My New Gynecologist Examined Me More Than Was Necessary

My sex life is documented in other stories, so I’m not going to repeat how I ended up organizing my days around encounters and not the other way around. What matters for this story is a practical consequence of my routine: I have to go for gynecological checkups more often than most people.

My doctor all my life, Dr. Larraín, announced his retirement at the beginning of the year. He had been with me through both births, through birth control, through every checkup for more than a decade. When he told me he was leaving me in the hands of a trusted colleague, I didn’t hesitate. If he recommended her, I’d go.

The appointment was at four in the afternoon, in a new office in an upscale neighborhood building. I arrived five minutes early and sat down in the empty waiting room. Through the frosted glass I saw a silhouette moving inside, slow, unhurried. When the door opened and the doctor came out to get me, the first thing I thought was that Dr. Larraín had a sense of humor I had never known about.

Dr. Mercedes Aguirre was about fifty, short, and carried a few extra kilos placed with a generosity that bordered on caricature. Her white coat was tight over her hips, and her ass showed in two hemispheres that moved separately as she walked. It was almost impossible not to keep staring at that sway as we went back to her office.

“Come in, Camila. I have your chart open,” she said without looking up from the computer.

Her voice was deep, neutral, professional. She started with the routine questions: weight, cycle, allergies, pregnancies. I answered at the same pace while openly looking at her. When she got to the intimate part of the questionnaire, she looked up for the first time.

“Frequency of sexual relations.”

“Daily,” I answered. “Usually two to three times a day.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded as if noting a weather report.

“Stable partner.”

“No. Men and women, no one fixed.”

This time she stayed still a second longer than necessary before typing.

“Any practices I should note? I’m asking for the checkup, not out of prurient curiosity.”

“I have a submissive in the office, an intern. Every time I go to the bathroom she comes with me and I give her oral sex. Anal with casual partners. Double penetration once in a while.”

Mercedes looked at me over her glasses and I noticed the corner of her mouth had moved a couple of millimeters upward.

“You take advantage of every gap in the day, then,” she said with feigned neutrality.

“Every gap that comes up, doctor.”

The smile escaped her before she could hide it. She closed the chart, stood, and pointed me toward the screen.

“Go on, undress, put on the gown. I’ll wait for you on the exam table.”

While I was taking off my clothes, I heard her preparing instruments on the other side of the screen. Metal against the tray, the disposable paper she spread over the table, the snap of gloves. When I came out, she was turned away, finishing adjusting the lamp. Her coat had come undone at the top, and I could see the beginnings of her neckline, white, with two light-brown moles peeking out over the edge of her bra.

I climbed onto the table and set my feet in the stirrups. Mercedes turned on her heels, snapped on the gloves with a sharp blow against her wrist, and sat on the stool between my legs.

“Relax. This should take ten minutes.”

She started with the external palpation. The difference from Dr. Larraín was immediate. Her fingers were smaller, lighter, and moved with a patience that bordered on deliberation. It didn’t take long before I could feel wetness appearing without my having done anything to summon it.

“Easy, Camila,” she said, in the same tone a physiotherapist uses to tell you to let your shoulder drop.

“Sorry, doctor. It’s involuntary.”

“I know. And it smells good, don’t worry.”

I laughed, more out of nerves than amusement.

“They say it tastes good too. I’ve checked.”

Mercedes didn’t answer. She brought the lamp closer, parted the lips with two fingers, and stayed there observing for a moment.

“Your clitoris is larger than average. Nothing worrying. But I’m going to do a specific palpation.”

I felt her thumb pull back the hood and expose the clitoris like a little head. The moan escaped me before I could clench my teeth.

“Doctor, I’m sorry...”

“Don’t apologize,” she murmured. “I’m checking that everything responds.”

And she kept checking. She went from examination to massage in less than a minute, without any gesture marking the transition. Her finger began moving up and down with a rhythm that could only be described in one word: expert. I closed my eyes. The table creaked when I adjusted myself to spread my legs a little wider. Mercedes noticed and lowered her hand to the entrance, where two fingers slid in slowly while her thumb kept working the clitoris.

“Still very responsive, Camila,” she said, never leaving the clinical tone behind.

“That’s one of my virtues.”

