Doctor's Orders Ch. 02

Thank you so much for your encouragement! I was having one heck of a writing crisis! All feedback is welcome, including typos! Apologies for the lack of formatting, new to literotica! Well, posting stories at least!

Chapter Two -- A Purchase

"Dot, darling, would you please stop dawdling!" Her mother's impatient, long-suffering tone was justified. A rare occurrence. She had been dawdling.

She had been daydreaming about Mr Halloway.

She spent a lot of time doing that.

At first, Dolly had known that it was just because the release was associated with him. Doctor Bridger had been very clear that this was common, that she should not refine too much upon it. All meetings took place at Bridger's place of work, she had no social contact with Mr Halloway, and she knew rationally that she was allowing herself to obsess over him simply because he made her feel happy and alive and free of remorse for a few blissful hours.

She never slept as well as she did after a session with him.

With them.

Pretend Bridger doesn't know I am here.

She had been set into a hot, flushed mess of a woman, holding a conversation about a shameful, shocking event that would see her barred from any social interaction while the man she thought about night and day fucked her with his fingers. The man she had thought was disinterested until his teeth closed on her breast and he looked at her with all the heat of hell and bliss of heaven in his dark eyes.

She had read erotic books since she had begun the hysteria treatment, and not a one tempted her in the slightest. Finding anything not involving a man's sister -- a fact that turned her stomach when she thought of how many friends of hers had older brothers -- was difficult enough, but the books were often puerile. They were written for boys and about boys. She wanted books about men.

Men with strong, tireless hands. Men with barrel chests and weight to them. Beards that tickled the skin and teeth that bit.

"Do-ro-theeeee-a!" Her mother shook her arm. "Come! We must not linger outside this shop!"

Ah yes! God forbid they be seen outside a shop selling unmentionables and frills for chemises. Following her mother inside, she drifted away so her mother could have a comfortable cose with the shopkeeper who had become a friend, even if her mother tried to appear above the lower middle class.

Her fingers drifting over fabric, Dorothea glanced up to see a silky pair of combinations, more lace than cloth, with deep pink ribbons contrasting the snowy white lace and scraps of silk. Instantly she imagined wearing such a thing for Mr Halloway. His hot gaze and amused, indulgent smile devouring her and reducing her to a ready, wet woman, desperate for his touch.

An almost painful tweak of heat flooded her vagina.

No, her cunt. That was what the stories called it. Her cunt.

The naughtiness of the word made her blush, she could feel the heat on her cheeks as much as between her legs. She caught the eye of one of the assistants -- a girl called Lizzie she had been served by before - and beckoned her over.

"Get this made in my size and delivered to me, if you please, and I shall pay you its price again for your discretion," she glanced pointedly at her mother and the girl grinned, an instant conspirator.

"Absolutely, Miss," she promised. "Do you know your measurements?"

She quickly wrote them in the girl's notebook, and the heat faded to shame and anxiety at the numbers she wrote down. What woman's waist should be forty two inches? What man could desire hips that were well over fifty? She might fit the fashionable silhouette but the moment she got closer to them they lost their interest.

Except him.

He looked at her like she was his plaything. He had gone from polite detachment to holding her gaze, suggesting daydreams to focus on, biting the peak of her breast and taking her to the most insane parosysm of her life. It had made her feel truly mad as she lost control of all that she was and existed in exquisite pleasure.

She had worn pretty, lacy things for herself many times. She liked that she was dressed up underneath where no one would see, just her knowing about that added luxury. But for him? For him she wanted to expose herself in this frothy, daring creation. She wanted him to look at her as he had from her breast, his blue eyes focused and hazy all at once, his lips around her flesh, his hand buried in her...

... in her cunt.

"Dorothea? Are you buying something?" Her mother called over.

"Just some linen to make up another chemise," she lied breezily. "I had not made the calculations for how much I would need so Lizzie is helping me!"

Her mother did not answer, merely turning back. Dolly caught the shop assistant's pitying look. Yes, she thought, I spend my life being questioned and critisized. At my age.

No wonder she had needed the hysteria treatment eventually.

But then, it must be working, she realised. She had always hated grabbing the attention of shop girls, feeling arrogant when she did and pathetic when she could not. And furthermore, she had agreed to go up on stage in front of a room of men. Her fantasies aside, she could barely attend parties! Her mother had had to become used to her daughter retiring early from the frippery affairs of the City's version of the Season, or else have to miss most of them herself.

