Night duty

Story from Roue 03.

Night duty

Night duty. Men's Surgical, Sister Evans.

Oh God! P'raps I'll go sick, say I've got the 'flu. She'll know I'm avoiding her. I've got to face it sometime though. But – Oh Hell! I wish I'd never done it! But I had to, didn't I? I don't know, p'raps I didn't have to. P'raps there might have been some other way. Oh Christ! And it was only one bottle. One lousy bottle of pills. And now she's going to –. But I'll have to turn up, no matter what. Because if I don't, p'raps she'll tell Matron, and Matron'll tell the Police –. And I didn't even get the money. That sod didn't pay me. I could kill him. And that Beryl, she's the one who split on me. Oh God! What a bloody awful predicament.

On the ward. Sister Evans with an odd, satisfied kind of smile on her face.

She's going to, I know it! She did it to Allison, and she only nicked some money out of a locker. Oh Lord! I haven't got a hope. And Allison said it was awful. Her poor bottom!

Medication to be given, pillows to be plumped, visitors to be shushed out as soon as decently possible.

And tomorrow's Thursday! Bloody rent day! He'll want his money, haven't paid in three weeks. What the Hell am I going to do?

Tractions to be checked, temperatures, pulses, respirations. And Mr Keller.

Wonder if he'll ask me again? And if he does – wonder if I'll dare? He-he'll give me money, he said so. And he's got money to burn, I should think. So – p'raps he'll ask me, and p'raps I'll say yes – I mean, other girls do it. I know they do. Lucy said she's done it loads of times. She says they're nearly all like that, when they're getting better. And they're all private in this place. None of them short of money. P'raps I could even get enough to start paying it off. Oh Christ, if only I hadn't had to take the bloody money in the first place, then I wouldn't have to pinch the pills and – and...

Bedsores to be massaged and creamed. Bedpans, bedpans, always bloody bedpans –. No. Don't think about bedpans. Bedpans go into the sluice. And that's where Allison got it, in the sluice. That's where –. Stop thinking about the sluice.

'Nurse, my radio's not working!'

What am I, a bloody electrician or something?

Horlicks, Ovaltine, tea, coffee, chocolate.

'Hot milk Mr Keller?'

Smile, girl, smile.

'I fancy something a bit sweeter, darling.'

Smile. I said:

'What's that, Mr Keller?'

'You.'

If he pinches my bum again, I'll –. No I won't. Smile girl. You need him.

'What colour you got on tonight eh sweetie?'

'Mr White! Don't you ever think of anything else –?'

'Eh? White you say? White knickers, that what you say?'

God, these'll be the death of me. I don't know where they get the urge from at their age. Sister Evans, eyes like a hawk, checking, checking, linen, charts, drugs cupboard. Especially that.

A weird, sinking, hollow feeling in the tummy, knickers feeling tight underneath. Allison said she couldn't sit down after. Well, almost. She said she had to sit on one side first and then the other. And that it was hell if your knickers were too tight, because the elastic in the leg kind of cut up across your bum –. Stop thinking about it, will you!

'Nurse. Would you have a look at my dressing please?'

'Just a moment Mr Keller.'

I bet there's nothing wrong with it.

Screens. The dressing perfectly alright. A ten pound note tucked in a fold of the sheets. Pink glans, glowing hotly, standing up and waiting patiently.

'Mr Keller –!'

'Come on. This is for you, like I said.'

'But –.'

'Here. Take it anyway.'

Cool fingers slipping up under her skirt. The note crinkling and scratching as it tucks down the front of her knickers.

'But I can't –'

' 'Course you can. Look, just like this.'

Hot under her hand. Solid, feeling alive.

'But Sister might see. It – it's dangerous –'

'Come back later then. After the lights go out.'

Sister Evans might be gone then, with two other wards to keep an eye on. Yes, she might be gone long enough.

'Yes, alright. If I can.'

His hand wandering back up between her thighs. His voice a conspiring whisper.

'Take 'em down, eh? There's a good girl.'

