled a follow-up.
Dr. Ashton moved to a cabinet, his back to her. The ordinary sounds of a latch opening, of objects being shifted, were suddenly laden with threat. He turned, holding items she couldn’t quite make out.
“We made excellent progress today, Moira,” he said, his voice back to that soothing, professional timbre, but his eyes were not. They gleamed in the soft light, fixed on her. “But true pelvic floor release requires deeper work. We need to ensure you can’t retreat into your habitual tension. The mind wills it, but the body resists. We’ll help your body comply.”
He came to the side of the table, holding four wide bands of supple black leather. Cuffs. “Raise your wrists for me, please.”
It wasn’t a question. Her arms moved as if detached, heavy. He buckled the first cuff around her left wrist, the leather cool and firm. He pulled her arm gently but inexorably to the side rail of the table, securing it with a click. Then the right. The restraint wasn’t cruel, but it was absolute. Her ankles were next, the cuffs snug just above the pooling socks from last time, each leg pulled wide and fastened to the lower stirrup posts.
Spread-eagle. Exposed in a way that made the previous vulnerability seem like a polite suggestion. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic bird.
“This is…” she started, but her voice failed.
“Standard for intensive myofascial release,” he finished for her, his fingers checking the fit of the cuff at her right wrist, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “Safety and efficacy, Moira. You need to surrender to the process.”
He walked away again, and she heard the distinct sound of a drawer opening, the clatter of metal. When he returned, he held a speculum. But it was thicker, heavier than the standard one, made of polished stainless steel. And at its base, a small black plastic component with a dial.
“This will allow us to examine you under varying conditions of stimulation,” he explained, as if lecturing. “To see how your cervical os responds. A dynamic assessment.”
He squeezed lubricant onto the closed blades. It was cold. He held it up, letting her see it glisten under the lights.
“Breathe out,” he instructed, his free hand coming to rest on her inner thigh.
The cold tip touched her. She flinched, a gasp tearing from her. He pushed steadily, the thick, rigid metal parting her, invading with a slow, inexorable twist. It was too much. It stretched her obscenely, a blunt, clinical fullness that burned. A low whine escaped her lips.
“There now,” he murmured, his face close to her thigh, watching as he worked the mechanism. The blades opened inside her with a soft click. She cried out, the sensation of being held forcibly open short-circuiting her thoughts. He adjusted the dial on the base.
A deep, internal vibration began. It wasn’t a buzz. It was a profound, rhythmic thrum that seemed to resonate in her bones, in the core of her being. It stole the air from her lungs. Her cunt, which had been clenching in protest, suddenly rippled, betraying her. A fresh gush of warmth seeped out around the metal.
“Observe the responsiveness,” he said, his voice hushed with fascination. He was watching her sex, watching the way her inner muscles fluttered and gripped the shining instrument. “Perfect.” He turned the dial up.
The vibration intensified, becoming a punishing, glorious pulse right against her deepest spots. Moira writhed against the restraints, her hips trying to buck, to escape, to lean into it—she didn’t know. Leather creaked. Tears, hot and helpless, spilled from the corners of her eyes, tracking into her hairline. She was sobbing, her breaths ragged.
“Please…”
“Please, what, Moira?” He was removing his watch, placing it neatly on the counter. He rolled up the sleeves of his white coat, then his shirt cuffs, revealing strong forearms. “Tell me what you need. Use your words.”
She couldn’t. Her world had narrowed to the brutal vibration and the shocking stretch. He increased the setting again. The orgasm that hit her was brutal, convulsive, tearing a scream from her throat. It was less pleasure than a seismic dismantling, her body seizing around the cold metal, shaking the table. He let it rock through her, his hand flat on her belly, feeling the violent contractions.
When the last tremor subsided, he turned the dial off. The sudden silence was deafening. With a slow, careful motion, he released the mechanism and withdrew the speculum. The relief of its removal was instantaneous, leaving her gaping, throbbing, utterly empty.
He didn’t move away. He stood between her splayed legs, looking down at her devastated sex, glistening and swollen. He coated his right hand liberally with more lubricant, slicking his fingers, his palm, all the way past his wrist.
“The treatment requires a final release,” he said, his voice now gravelly, stripped of all pretense. “To ensure the fascia is fully compliant. To break the last of the tension.”
Two fingers slid into her easily, soaked as she was. Then three. She was so open, so spent, they met little resistance. He worked them in slowly, scissoring, stretching her further. A fourth finger joined, his thumb tucked alongside. Her eyes widened, a new panic rising. She was impossibly full.
“Thomas… I can’t…”
“You can. You will.” He pushed his hand forward, a steady, relentless pressure. The stretch became a burn, an impossible expansion. She was panting, her body straining against the cuffs, every muscle taut. He leaned his weight into it, his brow furrowed in concentration, watching her face. “Breathe through it. Open for me.”
