Page 23 of Brood
My cheeks burn. “No, I’m not on top. I’m on my hands and knees.”
“Hmm.”
I wait, struggling not to wince as he moves the instrument deeper. “Is something wrong with that position?”
“Not at all. Just be careful about the angle. To give yourself the best chance, you don’t want to waste any of his seed.”
“I don’t think we do. He always…pushes it back in. If it leaks.” I swallow a wave of nausea.
“That’s all right, then. You’re looking really good down here.” He peers at my face from in between my knees, his headlamp blinding me. “Everything is fresh and pink and healthy. He’s not bringing himself to orgasm on his own, is he?”
“No!” My voice sounds weird to my own ears, and I wish he would stop asking me questions. None of this feels like his business. “He only ever ejaculates inside me. Except for when you test his sperm.”
Dr. Cameron’s job is to make sure everyone on his level is healthy and having as many babies as possible. It would be wrong for me to withhold information he might need to give me the best treatment and advice.
But I hate it. More than I ever did before.
“Very good. It sounds like you both are doing everything right. There’s nothing wrong with your body. It’s in excellent condition.” He adjusts the speculum, opening it even wider. When I gasp at the discomfort, he says, “Take a deep breath, peaches. Relax for me.”
I try to do what he says, but I jerk when I feel his fingers inside me.
I know this is part of the medical checkup, but it feels wrong. Invasive.
“Long, slow breaths. Let me see them.”
I take a shuddering one and then another that’s not as shaky.
“Better. I know your body better than anyone else, so you need to trust me.”
“O-kay.”
“Everything is fine. His sperm count is still good, and your hormone levels are perfect.”
“Then why…why aren’t we getting pregnant?”
“Try to be patient and give it more time. Most couples don’t manage to get pregnant immediately. It’s not like the barbarians aboveground. We don’t breed like animals down here. Your body knows best and will accept his seed at the right time.” He’s still rubbing my inner walls.
I hate it. “Okay.”
“What’s happened here?” he asks, finally removing his hand from inside me and instead running his fingertips over the wrappings on my left ankle.
“Oh. I twisted it yesterday getting off the treadmill, and it was sore, so Will wrapped it up for me.”
He frowns and tsk-tsks as he unwraps the stretchy bandage.
I don’t want him to do that. It feels better the way Will wrapped it. But I don’t object, of course. Neither of us is a medical expert.
“And why did you allow him to do that rather than pay me a visit?” I’ve never liked that singsongy murmur he always uses, but today it’s grating on me like grinding teeth.
He moves my foot in all directions, and I gasp when one of the angles hurts. “It wasn’t that bad. Will knew what to do.”
“Chief Will’s job is to spill his seed inside you. It is not to interfere with you in any other way, and it is not to make judgement calls about your health.” He goes to a locked cabinet, waits until his face in the camera unlocks it, and then takes out a small vial and a hypodermic needle.
When he’s prepared the shot, he comes back to inject it into my ankle.
Shortly, all sensations in my foot and ankle have gone.
“Next time you come right to me immediately, peaches.”
