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The Doctor’s Little Ward by Ava Sinclair – Sample

The Doctor's Little Ward by Ava SinclairPrologue

“Oh, please. Can I, please?”

“Not yet.” His voice was deep, decisive. “Not until you’re given permission.”

She was hanging on the edge, and he could see her resolve was slipping. The sweet pussy between her milky white thighs was slick with the sheen of her arousal. The plump outer lips—bare and pale and smooth as silk—delectably parted by the blooming petals of her inner flower.

He felt his cock strain toward her. She was not the only one on the edge. His erection had become nearly painful, and throbbed as he caught a waft of her sweet, musky scent. But it was not for him to show his need, not at this point, anyway. He must retain his reserve. He knew even as she begged and pleaded for him to finally touch her in a way that made her throb and scream and shake, that it would be all the sweeter for his having made her wait, for his having exercised this brutally sweet control over her passion.

“Oooooo, papa…” She was raising her bottom now, the lascivious gesture juxtaposed by the lacy frame of her childish dress and bloomers.

He loved seeing her like this, bent as she was over the edge of the bed, her arms stretched before her in submission, her white thighs spread open. Spread just for him.

“I can’t take it anymore. I’ll be a good girl. I promise.”

“Are you sure, Abigail?”

He stepped forward, placing his large hand on her bottom, fitting it over a dark pink imprint he’d left earlier. There were other handprints, fading now. He had spanked her hard, spanked her to tears. But she had earned it with her cheek, and in Dr. Simon Abbott’s home there was no room for cheekiness, especially not from his ward.

“I asked you a question, Abigail.” He moved his hand to the crest of her bottom, then extended his index finger to trace the part of her buttocks, just grazing the dusky pucker of her bottom hole, smiling at how it clenched at this lightest pressure. She was arching upwards toward his hand, her pussy pumping moisture that now ran down her thighs. He knew if he pushed his fingers in her now, or his cock, the velvety walls of her hungry core would contract and contract and contract in such sweet pulses.

He swallowed hard as his cock gave a mighty throb, as if reminding him where it wanted to be.

Not yet.

“I’ll be a good girl.” She was crying now.

“And will you be telling papa ‘no,’ again?” he asked. “Is it your place to deny your papa’s instruction?” His finger just grazed her clit as he asked the question, and she gave a desperate sob.

“No, papa. It’s my place to obey you in everything! Please… please…”

He ignored her cries as he continued.

“‘No’ can be a very painful word when you don’t want to hear it, right, poppet? Earlier today when I told you to put up your things, and you said, ‘No’ and stomped your little foot, it hurt papa’s feelings.” He paused, letting the message sink in. “So I thought it only fair that you now discover the pain of ‘no’ when you don’t want to hear it. Here you are, wanting to come hard for your papa, and he’s telling you ‘no.’ Don’t you think, little Abigail, that it’s always so much better to do as you are told?”

“Yes, papa. Yes. And I’m so sorry. I will obey you now. I promise!”

“And the ‘no’ word?”

“I won’t use it ever, ever, ever again!” she said.

“And why?”

“Because papa loves me and only tells me to do things for my own good…” Her words came out in a rush. She was pushing back against his hand now, desperate, wanton.

“Yes, little Abigail. But remember that papa may tell you ‘no,’ because he controls you. He controls everything, from when you get up to when you go to bed. He controls what you eat, what you wear. He controls your pain, and he also controls your pleasure.”

Simon Abbott stepped behind the beautiful, quivering redhead now to withdraw his cock, stroking its veiny thickness for a moment as he stared down at Abigail’s round bottom, her spread thighs, the pussy so engorged and dripping between them.

“He especially loves controlling your pleasure,” he said, as without warning he rammed into her.

