Dana Delany - Josephine Marcus (Tombstone) historical fiction: F/F, non-con, orgasms and tickling

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I have some obsessions, and besides bondage and tickling, they include good westerns and Dana Delany.


Not long ago I re-watched the movie Tombstone, the one with Dana (as Josephine Marcus) and Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer, and an idea got into my head: What if, some years along from the movie, Josephine was talked into or sought out treatment for "female hysteria"?


That's another obsession on my list. Man, to have been a doctor around the turn of the last century... 🙂

So, this story is a work of historical fiction. Some of its settings and characters are drawn from real life, but the events themselves are imagined, weaving together threads of documented history, real medical practice, and wishful thinking.

Josephine Marcus was indeed a real woman. Most famously known as the longtime companion and common-law wife of Wyatt Earp, she was a spirited and independent figure who spent her early years performing with a traveling theater company. After Tombstone, her trail grows hazy, but my light research shows her living for a while in San Diego and San Francisco, then later traveling with Wyatt to Nome, Alaska for the gold rush there and subsequently returning with him to the "lower 48" via Seattle, where I imagine her growing restless and striking out on her own. This story imagines a brief escape taking her in 1899 to New Orleans, a city then as decadent as it was dangerous. (I don't know if she ever really took trips away like this, but she was living with Wyatt at the time of his death on January 13, 1929.)

Lulu White, also a real historical figure, was among the most notorious madams of Storyville, New Orleans’ legally sanctioned red-light district. Her famous brothel, Mahogany Hall, catered to an elite clientele and stood as a symbol of wealthy decadence. The opulence of her establishment and the glamour of her girls are grounded in archival descriptions. Google away. 😉

The broader backdrop of the story is similarly authentic:

• Storyville was established in 1897 as an official vice district in an effort to contain prostitution, with elaborate mansions, professional sex workers, and a thriving economy.
• The amount of $300 in 1899 is equivalent to over $10,000 today, depending on the inflation measure you choose.
• The so-called treatment of “female hysteria” was fascinatingly (and tragically) real. Diagnoses of hysteria were commonly given to women exhibiting symptoms ranging from anxiety and sexual frustration to grief and nonconformity. One popular “treatment” was pelvic massage by physicians, intended to induce a “hysterical paroxysm”—what we would today simply call an orgasm. Early devices such as vibrators were developed to ease the burden on doctors’ hands, and their clinical use was cloaked in language of medicine. Women were sometimes restrained for the procedure.
• Tulane University’s Medical Department, established in the 1830s, was a prominent center of medical training in New Orleans by the 1890s. Its main facilities were located downtown, less than a mile from Storyville and Mahogany Hall. Tulane offered formal instruction in anatomy, gynecology, and “nervous disorders,” with the era’s accepted medical practices toward treating women with hysteria likely promoted as described herein. Setting aside the degree of restraint, the story’s depiction of Dr. Duvall's approach and setting, including under the specific pedagogical circumstances described in the story, is not at all implausible for the time.

The imagined elements include Dr. Duvall himself, his clinical apparatus, and Josephine’s involvement in any such treatment. There is no evidence she ever sought—or endured—such a procedure, nor that Mahogany Hall played host to it.

I hope you enjoy the story. I will post it in parts, as usual. Also, as usual, it's pretty long and there's a lot of development leading up to the "good stuff," so I hope you don't mind that. It's still a work in process, but I'll post sections as quickly as I'm able.

Best,
-Q.

 

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By the way, here's the real Josephine Marcus.


A stunning beauty, but nothing beats Dana.

 

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Scene 1: Arrival in New Orleans – December 1899​

The train pulled into New Orleans with a shriek of steel and steam, its arrival as theatrical as the city itself. From the last passenger car, a striking middle-aged woman stepped down alone—no porter, no entourage, just a swish of pale skirts and the subtle jingle of a traveling case. She paused at the edge of the platform and lifted her chin, as though tasting the air for danger or delight.

Her name was Josephine Marcus, though few knew it beyond whispered rumor and half-remembered scandal. Once a stage actress, now companion to one of the West’s most legendary lawmen, she was many things. But above all, she was restless.

And glowing.

Not with youth—she was 38 now—but with something more potent: the unapologetic confidence of a woman who had dared to leave. Leave Seattle. Leave him. Wyatt’s voice still rang in her ears from that last night, sharp with accusation: “You never could be content.”

He was right. She wasn’t.

New Orleans spread before her like a satin glove with something wicked curled inside. As she walked through the haze of late afternoon sun, even the porters stopped to stare. Josephine had that effect—a kind of radiant defiance that made people instinctively move aside, and then turn to watch her pass.

She hired a driver with a single look.

The carriage rattled through the French Quarter, past iron balconies dripping with ferns, past windows shaded with lace and secrecy. The city felt alive, watchful, as though it recognized in her something kindred: elegance, restlessness, and risqué secrets.

The driver was chatty in that Louisiana way—respectful, flirtatious, irrepressible.

“First time in New Orl’ns, chère?”

“I’ve passed through,” she said, smoothing a glove across her lap. “But I never stayed.”

“Ah, well. You come at the right time, now. You lookin’ for a place, Mahogany Hall just opened back up. Finest rooms on Basin Street, if you lookin’ for...”—he gave a sly grin—“adventure.”

She raised a brow. “Is that what they call it here?”

He laughed and ducked his head.

“That what they say. I’m jus’ the one drivin’ the carriage.”

Mahogany Hall. She let the name settle on her tongue like a cordial. She’d heard of it in whispers…something about gambling, champagne, and beautiful women, with more than a hint of impropriety.

Her smile crooked slightly. Perfect.

“Take me there.”

“’Scuse me, miss?”

“I’d like a look. I have free time and nothing better to do than take in whatever New Orleans has to offer.”

The driver hesitated only a moment before tipping his hat with a flourish.

“Then buckle in, ma belle. I know jus' the way.”

As the carriage turned toward Basin Street, Josephine reclined in the velvet seat and let her eyes drift toward the violet sky. She wasn’t looking for a man. She wasn’t looking for mischief. But she wouldn’t say no to either, if they approached her properly.

Or improperly.

What she really wanted was something else entirely; she just couldn’t name it.

But whatever it was, she suspected it might begin behind those darkened windows with gold trim.

Mahogany Hall.

A thousand miles from Wyatt, a hundred worlds from Tombstone. As the lanterns began to flicker to life, Josephine Marcus smiled like she’d taken a dare.

...to be continued

 

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Scene 2: Mahogany Hall​

She checked in late and slept the next day until the sun was already high above the city, casting long golden rays across the shutters of her second-story suite. The bed was absurdly soft. The linens carried a faint trace of rose and talcum. And outside, the city was already in song—distant brass, clacking hooves, and the low murmurs of heat and human bustle.

She rose slowly, stretching to loosen sore muscles from travel, and dressed in a soft lavender day dress that fluttered with each step. Her hair, loose for now, cascaded over one shoulder as she stepped into the hallway and began her first true day of wandering.

New Orleans unfolded like a lover: open, fragrant, and utterly unapologetic. She lost herself in the Quarter’s elegant decay, in cathedrals and balconies and street musicians whose music stirred her soul. And when the heat grew lazy and the air turned velvet, she found her way back to Basin Street, and Mahogany Hall.

Tonight, it glowed.

Gaslamps flickered over pearl balconies. The entrance was guarded not by muscle, but by beauty—a pair of tall women in brocade gowns who nodded knowingly as Josephine passed through.

Inside, the music changed. Not loud, but elegant. Clarinet and piano, braided together with the hush of laughter and glass.

She accepted a crystal coupe of champagne and made her way along the edge of the salon. The men took note quickly, dark suits and moustaches turning toward her like sunflowers. One leaned near with a compliment. Another offered to show her the view from the balcony. One asked her name, and then seemed to forget his own.

She danced a little. She teased a little more. And once, passing by a low velvet divan, she met the eyes of a gorgeous courtesan with gleaming coffee skin and a mouth like temptation. The woman gave a slow, amused smile and said nothing, but her invitation shimmered in the air like heat.

Josephine smiled in return, her eyes flashing. It was all delicious.

She had just settled by the stairs when she felt it: a presence. Watching. Not the way a man watches a pretty woman, but the way a cat watches a bird.

She turned.

A beautiful older Creole woman stood across the room near the back, half-shadowed beneath an arch of carved mahogany. Her cream satin gown shimmered like mother-of-pearl in the gaslight, and though she was older than Josephine by perhaps a decade or more, her bearing held something ageless—poised, feline, unmistakably in command. There was a power in her stillness that turned heads without effort.

She approached Josephine slowly and with purpose, her voice as composed and cultured as her attire.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said with a faint smile. “I’m Lulu White, the proprietor of this establishment. And you, I suspect, are not often overlooked in a room like this.”

