The Doctor's Little Ward
Page 3
“You are wrong,” he said with infuriating calm. “While you were dreaming in the nursery, I signed papers granting me full legal and custodial control over you.” He began advancing on Abigail, who backed away as he continued speaking calmly, his deep voice sending an unwelcome shiver through her core. “I not only have the right to keep you here, but the responsibility, since outside my door awaits a world of dangers. I would protect you from them, Abigail.”
Tears glittered in her eyes. She could tell from the look of resolve in this man’s grey eyes that he was not going to let her go.
“And what awaits me here?” she asked. “More beatings? The humiliation of… of…” She pulled at the front of her dress, looking down at it in disgust. “…of being demoted to the nursery? And then what comes after that? The threat of unwilling coupling with a depraved man who cannot function with a woman unless she’s dressed as a little girl?”
Simon took a step back and for a moment, Abigail felt a moment’s satisfaction. Words were her only weapons in a household presided over by this large, stern man.
“Silly girl,” he finally said, and Abigail noticed the absence of anger in his voice. “You’ll only be corrected when you disobey. I went to your old house today, and learned today of the sorry circumstances in which your father kept you. You were little more to him than a servant and a prisoner. That house was your childhood home, but did I find a single toy or book in your room? A single pretty dress? No. I found the slop jar you were forced to empty, the food you were forced to ration. I realized that not only did this man not give you a childhood, but he kept your mother from giving you one.
“Oh, Abigail, you rebel against something you don’t even realize you need—a chance to be a little one—a chance to go to bed at night on soft linens with no worries, a chance to be loved and coddled and protected and—if need be—corrected for your own good.
“One would think you’d embrace the care and attention of the nursery after being deprived a childhood.” He paused and took a step closer until he was looking down at her. “As for coupling with you, that will only come when you are begging me for it, and even then only if you’ve been a very, very good girl.”
Abigail felt her face flush, felt the breath quicken in her chest and felt… she could not describe the sensation his words evoked. The tight pulsations and sensation of heat below her navel—these were new things, and strange. She felt overwhelmed by his presence, the power he exuded. But this evoked a new anger. Who was this new man to so befuddle her? To evoke strange feelings she’d never experienced before? It was as if he were touching her without even raising a hand.
Tears of confusion now sprung to her eyes. The sudden exhilaration she felt turned to anger.
“I’ll never beg you for anything!” she said, her voice quavering. “I hate you! I hate the bones of you, Dr. Abbott! I’ve hated you all my life, in fact! And that I find myself here in your care sickens me! I hate you! Can’t you see?”
She made to move past him but he took hold of her arm. Simon himself did not move, but stood firm like an anchor, stopping her in her tracks.
He turned his head to look down at the crying girl. “And what cause do you have to hate me?” he asked, obviously shocked at her vehemence. “For sparing you the sickness and horrors of the workhouse? For saving your life?”
“No!” The dam holding back her tears broke now and a ragged sob escaped her before she composed herself enough to comply. “I don’t hate you for saving my life. I hate you for saving his!”
Simon’s grip on her arm eased as he now turned to take her other arm. He held her gently, looking into eyes brimming with hurt.
“For saving your father? Is that what you mean?” he asked.
“Yes!” she cried. “And may God strike me down for saying this, but I’d rather have the few happy memories of the man who left for war than the horrible memories of what he became upon return. Do you know what it’s like—to never know the caring of a father? To have him blame your existence for the agony of his own?”
Abigail wrenched herself free and stepped back. “He did that, you know. I lost count of the number of times he told me he’d have killed himself were it not for the responsibility of family. When my mother died, her last words to me were of relief for no longer burdening my father. That left me, the sole burden—the weight hanging about his neck. And you think I want that again? To feel the weight of my burden on another?” Abigail dropped her gaze from his as she wiped the back of her sleeve forlornly across her nose. “I do not. And while my father may have asked you to save me, I most certainly did not. And I do not want this. Just take me to the workhouse. At least there I can earn my keep.”
Simon did not respond at first, and it was all Abigail could do to hold her ground when he approached her again.
“Abigail.” Her guardian put a finger under her chin and tipped it up until she was looking at him again. “When you came downstairs, I had hoped in spite of your attempts to flee I could be lenient in my correction of you. But I can see now that you are more in need of a firm hand than ever.”
The next thing Abigail knew, she was being led to the sofa.
“Lean over the arm,” he said curtly.
Another sob tore through her, this at the injustice of her situation. Here she had done the unthinkable by baring her soul to this cold stranger—and he was going to punish her anyway?
“Why?” she cried.
“It is not for you to ask why,” Simon said. “You will understand soon enough. Now bend over, or I will have Nurse Trinket come and bodily restrain you.”
Fearful of making things worse, a sobbing Abigail complied, shuddering in fear as she watched the tall doctor walk to the umbrella stand and remove the whippy cane.
“Please don’t,” she said, her voice pitiful. But Simon ignored her, laying the cane on the sofa in full view as he lifted her skirt and parted the halves of the new bloomers she’d been given to wear. As Abigail felt the cool air of the parlor raise goosebumps on her bottom, she moaned in abject embarrassment, and felt her stomach lurch as her guardian picked up the cane.