Abigail screamed, arching her back as her slim hips pushed back to meet him. He could feel her tight pussy stretch around him, could feel the sweet waves of her withheld orgasm start almost as soon as his pelvis pressed against the soft cushion of her still-warm bum. He began to thrust, his balls slapping against the underside of her before drawing up and growing tight as he fought to hold in his seed.

Oh, the little minx! If only she knew her own sweet power. But she’d chosen to focus on his instead. That was what made her his. That was what made her his little Abigail. His sweet, delicious little Abigail. It was what drove him wild, he thought, as he pumped into her, reveling in how her body milked every drop of seed, so honestly and greedily.

It was what made them perfect together.

Chapter One: The Good Doctor

Two Years Earlier

 

It was raining again. The water sluiced down the window of Simon Abbott’s study, obstructing his view of the grimy London streets below.

Putting aside his cup of tea, he retrieved the quill he’d lain down moments before and pondered how to best end the letter he’d been writing. With his square jaw clenched, he penned his conclusion.

So, Aunt Helen, I am sorry that I missed you when on my recent visit to see mother. I am grateful for your offer to visit with Cousin Susan and am sure she would indeed brighten my parlor with her wit and charm; however, I am far too busy treating patients to entertain at this time. Please do give my regards to mother, and to Susan, and tell them I will perhaps be ready to accept all their company come summer.

Fondly,

Your loving nephew Simon

 

He reread the letter designed to stall his aunt’s latest attempts at matchmaking, and satisfied that she’d get the message, carefully folded it and sealed it, muttering all the while on his aunt’s wearying attempts to foist her daughter into his line of sight.

Catching the sound of the doorbell, he peered through the window, just making out two dark figures on the stoop below. A scowl crossed the doctor’s handsome face. He’d clearly posted his office hours on the plaque by the door, and save for grave emergencies did not see patients even one minute sooner or later. The mornings before appointments he reserved for quiet time in his cramped study. The disregard of strangers did not set well for a man who valued what little privacy his profession afforded.

He could hear familiar footfalls on the stairs now, but did not turn when the door to his study clicked open.

“Nurse Trinket,” he said. “What are my office hours?”

“Nine to four, doctor.”

“And is it yet nine?” He picked up the packet of correspondence and turned, holding it out to her.

“No, doctor,” she said, moving forward to take the letters.

“So would you please inform the patients…”

“Forgive me, doctor,” she interrupted. “But these are not patients. It is a man with an older child—a girl. He says he is here on a business matter and he is insisting that you see him at once.”

“Is he?” He all but scoffed at this. “Tell him I’m busy.”

The nurse stepped closer, peering down at her employer through her wire-rimmed spectacles.

“The man said you might say that,” she replied quietly. “He said if you did to tell you he’s here on behalf of Malcolm Barrow.” She paused. “He said you would know the name.”

A rare show of shock registered on the doctor’s stoic visage, but only for a moment. Like a shadow, it passed, rendering him again unreadable. He turned back in his chair.

“Seat them in the parlor, Nurse Trinket,” he said. “I’ll be down momentarily to receive them.”

Malcolm Barrow. Simon could still see the youthful face in his mind, the easy smile, the blue eyes so bright under a mop of red hair. Years earlier, they’d served together in the British Navy aboard the Havoc, which had come under fire during a conflict in the Orient. Simon closed his eyes at the memory of how the young officer he’d barely known sacrificed himself to protect the ship’s doctor. The blast had taken both of Malcom’s lower legs. After the blast, Simon had crawled from under the man who’d covered him and saved him from bleeding to death.

He had vowed to repay his valor. And he had tried, once they returned to London. Captain Barrow had returned to his wife and daughter, but would abandon his dream of achieving higher rank in the queen’s navy. He’d refused Simon’s offers for help with an open hostility, as if he blamed the doctor for his crippled existence. Later Malcolm would come into an inheritance, something Simon was pleased to hear. The last thing he’d heard, however, was that Barrow’s wife had died, leaving him alone with his daughter, and that he was drinking heavily.