Josephine offered a half-curtsey, graceful but irreverent. “Josephine Marcus. Newly arrived. I was told Mahogany Hall is worth the detour.”

“Indeed it is.” Lulu extended a hand, lightly touching Josephine’s fingertips in greeting. “Welcome. May I ask what brings you to New Orleans, Miss Marcus? Or are you still deciding that for yourself?”

Josephine’s smile crooked slightly. “A bit of both. I left Tombstone in a hurry…a quarrel, a man, the usual theatrics. I suppose I’m here to catch my breath.”

“Ah,” Lulu said, her eyes dancing with curiosity. “Women looking to rest don’t often come to my hall. But you have fire, and stories, I can see. You glow, mon trésor. Turning heads like a lantern in the dark.”

Josephine’s brows lifted, amused. “I would think many women have that effect.”

“Some do,” Lulu replied evenly. “But few like you. You scare these men, make them stumble. And my girl Marguerite, she intrigued you, no? But not tonight?” She let that linger just long enough, then gestured toward an arched doorway draped in brocade. “Hmm…I have a few friends in the back parlor who don’t scare so easily. Gentlemen of means, refinement... and a keen ear for conversation.”

“Conversation?” Josephine put some irony in her tone.

Lulu smiled. “The elevated kind. Unless you had other plans?”

“None at all,” Josephine said, handing off her empty glass to a passing waiter. “Lead on.”

The back salon was dimly lit and fragrant with pipe smoke and rosewood polish. Older men with silver hair and discreet flashes of jewelry lounged in button-tufted chairs, speaking low and intently of religion, politics, and sugar futures. Beautiful girls drifted among them like smoke. Lulu guided her in like a prize, saying only with a glance: Notice this one.

And they did.

Josephine didn’t flirt—not in the traditional sense. She conversed. Asked precise questions. Challenged assumptions. Dangled innuendos. Her irreverence was playful but sharp-edged, the kind of charm that dared men to keep up and disarmed them when they tried. Laughter came easily. Eyes lingered. The champagne kept flowing, and time lost its footing.

Eventually—long after she’d lost herself in the flow—Josephine noticed Lulu in a far corner, deep in quiet conversation with a man who stood slightly apart. He was older than the others, tall and composed, in a finely tailored black coat with a pale ivory cravat. His face bore the quiet strength of command, handsome in the seasoned way of men who know power. Josephine had passed through his orbit but never lingered long.

He wasn’t watching her now, not exactly. But she caught Lulu’s eyes cutting her way as they talked. Even the suggestion of his attention felt like a finger tracing the edge of her awareness.

Lulu returned at last, her tone softer now, more intimate.

“I have a proposition for you, Josephine.”

“From the striking gentleman who looks like a confederate general, I presume.”

“From Doctor Duvall, yes.”

Josephine leaned back, eyebrows lifting. “I was wondering when you’d stop circling and get to the point of bringing me back here.”

Lulu’s smile curved like a cat’s. “A lady circles, chère, when the offering is rare.”

She touched Josephine’s arm gently and led her toward a quiet alcove, away from the gathering.

...to be continued

 

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Scene 3 – The Proposal​

A plush velvet sofa enfolded them like a confidante. Josephine sat with one leg draped over the other, a half-finished champagne flute resting at her elbow. Lulu settled beside her, haloed faintly by the amber glow from the stained-glass bar. The sounds of the main floor receded into a gentle hush of piano music, laughter, and distant clinking glasses, dulled behind the parlor’s heavy drapes.

Lulu’s voice was as smooth as aged cognac. “Doctor Duvall is a long-standing patron of the hall. Thoughtful, discreet. And exceedingly generous. He took particular notice of you this evening.”

Josephine tilted her head, her expression a blend of amusement and suspicion. “And?”

Lulu’s smile deepened, enigmatic. “He runs a women's clinic here in town, the Maison de Santé pour Dames. His specialty is the treatment of female hysteria. Are you familiar?”

“Not deeply, I’m afraid. I confess I’ve heard whispers of it in California, but I’ve traveled, shall we say, the less sophisticated parts of the west most of the last twenty years.”

“Ah, sa bon nèt. Perfect. Well, for moneyed women here in New Orleans, treatments at La Maison are all the rage. Many get them weekly. Dr. Duvall keeps quite busy, and he's become rich as Croesus. He's even teaching a class at Tulane so he can grow his practice.”

“It sounds fascinating.”

Lulu went on. “He has an eye for what he calls ‘extraordinary women,’ those who might pose a… particular challenge to his arts. He pays them to take part in ‘clinical refinements’ at his facility on Tulane's campus, just down the way on Common Street. And he finds you most extraordinary.”

Josephine acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. “This all sounds rather more clinical than I'd expected, and also quite… cryptic.” Her eyes flicked across the room, finding the man in question—distinguished in grey, surrounded by bourbon and conversation, yet set apart by his self-possession. Their eyes met. He did not smile, but inclined his head with subtle authority.

Josephine’s heart fluttered, a warm glow stirring low in her belly.

“He is handsome,” she said, turning back and hoping the dim light concealed her blush. “And he proposes to pay me for his study?”

“He does.”

“Mmm. Well we are worldly women, so let’s be direct: are his intentions honorable?”

Lulu’s reply was unhurried. “I would say yes.”

Josephine’s skin tingled at the hint of evasion. She leaned in, intrigued despite herself. “That is a subtle and curious reply. I would know more.”

“Chère, it is partly what you don't know that piques his interest. If you accept his offer, he would like to meet you late morning tomorrow, in his research facility at Tulane. And he would like you to remain here, in the hall, until his carriage comes for you. We have a spa; you'll be pampered like a queen. At no expense.”

Josephine’s eyes sparkled. “To keep me from learning more of this treatment, I presume.”

Lulu only smiled as Josephine continued.

“I must say honestly, while this sounds quite exotic and adventurous, it also smacks of impropriety. I'm not sure what might persuade a decent woman to accept such a vaguely defined offer.”

Lulu’s answer was gentle. “The payment, perhaps. Three hundred dollars.”

Josephine’s mouth opened, then closed. “That’s… absurd.”

“He intends it to be persuasive.”

And persuasive it was—the sum was easily what she’d earned in a year of backbreaking travel as a younger woman, singing and acting her heart out in drafty halls and smoke-filled saloons, packing up each night to chase the stage to the next town, long before Wyatt. It was enough to settle her comfortably here—or anywhere—for a good while.

Josephine became aware of her own vacant stare; Lulu simply waited politely.

“You've made this offer before.”

“I have.”

“And the women who accepted… they’ve had no regrets?”

“None.”

“He did not harm them.”

Lulu's face grew stern. “Certainly not. It would have ended our friendship long ago.”

Josephine shook her head slowly. “But now you’ve only made things more curious. Why offer such a huge sum, unless…?”

Lulu’s gaze held hers, steady and composed. “There is a question of… decorum involved that puts some women off. The procedure involves being restrained.”

Josephine blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Restrained,” Lulu repeated gently. “Not in a vulgar way. It’s part of the medical protocol.”

Josephine gave a half-laugh, half-gasp as color flushed her cheeks. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” Lulu said, with calm gravity. “But now I have ventured to the very edge of what I can share. Dr. Duvall is quite particular on this point.”

Josephine’s thoughts reeled. This entire proposition seemed shot through with peril, maybe because it was being offered by a madam in a boarding house with a reputation for bawdiness. Then again, a small fortune was on the table, and the offer was made by a respected doctor in the name of science.

Also, the idea of being restrained and ‘treated’ by the handsome Dr. Duvall was not entirely lacking in allure. She was not married to Wyatt; they both enjoyed their dalliances. Her confidence with men was high, but she knew this was born of the ease with which she controlled them. And that ease often led to boredom. The prospect of being tied helpless, she had to admit, was both intimidating and exciting. Even if for nothing but a medical procedure.

Undeniably, her body was flushed—warm and tingling. It could be the alcohol, or the money. But she knew it wasn’t; not entirely.

She turned to Lulu. “You must know what an astonishing proposal this is; and I speak as a connoisseur of astonishing proposals. To be clear, you’re suggesting that I meet him alone and allow myself to be bound, without knowing what follows?”

“Not alone. He has nurses; two girls I know well—Evie and Clara. But yes, you will be bound, as the procedure requires. All I can say of what follows is that Mr. Duvall is a scholar of the female condition.”

“Forgive me, but each time you explain this it grows more mysterious.”

“So it does, ma chère. But you do have knowledge: you know a small fortune is offered for a half-day's distraction, you know he is my friend, and you have my assurance of safety. What he seeks is scientific refinement. His treatments are healthy and restorative.”

Josephine was on the knife's edge of a decision; Lulu could see it. She had watched women grapple with this before, as pride, propriety, and caution came up against curiosity and the inevitable low carnal rush, whether they admitted it or not. The money… well. That weighed on both sides of the fence.

