Nurse's Orders Read online

  Nurse’s

  Orders

  Penny Birch

  Rover Books

  New york

  www.RoverBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  In real life, make sure you practice safe sex.

  This book is made available in electronic form by permission of VirginBooks by RoverBooks.

  www.RoverBooks.com

  First published in 2002 by

  Nexus

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Penny Birch 2002

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-10: 0-7952-0398-5

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7952-0398-5

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  One

  ‘Time to show off the chocolate starfish, Gabby.’

  ‘Yes, Monty.’

  ‘Then spread those pretty arse-cheeks.’

  I reached back to pull the cheeks of my bottom wide, stretching my anus open for his inspection. Beneath my hands, my skin felt sensitive and oddly hard, the result of a spanking. It was a sensation I was getting to know only too well.

  Monty – fat Monty Hartle – had held me across his knee for the best part of half an hour, spanking me, groping me, fingering me. Twice he had brought me to orgasm with one fat, soft finger rubbing against my open sex, until I had come from simple friction. Four times he had reduced me to tears, applying mercilessly hard smacks to my bare bottom until I broke down. Between each session he had soothed me, nursing my spanked bottom and teasing my sex and anus until I had become excited again. Now, with my face streaked with tears, I kneeled on a chair, nude, my red bottom pushed out for his amusement, my cheeks held wide. He was masturbating, his erect cock slapping in his hand, his pig-like eyes fixed on my body, and specifically on my anus.

  It was typical Monty – perverse. He knew I was anally virgin, just as he knew I hate to be spanked. So that was what he chose to come over – my beaten bottom and the tight hole in which he was so eager to sink his penis. Deeper in his dirty mind, there would be his knowledge of my feelings, my memory of the pain of spanking and my frightened anticipation of the pain of sodomy. Had I enjoyed spanking and the penetration of my anus, he would have chosen something else.

  He was getting frantic, close to orgasm, with his fat belly held up so that he could get at his cock properly. Ripples spread through his pasty flesh as he jerked at himself. His face was red, as red as the bloated cock-head that protruded from his hand, and nearly as shiny. It was an obscene sight, all of it, and the knowledge that I was naked and at his command made it a great deal more so.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he grunted. ‘I’m coming over your dirty little arsehole, Gabrielle, I’m…’

  He finished with a choking cry and sperm erupted from the tip of his cock into the air, to splash down on his taut ball-sack. More came, bubbling up over his hand and his belly, leaving blobs and trailers of thick, yellow-white fluid in such abundance that I knew he must have been saving it up for me.

  The orgasm left him puffing, his chest heaving, until at length he recovered his breath and a happy grin spread slowly over his fat face. Not bothering to speak, he pointed to the mess on his belly and genitals. I got down on to my knees, crawling quickly to where he sat on the bed. Poking my tongue into a thick wad of sperm caught up in the hair of his balls, I began to clean him up.

  He waited patiently, stroking my hair as I licked his sperm up, sucked his cock and kissed the smaller blobs from his belly and hand. I didn’t swallow but let it collect in my mouth, until by the time he was clean I could show him the pool of slimy, salty sperm I had collected on my tongue.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, patting my head. ‘You may swallow.’

  I obeyed, wincing as the slimy mess went down my throat and fighting back the urge to gag. He watched, grinning more broadly than ever at the expression of disgust that must have shown on my face.

  ‘That’s about fair, yeah?’ he asked.

  I nodded dumbly. It was fair. For hours I’d been his sex toy, submissive and obedient, allowing him to use my body as he pleased, save only for the sanctity of my anus. He had enjoyed me thoroughly and slowly. It had started with dinner, which I’d prepared and cooked with my skirt tucked up at the back to show my panties, into which he’d dropped a handful of baby new potatoes in a typically childish piece of erotic humour. I had been ordered to perform a striptease as the pasta cooked, which I managed well enough, despite his choice of heavy metal to dance to. I’d served naked, eaten my share from a dog bowl on the floor and washed up in just a pinny while he sipped beer and admired my bare bottom. Afterwards he had made me pose for him, adopting a series of exposed and lewd postures as he stroked his cock through his trousers. Once it was hard I’d been made to suck it, while he explained to me how much he was going to enjoy my coming punishment.

  The exposure, the supposed humiliations, I had enjoyed, happy to go bare, with none of the embarrassment or sense of indignity he imagined. All my blushes and shame-filled looks had been for his benefit, a pose to allow him his pleasure in degrading women, right up to the moment he announced that I was to be spanked. After that, it was real. He’d seen the fear in my eyes and the sulky, doubtful look on my face, and laughed. Then had come the beating, to leave me in tears of pain that were in no way an act.

  It had been worth it. Sometimes a girl has to compromise to get what she wants.

