I will never forget that night in the Qinling Mountains—the shame and helplessness that seeped deep into my bones, like a thorn still lodged in my heart to this day.

Everything happened too suddenly. When the emergency gurney slammed open the doors to the operating room, I was still half-dazed between sleep and waking. Excruciating pain hammered my head and abdomen like countless hammers striking at once. I only remembered riding my electric bike, the night wind cool against my skin, the red light just turning on, when a small car suddenly shot out… then the world spun, a sharp ringing filled my ears, and warm blood gushed from my left ear. The metallic smell of blood mixed with disinfectant made it hard to breathe.

The operating room was in chaos. Footsteps, murmured voices, and the clatter of instrument carts surged like waves. The air was thick with the mixed scent of alcohol and blood, occasionally pierced by other patients’ groans and a baby’s cries. This small hospital was short-staffed on the night shift, so all emergencies were crammed together. My gurney was parked right in the middle, with half-drawn curtains around it. From the next bed, I vaguely heard a young man’s voice—he was quietly talking to a nurse, clearly another car accident victim.

“Don’t move, good girl. Don’t be afraid. Just call me Dr. Zhang. What’s your name?”

A male doctor’s voice sounded above my head, professionally calm. I forced out a few words with all my strength: “My name is Wang Xue…”

“Good, Wang Xue. Because there are many patients in the OR, I will say your name before every step to confirm.”

I wanted to nod, but the pain made it impossible to even lift my eyelids. His face was unnaturally clear under the shadowless lamp: early thirties, sharp eyes above the mask, brows slightly furrowed as he flipped through the medical record.

The nurses moved with lightning speed, cutting off all my clothes in moments. The cold air instantly enveloped my entire body. The shame made me want to curl up, but I couldn’t move a single finger. They only draped a thin blue sheet over my chest and below, leaving everything else completely exposed under the lights. I bit my lip and buried my face in the pillow, but tears kept pouring out uncontrollably. The OR door slammed open again; an intern nurse carrying a tray nearly hit the gurney and muttered, “Sorry, it’s crazy busy.” I sneaked a glance at the next bed. The ridiculously handsome young man, probably twenty-five or twenty-six, had gauze wrapped around his forehead. He was half-sitting up, his eyes occasionally drifting toward me. That fleeting look of concern made my heart skip a beat. But in my current state—naked, disheveled, covered in blood—I could only feel my face burn crimson as I desperately turned away.

Dr. Zhang began examining my head. When his fingers parted the hair near my ear, I gasped in pain. The stethoscope, ice-cold, moved across my chest. Then his hand covered my breast, squeezing with professional precision, yet I clearly felt the slight tremor in his fingertips. My face burned even hotter. I wanted to cover myself, but my hands were restrained. I could only press my face harder into the pillow. Outside, wheelchairs passed by, and nurses quietly discussed other patients. The noise made me completely break down. I felt like I had been thrown into a crowded public square for everyone to stare at.

After finishing the upper body exam, he pulled the blue sheet downward, exposing my lower abdomen and private parts. I instinctively tried to press my legs together, but he said calmly, “Wang Xue, relax. Bend your knees—I need to palpate your abdomen.” I had no choice but to obey. My knees bent, thighs forced apart. In that moment, I wished I could die on the spot. He pressed on my liver, spleen, and kidneys, moving downward. The urine I had held for so long suddenly felt like it would explode. When he pressed above my pubic bone, I couldn’t hold back and reached out to push his wrist. The nurse immediately restrained my other hand and held my head, saying softly, “Don’t move. Keep your head still.” I had become a fish on the cutting board.

Dr. Zhang determined my bladder was full. He brought a bedpan and lifted my hips. I tried desperately to urinate but couldn’t squeeze out a drop. Shame, pain, and fear swirled together. Crying, I said, “I can’t control it… it hurts so much…”

“Then we’ll catheterize you,” he said firmly. “We need to recheck. What’s your name?”

“My name is Wang Xue…” I had to repeat it.

“Good, Wang Xue. The nurse will part your labia. Please prepare yourself.”

