The nights blur together.

By the end of the first week you no longer hesitate at the locked door. You walk straight into my arms, let me kiss you hello like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and follow me down the dim hallway already wet and trembling with anticipation. The routine is sacred now: the soft click of the lock, the warm room, the padded table, the way I undress you slowly (never rushed, always reverent) until you’re bare from the waist down and curled on your side waiting for me.

Some nights I keep it gentle: one finger, then two, opening you with that slow scissoring twist until you’re rocking back against my hand and begging in broken whispers. Other nights I’m stricter (knees pushed higher, cheeks spread wide by my own hands while I seat the suppository with deliberate, unrelenting pressure until your breath hitches on a sob that’s half pain, half relief).

Tonight is week two, day eleven. The lesion is shrinking; I can feel the difference every time I press high along the rectovaginal wall (less angry, less swollen). You’re healing. But the treatment isn’t finished, and neither of us pretends we want it to be.

I meet you at the door myself again. No words. I just pull you inside, push you gently against the wall, and kiss you until your knees buckle. When I finally let you breathe, my forehead rests against yours.

“Pain today?” I ask, voice rough.

“Some,” you admit. “Deep. Achy.”

“Good,” I say, and the single word makes you shiver. “That means it’s time for a deeper dose.”

You know what that means now.

I lead you to the procedure suite. The lights are lower than ever, candles flickering on the counter because I turned the overheads off completely. There’s a new addition tonight: a padded wedge pillow, thicker, angled to tilt your hips dramatically upward when you’re on your knees. And on the tray, beside the usual suppository, sits something longer (five inches, noticeably thicker in the middle, custom-compounded for maximum contact with the posterior cul-de-sac).

You stop in the doorway, breath catching.

I step behind you, hands settling on your hips, lips at your ear. “Trust me?”

You nod before the fear can take root.

I undress you myself tonight (slowly peeling your sweater over your head, unhooking your bra, sliding your skirt and panties down your legs until you’re completely naked). Gooseflesh rises everywhere I touch. When you’re bare, I turn you to face me and kiss you again, deeper, until you’re clinging to my shoulders.

Then I guide you to the table.

“On your knees tonight, sweetheart. Chest down, bottom high.”

You obey, trembling as you settle over the wedge. The position is obscene (legs spread wide on the knee rests, back arched, face pressed to the padded table). Cool air kisses every slick inch of you. I take my time looking, tracing one finger from the base of your spine all the way down, circling your anus, dipping lower to spread the wetness already dripping from you.

“So ready for me,” I murmur. “Even when it scares you.”

Gloves tonight (both hands, because I know I’ll need the grip). I coat three fingers generously, then press the first two inside your rectum without warning. You cry out softly, pushing back, taking them deep. I scissor hard, stretching you open with firm, relentless twists until the third finger joins the others and the burn makes tears spring to your eyes.

“That’s it,” I praise, voice strained. “Open for me. All the way.”

When I’m satisfied you’re ready, I withdraw only long enough to slick the new, thicker suppository. It gleams under the candlelight (torpedo-shaped, unforgiving). I set the blunt head against your stretched ring and pause, letting you feel the size.

“Breathe out.”

One slow, continuous push. Five inches sink into you, the thickest part forcing your sphincter wide before it finally seats deep, the flared base locking it in place. The pressure against the lesion is immediate and overwhelming; you sob into the padding, hips jerking.

I don’t give you time to adjust. My left hand splays over your lower belly, holding you still, while my right presses firmly on the base, rocking the suppository in tiny circles so the medication grinds directly into the shrinking nodule. Your entire body shakes.

“Twenty-five minutes tonight,” I say, voice dark. “You’re going to take every second of it in this position.”

But I’m not leaving you empty anywhere else.

I strip the gloves, unbuckle my belt with one hand while the other keeps steady pressure on the suppository. You hear the whisper of my zipper, feel the heat of me as I step close behind you. The blunt head of my cock nudges your soaked entrance (no condom, no discussion, just raw need we’ve both stopped pretending doesn’t exist).

“Look at you,” I growl against your ear as I sink in to the hilt in one thrust. “Taking your medicine in both holes like the perfect patient you are.”

You come instantly, clenching around me and the thick suppository in helpless waves. I don’t move at first (just hold you impaled, letting you ride it out), then start a slow, punishing rhythm that drives the suppository deeper with every stroke.

By the time the timer finally beeps you’ve come twice more, tears and drool soaking the padding beneath your cheek. I pull out only long enough to ease the now-soft base free, then flip you gently onto your back, spread your trembling legs, and slide back inside (slow and tender this time, kissing away the tears).

When we’re both spent, I carry you to the small couch in the corner, wrap you in the warm blanket, and hold you until your breathing evens out.

Against your hair I whisper the truth we’ve both known for days.

“The lesion’s almost gone, sweetheart. One more week, maybe two.”

You cling tighter, a soft, broken sound in your throat.

“I know,” I soothe, kissing your temple. “We’ll find another reason for you to come back every night. I’m nowhere near finished taking care of you.”

And in the flicker of candlelight, wrapped in my arms with the taste of me still on your tongue and the ache of treatment still warm inside you, you believe me completely.