The Orgasm Rebellion
An Erotic Novel
by Frank Lingo
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Frank Lingo
All Rights Reserved.
Introduction
In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, the male medical profession commonly diagnosed women to be suffering from “Hysteria,” a catch-all phrase for any mental or emotional condition doctors didn’t understand, or even for normal female moods. The standard treatment was for doctors to administer orgasms to these women. At first the doctors performed this procedure manually, but the advent of electric power brought the vibrator, one of the earliest electrical inventions, specifically for doctors to give orgasms to women.
A well–researched true source for information on this practice is “The Technology of Orgasm” by Rachel Maines.
For some doctors, these treatments comprised about half of their practice. Some women believed the diagnosis and took the procedure as a medical necessity. Other women accepted this situation because this was the only way they were able to get an orgasm since most of their husbands didn’t know or care about their sexual satisfaction. These matters were not openly discussed by most people because of society’s prevailing prudishness.
At the time, women were not allowed to vote and they had far fewer rights than men regarding money and property. Wife- beating was common and seldom prosecuted.
This is the setting for my erotic novel “The Orgasm Rebellion.” While most novelists strive to put the reader into the heads of their characters, I’ve tried to put you into their bodies as well. This is for the reader to enjoy sexuality as the characters do, for its own sake, and to explore the awkward process people of that era went thru to discover and fulfill their sexuality.
My aim is to amuse and arouse the reader. If you’re uncomfortable with explicit descriptions of sex, this book is not for you. While there is a lot of sex in “The Orgasm Rebellion,” there is also a lot of story about what happens to the characters besides sex. Story is what separates erotica from pornography, altho this distinction means nothing to people who will condemn the book.
The other theme in “The Orgasm Rebellion” is women trying to stop violence against them by men.
Because I witnessed my father beat my mother, this issue is close to my heart. Accordingly, I pledge a portion of my profit from “The Orgasm Rebellion” will go to support women’s shelters, which are woefully under-funded to meet this still- common problem.
I hope you enjoy the story.
—Frank Lingo - June, 2011
Chapter 1
Friday, April 21, 1899
Magellan, Ohio, USA
Ida Funk, in her mid-thirties and slim, with green eyes behind wire-rim glasses and curly auburn hair clasped back in a bun, sat on the edge of a hard bench in the dim light of the doctor’s hallway. Her hands clenched tightly to the scarlet scarf resting on her knees. The full-length blue dress she wore did little to make her feel less naked for the treatment she had come to receive.
Amid the shadows, a lone ray of sunlight illuminated swirls of dust in the air as Ida fidgeted with her scarf and wondered if her condition could ever be cured.
The doctor’s door opened and a woman came out, closed the door and hurried down the hall with her eyes down.
More minutes went by, dust swirling, hands clenching.
“Mrs. Funk, you may come in now.” It was Doctor Harold Furrow, opening his office door so quietly Ida hadn’t heard it.
Ushering her in, the doctor pointed to the examining table. Ida nodded numbly and bent to remove her shoes. Then, as if in a dream, she reached under her dress to slide down her bloomers and climbed up on the examining table.
“Feet in the stirrups, please, and lie back,” said Dr. Furrow. Ida slowly placed her feet in the foot holders with her dress still covering her legs. The doctor wheeled the vibrator machine with the rounded tip to the foot of the table. He briskly raised Ida’s dress and draped it over her tummy. He then placed the vibrator tip to her exposed vagina and abruptly flipped the switch.
Ida snapped out of her dream-like state as her whole body jerked to the jolt between her legs. It wasn’t exactly painful but it wasn’t pleasurable either in its sudden intensity. Ida squirmed a bit and instinctively drew back but the doctor pushed the vibrator firmly upon her. Ida’s hands clenched and her teeth gnashed as the buzzing machine vibrated her vulnerable vulva.
Little by little, the buzz in Ida’s bush changed from a rude intrusion to a sweet sensation. She lowered her mound slightly so the vibrator touched on her clitoris. The vibrations traveled up her spine and wrapped themselves in waves around her brain. Ida’s loin lips lubricated and her face flushed from the static stimulation.
Ida’s hands started clawing at the air for something to grip as the doctor continued to hold the machine tight to her crotch. She grabbed her hips and thrust up to meet the buzzing tip. Her hair bun came undone as her head rocked side to side and she ran her hands up to squeeze her breasts and squeeze her nipples thru the dress.
What a fright I must look, thought Ida, as she glanced at the doctor gazing intently between her legs. Maybe I really am an hysterical woman, she thought.
But her self-consciousness faded in favor of the current churning in her quivering cleft. Ida gave up any effort of self-control as the flow of pleasure grew stronger.
She knew she was close to the release of her hysteria but the vibrator kept slipping down off her pleasure button.
For the first time since arriving, Ida spoke. “A little higher, doctor.”
The doctor raised the vibrator tip and held it firmly on Ida’s clitoris.
“Yes, yes, oh God, YES, YESSS!”
Ida wailed and writhed on the examining table, responding to the buzz by clenching her buttocks and raising them off the table. She let out a moan from deep in her chest as her crimson crevice expressed a sluice of saucy squism.
With her treatment completed, Ida slumped back on the table in a state of floating bliss. Dr. Furrow switched off the machine and pulled it away from Ida who still lay with her legs open in the stirrups.
He placed a towel on her tummy and walked over to sit down behind his large imposing desk. “That should relieve your hysteria for now, Mrs. Funk. You may see the nurse for your next appointment.”
The doctor opened a medical book and began reading. Slowly, Ida sat up and pulled on her bloomers and let down her dress and slip. She reached behind her head and re-tied the bow on her shock of red curls. Again like in a dream, she straightened herself up and wobbled to her feet.
“Thank you, Dr. Furrow,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
“Same time next Thursday, Mrs. Funk?” asked Miss Hillock, the young, pale raven-haired receptionist, looking up from her calendar book with limpid blue eyes.
“Yes, please,” said Ida, averting her eyes while handing over the dollar for her treatment.
Ida walked out of the doctor’s house into the bright cool April day. As she reached the gate, a chilly wind whipped her neck and she realized she’d left her scarf. She went back up the steps and pushed the door open just as Miss Hillock was coming out.
