Archive of Our Own ^beta

You wanted to be normal, you wanted to be happy, you wanted to get up and go tell your husband to stop messing around in the kitchen so you could do your work. So you could be the wife you were supposed to be. But that desire could not fill the endless pit you felt deep in your chest.

You listened to the clink of heavy dishes and the bubbling of water over the hissing gas burner. Peter moved around in a series of groans and creaks from the floorboards. You pulled the blanket tighter, sickened by your own odor, and sniffed. You wouldn’t cry again, you couldn’t. You always felt as if the tears would fall at any moment but they never came. You just laid there, staring at the wall, curled up against the drafts that blew through the rattling window panes.

You heard the hinges and winced. Worse than letting down your husband was looking in his face and seeing it. He came around your side of the bed and sat on the edge, just against your stomach. He set down a bowl on the boxy night table, steam curling from its brim as he set a spoon against the side and clinked a cup down next to it.

You turned your face into the pillow and he touched your shoulder as he turned and bent his leg up on the mattress. He rubbed your arm gently but you felt nothing. You shivered and knotted your fingers together.

“Hey, you need to eat,” he coaxed, “please.”

You grumbled and shook your head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You said that last night,” he ran his knuckles over your cheek and bent over you, “you haven’t eaten in two days, dear.”

“I don’t care,” you pouted into the feather pillow.

“Well, I do,” he stretched his fingers over your head and rubbed your cheekbone with his thumb, “I care about you, dear. Even after everything that’s happened.”

“Why?” you asked weakly.

“Because I will always care for you. I love you, you’re my wife and we will get through this together, so please, sit up and eat for me.” His voice was brittle and threatened to shatter in the air. Your heart squeezed and you rolled onto your back. 

You looked at him grimly, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t need to be sorry,” he pulled open the blanket and hooked his arms under yours to pull you up. He sat you against the metal headboard and took the bowl. “Just eat. I put some cinnamon in the porridge, just like you prefer, and milk in the tea. I promise, it’s not sour this time.”

You accepted the hot bowl and nestled it in your lap. You stared at the oats and wiggled your nose. “I… you shouldn’t do all this. You shouldn’t have to,” you held the bowl with your legs and covered your face, “I want to do it all so badly but--” you blinked away the tears and wiped your cheeks as you dropped your hands back to the dish, “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you want to,” he grabbed the spoon and scooped up some oats, “and I want to help you do that but I can’t unless you help me.”

You let him feed you a mouthful. Just like everything else, it was bland, you barely even felt the heat.

“I’m trying--”

He hushed you and fed you some more. He focused on the task until the bowl was empty and your stomach felt painfully heavy. He placed the bowl back beside the porcelain and handed you the tea.

“I need you to listen to me, dear,” he said, “please and understand this is for your own good. To help you be the wife you once were.”

You held the cup with both hands and watched him over the brim. You gulped. Would he send you to one of those sanitariums where women never came back the same, if at all?

“Please, don’t send me away. You can’t! Please,” you begged and nearly spilled the tea.

“No, no, I… couldn’t,” he touched your elbow gently, “but I’ve been asking around and I’ve found a physician.”

“A physician? Oh, Peter, the last one laughed me out of the room,” you moped, “and the one before him yelled at me so horribly. I cannot do it again.”

“I know, I know,” he played with a fold along his sleeve, “but this one specialises in women’s issues. I’ve heard positive things about him and I think you should talk to him.”

“I don’t know,” you sipped the tea, it was acidic but thin.

Peter was silent as he hung his head. He grasped his knees and his jaw ticked. He heaved and closed his eyes. “I can’t let you die in here. I can’t--” his voice cracked, “please, just try this for me, dear.” He opened his eyes and looked at you, his warm brown irises were desperate, “It would kill me too.”

You lowered your chin and peered into the mug, errant leaves floating in the tea. You exhaled and gulped.

“I’ve made the appointment for noon.”

“I… I’m unready. My hair, my dress… I am unbathed.”

“You have time and I will help you,” he ran his hand up your leg smoothly, “and if you want me in the office with you, I will be there, and if you want me away, I will go.”

You thought and took another drink. You leaned back on the whiny headboard and blinked at Peter. 

“You really think he can help me?”

“I’ve got to hope. It’s all I got,” he said as he opened his hands helplessly, “I believe in you. You’re still the woman I fell in love with.”

🩺

Peter helped you wash and dress. You picked the grey dress with the buttons down the front and the straight sleeves. You hid your hair under a black hat and teetered on the low heels of your boots. You felt like an imposter, like anyone could see through your disguise to the horrid creature beneath.

He drove you uptown in the one-horse buggy and the old steed moved slowly through the mud and cobbles. 

You felt a sudden storm of guilt as he drew up to the brick front of the office and tied up the horse. He did everything, he worked at the laboratory as an lowly assistant, expected only to dispose of the refuse and wipe the countertops, then came home and did your chores for you. He worked hard for the little money you had and now he was spending it on another doctor to fix your irreparable mind.

He helped you out of the buggy with his hand on yours and you pulled your short cape closer as you huddled down against the collar. He led you to the front door of the shared offices and up the three flights to the door marked ‘Dr. Steven Rogers, physician’. 

You wrung your hands as you entered and glanced around as Peter gave your name and the time of your appointment. You were surprised to find that your husband was the only male in the room. He led you to a bench and sat with you, his hand on your arm as he comforted your doubts.

