Dr James Kirkham was a very successful doctor. Although still only in his thirties, he had built up a successful practice on Harley Street. He was not in general practice. He was a specialist, a consultant. His speciality had begun almost accidentally more than a decade ago as a newly qualified young doctor in a small market town in Yorkshire.
His boss, Dr Helliwell, was an old, gruff doctor who had welcomed the naïve young doctor straight from university. He had learnt such a lot from him. It was from him that he learnt what his specialism was, his talent, and his passion as a medic.
Amongst the general childhood diseases and tending to the ageing members of the town, Dr Helliwell also had great success with those patients suffering from nervous complaints. Particularly his female patients.
James learned about this aspect of Dr Helliwell's doctoring early in his time in Yorkshire. He was still in the first few weeks there accompanying Dr Helliwell on all his visits as he got to know the patients and, more importantly, they got to know him.
They had called on Mrs Taylor in one of the farms outside the town. Mr Taylor was a gentleman farmer, and Mrs Taylor was very much a lady. She was not the plump, rosy-cheeked farmer wife of storybooks. She was pale and listless when the two doctors arrived and looked on the verge of tears and hysteria.
Mr Taylor had met both men at the door. “I do not know what to do with her, Dr Helliwell. I've given her the pills like you said, but they haven't worked this time. She spends a lot of time weeping, and I can’t seem to get through to her. You always seem to get through to her. I have a problem with my men in the field, but I can stay if you need me.”
“No, you go about your business; it might be best if you go,” smiled Dr Helliwell kindly, “Let me sort this out for you.”
Looking relieved to escape, Mr Taylor rushed to his waiting horse.
Entering the parlour, Dr Helliwell looked fondly down at the lady. “Now then, young Ann, what’s all this nonsense about?”
Mrs Taylor just sobbed and wrung out the lace handkerchief in her hand.
“You know what you need to break the dam of this, don't you?” Dr Helliwell smiled kindly.
Amongst her sobs, Mrs Taylor nodded silently.
“Lock the door, lad, whilst I treat Mrs Taylor. And best close the drapes, too.”
I did as he asked, and then as I turned back from closing the drapes, echoes of the pale sunlight still shone into the room.
I stepped back with a start as I saw the aged Dr with his hand under Mrs Taylor's skirts, her head thrown back. I watched in awe as his hand moved faster and faster,
“Yes, my dear, let it out, let go. You will feel so much better. Come closer, lad, so you can see.”
I moved closer as he raised her skirts, her bloomers pulled down to her knees, showing her shapely thighs and her hairy quim, Dr Helliwell had his fingers inside her, already coated by her copious juices. His gnarled old hands moved faster as Mrs Taylor began to gasp and pant, still reclined in her chair. His thumb grazed her clitoris, and she moaned then.
“She needs a release. It is the only cure for her hysteria.” As he increased his speed yet further, Mrs Taylor cried out once more and collapsed back into the chair, spent.
Dr Helliwell sat back on his haunches, and he, too, was now breathless from his exertions.
“I am afraid that Mrs Taylor may need more stimulation today. Her mood was particularly low. Perhaps you would like to assist.”
Shocked as I was, I was also aware that I was hard within my britches. I crouched down to examine the patient. Examining her wetness with first one digit, then two. I licked my fingers,