I sat in a smallish office in one of two chairs on the receiving side of a large oak desk. I perched on the edge of my chair. Felt the rancor and frustration of the man sitting next to me and my heart fluttered in my chest in panic. The sensation was intensified by the restrictive corset that seemed to force my lungs up towards my throat in its quest to push my breasts up onto a platter for any passing man to ogle.

I berated myself for so many bad choices. Why? Why could I simply not be quiet and do as I'm told? Other people (other women I correct myself, bitterly) manage to do this. And there it was. It was simply not fair that I should be forced to stifle my tongue because I am a woman. Unfair that I should be required to think my dreams quaint and laughable and unattainable because I was a member of the fairer sex. That I should hold myself forward to be admired for the nipped-in size of my waist or the rosy glow on my cheeks and nothing more.

God. This was how I ended up here. I must stop, I thought to myself. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps I could explain to the two of them -- beg forgiveness, throw myself on their mercy. Promise to behave -- and mean it this time and actually deliver if only I could be granted one more chance.

But there had been a hundred 'one more chances'. I had failed repeatedly and now I had been brought here to be 'fixed'.

I’d heard whisperings among the downstairs staff about a young lady who was sent off to be fixed. Mandy, the scullery maid, worked over the road for the Billingsleys. Portia Billingsley was rumored to have fallen for a stable boy. Her father took her away to be 'fixed'. There was talk of so much bleeding. Then nothing. Is this what would happen to me? Would I be maimed or tortured and disappear like poor Miss Billingsley for failing to properly respect the gentlemen in my circles? I could feel fat tears burn my cheeks as they streamed from the corners of my eyes. 

A small door, formed to look as if part of the paneling, swung quietly inwards and a tall fair man stooped through the opening. As he straightened, he seemed to fill the room with his towering height. He wore a long white coat. Pristine. At least he hadn't come direct from torturing some other poor maid, I thought to myself as he reached his hand forward to shake that of my chaperone in greeting. Without sparing me a glance, he suggested that perhaps the two of them might be private to discuss the case. His head indicated a tiny delicate chair in the corner where I would be banished to allow them to discuss my fate in relative privacy. I stifled a knot of indignation. I am turning over a new leaf, I thought to myself.

I concentrated on holding my head high as if a book were balanced atop, as I rose to make my way the few feet across the room. My knees wobbled; seemed to have lost the ability to support me properly. Turning, I backed up until I felt the edge of the chair against my knees and sank into it as I had been taught -- still balancing the imaginary book. I turned my head to peer out a tiny window into the street below, ears straining to monitor the conversation that would decide my fate.

All I could hear were low murmurs, punctuated occasionally by a frustrated whisper.

“INSUBORDINATE. ARGUMENTATIVE." Outside, there were men and women going on about their days. Did any of them have any idea what went on in this innocuous-looking little house on the square? An understated brass plaque marked the entrance. ”INAPPROPRIATE" I heard in an angry whisper, and my heart leapt in fear. I began to study the window. Did it open? I realized that I couldn't possibly get through it in the restrictive garments I was wearing. I was well and truly trapped. "IDEAS.....AN EMBARRASSMENT." I heard someone slump back in his chair in frustration.

And then, in a slightly raised voice, as if meant to carry to me.... “Might I be permitted to examine the patient?” I imagined I could feel two pairs of eyes train themselves on me, and I struggled to will myself back across the room. If I submitted quietly to this examination perhaps, I could show them both that I was not broken; not in need of fixing.

The gentleman in the white coat rose up out of his chair and rung a bell by the side of his desk. Immediately, as if she has been waiting at the other side of the door, a smartly dressed older woman with her iron grey hair stacked efficiently atop her head and a white apron pinned to the front of her grey dress entered. She held the door wide and stepped back, gesturing to my companion.

Despite my terror, or mayhap even because of it, I struggled to suppress a smile as I recognized the expression of bemusement on my companion's face. He was realizing that he had been dismissed. He would not be permitted to stay and see to my getting fixed. Pulling his hat more firmly down over his head, he cast me a meaningful glance before exiting. I could hear the intent of his look as clearly as if the words have been spoken out loud. 'Behave for God's sake. If this doesn't work, we shall resort to more drastic measures.’

