The city around Matteo was eerily quiet as he strode along its streets. A quarantine had been implemented at the onset of the most recent outbreak, making the citizens virtual prisoners. No one was permitted to enter or leave the city walls, with the exception of the plague doctor. Matteo's contract with the city stipulated that he would treat the sick residents, and in return, all his needs would be provided for. Because his needs were few, the city administrators immediately agreed to the paltry compensation he requested.

The quarantine had brought some of the city's poorest to the brink of starvation, but no one dared to approach Matteo for aid. Even those weak with hunger fled when they saw him. His outfit was admittedly sinister-looking, but he knew it served to protect him from illness. Though the June morning was growing warm, Matteo wore a black overcoat of oiled leather. The outer garment covered his body from the neck to the ankles. His wide-brimmed hat, also black, was similarly oiled to prevent contamination. He wore thick gloves while carrying a sturdy wooden cane. But it was Matteo's mask that instilled such terror in the city citizens. Covering his entire face, the mask bore a protrusion in the shape of a bird's beak. The beak, a compartment of sorts, was now filled with wormwood herb to ward off bad air and the smell of death. The mask's eyeholes were covered by glass.

Matteo reached the home of a prominent merchant whose daughter was ill. It was the merchant who answered the door, and he was quick to explain that the servants he normally employed had fled or succumbed to sickness. "Are you alone?" the man demanded of Matteo.

"I am."

The merchant furrowed his brow. "Are you not required to be accompanied by a custodian at all times?"

Matteo was glad for the mask, which concealed his exasperation. "My former custodian is dead, and the city has found no replacement for him." The custodian had been responsible for ensuring Matteo observed proper quarantine procedures following his treatment of plague victims, but the elderly man had himself fallen ill and did not survive. Matteo had just emerged from his own self-imposed quarantine. By now, he was used to those frequent periods of solitude.

The merchant, while none too happy about the breach of protocol, wasn't about to turn away the only man willing to treat his daughter. "Beatrice took to her bed with fever and headache three days ago," he explained while leading Matteo through the house. "The plague felled her mother only last summer, and due to the lack of reliable help, Beatrice has become a kind of helpmate to me. She oversees the household and cares for my younger children, who are now at the home of my brother." The merchant spoke in a rush, betraying his anxiety. "Beatrice is of the age to be married, but she wishes to remain here for the time being. I do not know how I would manage without her, Doctor."

Matteo fought back the urge to tell this man that many were forced to survive under circumstances far more dire than his. Instead, he followed the merchant to Beatrice's room. The heavy drapes had been parted, and as Matteo glanced around, he could see the room's fine furnishings. Beatrice, a young woman of nineteen, lay on the bed with a sheet covering her from the waist down. Her long hair, the color of burnished copper, fanned out on the pillow in tousled strands. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly. Matteo could hear her deep, even breaths. He noticed that her cheeks were flushed and her brow was damp with sweat.

Beatrice's father lingered at the door. "She has gradually worsened these past several days, and I haven't been able to rouse her since yesterday evening."

Matteo drew closer to the bed. Beatrice didn't stir or show any awareness of his presence. Extending his cane, Matteo used it to draw the sheet back farther, revealing more of the simple shift the woman wore. His gaze swept over her body as he looked for boils on her skin. A soft sigh escaped him when he found none. "You say she took to her bed with a headache. Did she complain of bodily aches? Did she suffer from chills or vomiting before she fell into this... stupor?"

"No, Doctor. When my wife, God rest her soul, became ill with the plague a year ago, her sickness began with a headache, but she worsened far more quickly than my Beatrice."

Before Matteo could speak again, Beatrice released a throaty moan. He stared at her intently, waiting for her to wake, but she didn't open her eyes. Instead, her hips began rocking, their rhythmic motion unmistakable. Behind his mask, Matteo's eyes widened. When he turned to the merchant, the man averted his eyes. "This is not the plague," Matteo told him.

Beatrice's father reluctantly looked at Matteo again. "But she appears feverish, Doctor. Perhaps the illness is taking longer to manifest in my daughter?"

Matteo took a step back from the bed. Beatrice arched her spine, spreading her legs wider. "I'm sorry; there's nothing I can do for her. This affliction will have to run its course."

"Please!" The merchant's face grew stricken. "Please help her. She is a good and wholesome girl, and if word gets out about her... sickness, she will have no chance of finding a suitable husband."

Matteo was about to refuse, for patients on the verge of death waited for his visit to their homes. He had no time to waste trying to protect this wealthy woman's marriage prospects. But before he could utter a word, Beatrice released a whimper. Her hips still moved, yet she seemed powerless to stop her body's obscene display.

