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Spilling ichor is a woman’s curse.
Even worse, the womb begins its horrors at the precipice of girlhood. The excruciating pain that follows in its wake, so intense it feels as if fingernails are clawing at uterine walls.
Screams and wails for God’s sweet mercy, for the pain to cease. Bodies shivering in sweats, left so fatigued that one will rot away in bed. Praying under your breath, begging to just die.
Fits of rage and delusions—- once, at the high of your agony, you thought demons were crawling through your pink wallpaper, ready to devour you. Riddled with anxiety—- paranoid of everything.
Girls call it hell. Doctors coined it hysteria.
It’s nearing noon. He’s late.
Rattles of wheezes knock against your cavity, eyes sheening wet, as your bodice sinks and molds against the mattress. Lazily picking at your reddish cuticles, and the scent of copper lingering in the air.
The compulsive urge to throttle your bodice up and down in possessed fashion against the bedding, to gnash at the air with your canines, and howl —- perhaps, your calls would beckon him.
Groans slip from your mouth, as your abdomen is throbbing and swollen. Counting sheep mindlessly, trying to inhale deeply the packaged herbs that were prescribed to you —- but nothing is working.
The moans become more undignified. Your face is scrunching up, with tears kissing your lashes.
Faint footsteps creaking against the wood flooring, and voice muffled—- a tired gasp of relief and want escapes you. Strained whines stretch and bubble at the pit of your throat, eyes hawking your door.
The knob turns and creaks open—- what a glorious sight, to be greeted by emerald hues, and that pretty smirk. Those lovely cheekbones, and smooth ivory skin.
The dull glow of the sun illuminates through the heavy stitched curtain, and through the bedroom, with pretty pink wallpaper—- but the light shines his eyes ever so gracefully. Angelic.
A courteous bow of his head, that black hat over-casting his brow; lean and stands tall in such poise. Followed by your father, imposing and watchful.
Both can see you are too weakened to speak pleasantries, but can only greet them with a small smile and lazy eyes. Your father nods and leaves you both alone, but you could have sworn for just a glance, your father’s eyes are sharp from the sliver of the door.
A click of the door, and the air shifts.
He’s smiling with a hum. Ever so the gentleman, he lifts his hat off. He puts his leather gladstone bag gently by the edge of the bed, sits his hat on the nightstand, and begins to unbutton his long coat.
Loki holds his coat by the collar, neatly folding and placing it over your velvet chair.
It’s a quiet routine.
To be honest, this is the highlight of your day. Life of a curious socialite, stuck in your overbearing parents’ manor, primed to be a proper young lady, and young eyes to see only through a theological veil.
Dr. Laufeyson is a kind, and gracious man.
He came into your life last year. The menstrual cycles have gotten worse, and it has begun to worry your parents. He was recommended by your neighbors, the Maximoffs.
He is quite different from any man you have met.
“Hello, my dearest.” His voice is liquid smooth. His hand captures yours, bringing your knuckles to his lips. Mustering all the strength to speak, “Hello, doctor.” A bashful smile soon drops to a quivering frown.
A sharp pain that slices at your gut prevails.
Loki tauts sympathetically.
His slender fingers graze gently against your thighs, feathery touch. By the glide of his palms, he lifts your sheath. Cupping the meat of your thighs, the pads of his thumbs denting, already memorizing the sore points.
It’s an unspoken ritual.
How salacious to undress an untouched lady of society —- he barely takes his eyes off of yours. Heat radiates off of you in waves.
Shivers of shyness and an foreign need for want sweeps over the hills of your legs. It is wrong for a man to touch an unwed girl.
But he is a doctor, your doctor. He has to inspect your body. He has always assured you that his touch has always been for the good of your health.
Unusual methods Loki practices. Not like any doctor you had as a growing girl. Over the time, you have known Loki, he has bathed you, fed you, and massaged you all through the cycles. So intimate, yet not befitting of your unmarried status.
Any remnants of shame melts away as his bare palms begin to massage your thighs, maneuvering your legs to part. With an expert flick of the hem of your undergarments, dragging the now stained white fabric down, and off from your body.
A strong scent of blood fans the air, making you wince at the smell—- but Loki doesn’t deter. No sign of revulsion, you watch through your lashes—- he moves with a calm focus.
Loki’s presence has been comforting.