“Miss Swain, will you kindly see to the patient?” the doctor bowed himself back out of the office, and his assistant efficiently retrieved a large screen and wheeled it across the room, separating me from the desk and the empty room at large. To my back, the open window looked out onto the street where I could hear the noise of passing traffic. I opened my mouth to point out the fact that the screen was not actually screening me from anything, but thought better of it. I would begin today to hold my thoughts to myself. Others did NOT find my observations helpful, as evidenced by my presence here.

Once the screen was in place, Miss Swain stepped behind me and began loosening the seed buttons down the back of my gown. My sense of panic spiked upwards. Pointlessly, I pressed my two hands to my chest, shoulders curling inwards in a self-protective gesture as my gown began to gape down the back. I could feel my cheeks flush. I tried to push out of the chair when I felt a tug at my corset, but a firm hand kept me in place as the bindings gave way.

I indulged in a deep, cleansing breath and felt an immediate lightheaded rush and a wicked thrill at the unexpected freedom. Glancing down, I could see the pale cotton of my undergarments on display in the bright light of day in this stranger's office. They were barely covering my breasts where my gown and the corset had fallen away from them.

The nurse then returned to the screen and pushed it back into place, leaving me sitting, exposed, as the man in the white coat ducked back into the office. Irate, I jumped up out of my chair, pointing accusingly at the screen.

“What, might I ask, was the point of that? I'm given the questionable cover of a screen when you are not present, then it is taken away.” My voice trailed off as I recalled my intention to submit quietly to whatever examination awaited in an effort to demonstrate my pliable, appropriate and biddable nature.

I slumped back in my chair and dropped my gaze. My hands clasped firmly in my lap, resisted the urge to try to piece back together the errant bits of my outfit. With my gaze lowered, I could see that the bodice of my undergarment had slipped dangerously low during my outburst and subsequent retreat. I could see a rose-colored areola peaking above the embroidered edge of the fabric. My heart began to pound, causing a flush to creep up my neck.

I waited, but there was only silence, and at long last, I allowed myself to peek under my eyelashes at the other occupant of the room.

He was sitting patiently behind his desk, observing me. His expression appeared thoughtful and perhaps amused.

“Ready to begin?” he asked.

What to answer? Truthfully no, but what is the alternative? Begin we must, at some point I supposed, or was there room to reason with this man?

“Never mind. I can see that your nature drives you to question even rhetorical statements, and so I will do you the favor of retracting the question and moving forward,” the doctor said calmly, rising from his chair. “We'll begin with a preliminary physical exam.”

“As a woman of great curiosity, I am certain you are torturing yourself with questions about what will happen to you here. Kindly seek to trust in my expertise. I have treated countless women that suffer, as you do, from an excitable or even hysterical disposition.”

As he spoke, he walked behind me, his tone soothing. I could feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end as I strained to track his exact location without turning my head.

A warm hand settled on my shoulder; long fingers resting easily against my collar bone and chest. A second hand settled on the other side, and I couldn't resist the image of the two of them closing about my throat. Instead they began to slide downwards. I watched in disbelief as those hands slipped right into the front of my bodice, fingers curling around to heft the weight of my breasts and gently knead them together.

The sensation was startling. My heart began to pound harder and my lids fluttered closed of their own accord.

My head bobbed further forward and began to loll to one side as the fondling continued. When a thumb drew across my nipple, causing it to contract, shards of intense pleasure sent my body arcing upwards. My breasts thrust forward into the hands that were the source of this sensation. I flushed deep red at my own wanton behavior.

“Very good,” the man administering this examination whispered from behind me, “that's perfect.”  

He began to roll my pebbled nipples back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. Leaning forward to peer down at my breasts, his warm breath raised gooseflesh along my nape. I struggled to stay upright, hands gripping the sides of my chair. I could feel my knees begin to quiver. a heavy sensation began to grow in the pit of my belly. And lower down.

I snapped my mouth closed when I realized that it was hanging open, my breath coming in short panting gasps. I pressed my knees together to still their quaking. The pressure of my thighs created an uneasy throbbing sensation between them.

The doctor pressed two fingers against the column of my throat, presumably taking my pulse with a silver stopwatch he'd fished out of his coat pocket. My breasts tingled and ached, the skin puckering further against the cool air once he removed his hands. My mind struggled with the desire for his hands to return to their previous ministrations. I gripped the edges of the chair to restrain my own fingers from reaching for my breasts to mimic the stimulus of the doctor's touch.