“Forget something?” asked Miss Hillock. “Yes, my scarf,” said Ida.
“Oh, go right in. I’m heading home for lunch.”
Not wanting to disturb the doctor, Ida silently opened the door a crack to reach her scarf hanging on the coat rack just inside the room. But her slim arm wasn’t quite long enough. She eased the door open a few more inches to stick her head and shoulders in so she could grasp the scarf. Ida glanced toward the doctor, prepared to apologize for disturbing him, when she saw a peculiar sight.
Doctor Furrow was no longer reading at his desk but had returned to the examining area where he knelt before the vibrating machine, his bearded face at the silent tip. The doctor was facing slightly away from the door so he didn’t notice Ida but she could see him as his tongue licked the vibrator at the exact spot that had been pressed tight to her twat only a few minutes before.
As she realized what he was doing, Ida wanted to get away fast but she froze in fear and fascination. She held her breath so the only sound was Dr. Furrow slurping the squism she’d secreted in electric ecstasy. But when Ida saw Dr. Furrow slide his hand down the front of his pants, she knew she had to leave.
Ida softly pulled the door closed and hurried thru the reception area and outside. Her head was swimming but she felt relieved that the doctor hadn’t seen her. Ida walked home quickly with her eyes lowered. Her mind was a whirl of shock, confusion and repulsion by the doctor’s deviance.
Yet when she got safely in her home, Ida leaned back on the solid oak door and reached up to twirl her scarlet scarf as a slight smile slipped across her lips. Then she had a few sips of Nirvana Nectar, the drink fortified with laudanum she liked so much.
Meanwhile in another neighborhood, Francine Linguine, a brown-eyed brunette in her late twenties with a full rounded figure, sauntered into the office of Doctor Richard Dickinson and hopped up on the table. She wore a red satin blouse and floor-length black velvet skirt. Her long chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her cheeks had a rosy glow from the cool wind.
“Hiya Doctor Dick, I’m ready for my thrill today,” she said cheerily while pulling her legs up so her skirt rose and gathered at her waist.
“Please don’t make light of your hysteria treatment,” chided the tall, dark-haired physician, as he picked up a hand-held vibrating device. Its long cord enabled him to carry it to the examining table.
“Oh Doctor, I respect the efficacy of the treatment. After all, I don’t know of any other machine that can cure my condition and take me to the moon all at once. It sets my twat a–twitter,” Francine smiled.
With that, she slid off her bloomers, lay back on the table and opened her legs to reveal her muff, moistening with anticipation.
“You need to remove your shoes and stockings, Miss Linguine.”
“Oh, I forgot. But why, doctor?”
“Your bare feet provide an outlet for the electric current to exit your body.”
Rather than bend forward to unlace her shoes, Francine raised her knees up above her in her prone position. This brought her apple bottom and furry thatch up off the table into the view of Dr. Dickinson who stood at the foot of the table only a couple feet from Francine’s uplifted loins.
As Francine reached up and slowly unlaced the shoes, she noticed the doctor’s gaze upon her crotch. After dropping her shoes on the floor, Francine pointed her feet at the ceiling and reached up to slide off the stockings while her buttock muscles pulled taut and her puss peeked out above. Francine then lowered her legs and spread them wide to the table corners.
“Harrumph,” grunted the doctor, placing the round vibrator to Francine’s crotch and flipping the switch.
Francine reached her right hand down and aimed the device to press upon her clitoris. The doctor held the weight of it as he sat disinterestedly on his stool just inches away while his patient’s arousal grew. His slicked-back black hair was perfectly in place but Dr. Dickinson’s thick moustache twitched as the pungent perfume of her puss wafted to his nostrils. Francine’s left hand loosened her hair and she shook it down her shoulders, writhing and moaning all the while.
Miss Linguine’s face and neck reddened as the buzz made her pleasure grow to a glow. She reached inside her blouse to grasp her right breast and lightly squeeze the nipple.
The doctor noticed this and harrumphed again, trying to ignore the ecstatic experience his patient was having right beside him. But his hands reached out to feel her feet and fondle them.
Suddenly Francine was gripped by a frenzy - a veritable hysteria - and she grabbed the vibrator with both hands and held it tight to the tingling tip atop her lubricious lips. Then she fell back flat on the table and cried out her pleasure in a series of sharp staccato shrieks while the squism seeped from her snatch.
Finally finished, Francine emitted a low animalistic groan and let go of the vibrator, replacing it with her hand to rest lightly on her muff.
Dr. Dickinson stopped fondling Francine’s feet. He turned off the machine and carried it away. Taking a towel, he wiped Francine’s viscous squism from the vibrator tip. Then without a word, he left the room.
Francine was floating on a cloud of contentment on the doctor’s table. After a few minutes she gathered herself up and got dressed to go.
She walked to the desk out front. Mrs. Frump, the nurse, gave Francine a cold look and asked, “I trust that your hysteria has been cured then, miss?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Frump, surely more treatments are required.”
“Oh. Well, then we can fit you in next month on the 24th at 3 o’clock.”
“No, next WEEK, Mrs. Frump. Same time, please,” said Francine firmly.
Without waiting for a reply, Francine put a dollar on the table, walked out the door and sashayed down the street.
Meanwhile once again, in another neighborhood another lady was going to see another doctor.
Frieda Funk, Ida’s young sister-in-law, slunk down the tree- lined street, glancing furtively around to see if anyone could see her. No one was about, so the tall, slim woman wearing a black dress with a bustle and a big black hat covering her blond hair, clomped her high heels up the steps to the doctor’s house.
A sign read “Come in” so Frieda stepped slowly inside and carefully maneuvered the protuberant bustle at her rear thru the door frame. She timidly approached the desk where an older lady, the doctor’s wife, was seated. But Frieda just looked down and couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Are you here to see the doctor, dear?” Frieda nodded.
“My name is Netty. What ails you, today, dear?” Netty came around the desk and put her arm around Frieda’s slim waist, guiding her to a bench and sitting beside her.
“I, uh, heard that the doctor can, um, treat women for, uh... uh…”
“Hysteria, you mean?
Frieda nodded and her eyes searched Netty’s for understanding. Netty patted Frieda’s knee and gazed softly into Frieda’s luminous blue eyes.
