The Medical Appointment I Booked Just So He Would Look at Me

It was enough to see the doctor’s photograph in that clinic brochure for me to make a decision no sensible woman would ever make. Nothing hurt. I had no symptoms. I just wanted that man with the sharply defined jaw to look at me the way I had decided he would.

That afternoon I chose a white dress—light, short, one of those that look innocent until a woman moves. Underneath, I wore almost nothing. I booked the last appointment, when there would no longer be anyone in the waiting room.

When the office door opened, he appeared before me taller than the photo had suggested. A fraction of a second was enough for his attention to drop from my face to the hem of my skirt before he composed himself into a professional smile.

—Come in, please —he said, and his deep voice ran through me whole.

—Thank you, Dr. Solanas —I replied, reading the nameplate on the desk.

He handed me a white gown folded with meticulous care.

—You can change behind the screen. I’ll wait here to begin.

I turned slowly, letting him see the way the dress fell before I took it off. I knew he was watching me sidelong, even if he pretended to be focused on the screen. I put the gown on deliberately wrong: opening in front, knot loose, showing more skin than necessary. When I turned back to him, he looked up. His eyes widened just a little, a controlled surprise, though not entirely indifferent.

—Please lie down on the exam table —he said with a calmness that did not reach his eyes.

I obeyed. The gown opened a little more when I lay down, as if it were doing it on its own, as if my body knew exactly what it wanted to show him.

He came closer. He adjusted the examination lamp, but I could feel his eyes moving over me before the light did.

—Good. I need you to slide down a little —his voice had gone lower, rougher, the voice of a man concentrating on not stepping out of his role.

I slid down with premeditated slowness. The movement made the fabric pull tight, revealing the curve of my lower stomach through the opening.

—Now put your feet in the stirrups —he said, indicating the polished metal supports on either side of the table.

I took a deep breath and lifted one leg. The gown opened along my thigh, exposing skin all the way to the hip. When I raised the second, the fabric fell to either side of my body like two forgotten curtains. I was completely naked underneath. There was nothing innocent left in that white dress abandoned on the chair.

Our eyes met. His expression was no longer just work. There was a crack in it, a mutual recognition of the charged silence filling the room. His pupils were dilated, dark.

—That’s fine —he murmured, and this time the tone was not an order, but contained tension.

I felt open before him, and not only in the physical sense. The doctor sat on the stool at the foot of the table, so close that I could feel the air he displaced as he moved. His gloved hands rested on the inside of my knees, as if he were about to adjust my position. But he didn’t. He left his fingers there, a warm, firm anchor on my skin.

—Relax —he asked, his gaze fixed on my eyes and not on the area he claimed to be examining. He was looking at the woman who had challenged him with a dress and a gown put on wrong.

Then his right hand slid from my knee. I felt the cold air for a second before the brush of his fingers moved inward. The touch was not clinical, as I had feared, but deliberate. There was no mechanical haste, only a pause that told me he was fully aware of the tension we had built.

His fingers positioned themselves with unexpected precision, gently parting me before the light even reached me. It was a gesture of examination, but also of observation. His breathing had become as shallow as mine. I felt the caress of latex and how the slightest pressure made my back arch just a little. He was not looking for an ailment: he was looking for a response.

—I’m going to insert the speculum now —he announced, his voice reduced to a professional whisper.

With almost cruel formality, he withdrew his fingers and took the instrument from the cart. Cold metal, gleaming. He lubricated it generously. When his hand returned, my muscles tightened. He noticed and raised his eyes until they met mine again.

—Relax, just a little —he said, and the command sounded almost like a plea.

Before continuing, he did something that caught me off guard: his now-free thumb returned to my skin to stroke the inside of my thigh, right where sensitivity begins. A calculated distraction that made me shiver. The speculum entered then, guided by that caress, and the click of its opening marked the end of the prelude.

—It may be a little uncomfortable —he said, but his eyes were no longer on the instrument. They were fixed on my face.

I closed my eyelids, not because of the metal’s discomfort, but to concentrate on what he had just provoked. That touch on my thigh, combined with the pressure of the exam, had unlocked something. I bit my lip to hold back a sigh. Heat gathered at my center and there was no way to hide it.

I felt the brush of the swabs and the slight sting of the sample. But beyond that, the friction and the simple fact of being exposed before him acted like a trigger. And then it happened: a rush of moisture flooded me, sudden, uncontrollable. I opened my eyes in shock at how obvious it was, my cheeks burning. It wasn’t a subtle discharge, but an undeniable response, a visible sheen on the table.

The doctor noticed at once. His hand stopped. He carefully removed the speculum and lifted his gaze to my flushed face. There was no mockery or reproach in his eyes. There was a deep intensity, the recognition of his triumph and my surrender. A faint smile, almost invisible, tugged at the corner of his mouth.

