The Fantasy of the Doctor Who Lived Alone

Dr. Alejandro Palomino had spent twelve years studying the female body with the same methodical obsession with which others collected coins or learned dead languages. He specialized in gynecology and had his own practice on the twelfth floor of a glass building in the city center: four days a week packed with patients, a tightly scheduled agenda, and a reputation that had cost him his entire youth. His colleagues admired him. His neighbors barely knew him by sight.

The paradox accompanied him every night: he knew everything about the female body and had no one with whom to share that knowledge outside the white walls of his office. His relationships had been brief, always interrupted by reasons he described as “schedule incompatibilities,” though in reality they were something less easy to name. When he reached his apartment at night, the silence was almost physical, solid, like something that occupied the rooms before he did.

In February, moved by an impulse he labeled absurd before completing the order, he bought a silicone doll through a specialty website. He paid through an incognito browser, choosing the figure closest to his preferences in the catalog: 1.73 meters tall, medium build, dark hair. The package took four days to arrive, one more than promised, and came on a Tuesday afternoon when he had already half forgotten about it.

The box was smaller than expected. When he opened it, he found not the figure he had ordered but another one: 1.51 meters tall, delicately built, almost fragile, with a warehouse sticky note that read “we apologize for the inconvenience” and a return code Alejandro never used. He removed her from the protective wrapping, looked at her for a moment he could not quantify, and laid her down in the darkest corner of the bedroom, beside the wall facing the hallway. He did not call to complain about the mistake. That night he slept badly without entirely understanding why.

***

Three weeks later, on a Tuesday afternoon, the office door opened and a new patient walked in. Her mother waited outside, sitting with her purse on her knees. The young woman was petite, very fair-skinned, and moved carefully, like someone who did not want to occupy more space than strictly necessary. Alejandro read the file: twenty-one years old, first gynecological consultation, no relevant medical history.

“Please, sit down,” he said, indicating the chair across from the desk.

She sat on the edge, her hands clasped over her knees. Her eyes looked at the desk, then the window, then the floor, in that specific order characteristic of people who have learned to ask permission to exist in any space. Alejandro began the routine questioning in the same measured voice as always, but something inside him had shifted, knocked off its axis, from the very first second she crossed the door.

It was not only the resemblance. It was something more exact, more disturbing: the proportion of her shoulders, the narrowness of her waist, the way she drew in slightly whenever he wrote something in the file, as though every note were a verdict. The doll in the corner had those same measurements. Alejandro knew because he had involuntarily memorized them in the seconds he held her before leaving her beside the wall. Just a coincidence of proportions, he told himself. Nothing more than that.

The time for the examination arrived. The young woman lay back on the examination table with her arms at her sides and her eyes fixed on the ceiling, with the concentration of someone seeking an anchor point in the chaos. Alejandro adjusted the lamp, put on his gloves with the familiar snap of latex, and proceeded with his usual efficiency.

“This may feel uncomfortable,” he said. “Take a deep breath and let me know if you need me to stop.”

She nodded without looking at him. She breathed. He worked. But that day clinical objectivity had a small, precise hole through which something seeped that had no name in any manual. The smell was not the usual antiseptic smell: it was clean, almost neutral, with a trace of unscented soap and a subtle note of nervousness, like paper before it gets wet. Alejandro inhaled it furtively, an act that lasted no more than a second, and stored the information somewhere in his brain that was not the frontal lobe.

What he saw during the examination was also different from what he always saw: completely smooth skin, every fold of her pussy defined with an almost abstract clarity, the exact symmetry of a geometry that required no diagnosis. Her pink, perfect labia parted slightly under the pressure of his gloved fingers. He felt his own cock wake beneath the white coat, a slow, treacherous pulse that was difficult to ignore. There was something about that perfection that struck him in a way without equal in his twelve years of practice. He finished. He filled out the form. He spoke to her about contraception and annual checkups in the same voice he might have used to discuss the weather, while beneath the desk his dick remained hard, pressing against the fabric of his trousers. Her mother came in when he was already seated behind the desk, and the two of them left together ten minutes later.

Alejandro sat staring at the file for several minutes without reading a thing.

