Rating: Explicit
Relationship: Patrick Sumner/Fem Reader Insert
Tags: Doctor/Patient, Pelvic Massage, Hand & Finger Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Penis In Vagina Sex, Unsafe Sex, Medical Kink, Post-Canon, Healing Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Medical Jargon, Tragic Backstory, Hopeful Ending, Smoking, Female Reader-Insert, Infidelity
Words: 4,979 (total words: 20,809)
Chapter: 1/3 (read chapter 2 | 3)
read it on ao3 here or below the cut
When your husband gives you an order, it's to be taken seriously. Not because you like or even respect him, but because you fear the repercussions for disobedience.
Today, he's ordered you to see his doctor for treatment.
Now, you do respect physicians. You trust medicine. But you’re fearful of them, too. Once upon a time, you associated the practice with friendly faces, warm camaraderie, and the power of healing, but they've long since been replaced with memories of dark, hot rooms, white cadavers, and the stench of death.
You’ve already assumed this new doctor will label you as unstable and dismiss you, just as the others have.
Or he might actually listen and supply you with what you need. Wouldn't that be a splendid change?
You arrive punctually, as always, which gives you a moment to pace the hallway, working through your nerves, before you gather the courage to knock on the door to the doctor's flat.
The face that appears behind the door gives you quite the shock. You've been expecting an old man. That’s the only kind of person your husband typically respects.
But Dr. Sumner is quite young. Still there's a worn, tired look that seems to deepen the space around his steely blue eyes. You can imagine he's seen things, likely worse than you have, though you hope you don’t wear your past trauma so evidently.
Despite his weariness—or maybe because of it—he's strikingly handsome, boyish yet worldly. Today he's dressed in a woolen jumper, tweed trousers and suspenders. His chestnut brown hair is neatly combed back, and there's a tinge of red red in his moustache, waxed and curled gently at the edges, its appearance softened by the surrounding stubble.
“Schön sie kennenzulernen,” he says as he invites you into his home, gesturing with a smoking pipe in his hand.
You were warned he isn't German, but his Deutsch is confident—very proper, and spoken with a self-assured ease. You wonder how long he's been here in Berlin.
Dr. Sumner leads you past the handsomely dressed parlour into his office. An examination bed awaits in the centre of the room, essentially an elevated chaise longe, with a small table beside it, and there are tables, shelves, cabinets, and medicine chests along the room’s perimeter, housing odds and ends, countless little jars, and an impressive number of medical volumes in various languages.
You can't help but admire his collection. It's familiar and homey, and you notice the muscles in your jaw, neck, and shoulders relax ever so slightly.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Dr. Sumner,” you finally say.
You want to speak English with him. It might disarm him, and with the language forbidden at home, you miss how the words feel on your lips.
He’s caught off guard for just a moment, hardly allowing it to show, before he quickly collects his composure. Meanwhile, you take a seat at the foot of the chaise. A thin throw is folded into a neat square at the head.
“Please, call me Mr. Sumner,” he insists. “Or Patrick, even. I’m not a practicing doctor.”
You’ve forgotten already, the persistent fog in your memory striking again.
Of course, you were only vaguely aware of the details in the first place. From what you understand, he's a wealthy man who knows medicine, rendering his services by direct referral only. There’s some word of legal trouble back in England beyond his helping, but it’s understood that he’s among the very best—and very discreet.
“Of course, Patrick,” you answer.
“You've come alone?”
Just two years ago, your husband would have sent a chaperone. Now, he doesn't bother. It's not so unusual to see women going about their business independently these days, which means fewer Vereinsthaler he must spend on you.
“Yes,” you answer. “It's not a long walk and the movement does me good.”
“You hardly have an accent.”
“My father was English. A professor at the Charité.”
“He was a physician?” he wonders.
“Yes.”
Patrick furrows his brow, his forehead creasing into deep lines at the suggestion.
“And you’re coming to me for a medical examination?”
“My husband says there's no one better, and he doesn’t trust the university’s doctors. Says they are too liberal, their heads filled with nonsense.”
He puts the pipe between his lips, puffing on it. You wonder if he craves the stilling buzz of the tobacco or is buying himself a moment to think.
