The Violence of Roses

(Edited with anonymous help.)

She gazed sternly at her husband and her mother in law, both of whom sat grimly across the other end of the conservatory, having imparted their news, Laura rigidly composed herself, and impatiently brushing a loosened strand of auburn hair away from her oval face.

"So quite what is it that needs curing? Please do not refrain from explanation, I am quite curious."

Laura took in deep breaths, trying to frame her emotions into a mode of normality, so as not to give them further course for concern regarding her apparently 'fragile female nerves' as her dear husband, Mr Dwindle so gallantly explained.

Mr Dwindle looked at his dear shapeless mother with some fondness; Laura certainly didn't. Laura was satisfied to note that Mother Dwindle was so utterly amorphous in stature that her dress, excessively tailored by an old creature in the docks of London, appeared no better than a swag bag. Laura regarded her as unbecoming, this thought alone was a small consolation for the distress they were inflicting upon her.

Mother Dwindle allowed a small comma of a sneer to form as a crescent by her beefy nose, "Laura, we do care so dearly for you. You are my son's wife after all. However, your behaviour is quite unbearable."

Laura blinked furiously, "Oh?"

"Well yes, not once but twice has Hubert caught you with licentious texts, quite unforgivable readings for a young woman, and oh! Poor Hubert!"

Laura mockingly mimicked Mother Dwindle, "Poor Hubert?"

Mother Dwindles eyes fixed on Laura's, her disapproving gaze boring through Laura's jade-green eyes like furious steam, "My poor son has witnessed you performing acts upon your organs. Your writhing insomnia disturbs him, and it is apparent your wanton demands are in excess."

Laura looked at Mr Hubert Dwindle, he avoided looking back, staring instead past her shoulder.

Such cowardice Laura found unseemly, "Hubert. You chose your mother as the messenger for all of these concerns? I find that fascinating."

Hubert's cheeks and neck had flourished into sickening rouge, "Well, your behaviour is most abnormal, those horrible Japanese books that you keep with those octopuses ravishing women! Your insistences upon me are not those of a woman with integrity but whose essence is corrupt with vice, and I have made many attempts to reason with you, but you are drunk on yourself like a Dionysian witch."

Laura raised her eyebrows in humour as he spat out the latter insults.

"Hubert, seeing as you are quite content to have me committed, I suppose you have neglected to mention to your mother how you were able to afford your current lively lifestyle?"

Hubert shifted, his discomfort like scratchy tweed, he had certainly not told his mother.

"I have long humoured your independence, but I am afraid that your milk and your poison may be the same thing."

Mother Dwindle looked at Hubert, waiting for him to decipher this turn of conversation, "What does she mean Hubert? Has she been up to something?"

Hubert grasped the arms of the armchair, "Mother, as you and I know, Laura took the wild habits of her mother, who Laura has confided was a Celtic strumpet."

He pronounced the latter words with quivering dramatic effect. Mother Dwindle looked incredulously at Laura, who was beginning to feel heat caressing the long neck of her blouse.

Laura looked at Mother Dwindle squarely, "My mother as well as being a dear sweet lady who afforded for me the best private education, happened to have been an Irish woman fond of entertaining gentlemen and not so gentle men."

Mother Dwindle's voice was roused with histrionics, "And you too have taken these habits? What sort of offspring will you bear for Hubert if this is the kind of creature you are?"

Laura was getting quite tired with the whole conversation and wanted to rest, "I only wish to employ these habits with my husband, who unfortunately refuses to be recipient of my manoeuvres. Also, I am certainly a contributor to our marriage; Hubert has not told you that I write science and literacy books for children, as well as other published works that I care not to mention. They have sustained Hubert's modest salary as a clerk, without which we would certainly not be residing in Chelsea."

Mother Dwindle's face softened, her composure relaxed and she let out a sigh of relief. Laura supposed the hag was not so wicked.