You listened as names were called and after more than an hour, yours finally rose from the nurse’s lips. You stood as Peter did too. “Do you want me here or with you?” he asked.

“I…” your heart raced as you looked between him and the nurse, “I suppose I should do it myself.”

“I’ll be out here. You send for me if you need,” he squeezed your hand one last time and watched you go.

The nurse smiled at you but you couldn’t return the gesture. You were terrified. You had seen so many doctors and each one gave the same answers; there was nothing wrong with you, you were only lazy, you were conjuring it all in your head, you were just another woman without sense.

You were shown into the sterile room and the nurse left your chart on the desk. You stepped up the stool and sat on the metal examination table covered in pure white linen. You waited in suspense, arguing with yourself not to flee and go back to your blanket and bed. When a knock came, you squeaked and the door opened slowly.

A man peeked inside cautiously and cleared his throat as he spotted you. “I’m coming in, miss.”

You nodded and he entered, the door clicking behind him. He greeted you with a handshake and read your name off the chart as he gave his own; Dr. Steven Rogers. He sat on the tall stool by the desk and looked at you. 

His blond hair was as neat as his suit and his blue eyes were penetrating but placid. His white jacket hung from his broad shoulders and a stethoscope rounded his neck as his posture put him above most.

“You can sit on the sofa if your are more comfortable,” he gestured to the leather seat along the opposite wall, “this is just an introductory appointment, I won’t be doing any examinations.”

You pursed your lips and shifted off the table. You went to the sofa and sat, your leg shaking wildly as you tried to still it with your hand. He smiled patiently and dipped his pen in the well.

“So, we will start easy, how old are you?”

Your eyes rounded. You sputtered before you got the answer out and he nodded and scribbled on the paper. He went down a list; an previous health issues, height, weight, current prescriptions. When he finished he set aside the folder and looked at you fully.

“That’s all just formality and I don’t like my patients to feel like they’re being interrogated so we’re just going to talk. Would you like some water?”

“No, no, I’m…” you smoothed a wrinkle in your dull skirt and stared at your lap. 

“You need a moment?” he dipped his head as he tried to catch your eye, “take a breath, I know it’s a lot.”

“No, I’m just… pathetic.” you murmured.

“Now, we don’t talk like that in this office,” he girded, “so why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

You sucked in a breath and your hands crawled over your skirts nervously, skittering like spiders. You could feel the dread rising and the air was thick in your lungs. You began to pant in shallow breaths and gripped the arm of the couch.

“Ma’am, ma’am,” he stood slowly and neared you, “may I sit with you?”

“Oh, oh, oh,” you moaned as you began to shake, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you wetted your dry lips with your tongue, “yes, doctor.”

He lowered himself lightly onto the cushion. He leaned forward and looked you in your face as you tried to hide from him and struggled to breathe. “I’m going to count and you breathe in time; one, two…”

You focused on the numbers and rocked back and forth until your heart slowed and your gasps petered out. He stopped his count and sat up. He stayed where he was, his hand on his thigh as you felt his gaze on you.

“So, what has been happening in your life, ma’am?” he asked.

“I’m sure my husband--”

“No, I don’t speak with husbands, I want to hear from the women themselves. You see I run a practice for women and their troubles and I cannot treat these troubles if they come from the lips of men. So you explain, in your own way, in your own time.”

You raised your shoulders and exhaled. You folded your hands and nodded. You tried to sort through all your thoughts, the blurred days, and the frightening nights.

“Today is the first I’ve left my bed in more than a week. It’s not the first time, either. It keeps happening and… I just don’t know why,” you’re voice quivered as you shrunk down in shame.

You waited in silence. You peeked over at him as you expected him to speak.

“Go on, just pretend as if you were speaking to yourself. No one else is here, you’re just going through your thoughts aloud. Sometimes when we hear them, they are clearer to us.”

“I don’t understand--” you clapped your hands.

“Close your eyes and keep talking.”

You swallowed and let your lids shut. The room disappeared and you mustered your voice. You didn’t know where to begin. So you went back to the day you married Peter. From the wedding day, to the first episode, the second, the third, you gave a brief map of the three years you’d been together. Then you braced yourself for it, the “I don’t know” and “nothing’s wrong”.

“Hmm,” he stood and you opened your eyes. He paced to the other side of the room and leaned against the table. “That’s not everything. You… have to be honest with yourself. This isn’t about me and what I think, it’s about you. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” you gulped.

He nodded and crossed his arms. He dropped them when he saw you frown and resumed his seat on the stool. He sat straight and watched you but held no anger or malintent in his gaze.

“Alright, then we shall go through some questions and answers. Many of my patients find a dialogue more helpful,” he said. “Now, I might ask some personal questions but remember that your answers do not go beyond these walls.”

You bit into your bottom lip and hummed your agreement. He clicked his tongue and smiled again.

“You said you’ve been married for three years, thereabouts, so when was the last time you were close with your husband?”

“Close?” you stammered.

“Intimate,” he prodded.

“Uhhh,” you squirmed and looked away.

“You are married, there is no shame in it. So?”

“Months,” you confessed, “I don’t know how many. And it isn’t as if he doesn’t try but I can’t.”

“Mhmm, and you said you have no children?”

You tensed and couldn’t answer. Your heart sank and you bent over as you hugged yourself.