Lulu leaned in, her voice lowered. “Let’s be honest, chère, because I can see the thoughts turning in your head: If you came here in search of something different, something bold… with this, you may have found it.”

Josephine sighed and glanced once more toward Duvall, who had turned away, his composure undisturbed.

“He is already infuriating, even before I’ve met him.”

Lulu tilted her head. “But you’re intrigued.”

“I am,” Josephine admitted. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips, the die cast. “Damn him.”

She stood without ceremony and crossed the room with deliberate strides, her silk hem stirring like a whisper behind her. Duvall saw her coming and murmured something to the men at his table, who quickly rose and withdrew.

When she reached him, he stood to greet her.

“Dr. Duvall,” she said evenly. “I understand I am to join you tomorrow morning for ‘clinical refinements.’”

His brow lifted slightly. His voice, when it came, was warm and southern, a cultivated baritone. “Are you? What a pleasure. Lulu is quite persuasive. I assume she mentioned…”

“That I am to be restrained? And paid extravagantly? Yes.” Her tone was spirited, and her eyes flashed with defiance.

She held his calm gaze a beat longer. Then, with startling swiftness, she struck him—a crisp slap, echoing off wood and mirrors.

A pause. Then, coolly: “That is for the presumption of making such an offer here, in this hall.”

Duvall seemed mildly surprised, then intrigued. He touched his reddened cheek lightly, his voice calm. “I understand. My apologies, madam.”

Josephine’s gaze dropped to the space between them. “And also,” she added quietly, “for the fact that I find myself… unable to refuse.”

His lips curved—not a smile, exactly, but something knowing. “I understand that as well, Miss Marcus. I look forward to tomorrow.”

Josephine met his eyes once more as if to speak, then turned on her heel and stalked away.

Duvall watched her go.

“Extraordinary.”

...to be continued

 

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Scene 4: Preparation

Josephine slept fitfully, her mind a carousel of wicked little visions she could neither banish nor wholly entertain. Whatever this mysterious “treatment” might involve, her curiosity had been hopelessly aroused. I’ll need to collect myself before tomorrow, she warned herself silently, recalling the doctor’s measured voice and scrupulous reserve—and thinking of how easily her nature might offend such sensibilities if left unchecked.

Mercifully, morning finally arrived in a cloud of heavenly aromas. Josephine stirred to the soft click of her door opening. A young attendant in a pale yellow smock wheeled in a silver tray, all steam and sparkle—soft eggs, fresh fruit, a square of toast spread with fig preserve, and a mug of coffee that smelled richly of honey and chocolate.

She sat up slowly, arms stretching overhead like a cat in sunlight, and offered a sleepy smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d died and gone to Paris.”

The girl grinned. “You’ll be saying that again before lunch. Miss Lulu’s orders—spa morning in the Rose Salon. Everything but a champagne bath.”

Josephine took her coffee with both hands, warmth curling through her chest. “She’s going to spoil me to death.”

After breakfast and a lazy hour lingering in a borrowed dressing robe, she was led barefoot down the hall to the salon, a wide sun-drenched room at the east end of the house. Soft music drifted from a wind-up Victrola in the corner, and two cheerful attendants greeted her like an old friend come home from war.

“Miss Josephine! We’ve heard so much.”

“Only the good parts, I hope,” she said, sweeping in with a mock-curtsey.

Giggling, they led her to a small adjoining chamber where two gleaming copper tubs stood side by side—one shallowly filled with warm, soapy water, the other full and still heating over low burners. The first, they explained, was for lathering and shaving. The second, to rinse and relax.

Josephine arched a brow. “Shaving?”

“Everywhere,” the younger girl said, her voice laced with decadent promise. “It’s popular now. If you’ve never tried it, well… it’s—”

“Indescribable,” the other finished.

Intrigued, Josephine stepped delicately into the warm suds, blushing as the girls set to work with soft brushes and gleaming straight razors. They lathered her slowly, their strokes practiced and gentle, their chatter bright and unhurried. Underarms, legs—even her sex, which they tended with startling tenderness and precision. Josephine whimpered once or twice, fingers clutching the rim of the tub, uncertain whether it was the heat, the closeness, or the sheer intimacy that left her lightheaded.

When they were done, she rose, flushed and glistening, and stepped into the second bath. Clean water shimmered as steam curled into the air, rich with the scents of lavender and pine. She sank in with a grateful sigh—freshly shaven, smooth as silk, and trying not to tremble with pleasure.

When at last she stood again, they wrapped her in thick, heated towels, patting her dry with reverence before leading her—still bare and glowing—to a plush reclining chair. Fresh linens were draped modestly over her chest and lap, and then, the pampering truly began.

A hot lemon-scented compress was laid across her face; warm oils were rubbed into her shoulders, chest, and arms until she gleamed. Her cuticles were softened and trimmed, her nails shaped with care into perfect, glossy almond ovals.

“So,” said the older girl, brushing Josephine’s damp hair back with a boar-bristle brush, “is it true you were on stage in San Francisco?”

“Mmm,” Josephine replied, eyes half-closed. “A few stages. And a few dressing rooms.”

“Is it glamorous?”

“It is until someone makes off with your luggage overnight,” she muttered. “Then it’s just cold and embarrassing.”

They laughed. The girls worked in tandem, efficient and warm, keeping up a steady stream of chatter—who’d run off with whose beau, which of Lulu’s girls had dyed her hair with beet juice, and how impossible it was to find good nail lacquer that didn’t chip in the humidity.

Their attention shifted to her lower body, warm oils now worked into her hips and thighs. When the older girl’s slick hand passed between her legs, Josephine jumped as if shocked.

Rather than apologizing, the girl gave a knowing smile. “Sensitive, are we?”

Josephine flushed, but returned the smile. “Normally, quite so. But after the shave… God help me.”

“Told you,” she said with a wink, and moved on.

Eventually, Josephine’s feet were eased into a basin of warm rosewater, petals floating like a spell. Her legs tensed a bit, resisting, as she cut her eyes suspiciously from one girl to the other. “You mean to scrub my feet?” she asked warily.

“Oh no,” said the younger girl, grinning.

“It’ll be a spell,” said the other. “Just relax.”

“I’ll try,” Josephine replied, but already her hands were clenching the armrests.

The girls oiled and massaged her lower legs as her feet soaked. The banter moved on to which of the regulars were the most attractive, and which had the most peculiar interests.

“Mr. Duchamp, now, he like to kiss and lick a girl’s feet,” the younger teased, finishing her massage and lifting Josephine’s own warm feet dripping from their bath. She scooted a low padded footstool under her ankles. “How would that suit you, Miss Josephine?”

Josephine clenched her toes, her voice tense. “I would shoot him dead.”

They all laughed, Josephine nervously. “You think I’m kidding,” she warned. “This has been attempted before, in San Francisco, and I truly can’t bear it.”

“Come on now,” the older girl goaded. “A tough western woman like you…?”

“Is criminally ticklish, yes. I should be banned from pedicures entirely.”

“You and half the women who sit here,” said the other, patting her ankle. “We’ve seen worse. Once had a woman flail so hard she popped out her own glass eye.”

Josephine howled. “You’re lying!”

“Swear on Saint Bernadette.”

She covered her face with one hand, half-laughing, half-dreading what was to come. “Can we just—do it fast?”

The girl nodded. “We’ll be quick, promise. Though with these feet—”

“Don’t you dare.”

“—it might take a bit longer. They’re not small, is all I’m saying.”

“They’re statuesque,” Josephine countered.

“They’re beautiful,” the older one agreed. “Long but narrow, like a queen’s. And already soft. You take good care of them. We’ll be done in a blink.”

“Yes, I see you keep arranging your torture implements as if you’re not listening to me.”

“Would you like to bite on a washcloth?”

“Now you’re just teasing to be cruel.” Josephine sighed. “Go ahead, do your worst.” She gripped the padded armrests and held on, white-knuckled.

When the pumice stones began scrubbing her heels, she jolted upward like she’d been electrocuted.

“Oh no—no no, I can’t—” She dissolved into helpless laughter, half-kicking before catching herself.

The girls paused mid-motion, then laughed right along with her.

“Oh my,” the older one observed innocently. “You weren’t lying.”

Josephine replied through clenched teeth. “Just… just finish. But don’t touch the middles.”

With that, they clenched her ankles and resumed—quick but thorough, and full of teasing. Josephine wrapped her arms under the rests and held tight, eyes watering as she wriggled in the chair, growling like a tiger before helpless laughter finally robbed her of all dignity.

When they finished with her feet and toes, she lay back like a woman who’d survived something perilous and profound.

“You lived,” the younger teased.

“Barely. I’ll have flashbacks. Lulu owes me champagne.”

“She already sent a bottle. It’s chilling in your room.”

Josephine exhaled. “Then all is forgiven.”