Mother Dwindle looked at Hubert; she had long known her son to be somewhat without backbone, and his spirit was mild to say the least. She had always wondered what had compelled Laura into marrying him. She believed that it was no coincidence that Laura had married Hubert the year that Laura's mother had died, leaving Laura with no notable relative in England, and few respectable friends. Hubert of course, had been matched with his beautiful and lively wife when he met her under the terracotta arches of the recently built Natural History Museum. Mother Dwindle was never to be sure what had occurred, what possible dynamic could have tricked them into courtship. She believed that Laura had been blinded by her grief to Hubert's lacklustre character, whilst equally being mesmerised by his handsome exterior. She liked Laura, though she would never lower herself to tell her this, but the woman lacked self-control, and unlike Mother Dwindle herself in her youth, seemed to be fatally unable to suppress her animal wiles in favour of feminine composure. Such wiles were useless when a woman settled into her biological role as a mother and housekeeper.

She was sure that a spell in one of the modern asylums would be a great kindness to Laura. Perhaps they would alter her in some ways to make her more suitable for her thoroughly sober Hubert, who was in complete nerves over the antics of his wife.

Laura saw Mother Dwindle whisper something in Hubert's pink ears.

Hubert looked decisively to Laura and pronounced, "We will find a suitable treatment for you Laura. Though you do not know the harm that you are doing to yourself now, you will be grateful when you are cured."

Dr Richard Lascelles, a twenty-four year old physician, was still acquiring - or attempting to acquire - a sense of medical authority about him, having now not only assumed his father's position at the Northend Sanatorium For the Nervously Inclined, but also from having inherited the whole institution altogether, in it's grim gothic might.

Ten years ago it had been renamed, having previously been called the Asylum for Idiots and The Feeble Minded of Northend.

His father's patients had been institutionalised pinheads and others of a hopeless nature, as well as discarded wives who had been left to rot in the asylum by husbands taken with the fancies of fresher mistresses. His own patients were young men from the bourgeoisie who had taken too much to the misery of the new abstract mode of paintings on the Continent, and who were in constant panic from the choking smog that hugged industrialised London and left their lungs short of breath. His other patients were women who were left crippled by hysteria, self-starvation and the tyranny that their wombs visited upon their inherently fragile states. It seemed that the biological simplicity of women made them quite incompatible with modern times.

Today Dr Lascelles' new patient, who was due to arrive for an appointment, was such a case.

She was his three hundred and fifteenth hysteria patient in the sanatorium. He was accustomed to treating these cases with use of his rotary chair, where the chair was engineered to spin until the patient's mind had once again resolved itself via the exertion of these physics. The women claimed it to be very effective, and would become more docile and pleasing after this treatment.

Dr Lascelles had assigned two weeks of intense round the clock treatment for her, normally a sound amount of time within which to thoroughly rid the patient of hysteria and to correct nocturnal bouts of insanity. He settled in his chair, and having already written the relevant notes and prepared his instruments, was glad when he heard the door knock. With stern nonchalance he asked her in and watched the door open.

Laura opened the door, and was pleasantly greeted by the sight of the physician; her mother in law had informed her Dr Lascelles was much older, in his sixties - however this doctor appeared to be in his early twenties. His hair was smooth and rich like New Forest earth, and his face was as handsome as one of the Roman guards who had often visited her in her nightly dreams of debauchery. His body was also healthy and austere. His curled moustache was cared for in a fashionable manner. Doctor Lascelles had a scent of apples, a wonderful scent that made Laura dream of being ravished against such a tree.

Dr Lascelles gazed at her momentarily, but then quickly looked away and focused on his notebook and fountain pen. She was glad of that, as she could feel her body illuminating a lustful corona due to her improper regard for the divine Dr Lascelles.

He started to write in his notebook as he asked her questions, "Welcome Mrs Dwindle, I trust it was not difficult to find your way to our establishment?"

"No, not at all, the journey was quite satisfactory by foot and by carriage."

His voice was both melodic and oddly gruff, "And you are aware of why you are here?"

"My husband and his mother think I have a problem," she stated flatly.

The doctor still had not made eye contact with her since having first laid eyes on her. She found that most peculiar.

"They are concerned with your inappropriate shows of excess, and your mother in law expressed a concern with your barrenness."

Laura smiled, though of course Dr Lascelles who was still focused on his notebook would not have perceived this, "I am not barren doctor, or at least I do not know that to be the case."

"Then how is it you have not borne children?"

She wanted to laugh, "As well as some of the income I make from selling literature of a wide variety, I also produce means for a woman to protect herself from a man's seed."

