Doctor's Orders Ch. 04

Your comments are golden! thank you so much! this should be book length by the time i'm finished so those craving more, more will be had! +cyber hugs if welcome+

+++

Very soon a hall full of biologists, patrons, and more than a few deviants looking for a show would all see that Dorothea's body responded like bottled lightning to his touch.

Anthony felt rather like a steam engine in need of a good whistle.

He sat in Bridger's office while his mentor went over and over his introductory speech and he could feel the need to have Dorothea under his hands building.

"Do you think the hysteria will stay at bay?" Bridger interrupted his own dry, academic speech. "While we agree she is definitely suitable as an exhibition piece, it is not so long since her every living moment was beset by choking and entrapment of the lung."

Anthony felt a mild rattle of his own nerve and steeled it.

"I'll be there," he assured Bridger, smiling as best he could. "You worry about keeping the crowd focused on the purpose of the exhibition, I'll ensure our piece of art is not scared by her debut."

"I like that," Bridger's eyes warmed, "art. How very poetical of you, Halloway!"

He kept his face in the same encouraging smile, very carefully not reacting with embarrassment. Bridger did not need to know that Dorothea had come to his rooms.

That she had pulled a blinding climax from him.

That they had kissed.

That she made his heart gallop and tension melt from him and the world feel sweet.

Anthony's fingers tapped arhythmically against the arm of his chair as Bridger read his notes in silence and the lack of Dorothea Chase made his celiac plexus ache. Since the night she had come to his rooms they had met once, here, but solely for Bridger to go over what would happen. He had not had his hands on her or in her since.

He should worry about the power she had over him, but the idea of her being manipulative was laughable. It was her naivetée, he suspected, that had led to her facing adulthood and shattering under the strain.

A strain he was now experiencing, albeit in a much weaker dosage.

The rattle of a small carriage reached his ears and he straightened out of his chair and started walking in one smooth movement. Four strides from Bridger's study to the door and he was pulling it open. She flinched, but he got to see her face go from surprise to delight. He got to enjoy the blush that followed and the confident smile she tried to control.

By God, she was always beautiful but that smile in all its strength and gratitude and indulgence made his knees weaken.

"I suggested to the jarvey that he wait?" She might be confident in herself, but she still needed his help justifying her decisions. "So that we might arrive with plenty of time."

"An excellent idea, Miss Chase," he approved, waving his fingers to the cab driver so he did not doubt their interest and take his horse on to the next fare. "I shall call Bridger and join you within!"

Standing over her he caught the scents of lavender and bergamot, but it was wishful thinking that he could have tasted her on his palate.

Soon.

Soon enough he would show other men how he pleasured a woman.

His woman.

He cleared his throat, realising he had been staring down into her face, and she drew in a breath, blinking, and her smile became mischievous.

"Oh. Right oh!" She turned with a swoosh of her town coat and he made himself walk within.

"Bridger, we're holding the hansom," he could stop himself grinning, but he could still hear the effects of her in his own voice. "Miss Chase is a little anxious about our arriving on time."

Bridger, to his credit, looked at the clock but did not relay its tattletale information.

"Gather our coats, I shall be but a moment."

Halloway tore their wool coats from the wardrobe in the hall, called a farewell to Bridger's housekeeper, and all but leapt from doorstep to cab.

"How are you, Dorothea?" He bundled himself in next to her, piling the coats over their laps so he could reach for her. Her fingers met his and he clasped them, trapping her hand between his and her thigh.

"Terrified," she gave one of the shattered mirthless laughs that had punctuated their early meetings.

"You'll love it," he promised, "but I know that is no comfort now. I shall be there. No one will touch you but me."

Ever.

Anthony did not like the possessive, primal echo in his brain. It made him feel like the monstrous deviant he had been accused of being. It made him feel as if he could claim ownership of her, but as he warred with the goosebumps and tamped down a wondering about whether or not she would want to know what he was thinking, it crystallised into something else.

Anthony stretched his hand, pressing her fingers into the delicious pillow of her thigh.