'For Christ's sake –'

'How much d'you want then, eh?'

'It's not that –!'

'I'll give you another tenner. Alright?'

'Mr Keller – I... I'll try to come back.'

Her knickers slipping down across her hips.

'I've got to go now.'

The screens whisked away. Hawkeyes prowling. Later. But, later –. Don't think about it!

'All finished, nurse?'

'Y-yes Sister, more or less.'

'You don't sound too sure.'

'Er – well there's just the oxygen to check.'

'Check it then. Then come to my office.'

'Yes, Sister.'

Oxygen checked.

Christ, these knicks are going to fall down if you don't do something about it. P'raps – p'raps it's an omen. Oh Christ!

A slim hand tapping nervously on a door.

'Come!'

The door closing.

'Now then Elaine. Having cornered you at last, and don't say you haven't been avoiding me because I know you have, you and I are going to settle our differences, are we not?'

'Er –'

'Yes, we are my girl! Firstly you are going to say thank you to me for putting myself at risk by not reporting the shortage in the drugs cupboard, aren't you?'

'Um – y-yes, Sister.'

'Well?'

'Er – th-thank you Sister. Thank you very much.'

'Good. And a little later, you, my girl, are going to be taught a lesson, aren't you?'

'Am I, S-Sister?'

'Yes.'

Sister stares with her bright eyes, up and down, up and down.

'Have you ever been caned, nurse?'

'Oh!'

Elaine's little hands twist panic-stricken behind her back.

'Well?'

'N-no, Sister.'

Sister smiles, rather sweetly.

'Well tonight you will be.'

Sister, relishing her power, rolling the words around before she says them.

'Properly caned, young lady. You will be soundly thrashed.'

Oh God! With a cane! Oh Jesus!

'On your bare bottom.'

Bare bottom! Thrashed. Oh Christ!

'Without your knickers.'

Without my knickers! Thrashed! I want to be sick!

'And no matter how you may protest or struggle –'

Struggle – me struggling! And thrashed! I'm going to wet myself!

'I shall whip you thoroughly.'

Whipped – thoroughly! Me, struggling! Screaming, bawling!

'Is that clear?'

Oh God, this is awful! It's going to happen. Really going to.

Sister's voice soft and coaxing. Teasing.

'Do you understand?'

'Oh – yes, S-Sister.'

'And what have you to say?'

She's enjoying this. She's going to love it.

'I d-don't know.'

'Quite! Because there is nothing more to be said, is there, nurse?'

'N-no, Sister.'

And, of course, there wasn't.

* * * *

Elaine near to panic, her eyes wide and frightened, Sister looking her up and down, a little smite playing at the corners of her mouth. Elaine wondering helplessly if she ought to smile back or something.

'So – I'll see you in the sluice at one o'clock. One o'clock sharp, mind.'

'Yes, S-Sister.' Elaine's heart pounding inside her starched white apron.

'And you won't forget now, will you?'

'Er – n-no, Sister. One o'clock – that's is, isn't it?'

'Aren't you sure, Elaine?'

'Y-yes, one o'clock.'

'Right, one o'clock. And now you can take your knickers off, Elaine.'

'P-pardon?'

'Knickers. Take them off. Are you going deaf, girl?'

'But –'

Sister looking stern.

Nothing for it. Elaine rucking up her uniform skirt, thighs soft and smooth above her stocking-tops. Knickers tight and curving tantalisingly up across the fullness of each buttock. The ten pound note discreetly palmed, the knickers slipping down, Elaine stooping to pick them up. Sister's hand held out. Elaine's knickers a small, intimate bundle of white nylon in the hand.

'You can have them back after your caning.'

Elaine's naked bottom tingling at the very word. Sister smiling openly now, as Elaine excuses herself and runs off to the loo.

Washing her hands in the sluice, Elaine tries to keep her mind off what's going to happen there, come one o'clock.

This is dreadful! God, what am I going to do? I'll refuse to be caned. Yes, that's it. Refuse point blank. But then – Oh Lord! No, I can't refuse. I've got to do it. Thrashed! Oooh, it sounds awful!