“You… you’ve lost a child?” he asked softly.

You nodded and batted away tears with your lashes. You shook and grunted in frustration. You stood suddenly and stomped your foot.

“I need to go,” you hissed as you marched to the door.

Doctor Rogers was quick and held the door closed before you could reach it.

“Did he know?” he asked.

You sneered and shook your head.

“Just one?”

You trembled and tried to push his arm down. “I can’t--”

“Hey,” he grabbed your shoulders and edged you back from the door, “I’m trying to help you. You’re here to repair yourself and your marriage, you need to try and it won’t be easy but it would be worse to wallow in all that grief alone.”

“Please, Dr. Rogers, I have to--” you shoved on his arms as you sobbed, “I… I… he is my husband and I can’t give him the most precious thing he ever wanted. I can’t make him happy no matter how I try. It would be a gift if I were to die in that bed. He would be free--”

“No,” he said sharply and guided you backward, “we don’t speak like that.” He sat you down and knelt to look in your eyes, “you don’t speak to yourself like that.”

He sighed and dropped his hands to yours. He held them gently as you sniffed back the tears and hid behind the brim of your hat.

“When was the last?” he asked cautiously.

“I lost it a month and a half back. I abstained from my marital bed in hopes it might survive,” you quavered, “It did not.”

“Is there pain?”

“Now?”

“Yes?”

“At times, but in my soul,” you said.

He let you go and stood, “and how do you sleep?”

“Not much. I cannot. I only lay and stare and wish.”

“Mm, well, I have some things for you to do but they are easy and I do not want you to stress yourself. If you cannot do all, then some.” He sat on his stool again and picked up a small pad. “I will prescribe you a medicine you can put in your tea, it will aid in your sleep and that it the foundation of healing. Then, there are only small things; when your husband comes to you, affectionately, you will let him kiss you, just on the cheek if you wish, but if he cares as you say, you will let him.”

You listened and fidgeted as he spoke.

“And you will do things for yourself and for your children. If you feel like you can make a dinner, do so, if not, you will take a journal and write. These words are only for your. You will write about those you’ve lost so that they may rest and you will too. For every chore you cannot complete, you will write one sentence, or one page, or as many as you need to.”

“What do I write?”

“Whatever you think. Whatever weighs on your heart at that moment. And you will come back to me in two weeks to go over all you’ve done and I have faith that you will make great progress.”

He stood and tore free a page. He neared and held it out to you. “Take this to the apothecary and they will fill it. One drop in your tea, two if it is an especially bad night.”

You took it and rose. You folded it and tucked it into your handbag. You looked up at him and adjusted your cape.

“I’m sorry, doctor, I will try.”

“You will start by not apologizing for yourself. You have a right to feel and be. And try is all I ask.”

He smiled and turned to stride across the office. He opened the door and bent his head. 

“Now, I hope a peaceful day awaits you and don’t forget, two weeks. You will make an appointment at the desk before you go.”

🩺

The drive through the city was quiet as Peter watched you worried from the corner of his eye. He didn’t dare to ask how it went as you hadn’t yet said a word but to tell him to stop at the pharmacy. With the vial in hand, he took your home and sat you at the table as he made another pot of tea.

He sat with you and sipped his own cup as you stared at the reddish brown brew. You lifted the vial and read the hand-written label. It was too early to sleep. You put it down and looked at Peter.

“It was… not bad,” you said slowly.

He perked up and sat forward on his chair. “Was he nice?”

“Very nice,” you felt the hot porcelain, “he listened.”

“And the medicine?” he looked at the vial.

“For sleep.”

“That’s good,” he uttered nervously, “you’re going back, right, dear?”

“Yes, two weeks,” you said, “I hope. I…” you looked at him glumly, “I’m going to try. I want to try.”

“I know,” he reached across the table and took your hand, “and I can help. I only want to help.”

You nodded and squeezed his hand. It was rough against your dry skin. You felt as if your body was falling apart from neglect. Your nails were peeling and cracked at the tips. You turned his hand so you did not have to see them.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You lifted your head and searched his face. You tried to smile but it was small. 

“Please,” you whispered.

He came around and bent to kiss your forehead, then your cheek. You stood and shyly looped your arms around him. He held you tentatively and as you leaned into him, he relaxed. You were relieved to find the warmth was still there.

🩺

That night, Peter put you to bed and laid beside you. You wore a proper nightgown and the tincture dragged you down in a deep dreamless slumber. When you woke, you didn’t want to get out of bed but if you stayed, you’d feel worse. You dressed and Peter didn’t hide his joy as he readied for a day at the lab.

You ate together, more porridge and he left you with another kiss. When he was gone, you stared at the wall. You took the dishes and boiled water to wash them in the basin. There were only a few so your work was easy. You thought of wiping down the stove but once more felt the lethargic weight on your chest.

So you went to the bedroom and dug out the old recipe book your mother bought you as a wedding present. You hadn’t used it so the pages remained blank but for a single list of ingredients for stuffed duck. You tore out that page and wrote the date on the next.

You sat at the vanity you never used. Peter bought it after your first episode, thinking it might help you to have the mirror and place to store your toiletries. You held open the pages and dipped the pen into the shallow well. Most of the ink had dried up. You made a blotch on the paper as you tried to think of what to write.

