The Doctor's Little Ward

by Ava Sinclair

“I’m trying… papa,” she said.

  “Good girl.” He studied her for a moment. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  She looked around the room, suddenly remembering. There was an exam table with a white blanket, and glass cabinets along the wall with all sorts of jars and bottles. The room smelled strongly of antiseptic.

  “Nurse Trinket said you are to examine me,” she said. “But I’m not sick.”

  “No, you seem to be in good health,” he agreed. “But I intend to make sure that remains the case, and put you on a regimen that will keep you healthy, Abigail. But you’ll need to undress for the exam.”

  She looked at him, shocked.

  “Completely?”

  He’d turned away to walk to the cabinets but turned back now. “I’m a doctor, Abigail. I assure you I’ve seen more than one naked female body. As you are my ward and my future wife, you will obey me in this.”

  Apprehension replaced the excitement she’d felt upon seeing him. Nurse Trinket had stepped forward to help Abigail out of her clothes. The dress was removed with brisk efficiency. Next came the stockings and the shoes. However, when the older woman moved to take down the bloomers, Abigail whimpered in objection. Only an arch look from her guardian motivated her to comply.

  Abigail flushed deeply when she’d removed the bloomers and looked up to see Dr. Abbott’s gaze firmly fixed on the triangle of red curls at the apex of her thighs.

  “Nurse Trinket,” he said. “I would have thought that you’d have seen to the removal of that very adult thatch of hair on my ward’s nether regions.”

  “My apologies, doctor,” the nurse replied. “I did not realize you were of a mind to remove it.”

  “Remove it?” Abigail looked from one face to the other in disbelief.

  “Of course,” Simon replied. “Proper young ladies are often prone to hysteria and other tensions common to their delicate natures. Sometimes the only remedy for such vexations is vulvar massage. Removal of the hair covering your mons will not only be more fitting for a young lady confined to the nursery, but will make such remedies—when necessary—more effective.”

  “But…” Abigail thought to protest, and suddenly wondered if the ache she’d been experiencing was a symptom of such an affliction. Before she could further ponder it, however, her guardian and his nurse had helped her up onto the table and were laying her back.

  “Oh!” She looked down as first one leg was lifted, and then the other, and placed in metal supports that Nurse Trinket lifted from the side of the table and locked in place. The supports spread her legs obscenely wide, and Simon restrained her legs in the supports with leather straps as, nearby, his nurse mixed shaving powder into a stiff foam that she swirled onto a brush and used to lather Abigail’s red curls.

  Abigail’s eyes widened when she saw the straight razor, the sight of which frightened her into holding perfectly still. Nurse Trinket completed the task swiftly, and soon the pale mons was completely denuded, leaving only pinkish-white skin smooth as silk.

  Abigail shifted on the table and reflexively tried to close her legs. Just the feeling of the air on her exposed labia made it feel more sensitive. She felt even more exposed with the fleecy red curls removed.

  “Better?” Simon asked, and she realized he was standing at the head of the table, looking down on her.

  She nodded and looked away shyly in the direction of the arms she had crossed over her breasts.

  “Now, now. There will be none of this.” Her guardian gently grasped her wrists and moved them to her side. “Do I need to restrain your arms, too, or are you prepared to be my good little patient?”

  She wordlessly shook her head.

  Simon began the exam by looking into her ears, ordering her to open her mouth so he could inspect her throat, and looking into her eyes. He was detached, clinical as he began the exam. Perhaps, she thought, her nervousness was unwarranted. Perhaps he would examine her quickly and it would all be over before she knew it.

  But it was not to be.

  “No swelling in your neck. Your eyes and ears look fine. Your teeth and tongue and throat look healthy.” He paused. “But now I must take your temperature. Normally I would have you lie on your belly, but I believe I can easily access your bottom just as you are.”

  “M-my bottom?”

  “Yes, my little Abigail, and I suggest that you comply if you don’t want a spanking.”

