The Fall Ch. 02

Warnings: Drug use and abduction. Don't try this at home, as you will likely get arrested.

A/N: I'm just here to write delicious Victorian femdom smut. As always, a solid THANK YOU to Brenda for beta-ing this.

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Upon waking up, Jonathan took note of a few things.

One- his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his limbs felt heavy, and he was acutely aware of the shifts of air in the room. Two - he was strapped to his own chair, not the desk chair, but the one he used for the women who came to his practice. His arms were secured above his head, and his legs were secured in the stirrups with the leather straps. Three - he was nude from the waist down and his shirt had been unbuttoned. He believed that it was his own handkerchief in his mouth and it was probably tied around the back of his head. Four - Eliza Wesley was standing over him smiling and holding one of his syringes. It was depressed and empty. Meaning she just injected...

"I was beginning to think I used too much Ether, you were sleeping for over an hour. And as far as this goes..."she motioned with the syringe, "I gave you a little opium to help you relax, lower your inhibitions. Don't worry, it was not too much as I want you still coherent."

Jonathan was beside himself. Not only was he being humiliated, but a female simpleton has also outsmarted him. However, the drugs did much to temper his anger for the moment.

Eliza smirked as she watched his brows furrow in confusion, he really was adorable like this. His pompous attitude was now gone, and his ability to move or talk has been taken away. Just the way she liked it. Now it was time to play. "You're wondering how 'a woman with below average intelligence' managed to restrain you?"

He gave a slight nod, it was the only thing he was able to do. His mind was hazy.

She leaned on his chest with her face only inches from his. He could smell her perfume. "You see, Clinton was brilliant, but he needed a lot of help in the labs. He taught me everything. It's probable that I even know more about the human body than you do Dr. Maxwell."

He scowled. Impossible.

"Oh? I overheard you tell uncle that the procedure you were going to use was going to take hours. You must be pretty poor at pelvic massage. I almost pity the women you see on a day-to-day basis." She smirked again, "I bet I can treat you for hysteria in under thirty minutes, and that's only if I take my time."

Jonathan was confused, his mind tumbling through most of what she just said. Men didn't develop hysteria. It was a purely female condition! He tried to voice this to his captor, but even if he didn't have something in his mouth, the words would have come out nearly unrecognizable due to slurring.

As if reading his thoughts, she continued. "Hysteria is a joke anyway. No one dies from it, so it's a way for doctors to make money, as the patients need to come in weekly for treatment. Isn't that right?" He scowled again and her face grew serious, "Besides, I believe that the most brilliant men do develop hysteria, even more so than women. Why, I had to treat my dear Clinton for it almost daily."

Eliza looked down at the shiny levers and cranks on his chair; she had to give credit where it was due. It was obvious that he had drawn up the plans and had it built to his specifications. The thing was almost as ingenious as the Berkley Horse was nearly forty years prior, although she was sure that Dr. Maxwell had much purer intentions than Theresa Berkley. Oh yes, she was positive that her little doctor honestly thought that he was helping cure madness and save lives.

Chuckling darkly, she turned a crank, and the chair suddenly lurched backwards earning a groan from her captive. He probably didn't enjoy the sudden movement all too much, but now he was in a more prone position. Turning to double check the instruments that she was going to use for Dr. Maxwell's "treatment", she was pleased to see that everything seemed to be sterile and clean, that was such a rarity in most doctor's offices. Setting everything within reach just above his line of vision, she turned back to her patient.

She separated the only piece of clothing preserving his modesty, his shirt, and gazed at his pale body. He had small pink nipples that were now hardening due to the slight draft in the room. She ran her hands over the expanse of his chest watching the muscles dance just under his skin. It would seem that he did take Clinton's advice about proper exercise to heart. His body, while thin, was all hard sinewy muscle. She has chosen wisely, as she was enjoying just touching him. Tickling his ribs, she laughed in delight when he bucked uselessly to escape from her questing digits.

While her hands were warm and being tickled was not entirely unpleasant, Jonathan couldn't for the life of him figure out why she was focusing on his upper torso. Or why he wasn't entirely upset about this at the moment. He scoffed, administering a pelvic massage until the patient experienced hysterical paroxysm was the standard treatment of hysteria. Not that he could be treated for hysteria, as he was a man. He shook his head slightly trying to gather his thoughts. Regardless, treatment had nothing to do with the chest. But when the pads of her fingers ghosted over his left nipple, he felt his traitorous manhood beginning to stir.

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Notes:

Theresa Berkley ran a high-class BDSM brothel in Victorian London that specialized in chastisement, whipping, flagellation, and the like. She invented the Berkley Horse, an apparatus that reportedly earned her a fortune in flogging wealthy men and women of the time. Upon her death in 1836, it was discovered exactly how many of her clients were part of the aristocracy. All letters and various correspondence were eventually destroyed.

Jonathan's chair is a figment of my twisted imagination. Victorian doctors did not strap you down to bring you to orgasm. As you stood in their office, they lifted your skirt, averted their eyes to preserve modesty, and then brought you to "hysterical paroxysm".

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