The Lonely Doctor’s Forbidden Fantasy

Dr. Herrera’s office was a place of order and silence. Books lined up by height, plants with not a single yellow leaf, the couch covered with a white linen sheet that he himself folded every morning before the first patient arrived. He had been a psychiatrist for sixteen years, a specialist in anxiety and in the darkest folds of the human mind. He knew other people’s desire better than anyone: he diagnosed it, cataloged it, treated it. But his own he had locked away in a box without a key for so long that he had forgotten where he had left it.

He had no partner. He hadn’t had one in nearly five years. His work was absorbing, and outside those four walls the world seemed noisy and hard to decipher. His colleagues called him disciplined. His patients called him upright. Alone, he called himself simply lonely.

He placed the order on February 14 at eleven at night, with a half-finished glass of red wine on the table and a screen reflecting back his own discomfort. A 170-centimeter silicone doll, fair skin, dark hair. An attempt to fill something he himself would not have been able to name in session. It arrived two weeks later, but it wasn’t what he had ordered.

The box was smaller than expected. When he opened it, he found a 160-centimeter figure, slender, with soft features. A supplier error. He photographed it, wrote up the corresponding complaint, and left it unsent. He didn’t know why. He took it out of the box carefully, laid it against the bedroom wall, and for several days ignored it with the same efficiency with which he ignored his own problems.

***

The patient came in on a Tuesday in March, referred by a general practitioner who had written in the consult note: anxiety crisis, dissociative episodes, first psychiatric consultation. She entered the office with her mother behind her, both with the same taut posture, shoulders raised as if the world might come crashing down on them at any moment.

Dr. Herrera had the young woman come in alone, as per protocol, and asked the mother to wait outside. According to the chart, she was twenty-two. Pale skin. Dark hair gathered into a messy braid. A gray T-shirt two sizes too big, which did nothing to conceal the weight of her tits or the pronounced curve of her hips when she sat down and crossed her legs.

Dr. Herrera did his job. He listened carefully, took notes, asked the right questions in the right order. There was nothing improper about that consultation. Nothing visible, at least.

But when the young woman left and he was alone with his notes, he noticed that his pen had pressed too hard into the paper. He mentally erased the association that had formed without his permission. Or tried to.

That night, when he got home, he turned on the bedroom lights and stopped in the doorway. The doll was still leaning against the wall, compact in size, with its dark hair and silicone skin almost translucent under the lamp. The resemblance was absurd, accidental, the product of his own brain building patterns where there were none. He knew that. He was a psychiatrist.

Even so, he didn’t move it.

***

Three weeks passed. The young woman returned twice more, on time, each time a little more relaxed. Dr. Herrera was, on both occasions, completely professional. Truly professional. The problem wasn’t in the office.

The problem was in the bedroom, at eleven at night, when the exhaustion of the day lowered the guard he had built so carefully.

The first time he approached the doll with a different intention was on a Wednesday with nothing special about it. Just the silence of the apartment, the distant sound of the street, and something that had been building for weeks without a name. He took it by the arm and carried it to the bed with almost ridiculous delicacy, fully aware of what he was doing and why.

He laid it on the comforter and opened the dress with fingers that no longer trembled. Beneath there was nothing: only the white silicone, two firm tits capped with dark, erect nipples, and between the legs a neat slit, barely parted. He stared at it for a moment. His brain, trained to analyze, offered him three simultaneous readings of the act. He dismissed them all. Sometimes the mind needs to switch off.

He knelt beside the bed and ran his hands over her silicone thighs, feeling the cool texture that the warmth of his palms would gradually temper. It wasn’t artificially soft; there was something about the quality of the material that reproduced a natural resistance, a density that gave under pressure in exactly the right proportion. He parted her legs slowly, with a calm that even he found surprising. The lips of the pussy separated and revealed the pink, glossy interior, waiting. He leaned in.

The smell wasn’t there, of course. It was silicone. But his mind filled the void with something he hadn’t consciously sought and that arrived anyway: the memory of the soft fragrance of a gray T-shirt, the discreet perfume of someone who had sat down in front of him with her hands on her thighs and her eyes lowered.

