ThePleasureDevice

Regina Kammer

Harwell Heirs series, Book One

Helena Phillips is attending her
first London Season to find a titled husband. There she meets the object of all
she desires, Nicholas Ramsay. The irresistibly sexy doctor isn’t titled but
from the moment Helena meets him, her life becomes a game of dangerous
attraction and forbidden explorations.

When Helena refuses to renounce her
newfound hunger for Nicholas, she’s forced to enroll in an experimental study
to cure hysteria. Budding technology—a vibrating machine—is supposed to be the
perfect cure for her, but Helena can’t shake the feeling that something is
amiss.

Nicholas knows this “miracle cure”
is nothing but a wicked ruse, cooked up by his nemesis. In order to prove his
worth and his word, he will have to face his past, embrace his future and show
her that pleasure is more profound with love.

Inside Scoop:
Our devious
doctor loves to explore his ladies’ sexuality. He enjoys bondage, spanking,
vibrating toys and watching—especially when it’s multiple partners.

A Romantica®
historical erotic romance
from
Ellora’s Cave

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my family—especially my parents—and friends for
their enthusiastic and continued encouragement, and to my colleagues at RWA for
their advice, knowledge and support.

Dedication

To Chris Baty for making me believe I could write a novel,
and to my husband for reading every word.

London, May 1879

“Observe, gentlemen, how our subject is in the flaccid, or
un-aroused state.”

Dr. Julius Christopher made note of the blasé tone of Dr.
Waddington’s voice, seemingly completely unaffected by the circumstances in
which he was instructing his audience. As if he had a pretty girl lying on a
table with her legs splayed open before him every day.

Not bloody likely. Julius stifled a chuckle. Waddington
catered to a much older, and less agitated, clientele.

His host inelegantly manhandled the privates of the female
subject. “We have brought before you a young woman of the laboring classes—”

The girl on the table rolled her pretty brown eyes.

“Suffering from the anxieties of her circumstances. Tending
toward drink and belligerence—”

Julius noted the girl exhibited no signs of anxiety or
alcoholism, just a little exasperation.

“Thusly unable to control her desires, her intercourse with
her fellow man approaches a manner most uncivilized—”

Intercourse preceded by proper seduction is a social
equalizer. Any woman can respond in a “manner most uncivilized”.

“Her symptoms, therefore, are different from the symptoms of
ladies of culture and breeding, more violent, frenzied, akin to madness. In
other words base, like her class—”

Said the man violating the girl’s genitalia.

“But a fine subject nonetheless—”

Because she’s available and cheap.

“As this new remedy works the same on all women, regardless
of class distinction.”

There were scattered murmurs of skepticism and admiration
amongst Julius’ colleagues who were present.

“We have our brethren in France to thank for this new method
of electro-therapy.”

The murmurs were now tinged with incredulity and gratitude.
Julius had figured the ever-industrious Americans would have been the ones to
congratulate instead.

The girl stared blankly at the ornate ceiling of the small
medical room, giving Julius a chance to observe her. Most likely Waddington—or
his housekeeper, rather—had promised a meal, some clothes, perhaps even a
fashionable hat. Whatever it was, seeing a doctor in his office was probably
much better than what she usually had to do for food or drink. Although as he
studied her, he wondered if lying with her legs spread open, her feet in
stirrups, her petticoats up to her waist, her arms strapped down at her sides
and at least a dozen men observing her was better than letting a drunken sod
spend between her thighs in a dark alley.

“Let me show you the exact locus of stimulation,” Waddington
continued, inelegantly revealing the girl’s clitoris with his thumb and index
finger. “It is a nerve with direct connection to the brain.” He touched the
girl’s forehead. “Electricity will pass along the track of this nerve.” He
traced the hypothetical path bisecting her torso. “Taking the place of nervous
energy, producing a muscular contraction. By creating such a resolution in this
area, we can calm the emotions.”

“But, Dr. Waddington,” said Dr. Dodsworth in his typical
high-pitched, shaky whine, “we can do this with our hands.”

“Or with the pelvic douche,” added Dr. Hargreaves, his
accent ridiculously far above the professional classes.

“Yes, yes,” agreed Waddington. “However, gentlemen, this
device uses neither manual labor nor water pressure, but instead the most
modern of energy sources.” He lifted a black cloth covering a shiny, two-tiered
cart, unveiling a curious machine, an engine of sorts, housed on the lower
shelf. “It uses electricity.”

