You sit on the edge of the table long after I’ve stepped out to give you privacy to dress. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the air-conditioning and the soft crinkle of the paper beneath you when you shift. Your thighs still tremble; there’s a lingering ache low in your pelvis, a strange, hollow feeling where my fingers were only minutes ago. You can still feel the cool slick of lubricant between your cheeks, the ghost-pressure against the thin wall inside you, as if your body hasn’t quite accepted that the exam is over.

You pull the gown tighter around yourself, suddenly aware of how damp your eyes are. It isn’t pain—not exactly. It’s something deeper, more confusing. Embarrassment crashes over you in waves: the way you scooted down when I asked, the way your knees fell open at the quiet “good girl,” the involuntary heat that bloomed low in your belly when my voice dropped and I told you to trust me. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being naked. I saw parts of you no one else ever has—not just your body, but the moment you gave in, the moment you let me take control because some part of you needed to.

Your cheeks burn. You’re angry—at me for pushing, at yourself for letting me. And yet the anger keeps slipping through your fingers because underneath it is something warmer, something that terrifies you: relief. For the first time in months someone took the pain seriously, touched it, mapped it, refused to let you hide from it. My hands were firm, unapologetic, but never cruel. When you whimpered I didn’t mock you; I simply said “I know” in that low, steady voice and kept going, as if your discomfort was expected, allowed, safe.

You wipe your eyes quickly when you hear my footsteps in the hallway. The door opens and I step back in, chart in hand, expression softer now.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, and it isn’t clinical anymore; it’s quiet, genuine.

You open your mouth to say “fine,” but the word sticks. Your lower lip trembles. To your horror, a tear slips free.

I don’t rush to you. I simply close the door, set the chart down, and sit on the stool so our eyes are level.

“It’s normal,” I say gently. “What we just did—it’s incredibly intimate. Your body and your mind are both processing it. You were very brave.”

The praise lands differently now, without the latex and the stirrups between us. It sinks into your chest and something inside you unclenches. Another tear falls.

“I didn’t expect…” you start, voice small. “I thought I’d just feel violated or something. But I don’t. I feel… shaken. And… safe? Which doesn’t make any sense.”

I reach out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and rest my hand over yours. My palm is warm, no glove now.

“It makes perfect sense,” I tell you. “You surrendered control to someone who promised not to hurt you—and I didn’t. Your body knows that even if your head is still catching up.”

You look at our hands, then up at me. My eyes are steady, kind, a little tired around the edges in a way that suddenly makes me seem very human.

“Will it always feel this… intense?” you whisper.

“After a thorough exam like that? The first time, yes. It gets easier. Or…” I pause, a faint smile, “sometimes it gets a different kind of intense. Depends on the patient.”

Your breath catches at the implication. Heat flares again low in your belly, shameful and thrilling at once.

I stand, giving you space. “Get dressed when you’re ready. No rush. I’ll be right outside if you need anything—water, a minute, a hug, whatever you need.”

A hug. From the man who twenty minutes ago had two fingers in your rectum while you whimpered. The absurdity should make you laugh or recoil, but instead your chest aches with something tender and raw.

You nod, unable to speak.

I leave quietly. The door clicks shut.

You sit there a little longer, feeling the ache, the warmth, the strange new trust coiled inside you like a secret. When you finally slide off the table your legs are unsteady, but you feel—impossibly—lighter. As if in giving me everything, you’ve taken something back too.

You wipe your face one last time, pull on your clothes, and when you open the door I’m waiting exactly where I said I would be, leaning against the wall with two cups of water. I hand you one without a word.

You take it. Our fingers brush.

And in that small touch you feel the aftermath settle: not just embarrassment or relief, but a quiet, undeniable bond forged in the most vulnerable place two people can meet. You’re not sure what to do with it yet.

But you’re no longer afraid of it.