I lie on my back, thighs parted, knees bent, legs raised. The position forces me back onto the cane-tenderized area of my upper butt, the bruising bearing witness to recent abuse. I embrace the pain. That pain.
But not this new assault. Cervix pinched open, instruments inserted, the first passes only mildly agitating, small voiceless complaints sneaking through my compressed vocal cords. Then the real nastiness begins, executed by an implement I'd rather not see.
My sounds change, first to those little wordless emissions he knows so well, then changing to gasps and moans and whimpers. I try to hold still, but can't help writhing, undulating, the waves of my body echoing the waves of pain as cramping attacks this womb he owns.
The doctor apologizes.
"I don't like to torture people," she says.
I smile grimly to myself, and do not share my thoughts.