  Abigail’s heart began to race as she watched him retrieve a thick glass thermometer and apply a lubricating ointment to the red bulb at the end.

  “There’s no need to be afraid, Abigail,” he said, and she noticed that his voice sounded strained and tight as he moved between her legs. She could feel his finger sliding down the seam of her bottom, siding into the cleft. She felt it move down until it came to rest on the tight puckered hole of her bottom. She could feel him pressing against the dusky crinkle. When she tried to move away, he barked at her to stay still.

  “Good girl,” he said, when she complied, and Abigail felt a rush of pleasure at his having praised her. He was pressing her posy now, pressing, pressing, pressing, and while she wanted to close her eyes, she found herself watching his every move. He was still holding the thermometer, but his finger—the tip of it—was wriggling against her little back passage.

  She whimpered when Simon withdrew his finger and pressed the bulb of the thermometer against her. The greased tip of it slid in with a mild sting, for the instrument was nearly as thick as his finger had been.

  “Hold still,” he said, and she felt his warm hand on her hip as he waited.

  The minutes seemed to drag by, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he finally removed the thermometer.

  “No fever,” he said. “And we want you to stay that way. There’s much sickness on the streets of London now. I intend for you to stay inside until it passes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Are we finished?”

  “No.” He helped her to sitting.

  “Tell me, Abigail,” he said. “What do you know of what happens between a man and woman?”

  Abigail hugged her arms around her breasts and looked down, embarrassed to reveal her ignorance. She raised herself up on her elbows, looking down at her own body—the gentle slope of her belly, the smooth mound of her mons.

  “My mother only told me to be modest. She said when I was old enough she would tell me more. But she died before she could. I know… nothing.”

  Simon put a finger under her chin and tipped her face up until she was looking at him.

  “A true hothouse flower,” he said, dropping his hand to trail his finger lightly down her arm. Abigail shuddered.

  “You will be my wife one day,” he said. “You will need to know what to expect. And I need to determine certain things about you if the experience is to be beneficial.”

  “What kind of things?” Abigail could hear the apprehension in her own voice.

  “Lie back, Abigail,” he said.

  She wanted to hesitate, but his hands were on her shoulders now, gently pushing her down. His unfathomable grey eyes were locked on hers.

  “Keep your hands at your sides, Abigail.” He took her hands and moved them to her sides. Abigail closed her eyes. She could feel her nipples hardening to little pebbles in the cool room.

  “I find your modesty charming, sweet Abigail,” he said. “And I expect you to remain modest around others. But as your guardian and future husband, I will look upon you whenever I wish, and you are never to shield yourself.”

  “But we’re not married yet!” she protested. “I thought… I thought a man was only supposed to see a woman after they were married.”

  “In some relationships, yes,” he said. He paused and Abigail opened her eyes. “Ours is not that kind of relationship. What we have is different. I intend to train you before we are wed, Abigail.”

  “Train me?”

  He nodded. “I plan to train you to obedience to my every command. This will
be for my pleasure as your husband. But also for yours.”

  He’d moved his hand to her breast now, cupping it. Abigail looked down. He had large hands, but even so, the mound of flesh he fondled was just overflowing it. His hand was warm, and she could feel her nipple—achingly hard—press against his palm.

  “Do you like my hand there, Abigail?”

  “I… I don’t know!” Abigail replied, her voice quavering. She wasn’t sure how to feel. But between her legs the curious throbbing had begun, stronger than ever.

  Simon moved his hand to her other breast. “Your breasts are lovely, Abigail. Have you ever seen a baby suckle at its mother’s breast?”

  She nodded.

  “Until we have a child of our own, I will suck your nipples,” he said, and took one of the hard little peaks between his fingers and squeezed. “You’ll like it. I’ll draw on the tip, right here.”

  Abigail cried out, and her hand flew up to catch his wrist. The idea of his mouth—oh!—the throbbing between her legs was worse.

  “Oh, no, Abigail,” he said, and reached up to stroke her hair. “Do not seek to stay my hand. You must trust me, as both your doctor and your papa, to always do what is best for you, no?”