“First time, huh? Well, don’t you worry, everything will be alright.”
The nurse went back to her desk and Frieda picked up a newspaper to read. Her hands trembled a bit holding the paper and she couldn’t concentrate on it, worried about facing the doctor with her embarrassing problem.
In her mind, Frieda fretted about how it had come to this. Lately she’d been moping around a lot, not feeling like doing the housework. Here she was, scarcely in her twenties and feeling like her marriage was a shambles. Her husband, Bunker, was often sharp with her and their love life had become unpleasant. No longer did he bother to kiss and hug her the way he used to do when he had wooed her into marrying him at the age of 17. These days he just manhandled her for a few moments and then penetrated her, sometimes painfully, before his abrupt finish.
Her sister-in-law, Ida, had noticed how down-hearted Frieda had become. Frieda wouldn’t talk much about it, finding it difficult to describe the sadness and frustration she felt. All she’d confide to Ida was that there was some difficulty between herself and Bunker in the bedroom.
Feeling that somehow it must be her fault, that maybe she wasn’t being a good dutiful wife, Frieda was reluctant to discuss the issue with her husband. So the situation stagnated and she found herself getting grouchy and flying off the handle at him over little things. Bunker said she was hysterical. He seemed to prefer the bottle to her, anyway. He’d stay out late, then come home drunk and have his rough way with her, even if she’d been asleep.
Waiting there for the doctor now, Frieda didn’t know what earthly good it would do to see him. After Frieda had mentioned her hysterical outbursts at Bunker, Ida convinced her to try the treatment. Ida said that doctors now had a machine to relieve hysteria. But Frieda, unsure she’d go thru with it and not wanting Ida or anyone else to know, hadn’t chosen Ida’s doctor but instead picked one that she had overheard a neighbor say was nice.
“The doctor will see you now,” said Netty.
Frieda slowly put down the newspaper but she hesitated to rise. Netty came around and helped Frieda up with an arm around her. “It’ll be alright, honey. You’ll soon feel better.”
Frieda nodded and entered the office as Netty closed the door behind her. Doctor Roland Poland came around his desk to greet her. As he warmly took her hand in his, Frieda noticed that he was about half a foot shorter and about twice as heavy as she was. He was clean-shaven and balding with gray curls on the back and sides of his head. Thru his spectacles he looked caringly at her and Frieda saw a little twinkle in his eye as he spoke.
“Hello, my dear, and what brings you to the old doc today?” Dr. Poland asked with a bit of European accent, gesturing for her to sit in a large upholstered chair.
Frieda sat and hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes and whispered “Hysteria.”
“Ah, a common malady,” said Dr. Poland, nodding as he sat in the chair next to Frieda and leaned toward her. He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Are you having husband problems, by any chance?”
The simple question and the doctor’s trustworthy manner struck deep in Frieda’s psyche and before she knew it, she was turning her head away to hide her tears.
Dr. Poland stood up beside her and smoothed her hair. “There there, let’s see what we can do. Please sit on the examining table for me, would you?”
Frieda nodded, glancing up to see his comforting gaze as she rose and walked over to sit down on the low table.
“Now, let’s have a look at you. Open your mouth, please. OK, tongue looks fine.” He looked into her eyes. “Are you having any trouble with your vision?”
Frieda shook her head. Then the doctor took out his pocket watch and looked at it while placing his thumb on her wrist. As a minute went by, Frieda collected herself a bit, feeling calmed by the doctor’s touch on her arm.
“Your pulse is normal,” said Dr. Poland, He moved just behind where she sat on the table and placed his stethoscope on her back. “Breathe deeply, please.” After listening to a few of her breaths, he moved around in front and placed the stethoscope over her heart thru the material of her dress. Again he listened intently, then pulled up a stool and sat down in front of her a bit below eye level.
“Mrs. Funk, you seem to be healthy physically. That leads me to conclude that the problem - if there is one - lies in another realm, possibly the mind or the heart.”
Frieda looked at him expectantly, half relieved to hear that her body was healthy and half anxious at the prospect of having to face the deeper mysteries of her mind and heart.
“How long have these problems with your husband been going on?” asked the doctor.
Frieda thought a moment. She’d never spoken to anyone about her problems, except for barely acknowledging to Ida that there were some. But that’s what she was here for, wasn’t it?
“For a couple of years,” she started. “He won’t - he just - he doesn’t…” Frieda couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.
“Satisfy you?” asked the doctor.
Frieda looked down. ”Yes,” she said softly.
“A common problem indeed,” said the doctor. “Have you discussed your feelings about it with him?”
“I’ve tried but he won’t listen, especially when he’s been drinking. He drinks a lot.”
“What was it like with him when you first got married?” Frieda’s face brightened. “He was very sweet and thoughtful,” she recalled. “He kind of swept me off my feet. We got married rather suddenly when I got pregnant. He used to kiss me a lot in those days. Long, deep kisses while he held me tight. I felt so safe, so loved in his arms.”
“When did things start to change?” asked Dr. Poland.
“A few months after we got married, I lost the baby. Bunker was very disappointed in me. Then he joined the army and was gone to the war for over a year. When he got back, he started drinking more and staying out late after work. Then when he did come home...” she trailed off.
“Not so sweet then?” asked the doctor.
“No, not sweet at all,” said Frieda. “But I can’t blame Bunker. If I were a better woman and had the baby, everything would be fine.”
“Nonsense,” said the doctor. “It’s not your fault. Many women have miscarriages, and with many causes but none of the causes are because they’re not good enough women.”
Frieda looked at him with both relief and disbelief. She was so used to the guilt hanging on her that it felt strange to think she could throw it off.
“I just don’t know what to do,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Well, to begin with, you need to understand there’s nothing wrong with you and stop blaming yourself,” said Dr. Poland.
“Now I have a very personal question for you - have you ever had an orgasm?”
Frieda blushed and turned her face away. “Doctor, I-I-I don’t, I don’t really know what that is.”