Tonight he would get to touch her again.

Tonight he could show other people the music he conjured in pleasuring her. They would know what he, Anthony Halloway, did to this gorgeous woman.

What he had been created to do to her.

What he was blessed to be able to do to her.

"Good," she murmured to herself. "If I think about that, the hysteria stays down."

She squirmed up against the pressure of his hand and his breath caught, slamming under his sternum. Dizziness swept through him as his cock went hard faster than it ever had before her. Even as a confused adolescent, surely nothing had ever sent his cock to stone like Dorothea Chase.

"Be good and wait then, Miss Chase," he turned his head, leaning so his breath would stir her hair.

The noise she made was revenge and reward in one.

A desperate gasp of a whimper, bitten off as Bridger came trotting down the steps and confirmed their direction with the jarvey. He launched into the confined space and Anthony slid his hand back from her with a concerted effort.

"Is everyone excited?" Bridger asked, and Anthony gave him a flat look. His friend and saviour's face was too impassive, too bland, to not have intended the innuendo.

"Terrified," Dorothea replied, and he wished he could take credit for the tremble in her voice.

"Mr Halloway will take excellent care of you, dear Miss Chase," Bridger snatched at his document case, clutching to reassure himself he had not forgotten it.

"And Doctor Bridger will take care of the audience," Anthony added. "All you have to do is be yourself."

Her glorious, gorgeous self.

Once again the pressure of possessive jealousy filled his brain. Territorial bollocks, quite literally.

"Have you been well then, Miss Chase?" Bridger interrupted the pulsing silence, shifting on his side of the cab and knocking his knee against Anthony's so his thigh pressed against her again.

She was feverishly hot and he felt parched.

"Indeed. It has been only a while since I saw you both," Dorothea leaned against him. Tempting and taunting with just a little deliberate pressure.

"Is your mother well?" Bridger and his small talk. This ride was going to be interminable. And he could not indulge, not with Bridger there and not when they needed her in a neutral state and not already panting.

Anthony endured their small tall as it passed from enquiries to discussion about scones that should have helped him calm down except the words 'cream' and 'jam' on his Miss Chase's tongue had him wildly fighting fantasies about her nipples being his own sweet confection.

They already resembled little raspberries when she was aroused. Pink and puckered and sweet between his lips.

Agonising torture done and their destination arrived at, Anthony stared at his lying pocketwatch by gas lamp, refusing to believe it had only been twenty minutes.

"Excellent," Bridger returned from paying the jarvey and Anthony realised he had not given Dorothea his hand in climbing from the cab. A flush of guilt prickled under his ears and he offered his arm.

"Shall we, Miss Chase?"

She was staring at the new building, brick and tile with lights peeking through gaps in the window shutters.

"I..." She was breathless with fear, her hysteria trying to break through her natural composure. "I. Can. Do. This."

"Of course you can, my dear Miss Chase," Bridger gestured to him and her big eyes turned from the academic building with delusions of gothic and fixed on his face.

She stepped to him and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Mr Halloway," she murmured as he drew her gently after Bridger, who had strode on, document bag under his arm, muttering his opening remarks under his breath.

"Miss Chase?"

"If... they laugh at me, will you please get me out?" She was fighting the anxiety, but it still shone through, like the candle and gaslight behind the shutters that found a way out.

"Miss Chase," he chose his words with care, "if they laugh at you I will see you into a changing room and then go back and beat them until they fully appreciate their great mistake."

She rewarded him with an airy chuckle, her fingers tightening on his arm.

"Besides which," he looked sideways at her hat, wishing he could see her eyes, "they won't. You are beautiful and your responses are what anyone making love to a woman would love to hear."

"Oh Mr Halloway," they entered the grand hallway of the Medical School where Bridger was getting directions from the porter. "You say the sweetest things."

It's true, though, Dorothea.

"Do you not like the groans you get out of me?" he murmured into the brim of her hat.

