The Poor Village Girl Tormented by Her Sex Addiction novel · Chapter 2 of 12

Chapter 2: The Kitchen Table

Doctor Leandro asked them to clear the kitchen table.

My mother-in-law picked up the dishes without a word and went to her room with her rosary.

Anselmo stood by the stove, twisting his hat in his hands.

"Sit down, ma'am," the doctor said. "I'll sit across from you."

I sat.

He opened his bag and took out a notebook, a pencil, and a stethoscope.

He set it on the table between us, like a judge.

"I'm going to ask you some very direct questions," he said. "If there's one you don't want to answer, just tell me."

"Ask away, Doctor."

"How many times a day do you feel that need?"

My mouth went dry.

I realized that no one, in eleven years, had ever asked me that with such calm.

"When it hits, it hits in waves," I said. "Five or six times. More if there's a full moon."

He wrote it down.

"Does it go away after you finish?"

"It goes away for a while."

"How long?"

"About as long as it takes to wash your hands."

Anselmo let out a breath through his nose and stared at the floor.

The doctor looked up from his notebook, and I thought I saw something shift in his face.

"Does it hurt? Do you feel shame, disgust, fear?"

"Shame, yes. But I'm not afraid."

"What do you feel?"

I thought about my answer carefully.

"Hunger," I said. "Like I've lost my food and I'm searching the house for it."

The pencil stopped.

The doctor took off his glasses, wiped them on the edge of his coat, and put them back on.

"That doesn't match what they told me in town," he murmured.

"What did they tell you?"

"That you were possessed."

I laughed for the first time in weeks.

It wasn't a good laugh, but it was a laugh.

"Well, no, Doctor. I just have a lot of cravings and a very hardworking husband."

Anselmo turned red to the tips of his ears.

"I'm going to examine you now," Leandro said. "I need to see how your body reacts. Your husband will stay in the kitchen."

"Let him stay close," I asked.

It came out before I could stop it.

Anselmo looked at me, surprised.

"I want to know too," I told him. "I want him to see."

The doctor nodded slowly.

"Then lie down on the table, on your back."

I lay down on the wood, my feet hanging off the edge.

The table was still warm from dinner, and the black beams of the ceiling loomed over me.

He came closer, the stethoscope hanging around his neck.

He pressed the cold metal under my collarbone, and I held my breath.

"Breathe."

I breathed.

"Again."

He moved the metal down between my breasts, over my blouse, and I felt them harden, pushing against the fabric.

"Your heart is very fast," he said.

"It's because you're looking at me."

He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Take off your blouse."

I unbuttoned slowly, my fingers clumsy, and parted the fabric.

I wasn't wearing anything underneath.

My nipples stiffened in the kitchen air.

The doctor swallowed, and the pencil slipped from his hand to the floor.

He picked it up without taking his eyes off me.

"I'm going to touch your abdomen," he said, his voice a little deeper. "It's part of the exam."

"Yes, Doctor."

He placed his open hand on my belly.

It was a warm, firm hand with long fingers.

He slid it downward, to the edge of my skirt, and stopped.

I lifted my hips without meaning to.

"No," he said, calm. "Still."

I stayed still.

Something in his voice made my knees go weak.

It was an order, spoken without shouting, and my body received it like a caress.

"I'm going to do a test," he continued. "I won't touch you with my fingers. Only with my voice."

"How?"

"Close your eyes."

I closed them.

"You're going to breathe through your nose. You're going to count to ten. And you're not going to touch yourself or move until I tell you."

I started counting.

One.

Two.

His hand was still on my belly, unmoving.

"Imagine I lift your skirt," he said, in a low voice. "That I open your knees. That I look at you."

Three.

Four.

"That you're wet, and I don't touch you, and I make you wait."

Six.

Seven.

I felt myself getting slick between my thighs, without him having laid a finger on me.

A moan escaped me.

"Eight," I whispered. "Doctor, please."

"Nine. Slowly."

"Doctor."

"Ten."

Then he pulled my skirt down to my knees with one hand and ran his fingers through my center, barely grazing.

I came like a thunderclap.

I cried out, arched over the wood, my nails digging into the edge of the table.

I heard Anselmo breathing hard beside me, and his hand searching for mine.

I squeezed it.

The doctor pulled back his wet fingers and looked at them under the lamplight.

He wiped them slowly with a kitchen rag.

I was panting, eyes open, staring at the beams.

A few seconds passed before anyone spoke.

"It's gone," I said, surprised. "Doctor, it's gone. I don't feel the fire."

"It'll come back," he replied. "But now I know one thing."

"What thing?"

He washed his hands in the basin, with his back to us, and dried them carefully.

"That you're not sick, ma'am."

Anselmo took a step toward him.

"Then what is it?"

"It's a craving that's never had anywhere to go." The doctor turned around, his cheeks flushed behind his glasses. "But it has a cure. And you're not going to like the method."

Anselmo still had me by the hand.

I looked at him, and I saw in his eyes that he had already made up his mind.

"Do it," my husband said.

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