The Medical Room

Story from old Blushes.

The Medical Room

It is getting chilly in the corridor, now that the sun has gone down, and the four girls waiting outside the medical room are not dressed so much for warmth as for — to be frank — accessibility. They are in their night clothes — the clock on the bell tower across the quadrangle is creeping towards nine o'clock and bed-time during the week is nine-thirty — and whoever it was who decided that the girls' nightwear should be so skimpy, plainly had other considerations in his mind beside thermal insulation or modesty. Each girl wears a top which is actually a short sleeved tunic — so short that it doesn't reach quite to her waist, nor to the top of her 'bottoms', which are themselves cut no more generously that the average pair of school knickers, and are made less conducive to decency by the little slits which run up the outer seams for two inches or so at the thigh. The whole being made of cotton, and lightweight material at that, there is little underneath each thin pair of pants that doesn't lend every detail of its form to the exterior appearance of what are really very brief 'shorts'. So far as the girls 'tops' are concerned, breasts are less concealed than emphasised, and in the chill air in the corridor there isn't a nipple amongst them that isn't doing it's erect, impudent little best to draw attention to itself by thrusting at the thin cotton from underneath.

The girls' quiet chatter ceases at the approach of a portly figure, balding and in his late fifties, who rounds the angle of the long passageway and walks with a faintly rolling gait towards the silent group.

"Good evening, girls" says the newcomer, intoning the words with a hint of bored dutifulness that is belied by the twinkle in the gentleman's eyes and the rather intimate glance which flits undisguisedly across bottoms and breasts as the girls are ushered through the door into the antiseptic-smelling ante-room.

The gentleman, vaguely 'man-of-the-cloth' in his manner and his dress, opens an inner door and then unlocks a medicine cabinet high on one wall. He takes down a jar labelled 'vitamins' and places it on a table. He looks up at the first girl in the line and gestures her into the room with a smile that, though broad enough is not altogether convincing.

The girl closes the door behind her and the gentleman takes a file card from a drawer and writes the first 'patient's' name upon it. "Annabel". He has no need to ask her name — she and her three companions have been nightly visitors to this room for the last month, since term began.

"Scales, please," says the man.

At a generous estimate, the girl's night clothes would weigh somewhere between six and eight ounces, and would be inconsequential in the matter of ascertaining her body-weight. Nevertheless — and she does it without being told to, as though it's what she always does — she slips off first the little pants and then the top before stepped up onto the scales, barefoot. Her cheeks are a pink flush of embarrassment, and her eyes do not look at the gentleman as he leans close behind her to peer over her shoulder at the dial on the machine. The firmness of her bottom, cupped in a hand, is alive to the touch. She draws her breath a little as inquisitive, insensitive fingers trace around the undercurves of her bottom, close-grouped cane weals still faintly warm to the fingertips, the chaplain's voice next to her ear:

"Still feel it, eh? Bottom still tender, is it?"

"S-sir — yes, sir." The slight droop of her head and the soft pout of her lip as she answers are endearing if not downright arousing.

Aroused, the chaplain coaxes further confessions from the shamed girl, his voice sibilant and teasing.

"Hurt, did it? Sting your little bottom, eh?"

"Yes sir." Her voice a whisper.

"You cried, you know. I suppose you remember crying, don't you, hmm?"

"Yes sir" Barely audible.

"And you wriggled. The headmaster made you wriggle this time, didn't he, eh?"

She nods mutely, embarrassed, nervous of the hand that loiters around the cheekiness of her buttocks and slaps lightly but inconsiderately and awakens a vague tingling where the cane had been busy that afternoon. A tear rolls down a cheek, others follow, as she wonders ruefully what she could have done to deserve so many punishments — seven canings, and she's been at the school only four weeks — and every one of them for trifling mistakes, reported to the Headmaster by this dreadful man, and each caning witnessed by him too, as though it were a conspiracy of some kind between them. She, and the girls waiting outside, have had more punishments than any other girls in the school, far more — the recollection of this afternoon's caning, the humiliation of being stretched out over that desk, knickers round her knees, squirming on her belly, blubbering for it to stop, please, please — the memory of it brings the tears faster, hot on her cheeks, running down her face. If there were someone at home she could write to, who would lend a sympathetic ear — but there's no-one, only her guardian, and he doesn't give a damn about her.

The chaplain pats Annabel's bottom and goes to the table, where he notes her weight on the file card. Eight stones and three pounds; a healthy weight for a girl of her height and age. She remains on the scales, naked, bottom and cane-marks unavoidably on display, and she no longer tries to work it out, because it is totally beyond her.

The sound of a jar being opened.

"Come here, Annabel."

Breasts bobbing, hands hiding the triangle of hair at the base of her belly, face flushed with shame at being seen like this by this man, night after night, she goes to stand by the table and waits to be given her "vitamin" pill.

Why she has to take vitamins is something else that Annabel cannot understand. She, and the other three girls, are the only ones in the school said to be 'in need of building up.' The meticulous ritual of taking their pills is as odd as the mere fact that any of them should be thought to need them. Four healthier, more well-proportioned sixteen and seventeen year olds it would be hard to find.

Annabel opens her mouth and a small, pink tablet is popped in. She swallows it, then is made to open her mouth again to demonstrate that it has indeed gone where it was intended to go. A note is made on her file card.

"Get dressed."

It takes but a moment to slip into the skimpy pyjamas. Tits swelling under the top, pants tight around her hips, Annabel waits to be dismissed.

The chaplain looks directly into her face so that she has to glance away. The blush creeps back into her cheeks and she shuffles her feet nervously.

"I understand from the choirmaster that you were two minutes late for practise at lunchtime. Is that correct?"

She stumbles over her protest that she couldn't help it — that she'd had to wait behind in Mr Flood's class —

"I can't help that. Headmaster's report tomorrow, afternoon break. Understood?"

"S-sir — please sir —"

She subsides hopelessly, and nods to say that she understands.

"Very well, you may go."

With the room to himself, the chaplain checks back through the days and weeks on the file card. A month and five days. He grins slowly, thinking of Annabel and her poor, punished bottom, and how much she seems to loathe her canings. Another week of 'vitamins' and they should all be 'safe'. He wonders how Annabel will take it when she finds that, for the first time, she has an alternative — get her knickers down and get over the Headmaster's desk, or simply get her knickers down. He's pretty sure which option she'll plump for. He decides that tomorrow's caning will have to be a little bit special, just to make certain. The Old Man will be happy to oblige, of course. He smiles one of his self-satisfied smiles, and opens the door to the girl next in line for her 'vitamins'.