College Graduation and the marriage clinic

I’d been waiting for this day since spring semester. The Hearthside Program wasn’t for everyone, but graduation meant more to me than a diploma. It meant a ring, a home, a baby before the ink dried on my degree. My parents thought I’d lost my mind. They didn’t understand the ache.

 

Now I sat on the edge of an exam table, paper crinkling under my naked thighs. Beside me, Veronica trembled. Tessa looked bored. We’d been friends through four years of late-night study sessions, and now we were here—three soon-to-be wives in a clinic that smelled like lavender and antiseptic.

 

“Clara, right?” The doctor stepped in, a man in his forties with steady hands and a wedding band that caught the overhead light.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Consent form says you understand every step today. Do you still want that?”

 

I nodded, then found my voice. “I want it.”

 

“Good.” He smiled. “Let’s begin.”

 

The robe came off. My skin prickled. His fingers were warm as they palpated my breasts, checking for lumps, then rolling my nipples between thumb and forefinger until they tightened into hard points. A flush spread down my chest. He charted my heart rate and blood pressure, then had me lie back and place my feet in the stirrups.

 

“First pelvic exam of the day,” he said, snapping on gloves. The speculum was metal and cold. I gasped as he inserted it, the click of the mechanism echoing in the room. “Healthy tissue. Nice and pink.” He swabbed something, then withdrew the speculum and replaced it with two gloved fingers. They curved upward, pressing against my front wall. My hips bucked.

 

“There we go,” he murmured. “Responsive. Good sign for fertility and for the marriage bed.”

 

His thumb circled my clit once, twice. A sound escaped me—not a word, just a whimper. He didn’t linger, but by the time he removed his hand, I was wet enough that the glove shone. Veronica stared at me, wide-eyed.

 

“You’ll do well,” the doctor said.

 

Next came the shaving room. A nurse named Meredith had me stand over a spread towel, legs apart. She wielded a razor with a steady hand. “Hold still, sweetheart. Every trad wife leaves smooth.”

 

The razor glided over my mound, down the outer lips. She used her fingers to stretch the skin, shaving inward, around my clit, then lower. “Turn around, bend over.” Cool air hit my exposed anus as she separated my cheeks and shaved the fine hair there. My face burned, but my clit throbbed. Meredith noticed. “Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re exactly what the program wants.” She wiped me down and held up a hand mirror. I saw myself bare, completely exposed. The sight made my knees weak.

 

Veronica complained next to me. “This is so humiliating.”

 

“It’s mandatory,” Meredith said. “But you signed the agreement. You knew what you were getting into.” She said it kindly, not cruel. Tessa just shrugged and spread her legs wider.

 

Then came the enema room. Three stations side by side, each with a stainless steel table and a bag of warm water hanging from a hook. I lay on my side, knees drawn up. The nozzle was silicone, lubed. Meredith inserted it with a slow push, and the warm water began to flow. A cramp built low in my belly. “Breathe,” she instructed. “Hold it as long as you can.”

 

The pressure was intimate, filling me. I clenched, my thighs trembling. Across the room, Tessa let out a low moan. Veronica whimpered. When I couldn’t hold any longer, Meredith released the clamp and helped me to the toilet. The relief was sharp, emptying. Then she insisted on a second round, smaller volume, to make sure I was clean.

 

Afterward, still on the table with my legs parted, she produced a plug. It was silicone, black, with a flared base—not too thick, maybe an inch and a half at its widest. “First anal plug,” she said. “You’ll wear it for the rest of the day. You’ll get used to it.”

 

She lubed two gloved fingers and pressed them inside me, working slowly. I gasped at the stretch, the foreign fullness. Then the plug, cool and slick, nudged against my opening. “Push back,” she said. I did. The widest part popped past the ring of muscle, and I cried out as my body clamped around the stem. It sat there, snug, unyielding. I could feel my own pulse in my ass.

 

“Stand up,” Meredith said. I did, wobbling. The plug shifted with every movement, a constant reminder.

 

We dressed in the next room. Racks of clothing lined the walls. Skirts so short they barely covered the curve of my ass, silk blouses that clung to my breasts, leaving no secret. The shoes: ankle-strap pumps, four-inch heels, no exceptions. I chose a blush-pink silk blouse and a charcoal skirt that ended mid-thigh. The straps bit into my ankles. My legs looked miles long.

 

Makeup took forty minutes. A technician named Yvonne taught us the look: dark smoky shadow blended out at the edges, winged liner sharp enough to cut, pink blush on the apples of our cheeks, and lips coated in wet, shiny gloss that made my mouth look freshly kissed. She inspected each of us, tilting my chin left, then right. “Beautiful,” she declared. “Husband material.”

 

The salon was last. Three chairs faced a mirrored wall. I sat in the middle. My hair hung past my shoulders, but not for long. The stylist presented options: a blunt, very straight bob with bangs and a shaved nape; a short, tightly permed wedge with shaved sides; a high, very straight bowlcut with shaved nape. I chose the bob. Veronica chose the wedge. Tessa chose the bowlcut.

 

The scissors were cold against my neck. Chunks of hair fell to the floor, dark and heavy. Then the clippers buzzed, clearing the nape of my neck, leaving the skin bare and sensitive. When she finished, I barely recognized myself. The bangs hit just above my eyebrows, the blunt edges sharp, the shaved nape prickling with cool air. I looked like a kept woman. I felt like a bride.

 

The stylist was just finishing Tessa’s bowlcut when the door at the far end of the salon opened. A group of men filed in—single men, local, all of them here to choose. They wore pressed shirts and polished shoes. Their eyes moved from chair to chair, assessing.

 

My heart hammered. The plug shifted inside me as I squeezed my thighs together. One man, tall with a beard and large hands, stopped in front of my chair. He crouched to eye level and reached out to run his thumb along the shaved nape of my neck.

 

“What’s your name?” His voice was low, rough.

 

“Clara.” It came out breathy.

 

He smiled, and his hand slid down to cup the back of my head. “I’ve been waiting for one like you.”

 

The stylist unhooked the cape from my shoulders. His eyes dropped to my bare legs, then back to my glossy mouth. He didn’t look away.

 

“Mine,” he said, not to me—to the room.

 

The word landed in my belly. My clit pulsed. I was still wearing the plug, still wet from the exam, and now my future husband stood between my knees. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just above mine.

 

“Let’s see how well you take instruction, Clara.”

 

The other men were choosing the other girls. Veronica was already being lifted out of her chair by a man with dark hair. Tessa laughed as someone else’s hand settled on her waist.

 

But I couldn’t look away from the man in front of me. He reached down and unbuckled his belt.

 

His voice dropped to a whisper as his zipper came down. “Brace yourself on the arms of that chair. Now.”

 

I gripped the leather armrests, my knuckles white. The shaved nape of my neck tingled. He stepped closer, and I held my breath.

 

“Good girl.”