Page 7 of Dying for the Doctor

Wanda’s face is redder than a beetroot in the summer sun, but she’s looking right at me, and my scientific-sounding words seem to relax her a bit. Now I recall the distinct impression I got earlier that Wanda needs this deception as much as I do, that she needs to tell herself a story about what’s about to happen, trick her own tightly-wound mind into saying sure, it’s all right if he assists, he’s a doctor and you’re his patient, it’s a clinically approved process, not dirty at all, not filthy in the least, nothing but a natural autonomous physical reaction induced by a licensed medical professional.

“Um . . . all right,” she says, her voice a sultry whisper, her face blushing brighter than a bulb. “OK.”

My cock almost explodes, but somehow I maintain my composure, nod professionally, then briskly stride over to the white-painted supply-cabinet above the spotless porcelain sinkagainst the baby-blue wall. Scanning the shelves, I find what I’m looking for: medical-grade nitrile gloves and a spanking new surgical mask.

Snapping on the purple gloves, I fix the mask onto my face, then stride over towards the bed. Wanda blinks rapidly as she glances at the gloves. Then she looks at my wicked blue eyes peering at her from above the clean blue surgical mask. Her face relaxes slightly, and I know I made the right choice. Now things look seriously clinical, totally professional, a licensed medical practitioner following the rules, operating according to the manual.

Which means the game is on.

The fantasy is real.

Wanda has allowed herself to slip into this fantasy, to trick her mind into believing what her body so badly wants it to believe.

4

WANDA

Ican’t believe what’s happening.

What I’m allowing to happen.

What I maybewantto have happen.

“What if it doesn’t happen?” I hear myself ask, my own voice sounding distant and surreal, like it’s being filtered through many dimensions. “I mean, it’s never happened before, so maybe my body just doesn’t do that.”

Doctor Drake’s mask moves like he’s smiling beneath the surgical material. His gloved fingers touch my upper arm, and he squeezes gently, reassuringly, maybe even clinically?

I almost laugh at myself for actually believing that any of this is standard clinical procedure. But in a way there’s a part of me thatdoesbelieve it. It’s weird how our minds have so many different levels, how we can actually observe ourselves doing mental gymnastics, convincing ourselves to interpret reality in a way that fits with our predetermined self-image.

It makes sense, though. After all, back in the 1920s and 1930s, male American doctors did in fact regularly induce orgasms for female patients. Sure, it was a “cure” for the phantom feminine ailment known as “hysteria,” but the dirty truth was that thousands of American women visited their male doctors weekly to get this pseudoscientific cure.

It wasn’t considered dirty or immoral because it was done under the guise of “science” and performed by a “licensed medical professional.”

Just like what’s about to happen here.

Now I feel myself slipping back into that weird place where my brain relaxes and says listen, Doctor Drake is a doctor, he’s got gloves on and is wearing a mask. It’s completely clean and totally appropriate. So just do what you’re told, Wanda. Imagine you’re one of those lonely women from 1926 who goes to a handsome male doctor every week to get treated for her oh-so-terrible medically diagnosed hysteria.

“Have you ever touched yourself, Wanda?” Doctor Drake strokes my upper arm, gazing warmly down at me as he stands against the side of my bed. Without looking directly, I can sense movement at the front of his trousers, and it makes my heart hammer against the inside of my chest to know that he’s obscenely erect, dangerously aroused.

Now a flash of panic shoots through me when I realize the door is locked and the cameras are supposedly off. When did the cameras get turned off? Did Doctor Drake have them turned off before he entered my room?

Was this always part of the plan?

Tension rips through my body again, and I feel that familiar anxiety-attack looming. I try to swallow but my throat is dry like a desert, prickly like a cactus. My breathing goes shallow, and I know that short breaths raise your heartrate and make the panic-attacks a hundred times worse. Gulping in a mouthful of air, I try to slow my breathing, but instead I swallow some saliva the wrong way and break into a coughing fit.

My body lurches as I cough, and now I’m bent forward over my knees, desperately covering my mouth, my face bright red as I hack up a lung and perhaps an alien fetus with it. Mortified at how undignified I must look right now, it suddenly occurs to me that this burst of anxiety isn’t because I’m scared.

It’s because I’m self-conscious.

Self-conscious about how I look, how I smell, that it’s been weeks since I trimmed down there. Will I even get wet? Wait, amI already wet? Sure feels that way! And what does it mean if I’m wet? Ohmygod, when is my period due? What day is today? Am I going to spurt blood all over his purple gloves?

“Here,” comes Doctor Drake’s voice. He rubs my back as I finish up my coughing fit. His palm presses flat against my upper back, and I can feel his strength even though he’s being gentle. Looking up, I see him holding a paper cup with filtered water from the dispenser by the sink. “Drink up. You’re probably dehydrated. Being chronically anxious burns a lot of energy, you know.”

“Doubt it, because I’d be skinnier than a soap model if that were true.” Gratefully, I gulp down the cool water, smacking my lips to wet them as I drain the cup and hand it back to Doctor Drake. I watch him turn and toss the empty cup clear across the room into the plastic waste-basket near the bathroom door. It’s a perfect shot, like this guy always hits his target, always gets what he wants.

Wait, does that meanI’mwhat he wants right now?

Suddenly Doctor Drake’s earlier remark about me being pretty echoes in my head. Actually, he said I’m beautiful, not just pretty! Beautiful is better than pretty, isn’t it? Or is it just a different thing? Pretty sounds too casual, unserious, something you’d say to a silly girl to make her smile. But calling a woman beautiful is something else.

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