I could slip from a ball and go to Mr Halloway, she imagined, as she awaited her mother. He could see me in my best, in a proper satin gown. And then he could strip it from me. Dress and petticoats. Corset and chemise. Leave me in nothing but stockings and drawers.

They would have hours. Her mother never checked on her when she got home in case she was sleeping. She could feel his mouth on her again.

"You look frightfully flushed, Dorothea," her mother pushed past her to the outside and Dolly followed.

"Yes, this pelisse is perhaps a little too wintery since the spring has been so kind," she lied idly.

Dorothea had learned very young that the truth shocked and offended her mother. She had learned to say what her mother wanted to hear.

She wondered if Mr Halloway would laugh at her observations or frown her to silence. She could not afford to imagine him perfect. He would likely be disgusted with her frankness. Yes, it would be safer to assume he would rather she spoke in the roundabout politeness of her class.

When the combinations arrived two days later, she had managed to convince herself that her crush was on a man of her own imagining that she had set on Mr Halloway's shoulders. She had told herself very clearly that she was not to become enamoured in any way.

But she still rushed upstairs in the middle of the day to change her clothes so that she could wear the combinations she had bought for him to see. She still stood in front of the mirror in them and breathed with increasing deepness. She still locked her door.

She still sat on a padded stool in front of her dressing mirror, spread her legs so she could see the dark curls and the glistening pink of her puffy, ready labia.

She still imagined him behind her, guiding her hand as he had the first time, helping her curl her finger against her clitoris and then delve, dipping the tip of two fingers inside herself. Her nipples wrinkled and peaked, aching with the need to feel his beard and lips again, to feel his teeth. To have his thumb in her mouth.

Raising her own hand she bit on her thumb, rubbing the lips of her mouth with one hand as the other rubbed her nether lips with equal passion and exploration.

"Anthony," she whispered, and a jolt of pleasure made her jerk where she sat, her knees lowering so and her eyes closing as her fingers moved faster. She sucked her bent index finger, lapping her tongue against her own skin.

Anthony. Anthony. Anthony.

His hot eyes. His touch.

Imagine Bridger doesn't know I'm here...

She came, climaxing for the first time under her own touch and her moan was triumphant, even if it was muffled behind her hand. When she lowered it, there were teeth marks where she had silenced herself.

Joy sprang through her and she rose unsteadily and twirled about the room.

She had done it!

She wished she could tell him. Starting to feel dizzy from her spinning, Dolly steadied herself on a table. Her writing davenport, in fact. She stared at it, lowered the desk portion, sat, and with fingers still slick from her own juices, she wrote a note to Mr Halloway, care of Doctor Bridger.

***

Sitting at luncheon with Bridger, Anthony Halloway listened to his friend and employer discussing the upcoming event. They had not secured the Penetrator, which he was oddly glad about. His Miss Chase was not ready for that level of loss of control. She trusted him to know her limits, and a machine could not.

And he did not want to feel jealous of a machine in front of an audience.

They had seen an elderly lady that morning, only just moving past the shame of pleasure as it had been drilled into her since childhood. She still had not looked him in the eye, but she had managed to thank him in his direction today. It was progress, and he was proud of her, honoured to be the person who taught her to love her own body and revel in its joys since life did not give a choice about suffering its pains.

But it was not the same.

Bridger's housekeeper entered with a tray and set a note at his elbow. He was puzzled, and for a moment wondered if it was some emergency, idly opening the sealed envelope while Bridger chattered on about their guests.

As ever, his eyes glanced downward to the name of the author of the mysterious note.

Every nerve in his body stood to attention, and his cock heated, ready to rise up at her unspoken command. Dorothea. Dorothea Chase had written to him.

His eyes devoured the page with mounting fever, his hands shaking as he realised she had written this immediately after the climax she was thanking him for. A pleased pupil achieving the thing they had been struggling with, and how he wanted to teach her every way he could help her orgasm! He reread the note, and it dawned on him that she had not written the note to Bridger and him, just to him. She had come, and wanted to tell him.

Like a good little slut...

He longed to raise the paper to his nostrils and breathe deep, hoping to catch her scent, the scent of her arousal and release, amid the inked words of submissive gratitude.

She could write these everytime. He could be anywhere. At a lecture, out in town, seeing to business at the bank, and return home to a note letting him know that his slut had been thinking about him, touched herself, and found release.

"Nothing bad I hope?" Bridger asked, nodding to the note he was staring blindly through.

"No," Halloway forced himself to fold the note away, tucking it into his notebook. "Nothing bad."

