Chapter 4: The exam
The next morning, I feel a constant tingling in my stomach that doesn’t seem to come solely from the pregnancy. Nervousness has me firmly in its grip, and the restless night still lingers in my bones. My sleep was shallow and full of unclear dreams that I can’t quite grasp. I look around and realize I’m all alone in the room. Jason has already gone downstairs. I feel tired, almost sluggish, as I try to push myself upright from a lying position and manage to sit on the edge of the bed. I close my eyes, hoping to feel some energy in my body—some motivation to actually get up and do what needs to be done. My skin still prickled with the memory of last night’s exposure.
I thought back to last night when Daryl had surprised me in the bathroom. It was so strange, but somehow I felt a slight, it's hard to describe or put into words, but it was an arousal? inside me. I tried to focus on it, to remember exactly. I don't think it was Daryl directly that triggered it, but did I want to show myself naked to (my) a man while I touched myself? Somehow I wanted to get rid of the thought and concentrate on the present. But it didn't really work.
As I focus like this, I suddenly feel a tingling sensation rising between my thighs. The first pleasantly beautiful feeling, I think. I glance around the room, as if to double-check that no one else is here but me, then I lean back and start touching myself. For a brief moment, I just want to hold onto this feeling and enjoy it.
As I concentrate, I feel the tingling between my thighs growing stronger. The first pleasantly beautiful feeling, I think. I look around the room as if to make sure that no one else is here but me, then lean back and begin to touch myself. For a brief moment, I just want to hold on to this feeling and enjoy it. But it's not my husband I have in mind, it's Daryl, who doesn't suddenly say he's sorry for disturbing me, but instead gazes at my naked body and watches me run my fingers through my slightly tousled pubic hair. "Damn it."
After a few brief moments, I let it go and decide that I have to somehow get Jason to pay attention to me and give me what I need. I shake myself to get the thoughts of Daryl out of my head. I am married to Jason. I am a Christian and a woman of moral integrity. I will not do such a thing.
Then I actually get up, put on my bathrobe, and go downstairs. Jason is in the kitchen preparing a simple breakfast. The smell of warm toast is in the air, but I just grab a cup of tea while Jason looks at me with an encouraging smile.
The morning light felt accusatory. It highlighted the dust motes dancing in the air of Daryl's spare room, each one a reminder of the temporary, borrowed nature of our lives here. I dressed carefully, choosing a simple, dark maternity dress that felt like armor.
Downstairs, the air was thick with unspoken words. Daryl was at the coffee maker, his back to me. The simple act of him pouring a mug felt loaded. Jason, blissfully unaware, scrolled through news on his phone. “Clinic confirmed. They’re still open, essential service and all that.”
“Good,” I managed, my voice tight.
“I know it’s not easy,” he says softly, “but we’ll get through this together.”
Daryl turned, holding out the mug. “Coffee?” His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second too long. There was no leer, no smirk, just a flicker of something—awkwardness, maybe even a shared mortification—before it was gone, replaced by a polite mask. I saw it again, the brief, telling image from last night, and my face heated.
“No. Thank you. I can’t, with the baby,” I said, too quickly.
He nodded, setting the mug down. “Right. Of course.” He busied himself with the sugar bowl. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator.
The drive to Port Townsend was a silent movie through the car windows. The world outside had been muted. The charming streets I’d seen in online photos were empty, storefronts shuttered, the famous Victorian houses staring out from behind their picket fences like wary old ladies. A lone seagull stood in the middle of the road, pecking at nothing. The only signs of life were the handwritten “Closed” signs and the faint, ever-present smell of disinfectant that seeped even through the closed car windows.
Jason broke the silence. “You okay? You’re quiet.”
“Just nervous,” I said, which was true, but it was a layered, complicated nervousness he couldn’t begin to understand.
He reached over and squeezed my knee. “It’s just a check-up. He comes highly recommended.”