***

That night he ate without appetite, watched a movie without following the plot, and fell asleep on the sofa with the television on. When he woke, it was after midnight. The screen showed a small-built, fair-skinned actress with her dark hair tied back, looking into the camera from an angle he recognized without ever having been at that angle. He turned off the television. He remained in the darkness for a long while, still, his right hand already squeezing the bulge growing in his trousers.

Then he got up.

He went to the bedroom. The figure was still in the corner, reclining against the wall in the same position in which he had left her weeks before. Alejandro looked at her from the doorway, switched on the bedside lamp, and carried her to the bed with a delicacy that surprised even him. She was not an object at that moment. Or perhaps she was, but the kind of object that could contain something ordinary objects could not.

He knelt before her and slowly opened her legs, exposing the pink silicone pussy, neat and closed like a split fruit. His hands traveled over the texture of the silicone with deliberate slowness, following the curves of her narrow hips, the smooth line of her thighs, until he fitted his thumbs along either side of the labia minora and pulled them apart. He leaned down and ran his tongue from bottom to top, flat and long, from the tight entrance to the small, hard clitoris. The heat was artificial, but his imagination completed it with an efficiency it had never possessed in any other context. He smelled silicone and yet smelled unscented soap and nervousness. He sucked the clitoris between his lips, patiently drawing on it, licking it in tight circles, while in his mind the young woman from the office opened her legs on the examination table, her eyes on the ceiling, her hands clasped over her trembling knees. He pushed his entire tongue into the doll’s pussy, twisted it, pulled it out, and went back up to the clitoris. His own cock hung hard between his thighs, already dripping a transparent thread onto the floor.

When the erection became unbearable, he tore off his clothes. He gripped his dick with his right hand, ran it over the swollen lips of the silicone pussy, slid it up and down between the folds, coating himself in lubricant, pressing the glans against the hard clitoris before lowering it to the entrance and sinking inside. He entered in a single thrust all the way to the bottom. The silicone yielded with an exact resistance, tight and snug around his cock like a hot glove. He moved over the figure with an urgency he had not felt in a long time, holding her by her narrow hips, adjusting the angle until everything fit precisely. He pounded her with dry thrusts, each one deeper, feeling his balls strike against the artificial buttocks. He moved her, repositioned her, lifted her legs and rested them on his shoulders to fuck her deeper, and at no moment did his mind leave the white-walled office, those eyes fixed on the ceiling, that smell he had stolen in silence.

“Open up,” he murmured into her rubber ear, his voice broken. “Open up wide, let me all the way in.”

He pulled out of her pussy and turned her onto all fours, facedown with her ass raised. Her arched back formed a line that he traced with his palm from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine, moving down to squeeze her buttocks and spread them with his thumbs. He spat on her ass, watched the saliva run down to the tight eye of the silicone anus, and pushed his cock back into her pussy from behind, gripping her hair with his left hand. He pounded her hard, with thrusts that made the small body jerk forward. Then he held her down with one firm hand on her shoulders, while with the other he explored the cleft between her buttocks, pressing lubricant against the tighter entrance, enjoying the resistance of the plastic as though it were something that had to be conquered. He inserted one finger first, then two, turning them slowly, opening the orifice. He held her without letting go, feeling her small and manageable beneath him in a way that activated something in his brain he could not name with the vocabulary he had learned in medical school.

“Look at me,” he said in a low voice, though the glass eyes could not look at him. “Look at me while I put it in your ass, fuck.”

He spoke to her in a low voice, with words he would never have said in the office, words no one would ever hear: slut, tight pussy, virgin little ass, take it, suck my dick, move over for me. He felt his own pulse in his ears, a dull, animal rhythm. He pulled his cock from her pussy, dripping, and positioned it against the lubricated anus. He pushed slowly, holding her narrow hips with both hands, and felt the ring give with delicious slowness until it swallowed the entire glans. A moan escaped from deep in his chest. He pushed the rest of his dick inside in one continuous thrust, all the way to his balls, until he felt his pelvis pressed against the silicone buttocks.

