Chapter 5

Mabel

The flyer stared back at me from my nightstand, its edges slightly curled from where I'd folded and unfolded it a dozen times. Dr. Adrian Cole's name leaped out, bold and unignorable, stirring that confusing mix of hope and nerves I'd felt in his office.

Last night's failed attempt at self-touch had left me more frustrated than ever—desperate for answers, for some way to reclaim the parts of myself Ethan had mocked. My fingers hovered over my phone, heart pounding as I dialed the number printed at the bottom. What was I doing? This was crazy, impulsive, but the ache inside me wouldn't let go.

The line rang twice before his voice answered—smooth, professional, with that underlying warmth that made my stomach flutter. "Dr. Cole's office, this is Adrian speaking."

"Hi, um, it's Mabel. Mabel Cole. From yesterday?" My voice came out higher than intended, laced with embarrassment. I paced the room, twisting the hem of my shirt.

"Mabel, of course. How are you feeling today?" There was genuine concern there, no judgment, and it eased the knot in my chest just a fraction.

"I'm... okay. I've been thinking about the class you mentioned. The trial session. I think I'd like to come." The words tumbled out, my cheeks heating at the double meaning I hadn't intended. God, get a grip, Mabel.

"I'm glad to hear that. The next one is tonight at 7 PM. It's a small group, very supportive. I'll save a spot for you." His tone was encouraging, like he could sense my hesitation through the phone. We chatted briefly about logistics, and by the time I hung up, a strange excitement bubbled up amid the anxiety. Maybe this was the start of fixing things.

That evening, I arrived at the community center where the class was held, my palms slick with sweat as I slipped into a seat at the back. The room was dimly lit, intimate, with about a dozen women scattered around—some chatting quietly, others looking as nervous as I felt.

Soft music played in the background, and there were cushions on the floor for those who preferred them. I scanned the space, my pulse quickening when Dr. Cole entered, looking effortlessly charming in a casual button-down that hugged his frame just right.

His dark hair caught the light, and those hazel eyes swept the room, landing on me with a welcoming smile that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Good evening, everyone," he began, his voice rich and velvety, wrapping around me like a caress. "Tonight, we're diving into the basics of female anatomy—understanding our bodies without shame or myths." He moved with easy confidence, pointing to diagrams on a screen, explaining curves and sensitivities with a gentleness that made the clinical topic feel almost poetic.

His gaze met mine more than once, lingering just a second longer, and each time, a warmth pooled low in my belly. It was his voice, deep and reassuring, that did it—every word about pleasure points and natural responses sending tingles through me. I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs to quell the growing arousal, my breath shallow. Why him? Why now? It was intoxicating, this pull, mixed with a flush of guilt that only heightened the sensation.

He shared stories—anonymized, of course—of women who'd felt just like us, trapped by insecurities or bad experiences. "You're not alone," he said, his eyes scanning the group but feeling like they were speaking directly to me. "Many of you have been told you're 'frigid' or 'broken,' but that's a lie.

Your body knows what it wants; it's about listening, without pressure." His words hit home, soothing the raw edges Ethan's cruelty had left. Tears pricked my eyes, a swell of gratitude and vulnerability rising in my chest. He was so kind, so understanding—it made me feel seen, desired even, in a way that stirred deeper emotions I wasn't ready to name.

As the session progressed, the air in the room thickened with shared confessions, but my focus stayed on him. His gaze, intense and knowing, kept drawing me in, making my skin prickle with awareness.

I imagined his hands again, from the exam, and the arousal built, insistent and distracting. My heart raced, a mix of excitement and fear churning inside me. This was supposed to be educational, not... this.

Then, he paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "To make this practical, I'll demonstrate how to masturbate properly and securely—techniques that prioritize your comfort and build confidence." Murmurs rippled through the group, but my breath caught, heat flooding my face. Demonstrate? Here?

His eyes found mine again, holding steady. "I need a volunteer to come up as my model. It’ll be respectful, fully clothed, just guidance." The room went quiet, and then he added, softly, "Mabel? Would you join me on stage?"

My world tilted. Me? A rush of adrenaline surged through me—nerves, arousal, a thrilling uncertainty. I stood on shaky legs, my body humming with anticipation as I stepped toward the stage...