***

Alone back in the room, she found the champagne a perfect finish to her morning. She drank it slowly, nude and glowing, unable to tear herself from the mirror where she stood admiring the afterglow of the morning’s work. She couldn’t begin to describe how she looked and felt. Her skin gleamed—bare, hairless, almost indecent to behold. The girls had been right. It wasn’t just luxurious; it was deliciously wicked.

Even fully clothed, she knew she would feel absolutely pornographic walking about like this. Clothing would feel electric against her skin, and her utter nakedness would seem like a naughty secret.

Speaking of being clothed, the carriage would arrive soon.

She chose a cream blouse with delicate mother-of-pearl buttons and a narrow skirt of ink-blue wool, modest but close-fitting. Her corset was laced snugly, not tightly, just enough to sharpen her posture. Her hair she swept into a loose chignon, with a few strands left to soften the line of her jaw. She toyed with the idea of lipstick, then thought better of it. This was an appointment, not a rendezvous, however kittenish the soft caress of her silk chemise against her skin made her feel.

Finally ready, she abandoned the champagne and poured herself two fingers of whiskey as she stood by the window, watching a late morning storm roll in from the southwest. Not nervous, she told herself again. But a warm tingling lingered. Her palms were damp. And her mind, despite every effort to redirect it, kept returning to exaggerated images of herself tied—ropes drawn tight, limbs parted, defenseless before the unknown.

She swallowed the whiskey and set the glass down, her pulse quickening beneath her collar. Whatever lay ahead, she had agreed to it freely. But the terms—restraint, mystery, helplessness—had burrowed under her skin.

Lulu appeared just before noon, gloved and radiant, her perfume soft and dusky. “Your carriage awaits,” she said with a wink, and Josephine followed her down the marble stair, heart steady, hands clasped, as though this were any morning errand.

Outside, the crowds chattered noisily along Basin Street, many looking warily skyward as low thunder rumbled. A dark carriage stood waiting, door open, the glossy flanks of the horse shifting gently in the dusk. Beside it, a young woman in a smart wool coat gave a little wave.

“Miss Josephine?” she chirped, springing forward with a cheerful energy that immediately set Josephine to smiling, despite her nervousness. “I'm Mabel. Dr. Duvall sent me to escort you. We'll be right cozy. I’ve got a shawl if you’re chilly!”

Josephine accepted a hand up into the carriage and arranged her skirts with care. Mabel climbed in after her and shut the door. The interior smelled faintly of cedar and camphor. They lurched into motion.

Mabel prattled without pause. “You’re from California? That’s ever so far. I’ve never even been past Shreveport, isn’t that funny? Dr. Duvall says you’re a very special case. Not that I know what he means by that! He never tells me a thing, really, just where to be and who to greet and when to knock.” She laughed. “I always say I’m like the bell that rings before supper. All I know is, the ladies always come back floatin’ like lilies.”

Josephine raised an eyebrow. “Floating?”

“Oh yes. Sort of light and dazed and glowy, you know? Not all of them say much, but their eyes look different. Like somethin’ got blown clean out of them. It’s strange and beautiful, really. But anyway, you’re gonna change first. That’s step one. He’s very particular. My job is to show you to the changing room.”

Josephine gave a polite nod, though her thoughts were beginning to fracture around the edges. The girl’s voice was cotton candy—sweet, fluffy, and impossible to grasp. And through it all, her own body was humming with low static, like the storm clouds building above. The tension between her poised exterior and her unsettled core felt sharper by the mile.

The streets gave way to broader avenues near the university. Trees loomed like sentinels in the dimming light. Finally, they turned onto a quieter road and pulled up beside a narrow building of brick and stone. Gaslights lit the darkening entry with a golden flicker. It had begun to rain.

Mabel hopped out and opened an umbrella. “This way, miss.”

They passed through the door, and Mabel gave her umbrella a brisk shake, leaving it in a stand by the entrance. Sweetly, she took Josephine’s hand as they moved along a quiet hallway, the thick carpet muffling their footsteps. The walls were painted a soft ivory, the hallway warmly lit but hushed in a way that made Josephine acutely aware of her own heartbeat.

They passed a number of men, young and old, likely students and faculty, drawing interested stares despite the formality of the setting. Mabel finally led her to a door left ajar, beside which stood a small writing table with quills resting in an inkwell.

“Here you are—the changing room! Fresh robes on the shelves, hooks for your things, washbasin just there. Slip into a robe, tie it closed in front, and when you're ready, knock on the door across the way. The other girls are waiting to meet you.”

“Evie and Clara,” Josephine recalled.

“Yes! They’ll get you ready for the doctor. Now—one last thing before you change.” Mabel turned to the table. “There’s an agreement here for you to sign. All just a formality, the doctor assures me. Read it if you like. Once it’s signed, I’ll take it with me to the office.”

Josephine glanced at the words packed onto the page. “Formality, you say? All the women sign this?”

“Well, some bring it with them—but it always ends up with me.”

She passed her eyes over the paragraphs, unread. “No bother, then,” she murmured, taking up the pen and scrawling her name at the bottom with practiced elegance.

“Thank you, Miss Josephine! Enjoy the procedure!” Mabel took the paper and flitted off down the corridor, gently blowing on the ink.

Josephine gave a half-smile, then stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind her. The soft click echoed louder than expected, sealing her into silence.

She exhaled slowly and glanced around. The room was both cozy and immaculate. A wide mirror stood above a marble-topped table. The table held a set of folded washcloths next to a basin of gently steaming water, softly fogging the mirror’s surface. A low chair sat before the basin, and as promised, a nearby set of shelves held stacks of neatly folded robes. A second door stood across the room, opposite the one she entered. Everything was muted, spare, and intentional, mixing the comfortable and the clinical.

Inspecting the robes, she found each tied in a tight square with white ribbon. She hadn’t considered the need to change clothes until Mabel mentioned it, but realized it made sense given the nature of her visit. The robes were soft linen, clean and faintly scented with starch. She selected one at random, carried it to the table beside the washbasin, and began to undress with practiced grace.

Her corset unlaced, blouse unbuttoned, underthings drawn down—each layer peeled away as if she were stepping out of her own armor. With every garment removed, the room seemed to grow quieter. More intimate.

Nude now, she paused at the mirror, once more admiring her sleek, newly bare flesh in its reflection. She dampened a cloth with warm water to dab at her neck, collarbones, and breasts. Her nipples stiffened at the cloth’s touch, expressing the maddening nervous tension in her belly. She gave her body’s perfidy a wry smile, vowing to master herself before this mysterious treatment began.

She untied the first robe and shook it open.

And blinked.

It was… brief. Quite brief.

The hem, when draped over her front, reached barely mid-thigh. She tried it on anyway—slipping her arms through the sleeves, tugging it closed across her chest, fastening the ties down the front.

Then she turned to the mirror.

The robe fit, technically—but only just. The linen clung to her hips with unseemly affection, the last knot tied just inches below her navel. The robe was split in the rear as well, up to the crease of her derriere. Her thighs were nearly bare. When she lifted her arms experimentally, the robe gaped wide at both the hem and the neckline.

She stared at herself.

“Hm,” she murmured, her voice rich with irony, “how very clinical.”

She returned to the cabinet and pulled out a second robe, then a third, shaking them loose to check their length.

Each one the same: fine linen, cleanly pressed, and cut with an unapologetic economy.

After the fourth try, she gave a dry laugh and surrendered to the design. Modesty, apparently, had not been part of the protocol. She wrapped the original robe about herself as best she could and cinched its ties with deliberate care, returning to the mirror.

The robe’s lowest knot rested over her belly. Beneath it, she felt the throb of something coiled low—anticipation, or absurdity, or arousal, she could not say. Perhaps all three.

She stood on her toes, trying in vain to tug the hem lower. Who had designed this? The thought sent a shiver down her spine. It concealed almost nothing—and would conceal less still in any posture besides standing upright. And who could say how she would be…

Restrained.

The word bloomed in her mind like a struck bell—sharp, resonant, impossible to ignore.

A ripple of fear passed through her, chased quickly by a flicker of heat as a blush bloomed high on her chest. She drew a steady breath, willing the color down, but the sensation lingered—bright and undeniable. In that moment, she was both thankful and keenly aware of her ministrations that morning: the bathing, the scented oils, but above all the smooth, bare skin of her sex. She felt radiant, but also faintly scandalized by the boldness it suggested. If anyone noticed… well, it would be impossible to pretend she hadn’t meant to be seen.

She swept her hair into a low twist, pinned it firmly, and caught one last look at her reflection. The face of the woman in the mirror looked calm, even aloof. But her body betrayed her, nipples pushing in quiet defiance against the robe's sheer linen, a helpless dampness growing between her thighs.