“And you?” he asks.
“I was raised around the university, so I ascribe to their school of thought. I believe strongly in logic as well as humanity. He and I are of differing opinions.”
“And he believes me to be conservative. More traditional and practical in thought,” Patrick says with a strained smile, like it's quite humourous to him.
Your husband has always been a poor judge of character.
And Patrick's smile is lovely. You wish it could stick around longer.
“That’s what I understand,” you say.
“I suppose what he doesn’t know can't hurt him. He’s a stubborn fellow. Set in his ways."
“Yes, you could say that.”
“But please rest assured that I, too, am a man of science and will treat you with the utmost care, and with the most modern methods available to me. Now, he made your condition out to be quite serious, though he wouldn’t discuss your care with me. I'd like to examine you now, if that's all right.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I'll leave the room for you to undress. Please cover yourself with the blanket for modesty, and call for me…”
“No need,” you insist. “You may just turn around, I'm no prude.”
He hesitates just long enough for you to notice.
“All right,” he answers as turns to face a wall.
It takes a long while to disrobe entirely, starting with your gloves, to make the rest simpler. First, you pull away your dressing gown—green, with black lace trimming. Then come your petticoat and hoop shirt, then the chemisette and corsette, and then off go your shoes, stockings and garters. Finally, you slip out of your chemise and drawers.
You've gotten used to getting dressed and undressed without help, though it's still a process. Part of you wishes he'd be naughty and take a peek, but no such thing comes to pass. For a moment, you consider refusing to cover up, to see him turn and take in your nakedness in full. You're not quite sure what's gotten into you. Well, you have an idea.
Instead, you do just as he says, and when you call, he returns. Upon a small table beside you, he sets his pipe into a finely carved stand made of the same rich red-brown wood. Thus begins your examination.
Patrick is frustratingly professional, gentle yet focussed as he examines your eyes and the inside of your mouth, and then runs a soft finger along the curve of your chin, and down the line of your neck. He has a scent about him, sharp and clean, that's unfamiliar but oddly soothing.
As he does, he asks you general questions. You tell him when and where you were born, that you've no occupation except as wife and housemaker, and where you live now.
He's curious about your family medical history. You tell him what you can, but your kin have rarely lived long enough to see these kinds of issues develop. You're an only child, and your father was relatively young when pneumonia took him. Your mother left you even younger, following your carriage accident. You survived, of course, though you still bear the scars in your skin as well as in your mind. Patrick doesn't linger on the damaged tissue too long, perhaps afraid to reopen that mental wound.
Maybe it's good he's distracting you with painful questions, because your heart flutters when he holds two warm, strong fingers to the pulse in your carotid artery to measure it.
From there, he takes a close look at your hands, which seem dainty and useless against the rough yet careful strength of his strong palms and fingers. You appreciate their soft touch, lamenting when he lets go while anticipating where they may touch you next.
Patrick asks permission before his hands go beneath your cover to examine your breasts, his gaze carefully averted as he presses around in your yielding flesh with a light, thorough touch. He applies a similar pressure down along your abdomen and pelvis.
The work is dutiful, comprehensive, and without distraction. Patrick's competency only makes him even more desirable.
“Physically, you appear to be in good health,” he says at last. “Perhaps a slightly rapid heartbeat, but that’s not unusual during an examination. Apologies if I’ve made you nervous in any way.”
Or, your pulse has given away precisely how you feel about him, and he's being diplomatic.
“So tell me what’s been troubling you. Hold nothing back. And remember that this is fully confidential. I will not breathe a word to a soul about what’s exchanged here.”
The especially your husband is firmly implied.
“It's a number of things, really,” you start slow. “It takes me hours to fall asleep, and I feel poorly rested when I wake. I suffer from frequent headaches and often feel lost in a sort of mental fog. I forget things—obvious, necessary things—and have no appetite. I feel anxious and irritable, and my moods make me behave badly. I find myself resorting to coarse language…”
“Directed at whom?”
“My husband, mostly,” you answer. “But never within earshot.”
“And does he deserve it?”
You pause to consider.
“Yes.”
“I thought so. Please go on, I apologise for the interruption.”