"I love them," she whispered, looking up at him and giving him the eye contact he had been dying for. "It makes everything better. Hotter. Positively pentecostal!"

He grinned, adoring the mild blasphemy and smug that he made her hot, made her a hedonist. Or rather, showed her how to be hedonistic so he could luxuriate in her indulgence.

"Here we go then, Miss Chase!" The porter had shown them to a side room adjoining the lecture hall. He eyed her, but before Anthony could get protective or possessive, the man smiled and said:

"They normally get stiffs in that lecture hall. You'll be a lovely change, Missus!"

And Anthony was on the verge of exerting his presence when she gave a dirty little snort and he realised she had caught the potential double entendre and was controlling laughter instead of fear.

"I know stiffs means cadavres," she put a clenched fist to her lips. "I know that!"

They thanked him and Bridger clasped Dorothea's hands, taking her from Anthony's arm to reassure her and bid them a brief farewell so he could press the flesh and Dorothea could change and so on.

Glad of the complexity of women's clothing for once, he followed her into the side room.

The door closed, the hum of the lecture hall a pulling distraction, but not enough to stop her shivering into a giggling fit.

"Stiffs though, Anthony!" She turned to him, mirth in her dark eyes and her lips trembling around her smile.

"Clothes, Miss Chase," he gave her a little of the commanding voice she loved, even though he knew he should not. He had to protect the integrity of the lecture.

She removed her hat, revealing all that lovely dark hair plaited and twisted back from her face. She threw the hat at him. He caught it but raised his brows.

"Careful, Miss Chase," he set it aside and stepped forward to unfasten and unbutton as needed. "The crowd won't protect you from deserved punishment."

"Please, Mr Halloway," she removed her jacket and the top half of her day gown separated from the skirts. "Would you spank me in front of--"

She turned and looked up at him as he unbuttoned her skirt and it slumped to the ground, weighed down by whatever was in her pockets.

In the ivory petticoat and corset cover she looked like a gothic heroine and he longed to play the villainous duke or king keeping her captive.

"Maybe," he replied on a whisper that hadn't been intentional. She'd just nearly left him speechless. Breathless.

Because she was beautiful, yes, but she was also his perfect whore whose body would soon be under his total control and he was shaking, shaking, with how much he needed to fuck her against the door to the lecture hall.

Dorothea's lips moved soundlessly, and the pressure built between them, and then she looked forward and drew her corset cover over her head and he was helping her out of a corset with repaired flossing that held her body without contorting it. No need for padding at the hips or chest for his soft, gorgeous Dorothea.

She put her hands up to conceal the weight of her breasts as they took the corset over her head. He'd teach her. Teach her how alluring they were laying against her ribs instead of cupped by linen and baleen. He set her corset aside, still holding her shape on the table. When he turned she handed him skirt and petticoat to add to the pile.

He stared at her body, her chemise clung to every contour and had to wrench his gaze from the plump deliciousness of her breasts to her face.

Had he thought he would, could, be in control when he wanted to worship her so very badly?

"What on earth do you have in your skirt that's so heavy?" His voice came out rough and it took an effort to complete the sentence when all he wanted was to kiss her, fuck her, and kiss her some more.

She shook her head like a dizzied puppy.

"Oh. My notebooks, sewing kit, Henry V, an apple--" She looked chidingly as he chuckled.

"You are a delight," he told her. "Why did you bring Shakespeare?"

"For reassurance," she took the cloth mask he had brought for her and put it on.

"I need no encouragement to go once more to your breach," he teased, helping her tie it securely and tucking a wisp of her dark hair behind her pink ear.

"Well," she cleared her throat, "thank you? I actually mean more the duty of the King bit. I'm doing this so other women might get the pleasure they need and deserve to combat each day."

She turned to face him. Shift, drawers, mask.

Damn.

Anthony reached up and tested the mask so he could touch her face. He took a careful breath.

The fact he was falling for her had not escaped him. He knew. She was a marvel. Silly and flirty and as deviant as he was, but also brave and...