“Yes, many women are so unfamiliar with their own bodies that they don’t know about this simple fact of life. You see, when a woman becomes sexually aroused, the clitoris at the top of her vagina can emerge from its protective hood. The clitoris is like a little button of very sensitive skin. When the clitoris is stimulated, it can bring a woman strong feelings of pleasure that can peak in a spasm that releases her tension,” explained the doctor.
Frieda was a bit befuddled. “I don’t know, I don’t think that’s ever happened to me.” She still looked down in embarrassment.
“It’s time that it did,” said Dr. Poland. “Now, if you’ll let me help, you can discover something wonderful about your body.”
“But what does this have to do with my hysteria?”
“Orgasm can be a relief from anyone’s agitation,” answered the doctor. “Men, too, suffer from tension and irritability if they don’t get their sexual release. But many men seem concerned only with their own pleasure and so they leave their women frustrated.”
Frieda then looked in the doctor’s eyes and felt trust for him. “Well, alright, I guess that’s what I’m here for.”
“Good. Now, slip off your undergarment, please.”
Frieda blushed anew. She’d never been naked in front of anyone but her husband and even with him it had been fleeting looks only. But under the bright light of the doctor’s lamp she stood to slide off her bloomers beneath her dress and sat back down on the examining table.
The doctor pulled his stool up close to the foot of the table. He placed each of Frieda’s feet in the stirrups. Then he raised her dress up to her waist. He reached between her legs, thru a mass of blond pubic hair, and used his fingers to pull the hood back off Frieda’s clitoris.
“Take a look, Mrs. Funk.”
Frieda hesitated but then she leaned forward and looked down at her crotch.
“That is your clitoris,” said the doctor, as he gently held it out from its hood. “Some people call it the love button. If it gets the right stimulation, it can give you much pleasure and also relieve your hysteria.”
Frieda’s abject embarrassment of a few moments ago was slowly giving way to curiosity and even a little excitement.
“Touch it for yourself,” suggested Dr. Poland.
Frieda put her hand on her clitoris and felt of it for the first time in her life. She’d touched her vagina many times, of course, but mostly in the course of wiping or ministering to her menstruation. She had occasionally fondled her vagina for pleasure but she knew that was a sin and so she’d quickly stopped as soon as she could summon her sense of righteousness. But she’d never been aware of this hidden part of her privates, and now as she gently ran her fingertip over it, she was getting a new and pleasant sensation.
Almost immediately, tho, her guilt arose and she withdrew her hand.
“Oh, I mustn’t,” Frieda whispered. “It’s impure.”
Dr. Poland held her hand that had just been touching her clitoris. “As your doctor, it’s my diagnosis that this area requires immediate attention in the treatment of your hysteria.”
Frieda nodded solemnly. Dr. Poland wheeled the vibrating machine in between the stirrups where Frieda’s legs were splayed open. He kept it a few inches away from her as he flipped the switch. The vibrator buzzed at the air and the doctor slowly nudged it near her nook.
“Don’t be afraid, this won’t hurt,” he assured her. “Just a little shock perhaps.”
As the machine met her muff, Frieda let out a sharp “OH!” But soon the shock turned sweet and her loins felt a hum like a song she’d never known.
Frieda moaned a bit and the doctor touched her shoulder. “That’s good,” he said. “Just lie back now and let the machine do its work.”
Frieda reclined on the table, with the doctor and the vibrator down between her legs. She stared at the ceiling as the doctor held the buzzing tip tight to her clitoris.
Slowly she felt the pleasure build. The image of her husband, the only person who’d ever touched this area, flicked across her mind. But his picture quickly faded as Frieda held her breath to the titillating tingle. She squirmed a bit and moaned as the vibrator touched directly on her clit. This made her pull her crotch back slightly from the raw contact.
“No, let it touch there,” said the doctor. “That’s the key to relieving your hysteria.”
Obediently, Frieda moved her muff back to the vibrator and let the doctor guide it right to her budding button. Her eyes grew wide, still staring at the ceiling, as the buzz on Frieda’s clit filled her pretty head with pleasure. Thoughts of romantic love dissolved as she discovered and even reveled in her sexual thrill.
It’s like cake and ice cream, Frieda thought. “Oh, Oh, OOHHH!” her moans grew louder. I scream alright, she thought, and giggled a little.
The vibrator kind of tickled and she giggled more, while moaning in between giggles. Her hands reached down to grab her hips and push.
She pressed her puss to a peak of pleasure provided by the vibrator, instinctively instigating its intensity while her mind meandered in a riot of release.
Frieda abandoned any remnants of restraint as the vibrations overwhelmed her and waves of warmth shot up her spine, encircling her brain. Frieda felt like she would cry but instead she laughed - a loud silly laugh that she couldn’t stop from escaping a place deep inside her chest.
Her laughter subsided as she relaxed the grip on her hips and she felt like she was floating on a pond on a hot summer day.
The doctor had pulled the vibrator away and turned it off without Frieda even realizing it. She casually put her hand to her muff and noticed a warm wetness there.
“Oh, I’m sorry, doctor. I must have peed,” she said.
“No, that’s your sex secretion. It’s a liquid lubricant, commonly called squism,” he explained.
Frieda dipped a finger in her slit and drew her hand up to her nose for a whiff. Without thinking she even put her finger in her mouth to taste herself.
“Hey, not bad,” Frieda said with a laugh.
“It’s good to see you smile, Mrs. Funk,” said Dr. Poland. “What you just had is called an orgasm. It’s a natural and necessary part of your sexuality. Having orgasms regularly will ward off your hysteria.”
Frieda rose from the table and pulled her undergarment back on. “Really? That’s good news,” she said. “How often shall I come in, then?”
“You may come in as needed, Mrs. Funk, but you might prefer to receive your orgasms at home from your husband.”
Frieda thought for a moment of her husband’s rough drunken ways. “I’d prefer coming in to see you, doctor.”
“That’s all right but, you know, there are also methods of self- stimulation that you could do at home.”
“Isn’t that masturbation, doctor? I mustn’t do that. It’s a sin.”
“God gave you your love bud for pleasure, just like he gave you your taste buds to enjoy food and your mind to think and learn.”
“No, no, I couldn’t,” said Frieda firmly. “It would displease Him for me to abuse his gifts.”
The doctor knew he couldn’t hope to argue rationally against her lifetime of Bible school. He put his hand on her shoulder.
