So Dr. Big doesn’t think I have CVS? Just because of one drunken fumble?

I’m feeling strangely infuriated as I slip my panties down behind the curtain. I hate the way this guy thinks he knows me. No, scrap that. I hate the way this guy thinks he knows the most intimate parts of me. He’s arrogant and presumptuous, no doubt suffering from an inflated ego given that most women - me included - must fall into his bed as soon as he bats his delicious eyelashes at them.

He really is delicious as well, especially in his doctor’s lab coat. That seems to infuriate me even further, the fact that I still want him, even after he’s waved my medical concerns aside with little more than a smirk. I can’t believe I still want him after he’s ridiculed, embarrassed and humiliated me in the mere five minutes I’ve been in this place.

I hitch myself up onto his examination table, and there’s something about the smell in here, all sterile and antiseptic, that gives me those universal medical jitters. My hands grip the sides of the table, knees tight together under my skirt, as though that is going to save me from the intrusion.

“Relax,” he says as he presents himself at the foot of the table, but I do anything but. He’s trying to be cool and professional, but I swear I just saw him hold back a smile. He slips on some gloves and the snap of the latex on his wrist makes me flinch. That does make him smile. “Deep breaths,” he says, and does them himself to illustrate. “In through the nose, out through the mouth, just like this.”

I feel like a stupid idiot lying here before him. Part of me wants to scoot from the exam table and dart out of here before this can go any further, and the other part wants this to be his bedroom again and not this cold, stark examination room. I feel like even more of an idiot for realizing that.

I’ve almost calmed myself through my infuriation when he speaks again. That smirk is back, despite all his deep breathing exercises.

“Remember, sweet cheeks, it’s not as if I haven’t seen it all before.”

Last night comes flooding back as he places his big hands on my knees. I resist him, legs glued together as he attempts to coax them apart. I’m burning up, my cheeks on fire as his eyes fix right on mine.

“I told you,” I insist. “I have CVS.”

“And I told you you most definitely do not.”

I fold my arms across my chest and blow an annoying strand of hair from my face. Not even my bun will stay in place around him. He’s… distracting. Difficult. I’m sure my forehead is clammy and probably flushed pink like the rest of me. I’m annoyed that my demure outfit is wasted on him having seen me in nothing last night. I’ve been waiting for this consultation for months, I had everything planned out from my outfit to my recounting of all my issues, all ready to be finally taken seriously by someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who can nod in the right places and tell me they can fix this. Someone who can make me… normal.

This is such bullshit. My dreams are in tatters as I roast with embarrassment under the stare of the man who took me home last night.

Ironic how being with him was the closest I’ve ever felt to normal, and now it’s ruined. He’s ruined it already.

“We’re not going to get anywhere unless you let me have an actual look,” he says. His hands are still burning my skin, even through the latex, his fingers huge against my skinny knees. I’ve never liked my knees, they’re knobby. I’m sure they look even more so under this harsh lighting. Dr. Big might as well have a miner’s lamp on his head for the illumination he’s going to get once he gets between my thighs.

His hands coax, more firmly this time, and I screw my eyes shut as I give in enough to ease my thighs open.

Fuck me, if this isn’t the most embarrassing moment of my whole entire life. I can already hear Riley’s laughter in my head once I fill her in on this unfortunate coincidence later. She’s going to pee her panties, and maybe I’ll even find it a little funny myself.

But not right now. Right now this isn’t funny at all. Not in the slightest.

“I am the best,” Dr. Big tells me, but this time there isn’t any bluster to his voice. He clearly believes this is a cold, hard fact, and truth be told, my research told me the same. His reputation is faultless. “If there really is an issue, I’ll find it and fix it.”

If there really is.

There really is an issue. It’s been there as long as I can remember. Teenage fumbles with clumsy boyfriends achieved none of the usual triumphs my friends told me about. I was closed up tight. Painfully tight. Not even so much as a finger managed to penetrate, and tampons… well, they were a no-no too.

So here I am, a virgin in my twenties. I’ve long since given up finding a special someone who can succeed where others have failed. For all of my friends telling me I just haven’t found the right man, I’ve experimented alone just as much, and still nothing. Doctors, and specialists, and self-help tutorials, all of them have come to nothing.

CVS, that’s what they told me. Rare, that’s what they told me. So when my online searches led me to Dr. Big himself, along with his glowing stream of testimonials from hopeless cases who’d never hoped to live a fulfilling sexual existence, I’d pinned my hopes on him too.

His waiting list is long - over twelve months long, and yet I’d been shunted forward in his queue. My hopes had soared.

And now they’re dashed again.

He smiles at me and for a split second I manage to forget where I am.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he says as I finally relax into position. I’m spread wide, exposed so totally that I have shivers up my spine, but he’s so cool and professional now, his eyes unflinching as he looks at all of me.

I wonder how many vaginas he’s examined in his career. I wonder if he’s examined just as many outside of it, too.

His gloved fingers poke me, this way and that, and I look away, over toward his desk with his accreditations framed above. So many of them.

“Let’s see what we can do here,” he says and reaches to his side. He pulls out a contraption that makes my heart thump. “I’ll use the smallest speculum,” he informs me, but it doesn’t look small at all. There’s no way that thing is going to fit in me, and I tell him so, shuffling up the exam table with no regard for the fragile decorum I’ve managed to scrape back in this place.

He grips my thighs as I squirm away, coaxing me slowly back into position, but I’m still protesting, still telling him no fucking way until he abandons the speculum back in the drawer.