  The price of my evening as a sex slave had been his acceptance of my own fantasy, not submission, but very definitely control. All afternoon he had been my nanny, undressing me when I arrived, bathing me, drying me, putting me in my nappy and the pink pyjamas I had brought. He had read me a story as I sucked my thumb, curled up on the bed and sinking slowly into that blissful sense of absolute freedom, complete relaxation that comes no other way. I’d wet myself when I needed it, neither forcing it nor holding back. It had felt so good I’d masturbated, then and there, on my back with one hand down my soggy nappy and Monty watching. As soon as I’d finished he had changed me, chiding me gently as he peeled off the wet nappy, wiping me, applying powder and cream to my sex and bottom, completely intimate but never sexual. At least, not overtly. By the time he’d finished with me and put me down for an afternoon nap he’d been fit to explode, the consequences of which I had just swallowed down.

  ‘Going to stay over?’ he asked. ‘I’ll put you in the other nappy for bed if you like?’

  ‘Thank you, but I have a client at nine in the morning,’ I answered. ‘I had better be getting back.’

  ‘Get up with me; you’ll be there in plenty of time.’

  ‘No, really, I need to consult my notes first.’

  I didn’t want to point out that sharing a bed with him was unbearable. Not only did his
bulk leave me very little room, but he snored and could be guaranteed to wake me by prodding his erection in between my bottom-cheeks. I also did have a client coming to see me, one of my most difficult, Jocasta Warren, a woman who was able to find problems in her life under even the most felicitous of circumstances.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the station anyway,’ he offered. ‘Maybe even come in to Victoria with you. The trains can be pretty lonely this time of night. I’d drive you, only I’m sure I’m over the limit.’

  ‘That would be considerate,’ I answered as I began to sort myself out.

  ‘I’d didn’t say I’d do it for nothing,’ he said.

  ‘As you will,’ I answered.

  I left him to retrieve my clothes from the living room floor. Sex with Monty was frequently messy, and I’d packed fresh underwear and a change of clothes, just in case. My bag also contained the last of the three nappies I’d brought down, and the memory of what we had done put a smile on my face as I packed it away.

  A brief shower, a little cream for my bottom, a touch of make-up for my face, my clothes, and I was ready. Whatever Monty might want, I was not going to get frozen stiff for him, and I put on thick tights under my skirt and a jumper – hardly elegant, but practical for a November night.

  Monty was still in his bedroom, but dressed. As usual, he hadn’t bothered to clean up properly, apparently content with the services of my tongue. I didn’t mind – or, at least, I didn’t feel it was my place to criticise him. After all, our relationship was no more than a mutual convenience and, if he was far from perfect, he was at least sufficiently intelligent, open-minded and, frankly, perverse to provide what I asked. That was rare.

  My need to be nursed was not strictly speaking a regressive fantasy. Looking back, I can think of one or two experiences which must at least have added detail to my needs, but no more. One of my earliest boyfriends had liked to watch me pee, especially through my panties, but I had seen it only as a higher level of the exhibitionism I was already starting to enjoy. Then there had been Thereze, a girl in the lesbian society at college. She had been big – fat, really – and had liked to suckle me at her breasts. I had enjoyed it, but never understood it as more than an affectionate eccentricity. Mainly, it was something which had evolved in parallel with my career. At college my sexuality had been relatively straightforward, centred on the need for openness and understanding. From early relationships with boys I had come to believe I was lesbian, and later to accept my bisexuality. While evolving my ideas on therapy I had held to the idea that any properly balanced person should be entirely at ease with their sexuality, also open about it. Only when I began to practise did I realise that this was not always the case.

  The problem was my clients. After a day of helping others to achieve mental and physical well-being I would be exhausted. Relaxation proved difficult, especially as whatever technique I used I would be constantly analysing its effects. I realised quickly that what I needed to do was surrender control and when, after a particularly harrowing day, I found myself sucking my thumb, I realised how.

  It worked wonderfully. Within a month I had transformed one of the rooms in my flat into a nursery. After a bad day I would lock my door and strip naked. I’d wash and curl up on my bed with my thumb in my mouth, letting it all slip away. It felt blissful and intensely sexual. The first time I’d found the courage to wet my bed I had masturbated until I was sore, coming so often I lost count. After that I began to enhance the fantasy, buying myself girlish pink clothes, especially nighties, cuddly toys, baby bottles, powder, cream and finally nappies.

  The nappies were the final, perfect touch. They were big and pink and soft, fitting snugly around my hips and over my bottom to create a sensation so good it made me dizzy. They were also expensive, coming from a discreet mail-order company somewhere in the Midlands, made to measure and for sexual pleasure, not incontinence. It was worth it.

  Being in a nappy transformed me from Ms Gabrielle Salinger, inventor of Whole-Being Therapy and professional shoulder-to-cry-on, to Miss Gabby, a grown-up baby girl without even enough self-control to hold in her pee. It was glorious, and it helped me relax so well that the extra work I could take on more than paid for it. Glorious, but not perfect. To be perfect, I needed a nanny, my bobonne, to cuddle me, to change me, to spank me when I needed it, however much I hated the pain.

