Page 4 of Innocence Tamed
“Audrey Campbell,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I have an appointment at?—”
“Yes, of course,” she interrupted smoothly, her fingers already tapping at the tablet embedded in her desk. “We’re expecting you. Please have a seat. Nurse Georges will be with you shortly.”
I perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the waiting area, a modernist piece that looked more like sculpture than furniture. The leather felt cool against the backs of my thighs even through my skirt.
There were no magazines, no television—nothing to distract me from my racing thoughts. The only sound came from the soft click of the receptionist’s nails against her tablet. I tried not to fidget, tried not to look as terrified as I felt.
The question returned, the one that made my heart race: what kind of medical exam was this going to be? The app had said, explicitly, that Selecta wanted to verify my eligibility for the First Intimacy Premium Program. I tried to tell myself that didn’t represent a euphemism for confirming my virginity. Would they actually… check? The thought made me cross my legs tightly, my face heating up again.
“MademoiselleCampbell?”
The voice, crisp and accented, startled me from my thoughts. I looked up to see a woman standing in a doorway I hadn’t noticed before. She wore a pristine white uniform that seemed both modern and somehow reminiscent of a more traditional nurse’s outfit, fitted in a way that emphasized her slim figure. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back into a perfect bun, and rectangular glasses perched on her nose, through which sharp gray eyes assessed me.
“I am Nurse Georges. Please follow me.”
I stood on legs that felt suddenly wooden, smoothing my skirt nervously. She turned without waiting to see if I had followed. I hurried after her, through the doorway and into a corridor lined with identical doors.
She stopped at one, tapped a code into a small panel beside it, and pushed it open. “In here, please.”
The room beyond seemed dazzlingly bright after the muted lighting of the reception area. I swallowed hard at the sight of the examination table with its metal stirrups. Going to the gynecologist had never felt like a comfortable experience, but under the current circumstances the sight of the table made my tummy flip.
I stood frozen just inside the door of the pristine little room, my eyes darting around its confines. Along one wall, a glass-fronted cabinet displayed an array of medical instruments I couldn’t name—some looked familiar from my annual checkups back home, but others seemed more ominous, their purposes unclear.
“I’ll be just a moment getting ready,” Nurse Georges said, her voice brisk and efficient. “Please remove all your clothing.”
She turned to wash her hands at a small sink in the corner, her movements precise and economical, as if she’d performed this routine thousands of times. Which, I realized with an obscure flush of embarrassment, as if for all the girls who had had to undress here, she probably had.
I glanced around the room, searching for the familiar blue paper gown that was always provided at my doctor’s appointments back in Illinois. There wasn’t one draped over the exam table or hanging on any of the hooks on the wall. My heart began to race.
Nurse Georges noticed my searching gaze and turned to me, drying her hands on a paper towel.
“You won’t need a gown for this examination,” she said frankly. Her French accent made the statement sound somehow both clinical and slightly imperious.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “I’d still like to have one, please,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded. “I’m not comfortable being… completely exposed.”
Nurse Georges sighed—a short, impatient exhalation that made me feel like a troublesome child. She fixed me with a direct stare through her glasses that made me want to look away, but I forced myself to meet her gaze.
“MademoiselleCampbell,” she said, her tone cooling several degrees. “If you wish to succeed in the Selecta Arrangements program, you will need to learn not to question instructions. The examination requires full access to your body. A gown would merely hinder the procedure you’ve requested.”
She tilted her chin downward and narrowed her eyes a little. “You have a simple choice. You may undress as instructed, or you may leave. But I should warn you that if you choose to leave,your application will be marked as withdrawn, and you will not be permitted to reapply.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Thirty days. No money. No visa.
The words echoed in my head like a terrible mantra. I thought of my tiny apartment, of the email terminating my internship, of the dwindling funds in my bank account. I thought of having to call my parents and admit defeat, of returning to the small town I’d fought so hard to escape.
My fingers shook as they rose to the top button of my blouse.
“I’ll need your verbal confirmation of consent,” Nurse Georges said, picking up a tablet from the counter. “For the record.”
I took a deep breath. “I consent,” I murmured.
Nurse Georges nodded briskly and made a note on her tablet. “Good. Please proceed.”
My fingers felt numb as I continued unbuttoning my blouse. The clinical lighting seemed to grow harsher with each button that came undone. I slipped the garment from my shoulders, folding it with shaking hands before placing it on a small chair in the corner. My skirt followed, then my simple cotton bra. I hesitated at my underwear, my last shield against complete vulnerability.
“Everything,” Nurse Georges reminded me, not looking up from her tablet.
