You arrive at seven sharp. The waiting room is dark, the staff long gone. I meet you at the locked door myself, no coat now—just the pressed shirt with sleeves rolled high, tie loosened. The hallway lights are dimmed to half, and I lead you past the familiar exam rooms to a smaller procedure suite at the very end—one with softer lighting, a wider padded table, and a small couch in the corner.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I say quietly, closing the door behind us. The click of the lock is deliberate. “You came.”

You nod, clutching your purse like a lifeline. I take it from you gently, set it aside, then cup your face in both hands and look at you for a long moment.

“You’re sure?” I ask, thumb brushing your cheek. “Last chance to choose Lupron tomorrow morning instead. No judgment.”

Your answer is a tiny shake of the head, eyes already glassy with nerves and something warmer.

I kiss your forehead—slow, chaste, possessive—then step back. “Everything off below the waist. Bra and top can stay if it makes you feel less exposed. Then up on the table, left side, knees tucked high.”

You undress behind the screen, hands trembling. When you emerge your cheeks are scarlet, arms crossed over your chest even though your sweater hides everything above. I’ve dimmed the lights further and warmed the room; a soft blanket waits, folded.

I glove only one hand tonight—left—and lay out the supplies on a rolling tray: the long suppository unwrapped from its foil, a generous dollop of lubricant warming between my fingers, a soft towel.

You climb onto the table. The padding yields under your hip as you curl onto your left side, knees drawn almost to your chest. I drape the blanket over your upper body and shoulders, leaving only your bottom half bare to the waist. My ungloved hand settles on your exposed hip, warm and steady.

“Breathe for me,” I murmur, stroking once down your flank. “Same as before. You know how this feels now.”

Cool gel touches your anus first—just the pad of my finger circling slowly, coaxing the muscle to soften. You feel yourself flutter, then relax under the familiar pressure. I press inside with one steady glide, burying my finger to the hilt. The intrusion is easier this time; your body remembers me, opens almost eagerly.

“Good girl,” I praise, voice low. I twist gently, spreading the lubricant deep, crooking my finger to stroke the anterior rectal wall until you whimper. “Shh. Opening you so the medication seats exactly where the lesion is.”

I add a second finger, scissoring slowly, stretching the ring until it yields with a soft burn that melts into heat. You push back without meaning to, a tiny involuntary rock of your hips that makes me exhale sharply.

“Perfect,” I whisper. I withdraw both fingers just long enough to coat the suppository itself—thick, smooth, tapered. It gleams with lubricant in the low light.

You feel the blunt tip replace my fingers, pressing firmly. I don’t rush. One hand splayed over your lower belly from the front, I ease the suppository forward—inch by deliberate inch—until the full length is seated deep, the base nestled just inside your sphincter. The pressure against the tender spot high in the cul-de-sac is immediate and intense; you moan into the pillow, thighs trembling.

“There,” I say, voice roughened. My gloved fingers linger, holding it in place, pressing gently so the dissolving medication bathes the exact area that’s been hurting you. “Stay just like this.”

I strip the glove, toss it, then slide onto the table behind you—still fully dressed, chest to your back. My arm bands around your waist, pulling you close so you’re spooned against me. The hard line of my belt buckle presses into the small of your back; you feel how affected I am and it sends a fresh rush of wetness between your legs.

Twenty minutes, I promised. My hand slips beneath the blanket, palm flat over your lower abdomen, holding subtle pressure to keep the suppository high and forward. Every few breaths I flex my fingers, massaging gently, and you feel the medication melting, spreading warmth through the sore tissues.

You’re crying quietly now—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intimacy of it: my body curled protectively around yours, my breath in your hair, the way I keep murmuring “good girl, taking your medicine so well” like it’s the most precious thing I’ve ever witnessed.

At the fifteen-minute mark I slide my hand lower, cupping you possessively over your mound—no intrusion, just warmth and ownership. Your hips rock once, seeking friction; I still them with a soft “not yet.”

When the timer on my watch finally beeps, I ease away, help you uncurl stiff limbs. The suppository is fully dissolved; there’s only a faint slickness left when I part your cheeks one last time to check placement. Satisfied, I clean you gently with warm wipes, every touch reverent.

You sit up slowly, legs dangling off the table, blanket clutched to your chest. I stand between your knees, hands on your thighs, searching your face.

“How do you feel?”

You try to answer—really you do—but the words catch. Instead you lean forward, forehead against my chest, and let the tears come. I hold you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other stroking your spine until the shaking stops.

When you finally pull back, eyes puffy but clear, I brush the tears away.

“Same time tomorrow,” I say quietly. “And every evening this week. After that, we’ll see how brave you feel doing it yourself… or whether you’d rather keep coming to me.”

You nod, swallowing hard.

I help you dress—slow, deliberate touches that feel like aftercare more than anything clinical. At the door I tilt your chin up, kiss you once—soft, claiming, but not pushing further tonight.

“Text me when you’re home safe,” I murmur against your lips. “And again if the ache flares. I’m only ten minutes away.”

You walk out into the cool November night feeling the faint warmth still radiating deep inside you, the lingering stretch, the unmistakable sense of being cared for in the most raw, unspoken way possible.

Your phone buzzes before you reach your car.

Unknown number: You were extraordinary tonight. Sleep well, sweetheart. —Dr.

You save it under a single letter. M.

And you already know you’ll be counting the hours until tomorrow at seven.