Eti’s heart hammered as the male nurse curtly ordered her to strip. “Everything off, now. Leave your clothes on that chair.” Her husband, Mark, sat frozen by the doctor’s desk, his eyes fixed on her. No curtain. No privacy. Just a cold room with her bare soul.

She unbuckled her slacks, let them pool at her feet. Her blouse followed. In moments, she stood in her panties and bra, feeling every sliver of fabric cling to her flushed skin. The nurse gave her a flat look. “Those too, hon. We need you starkers for this test.” Her hands trembled as she unclasped her bra, let her heavy breasts swing free. The room felt enormous as she shimmied out of her panties, now fully exposed.

Two female technicians entered without knocking. One said, “Ah, the fifty-year-old with the shy bladder. Let’s get you prepped.” She watched them critically as the male nurse snapped on gloves. “Lie on the table. Legs open.” She obeyed, heart racing, aware of Mark’s stillness.

The male nurse wielded a warm washcloth and vigorous scrub across her pubic mound, causing gasps. His rough strokes across the sensitive skin were both clinical and humiliating. “Keep still.” He knelt, parting her labia with gloved fingers to scrub the slick inner folds, exposing the pink glow of her clit unwrapped. He paused, shrugged, and murmured to the techs: “Needs a clean shave.” You said it was done, you said.