by Alicia Wag
(04/11/07)

Dr. Fleisher's specialty was female hysteria. Women came for the unique relief offered by his expert massage therapies.

Besides being a successful physician, Dr. Fleisher was happily married, his wife dutifully providing sex on a weekly basis. It was enough for him, and for her, too, at least since he had agreed to perform pelvic massage on her after the act, and especially since he'd secured for her one of the state-of-the-art instruments which had recently made his job so much easier.

Mrs. Manning came as a complete surprise. He first laid eyes on her in the waiting room, her gloved hands clutching her bag, dabbing her forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. Her hat -- a hideous, ornate combination of straw, ruffles, flowers, and red feathers -- rested on the chair beside her. In the midst of it, a stuffed bluebird perched, mouth slightly open.

Dr. Fleisher cringed. He despised the new bird-ornamented hats. There was something terrible about such free creatures being placed atop women's heads.

Although he was a general practitioner and saw all sorts of maladies, he could identify female hysteria on sight. Mrs. Manning's perfectly configured hair twist, her impeccably powdered face, the way she pulled at the standing collar of her long dress -- all coupled with nervous fiddling with her hair -- this was female hysteria in the extreme.

He did feel for these women and derived satisfaction from his ability to help them, but something about it always troubled him. After the paroxysm which indicated the treatment had been successful, the woman was always relaxed, smiling, and grateful, while he felt a strange depression, even a mild embarrassment. He never understood why, and didn't dwell on it. It was his job to help and heal.

He greeted Mrs. Manning, offering a handshake.

"Hello, doctor," she said, her hand hesitating, then jerking out as though in spasm. It landed on his forearm, white glove on white coat. "I'm so sorry," she stammered, reaching back to properly shake his hand.

"Come in, Mrs. Manning," he said.

As he slipped behind his desk, Mrs. Manning seated herself, falling into the same proper, controlled position she'd assumed in the waiting area. Dr. Fleisher quickly verified that he had been right. She listed headaches, sleeplessness, irritability, and wandering thoughts as symptoms.

"What sorts of thoughts?" he asked, running his hand over his nearly bald head.

Mrs. Manning's face flushed; she cast her gaze downward into her lap and wrung her embroidered handkerchief as though she could squeeze something out of it. She whispered, "They creep into my mind at the most terrible times. When I'm sewing, or serving tea. Sometimes when I'm looking at my child." This last one seemed to particularly disturb her. She choked back a sob and looked up, her face desperate, her black eyes like hot coals against the white of her skin, pale as moonlight.

He was taken aback, and moved. "Mrs. Manning." He spoke her name softly. "Perhaps you need a different sort of doctor."

She lifted one hand in the air, fingers waving like the wings of a canary. "No," she cried. "Mrs. Peony recommended you so highly." Her voice trailed off and she dropped her head again.

"Very well," said Dr. Fleisher. The pang of longing he had felt was evolving, layering with other feelings. He moved to the back of his office and opened the door to his examining room. "Step in here," he said. "And undress from the waist down. There's a blanket on the examining table."

"That's all?" she asked, and paused.

He looked at her linen dress, dusky rose, wrapped tight around her cinched waist, falling in pleats around her lower body, hiding its natural shape. His wife complained bitterly of the discomfort caused by the layers of garments she had to wear. She especially hated the corset, which strangled her breasts and chest. Though there was no need for Mrs. Manning to take her own corset off, Dr. Fleisher felt himself redden and begin to sputter.

"Yes," he forced himself to say, evenly and easily. "Yes."

He found her sitting on the edge of the table. She had taken off the long skirt of her dress, but left on the bodice with its high, lacy collar. Her graceful arms were like wings. She had removed her gloves, and her hands lay unmoving in her lap.

She had neglected to unfold the blanket, which made it barely cover her ample hips; it ended mid-thigh, so he could see her legs and her pampered feet. He found himself thinking that she looked lovely, and the thought horrified him. Certainly, he had found other hysterics attractive, but it was always an objective observation.

"Mrs. Manning," he whispered hoarsely, "unfold the blanket and lie down." He turned away, listening to the sounds as Mrs. Manning shifted into place. When silence fell, he said, "All set?"

