Page 55 of Fallen Angel

Violet’s cheeks are flushed, her green eyes bright, her lips lacquered to a blood-colored sheen. Her nails are polished black, and they tap her thigh impatiently.

Poppy undresses, her hands shaking too much for her to fold her clothes, so she simply tosses them on a chair. With her back to Violet, she nervously steps out of her panties and into the paper gown. It’s so quiet and still in the room that the crinkling of the material sounds like a shout.

Violet is busy arranging medical instruments on a steel tray.

“Get on the exam table,” Violet says without looking at her, her voice emotionless.

Poppy does as she’s told, the table’s tissue paper liner crumpling underneath her.

“Ms. LaRue, please slide down and put your feet in the stirrups.”

Poppy hesitates, but at this point, she’s already considered leaving several times and decided against it. She knows she’s not going to walk out, knows she can’t say no to Violet—so why waste her energy thinking about it?

She adjusts her body so her bare feet meet cold metal, her legs spread apart.

Violet peers down at Poppy, feeling her breasts with one gloved hand. Her touch is rough and clinical, and yet Poppy feels a surge of excitement pulse between her legs.

She finishes, snaps off her gloves, and sits on a stool down by Poppy’s feet.

Poppy is very self-conscious that her pussy is splayed open in front of Violet’s face in that bright room. But it’s as if Violet hasn’t even noticed; she’s busy slathering lube onto her freshly gloved finger. Without a word, she feels inside Poppy’s pussy as clinically as she had examined her breasts, then withdraws her hand. She straightens up in her seat.

“Have you experienced any sexual dysfunction lately?” Violet says.

“What?” Poppy is reeling. She can barely talk. She can’t tell if she’s mortified, intrigued, turned on, or scared. Maybe all at once.

“Any trouble having an orgasm?” Violet says impatiently.

She really should work on her bedside manner.

“Uh, no.”

“I thought you said you were having problems. That’s why you made the appointment,” Violet says.

“Oh, um, yeah. I’m having problems,” Poppy says, wondering if she missed the script.

Violet snaps off her latex gloves.

“You can’t even come when you masturbate?” Violet says.

“No?” Poppy guesses, wanting to get the answer right.

“Hmm. This sounds serious.” Violet uses her bare hand to stroke Poppy’s clit roughly with her thumb. She massages it, rubbing more firmly, pressing until Poppy gasps with the powerful sensation of pleasure and pain as one. She squirms on the table, resisting the urge to moan; she doesn’t want to make any sound, to risk going off script. The thought of that, above all, upsets her.

“You don’t feel anything?” Violet says.

“No,” Poppy whispers.

Violet turns her attention to the items on the steel tray. Poppy’s palms are moist with anxiety, her pussy throbbing with the need for release.

“Turn around and get on all fours,” Violet says.

“What?”

“I’m going to cure you. Get on all fours—face the opposite direction of me.”

Poppy has no interest in putting her ass in Violet’s face.

“I don’t know. I … I think I feel better all ready.”