Hysterical Treatment

Author's note:

Hey, thanks for clicking on my story. This work is based on the

myth

that doctors of the 19th and 20th centuries brought hysterical woman to orgasm as treatment for hysteria. This story is a work of fiction; it is not historically accurate.

Enjoy!

~

Patient: Margaret Williams

Diagnosis: Acute female hysteria

Notes: Husband reports patient routinely refusing to engage in acts of intimacy, patient's complete loss of interest in lovemaking, as well as homemaking and childrearing.

Referral to Doctor Horowitz, June 1913

~

Doctor Horowitz is not the crotchety male physician with a cigar and a sneer that Margaret first assumed. A welcome surprise, especially given her husband's glowing recommendation—her husband being one to denounce the smallest whiff of female ambition, much less a woman doctor, the

horror

. So, when her husband introduces Doctor Horowitz, a rather elegant woman with greying hair and kind smile, the knot of anxiety in Margaret's belly eases somewhat.

Doctor Horowitz greets husband and wife warmly, and welcomes them into her office, which is more than Margaret can say of any previous physician. The office is a cold, clinical affair, all stainless steel and disinfectant. The only cosy part of the room is a plush leather sofa, which Doctor Horowitz gestures for them to sit down upon.

'Mr and Mrs Williams, welcome. What can I do for you this afternoon?' Her calm, smooth voice echoes around the room.

Margaret's husband speaks for her, as is routine by now, one hand resting possessive on her knee. 'Doctor Horowitz, we spoke previously about my wife's hysteria diagnosis. I've done my own research, and while your methods are somewhat controversial, I'm prepared to take that risk. You see, my wife's case is quite the quandary—many doctors before you have tried and failed—you see...'

As her husband lists the litany of ways she has failed as a wife, Margaret studies her new doctor. Horowitz takes notes as she listens with an air of detached professionalism, tucking a curly tendril of grey hair behind her ear. Her legs are crossed at the ankle, a feminine pose contrasting with her masculine starched shirt and tweed slacks.

Behind the doctor's desk, in the far corner of the office, an examination table sits menacingly. Margaret swallows. She's had twelve too many examinations on tables identical to this one; twelve too many doctors with their withered, liver-spotted hands poking and prodding in places she winces to think about. Margaret takes a sideways glance at Doctor Horowitz' hands. Maybe they won't be so bad, after all? They are certainly nicer than her last physician's gnarled and trembling fingers. Doctor Horowitz' hands are clean, smooth; nails short and blunt; fingers slender but strong. Margaret twists her own hands in her lap.

'Do you have anything to add, Mrs Williams?' Doctor Horowitz' question jolts her.

'Umm...' When was the last time a doctor had asked

her

a question before? Her husband always spoke for her. The doctor's eyes are a bottomless deep brown; a magnetic gravity Margaret can't quite escape.

Doctor Horowitz raises an eyebrow, and the spell is broken.

Margaret clears her throat, then says, 'I know I need help. I'm willing to try this treatment if it makes my husband happy.'

A pause, then Doctor Horowitz smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. 'Excellent,' she says. 'In that case, Mr Williams, I'm going to ask you to step out of the office while I start treatment on your wife.'

Margaret's husband nods at the two of them before taking his leave. As the door clicks shut behind him, Margaret stills. The office is suddenly feels suffocating without her husband acting as familiar buffer between herself and the new doctor.

Doctor Horowitz is the first to break the tension. 'Now that he's gone, you can be honest with me. How do you really feel about your diagnosis? All the doctors and tests must be draining, right?'

It's true, but Margaret only shrugs. 'I'm a wife and a mother. It's my role. All the doctors and all the failed treatments, sure they can get disheartening, but I still have to try, don't I? I love my husband; all I want is for him to be happy.' She lets out a shaky breath, but Doctor Horowitz says nothing, just observes with those magnetic brown eyes.

After a pause, Margaret continues. 'Although, I will admit I fear this is just how I am. I go through the motions, but he can tell I don't have the enthusiasm for homemaking, for motherhood, for... performing the

act of marriage

... The innate female desire is just not there. A void; something missing. And I'm worried I'll never find it.'

Doctor Horowitz' expression is so achingly tender it knocks the breath out of Margaret's lungs. 'How much enthusiasm can he expect from a woman who maintains his home and children single-handedly? Do you ever get a thank you?'

Margaret says nothing, which is enough. The tender look disappears, and Doctor Horowitz is once again removed, as cool and distant as when Mr Williams was still in the room. 'When you're ready,' she says, prim and businesslike, 'I'd like you to remove your shoes and sit on the edge of the examination table, and we will begin your treatment.'

Margaret toes off her pumps and shuffles onto the table. Doctor Horowitz perches on a stool at the foot of the table as she takes Margaret's stockinged foot in her hands.

'Did your husband give you any information as to the methods of my treatment?' she asks, rubbing gentle circles into Margaret's sole.

Mutely, Margaret shakes her head.

'My philosophy is simple,' says Doctor Horowitz. 'I believe hysteria, far from being an illness or personal disfunction, or something that must be fixed within the individual, is rather the natural culmination of being overworked and underappreciated.' Her thumbs dig into the arched instep of Margaret's foot, deftly working the tendons and muscles with such practiced expertise, Margaret immediately feels the tension drain. After being on her feet all day sweeping, mopping, grocery shopping, the doctor's touch brings immense relief.