“Money,” Simon thought. “Someone’s come to beg on his behalf.”

It did not surprise him that a drunkard’s pride had run out along with his cash, not that it mattered. Dr. Simon Abbott was a man of his word, and his offer to help still stood, even if the man who’d saved his life was reduced to scraping and bowing. He stood, put on his coat, and buttoned it before walking stiffly from the room.

He could hear the housekeeper, Mrs. Hobbs, in the parlor, pouring tea. When he entered, his eyes fell on a portly man he instantly recognized as one of the local barristers. Beside him sat the older child that Nurse Trinket spoke of. But as he studied her, he realized the nurse was wrong.

Simon could understand how she could have made a mistake. The girl was waiflike and small, her heart-shaped face boasting delicate features. Her wild red hair, unruly and bound only by a loose bow, cascaded down her back. He recognized the shade of red as matching Malcolm’s. This must be his daughter. But judging by the cut of her narrow waist and the swell of breasts he could see beneath her open, worn coat, she was no longer a child. She was not looking at him, but rather was focusing on the slim white hands folded in her lap.

The man beside her cleared his throat and stood. “Ah, Dr. Abbott, I presume. Nigel Portman, Esquire, at your service. Thank you for seeing me.”

It was all Simon could do to tear his gaze away from the unkempt beauty and turn it to the short man addressing him. He offered a curt nod as the man rifled through his satchel.

He extended a piece of paper to Simon, who furrowed his brow as he took it. He could barely make out the scrawl on it, and his eyes scanned the shaky writing as the barrister spoke.

“I was called to the home of Mr. Barrow yesterday,” Portman said. “He’s passed, poor man, but in his last act he bade me notarize this letter and deliver it and his daughter to your home. He said he saved your life some years ago in combat, and that you offered him help—help he declined until now, albeit posthumously.”

“He did save my life. And I saved his in return. However, believing that his was the greater sacrifice, I did make the promise.” Simon still had his eyes fixed on the letter, even though he’d finished reading. “But what he is asking—that I marry his daughter to save her from the workhouse? He can hardly expect me to do that.”

“Is a bit much, I understand. And this one is opposed to it and make no mistake.” The barrister inclined his head toward the young woman, who looked at Simon for the first time with such animosity in her startling blue eyes that the doctor was taken aback.

“But the crux of the matter is this,” the lawyer continued as Simon turned his attention back to the letter, “this man who says he saved your life died in debt and his daughter faces the workhouse unless the moneys are paid.”

“Then I’ll pay it.” Simon handed the man the letter, as if the matter were now settled. “And the young woman can go where she will.”

“See, you fat arse?” The girl rose now, addressing the lawyer. “I told you this plan was bollocks. Even if this fancy fellow was pathetic enough to befriend my father, he’s smart enough to see a better way out of this than a marriage I’ll never agree to!”

From the corner, Nurse Trinket gasped and all eyes expressed shock except for the lawyer.

“Beg pardon,” Nigel Portman said. “Especially to the good lady.” He nodded toward Nurse Trinket. “But this foul-mouthed git has been without guidance for years, it seems. As for his debt, if you think you can pay it, then….”

He withdrew another sheaf of papers from his satchel and handed it to Simon, whose brow furrowed as he perused them. After a few moments of silent reading, the doctor looked up, tapping his finger against the top paper.

“This is staggering,” Simon said. “How did he manage to accrue such debt without himself ending up in the workhouse himself?”

The barrister shrugged. “He may have been crippled, but there was nothing wrong with Mr. Barrow’s mind. He had a wily manner about him, and apparently convinced a number of better men to invest in schemes that failed. No one realized the level of his chicanery. And, of course, his investors and creditors are screaming. Sorry lot for a man, is it not, leaving nothing but debt and a spiteful burden of a girl.”

“And so a scoundrel who bilked gentleman now expects me to marry his daughter?” Simon said.