The clinic parking lot was nearly empty. We fumbled with the FFP2 masks, the elastic tugging at our ears, sealing us in our own private atmospheres. The inside of the mask grew warm and damp with my breath almost instantly. The waiting room was a study in sterile anxiety. Chairs were spaced six feet apart, and the magazines were gone. The air hummed with a harsh, industrial cleaner that stung my nostrils.
A blonde woman in blue scrubs emerged from a back door. She had a friendly, round face and warm blue-gray eyes that crinkled above her mask. “Sarah Johnson? I’m Agnes. Right this way.”
Her voice was melodious, putting me at ease despite the circumstances. She led us to an examination room. “You can hop up here,” she said, patting the paper-covered table. The metal stirrups at the end were folded up, but their presence was a cold promise. “The doctor will be with you shortly. Just get comfortable from the waist down. There’s a sheet for you.”
She left, and the real dread set in. Jason helped me onto the table, the paper crinkling loudly under my weight. The ritual of removing my underwear, draping the thin, cheap sheet over my lap, felt both clinical and profoundly vulnerable. I was a specimen under paper.
A soft knock, and the door opened. Dr. Mark Taylor was older than I’d imagined, his head bald and speckled with age, his eyebrows a wild tuft of white. But his eyes, a pale, watery blue, were preternaturally calm. He moved with a slow, deliberate economy that suggested immense confidence.
“Sarah, Jason, a pleasure,” he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the paper-covered table. He didn’t offer a hand, just a slight, professional nod as his pale eyes took us in. “Let’s get you situated in a proper chair. This old thing is far more comfortable, I promise.”
He guided me from the table to a large, padded examination chair nearby. It was like sinking into a supportive cloud, with adjustable rests for my arms and legs. My eyes, however, were drawn to the walls. They were lined with mirrors, set at angles that reflected the room, the lights, and me, from multiple perspectives. “The mirrors?” I asked, my voice muffled slightly by my mask.
“Many women find it empowering,” Dr. Taylor explained calmly, snapping on a pair of gloves. “To see the process, to understand their own bodies. It demystifies the experience. Some even find it… comfortable.” His eyes held mine in the reflection for a moment before he turned to the tray of instruments.
The cold, clinical touch of the speculum came first. I flinched, a tiny, involuntary gasp caught in my throat. Jason, standing by my head, squeezed my hand. “You’re okay, honey. Breathe.”
“Just a moment of pressure,” Dr. Taylor murmured, his focus entirely on his work. He was impossibly gentle, talking me through each sensation as the metal warmed inside me. The ultrasound probe that followed was a different kind of intrusion, a smooth, gel-slicked pressure that searched for the shape of our child. The black and white image flickered on a screen to his side, a ghostly, beating heart that made Jason’s grip tighten. “Everything looks perfectly textbook,” Dr. Taylor said, his tone warm and reassuring.
Then the instruments were put away. He applied more gel to his gloved fingers. “Now, just a manual check of the cervix and pelvic floor. Perfectly normal.” His touch began as exactly that—normal. A firm, professional pressure inside me, assessing, probing.
But then it changed.
The pressure of his fingers subtly shifted. The pad of one finger, slick with gel, began to move not like a probe, but like a caress. It traced a slow, deliberate circle against a spot deep inside me that made my breath hitch. My eyes, wide and alarmed, shot to the mirror. I saw myself, exposed, my legs parted in the stirrups, and the top of the doctor’s bald head as he worked. Jason was still holding my hand, looking at the ultrasound screen, completely oblivious.
Dr. Taylor’s other hand, which had been resting on my thigh, moved. His thumb found the outer edge of my labia and began a slow, rhythmic stroking. It was a feather-light touch, hidden from Jason’s view by the drape and the angle of his body. He was massaging me, a gentle, persistent pressure that sent illicit sparks shooting through my core. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“Just relaxing the muscles,” he said calmly, his voice giving nothing away. His eyes flicked up to meet mine in the mirror for a split second, and in that glance, I saw a knowing depth that terrified and thrilled me.
