Dr. Mason's voice filters through the thin fabric of the curtain.

I don't know what to do—my body is already reacting wildly, thanks to my husband's earlier touch, and now I'm supposed to go through with the rest of this examination, to expose myself even more.

My husband's head peeks around the curtain, wearing a strange, almost unsettling smile.

"Dr. Mason, I leave her in your capable hands," he says smoothly.

Dr. Mason's laugh booms out in response. "Oh, you can count on me! I'll make sure to do a very thorough job," he replies.

"Yes, please do. My wife's naturally sensitive. We need to find out exactly what's causing all this... overactivity."

"Oh, no worries at all," Dr. Mason says. "Your wife looks exceptional. I'll make sure I leave no area unchecked."

His words hang heavy in the air. I blink, caught between shock and disbelief.

My husband chuckles. "You're right about that. She's always been in excellent condition."

I can barely recognize my husband standing behind the curtain, joining in with this inappropriate, twisted humor. He's never spoken this way, not with anyone, let alone about me.

He chuckles and leans back, out of sight, while Dr. Mason's laughter rings out again, louder, bolder.

A chill snakes up my spine, and every hair on my body stands on end.

I want to scream at my husband, demand to know what's going on, to say this is all wrong, that we need to leave, but before I can get a word out, everything shifts.

A pair of firm hands lifts my legs, positioning them into a vulnerable openness. I can feel every inch of myself exposed to the director's gaze, the shame and humiliation hitting me in waves.

My instinct is to pull away, to kick and resist, but before I can react, I feel the unmistakable cold of the restraints, binding my legs into place and locking me down.

I can't move.

And then, a sudden chill brushes over me, and...