He failed to find words. Her cheek was warm and soft under his trailing fingers. She stared at him, her big, dark eyes intense but still mocking just a little. She was teasing him.

Anthony dotted her nose with his fingertip.

"Don't get cheeky," he commanded, but he was so proud that she was overcoming her fear because she had him to flout.

"Do you want to check that you can... reach everything?"

"Miss Chase!" He leaned into the commanding voice and watched a shudder go through her, making her roll her shoulders just a little.

Delicious.

He didn't know what was stronger, the urge to fuck her or the longing to kiss her. With her the romance and the sex were tangled.

His heart was lurching in his chest and for all the power of his voice, his head was in turmoil. He was afraid to think the doubts into reality but suddenly anxiety bled in his own veins. Fear of being discovered and misunderstood once more. Terror of not being enough to keep her loyal and sweet.

And he was positively petrified that she would not love him as much as she wanted him.

"You'll be marvelous," she whispered.

Shock beat through him.

"Pardon?"

"Pardonnez-moi?" she said in a ludicrously exaggerated french accent. "What is 'Like me'?"

Quoting her Henry V again, but it worked, and he gave a puff of laughter.

"An angel is like you, Kate." Then he shrugged out of his coat, throwing it over her things. "But you aren't an angel, are you, Miss Chase?"

His jacket followed, freeing him of the spaniel-like scent of the wool. He rolled up his sleeves. She watched like a child picking out a flavour of icecream.

"Forearms," she sighed. "Your forearms do more to me than naked chests on other men."

He clenched and unclenched his hands for her.

"That's because you know what my hands can do."

She looked at him, eyes flaring wide, lips smiling, her whole being coming to mirthful attention.

Once again a wordless appreciation for how beautiful she was when her whole intent was on him surged inside. Every heartbeat accelerated his fall into loving her.

A sharp rap fell on the door.

"We're ready for you!"

***

Her light nervousness strode to centre stage and became abject terror. The urge to grope for Anthony's hand like a child in a crowd had her clenching her fist to keep it at her side, and she forced a rictus to her face.

"Miss Chase?" He lifted his hand toward the door, but she could see in his eyes as they searched her face that he would slam the door closed if she baulked.

"Mn hm," she managed from behind compressed lips. She stepped into the short joining corridor and followed the clerk.

When they turned toward the hubbub of masculine voices, her stockinged feet slid and he caught her at her elbow and waist, halting her fall.

"I've got you," he whispered, stirring the hair near her ear as well as her heart.

She closed her eyes as the door opened, the cooler air raising her skin to goosebumps and making her shiver. The noise ebbed and then crescendoed, a wall of voices judging her. There was laughter, and the shaking of her limbs intensified until her teeth chattered.

Across a gleaming tiled floor she walked, towards a peculiarly placed table. It was not until she reached it that it occurred to her she was the first live person to lie on it.

Not even the crisp ivory linen could stop the macabre dread as she reached it and raised her eyes to the sea of bearded academics staring at her.

"Not a man there doesn't want you," his whisper once again warmed her ear, driving back a little of the cold, "and not a single one of them can have you. I'm here."

I'm safe, she thought.

"You're safe," he told her.

"I'm just trying to work out how to climb up," she lied.

"Turn around."

As she did, the voices dropped. The air smelled of furniture polish, lavender from the linen, and tobacco from the crowd in their tiered seats, rising up into darkness.

She raised her chin, looking up into Anthony's face, and she was so close to running. So close to pleading to him to get her away.

Except...

Not a man doesn't want you...

Heady opium to a woman who had been largely ignored by the power hungry gender.

Not a single one can touch you...

He'd keep her safe, and she would show them what a creature of passion she was when he touched her. She would show them what a woman's bliss was.

Anthony put his hands on her waist and lifted her as though she was a waif. Those marvelous forearms were as strong as they looked.

"Lie down," he winked at her, and then retrieved and shook out another linen sheet.