“Okay,” he says. “No big deal.” His lip curls into a smile at his choice of words. “Let’s try a more manual examination.”

His fingers glide over my pussy and I feel a rush of tingles despite my predicament. My breath is raspy as he pries my lips open, and I’m squirming in position, barely short of panting as he squirts some lubricant onto his fingers.

“Just pretend this is last night,” he whispers, and it’s anything short of professional but I’m everything short of caring.

I wanted him last night, and the warmth of his hand as he presses it between my legs makes me remember just how much. Crazy. This guy has a crazy effect on me, and it sends my head spinning, because I want him to know I have a problem for real, I want him to realize I really do have CVS, and I want him to fix me. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I waited months for this.

“Deep breaths,” he says, but he doesn’t need to, I’m already there.

I know he’s going to fail when he tries, last night be damned, but the way he sweeps his finger back and forth takes me by surprise. There’s a pressure as he pushes his finger against me, but he does it. He manages it in one motion, and I’m speechless, openmouthed as he eases it back and forth.

“Just as I said,” he comments, and I’m struggling to focus on his words, because I’m in so much shock at how this feels. I’m in so much shock at how he’s managed to get his finger inside me without so much as a struggle. “You’re tight, but there’s nothing amiss, not that I can tell.”

“You must have… done something… last night…” I say. “You must have… changed something… broken something…”

“Broken something? I made you come last night, Melissa,” he tells me, “and there didn’t seem to be anything amiss then, either.”

“It’s just one finger… that doesn’t mean anything…”

I gasp at a fresh jolt of pressure, and I crane my neck for a better view.

No fucking way.

Just no way.

I am lost for words as I see he’s buried two fingers all the way in. Two thick fingers at that.

“How about two? Does that mean anything?” he asks, but I’m still stuck for words.

I can’t hold off a groan as he circles them inside. If feels… deep… deep and thick and tight. I’m sure it should hurt, but it doesn’t. It definitely doesn’t hurt.

The pressure is… intense. His movements are… good.

Too good.

My breath hitches as he slides them in and out of me, and I shouldn’t feel like this but I really do. I can’t keep still, squirming ever so slightly back at him as he rocks his wrist. He changes angle and I have to suck in a breath. I’ve never experienced anything like this, and my decorum has bailed on me. My tense legs have betrayed me and lolled open. My clit is a treacherous bitch thrumming without regard for how embarrassing this predicament really is.

And there’s more.

It’s too good.

He’s too good.

My eyes widen in horror as I stare into his, realizing too late that this terrible ordeal is going to take me all the way. I can’t even fight the orgasm as it builds. I’m as powerless in his hands as I was last night.

But this isn’t last night. I’m a patient on an examination table and he’s wearing latex gloves.

I hate the way I squelch as he pulls his fingers free.

“I think that’s enough of that,” he tells me, but my thighs are still wide open. They feel like jelly as I force them closed.

“So, what do you… think?” I ask him. “What do you think is wrong with me… if it’s not…”

He pulls off his gloves and tosses them into the trash. “I think it’s anxiety,” he tells me. “I’ve had a good feel of you. Twice. Both encounters have led me to the same diagnosis.”

My heart flutters. Diagnosis.

“Which is?”

“Anxiety,” he says, and my heart drops.

“Anxiety?!” I drop from the table. “This isn’t anxiety! I’ve been relaxed! With lots of people, with myself too. This isn’t anxiety!”

He tips his head. “Melissa, I just had two fingers buried in that pretty little pussy of yours. It’s anxiety.”

It isn’t fucking anxiety and I know it. I hate the way my body betrayed me. I hate the way he’s got such an unrealistic impression of what I live with every day of my life.

“You’re wrong,” I tell him.

“You’re wrong,” he shoots right back. He takes up my notes and a pen, and I wonder what the hell he’s writing. “Anxiety can be debilitating,” he adds. “Just because your condition is psychological in origin doesn’t make it any the less significant.”

“So I do have a problem?” I ask.

“Not one that can’t be fixed.”

I smooth down my pencil skirt. “How can it be fixed?”

“Breathing exercises… counseling…” he pauses. “The right partner.”

I laugh at that. “You’re the only guy I’ve been with who’s managed to put anything in there.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “What can I say? My reputation speaks for itself.”

I dash back behind the changing curtain and pull on my sodden panties. I’m still fluttery down there, and I can feel where he’s been.

“None of that is going to fix me,” I snap, knowing he’s right on the other side. “I’ve tried it all.”

I can’t fight the crushing disillusion as I step out into his view.

“No,” he says. “You haven’t. You haven’t tried me.”

“I haven’t what?”

He scribbles on his notepad and I wonder if he’s prescribing me some anti-anxiety medication or some crap like that, but when he hands it over there is only an address.

“My proposed course of treatment isn’t strictly professional,” he tells me, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Come over tonight,” he says, “and we’ll see if we can’t get this figured out. I may not be the easiest practice run to accommodate, but I’m confident we’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you shouldn’t be…” I begin, and he laughs.

“Shouldn’t be doing this? Hell no. But you want a cure, and I’m telling you this isn’t a gynecological issue. It’s a human issue. I can fix it, but not here. Whether you want my help is up to you.” He checks his watch. “But I have other patients to see, so you’ll have to make up your mind in your own time. I’ll be in any time after seven.”

I’m shocked mute as he ushers me out of his office, landing me in the waiting room where his next patient is already reading a magazine. He holds out a hand and I shake it numbly.

“Bye, Miss Malone,” he says with a smile full of knowing.

And then he calls in his next appointment.