He had encountered this peculiar affliction only once before, when as a young man, he had accompanied an older, more experienced physician on his rounds through a remote village. Recalling the physician's method of administering a cure made Matteo grow warm beneath his overcoat. He turned to the merchant again. "I will examine your daughter more closely to determine if I'm able to help her, but you must leave us."

The man hesitated a moment, then nodded and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. Matteo took a deep breath, drawing in the bitter smell of wormwood. After setting his cane aside, he sat down on the edge of Beatrice's bed and removed his gloves. The woman balled her hands into fists, all the while moving as though she were copulating with some unseen being. Matteo placed his palm on her forehead. Her skin was warm but not feverish.

It was then that Beatrice stilled beneath his touch. Slowly she woke, her lids opening to reveal large brown eyes. "Am I dreaming?" she asked in a raspy voice. "Are you here to take me to my mother?"

"No," Matteo replied. "I'm a doctor." His words were muffled by the mask he still wore, and he didn't know if Beatrice could understand him in her confused state. As it was now quite clear the young woman had no infectious illness, Matteo decided to remove his mask. Sweeping strands of dark hair back from his perspiring face, he offered Beatrice a faint smile. The odor lingering in the room struck him then, for he no longer had the wormwood to combat it. It was not the smell of death, which he'd grown accustomed to, but rather the scent of Beatrice's arousal. Sharp and pungent, it clung to his nostrils. He swore he could taste it on his tongue.

The life of a plague doctor was often brief and inevitably lonely. Matteo had no family, and it had been many months since he'd lain with a woman. His days were spent seeing patients, most of whom were beyond help, while also compiling a written record of deaths. When he wasn't venturing into plague-ridden cities, he languished in quarantine, waiting for the beginnings of a fever or for the first boil to appear. He had long ago learned to subdue his carnal desires, but he now found Beatrice's scent maddening. Her nipples, hard beneath the shift she wore, beckoned to his hands and his mouth.

Matteo forced himself to hold her gaze. "Your father summoned me, for he believed you were gravely ill."

"Am I?" Beatrice looked around the room. "How long have I been resting?"

"Three days," Matteo replied, "but I am certain you haven't contracted the plague."

"Three days!" Her eyes grew wide, and she tried to sit up. "I must take care of the household, and my brothers and sisters."

Matteo placed a hand on her shoulder, easing her back onto the bed. "Beatrice, you're still not fully well. I promised your father I would try to help you."

"I feel fine now," she insisted. Yet she lay back against the pillow without further protest.

Matteo regarded her for a moment. "I'm told you lost your mother only a year ago." Though his voice was low and gentle, Beatrice's features grew pinched with grief at the mention of her mother. "It must be quite difficult for you, mourning her while tending to a large household such as this."

"I don't mind; it's what my mother would have wanted." Beatrice turned her face from Matteo as she blinked back tears.

"Nevertheless, you appear to be exhausted." He leaned closer, cupping his palm against the nape of her neck. "You're painfully tense, which would explain your headache."

She looked up at him again, her eyes hopeful. "Perhaps you have an herbal remedy to treat the headaches, Doctor?"

Matteo swallowed hard, again remembering the older physician's cure for the malady now afflicting Beatrice. "There is another kind of remedy, but I'll need to show you how to administer it."

"Of course." Beatrice's face revealed her confusion, but she seemed eager for Matteo's help. Before he could continue, she murmured, "Your eyes are full of sorrow."

"I have seen much misery and death," he replied. "I'm thankful not to have encountered it in this house today."

"Why do you choose to do this work? It must grieve you so."

"I answered God's calling. Some are chosen to minister to His flock, while I tend to the ill." Matteo patted Beatrice's hand in an attempt to reassure her. "I expect you to recover from this affliction, but my method of providing treatment is... unusual. If at any time you do not wish to receive my help, you need only tell me to stop. Do you understand, Beatrice?"

The young woman readily nodded. "I'll do anything to be well again, Doctor. My family needs me."

Matteo drew in another breath, desperate to slow his racing pulse. Yet he only managed to inhale more of Beatrice's scent. His hands trembled as he drew her shift up to her waist. A lustful groan threatened to escape his lips when he discovered she was naked beneath the damp garment. The curls between her thighs were sopping wet.

Beatrice grew very still, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. Matteo eased her legs even farther apart, then slipped his fingers between her slick folds. She gasped at that first touch but didn't pull away. He relied on feel more than sight while exploring her sex. Studying Beatrice's face to gauge her reaction, he said, "Have you ever touched yourself in this way before?"

"Never!" Her face flushed crimson as she spoke.

"I'm going to show you how." Matteo strove to maintain his focus on caring for the patient before him; as a doctor, he knew he should be detached. But as a man, he was now fully aroused and wrestling with his own lust. Beatrice remained stimulated, her flesh swollen beneath his wet fingertips. It took only moments for him to locate the tender bud that would grant her the release she so desperately needed.