Lights out. Ten o'clock and all is well, except in Elaine's tummy. Several squadrons of butterflies are having a dog-fight. The dog is losing.

Quarter past ten, and the pale amber light is flashing. Mr Keller.

Oh no! I forgot about him.

Soft shoes squeaking on the floor. Snores, sonorous in the gloom.

Voices a whisper.

'Yes?'

'I didn't know if you were coming.'

'Oh. Well, I'm not sure –'

A door clatters at the end of the ward.

'Sister's gone. Come on, pull the screens round.'

Oh Christ! But I s'pose I'll have to. And I could do with the money. God, this is going to be frightful.

Screens swishing sibilantly.

'That's a good girl. Come on, come over here.'

Elaine, warily, going round the bed. A hand, insistent, fumbling under her skirt. Stroking her bare thighs, above the stockings, wandering up and around her bottom. Bare bottom.

'That's my girl. Only teasing, weren't you. Took 'em off specially for me, didn't you?'

'Er – n – y-yes.'

'Good girl. Here, see what you can do with this?'

Hot in her little hand, strong and solid and hot.

A hand, fumbling with her belt.

'What're you doing?'

'Shush! I'm just taking this belt off.'

'Why?'

'Because I want you stripped, little girl, that's why.'

'No. Nor you can't. Sister might come back at –'

The belt, coming loose.

'Now this.'

Elaine pulled down onto the bed, her dress being pushed up, her legs faintly visible in the dim light.

'No, I can't.'

A hand, rummaging under a pillow. Crinkly sounds.

'Take your dress off. Here's ten pounds if you'll take it off.'

Ten pounds. Almost a fortune.

Oh Lord!

'I'll have to get up then –'

'That's my girl.'

Elaine slowly stripping. Ten pounds for the dress. Another ten pounds to see her tits. Nipples standing brazenly erect. Elaine naked except for her stockings and suspenders.

'That's lovely. Come in here – come on.'

Fingers fumbling in the dark. Crisp sheets rustling. Elaine breathing heavily, desperately.

'Oh God. I'm coming –'

Elaine, writhing frantically, hips pumping, clamouring for the release. Voices soft in the dark again.

'You're a naughty little girl, aren't you, eh?'

'But – you made me do it.'

'You wouldn't have done it if you didn't want to. You really are a naughty – naughty – naughty girl.'

Naughty emphasised by a softly smacking hand.

'I – I'm not – not really.'

'Yes – you – are. Naughty – naughty – naughty. If you were my little girl I'd smack your naughty bottom.'

The hand, wandering again. Elaine, helpless, impaled on the prodding, teasing fingers, coming again in quick, panicy gasps.

'You're a little sexpot, aren't you? A naughty little sexpot. You need someone to take your knickers down and smack your little bottom don't you, eh?'

Elaine, tummy churning again, whimpers helplessly and weeps silently against a pair of striped pyjamas. The blue pyjamas are taken somewhat aback. Comforting words are said. Elaine weeps some more. Secrets are told. Soon there are no more secrets. Elaine weeps prettily yet again.

'And how much is it that you need, all together, eh?'

'Hundreds, and if I don't pay it all back my mum'll be in trouble you see. I'll never, never be able to get out of this mess. And now there's Sister – oh, God, I don't know what I'm going to do, really I don't.'

More words of comfort are whispered into a delicate ear. Elaine stops crying. A bargain is suggested.

'And I'll pay you a certain amount, over and above your salary, which we can put into a bank, you see. So that way, in about six months you'll be out of trouble, won't you?'

'Yes. I see. And – the other thing. About me being naughty like you said. Will – will that be awful, d'you think?'

'No, no my dear. The merest suggestion of chastisement, I assure you. Knickers to be taken down, of course, but not really what you'd call proper spankings, oh no, not at all –'

Elaine squirming again.

'P-please – no. Don't make me – not again.'

'Nonsense, my dear. Fine, strong, healthy girl like you? I'm quite sure it won't do you the slightest harm –.'