Josephine set her jaw, stubborn as ever. The procedure had lodged itself in her mind as a kind of test, and she intended to pass it with composure. It’s just a process, she told herself. Clinical, professional. You’re overthinking it. But the warmth low in her belly said otherwise. It pulsed softly, traitorously, reminding her with every breath that something had stirred. No one will notice. Not unless you give it away.

She exhaled slowly, trying to will her body into stillness. The robe clung too closely, the air felt too warm, and her skin buzzed in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Get a grip, she thought. Years of stage work had trained her to keep her face serene, her body composed, even when half-naked under hot lights. This was no different. She lifted her chin. He’s just a doctor. You are in control. Whatever came next, she would face it without flinching.

She stepped to the door and raised her hand.

A single knock.

Smiling, a young nurse answered and gestured inside. “Good afternoon, Miss Marcus. My name is Evie.”

Let it begin, she thought.

...to be continued

 

[waterman]

Thank you, I love historical context for tickle torture tales!

 

[milagros317]

A wonderful story! Thanks for both the story and the historical background that you posted above it. 😀
Looking forward to the continuation.

 

[quinn65]

Scene 5: The Chair

The room beyond was both utilitarian and cozy, soft with the glow of muted electric lighting. It seemed like an office decorated with an eye toward womanly comforts; maybe the parlor of a therapist.

Evie stepped back and Josephine paused just inside the door, the linen hem of her robe brushing against her thighs.

And there it was. An answer to the hundreds of questions that had been plaguing her imagination since last night.

To call it a chair would be an injustice to the Penny Dreadful images it conjured. But this was no lurid fantasy, no fevered invention. It was real—elevated at the center of the room like an idol upon its pedestal. She’d imagined something elegant, certainly—but this… this was elegance mixed with something else entirely.

It wasn’t just the height, or the rich mahogany woodwork, or the sumptuous curve of the leather seat angled delicately backward. It was the straps. So many of them. Wide, soft-looking, but unmistakable in their purpose. She saw fittings meant for wrists, for legs. More were affixed along the backrest and the seat itself. Open slots framed the headrest—brackets for the head and neck, suggesting restraint even there.

She felt unsteady as icy dread seized her, flushing her skin pink. But the sensation was not wholly unpleasant. It came laced with anticipation, a reluctant, breathless curiosity. Her pulse thudded hard in her throat.

Evie had returned to the side of her companion—who must be Clara. Both women offered her quiet, unreadable smiles as she stared. They were young and petite, attractive and professional in their nurse’s uniforms, but with different energies—Evie radiated a friendly, teasing charm, while Clara’s was a feline mischief barely concealed behind her lashes.

Josephine wondered how they knew Lulu.

It was Evie who broke the awkward silence. “Welcome, Miss Marcus. I know that chair looks a fright, but I promise you it’s comfortable and safe.”

Josephine nodded, uncharacteristically speechless.

Her thoughts rushed in, too fast and too loud. This is absurd. This is real. I’m to sit in that chair under those belts—helpless. Why are there so many straps? What kind of procedure needs a woman restrained so thoroughly? And why, in God’s name, do I want to know what it feels like?

Finally, she stepped forward without a word and began to circle the chair slowly, hands at her sides, eyes taking in every polished buckle, every padded restraint, every curve of the wood shaped to cradle a human body.

Something tugged at her perceptions as she took in the chair’s design; something familiar. Yes, its purpose was clinical, that was clear. But why did it make her think of a dress shop? Or fine jewelry?

Then it struck her: the chair was made as much for display as restraint. With its height and backward tilt, she thought, one might find it in a hellish shop window, the proud exhibit of an archdemon tormentor flaunting his forthcoming victim.

To be displayed like a carnal prize, she thought. How horrifying. How perverted. How… exciting.

Her blush grew deeper. God, what was wrong with her? Her theatrical imagination running in circles again, nothing more. Wicked thoughts flashing through her mind like lightning in a storm. Hardly surprising under such unusual circumstances.

This was something she had to do now, surely. She had agreed, and prepared, and signed. It would be awkward to back out. These lurid fantasies plaguing her thoughts were low nonsense. And if something untoward did happen, well, she couldn’t be blamed for that. She would handle it. With good humor and dignity.

He’s a doctor, she reminded herself. This is for research. You agreed to this. Her inner warnings sounded more and more softly, like echoes in a distant hall, growing fainter with each rationalization.

The girls remained silent, allowing her to explore and ponder as if they’d seen this before. Clara, without speaking, gestured to a low stepstool at the side of the chair. Josephine would need it to climb into the seat.

“Quite an elaborate setup for simple medical research,” Josephine remarked, drawing her fingers along an armrest, looking for some final reassurance.

“Everyone says the same,” Evie answered. “It’s an old make. Dr. Duvall says it’s like something from Frankenstein’s lab. I know he wants to modernize its design. Make it simpler, less intimidating. But it works, and then we save the money for more research.”

Josephine nodded. Hesitating only a second longer, she quickly stepped up and turned to sit, nimble as an acrobat. Always performing, always poised.

“That was a fine looking move,” admired Clara in a light Irish brogue. “Are ye a dancer?”

“I was,” Josephine said absently as she reclined. Settling back into the cushions immediately caused her hips to shift along the seat’s unusual contours. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was purposeful. Her bare feet dangled above the floor, knee-high to the girls—nurses, she reminded herself—who were stepping up now to buckle straps. She began to cross her legs, then stopped. It would look absurd. And pointless.

Clara knelt and gently guided her lower legs into the broad, angled slats where the chair’s front legs would be. The wood was smooth. Cradling. It carried her calves, heels hovering, toes relaxed. The young girl deftly drew the first strap across her right shin. “You just tell me if this feels too snug now.”

Josephine flinched. Just slightly.

The leather was soft, but the sound of the buckle locking made her stomach flip. Another strap, just above the ankle. Then the left side. Firm. Symmetrical.

I could still back out, she thought. I’m not helpless yet.

But her legs were now parted, suspended, her feet unable to touch the floor.

Evie moved to her right side. She took Josephine’s wrist in both hands, so gently it might have been a blessing. She settled her arm along the wide armrest and began buckling the first restraint at her wrist. Then another above the elbow. Clara repeated the process on the left.

Josephine tested the bindings with a subtle shift of her arms. There was no give.

Evie reached across to lift another strap and paused. “Under your chest,” she said softly, her voice not quite a question. Josephine gave a small nod.

The belt passed just beneath her bosom and was drawn firm—not painful, but sufficiently taut to lift and restrict. Another passed above the swell of her chest, pulling downward as it tightened. The compression around her bust was subtle, insistent—a lover’s gentle squeeze, pulling the fabric of her robe snug over her breasts.

She tried to lean forward. She couldn’t, but her motion chafed the robe’s fabric maddeningly against her swollen nipples.

Enough of that.

A third belt was placed across her abdomen, just below the navel. It pressed low, anchoring her hips in place.

Josephine decided to pose a question as the girls went about their work. Tugging at one of the straps to underscore her point, she asked lightly, “So, has anyone ever changed her mind at this point?”

“Oh yes,” said Evie, pulling a strap snug. “Many times. Dr. Duvall expects it.”

“Really? So what do you do?”

Clara met her gaze then—the first time either of them had done so. Josephine, ever a student of human nature, caught a subtle glint in her eye, a faint lift at the corner of her mouth. A flicker of something… amusement? Gloating?

“The doctor’s very clear on that, ma’am,” Clara said sweetly. “Once the patient’s strapped in, there’s no goin’ back. Not until the procedure’s complete. I’m sure ye were told.”

“I was not.” Josephine’s tone landed sharp and cold on the last word as fear touched her heart. Her eyes locked angrily with Clara’s. She tensed under the straps, a prelude to struggling.

Clara only tilted her head, as if dealing with a simpleton. “That’s odd,” she answered, her tone just shy of smug. “It was in the contract.”

Josephine opened her mouth, then closed it again. She bucked once in frustration, softly. She absolutely could not move.

Then the girls were at her thighs, working in quiet tandem, each lifting two sets of straps anchored to the seat beneath her as they folded back the robe’s front corners and fixed them in place with cleverly hidden buttons. One set of straps enclosed each leg just above the knee. The second, wider set cinched high around her thighs, just below the soft crease where leg meets torso, clarifying the purpose of the robe’s rear split. When tightened, these upper straps gently tugged apart the warm, smooth flesh growing slippery between her legs.

As she leaned away, Clara gave her a knowing smile.

Speechless once more, Josephine tensed and blushed. Had the girls noticed that she was shaved? Had they seen her arousal? Concealing her panic, she looked at each one, perceiving only what seemed like impish grins, barely contained. It was impossible to read their thoughts, but her reserves of both modesty and leverage were running low, whatever was in store. She hoped they would replace the robe over her thighs, however meager its concealment might be.

They did not.

Instead, they stepped back, appearing to admire their handiwork. Josephine began to squirm.