  I couldn’t tell anybody else. Much of my success relied on appearing absolutely in control, and none of my clients would have understood, let alone been able to take on the role of nanny. None were right; all too insecure, or self-obsessed, and generally simply too repressed. Only when Jo Warren rang me from the south of France in a state of high emotional crisis did I dare to think I might have found a partner.

  She had been on holiday with her boyfriend and another friend, Natasha Linnet. Natasha had been to see me once, and had struck me as tough, unyielding and secretive. At the time I’d put this down to insecurity and low self-esteem. From Jo’s account she was a sort of female de Sade, with a touch of Dr Crippen thrown in. What she’d actually done was suggest that Jo might like to have sex with her, including spanking sex. Reading between the lines, it was clear that Natasha needed something special sexually, something she was not prepared to be open about. She was also beautiful. I had to try.

  I succeeded. Natasha was cruel. She spanked me and gave me a milk enema with my baby bottle, making me cry. She also gave me some of the best orgasms of my life. Unfortunately, she would have preferred to have been on the receiving end and was obsessed with her own humiliation. She was a good playmate, but not my bobonne.

  She also introduced me to Monty Hartle. He was anything but beautiful, and certainly no nurse. On the other hand, he was intelligent, open-minded and, unlike Natasha, he would do what I wanted him to. He would also do a lot more, but I was prepared to put up with that. So it was a compromise, my fantasy for his, nursing for allowing myself to be objectified and, frankly, abused.

  As we walked to the station, I was fully expecting to be put through my paces on the train. If we were alone in a compartment I would probably be made to open my blouse, allowing him to fondle my breasts so that we risked being seen by people in other trains. He had done that before and enjoyed it, if slightly disappointed by my lack of embarrassment. To me, nudity is freedom. Still, it had been good – good enough to come over, and good enough to have my sense of erotic anticipation rising strongly as we walked.

  We were lucky at the station, arriving just as a Victoria-bound train was pulling into the platform. We made a dash for the front carriage and, sure enough, it was empty.

  ‘Non-stop,’ Monty panted as he caught up with me. ‘East Croydon to Victoria, that’s twenty-two minutes. Enough.’

  ‘Enough for what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a nice, leisurely blow-job.’

  ‘What about ticket inspectors?’

  ‘A four per cent chance. I can cover my cock with my coat if I have to.’

  ‘If you like, then.’

  ‘Doesn’t anything embarrass you, Gabby? Think about it. You’ll be down on my cock. People will see in the windows.’

  ‘Why should it embarrass me if it does not embarrass you?’

  ‘Because you’re a girl!’

  ‘You are so English, Monty!’

  I laughed, sitting down as the train shuddered into motion. Monty sat on the bench opposite, fat thighs well apart to show off the bulge in his trousers, or at least as much as showed beneath the overhang of his belly.

  ‘Could you come again so soon?’ I asked.

  ‘In your mouth? In twenty minutes? Yes. In fact, I think I’ll spunk in your face just as we come into Victoria, all over your glasses. That should make you colour up.’

  ‘No, don’t. I’m not completely immune to embarrassment, Monty, and it doesn’t excite me.’

  ‘It excites me. I’d love to make you walk through Victoria Station with your face covered in my spunk. Just the thought’s making me hard.
’

  ‘Well, it’s not going to happen, but I will suck you. Pull out your cock.’

  ‘Dirty bitch,’ he answered, and began to fumble for his fly.

  We were still drawing out of the station but he didn’t seem to care, pulling out his cock and balls to leave them hanging out of his open fly, as obscene as ever. He slid forwards, pulling his belly up to get at them. It was warm enough in the carriage, although it had been cold outside, and I opened my coat, assuming he would want me at least partly bare.

  ‘Shall I?’ I asked, putting my fingers to the hem of my jumper.

  ‘Yeah, why not? I reckon a girl should always take her tits out to give a blow-job, and you all seem to like it.’

  ‘So we don’t soil our clothes.’

  ‘Sure. You just like to have your knockers showing while you suck.’

  He was right, in a way. I do like to stroke my breasts while I suck a man’s cock – but then, I like to stroke my breasts during sex anyway. I had pulled up my jumper and opened the top button of my blouse as we spoke, and followed with the second and third, slowly, to tease him. His cock was already growing, and I could see his wristwatch showing that we had nineteen minutes left.

  I opened the rest of my buttons, wondering how to best display my breasts without looking too much of a ragamuffin and deciding that I’d have to take my jumper right off.

  ‘No, leave it,’ Monty said as I began to pull it higher. ‘I love that look – you know, dishevelled, like you’ve been interfered with, you know, your clothes disarranged and your tits pulled out.’

  It was certainly making his cock swell, so I left the jumper and pulled my bra up, leaving my breasts bare to him in a mess of clothing. He grinned and began to pull harder at his cock, which was close to erection. I took my breasts in my hands and began to stroke them, bringing my nipples out.

  ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Not as big as Natasha’s, but nice.’

  ‘It is best not to compare one girl’s breasts with those of another,’ I told him, ‘or any part of her body, but yes, Natasha’s breasts are lovely.’