You sit there in the thin paper gown, knees pressed tightly together, pulse thudding in your throat. It’s been years since that last awful exam, and the memory still makes your stomach knot. The door opens and I walk in—mid-fifties, white coat open over shirt and tie, short graying hair catching the light. My eyes find yours immediately, calm and steady, and I give you that small, reassuring smile that somehow makes the room feel less cold.

“I’m glad you came in,” I say, voice low, flipping through your chart without hurry. “Pain like yours shouldn’t be ignored. We’ll take our time and get to the bottom of it.”

I have you lie back. You feel the paper crinkle beneath your shoulder blades as I lift the gown to your waist. The air hits your bare skin and your thighs clench on instinct. My gloved hand settles warmly on your knee. “Feet in the stirrups, sweetheart. Knees fall open for me.” You hesitate, cheeks burning. I wait, patient but unmistakably in charge. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you let your knees part. The vulnerability is dizzying. My fingers—warm even through the latex—gently separate your outer lips, tracing the folds with deliberate care. I turn on the light. It’s a modern one that doesn’t generate heat, yet as the brightness illuminates your most intimate places, you feel a warmth as if it did. It’s just psychological, you tell yourself, not actually a sign of arousal, of blood rushing to that part of your body. Is it? When my thumb brushes your clit you jerk, a tiny spark shooting up your spine. “Sensitive,” I murmur, almost to myself, and keep going.

The speculum is cold steel in my hand. I rest one palm just above your pubic bone, steadying you. “Big breath out.” The tip presses against your entrance and you feel yourself tighten. “Relax… there you are.” I ease it in, the chill blooming deep inside you as the blades open with soft metallic clicks. You’re stretched wide, completely exposed under the bright light, and I take my time looking, adjusting the angle until I’m satisfied. The cervical swab scrapes—sharp, intimate—and you whimper despite yourself.

“Some inflammation,” I say quietly, “and the cervix looks irritated. We’ll send these off, but I need to feel what’s going on inside.”

The speculum slides out with a slow, slick drag that leaves you empty and aching. Then my fingers—two of them—press back in, curling upward. You clench around me involuntarily, as if to stop this digital intrusion, but to no avail. “Deep breaths and relax for me…atta girl.” Your face flushes with the praise. You feel me find your cervix immediately, pressing firmly while my other hand pushes down on your lower belly from the outside. I move methodically, palpating each ovary, the uterus, lingering over the tender spot on your left side that makes you bite your lip hard.

“That’s the painful area, isn’t it?” I ask, voice gentle but certain. “We’re not finished yet.”

I adjust the stirrups wider, lifting and spreading your knees until your hips tilt and your bottom is right at the table’s edge. The position is obscene; cool air kisses every private inch of you. You try to close your legs a fraction and my hand stops you instantly, firm on your thigh.

“I need to do a rectovaginal exam now,” I tell you, locking eyes. “It feels invasive, I know, but with your symptoms it’s not optional. I have to feel the structures from both sides.”

Your head shakes before you can stop it. “Do we really—”

“Yes,” I cut in softly, thumb stroking your knee. “You’ve been hurting for months. You came to me because you trust me to be thorough, didn’t you? Let me do my job properly.” There’s that quiet guilt-trip wrapped in kindness, and it works. Your resistance crumbles.

“Good girl,” I praise as your knees fall open again. You hate how the words make you feel small—and how they simultaneously flood you with warmth.

I coat my fingers generously with lubricant. You feel the cool gel as I slide two fingers back into your vagina, stretching you easily now. My other hand moves lower. The pad of my finger circles your anus once, twice, then presses. “Breathe out for me.” The tight ring yields and I slide in—slow, relentless—until my finger is buried in your rectum. The dual fullness is shocking: my fingers in both passages, the thin wall between them squeezed as I rock gently, palpating the uterus from behind, the broad ligaments, the cul-de-sac. Every movement is deliberate, clinical, yet impossibly intimate. Heat rushes to your face and, traitorously, lower.

I ease the vaginal fingers out but leave the one in your rectum. “One more thing,” I say, voice steady. “A deeper rectal exam. Hold still.”

Before you can protest I add a second finger. The stretch burns; you gasp, back arching off the table. I scissor gently, opening you, then sweep in slow circles, checking every inch of the rectal wall. My knuckles press against your perineum; you’re acutely aware of how high and wide your knees are, how completely on display you are while my hand is buried inside you. A long swab follows—pushed deep, twisted, withdrawn—collecting samples from places you didn’t know could be sampled. The drag against raw nerves makes you whimper again, thighs trembling.

Finally I withdraw, slow and careful. The sudden emptiness is almost more startling than the intrusion was. I cover you with the gown, help you sit up, my hand warm between your shoulder blades.

“You did beautifully,” I say, stripping off the gloves. My eyes hold yours, calm and approving. “I know that was a lot, but you trusted me, and now we have exactly what we need. I’ll take good care of you from here.”

And despite everything—the embarrassment, the exposure, the way your body still hums from my touch—you believe me.