“Would you mind,” she asked, voice tight, “folding my robe back down?”

“Ah… we’re not allowed, ma’am,” Evie replied gently. “It’s pinned that way on purpose.” She glanced at Clara, then back to Josephine, her eyes uncertain. “Don’t you… I mean, you do know what the treatment is, don’t you?”

“I was told it’s for hysteria,” Josephine said, trying to keep her voice even, “but no one has explained it to me.”

The girls exchanged a look. Clara’s cheek dimpled—whether from amusement or pity, Josephine couldn’t tell.

Her dread rising, she fixed them with a look both commanding and imploring. “I assume you know?”

“We, ah…” Evie faltered, looking down, clearly struggling for words. But she was rescued by a soft knock at the set of double doors across the room.

Duvall’s voice was muffled through the heavy wood. “Is she ready?”

The girls answered in unison. “Yes, doctor.”

And the door began to open.

...to be continued

 

[quinn65]

Scene 6: The Reveal

Duvall entered with a slow sigh of brass hinges. Josephine flinched at the soft, unmistakable murmur of voices beyond—a gathering. An audience? The possibility struck her like cold water, but before she could dwell, the doctor stepped inside and drew the door shut behind him with a muted click.

The girls stood back and lowered their heads.

His presence filled the room—not merely with stature, but with the unhurried gravity of a man used to being obeyed. He wore no white coat, no medical insignia—just a tailored grey waistcoat, sleeves rolled to the forearms, and a gold watch chain gleaming faintly in the room's soft light. His expression was composed, unreadable.

He regarded Josephine in silence for a long moment.

Bound and reclined in the chair’s embrace, she met his gaze without flinching. But the breath in her chest felt like a held note.

“I trust you are comfortable,” he said.

She lurched against the bonds as she replied, her efforts stressing the words . “A curious term for a woman strapped down like a death row inmate.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Forgive me. Let us say… prepared.”

“Not quite,” she said, still squirming. “I’ve yet to be told what it is I’m supposedly prepared for.”

He nodded once, folding his hands behind his back. “Mabel told me you barely scanned the contract. I will explain. The procedure you are about to undergo is a medical treatment for hysteria. It is designed to relieve the… disquiet particular to women of rare emotional intensity.”

“Relieve my disquiet?” Josephine stilled herself and arched a brow, lightly winded. “How generous of science to take an interest.”

Duvall continued evenly. “This treatment will be administered using a precision apparatus, applied directly to the lower pelvic region. The instrument induces hysterical paroxysms—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Paroxysms, Miss Marcus.” he said calmly. “That is to say—a series of therapeutic convulsions brought about by stimulation of the lower nerve clusters. What your modern playwrights might call a ‘moment of crisis.’ We will induce as many as are needed to resolve your condition.”

Josephine’s legs tensed reflexively as her mouth fell open. She looked frantically down at her bound form and then back at the doctor. In a flash, everything fell into place: the tilt of the chair with its aspect of display; the parting of her knees; the thoroughness of her restraint.

They were planning to…!

The room seemed to contract around her. Her dark fantasies weren’t nonsense after all. But this was more than she’d dared to imagine—this was unthinkable, outrageous!

Josephine’s cheeks flamed red. “You mean to… touch me… there? While I cannot move? This is indecent!”

“Not at all,” Duvall said. “It is medicine. Guided by clinical observation and female anatomy. You agreed to be restrained because the paroxysms can be physically demanding. Thrashing, sudden spasms, disorientation. Restraint protects you—and for that matter, us—from harm.”

“I will scream!”

“Quite likely.”

Josephine thrashed against the straps, but they held firm. It was clear now why her robe, still partially folded back by the nurses, left the upper curves of her thighs exposed. She could feel the air on her wet and shaven sex, the awareness of her own vulnerability sharpening by the second.

“I cannot possibly—” she began.

“You can,” Duvall said sternly, “and you will. Because whether you believe in hysteria or not, you are demonstrating to me with every breath and action the severity of your symptoms. You have agreed to a medical procedure, Miss Marcus. It will now be applied, and your body will respond. We find that many women, especially those of refinement, experience quite a profound release.”

Josephine’s heart thudded. Her mouth was dry. She turned again toward the girls, who were now studiously avoiding her gaze—but Clara’s smirk had widened. Evie, more demure, looked at the ground but couldn’t hide the small, knowing grin struggling at her lips.

They were enjoying this. Not cruelly—but with the mischief of insiders watching a lady protest too much.

She tried to gather her thoughts. “How do you propose to…?”

“There is a device, a machine of my own design. We simply call it ‘the apparatus.’ It enables the precise application of warmth and vibration to the afflicted area at the source of your emotional congestion.”

She blinked. “And this… device will be operated by…?”

“Clara is fully trained in its application. Evie will assist.”

Josephine’s gaze snapped to the two girls standing behind him. Their expressions were politely neutral, but behind Clara’s lashes danced the unmistakable gleam of amusement.

Her breath caught. Waves of heat were building inside her—not merely embarrassment, but something deeper, more dangerous, rooted in the shameful secret core of her body. When she'd flinched in the spa earlier, the girls said she was sensitive—but that was only a touch. She knew all too well what happened when such a touch became a caress: unbearable need and relentless, demanding frustration. She bucked. She moaned. She cried out until she spasmed, helplessly and repeatedly, overwhelmed by sensations that utterly robbed her of self-control and dignity.

It happened sometimes with lovers, who could be at once shocked and delighted by her depravity. And it happened in private, screaming into balled mouthfuls of bedsheets when her loneliness grew unbearable. But the idea of it happening here before Duvall and his nurses—bound, bared, shaved, and unable to stop it—struck her with a jolt of mortified panic.

Her thighs tensed beneath the straps. Her jaw tightened.

“Doctor,” she said, her voice low and edged. “I demand that you stop this and release me.”

Duvall nodded. “As do many patients at this point,” he replied calmly. “We are doing this for your own good, Miss Marcus, and for science. Stopping is no longer an option.”

Josephine’s breath came shallow and fast. Duvall’s revelations had altered the atmosphere—no longer clinical, no longer mysterious. This was real now, terrifyingly so.

But she had not endured deprivations and hardened killers in the American West for twenty years only to dissolve into a trembling damsel at the first sign of adversity. In the past, she realized, she had allowed these “paroxysms” to occur, never thinking to fight them off. Surely she could do so if she chose.

She fixed Duvall with a defiant stare. “I still won’t allow it,” she said tightly, her eyes flashing. “You cannot force upon me a feeling I don’t welcome. Have Clara do her worst; I’ll simply ignore her.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I have seen some women attempt to resist the paroxysms. Mind over matter. In rare cases, sheer will can temporarily hold them at bay.”

Josephine allowed herself a sliver of hope.

“But the protocol,” he continued smoothly, “has contingencies for that.”

Her spine tensed. “Contingencies?”

He gestured toward his assistant. “Evie’s role, in such cases, becomes essential.”

Evie looked up, her grin still barely suppressed. She clasped her hands demurely in front of her, as if awaiting a formal introduction.

Duvall met Josephine’s eyes again, his tone matter-of-fact. “If you are able to resist the apparatus and hold back the necessary convulsions too long, Evie will tickle your feet.”

Josephine’s toes clenched instinctively as she blinked, once, slowly. With great effort, she schooled her features. A gasp had nearly risen in her throat, but she swallowed it. She laughed instead—sharp, incredulous, layered with mock outrage.

“You mean to tickle me?” she said, twisting in the straps. “Like a child in the nursery?” Her feet, suddenly restless, kicked in the air. “Surely you kid, doctor. That is a cruelty beyond whipping.”

“It leaves no marks,” he said pleasantly, “and we’ve found it extraordinarily effective in disrupting a subject’s resistance.”

She shook her head in mock disbelief, her curls tumbling across her brow. “It’s… it’s diabolical. You could drive a grown woman mad! Have you done this to others? Do you visit them in the asylum?”

“The procedure is what's paramount here,” he explained patiently. “Evie has been required a number of times, and all of the women are fine.”

Now Josephine struggled in earnest, color flooding her chest and face in a furious blush. “You—” she glared at Evie. “This is absurd! You can’t—”

Evie tilted her head, just slightly. Her eyes danced.

“This is preposterous,” Josephine hissed, fuming. “I simply won’t allow it.”

“You are restrained, madam,” Duvall said gently, “and you signed the consent form. I have seen the contract. What you allow or disallow now is irrelevant.”

That broke her.

With a cry of rage, she threw her weight against the straps—shoulders twisting, wrists straining, her body bucking in wild protest. Her robe worked open more fully at the chest, linen sliding away to expose the inner curve of her breasts. Her thighs pulled reflexively against the thick straps holding them apart, but they held fast. Her long feet, narrow and bare, kicked helplessly against nothing.

