Three weeks later – follow-up visit

The pathology report had come back completely benign (“tubular adenoma, low-grade, fully excised”), and Dr. Carter’s office had scheduled a quick unsedated re-check to confirm the site had healed cleanly.

Alex spent the entire morning trying not to think about it. She failed.

She arrived early, signed in, and was taken straight back (no IV this time, no warm propofol blanket to hide behind).

The nurse was new. “Dr. Carter prefers the prone knee-chest position for these short follow-ups. The table adjusts; it’s more comfortable than it sounds.”

Comfortable was not the word Alex would have chosen.

The table looked like a medieval torture device disguised as modern medicine: padded knee rests lower than the chest platform, a wide belt at waist level, a face cradle at the head. When the nurse helped her climb on and settle in, Alex’s bottom was elevated high, knees spread, back arched. The gown slid forward and pooled around her shoulders, leaving her completely exposed from mid-back down. Cool air kissed every inch of her freshly shaved skin (she’d done it that morning in a panic, then hated herself for caring).

She rested her forehead in the cradle and closed her eyes. The position forced her anus and vulva upward, presented like an offering. She could feel herself already glistening; the vulnerability was dizzying.

The door opened. This, Alex thought, is no way to greet my doctor.

“Alexandra.” Dr. Carter’s voice, low and familiar now. “Good to see you again. Pathology was perfect; this is just to confirm everything’s healed.”

She heard the snap of gloves, the squirt of lube.

“I’m going to use the small pediatric anoscope today (no sedation, so we’ll go slow). Tell me if anything more than pressure.”

A single gloved finger first, circling gently, spreading lube. She felt herself flutter open for him immediately, mortified by how eagerly her body greeted the touch.

“You’re nicely relaxed,” he said, almost approving. “Deep breath.”

The anoscope (smaller than the rigid sigmoidoscope, but still cold metal) pressed in. The stretch was intimate, unmistakable. Because of the knee-chest position, every tiny movement translated directly through her pelvis. She felt the instrument seat fully, the flat handle resting between her cheeks.

Bright light bloomed inside her. She whimpered without meaning to.

“Site looks pristine,” he said, voice steady. “Pink, no residual polyp, perfect healing ridge.” He rotated the scope slowly, inspecting all walls. “You’re doing great.”

Alex’s thighs trembled. Gravity was doing cruel things: the excess lube that coated the anoscope began to slide downward along her perineum the moment he tilted the instrument even slightly. Warm, slippery trails traced over her anus, pooled briefly, then dripped (slow, inevitable) straight onto her swollen vulva.

She felt the first drop land on her clit like liquid fire.

A second drop followed, and a third. She couldn’t close her legs, couldn’t hide, couldn’t do anything but take it.

Her breath hitched audibly.

Dr. Carter paused. “Pressure okay?”

She managed a strangled, “Mmm-hmm,” terrified he would notice the wetness now coating her inner lips, the way her clit throbbed with every heartbeat.

He resumed his slow circle. Another bead of lube slipped free and rolled over her clit; her hips jerked involuntarily.

This time he definitely noticed.

There was a long, quiet moment where the only sound was her ragged breathing.

His voice, when it came, was softer than before. “Alex… it’s all right. The position makes everything very sensitive, and the lube can be… stimulating. Perfectly normal.”

He withdrew the anoscope in one smooth motion. She felt suddenly, achingly empty.

A warm cloth appeared (his hand this time, not the nurse’s) wiping her gently from anus to vulva in slow, careful passes. She bit down on her lip to keep from moaning outright.

“All done,” he said quietly. “You can get up whenever you’re ready.”

The table lowered; the nurse helped her climb down on wobbly legs. Alex clutched the gown closed in back, face scarlet, convinced the entire room could smell her arousal.

Dr. Carter was writing on the chart, giving her a moment of pretended privacy. When he turned, his expression was professionally neutral, but his eyes held something gentler.

“No further scoping needed,” he said. “You’re completely cleared. If you ever have questions (about anything we’ve discussed, or… anything else), my direct email is on the card.”

He handed her a new business card. On the back, in small, neat handwriting: You were incredibly brave today.

Alex fled to her car, sat behind the wheel with the card burning in her fist, and realized two terrifying truths at once.

One: she was never going to be the same again.

Two: she already knew she would be using that email address.