YOURS UNAPOLOGETICALLY

Chloe's pov.

“Take them off and lie down,” the doctor said.

I stood frozen for a moment, the paper gown suddenly feeling far too thin. He was male.

Last night, I spoke to a female doctor on the phone and assumed she would be examining me in the room today. The reality of a man standing there in a white coat, waiting, made my stomach tighten.

Did he mean my underwear? The thought flashed through my mind, ridiculous and mortifying at once.

“Do I… have to?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at me over the rim of his glasses, expression calm but unyielding. “Yes. Unless you’d rather I examine you through them.”

The dry sarcasm in his tone made heat rush to my face.I turned away, fingers clumsy as I slid the thin fabric down my legs and stepped out of it. The cool air of the room touched skin that had never been seen by a man before.

My cheeks burned as I walked to the exam chair and sat, the paper crinkling loudly under me. I kept my knees pressed together until he spoke again.

“Prop your legs on the side rails.”

I obeyed, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. He pulled on a pair of blue gloves with a sharp snap, then stepped between my parted knees. The gown was lifted without ceremony. The sudden exposure made me flinch. Then his gloved hands were on me—cool, firm, impersonal—and the contrast between the clinical touch and the intimacy of it made my breath catch.

He began to examine me carefully, fingers pressing and exploring with practised precision. Every small movement felt amplified. When he found the tender spot, I tensed.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, voice low and steady.

“Right there,” I managed to reply. “Where your hand is.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers lingered, testing the sensitivity with slow, deliberate pressure. “Any recent changes in your intimate life?”

The question hung in the air. I stared at the ceiling tiles, wishing I could disappear. “No,” I said finally, the word thick with embarrassment. “I’m still a virgin.” Admitting it out loud felt worse than I expected. A woman in her late twenties, married, and never touched. “We’ve been married three years. My husband hasn’t… he hasn’t touched me. Not once.”

There was a brief silence. I couldn’t look at him.

“I see,” he said, tone still professional, though something quieter threaded through it. “Hold still for me.”

I heard the soft sound of a package opening, then the cool, slick pressure of something smooth against me. He worked it inside slowly, carefully, the fluid making every movement glide.

The stretch was unfamiliar and invasive, and yet my body reacted before my mind could catch up. My breath grew shallow. Heat pooled low in my belly. Each careful adjustment of the instrument sent a fresh wave of sensation through me, and I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to stay quiet.

It didn’t work.

A soft, helpless moan slipped out as he rotated the instrument slightly, the pressure hitting a place that made my hips twitch despite my effort to remain still. My hands gripped the sides of the chair.

The paper gown felt useless now; I was completely exposed, completely at the mercy of his steady hands and clinical focus.

He didn’t comment on the sound. He simply continued, methodical and thorough, while my pulse raced and my face burned hotter than it ever had in my life.

“Can I see a female doctor instead?” I asked quickly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

He didn’t look up. His gloved hands remained between my legs, steady and unhurried.

“The door is right there,” he said. “You know the way out.”

Panic flared in my chest. I couldn’t lose this appointment. The hospital fees were already steep, and securing another slot would take weeks—if I could even get one.

“No—wait. Please. It’s okay,” I said, voice small. “I’m sorry. Please… I need your help, Doctor.”

He paused, then leaned in slightly. His voice dropped to a low, controlled whisper.

“Then shut up and stay still.”

The instrument pressed deeper. I bit down on my lip, determined not to make a sound, but the unfamiliar pressure and slow, deliberate movement drew a soft gasp from me anyway.

He worked carefully for a few more moments, his movements precise and controlled, before suddenly stopping.

Silence settled over the room.For some reason, that silence felt far more unsettling than anything that had happened before.

He looked at me, his expression carefully composed, but there was something unreadable lurking behind his clinical calm.

“You’ve gone far too long without sex,” he said. “Your body is tense. Tight. It needs a proper release before any standard exam will give accurate results.”

I stared at him, heat flooding my face. Was that even a real condition? It sounded wrong… and yet the way he said it, so matter-of-fact, made my stomach twist with something between fear and reluctant curiosity.

“A routine examination won’t be enough,” he continued. “Not with how closed up you are.”

“What…" What do I do then, Doctor?” I asked, voice barely steady.

He leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. His gloved fingers still rested against me, a constant, intimate pressure.

“We’ll need to run a more thorough internal examination,” he murmured. “Something that will help your body open up properly first.”

I swallowed hard, pulse hammering in my ears, unsure whether I was more afraid of what he meant… or of how my body already seemed to be reacting to the idea.

“Relax and open up for me,” he said.

I heard the soft metallic click of another instrument being selected from the tray. My eyes flicked down before I could stop myself. The new tool was thicker, sleeker, catching the harsh overhead light. Panic spiked through me.

“Are you… really putting that inside me?” I whispered, voice tight.

He glanced up, expression calm, almost patient.

“Relax. It’s just a tool. It won’t hurt if you stay still and let me work.”

I tried to breathe and tried to unclench, but my body remained rigid with nerves. He waited a moment, then placed a steadying hand on my inner thigh, the cool latex of his glove, a sharp contrast against my heated skin.