You stayed like that and inked the pen again. Then you wrote the name. The name of the daughter you lost. Peter didn’t know that name and you never dared to speak it. She was the first one, at least, you wanted it to be a girl. You wrote that you wanted her to have Peter’s eyes and his sweetness. You wrote about him holding her and smiling down at her. Then, you shut the book and dropped the pen.

You began to sob and leaned on the vanity. You let out horrible, draining wails. You quaked until you had no strength left. You stood and watched your feet as you went to the bed and fell onto it. It hurt so much.

🩺

You tried to follow Dr. Rogers advice, tried to keep to your chores and your writing, but your renewed vigour faded by your next appointment. That morning wasn’t as hard as the first but Peter had to convince you to leave the house. He couldn’t wait for you as he was due at the lab but he gave you coin for your ride back..

You sat in the hushed waiting room and stared at the wall. The other women chatted with their neighbour or read the penny weekly’s left out for the patients. You rubbed your gloved hands together and counted your breaths. You felt that tidal again, the rising wave of nerves rising within.

When your name was called, you were taken to the same room and the same chart was left on the desk. You sat on the sofa but your restlessness had you back up on your feet and pacing. When the door opened again, you turned and stopped as Dr. Rogers entered with a knock.

“Hello, again,” he offered another stiff handshake and you accepted it meekly as you crossed the room, “and how are you this morning?”

You let out a breath and shrugged, “well as I can be.”

“Please, sit, and we can go over the last two weeks,” he waved to the leather bench and sat on his stool. He ignored the chart as he slung one leg over the other. He waited for you to lower yourself onto the couch and watched your hands you wrung them, “would you like some water? A tea?”

“No, thank you, Doctor,” you tapped your heels nervously.

“You’re anxious,” he said. You nodded and he did the same, “why? Did our last appointment go so poorly?”

You shook your head and stilled your fingers, “I don’t know why I am alight, but I am.”

“Mhmm,” he tapped his fingertips on the desk as he leaned his arm against it, “and your home life, has it changed at all?”

“I… I try to do more but it’s difficult,” you admitted, “I get so overwhelmed.”

“Have you written at all?”

“Some but… it makes me sad,” you explained as you folded a wrinkle in your skirt, “I find myself as I was, in bed with a hole in my heart.”

He considered and scratched his chin, his clean shave smooth beneath his fingers. “Your husband, he is… affectionate?” When you affirmed the question, he continued, “and you have made yourself open to him?”

“Kiss, hand-holding, embraces, but… I cannot…” you squirmed, “I cannot even make him feel as my husband.”

“You have a lot of emotions but speaking of them makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?” he uncrossed his legs and sat up straight.

“They feel like excuses, like a delusion I’ve made up to escape my life,” you stared at the floor, “like I’ve lied not only to myself but the man I love.”

“You’ve seen other physicians for your maladies?”

“Several, yes.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“They told me I was healthy and that my emotions were of my own failure,” you poked your palm with your nail, “and I couldn’t claim they were wrong for I don’t know myself.”

“Do you take exercise?” he asked.

“Not often, not anymore,” you replied evasively.

“You go out in the sun? Open the windows?”

“No,” you muttered, “no…”

“I would suggest thought it is with your own will to take it that you leave the house once a day, for a few minutes, for an hour, whatever you can do, and just walk. You don’t have to go anywhere but I want you to see the sun and keep your blood moving.” he stood and cleared his throat, “perhaps you cannot see it or you will not accept it, but you are doing well. You’ve made progress. If I am being quite honest, I did not expect a second visit and that in itself is a feat.”

You pressed your lips together and shifted. He went to the end of the examination table and looked you over.

“Now, as this is our second visit and we’ve gone over the basics, it is my usual practice to administer a physical exam but if your are unprepared, we can delay it until your third appointment,” he said cautiously, “but as you’ve disclosed your difficulties with conception, I do think it pertinent that I rule out any biological barriers.”

Your eyebrows shot up and you sucked in air. The only man who had ever seen beyond your dress was your husband and even with him you were shy. Still, he was a doctor and he might be able to help. You doubted yourself knowing that if you had time to think on it, you would refuse it altogether.

“If you advise it,” you stood rigidly, “I would permit it.”

He bowed his head and pulled the corner of the sheet taut on the table. He backed away and smoothed his white jacket as he went to the door.

“You only need remove your under garments and I will return in a moment. You will lay on the table and I will do a brief exam of your anatomy,” he guided, “Is this to your acceptance.”

“Doctor,” you said and watched him go, releasing a sigh when he was on the other side of the door.

You removed your leggings and drawers and folded them. You climbed onto the table and laid on your bad, your legs clenched together as your skirts felt thinner. You waited and tried to ease your nerves. The knock at the door spiked your pulse and you assured Dr. Rogers you were ready.

He entered and you listened to him move around. You squeezed your eyes shut and he neared the table. You quivered as he came near and his hand settled on the hem of your skirt. He stood at the foot of the table and his shadow coloured your eyelids.

“We’ll take it one step at a time, I will let you know everything I do before I do it,” he assured you, “now, I’m going to have you bend your legs.”

You nodded and kept your eyes closed and bent your legs. He touched your knees through the layers gently.

“Now part them,” he coaxed.

That was harder and as you obeyed, you felt a rush of air slip up your skirts. Your dress rustled and Dr. Rogers held the hem firm.