'Oh n-no. You're making me –!'

'That's my girl. That's my naughty little girl.'

Elaine, eventually, allowed to get dressed.

'But – what about Sister? What can I do about her?'

'Sister – well now, let me see.'

Sister is considered. A solution is found. Elaine isn't altogether happy.

'B-but she's going to th-thrash me. I don't want to be thrashed!'

'Well now, what else do you suggest? If we time it right, perhaps your dear little bottom won't suffer too much – with luck.'

Elaine, not entirely reassured, is nonetheless persuaded.

The ward, dark. One o'clock approaches. Elaine goes to the loo, then goes again. The suspense is dreadful.

At last, the fateful hour. Her teeth chatter as she goes with dragging footsteps to the sluices.

A hollow, echoing place. Bright stainless steel and clinical porcelain. Only just far enough away from the ward to make it feasible that a cane might land on a girl's bare bottom and not be heard by the patients. Cries certainly would be. So perhaps, if she cried out –

Footsteps, quiet but determined. Sister. Doors swing open and then shut.

'So you're here then?'

'Er – yes.'

Sister Evans, looking her up and down. Elaine feeling naked, remembering about her bareness under her dress. Elaine trying to find something to say, something to put off the awful moment.

'C'n – Can I ask you a question Sister?'

'Yes, what d'you want to know?'

'Why did you make me take my knickers off?'

'And why shouldn't I?'

'I-I don't know really, but –'

'A foible, my dear. Something to amuse myself. Why, did it bother you, walking about without your knickers?'

'Er – yes, I s'pose it did.'

Elaine lying, feeling it would be better to lie.

'Wonderful. That's what it was meant to do, you see. Meant to remind you, to make you think about – your thrashing.'

'Oh, I see –'

'Yes, that and simply the fact that I could make you do it. I was just playing with you, Elaine.'

Sister Evans, half-lowered eyelids, smiling secretly.

'And you'll have to get used to that, my dear.'

Elaine, feeling helpless again. Her eyes following Sister, big and wide and frightened.

'Because I'm going to play with you later, aren't I Elaine?'

'Oh!'

It all fell slowly into place. The other thing that Allison had mentioned, but then wouldn't talk about.

'And now –'

Now. It was going to happen – was happening, now.

'– you can come and kiss me, Elaine.'

Kiss? Elaine staring with her nervous eyes. Moving uncertainly, not really understanding.

'But first, you'll have to kneel down.'

'Oh –'

Elaine kneeling, the tiles cold on her knees. Sister Evans, coming closer, her dress sliding slowly up her thighs, pink flesh, plump bulge under delicate nylon.

'Here.'

An elegant finger, pointing, beckoning, coaxing pretty lips. The lips touching, caressing anxiously, the finger leading higher. A faint rustle, something bumping against the penitent's face, something long and slim and cold against her cheek.

'Oh!'

'Now kiss that. Kiss it, before it kisses you.'

Chill rattan, smooth and varnished, stroking across her lips.

'Good girl. Slowly – painfully slowly no doubt, you will learn Elaine. Learn like Allison has. She's very good now. Very good with her lips. And her tongue. She has to be, because she hates the cane you see.'

Elaine, shivering. The chill tiles having little to do with it.

Dear God! She's going to make me really grovel. For Christ's sake, Mr Keller, don't let me down.

The elegant fingers, unpinning, unzipping, baring the young shoulders, the girlish breasts, teasing the pink little nipples to attention. Elaine's dress falling loose around her waist, her apron dangling down in front.

'And now – my cane will return the compliment. My cane will kiss your bottom, Elaine. So stand up girl. And don't fiddle with yourself, your tits are just right as they are.'

Elaine, standing up.

'Across that!'

Sister's voice oily smooth, but impatient of argument. Cold stainless steel sink, the edge the height of her navel. The chill, impersonal touch of the cane, finding its bearings.

Oh God! It's come, it's here. I'm going to be caned –!'

Thwack!

Jesus! That stings. Stings like mad!

