by Emily Tilton
Miss Rebecca Adams, as she made her way in the brilliant social circles to which her birth, natural though it was, entitled her to aspire, and as she made her debut under the eyes of the world with the title of the season’s loveliest belle, would have her coming out supervised by the society. Her future husband and master would already have been chosen, and he would have access to her charms at the society’s home in Knightsbridge, where Miss Adams would make a daily journey for training and, if necessary, punishment.
The intention of the society, though, was not to make of Miss Adams a fallen woman, but rather to burnish her charms so that even as she learned to serve the man she would marry, her social standing would grow until at last upon her marriage she could assume her rightful place at the head of the ton. To render this outcome likely, or even possible, Dr. Brown must here and now ensure her assent to certain ideas about her erotic development. If he failed, the girl would quickly show herself, at least in the severe eyes of the town, to be a shameless hussy. Rumors of her sexual exploits, beginning with the footman William but also, the doctor feared, very soon not ending there, would doom her chance at brilliance in town. Even daily punishment from her future bridegroom would perhaps serve only to increase the strength of her tendency to slip off with another footman or to dally with a handsome clerk in the shrubbery, there to yield up the pleasures of her charming young body in pursuit at once of lewd delight and further bare-bottom correction.
The society could, of course, simply place Miss Adams elsewhere, with a husband who would train and enjoy her far from London—in America or Australia, even. Such might very well prove her fate, if she remained defiant—and it would hardly be an improper or even a truly unfortunate destiny for a spirited girl such as she. In Miss Rebecca Adams, however, the society hoped to have, eventually, a champion among the women of the ton. To send her to America as the fine English bride of some New York tycoon would disappoint that hope, though perhaps it would aid in the larger project of spreading Dr. Brown’s views on natural marital relations to new shores.
“Yes,” the doctor said sternly. “I have found it out despite James Oakes’ brave efforts to conceal it for the sake of your honor and that of Mr. and Mrs. Rand. Turn your eyes back to your vagina now, Miss Adams. I wish to see how you masturbate, and I wish you to see it too, since it will acquaint you very thoroughly with the anatomy of your clitoris.”
“How I wh-what?” she demanded, her voice seeming to poise itself between defiance and meekness.
“Masturbate, Miss Adams. That is what we call the practice of pleasuring yourself, as I feel quite certain you do regularly, from what I have seen of your lubricious nature.”
“But… but I…”
Dr. Brown waited patiently for the girl to formulate this very important response to the revelation of her indecency—as the moralizing world thought it, at least.
“Yes, Miss Adams?”
To his surprise, her defiance returned. “I believe,” she said haughtily, composing her features into a sort of mask of aristocratic carelessness, “that what I do with my own body should not concern anyone but myself.”
Dr. Brown smiled at her. The expression seemed to take her aback, and a tiny, momentary crease in her brow betrayed the fragility of the oppositional tone upon which she had fixed as her response to the doctor’s humiliating discourse.
“That is entirely true,” he said, relaxing his severe demeanor just a little while he continued nonetheless to make clear that he held an authority over Miss Adams that entitled him to her compliance, “from a certain perspective. Indeed, it is an important part of my purpose here today to impress upon you that your sexual needs, including the need that causes your daily—or perhaps even more frequent?”
He looked at her a little sharply then, and Miss Adams turned her eyes away. He had found a little opening, he thought with some relief.
“Ah, yes. As I thought. Night and morning.”
The girl’s face, still turned away, twisted into frustration, and then turned back to him searchingly, as if she had remembered his conditional confirmation of her right to pleasure her own body.
“As I was saying, the need that causes your frequent masturbation, Miss Adams, along with the need that caused you to surrender your virginity to a handsome, if unworthy, young man, is a healthy, natural impulse. When your husband trains you, you will probably be allowed to masturbate almost as frequently as you do now, so long as you prove yourself obedient to his commands.”
Now Miss Adams’ eyes grew very wide. Dr. Brown decided he must try to widen the opening he had discovered.
“And, of course, provided you learn to regulate your conduct with modesty and the proper regard for society’s notions of shame and honor.”
She tossed her head at that and looked away into the corner of the room, but Dr. Brown said nothing. Miss Adams rewarded him only a moment later by returning her eyes to his face.
“Trains me?” she whispered.
“Yes, Miss Adams,” the doctor said. “You will be trained, both before and after your marriage, in the ways of pleasing your husband, and of submission to his will. Neither your shamelessness nor your defiance will be tolerated by the man to whom my employers will give you.”
“I do not…” She shook her head, and her face seemed to try to find a properly defiant expression, but without success. “I do not understand, and I feel quite sure you must be deceived, somehow, in your beliefs, Doctor.”
The words had defiance in their meaning, but she spoke them woodenly, as if some part of her mind fed them to her one at a time as a sort of last-ditch defense.
“What you are sure of, Miss Adams, holds very little weight at this moment. You will understand in time. For the present, it will suffice for me to say that while masturbation is a healthy natural practice, your happiness will be best assured when a natural man, given charge of you, takes you in hand and punishes you if he finds you masturbating without his permission.”
