Nurse's Orders Read online

  It was good enough. She was good enough. I slid my hand further down my nappy to push a finger into the wet cavity of my vagina, then a second, probing myself as I tried to rationalise Natasha’s cruelty with my fantasy. I’d always known that getting spanked was likely to be an element of relinquishing control to another and I even felt I deserved it, sometimes. It made me wet, too, but it just hurt so much. I’d told her but she’d done it anyway, telling me I needed to be punished, and laughing as my bottom bounced and jiggled under her hand and the tears streamed down my face, so cruel…

  Cruel maybe, but she had comforted me, and perhaps it wouldn’t have been so good without the spanking. Perhaps I had needed it. She certainly had, so that she could hold me, shivering and contrite in her arms, red-bottomed and sobbing, feeding at her chest as she masturbated me, just as I was now masturbating myself, nappied, spanked and masturbated…

  I came, thinking of how it had felt to feel my mouth open around Natasha’s nipples as the orgasm hit me, how soothing it had been with my bottom hot behind me, the pain of my punishment past, giving way to the abandoned bliss of suckling at another woman’s breast. It held, for a long time, focussed on Natasha, only to break at the memory of how she’d laughed at my tears and the way I’d grovelled on the floor after my punishment. My bobonne might have spanked me, but it would have been with regret.

  Two

  I woke in the morning to what was becoming an increasingly familiar sense of dissatisfaction. When I’d had nobody to share my fantasy with I had imagined that any partner would be better than none. Now that I had two playmates, as Natasha called herself, I should have been spoiled for choice. Unfortunately, neither was perfect, and if anything I felt more frustrated than before.

  I’d put myself to bed in my nappy and a pink pyjama top. I was wet in the morning, as I’d done it just before sleep, the time at which I achieve the deepest level of abandonment and irresponsibility short of the moment before orgasm. With Jo Warren dealt with, I had no appointments until midday. I changed myself, going through the familiar and comforting routine of cleaning my sex and bottom-crease – wash, dry, powder and cream – before putting on a fresh nappy. All the while I was wishing I had someone else to do it for me and, not for the first time, I began to visualise my ideal.

  She – there was no question my nanny had to be female – would be a little older than me, ideally in her early thirties. She would be quite big, certainly heavy-breasted and broad at the hips, but firm, with plenty of muscle, padded by just enough fat at belly and waist to make it comfortable as she held me. Her arms would be strong yet soft, so that I would feel both cradled and controlled. Her nipples would be large – very large in fact, the areolae wide and dark, the teats broad and long, big enough to suck on properly. Her hands would also be large and, again, soft yet strong, ideal to hold me, masturbate me – even to spank me if she had to.

  She would spank me but it would be gentle, with no cruelty in it, simply a necessary and occasional admonition. It would be done when I was naughty or difficult, and always on my bare bottom. As much as anything it would be done to reinforce her control over me and my reliance on her. I wouldn’t need to be hurt, just put firmly in my place with a gentle but absolutely inescapable spanking. It would reflect her character, firm yet gentle, loving yet strictly no-nonsense, very practical. Inevitably she would want to take her pleasure of me, but again it would be done without cruelty, with none of the need to try and humiliate me that characterised both Monty and Natasha. She would stay clothed too, or at least partially clothed, exposing her breasts or sex as necessary, but seldom if ever naked.

  I knew it was a lot to ask, especially as I would need to be changed properly, yet I was sure that somebody, somewhere would be close. In fact, rationally, there would be many people. As I know from my work, variation in human character is extraordinary, and anybody who uses such phrases as ‘all women do this’ or ‘all men think that’ are fools. Even somebody as determined to fit into what she saw as social normality as Jocasta Warren was a complex and highly individual being. Natasha fitted the city-girl stereotype still less well. Somewhere, my nurse would exist.

  Having run over the ideal in my head, it was impossible not to take a moment for self-analysis. One thing I could be sure of was that it was not the image of my mother. Like me, she was tall and thin, with slender hips and small breasts. In personality she was warm enough, but detached and with a fastidious dislike of mess that I remember from earliest childhood. Many analysts would have argued that my nurse image in fact represented those female traits lacking in my mother. It was a theory that could not be easily dismissed, despite my not having developed the fantasy until my early twenties.

