The Poor Village Girl Tormented by Her Sex Addiction novel · Chapter 3 of 12
Chapter 3: The Prescription
Dr. Leandro’s prescription fit on a single sheet of notebook paper.
Three days without touching myself, and without Anselmo touching me either.
One visit to the clinic every afternoon, at the hour when the plaza emptied out.
And just one more rule, written at the bottom in cramped handwriting: obey.
On the third day, I arrived at the clinic with shaky legs and my blouse stuck to my back.
I’d spent seventy-two hours in hell.
I’d clenched the pillow between my teeth, shoved my hands under my butt to keep from using them, and cried with rage beside my husband, who slept facing away from me on doctor’s orders.
Anselmo walked me to the door, then headed back to the coffee fields without saying a word.
It was part of the deal.
The doctor was waiting inside, in a little white room with an examination table covered in paper and a shelf of bottles.
He locked the door.
“Sit on the examination table,” he said. “Did you touch yourself?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Not even once?”
“Not once.” My voice trembled. “Last night, I almost died.”
“Almost?”
“I bit my hand until it bled. Look.”
I showed him the imprint of my teeth at the base of my thumb.
He took my wrist without hurry and examined it under the lamp.
Then he brushed his thumb over the bite, and I felt that touch all the way down to my waist.
“Good patient,” he murmured.
Those two words made me press my thighs together.
“Take off your skirt and underwear,” he said. “Lie back on the table, knees bent.”
I stripped from the waist down with shameful haste.
The paper on the table crinkled beneath my butt, and it was cold.
He pulled over a little stool and sat between my knees, level with my pussy, his hands resting on his own thighs.
He didn’t touch me.
He looked at me.
I could feel his breath against my wet skin, and that alone was enough to make me open up completely.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“For you to touch me.”
“Use the real words, Maricruz. There’s no one here to judge you.”
It was the first time he’d said my name without calling me “ma’am.”
My face burned, and so did the rest of me.
“I want you to suck me, Doctor.”
“Where?”
“My pussy.” My voice broke. “Please.”
He put his hands on my inner thighs and spread them wider.
Then he lowered his head.
His first lick was long and flat, from bottom to top, and it tore a cry from me that I had to smother with my forearm.
“Don’t cover your mouth,” he ordered, his mouth against me. “I want to hear you.”
I lowered my arm.
I moaned loudly, without holding back, my head thrown against the paper.
He licked me slowly, with maddening patience, tracing circles around my clit without touching it.
“Doctor,” I begged. “There. There, please.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Three days.”
“Then you can wait one more minute.”
He left me there, panting, my thighs trembling around his head.
Then he closed his lips around my clit and sucked.
I came almost instantly, sobbing, my hips lifted and my fingers tangled in his hair.
He didn’t stop.
He kept working his tongue while I writhed, and slipped in two fingers to feel me clench around them.
A second orgasm hit me, deeper, making my vision go white.
When he finally pulled away, his chin was glistening and his glasses were crooked.
I was a rag doll on the examination table.
“Feeling better?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Yes.” I was still catching my breath. “Doctor, I think I just cured myself.”
He shook his head, almost smiling.
“I’m not going to cure you, Maricruz. No one here is going to cure you of anything.”
“Then what’s the prescription for?”
“So you can learn to ask, and your husband can learn to listen.” He stood and washed his hands. “Get dressed. Same time tomorrow.”
I pulled on my skirt, my fingers still weak.
I buttoned my blouse wrong and braided my hair with my hands.
For the first time in years, my body didn’t feel heavy.
My head felt clear, and I wanted to laugh and dance by myself in the plaza.
He opened the door to the examination room for me.
“One more thing,” he said quietly. “Today I didn’t ask why they call you sick in the village. Tomorrow I’m going to ask.”
“No one ever explained it to me.”
“Someone told you first. There’s always someone.”
We stepped into the narrow hallway that led to the waiting room.
There was a wooden chair and a bench against the wall.
A man in a white guayabera sat on the bench, legs crossed, a palm hat resting on his knee.
Don Gervasio Ochoa.
He looked like he’d been there a while, listening.
He stood with a wide, toothy smile.
“Doc,” he said. “Good afternoon, comadre Maricruz.”
He adjusted his hat without taking his eyes off my blouse, buttoned wrong.
“I’ve come to talk to you about my comadre.”
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