That night he doused the candles, all but the one beside his bed, and he lay down naked, his hair still damp from washing and his body tingling in anticipation. Once his hand was oiled he picked up the note Dorothea had sent him and read it, and reread it, and placed it to his face and sucked in a deep breath. And while he did he stroked and gripped his cock, starting languorous and then tightening his grip.

Dorothea.

Her soft, heavy breasts. Her delicious, wet heat. Her eyes losing their fear and nervousness and surrendering to his ministrations until she was calling out his name. His name. Over and over in that gorgeous, throaty voice.

Halloway groaned desperately as he came, hard and long. His hand filled with his own jism as he realised that like a schoolboy he had not thought to prepare his handkerchief to catch his seed. He had come so much faster than he'd expected. He had been so focused on her letter, on thinking about her as she had described herself, before a mirror in new undergarments.

Undergarments she had bought for him to see.

Slumping back, he used his oiled hand to grope for his handkerchief so he could reread her words yet again. Her brief, painfully brief description of her positioning with no thought to describe her luscious body. How she had imagined his hand guiding her. There had been an innocence in the way she wrote of such sexual things, as though she had wanted him to know in case he had to catalogue her progress.

He breathed over the page again and then, to his own shock, he kissed it over her name.

Sitting up, he thrust the page to the side, cleaning himself efficiently and rising to dispose of his handkerchief in the laundry basket. Naked and irritatedly aware that his cock was already rising for more, Anthony went to the only mirror in his rooms, the one meant to be shaved by.

Staring at his bearded face in the light of the one candle he had brought with him, he saw the weary lines on his brow, and past joy in the creases of his eyes. He saw one or two grey hairs in his unfashionable beard and at one temple.

His ardour cooled.

How would a man like him ask for her body? Her full, soft, pliant body. Let alone ask her to let him do the things he longed for! Ropes and candle wax, her bottom jiggling pink from a spanking, begging his name as he pleasured her over and over and over until she was sobbing for mercy.

Maybe he was as broken as they had called him.

But at least he would have her at the exhibition lectures. At least he would always know he had given her not only release in pleasure, but release from her worries.

He thumped the palm of his hand against the cool stone tiles.

It had to be enough.

He went to his desk to stow the precious letter in the hidden draw beneath the blotter. Then he hesitated, and drew it back, and carefully wrote her address in his notebook. The letter went back into the cubby and he closed it tightly. Still naked, he leaned on the desk a while, and then sat. Cool leather padding and almost icy wood met his skin and he hissed slightly.

Drawing paper and uncorking his ink, he resigned himself to desperation.

"How old is she?" he whispered aloud as he scratched his address in the top right of the page. "Not yet thirty. Please God, more than twenty five..." He could check in Bridger's ledgers in the morning. He was well past thirty-five, more than half way through his allotted years if poets could be believed.

... your words stirred me, and I thought to provide you with an address where such...

He just wanted this to work. His hope was high and then low like waves against a ship, and his stomach was in knots.

... to inform me how your prep is progressing... He hadn't used that word since school. He hoped she understood what he meant by it. She had no brothers as far as he knew and she was, he believed, wealthy so tutors or governesses would be more likely than school.

... that I...

Halloway paused, staring. This was it then, the moment he admitted to her what he had done and perhaps frightened her away. Maybe she had just been excited to tell a teacher how well she was progressing. He ran a hand through his hair, unknowingly leaving a slight ink smudge at his hairline by his temple.

He took in a deep breath.

... that I spent myself quickly reading and rereading your note, over my hand which craved the sweet heat of your body but had to make do with my cock as it throbbed with the same craving. At first I was filled with satisfaction, breathing as hard as though I had run ten miles, but almost at once I realised I desperately wanted more. I want more of you, Dorothea Chase."

He released the breath explosively as dancing lights filled his vision. God, he could not send this! But if he was not going to, he might as well write out the madness so he could sleep. Glancing up he noted the candle and used his penknife to trim the wick without dousing it. A schoolboy's trick that earned him two fingers burned pink.

Sucking them briefly, he looked down at the page and dipped his quill.

When I have you in front of the audience at the exhibition, I shall have what I crave. I shall have you to torment with my lips, my hands, my tongue. I shall have my Dorothea moaning and mewing like a cat, and howling like a wolf. I shall see you freed of all social restraint as you plead for mercy from the pleasure I shall wreak on you. A score of men will see you writhing and smell the scent of your pleasure. A scent I have come to revere.