“I will now have a look,” you heard metal and flinched, “and I will use a special tool to do so. You will feel perhaps a cold touch and some pressure inside but I will be quick.”

You only nodded and gripped the sides of the table. He lifted your skirts entirely and you gasped. You felt the metal instrument on your most intimate part and he pressed it until it was slightly inside of you. He bent over you as he opened you up with the tool and removed it almost as suddenly as he’d applied it.

“Well, I see no abnormalities,” he set the instrument aside and fixed your skirts, “nothing which would cause difficulty.”

You sat up and turned your legs over the edge of the table. You felt your cheeks burn but he seemed entirely unbothered. You reminded yourself how usual the practice must have been for him.

“I would also recommend smelling salts if you do not already use them for when you feel faint or overcome and I will have a diet plan for you to take with you. Those might help improve your condition as well. I think for now,” he neared the door and paused with his hand on the handle, “that is enough change. It isn’t about pushing yourself, it is about little steps.”

“Thank you, doctor,” you said.

“And if you require anything, you needn’t wait for your next appointment. If you have questions, you may come in and ask,” he turned the handle slowly, “along with all we’ve gone over today, you will continue on with what we established since our first appointment.”

“Yes, doctor.”

He smiled and left you again. You slid off the table and reached for your undergarments. You dressed quickly and as you stepped out, Dr. Rogers bid you farewell. You hoped he could help you, that this wasn’t another lost cause.

And Peter. Your husband tried so hard to be patient, to be understanding, and yet that cloud of disappointment hung over you. You wanted to be better for him so why was it so hard?

As the date of your next appointment approached, you were little better than you were before the first. You had ceased following the physician’s instructions and instead found yourself hopeless and hazy. Your tears stained the pillow beside your head and tainted your tongue.

“You will be late,” Peter sat beside you on the bed as he held a steaming cup of tea, “please, you’re doing so well.”

You blinked and said nothing. You were doing so well but just as before, it all fell apart. You couldn’t figure out why it always ended up like this. You couldn’t figure out your own mind and why you couldn’t just be what every other woman was.

“Doctor Rogers can help you. He’s been helping you, dear,” Peter cooed as he rubbed your arm, “and I love you, I’ll always love you, even through all this.”

You frowned and covered your face. He heaved and the porcelain cup clinked on the night table. The bed shifted as he bent forward and held his head in his hands.

“I’m out of ideas, dear,” he said, “I don’t know what else I can do.”

You rolled over and hid from him. You sobbed into the pillow. You didn’t know either.

“I have to go to the laboratory. I cannot be late again,” he stood and you listened to his light footsteps, “I will inform the doctor you are unable to attend. Perhaps we might reschedule.”

You stayed silent and he touched your shoulder. He bent and kissed the crown of your head. 

“I’m not giving up,” he swore, “I won’t.”

He left, reluctantly, and your body shook without restraint. You cried into the pillow case as you were racked with a pain so deep you weren’t certain it could ever be drawn out. The sense of helplessness was suffocating. It was as if no matter how hard you fought, it would never be enough, you would never be enough.

🩺

You languished as you had. The hours passed as the sunlight shifted on the walls and sent lines through the windows. You sat up and drank the cold tea and stared at the curling metal of the bed frame. You could hear birds outside and smell the pollen of new flowers but it only made the knot in your chest tighten.

Then a knock came, distant but firm. You tilted your head, numb and lost as it came again. You looked down at yourself, the wrinkled front of your sleeping gown and the brown stain from the tea dribbled from the brim of the cup. It sounded again and you winced.

It didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. You got up slowly and stumbled around the room. You went through to the front room and neared the door as another rap shook it. A figure stood on the other side of the frosted glass. You touched the latch and trembled as you thought of turning it.

“It’s Doctor Rogers,” a voice called through the door, “will you let me in, ma’am?”

You closed your eyes and slumped. You shook your head and carefully turned the lock. You tried to stand straight and opened the door. Dr. Rogers’ smile fell as he saw you. His fingers clutched the handle of his leather bag and he pushed his shoulders up.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Why are you here, doctor?”

“Well, you did not come to the office,” he said bluntly, “it did give me concern.”

“I have a headache,” you lied, “did my husband not make another appointment?”

“A headache?” he wondered doubtfully, “you might try mint or willow bark for the ailment but I do not think it effective on a conjured malady.”

“Doctor,” you fluttered your lashes guiltily.

“You might assuage my doubts and my concerns if you let me attend to you,” he said, “just to be certain you aren’t in dire condition.”

You looked down and stepped back. “Come in, doctor,” you murmured, “I apologize I did not come--”

“And what have you done these last weeks?” he ignored your apology, “have you been taking exercise? How have you been eating? Have you attended any of your chores?”

Your silence was an admission but he did not show the disappointment he expected. Instead his face softened with empathy as he set his bag down on a round table beside the upholstered chair and opened it.

“You have not even dressed yourself, I can guess at how you fare,” he said, “so I think we might take a different approach to your treatment. We should build to your independent healing although I do expect you to still attempt to adhere to my prescriptions.”

“Doctor?”

“Many contemporary physicians and psychologist suggest that hypnosis might be beneficial to those with your affliction,” he brought out his pocket watch and looked to you, “if you would lay on your back,” he pointed to the sofa.

“Hypnosis?” you drew your brows together, “I don’t think, well, I don’t know much about it.”