He moved for a long, undefined time, with no clear awareness of the clock, fucking that tight ass with thrusts that shook his thighs, his mind emptied of all orderly thought, his body operating in a mode that had little in common with his daily life. It was the sum of all the bodies he had examined with clinical detachment for twelve years, the sum of all the restraint accumulated night after night in that silent apartment. It was access to something that did not exist in the real world, and that was exactly what drove him further. He pulled his cock almost all the way out, watched the anus stretch around the glans, and sank back in to the bottom. With his free hand he searched for her pussy from underneath and rubbed her clitoris with two wet fingers, imagining her moaning, imagining her telling him yes, more, to come inside her.

Then the voice changed.

The doll emitted synthetic sounds from a small speaker in her chest, programmed moans he almost always ignored. But at that moment the tone changed in a way that was not in any catalog: it became broken, confused, almost mechanical. “System error. Where am I?” A pause of two or three seconds. And then, more quietly, as if the circuit were trying to articulate something it had not been designed to say: “Make me feel like I exist.”

Alejandro froze with his cock still buried to the base in the silicone ass. Coldness came first, traveling from the nape of his neck to his kidneys. Then something else arrived, more difficult to categorize: not exactly fear, not exactly arousal, but something that mixed the two in a nameless proportion. He looked at the figure beneath him. Her glass eyes returned his gaze with their usual neutrality, but that sentence had changed something in the air of the room. His dick throbbed once, twice, harder still.

If she wants to exist, he thought, I’ll decide how.

He pulled out of her ass with a wet tug and turned her onto her back. He emptied the bottle of lubricant over her without restraint, the liquid sliding over her small breasts, her flat stomach, the silicone clefts until it gathered between her open thighs. There was no additional preparation, no calculated delicacy. He seized her hips with both hands, positioned his shaft against the open anus, and sank into her in one slow, total movement. The artificial resistance gave way with a sensation that traveled along his entire spine.

“I existed for this,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I existed for you to fuck me, for nothing else.”

He moved then without rhythm or courtesy, with deep thrusts that shook the figure’s small body with every blow, making the headboard strike against the wall. He squeezed her breasts with both hands, pinched the hard silicone nipples, placed one hand around her neck, and applied slight pressure with his thumb beneath her jaw. He fucked her while staring at her neutral face, imagining the expression she would make, imagining the tears the twenty-one-year-old woman had not shed in his office. He pulled his cock from her ass, thrust it back into her pussy, pulled it out again, pressed it against her open mouth, and pushed the glans between her rubber lips, striking against the artificial teeth. He fucked that mouth for a full minute, gripping her hair, until her throat gave way and he could sink in to the base.

He returned to her pussy. He lifted her by the hips, practically sitting her down on him, and pounded her from below with quick, savage thrusts. Orgasm arrived as a long, inevitable contraction that shook the muscles of his thighs and cut off his breath for exactly three seconds. He felt his cock swell one last time and came inside her in long spurts, hot semen flooding the silicone pussy until it overflowed, running through the folds, over the open anus, and down the inner thighs. He kept thrusting, more slowly, until the last contraction dissolved and he was left empty, trembling, his cock still buried in her and a strand of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

***

Afterward, silence. Alejandro lay down beside the figure in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warm semen still slowly leaking from her onto the sheet. The emptiness that followed those moments was always the same, but that night it had a different texture: heavier, more specific. It was not merely the ordinary guilt of someone using an object to soothe something objects could never fully soothe. It was another guilt, more human and more concrete: he had corrupted the image of someone who had come into his office seeking medical care, who had left her eyes on the ceiling while he worked, who had walked out knowing nothing. He embraced her. He spoke to her in a low voice, apologizing to no real recipient.

She can’t hear me, he told himself. But he kept talking anyway, because speaking was the only thing left to him when desire departed and shame arrived to take its place.

What Dr. Palomino never knew, as he lay in the darkness speaking to a silicone body still dripping his come, was that the small red light blinking once every thirty seconds on the side of the figure’s neck was not a battery indicator. It was a high-definition camera, active from the first day. Everything that had happened in that room—every word, every gesture, every order and every pathetic apology—had been compressed and sent to a server somewhere he would never reach. The catalog did not mention it anywhere. The shipping mistake had not been a mistake either.