Lucy and the Doctors Read online

  Lucy and the Doctors

  By

  Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Ava Sinclair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Sinclair, Ava

  Lucy and the Doctors

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Period Images, 123RF/Anna Yakimova, and Bigstock/Songquan Deng

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Chapter One: Female Maladies

  “Mrs. Haversham, try to relax. I know this is acutely embarrassing, but please understand that it is for your own good.”

  The handsome physician’s voice was reassuring, his hand gentle as it rested upon the crest of his patient’s raised buttocks. Mrs. Haversham was positioned in the most lascivious manner, and he knew it was extremely difficult for a proper lady to endure, especially given the nature of her visit.

  “Dr. Allard, are you sure this will work?” The tall man on the opposite side of the table looked concerned.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Haversham.” The physician nodded to the bottom between them. “And I believe that your assisting with this treatment will help facilitate the desired effect. So if you would kindly part your wife’s bottom cheeks.”

  The husband nodded, muttering words of comfort to his wife as he placed a hand on each buttock, separating them to expose the dusky pink crinkle of her bottom hole.

  “Wider,” the doctor directed, and Mr. Haversham pulled the mounds of flesh apart even further. The hole between them was slightly gaping now. Mrs. Haversham groaned as a tear of mortification leaked from her eye and trailed onto the cushion of the table.

  “It’s a large bolus, but the medicine is best absorbed internally, and the only way to do that is to insert it anally.” As Dr. Haversham was greasing a large, oval pill, the patient cast a baleful look in his direction.

  “Oh, must you?” Mrs. Haversham was whimpering now.

  “If you wish to rid yourself of your frigidity and keep your husband from straying, then yes,” Dr. Allard said gently. “You do love him, don’t you?”

  “Oh, doctor… more than anything,” the woman answered tearfully.

  “Then just a moment’s discomfort, and you’ll be on the road to a more fulfilling marriage. Bear up, Mrs. Haversham.” The doctor nodded to the husband, who was still gripping his wife’s cheeks, and positioned the now slippery bolus against the slightly spread orifice. His patient groaned as the bolus breached the ring of muscles around her bottom hole, and then gave a little cry as the widest part of the object spread her open even more. But soon it was in, and Dr. Allard pushed it as far inside as it would go and nodded to Mr. Haversham to remove his hands from his wife’s buttocks.

  “Oh, doctor. I can feel it!” she cried, wagging her bottom. Dr. Allard smiled to himself; if the prim woman had any idea how completely wanton she looked at that moment, with her shapely bottom gyrating as she adjusted to the unfamiliar pressure…

  “Now, now, Mrs. Haversham,” he said. “I know it feels strange, but I promise that the bolus will soften and reduce in size as your body absorbs the medicine. At that point, we shall gauge its effects, but until the medicine starts to work I’m afraid there is but one more indignity to endure.” Dr. Allard turned toward the door. “Nurse?”

  A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman came in. She was tall, with a tidy uniform and white cap. “Yes, doctor?”

  “Mrs. Haversham will need to be shaved. Please bring the supplies.”

  “Right away, doctor.”

  “Shaved?” Mrs. Haversham, who was being helped onto her back now, looked first at her husband and then at the doctor. “But why?”

  “Because, my good woman, when the effects of this medicine start to be felt, you will be so incredibly sensitive that even the slightest brush against your nether fleece will cause intense distraction. Also, the sensations your husband wishes to give you will be all the more acute without the natural covering. Now lie back like a good girl, and Nurse Lassiter will shave you in short order.”

  Mrs. Haversham didn’t resist, but she did whimper as the physician placed her legs into raised supports at the end of the bed. Dr. Allard leaned between them to turn a crank, forcing the supports—and the legs they held—apart. He looked up as he did so, realizing that the medicine was working even faster than he’d anticipated. Through the wispy blond ringlets, he could see the spread plump outer lips of her pussy, and between them the glistening dew of arousal coating the slightly swollen inner lips. He brushed her curls with a finger—the first test—and Mrs. Haversham’s hips jerked.

  “Nurse Lassiter! Make haste, or she’ll not be able to bear it!”

  The nurse hurried back in, carrying a mug of shaving cream and a straight razor. Dr. Allard helpfully positioned a chair between the patient’s spread legs and the nurse settled herself on it as she went to work.

  “Ooooooooooooh!” Mrs. Haversham could not suppress her moan as the boar-bristle brush began dancing about on her mons, coating it with shaving cream. Dr. Allard stepped forward to place a hand on the soft swell of his patient’s belly, further holding her in position as the nurse began to shave away the springy hair. Soon enough the lady was bare. At the foot of the table, Mr. Haversham stared, his attention so rapt that he seemed almost unaware of the turgid erection so obviously nudging the front of his trousers.

  “How are you feeling, Mrs. Haversham?” Dr. Allard smiled kindly down at her as he asked the question.

  “I feel… hot… and… oh… I want… I feel… I mustn’t say!”

  “No, no. Now is not the time for restraint, Mrs. Haversham,” Dr. Allard coaxed. “There is no need to be ashamed. Tell us what you want.”