“It is nothing, it is like sleep. I think it will help with your nerves,” he looked at the watch, “you trust me? I am a doctor and I would not do anything but to help you. Why, I came all this way just to see that you were well.”

You felt a pang and realised how inconvenient your negligence was. You went to the couch and did as he said. He pulled the chair to the edge and sat. He held up the watch and let it dangle.

“All you have to do is focus on this,” he tapped the golden front, “and count and breath in time with it.” He began to swing it back and forth as your head was propped up against the arm of the couch, “think of nothing but the watch.”

Your lips parted and you grimaced.

“I know how it seems but haven’t you ever wanted to just not think? Perhaps that is the issue, that you never stop,” he said, “so, humour me.”

He kept on and you followed the watch with your eyes, back and forth, breathing in and out, one, two, three, four, five… Soon your vision blurred and your head felt light and then all your worries were gone. You laid there, blank and bleary, but free.

His voice was distant and the click of the watch as he set it down was almost indiscernible. “That’s it, you just relax,” you felt a tickle over your knees. 

You didn’t move, you realised you couldn’t, and that the tickle was your sleeping gown. The fabric was drawn above your knees and a warmth glided up your calf. You were moved down so that you laid entirely flat, your leg slipped over the side of the couch.

“You must stay relaxed and breathe,” Dr. Rogers said as you felt his hand creep higher on your leg, “isn’t it nice?”

He pushed between your thighs and turned his hand. His flesh was hot against yours.

“We must relieve the tension,” he purred and slid his fingers along your cunt. Your eyes rolled back and you purred at the riling sensation. He poked between your folds and you felt a flush spread across your body, “just breathe.”

He rubbed along your opening and over your bud. His motion was steady as he swirled his fingertips and you felt yourself growing slick. You could think of nothing but your breath, but the burning in your core as he stoked it. You gasped and your heart beat faster as he played with your clit. It never felt so good.

He pressed a finger to your opening again and slowly dipped inside. He drew in and out several times and added another, bending both as he kept his thumb to your bud. He rocked his hand and your entire body with it. Your voice was loud and yet it was beyond your control.

“Let it go, let it all go,” he cooed, “come on.”

You moaned and it grew to shrill cry as a strike of lightning shot through you. Your body contorted as your core bloomed and fire swept through your veins. He guided you through the paralysing pleasure and stilled his hand only as the ripples faded.

Slowly he drew his hand from your cunt and sat back. He hummed and your skirt was pulled back down your legs. He took a deep breath and snapped his fingers. Your eyes shot open and suddenly the room was clear again.

You sat up, startled, as if awaking from a dream. He caught your shoulder and eased you back against the arm.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

You opened your mouth to answer but didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t explain how you felt.

“What I just did, you can do, you should do, at least once a day,” he leaned back and rubbed the wool of his trousers, “it is perfectly scientific. There’s have been a slew of recent studies which find that the female orgasm can be very impactful for woman who suffer so.”

“But, isn’t it--”

“What is wrong about it? It is human nature and if God made humans with that nature, it cannot be so bad. You have not spent seed without fruition, you have only used what creation gifted you,” he said, “but consider how you feel right now. You feel better, am I correct?”

You stared at him and bit your lip. You did feel lighter, you felt more awake, and you felt peaceful.

“Yes,” you whispered, “I suppose I do.”

“Great,” he clapped his hands and stood. He took the watch and returned it to his bag, “should I remain a time? We might talk?”

“No, no, you should go,” you stood unsteadily, “you have other patients and I’ve kept you so long.”

“It was not so long,” he said as he closed his bag, “but if you would that I go, I will.”

You nodded and saw him to the door with a frantic farewell. You locked it behind and turned to lean against it. Your heart was racing again. You thought of Peter, of his dismay that morning, of all those times you’d been unable to hold him.

🩺

You were hesitant at first and you resisted the doctor’s suggestion. Several days passed but the writing, the tea, the walking, none of it helped and you were so inconsistent, it was as if you hadn’t changed at all.

Then one morning, Peter left, again after a hopeless plea for you to get up, and you laid under your shroud of self-loathing and longing. You thought of it for a while, debated it in your head, and as you felt beneath your sleeping gown, the guilt nipped at your neck.

You tried to recall what Dr. Rogers did and tried to mimic him. As you played with your bud, your fingers were soon guided instead by the delightful stirring in your core. You shuddered as you slickened and you kept on twirling and twirling. Your breaths grew harried and you gulped as your voice spilled forth in weak moans.

Your toes curled as your hand moved faster and you came in a tangle of linen and wool. You pressed your hand flat to your pelvis and went limp over the mattress. You were floating, flying, and you felt as if you might do anything.

After a moment, you sat up and glanced around. You wiped your wet fingers on your nightgown as you stood and made the bed carefully. Then you went to the armoire and pulled an outfit from its depths. You dressed one piece at a time and looked at yourself in the mirror. That was something.

The hours before Peter’s return had you anxious but not deflated. You felt lost in the kitchen as you prepared the evening meal and when your husband returned, he smiled and searched as if in disbelief.

“Dear,” he kissed your cheek and you latched onto him to kiss his lips instead.

“Peter,” you said breathily, “I’m so sorry.”

His cheek twitched and he caressed your cheek, “don’t be.”