“Very well, Mrs. Funk. You come to see me whenever your condition warrants treatment. And you can call me if you ever need anything.”
“Thank you so much, doctor,” she said with a smile. As Frieda finished dressing, she decided to dispense with the bustle. It just felt like extra baggage she didn’t need.
“Could you dispose of this thing for me?” she asked.
Frieda left his office and paid her 75-cent charge to Netty. It felt like she was gliding as she walked out to greet the bright cool day with a breath of fresh air. Frieda felt like a brand new woman. As she walked home, she had a little bounce in her step, a smile on her face and a friendly greeting to people she didn’t even know.
Chapter 2
After Ida Funk arrived home from the doctor, she set about her daily chores. She washed the breakfast dishes left in the sink and started a fire in the wood-burning oven so she could bake some bread and a cake for her husband William’s birthday.
She pulled out her mother’s cake recipe. Ida’s mother had taught her to cook and be a good homemaker but also to think for herself. Ida’s father had been a quiet man who ruled the roost passively while her mom had occasionally been outspoken enough to challenge her husband’s word. They were both gone now and sometimes Ida missed being able to talk to Mom, especially when she wished she had her mother’s nerve.
Ida quickly mixed up the cake batter, put it in the oven and started on the bread. Despite her shock earlier at the sight of the doctor’s deviance, Ida felt relaxed and happy now, humming softly as she worked. The sunlight shone brightly thru the kitchen window and Ida still felt a glow in her crotch from the vibrator as her hands kneaded the dough and added the yeast. The smell of the moist dough reminded her of sex and she thought with a smile that she’d try to get a rise out of Willie tonight, too.
After taking out the cake and putting in the bread, Ida sat on the plush sofa in the living room awhile and contemplated her relationship. She wasn’t sure why but her husband had less interest in sex lately. Her figure had not bulged but over the last few years he just didn’t perk up around her the way he used to. When they’d first been married over 12 years ago, he’d been after her all the time. Ida liked sex but every morning and night was too much for her, as she was often tired from teaching school all day. Ida gave up teaching when the children came along, first Frederick, now 9 years old, and Sally now 6.
The sex spark between Ida and Willie had tapered off with the babies. As the kids got to where they slept thru the night, the couple still occasionally made love but it didn’t have the same urgency and excitement as their time before the kids. And Willie was more restrained with his hands on her as if she were fragile, and even his thrusting, like his passion, had waned.
But lately Ida was getting hungry for sex again, especially since she’d discovered orgasms at the doctor’s office. She had usually enjoyed sex with Willie but he’d never given her that transported feeling of bliss the vibrator provided. Ida was hopeful she could get that feeling with Willie but she wasn’t sure how to explain her need to him.
Figuring that out would have to wait, tho, because the aroma of bread wafted to her nostrils and she returned to her kitchen duties. Ida set the bread out to cool and put a couple more logs in the fire under the oven. Then she pulled the pot roast out of the icebox, seasoned it and put it in the oven to cook for several hours until suppertime.
Ida grabbed the broom and swept the kitchen and living room. She went upstairs, gathered up the dirty clothes and brought them downstairs to her new electric washtub, which agitated them, and then she ran them thru the wringer. She carried the heavy basket of wet clothes out to the back yard and felt the bright fresh April day. As she pinned the laundry on the clothesline, Ida deeply breathed the sweet scent of spring. “Hello, Ida,” called her sister-in-law Frieda, coming around the house. Frieda still wore the black dress she’d had on earlier but she’d dispensed with the big hat. She smiled as her long blond hair billowed in the breeze.
“Why, hello Frieda! You look chipper.”
“Do I? Well, it’s a beautiful day! Anyway, I just stopped by to see if you needed anything for Willie’s party tonight.”
“Hmmm, yes, do you have any little birthday candles?”
“I think I do. I’ll bring them this evening. Can I help you with anything to get ready?”
“No but I’ve got some fresh bread in the kitchen if you’d like some.”
The two ladies went into the house and sat at the table, drinking tea and eating warm bread with jam and butter on it.
“So how’s Bunker doing?” asked Ida.
Frieda looked down at her tea. “Oh alright, I guess. I don’t see him too much. He usually stays out late with his pals after work.” But as she said it, a smile flickered across her face and she stole a glance at Ida with her head still bent down.
Ida looked at Frieda quizzically. “What’s going on?”
Frieda’s secret smile grew to a large grin that she tried to hide behind her hand. But she didn’t say anything.
Ida’s curiosity was piqued. “What, what?”
“I...I... went to ...the doctor today,” said Frieda, looking off to the side.
“Are you alright?”
Frieda hesitated, then came out with it. Her hand still hiding her face as she revealed, “Oh, more than alright. I feel wonderful.”
Ida gazed at her young sister-in-law and saw that she looked happier than she had in a long time. Frieda lowered her hand to show the smile on her pretty mouth and a sparkle in her eyes that had been missing lately.
“Did you go see Doctor Furrow?” asked Ida.
“No, but I did have an encounter with another hairy furrow - my own!” Frieda giggled.
Ida was a bit shocked at Frieda. Normally her sister-in-law was a very reserved person.
“You mean you got the treatment for hysteria?”
Frieda nodded eagerly. “Oh Ida, I never knew it could feel that good to get a doctor treatment. It was marvelous.”
Ida smiled and decided to share. “I got mine today, too.”
“Oh, you did!? Isn’t it great?” bubbled Frieda. “Dr. Poland was so nice. He explained things about my ... you know, down there... that I never knew about. Then he used that vibrating thing on me. It seemed really weird at first. But then it felt soooo good. And I guess it worked on my hysteria because I’ve been in a good mood all day.”
Ida nodded with understanding. “Dr. Poland sounds nice. I’m glad you were able to get the treatment because it seems like you really needed it.”
“Yes, I was skeptical about it when I went in but the doctor made me glad I did,” said Frieda. “Is Dr. Furrow nice, too?”
Ida hesitated. “Um, he’s a bit odd. He administers the treatments adequately but he doesn’t have much of a bedside manner.”
“How do you mean?” asked Frieda.
“Well, he doesn’t explain anything or act like he’s even interested in how I feel,” said Ida.