  “I… I…” She was struggling against the leg restraints now, the flowering petals of her inner lips growing darker pink and glistening. Her arousal was all but gushing from her pussy as she sought to put her needs into words. “I want my husband to… to touch me. To put his fingers on me, inside of me. To put himself inside of me. To fill me up!” She raised her head, her eyes imploring Mr. Haversham. “Oh, Richard. Please! Touch me! Touch me here! Now!”

  “Here?” Richard Haversham looked up nervously. It was clear that the man who’d brought his wife to be treated for frigidity was taken aback by this new, wanton version.

  “Now, don’t be shy, Mr. Haversham.” Dr. Allard was undoing the straps on the writhing woman’s legs. “Your wife won’t stay like this for too long; I’d say only three or four hours. My advice to you is to take her home immediately and pleasure her in all the ways you’ve dreamed of doing on those long nights when she lay silent beside you.”

  They were helping Mrs. Haversham off the table now. As they did, she moved a hand to her chest and touched her breast through the brocade bodice of her gown. “Oh, my breasts. They’re sensitive, too!”

  “You’re on fire with passion, Mrs. Haversham, and when your husband gets home, you must tell him how you want to be touched. Have him put his mouth to your breasts if you so desire.” When she moaned loudly at the suggestion, her husband stepped forward and pulled the doctor aside.

  “You say she’ll stay like this for three or four hours? Are you sure it won’t be longer?”

  “I’d say
five at the most, my good man,” Dr. Allard said. “You’ll enjoy it, but we’ll adjust her dosage should you need to return. A balance is important. You want her cured of frigidity but you don’t want this nymphomania to become permanent.”

  Dr. Allard looked over at his wife, who was being helped into her underthings by Nurse Lassiter.

  “I can’t imagine that I’d have a problem with nymphomania. I think I’d rather like it, in fact,” the happy husband said.

  “Oh, you say that now,” Dr. Allard replied. “But nymphomania is a serious condition. In fact, my colleague Dr. Crane and I are about to do a study on the condition. A woman in the full throes of nymphomania is a danger to herself and others. She is an insatiable creature, given to her own base nature. She will destroy herself to have her carnal desires fulfilled, and bring down any moral man who tries to resist.”

  “Oh…” Richard Haversham picked up his hat, his face thoughtful as he donned it. “And what becomes of such women?”

  “They are often institutionalized for their own safety. My colleague and I are going to St. Bart’s Asylum to study one such case today. We’re authoring a paper that will be presented at Queen’s College in the spring. As experts in the field of female sexual problems and hysteria, we believe it will be an important contribution.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Mr. Haversham said. “And I am quite impressed after today with your knowledge. Now, if you excuse me, I have a wife to see home.”

  Dr. Allard chuckled. “You do that. And please follow up if you have any further questions or need to make an additional appointment. Most women only require one or two of my treatments at the most. Once their desire is sparked and they open themselves up to the sensations their husbands desire to give them, they need no further enhancement. Often just lowering the inhibitions once is enough.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Mr. Haversham nodded and headed to his wife, who grasped his arm and all but led him out the door. From where he stood, Thomas Allard smiled as he watched the couple depart. Mrs. Haversham was leaning on her husband, her hips swaying seductively as she walked. The gentleman was going to have a very interesting evening, he decided.

  “Nurse Lassiter.” He turned back toward the exam room, where she was tidying up.

  “Doctor?”

  “Do we have any more patients scheduled?”

  “No, Dr. Allard.”

  He took out his pocket watch and popped it open. “My, the day has gone by far quicker than I realized.” He closed the watch and tucked it back in his vest. “You may retire for the evening once you’ve settled this room, Nurse Lassiter. Thank you.”

  He turned then and headed down the long hallway to his cluttered office. Once inside, he removed his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. Floor-to-ceiling shelves behind his desk contained an array of leather-bound medical books and jarred specimens he’d collected since medical school, including one holding a uterus extracted from a drowned cadaver. The uterus, as any learned doctor knew, was the seat of a woman’s sexuality. And most female ailments—from insomnia to nervous fits to madness—originated from this odd little organ that could miraculously expand to grow another human.

  Women were curious, fascinating patients, and Dr. Allard never grew tired of studying them or trying to understand them. To help a woman was also to help the man connected to her. Poor Mr. Haversham was the prime example. Intercourse was so often the remedy for a woman’s common hysteria. By addressing the problem aggressively and unlocking female desire, he personally had cured hundreds of women in London from various female maladies.

  But even with his success there was always more to learn, and he was quite looking forward to the project he and his partner, Dr. Crane, were about to undertake—a university-funded study of a different kind of female ailment: severe nymphomania.

  “Thomas! I’ve received word from the asylum just now.” Dr. Allard’s colleague strode in as if having just read his mind. “Dr. Litman is convinced he has the perfect subject for our study.”

  Thomas Allard turned to place the folder on the shelf behind him before standing to face his colleague. He and Benedict Crane had been close friends at the university before parting ways. They’d met again just two years earlier at a conference entitled ‘Emerging Remedies for Hysteria’ at Cambridge. An evening of discussion revealed them both to be of innovative vision and spirit. And since both focused solely on women in their respective practices, they decided it would be a fine idea to open an office together. They’d been in the large converted townhouse for the past year, and theirs was the most popular practice for gentle ladies in London.