  Those same analysts might have regarded it as a problem, something to be explored then got rid of. To my way of thinking, nothing is more important than feeling right about oneself. There was nothing I enjoyed more, therefore it was not a problem to me. The only problem was realising the full potential.

  For the rest of the morning I indulged in the luxury of wandering around the flat barefoot and bare-legged, in just my clean nappy and pyjama top. It felt good, as it always did, just to be like that as I made coffee, read the news on the Net and went over the notes for my noon appointment.

  At eleven I stripped naked, put everything related to my baby-girl persona into my special bedroom and locked the door. Twenty minutes later I was in a grey wool two-piece, a plain white blouse, tights, sensible shoes – and frilly pink panties, just to keep an edge.

  My client was one of those who took therapy as a piece of conspicuous consumption rather than because she had any need for it. What she did need was for me to listen to her woes, which were frankly trivial, and to sympathise with her. As she was under no obligation whatever to come to me I was happy to do this. At the end I recommended increasing the frequency of her shiatsu sessions and changing the blend of her aromatherapy oil, simply because I knew she would not be content unless I made some sort of change. She left happy, which was what mattered.

  There were two more appointments that afternoon, neither particularly taxing. The last was not really a client at all, Amy McRae, an old friend and the editor of Metropolitan, to whose recommendations I owed much of my success. She had been at college with me in Paris, and to bed, being an out and proud lesbian. That had been before I’d begun to develop my baby-girl fantasies, about which she knew nothing. Nor was she going to.

  We had supper together, sharing a bottle of wine, which left me pleasantly relaxed when I returned to my flat. Lying on the sofa with my shoes kicked off, I began to muse on the problem of securing a good nanny once more.

  What I could not do was trawl London’s lesbian and fetish clubs for a suitable partner. It might have worked in the short term, but in the long run was sure to lead to my preferences becoming common knowledge. I needed somebody entirely detached from my own social group, and preferably from my environment altogether.

  One option was to put my details on one of the Net’s fetish dating sites with a suitable smokescreen to protect my identity. I’d tried before unsuccessfully, attracting plenty of fakes but nobody remotely suitable. It was also a passive technique and I prefer to take the initiative.

  I’d looked for suitable adverts before, with no success. This time was no exception. After three frustrating hours I gave up and posted my own advert, with some trepidation and no great hope. That done, I retired to my ordinary bedroom.

  * * *

  The rest of the week passed without anything unusual happening. There were only two responses to my advert, both from males and utterly inappropriate. I had not forgotten about Monty, but if he was going to do something horrible to me I was not going to be the one to call. It was Saturday afternoon before he did.

  As always, he expected me to be free, asking me to meet him in a pub in Croydon within a couple of hours. He also made it clear that he wanted to punish me, and promised to make up for it. I agreed cautiously.

&nbs
p; I had been to the pub before, the Green Dragon, a favourite haunt of his and, I suspected, also of his work mates. I was sure his motive was to show me off, as on the previous occasion he had twice exchanged knowing looks with other men, but for some reason had not introduced me. He had also asked me to dress in revealing clothing, which I knew meant in the type of outfit typically worn by the girls in the cheap pornographic magazines he favoured. That was not something I was willing to do, if only for aesthetic reasons, but I was prepared to compromise. He also wanted me without panties.

  It had grown colder still over the week, and bare legs were out of the question. Jeans would have been sensible, but I settled on thick tights and a woollen skirt short enough to risk showing the tuck of my bottom if I bent over, under my coat naturally. A bra with plenty of support and a thick but tight jumper finished my look, very far from what he wanted, but enough to provide me with a pleasantly light sense of showing off.

  He was there before me, his enormous buttocks spread across over half the width of a padded bench, in jeans, a faded sweatshirt advertising the tour dates of a rock group, and a blue anorak. In his hand was a pint glass of dark beer, with another glass beside it, empty but for foam.

