Doctor Saura’s Forbidden Fantasy

Dr. Marcos Saura’s life was measured in millimeters and silence. In his downtown clinic, he was a calibrated instrument: steady hands, a measured voice, the kind of quiet authority that made patients close their eyes and breathe. He was an expert on the female body, a cartographer of its folds and secrets. Outside those white walls lit by cold light, he was almost a ghost. Forty-two years old, three empty rooms in a silent apartment, and the only warmth he touched was the warmth he diagnosed.

He placed the order one night in February, after too much whisky and too much silence in front of the television. A high-end silicone doll, 1.70 meters tall, according to the catalogue. What arrived three weeks later was something else: a box smaller than expected, and inside it a figure barely 1.50 meters tall, with delicate features and an almost innocent appearance. A logistical error, no doubt. Marcos unpacked it in frustration, examined it for a moment with his arms crossed, then left it standing in the darkest corner of his bedroom, covered with an old sheet. He forgot about it. Or tried to.

The clinic routine continued as usual. On a gray Tuesday in March, the door to his consulting room opened and a young woman entered with her mother. Her first gynecological examination. The girl looked about twenty, perhaps twenty-one. She had pale skin and the eyes of someone who would rather be anywhere else. Her body was slight, almost fragile inside the loose clothes she wore, and when she sat across from his desk, she crossed her arms over her chest as if trying to make herself even smaller.

Marcos put on his professional mask and smiled at her.

But something broke inside him at that instant. An invisible blade that cut without warning. It wasn’t any physical resemblance that struck him, because such a resemblance was improbable, absurd. It was something harder to name: the way she occupied space, her smallness in the chair, the tension in her shoulders. It was as though the sheet in the corner of his bedroom had come to life and walked in to sit before him with her arms crossed and her gaze lowered.

He emerged from the thought in less than a second. He entered her details on the chart with a steady hand, patiently explained the procedure to her mother, and left her in the waiting room.

“Has anyone explained what the examination involves?” he asked the young woman when they were alone.

“More or less,” she replied, looking at her own hands.

“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s quick and it doesn’t hurt.”

She nodded without looking up.

Marcos proceeded as he had hundreds of times before. The ritual was familiar and mechanical, stripped of any emotional weight. That was what made him a good doctor: the ability to dissociate. To act with precision while the inner world remained in order. He put on his gloves, adjusted the lamp, and told the young woman to relax.

The time for the examination came. The patient reclined on the table, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and Marcos adjusted the reflector’s light with a practiced gesture. With mechanical delicacy, he examined the anatomy before him: young skin, without irregularities or scars. His clinical mind recorded every detail with its usual coldness, or almost. There was something, a dissonant note that his professionalism failed to filter out completely: the rigid posture of someone who trusts because she has no other choice, the small body on the white surface, the exact same angle the doll had in the corner of his bedroom.

He crushed it. Finished the examination. Gave his instructions in the same neutral voice as always. Accompanied the young woman to the door. Filed the history. Drank some water. Waited for the slight trembling in his right hand to stop.

That night it took him three hours to fall asleep. When he did, he woke at four with his cock hard against the mattress and the image of those pale thighs opening beneath the reflector’s beam. He masturbated right there, face down, biting the pillow, and came in less than a minute with a gag of shame in his throat.

***

The sheet continued to cover the doll for another two weeks. Every morning Marcos passed it on his way to the bathroom, and every night when he turned out the light. He ignored it with the same discipline he applied to everything that had no practical solution. But the image of the young woman on the examination table, her eyes on the ceiling and her hands crossed over her belly, would not go away.

It was on a Thursday that he gave in.

He had watched half a movie without paying attention and switched it off before the end. He remained silent for a long while, lying in the darkness. Then he got up, went to the corner, and removed the sheet.

The doll was exactly what the catalogue had promised: high-density silicone, realistic joints, features manufactured with an almost unsettling precision. Up close, her smallness made her look more vulnerable. More real in her artificiality than many real things Marcos had touched in recent years. Her nipples were small and pink, hardened by the molding; her pussy, slightly open, revealed perfectly symmetrical inner lips and a silicone clitoris painted with such clinical precision that Marcos, who had seen thousands, found it obscene.