"Yes," she answered. Her eyes were closed, as if in rapture, the lids fluttering almost imperceptibly, her lips parted pink and moist.

Dr. Fleisher walked to the foot of the table, seated himself in the chair there, and unfolded the stirrups. "Move down," he said. Mrs. Manning scooted her body closer, opening her eyes so she could see. "Put your feet here," said Dr. Fleisher, pointing to the stirrups.

Dr. Fleisher saw that Mrs. Manning's feet were the smoothest, most perfect feet he had ever laid eyes on.

He pushed the blanket back so that it draped over Mrs. Manning's knees and between her legs, shrouding every part of her but those pretty feet. Though technology had enhanced pelvic massage treatments considerably, shortening their duration and providing greater relief for the patient, Dr. Fleisher found himself reaching for a jar. Mrs. Manning's legs twitched as he dipped his fingers into the slick, scented oil. He put his other hand on the blanket, finding her knee and squeezing it.

"Relax, now, Mrs. Manning." He reached into the darkness under the blanket, searching until he found the place between Mrs. Manning's legs.

When he began to touch her, she stopped twitching. Dr. Fleisher felt her body sink into the table, her deep sigh urging his fingers to continue, keep rubbing the flesh around her vaginal lips, then the lips themselves, covering the whole area with lubrication.

Dr. Fleisher had found over the years that it was important to expand his technique, and so he experimented freely, with great results for his patients. It was meditative for him, in a way, closing his eyes as he worked, feeling the response of the woman, allowing it to guide his hands and fingers. Mrs. Manning's sighs grew deeper. She began moaning, moving her lower body in the primal, rhythmic way that indicated paroxysm would soon occur.

It didn't. Despite that, she was clearly achieving deep relaxation, so Dr. Fleisher continued the massage with his fingers rather than reaching for an instrument. He determined that her hysteria was so severe that extended treatment was called for. His hand kept mining the hidden terrain of her vagina.

Each time she was on the verge of paroxysm he pulled away, falling into reverie with Mrs. Manning, his hand and her hips synchronized in perfect rhythm. Suddenly her hand was upon his, pushing it lower. She was whispering something. Dr. Fleisher had grown so feverish he hardly understood her at first, but then the words "put it inside," came to him, and his finger slipped into the wet opening of her vagina, moving in and out with the rhythm of her hips, one finger, then another, and another, then one more, four fingers exploring the dark, mysterious cavern, rubbing its walls, her hand still there, under the blanket.

Somehow Dr. Fleisher knew she was touching that hard nub at the apex of her vulva but the fact was somehow detached from him, like the words "put it inside." Mrs. Manning's body began to tremble and writhe. Her movements grew into the biggest paroxysm Dr. Fleisher had ever witnessed. He felt it with his hands, from inside, its throbbing.

He knew that paroxysm occurred inside the vagina, but had never actually felt the juices flush downward. It fascinated and excited him -- from a medical point of view, of course. He stood up, wiped his hand on a cloth, and told the woman to dress. He showed himself out without looking at her.

At Mrs. Manning's next appointment, Dr. Fleisher determined that weekly treatments were in order. For a month, he continued massage, with his hands and with the vibrating instruments, aided by Mrs. Manning herself.

Her masturbation was highly irregular and proved how depraved Mrs. Manning's hysteria had rendered her. Yet Dr. Fleisher couldn't help but take advantage of the opportunity it offered to glean new information and learn new techniques. He had never had such a receptive patient, and he did not waste the opportunity for research.

With his hand exploring her inner and outer vagina, he made note of the physiological changes during paroxysm, and marveled at how intense and full-body they could be. He came to deem visuals necessary -- in the interests of medicine -- and he began to view Mrs. Manning's vagina during the treatments, noting how pink and swollen she became, how her opening bloomed like a flower, inviting his fingers or instruments to enter.

A remarkable discovery: Mrs. Manning could achieve paroxysm more than once. Many times, in fact. She would lie on the table, feet tensing in the stirrups, hips writhing, body shaking, until she fell over the brink into the most extreme state of relaxation he had ever seen.

The ramifications for treating female hysteria were astounding. He saw an important, well-received paper coming out of this.