“Oh, that sounds kind of cold.”
“Yeah, he acts all detached while I’m lying there having my orgasm right next to him, but I don’t think he’s so detached.”
“Why not?”
“This is so strange. You have to promise not to tell anyone.” Frieda nodded.
“Well, after my treatment this morning, I left but I had forgotten my scarf so I just opened his office door a bit to get it. That’s when I saw the oddest thing,” Ida continued. “Dr. Furrow was licking the vibrator knob that had been pushed right up to me when I had my orgasm.”
Frieda gasped. “NO!! What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything! I just closed the door quietly and went out.”
“He didn’t notice you at all?”
“I don’t think so. He was very absorbed in his licking and he was starting to play with himself, too.
Frieda laughed. “Men are strange.”
Just then the kids burst into the house thru the kitchen door. “Mommy, Mommy, I’m going to be in the school play!” said Freddy, sliding his skinny frame onto a chair and pushing a mop of red hair out of his green eyes. “Hi, Aunt Frieda. I smell cake.”
“I smell bread,” said Sally, hugging her Mom who ran her hand over the little girl’s blonde braids.
“Hello dears. Does anybody want some bread and jam?”
“I do! I do!” said Sally, her blue eyes widening.
“I want cake, please,” said Freddy.
“The cake is for your father’s birthday party tonight,” explained Ida as she spread some jam on bread for the kids. “Mommy, guess what,” said Sally. “I read a book today in school!”
“You can’t read!” scoffed Freddy. “Can so, can so!” She retorted.
“Freddy, that’s not nice,” said Ida. “What did you read, Sally?
“I read ‘The Dog and the Hog in the Bog,’” said Sally.
“Oh, that’s a good book,” said Frieda. “I read that when I was a little girl.”
“You did?!!” exclaimed Sally, not quite believing that her tall, beautiful aunt had ever been a little girl.
After their snack, the kids went out to play and Frieda went home. Ida finished up the preparations for dinner and her husband’s party.
After Francine Linguine left the doctor’s office, she headed to the fabric store to pick up some satin material she’d ordered several weeks before from New York.
As she walked, Francine mused about the sexual satisfaction she’d just gotten from the doctor’s vibrator. It felt very good, to be sure, but it seemed quite strange to have to go to a doctor for something so personal and natural. Having one’s sexuality treated as a medical condition didn’t feel right, and Francine pondered how it had come to this and what could be done to change it.
For one thing, a doctor’s office wasn’t a place where one would normally feel sexy. And the “treatment” was focused entirely on her genitals. While Francine was very fond of her cunny, she missed getting her other erogenous zones stimulated, and the liberating feeling of being naked. Also, her “partners,” the doctor and the vibrator, were disinterested in her.
Francine did have a lover, a photographer named Lenz Leika who was an immigrant from Germany. She’d met Lenz years ago at the Sorbonne University in Paris. Like most men, he made little effort to satisfy his woman. Francine knew how to bring herself to a climax with her fingers but she longed for the thrill of having an orgasm during sex, which she’d managed a few times with previous lovers at college in France, including a writer named Collette who had introduced her to lesbian love.
Since her current boyfriend failed to make her climax, Francine now resorted to doctor visits for these impersonal orgasms.
Yet the vibrator left her wanting some attention and sensuality from another person to accompany her in throes of pleasure.
This mixture of feelings swirled in Francine’s mind as she entered Wooley’s Custom Clothier, where the satin awaited her.
“Can you make me a garment with this, Mr. Wooley?” she asked the proprietor, a short, older gentleman with silver hair and glasses pushed down on his nose.
“I’m sure I can, Miss Linguine. What do you have in mind?”
“A form-fitting negligee. I haven’t been able to find any nice lingerie for several years, ever since I returned to America.”
Mr. Wooley looked over his glasses with a bit of skepticism. “Well, I’m afraid I have no experience making that kind of thing, Miss Linguine.”
“Oh, Mr. Wooley you’re just modest. A fine tailor like you. Why, you make lovely dresses for women so I’m sure you could do it.”
“Yes, but that’s when they bring me all their measurements. An undergarment, especially a form-fitting one, would require exact sizing.”
“Well, that’s no problem,” said Francine. “You can measure me.”
“That would be unseemly, Miss Linguine. My assistant could do it but she’s out of town for a couple weeks. Why don’t you come back when she’s here?”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Mr. Wooley! I’m sure you’ll be a professional and a gentleman about taking a few notations with your tape measure. Now please, could we just get on with it.”
“Very well, then. We’d best move to the back room.”
There were no other customers in the store so Mr. Wooley hung the “Closed” sign and locked the door. He ushered Francine into the back room and over to a fitting area.
“You can disrobe here while I tend to a few things at the front counter,” he said, handing her a dressing gown.
A few minutes later, he opened the door to the back room a crack, “All right, Miss Linguine?”
“Ready,” she replied.
When he came in, he stopped short halfway thru the door at the sight of Francine stark naked with her back to him, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. She looked over her shoulder at his shocked expression and laughed.
“Come, come, Mr. Wooley. Surely you’ve seen plenty of naked women before.”
He actually hadn’t seen any except for his late wife, and even her only briefly, as she’d been very modest - an inhibition Francine didn’t suffer from.
Slowly he walked her way, averting his gaze. He picked up his tape measure and moved sideways near her, his face down, not looking at all.
Attempting to relax him, Francine put her hand on his shoulder and spoke soothingly.
“It’s okay, Mr. Wooley, I like being looked at.” He stole a little sidelong glance up to her eyes.
She smiled. “Really, it’s quite all right. Do you like my figure?”
Francine stepped directly in front of him and did a little twirl. Mr. Wooley couldn’t believe his eyes as this gloriously naked woman turned around less than 3 feet away. He finally dared to study her. Slowly.
Francine reached up to her hair and let it fall. She had porcelain-white skin and gently sloping shoulders. Her breasts were like large pears standing out from her chest, with nipples popping up like plump raspberries. Her belly curved out ever so slightly right above a dark bush. Francine’s legs met with the tiniest gap between the tops of her muscular thighs, which were strong from hugging horses. Her calves had a soft curve leading down to slim ankles and firm wide feet.