—Well —he said, his voice deeper than ever, barely a breath. It was the first time he had completely broken formality.

He pulled off his gloves with a dry snap that echoed in the silence. He leaned over me, far more than any protocol would justify. His warm breath brushed my forehead.

—It seems my routine exam has been quite effective —he said, and the double meaning removed any doubt.

I froze for a moment, breathing hard.

—Good —he added, straightening up now—. It’s time for the breast exam. Please get down from the table.

***

As I swung my legs down from the stirrups, the gown closed a little. It didn’t matter anymore. He had seen everything. I sat on the edge and, when I hesitated over how to stand, he came closer and offered his hand.

—Careful.

The touch of our fingers felt like a jolt, a reminder that this was far from purely medical. He pulled me up gently until I was standing on unsteady legs. We remained there, face to face. The gown opened at the center with the rhythm of my breathing, and I felt small despite the audacity that had brought me there.

—We’re going to examine the breast —he announced, and this time his eyes settled directly on it.

He placed his hands on either side of my torso, under my armpits, and began the expected circular movements, searching quadrant by quadrant for any irregularity. The pressure was firm, correct. But as he moved toward the center, the rhythm changed. His palms cupped the base of one breast and then the other, weighing them with a pressure that was not diagnostic, but appreciative.

The intensity grew when his fingers reached the nipple. Instead of a quick, formal touch, his thumbs paused and began tracing tiny, slow, deliberate circles. I could feel the breast swell under the pressure. A silent moan formed in my throat.

His face nearly brushed mine, his concentration absolute, but no longer medical. He saw my pupils dilate. He closed his fingers over the nipple and rubbed it softly, an audacious gesture that made me feel examined like a lover, not a patient.

—Take a deep breath —he ordered, but it was impossible. I was about to lose control again.

He withdrew his hands with torturous slowness, leaving the skin sensitive. He stepped back, his face serious.

—There’s one detail I need to check —he said, regaining a formal authority tinged with a new gravity.

—What detail? —I asked in a thin voice.

—A slight asymmetry in posture, probably linked to the tension I noticed. To assess it properly I need to see the alignment without obstacles. Take off the gown, please, and stand straight, with your arms hanging down.

There was no way to mistake that for routine. He had seen me naked on the table, but standing before him, completely exposed, was another level of surrender.

My hands trembled as I untied the knot. The white fabric fell to my feet with a soft whisper. The doctor did not blink, though his eyes did not miss a detail of the curve of my hips.

—Turn and face away from the table. Straight. That’s it —his voice was now a mixture of medical command and fascination.

I obeyed. I felt the cold of the office on my naked skin and the heat of his gaze burning into my back. He came up behind me. A subtle scent of clean and male surrounded me, and my skin prickled.

—I’m going to palpate the spine to rule out pressure points —he explained, and the pretext sounded empty amid so much tension.

His fingers, this time ungloved, first rested on the bones of my hips and mapped a path slowly up the base of my back. The touch was too warm, too slow to be only medical.

The examination descended without warning. His hands circled my waist and pressed firmly into the muscles of my buttocks. The pretext of alignment dissolved: he was no longer assessing me, he was touching me.

—Relax your buttocks —he ordered, his hot breath against my nape.

To comply, my body gave a little, and in doing so I pressed back against him. His hand answered at once: the pressure deepened, becoming more possessive.

—I need to check the insertion of a few ligaments —he whispered, and although the phrase was clinical, the tone was purely intimate—. Bend your knees a little, as if you were going to sit down, and spread your feet.

The position was even more exposed, a surrender of the whole posture. My thighs trembled as they bent. My back arched, pushing my ass toward him. The brush of his hand became bolder, his thumb outlining the boundary of my anatomy with chilling precision.

—Very good —he repeated—. Now stay still.

I heard the hiss of a new pair of gloves being pulled on. The sound chilled me.

—I’m going to do a superficial palpation to rule out fissures; tension in this area can affect the spine —the pretext was becoming increasingly absurd, but what was coming next kept me from protesting.

I felt the cold of the gel. His finger, wet and covered in latex, moved slowly toward the edge. The first touch was a caress over the most sensitive area, the one that burned with shame and desire all at once. The pressure increased, lingering at the threshold, not forcing, just enough to make the intimacy of the contact unavoidable. I bit my lip nearly hard enough to hurt myself.

—Breathe and relax, I’m asking you —he said in a low, tense voice that betrayed how deeply immersed he was as well.

The finger advanced gently. I felt invaded, exposed down to the last corner. My hands closed into fists and a moan I tried to smother escaped my throat. He did not stop, but the pressure remained constant and slow.

—Just a little more —he murmured, his breath on my neck.