One aspect of the treatments shamed him, but he put it aside for the greater good. He found no way to avoid relieving himself in the bathroom after she left, rubbing his penis until white liquid spurted into the toilet. It was an inevitable, if unfortunate, result of the research he was conducting.

One week, after her third paroxysm, Mrs. Manning tossed the blanket aside. Dr. Fleisher could see the entire bottom half of her naked body, the lush buttocks, the undulant hips. She was treating herself with one of Dr. Fleisher's instruments. He had moved away from the table to take notes, and she had grabbed it and continued.

He walked around the table, watching her uninhibitedly rub the buzzing instrument all over her vagina, the thick cord dangling from its end like an obscene tail. She was enraptured, head tipped back, her long swan-like neck arched. Her mouth was open, emitting sounds from deep inside her.

Dr. Fleisher wondered for a moment whether his wife found such pleasure with the instrument he had given her, whether she might ever allow him to take her this far. When he performed massage on her after intercourse, it was as with all his other patients, a small, quick paroxysm, then nothing. Mrs. Manning's paroxysms wrenched at her very soul, releasing its tension in powerful waves. Dr. Fleisher was convinced that the cure for female hysteria could be absolute with treatments like this. Mrs. Manning herself, one of the most extreme cases he had ever seen, was already showing consistent progress.

Another paroxysm...and Mrs. Manning turned her head toward him, panting. "Dr. Fleisher," she said. "It's not enough."

"All right," he said, putting down his papers and reaching for the instrument.

"No," she said. "I need more. If you want to cure me, there has to be more."

"Twice a week?" he asked, unnerved by the sight of her half-naked body, her legs flopped open without reservation, her wet, throbbing vagina.

She shook her head. "I have to bare everything," She wrapped her arms around her chest, closing her eyes. "I'll never get better holding it in."

Something stirred in Dr. Fleisher, a small, quick flutter that immediately choked itself off. He felt a swelling in his pants. "All right," he said, in his most clinical voice.

Mrs. Manning sat up. She reached behind her to unbutton the bodice of her deep blue dress. Dr. Fleisher watched as she pulled it off, then undid the suffocating corset, releasing the round voluptuousness of her breasts. The sight of the erect nipples made Dr. Fleisher's breath catch in his throat. He never saw his wife's breasts. He barely saw her body. The feelings of longing he experienced the first day he met Mrs. Manning returned, washing over him.

Dr. Fleisher reached involuntarily for Mrs. Manning's breasts, his fingertips meeting the nipples, trembling and touching, his palms folding around them. He found them cushiony but firm, like an expensive pillow, and before he knew it, his mouth was on them and he was licking the nipples, sucking them, weeping like a baby. Somewhere in the background he heard the buzz of the vibrating instrument that Mrs. Manning had between her legs, and when she experienced yet another paroxysm, one that made her cry out like a wolf during full moon, Dr. Fleisher felt his own penis erupt, spilling hot liquid down his leg.

Mrs. Manning expressed profound gratitude as she left. She shook his hand vigorously, thanking him profusely for his dedication, for the vast improvements in her condition. He watched her turn away, the horrible dead bluebird on her head going with her, her long woolen cape swinging around her as she walked.

He went straight to the bathroom to clean himself. He had never, ever achieved climax without physical contact.

Astonishing -- another amazing discovery to add to his research.

The treatments increased to twice a week. Because of their potentially disruptive nature and the absolute necessity of conducting them without limitation, Dr. Fleisher moved them to a hotel. He found Mrs. Manning even more relaxed in that setting, and the treatments achieving even greater results. This led him to theorize that female hysteria should perhaps be treated in a more homelike environment than a doctor's office.

Mrs. Manning continued to prefer full-body nakedness, and without table and stirrups, felt free to assume a variety of positions. Her favorite, and most effective, found her on hands and knees, buttocks jutting into the air like satiny hills. Dr. Fleisher found that in this position, the combination of fingers moving in and out of the inner vagina while the vibrating instrument massaged the outer vagina achieved the most powerful, profound paroxysms.

Mrs. Manning would leave the treatments in a heightened state of relaxation and happiness. Dr. Fleisher remained behind to clean up. He regularly brought an extra pair of trousers to replace his soiled ones.