The lawyer was shoving papers back in his satchel now. “Makes no difference to me. He paid his last shilling for me to bring her and that letter to you. I’ve an order from the beadle to deliver her to the workhouse should you refuse, and trust me, sir, no one will blame you if you do. The constables are just outside, ready to receive her at your word.”

Simon was quiet for a moment. He studied the young woman, and could see she was trying to put up a defiant front. But her eyes were frightened, for she no doubt had heard of what happened to young women in the workhouse…

“I can’t possibly pay this debt,” Simon said regretfully, running his hand through the thick dark hair that grazed his collar.

“That’s it then, right?” The young woman stood, her voice shaky but defiant. “Good. The sooner I’m out of this bastard’s sight the better.”

The nurse gasped again and this time Simon did not let the foul language go. In three long strides, he walked over to the young woman.

“Be advised,” he said. “That I do not tolerate such talk in my home, not even from an ill-mannered waif destined for the poorhouse.”

“And you may be advised,” she mocked in reply. “That your opinion is shite to me.” She smirked. “‘Twould be like my clueless father to try to marry me off to such a pretty bachelor, not that you’d be interested in girls, anyway.” Her eyes raked him up and down. “I figured you for a Mary soon as I laid eyes on you.”

Simon showed no discernable reaction in his expression, so the outspoken redhead was taken completely by surprise when he took her by the arm, sat down on the horsehair sofa, and threw her over his lap.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she cried as he gripped her about the upper body, restraining her with one arm as he flipped up her coat and skirt. She uttered a string of expletives as her worn bloomers were parted in the back, framing a lily white bottom that the doctor now targeted with a sharp blow. A wail of agony replaced an insult in progress, and the parlor was soon filled with the sound of Simon’s large hand striking flesh. The exposed portion of the young woman’s fair bottom was soon a deep reddish pink, with a trace here of a darker reddish purple imprint of fingers. Not a person in the room sought to intercede. In fact, the barrister and Nurse Trinket looked on quite approvingly.

As for Simon, he remained incredibly calm through the punishment, the only indication of his displeasure the severity of the spanking.

“Stop! Stop!” The little redhead’s words were barely discernable as the doctor’s large hand targeted the softest, most vulnerable skin just at the base of her buttocks, the hard smacks driving her forward on his lap as she clung to his knee to keep from being propelled to the floor, not that that was a possibility. Simon’s arm was like an iron band around her, and he was not going to let her go until her bottom had paid the price for her impertinence.

When he was finished, he set the chastened woman back onto her feet and looked up at her from where he sat. The coat and hem of her dress fell back in place, and she rubbed her sore bum through the layers of fabric. As she did, Simon studied her, noting cheeks red with humiliation and large eyes swimming with tears. Her full, pink mouth was turned down in a childlike bawl. Her wild red hair had come unbound from the bow to cascade around slim shoulders heaving with sobs.

“I suppose I’ll be taking her to the constables now.” The barrister stepped forward, chuckling. “She’ll enter the workhouse with a well-spanked bum. Perhaps it’s for the best. One is best to enter such a situation knowing one’s place in the order of things.”

But when the barrister reached for her, Simon stopped him with just a look.

“No,” he said, standing and withdrawing a handkerchief to mop the wetness from the young woman’s face in an almost gentle gesture. “She’ll not be going to the workhouse.”

He studied her pitiful childlike countenance and then dropped his eyes lower, juxtaposing her innocence with the very womanly swell of her breasts. The sight necessitated a shift on his part to hide the evidence of his arousal. He was a gentleman; it would not do for the others to detect evidence of how spanking this rude stranger had affected him.

The little minx had tested him, he’d spanked her, and now she stood before him, her slim shoulders heaving with sweet sobs as she shed tears of genuine contrition. It had given him a taste of something he’d always wanted—something rare in a woman, something he’d thought unattainable, something he’d remained a bachelor until he could find.

