Alexandra stood in the bathroom of her childhood bedroom (she’d come home for the weekend because her mom had insisted on a birthday dinner redo), clutching the small white box like it was radioactive.

Her mother had found it first, of course. Nothing escaped Diane’s eagle eyes.

“Glycerin suppositories?” Diane had read aloud from the pharmacy bag, eyebrows climbing. “Oh, honey. Poor bottom. Come here, I’ll help you the first time; it’s tricky if you’ve never done it.”

Alex had nearly dropped the bag. “Mom! No! Absolutely not!”

Diane had looked genuinely hurt. “I’m a nurse, Alexandra. I did this for patients for thirty years. There’s no reason to be embarrassed.”

Which only made it worse. Alex had snatched the box, fled upstairs, and locked the door so hard the frame rattled. Her mother followed up behind her, and gently knocked. "Alexandra, I'm fine letting you do this by yourself, but I just want you to know, I'm here if you have any questions. Any at all..." she offered, with all the compassion of any worried mother.

Sniffling away the tears that had come up at her horror of the topic being raised downstairs where her father might have even heard it, she snapped back, "I'm fine! I don't ... I mean, I won't have any questions! Just ... let me ... let me do this myself, okay?" By the end, her words tailed off into the pleading, begging tones of a little girl hoping against hope that whatever was happening right then and there would simply stop happening.

"I understand, sweetie -- I'll leave you be, just ... call if anything does come up. I'll be here if you need me," her mother shared, and then Alex heard her steps as she walked down the hall leaving her, finally, in shameful peace.

Finally alone, she found herself staring in the mirror, cheeks still flaming from the memory. She changed into an oversized T-shirt and nothing else, the way the instruction sheet suggested (“lie on left side, knees to chest, for easiest insertion”).

She tore open the foil wrapper with shaking fingers. The suppository was small, torpedo-shaped, cool and faintly slippery. Innocent-looking. Evil.

Alex lay down on the bathmat, knees drawn up, and reached back with one trembling hand. The first contact (her own fingertip brushing the tight ring of muscle) made her flinch so hard her knee knocked the cabinet.

It felt… forbidden. Dirty. Even though the whole point was cleanliness.

She pressed the tip against herself. The pucker resisted for a second, then gave way with shocking ease. A cool, gliding pressure slid inside her, deeper than the doctor’s finger had gone, until it was fully seated.

Alex exhaled a sound she didn’t recognize (half gasp, half moan) and immediately clapped her free hand over her mouth.

Because the sensation wasn’t just strange. It was… good.

Not pain. Not even discomfort once it was in. Just a heavy, full, intimate awareness that something was inside her rectum, resting there, waiting to do its job. Her clit gave an involuntary throb, as if someone had flipped a switch she didn’t know existed.

No. No no no.

She scrambled upright, face burning hotter than ever, and stared at her reflection like it belonged to a stranger. This was not supposed to feel erotic. This was medical. Gross. The opposite of sexy.

And yet her body clearly disagreed. She was wet. Actually wet. From putting something up her butt.

Alex spent the next five days in a state of low-grade panic.

Morning and night she locked herself in the bathroom, heart racing, telling herself it would get less… intense. It didn’t. If anything, it got worse. She learned exactly how to angle her hips, how slowly to push, how to let her finger linger just a fraction longer than necessary. She learned that if she circled the rim first (lightly, carefully), her breath hitched and her thighs trembled. She learned that clenching around the suppository once it was inside sent sparks straight between her legs.

She hated herself for it. She hated how her hand seemed to move on its own now, how she caught herself looking forward to the ritual. She hated the slickness she had to wipe away afterward, proof that her body had decided this was foreplay.

By day six she was terrified to go back to Dr. Endicott.

What if the doctor could tell? What if one look (one touch) revealed that Alex had turned a medical treatment into something filthy and secret? What if Dr. Endicott slid a gloved finger in again and found her dripping, swollen, shamefully ready?

The thought alone was enough to make Alex’s knees buckle.

She sat on the exam table at her follow-up, paper gown crinkling, palms sweaty. Dr. Endicott walked in, smiled the same calm smile, and asked how the suppositories had worked.

“Fine,” Alex croaked. “They… worked.”

“Good. Any discomfort with insertion?”

Alex shook her head so hard she nearly gave herself whiplash.

Dr. Endicott's eyes flicked up from the chart, something unreadable in them. “Alright. Let’s have a quick look, make sure everything’s settling down.”

Alex assumed the position without being asked now (left side, knees up), like a trained animal. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed.

Cool gloved fingers parted her. The touch was clinical, efficient. Dr. Endicott hummed thoughtfully.

“The external tag is almost gone. Internal looks much better; no active swelling.” A pause. Then, softer: “You’re extremely tense today, Alex. More than last time. Everything okay?”

Alex’s heart stopped.

Because the doctor’s fingertip hadn’t moved away yet. It rested lightly (too lightly) right at her entrance, as if waiting for permission to check deeper.

Alex felt herself flutter around nothing, felt the humiliating rush of warmth that followed.

Dr. Endicott’s voice dropped, gentle but knowing. “It’s normal, you know. Some patients find the area becomes… sensitized during treatment. Perfectly natural physiological response.”

Alex wanted to die. She wanted to melt through the table and disappear forever.

She managed the tiniest nod, face pressed into the crook of her arm.

The finger withdrew. The exam ended. Dr. Endicott peeled off her gloves and washed her hands, giving Alex a moment to compose herself.

“We’ll finish the course and see you again in six weeks,” she said, tone perfectly neutral again. “And Alex? Next time, you can tell me if something feels… different. No judgment here.”

Alex sat up, clutching the gown closed, convinced her secret was tattooed across her forehead in blazing letters.

She fled the office the second she was dressed, pulse roaring in her ears, absolutely certain of two things:

One, she was never, ever going to mention this to another living soul.

And two, she was already counting the hours until tonight’s dose.