And she heard it. A muttering, rippling groan of regret or disapproval as he threw the sheet high and settled it over her supine body. He smirked at her, and her fixed smile softened to something very nearly genuine.

Over and over she told herself she would enjoy this, but the hard wood beneath her and the terror of letting them down kept trying to rise in her throat.

"Since the repeal of the Venereal Disease Act--"

Doctor Bridger was off. A locutional greyhound after an elusive hare that signified recognition of women's pleasure.

Be calm, she begged her body. He's there. You're safe.

She looked up at Halloway. He was turned towards Doctor Bridger, his hands meekly folded, resting against the delicious curve of his belly. She wondered if it was something she could compliment him on - that gorgeous, bulky shape. The men other women swooned for all seemed not just thin but... hard. Jerky instead of juicy roast beef!

"How do you feel, Miss, ah, Heart?" Doctor Bridger's voice brought her slamming back to awareness of all those eyes.

"Terrified, Doctor." Her obviously middle class voice brought a ripple of murmurs. As though that had any bearing on who she was. "While you and Mr Halloway are a great comfort, I... I admit that my hysteria is doing its best to overpower my will."

By the end of the short speech her chest was seizing with the effort of existing. Gasps wracked her.

"Unpleasant for you, but an excellent starting point for the experiment," the response soothed a little, but her chest still shook with uneven, gulping breaths.

If she said 'Doctor', would Anthony know she meant to stop?

"How would you feel if I asked you to explain to these gentlemen the symptoms of your hysteria?"

The next thing she knew, she was sitting, scrambling, trying to leave. Her breath wheezed in and in and in, and she could not speak.

"I've got you!"

She buried her face in his shoulder.

"Breathe out."

In. In. In. Her chest hurt and her shoulders jerked.

"And out..." He demonstrated, his hand taking hers and squeezing almost too hard, and finally she snapped the cord inside that had winched up and up, and her breath exploded from her lips.

"As you can see, gentlemen--"

"Don't listen to him," between their bodies, Anthony took her fingers and wound them around his thumb before returning to the hard grip. "That was a perfect response though, my darling. I did not realise he wanted to demonstrate the base state. Are you all right?"

She nodded.

Her body was still recovering, she felt dizzy, but Anthony Halloway had just called her his darling and the beautiful shock had halted her spiral.

"Same rules--"

"I know," she smiled, lifting her head. "I know you'll stop."

He had been watching Doctor Bridger but he turned back and there was such a pure look in his eyes. Such gentle surprise and gratitude.

Dorothea lay back down, shifting until she was comfortable, her legs slightly parted and her anxious heart beginning to pound in anticipation.

He began to touch her then, hand gliding beneath the sheet to travel soothingly up her leg.

"Rather like a horse, one has to begin gently and not startle--"

"Bridger's riding horses wrong," she muttered.

Anthony snorted, clearing his throat unconvincingly afterwards. The pinch he gave the softest part of her thigh was very convincing, however. She gasped as the sweet burn of pain shot through her.

She met his stern stare with wide-eyed mock innocence, and she watched him catch fire. His eyes blazed, and the smile made her bones melt. The world faded, a grey tunnel with him the light at its end.

He rubbed the area his fingers had tweaked and then murmured:

"Be good."

His hand finally reached the apex of her thighs and he parted her smoothly.

She suddenly worried that her anxiety might have left her not wet enough. Then he slid his finger further inside of her and she felt the moment it began to glide and sighed with relief.

"Spread your legs more and bend your knees a little." His voice was still a murmur but it still held the steel hard command she adored obeying.

She did, knocking his wrist slightly.

"Beg pardon," the words fell out of ingrained habit.

"Maybe later, Miss-- Miss Heart," he curled his fingers and she jerked at the pleasure. He had two inside her now but she was still not warmed up so they filled her deliciously, palpating within her.

His thumb found her clitoris and she gave a loud, groaning sigh.

She'd closed her eyes, and hearing the murmuring response of the crowd made her blush full body. But as her skin burned and Anthony ground her clit between his thumb outside and fingers within, Dorothea found herself revelling in the people watching her.