“Perhaps the worst part is the lack of desire to get out of my bed. The overwhelming sense of joylessness.”
You can't manage to squeak out the one symptom that's most pertinent now—lustfulness, usually directed at no one at all, but now very adamantly felt for the intelligent, kindly, and beautiful man before you.
“I'm very sorry to hear that,” he says, gently, his watch over you careful and observant. “And do you have a hypothesis about the nature of your condition?”
Yes, he's very clever. He can see it in your eyes.
“It’s my understanding that it might be a case of female hysteria.”
“I see.”
Patrick's expression remains unchanged, stoic.
“Does that seem consistent with my symptoms?” you wonder, trying to wring the yearning hope from your voice.
“It's challenging to say. First and foremost, because I don’t believe it’s a valid diagnosis.”
This is not what you've been waiting to hear.
“How do you mean?”
He sighs before he answers.
“I don't believe male and female physiology to be so dissimilar, beyond the obvious anatomical differences—and even that, I've seen not to be the clear binary people seem to think. Woman or man, we are all human beings, and I doubt your illness—whatever it is—stems innately from the feminine mind or the body, but instead from your experiences.”
“And what kinds of experiences would those be?”
“Neglect, usually,” he says. “Your very human needs—intellectual, aspirational, social, romantic—might not be satisfied by your place in society. By family, friends, your husband, other lovers.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That any disorder you’re experiencing, whether physical or emotional, has nothing to do with your womb wandering throughout the body and wreaking havoc on your lungs and stomach and brain, but instead your feeling like less than human in a world made for man.”
It makes all the sense in the world, but it's completely unhelpful.
“Other doctors have ‘prescribed’ childbirth,” you suggest.
“But you’ve borne no children.”
“Correct.”
“Do you wish to?”
“No. I’ve no desire to raise a child.”
“Then, in my estimation, it's ideal that you haven’t. I believe being forced into the role of a nurturer and caregiver would do nothing for these ailments, and instead would simply amplify your distress. How does your husband feel about this?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“And are you engaging in regular coitus with him?”
“No. Not for a long while. He’s not home much. As head of a private railway company, he’s travelling frequently. When he is around, he's often too drunk, or has his attentions turned elsewhere.”
“You mean he's sleeping with other women?”
“Yes. He hides it poorly. Doesn’t think I know.”
“And he blames your own unhappiness on you, while dodging any blame himself. Of course.” Patrick shakes his head, like the disgust he feels should be expected. You know the feeling well. “Tell me, what do you do to occupy your time? What diverts you?”
“I read, mostly. Sometimes I entertain friends—though they are more so my husband’s friends’ wives. Servants do the cooking and keep the house tidy. My mother-in-law lives with us and hosts the gatherings and manages our social and community obligations.”
“If his mother weren't there, would you take pleasure in taking over those duties?”
“I suppose not. No, I dread the thought.”
“It's no wonder, then, that you feel so aimless. This life has deprived you of purpose.”
As he gives you a moment to contemplate this, he lifts his pipe. His instruments are there to gently tamp the tobacco and he strikes a match, allowing it to burn a few seconds before relighting. He takes a long, soft draw to maintain the light.
“May I?” you ask.
It takes only a second for him to register your meaning before he turns the pipe your way, holding it from the shank so you can wrap your lips around the stem. You pull in a puff before he takes it away, and enjoy the aroma of the smoke, harsh and sweet all at once, as it lingers against your tongue before you allow it to escape between your lips.
“My husband does provide for me,” you add.
You're not sure why you feel the need to defend him suddenly.
“Financially and structurally, perhaps,” Patrick suggests. “Do you feel supported in any other sense?”
“No,” you answer, without hesitation. You know this well enough.
“Would you consider yourself an educated woman?”
“Yes. I received a formal secondary education. In my youth, my father would also invite me to the university on occasion for informal debates with students as well as faculty and doctors.”
“Today, many might view that as dangerous. Independent thought itself—particularly from a woman—is seen as a malady.”
“What is my diagnosis, then?”
