From the author: Dr. Jameson H. Dashiell is the owner and proprietor of The Chastarium, a medical center that houses extraordinary machines designed to safely treat and tame lascivious desire. But the arrival of the gorgeous Lady Gallantine as a client tests his professional resolve. He may be able to keep her treatment a secret from her overbearing father, the Duke, but can he keep the secret of his own arousal as she undergoes her first (and very thorough…) treatment under his watch? (Warning: erotica.)
[CONTENT WARNING: This story is erotica and contains explicit sexual situations.]
“My goodness!” said the first appointment of the morning. “What manner of Chastity Machine is that?”
Dr. Jameson H. Dashiell followed his patient’s gaze to the Machine that loomed, oiled and glimmering, over the foot of the treatment-room bed. “I call it ‘The Inverted Velocipede’,” said the doctor. “The patient lies on her back and sets her feet atop the pedals above her. The pedal power is what drives the therapeutic end.”
Ms. Jennings approached the apparatus. Her hand drifted to said therapeutic end, her eyes glittering as brightly as the polished gears. She stroked the smooth rubber. “This one’s under my own power? So, I can make it go as fast as I wish?”
Dashiell stepped in closer, his own therapeutic end twitching in eager sympathy. “Indeed. After your treatment session on ‘The Pogostick’ last week, you did remark that it was powerful enough, but too uninteresting.”
Ms. Jennings withdrew her hand from the rubber and curled her fingers into her skirts. She pulled upward, in a hesitant tease, baring the first hint of her ivory legs. “May I…?”
Dashiell held out a hand.
He helped Ms. Jennings onto the bed. He wanted to also place his palms against those exposed ivory ankles and push upward, plowing her skirts aside and baring her secret valley to his own attentions, but Dashiell was no Chastity Machine. He was, one could say, anything but. Best to let Ms. Jennings arrange herself and tease her skirts upward at her leisure. Best for Dashiell to content himself with watching, as she wriggled back and revealed herself, and set her glistening fur against that ever-hungry rubber. And raised her legs to the pedals, spreading herself open like a blossoming flower, ready to be plucked. “Like this…?”
“Yes,” Dashiell said, his eyes locked upon her blossom. “Now –”
The call bell clanged.
“Oh,” said Ms. Jennings. “I suppose you’re being summoned.”
“Never mind it,” said Dashiell. “I’m sure it’s just the pipes clanging in one of the steam-powered Machines.”
The call bell clanged again. “Perhaps not,” said Ms. Jennings. “That’s all right. Don’t worry about me, Doctor. I think I can manage by myself this week.”
She wriggled down a bit further, her pinkened folds nudging the rubber, like a kiss.
Dashiell tore his eyes away and excused himself.
He left the basement and mounted the steps to the first-floor offices, ready to be curt with the first boy he ran across, but none of the assistants would stand still long enough to acknowledge him. Instead, everyone hurried from room to room in a frenzy of unnecessary tidying, eyes wide and lips squeezed together.
Dashiell finally caught someone by the arm. “All right, Hammersmith–what is all this?”
The boy gulped. “Lady Gallantine!”
The doctor tightened his grip. “What?”
“Lady Gallantine, sir! The Duke’s daughter. She’s in the parlor!”
“Lady Gallantine? In our parlor?”
The boy squirmed. Dashiell let him go, and stood in the hallway for a moment in stupefied shock. What on earth would a member of the Lavenlock nobility want with a Chastarium? They had each other. In fact, if rumors of their phenomenal, debauched interludes could be believed, then goodness, did they ever have each other.
The call bell clanged again, and Hammersmith’s voice piped, “Doctor!”
Dashiell collected himself and proceeded to the pair of French doors that led to the parlor. No less than four boys were crowding around the colored panes, gaping at the visitor who waited beyond.
When Dashiell entered her company, he understood why.
Lady Gallantine awaited him on the settee, her legs pressed together and ankles crossed, her bone-china hands clenched nervously in her lap. Her eyes were wide and frightened. The light from the window behind her haloed her sweet, perfect face, and for a moment, Dashiell was stunned by her impossible beauty.
When he finally dropped his eyes to take in the rest of her, he nearly forgot to breathe.
The brocade of Lady Gallantine’s dress ran from neck to ankle, but not even noble modesty could hide what luscious abundance Heaven had given her. Her face and neck had no hard lines, and that softness only plunged and widened beneath the brocade. Those gentle shoulders. Those heavy, beckoning breasts. That narrow waist above those ripe and womanly hips. Lady Gallantine shifted in anxious discomfort, and Dashiell imagined her warm thighs sliding across each other beneath all those skirts.
