Then I feel a gentle tug on the tie-string on my hospital-issue pants. I’ve been told a million times to lie perfectly still or they’ll need to redo the pictures. I really don’t want to be in here longer than necessary. So although my instinct is to jump at the unexpected touch, all my instincts—to scream, panic, run, flail and generally get the hell out of this little tube where my head is caged and if I think about it I might feel like I’m suffocating—are frozen. Instead I’m still as ice on the padded board. Clink, clink, clink. Bam! Bam! Bam! The tug comes again, and I feel air against my skin. Christ, the front flaps must be open, my jockeys showing. I hope to hell it’s a decent pair. Then I realize how stupid it is to be worrying about that when Stormy is back in my—well, not bed, but pants. It’s a start. I guess Sheila is mellower than I thought ’cause there’s no way in hell she can’t see what’s going on down here. I’m definitely warming up to Imaging.
The banging stops. Sheila’s voice crackles through. “You’re doing great, Joan,” she says. “You might feel the table move a little bit now. Just keep holding nice and still. This one is three minutes.”
The clicks and whirs start up with a few BANGs for good measure. Then the table begins to jiggle and the accompanying noise is jangle, wham, jangle, wham. My teeth, tongue, jaw, neck—my whole body is vibrating. Now this has some potential.
Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so because I feel a soft, warm finger slip underneath my jocks, part my lips and land lightly on my clit. The finger stays still, but with my whole body vibrating, it doesn’t matter. I feel waves of pleasure, magnified by the illicitness of the whole crazy situation. The noise just makes it better, amplifies the sensation. Stormy has not lost her touch—or her wild streak. Hot blood rushes to my toes as my orgasm builds. Then the machine shudders off and the finger withdraws.
“Doing fine,” Sheila announces. “This one is four and a half minutes.” The clangs start, but the table’s motionless—damn!—and this time the noises are louder, longer, more insistent. It takes a few moments to figure out the rhythm: four shuddering BOOMs, two beats of silence, then Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Beat, beat.) Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Again. A good minute passes without any action in my pants and I’m bummin’ that Stormy’s pulling this shit. Maybe her idea of revenge is to get me two-thirds there and then leave me, locked in this hellish machine, with a blue clit.
But halfway through a set of booms, the finger slides under my skivvies again. No, wait, two fingers. They skim briefly up to my still-hard clit and hang there for the two beats of silence, then Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! And the fingers slide right into my very wet cunt. Wow. I don’t usually like anyone inside me—butch street cred and all. I don’t usually get this wet, either. Clearly this is one of the finer medical facilities. It definitely earns its rank as Boston’s best teaching hospital. I’m learning a lot.
With each boom, Stormy thrusts in. At the two moments of silence, she pulls out. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Oh, oh, oh, oh.) Pause. Pause. (Try not to whimper. Try not to moan.) Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! (Oh lord, oh lord, oh lordy-lordy-lord.) Three minutes are up way too freakin’ fast.
“This one will be four and a half minutes,” Sheila whirs in my ear. Yes! That’ll take me over the edge. This time the noise is straightforward: Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! Perfect for a hard-pumping in-and-out. I wait. Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! C’mon Storm, c’mon! Clank, ka-ching! Clank, ka-ching! My clit throbs. My ears strain through the plugs and the din for some hint of where Stormy is and when she’s gonna touch me again. I can’t grope around for her—the arm bone’s connected to the head bone’s connected to the twat bone, et cetera—unless I want to risk doing the MRI over again.
So, for four and a half minutes I strain to hear or feel or sense somebody, some movement, some touch, some fucking something besides my clit humming. Nothing. Maybe she’s left. Stormy has left the building, my mind jeers. You’ve been a great audience. Thank you. Don’t forget to tip your MRI technician. Good night! Goddamn her.
“Joan, this scan will be three and a half.” Click. Bang, bang, clink clink. Bang, bang, clink clink. Take yourself to your “happy place,” I coax myself. Think about the Arboretum on a summer day, full of flowering trees and cute dykes in tank tops out walking their dogs. Think about… the three warm fingers sliding into your cunt, holy Christ. Bang, bang, clink clink. Oh god, oh god, oh oh. Yes, yes, oh oh. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck-mefuckme. And there, my eyes shut, my whole body rigid, the godawful noise filling my head, Stormy filling my cunt, I come. Oh god, do I come. Motionless and noiseless, I come. And it’s fantastic. There’ll be a stain. Good thing they change the paper between patients. It’s hard not to grin. Stormy considerately ties my PJs shut.
I barely even notice when Sheila buzzes in for the last time. “One minute and then you’re done,” she purrs. No, I’m already done. Waterfalls, puppies, hot apple pie—who needs that shit? I lie still, reliving the last half hour.
The noise stops. The table glides out of the tube. Sheila unhooks the plastic thing from my face. I gingerly open my eyes. I feel a little woozy. Who cares? Sheila helps me swing my legs to the floor, then takes one of my elbows. “Take her other arm,” she says, motioning behind me. I turn my head to give a big smile to Stormy, but it is not Stormy.
Reaching forward is the muscled, hugely grinning Lynn. As her glistening fingertips pass my face, the reek of my cunt juice hits me. I almost fall over.
“Whoops-a-daisy,” Sheila murmurs. “Wow, Joan, you’re shaking and sweating. You’re downright slippery. Isn’t she, Lynn?”
The aide smirks and Sheila continues, “We better get you stable. We wouldn’t want to drop you. It’s scary when someone you rely on doesn’t support you, don’t you think, Joan?”
I can’t speak. My brain is as limp as my body. The siren of panic is wailing louder and louder. I gotta get away from Stormy, from this monster Sheila, and especially from Lynn who just… who…
I shudder.
A moment later the door opens. Stormy rides up the lift behind my wheelchair. Lynn and Sheila lower me, trembling, onto my seat. “I’ll be right back!” Sheila announces and practically skips to her booth. She returns carrying a brown paper bag, which she places in Lynn’s outstretched, pungent hand.
Sheila turns to me. “The images we took today are in our computer. The radiologist will interpret them and send a report to your doctor within the week.”
Then she grabs Stormy and kisses her full on the lips. “Break time!” she sings. “Where do you wanna go for lunch?”
Stormy snuggles against the shorter, blonde woman. “Panda Garden?” She shrugs. “Lynn, you coming, too?”
“Naw, I’m gonna spend lunch with Joan,” she says, and taps the bag, grinning at me.
They’re nuts. If these are the people Stormy’s with now, she can have them. And if Lynn thinks she’s seeing me for lunch or ever she’s got another thing coming. I need to get the hell out of here.