Ultra Strokes

by Delilah Devlin

  Something like a cramp tightened my belly, and my hips curved. “Doctor?”

  “Yes, dear,” he said softly. “Let’s begin.”

  He brought down the hose over his shoulder and took a seat on a stool, which placed his face very near the juncture of my thighs.

  While my eyes widened in shock, that maddening tension began to curl around my womb. Not an unpleasant sensation, but breathtaking nonetheless.

  He’d removed his jacket, his shirt, and undershirt. With his broad, lightly furred chest bare, he met my questioning gaze. “The water will splash. And I wish to be close enough to gauge the efficacy of the treatment.”

  The very word Mrs. Davies had used, and now I knew where she heard it first. Strangely, that both reassured and dismayed me. He wasn’t treating me any differently than any number of women who visited his office. Therefore, the humor he’d shared, as though inviting me into his confidence wasn’t special at all.

  Rather than think about how foolish I was, I concentrated on the sensations he produced, the warmth that built beneath the stir of his fingertips, the deep curling desperation in my womb.

  The nozzle was lowered to just above my sex, and then he turned the ring at the base that released the water. The more he turned it, the narrower the stream and the harsher the pulse that beat against my love knot. I stiffened.

  He made no sound, asked no questions, but must have read my expression, because he adjusted it back to a gentle pulse that excited but didn’t make me squirm.

  He rose and walked around me, eyeing me from different angles, his hand coming down to touch the pulse throbbing at the side of my throat and pull the fabric taut against my breasts. “I do have a purpose,” he said. “Although your breasts seem lovely, I’m merely gauging the depth of your arousal by the reaction of your nipples.”

  “What does one have to do with the other?” I asked, although the question was disingenuous. I knew full well that when I played with my breasts, I felt as though a thin, internal rope tugged my sex into arousal.

  “Are you really so unaware?” he asked softly, an eyebrow raised.

  I lifted my chin. “I’m not married.”

  “But twenty-three and as well-formed as you are, I can’t imagine you’ve never experienced a man’s embrace.”

  Fighting my humiliation, I squirmed against the table. “It’s awkward talking about intimate things like that just now.”

  “Because what I am doing is so very intimate?”

  “That’s precisely why it’s awkward.”

  He shrugged. “I must gauge your breasts directly. Is that clinical enough? I have a device that will deliver a pleasant vibration to stimulate them.”

  “The clamps? They aren’t painful? I know that Mrs. Smith grimaced when you applied them.”

  “And you stayed to watch her silently thrash upon the table. Did she appear to be in pain?”

  “Of course not.” Although her rapture had been a nearly painful thing to observe. I’d had to concentrate on watching the dials rather than the frenzied churning of her body.

  Gathering my courage, I pulled down the neckline of the gown until the edge rode beneath my breasts. The tips were engorged. When his fingers twirled on the stems, I dug my fingers into the padded squabs.

  “You don’t have to muzzle your cries. In fact, they’ll help me determine the course of your treatment.”

  Freed, I moaned. The sensations he wrung from me, with the warmth pulsing between my legs, the crimping of my nipples, were already richer than anything I’d ever managed on my own.

  Clamps were set, one at a time, on the tips of my breasts. Then he left me to throw up the lever. A humming vibration travelled through the wires delivering the faintest of electrical currents.

  “Astounding,” I gasped.

  “Isn’t it?” he said, his eyes lighting with enthusiasm. “I had to experiment for the longest time to find just the right amount of current.”

  “Who did you find to serve as your subject?” I asked, wondering who had dared to put themselves at risk. But then again, here I sat, my nipples receiving electrical charges, my sex exposed to the lash of warm streams of water. “This is all very…”

  “Stimulating?”

  I snorted, an unladylike action, but one which only made him grin.

  “The hydropathy machine wasn’t my own invention. I merely perfected the delivery system. This next device wasn’t my idea either, but I have worked with metal molds to conform the seat to a woman’s anatomy improving the sensations.”

  The nozzle was turned off, and I missed the water, which had produced a sensual lethargy that made it impossible for me to stand against any suggestion the doctor might make. “What is the next device?”

  “A vibrating saddle.”

  “Like a horse’s saddle?”

  “No, you don’t ride it, the device rides you.”

  The split in the table was raised then shortened to allow my legs to dangle from the knee. My thighs were pushed farther apart. The position alone made my breath hitch. Everything was open for him to see. And he looked. His fingers touched the delicate furls of my inner labia then probed gently inside. His thumb caressed the knot that was fully exposed now and so swollen I wondered if it were possible for it to burst like a ripe berry.

  His lambent gaze rose to greet mine. “You will like this, I think.”

  With a slow move, he pulled down an oval object at the end of a flexible arm that extended from the ceiling, and pushed it toward my open thighs. The head of the device was contoured to a woman’s sex. A long, ruffled ridge slid between my folds, a slight protrusion anchored it at my entrance without invading so far or thickly it might steal my virtue. Straps were buckled around my upper thighs to hold it in place. When it lay against me, the metal quickly heated.