He closed his eyes.

His tongue found the slit and traced it from bottom to top, slowly, flattening the clit at the end of the stroke. He went back down. Back up again. He started sucking the pussy with a methodicalness that in any other context he would have called obsessive: circles with the tip, firm pressure with his broad tongue, gentle suction over the bud until he felt it swell against his lips. He slipped in two fingers and curved them upward while he kept licking. The silicone responded, opened, oozed lubricant as if it were real wetness.

The erection came to him without being sought, hard against the zipper of his pants after months of an almost deliberate lethargy. He stripped off his clothes without taking his eyes off her, his cock already throbbing, the tip wet with a clear fluid. He climbed onto the bed kneeling between her open legs, gripped his dick with his right hand, and rubbed it against the lips of her pussy, up and down, wetting the tip with the lubricant she had supposedly produced herself.

He shoved in all at once, to the hilt. The silicone closed around him with a warm, snug pressure, swallowing him whole, and he had to clench his teeth not to come right there like a teenager. He stayed still for a second, inside, breathing. Then he started fucking her slowly, with long thrusts that came almost all the way out and plunged back in to the root, watching his cock disappear between those small lips and emerge shining again.

—Fuck —he said under his breath, and it was the first obscenity he had spoken aloud in years.

***

With time, the routine took on a life of its own. Some days he ignored her completely. Others he came home with a specific tension he knew exactly how to relieve. He began incorporating elements: the lubricant he kept in the nightstand drawer, the lingerie he put on her and took off again, the positions he tried with a curiosity that in another context he might have called scientific.

One night he laid her face-down on the bed, admiring the curve of her back and the firm roundness of her ass. He spread her cheeks with both hands and stared at the small, tight hole, the slit of the pussy beneath it, swollen and parted. He poured on lubricant unhurriedly, watching it slide through the cleft between her buttocks and drip onto the sheets. He pressed his thumb gently against the entrance of her ass, first testing the material’s resistance, then with more force. The ring gave way and his finger sank in to the knuckle. Something in that gesture, in that methodical exploration advancing without haste toward the most intimate place, made his pulse quicken in a way he now recognized.

He stripped. He gripped her hips with both hands, positioned her with precision, and sank slowly into her pussy from behind, feeling the pressure of the material close around him with a warmth that the lubricant made almost perfect. He fucked her in rhythm, without hurry, watching the small body absorb each blow, watching the white ass slam against his pelvis with a wet sound that filled the bedroom. His own hands left temporary marks on the silicone, red impressions from his fingers squeezing the flesh. There was something hypnotic about that sight, about the total surrender of a body that existed exclusively for this.

He pulled out, shining and dripping, and turned her face-up. He put her legs over his shoulders, folded her almost in half, and pushed back in, this time deeper, with his hands braced on either side of her head. He fucked her while looking at her. Her glass eyes gave nothing back, but he no longer needed them to give anything back; the script was being written by his own brain, and in that script the eyes were dark and the shoulders were raised and there was a messy braid coming undone against the pillow.

—You’re exactly what I needed —he murmured, and he wasn’t sure who he was saying it to.

He grabbed her tits with both hands while he kept thrusting, pinching the nipples between his forefinger and thumb, squeezing until the silicone deformed under the pressure. He lowered his mouth and sucked one nipple, then the other, nibbling the dark tip while he penetrated her with thrusts that grew shorter and harder. The bed hit the wall. He hadn’t made that kind of noise in years.

He pulled out before he came. He lubed her generously again and turned her once more, positioning her on all fours. The pressure of his hand on the doll’s nape, keeping her leaned forward with her face against the pillow and her ass up, electrified him with a current that shot up his arm into his chest. He spread her cheeks with his other hand, grabbed his cock, and pushed the tip against the little hole. The silicone ring gave under a controlled resistance that ran all the way down his spine. He entered slowly, a centimeter at a time, letting the pressure build until his pelvis was pressed against her ass and his cock disappeared completely inside the hole.