Suddenly the doctor looked up at her, almost fiercely, his broad shoulders angling slightly towards her.

"How?" he said in shock, before he seemed to remember himself and gaze intently at the notebook instead of his patient.

She searched his face for eye contact but found nothing, she supposed him a rather strange physician, "From spongy plug I have devised, with some additional designs. Many women are very satisfied with it. I have no intention of producing Mr Dwindle's children."

"Why not?"

"Because I do not feel secure with him."

"But you are married, you have little choice."

She didn't say anything. She felt her heart drop as this was the truth, she did have little choice. The unbearable thought of spending her life with such a dull man made her weep on solitary occasions. Due to her lack of friends, these occasions were many.

He then asked, "Tell me about your hysteria, where it originated from and how it conducts itself?"

What reason did she have to discuss such immodest matters with a gentleman? He may have had her branded as a strumpet but she knew her own capacity. So she played with the bronze buttons on her cotton gloves hoping that her evident discomfort might cause him to forget the question.

Instead, Dr Lascelles raised his dark head, looking at her in a way that appeared quite resolute to draw a monologue from her, "I asked you Laura, what are the origins of your nymphomania?"

How shame burnt her cheeks! Smouldering them pink, now as he looked at her with expectation, she could only look wherever he did not.

"It was never notable sir. I had cravings; certainly, however, because my mother was a brothel madam who wished for me not to be a fallen wench as was she, she was protective and shielding of me until she died when I was nineteen. It was only in the years of my marriage when I was vaguely deflowered, and I came to know some pornographers through innocent friends in my mothers brothel, that my curiosity was piqued by what I was lacking."

Dr Lascelles scoffed incredulously, "What you were lacking?"

"I was lacking physical love sir. On the night of wedlock, the sexual encounter was brief and unsatisfactory. Of course I was not too demanding as I did not want him to think me ungracious, but that was a rare encounter, after that the intervals of our sexual relations - pardon me sir - degenerated to a month, two months. In addition to that distressing incompatibility, so little did we have in common! He did not understand any of my desires, of any colour. But I admit, I have been lusty as of late, and now he knows that I produce erotic literature for the public, he has become most unhinged."

Dr Lascelles was taken aback, Laura's heart sunk with dread, she clutched her skirt in shame and looked down, how she so wished her hair was not in a bun so she could hide behind it, but then she heard hearty laughter. Looking up again he appeared quite amused by her.

She felt indignant, "You are laughing at my qualms sir? I hope this is a conducive part of the treatment."

"A man would refuse a delightfully beautiful, intelligent and wanton woman who is otherwise virtuous? That is nonsense."

Laura noted his busy scribbles and annoyed by his crass derision retorted, "It is strange that you can declare me unreasonable by the yardstick of what you believe to be a man's innate character and a woman's innate character. I have never failed my husband, never have I philandered, and I have given him economic support that he has been unquestionably glad to accept. Unless you can find a physical wrong with me, the madness lies not with I, Doctor Lascelles, but with the vanity of your own prejudices."

After this blunt statement, as he appeared to ponder the meaning of her words and looked as if he wished to form some of his own, she suddenly recollected that he had said she was 'beautiful', 'intelligent', 'wanton' and 'virtuous'. Her gloved hand touched her lips in elated joy. Though she had been called 'beautiful', never had a man described her by any other traits that were not suggestive of her exterior.

Then, as she was considering him in a new light, he softly gave his reply to her outburst, "You suggest I find a physical wrong with you? That would be a more scientific enquiry certainly, and one that I am not averse to making. Therefore, if you would kindly go behind the screen, remove your current attire, and wear one of the medical garments provided there, I will be able to make such an assessment."

Doctor Richard Lascelles, was a crude man regarding how he saw the relations of a man and a woman to be, and whilst studying at Oxford, he had acquired a taste for whores, wenches and trollops.

However, as a man who wished to keep himself within the boundaries of good society, and also who knew the lustier specimen of women to be untrustworthy, he also wished for a wife who would be sweet, intuitive, and maternal and a proud housekeeper, as a good wife ought. The dilemma that faced him as it did many genteel men of similar circumstance was he believed it a perfect contradiction that a pure woman could be driven by her loins, or that a wanton woman could be driven by her heart.