With a final, slick pop of resistance giving way, his entire fist slid into her, burying itself to the wrist inside her cunt.
Moira’s scream was silent, her mouth a wide ‘O’ of shocked, unimaginable feeling. The fullness was absolute, devastating. He was inside her in a way she had never conceived possible, his knuckles pressing against inner walls that had never been touched, his wrist stretching her entrance to a tight, burning ring. He held it there, unmoving, letting her body acclimatize to the invasion, to the profound reality of being fisted.
“Fuck,” he breathed, awe in his voice. “Look at that. Taking me so deep. Your body is accepting the treatment perfectly.”
He began to move. A slight withdrawal, then a slow, grinding push back in. The friction was unreal, a deep, internal massage that radiated through her entire pelvis. It wasn’t the sharp pleasure of before; it was a heavy, overwhelming, primal fullness that shifted something in her psyche. The tears came again, steady and quiet. She was coming apart, not in climax, but in surrender.
His casual, professional dialogue had ceased. Now it was just grunts and dark, filthy praise. “That’s it. Grip my fist. Milk me. Your cunt’s swallowing me whole, you perfect fucking patient.”
He established a rhythm, a slow, deep pistoning of his entire arm. The sound was wet, obscene, echoing in the quiet room. Moira floated outside herself, tethered only by the anchor of his fist stretching her to her limits. She felt split open, remade.
He sped up, his own breath becoming ragged. “You feel this, Moira? This is where you keep it all. And I’m taking it. I’m taking all of it.”
His free hand clamped on her hip, holding her down as he drove harder, his fist a brutal, claiming piston inside her. She felt another orgasm building, not from her clit, but from the deep, brutal stimulation of his hand massaging her innermost parts. It crest
It broke over her with a force that vaporized thought.
Her back arched, a strained bow against the table, every muscle locking in a rigid, exquisite paralysis. The sensation wasn't a peak but a vast, internal detonation, originating from the deepest place his fist occupied and radiating outward in violent, consuming waves. A raw, guttural sound tore from her throat, strangled and inhuman.
He fucked her through it with hard, unyielding strokes of his buried fist, the wet slap of his palm against her labia keeping time with her convulsions. “That’s it,” he grunted, his own composure fraying. “Let it all go. Empty yourself for me.”
The orgasm seemed endless, a tidal wave of pure sensory overload that left her blind and deaf to anything but the brutal fullness and his harsh breaths. Her vision whited out at the edges, stars bursting behind her eyelids. The restraints bit into her wrists as she strained, but the pain was a distant, secondary echo.
Slowly, the seismic tremors subsided into smaller, involuntary shudders. Her body went limp, held up only by the leather cuffs and the solid mass of him inside her. She was a hollowed-out shell, utterly spent. He stopped moving, his fist a hot, aching weight within her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing—his controlled, hers a ragged, sobbing pant. He leaned over her, his face hovering above hers, blocking out the fluorescent light. Sweat dotted his temples. His kind brown eyes were gone, replaced by something dark and wholly possessive.
“Good,” he whispered, the word a puff of air against her lips. “So good for me, Moira. But we’re not done.” He rotated his wrist inside her, a slow, internal twist that made her gasp.
Her eyes widened, a feeble protest forming on her swollen lips. “I can’t… again. Please.”
“You can,” he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. He withdrew his hand in one slow, devastating slide, the sudden, cavernous emptiness making her feel cold and gaping. “You will.”
He unbuckled his belt with a sharp, efficient rasp of leather against denim. The sound was obscenely loud. The zipper’s descent was a death knell for what remained of her sanity. He freed himself, and her breath hitched. He was thick, heavy, and rigid, the evidence of his arousal glistening at the tip.
He stroked himself slowly, his gaze locked on her ruined, glistening sex. “See what you do?” he murmured, almost to himself. He smeared the bead of moisture over his broad head, then used it to slick his length, his movements deliberate and maddening.
Positioning himself at her entrance, he pressed the blunt tip against her stretched, sensitive flesh. He didn’t ask. He didn’t ease. He pushed forward with a single, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her in one devastating move.
The cry that left her was one of sheer, shocked fullness. He was broader than his fist, a hot, solid invasion that filled a different, deeper space. He bottomed out, his hips flush against her, and paused, letting her feel every impossible inch. Her cunt, oversensitized and throbbing from the fisting, spasmed wildly around him, a frantic, involuntary welcome.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his eyes rolling back for a second. “Still so fucking tight. Greedy little cunt.” He drew back almost all the way, then surged back in, setting a punishing, deep rhythm that shook the entire table.