“Elevated pulse, 118 BPM. Accelerated breathing, gyrations of the pelvis in response to stimulation of the nipple.” the doctor made these observations to himself almost under his breath, nodding absent-mindedly before crossing the room and reaching out and punching the buzzer on his desk.

I clasped my garments guiltily against my chest as Miss Swain marched back into the office. Did she know what we had been up to here?

“Prepare the patient please Miss Swain for her treatment,” the doctor said as he sat and began taking notes.

Once again Miss Swain trundled out the screen. And this time, I was most grateful to be hidden from view from the man sitting writing at his desk. I began to panic that he might share his notes with my family and that they might learn how I had responded so shamefully his touch.

Miss Swain reached out, all business, and took my hand to pull me up. As I stood, I could feel a weakness that had settled in my legs, and a warm sticky sensation between my thighs. She began leading me over to an examination table, shiny metal with terrifying pieces of equipment jutting out from the corners.

I dug my heels in, my stomach churning with terror. Her expression as she turned back towards me was determined. She grabbed my upper arms and spoke calmly and quietly. “Don't make this harder on yourself. You've nothing to fear from the doctor. Kindly arrange yourself on the examination table. You'll not be harmed.”

I searched her face, looking for the truth in her words, turned once again to gaze longingly at the window. The sun was still shining outside. It was a regular day. Miss Swain gave my shoulders a small shake and pointed determinedly at the metal surface. She set down a footstool so that I could climb up onto the slab despite my encumbering skirts and restrictive undergarments.

I approached the platform as if it were a gallows, and climbed up, assisted by the ever-efficient Miss Swain. Once I had my bottom seated on the hard surface, her hands on my shoulders pushed me backwards, my breasts slipping completely free from the containment of my garments as I descended.

As soon as I was in a prone position, she quickly cinched a leather strap around my waist, securing me to the table. Whispered stories I'd heard from the household staff about the unfortunate Miss Billingsley flashed through my mind, and I began to struggle as Miss Swain secured my ankles in some kind of harness that left me splayed grotesquely. I could feel my face flush. My skirts were in total disarray, and my ankles were now plainly visible below the hem of my gown. But I could not reach down to cover them. Nor could I seem to stop the spill of flesh from the top of my garment. My hands came up to cover my breasts. My fingers, icy from panic, did nothing to stave off the chills that seemed to run riot over my skin.

The doctor, now seated on some sort of metal stool, began to crabwalk across the room towards me. The wheels squeaked noisily in the pall of silence. When I realized that his trajectory would carry him, not to my side, but to a place at the end of the table, I snapped my knees together in horror. Belted to the table I could not adjust my position to preserve my modesty.

“Knees open, just like a book, please.” The doctor looked sternly at me over the rim of his glasses.

I tried to will my body to follow the instruction.

I realized that I was holding my breath, knees pressed tightly against each other.

“Just let them fall to the sides so we may continue,” his voice remained calm and even. His tone brooked no disagreement.

On a rush of breath, I allowed my legs to fall open. Allowed their weight to ease them slowly wider.

The doctor's head disappeared behind the froth of my skirts, and I jumped and let out a shriek when I felt warm fingers brush against my calf. He set about arranging layers of fabric out of the way, his fingers repeatedly brushing against the thin cover of my stockings, and as they reached up higher, occasionally against the bare skin of my inner thighs. My attention was riveted by his progress.

My knees had begun to quake uncontrollably, and when I felt his fingers brush against the soft damp curls at the apex of my thighs, I could not contain a gasp. A silver blonde head popped up above the mound of fabric, a harried expression as he patted down the crinolines to be able to restore eye contact.

Reaching out to his side, the doctor wheeled forth some piece of equipment. Shiny and metallic, it looked vaguely threatening.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was a mirror, framed in stark silver or chrome, hinged to allow the angle to be adjusted, perched atop a long metal stand. It was directed up under my skirts. Saying nothing, he continued to study my expression as he reached back into the darkness, and his fingers came into firm contact with my ... I struggled to put a name to the parts he was now touching. I felt my cheeks burn.

I stared, mesmerized into the mirror. I was confronted directly with a display of pink flesh and dark curls, heretofore never seen from this perspective. The doctor's long, white fingers stood out in striking contrast as they gently probed my flesh, prying apart the two halves to reveal the raw-looking and highly sensitive core.