Revere. He stared once more at his own words. It was accurate, though, when he got her wet in the appointments for her hysteria he always felt a surge of triumph. At first it had been a job well done, getting her relaxed and aroused enough to feel pleasure instead of anxiety. Now, though? Now he felt like a King when she gave him that nectar he longed to taste. And using her name, oh it felt like a taboo broken. It felt almost more forbidden than the wickedly honest words he absolutely was not going to send to her.

And afterwards, Dorothea, should you wish for the rest of my body?

What was the point of being coy when the letter would stay here on his desk?

If you want me to thrust my cock inside you and correct the misapprehension another placed on you, that pleasure most exquisite cannot be had while speared by a man, all you need say is my name. All you need say is 'Anthony' and hold my gaze, and I shall take you hard and fast so that your entire body is bouncing and bucking like an angry mare. But you will not be angry. You will be happier than you have ever been while your wet, hot cunt sucks my cock within you.

He was hard again. Damn it. But the thought of her, her back against a wall or just on the gurney trolley they intended to use to wheel her in and out and spare her the embarrassment of walking, her legs around his waist and her mouth parted wide to moan his name.

He wrapped his left hand around his member and slowly pumped, shuddering at the sensitivity and groaning long and soft behind his teeth.

Even now the thought of you thus, has rendered me hard as oak and ready once more. Ready to plunge inside you.

A breathier groan escaped from parted lips and he ground his teeth back together. And since he was pouring his soul onto the page, since it was no more than a journal, he let the truth come from his right hand while his left tormented his cock.

You have no idea, Dorothea, how fast I realised that your sessions would be the most terrible torture for me. And yet the best moments of my adult life. I was living day to day and seeing little of excitement in the world. With other patients I had not once felt close to arousal. But with you, I feel my cock harden and my lungs seize. I had to control myself with all of my will. I had to turn away when I wanted to stare, to lightly touch when I wanted to languorously grope. I want you, Dorothea. Time and time again only Bridger's presence has prevented me from covering your mouth with mine, your body with mine.

Groaning, he sat back, his hand rising and falling faster. He threw down his pen and spat on his right hand, switching over so he could move faster and grip harder. He thought of her sitting in her new undergarments, frigging herself over him. He thought of her on the gurney, only strapped down instead of free, tied so tightly her body's thrashing was nothing but a squeaking shake to the table's wheels. Her breasts reddened from bites and flicks of a flogger. Her thighs streaked with her own juices and his jism. Her scent filling the air. Her moans in his ears.

He grabbed out blindly and spent himself over a piece of foolscap, wrapping the rough-feeling paper around his head to prevent it spilling. Once again he had been so caught up in the thought of her that he had not suitably prepared himself.

Anthony panted, his voice shuddering in incoherent noises he had never heard from his own lips. Desperate, needy sounds he'd be ashamed to have overheard but ones he could not stop for minutes. He did not know how long he had been whimpering and moaning, and forced the noises back down his throat.

With a shaking hand, he picked up his pen and redipped it.

Once again I take myself in hand over the thought of you, Dorothea. I long to see your lace and silk. I long to show you off before a room of men so that those strangers know that you climaxed at my hand. And lips. And tongue.

I am so glad you wrote to me, Dorothea.

Still breathing hard, he folded the letter and enveloped it. To ensure the charwoman did not glimpse it. And yet...

He was happy. No, he was ecstatic. She had taken the courage and resilience he admired in her determination to recover and given him the gift of trusting him with her note. This could be the beginning of something marvellous. It had been a long, long time since he had had a steady partner. There were clubs he sometimes visited where women who longed for his sort of enjoyment were brought to his attention, but lately he had been so focused on her that those women had palled, and it was disrespectful of him to give them only half of his enthusiasm.

He wrote her address.

Dorothea Chase. Who would have thought such an anxious woman, terrified of saying the wrong thing or overstepping her bounds, could have written such a letter. She was learning herself, learning her place was so much greater and more worthy than she had considered it.

He stared at the envelope and yawned.

He should send it. Send it and have someone to share things with, have a woman to pleasure whenever he wanted and whenever she wanted. But if she was horrified, if she had just been speaking as a patient, as a woman whose need for subservience was still not understood and who therefore was just reacting to a man she-- What? Respected? Admired?

Why on earth had he addressed it? He wasn't going to send it. Was he?

Did a woman shake her hips and strip for a man she merely admired as a provider or medical support? Did she buy lacy underwear for someone for whom she felt only respect?

He threw the envelope on top of a letter he had yet to send from the day before. His heart skipped.

God damn. He was going to send it.