Chapter 7: The second Exam
The fog had teeth today. It gnawed at the edges of the windshield, swallowing whole trees and turning the familiar road into a ghost track. Jason drove with a quiet intensity, one hand on the wheel, the other rubbing his temple. The silence between us was different now, layered. My secret from yesterday—the smooth, bare skin under my cotton underwear—felt like a neon sign only I could see, humming against the car seat.
“You sure you don’t want me to wait in the lobby?” he asked for the third time, his voice tight with a strain I knew was about more than just pandemic rules. It was about money, about time slipping away, about the oppressive weight of a new life in a silent country.
“Agnes said it’s two hours. You should use the time. Look for that storage unit,” I said, staring at my own reflection in the side window. My face looked pale, my eyes too large. I’d taken extra care with my makeup—a soft eyeliner, a hint of blush—a pathetic armor. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a check-up.”
Just a check-up. The lie tasted like aluminum.
“Right.” He sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. “I just hate leaving you.”
“I know.” I reached over and squeezed his thigh, feeling the tense muscle beneath the denim. The gesture was wifely, automatic. A part of me meant it. The other part was already in the room with the mirrors.
Port Townsend was a shuttered dream. Shop windows were dark, “CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE” signs slapped across them like quarantine orders. The only movement was the slow roll of the fog. It felt like we were the last people on earth, driving towards a secret rendezvous the world had slept through.
The clinic parking lot was nearly empty. A single sedan, probably belonging to Agnes, sat beaded with moisture. The building was a low, modern thing of glass and beige stucco, impersonal and clean. My heart began a slow, heavy drumbeat against my ribs.
Jason came around and helped me out, his hand firm under my elbow. “Easy,” he murmured, though the ground was perfectly flat.
We walked to the entrance together, his footsteps echoing mine. The automatic doors hissed open, and the smell hit me—that specific, sterile lemon-and-antiseptic smell that now, forever, would be tied to the scent of my own shocking pleasure. My stomach twisted.
The waiting room was empty. Muted landscape paintings hung on walls the color of weak tea. Chairs were spaced six feet apart, and the magazines looked untouched for years. Behind the sliding glass window of reception, a blonde head was bent over a computer.
Agnes.
She looked up as we approached, and her face broke into a wide, warm smile. It was a pretty smile, genuinely friendly, but it didn’t reach her blue-gray eyes. They were appraising, quick, taking in Jason beside me with a flicker of something that was gone before I could name it.“Sarah! Right on time.” Her voice was bright, a little musical. She slid the window open. “And Jason, hi! So good to see you both.”
“Hi Agnes,” Jason said, forcing a joviality that rang false. “Just playing chauffeur today. I hear I’m banished to the parking lot.”
Agnes made a sympathetic pout. “Stupid rules, right? But Doctor Taylor is very strict about exposure. We have to protect our moms-to-be.” Her gaze swung to me, that assessing look returning for a half-second. “How are you feeling, Sarah?”
“Okay. A little tired,” I said, my own voice sounding thin and far away.
“You look amazing. Pregnancy really suits you,” she said, and it didn’t sound like empty flattery. It sounded like a observation, a note made. Her eyes dropped to my belly, then back to my face. “Well, Jason, we’ll take excellent care of her. You’ve got my number if you need anything. Maybe grab a coffee down the street? The Mariners’ Café is still doing takeout.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jason said. He turned to me, his hands awkward at his sides. The usual goodbye kiss felt suddenly impossible, too loaded, too much of a performance. He settled for a squeeze of my shoulder. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll be right outside.”
“I will.”
He lingered for a second, a man caught between duties, then gave a nod to Agnes and turned. I watched him go, his tall frame receding through the glass doors, swallowed by the grey mist. A profound loneliness hollowed me out. I was alone now.Truly alone.
Agnes buzzed me through the inner door. The clinical hallway was brighter, quieter. The hum of a refrigerator came from somewhere. She emerged from the reception nook, and I saw her fully. She was pretty in a soft, approachable way, a little rounded, her scrubs hugging curves that her open cardigan tried to disguise. Her makeup was perfect, sensual—smoky eyes, a glossy lip. She smelled of vanilla and clean linen.
“Come on back,” she said, her tone now more confidential, a co-conspirator’s whisper. “We’ll get your vitals first, then the doctor will see you. It’s a more in-depth consult today. Lots of questions, lots of listening.” She led me to a small scale and blood pressure station.
I stepped onto the scale, the numbers blurring. The cuff tightened around my arm. Agnes worked efficiently, her fingers cool and professional. But her presence was… heavy. She was watching me, not just my blood pressure reading.
“So, how was the first visit?” she asked casually, jotting down numbers on my chart. “Everything go okay?”