They were not a crowd.

They were an audience.

Her audience.

"They are obsessed with you," Anthony murmured, his voice catching as he pumped his hand faster. "Every man there wants to watch your climax."

She moaned again. It was genuine and yet performative too. She wanted to hear the cleared throats, the glottal groans, the whispering want.

And they gave it to her.

"You want to be naked before them, don't you, darling," he called her eyes open with his delicious whispering and she held his gaze. "You'd dance for them, wouldn't you!"

"I'd dance for you," her voice caught as she fought to stay quiet.

"As you can see, the physical work should be accompanied by checking in with the patient to be sure of her continued comfort. The wrong technique with the wrong patient will make her fear sessions rather than anticipate them." Bridger's valiance in search of scientific relevance to Anthony's scouring voice was almost laudable.

"Moan for me," Anthony shifted. He was leaning over her, and he put his spare hand on her stomach.

Splayed out flat, his weight pressed down, holding her in place as his strokes became slower and he added a third finger, twisting his wrist.

The pleasure was overwhelming. She was shaking with it, and her breath came out loud and moaning over and over. She tried to arch, her body wanting more but her mind trying to deny her.

But she did not get to choose if she climaxed. That was Anthony's choice.

Her moans filled her ears and the weightless bliss of climax came over her fast and hard. She was howling with it while he pumped steadily away, his breath harsh on the edge of her awareness. She flapped her arms clear of the sheet and gripped his wrist with both hands.

"That good, Miss Heart?"

He grinned down at her and she smiled open mouthed, panting for breath.

"How do you feel, Miss Heart?" Bridger broke through while she was pulsing, clenching, around Anthony's fingers.

"Marvellous," she replied on a sigh. Bonelessly, she let her breathing go back to normal.

"Do you think you need to sleep?" Bridger asked.

"Heavens, no," she gave an airy laugh. "I feel, I always feel, quite energised after... my treatment."

"So you can see, gentlemen, it would not require a woman to end her day. While some women may feel drowsy if not used to the treatment, it is not as with men, Le Petit Mort. Miss Heart, if I asked you to explain the importance of the treatment to these gentlemen, could you?"

Anthony's fingers withdrew and he took her clit between the side of his finger and his thumb, rolling it and causing the pulse to throb.

"I doubt I could be as concise or convincing as you yourself, Doctor Bridger."

Anthony's hand paused and she glared at him. He smirked. But she knew why he'd paused. She had said 'Doctor', after all.

"Do you see the difference, gentlemen?"

But as Doctor Bridger began again, Anthony started a sudden onslaught.

In. In. In.

And his fingers were hooking inside her and dragging out and it felt divine. Hellish. Glorious!

"Hush, darling," he murmured, making her whimper against clamped teeth. "Bridger is talking."

His voice was rough, and she heard each slam of his fingers in a grunt as he spoke, an exertion on her behalf.

She gripped at the wrist holding her down and he lifted it up over her head. She raised her other hand, tucking it under his wide, calloused palm and rippling from hips to shoulders. Once again his weight held her in place, but now she could arch and thrash her body.

Was she trying to get more sensation or flee from it?

She was still painfully sensitive but the pain was gorgeous, wonderful, tantalising...

"Every. Eye. Is on. You."

His hand went crazed, moving so fast her mind slipped once more into nothing but pleasure. Her throat ached but she could not hear her own moans. Everything was his hand. Her... her cunt. Wet and hot and throbbing because of him.

And a room full of men stared while she showed them how good Anthony was. They were staring. Staring. Staring.

She only wished she could kiss him in front of them.

Bliss had filled her legs and hips and blasted through her like sheet lightning as he thrust. His fingers. Into her.

"Don't climax yet," his voice and weight bore into her and her moans took on a whining edge.

"But--"

"Hush," he grinned down at her for just a moment, a flash of exultation. He leaned down toward her. "If I have to be hard and look like a professional, you can at least not come until I tell you to."

