Chapter 3: The brave question
The click of the door latch seemed to echo long after Dr. Taylor left, a final period on the sentence of what had just happened. The sterile, perfumed air of the suite felt thinner, charged with a new and unbearable silence. I was still on the table, Agnes’s hand on my chin, her thumb a soft brand on my lip.
I pulled back, breaking the contact. The cold shock of reality was a physical slap. My skin felt feverish, slick with sweat and oil and other things. The evidence of two separate violations—no, acceptances—was a cooled dampness on my thighs, a phantom taste on my tongue. Shame flushed through me, hot and nauseating, but beneath it, buzzing like a low-voltage wire, was something else. A curious, thrilling hum.
Agnes watched me, her blue-gray eyes missing nothing. She slid off the table, her movements unselfconscious as she reached for a towel. She wiped her own thighs with a practical efficiency before handing a clean, warm cloth to me.
“Here,” she said, her voice back to its normal, friendly pitch. “For the oil.”
I took it, avoiding her gaze. The cloth was soft, smelling faintly of bleach. I dabbed at my stomach, my arms, the impersonal parts. The intimacy of cleaning myself where she had been felt like a further surrender. I just wiped roughly and dropped the towel on the floor.
“How long?” The question croaked out of me, my voice foreign and raspy.
“Hmm?”
I forced myself to look at her. She was stepping back into her scrubs, pulling the top over her head. Her blonde hair, mussed from my hands, caught in the collar. “How long until Jason gets here?”
She checked a slim, silver watch on her wrist. A deliberate motion. “About thirty minutes. The clinic closes in fifteen. Plenty of time to… decompress.” A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “You look a little wound up again.”
Thirty minutes. A lifetime and a heartbeat. The countdown throbbed in my skull, synchronized with my pulse. My husband, the father of my child, was driving here. To pick up his pure, faithful wife from her first prenatal appointment. He would ask how it went. I would lie. I would sit beside him in the car, my body thrumming with the memory of his former lover’s mouth, his doctor’s hands, the hidden eye of a camera.
The shame crested, and in its wake, a reckless, defiant clarity washed over me. It was already broken. The vessel of my old self, my careful faith, my perceived fidelity—it was already shattered on the polished floor of this room. One more piece wouldn’t matter. The hum inside me grew louder, drowning out the fear.
My eyes found hers and held them. “You said fair’s fair.”
Her eyebrow arched slightly, but the smile deepened. “I did.”
I pushed myself up to a sitting position on the edge of the table. The linen stuck to my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird. I swallowed, forcing my voice to steady. “I didn’t… finish. For you. I want to.”
The words hung in the lavender-scented air. A confession. A request.
Agnes went very still, her head tilting. The playful mask slipped for just a second, revealing something sharper, hungrier beneath. She took a step closer, until she stood between my knees. She cupped my face again, but this time her touch wasn’t guiding. It was assessing.
“Brave girl,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, louder, “Are you sure? It’s a big step. From… receiving to giving.”
I nodded, my throat tight. “I’m sure.” I wasn’t. But I needed to own a piece of this chaos. To not just be a vessel they filled, but an agent who explored. However twisted the path.
A slow, genuine warmth spread across her features. “Okay then,” she said, her tone light, almost instructional. “Lie back. Get comfortable.”
I obeyed, sliding back onto the table. She didn’t join me. Instead, she stood beside me, her hand resting on my belly. “Just relax. Watch. Learn.”
Her other hand went to the button of her chinos. She undid it, the sound loud in the quiet. She pushed the fabric down her hips, along with the lace underwear beneath, stepping out of them in one fluid motion. She wasn’t naked—her scrub top hung to her mid-thigh—but from the waist down, she was exposed.
I had never looked at a woman like this. Not with intention. Not with focus.
Her body was different from mine. Fuller, softer. Where my pregnancy was a tight, high curve, hers was a lower, rounder swell beneath the loose fabric of her top. The skin of her thighs was fair, almost luminous in the soft light, with a fine tracing of blue veins. A neat, trimmed patch of blonde curls, several shades darker than the hair on her head, nestled between them.
She rested one foot on the edge of the table near my hip, opening herself to my view. It was an unashamed, matter-of-fact presentation.
“See?” she said softly. “Nothing to be afraid of. Just anatomy.”
But it wasn’t just anatomy. It was a landscape of hidden knowledge. The outer lips were fuller than my own, a paler pink. As she shifted slightly, they parted, revealing the darker, glistening inner folds, still swollen and slick from earlier. The scent, musky and deep, wafted towards me, erasing the last traces of lavender. It was the smell of our joined arousal, of the secret we now shared.