She brushed a jet curl away from her face. “Doctor?”
Dashiell bowed. His face and ears grew mortifyingly hot; the front of his trousers, suddenly and disastrously ill-fitting. “My Lady. You honor my establishment with your visit.”
“Thank you.” She bit her lower lip, gently. Delicate color flushed through her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. I’m a little nervous.”
Dashiell hastily seated himself to hide his problem, crossing his own legs and folding his hands. Lady Gallantine inhaled, her shapely chest straining against the brocade, and Dashiell’s desire throbbed. “You see, I… my father doesn’t know that I have come.”
“He thinks I am with Cousin Tristi. He’d be beside himself if he knew where I really was. You won’t tell, will you?”
“Madam,” said Dashiell. “I am a doctor. My livelihood depends upon my discretion. I shall not tell a soul.”
“Good,” Lady Gallantine burst out. “Because Father will hate me forever if he hears of it!”
She began to cry. Dashiell leapt to her side, produced a handkerchief, and dared lay a hand upon her warm, quivering back. “Hush now. You’re perfectly safe here. Come–let’s go to my office, where we can converse a bit more privately.”
Sniffling, Lady Gallantine took his arm, and Dashiell led her toward the back and into his office. “There you are. Please, have a seat. May I get you anything? A glass of water, perhaps?”
Lady Gallantine dabbed her eyes. “No, thank you. I’m so sorry.”
“Please, think nothing of it.” Dashiell took the chair that faced her. “Now. Speak as freely as you wish. I am concerned for absolutely nothing but your health.”
Lady Gallantine dabbed her eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m just so frightened. I asked Mother, and she said that I was coming of age. Doctor, I have these… feelings.” She lowered her eyes. “When I look at men. My body is on fire, like I’m ill with fever, and I yearn to be touched all over. And all the men at home smile at me so, the servants and the stable-hands and visiting Lords, and they stroke my shoulders and whisper in my ear, and I–oh! I’ve heard what people do, Doctor, and I am dying to have a try!”
Dashiell’s breath quickened. “Go on.”
Her color rose again. “I told Father before I told Mother, and he grew very agitated. He said I must stay away from men, and that I may take after Mother in ‘certain respects’, but he would not tell me what. And he says I must bathe in cold water now, and wear full pajamas to bed, and wash my private places quickly, and–he’s even hired a governess! A governess, Doctor, though I am 19 years, to watch me at night and ensure my purity!”
Dashiell gaped at her. Had the Duke really insisted upon keeping her so innocent?
Lady Gallantine was ripe, all right. Ripe to bursting.
“He says I mustn’t lose my chastity. And I heard–that is, I heard–”
Lady Gallantine dropped her voice. “That you can safely treat and tame lascivious desire. Is it true?”
Dashiell stared. He imagined drawing up her skirts, her exposed desire perfuming the room, and how wet and ready she’d be; her nervous fear as he laid her down and whispered, “Just relax, now, and you’ll feel better soon;” the furnace in the sub-basement below beginning to blaze, the heat mounting, pipes clanging, steam hissing through valves, as the Machine awoke and began its first inexorable thrust–
Dashiell swallowed. “Different patients have different reasons for wanting the treatment,” he said. “But it all achieves the same effect.
“In any case–Lady Gallantine, treating you will be my greatest pleasure.”
She sniffed. “Thank you. I suppose I must make a formal appointment?”
Dashiell cleared his throat. “You could, but since you’re already here, and since it seems that you have such difficulty getting away, we could try a treatment now.”
Lady Gallantine leapt up. “Could we? Oh, please, Doctor!”
Dashiell gestured for her to exit the room. As soon as she turned away from him, Dashiell stood and snatched a notebook from his desk to hold in front of himself, to shield his embarrassment. “Certainly. Let us adjourn to the basement.”
Once promised so ripe a fruit, Dashiell was aching to get on with it, but for the Lady’s sake, he allowed her to descend the basement staircase slowly and stand at its foot in hesitant wonder. The Long Hall stood before her: an oak-paneled passage flanked by doors upon doors, turning to the right at the far end.
The wave of familiar heat rose to meet them.
“Why is it so hot down here?” she whispered.
In a distant corner of The Chastarium, pipes began to clang. Lady Gallantine cocked her head. Answering clangs arose from within a few of the rooms, ringing a prelude to release.