“I’ll honor her father’s last wish, but not through marriage,” he said, staring at the girl. “Not yet, anyway. This little hellion may be of age, but she’s not yet mature enough to wed. What she needs is the proper parenting that was denied her. She needs the oversight of a nursery and a firm hand applied regularly to her bottom until she learns obedience. She needs medical treatment for her hysteria, treatments only a qualified professional can provide.

“I will marry his daughter and save her from the workhouse, but only if I can legally make her my ward and prepare her fully for the responsibility of being joined with me in matrimony. If this can be arranged, I’ll also settle her father’s debt. I realize it is staggering and it may take years to pay, but you may inform the creditors that I am willing to settle it over time, should this arrangement be sufficient.”

“Well, well, but this is an unexpected turn of events!” the barrister said. He smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together, no doubt anticipating the money he would make drawing up the agreement. “I’m quite sure this can all be arranged. And if ever a man were strict enough to take on this baggage it should be you.”

Simon glared at him. He rounded on the barrister, his voice low with warning. “I just announced my intention to make this young woman my ward, effectively becoming her father. Insult her again and you’ll suffer a gentleman’s retribution.”

The lawyer stammered and nodded. “Beg pardon, Dr. Abbott,” he said, reaching for and hastily donning his bowler hat. “I meant no offense.” He turned away. “I’ll be back later today with the papers.

When Simon nodded, Nigel Portman scurried off.

The young woman had found her voice now, and when she spoke, the tone was one of disbelief broken by hitching breaths. “I c-c-can’t stay here with you! Y-y-you can’t be serious!” she said. “I-I d-don’t know you! Y-you don’t know m-m-me!”

“This is true.” Nurse Trinket stepped forward, inclining her head toward the girl, seemingly concerned that her employer had taken leave of his senses. “You don’t even know the girl’s name.”

Simon’s expression did not change. He had not smiled at the young woman once, and noted that the eyes looking up at him now showed a bit more respect and a dash of fear. But a little spark of defiance was still there. Good.

“Tell me your name.” It was not a request, but an order. And this time she obeyed.

“My name is Abigail,” she said.

“Abigail.” He said the word quietly, as if to himself, as if savoring it. He felt her shudder upon hearing him speak her name. It pleased him.

“Well, Abigail,” he said. “Your father is dead. And now you’ve been remanded to my custody as my ward.”

“No!” Angry tears slipped from her eyes and she balled her fists at her sides in helpless rage.

“Nurse Trinket,” he said. “I believe the bedroom beside mine will suffice as a nursery. Take my ward up there. See that she is cleaned up and arrayed in a style more suitable to a child than the adult she is not ready to be. Should she disobey, you have my permission to redden her bottom again. However, should that become necessary, do remind her that your spanking will be followed by a caning from her guardian.”

“Don’t do this! P-p-please!” Abigail was pleading now as the large nurse took hold of her arm. She tried to resist, but was no more of a match for Nurse Trinket than she’d been for the doctor.

Simon watched as the two ascended the stairs. The day had begun as ordinary as any other. But now, twenty minutes before his first patients would arrive, Simon had become legal guardian to a ward he planned to train for marriage—not just any marriage, but for marriage to a man like him. From the upper floor he could already hear the sound of Nurse Trinket’s hand slapping against his ward’s bare flesh and wondered if the young woman realized just what she’d gotten into.

He walked over and put his hand on the tip of a slim cane nestled among the umbrellas by the door. No, she was a complete innocent. She may not know what she was getting into, but he did. She was getting just what she needed—someone to protect her and give her the firm upbringing that she’d missed.

He’d teach her discipline—oh, yes. He’d teach her to yield to the strap, the cane, and other corrections that had never crossed her innocent mind. But he’d also teach her caring, too. It was an art, he realized, that was likely unfamiliar to them both. But in Abigail he sensed something that would draw it from him. She would be his little one.

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