***

A minute passed before she stopped. She got up from the stool, pulled off her gloves with two quick tugs, and threw them in the bin.

“I’m going to lock the office door,” she announced. “If you don’t want me to keep going, tell me before I come back.”

She came back thirty seconds later. I said nothing. It was all I needed.

She came up to the table, leaned over me, and kissed me. Her lips were painted a discreet red that left a mark on mine. While she kissed me, my hands found the buttons of the white coat and started undoing them. When the coat fell to the floor, I understood why she carried that figure with such confidence. Her breasts were huge, two heavy spheres that sagged slightly under their own weight, with large café-au-lait nipples. Her belly, round and soft, formed a deep crease down to hips that looked designed to support someone on top.

“Nothing surprised me, you know?” she murmured against my mouth. “Your doctor warned me.”

“Warned you about what?”

“That you liked everything. And that we’d probably end up like this.”

I laughed into the kiss. Dr. Larraín, with his kindly-grandfather manners, had been a matchmaker without my knowing it.

Mercedes climbed onto the table with an agility I would never have imagined in her. She settled herself astride my face and lowered her hips. The smell came first: clean, slightly soapy, with a denser note underneath. Her thighs closed at the sides of my head and my tongue came out to meet her by reflex. She started moving slowly, in circles, while supporting herself with one hand against the wall.

Over her right thigh I saw her lean forward and, almost at the same time, felt two of her fingers enter me again. The doctor never lost the thread. While she was riding me, her free hand kept up the external attention. I was both patient and piece of furniture at the same time.

When the first round ended, she got down to the floor, helped me sit up, and turned me over on the table.

“I want to see something,” she said.

I knelt, braced on my elbows, and left my ass at the edge. Her hands opened my cheeks with the same delicacy with which she had opened my lips before. I felt her separate me, look, blow lightly to check something. Then came her tongue. Slow, flat, it ran from my anus to my clitoris in one single path and went back. I had to bite my forearm not to scream.

“Your sphincter is in very good condition,” she remarked, with a seriousness that made me laugh out loud.

“I exercise daily, doctor.”

“I had deduced that.”

***

Before I could return the courtesy in any way, she straightened up, went to the instrument cabinet, and came back with something in her hand. I couldn’t make out what it was until she settled herself back-first on the table and opened her legs. They were two silver spheres joined by a cord: Ben Wa balls. She pulled carefully and removed them one by one. They were warm, shiny with their own moisture, without a trace of anything strange.

“I use them from the moment I get to the office,” she explained, without shame. “Some colleagues stop by to take them out of me in the middle of the afternoon. Today it was your turn.”

“And if none of this had happened?”

“I would’ve taken them out myself in the bathroom and gone home. The circle doesn’t always close.”

I sat on her hips, held her thighs, and lowered my mouth. That woman, fifty years old and carrying more kilos than any magazine would have accepted, was the most alive thing I had tasted in months. I worked with my tongue while she, instead of moaning like a schoolgirl, gave precise instructions.

“Higher. There. Don’t bite. Two fingers. Slowly.”

It was the first time in years that someone had given me instructions during sex and I had obeyed without arguing. When she came, she did it with a deep, almost professionally relieved gasp. Like someone signing a discharge form.

We stayed silent for a couple of minutes, her breathing on her back, me resting my cheek on her thigh. The exam lamp was still on. The clock on the desk read five twenty.

“I’m going to prescribe you a vaginal cream for a minor irritation,” she said at last, without getting up. “The cream is real. The irritation, I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Do I come back in six months?”

“Come back in three. And I’ll give you the address of a private gathering a couple of colleagues organize. Men and women, all with the same view on confidentiality.”

I got down from the table, dressed behind the screen while listening to her do the same on the other side. When I came out, she had the computer on again and the professional smile back in place. She handed me the prescription, gave me a dry kiss on the cheek, and walked me to the door like any other patient.

In the elevator, I looked at myself in the mirror. My cheeks were red, my lipstick smeared, my hair still a little damp at the nape. I fixed myself up as best I could. When I went out to the street it was five-thirty in the evening, rush hour, people crossing between the office district and the subway. My submissive from the office had written me three times asking whether I was still with the doctor.

I answered her with two words: on my way.