The memory of the chair, the mirrors, the crescendo I’d fallen over, flashed behind my eyes. Did she know? Could she tell? Was there a mark on me?My cheeks burned. “It was fine. He was very… thorough.”
Agnes smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. She didn’t look up from the chart. “He’s the best. Really has a way of putting patients at ease, doesn’t he? Even when things are a little… unconventional.”
My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t speak.
She finally glanced up, her expression all innocent helpfulness. “I mean, with the pandemic and everything. It’s all so unconventional.” She patted my arm as she removed the cuff. “All good. Follow me.”
I trailed her down the hall, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. We passed a closed door with a plaque that read ‘Ultrasound.’ Another said ‘Lab.’ At the end of the hall was the door I remembered. My door.The exam room.
Agnes stopped before it and turned to face me. She placed a hand on my forearm, her touch surprisingly gentle. Her eyes met mine, and for the first time, the professional veneer dropped completely. What looked back at me was a spark of intense, almost giddy curiosity, mixed with a deep, unsettling empathy.
“He’s a remarkable man, Dr. Taylor,” she said, her voice low and sincere. “He sees things other people miss. He understands what women need, even when they’re too scared or… too proper… to ask for it.” She leaned in a fraction. “Just be open with him, Sarah. However you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking.He can handle it. He wants to help.”
She was talking in code, but the meaning was as clear as the glass in the empty waiting room. My face was on fire. I wanted to bolt. I wanted to sink through the floor.
Agnes gave my arm a final squeeze. “I truly hope you find today’s session… fulfilling. I hope it brings you a lot of joy.”
Joy. The word hung in the sterile air, obscene and beautiful. It wasn’t a word you used for a medical appointment. It was a word for celebrations, for revelations, for sin.
Before I could stammer a response, she turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room beyond was just as I remembered: the high, narrow exam table, the crunch of paper, the tray of sinister-looking instruments, the large, angled mirrors on the ceiling. The light was softer today, diffused through the slatted blinds, cutting the room into bars of pale gold and deep shadow.
Dr. Mark Taylor was not in the room. But his presence was. It was in the stark order of the tools, in the waiting stool, in the faint scent of his cologne—something spicy and old-fashioned—that lingered under the antiseptic.
“The doctor will be with you in just a few minutes,” Agnes said softly from behind me.
“The doctor will be with you in just a few minutes,” Agnes said softly from behind me. The door clicked shut with a final, quiet sound, sealing me inside. I was alone with the mirrors on the ceiling.
I stood frozen for a long moment, listening to the muffled hum of the clinic. My own reflection in the medical cabinet’s glass door looked back at me—a small, pregnant woman in a too-bright room, her secret pulsing just beneath the skin. I forced myself to move, the paper on the exam table crunching under my palm as I hoisted myself up. The chill of the vinyl seeped through my leggings.
I stared at the ceiling, at those long, tilted panels of glass. They showed the room from a terrifying, God-like perspective. They showed a version of myself laid out, waiting. I looked away, studying the anatomical posters on the wall instead, their cross-sections of wombs suddenly looking less clinical and more like dark, alien caves.
A soft knock came at the door, two precise taps. Before I could say anything, it opened. Dr. Mark Taylor entered, his white coat a crisp contrast to the muted room. He carried a tablet tucked under one arm. “Sarah,” he said, his voice a warm, gravelly baritone. “Good to see you again.” He moved with a calm, deliberate economy, shutting the door behind him.
“Hello, Doctor,” I managed. My throat was tight.
He settled onto the rolling stool near the counter, tapping his tablet awake. He glanced at me over his reading glasses, his pale eyes crinkling at the corners. “How have you been feeling since your last visit? Any concerns? Spotting, unusual pain, contractions?”
“No. Nothing like that,” I said. My fingers twisted in the fabric of my shirt. “Just… normal tiredness.”
“Good, good.” He made a note. “And emotionally? This is a stressful time for everyone, let alone someone expecting in a new country.” His gaze was attentive, not probing, but it felt like it reached past my skin.
“It’s hard,” I admitted, the words slipping out before I could guard them. “Isolating.”
“I imagine it is.” He nodded slowly, as if storing the information. “And how is your support system? Your husband… Jason, is it? Is he managing?”
The question felt loaded. “He’s very busy. Trying to get everything settled for us.”
“Of course.” Dr. Taylor set the tablet aside on the counter and swiveled the stool to face me more directly. He folded his hands in his lap. The gold wristwatch on his wrist glinted in the slatted light. “Sarah, part of holistic care is understanding the whole environment for the baby. That includes maternal stress, emotional health… and physical intimacy. It’s all connected.”
A cold prickle ran down my spine. “Okay.”