My legs were placed on stirrups on both sides, spread and secured. The shadowless lamp shone directly on my most private area. I couldn’t even cover myself. He put on gloves, and the cold disinfectant cotton swab wiped slowly across my labia and urethral opening. I shook like a sieve. The moment the metal catheter touched me, I bit my lower lip until I tasted blood. The tube advanced inch by inch, the foreign sensation so intense that tears streamed down my face. With a soft “pop,” urine mixed with blood rushed out into the collection bag, turning it pale red. I cried out in terror, “Doctor… am I going to die?” He comforted me softly, “It’s okay, just a small wound.” But when securing the catheter, his fingertips deliberately lingered a few extra seconds on my inner thigh, brushing my skin like an electric current.

I noticed the handsome young man on the next bed. His eyes drifted over again, lingering longer this time—with curiosity and concern. The corners of his lips curved slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but a nurse interrupted: “Don’t move. Your arm still needs to be secured.” As she spoke, she chatted quietly with him. I faintly heard “Aotai Trail” and “working overtime.” So he was a programmer who loved hiking. This time he had fallen on the Aotai Trail in the Qinling Mountains while rushing back to the company for overtime—sleep-deprived on a steep slope. It sounded adventurous yet so relatable, sparking a trace of curiosity in me.

Once my bladder was empty, Dr. Zhang said he needed to check my uterus. When I heard the words “rectal exam,” I nearly collapsed. But I had no right to refuse. He applied more lubricant, and his index finger slowly entered my anus. The pain, fullness, and extreme shame overwhelmed me. I cried out that it hurt, but he didn’t stop. Warm fluid suddenly gushed from my vagina. His voice finally changed: “There’s blood.” Terror flooded me—I thought I would be cut open. He told the nurse to notify my family that surgery might be needed and that a vaginal exam was required too.

I remained in that most humiliating position: legs raised high on the metal stirrups on both sides, thighs pulled almost perpendicular to my body, knees bent, calves hanging down, secured tightly with wide restraints. The catheter was still inside, the transparent tube running along my inner thigh to the edge of the bed. The pale red urine slowly accumulating in the bag swayed in the corner of my eye. I had cried until my throat was hoarse, left only with sobs. The blue sheet had long been pulled down below my chest. My entire lower body lay completely naked and exposed under the shadowless lamp, chilly and vulnerable.

The doctor suddenly said, “Wang Xue, we need to give you an enema to prevent possible surgical contamination.”

My mind went blank—enema? What was that? I had only heard about it on TV… something about pouring liquid into the intestines from behind? Oh God… no…

I shook my head desperately, my voice like a mosquito’s hum: “I… I had a bowel movement this morning… really, it’s not necessary…”

He paused, looked down at me, his eyes narrowing above the mask as if evaluating an object. His voice was low but carried unquestionable authority: “This morning? Exactly when? Before you left home? Or earlier? Give me the details so I can assess whether there’s any residue left in your intestines—if there’s too much, it will affect surgical safety.”

My face burned like fire, heat surging from my neck to my ears. I swallowed hard, my voice trembling like a leaf in the wind: “Just… just this morning, after I woke up… in the bathroom at home… I passed quite a lot… it was soft… no… no strange smell…” As I spoke these words, I felt like I was confessing the most private secret. Tears fell uncontrollably. My mind was a mess—why did he need to ask such details? Why make a girl describe her stool in front of a strange man? The shame stabbed like a knife, reminding me of when I was a child in kindergarten and had an accident in my pants. The teacher undressed me in front of everyone and washed me. I had wanted to disappear then. Now it was worse—I was naked, tied down here, without even the right to cover my face.

He nodded, a faint gleam of satisfaction flashing in his eyes like a hunter spotting prey: “Soft, large amount, no odor—that means your intestines are relatively clean, not too smelly, and not much residue. Good, this will make the enema go more smoothly.” His words made me want to cry even more. How could he say these things so calmly while every word felt like it was peeling my skin?

He ignored my pleas and turned to the nurse: “Get 500ml of warm soapy water and two bottles of glycerin suppositories. Suppositories first, then the enema.”

At that moment, I completely panicked. My heart felt like it would jump out of my throat.