  The doctor threw another lever, and the device shivered and shook, the hum deafening, which was a good thing because my moans came loudly, one atop the other, although the frantic thrashing of my head had to give him enough response to gauge the efficacy of this particular treatment.

  My whole body shuddered. My hips danced upon the table, shoving my sex against the device, which did no good at all since the straps made it move with my movements. “Doctor, there’s a flaw in the design,” I gasped.

  “Is there now, Nurse Percy?” he drawled.

  “I cannot…thrust against it…”

  “Why don’t you hold it against you?”

  My gaze met his as I grasped the sides of the vibrating saddle and hugged it against my core. I ground and ground, but fell back against the table breathing hard and feeling discouraged because I didn’t think I had reached culmination. I wasn’t cooing like a dove. I felt ready to spit and claw like a lioness.

  “My dear, you are a difficult case,” he murmured. “But I am determined to prove that I’m not a fraud. You have two choices. You can allow me to give you a manual pelvic massage, or you can help me test my new invention.” His gaze slid to the tarp.

  Mine followed. “I really shouldn’t let you give me a direct pelvic massage,” I said, faintly. “When questioned by any suitor, I wouldn’t want to lie about the fact that I found my pleasure with another man’s hands.” When my gaze returned, his smile stretched.

  “Very admirable, nurse. The machine it is.” He undid the straps at my thighs, lowered the spread platforms, and helped me to my feet. The gown fell down around me, cloaking me, but I didn’t care. It was only a sop to my modesty. I liked the way his glance raked my form, lingering on my budded breasts and the apex of my thighs.

  “I couldn’t help but notice when I probed you that your hymen isn’t intact. A state not unusual in virgin women, but convenient for our purposes because you will be able to truthfully tell your future suitor that no man’s member has ever entered your body.”

  I quivered at the implication.

  He drew the tarp from the low-lying contraption.

  I eyed it, not understanding its use. There was a padded
bench and a wand attached to a machine that pointed toward the bench. My expression must have given away my confusion.

  “Perhaps you’ll understand if I add one of these.” He fished into a drawer at the foot of the bench, where inside lay an array of phallic-shaped ornaments. He selected the smallest and screwed it onto the end of the wand.

  Understanding at last, my knees went weak and my heart rate rose. “Do you have a name for your device?” I rasped.

  “I do. However, I’ll have to find a delicate one when I add it to the menu of treatments I offer my patients.”

  “What do you call it now?”

  “I call it a fucking machine.”

  The harsh word made my nipples spike hard. My hand covered my mons, not out of offended modesty or fear, but to rub.

  “When I start the engine, this wand will piston forward and back, mimicking the motion of a man’s hips as he drives into a woman.” His gaze turned from his treasure to my face. “Only this machine will never erupt prematurely, depriving the woman of her culmination, and the strength of the thrusts is controlled by the woman as well, so that she can select what pleases her.”

  My gaze roamed the contraption. “What must I do?”

  “Nothing, my dear. Bend over the bench. I will do the rest.”

  The look in his eyes, at once excited for his new invention and curious whether I would comply, made me nervous. I saw no straps on this device. “If I wish to move away after it begins…?”

  “Look over the edge of bench.”

  I bent and spotted a dial marked “Speed” and another marked “Depth”. I twisted both to the lowest settings but didn’t touch the toggle switch to turn it on. Control truly would rest in my own hands. I cleared my throat. “Must you watch?”

  “However will I determine if the machine requires adjustment?”

  I stiffened my spine against his crestfallen expression. However attractive the man was, the position I would take before this device would rob me of my dignity. “Can’t I make a record of my experiences?”

  After a direct look, he sighed, but nodded his head. “To adjust the height of the wand, use this turnkey.” He bent and whirled the wand up and down.

  I frowned. “Adjusting it correctly might prove awkward and time-consuming.” I knelt on the bench then rested on the padded platform. “Would you place it for me, and then leave?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  I held my breath as he inched up the gown over my buttocks, exposing me.

  “I’ll just lubricate the phallus with a little ointment.” Moist sounds were followed by a whirring while he rolled the wand up and down, then forward so that it touched my woman’s furrow. “You’ve the dials turned low?”

  “Yes,” I said, breathless now and feeling a little intimidated. “What if something goes wrong?”

  “It’s experimental—in its testing phase. That situation is possible.”

  “Perhaps…” I bit my lip, unable to meet his gaze at my wicked thought.

  “I’ll face away,” he said quickly, “unless you call out to me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, not meeting his gaze. “I’m over my bout of embarrassment.”

  “Wonderful! How brave you are, dear. Now, you have only to flip the switch.”

  I swallowed hard and reached for the toggle. As soon as I did, the phallus pressed slowly forward, entering me. I jerked in alarm and turned off the switch, giving a strangled laugh. “Sorry, I knew what would happen, but the sensation…”

  “You are inexperienced. Nervousness is to be expected.”

  At his calm voice, I closed my eyes and backed up to the phallus again then flipped the toggle. This time, I didn’t demur when it pressed inside me. The head only swept forward an inch or two before retreating, but the swelling I’d experienced earlier when I was aroused returned quickly. Again, the phallus came into me, and my womanly moisture leaked to anoint its head.