Evie and Clara stood silently, their faces unreadable, but Josephine caught it—a flicker of amusement in Clara’s mouth, and the way Evie’s fingertips clenched near her waist, as though restraining a giggle.

Duvall continued calmly. “I assume, then, that your feet are ticklish? It is helpful to know beforehand.”

“You bastards,” she spat. “You’re all mad—every last one of you—”

Duvall turned, gave Evie a slight nod.

She stepped forward and knelt before the chair, lifting her hands.

Josephine had no time to prepare. She could only watch helplessly as the girl's fingers lit gently on the tops of her ankles. The dread struck first, like a blow to her chest.

“No—PLEASE!”

Then came the sensation. Fingernails, light as breath. Sliding around under her feet and dancing with gossamer agony across her soft and helpless arches.

Her reaction was instant and violent. Her whole body convulsed—shoulders pulling forward, back arching, legs straining. A shriek escaped her lips, high and unguarded, followed by helpless musical laughter that burst from her throat. Her toes flexed, her feet jerked wildly in the air, but the straps held. The tickling lasted mere seconds—but it felt like being ripped open.

When Evie stepped back, the silence that followed was thunderous. Into the quiet, she said, “If she plans to fight the paroxysms, doctor, we may need the braces.”

Josephine gasped, chest rising and falling. Her hair clung to her temple. Her cheeks burned with humiliation.

“You—!” she cried, glaring at Duvall. “You are a monster! That is… I can’t… You cannot let her do that again!”

The doctor didn’t move. His expression was almost kind.

“That,” he said smoothly, “will be entirely up to you. Girls, place the braces, restrain her feet.”

“What?!”

Clara was already heading toward a cabinet along the side of the room. She returned with two rectangular metal frames, and handed one to Evie. The girls slipped the frames into brackets behind Josephine’s ankles, adjusting their height so angled bars laid fixed across the backs of her toes. As she spit and cursed, they wrestled her feet back, and with soft silk cords, laced each toe securely to an anchor point in the bars.

Her feet could do nothing more now than flex, and that just barely, but there was a final indignity yet to suffer.

As Josephine sat speechless, both girls moved smoothly to the back of the chair. Clara’s foot disengaged a latch at its base with a soft metallic click. The whole chair shifted beneath her—wheels rolling, the frame pivoting.

“What—what are you doing?” she demanded, her panic rising.

Both doors behind Duvall opened smoothly. And through the portal, Josephine saw it—

Tiered rows.

Mahogany desks.

Notebooks open. Pens lifted.

So many eyes.

A lecture hall.

“No,” she whispered. “No—no, no—”

But the wheels kept turning, and the girls pushed her forward.

And Josephine, exposed, furious, helpless—was delivered into the light.

...to be continued

 

[quinn65]

Scene 7: The Procedure

The chair came to rest at the front center of the room with a final clunk of locking wheels. Josephine, still squirming, found herself pivoted—gently, inevitably—toward the rising semicircle of students above. Her thighs remained strapped open, her arms and wrists held firmly, her breasts straining against the robe’s tight fabric.

She swallowed.

Rows of young men—students, boys—looked down as one. Dozens of eyes. Curious, clinical. Expectant. At least, she told herself, her position preserved some shred of modesty. The way the chair cradled her—thighs wide, yes, but her center lost in shadow—meant they couldn’t quite see everything.

Which was fortunate, because God help her, she felt the shameful pulse of wetness growing between her legs.

She scanned their faces, trying to hate them, these soft-cheeked onlookers with their poised notebooks, but most seemed quietly nervous. A few looked rather pleased. One or two looked… disquietingly focused.

Her heart pounded. Her thighs tensed against the straps. She was burning. Inside. Anger tinged with arousal—low and slow and maddening.

What the hell was wrong with her?

She looked nervously side to side as the girls turned and flanked her chair. Each of them reached underneath the seat, and Josephine heard and felt a soft series of clicks. What on earth—?

“No!” Suddenly she found herself suspended as the seat itself was removed from beneath her, leaving only the narrow slats to which her thighs were belted for support. Her body settled a fraction, neatly parting the lips of her sex, fully revealing to the room the traitorous slickness she was now unable to control or hide.

She gasped and wriggled in surprise, but it only settled her further into suspension as the straps took her redistributed weight.

Too shocked to protest, she caught Clara’s wry smile as she pulled the seat away. A quiet murmur rippled among the students as all heads snapped around to see.

She now held the rapt attention of the room, which was unmistakably designed for demonstrations. Tiered seating curved in an arc, descending to the stage with its singular exhibit. From their vantage, the students could also perceive beside the chair a low mahogany table bearing a peculiar device—a box of matte black and polished brass extruding a flexible cable tipped by a long, narrow shaft. The base looked heavy and solid, and the shaft at the terminus of the cable resembled a heavy wand, tapered at the end to a finger's thickness. Its tip glinted faintly in the light of several waist-high hooded candles arranged on torchères nearby.

Clara moved to the device at once after stowing the chair’s pilfered seat, checking switches and moving dials, adjusting the apparatus with precise, practiced motions. A soft internal click accompanied each adjustment—quiet, deliberate, mechanical.

Evie, meanwhile, busied herself arranging the candles along the front of the stage, angling their reflectors toward Josephine so that their pooled light bathed her intimate anatomy in a soft golden glow. The gleam between her legs caught the light instantly—wet, unmistakable. Her nipples peaked visibly beneath the linen.

She pulled helplessly at the straps, unable to hide, her anger and frustration mounting. Her eyes shot daggers around the room.

Finally Duvall’s voice rang out across the chamber, calm and sonorous.

“Gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward her as if unveiling a statue, “what you see before you is a common case of feminine hysteria. The symptoms vary by constitution—restlessness, irritability, melancholia, improper outbursts, or stubborn resistance to male guidance.”

Josephine thrashed in her bindings, pulling against the straps, face flushed with fury.

“You son of a bitch,” she snarled. “Release me—now—or I swear I’ll—”

“As you can hear,” Duvall said smoothly, “our subject exhibits both hostility and a pronounced aversion to authority. These are classic indicators of the deeper unrest we seek to resolve.”

A soft ripple of laughter passed through the hall—suppressed, uncertain. Several students cast sidelong glances at one another.

“In women of high temperament,” he continued, “this kind of protest is not only expected, it is diagnostic. But what she cannot say in words, her body will express in paroxysm.”

Josephine’s eyes flared. “I am not some specimen for your filthy experiment!”

“Some patients, of course,” Duvall went on, turning deliberately toward her, “must be silenced when they prove particularly disruptive.”

At this, Evie rose from her stool and crossed the stage with smooth, unhurried steps. In her hand was a strange apparatus—black rubber framed by soft leather straps, its purpose unmistakable.

Josephine went still.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the bit gag, eyes wide with disbelief. A flush of heat surged through her chest, chased swiftly by cold dread. She shook her head once—firmly, instinctively—in a mute, desperate refusal.

Evie halted a few feet away and said nothing. She simply waited.

Josephine’s mouth tightened. No sound emerged.

“Very good,” Duvall nodded, turning back to address the students. “The absence of a gag will enable you to better study her vocalizations, which are crucial to managing the process.”

He turned then to Clara. “Power the apparatus.”

Clara flipped a discreet switch near the machine’s base.

The device gave a small internal jolt, dimming the room’s lights, and then began to hum—a low, soft vibration that seemed to enter the air itself. A green jewel of light pulsed gently on its side.

“Those in the front row,” Duvall invited, “may come forward to inspect the wand if you wish.”

A few hesitant students stood and moved forward. One, emboldened, reached out and touched his fingers to the end of the shaft. He flinched visibly and jerked his hand back, eyes wide.

A second student followed, then a third. Each recoiled in surprise.

“The warming element is integrated,” Duvall noted, “alongside vibration calibrated for maximum nerve induction, as some of you just experienced.”

He turned back to the room. “The goal is not to cause distress,” he said. “It is to relieve it. The paroxysms serve a therapeutic function. They will peak and ebb, according to each patient’s specific nature. Clara will continue inducing them until our subject’s struggles subside and her breathing and responsiveness normalize.”

A student raised his hand “Professor?”

“Yes, Mr. Winthrop?”

“What if you fail to induce a paroxysm? Is there an alternate treatment approach?”

Duvall nodded. “A good question. Gentlemen, let me introduce my assistant, Clarice Riley, who has been fully trained in the use of the apparatus.”

At this, Clara stood and faced the room, smiling sweetly.

“Clara, could you please answer Mr. Winthrop’s question?”

“Of course, sir. The answer for Mr. Winthrop is that the procedure never fails.” She nodded to Josephine, now sitting stock still, eyes angry, her mouth in a firm line. “If she tries to hold herself back, we tickle her till she breaks—it's why her feet are tied so. Induced properly, the paroxysms cannae be resisted.”