The nurse wheeled over a small cart with a white plastic bucket connected to a red rubber tube ending in a long, finger-thick plastic tip, shiny with transparent lubricant. I stared at that tube, one thought in my mind: that thing… was going into my ass?

The doctor put on a fresh pair of gloves and stood between my legs, unusually close. The hem of his white coat almost brushed my inner thighs. I saw him look down at my exposed area, his gaze calm yet carrying a focused intensity that made me shiver, as if studying something. I instinctively tried to close my knees, but the stirrups held me fast, forcing me to remain completely open to him.

The few seconds waiting for insertion felt like eternity. My mind was in turmoil: this thing was going into my dirtiest place? What if it hurt? Could I go to the bathroom now? But the bedpan the nurse brought told me I would be defecating publicly right here. Shame surged like a tide. I no longer felt human—just an object to be processed.

He first picked up two glycerin suppositories, cut them open, and drew them into a large 50ml syringe. The syringe was huge, but the needle part was replaced with a long plastic tip like a thin straw. I watched helplessly as he coated it thickly with lubricant, then leaned over. His left hand gently parted my already fully exposed buttocks. His right hand, without allowing resistance, inserted the tip into my anus to lubricate. There was enough lubricant, so I only felt a full, stretching sensation.

The nurse was busy nearby. From behind the curtain came the young man’s low voice: “Nurse, is the girl over there okay? She’s crying so miserably…” His gentle voice, like a warm current through the curtain, warmed my heart for a moment. But it also deepened my shame—he had heard me crying? He knew what was happening to me?

The doctor spread my buttocks. I felt cool air blow in and instinctively clenched, but he held me firmly. “Miss Wang Xue, please relax,” he said.

I closed my eyes, tears sliding down. The moment the plastic tip touched me, the cold, hard sensation made my whole body stiffen. He slowly pushed it in, a full ten centimeters deep. I let out a low “Ah!” The feeling of the foreign object invading my intestines felt like being torn open—pain, fullness, and coldness mixed together.

“No… please…” I begged through sobs.

He didn’t speak. His right hand steadily pushed forward—

“Ah—!” My back arched violently (or tried to—the restraints held me immobile). The thing slid in deep, a full ten centimeters or more! I felt as if my entire lower abdomen had been pierced. The intense foreign-body sensation made my vision darken.

Immediately after, he pushed the medication without hesitation.

The cold glycerin suppository flowed in with a “gurgling” sound, incredibly fast! My belly instantly felt like it was filled with fire—cold yet distended. My intestines began to writhe madly. I screamed, “It’s so full… I’m going to shit… I’m really going to shit…”

He pulled out the syringe and casually spread my buttocks a bit more to prevent me from clenching. I desperately contracted my sphincter, feeling it could fail at any second. All my attention focused downward—that area had become the center of my entire world. I couldn’t relax, couldn’t leak, not even a little.

“Doctor… I can’t hold it… I really can’t hold it…” I cried and begged, my voice shaking. Tears blurred my vision, sweat rolled down my forehead.

A kindergarten memory suddenly flashed: at age four, I had a fever and diarrhea and soiled my pants. The teacher stripped me in front of everyone, carried me to the sink, and washed me under cold water while the other children watched from the doorway. I cried my heart out. The humiliation of having my dirtiest place stared at burned just like now. It was worse now. I was naked, legs spread wide, positioned over a bedpan, yet forced to hold it in. What if I leaked? The smell would fill the entire operating room, and everyone would know…

“Hold for another ninety seconds,” he said in a terrifyingly calm tone. His palm gently rubbed my distended lower abdomen back and forth. Each rub made the fluid inside slosh, nearly making me lose control on the spot.

From behind the curtain, the young man’s voice sounded again: “Wang Xue, hold on a little longer. It’ll be over soon. I’m also here from a car accident. It hurts like hell, but you’ll be fine once you get through it.” The handsome guy next door had learned my name!

In that instant, my heart warmed a little. His comfort was like a lifeline, helping me grit my teeth and hold on longer. But the shame didn’t lessen—he knew I was holding in my shit? Oh God…

The more I tried to hold it, the harder it became. My anus clenched and relaxed, making tiny “puff puff” sounds. A little watery stool had already leaked out. I was scared out of my mind, biting my lower lip hard, body trembling, tears falling in streams.