There were murmurs of doubt and disbelief in the small
theater.

Waddington took a long, thin cylindrical rod lying on the
top tray of the cart next to him and held it up. “The device is connected to a
dynamo-electric machine.” He indicated the cord attached to the engine at the
base of the cart. “No more digital fatigue, gentlemen, and no more mess with
water.”

Waddington indelicately smeared an oily substance on the
girl’s privates. She flinched.

“See how contact to the area already excites the subject?”

The girl closed her eyes. Probably in acquiescence rather
than anticipation.

“Now, gentlemen, observe.” Waddington reached for the
engine. There was a sharp click, then a whirring sound. The rod in his hand
began to oscillate.

He pressed the vibrating wand against the girl’s “locus of
stimulation”.

The girl gasped in shock, her face registering utter
surprise. She moaned and writhed, flailing against her bindings. Her pelvis
jerked upward toward the vibrating wand as if wanting more, an action that
elicited scattered cries of appreciation in the room.

Julius had to suppress a smile as her body lifted and tensed
for several seconds before she screamed and crashed back down onto the table.

She opened her eyes, the reality of the drab room and its
banal occupants causing her to blush. It was rather charming.

“
Et voilà
, gentlemen!” exclaimed the very gratified
Dr. Waddington. “Mere seconds to achieve the hysterical paroxysm. Faster than
any hand among you, and even faster than any other device you have available in
your offices.”

Julius smiled to himself. His colleague had absolutely no
idea what he had just done to the very pretty young lass before them. But
Julius knew, and the stiffness in his trousers was annoying evidence. For the
last few years, he had wondered why the men of the medical profession had never
made the connection between the ill-termed “hysterical paroxysm” and sexual
culmination. It was simply bizarre and most unscientific.

“Dr. Waddington,” he began, his voice tinged with the utmost
of respect, “in your opinion is there any connection between what a woman feels
in a state of sexual pleasure and what she feels when this procedure is
performed upon her?”

There were muffled gasps of mortification in the room.

“My dear Dr. Christopher,” said the hoary Waddington with
authority, “we all know that a woman cannot possibly feel sexual pleasure in
the absence of penetration.”

There was, apparently, a consensus of agreement among those
in attendance.

“Thank you, doctor,” replied Julius with sincere politeness.
“Of course, I had forgotten that fact. You have presented to us a most useful
treatment for hysteria. I think my colleagues will agree that this device will
enable us to see so many more patients. And with the modern world changing as
it does every day, we will have so many more patients to treat.”

As his fellow doctors voiced their concurrence, Julius
smiled along, satisfied in the knowledge that he could now procure a new toy
from France with which to pleasure women, and, in effect, to elicit his own.

* * * * *

Telling one’s valet to take the afternoon off was a pleasure
more men should experience, Nicholas Ramsay mused as he relaxed in his steaming
bath, looking forward to being undisturbed for hours. Undisturbed, yes, but
continually occupied.

He had been in London for several weeks already, practically
ignoring the mountain of books and papers he had brought back with him from the
Edinburgh Medical School, a selection of which mocked him as they lay neatly
stacked on the floor next to the tub. It was high time he undertook a serious
review of current practices in family medicine.

He lifted his head from the curved rim and watched minuscule
bubbles forming on his skin, floating along his thigh under the water. Gaseous
exchange.

Respiration.

He let out a long exhale. His life was finally on course. He
could breathe easy.

And much of it was due to his patron—and lover—Lady
Foxley-Graham. Lavinia had helped him tremendously upon his return to Britain,
reacquainting him with civilization, recommending him to Edinburgh, arranging a
good set of rooms in London, insisting on finding him a position with another
doctor before he struck out on his own. She was also rather resolute that he
avail himself of the opportunities of the Season to garner a wife, “a fine
young woman who will bolster you in your career, Nicky.” Meaning not
necessarily someone who was overly clever or very beautiful. Mere convivial
matrimony.

Was it too much to ask for a true meeting of minds? Mutual
physical desire?

He grunted and let his head rest on the cool porcelain,
staring blankly at the lines of the varnished dark wood paneling truncated by a
length of molding. Bath-time was the perfect time to take a respite from the
dread of peacocking amongst the upper crust. He had left that life behind years
ago and did not look forward to mingling with men and women of the ton who kept
their sordid secrets well-hidden. It was bad enough he had his own blasted
scandal to conceal.