Mr. Wooley’s gaze traveled back up Francine’s form and stopped at her lovely blue eyes and full lips, which were smiling at him.
“You like?” she asked.
Mr. Wooley tried to speak but his mouth had gone dry so he could hardly croak out his reply. “Ye—Yes, very much. You’re ex-exquisite.”
He didn’t say anything more but continued to stare at Francine, which started to stir a long-dormant desire in his loins. “Mr. Wooley?”
“Yes?”
“The measurements.”
“Oh yes, yes, of course.” He reached over to the table for the tape measure, a pencil and notepad.
“Miss Linguine, could you sketch out what you want this garment to look like?”
Francine took the pencil and started drawing on the notepad. She had taken several drawing and painting classes at the Sorbonne so she could easily put her idea on paper.
“I’d like 2 thin straps over the shoulders, with a plunging neckline so plenty of cleavage will be revealed. The satin should come down to a very short skirt and splay out slightly over the hips but only a couple inches below the crotch. Then this part might be a little tricky. I want there to be underpants, very short and tight, sewn inside the skirt.”
Mr. Wooley was standing right beside Francine trying to pay attention to her despite the proximity of her naked body.
“Yes, well, we’d better get those measurements then,” he said. Francine put down the pencil and stood up straight before him.
“First the hips, I suppose,” he tried to sound detached as he knelt in front of her and reached the tape around her, his long thin fingers grazing the top of her round buttocks. As he brought the end of the tape around to meet itself, his face just inches from her naked muff, he caught a whiff of something, a long- forgotten scent that moved something in him. And that something uncoiled in his pants.
What Mr. Wooley smelled was the residue of Francine’s orgasm that she’d had at the doctor’s office only half an hour before. Little drops of Francine’s squism were still in her pubic hair, and actually her cunny began moistening anew as she felt Mr. Wooley’s adoring gaze.
At first, the pleasure he’d taken in looking at Francine had been mostly in his mind. But now her musk aroma was going straight from Mr. Wooley’s nostrils to his testicles, which twitched and tingled inside his drawers. This was a most unusual feeling for him, being a long-time widower and a good church- going man.
“Everything alright?” asked Francine.
“Yes, yes, fine,” said Mr. Wooley. “Hips 37.
Still kneeling, he slid the tape around her waist with his face directly above her pubic bush where he got another strong sniff of Francine’s musk.
“Wai —waist 25,” he stammered as his penis hardened in his pants.
He started to stand up then but Francine said, “Don’t forget the thighs.”
“The thighs?” He was puzzled.
“Yes, for the leg holes of the panties.”
Mr. Wooley knelt back down with his face again near her muff.
“Could - could you move your legs apart a little please?” When Francine shifted her stance, it released another wave of musk from between her legs. The scent filled Mr. Wooley’s head, distracting him from making the measurement.
After a moment of near-delirium, Mr. Wooley returned to the task at hand that involved his hand, which he gingerly pushed between the tops of her thighs, just brushing the mass of dark wispy curls. His other hand then slid around behind her rump to meet his fingers poking the tape thru her crotch and pull the tape around tight below her buttock.
“Thighs 17,” he said, standing up.
Also standing up was his penis. Francine noticed it poking his pants out but she didn’t say anything. She turned around so he could take her bust measurement.
Mr. Wooley then got a chance to admire Francine from the rear. And the sight gave him pause once again. Her shoulder blades protruded slightly, above the inward slope at the small of her back and her apple behind stuck out like a bubble, curving sharply underneath to meet the tops of her thighs.
“Raise your arms, please,” he said. Moving close to her backside, his pants fly softly brushing her bare bottom, he reached one hand holding the tape around her breasts to meet the other hand. He was just clasping the tape in front of her bosom at the 37 mark when Francine suddenly lowered her arms and held her hands over his upon her breasts. He squeezed her breasts firmly and, at the same time, nudged his trousered erection, which was just about to bust his buttons, into the cleft of her naked buttocks.
“Oh, Mr. Wooley,” said Francine. “It’s Woodrow, isn’t it?”
“My fr-friends call me Woody,” he gasped, hardly able to talk at this moment.
“Yes, I feel something woody, all right,” she laughed. Embarrassed, Mr. Wooley started to pull back but Francine pushed her buttocks back against his erection.
“The French have a word for this,” she said. “They call it ‘frottage,’ getting pleasure from rubbing yourself on someone.” Mr. Wooley couldn’t believe this could be happening. He frotted her some more and held her tits tightly while grinding his crotch into the pliant flesh of her fanny. Mr. Wooley was having the most erotic experience of his 58 years, even tho he was fully clothed.
Then Francine bent forward slightly while wiggling her ass back against Mr. Wooley’s trouser tent. And that set him off. He let out a big groan and squirted his pent-up jism inside his drawers.
Slowly, Mr. Wooley released his grip on Francine’s breasts. She turned to face him, smiled, and gave him a little peck on the cheek. Suddenly Mr. Wooley was overcome with remorse and embarrassment. He avoided eye contact or looking toward her at all. And he was mortified to see a wet spot seeping thru his pants.
Quickly, he turned away and waddled thru the curtain to the front room. A few minutes later Francine was dressed and came out where she found the tailor, now wearing an apron, behind the counter, speaking with a customer.
“Thank you, Miss Linguine,” he said, very business-like, still not looking at her. “I’ll try to have your garment made in a week.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wooley,” said Francine as she went out the door.
That evening at 6 o’clock, William Funk put on his brown suit coat and left his office at the newspaper he owned, The Magellan Messenger. His brown derby hat sat over his short blonde hair, parted up the middle and starting to gray, and his blue eyes peeked out from above a bushy moustache.
Altho of average height and weight, Willie seemed a bit shorter, with the stooped gait of an older man, the result of too much sedentary time hunched over his typewriter.
As he walked away from the building, Willie glanced back at it with a little pride. He had bought it with the small inheritance his father left him. At that time, several years ago, the newspaper wasn’t profitable but Willie had turned it into a thriving business. It was a big risk because Willie had no business experience, having worked as a reporter in Cleveland after college. When his father died, he returned to Magellan and bought the struggling newspaper for a low price. The cost to him personally had been steep, tho, with long hours and time away from his young family.