“I need to ask some personal questions now. They’re routine, but important.” He leaned forward slightly. His expression was kind, utterly professional. “How has your physical relationship with your husband been during the pregnancy? Any discomfort?”
The air thinned. I looked at a spot on the wall just past his shoulder. “It’s been… fine. Normal.”
“Frequency?” he asked, his tone neutral, clinical.
I swallowed. “Not… not very often. Since we moved.”
He nodded, jotting a brief note on a physical chart now, not the tablet. “Understandable given the stress. When was the last time you were sexually active? Even with no penetration, I mean any activity leading to orgasm.”
The word, spoken so plainly in that sterile room, vibrated in the air between us. My face was scorching. The memory of last week’s fumbled, hurried attempt with Jason flashed by—a closed door, his distracted touch, my own silent frustration. And then the memory from this very chair, just days ago, which was not a memory of Jason at all.
“It’s… been a while,” I whispered.
“I see.” He removed his reading glasses, letting them dangle from his hand. His pale eyes held mine. “That’s what I had… noticed. During your initial examination.”
The hum of the refrigerator in the corner seemed to grow louder. The room tilted slightly.
“When a woman is under significant stress, and intimacy is absent for a prolonged time, the pelvic floor can show certain signs of… well, let’s call it disuse. Tension patterns. It’s not just psychological.” He spoke softly, as if explaining a delicate piece of machinery. “It was quite evident during your speculum exam. The involuntary clenching, the specific texture of the tissue. It told a story of prolonged neglect.”
I couldn’t breathe. He had seen that? He had deduced that? I felt utterly flayed open, my most private shame diagnosed and labeled on some invisible chart.
“That,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near murmur, “is why my examination last time was more… comprehensive than you might have expected. A standard check wouldn’t have addressed that level of muscular guarding. I needed to see how your body was responding, to assess the full range of tension and potential for circulation.” He paused, letting the words hang. “It’s medically relevant to your pregnancy, Sarah. Comfort leads to better outcomes.”
My mind scrambled. Was that true? It sounded plausible, terrifyingly so. It also sounded like a perfect, elegant excuse. I remembered the feeling of his hands, the unrelenting pressure, the shocking, unraveling release that had left me weeping into the paper pillow. Was that medicine? Or was it something else?
“I…” My voice failed.
“There’s no judgment here,” he said, leaning back. A subtle shift occurred. The professional distance softened by a fraction. A faint, understanding smile touched his lips. “Only observation. You’re a beautiful, healthy woman, Sarah. It’s a pity your husband is so… preoccupied. But stress affects everyone differently.”
He wasn’t just talking about Jason anymore. He was talking about me. He was talking about my body in his chair, responding to him when it wouldn’t respond to my own husband. The conversation had slipped its professional moorings. It was floating now in a deep, warm, dangerous sea.
He stood up, the stool rolling back silently. “Let’s proceed with today’s check-up, shall we? We’ll start with your blood pressure again, just to be thorough.” He reached for the cuff, but his eyes lingered on my face, on the heat he knew was there. “Just relax. We have time.”
The blood pressure cuff tightened around my arm, a second, familiar constriction. The soft hiss of the pump filled the quiet room. Dr. Taylor watched the gauge, his expression one of detached focus. I watched the ceiling mirrors, where my own legs, dangling from the exam table, looked small and vulnerable.
“Perfectly normal,” he announced, releasing the valve. The pressure bled away. He didn’t remove the cuff immediately. His thumb rested lightly on the inside of my wrist, feeling my pulse hammer against his touch. “A little elevated, perhaps. Understandable. New place, new doctor… new experiences.”
He carefully peeled the cuff away, his fingers lingering for a moment on my skin. He turned and noted something on the chart, his back to me. The pause felt deliberate, a space for me to remember the last ‘new experience’ in this room.
“So,” he said, swiveling back on the stool. He folded his hands again, his posture open, conversational. “We were discussing pelvic health and stress. It’s not just about relaxation, Sarah. It’s about specific, physiological preparation.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Seminal fluid, for instance, contains prostaglandins. These are hormones that soften the cervix. It’s nature’s way of priming the body for labor.”
I stared at him. The clinical words felt like a shield he was using, but what was behind it? My mind raced, trying to reconcile this science with the illicit feeling his words conjured.
“Regular sexual activity, particularly leading to female orgasm, increases blood flow to the entire pelvic region,” he continued, his voice calm and instructive, like a lecturer. “It tones muscles, improves elasticity. It’s therapeutic. For the mother, and for the baby’s passage.” He smiled a little, a kindly, avuncular smile that didn’t match the intensity in his pale eyes. “It’s about optimal health. Not just pleasure.”
“I… my husband is very busy,” I whispered again, the excuse sounding hollow even to me.
