familiar to me now as my own. I
move behind the curtain. This is as much as I will give.
The Doctor walks in and locks the door behind him. I
shiver but stand still.
“You should endeavor to become as well as Lornea,” he
says as he straightens the sheet on the table.
God forbid.
I spy the horse in the corner and I can feel myself
slip.
It is a man’s rod which sticks straight into the air
like a proud fist and I wish to be strapped to it again. I have
tried, and am left to wonder if the Doctor was in a foul mood the
day he ordered me astride. Would that someone vex him such again.
Sometimes when I touch myself I remember the rock and thrust of the
mechanical device.
But I have slipped.
“Constance, I am too elated to be cross with a soul
today, so let’s be about business,” he says as he pats the
table.
I want to leash him like mother but it would not be
for the same effect and so I employ what I have.
I pull my gloves off and place them on the dented
wooden chair provided. I open the curtain more so that he knows
when to assist me and I look behind me over my shoulder. He comes,
as I know he will and his fingers apply to the buttons with
efficiency. I peel the dress off and fold it precisely. My
petticoats and drawers follow it and I am left in my corset, its
cover and my stockings. Today I am hot and my nipples irritated so
I untie the cover and fold it too. I look down and flush. They are
as rigid as the mechanical horse’s rod and they give me away.
The Doctor beckons me to him and I pause to make a
liar out of my body.
“Come now, you will never recover unless you incline
yourself to treatment.”
I walk as slowly as I can to him and he shakes his
head in apparent disapproval. I ease myself against the table and
I’m glad Lornea’s heat has left it. The cold services me more. It
is hard for me to set myself up while I wear the corset and the
Doctor lifts me and carries my legs up.
His hands are warm on my hot skin and the cold table
reminds me of my role.
“Lie back now, that’s it.”
I do and close my eyes, trying not to anticipate.
The clip of his shoes travels across the room and
back. I hold my knees together tight and he rests his hand on them,
easing them apart. Later they will fall at my sides, but now I only
give him enough room to spread my nethers and the cold rubber spear
pushes in, just the tip at first for the Doctor believes that
patience will make for a more robust outcome. We are of one mind in
this and I submit to the entry of his instrument.
The blunt head of the instrument stretches my sex and
its icy chill is a stark opposition to my internal fires. I
wouldn’t have it any other way. Slowly he penetrates me. He may
think his action is generous and particularly gentle, but already I
am agonized and fantasize he is pummeling my sex. My insides clench
so tight around the rod pauses in its ascent and the Doctor nods
his approval. I am not happy at all and I dig the nail of my thumb
deep into the skin of my thigh where he cannot spy my movement.
“Breathe,” Doctor says blandly as he pushes the rod
to its goal.
I do, in a great whoosh of breath that leaves my
lungs surprising me with its ferocity.
Doctor looks at his timepiece and nods. “Good,
good.”
There is no use of this. I need a new tack and I
decide to empty my thoughts so as to make the rod demand a response
from me. Alas the Doctor has impaled me with it now and I want to
groan with my relief but I hold still. He begins to twist it inside
me, clockwise and counter while he pushes in even strokes of ten. I
know this rhythm, it was the first to send me to a fit, and I can
tell he wants to be done with me already. But I have girded myself
against this onslaught and I hold myself back.
“Relax.” His cool dry hand brushes the outside of my
thigh and I jump. Doctor shakes his head.
I remember to breathe again as he slows his tempo.
Slowly in and out, twisting up and down. He pauses, almost letting
the tip
move behind the curtain. This is as much as I will give.
The Doctor walks in and locks the door behind him. I
shiver but stand still.
“You should endeavor to become as well as Lornea,” he
says as he straightens the sheet on the table.
God forbid.
I spy the horse in the corner and I can feel myself
slip.
It is a man’s rod which sticks straight into the air
like a proud fist and I wish to be strapped to it again. I have
tried, and am left to wonder if the Doctor was in a foul mood the
day he ordered me astride. Would that someone vex him such again.
Sometimes when I touch myself I remember the rock and thrust of the
mechanical device.
But I have slipped.
“Constance, I am too elated to be cross with a soul
today, so let’s be about business,” he says as he pats the
table.
I want to leash him like mother but it would not be
for the same effect and so I employ what I have.
I pull my gloves off and place them on the dented
wooden chair provided. I open the curtain more so that he knows
when to assist me and I look behind me over my shoulder. He comes,
as I know he will and his fingers apply to the buttons with
efficiency. I peel the dress off and fold it precisely. My
petticoats and drawers follow it and I am left in my corset, its
cover and my stockings. Today I am hot and my nipples irritated so
I untie the cover and fold it too. I look down and flush. They are
as rigid as the mechanical horse’s rod and they give me away.
The Doctor beckons me to him and I pause to make a
liar out of my body.
“Come now, you will never recover unless you incline
yourself to treatment.”
I walk as slowly as I can to him and he shakes his
head in apparent disapproval. I ease myself against the table and
I’m glad Lornea’s heat has left it. The cold services me more. It
is hard for me to set myself up while I wear the corset and the
Doctor lifts me and carries my legs up.
His hands are warm on my hot skin and the cold table
reminds me of my role.
“Lie back now, that’s it.”
I do and close my eyes, trying not to anticipate.
The clip of his shoes travels across the room and
back. I hold my knees together tight and he rests his hand on them,
easing them apart. Later they will fall at my sides, but now I only
give him enough room to spread my nethers and the cold rubber spear
pushes in, just the tip at first for the Doctor believes that
patience will make for a more robust outcome. We are of one mind in
this and I submit to the entry of his instrument.
The blunt head of the instrument stretches my sex and
its icy chill is a stark opposition to my internal fires. I
wouldn’t have it any other way. Slowly he penetrates me. He may
think his action is generous and particularly gentle, but already I
am agonized and fantasize he is pummeling my sex. My insides clench
so tight around the rod pauses in its ascent and the Doctor nods
his approval. I am not happy at all and I dig the nail of my thumb
deep into the skin of my thigh where he cannot spy my movement.
“Breathe,” Doctor says blandly as he pushes the rod
to its goal.
I do, in a great whoosh of breath that leaves my
lungs surprising me with its ferocity.
Doctor looks at his timepiece and nods. “Good,
good.”
There is no use of this. I need a new tack and I
decide to empty my thoughts so as to make the rod demand a response
from me. Alas the Doctor has impaled me with it now and I want to
groan with my relief but I hold still. He begins to twist it inside
me, clockwise and counter while he pushes in even strokes of ten. I
know this rhythm, it was the first to send me to a fit, and I can
tell he wants to be done with me already. But I have girded myself
against this onslaught and I hold myself back.
“Relax.” His cool dry hand brushes the outside of my
thigh and I jump. Doctor shakes his head.
I remember to breathe again as he slows his tempo.
Slowly in and out, twisting up and down. He pauses, almost letting
the tip
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