“I’d say it’s a case of melancholia,” he answers. “You're a brilliant woman of intellect with nowhere to channel it. Others might recommend rest and relaxation, to try to ignore and overcome these symptoms. I’ve witnessed enough to see the way it can strangle a human being. Bleed the hope from you, even when you’ve got all the things you need to live. Finding a meaningful purpose to live towards is not a cure, but it can alleviate this heaviness. And what you're feeling can be inborn, but also exacerbated dreadfully by modern living. Particularly without other souls to rely on.”
It's strange to have the painful truth of things summed up so succinctly. That he's actually listened, and understands. And tragic, because there’s not much you can do about any of it.
“So you won't treat me?” Your question escapes as a begged whisper.
“I intend to try,” Patrick says, reassuring you with a nod.
A glimmer of hope sparks in your chest. You've been skirting the issue, but it's now or never.
“I've been told a pelvic massage may lessen my pains,” you blurt out.
His brows raise.
“A pelvic massage to ‘anchor the uterus,’” Patrick says. “It’s not at all scientific.”
“The ‘friends’ I've spoken to swear by it,” you insist. “They’ve said releasing pent up fluids helped their moods and their rest.”
You leave out the bit about it feeling funny in a good way, a little like being drunk on champagne.
“I see. And you believe that's what you need?”
“Please. I’m desperate. I'll try anything.”
Patrick clears his throat, clutching both hands together before him.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he says, with a kind of intense, unbroken eye contact that makes the hairs on your arms stand deliciously on end. “I understand the pelvic massage to be not medicine or treatment, but a sex act. It’s not a paroxysm—a spasm or seizure—it induces, but an orgasm. Like a man when he ejaculates.”
“Oh…” is all you manage to utter.
“I once took an oath to do no harm. I've not strictly stuck by it since, but I intend to do so with you. I believe harm may come to you by ignoring these desires. So, if you trust me, I believe this may help you.”
“I trust you.” It's the truth. “Do you really think you can make me… orgasm?”
“I’ve no doubt about it,” he answers. “Now, lie back.”
You do so, using your dress layers as a pillow to prop up your head as the tingle of want grows between your legs. Meanwhile Patrick steps away towards one corner of the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleansing my hands,” he explains as he ladles clear liquid from one bucket over his hands, emptying into the basin below. “A Dr. Semmelweis has proposed rinsing with a solution of water and chlorine to rid the hands of any stench that might cause infection. I find the data promising.”
He then dips his hands in another bucket before carefully drying them on a clean towel hanging from a wall rack and collects a small white bottle.
When he returns to you on the chaise, you're beginning to feel impatient, laid back under the blanket with your legs spread gently for him. That sharp scent hits your nostrils again. It must be the chlorine. You might forever associate it with this powerful state of arousal and eagerness.
“And your husband knows you’re here for this?” Patrick asks.
“Yes, he demanded it.”
Your gaze falls upon Patrick's hands, thick for his size and strongly veined. His squareish fingernails are cut short, tidy, and flawlessly clean.
Finally, Patrick pulls back the cover to reveal your legs, and your sex.
He swallows hard at seeing the wetness leaking from your slit. You'd forgotten how it felt to get soaked for someone—a thing you hadn't experienced since you were young, and you'd take a lover because he was dashing and fun and you were keen on going to bed with him.
“For your friends’ exams,” Patrick asks, his voice clear, still principled as ever, “was penetration involved?”
“No. They said the stimulation was external only.”
“Will it be all right if I also stimulate you internally?” he asks, and it delights you he seems almost nervous to ask.
“Yes, please.”
“And I intended to use this aqueous lubricant, but…” Patrick puts down the bottle. “You appear more than ready. I'll be happy to apply some if it'll make you more comfortable?”
“No.”
You want to feel him.
He instructs you to move towards the end of the seat, your cunt awaiting him at its edge, with your feet planted on either side, your knees directly above them.
At last, he slides his beautiful index and middle fingers inside if you, palm up, and despite your thorough natural lubrication, you feel stretched wide. You manage to keep down a groan that grows in your throat.
“You may feel a stronger connection with the sensation if you keep your eyes on my hand,” he suggests, but you can't help but watch his face, and the intensity of his focus there. You stare into his eyes, and his gaze occasionally flits to your face away from his hand buried inside you.
