Sick with a Sex Addiction novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Clinic
"Patient twenty-two," the Doctor said. "Face down. And no talking."
I obeyed.
The bed at the Imaginary Clinic was tall and narrow, with starched white sheets and a smell of alcohol someone had sprayed on purpose.
I was wearing a pale blue gown, open at the back, and a black sleep mask covering my eyes.
Those were the rules.
No names, no faces, no questions.
He was the Doctor and I was Patient 22, the one sick with addiction.
Three months of chatting on an adult app, two dates, and I'd never once seen his face.
I'd told him on the first day that my problem was simple.
"I like it too much," I wrote. "That's what they say. That I'm sick."
"I want to examine you," he replied. "Carefully."
That sentence had stayed with me for three months.
I heard his footsteps approaching across the tile floor, and the elastic snap of latex gloves.
"Breathe deep."
I breathed.
A hand pushed the gown aside, and the cold air brushed my bare ass.
"This is where it hurts," he said, in a low, unhurried voice that gave me goosebumps.
"Yes, Doctor."
"Tell me the symptoms."
"That it's never enough."
There was a short silence.
Then the palm of his hand came down on my ass cheek with a sharp slap.
I let out a muffled moan.
"That's not a symptom," he said. "That's a diagnosis."
Another slap, on the other cheek, harder.
A delicious heat spread across my skin, and between my thighs.
"Doctor."
"Silence, Patient."
He stroked where he'd hit me, slowly, with his gloved hand.
"I haven't started the examination yet."
His fingers traveled down the center of my ass, and stopped.
He spread my legs with his knee.
The gloved fingers traced my lower lips, slowly, getting wet, and when they reached my clit I arched up off the mattress.
"Very sensitive," he murmured. "Is it always like this?"
"Always."
"How interesting."
He drew slow, precise circles with the pad of one finger.
I buried my face in the pillow.
My body had become a single nerve.
He slid one finger inside me, slowly.
I was tight and slick, and the latex gave a cold, rough friction that made me moan.
"Two," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"Two fingers. Please."
"The patient doesn't give orders."
"Please, Doctor."
There was a pause.
Then I felt a second finger slide in, spreading me open.
I moaned out loud.
He started moving them inside me, curved, searching.
"Here," he murmured. "Found it."
The pleasure shot up my spine.
I gripped the sheets with both hands.
"Don't stop," I begged. "Please, don't stop."
He sped up.
With his other hand he slapped me again, softer, in rhythm with his fingers, and each impact made me clench around him.
It was the best of the three dates.
The stranger knew exactly what I needed, and he didn't ask questions.
My hips started moving against his hand.
"More," I pleaded. "More, more."
He pushed a third finger in, and I cried out.
He leaned over me, and his breath brushed my ear, hot, through the mask.
"Tell me what you want, Patient."
"You."
"Where?"
"Inside. Now."
I heard him let out his breath, with a tremor.
"Not yet," he said. "First, this."
With his thumb he rubbed my clit, fast, while his fingers kept sinking into me.
I came with a long sob, arched, my knees trembling.
I lay panting on the bed, soaked, the mask damp against my lashes.
But it wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
I turned my head to the side, searching for his mouth.
I wanted a kiss.
It was a broken rule, and I didn't care.
The mask slid up across my forehead.
And I saw.
The Doctor was standing beside the bed, in his white coat and surgical cap.
The mask had slipped down to his chin.
He wore dark, thick-rimmed glasses.
A short brown beard, with gray in it.
And eyes I'd seen every Monday for two years, from the last row of room 214.
The eyes of Professor Teodoro Quesada.
We stared at each other.
Neither of us breathed.
His hand was still inside me, motionless.
His fingers still, still wet.
"Mayte," he said, barely a whisper.
I couldn't say anything.
An infinite second passed, in which I heard my heart, the drip of the air conditioner, and a distant car on the street.
He began to pull his hand away.
Slowly, like someone stepping back from a bare wire.
And I, without thinking, without knowing where it came from, grabbed his wrist.
"Professor Quesada," I whispered.
"Mayte, this..."
"Don't stop."
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