  “Oh my,” I said, slumping against the bench.

  The doctor knelt in front of me, his gaze locking with mine. “I think you can take so much more, Nurse Percy. Your treatment is progressing nicely.”

  “Indeed.” I took a deep fortifying breath. “Would you?” I said, waving a limp hand at the dials.

  He turned them, increasing the speed and depth then hurried to the rear of the platform. “I’ll want you to remember everything to document your impressions.”

  I was glad he wasn’t watching my face because I rolled my eyes. As if I would remember each impression! So many, so quickly. Delicious thickness entering me. My channel clasping eagerly. Moisture leaking more copiously from inside me. The phallus thrust fast and with remarkable precision, but I found I couldn’t move, couldn’t thrash like I wanted to in order to relieve my tension. “Doctor?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “The machine works quite nicely, but I don’t think I will culminate.” Irritation flashed through my rocking body. “Perhaps it’s just me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you. You simply need a human intervention.” He hurried around the front of the machine and turned it off. “Turn and sit at the edge of the bench.”

  I did so, spreading my legs at his touch. Then he licked the tips of his fingers and thrust two inside me while he rubbed my love knot. As shocking as his actions were, I welcomed his experienced touch.

  “You may move and make noises. I love the song a woman sings when she culminates.”

  “I’m tone deaf,” I muttered.

  His chuckle warmed me, and I followed my impulse and tweaked my nipples through my gown.

  He growled, his fingers thrust deeper, and the swirling created an intense sensation that had me lifting my legs to fold them over the doctor’s shoulders while I lay back on the padded bench.

  He didn’t seem to mind my little adjustment. His thrusts quickened and my breasts and belly tightened, my channel convulsed. “Doctor!”

  I culminated, my body writhing, my legs drawing the doctor closer until he braced an arm on the bench as he leaned over me. When the explosions rippling through me muted, I panted and opened my eyes to find him smiling softly downward.

  When I could find my voice, I said, “I’m sorry that I didn’t have patience to prove the efficacy of your new machine.”

  “Not to worry, Nurse Percy,” he said, his voice deep and filled with warmth. “We will continue our experiment. I have several new ideas to test.”

  I blinked then narrowed my eyes. I didn’t mind that he assumed I’d be eager to continue helping with his research, but I didn’t want him thinking I would be a passive vessel. “May I offer a few suggestions for improvements, sir?”

  His blue eyes glinted with pleasure. “My machines await your pleasure, my dear.”

  The Pleasure in Surrender

  ‡

  Kent, England, 1067 AD

  The first missive arrived without fanfare, passed through the iron bars of the barbican by a lone messenger dressed entirely in black.

  Sir Geade read the note, lifted a graying brow, and then passed the small scroll to Lady Edwina, who held it beneath the oak table to read it. Not that everyone wasn’t aware of the queer fact that she could read.

  Prepare for a wedding or a siege.

  With all gazes resting on her, Edwina schooled her expression into a neutral mask. “Should I thank him for the warning, Geade?”

  Sir Geade snorted. “He gives us time to retreat to the keep, stock the larders, and call our neighbors for assistance. Perhaps we should.”

  “What sort of warrior would give away his plan?” she murmured, not the least bit alarmed. Not yet.

  “Either a fool or one who’s supremely confident.”

  She traced the bold scrawl scratched across the parchment with her fingertip, knowing instinctively the bold knight had written the message himself. No proud scribe would pen a note so spare.

  Grimvarr had been written across the bottom—as if she should already know his name
and the two syllables should strike fear. “An odd name for a Norman knight.”

  As she swept from the hall, she would never have admitted that the word wedding had caused her more alarm than siege.

  In response to the warning, Edwina ordered the stores replenished and the flocks of sheep brought closer to the keep, but otherwise went about her business without worry.

  Who was this baseborn knight with designs on her demesne? Her overlord had assured her the choice of husband from among the eligible men in the region—once her grief was passed. That Edwina had every intention of nursing her grief for as many years as she could was a secret she kept to herself.

  But by the time the second missive arrived, she’d learned a thing or two about the mysterious Grimvarr. Lord Alred’s steward had been a font of gossip concerning the knight who’d earned the Duke of Normandy’s trust by barreling into the royal pretender to save him from an assassin’s arrow. That act had earned him the gift of her demesne. A fact she found humiliating to learn in such a manner, but since her overlord had yet to apprise her directly of the news, she preferred to assume it was only rumor. How could the pretender give a gently bred woman to a barbarian?

  Grimvarr was a Viking—or at least half the demon race, his father having abducted a Norman maiden and returned her promptly to her father when she’d spoiled his enjoyment by getting with child. And although he’d been raised by a Norman peer, he chose to dress in the fur and skins of his barbarian father.

  No doubt Alred’s man had embellished the tale to cause Edwina worry. His master would love to see her squirm after she’d refused his latest suggested mate, claiming she’d marry the pig keeper before she’d wed a man who’d already sent two wives to the grave in childbirth.

  While she kept her chin high and her comments derisive of her new “suitor” whenever he was mentioned in company, she’d suffered nightmares over the days before the second note arrived.