This was different from the fisting. This was primal, a claiming. Each thrust nailed her to the table, the metal legs screeching softly on the linoleum with his force. He grabbed her hip with one hand, his fingers digging in, while the other wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just holding. A possessive anchor.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
Her tear-blurred eyes focused on his. His face was a mask of intense concentration, of unrestrained hunger. This was the man who had praised her blood pressure readings, who had discussed perimenopause with gentle concern. He was gone. This was someone else. This was Thomas.
“This is your treatment,” he ground out, driving into her with a force that stole her breath. “This is what you needed. To be used. To be fucking emptied.”
His words, filthy and direct, carved into her. She was a vessel, a thing being fucked on an exam table by her doctor. The shame should have incinerated her. Instead, it fused with the blinding pleasure-pain of his thrusts, creating something new and horrifyingly potent. A raw, ugly truth.
Her body, treacherous and alive, began to climb again. A tight, impossible coil of sensation tightened low in her belly, fed by the brutal friction, by the degradation, by the sheer authority of him. She tried to fight it, biting her lip until she tasted copper.
He saw it. His hand tightened minutely on her throat. “No. Don’t you dare hold back. You give it to me. You scream it out.”
He angled his hips, hitting a spot that made lights burst behind her eyes. His pace became frantic, erratic, losing its clinical rhythm. He was close. She could feel it in the tense set of his jaw, in the ragged pump of his hips. “Come on my cock, Moira. Now. Do it.”
The command snapped the last thread. The coil exploded, shattering her into a million pieces. It was a catastrophic, mind-wiping orgasm that tore through her with violent, unforgiving waves.
And as it ripped her apart, as his own release followed with a guttural roar and a scalding flood deep inside her, her mouth fell open, and the sound that ripped from the very core of her ruined soul was a raw, ragged, three-syllable blasphemy against the sterile air.
“THOMAS!”
Her scream echoed off the sterile tiles, a raw sound that seemed to hang in the air long after her voice broke. Thomas’s body stiffened above her, a final, deep pulse as he emptied himself inside her with a low, ragged groan. The heat of his release flooded her, a shocking, intimate violation that marked the end of the frantic motion. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her deeper into the table, his forehead coming to rest against her sweat-dampened shoulder.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their breathing—his slowing, hers still coming in shattered hitches. The smell of sex and antiseptic filled the small room, a sickly-sweet contradiction. He shifted, softening inside her, and the sensation of his withdrawal was a slow, shameful emptiness. She felt exposed, filled and then brutally emptied, a used vessel.
He stood up, turning away to tend to himself. The zipper sound was mundane, devastating. She stared at the ceiling, the continent-shaped stain now a familiar landmark in her personal ruin. Her wrists ached in the cuffs. Her thighs trembled. A warm trickle traced a path down her inner thigh.
“Okay,” he said, his voice normal again. Calm. Like he’d just finished a routine suture. He moved to her left wrist, unbuckling the leather with precise, efficient clicks. The blood rushed back into her hand, a prickling cascade of pins and needles. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He released her other wrist, then her ankles, rubbing each limb briefly to restore circulation. His touch was professional, dispassionate. He fetched a cloth from the warmer, the same kind he’d use for a standard exam. He wiped between her legs with a thorough, clinical detachment, mopping up the evidence of what they’d done. The warm cloth felt alien on her oversensitive flesh.
“Can you sit up?” he asked, offering a steadying hand.
She pushed herself up, the paper tearing beneath her. The room tilted slightly. He guided her legs over the side of the table, her feet touching the cold floor. She was shaking. He knelt before her, holding a fresh, folded towel. “Here,” he said, his voice softer now. “For the drive home.”
She took it numbly, placing it on the seat she would later sit on. He helped her into her clothes, his fingers deft on the buttons of her blouse, as if she were a child. Her mind was a blank, white static. He handed her her bag.
“The follow-up,” he said, standing by the door, a figure of paternal concern once more. “My receptionist will call. Two weeks. To assess progress.”
She nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
“You did very well today, Moira.” The words were a psychiatrist’s benediction, a priest’s absolution. They curdled in her stomach. He opened the door, the hallway light slicing into the dim room. “Take care.”
She walked out on unsteady legs, the towel a secret shame in her hand. The waiting room was empty, the receptionist gone for the day. The click of the door closing behind her was the loudest sound she’d ever heard.
Her car felt like a spaceship, an alien capsule. She started the engine, the normalcy of the dashboard lights a bizarre contrast. She drove on autopilot, the memory of his weight, his heat, his possession replaying on a loop. She stopped at a red light and looked at her hands on the wheel. They were clean. They were steady.
A deep, trembling void opened inside her, where the shock and the shame had been. It was hunger. A terrible, yawning hunger for that feeling of being utterly unmade. The light turned green. She drove the rest of the way home in a perfect, terrible silence, the ghost of his release still warm between her legs.