So the whole “Victorian doctors gave hysterical women orgasms” thing is closer to an urban legend than any certain truth. Even gynaecological massages to cure “nymphomania” and the like were not about the sexual satisfaction of the patient - on the contrary, some doctors apparently advocated that the techniques should even be uncomfortable or painful to the patient.
Which, of course, doesn’t lessen the potential.
Just… imagine, for a second. Your legs up on the stirrups and your waist strapped down so you can’t move an inch. There’s a sheet thrown over your knees and lower body, a facade of modesty, because you know that anyone who sits between your legs can absolutely see everything.
Imagine a doctor, obstinate and severe and very, very set on the idea that his patient shouldn’t feel even a modicum of pleasure, or even comfort, during his treatments - after all, that would just encourage your unhealthy and unnatural licentiousness.
“I won’t pretend that this will be pleasant for you. But do try to bear it with dignity,” he says coolly, as he snaps the gloves on his hands. It’s not to ensure safety and hygiene for you - he just doesn’t want his hands to come into contact with your lustful flesh.
He looks at you like you’d be a dead animal to be dissected as he reaches underneath the sheet, and you jolt when you feel his touch between your thighs. He runs his fingers down to your hole and feels around it, tracing its shape, clinical, yet without cruelty. It isn’t too bad. You make the mistake of sighing quietly in relief.
His disgust is clear enough what with the way his nose scrunches up and how he grimaces at you.
“Seems like I underestimated the severity of your affliction,” he hisses through gritted teeth. That’s the only warning you get before two of his long, thick, rubber-clad fingers are shoved inside you, violently. There’s a shadow of relief on his face when he hears your choked cry, more reminiscent of a victim of stabbing than a whore.
“There we go,” he says, and his tone is polite even as you whine and squeeze your eyes shut. His fingers pump in and out of your unprepared hole slowly, but with all the gentleness and care of a machine. The dry friction and your body’s obvious resistance hinder him none, and you can even hear him hum to himself when you let out a pathetic little sob.
“Now, to stabilize your errant womb…” he murmurs, and places one hand over your stomach while the other one focuses on feeling you up on the inside, much like one might feel the insides of something dead instead of the warm, whimpering thing that you are.
You cry out when something inside you breaks and stings, and you feel a warm, wet trickle of blood down your ass. The doctor glances down, and even through the tears in your eyes you can see him wear a wry smile. He gives you a half-hearted apology, something about how “your future husband probably won’t even notice”. And then, he starts to plunge his fingers into your bleeding cunt faster, as if urged on by your pathetic “pleases” and “nos” and “stops” in between the sobs.
He doesn’t realise when those gasps of yours stop being the results of pain. You don’t even realise it yourself - not until you notice, too late, that the anxiety-inducing stretch of it has calmed into a pleasant fullness, the worst burn of it turned into intoxicating warmth that sizzles at the bottom of your stomach. He presses his hand over your stomach, kneading your womb from the outside, and you suck in a sharp breath when the fingers inside you reach impossibly deep.
“There we go, at least the cervix is in the right place,” he nods, more to himself than to you. You can’t even recognize your own voice when he starts massaging you where no one, not even yourself, has ever touched. He sees the utterly terrified look in your wet eyes and smugly coos how “it’s okay, it’ll be over soon”, but you want to tell him to never stop, even as you can’t distinguish which part of the pressure in your cunt is pain and which is pleasure.
And when you come to, you realise his hands on you are frozen. He stares at you from behind his glasses with a look of horror that soon twists into loathing.
“Did you just come? Around my fingers?”
You don’t know how to answer. Your head is still swimming, your throat is hoarse and useless, but it’s the cold, suffocating fear that makes any sound die on your tongue.
“You are so much more ill than I had thought,” he spits out, and pulls his hands off of you in disgust. He grimaces when he sees the glistening, red-smeared slick on his once impeccably white rubber gloves. His eyes drift to the instrument table, and you begin to tremble, every last, lingering bit of the warm afterglow draining from you at the sight of all the nickel plated brass and steel.
“I see that curing you will require much more intensive treatments. Don’t expect to get out of this facility any time soon.”
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