Hence why he felt perplexed with Laura Dwindle, who had overexcited his senses since her arrival. He wanted to plough himself into her with his hard cock, and be a sexual brute, as he believed was appropriate for a whore, perhaps grabbing her long red hair so he could kiss and bite her buttery neck. He wished to put her across his knee and birch her voluptuous bottom senseless, as whores were inclined to enjoy. However he was baffled, as she did not seem to be as vice-ridden as her husband, Walter Dwindle, had thus far suggested. In fact, she seemed quite refined.

Doctor Lascelles was denied these arousing thoughts by the much more arousing picture of Laura Dwindle emerging in the medical garment - a white, scanty cotton gown laced at the front, that seemed to alert the sunshine to it and make it as clear as a spring lake. He could see the perfect width and thickness of her dark russet nipples, the thrust of her breasts, the tapering of her waist and the sweet swell of her belly as it curved to form her Venus mound. The bun of her hair was still perfect. Doctor Lascelles confessed to himself that never had a patient had such an excitatory effect upon his manhood.

Laura Dwindle was unaware of the transparency of her gown, but was unready to reveal herself, even for medical purposes. She bit her rose-red lips and frowned to herself anxiously. Then, almost as if to indicate her inner turmoil, a strand of scarlet hair loosened from her bun and fell upon her appetising visage, obscuring an emerald eye. This seemed to disturb her more, and she worked to unsuccessfully tuck it behind her ears.

In order for Doctor Lascelles to be able to execute his plan correctly, he would need to place the nymph's thoughts to rest. He gently patted the table, indicated that Laura should take her seat on it.

"Please Mrs Dwindle, do not worry or furrow your eyebrows so. Many of my patients are women and there is no reason for shame. I do not even see the body as a body, I regard the human anatomy as a finely tuned piece of engineering, therefore my judgements will be completely objective, like the judgements of an engineer."

Her pout transformed into a warming smile that inspired his cock to curve upwards and strain against his trousers, but so self-aware was she, and fixed upon his face and hands, she did not notice the flare of his tweed trousers. She sat down on the edge of the table, her hands grasping the edges of the table.

Laura then remarked, "Doctor, how is it you plan to examine me?"

Richard Lascelles fought a smile by thinking of the Napoleonic wars, "I will begin with your torso, which will require me to loosen the lace fastening the gowns front. I shall be checking for sensitivities. Then I shall work to your lower half, also loosening the gown for a visual as well as tactile exploration. In many cases of hysteria there is very much the need for the woman to be purged of her troubles, and if I judge there to be such a need with you I will perform the necessary treatment. Do not be alarmed, you will be quite relieved."

Laura sat down and was gladdened by the focus that seemed to have transformed the Doctor's features to that of a man who was overcome with urgency. She considered it odd that he wore no gloves and that a slight but perceptible tremor shook from his broad muscled shoulders down to the tips of his fingers. However this stopped. She suddenly became very aware of her whole body tingling, almost as if each white cotton fibre was sending small doses of expectation through her skin. The nubbins of her pink nipples tingled in anticipation as Doctor Lascelles seemed to fix his attentions upon her green smoky eyes, and then upon her plump lips, she felt his fingers undo the garment's lace, though she did wonder why he had not requested she leave it open for the examination. Her breath deepened when through the blanche of the lace, her creamy complexion was revealed. She could feel the cool air caress her cleavage as eventually the lace revealed the "V" of her nude flesh.

His lips were parted in what seemed like exploratory wonder as she then felt his fingers from both hands brush the cotton garment off her shoulders, so that her torso was completely revealed. She observed him; it was as if something within him had stilled, for he barely moved and was breathing harshly.

She saw as his hand approached the nape of her neck, and then began to brush it slowly, so that every stroke seemed to be an eternal one. As she looked at him, she certainly recognised that face from the lusty faces of sex starved men who inhabited the brothels that her friends worked; it was a mixture of yearning, flagrant desire and daring - however he appeared to be more potent, she was not sure why. His brown eyes were furrowed, his mouth parted with a thirst. He looked her in the eye; for a second the brushes of his fingers upon her neck slowed even more, until both Doctor Lascelles and Laura became paralysed mirror-black images framed within the irises of one another.