  He looked up as I approached, his grin growing wider as I shrugged off my coat and laid it across the back of a chair.

  ‘Nice skirt,’ he stated, his eyes travelling slowly up my legs, from ankles to hips. ‘Turn around and bend down, yeah?’

  ‘Not here,’ I answered, ‘but yes, my bottom shows.’

  ‘No knickers?’

  ‘I am afraid not. I find it uncomfortable bare under tights.’

  ‘I did say. Maybe I ought to spank you.’

  ‘If you really must. I agree that I owe you something, and if you wish to punish me you may, but please could it not be so hard this time?’

  ‘It’s no fun if I don’t do it hard. You make such a fuss, and I just love the way you kick your legs about. You know your cunt and arsehole show when I do it, don’t you?’

  ‘Monty!’

  A man at a nearby table had looked around as he had spoken. He looked quickly away as I met his eyes to whisper something to a friend, who sniggered, as did Monty.

  ‘I bet they’d love to watch,’ Monty went on. ‘Maybe I should do it now, right here, in front of everyone. I bet that would get to you.’

  ‘We would be thrown out.’

  ‘Yeah, shame. Maybe another time. Don’t think I wouldn’t dare. I did it to Tasha.’

  ‘I know. She told me.’

  ‘Nice. She hated it, but she was so wet I could have stuck a cucumber up her and she’d never have noticed. Want a pint? This is 3B. They’ve got Broadside on, too.’

  ‘Ricard, please, or absinthe if they have it.’

  ‘Whoa! You want to watch that stuff.’

  ‘If you intend to torture me, it seems advisable to be at least a little drunk.’

  ‘I’m not going to torture you. I’m going to bugger you.’

  He was on his feet and already walking towards the bar. The two men were staring again too, open-mouthed this time, one with his drink frozen halfway to his lips. I knew Monty was trying to embarrass me, and even wondered if the men were workmates. That was not what worried me, but his return to the topic of anal sex. Since I met him he had wanted to sodomise me, and when I had told him that I was anally virgin and too tight to take his cock, he had simply grown more eager. Evidently he was going to use my sense of obligation to try and persuade me once more.

  When he brought the drinks back he was grinning, but there was a familiar trace of petulance in his voice as he put the inevitable question.

  ‘Well? How about it?’

  I leaned forwards, replying in a whisper.

  ‘I have told you, Monty, I simply do not have the physical capacity.’

  ‘Bullshit. All girls can take it up the arse if they have to.’

  ‘Not me. And, before you start, it is not a moral or hygienic issue. As you know, I take an irrigation nozzle frequently, and you may use a finger so long as you are gentle. Your penis is simply too large.’

  ‘It would fit.’

  ‘It would hurt!’

  He made a sulky face. I sighed and took a sip of absinthe.

  ‘It just that you’ve got such a pretty arsehole, Gabrielle,’ he whined, with no attempt at all to keep his voice down, ‘and you’re virgin. I’ve never had a virgin arsehole. I just have to bugger you…please?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At least let me try. I’ll grease you up properly, with that cream you use.’

  ‘No, Monty.’

  ‘Ah, come. I’ll be gentle, I promise. I’ll do your thing too. You can even fill your nappy…’

  ‘No!’

  He went back into his sulk, moodily sipping at his beer. I was simply not going to give in, but the last thing I wanted was him in a foul mood.

  ‘Cheer up, Monty,’ I whispered. ‘You can spank me with your hairbrush, all right?’

  For a moment his mouth twitched up into the familiar sloppy grin. I winced, thinking of the pain and the inevitable tears. The hairbrush I meant was a huge wooden thing he’d had since school. It stung crazily and left bruises, as I’d discovered when he’d used it before briefly, applying three agonising swats before I’d managed to call out my stop word. He didn’t reply, but took another swallow of beer.

  ‘Nude,’ I offered, ‘or dressed up any way you like. Come on, Monty. I will serve your dinner too, like last time.’

  ‘I was thinking of a curry. I could just do with one.’