“The fires in the sub-basement beneath us,” said Dashiell. “Most of my treatments are steam-powered.”
Dashiell moved past her, their thighs just barely brushing. In his hand, the notebook he held grew sweaty, and not thanks to the heat of the fires. “Don’t be afraid. Come.”
She stepped beside him, her hand wandering to his arm. From within a room to their left came an animal moan, low and near-delirious. The Lady opened her mouth to ask, and a distant steam valve whistled in emergency release. Somewhere unseen, a boy shouted instructions: “Stoke up 3. And ease up on 8, you lot, or the 10:00’ll get split wide open. Jus’ keep ’er purrin’.”
Lady Gallantine pressed herself against Dashiell’s side.
They reached the bend and kept going. The hallway now went past a bank of street-level windows on the left, covered in black cloth. Dashiell stopped beside a door on their right and took a ring of keys from his belt.
“What shall happen to me?” asked the Lady, timidly.
He unlocked the door. Within the treatment room, crouching with the menace of a great mechanical panther, sat The Chastarium’s primary claim to fame and infamy. The Machine was a thing of darkness and raw strength, made of durable iron and steel, indestructible as a canon. Pipes pierced its belly and back, tethering it to the room below and a complex network of pipes above. A mat lay on the floor before it, like a low altar, and above the mat stretched a long steel rod, tipped with the key to her release.
Gauges waited at zero, and the pipes around it hissed in readiness.
“Madam,” said Dashiell. “May I present The Locomotive.”
Lady Gallantine exhaled. She entered the room in awe. “Why… it’s so curious.”
“Can you guess how it works?”
She shook her head.
Dashiell swallowed. He entered after her, the room’s heat rolling over him, coaxing sweat from his brow and neck. “Lie on the mat on your back, with your feet toward the Machine. Arrange yourself such that the therapeutic end–this piece here–is just touching the doorway to your places.”
Dashiell inhaled. “Yes. Your entrance.”
Lady Gallantine frowned at him in incomprehension.
Dashiell closed his eyes. The heat was rising quickly in here. He knelt by the mat, removing his jacket and pushing up his shirtsleeves. “I’ll show you. Sit down and lift up your skirts.”
A drop of sweat rolled down Dashiell’s temple. The sight of such luscious, virgin thighs near so ruthless a Machine was enough to make a man insensible. Dashiell coughed; he could barely speak. “You have an entrance within your folds. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” she said shyly. “But I don’t know where, exactly. Oh–is this supposed to go inside of me?”
“It is. Move forward, please. I shall guide…” Dashiell nearly lost his composure, as the Lady obeyed and parted her thighs to receive. Her garden was exquisite, symmetrical and sweetly perfumed, pink as the smooth interior of a seashell. “I shall guide the therapeutic end where it needs to be.”
“Can that really fit inside of me?”
Dashiell swallowed again. The heat had boiled his mouth bone-dry. “It can.”
“Will it hurt?”
Dashiell guided it into place, the gears at the base of The Locomotive’s rod turning in oiled, well-practiced silence. “Perhaps at first.”
The Lady nodded solemnly.
Dashiell adjusted the height of the rod, then stood and placed himself next to the pipes, his hands on the valves and one eye on the gauges. The other eye he kept on her.
He turned a stopcock.
The Locomotive hissed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the rod surged forward.
Should he watch her face? The way her eyes widened in sudden knowledge, as her nostrils flared and her mouth opened in shock? Or should he watch his masterful Machine pierce and conquer her, even as her hungry entrance helped pull it in?
Dashiell’s gasps became commingled with hers.
“More,” she whispered.
Dashiell stroked the valves. The Locomotive stroked her. She and the Machine fell into a slow, gentle rhythm, hissing and moaning in concert. Sweat glimmered in her hair. Her eyes drifted closed, and Dashiell’s right hand drifted down to caress himself though the front of his trousers. He whimpered and leaned into his touch, even as Lady Gallantine whimpered and arched her back.
“More,” she said.
Dashiell obeyed. Steam puffed through the Machine in rhythmic bursts, and gears clicked and flashed. The rod’s strokes grew long and deep, strong and sure. Lady Gallantine’s breaths grew deeper, in a trance of ecstasy. Her body moved in swells, now rocking in need with the thrust, now melting in bliss with the retreat. The smell of her rose with the steam. Dashiell was intoxicated; he couldn’t stop touching himself, couldn’t stop staring at the way she seamlessly merged divinity and Eros in the simple act of her first pleasure.
