The Scandalous Secret She Hides

"Wider, Millie. Yes, that's it."

I lay weakly on the examination table, my hands unconsciously gripping the sheets.

The voice behind me was low and restrained, but it made my ears burn.

This examination position was too embarrassing. My buttocks were forced to arch high like some kind of submissive gesture.

"Doctor, I can't open any wider..." I bit my lower lip, my voice trembling deliberately.

I could see my reflection in the metal bars of the examination table. My messy hair stuck to my flushed cheeks as my eyes shone with a watery, dreamy glow.

My name was Millie Wilson. I was a dance freshman at my university.

Less than a month into the semester, the boys privately rated me as the most beautiful girl on campus.

As I walked around campus, their lecherous gazes wrapped around my body like snakes, sliding down from my chest to my thighs before crawling back to my face. I knew what they were thinking: filthy and lustful thoughts. However, I enjoyed such gazes.

Whenever I deliberately swayed my hips as I walked across the basketball court, the balls that the boys were holding would suddenly lose control.

They would never have the chance to touch a body like mine. For them, being able to feast their eyes was already a blessing.

The girl in the mirror had the most innocent face, yet the most sinful figure.

My mother's excellent genes had been exaggerated in me. My breasts were so plump that they almost burst through my clothes, and the curve of my hips made many married women feel envious. These excessively feminine features made me swing between innocence and seductiveness. It was almost too much to take in at once.

No one knew my secret.

When I was sixteen, I started having embarrassing dreams. In the dreams, different men pleased me in different ways. As I grew up, the fantasies became more and more uncontrollable. They burned away my sense of reason like a wildfire.

I wondered if I was sick. Otherwise, why else would I be so obsessed with this?

There was no shortage of suitors on campus. The boys from the physical education department chased me like dogs in heat, their love letters spilling out of my locker. Their muscular bodies exuded a strong masculinity, yet they bored me. Simple-minded musclemen possessed nothing but brute force.

Last week, I met Heath Mallard at the campus hospital. He was different from all the other men. His body beneath the white coat was tall and slender, while his eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were calm and collected.

When he lightly touched my wrist with his gloved fingers to check my pulse, I almost collapsed into his arms. His mature and restrained aura, unique to older men, was as addictive as alcohol.

My nighttime self-pleasure sessions became more and more frequent. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him standing before the examination table in his white coat. I needed him, and