  ‘I would rather not, but don’t let that stop you. Have a takeaway and I will serve for you. Don’t worry about me, because you can bottle feed me later. You can use me as a footstool while you eat, if you like, but you will put me in nappies later, yes?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I just want the better half of the deal this time.’

  ‘Is not using me as a footstool good enough? It’s very degrading.’

  ‘No. I’ve got a better idea. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to have my tea off your bare arse, then fuck you in the mess. You can clean up afterwards. How’s that?’

  I nodded dumbly, accepting my fate and reflecting that it wasn’t nearly as bad as being spanked with his hairbrush. He was grinning again, and when he put his beer glass to his mouth it was to tip at least half the contents down in one go. Another swallow finished it and he immediately picked up the pint he had bought when he had fetched my own drink. A minute later he was finished, and my eyes were watering from swallowing my absinthe too fast.

  It hit me quickly, too, so that I was feeling distinctly unsteady by the time we got to the Indian takeaway he favoured. I was beginning to feel aroused as well, with the thought of my coming exposure and what I would receive in return for my surrender to his perverse scheme. Unfortunately he had miscalculated. In his urgency to get started, he hadn’t realised that it was over an hour until the takeaway opened. I could only laugh at his frustration, which got my bottom smacked in the street. I skipped away, still laughing, and simply made a face when he threatened to drag me down over the bonnet of a car. He knew I could outrun him with ease, and was forced to content himself with wagging one fat finger in my direction.

  There was a minimarket next to the takeaway, and he disappeared inside, emerging a moment later with a bag. I was still wary of his threat to spank me in the street and kept my distance, walking ahead of him as we made our way back to his house. Only indoors did I let my guard down and was rewarded by having him grip me hard by the ear and force me down on to my knees, squeaking in pain. He laughed and pulled my head in to his crotch, then rubbed my face over the bulge of his cock and balls.

  ‘Strip,’ he ordered as he let go.

  I nodded. The order had put me in role, and the only thing to do was obey, just as I expected him to follow my instructions exactly when it was my turn to have my fantasy played out.

  I did it in the hallway under his watchful eyes, s
tripping stark naked as he squeezed his crotch and let his eyes linger on my body. Nor was it simply a matter of undressing. As soon as my coat was off I was made to turn round and bend over, showing him how my skirt lifted to show off the tuck of my bottom-cheeks. With me touching my toes, he took a leisurely feel of my bottom, then moved forwards to rub the now considerable bulge of his cock between my cheeks.

  ‘I’ve saved it for you,’ he told me. ‘I haven’t wanked for four days.’

  I felt my throat tighten instinctively at the news, thinking of the extraordinary volume of sperm he always seemed to produce, presumably the result of eating so much.

  ‘I might even do it over your tights,’ he said, rubbing more firmly. ‘That feels good.’

  ‘No, please. I have only one spare pair.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me, Gabrielle. No, that would be a waste, but it is tempting.’

  His cock was now fully hard, a rigid bar pressing in between my buttocks. He had me by the hips and was rutting freely with his belly resting on my upturned bottom, making me struggle to keep my balance. When he finally stopped it was so that he could pull his cock out. I stayed down, wondering if he was going to come over the seat of my tights after all. My skirt had ridden up with his pushes and the whole of my bottom was showing, tightly encased in blue wool, a sight I knew would appeal to him.

  ‘Get on with it, then,’ he ordered, and took his cock in hand. ‘Stick your arse out and peel ’em down, nice and slow. Tights only.’

  I obeyed, pushing out my bottom in a thoroughly lewd pose as I eased my tights down to show off the seat of my panties. Although I’d declined to go without, I had chosen tarty red ones, the sort he liked best, and he smacked his fat lips as they came on show.

  ‘That’ll do,’ he instructed as my tights reached the level of my thighs. ‘Tits out now.’

  I stood and turned. I knew what he wanted exactly, a display of my breasts at once lewd yet coy, ideally with my cheeks flushed red with embarrassment as I showed myself to him. I did my best, pouting as I unfastened my bra and pulled it off down my sleeve, then raising my jumper to show him my bare breasts.