He stopped off at the pharmacy where he made his usual purchase of Elixir Fixer, a drink that restored his vim and vigor, or so the bottle said. It contained an extract of the South American coca leaf that gave Willie just the lift he needed when his energy sagged.
Willie took a couple long swigs on the bottle as he walked home. Entering the house, he was startled at the shouts of “Happy Birthday” from his family. He’d completely forgotten.
His brother Bunker was there, slapping him on the back a little too hard. Bunker was younger but bigger and stronger and he never let Willie forget it, even tho Willie was his boss at the newspaper. At least Bunker’s long brown hair was combed, for a change and his lovely wife Frieda was also there, smiling.
“Daddy, Daddy, happy birthday!” Little Freddy and Sally cried as they both ran up to hug him at once.
“Mommy made you a cake, Daddy,” said Sally.
“A cake, really?” said Willie. “Let’s eat it right away.”
“No, silly, we have to eat supper first,” said Sally.
“Oh, dad blame it!” said Willie. “Hello dear,” he said to Ida, giving her a peck on the cheek.
“Daddy, can we have a catch before supper?” asked Freddy as he picked up his ball and mitt.
“Sure. C’mon, Bunker, you can play, too.”
The 3 of them went out to the backyard and started throwing the baseball around. The boy had his small mitt but the men just caught it barehanded. Bunker, as the pitcher on the town’s semi- pro baseball team, had a strong arm. He took it easy with Freddy but burned a few hard throws at Willie, who caught them even tho it hurt his bare hands.
“Suppertime!” Ida called from the back door.
The guys came inside and sat down to supper. Ida laid out a feast.
“Mmm, pot roast, my favorite!” said Willie.
“Mashed potatoes and gravy, too,” said Freddy.
Then Willie bowed his head to say grace. “Lord, we thank you for this bounty of good food you’ve provided us. And we thank you for letting us have our family here all together on this joyous spring day.”
“Amen,” everyone said at once and they all partook of the supper.
When they were finished, Ida and Frieda cleared away the plates and Ida brought in the cake with 4 burning candles. They sang, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and everyone had a piece of cake.
Then it was time for presents. Little Sally brought out a portrait she’d drawn. “It’s a picture of you, Daddy,” she said.
“That man can’t be me,” said Willie. “He’s too handsome.”
“It’s you, It’s you!” insisted Sally as they admired the stick figure.
Freddy offered a small oblong package. Willie opened it to find a reddish brown pipe with a rounded bowl.
“Thank you, Freddy. I’ll enjoy my after-dinner smokes with this.”
“You can enjoy this with your pipe,” said Bunker, handing him an unwrapped bottle of Scotch.
“Oh, the good stuff. Thanks, Bunker and Frieda.”
Ida stepped up with a big wrapped box. Willie opened it to find a new typewriter. His eyes lit up. “Well, well, well. It’s a beauty! If I miss letters now, it’ll be the typist, not the typewriter. Thank you, dear.”
Willie gave Ida a hug. Then he hugged the kids and Frieda, too. He shook hands with Bunker.
“Thank you, everybody, for a wonderful birthday.”
Willie and Bunker sat down in the living room and opened the new bottle of whiskey, while the kids went to their rooms to play. Ida and Frieda went to the kitchen to clean up.
When the women had finished the dishes, Ida called up to the kids that it was bedtime.
Sally came downstairs with a book. “Daddy, will you read me a story?”
“But I heard you can read now.”
“This book is too hard. Can you read it, please?”
He looked at the book. “Oh, Cinderella, that’s a good one.” He lifted her up on his lap and began reading.
“Well, we’d better get going,” Bunker said. “Thanks for helping, Frieda,” said Ida.
“Goodnight and thank you,” Willie waved from the chair. After Bunker and Frieda left, Ida got the kids to bed and came back downstairs. Willie was reading at his desk and she came up behind him to nuzzle his neck a little.
“The kids are in bed,” said Ida. “I thought maybe we could do the same.”
“Hmmm, I really must go to the office. I’ve got a lot of work to do for the Saturday paper.”
“But it’s getting late, dear. Can’t you do it tomorrow?”
“Dear, you know Saturday is a very busy day at the paper, what with all the advertisements to be prepared and printed.”
Ida sighed disappointedly. Willie turned his head to give her a peck on the cheek and then stood up and put on his coat.
“You better not wait up. I’ll probably be very late. Goodnight, dear.”
As Willie went out into the cool April evening, Ida curled up on the couch with her book, “Madame Bovary” by the French writer Gustave Flaubert. She also indulged herself with a few sips of Nirvana Nectar.
Chapter 3
Over on the east side of town, just across the railroad tracks, was a big old house near a grain elevator. It was a whorehouse managed by Madame Ovary, a middle-aged red-headed woman of opulent proportions, who was getting ready to open for the evening’s business.
Upstairs on the 3rd floor in the girls’ dorm, Ophelia Swain prepared for her night’s work. She reluctantly set down her volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry and brushed her long black hair. The poet’s “Love Sonnet” always stayed in her mind.
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Ophelia loved that poem and wondered wistfully if anyone could ever feel that way about her, especially since she’d taken up this profession.
Looking in the dressing mirror, she applied garish red lipstick to her full mouth, dabbed pink rouge on her cheeks, and drew pencil-lines around her close-set blue eyes. As Ophelia looked in the mirror, she saw herself as rather plain and couldn’t see why men would pay to have sex with her. Then she glanced down and remembered two reasons why: her large melon-like breasts, which despite their size, stood out with little sag. She also had the cute allure of youth, being only 19 years old.
Ophelia thought she was chubby but men liked her voluptuous flesh. Her buttocks were a bit big for her short stature and they stuck out like a bustle. Yet men came back night after night to paw and pillage her body.
Her body - that seemed to be the only thing anyone valued about her. It was how she made a living but she sometimes dreamed of another kind of life, maybe being a teacher and even having a family.
As Ophelia squirmed into her tight red bustier, she thought back to her childhood in western Pennsylvania. She’d been good in school, so her mother and father had encouraged her studies. She’d always liked English, especially poetry for the enchanting rhythm and romantic images the words offered.
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