And even though she hadn’t said “More,” he opened the valves further.
The Locomotive answered. The rod leaned harder, faster. Lady Gallantine cried out, her throat bobbing with the strokes, the beads of sweat in her hair thickening. Her hands left her skirts, clawing blindly at the mat. She spread her legs wider, in welcome and demand, a river of wet trickling to the floor, glimmering over the length of the end. Her chest pumped like a bellows. Her back was nearly frozen in an arch now, begging the unheeding Machine with her body.
She didn’t have to say it aloud. Dashiell opened the valves all the way.
The Locomotive pounded. Lady Gallantine screamed, the high thin wail of a cat in heat, as the Machine rode her body to the end. Dashiell’s own body lunged for the brink, and he yelled at himself in scorn beneath her triumphant cry, snatching his hands away and biting his fingers. But maybe he would lose control just from watching her, because without Dashiell’s hands on the valves to order it otherwise, The Locomotive kept pounding, but Lady Gallantine kept coming.
Dashiell squeezed his eyes shut. She did not stop. Still she wailed, a siren song of raw joy; when she finally ceased, Dashiell dared to open his eyes and lower his hands, but still another wave embraced her. Lady Gallantine squealed and rocked, her hips urging for more.
And the tireless Machine obliged.
“Doctor,” she cried out. “O God in Heaven! Doctor, don’t stop!”
A pressure gauge swung abruptly to the left. Dashiell fiddled with the valves, compensating, somewhere between bursting and numb. He had seen a few patients like this. Those who just kept going. For them, pleasure was not a peak–it was a high plateau, and it sprawled for miles.
When would hers end?
She cried out again. Dashiell’s need throbbed in agony. He clenched his hands over the stopcocks, breathing so fast his throat felt raw, and told himself that damn it all, he was a doctor, not some naïve school boy who couldn’t control himself.
She writhed on the mat, toes clenching and relaxing, while The Locomotive pounded.
Another pressure gauge swung. Dashiell fumbled. A puddle grew beneath Lady Gallantine, and patches of moisture grew upon her dress. I should have made you take it off, thought Dashiell stupidly, and the image of her unclothed body rocking beneath The Locomotive, her breasts swaying and thighs clenching, was enough to break him.
Dashiell arrived. A match struck the length of his spine, sparking his need to a blaze, and in seconds, he was immolated in pleasure where he stood, releasing a torrent inside his clothing. He grappled for purchase on something; valves spun beneath his desperate fingers, steam hissed, and metal squealed. The Locomotive groaned and sputtered to a halt.
“Oh!” cried Lady Gallantine, still rocking. “Oh–Doctor, is that all?”
Dashiell knelt on the floor, shaking.
Lady Gallantine paused. “Doctor?”
“I’m fine,” Dashiell whispered. Sweat dripped from his face. “I–forgive me. The heat.”
The Lady nodded and lay back. She sighed in satisfaction and longing, then, the therapeutic end still buried within her folds, now winking with her most recent release. “Oh, Doctor,” she murmured. “Oh, that was–I have no words. I feel ever so much better.”
Dashiell nodded. He closed his eyes in mortification. Where had he placed that shielding notebook?
“But yet… but yet not entirely.” Lady Gallantine glanced shyly at The Locomotive. “Can you… start it up again? For just a bit more, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid I’ve damaged a valve or two,” Dashiell mumbled. “My clumsiness. No fault of yours.”
“That’s all right.” The Lady inched herself backward. The Locomotive’s end eased out, and her folds reluctantly gathered in its wake. But not quite all the way. She’d never be as tight again.
Well, that was fine–by the sound of things, Lady Gallantine was eager for more.
Dashiell closed his eyes. “I think we are through for the day.”
“May I come back again? I don’t think you’ve quite treated all of my desire.”
Oh, God–I shall have to keep a spare pair of trousers here, Dashiell thought, but aloud he said, “Please do. And next time, we may try a Machine that could be more suitable.”
“When should I come back?”
Forgetting about her agitated father, Dashiell said, “Tomorrow.”
Dr. Jameson H. Dashiell, inventor of over 20 unique sex Machines designed to “safely treat and tame lascivious desire,” must find a way to treat the beautiful and insatiable Lady Gallantine without losing his professional self-control—or losing his life at the hands of her father, the suspicious and overbearing Duke.
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