She felt his large hand come to rest on her lower back as he began to speak.
“You are no burden,” he told her. “You are in my care. If I give you an order, it is for your own safety and protection. If you break it, I consider that going against your wellbeing. As a treasured member of my household, my ward, and my betrothed, you are not allowed to do that. These first licks of the cane will be for disobeying your nurse who sought only to bathe you for your own health.”
He stood back and sliced the cane through the air and the room rang with Abigail’s cry as it found its mark.
“Why do I give orders, Abigail?” he asked. “Is it to hurt you?”
She sobbed as, behind her, Simon rubbed the welt he’d just raised. Suddenly she understood. But—stubborn girl—she refused to answer, so the cane fell again.
This time, he waited for her cries to subside before asking again. “Why do I give orders, Abigail?”
“F-for my own good,” Abigail said through her sobs, wagging her bottom as if she could move away from the burning lines of hurt that traversed it. She was aware again of his hand on her nates, the pain conflicting with the not unpleasant feel of his fingers soothing the hurt. And she was aware of something else, too, that tight little throb she’d noticed earlier, in her lower tummy. It had moved lower now, the odd ache of it not distinct in that secret, hidden place between her legs.
“Are you a burden, Abigail?” he asked.
She pressed her tear-stained face down into the sofa’s surface. “I don’t want to be…”
Thwack!
The cane fell again, this time across the lower portion of her bottom, the pain driving her forward as she cried out. She tried to slide back but Simon’s hand was pressing just above her bottom now, keeping her where she was. Her toes were just off the floor, the position forcing her legs apart. In the cool air of the room she w
as vaguely aware of moisture coating the inside of her thighs. She moaned in confusion.
“You are not a burden, Abigail. You are a treasure. Say it.”
“But my father…”
Thwack!
Simon spoke over her cries of discomfort.
“Your father is dead, Abigail. He never deserved you. I am your papa now. You answer to me now, and I am telling you that you will no longer see yourself through his distorted lens. So I will ask you again. Are you a burden?”
She looked back, could see the cane at the ready. Just the four lines he’d already given her stung and throbbed terribly.
“No!” she cried.
“What are you?”
“I don’t know…” She sobbed the words, for she did not. She’d only ever known herself as a burden.
“You’re a treasure,” he said. “You’re papa’s little treasure. Say it.”
When she did not instantly comply, the cane fell again for the fifth time, this time the hardest, across the tender expanse of skin between her buttocks and thighs. She screamed loudly. But Simon was louder.
“Say it!” His booming voice filled the room.
“I’m your treasure! I’m p-p-papa’s treasure!”
Abigail heard the cane clatter to the floor then, and felt herself lifted. Her handsome guardian doctor was cradling her against his chest now, holding her as he settled himself onto the sofa and drew her into his embrace. Abigail wanted to struggle, but couldn’t. She was too overwhelmed. The man who had just delivered the greatest physical pain she’d ever endured was now giving her the greatest emotional relief.
His lips were buried in her hair, his arms strong and warm around her in a protective embrace.
“You’re allowed to cry here, Abigail,” he said. “You are allowed to feel here. You are allowed to finally have to have the childhood you were denied. If my saving your father robbed you of a childhood, I cannot change the past. But understand that I will pay back what I have taken. With me you will be allowed to be the treasured little girl you always wanted to be, and for as long as you want to be her.”
The floodgates opened now, and it was not tears of anger that consumed Abigail, but of relief. How was it that this stern stranger knew all the right things to say? She’d worried that he would force vulnerability through punishment. Instead, he’d used pain as a tool, used it to masterfully tear down the walls she’d built, to draw out her vulnerability. And it felt comforting and liberating. Bound as she was in his steely embrace, Abigail felt free.
Chapter Four: Fatherly Advice
There had been times in Simon Abbott’s adult life that he’d wondered if he’d made a mistake by not marrying. His bachelor status had vexed his family, whose arguments for his matrimony had often bordered on the urgent.
His parents would not live to see a child born if he did not wed, they’d insisted. Women of marriageable age and of good pedigree would be snatched up if he did not choose, they fretted. As a physician, he was respected, but he was not a titled gentleman who could be assured of a wife at his leisure, they pointed out.
There were times when he’d considered capitulating, when he told himself that his aberrant desires for something different were selfish, and would leave him stranded in solitude and without legacy in his old age.
But then he’d imagine a proper wife, one who shopped and kept house and argued with him over politics or which social engagement to keep. He imagined the two of them in bed reading the papers. He imagined thrusting into her she lay beneath him, legs and womb open in an expression of loving duty. This imaginary woman was everything society said should want, and even though she was not real, his disdain for her was.
For Dr. Simon Abbott, the perfect wife would not host teas, but would fall asleep in his lap, her small hand curled around the lapel of his jacket. She would not debate issues of the day, but would lay sobbing submissively over his lap after a sound, corrective spanking. She would not be some frigid form receiving his seed with perfunctory obedience, but would instead meet his thrusts as he rammed into her tight, sopping pussy, all the while begging him for permission to come.