“I don’t know if I’m better but… I’m trying,” you said.

“I know,” he wrapped his arms around you and drew you close. His eyes flitted down to the bodice of your dress, “I am such a fool, I didn’t even say how wonderful you look.”

You laughed softly and cradled his face between your hands, “Truly?”

“How could you ever marry me? You’re so beautiful.”

“Shhh,” you hushed him, “I wouldn’t any other.”

🩺

The tentative touching became a ritual. You were both pleasantly surprised and confused by the effects. You never would have thought of the act, you never would have attempted it after years of being forbidden from it. You felt even your marital bed was restrained by the laws of propriety.

But as you toyed with yourself, you wanted more. You wanted your husband again, just as you had on your wedding night. So you waited again with dinner cooking in the oven and greeted him in a dress you hadn’t worn since before you married.

After he ate, you tidied up and read a newspaper in the upholstered chair. For a moment you stared at him and felt a twinge. Dr. Rogers had sat there and he had… you had let another man… but he was a physician and it was only treatment. At least, he made it seem so.

You went to the bedchamber and undressed. It was a tedious process and by the time you wore nothing but your chemise, you were ready to snap the laces of your bodice. You set aside all your layers and checked your reflection. Did he still want you like that?

You peeked outside the door and called to him. He looked over his shoulder and folded his paper as he stood.

“What is it, dear?” he neared and stopped short as you stepped out from behind the door frame, “oh.”

“Husband,” you stepped closer and bit his lip.

“Are you certain?” he asked as he touched your chemise.

“Certain. I love you,” you said.

“Sweetheart,” he crashed his lips into yours and snaked his hands around your body.

He ran his hands down to your bottom and scooped you up. You cried out as you parted from his lips and he carried you backward into the room. He dropped you on the mattress and tore off vest. You got to your knees and reached to unbutton his shirt. You helped him undress eagerly, adding your chemise to the pile as he climbed up after you.

He rolled you onto your back as he leaned over you and kissed you again. His hand ventured over your chest and he felt your breasts with a purr. You grabbed his hand and guided it lower, pushing his fingers between your legs. He hummed into your mouth and let you lead his fingers, taking the motion on his own as you opened up to him.

You clung to him and brushed your hand against his cock. He groaned and teased you more eagerly. Your thighs clamped around his hand and you came as your body jittered against his.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed as he slowed his fingers, “are you alright?”

“I’m wonderful,” you gripped his cock and stroked him, “I want you.”

He moved between your legs and bent over you. He felt along your folds and spread you as he found your entrance. He pushed inside you slowly and you leaned your head back with a sigh. He sheathed himself entirely and stopped as he bent to kiss your neck.

“I love you,” he uttered as he tilted his hips.

“I love you, too,” you grasped his biceps, wiry but thick, as he rocked into you.

He nuzzled along your throat and jaw and nibbled at your lip as he sped up. He growled as writhed against you, hungry and desperate. You clung to him and moved your hips in time with his. You wanted all of him.

Your bud rubbed against his pelvis and you urged him on with breathy pleas. You hooked your legs around his as you chased another ascent and came as your nails sank into his shoulders. He kept his motion and lifted himself to look you in the eye. He watched your dazed delight as he began to tremble.

“Oh, oh, oh,” he stammered and closed his eyes as he hung his head. He gave several short thrusts before he collapsed and rested atop you out of breath.

“Peter,” you played with his hair as he tickled along your side.

“You can’t,” he said, “you can’t love me as much as I love you.”

🩺

For the first time, as you sat in the waiting room, you didn’t feel nervous. You were anxious to speak to the doctor but you didn’t dread it. Those last weeks had seen so much change, they could have been years. When your name was called, you stood and crossed to the nurse. You were shown to the room and you sat on the couch.

Dr. Rogers entered shortly and greeted you with his usual manner. He stopped however before he sat and considered you. He squinted and smirked.

“You’re well?” he asked.

“I think so,” you said with a smile.

“Things have… changed,” his lips straightened and he sat slowly.

“Some,” you said, “and I can’t thank you enough.”

“You’ve followed my advice?”

“Yes, I’ve been doing more around the house and even writing here and there. I went for a walk--”

“You’ve been touching yourself regularly?” he asked abruptly.

You blanched and gave a nervous chuckle. You didn’t expect him to be so forward.

“Well, yes, I have a little,” you admitted, “as you bid.”

“Mhmm,” he poked his cheek with his tongue, “and it’s helped?”

“It’s not the only thing but--”

“Does it feel as good when you do it alone?” he interrupted.

You shook your head and blinked at him. You were confused. His methods were different than any other doctor you’d seen but his questions, that look, it was off.

“What do you-- I don’t understand,” you pouted, “I… it was part of the hypnosis. You were showing me what to do.”

He shifted on the stool and sighed. He tapped his heel on the floor. His gaze was discerning and crippling. You couldn’t read his expression but it wasn’t his usual smile.

“I asked you if it felt better when I did it,” he intoned tersely.

You were quiet. You looked at the door and swallowed. You stood and he did too.

“We’re not done. We’ve barely begun and you’re being evasive. Should I be concerned?”

“I don’t… understand. You’re angry with me?” you asked.

“I’m asking you questions that you won’t answer. As your doctor, I need to know these things,” he insisted, “now sit down.”

You lowered yourself slowly and stared at him. He strode over to the sofa and sat beside you.