“Okay, you can release now,” Dr. Zhang finally said, staring at my twitching anus.

“Puff—!” My dignity shattered along with the sound.

With a loud noise, watery stool sprayed directly into the bedpan below. The stench instantly hit my nose. The shame made me want to die. I cried louder: “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… it’s so dirty…” I lost control almost instantly. “Whoosh—!” A large, hot, stinking rush of water mixed with fecal matter jetted out, splashing noisily in the pan. I cried even harder, my voice hoarse: “I’m sorry… I couldn’t hold it… I’m so dirty…” Dr. Zhang said lightly, “It’s okay. This is only the first step. You had a bowel movement this morning but still passed this much—did you eat our Xi’an mutton bread soup? Bread makes you go more. No, this smell… must be roujiamo. Our Shaanxi food really sticks to the stomach.”

The nurse quickly removed the dirty bedpan and replaced it with a clean one. I saw him pick up the red enema tube again, its tip also glistening with lubricant.

I completely broke down, begging through sobs over and over: “Please don’t insert it again… I can’t take it… I’ll behave…”

He finally looked up at me. That gaze wasn’t pity—it was more like the complex satisfaction an adult man feels seeing a little girl completely collapse. His voice was low: “Endure a few more minutes. It’ll be over soon.”

Then he leaned down again. His left hand’s two fingers spread my anus once more (the messy area from earlier had been hastily wiped by the nurse but was still wet). I felt the cold tube tip press against me—thicker than the suppository one.

“Take a deep breath… inhale…”

I was shaking too violently; even my inhale carried sobs. The moment I inhaled, he pushed—

“Ah—!!!”

The entire tube slid in more than twenty centimeters at once! I felt as if my intestines had been pushed up to my stomach. Pain, fullness, and shame overwhelmed me. My legs shook wildly in the stirrups but couldn’t break free.

Dr. Zhang opened the valve. Warm soapy water began gurgling steadily into my intestines—not fast, but continuous. I clearly felt my belly slowly swelling like a balloon being inflated. “It’s so full… Doctor… stop for a moment… it’s really going to burst…” I cried and begged.

Dr. Zhang pressed one hand on my abdomen, his palm hot, gently rubbing back and forth: “Hold for another thirty seconds until the 500ml is all in.” Every rub made the water slosh inside, threatening to break the dam. I bit my lower lip hard, sweat covering my forehead.

Finally, the enema finished. He slowly withdrew the tube. I thought I could release, but he said, “Hold it for two minutes to let the solution soften everything properly.”

Those two minutes felt like two centuries. My belly was swollen like a five-month pregnancy. My intestines cramped violently. I cried and pleaded, “Let me go… please…” Every second was torture. I felt my intestines twisting, my anus trembling. My entire focus was locked on my sphincter—one slip and it was over. The kindergarten memory became clearer: cold water rushing in the sink, the laughter of onlookers… Now I was being “washed” again, but more thoroughly and humiliatingly. He finally nodded. The nurse positioned the bedpan. I lost control almost instantly—“Whoosh—!” A massive torrent of turbid liquid mixed with fecal matter sprayed out, loud enough for the whole operating room to hear.

I cried until I lost my voice, wanting only to crawl into a hole and disappear.

He glanced into the basin, presumably seeing the stool. “Not clean enough yet. One more time.” I no longer had the strength to shake my head. I just closed my eyes, tears flowing along my temples into my hair.

Dr. Zhang looked at the urine bag and my abdomen, brows furrowed. He said quietly to the nurse, “Bleeding hasn’t decreased. The uterine contusion may be more serious—prepare for emergency surgery. Shave her while I finish the enema beside you.” The nurse nodded, quickly taking an electric razor, shaving foam, and disinfectant towels from the cart. Her voice was professional but carried a hint of sympathy: “Okay, Doctor. I’ll shave the abdomen and perineal area. After you finish the enema, I’ll handle the inner thighs.” The doctor hummed in acknowledgment, reapplying lubricant to the tube while saying, “Be quick. The surgical area must be completely hairless to prevent infection.”