  She nodded, for something in his quiet manner was making her trust him. He was so stern, yet so gentle in his touch.

  “I’m going to touch you somewhere new, Abigail,” he said. “I’m going to touch you where no man has ever touched you before.” His voice was deep and comforting, and at his words she felt a gush of moisture pulse from her spread pussy.

  “I’m wet,” she said with a gasp, her tone one of confused alarm.

  “Yes, my little one, you are,” her handsome doctor replied, and this time his words were accompanied by a smile. “And it pleases me. Do you know what it means when your pussy aches and grows so wet that the moisture coats your pretty thighs?”

  She shook her head.

  “It means you crave to be touched there,” he said. “Your pussy, Abigail,”—he placed a finger atop her mons—“is weeping for attention. It knows what it wants, even if you don’t.”

  Abigail didn’t know how to answer this. The place she’d touched when dreaming of her guardian was throbbing harder now. And he was right; she was aching, too, aching up inside, as if desiring something.

  “But what…?” she asked, looking down between her legs. The throbbing was stronger, her body sending her a strong message that her innocent mind could not interpret.

  “Your pussy wants to be filled, Abigail. It is telling you it is ready to be breached by my cock. You are having an awakening, Abigail, and it is all right, for you are in a safe place. I will guide you through this, Abigail. I will teach you to experience pleasure…”

  “But it’s wrong!” Abigail said. “Ladies are supposed to be modest, virtuous…”

  “Unless told otherwise,” Simon said, moving his hand up her slick inner thigh as he spoke. “And I am telling you otherwise, because as your guardian, I have assumed full responsibility for your actions—all your actions. Do you remember what I told you that day in the parlor, Abigail?” He moved his hand further up her thigh. “I gave you permission to feel then. I gave you permission to feel sad. I’m doing that again, Abigail, only this time I’m giving you permission to feel pleasure.”

  Now he moved his hand between her legs, his index finger resting on the small bridge of skin between her pussy and bottom hole. Slowly, he moved it up, grazing the slick folds, going higher until it came to rest on the glistening pearl of her clitoris. Abigail groaned and arched toward his hand.

  “Oh…”

  “Does that feel good?”

  “Oh, yes…”

  He began to circle the little nub with his finger. Abigail felt her hips follow his touch. It was as if her body was acting of its own accord, arching to follow the motion of his fingers when he relaxed the pressure, which was building into a delicious ache centered in what he’d called her pussy.

  “I’m going to put my finger inside you, Abigail,” he said. “I need to check your maidenhead.”

  She felt him insert his finger, but just a short distance. Abigail wanted more. She lifted her hips to him.

  “Please!” she cried.

  “Please, what?”

  “I… please… more…” She felt her skin flush with heat of want and shame as his words came back to her. He’d told her this would happen—that she would beg for him to take her.

  She moaned in despair when he withdrew his finger. Tears were coursing down her face.

  “He’s right,” she said. “I’m a bad girl…”

  Simon walked to the head of the table and knelt down, brushing the tears away with his hand. She could smell herself on his fingers.

  “The barrister, Portman. The day he told me my father’s plan, I’d been so angry. I told him I didn’t want to come here, that I’d not marry you. And he said it would be for the best if you didn’t want me, because a woman like me was only good for the workhouse or the whorehouse.” The shocking admission, which she’d kept to herself, tumbled out now in a rush of hurt. “And he’s right,” she continued. “I’m begging like a slattern, just like you said I would. You think I’m bad, too, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Abigail, no…” His tone was gentle. “You’re everything I want in a future wife.” He paused. “But I hate to see you in such need. Would you like papa to make it better?”

  “How?”

  “I plan to save your maidenhead for a special moment, but that does not mean I cannot show you what bliss awaits. Can you trust me, little Abigail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because papa is going to do something that may scare you at first. But I want you to be a very brave girl for me and not fight.”