When he gently massaged that slick pearl, trying to determine her level of sensitivity, she bucked her hips. "I'm sorry, Doctor!" she cried. "I didn't mean to do it."

"It's a natural response," he said. "Give me your hand, Beatrice." She did as he asked, her face open and trusting. Matteo fervently hoped she didn't feel his body quivering as he guided her hand between her thighs. "Right here." Taking hold of Beatrice's slender finger, he gently showed her how to give herself pleasure. "How does that feel?" he asked quietly.

Beatrice stared up at him, her eyes widening. When she tried to speak, only a guttural moan emerged from her throat. The sound made Matteo achingly hard, and in the warmth of the room, he began to sweat profusely. With her hand in his, he quickened the pace of their fingers until they could easily hear how wet Beatrice was. Matteo's mouth watered, longing for a single taste.

Beatrice began rocking her hips again. The rhythm of her breathing matched Matteo's until they were both panting. "How does that feel, Beatrice?" he repeated.

"Wonderful!" she confessed.

"Are you growing uncomfortable at all? Do you feel you're receiving too much stimulation?"

Beatrice quickly shook her head. "I don't want to stop."

"The sensation will grow more intense, but you mustn't resist it."

Beatrice uttered soft cries while working her sex against their fingers. She began to shake as though chilled, but her stare was filled with heat. Matteo had seen that same fierce desire on the face of his last lover, a widowed woman who rode him until he pleaded for mercy.

"I fear something's wrong!" Beatrice said. Her hips slowed as she whimpered. "I feel as if every part of my body is being pulled tight."

"You're close!" Matteo breathed. When Beatrice remained still, he gripped her fingers and used them to provide the stimulation she needed. "Surrender to it, Beatrice!"

She appeared overwhelmed, as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Her shuddering grew even more violent, yet Matteo refused to stop. The young woman pressed her lips together, muffling a wail. Finally, she could no longer withstand the fervent rubbing of her fingers. Her back arched, and she planted her feet against the bed while she spasmed and groaned. Her greedy hips still pumped away as she held them aloft. Matteo stared, entranced at the sight. He had never witnessed such a powerful release.

Only when Beatrice collapsed onto the bed and began mewling pitifully did he let go of her hand. Reluctantly, he withdrew his own fingers from her. She lay helplessly before him, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. While she returned to her senses, he lowered her shift and then pulled up the sheet to cover her.

Matteo waited until Beatrice was calm, then leaned forward to stroke her hair. "When you feel that certain... tension building within you," he said, "or if you have the urge to touch yourself in the way I just showed you, I want you to come to this room where you'll have privacy, and I want you to relieve that urge. Doing so will help you cope with the burdens that afflict you in your daily life."

Her voice was strained with worry as she spoke. "My mother told me it's a sin to do that. She said the Lord would punish me by taking my sight and causing hair to grow on my palms. Then everyone would know of my wickedness, and no man would marry me."

Beatrice appeared so earnest that Matteo had to suppress an amused smile for fear of upsetting her further. "Your mother, while well-intentioned, was mistaken. The urges you feel are a natural part of being a woman."

"And do you also have urges you must relieve, Doctor?"

Matteo started to withdraw from her, but she seized his hand, eagerly awaiting his answer. "I do," he finally replied.

His admission seemed to put her at ease. "Then God must not mind it, for He continues to protect you while you treat the sick." Her eyelids grew heavy as she nestled against the pillow.

"I can assure you God doesn't mind if you give yourself pleasure," Matteo said softly. "You alone must satisfy your needs until you marry. Then your husband will be able to satisfy them as well."

"I wish you were my husband," Beatrice murmured, half-asleep.

Matteo smiled and slowly stood. While his visit might seem dreamlike to Beatrice when she later woke, he knew the lingering tenderness between her legs would serve to convince her he was indeed real. Before donning his mask, hat, and gloves, Matteo brought his hand to his face and inhaled deeply. His hunger for Beatrice's scent hadn't faded, and he allowed himself the singular pleasure of enjoying it for a long moment.

Beatrice's father waited for him outside the room. "She is much improved," Matteo told the man. "I have instructed her as to how she can prevent this malady from reoccurring." The merchant showered Matteo with thanks while leading him to the door, but at no time did the man attempt to touch him.

Outside in the empty street, Matteo began walking toward the next plague-stricken house, cane in hand. When he took a breath, the memory of Beatrice's scent remained vivid and strong, chasing away the wormwood's odor. If God, in His infinite mercy, protected Matteo through day's end, the doctor resolved to seek his own pleasure in solitude that night while imagining Beatrice alone in her room nearby. Perhaps the young woman would slip a hand between her thighs and think of him as well.