Doctor Horowitz keeps talking as she moves to the other foot. 'I see so many women in my profession, women diagnosed with hysteria, dragged in by fathers, brothers, husbands, all of them moaning and griping about how their woman does not embrace her female duties with whole-hearted tenacity—as if she is a dog that must be trained.' She puts her whole body into the massage, shoulders rocking forward to give her the momentum to rub deeper, firmer. She glances up at Margaret with a smirk. 'If you ask me, I believe your husband would barely last a month in your position before succumbing to an incurable case of hysteria himself.'

Margaret lets out a guilty laugh at that, before allowing Doctor Horowitz to move beyond her ankle to the meat of her calves, thumbs firmly stroking from Achilles' tendon to the base of her knee, releasing knots of stress she didn't know she had.

Doctor Horowitz continues. 'Part of my treatment is the reframing of hysteria. You're not diseased, Margaret. Nor are you broken, or missing some vital essence of womanhood that would make all of this easier. You're an exhausted woman who needs—no, who

deserves

—to feel pleasure every once in a while.' She stands and places a warm hand on Margaret's shoulder. 'Lie back for me,' she says, 'and lift your skirts above your hips.'

She does so, swallowing the embarrassment of being so exposed, and Doctor Horowitz begins working her thighs, massaging the muscles above her knees. Margaret relaxes into the doctor's touch, and it feels amazing. She peeks down at the doctor and meets her eyes. Doctor Horowitz shoots her an encouraging smile, and suddenly the air in the room is too hot, too thick.

'The second part of my treatment,' says Doctor Horowitz, 'is giving you that pleasure. I employ massage therapy to ease overworked muscles, and allow you to see your body not just as a machine to please others, but as a vessel for your own pleasure.' She kneads the meat of Margaret's thighs, inching higher and higher until the doctor's fingers are massaging the bare skin of her inner thighs, the strip of pink flesh between where the nylons end and her girdle begins. There is a heat blooming in her belly, a wetness building beneath her briefs. She squirms when the doctor removes her hands.

'May I unfasten your stockings?'

Margaret can't do anything but nod, mute, and allow Doctor Horowitz to snap free suspender clips and pull her girdle over her hips, bunching at the waist.

'Spread your legs a little more for me,' Doctor Horowitz instructs. Obediently, Margaret follows her order, heart thumping and face burning as the doctor's fingers massage over the damp silk of her briefs.

Doctor Horowitz continues talking, Margaret is too far gone to make out any of the words, everything sounds distant and distorted, as if underwater. All she can feel is Doctor Horowitz' fingers sending heat oozing though her insides, pleasantly gooey in a way she hasn't felt since she was a girl, dreaming of what her wedding night could have been. But right now, she's boneless, a melting candle dripping over the edges of the examination table. She hears a low, breathy moan, and realises with a jolt of embarrassment it came from her own lips.

Coming back into her own body, she hears Doctor Horowitz chuckle, feels her fingers stroking the elastic edges of Margaret's briefs before pulling the fabric to one side, exposing her vulva to the cool air of the room. The tips of the doctor's fingers caress the sensitive skin, dampened and swollen already, and Margaret can't think of a time she ever felt this good.

The doctor continues her slow, gentle strokes, slipping between slick folds, spreading wet heat over sensitive skin. 'You're wondering why your husband doesn't touch you like this, aren't you?' Her voice is tinged with a smug amusement, which only seems to make Margaret wetter, hotter.

Doctor Horowitz continues her massage, leaning in over Margaret's vulva—close enough that Margaret can feel the doctor's warm breath ghosting over her skin. 'It's such a travesty,' Doctor Horowitz murmurs, slow and low, 'how men don't

truly

understand how sensitive we women can be, how our bodies allow for so much more pleasure than theirs... They just ignore it... Fail to fulfil

their

husbandly duties...'

Her mouth is so close. Margaret's pulse pumps in her throat; she gazes down at her doctor's face dipping below her skirts, and then—

Doctor Horowitz suctions her mouth around Margaret's clit and sinks one finger inside her. The pleasure blooms hot and indescribable as the doctor pumps slick fingers in and out, works her tongue in all sorts of magical configurations, and Margaret arches into her. The coil of heat at the base of her belly burns brighter and brighter—until Doctor Horowitz moans into her skin, and it's too much—the hysterical paroxysm seizes Margaret. Wave after wave of pleasure thrills through her body as she grips the edges of the table and thrusts her hips into the doctor's mouth, riding through it.

It's over far too soon. Coming down from the high, Margaret catches her breath and the proud grin Doctor Horowitz throws her way. She gathers herself, refastens and relaces, smooths her hair and skirts into less of a mess.

As Margaret wobbles out the door, back to her husband, Doctor Horowitz hands her a prescription for cocaine eye drops to pick up from the apothecary next door.

'Same time next week?'

The end.

~

Endnote: I watched the movie Hysteria when I was 16 and it fundamentally changed my brain chemistry, so you will probably be getting more historically inaccurate 19th/20th century hysteria-themed stories in the future. Please don't come at me about realism—it's just a story! Love you <3