A Trip To The Doctor Pt 1

I didn’t mean to say it that dramatically.

“I think my vagina’s broken.”

Layla spat out her iced coffee so violently, she almost baptized the sugar packets. She clutched her chest like I’d just told her I was secretly a lizard.

“Aliyah!” she gasped between coughs. “Jesus! You can’t just—girl, what?”

I slumped in the booth, wishing the Earth would swallow me whole, or at least give me a distraction more exciting than the Sahara desert between my thighs.

“I’m serious,” I muttered, stabbing at my croissant like it owed me wetness. “It’s been weeks. Hell—months. I’ve tried everything. Lube, hydration, yoga. Even that weird breathing video you sent me that looked like a cult initiation and kegel exercises.”

Layla was still wheezing, but now she was laughing too. “Okay, wait, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just… the way you said it. Like your coochie needs therapy.”

“I’m starting to think she does.”

Because this wasn’t just annoying anymore. This was starting to feel personal. Like my own body was holding out on me. Not just sexually, but emotionally. Like I’d lost access to a part of myself I used to be proud of.

I leaned back, sighing. “I haven’t even been with anyone lately. I’m not saying I want a man in me right now, I just want to know my body could be ready for one. Or even just want one. But nothing. Not a drop. Not even a tingle.”

Layla’s teasing expression faded. She leaned in, her voice soft now. “That’s actually serious. Have you seen a doctor?”

“Ugh, yes. He told me to drink more water and ‘watch less crime documentaries before bed.’ I was this close to throwing a pen at him.”

Layla’s lip curled. “Trash.”

Then her eyes glinted. And that glint? Dangerous. Always meant trouble. Always meant something.

“I have a guy.”

I squinted. “Layla.”

“No, hear me out! He’s a private gynecologist. Dr. Jay Lee. He’s discreet. Professional. Smart as hell. And he looks like a Korean actor, I doubt you’ll be needing any touching to get wet.”

I blinked. “So, hot.”

“So hot he could bring a nun out of celibacy.”

“Layla.”

“I’m serious!” she laughed. “He helped me once. You know… when I had that little ‘reaction’ to my ex’s latex kink—”

I shuddered. “Please don’t remind me.”

“He never judged me once, just listened to me and asked the right questions. And girl, I’m telling you his fingers felt like heaven and it wasn’t even sexual.”

I tried to pretend I wasn’t intrigued. But I was.

So what if I’d been betrayed by my own body lately? So what if I’d started Googling “vaginal drought home remedies” at 2 a.m.? Maybe I didn’t need a spiritual cleanse or a tub of coconut oil. Maybe I just needed a different kind of specialist.

“What’s the catch?” I asked slowly.

“He doesn’t advertise, it is usually referrals and your first private consultation is off the books if you want.”

That was… suspicious and hot, but mostly suspicious.

“Do you trust him?”

“With my coochie,” Layla said solemnly.

Well. Damn.

“…Fine,” I mumbled. “Set it up. But if I end up on some underground organs harvesting kink site—”

“I’ll be the one filming.”

After much thought, which was basically three days. I have in to curiosity and went to the clinic.

At least that’s what i thought until I walked in, it didn’t look anything like a clinic it looked more like a five star hotel lobby and a spa if that makes sense.

I sat stiffly on a velvet chair, heart thudding like I’d swallowed a marching band. I kept telling myself: This is a medical visit. You are an adult. Your vagina is not a national emergency.

Then the door opened.

And all that inner pep talk melted like butter under a blowtorch.

“Miss Aliyah Monroe?”

His voice makes me nearly turn into puddle as I sat there, it was smooth, low and wrapped me like a silk gown, never in a million years had Aliyah sounded so refined like a fucking invitation.

I looked up—and forgot what breathing was.

This man is fucking tall, roughly 6ft and holy fucking hell, he’s not skinny. This man is a funky hunk, with broad shoulders and I’m certain a toned abs under that scrub. God, for a deserted coochie it sure was clenching so hard when our eyes met.

Oh no.

He smiled gently. “You can follow me in.”

My legs worked. Somehow.

And as I stepped into his office, all I could think was, “This man is going to see my vagina before he even knows my favorite color.”

And weirdly?

That didn’t scare me.

That excited me.

His office smelled like sandalwood and something faintly sweet. Not like a hospital at all.

Dr. Jay gestured toward the sleek black leather chair across from his desk. I sat. Crossed and uncrossed my legs. My palms were suddenly clammy.

He sat down too, hands clasped, eyes fixed on mine—professional, focused… yet not cold.

“So,” he began. “What brings you in today?”

His voice was like a velvet rope wrapping slowly around my spine.

I cleared my throat, determined to stay rational. “I’ve been experiencing, um… some persistent dryness. Down there.”

His eyes didn’t flicker. No judgment. No twitch of amusement.

“I see. Is this something recent or ongoing?”

I was very aware of how my thighs pressed together. “It’s been a few months. I’ve tried hydration, diet changes, over-the-counter products. Nothing really helps.”

“Any pain during arousal or intercourse?”

My mouth went dry. “…There hasn’t really been either. Not for a while.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying me in a way that felt… undressing.

“Loss of libido?”

“I think it’s more like my body stopped… cooperating. Mentally, I still want—”

I stopped. My tongue betrayed me.

He leaned forward. “You want…?”

My eyes met his.

God, what was happening?

He didn’t blink. “Aliyah. You can say it. There’s nothing shameful about desire. Especially when it’s gone unfulfilled for a long time.”

I swallowed hard. His voice had shifted—lower, and became. I wasn’t imagining it.

“I want to feel… aroused again,” I admitted, voice barely a whisper. “I want to feel like I’m not broken.”

Dr. Jay stood and walked around the desk. Slowly. Controlled. Like a man who knew his power.

He crouched in front of me—not in a rush, not assuming anything. Just… near.

“I’m going to ask you something,” he said softly. “And I want your honest answer.”

I nodded.

“When was the last time someone touched you in a way that made you want to be wet?”

My breath hitched.

He was too close. And yet, not close enough.

“I… I don’t remember,” I whispered.

He reached out—slow, deliberate—and gently placed two fingers beneath my chin, tilting my face toward his.

“I’m going to help you remember,” he murmured.

My heart thundered. “I thought this was a consultation.”

“It is,” he said calmly. “But healing doesn’t always look clinical, sometimes it’s about reconnecting with your body, with your craving or with what’s yours.”

I should’ve walked out.

I should’ve said something sassy and left with my legs tightly crossed and my dignity intact.

I whispered, “Then show me.”

His lips barely brushed mine. Calm down Aliyah, this is just a test. A tease. But my body flared to life like it’d been waiting for this exact moment to wake up.

And when he kissed me for real—slow, hot, possessive—it was like I’d been set on fire from the inside out.

His hand slid to my thigh, parting it with agonizing patience. My pulse pounded between my legs like a warning bell—or maybe a countdown. His other hand cupped my jaw as he deepened the kiss, and I swear I melted under his touch.

Every part of me that had felt numb lit up with electricity.

And then, just as quickly, he pulled away.

His eyes were darker now. Less doctor, more predator.

“That,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across my swollen bottom lip, “was just an exam of your response system.”

I blinked. “…I think I passed?”

His smirk made my thighs clench.

“We’re just getting started.”