They booked the same suite again, but this time Nate had arranged something new.

When Alex walked in, the foot of the medical plinth faced a tall, freestanding mirror on a rolling base (the kind used in ballet studios), angled so perfectly that anyone lying on the table could see exactly what was happening between their legs. A second, smaller mirror on an adjustable arm was mounted beside the tray, giving a second, closer view. Soft LED strips had been taped under the plinth’s edge, washing everything in cool, clinical light.

Alex stopped in the doorway, breath catching.

Nate stood beside the table in fresh navy scrubs, gloves already on, the full-length rigid sigmoidoscope gleaming on the tray like it had been waiting for her.

“Color?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed. “Green. Very, very green.”

They went through the ritual slowly (gown, knee crutches, pillow under her hips, Velcro straps snug around her calves). When he finished adjusting everything, he stepped back and let her look.

The mirrors showed everything.

Her own vulva, flushed and already slick. The dark pink ring of her anus, relaxed from months of trust and play. Her thighs trembling slightly in the restraints. And above it all, her own face (wide-eyed, flushed, alive).

She had never seen herself like this. Never once.

Nate rested a gloved hand on her inner thigh. “Still green?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

He warmed the scope, coated it until it dripped, and held it up so she could watch the lube slide down the steel in slow, shining strings.

“Eyes on the mirror, sweetheart.”

The tip touched her entrance. In the reflection she watched her anus bloom open around the blunt metal head (a perfect, slow-motion kiss). The stretch was visible, unmistakable, obscene in the most beautiful way. She whimpered as the first ten centimeters disappeared inside her, the polished shaft catching the light with every millimeter.

“Halfway,” he narrated, voice low. “Look how easily you take it now.”

She did. She watched her body swallow the instrument that had once been her nightmare, watched her own rim stretch thin and shiny around it, watched the subtle ripple of muscle as her rectum adjusted. The sight alone sent a bolt of pure heat straight to her clit.

At twenty centimeters he paused, letting her feel the depth, letting her see the impossible length buried inside her own body.

“Color?”

“Green,” she gasped, “please don’t stop.”

The final five centimeters slid home in one smooth push. In the mirror she saw the handle nestle between her cheeks, saw her anus stretched tight around the base, saw her vulva clench involuntarily from the sheer fullness.

Nate adjusted the small mirror so she had a perfect close-up of the place where steel met flesh.

“Watch,” he whispered.

He began the slow circles again (tiny, deliberate rotations that dragged the rigid length against every sensitive wall). In the mirror she watched her own rim flutter and grip, watched the lube glisten, watched her clit swell and throb in time with each movement.

The orgasm built faster this time, almost violent in its intensity. She couldn’t look away from the reflection of her body impaled and open and utterly, perfectly hers.

When she came, it was with her eyes locked on the sight of the scope moving inside her, on the sight of her own anus clenching rhythmically around cold steel, on the sight of Nate’s gloved hand steady and reverent on the handle.

She screamed (raw, shocked, triumphant) and watched herself shatter in real time.

He kept the scope seated through the aftershocks, letting her ride every wave while she stared, transfixed, at the proof that this part of her was no longer something to hide.

Only when she went limp did he ease the instrument out (slowly, carefully, letting her watch every inch re-emerge, slick and shining). When the tip finally slipped free, she watched her anus flutter closed, watched a thick strand of lube follow it out and drip down onto the sheet.

She was crying again, but this time she was laughing too.

Nate unfastened the straps, helped her sit up, and turned the big mirror so she could see her own face (tear-streaked, radiant, utterly unafraid).

“Look at you,” he said softly. “That’s the woman who just took twenty-five centimeters because she wanted to watch herself do it.”

Alex reached out and touched her reflection, fingers trembling against the glass.

“I’m not scared of mirrors anymore,” she whispered.

Then she turned, pulled him down by his scrub top, and kissed him until neither of them could breathe.

Later, curled together on the bed, she traced lazy circles on his chest.

“Thank you,” she said, voice small but steady. “For giving me back every inch of myself.”

He kissed her forehead. “You’re the one who took it, Alex. I just held the light.”