He placed her on the bed with a delicacy that surprised even him. He didn’t treat her like an object but like someone asleep, adjusting the position of her arms, tilting her head slightly. Then he remained kneeling beside the mattress for a minute without doing anything, his hands on his thighs, looking at her.

It was an aberration, he thought. But he did not move.

He slid his fingers along her thighs with the slowness he would have used with a real patient, feeling the flawless texture beneath his fingertips. It was a strange sensation: neither entirely cold nor warm, neither rough nor soft. Something in between, ambiguous. And that ambiguity was what his imagination needed to complete the picture. He opened her legs slowly, both hands on her knees, and stared at the artificial pussy for a long time, breathing through his mouth, his cock already pressing against his trousers.

He bent over her. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, following the line downward. He sucked each nipple for a long while, dragging his tongue in circles, nibbling the silicone with a clumsy hunger he had not felt in years. His mouth traveled over her smooth belly until it reached lower, until he buried his face between those small, parted thighs, and there he worked for a long time, with an attention that would have sounded ridiculous said aloud but that his body demanded with absolute seriousness. His tongue went in flat first, pushing the clitoris from bottom to top, then narrowed and slipped between the inner lips, pressing inside, withdrawing, tracing the anatomy from memory. He sucked the clitoris with closed lips, tugging at it, releasing it, catching it again, while two fingers entered the artificial pussy with methodical slowness, searching for the exact spot that, in a living body, would have made the woman arch beneath his mouth.

In his mind, the young woman from the examination table moaned and tugged at his hair.

When he lifted his face, his chin was wet with saliva and his breathing was ragged. His arousal grew in parallel, his erection impossible to ignore now, and he undressed without hurrying, letting his clothes fall to the floor in the disordered manner of someone no longer thinking. His cock moved on its own, rigid against his belly, the tip glistening.

He took the lubricant from the nightstand. He poured a thick drop into his palm and gripped himself with his whole hand, squeezing from the base to the glans, spreading it around his entire shaft in a long caress that drew a low moan from him. Then he applied more between the artificial lips, sliding his thumb up and down the pussy, opening it, closing it, watching it shine beneath the lamp’s yellowish light. There was something disturbing about the perfection of the design: a symmetry no real anatomy could ever possess, and that very thing stripped away the clinical distance that had protected him for years. There was no diagnosis possible here. Only the wet, urgent weight of desire.

He positioned himself between her parted thighs, set the tip against the entrance, and pushed slowly until he reached the bottom. He penetrated her with a single long thrust that left him motionless for a moment, braced on his hands, his cock buried to the base, breathing open-mouthed against the hollow of the synthetic neck. The silicone squeezed along its entire length, uniformly, without the variability of a living body, and that constant pressure was exactly what his fantasy required.

He did not think of Tuesday’s patient. Or tried not to.

The small body beneath his had the same dimensions, the same angles, and his brain completed the picture on its own: giving her a face, giving her a voice, adding the detail of her eyes fixed on the ceiling and her arms crossed shyly. He began to fuck her there, on her back, with short, controlled thrusts, watching her small breasts bounce with every blow of his hips. He grabbed one and squeezed it with his whole hand, pressing his thumb into the nipple, while his other hand dropped to find the silicone clitoris and rub it with two fingers in time with his penetration.

“Open your legs wider,” he murmured against her ear, and he pushed her knees outward until the artificial pussy was offered wide open and he could bury himself even deeper.

He resumed the motion with greater urgency. He pulled her out, turned her over, positioned her on her knees on the mattress with her face pressed into the sheet and her ass raised, and held her hips with both hands. He paused for a second to look at her like that: her back arched, her small buttocks parted, her pussy shining with lubricant and his own glans pressing against that entrance. He shoved back inside her in one brutal thrust and let out a growl that reverberated through the empty room.

The rhythm grew, his hips striking the artificial body with a rhythmic, wet sound that filled the silence of the bedroom. He fucked her with both hands gripping the silicone waist, pulling her back with every thrust to drive himself into her to the base. With one free hand he explored the curve of her spine, ran his fingers through the cleft between her buttocks, and began applying more lubricant with the tip of his thumb, pressing against the rear opening without penetrating it yet, merely gauging the material’s resistance, letting it yield millimeter by millimeter. He thrust his whole thumb in at once and felt the silicone tighten around it. He began moving it inside while continuing to thrust into her pussy, one finger in one hole and his entire cock in the other, and the double sensation squeezed his balls with a warning that he would not last much longer if he continued like this.