After a few eternal seconds, he withdrew the finger. I straightened up, unsteady, my legs trembling so badly I had to brace myself on the table. He, with almost offensive calm, cleaned his hands. I waited for him to tell me to dress, for it all to be over. But his gaze remained intense, his face showing controlled frustration.

—No. That way I can’t do the exam properly —his voice was low, firm, terrifyingly persuasive—. The muscle tension is too high in that position. I need another angle. Climb up again and get on all fours, please.

My heart lurched. It was the height of exposure, the posture of total surrender. I climbed onto the table without the gown, offering him my arched back and everything else. There was no room for professionalism in that image.

The doctor came back to my side, eyes fixed on the curve of my body, and put on fresh gloves with the same deliberate slowness as before.

—Relax. Breathe. This is just an extension of the exam —he said, though his breathing was as ragged as mine.

The lubricant felt cold again. I felt the initial touch, a brush of the fingertip that made my back arch. And then, unhurriedly, the first finger entered. It was not rough, but insistent, moving with a precision that sought not fissures but provocation, brushing areas that amplified the excitement already boiling in my belly.

—You’re very tense —he murmured.

But the tension was pleasure. A low moan escaped me. And then, without warning, he added a second finger. I felt myself being filled, stretched. His lubricated fingers began to move, rotating, pressing forward with each push. The rhythm increased.

—Ah... doctor —it was a plea, an acknowledgment of his power and my total vulnerability.

He leaned over me, his agitated breathing against my ear.

—Shh. It’s just the exam. Tell me where it hurts —he whispered, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t pain he was causing.

With each movement, deeper and deeper, I felt the arousal take over me.

—Yes —I panted, my voice broken in the office’s silent air. I was no longer a patient: I was a body responding to forbidden touch.

The doctor stopped moving suddenly, and the pause was more electrifying than the action. I felt his fingers sliding out. For a second I thought it was over. But no.

Without any pretext this time, without medical explanations, he guided his hand to the center of my desire, which pulsed wetly after all the provocation. One finger sank into me with lethal precision. And then another. Two firm fingers curling upward, massaging the exact spot with a technique that was not for examination, but for the search for pleasure.

The effect was immediate. My moans turned into muffled cries against the table and my hips lifted from the fabric, seeking his rhythm. The arousal the role play had contained exploded out of control.

—More, please —I begged, my legs trembling.

He sped up, his fingers in an expert dance: entering, curling, pressing. I felt my muscles tighten to the limit, a shiver running through my body from my feet to the nape of my neck, and the cry became a long, drawn-out lament.

And then it happened. A wave of powerful contractions shook me. My hips lifted and everything released in a warm, uncontrollable flood that soaked his hand and dripped onto the table. I was left panting, my body limp. The doctor withdrew his fingers with satisfied slowness and leaned down to my ear.

—You definitely don’t have any lubrication problems —he whispered, his voice hoarse with triumph—. The exam is over, for now. You may turn around and get dressed.

***

I turned with slow, rigid movements, picked up the gown, and put it on, this time with the opening in back, feeling a belated shame while desire kept pulsing like an echo. I lowered myself to the floor on unsteady legs and went to the screen to dress.

While I put on the white dress, which now felt like a mockery, I couldn’t believe what had happened. What kind of exam ended like that? Would he say something? Would he report me?

I went back into the office. He was typing with absolute calm. He looked up, his expression unreadable, his eyes holding an intensity that made me relive every touch.

—Please sit down.

I sat in front of the desk.

—The study shows no serious pathology —he began, his voice flat and professional—. The tension you felt in the pelvic area is common; I attribute it to stress. I recommend you continue with your normal life and keep up with your annual checkups.

He signed a paper and slid it over to me: the prescription for a vitamin complex and the date of my next appointment, one year later. I took it with trembling hands and stood up. I was about to leave when his voice stopped me.

—Miss...

I turned. He stood, went around the desk, and walked toward me without haste. He took a pen from his pocket and, with a swift motion, crossed out the date of the annual appointment.

—The vitamin complex is real. Take it. The appointment... is not.

He tilted his head and wrote something quickly beneath his signature, covering it with his hand so I couldn’t read it.

—This is a personal instruction, not a medical one. Follow it to the letter if you want to avoid complications.

He handed the prescription back to me. I took the paper; the ink was still fresh.

I left the office with a confused mix of relief and desire. When I got to the car, I unfolded the paper. There were the vitamins, my name, his signature... and below, in firm handwriting, I read: “Call 644 21 80 93 and request an urgent follow-up appointment for nine o’clock tonight this Tuesday. Come without the white dress.”

It wasn’t a medical appointment. It was an invitation to continue the game, a prescription for desire. Dr. Solanas had not dismissed me: he had summoned me outside the file. The real examination would not come in a year. It would begin on Tuesday.