Simon had known for years that he was not like other men. It was not a wife he wanted so much as a ward, not progeny to raise and mold. If he were to wed, it would be to a woman willing and suitable to this arrangement, one who needed the guidance and nurturing he so desired to give. He’d long stopped questioning this curious twist in his psyche. This was what he wanted, and as a doctor, he’d seen enough men die with unfulfilled dreams to loathe joining their ranks.
Abigail was everything he’d ever desired. She was a woman in need, which satisfied his desire to protect. She lacked a proper childhood and was bound to him under duress, giving him the chance to fully return her to a dependent state that would facilitate training. And—as he discovered while caning her—she reacted on a visceral level to his dominance.
When she’d been bent over the sofa, white thighs parted as he’d caned her, he could see the white mound of her pussy through the sparse red covering of curls. As he’d brought her into compliance, the flower of her womanhood had spread enough to part the pale outer lips. And he knew by the way her thighs had glistened at the end of their session, by the sweet musky scent of her arousal, that she would not be the kind of woman to just lie beneath him without moving. When the time came, she would wrap her legs around him, her hips thrusting in time to his as she begged for more.
Simon stood, adjusting his stiffening cock in his pants. When he’d reluctantly returned Abigail to the nursery the night before, it was as much for his benefit as hers. He’d wanted more after their encounter in the parlor. He’d longed to run his tongue up the dewy slit of her quim, to lap up the slick, musky nectar of her virgin arousal. His cock had ached with need to be buried to the hilt inside her. He imagined how her nates would feel pressed against his loins as her pussy milked his cock.
But all in due time. Abigail was a feast to be savored, and he would not rush. It would take all his resolve to train her by degrees. But if he were right, it would be worth it, and he’d be as happy as the man walking in the door.
Hugh Brownlow was a respected banker who—like Simon—had been sought after as an eligible bachelor before finally marrying in his late thirties. His departure from the pool of available men was devastating news for the society mothers of marriageable daughters. Tall and blond with a sense for fashion, Hugh Brownlow was a wealthy man who owned a home in the city and the country, and was known for having a taste for the finer things. And of all the fine things he’d acquired, nothing quite matched his pretty wife, Lily, whom he brought to Dr. Abbott’s door at least once a fortnight on some complaint or other.
It wasn’t long after meeting the couple that Simon realized that their relationship mirrored the one he’d hoped to have for himself one day. For all practical purposes, Hugh treated Lily more like a child than a wife. She even called him ‘daddy,’ which Simon had initially chalked up to their age difference. But soon, the parent-child aspect of their relationship became obvious to the doctor. While Lily was arrayed as any fashionable lady when brought to Dr. Abbott’s office in town, whenever Simon made house calls he arrived at the Brownlow home to find Lily dressed as a child and happily playing with dolls.
But because Hugh Brownlow had never explained his wife’s curious behavior, Simon had simply treated her in the fashion that he would treat any woman suffering from female fragility, although he noted that the banker seemed to enjoy watching his pretty brunette wife undergo the frequent examinations he insisted she needed. This day was no different.
Hugh had a protective arm around his diminutive wife’s shoulders as they entered. As he spoke, she looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
“Lily is out of sorts again, Dr. Abbott,” the banker explained when Simon inquired as to the nature of the visit. “She felt warm last night, and with the damp lately, I felt it prudent to make sure she’s not falling prey to the fever.”
“Looks can be deceiving, doctor,” Hugh Brownlow replied. “As you know, my little Lily is far more delicate than she’d like to admit. And I feel a great responsibility where her health and wellbeing is concerned. So if you would just take her temperature in the usual fashion…”
“Really, daddy. I feel fine.” Lily’s rosebud mouth was set in a pretty pout as she protested.
“Now, now, my pet,” her husband scolded as they entered the room. “You didn’t eat all of your breakfast this morning, and quite without explanation. You’ve already been corrected once for arguing with me. You don’t want me to correct you a second time in front of Dr. Abbott, do you?”
The dark ringlets of her hair bounced as she shook her head. “No, daddy.”
Lily allowed her hand to be transferred to the doctor’s as Hugh Brownlow settled into his usual chair across the room, one Simon suspected gave the gentleman a better view of the examination.
“I shall retire to this chair, Lily,” the banker said. “And leave you in the capable hands of the doctor, who surely knows what is best for you.”
“Up on the table now,” Simon said, and Lily obediently complied, her bottom facing in her husband’s direction as she was guided into the facedown position. It was a familiar position for the both of them; Lily’s visits usually started with having her temperature taken.
Simon’s expression remained impassive as he raised the petite woman’s dress, exposing fine bloomers edged in delicate lace. He parted the back halves of the garment and stared down at her bottom for a moment, noting a network of fading welts. He looked at her husband.
“You’ve birched her,” he said, not at all surprised, for on prior visits he’d noticed what he were sure were fading marks of the slipper and strap marring her fair bottom.