  Her heart was pounding. What was he going to do? Abigail watched through wide eyes as he stood and walked to the end of the table to stand between her open legs. He knelt down then, his large hands reaching underneath her to scoop her buttocks possessively into his hands as he pressed his face between her thighs.

  Abigail wanted to keep her promise to be brave, but this… this was too much. Surely this was wrong! His tongue laved her slit, lapping away the juices collected in the slippery folds of her inner flower. It delved into her, causing her to arch against his face. She could feel the slight stubble against her mons, the slight abrasiveness causing a mild discomfort that somehow heightened the pleasurable sensation.

  And then…

  “Oh!” Abigail cried out, her hands reaching down to grasp his hair as his mouth caught her hard clit in a suckling grasp. She tried to pull him away, panicking now at the intensity of what she was feeling. She could feel the inside walls of her pussy grasping, gripping, and now his finger was inside as far as her virgin barrier would allow. She tried to arch toward it, but his mouth held her still. He was immobilizing her, feasting on her pussy as his finger worked back and forth.

  And then it happened, wave after wave of pleasure. Abigail cried out with it, bucking against his face as her pussy sought to draw his finger deeper, the convulsing walls gripping, pulling. He moaned against her clit, the vibration causing a second wave of pleasure. For a moment everything went dark as she slipped into a shining vortex of carnal sensations. She did not realize, in her virgin innocence, that she’d come not once, but twice. She only knew that this man was making her feel things she never thought possible—wonderful things, forbidden things.

  “Does my little one feel better now?” Simon’s voice brought her back to herself, and Abigail looked up to see him standing between her still-spread legs.

  “I… yes.” And she did. The pressure from the dam of need had burst, leaving her feeling languid and relaxed. “What happened to me?”

  “La petite mort,” he said. “The little death. An orgasm.” He paused, a small smile playing on his handsome face now. “You came, Abigail.”

  “So I’m… not a virgin any longer?”

  He chuckled at her innocence
. “My dear, you are still very much a virgin, and will remain so until I push my cock deep into your pussy.” When her eyes widened with shock, he smiled again. “Before it is all over, I will claim three virginities of my little Abigail.”

  “Three? But I thought…”

  Simon leaned forward and put a finger to her lip. “All in due time. For now it should be enough for you to know that your papa is very pleased with his little treasure.”

  Abigail watched as he removed her legs from the supports. As he raised her to sitting, she was aware of the puddle of moisture beneath her, evidence of her newfound passion.

  “Such a good little patient you were,” he said. “I look forward to training you.” He tipped her chin up. “And to marrying you.”

  “But we’ve yet to know one another well,” she said.

  “This is true. But if you are willing for us to discover one another further after we are wed, we will have a lifetime for that. And the sooner we are wed, the sooner I can show you untold delights of the flesh. Would you like that?”

  A soft smile played on Abigail’s lips and she gave a shy nod. That he wanted to marry her so soon thrilled her nearly as much as the notion of what awaited her in the marriage bed.

  Chapter Six: An Unexpected Visit

  Abigail was, Simon decided, perfection.

  As he sat in his office the next morning, he realized he’d lost count of how many times he’d replayed the day before in his mind, recalling the feel of Abigail’s soft skin, the taste of her arousal, the sounds of her little moans and sighs, how her apprehension had turned to excitement and then wonder upon experiencing her first orgasm.

  He’d nearly turned Nigel Portman away the day he’d shown up at his door with Malcolm Barrow’s daughter. Now the thought of her being at the workhouse—or worse—filled him with revulsion, as did Abigail’s revelation that the foul man had told her it was where she belonged. His fists clenched in rage as he imagined her on some dirty mattress, being callously used by some randy sailor for a few shillings.

  This wellspring of caring protectiveness was something new to him. Her sweet vulnerability, Simon realized, had sparked his own awakening. But the intensity of his caring frightened him. Her security was tied to his now. He longed to hold her in his arms, to see her smile up at him, to watch her blossom in her role as his little one, and his wife.