Yoon Ji-ah - First Consultation (1)

The back row of the lecture hall. Week 3 of Business Statistics. While the professor scribbles something on the board, Eun-seo up front rummages through her pencil case to jot notes, and I clutch my bag tight over my knees, cold sweat dripping down my face.

I thought I'd be fine after holding out for a month. With compression bandages wrapped tight, pressure underwear on top, and thick training pants over that, I could hide it somehow. I limped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a bit, but everyone bought my excuse about muscle soreness from workouts. Or maybe they just pretended to.

But today was different. Eun-seo bends over to pick up her dropped pen from the floor. Her nape peeks through her hair, and a sweet floral perfume wafts over. A scent that wouldn't have fazed me before, but ever since this happened—thump. My lower abdomen pulses like a heartbeat.

Inside the bandages, it starts forcing its head up. No. Not now. Please...! Even as the bandages bite into my skin in pain, it keeps swelling. The waistband of the pressure underwear digs in like it's screaming. Slowly, hot liquid seeps out. Cowper's fluid. I looked it up at the hospital. The sticky sensation soaks my underwear and creeps up the inside of my pants, crystal clear.

It's gonna burst. If the friend next to me sees my pants bulging, she'll scream. I saw on the news what futanari hatred looks like. That woman was just an ordinary office worker until she got found out at her company—then her life was over.

I shove my chair back, cover my stomach with my bag, and stand. "H-Hey, Ji-ah? Class isn't—" "Bathroom...!" I barely spit out the word and push through the back door of the lecture hall.

Out in the hallway, I head for the stairs instead of the bathroom. Almost running down, every step makes it slap against my thighs inside the bandages, and a shrill ache rings deep in my pelvis. Outside the front gate, February air slaps my face. It's cold, but my body feels like a fireball.

I hail a taxi. My voice shakes as I give the driver the address. In the back seat, bag on my lap, I zip my long padding up to my chin and stare silently out the window.

Thirty minutes later, we arrive at a surprisingly ordinary building on the city outskirts. My legs tremble standing before the glass doors of the National Futanari Treatment Hospital. Is it nerves, or that smell pouring out from inside?

It's not the usual hospital disinfectant. A thick, warm scent tickles my nose and melts something deep in my brain. The automatic doors slide open, and it hits me all at once. I learn later it's pheromones. One whiff from the succubi, and it twitches wildly inside the bandages, more Cowper's fluid leaking out. My vision whites for a second.

"Hah... hah... Please... don't let anyone see..." I grip the counter. I can't lift my head.

"Oh my, a student? You look pretty serious. This way." The nurse smiles brightly. Purple eyes, pointed ears. A succubus, straight out of the news. Seeing that smile makes me want to cry. Scary, reassuring—but above all, I want to die thinking she'll see the mess under my padding. Of course she can. It's rock-hard, straining to burst the bandages, casting a grotesque silhouette through my training pants.

"U-Um... I-I'm here... to register..." My voice quivers. Tears well up from holding back, blurring my vision. The heavy pressure from below arches my back involuntarily. "J-Just... my legs are a little swollen..." Why did I say that? What kind of place is this? A futanari treatment hospital. No one comes here for swollen legs. But after a month, the excuse slips out automatically.

The nurse hands me a form. Initial Patient Questionnaire. My hand shakes taking it.

My face feels like it's exploding. From my ears to my nape, everything burns red. Holding this paper is pure humiliation. I have to fill this out? How much I masturbate? What kind of women turn me on?

********

My fingers slip three times from sweat signing the last line. In [B-8: Ejaculation Addiction Self-Diagnosis], I wrote 'Mild,' but it's closer to 'Uncontrollable.' For [C-1: SM Tendencies], I left it blank—I couldn't put it in words. Same for [D-3: Preferred Nurse Personality]; my pen hovers over 'Maternal' before circling it, my face heating to my ear tips.

I hand the questionnaire to the reception counter, flipping it over without thinking. "Um, how much does it cost? I heard insurance covers it."

I try to sound casual, like I'm here for a cold prescription, but my voice trembles in my throat. The nurse behind the counter picks it up lightly, flips it right-side up without a care, and scans the contents. I see ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her purple eyes drift slowly from top to bottom. Her pointed ear twitches slightly.

"Insurance? Yes, Idiopathic Mana Mutation Syndrome is a nationally designated special disease, so it's covered by health insurance. Copays vary by treatment stage..."

She turns the monitor toward me. A clean info sheet: Outpatient procedures about 150,000 won copay; inpatient, about 30,000 won per day plus meals and some special procedure fees.

"One month since onset... Outpatient might not cut it. The doctor will decide on admission."

She slips the form into a clear folder with a light smile. No time to tell if it's professional courtesy or something else—my lower abdomen throbs, shaking my focus. Every twitch of it under the bandages sends warm liquid spreading inside my thighs. Definitely reacting to the succubus pheromones.

"Registration complete. Name... Yoon Ji-ah, right? Take this number and wait in those chairs. We'll call you to the 1F Initial Examination Room."

I clutch the paper stamped with number 17. Turning toward the lobby, the heavy sway between my legs makes my gait awkward. I need to walk naturally. God, I hope no one's watching.

Three people in the waiting area. One woman in a deep hood hugs a cushion on her lap. Another, an elf woman with pointed ears, stares pale at the wall. The last, an older woman, quietly scrolls her phone. All here for the same thing. The thought oddly reassures me, then turns my stomach.

I take the corner chair. Pull my long padding down over my knees to cover my lower half completely, bag on top. Habit. The moment I sit, the chair's vibration resonates deep in my pelvis. Dual prostate. The alien glands—one deep in my anus, one in my vagina—react sharply, and I bite my lip hard.

Hold it. Hold it together, Yoon Ji-ah. If you lose it here, it's really over.

I pull out my phone, open some app. 32 messenger notifications. From classmates.

I don't read them, just turn off the screen. What do I even reply? 'Sorry, at the hospital cuz of my dick'? I want to laugh and cry at once.

"Number 17, Yoon Ji-ah, to Examination Room 1, please."

My turn comes faster than expected. Standing, my padding lifts slightly, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠flashing the bulge in my pants for a split second. I hurriedly cover with my bag and hurry to the exam room. My heart pounds in my ears.

I open the door. Dim lighting, a low exam chair, and a woman with a silver clipboard. Black hair in a neat updo, red eyes piercing me over half-rim glasses. Deep red blouse under white coat, black pencil skirt. Pantyhose wrapping long legs draped over the chair. The scent hitting my nose dwarfs the reception's—heavy, sweet, squeezing the back of my skull. A slender heart-shaped tail sways lazily behind her waist.

"Yoon Ji-ah, correct? Sit."

A low, clear, cold voice.