“We need to confirm your name and make sure you understand what’s about to happen,” the nurse said routinely.

“My name is Wang Xue. You’re going to shave my hair.”

“It’s your pubic hair,” the nurse corrected. “We’re going to shave the hair on your labia and around your anus. Yes, anus means butthole.” She added the explanation in case I didn’t understand.

My heart sank into an ice cave. Tears mixed with sweat rolled down—this couldn’t be real. I was only 21, and they were going to cut me open? The nurse leaned close, speaking softly but firmly: “Little sister, don’t be afraid. This is standard prepping for surgical safety. Take a deep breath. I’m going to spray the foam now—could you use your hand to part yourself a little so I can shave it clean?”

I stared wide-eyed, my face red as a boiled shrimp. My hands were fixed at my sides and couldn’t move. I could only cry hoarsely, “I… I can’t part it… my hands are tied…” The nurse sighed, gently patting my thigh: “Then I’ll help—relax your legs, don’t clench.” With one hand she gently spread my labia. My most intimate area touched the cold air for the first time, under the intense gaze of the male doctor. The cold shaving foam sprayed on with a “puff puff,” like white frost covering my pubic area. The cool, foamy sensation gave me goosebumps all over. Shame surged like a tide—I felt like an infant, touched in my most private place by a stranger, and now she was going to shave me. At that moment, a strange scene formed: my lower body being stared at by both a man and a woman.

At the same time, the doctor had reinserted the tube into my anus. Warm soapy water began gurgling in again, making my belly even more distended. The nurse turned on the electric razor. The buzzing vibration started. She began at my lower abdomen, shaving off the fine hairs stroke by stroke, then moved downward to the pubic area. Her fingers spread my labia more forcefully to ensure the razor got close to the skin. The razor’s vibration reached my most sensitive spots, like countless tiny needles pricking—itchy, numb, painful all at once—on top of the increasingly urgent need to defecate from the enema. I couldn’t help whimpering, “It’s so itchy… stop shaving… please…” The nurse comforted softly, “Hold on, almost done—Doctor, the abdomen is done, perineum almost finished. How’s the enema going?” The doctor continued rubbing my abdomen to control the flow and said, “Another 100ml. The intestines still aren’t empty enough—shave it clean, especially around the urethral opening. Don’t leave any residue.”

The nurse nodded and continued. I felt my pubic hairs being shaved away one by one. Cool air blew across the now-bare skin. The feeling of exposure made me want to die. After shaving, she wiped away the foam residue with a warm wet cloth. I looked down—my lower body was completely smooth and hairless, like a hairless doll. There was no cover left. Everything was starkly naked under the lights. The sparse pubic hair I once had was my last barrier of privacy. Now it was gone. I felt I had completely lost my dignity as a woman, like the last piece of clothing had been stripped away and I was thrown naked onto the operating table. Tears blurred my vision. I sobbed quietly, “I… I look like a monster…” The nurse patted my hand: “Don’t overthink it. This is to save your life.” But her comfort was useless. My heart had shattered. Shame and fear intertwined, making me wish I could faint on the spot.

A second time, a third… until only clear soapy water came out did he stop. For the final one, he personally took iodine-soaked cotton balls and wiped my anus and now completely exposed, hairless perineum in slow, careful circles. I could feel his gloved fingers stroking back and forth across my most sensitive areas.

That sensation was like an icy electric current shooting from my lower body straight to my brain, making my whole body rigid. After shaving, the skin that had once been covered by sparse hair became extremely sensitive—smooth as a baby’s, yet slightly red and hot from the razor’s friction. His gloved fingers, cool and slick with lubricant, pressed and stroked gently. Every nerve screamed—itch, numbness, stinging intertwined—as if a protective layer had been peeled away, leaving everything directly exposed to air and touch with no buffer. Psychologically it was worse: I felt I had completely lost all privacy, like an object being casually toyed with. Shame flooded over me like a tidal wave. Tears flowed uncontrollably. One thought filled my mind: why me, why like this? The strange, violating sensation made me want to curl up, but the stirrups held me immobile. I could only endure his “examination”—it wasn’t gentle, it was possessive, a humiliation I would never forget in my lifetime.