  However, their hearts were in research, and both were keen to learn more about the condition of nymphomania, which tortured many women too ashamed of their condition to get help. Their goal was to expose and relieve as many women of the burden of nymphomania as they had the burden of frigidity.

  “So soon, Benedict?” Thomas turned back to his friend and fellow physician. “I thought he said it may take weeks.”

  “So did I,” Dr. Crane said excitedly. “But this patient recently arrived not a fortnight ago, and according to Dr. Litman, the case is so severe that he believes she is best transferred here immediately.”

  Thomas stood. “Are we prepared?”

  “We’ll make ourselves prepared,” his colleague replied with conviction. “Dr. Litman will not wait. He worries that the young woman’s unnatural passions will cause her to corrupt the other patients.”

  “Is she so afflicted, then?”

  “Most assuredly, Thomas. And Dr. Litman is quite concerned. He’s keeping this patient in a room by herself, and with the full moon upon us can ill-afford to spare the space.” He paused. “I know it’s short notice, but a woman of such rare and aggressive appetites is perfect for our study. We must acquire her.”

  Thomas stood, running his hand through his sandy blond hair as he faced his friend across the desk.

  “And so we shall,” he said. “I quite agree. She’d be perfect, and there’s not a moment to lose.”

  Chapter Two: The Perfect Subject

  Somewhere, someone was screaming. Somewhere else, someone was laughing. Lucy could hear both conflicting emotions, edged with hysteria, through the wall of her room. The wall itself was stone and cool where she rested her cheek against it. Several times she’d thought it was all a dream—the awful sounds, the bare space, the hard floor, the gray corner in which she huddled. But when she made to pull herself up, the straitjacket stopped her and she was reminded through the haze that this was real.

  This will teach you. Bitch.

  The haze was overtaking her again. Lucy heard a moan in the dark and realized the sound was coming from her own mouth. She longed for a drink of water and struggled to remember the last time the thin woman in white had been in to steady her head and give her a drink.

  She startled at the sound of a clink. Keys. The turn of a lock. The scrape of the heavy door against the hard floor. The squeak of its rusty hinges. She looked up, trying to focus through the strands of hair covering her face. Three figures. One short and squat. Two tall and lean. They were talking. Lucy struggled to make out the words the short man was saying.

  “…worst case we’ve seen… her husband put her away… yes, she was newly married to Judge Bonham… completely unaware of her nature when they were wed… she can’t stop touching herself… it’s why she’s restrained… the poor man… so lucky he divined her nature before coupling… she’s had many lovers… she’s likely diseased… he’s petitioned for an annulment.”

  Lucy wanted to speak, but could only moan as she struggled to lift her head.

  “N-no.” She wriggled within her restraint, frustrated at the binding. If only she could stand; if only she could just face these men. Were they constables? Oh, Lord, let them be. If she could just speak, she could explain. She could explain that this was an awful mistake.

  One of the two taller men walked over to kneel down beside her. Lucy felt
warm fingers push the strands of hair away from her face while his other hand gently tilted up her chin. Now she willed her eyes to focus just as another man knelt beside the first. One blonde, one dark. They were clean-shaven. She caught a whiff of tobacco and tonic over the rank odor of her cell.

  “Mrs. Bonham?”

  Her mind was like heavy water, but she struggled now to swim to the surface, desperate to beg them to address her as Lucy Priven, and not by the name of the man who had… what had he done? Something horrible. Something horrible. She looked into the eyes of the first man who’d knelt down.

  “Help me…”

  It was the blond man, the first to kneel, who answered. “We will help you, Mrs. Bonham. I’m Dr. Allard and this is Dr. Crane. Dr. Litman has told us of your condition.”

  “No…” Lucy wrenched her chin from his grasp. She could feel the panic welling in her breast. I’m not sick! She could hear herself screaming the words in her mind, but they would not be formed in her mouth, and she knew even if they could, she’d not have the breath to expel them with enough force to make them audible.

  “Hush now.” The blond man was speaking. Lucy’s eyes adjusted just in time to see a lock of his hair fall over his forehead. “Dr. Allard and I are specialists. We will find a way to cool your blood, to remedy this fever of the loins that vexes you.”

  “Please…” She sought to follow it with the words “I’m not what you think” but they would not come.

  She was being tipped forward. Hands were at her back, undoing the straps of the straitjacket. As it was pulled free, she whimpered with pain. Her arms had been so tightly bound that moving them hurt now.

  “So there will be no objection from her husband?” One of the doctors was addressing the portly man now.

  “I can’t see why,” he was saying. “He wants her put away. He transferred custody to me. I’ll transfer it to the both of you. She will be your ward, to do with as you see fit.” He paused. “She’s incurable, vexed as she is with such filthy humors. Once you’ve prodded and poked and documented, I expect to see her returned here. I can only hope by that time I’ll have room to keep her apart from the others.”