I could feel my lower lip begin to quiver in the grips of a wholly unfamiliar set of emotions. My dishabille forgotten, I leaned up on my elbows, unable to take my eyes off the doctor's hands. His fingers now glided up and back along the slippery length. They paused to trace small circles at the upper limits of that pink cleft, Probing slowly, they found, and began to tease at a morsel of tender flesh buried there, unleashing a pleasure so intense my hips jumped up off the table in their quest to deepen and prolong the sensation. I could feel a mounting pressure at the point where his fingers circled determinedly, a change in the temperature and texture of places that he touched, as nerves seemed to jump to life. A rush of warmth seemed suddenly to flood from inside me, trickling down between my buttocks and rendering my cotton underthings sticky and wet. God heavens, what had I done?

The ribbons of sensation reminded me of the pleasure of those same fingers tweaking my nipples just a few scant minutes before. Through suddenly heavy-lidded eyes I could see them displayed. My bare nipples were taut little raisins stark against my pale skin. The sight of them sent a naughty thrill trickling down towards the pit of my stomach where it swirled together with the rhythmic throbbing pleasure administered by the strong hands probing wetly between my thighs. Rubbing and prodding faster and faster in response to the accelerated movements of my hips, his fingers becoming a blur. At the same time I felt his thumb slicking downwards, probing between my now soaking folds. They pressed gently inwards, seeming to sink into the space there, with a soft squelch. My buttocks clenched as I reached for ... more. Some sort of answer to the hunger that was spiraling out of control in my body.

I giggled nervously, as in a moment of self-awareness I saw my face, transformed in the mirror, a background to the busy ministrations of the doctor's hands on my now reddened and swollen woman's parts. My cheeks flushed, my mouth a frantic O. I emitting little high-pitched moans, my chest heaving. Straining against the bonds that held me, I reached down and grappled with the leather straps that locked my hips to the table, needing to be able to break away from the intensity of the sensory onslaught.

As I fought with the fastenings, the doctor came up out of his chair, a second hand seeking to steady my bucking hips

“Almost there. shhhhh,” he soothed. But I did not want to be soothed. I wanted.

I could feel the muscles in my legs and my abdomen start to quake. The pleasure became a gnawing ache driving, demanding that my body serve its appetite. I arched up off the table, a deep-throated groan bursting from between my lips, thighs grasping at the apex of pleasure that cascaded over me, dangled me like a marionette before ebbing away. I felt myself tumbling. Each nerve drawn bow-tight, while my bones and organs seemed by contrast to melt. At last, the ripples of pleasure that gripped my frame began to subside, leaving a rush of self-conscious panic in their wake.

As I slumped back to the table, I tried to curl into myself, away from the prying eyes of the doctor who I imagined smiling in smug self-satisfaction as he reached for a white cotton towel and wiped the slick wetness from his fingers. I quickly found I could not. My ankles were still secured. I kicked against them, suddenly desperate to restore my modesty.

Straightening his coat, the doctor once again summoned Miss Swain, who efficiently released me from the prison of the table. I pressed my hands to my hot cheeks as she wordlessly repaired my coif, and re-laced my corsets.

The doctor walked behind his desk and began transcribing notes, once again talking to himself. It caused my stomach to lurch painfully as I recalled my reaction to his treatment. The image of his fingers splaying my lips apart caused a resonant flicker of arousal to dance across my nerves. My hands drifted up towards my breasts, but Miss Swain pushed them away, tsk, tsking and shaking her head in disapproval.

My eyes drifted closed of their own accord, as my body conjured up echoes of the sensations the doctor had planted there. The firm tug on my corset strings seemed to press all of the air out of my lungs. I was pulled upright, but could still feel the subtle draw of the fabric against my taught nipples as I breathed.

My thighs began, of their own accord it seemed, to squeeze and flex and massage the tender flesh that was imprisoned between them.

The doctor, firmly setting aside his pen, strode over to stand before my chair.

"An excellent start, young lady. I'll see you back in my offices at the same time next week."

My voice came out almost as a whisper. I stared determinedly straight ahead as I forced out my only remaining question,

“Tomorrow?”

“Ah yes well, quite right, an acute case really. Of course. Same time tomorrow then.”