His penetrating fingers curled inside me, applying a firm, perfect pressure to a place that clenched in response. At the same time, his thumb moved higher, finding my clitoris. He didn't just touch it; he began a slow, circular massage, the gel making the motion impossibly smooth, a secret, expert rhythm. A hot, shameful flush spread from my face down my neck. Pleasure, raw and shocking, began to coil deep in my belly, a tight, gathering heat I had never felt with Jason, not ever.
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, to stop a moan. My knuckles were white where I gripped Jason’s hand. He leaned down. “You doing alright? You’re trembling.”
“Fine,” I choked out, the word strangled. “It’s… a lot.”
Dr. Taylor’s fingers worked me with a physician’s knowledge of anatomy, finding every hidden trigger, stoking a fire I was desperately trying to smother. His thumb on my clit was relentless, a perfect, filthy friction that was bringing me closer to the edge than I had ever been. The room, the mirrors, Jason’s concerned presence—it all blurred into a dizzying backdrop for this secret violation, this exquisite betrayal. I was completely, utterly at the mercy of his skilled, manipulating hands, and my body was screaming its approval, betraying every vow I’d ever made.
The pressure inside me built, a terrifying, exquisite tide. His thumb circled my clit with a filthy, perfect rhythm that made my toes curl against the stirrups. "Just breathe through it, Sarah," Dr. Taylor murmured, his voice a low, professional hum that belied the secret violation of his fingers. "Almost done." My body was a traitor, clenching around his invading digits, craving more of this shameful, expert friction. I stared into the mirrored wall, watching my own masked face contort, my eyes wide with panic and a pleasure so deep it felt like pain. Jason squeezed my hand. "You're squeezing back so hard," he whispered, his voice laced with concern. "Is it that uncomfortable?" A broken, strangled sound was all I could manage, a pathetic excuse for a moan caught in the mask's fabric. The coil in my belly snapped. A raw, silent scream locked in my throat as my hips lifted off the table, a violent, shuddering wave of release crashing through me. My cunt pulsed and clenched rhythmically around his still, penetrating fingers, my inner muscles milking them in a series of uncontrollable, wet spasms. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying the tears welling in them would be mistaken for pain. I let out a sligthly, silent moan. I climaxed.
Dr. Taylor held his position, letting the last tremors subside before slowly, carefully, withdrawing his gloved hand. The sound of the glove snapping off was obscenely loud. "All finished," he said, his tone unchanged, as if he hadn't just orchestrated my ruin. "Cervix is firm and closed. Everything is perfectly healthy." I couldn't look at Jason. I couldn't look at anything. The paper beneath me was damp with sweat, and the air smelled of sex and antiseptic, a nauseating combination. My entire body hummed with the aftershocks of a climax I’d never achieved with my own husband, given to me by a stranger's hand in a sterile, mirrored room.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the crinkle of paper as I lowered my legs from the stirrups. Dr. Taylor disposed of the glove with a clinical snap, his face an unreadable mask of professional courtesy.
“All done,” he said, his voice the same calm rumble. “You can get dressed. I’ll give you a moment.”
He and Jason exchanged a few quiet words about vitamins and hydration, a normal conversation that sounded like it was happening through water. My ears roared with my own heartbeat. Jason helped me sit up, his hand steadying my back. “You okay? You’re really flushed.”
“Just warm,” I mumbled, the lie sticking to my dry throat. The dampness between my thighs was not from gel alone, and the sensation was a filthy, shameful secret pressed against the paper. I waited for them to leave, holding the thin sheet against my chest like a shield.
The door clicked shut. I sat there for a long moment, my breath fogging the inside of my FFP2 mask. The mirrored walls showed a shattered woman, her hair damp at the temples, her eyes wide and dark with a confusion that ran deeper than fear. I could still feel the echo of his touch, the ghost of his fingers inside me, the precise, ruthless rhythm of his thumb. My cunt pulsed once, a soft, aching clench that made me bite my lip hard. My body felt heavy, languid, and profoundly used.