He shifted his head to gaze up at the plaster ceiling before
finding his wits and jolting his attention back to the pile of medical journals
on the floor. His new life wasn’t going to start with him pouting and pining
about the past. No. He had a profession and the possibility of a wife with whom
he would start a family, a new family, a proper family. And to support that
family in a manner befitting his station, he would have to be the best damn
doctor in London.

He grabbed the first journal on his stack. “November ’78,”
he grumbled. Already six months old and probably filled with news and notes he
had by now gleaned some other way. He let out a sigh, then methodically leafed
through the pages.

The article on page twenty-six piqued his interest. “Clinical
and Therapeutic Treatments of Hysteria”. Hysteria “is a disease which affects
the higher classes in a disproportionate degree” afflicting only the female of
the species, but occurring more frequently in “unmarried women and those who
are unhappily married”. Causes included “sexual excesses…especially
masturbation”. Nicholas chuckled to himself. If all that were the case, then
his own lover must certainly “suffer” the same ailment.

He read on. The women thus plagued took on any number of
symptoms from paralysis of the limbs to convulsions to religious delusions.
Nicholas had to admit that he was still rather new to the profession, but
surely a disease that rendered a woman paralyzed was far different than one
that rendered a woman delusional? He turned the page. The section on treatments
included illustrations. His eyes widened.

Beside the various herbal and medicinal remedies, diet
modifications and cold showers, were the “localized” treatments to the patient’s
pelvic area. One engraving showed the “douche” therapy—a woman in a hip bath
with a strong jet of water aimed between her legs. Another showed a physician
massaging a female patient, his hand at her crotch.

Nicholas was incredulous. The doctor was stimulating the
patient to orgasm. Even he, a neophyte, could see that.

He put the journal down and let his head relax against the
back of the tub, wondering if he himself could perform such a treatment. He
could, he supposed, but not without his cock growing to full stand as it had
just by reading a damn medical journal.

He grabbed his erection.

Good God. He would probably spend in his trousers if he had
to perform such a remedy.

Waves rippled across the top of the water as he distractedly
played with his shaft.

Especially if his patient were a delicious ginger-haired
girl with green eyes, gazing up at him in wonder, her face flushed, her chest
heaving as his skillful fingers produced magnificent sensations previously
unbeknownst to her.

Christ, the thought made him so very, utterly hard. His
attention to his needy cock was in earnest now, turning ripples into rhythmic
churning. It was probably because he hadn’t fucked Lavinia or even masturbated
for two days that his errant prick was behaving as such. Surely it wasn’t
reading about what the journal said was a normal medical procedure.

He watched as he pulled the prepuce over the glans, newly
intrigued by the mundane yet stimulating act, fascinated that the pleasure he
was bringing to himself was, while not considered thoroughly proper in men of
his class, certainly tolerated as long as it did not become obsessive.

His movements became more determined and vigorous, sloshing
bathwater up the sides of the tub.

It was rather unfair that the female sex was taught that such
self-pleasuring was immoral and damaging. No wonder the result was a delusional
disease.

A delusional disease suffered by most women of his class,
women who would lie still under their husbands during the marital act, women
who would flee in terror at the idea of orgiastic delight. Women who would
never, ever touch themselves.

Christ!
The thought almost made him flaccid until the
image of the enraptured ginger-haired girl lolling and moaning under his
ministrations strengthened his conviction that surely there was a woman who had
discovered the joys of lubricious solitary satisfaction. A woman for whom
physical pleasure elicited not shame, but such wondrous contentment as to
provoke her to seek out sensual gratification.

He had to find that woman.

His hips bucked up, splashing water over the edge of the
tub, as he groaned his satisfaction. He held on to his prick as he continued to
spasm, jetting his semen into the water.

Yes
, he exhaled,
it is a fine thing to spend an
afternoon in private indulgence.

* * * * *

Helena Phillips slowly pulled up her cambric nightdress
under the sheets. She wanted to touch herself. No, that wasn’t right. She
needed
to touch herself, a need so strong she couldn’t wait to excuse herself after
luncheon to go upstairs, pleading a headache, needing rest before the social
obligations of the evening. The urge had never been so insistent. She had
ignored the reasons until they had surged forth while she lingered in front of
the cheval glass staring at her nude figure before dressing for bed.