“Breathe,” he instructed quietly. “In through your nose… out through your mouth. That’s it. Let your muscles soften.”

I forced a shaky breath. Then another. Slowly, reluctantly, I felt some of the tension ease. He watched my face carefully as he brought the instrument closer. The blunt, slick tip pressed against me, demanding entry. I bit my lip hard as he began to ease it inside, the stretch deeper and fuller than before. A soft, involuntary sound escaped me—half gasp, half whimper—as the tool slid further in, filling me in a way that felt far too intimate for a medical exam.

“Good,” he murmured. “Just like that. Take it all in”

“It feels so weird…" please take it out,” I whispered, voice hushed with equal parts embarrassment and something darker I didn’t want to name.

“Almost done,” he replied, calm and professional. His eyes stayed on the task, dark and focused behind the surgical mask.

I tried to stay still. I really did. But the pressure, the slow deliberate movements inside me, the way his knuckles brushed sensitive places no one had touched in months—everything conspired against me. Soft, helpless moans slipped past my lips before I could stop them. My hips twitched.

Heat flooded my face and lower body at the same time.Then it happened too fast to stop.

I came hard, a sharp, unexpected climax that left me shaking. Wetness spilt onto his gloved fingers and the lower edge of his mask. Mortification crashed over me the second the pleasure peaked.

He didn’t flinch. He simply finished whatever he was doing, withdrew carefully, and peeled the mask down.

I froze.

The face underneath was devastating—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, intense dark eyes that held mine without a trace of judgment. Drop-dead gorgeous in a way that made the clinical room feel suddenly too small. He had just seen everything. Touched everything. And now he was looking straight at me like he already knew the secrets my body had given up.

He smiled, slow and knowing.

“You’ve gone too long without it,” he said quietly. “That’s what’s causing the hyperemia and the sensitivity. Regular intercourse with your husband should ease the tension down there.”

I could barely hear him over the frantic thud of my own heartbeat. His voice was low, steady, clinical… and somehow it made the words feel more intimate, not less.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked, noticing the way my gaze kept drifting over his mouth, his throat, the residual dampness still on his chin.

“Yes—yes,” I stammered. “Thank you, Doctor. I… I appreciate it.”

“You can go now,”he replied.

I slid off the table on unsteady legs, gathered my clothes, and fled the room with my heart still racing. All I could think about was the way I had come on his face, the way he had looked at me afterwards, and how badly I already wanted to do it again—while watching him.

What was I thinking?

That evening, I got home before William. The house felt too quiet. I locked myself in the bedroom, stripped, and touched myself with frantic, guilty fingers, replaying every second of the appointment. The pressure of his hands. The moment the mask came off. The low, clinical voice telling me I needed regular sex. I came again, biting the pillow to stay quiet, my body still trembling with leftover tension.

Then I heard the front door,William was home.

I wiped myself clean, pulled on a thin robe, and met him in the hallway with an urgency I couldn’t hide. I reached for his shirt, tried to peel it off, and pressed myself against him. He smelled like the office and faint cologne. I kissed his neck, his jaw, whispering that I needed him.

He stiffened.

“Not now,” he muttered, stepping back. “I just got in. Let me shower first.”

I waited. I sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but the open robe, my body still humming, my mind still full of the doctor’s face. When William finally came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, I went to him again—hands sliding under the towel, mouth finding his collarbone.

He caught my wrists, and then he pushed me.

Not hard enough to truly hurt, but hard enough that I stumbled and landed on the floor, robe falling open. The rejection was colder than the hardwood under my knees.

I stared up at him, my throat burning.

Was I disgusting to him?

He didn’t answer. He just stepped over me, muttered something about being tired, and left the room.

I stayed on the floor for a long time after the bedroom door closed. Shame and leftover arousal twisted together until I felt sick. That night, I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw either the doctor’s unmasked face or William’s disgusted expression when he shoved me away.

Sometime after midnight, I heard a sound from the guest room.Soft. Rhythmic. Wet.

I slipped out of bed and padded down the hall on bare feet. The door was cracked open just enough. The low light from a phone screen spilt across the bed.

William was there.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, pants shoved down, one hand moving steadily over his cock. His head was tilted back, soft broken moans leaving his throat. On the phone screen—clear in the dim light—was a photograph of my sister Rachel. She was smiling while wearing that red dress from last Christmas.

The one that clung to every curve.He was staring at her while he touched himself. Whispering her name under his breath like a prayer.

I stood frozen in the hallway, hand over my mouth, heart cracking open so loudly I was sure he would hear it.

What?The single word left me in a broken whisper.

Was he in love with her?

I turned and fled before the tears could fall in front of him. I ran back to our bedroom, closed the door as quietly as I could, and sank to the floor against it. Silent sobs shook my shoulders while the memory of the doctor’s hands and William’s rejection and Rachel’s smiling face all collided inside me.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night and somewhere under the hurt and the humiliation, a dangerous thought kept circling:I had come harder for a near-stranger in a clinical room than I had for my own husband in months and now I knew why William never seemed to want me.

Why did Rachel have to take everything from me ?