Things were beyond his wildest imaginings. He had prepared fifty-one pages of what promised to be a stunning paper. Although Mrs. Manning had achieved near-normalcy, Dr. Fleisher hesitated to end treatments. He had already found the cure for female hysteria, but with Mrs. Manning, nuance and detail were turning up all the time. Continued treatment could result in no harm.

One week, she arrived at the hotel in an agitated state. It was a snowy night; white, wet flakes covered her brown hair and the fur of her collar as she entered and sank into the leather chair in the corner, her face buried in her hands.

"What is it?" asked Dr. Fleisher, his heart pounding.

Mrs. Manning looked up plaintively, a tear falling from her dark eye. "Will you hold me?" she asked.

Dr. Fleisher felt uncomfortable. This was not his role, yet Mrs. Manning's sadness touched him. She reached out for him like a hurt child and he went to her, falling to his knees and taking her in his arms.

She wept, her hot breath falling into his ear. She began to kiss him, at his earlobe, tenderly and slowly, and warmth grew in his belly. She kissed cheek, forehead, eyes and chin, then took his face in her hands and began kissing him on the mouth, her tongue finding his, moving against it, asking for return.

Dr. Fleisher had only been kissed this way once, when colleagues at medical school bought him a prostitute for his birthday. It had released an ache in him then, and he had cried like a baby as the prostitute kissed him deeply, and done other things that no one had done before or since. Now he found himself back in that place, remembering how it felt to be young and afraid; the feelings had never actually gone away, they had only become balanced by his authority, his confidence in his work. Finding himself so vulnerable, he let all professionalism fall away, welcoming Mrs. Manning's tongue into his mouth.

"Come," she whispered, standing up, pulling off her clothes and landing naked on the bed.

He folded his woolen suit and placed it neatly on the chair, and joined her. He looked quite different than he had on that night years ago when he was young, blond hair falling in waves around his broad shoulders, flat belly and firm buttocks. He had been told he was handsome; when he proposed, his wife giggled and ran to tell her friends before even giving him her answer. He had hoped lovemaking with his wife would be like the night with the prostitute, but it never was.

He had been naïve, to expect a woman of decency to behave that way. Yet he did not find Mrs. Manning indecent. In fact, he found her searching eyes, the complexity of her emotions, and her physicality to be profoundly courageous. This courage, he had concluded, was the key to female hysteria. In this moment, he understood that he, too, had manifested for years the condition underlying the veneer of female hysteria -- loneliness, longing: the desire to be seen and loved by another.

Mrs. Manning ran her hands along his slumped shoulders, over the graying hair on his chest, over the flab of his paunch. He closed his eyes, submitting.

His penis stood hard and erect. Mrs. Manning took it in her hands. He prayed silently that she would do what he could not ask her to do, and she did: she bent and took him in her mouth, sucking until he burst and fell back on the bed. Then she knelt over his face so her vagina was in his mouth, and he tasted its sweet musk. His mind began to show him visions -- his boyhood, playing in mud, lying in a sunny field, bringing fragrant flowers to his nose, crushing their delicate petals with his face.

When Mrs. Manning finally lay beside him, he was hard again. She climbed atop him, slipping him inside her, riding him as images of merry-go-rounds danced in his head, joyous ponies flying through the air.

He came.

Mrs. Manning dismounted silently and dressed, crying quietly all the while. She approached Dr. Fleisher, still and awestruck on the bed, and kissed him gently on the lips. She showed herself out.

That was their last appointment. She did not show up for treatment the next week, or the next, or the next. When he called her home, he found the telephone disconnected.

After a month, he took his fifty-one pages and burned them one by one, watched them curl into black ash in the fireplace, their smoke rushing up the chimney, whispering cruel things in his ear.

He continued to treat female hysteria in his office with the requisite instruments, and after a time he and his wife returned to their weekly lovemaking.

Occasionally his colleagues entered into discussions about female hysteria and made jokes about his great success in treating it. He would remember Mrs. Manning and the pages he burned.

Sometimes, when he watched his wife's face as he massaged her with the newest vibrating instrument, he would glimpse Mrs. Manning's passion, but it was fleeting. And now and then after he dreamed of Mrs. Manning's mouth loving him, he would wake sweating, his penis painfully hard, and he would clamp it down with his hand until its ache passed.

Our permanent collection of erotic stories