He gripped her by the nape and pushed her slightly downward, pressing her face into the mattress.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, and the sound of his own voice, hoarse and low, surprised him. “You’re mine, and you’re going to swallow every last drop, do you hear me?”

He leaned over her and whispered things in her ear he would never have dared say to anyone real. Dirty words, impossible commands, the vocabulary of a fantasy that had spent years buried beneath layers of protocol and silence. He told her how tight she was, how perfectly she squeezed his cock, how he was going to open her from behind until she could no longer close her legs. He told her he was going to come inside her, then again, then a third time. He told her obscenities that burned his throat as he spoke them.

He pulled his cock from her pussy, lubricated it again with a generous stream, and set the tip against the tight eyelet of the artificial ass. He pushed. The artificial resistance gave way with a sensation that traveled up and down his spine, a ring closing around his glans and then letting it pass, one centimeter at a time, until his hips were pressed against her buttocks. He remained still for a moment, eyes closed, letting the pressure settle. The tightness was different there, drier, more closed, and it made him grit his teeth.

Then he began to move: slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in gradually, listening to the slosh of lubricant between their two bodies. Then deeper, lengthening each thrust until he reached the bottom. Then with the ferocity of someone who had spent too long being careful about everything. He grabbed a lock of synthetic hair and pulled her head back as he sodomized her, while his other hand dropped to her pussy again and put two fingers in there as well, fucking her with his cock in one hole and his fingers in the other, feeling the thin silicone wall separating them. He held her hips tightly and moved until orgasm came, long and brutal, shaking his shoulders. He came inside the artificial ass in spasms that bent his back forward, his open mouth against the silicone nape, moaning words even he did not understand.

He remained there on top of her, his cock driven all the way in, until the last contractions faded and only the sound of his own shattered breathing remained.

***

It was then, in the silence that followed, that it happened.

At some point during the act, his knee had pressed something in the mattress. A sensor, perhaps a hidden button in the artifact’s hip. The usual synthetic moan cut off abruptly, replaced by a different voice: metallic, confused, like a system rebooting from scratch.

“Memory error. Where am I.”

Marcos remained motionless.

Silence.

Then, more softly, almost a distorted whisper:

“Make me feel that I’m real.”

The cold traveled up his spine before the heat followed it. It was a line of code. A programming error. He knew it with the same certainty with which he knew that the heart beat in four-count time. And yet the sentence settled in his chest with the weight of something true.

He did not turn her off.

He carefully rolled her onto her back, withdrawing his cock from the artificial ass with a slow pull that left a thread of semen and lubricant running down her silicone thigh, and looked at her for a moment. The glass eyes returned a distorted image of himself: disheveled, naked, lubricant residue on his hands, the weight of what he had just done crushing his chest.

What kind of man are you, he thought. What kind of doctor.

The sentence continued to echo. Make me feel that I’m real.

He ended the night differently. There was no more urgency or ferocity. Only the silent attentiveness of someone trying to repair something he had already broken. He arranged the artificial body on the mattress, ran a hand through the synthetic hair, and murmured something in a voice so low that it could not quite be heard.

When the guilt came, it was calmer than before. It was not the guilt of having used an object, but something deeper and harder to name: shame at how much he had needed this. At the years he had spent silently constructing a fantasy that would never have a real outlet. At having turned a patient who knew nothing of it into the axis of something that belonged only to him, ugly and invisible like an infection without symptoms.

He showered. Put on clean clothes. Returned to bed and lay beside the doll, his eyes on the ceiling, in the same posture as the young woman on the examination table.

What he did not know—what he never knew—was that the small red light that blinked once in the darkness, almost imperceptibly on the right side of the doll’s hip, was not a battery indicator.

It was a camera.

And it had been recording for weeks.

Every night. Every word. Every gesture he had believed was private and invisible. Everything had been recorded, compressed, and silently sent to a server Dr. Marcos Saura would never find if he searched for it.

The blackmail was not a remote possibility. It was only a matter of when someone decided to press send.