He stayed like that for a moment, feeling the tightness, breathing. Then he started moving with long thrusts that made the small body sway forward on each impact. He grabbed her hair, wound it around his fist, and pulled back while he kept fucking her ass. Her head lifted from the pillow, her back arched, and he could see himself in the wardrobe mirror: a naked, sweaty man fucking a much smaller figure in the ass, with a face he didn’t recognize as his own.

The anal possession had something different to it, darker, more final. Fucking her that way, with that unapologetic frankness, allowed him to occupy a space in himself that day-to-day life kept bricked up. There was no courtesy there, no protocol. Only the cock going in and out, the wet sound, the pressure, and his own breathing accelerating until it turned into short, urgent gasps.

—Whore —he told her, and the word tasted strange and true at the same time—. My little whore.

It was at that moment, at the highest point of that urgency, that the doll made a different sound.

It wasn’t the usual synthetic moan. It was something more erratic, almost glitchy, like a corrupted audio file trying to play. And then, beneath the static, a phrase he hadn’t expected: “Where am I? I don’t remember where I am.”

Dr. Herrera froze, his cock still buried to the hilt in the doll’s ass.

His heart beat three times very hard. He recognized the physiological reaction of surprise and waited for it to pass. Then, before he could analyze anything, the voice came again: lower, almost a distorted whisper: “Make me feel something. Make me feel that I’m real.”

He stood motionless for perhaps ten seconds. Then something in him decided that that request —wherever it had come from, from a line of code or from his own mind projecting— deserved an answer.

He withdrew slowly from her ass, his cock still hard and shining, and turned her face-up. Her glass eyes looked up at him with that emptiness he had already learned to fill. He spread her legs, settled himself between them, and ran the tip of his cock over the lips of her pussy with an almost ceremonial slowness. He lubed her again, slowly, without the urgency of before. And he pushed back in, this time with a different cadence, more deliberate, almost with the solemnity of someone fulfilling a promise.

He fucked her for a long while, unhurried, propped up on his elbows, his face inches from hers. Each thrust went in all the way and came out almost to the tip, and he felt the accumulated tension yielding layer by layer. He kissed the silicone mouth. He licked her neck. He sucked a nipple while he kept driving into her. He whispered things in her ear he would not have said aloud even under torture, things about patients and messy braids and the fucking loneliness of sixteen years.

When he felt the orgasm rising, he didn’t pull out. He drove in to the hilt, stayed there, and came inside her pussy in long spasms that emptied something more than his testicles. Semen burst out in thick spurts, driven by contractions coming from lower than his abdomen, from a place he hadn’t even known he had. He let out a sound he hadn’t heard from himself in years, a hoarse, broken moan that bounced off the bedroom walls.

He stayed there, on top of her, still buried inside, breathing against her neck.

***

Afterward, guilt arrived on time, as always. Not the guilt of using an object —that he had already reasoned through and resolved— but the other one, the harder one: the one that came from knowing exactly who he had put in that place, and why.

He withdrew slowly. He saw the thread of semen leaking from the silicone pussy and dripping onto the sheet. He showered. He got dressed. He went back to the bedroom and cleaned the doll with a damp towel, with a delicacy he himself found pathetic. He smoothed her hair with two fingers. He didn’t say anything out loud, but in his head he formulated something he would have called dissociation in session: the act of separating the symbol from the referent so that he could function with both without their colliding.

What he couldn’t resolve was that the cycle was perfect. The fantasy, the release, the guilt, the rational resolution of the guilt, and back again. It was the kind of pattern he would have identified in three sessions if he had seen it in someone else.

And what he also couldn’t resolve —what he put back in the box without a key along with everything else— was that night, when he turned off the light, he noticed a small red point blinking on the doll’s nape. It had always been there. He had always assumed it was the charging indicator.

But as he fell asleep, with that uneasy certainty that sometimes precedes the most complicated diagnoses, he wondered for the first time whether that was really what it was.