My mouth watered, a purely physical response that shocked me.
“Go ahead,” she whispered, her hand moving from my belly to the back of my head, not pushing, just resting there. A reminder of her earlier guidance. “Take your time.”
I pushed myself up on my elbows, then shifted, sliding down the table until I was level with her. The cool linen brushed my skin. I hesitated, then leaned forward.
The first touch was my breath, warm against her. She sighed, a relaxing of her whole posture. I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to the very top of her, where the curls began. The skin was soft, warm. I kissed there, tentative.
“Lower,” she breathed.
I moved down, my lips brushing the outer folds. They were silken. I used my tongue, a slow, broad stroke from bottom to top. The taste exploded on my senses—sharp, salty, profoundly alive. It wasn’t clean or perfumed. It was raw and real. A noise escaped her, a low hum of approval.
Emboldened, I found the small, hidden peak at the top. I circled it with the tip of my tongue, the way she had done to me. Her leg trembled. One of her hands fisted in my hair, not to guide, but to hold on.
“Yes, there,” she gasped.
I focused there, learning its rhythms, its sensitivity. I licked and sucked, gentle then firm, copying what had brought me pleasure. Her breaths came faster, shallower. Her other hand reached down, her fingers parting herself more fully, offering me a better angle. “Inside too,” she urged, her voice thick. “Don’t be shy.”
I obeyed, my tongue delving into the hot, yielding entrance. The taste intensified. My own desire, a low thrum since this began, ignited into a sharp, aching need between my own legs. I was lost in the sensation, in the power of making this powerful, manipulative woman writhe and gasp above me. I explored every fold, every texture, driven by a frantic curiosity. I wanted to know all of it.
Her hips began to rock against my face, setting a rhythm. I followed it, letting her use my mouth. The sounds she made were unfiltered, guttural. Gone was the composed medical assistant, the calculating orchestrator. This was just a woman chasing a feeling, and I was the instrument.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she chanted, her grip in my hair tightening.
I didn’t. I drank her in, the salt and the sweat and the essence of her pleasure. My world narrowed to this: the feel of her, the taste, the sounds, the scent. My own body was begging for release, a distant, frantic echo. I pressed my own thighs together, creating a fraction of friction, as I served her.
Her climax, when it came, was a silent, shuddering contraction. Her whole body stiffened, her leg locked against the table. A long, ragged moan was torn from her throat, echoing off the soundproofed walls. She pulsed against my tongue, a series of fluttering, rhythmic waves. I stayed there, gentle now, until the last tremor subsided.
Slowly, she relaxed, her leg sliding off the table. Her hand loosened in my hair, becoming a caress. I pulled back, my face wet, my lips tingling. I looked up at her.
Her face was flushed, eyes closed, a serene, spent expression smoothing her features. She looked younger. Then her eyes opened, meeting mine. The calculation was back, but softened, blurred at the edges by genuine satisfaction.
“Wow,” she breathed, a slow smile spreading. “You really are a quick study.”
She leaned down, cupping my face, and kissed me deeply. I could taste myself on her lips, mixed with her own flavor. It was a kiss of possession, of shared complicity. Then she straightened, grabbing the towel and wiping herself with a casual efficiency before tending to my face.
“We need to get you presentable,” she said, her voice back to its practical melody. “Jason will be here in fifteen.”
Fifteen minutes. The real world rushed back in, a cold tide. I was on my knees on a massage table, my mouth tasting of another woman, my body humming with a betrayed arousal, while my unsuspecting husband drove across town to collect me.
Agnes helped me up, her hands brisk now. She handed me my clothes. “Quick shower through there,” she said, pointing to a small door I hadn’t noticed. “Use the wipes on your face after. Get rid of the scent.”
I moved like an automaton. The shower was a tiny, clinical stall. I scrubbed my skin raw, but the feeling of her, the memory of the taste, seemed etched into me. I emerged, dried off, and dressed. My reflection in the small mirror showed a strangely calm face, eyes a little too bright.
When I came out, Agnes was back in full uniform, her hair neat, lipstick reapplied. The room was tidy, the used towels in a hamper. It was as if nothing had happened.
She walked me to the clinic’s main door, her hand a light, professional pressure on my back. The waiting area was empty, dark except for the security lights.
“Your file is updated,” she said quietly as she unlocked the front door. “Everything looks perfectly normal. A standard first visit.”
I just nodded.
She paused, her hand on the door. Her eyes searched mine. “This stays our secret, Sarah. All of it. For everyone’s happiness.” She smiled, the sweet, friendly smile of a medical professional. “See you next Tuesday.”