The way he speaks with such eloquence. Speaking to you as he would to an equal, rather at you. It’s natural to him to see you as you are, instead of a porcelain doll to be seen, not heard.
Conversations of shared love of literature, and the arts. His charming words bloom warmth inside you. He has a taste for histories, and has taught you the lessons he has learned back as a young man in university.
It is not for a girl to learn academic skills, for it is more important for boys to gain knowledge. But Loki told you many things—- and in return, you confined to him.
There were many occasions where Loki has found you forlorn. The root of your problem is your father, being overbearing, and callous. Either you weren’t being dutiful enough in your responsibilities, and pressuring the idea of marriage.
Loki would comfort you, tell you that a man should not speak so cruelly to his daughter. Private conversations that bordered on flirtatious tones—- how pretty you are, and that such a cherub face shouldn’t be dew with tears.
He is your only companion. You don’t encourage yourself to socialize in the circles your family frequent in, often seeking your solitude—- many high societal folks are too boring, and vain.
But Loki is colorful and adventurous. He speaks of wonder. He is not like any other man you had the displeasure of meeting —- boring sons of the men who work with your father. Stuffy and shallow men who only want a brood mare and a slave for a wife.
Loki excuses himself, as he walks to the wash stand perched near your vanity. Putting the stained underwear in the nearby basket. Rolling up his white sleeves up to his elbow joints, readying to fetch the wash basin and pitcher.
Loki’s fingers pat the smooth glide of the pitcher, humming contently—- the water is still warm. Quickly, and securely, he grabs the handle, begins to pour the lukewarm water into the basin.
The anticipation is intense. Breathing heavily now, a filthy part of you yearn for this touch. To feel his bare smooth fingers fondle with your mound, the sensation of his hands bathing your wet pubic hair, and his fingers slipping between your folds—-
The haze is ripped from you as he feels his knuckles caress your cheek. Shyly, you sink more into your chest, your lips purse into a coy smile. Loki towers over you as a gentle giant, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
In one hand, he puts the basin down on the nightstand, and on the other hand with a towel. Loki leans down, unraveling the towel, and maneuvering it underneath your bum.
The dull ache of him lifting you makes you whine. Loki shushes you, his thumbs stroking the path between your inner thighs and lower belly.
He turns to retrieve a clean rag and the soap.
Loki seats, dipping his palm in the water, twirling the red soap. Soap suds form and the scent of the carbolic solvent is heavenly.
His hand nears and the droplets rain on your abdomen, earning a sigh of relief from you. Rubbing the bar of soap in circular motions on your pubic bone, diving between your vaginal lips, soaping up your bush—- it was simply amazing.
Your head leans back into your pillow, practically moaning at the feeling—- at the feeling of his hand, and the sensation of being cleaned.
The dried crust of blood now being scrubbed away by the accompanying wet rag—- you didn’t even realize Loki moved to soak it, too immersed in the cleansing.
Completely lathery now, the towel underneath you sodden, and the water in the basin crimson. Loki puts the soap in the basin, it sinks.
The rag feels nice, soaked in warm water, washing away the excess of soap. Loki wrings the wet rag, the water dripping into the basin.
Washing away the soap from your mound, Loki’s thumb simultaneously stroking between your folds, ensuring there are no remnants of soap.
Cheekily, his fingertips slither more into your sopping hole. Tender and swollen, Loki’s two fingers flex slowly into your quim. Halting at the sound of a whine, but resumes when you mewl under your breath.
Loki muses to himself, delights that your whimpers are akin to a kitten. His fingers curl and bend as he sinks deeper inside you. Leisurely, his fingers twist— staining his fingers red.
“I do believe you are due for your massage.” Loki spoke with a silky husk. He spread his fingers, roving over your thighs, heavily petting you. A gasp leaves your mouth, as Loki’s fingers fuck you a little faster.
“Such tension.” Loki says with an empathetic smirk. You huff of breath, a strained moan. Smug satisfaction floods Loki, his smirk morphs to a pearly grin.
He playfully clicks his tongue, “She weeps on my fingers.” Loki can feel your essence dripping, coating his knuckles now. You’re panting into your pillow, as a thirsty stray, eyes pinched shut.
Your muscles are tightening around his fingers, sucking him inside, needing more. Curling at the soft spongy spot that sparks fluttery delight, jolting your head up, eyes moon-wide.