Sliding off the comfortable chair, my feet found the cold linoleum. My legs trembled, barely holding my weight. The process of dressing was mechanical. I wiped the slick, cold gel from my thighs with a rough paper towel, the act feeling both necessary and obscene. Pulling my underwear back on was a revelation; the cotton felt abrasive against my oversensitive skin, a constant, tactile reminder. I dressed quickly, my fingers fumbling with the buttons on my maternity dress, wanting to cover the evidence of my betrayal.
My mind was a storm of static. I didn't pray. I couldn't. The thoughts were too jumbled—images of Daryl in the bathroom doorway, Jason’s oblivious concern, and the doctor’s knowing pale eyes in the mirror. I fixed my mask and smoothed my hair, my movements automatic. A deep, unsteady breath filled my lungs, and I grasped the door handle.
Jason was waiting in the hallway, his smile soft and reassuring. “That went well, right? He seemed really thorough.”
“Very thorough,” I said, my voice thankfully steady. We walked back to the reception area. The antiseptic smell was stronger here, covering a different, more intimate scent I could still smell on my own skin.
Agnes was behind the desk, her blonde head bent over a schedule. She looked up, and her blue-gray eyes, above her own mask, held a peculiar, sparkling intelligence. “All set?” she asked, her tone light and friendly.
“Yes, thank you,” Jason answered for us.
Her gaze settled on me, and a subtle, knowing smile touched the corners of her eyes. “And how was the examination, Sarah? Dr. Taylor has a very unique technique. Some women find it surprisingly… comprehensive.”
The question was innocuous on the surface. The subtext was a landmine. I felt my face heat again, grateful for the mask. “It was… different,” I managed, forcing my shoulders into a small shrug. “More involved than I’m used to.”
“He’s very detailed,” Agnes agreed, her eyes not leaving mine. “Leaves no stone unturned.” She held my gaze for a beat too long before turning her attention to the computer.
Just then, Dr. Taylor emerged from the back, pulling the door closed behind him. He had removed his white coat and looked like any other elderly gentleman in his shirt and trousers. “Mrs. Johnson,” he said, his tone warm and paternal. “Given your stage and the… thoroughness we began today, I’d like to see you again in two days. Just to ensure everything is progressing ideally. Weekly checks are advisable in the third trimester, but I prefer a tighter schedule initially to establish a baseline.”
Although weekly check-ups are only recommended from the third trimester onwards, I prefer to follow a more frequent schedule initially – as you are new here and we have very few records from the Philippines – in order to establish a baseline. Furthermore, I reckon we’re heading into a prolonged pandemic, as we still don’t know much about Covid-19. We’re already in lockdown, and who knows whether there will be further restrictions. We should arrange as many appointments as we can. I’d like to examine you as thoroughly as possible."
Dr Taylor spoke the last sentence more quietly, almost in a whisper. The thought of returning, of submitting to that chair and those mirrors and his hands, sent a jolt through me that was equal parts dread and a dark, unwelcome thrill. “Two days?” I echoed.
“If your schedule allows,” he said, his pale eyes gentle. “It would be prudent.”
Jason pulled out his phone. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you recommend, Doctor. Thursday?”
Agnes looked up at her computer screen. She said, “Thursday morning. 10.30? That’s the appointment I can offer you.”
My husband replied, “Yes, that works well. We’ll go for a bite to eat afterwards, darling.”
Agnes input the appointment, the keys clicking softly. “All booked. We’ll see you then, Sarah.” Her voice was sweet, but the finality of it felt like a sentence. Dr. Taylor gave a small, professional nod and retreated back down the hallway, leaving me standing there with my husband, a fresh appointment burning in my phone, and the deep, unsettling knowledge that my body had a secret it kept from my heart.
I stared at the fluorescent light reflecting off the polished floor. My body still hummed. My skin still remembered. I opened my calendar app with numb fingers, the screen a blur. “Thursday… Thursday afternoon,” I heard myself say, the words coming from somewhere far away, and somewhere I felt a slight tingling.