He watched her eyes as his words found their mark in her lascivious soul. Pink spots appeared in her cheeks, and spread as she—involuntarily, Dr. Brown felt certain—glanced at the mirror and saw her pretty vagina, the place where she had had such seemingly innocent fun all by herself.
“Now go ahead, if you please, Miss Adams. Show me how you masturbate.”
The crease came back to her brow, and she shook her head gently, but her eyes remained fixed on the mirror.
“Look at what my strap did down there,” Dr. Brown said softly. “You don’t want more of those stripes, do you?”
The head-shaking became more violent, and her left hand rose from her side and hovered in the air above her thigh.
“You use your right hand to touch your clitoris, I imagine?” he asked. “You may shift the mirror to your left.”
The little revelation of his knowledge as to her practices drew a tiny sob from her, but she complied, and now it was her right hand that hovered, but much closer to the place between her legs that the doctor knew must now be warm and aching.
“Your sexual parts, as you asserted a moment ago, do indeed belong to you, Miss Adams,” he said gently. “But in a more important sense, as both nature and society would have it—at least as I understand the natural force of sexual desire—you hold them in trust for your husband, who is their true master.”
Miss Adams’ mouth had fallen open, now, and her breath came in little pants. Dr. Brown grew a little easier in his mind, at her libidinous response. She must have discovered in herself, he reflected, her natural need for mastery—a need made all the stronger by the will to opposition in her character.
“You have had first coitus, the penis inside you, with a man who will not own your body, as your husband will. When you touch yourself now, you will find your vagina open and ready someday soon to receive the penis of the man who will own that part of you, and every other part as well. As your husband’s representative, now, I give you permission to masturbate, Miss Adams. Show me how yo
u do it, if you please. Stimulate yourself all the way to orgasm, so I may observe that process as well.”
Miss Adams gave a little cry as she obeyed at last, and—the doctor felt sure—found her clitoris full of more pleasure than she had ever found there before.
“Look in the mirror,” he commanded. “Watch how the clitoris itself emerges from its hood, as you stroke it. That’s it, Miss Adams.”
Her hips moved on the bed, bucking against the pleasuring hand.
“Is that how you do it, Miss Adams,” he asked, “or do you use your other hand as well?”
“Sometimes,” she gasped. Then, “Oh, please… no…” as if the pleasure had become unbearable, and the awakening of her modesty too sharp.
“Upon your bottom?” he asked, pursuing further. “Around your anus?”
“Oh, heavens… I…”
“Do you touch your anus, Miss Adams? Answer, if you please. Your husband will have coitus with you there as well.”
Chapter Eleven
Rebecca could scarcely comprehend the doctor’s words. Coitus must be… he had said the word before, when he had clearly meant what William had taught her to call fucking. But… how could a husband do that there? She wanted suddenly to ask Thomasina about the husband and wife she had seen through the keyhole—had the husband… had he told his young bride that she must have his hardness in her bottom? Had he put it there, and thrust it in and out just as if he were fucking her vagina, even though the bride’s bottom-hole was so small?
Her fingers slipped up and down, and she watched the act the doctor had called masturbation in the mirror, and she understood somehow that it was very naughty, this thing she did in bed, in secret. Perhaps the way the little bud did peep out, burning under fingers as she rubbed it so shamelessly, seeking her pleasure, told her of the naughtiness—or perhaps it was the way the coral inner lips seemed to want to keep her fingers there, or the wet sounds that she could hear so clearly because she had neither night rail nor counterpane to cover her illicit joy.
She looked, in the mirror, at the tiny aperture between her punished bottom cheeks. She seemed to have no resistance to her self-pleasure, wicked or not, now; she found herself, in order wordlessly to answer Dr. Brown, moving her fingers downward, from where she had been rubbing up and down her inner lips as a way of giving her so-easily-overstimulated clitoris a little rest.
Did the husband put his hard penis in his wife’s little anus? Did he? Did she say, No, please, Roderick, and did he have to spank her to teach her her duty before she would let him? Rebecca felt sure that Thomasina would have told her that part, if she had seen it. She couldn’t ward off the blush that had hold of her whole upper body, now, as her middle finger found the tiny place, rubbed it, as, yes, she had rubbed it so many times before, masturbating, yes, with one hand in front and one hand behind, the bedclothes in her mouth to muffle her cries of helpless pleasure. Only a whimper came from her throat, now, because she was not also frantically caressing the little nub, at the other end: the place where all the pleasure gathered.
“Ah,” said the doctor. “Thank you, Miss Adams. Please insert that finger in your anus, now, to teach you what it will be like when your future husband begins to train you there for his penis. And, of course, please continue to watch yourself in the mirror.”
“Oh, but…”
“Here,” he said rather brusquely. “I shall hold the mirror for you, and you may use one hand upon your clitoris and the other to penetrate your anus.”
