Private Lessons From A Doctor
After, wrapped in robes, we drank the rest of the champagne on the balcony, his come still dripping down my thighs, my neck covered in marks he’d have to hide tomorrow at family brunch.
His phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number. A video file.
He opened it.
Forty-three seconds of grainy night-vision footage: Exam Room Three. Me in the stirrups. His white coat on the floor. My voice clear as day: “Uncle Adrian, please—”
The text beneath it read:
Enjoy the honeymoon suite, Doctor. Delete the original like a good boy, or this goes to your sister tomorrow morning.
He showed me the screen.
I went cold.