“Are you familiar with the prostate?” he asks, still professional and doctorly in a way that's maddening and arousing all at once.
You simply nod.
“200 years ago, Dutch physician Regnier de Graaf speculated there to be a similar gland in women. It exists—quite evidently, to anyone looking for it. Though scientifically, it's not yet been researched. Most academics find the whole thing quite lewd. Here's yours.”
Patrick hooks his fingers upward, coaxing you from within, and you shudder with pleasure, moaning aloud.
Immediately, you quiet yourself, covering your mouth with both hands.
“No, no, noise is good,” he insists. “Let me hear if what I’m doing works for you. Bodies are all different. Help me know what you prefer. What you need.”
In a building of very private flats like this, no one will be able to hear you.
Emboldened, you cry aloud with every pulse of his hand inside you. His movements are steady, at first, but gradually, he builds his speed, so every stroke feels just a bit better than the last.
And yes, you feel positively drunk. It's not just pleasurable but also freeing, and every little shout feels like it's releasing something caged too long inside you. You may be a little in love with the handsome doctor, and now that he's found his rhythm with you, your gazes lock. He's watching you as you jerk and gasp, rocking to fuck his fingers in return.
It feels like both an eternity and no time at all before your gasps start running together and the pleasure swells into an immeasurable wave, overriding every faculty as his hand vibrates into you almost imperceptibly. You don't recognise the scream of bliss that comes out of you as your insides grip around his fingers, desperate.
It's just the thing you didn't know you've been chasing.
You leave the chaise soaked, and Patrick's panting nearly as hard as you are, his fingers still hidden in you. He's got a glint in his eye, and the expression of a man struggling to conceal a smile.
“I believe I can make you come again,” he says. “By a different method. In case I'm wrong and there are other benefits, we may as well be safe.”
“May as well.” You grin.
Patrick clears his throat.
“The clitoris is another important sex organ for pleasure, analogous to the penis,” he says. “Even more sensitive, it's said.”
He just has to brush yours with the tip of a finger of his other hand to jolt you with sensation and elicit a harsh whimper.
“Too much?” he asks, careful not to touch it again until you answer.
“No, God no,” you moan. “Please don't stop.”
He resumes his work, stroking your tender spot within and gently teasing your clit, using both hands to pleasure you. The climb happens much more quickly this time.
“Oh, just like that, Patrick,” you can't help but yell out. “Just like that, just like that…”
And you're there again, now groaning nonsense, punctuated with his muttered name, as you convulse, the feeling that seems too perfect to be real radiating out from where he touches you to filter into every inch of your being.
“Thank you,” you mutter, and you love how weak and far away your voice sounds now. “Thank you, Patrick.”
He nods in response, finally withdrawing his hands.
“You can perform both of those acts on yourself as well,” he says.
“It won't cause cancer?” you wonder.
“Not at all. Masturbation is perfectly safe and healthy. Much safer than intercourse, actually.”
He may have introduced you to a dangerous new diversion.
“Now, another physician might say that was a successful treatment. He’d claim your symptoms are now relieved. And as much as you might experience an improvement, I don't believe your problems are solved. I'd like to get to the bottom of this with further consultations, once a fortnight…”
“Patrick?” you interrupt.
“Yes?”
“Does assisting me with my health needs excite you?”
There's now no hiding the erection badly tenting his trousers..
“Yes,” he answers. “You're beautiful. I've enjoyed helping you and showing you what you're capable of. Seeing you happy.”
“Must we really end our visit here?”
You rise, tugging his suspenders to pull him closer to you before cupping his rigid cock through the tweed of his trousers. In another moment, your lips meet his. His tongue presses into your mouth, dizzying you with a new sense of closeness before he tears himself away from you.
There are a few rote phrases you anticipate next. You shouldn't. You're married. Your husband is a powerful and dangerous man.
Instead, Patrick utters four words you've been wishing to hear for years.
“Your husband is dying,” he reveals. “You should know…”
“Tell me after?” you break him off.
“Yes, of course,” he agrees. “I can fetch a condom…”
“Do you worry I'm diseased?”
“No, of course not.”
“Are you?”
“No,” he answers. “But you have concerns about impregnation.”