“Did it feel better?” he asked.

You had tried to forget that afternoon, even as it forced itself into your mind whenever you let your hand wander. You were afraid to mention it aloud. Afraid to admit that you felt guilty for it.

“I… I suppose it did,” you said quietly.

“Mmm, and your husband, how are you getting along with him?”

“Well, I think, we have been… closer.”

“You’ve engaged intimately?”

“Uh, yes, he is my husband so yes,” you sputtered.

“But you hadn’t before,” he prodded.

“It was different before,” you said, “I am doing everything you’ve said.”

“I didn’t tell you to fuck him,” he snarled.

“I am married to him,” you scoffed, “what did I do wrong?”

“You’re not ready. I am your doctor, you need to consult with me,” he glared at you as your eyes settled on your lap.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t realise.”

“If your treatment is to be effective, you must follow my advisory,” he huffed, “how many times?”

“How many-- not more than five?”

“You’re uncertain?”

“I don’t keep count, doctor, I… I’m very confused.”

He pushed his head back and tilted it side to side as he cracked his neck. He jutted out his jaw and blew out air.

“When you came to me, you were broken,” he sneered, “but now you think you know better than me. Remind me again of your credentials.”

“I didn’t…” you stood and he caught your arm, “Doctor, I do not think this is appropriate and I cannot understand your anger.”

“Why have you come to me?”

“Pardon?”

“Why have you come to me?” he repeated.

“I, um, to get better. To treat my sickness, as you have and I am so grateful--”

“This is your fourth visit and you think yourself healed?” he snorted as he rose and loomed over you. He faced you as his nostrils flared, “you came to me so that I might help you conceive a child after you failed so many times.”

“I--” your voice caught in your throat and your eyes burned, “Doctor, that is unkind.”

“In my professional opinion, you are not the reason for your miscarriages,” he pulled you to him and gruffly cradled your head in his large hand, “my examination did show you more than capable of birthing a healthy child.”

“Please, what are you--”

“I think it is the seed that is bad,” He swung you around so your middle hit the examination table, “it is a theory but we can test it.”

“Doctor,” you tried to push yourself away from the table and he caught the back of your neck, “ahh, please--”

“Be quiet,” he hissed, “you make another noise and I’ll have to say you’re hysteric. A woman like you won’t last in the sanitarium.”

You whimpered and hung your head as you slapped your hands on the table. He squeezed your neck and leaned in.

“Don’t move,” he warned, “this is for your own good, for your health. You want a baby, don’t you?”

You sniffed and your vision blurred from your tears. He released you and his hands trailed down your corset and to your skirts. He lifted them and reached beneath to tear down your bloomers. The action jolted you and he stood, untangling them from your ankles with his foot. He kicked your boots apart and pressed himself to your back as he bunched up the layers of your skirts.

He pushed until you bent over the table, leaning on your elbows as his hot breath encircled you. He felt along your bare ass and tickled the top of your thigh. He pinched you and buried his face in your neck. He growled as he held your skirts in place with one hand and unbuckled his belt. You sobbed and his demand that you shut up was muffled against your collar.

He opened the front of his pants and slipped out his hard member. You winced as you felt the tip brush against your bottom and he shuddered. He bent his knees and guided himself down to your folds. He forced you to arch your back as he searched for your entrance and lined himself up.

He pushed until his tip stretched you and you clawed the white sheet across the table. He slid in another inch and you whined. He slapped his hand over your mouth, his other planted beside yours on the table and bucked. He impaled himself completely, thrusting you onto your toes.

He pulled back and rutted again, hard and impatient. Your hips slammed into the edge of the table with each tilt and you cried into his hand as he forced you lower over the sheet. He pinned your shoulder with his other as he turned your head, your cheek against the linen as he rocked into you.

He let out thick breaths, withholding grunts as he sped up. He pounded into you and the noise of your flesh filled the small room. You closed your eyes and his fingers crawled down along your back. He bent over you as he reached beneath you and found your bud among the layers.

He rubbed you until your sobs were wild moans. He kept them stifled against his palm and hammered against you. You were close to coming as your walls clenched around him and added to the pressure of his fingertips.

“This is what you want,” he whispered in your ear, “hmm, that’s all you need, a child. You will be a wonderful mother…” his voice fizzled and he barely swallowed a grunt, “so sweet, so sweet.”

He snarled and rammed harder than before. Your body quaked as you succumbed to the ripples flowing from your core and you leaked pleasure around his cock. You mewled into his hand and he pressed his lips to your cheek.

“This is the baby you wanted,” he growled and jerked sharply.

He spasmed in a series of hectic thrusts and slowed. He exhaled and removed his hand from your mouth, wiping it on the sheet as he pushed himself up. He slipped out of you and groaned at the sensation. You felt his cum spill out as he dropped your skirts and left you against the table, his belt clinking loudly in the silence.

“I’ll have you scheduled for another home visit,” he went to his desk and inked his pen as you rose, “and you will track your cycle so that we might be sure. Timing,” he tapped his fingers as he finished scribbling notes and stood straight to face you, “is essential.”

You bent to gather your bloomers and he came close. You cowered and he snatched the cotton from your grasp. He put them to his face and inhaled.

“You smell as sweet as you feel,” he turned and bent to shove your undergarments in his bag, “I will make certain your next appointment isn’t so far away.”