Dorothea writhed. Her hips lifted as he mercilessly pumped three fingers inside her, muscles she had never used shrieking as she fought the loss of mind to pleasure he was trying to invoke. She closed her eyes to banish his face, amused eyes but stern mouth too enticing to resist, but it left her feeling her cunt all the more.

Her whole world became the hot, wet inches that his hand touched, inside and out.

She was taut, eyes closed so tightly that silver bees danced across her vision. She growled, a gutteral and utterly unadorable noise. Her hands flexed and stretched. Her breath was sucked in.

"Not yet."

Bastard! Tormentor! Bane!

She held herself apart from the release, tried to let her mind go blank or wander but his fingers and their relentless, wonderful invasion kept slamming her back to sensation.

"I'll count you down," his voice permeated and Dorothea whimpered through clenched teeth.

Sweat ran down her neck and it was an added sweetness that almost did for her.

"You are doing so well," he had leaned closer and she opened her eyes. His brow was damp and his breathing was almost exaggeratedly controlled.

It scoured her to her soul. The need to kiss him was a physical ache from shoulder to shoulder. A wailing moan begged him to count already.

"Five."

Five?! No! Three. She had expected three. She could handle three. She was too close.

"They're staring. They know you're close. Four."

All those men, many would have come intending to argue against the efficacy of Anthony Halloway's fingers, and they were watching them.

Dorothea finally turned her head fully and let her eyes wander the audience. Her audience. And they were watching her being given parosysms, being denied one, sweating and moaning because of him.

And she did not feel afraid, she felt free. She felt like a hawk soaring on the wind.

"Three."

He stopped pumping and began wildly oscillating his wrist so his fingers slammed against the sides of her channel.

Howling, her toes curled in her stockings but her feet pointing like a ballerina's, Dorothea teetered on the edge.

"Two. Oh you look so good. I wish I could mount you here and now." His voice had her gasping, unable to release her breath in case she climaxed too soon.

But then:

"One."

And she howled. A banshee. A demon. Her body went rigid, her entire being pulsing. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and she was numb to the world as her body thrummed and she gripped him inside her. He stroked gently, easing her through.

While the orgasm itself was quick, the aftermath was blissful.

Up in the crowd, one gentleman started to clap but no one joined in.

She grinned, and heard Anthony chuckle deep in his chest.

He withdrew his hand from her slowly and straightened the linen sheet, adjusting it until it was fully covering her.

"Miss Heart?" Doctor Bridger's voice slid through to her awareness.

"Hmmm?" Her body still shot bolts of pleasure through her with every heartbeat. Her cunt still pulsed even though his fingers were gone.

"Could you tell the learned gentlemen about the importance of being able to manage one's own pleasure?"

Her mind moved sluggishly, but she nodded.

"A woman knowing her own body and how to initiate her own pleasure to countermand anxiety is a necessity for anyone who feels as I do. The bliss stops the mind making things worse. It allows one to begin again from a point of wellbeing, shucking the things that a disordered mind creates." She sat up, holding the sheet close but scanning the onlookers as she had been taught at school. And she offered a smile.

"Until doctors are on every corner offering these services at low prices, women must be taught that self-pleasure is acceptable and even laudable. That as much as they deny it, men have always seen to taking the edge off their own need, so women should too. That it is separate from fornication."

Anthony touched her back, and she halted, realising that a few of the older men had begun to harrumph a little.

"But of course," she said with exaggerated sweetness, "I cannot know as much as these gentlemen. Doctor Bridger will be able to elucidate far better."

Behind her head, Anthony snorted faintly, and she kept her face serene but inside she exulted.

"How kind, Miss Heart. Mister Halloway, would you please see Miss Heart home safely. I will conclude here and see you on the morrow."

"Yes, Doctor."

Did everyone else hear the predatory satisfaction in his voice? When he helped her wobbling to his feet, did they know he was walking just as awkwardly as her but for the opposite reason?

Her breath went uneven again, and anticipation surged once more.