Chapter Text
The examination room smelled of salt air, carbolic soap, and something faintly metallic—perhaps the brass fittings of the reclined table on which Eleanor now perched. She had arrived at the Haven of Restoration that morning, valise in hand, still half-convinced the entire journey was folly. Sea air had never cured anything before; why should it cure this restless, unnamed ache that had plagued her for years?
Her friend Amelia had blushed so violently when recommending the place—stammering about “discreet physicians” and “certain curative attentions”—that Eleanor had almost turned back at the posting inn. Yet here she sat, gloved hands folded tightly in her lap, skirts smoothed obsessively over her knees, waiting for yet another man in a white coat to tell her she was suffering from nothing at all.
The door opened.
He was younger than she had expected—twenty-one, perhaps twenty-two at most. Tall, lean, with dark hair neatly combed and eyes the colour of storm-clouds over the Channel. His white coat was immaculate; his gloves pristine. He carried himself with the calm authority of someone twice his age.
“Lady Whitmore,” he said, voice low and measured. “I am Dr. Julian Harrow. Thank you for your patience.”
Eleanor inclined her head, suddenly aware of how loudly her heart beat against her stays.
He seated himself on the low stool before her, withdrew a small leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket, and looked up with polite expectation.
“If you would be so kind as to describe your symptoms in as much detail as you are able.”
She hesitated, then began—haltingly at first, then with growing frustration. The restlessness. The irritability. The peculiar heat that bloomed low in her belly at the most inconvenient moments. The nights when sleep would not come, when she lay beside her ageing husband and felt nothing but distance. The way her body seemed to yearn for something she could neither name nor obtain.
Dr. Harrow listened without interruption, pen moving steadily across the page. He glanced at her wedding band.
“Your husband…?”
“Lord Whitmore is three-and-seventy,” she said quietly. “His health has been frail for many years. We… lead separate lives under the same roof.”
He nodded once, as though confirming a hypothesis.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “I believe I have a very clear picture.”
He closed the notebook with a soft snap.
“I am almost certain of the diagnosis, my lady, but one final confirmation is required. If you would be so good as to lift your skirts and expose your sex.”
Eleanor’s mouth fell open.
“I—I beg your pardon?”
His expression remained perfectly composed.
“It is necessary for an accurate diagnosis. I assure you, this is standard procedure at the Haven.”
Her cheeks burned. Yet something in his calm, professional tone—leagues more competent than her usual physician’s vague assurances—made her pause.
Slowly, trembling, she gathered the many layers of her skirts and raised them to her waist.
The cool air of the room kissed her bare skin. She had, at the resort’s discreet instruction, removed her drawers upon arrival. Now she sat exposed—her sex smooth and hairless, as fashion and her own fastidious habits demanded.
Dr. Harrow slid his stool forward.
He placed warm, gloved hands on the insides of her thighs and parted them gently but firmly. Wide.
Eleanor closed her eyes and turned her face aside, humiliation scalding her from throat to hairline.
Then she felt it: the soft puff of his breath against her most intimate flesh.
She gasped.
Eleanor’s eyes flew open. She looked down to find him watching her sex with grave attention, as though studying a specimen under glass.
He inhaled again—slow, deliberate, then set the pad of his gloved thumb against the hood of her clitoris and eased it gently upward, exposing the small, sensitive pearl beneath.
He leaned closer.
He blew another warm exhalation of breath directly over the naked nub.
It throbbed—visibly, shamefully.
“Everything appears to be functioning as it should,” he murmured, satisfied.
Then—saints preserve her—he began to rub her clit.
Small, firm circles. Precise.
Her breathing fractured.
“Wh—what are you—”
“Patience, my lady.” His voice was kind, almost soothing. “You are indeed suffering from what is commonly termed, 'female hysteria'. But you need not fear. It is perfectly curable.”
Relief warred with mortification. She exhaled shakily.
He continued the slow, maddening circles.
“The treatment is straightforward,” he went on, never breaking rhythm. “A strict but healthy regimen of regular paroxysms—or, as the common tongue has it, orgasms. A great many of them, over the course of several weeks. We will see to your needs here with the utmost care, professionalism, vigor, diligence, and dignity. Already you show very promising signs of recovery from your copious production of juices,” he added matter-of-factly.
Eleanor’s face flamed.
“Precisely as your body is meant to do when it prepares itself for breeding!” He continued quickly, as if trying to console her.
Eleanor made a strangled sound.
He rose smoothly to his feet—never ceasing the motion of his thumb—and stood between her spread thighs.
His erection was unmistakable: a thick, proud ridge straining the front of his trousers, the fabric darkened at the tip.
“I am a healthy, virile male, at the peak of sexual fecundity. It is only natural that your body responds to mine, as mine likewise does to yours,” he said gently, “There is no shame in this room, Lady Whitmore. Your pleasure is my professional honour to provide.”
The realisation struck her like a physical blow.
Amelia. The blushing. The stammered recommendation.
This was how her friend had been “cured.”
Her mind spun—guilt, shock, helpless arousal—while his thumb never faltered.
“Very well,” she whispered, barely audible.
“Excellent,” he said warmly.
He resumed his seat between her thighs, settled comfortably, and inserted one long, gloved finger straight into her sopping entrance.
Eleanor groaned. Her walls clenched greedily around the intrusion, milking him in helpless rhythm.
“There we are,” he murmured, beginning a slow, deep thrust. “Let your body take what it needs.”
His other hand on her clitoris went faster now, firmer.
“I—I did not realise treatment would begin… immediately,” she managed between gasps.
“Oh yes, my lady.” He nodded gravely. “Beginning straight away is of utmost importance. You have suffered long enough.”
Without warning he withdrew his fingers from her clitoris, and threw his tie over his shoulder.
Then he leaned in and sealed his mouth over her throbbing clit.
A moan tore from Eleanor’s chest.