Chin to chest now, mouth gaped in a lazy O, unabashed wanton moans. Toes curling against the bed sheet, as fresh blood coats your thighs, and Loki’s thrusting hand.
Your hair clings to the beading sweat of your forehead, gripping the wrinkled sheets. Unabashedly, your hips thrust and follow Loki’s electric thrusting.
His fingers flee from your thigh to your bush, playfully his thumb and index split it open, as he slows down his fingers. His eyes never leave yours, as the pad of his thumb begins to play with your clit.
You nearly choke on your breath, you inhale so deeply, it feels like your belly caves against your ribs. Leisurely and purposefully, Loki does it slow, leaving you in desperation.
Whimpering for him to move in haste. Edging you just near the cliff, but not yet there. The sharp strain of your menstrual blurs with pleasure— so unladylike of you, to be as a starving animal, but it relieves you greatly.
You crave it, his touch, his scent—- you adore him. How lovingly his eyes bore into yours, as you lose yourself. The flesh of your thighs shiver, the knot in your belly tightening, making you whine.
“Yes, my sweetling.” Loki whispers, as your body twists, and your toes curl, “Release your pain.”
A flood of pleasure washes over your body. Your head tilts back as your mouth hangs open. Throat clenching but no sounds, just an airy gasp. Eyes pinching shut, and nose scrunching.
The euphoria of your orgasm is sensational—- you’re delirious with it. Chest heaving and hands clasping at the air, giggling with relief. Loki softly seethes his fingers from your moist cavern.
Wiping his finger clean with a towel, as your erratic breathing simmers down. He finds it amusing to see you flustered, he can see your bashfulness seep through—- down-casting your gaze, staring at your legs.
In a second, your eyes flutter upwards, to catch his penetrative stare. Loki’s hand dents into the bedding, right next to your forearm, more so trapping you.
His nose just hairs away from yours, his warm breath fanning your face. It only fuels you more.
“Faring well, darling?”
All you can do is nod, with a titter.
-
Placid ease settles over you. Comfortable and clean. Not yet in your undergarments, Loki says that it’s best to air you out, with your nightgown wrinkled at your midriff.
Loki rummages through his bag, searching through his medical equipment, to grasp the dark green bottle.
Loki grabs the bottle by its neck from his bag. Revealing brown printed lettering on crismon wrapping, Loki unplugs the cork. It catches your eye, it makes your nose scrunch.
Laudanum.
A very strong poison that your palate has not yet been fully accustomed to. Over the months, Loki has insisted that you drink this in small doses.
Very small doses.
Loki spills just a little more than a drop into the spoon. The reddish-brown liquid wafting by your nose, you groan childishly, but you make no fuss. Sweetly, he puts the spoon into the cave of your mouth, your lips wrinkling into a pout.
It’s so grotesquely bitter.
“I know,” he chuckles, “but now you can rest.” His words make the drink’s icky taste more appealing, for he does it to ensure you are content, and comfortable.
-
The laudanum has settled in your belly, and lulled you to a slumber. A cocktail of poppy, morphine and codeine. Administered for the most severe of pains.
Loki seats in silence, watching your chest fall to a steady rhythm of breath. He smiles. Loki muses to himself, you look like a sleeping beauty.
A smile forms at his mouth, relishing in the granted opportunity. His slender hands flex expertly, hovering over your belly, to your cotton-clad chest.
Loki twirls and unties the strings of your nightgown between his fingers. Revealing your bare chest, plump brown breasts display. He whispers marvelous under his breath. Tilting his head downwards, his teeth scrape your skin.
Every chance there is of you falling to a pacified sleep to the poison, Loki snatches the chance to taste you. His lips leave open-mouthed kisses, littering your breasts. Inhaling your essence as he ravages you. His warm wet tongue licks and twirls against your pebbling nipple.
His nose traces your skin down to your navel, to your abdomen, and finally to your lower pelvis. The scent of faint copper hits his nose, accompanied by the fresh scene of carbolic.
He doesn’t mind. Rather, Loki enjoys your blood connecting with his palate. Leaning more to your core, Loki’s pink tongue slithers out between his lips, and flicks at your clit.
His sculpted nose connects with your mound, his lips now suckle on the hood of your clit. Grazing his teeth ever so cheekily, earning a small wheezing pants.
You stir in your sleep, your body reacting to the pleasure he’s pulling from you —- as if he tugs on the silk rope, snagging the knot in your belly.