“Please. I just need to feel you. Your final strokes as you finish. There are methods for dealing with accidental fertilisation.”
“Right,” he says, swallowing hard. “We can, uh, take this to the bedroom. It’s just across the way.”
“No, I think I'd like to finish the job here.”
There's something about the office setting that's setting you off in all the right ways. The eroticism of the forbidden.
“Then sit,” he says. “Let me demonstrate other ways I can help you finish.”
“And Patrick?” you say as you take your place.
“Yes?”
“No more treating me as a patient. I need you to fuck me properly.”
He laughs, and it's the most glorious sound as he kneels between your legs, his wide tongue running along your slick entrance to lap at you before concentrating on your swollen, tender clit, his moustache tickling you all the while.
“Oh, fuck, I love you way you taste,” he moans, like you're doing him the favour as he sucks and tongues your delicate bud.
It's enough to instantly send you over the edge for the third time, and he groans against your pussy as your hips buck, keeping you inside his mouth.
When it's passed, he kisses your cunt and then stands.
“I wish you could see how you look when you come,” he teases as he undresses, pulling the suspenders from his shoulders. “The way you shake. The way you writhe. The pretty expressions of passion across your face. I wish you could hear yourself the way I hear you.”
He's just as handsome in the nude, lean yet muscular, his thick cock standing proud and ready.
With both strong arms, he pulls you to the very edge of the chaise, guiding himself into your tight cunt before filling you with rough, rapid strokes. With one hand, he grips your shoulder to hold you in place. With the other he thumbs your clit, making every wet slam of his hips into you burst with overwhelming sensation.
“Oh, you feel so good, darling,” he coos. “Fuck, you're perfect. And I love how sensitive you are. Watching what I can do to you. Seeing your head go quiet for just a minute with pure bliss.”
And he's angled just right so the head of his cock’s hitting where it needs, and this time you're arriving without warning, the strongest sensation yet as you're spasming helplessly around him, clenching on him.
“Fuck, I can feel you coming,” Patrick gasps, not stopping for a moment. “God I've never felt anything like you. You're the most marvelous woman.”
When it's subsided yet again, he kisses you roughly on the mouth before lifting you up, still inside you, and lays down himself, so now you're on top.
“I… don't know how,” you admit.
“Don't worry about the how,” he soothes. “And don't think about pleasing me. Just use me like a toy. See if you can make yourself come. Tell me what you need.”
It feels awkward at first. You don't know how to pace yourself, how to orient yourself around him, hard as a rock. But then you find an angle that feels right, and then a rhythm, and Patrick's smile beneath you is as reassuring as it is arousing.
Before you can reach for your aching clit to help yourself along, he's touching you, and somehow, you're reaching climax again, grinding on and off of him until you think you're fully spent, your wails full of satisfied exhaustion as he, too, pumps up into you with a musical whine, the only sound you want to hear the rest of your life, and fills you with his seed.
You both lay there a while, panting and sweaty and empty of all feeling except affection and closeness.
Only after laying on Patrick's chest for many minutes does the pertinent question re-emerge.
“He's dying?”
“Yes. Liver failure,” Patrick answers in a whisper, being sensitive, though he knows you have no fondness for the man. “He's gone against every one of my recommendations. A textbook case of defiant reactance. He'll be dead in months.”
“You knew he'd do the opposite of what you told him?”
“Yes, precisely. And I believe he deserves it.”
Patrick tells you about his discovery—that your husband was directly involved in the deadly rail accident in Avenwedde a decade prior that nearly killed Prince Friedrich Wilhelm. The steam engine mechanisms had been tampered with to create excessive speed, derailing the coaches, in an attempted political assassination doubled with successful insurance fraud.
“I would have considered ending him myself if he weren't doing the job for me,” he shares. “Men like that are the worst kind of scum.”
His words should frighten you. Instead, you find yourself loving him even further.
“Soon, you'll be free of him,” Patrick says, with genuine warmth and affection in his voice. “Free from his reign. Free to start making certain choices for yourself.”
“May I choose you, Patrick?”
His hand finds yours, weaving your fingers together as one.
“You'd make me a very happy man if you did.”
