“I will not make myself... ss... spend,” she murmured. And then she added, because saying it sent a delight through her body almost equal to his touch: “Or I will be severely disciplined.”
Mr. Blackstone said nothing for several moments. The straps holding her hands loosened, and she fell to her hands and knees with the unexpected release.
“Dress. Dr. Doyle will collect you to take in your next lesson.”
The mention of Dr. Doyle, as unexpected as nearly everything Mr. Blackstone had done, made Lina’s blood run cold for a moment, and she was paralyzed by the surprise. She turned her head sharply as soon as she regained her powers of movement, her mouth open to ask about Dr. Doyle, and she was grateful that Mr. Blackstone had already turned toward the door of his strange room, and therefore could not see her. If he heard her sharp intake of breath, he made no sign of having done so, and Lina was able to bite her lip to silence herself.
Dr. Doyle?
Dr. Doyle?
She scrambled to her feet and looked for her frock on the floor where it had fallen, and found it instead hung on a hook next to the wall of curious objects. For a moment, her eyes could not be torn from them: the ache between her legs swelled and began to roar at such a volume that she could scarcely bear it.
She did not know what the objects were for—save the straps, of which there were an astonishing variety. As she gazed at the contours of the handles, the variety of straps attached to them—some thick, some narrow, some studded with metal—her bottom seemed to turn to fire where the strap had touched her flesh. Rather than making her wince with the memory of the pain, the heat sank into her body, to where this curioussomethingwas burning between her legs.
She removed the dress from the hook, and then cast an eye about the chamber.
It would require so little, so very little, to send her over the edge and relieve that need between her legs. She was sure that she knew just where, and how, to touch herself, and that it could be done in a matter of seconds.
She hesitated, shivered, and pulled the frock over her head, reaching behind herself to attempt to tie up the complicated stitching.
Footsteps on the stone floor alerted her to the presence of Dr. Doyle, and she knew it was him and not Mr. Blackstone, because the latter moved without sound. She turned briefly to confirm her suspicion, and when she saw Dr. Doyle, her cheeks flushed and she faced the wall.
An image of herself flashed through her head: her hair, damp with sweat, loose about her shoulders. Her dress, half-open at the back, and her composure so obviously... what was the word Mrs. Tilton would have used?Lurid.She looked, she knew, like one of the prostitutes that had worked just blocks from their apartment building in Paris.
“Mmmm, Mister Doyle,” she said, barely above a whisper. Her hands still floundered with her dress, and she was sure that her legs were shaking, and hoped he did not notice. “I cannot...” her voice trailed off, and she was unable to even think of the words to explain her predicament.
Dr. Doyle had moved across the room to stand behind her. “Allow me,” he said.
His fingers traveled over her back, lacing the dress together with almost as much expertise as a woman might have, except that he did it with a rough, masculine force that nearly took her breath away.
“Is it too tight?” Dr. Doyle asked, leaning quite close to her, his hands still upon the laces.
“Nnnn...no,” she said.
And then there was a long and terrible pause, during which Dr. Doyle did not speak, and Lina continued to stare at the wall, uncertain as to what she must do. At last, despairing, she turned to face him.
Though the light was dim in the room, she could see Dr. Doyle’s face much better. He had a square jaw, shaved cleanly, and a mouth that seemed, even at rest, to be smiling somewhat, in such a way that it almost comforted her in spite of all that had happened and the looming promise of Dr. Doyle’s “training.” His gray eyes hovered over a pleasant mouth, and he was, she realized with a pang, very dashing. His presence, while less terrifying than that of the mysterious and ever-enshrouded Mr. Blackstone, was still formidable in some way, and it, too, plucked at the string in her center. She lowered her gaze, unsure of what to do.
Dr. Doyle offered her his arm, making her step back slightly. With surprise, she took it, and Dr. Doyle guided her toward the doorway, but turned in a different direction upon reaching the landing. Through his suit she could feel the surprising strength of his arm, steely like Mr. Blackstone’s, though not quite as massive. She followed at pace behind him, her stomach coiled again with anticipation, the desire still ebbing inside of her like a tide.
Dr. Doyle followed the dark hallway a great distance. It was lit by the same gas lamps, and they traveled for such a long time that she was able to contemplate her fate when they arrived at wherever he was taking her. Would she be trained in another room like the one before, or something very different? Would Dr. Doyle touch her as Mr. Blackstone had? The thought made her recoil intellectually, and yet her heart beat quickly with what she knew to be wicked desire. As she followed him, she was surprised to realize that she almost hoped shewouldbe subjected to the very same training by Dr. Doyle, and was just at the point of wondering if she could get him to make her spend without breaking her promise of obedience to Mr. Blackstone, when Dr. Doyle opened the door and led her into a very sunny, well-lit room, in the center of which there was nothing more than a piano.
They crossed the room and entered a conservatory, where refreshments were set for two.
At the entrance, she stopped, her mouth agape. She gave a frantic look to Dr. Doyle, who had turned to face her when her arm slid from inside of his crooked elbow, for she had stopped so abruptly at the door and he had carried on.
He smiled warmly. “Miss Blanchet,” he said quietly, gesturing at the table. “I am responsible for a training of an entirely different kind.” He stepped toward her, and put his fingers on her bare chest, running the tips along the collar of the dress. Lina flushed but remained stone-still, unsure of what her reaction should properly be, and stunned that Dr. Doyle’s fingers ignited the same pulsing need inside of her as Mr. Blackstone did. “As long as you are not disobedient,” he said, gently. “Otherwise, I too, will be required to punish you.”
“What... what... must I do?” she asked desperately.
Dr. Doyle smiled, stepping back to again gesture at the table. “For now, you are to sit, Miss Blanchet, and take refreshments, with proper etiquette.”
Lina looked at him, somewhat confused, and he gave her a look in return that seemed to have something mischievous behind it. He pulled her chair out for her, and she sat, confused for only a moment.
Once seated, the mischief in his eyes was perhaps explained, for the tender flesh of her much-strapped bottom was roughly scratched by the material of the dress, and the knob protruding from her bottom was pushed around by her every moment, intensifying the ache inside of her. These two sensations had the effect of making the screaming need of her womanhood reawaken.
She was unable to avoid the crimson stain that crept across her face, and the small shake of her hand as she rested it on the table. She shifted in her seat, several times, trying to find a way to settle herself so that the object did not touch some part of her that craved release. Unable to find such a position, she stiffened her back to affect good posture, and pinched her lips together to lift her head and look at Dr. Doyle bravely.