A savage urge overtakes him. Loki bites the supple brown flesh of your thigh—- nibbles melt to a few pecks, then back to devouring you.
Loki has plans. Too sweet and pure to let go of—- oh no, he yearns for you. The chase for you has heightened. Monthly visits can no longer sustain him.
Loki intends to ask your father for your hand in marriage. His income is more than satisfactory, able to provide you a life of comfortability, and passion. As a wolf who must tear apart his prey from the inside out, to ruin you— possessive over his prey.
None of his female patients have bewitched him. All were so eager for him to defile them, so haughty and pompous. Neither of them saw beyond his beauty.
But you, ever so sweet, only sought out a friend, and how easily you entrusted him. And Loki must enact his plan now. Last month, as he walked up the stairs to your room, he overheard your father discussing with your mother, over the prospect of marriage for you.
Loki has already purchased a ring, waiting in a velvet box.
He has already begun stripping the petals of your modesty. Small stepping stones to soon deflowering you completely. His cock swells at the mere thought.
Your velvety lips tug by the scrape of his canines. He moans a gust of hot breath, this sinful act causing your body to quiver unconsciously.
Loki’s pink tongue slurps your folds into his mouth, back to sucking on your clit. His lips are wet with your slick, and, menstrual, the corners of his mouth with splotches of red.
An impulsive urge vibrates from his knuckles to his fingertips.
Loki’s fingers itch with compulsion. Instead of sweetly plunging inside you—- oh, he thinks, an act done with gentility. But, I cannot awaken her from slumber. We have not yet reached this stage of our courting.
Traditionally, a doctor must massage his patient’s genitalia, not have his fingers explored, as he has done so freely. But, ever so naive and sweet, you do not know any better—- to you, Loki is simply doing his job.
A chaste darling, to approach you with the advance of tasting you, would have had you flying to your father. No—- he must break you down, piece by piece.
He stifles the thought, keeps his fingers at bay. Loki’s mouth keeps eating at your weeping welt, his warm tongue flickering against your sensitive clit. Unconsciously, your hips shutter gently against his mouth, spasming in your slumber.
Loki can taste your essence, moaning at your taste hitting his tongue. His eyes rolling in the back of his eyelids.
He turns his face a bit, still attached to your core, pecking small kisses on your inner thigh.
-
Loki dips his palm in the now chill bowl of water, snagging the sodden rag. Squeezing in his tight grip, water dripping, and splashing, a bit of soap is left.
Wiping away your essence, and ichor. Soothingly caressing your inner thighs with the rag, until all is gone. Loki puts the rag back, standing to his feet, as he goes to wash his mouth.
A simple routine where he finds peace. It’s a quiet shared between you two.
Patting dry his hands with a cotton white towel he found from one of the vanity’s drawers. Quietly and leisurely, Loki walks with a stride towards your bed. Standing over you, admiring his work.
A familiar routine: placing a rag inside your underwear, snuggling and cladding your mound, tying the strings to your nightgown, and pulling the rest of the fabric down your body.
Loki’s checks your pulse—- a perfect rhythm. Redressing himself, a swell of pride casts him. The sensation of your velvety core still dancing on his tongue. With a click of his bag, and flick of his coat buttons—- Loki begins his departure.
Softly closing your bedroom door, Loki walks down the stairs. His ears catch a few hushed words, one of them is marriage. No doubt, they were conversing about you.
As Loki reaches the bottom of the stairs, from his side-eye, he can see your father and mother waiting in the family’s living space.
“Ah, Dr. Laufeyson.” Your father stands from his chair with a weak grunt. A peculiar strain upon his face, he can’t meet Loki’s eyes.
“My apologies, but we cannot afford your services,” your father stammers at the sight of Loki’s pinched brow. “We had no other choice, as you know our daughter can be ill—” his panicked tone is interrupted.
Loki tilts his head, those green eyes ever so observant, a slick smirk curls. Savoring the sight of this man squirming.
“And how would you propose we solve this dilemma?”
“We can pay you in food, I can provide from my garden.” Your mother’s fragile voice pleads, standing to cling to her husband’s arm. Her fingers wrinkled his sleeve. Her eyes were blood-shot red. “You are a kind man, please understand.”
A memory of your bliss-stricken face flashes before his mind, and it provokes a breathy hum. An opportunity delivered to his feet by fate itself.
“Perhaps, I have a solution to satisfy both our needs.”