Rebecca felt the oak handle of the looking glass removed from her left hand. Dr. Brown angled the device perfectly so that she could still see where her wicked fingers did their naughty work. She supposed she had never conceived of a mirror as a device, but now she suddenly perceived the article to be quite as disciplinary in its character as the doctor’s strap: flirts and seducers like Miss Rebecca Adams must be made to see exactly how far their conduct lay beyond the bounds of socially acceptable behavior.
With a little sob, flying from the idea of her masturbation’s shamefulness but somehow also, like the coquette she had determined herself to be, embracing it, she obeyed the doctor. She showed him, and she showed herself in a manner she had never thought she would be made to see. She displayed exactly how she played with herself, her right hand gentle upon her clitoris and her left firmer around her bottom-hole.
Rebecca had thought about it, hadn’t she? She had thought about putting her middle finger just where the doctor had now commanded she put it.
She did cry out, then, in a way she always muffled when she played with herself at night and in the morning, and she felt her face turning beet red with the shame of which she perceived she might never rid herself. Had Dr. Brown truly found a way to teach her the modesty James Oakes couldn’t, even with his big hand?
Oh, no. The thought of James. The thought of his big hand… his big spanking hand.
The image of him, doing a thing Rebecca felt sure he would never do, because he seemed far too kind and far too honorable. James, telling her. James, pointing to the bed. James, instructing her in her duty, where her bottom and its tiny flower were concerned. You are still a virgin there, are you not, Miss Adams? Well, we will change that this instant.
She panted and gasped and cried out as she watched, unable now to take her eyes from the terrible sight of the self-pleasure that could only mean that James was right, that Dr. Brown was right, that she must learn a lesson in modesty—the sort of lesson only a worthy man could teach her. Only that worthy man had the resolve and the bravery necessary to overcome her defiance and to bend Miss Rebecca Adams to his will, in his bedchamber and everywhere else.
My prick will go in there, Rebecca, James said in her mind. Right where you have put that naughty finger.
She gave one final, long cry, and her release washed over her. What had the doctor called it? Orgasm? Somehow the sound of the word, the throaty consonants in the middle of it and the quiet sibilance at its end, seemed to match the paroxysm that swept over her now, as explosive as any she had ever given herself before.
“There,” the doctor said. “Very pretty. Continue to masturbate until the orgasm has entirely passed.”
Her fingers’ practically involuntary movement slowed, then ceased. The pleasure seeped from her belly, her whipped bottom, her hips, and finally from her clitoris itself.
“Take the mirror again, if you please,” Dr. Brown said, his voice seeming to come from a long way away. “So that you may watch the actual examination.”
Rebecca’s brow furrowed as she found the oak handle difficult to grasp, now, because of the slipperiness of her fingers.
Noticing it, Dr. Brown said, “Do not have any anxiety for the mirror’s cleanliness, Miss Adams. I shall sanitize it after we are finished. Your vaginal lubrication has nothing unsanitary about it, truly, either.”
The modesty he had somehow found inside her by forcing her to pleasure herself in front of him seemed not to have receded with the ecstasy of the act. Rebecca felt her brow pucker at the thought of vaginal lubrication. Lubrication, so that…
The doctor seemed very well acquainted with the habitual pathways of his patients’ thoughts, for he said, “We term those secretions lubrication because nature has designed them perfectly so as to ease the penis’ path inside you.”
Rebecca bit her lip. How could she have thought herself shameless, she wondered desperately, when Dr. Brown seemed able to wind her once-departed modesty up like a spinning top, and then pull the string to let it go on its own for as long as he liked.
“When the footman penetrated you for the first time, there, were you well lubricated?” he asked in a matter-of-fact way. “From what I observed just now I would guess you were, but many different factors can affect the success of first coitus.”
He had taken up the strange metal device he termed a speculum again, and held it now pointed toward her vagina. He did not look up as he addressed Rebecca, but instead seemed fully intent on the part of the
body under his consideration and, it appeared, over which he meant to exercise a special authority.
For my future husband, the thought came to her again. He means to… to prepare me. To begin my training. The heat crept back into her cheeks.
Well, perhaps Rebecca now knew where her modesty might be found, but she meant to ensure that she sought it out—or was forced to seek it out—as seldom as possible. She had her defiance, and the three red stripes, now fading a little but showing that they would leave their scarlet and then purple marks for a day or perhaps even two, would not dissuade her from it.
But she must answer him, must she not? For a shameless girl, who could put away her modesty when she wished, would do her best to show herself entirely frank in these matters. Perhaps Rebecca could not control her blushes as completely as she would wish. Nevertheless, she could at least feign a candor about her vagina, and what her future husband might do there.
“Yes,” she said, after only a moment’s hesitation. “Quite well, Doctor.” She suppressed, at the very last moment, a bizarre urge to add, Thank you for inquiring. That amused her, and she found her mouth crooking up into a smile, as the blush receded and with it her feeling of helplessness to stand in shame’s way as it came to drag her along the thorny way of virtue and to continue instead up the path of the flirt with its strange flowers.
Could she do this, after all? Follow the path she had chosen even before she knew precisely what it meant, and what it felt like to see the footman’s prick, feel it opening you in the woods, with his leering, if handsome, face above you as he greedily molded your still-corseted breasts?