From my invisible vantage point in the corner of the room, I watched Dr. Sierra Quinn cross one long leg over the other.
The golden-rimmed glasses caught the soft lamp-light as she studied Elena with calm, clinical interest.
The thin hospital nightie Elena wore did little to hide the way her body was still reacting — the faint sheen of perspiration at her collarbone, the stiff peaks of her nipples pressing against the pale fabric, the restless way her thighs remained pressed tightly together.
"How do you masturbate?" Dr. Quinn asked. Her voice was even, professional, yet the question itself hung in the air with unmistakable intimacy. "For example… do you use anything? Fingers only? A toy? Something that stretches you?"
Elena's face turned a deeper shade of red. She understood immediately what the doctor was really asking. Her fingers twisted in the sheet until the fabric creased. When she finally answered, her voice was small and stammering, barely above a whisper.