After wiping, Dr. Zhang looked up at me. His eyes carried a nearly gentle possessiveness. He said softly:

“Good girl. Now it’s clean.”

I could no longer speak. I only knew that the most shameful moment of my life had been seen and remembered by him in full detail. My consciousness felt soaked in warm water, hazy and soft all over. The sounds around me seemed muffled by cotton. The nurse leaned over and said something to the doctor. I only caught “body temperature might be rising” and “caught a chill.” The operating room was so cold, and I had been lying here naked for so long—no wonder. Dr. Zhang hummed and gestured to the nurse.

I saw the nurse hand him a rectal thermometer, as thick and long as the previous one, with mercury visible in the glass bulb and the end glistening with lubricant. I no longer had the strength to resist, not even to cry loudly. Tears just fell on their own. He walked between my legs, casually spreading my buttocks with his left hand, holding the thermometer in his right. The cold glass tip pressed directly against me and slid in with a “pop,” all the way to the hilt. I didn’t even tremble. My intestines were empty, washed completely clean. The thermometer went in like sliding into warm cotton—zero resistance.

Dr. Zhang changed gloves again. He slowly inserted two fingers together into my vagina. My eyes flew open: “No… don’t…” He ignored me, pushing in to the deepest point. His other hand still held the catheter, pushing and pulling to confirm placement, even moving the rectal thermometer back and forth through the intestinal wall. I clearly felt those two fingers inside my vagina probing and tracing the bulge of the catheter, as if using my body for an anatomy lesson. With every push, the thin wall between urethra and vagina sent waves of strange, aching numbness. I couldn’t help whimpering, but I no longer had the strength to cry out in pain. He wasn’t satisfied yet. His fingers moved downward, touching the thermometer in my rectum, and through the thin intestinal wall, he gently slid it in and out:

“Wang Xue, the deeper the rectal thermometer is inserted, the more accurate the reading. Don’t try to push it out. Stop clenching your butthole.”

Suddenly there was a “rip” sound and sharp pain at my vaginal opening. I guessed he had cut through my last remaining hymen. Warm blood flowed down my perineum to my anus. Then the cold vaginal speculum pressed against the torn entrance. I screamed and tried to pull away. He warned coldly, “Move again and I’ll use half-anesthesia!” The duckbill speculum opened to its maximum. I felt as if my entire body had been split open, my cervix exposed under the lights. A long needle pierced deep inside to aspirate and check for internal bleeding. The pain made my vision go black. Fortunately there was no blood. He finally breathed a sigh of relief and smiled at me: “No surgery needed.”

The blue sheet had long slipped off. I lay completely naked and exposed before everyone’s eyes. He replaced the catheter with a thicker three-way one, removing the old and inserting the new by hand. When the thick tube stretched my urethra, I screamed in pain. He only said, “Endure it. It’s better than opening the bladder.” He repeatedly flushed my bladder until the urine ran clear.

At three-something in the morning, he finally released me from the stirrups. I trembled as I closed my knees. My lower body burned as if torn to pieces. The nurse covered me with a blanket and wheeled me out. As we passed the next bed, I met the eyes of the handsome programmer. He smiled with dimples: “My name is Li Chen, a programmer. Once we’re discharged, want to hike an easier route in the Qinling Mountains together? The kind where we don’t rush for overtime.”

My heart pounded like a drum. Perhaps after this nightmare, there really could be a ray of light?

I closed my eyes, feeling as if I had been hastily sewn back together after lingchi (death by a thousand cuts). That night I lost blood, dignity, my first time, and that membrane that could never return. Mom had taught me that girls should be proper. Before high school, I had never spoken more than ten sentences to any boy. In the four-person dorm, I was always the last to shower, minimizing how much of my body wrapped in a bath towel was exposed. Though strictly speaking, being wrapped in a towel wasn’t exposure.

Yet I didn’t even have the strength to hate. Burning and dazed, I only thought: Dr. Zhang… white-coated angel, you are the first and most thorough person to possess my body… Or perhaps that gentle boy named Li Chen, tanned from the outdoors, who loves hiking—could he be the one to talk with me? Maybe our accident could truly become a beginning.

I fell asleep.