“Of course.” Dr. Taylor nodded, as if conceding a point. He stood up and walked slowly to the counter, picking up a model of a pelvis. He held it almost tenderly. “But the body’s needs don’t adhere to a schedule. And therapy… doesn’t have to come from only one source.” He placed the model down and turned, looking directly at me. “A therapeutic treatment, administered by a professional who understands the female anatomy… can be profoundly beneficial. It addresses the physical tension I observed. It fulfills the biological preparatory function.”
The room seemed to shrink. The mirrors on the ceiling felt like they were pressing down. He wasn’t just talking about Jason anymore. He was talking about himself. He was offering himself.
“It’s a medical perspective,” he said softly, taking a step closer. The spicy scent of his cologne was stronger now. “A holistic one. Your faith, your marriage… these are sacred. This is physiology. This is care.” He gestured gently toward the exam table, toward the end where the stirrups were tucked discreetly away. “We have almost two hours remaining in your appointment slot. There is no rush.”
My mouth was dry. I could hear the soft tick of his wristwatch.
“If you wished,” he said, the words dropping into the silence like stones into a deep pool, “you would be very welcome to take advantage of the therapy. Here. Now. To alleviate the tension I’ve documented.” His gaze held mine, unwavering, offering no judgment, only a terrifying, logical possibility. “It would be purely clinical. For your well-being, and the baby’s.”
The air between us crackled with the unspoken end of his sentence. It would be for my well-being. It would be therapy. It would be him.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. My heart was a frantic bird trapped in the cage of my ribs. I thought of Jason, out in the foggy world, searching for storage units. I thought of Agnes’s words: I hope it brings you a lot of joy. I thought of the silent, gathering ache inside me, the loneliness that had become a physical hollow.
Dr. Taylor saw the conflict warring on my face. He took a single step back, giving me space. “There’s no pressure, Sarah. It’s simply an option available to you. A part of your treatment plan.” He smiled again, warm, professional. “Why don’t you think about it? I’ll give you a moment of privacy.”
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing me in the hum and the chill. I stared at my hands, knuckles white against the crisp paper. The model pelvis sat on the counter, a stark ivory sculpture of an empty cradle.
My breath came in short, sharp clouds.He knew. He’d seen the clenching, the tension, the neglect. He’d given it a Latin name and a treatment plan. A therapy. My face burned with a shame so hot it felt like purification.
But beneath the shame, a current surged, dark and warm and insistent. It was the same current that had pulled me under in this chair days ago. It was the memory of a release so total it had scrubbed my mind blank. I had lain awake last night, Jason breathing heavily beside me, and replayed every second. The cold gel, his assured hands, the impossible, building pressure. The shattering quiet afterward. I had touched myself thinking of it, furtively under the sheets, and felt nothing but a faint, frustrating echo.
I agreed to this appointment because I wanted to repeat the experience from last time.
The admission, clean and stark, finally formed in the silence.I wanted that feeling again. That obliterating focus. I craved it with a lust that felt physical, a hollow ache in my belly that had nothing to do with the baby. I wanted his clinical focus on me, only me, in this bright, private room where I was not a burden or a responsibility.
But I was a wife. I was a Christian. The reservations were a cage of rusted iron, familiar and tight.This was a sin. A betrayal.
Yet the guilt felt thinner today, worn through in places like an old sheet. What was the greater betrayal? Letting my body knot itself into silent resentment, or allowing a doctor to provide a treatment? He said it was medical. He said it was for the baby. My body believed him. My body, stupid and yearning, leaned toward the lie.
The door opened. He entered without knocking, a silent return. He stood just inside, waiting, his hands loose at his sides. “Sarah?”
I looked up. The words were ash in my mouth. I forced them out. “The… the therapy. The one you mentioned.” I took a shaking breath. “Would it… be like last time?”
“It would be a continuation,” he said, his voice low and even. “A deeper assessment. To ensure the muscular response is adequate, and to promote further circulation.” He moved to the sink, turning on the water. The liquid sound was obscenely loud. He soaped his hands meticulously, lathering to his wrists. “It requires more openness from you. A willingness to… relinquish the clinical discomfort. To accept the treatment fully.”
Relinquish.Accept. They were better words than I had. They sounded like surrender, not adultery.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
“That’s normal.” He rinsed, flicking water from his fingers before reaching for a paper towel. “The body guards its tension fiercely. The mind guards it more.” He turned, leaning back against the counter, watching me. “This is a safe space. There are no expectations here beyond health.”
I nodded, a jerky, helpless motion. The guilt was a faint ringing in a distant room. The lust was a drumbeat in my veins. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes.” The word was barely audible.
“You consent to the therapeutic pelvic release?”
I closed my eyes. “Yes.”