Allowing his female assistant to deliver this response had the intended stilling effect on the room. Some boys looked mildly shocked; others smiled.

“Thank you, my dear. You may prepare for the demonstration.”

Clara knelt again beside the chair, settling at its base with practiced ease. She adjusted a dial, tuning the hum like an instrument, occasionally touching the tip to her cheek. She finally lifted the wand, then checked over her shoulder, ensuring she wouldn’t obstruct the students’ line of sight.

For her part, Evie settled on a stool behind the chair to one side, hands folded. Her features appeared calm, but her lips were pressed tight and a dimple stippled her cheek.

Josephine’s jaw was set, her body rigid. She stared forward, ignoring him, ignoring them all.

“Begin,” said the doctor.

Clara’s hand began to rise.

And Josephine, her breathing shallow, trembling beneath the restraints, marshalling every ounce of her formidable willpower, prepared to resist.

But the wand was coming. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

...to be continued

 

[milagros317]

Great continuation! This is a fine series. 😀

 

[quinn65]

Great continuation! This is a fine series. 😀

Hey, thanks for the encouragement--I wasn't sure whether this one was grabbing a lot of interest.

I'll finish it regardless. Once they get in your head, you've gotta let 'em out. 😉

 

[quinn65]

Scene 8: The Battle

The hush of the students, the flicker of candlelight on polished brass, the low, steady hum of the apparatus—all of it pressed in on Josephine like heat. She could feel the weight of every gaze, the scratch of pens behind notebooks, the glint of flame catching the sheen of her skin. Her belly tightened, nerves pulled taut like wire.

She strained to glimpse Clara, who knelt now on a low cushion at the foot of the chair. The wand vibrated softly in her hand, cradled like a surgeon’s tool. As it drew near, Josephine felt Clara’s other hand settle gently over her sex, fingers splayed in a careful V. A subtle pressure followed, parting her—exposing the swollen, burning center of her arousal to open air and scrutiny.

Josephine gritted her teeth.

Then—

Contact.

Oh merciful God...

The touch was maddeningly soft—three quick taps, feather-light, but delivered with meticulous precision to the aching tip of her clit. The sensations shattered through her, sharp and dazzling as glass. Her resolve cracked open, and helpless cries ripped from her clenched jaw.

“Ahhhh… Ahhhh!... AHHHH!!!”

Heat bloomed in her like flame under skin, her limbs jolting in their restraints. Her head snapped forward, eyes blown wide with disbelief. The students stared back from the rising gallery, rapt, unmoving. A few met her gaze as it darted frantically through the room.

“Ohhh—nooo—OHHHMYGOD!!!”

Clara withdrew from her center, leaving it pulsing and neglected. She began tracing the wand instead along Josephine’s slick folds, rubbing and circling with infuriating insistence. The teasing was exquisite torture—the absence of direct touch somehow worse than its sudden presence. Josephine bucked and cried out, wild beneath the straps. A scrap of her awareness recoiled, horrified by the raw display she had become. But her body no longer obeyed her. Control was gone.

Until it wasn’t.

Though she writhed and moaned beneath Clara’s expert manipulation, Josephine realized something had shifted. The novelty of the wand’s sensation was fading, becoming almost manageable. She couldn’t stop crying out—but she felt, guardedly, that she might begin to grapple with the heat curling low in her belly. After all, Clara’s whole purpose was to drive her to paroxysm. If Josephine could hold the line—deny her that—it would be a small salvaged victory. A thread of dignity.

As the doctor droned on about intensity of reaction and diagnostic thresholds, the waves of pleasure began to follow a recognizable rhythm—an ebb and flow she could anticipate. Clara, maddeningly clever, seemed to time her strokes to Josephine’s own gasps and cries, using each vocal peak to build the next. But the cycles gave her something to hold onto. She hovered at the precipice, taut as a bowstring, but didn’t fall.

Her jaw clenched. Wetness pooled between her thighs, hot and abundant, glistening in the candlelight. A surreal, almost comic thought crossed her mind: I’m going to drip on Clara. Her nipples, grazed mercilessly by the robe with every squirm and shift, ached to be touched—ached to be bitten.

Duvall’s voice pierced the haze, calm and pedantic: “Note the persistent flush across the décolletage. Facial rictus. Vocal disruption. Elevated respiration. And yet the subject is attempting to suppress her response—a hallmark of high-functioning cases.”

Clara, undeterred, kept circling her sex with tormenting grace—pressing deeper, then feathering outward, adjusting angles and pressure with exquisite cruelty. She had suspected this one would be different. Most women crumbled well before now. But this fiery brunette, all trembling muscle and steel resolve, somehow held on.

And then—finally—Clara saw it. The first involuntary thrust. The hips rising to meet the wand.

She smiled.

“Ah,” Duvall observed. “Note that her hips are beginning to spasm. This is an involuntary response, typically preemptive to paroxysm. Note the time, gentlemen, and observe carefully.”

Josephine’s fists clenched tight within the cuffs. Her bound toes curled, the soles of her feet creasing into soft wrinkles. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to breathe, to focus, to stay. She’d been to this edge before—more times than she’d ever admit. But never like this. Never bound. Never watched. Never measured.

Still she hovered. She rode each wave to its crest, refused the fall.

Duvall caught Evie’s eye and nodded. As the girl stood from the stool, its legs scraped on the floor.

Josephine heard, and knew what it meant.

“No—WAIT—PLEASE!!!”

But Evie was already in place—kneeling, calm, deliberate—reaching for Josephine’s bound feet as they tried to twist away, toes flexing helplessly.

And then… she tickled.

Josephine gasped—then screamed.

Wild musical laughter tore from her throat as soft fingertips danced wickedly across her trapped soles. This time it wasn’t a test. Evie’s nails skittered across her toes, heels, and arches with cruel speed. There was no rhythm, no warning. Just unbearable sensation.

Her helpless laughter crescendoed into girlish shrieks. She bucked. She twisted. She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes from the sheer obliterating force of it.

Then Clara’s fingers were back—parting her sex with clinical precision, exposing her swollen, glistening core. The wand touched down.

Josephine howled. Laughter turned to helpless cries. Her hips jerked. Her back arched. The tickling hadn’t prepared her for the devastating combination—the humiliating helplessness of it all.

Evie finally relented, softening her strokes.

But Clara did not. The wand pressed harder. A slow, grinding pressure.

Josephine’s head dropped back with a moan, chest rising and falling in frantic gasps. Heat surged through her limbs, molten and unbearable. The tension inside her bloomed, deep and seismic, building toward collapse.

No, please—NO—

She tried to clench, to resist, but the straps held her open and exposed. The paroxysm was coming. She could feel it cresting, huge and terrible.

Panicked, she looked down at Clara—who met her gaze with a wicked grin. Next to her, Evie watched, rapt.

Holding her eyes, Clara withdrew the wand.

Josephine cried out in frustration, a raw, shamed sound.

Clara responded with more teasing taps to her swollen clit. Then pressed again—firm, slow, final.

Josephine’s scream split the air. Her entire body arched as release tore through her. The convulsion shook her to her core—violent, wracking, exquisite. The straps dug into her limbs as she bucked and writhed, utterly at their mercy.

But Clara wasn’t done. The wand lingered, dragging her higher, drawing out every last quiver. Only when Josephine was sobbing with oversensitivity did she finally let the wand fall away.

Silence.

Only Josephine’s ragged breathing filled the room. Her body pulsed with residual tremors, muscles twitching from exhaustion.

Clara and Evie exchanged a stunned look—wide-eyed, breathless. Even Duvall hesitated.

But not for long.

“And that, gentlemen,” he announced coolly, “was a hysterical paroxysm. Indeed—and take note—one of uncommon intensity. It suggests we have our work cut out for us this evening.”

Josephine heard his voice as if from underwater, her senses dulled by the storm she’d just endured. She let her head roll to the side and exhaled—long and slow.

Duvall stepped forward, hands behind his back, as if delivering a lecture. “Consider, if you will, her state upon entering: resistant, belligerent, profane. Now observe: compliant, subdued. As is typical, the treatment proves immediately effective once the body's resistance is overcome.”

“Duvall,” Josephine said, voice hoarse but clear.

He paused. “Yes, Miss Marcus?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The room stilled.

Then—laughter. Low at first. A ripple that spread through the assembled students before Duvall’s glare cut it off.

“Mind yourselves, gentlemen,” he snapped. “I will flunk all of you.”

He turned back to her, flushed and seething.

“As for you, madam, I had taken you for a woman of breeding. Your vulgarity is unacceptable in a classroom.”

Josephine smiled faintly. “Forgive my lapse, doctor. It’s difficult to recall the finer points of etiquette while one is strapped naked to a chair and assaulted.”

This time the laughter was stifled—but barely.

Duvall’s eyes went flat.

“Clara,” he said coldly. “Begin again.”

...to be continued