Whack!

Pretty, naked buttocks bobbling under the cane's brisk impact. Young hips swerving aside, thighs pressing together in anguish.

Whack!

'Oooh – oh no! No, please –!'

'Shut up!'

'Oooh! Sister –!'

Thwack!

'OOH! NO! PLEASE DON'T!'

'Quiet girl! D'you want people to hear?'

Crimson spreading swiftly, staining the nervous, twitching buttocks.

WHACK!!

'Ohh! For God's sake –!'

'Get up!'

Thwack! The cane sharp and stinging across her thighs. Elaine jumping up straight, face distorted with pain, hands clutching at her thighs.

A piece of sticking plaster, magically produced. Pretty lips drawing back. Sticking plaster stuck anyway.

'Bend over.'

'Mmmugh!'

'Bend –'

Whack!

'– over!'

Thwack!

Brilliant double lines streaked across the backs of two plump trembling thighs.

'Nnnmmghh!'

'Down, girl!'

Crack!

Frightened girl, skittering away, but having to bend over nevertheless.

Crack! Whack! Swatt!

Bright, stinging bum-cheeks wriggling pathetically. Unintelligible grunts and groans. Sister Evans with a smug little smile on her face.

Mr Keller, a smug little smile on his face too. His face peering eagerly through the glass panel of the sluice-room door, his pyjamas in disarray.

Elaine crying, blubbering, the tears streaking her flushed and glowing cheeks, her bottom jerking and jumping with the steady, punishing rhythm of the cane.

Five minutes elapsing. The cane monotonously at work, Elaine being hoisted back into position after each and every stroke. Her poor, wretched little bottom quivering incessantly, the bright weals blossoming with patient regularity.

A door, swinging open.

'Nurse – can I have a drink –?'

* * * *

Time passes. Passing time becomes a week.

A chauffeur-driven car draws up at the hospital entrance. Elaine, her uniform different now, still that of a nurse, but smarter, looking almost tailored, helps the fast-recovering Mr Keller down the steps and into the car. The car whisks away.

'You look nice my dear. Distinctly appetising in fact.'

'Thank you.'

Mr Keller coughs, though discreetly.

'Oh, sorry. Thank you sir!'

'Money get to the bank all right?'

'Yes. Thank you very much, Sir.'

A hand, on walkabout. The pretty dress is crumpled slightly. Satiny thighs are bared. Elaine looks flushed and awkward.

'What's the matter?'

'I-I'm sorry, but –'

Elaine's eyes, indicating the chauffeur. A voice, whispering in her ear.

'Doesn't matter about him. Now, did you follow instructions?'

Elaine's face, definitely blushing.

'Y-yes.'

'Well?'

'Er – what, Sir?'

'So, show me.'

'Oh! B-but –'

'Come on now, let's see. Let's have a look, to be sure.'

Elaine's skirt flutters up reluctantly, the sweet little nest hides shyly between smooth youthful thighs.

'That's my girl! There's a good little girl!' Warm fingers stroke approvingly, and then Elaine, hesitating only enough to make it interesting for him, gives in and wriggles across his knobbly knees. Her bare, pinkening bottom trembles prettily with each crisp spank, and her hips bounce obediently to the slow insistent rhythm. The car rounds a bend in the road and bounces sharply off the inside kerb. The chauffeur murmurs an apology and tries to keep his eyes on the road, and Mr Keller makes a mental note that perhaps he ought to find himself a chauffeuse. Perhaps a nice, shapely one, and preferably one with a few money troubles!

Sisters

The short story from Roue 01, specially conceived as a fragment…

Sisters

...and as I have said before, hospitals aren't very secluded places, and neither are the staff's own rooms particularly private, so carrying on my disciplinary activities is restricted to some extent by the need to keep noise, particularly in the residences, to an absolutely minimum.

My own two rooms are situated at the end of a block, so at least I have only one immediate neighbour to worry about, but I still have to be careful not to draw attention to my 'goings on'. 'Goings on,' by the way, are more prevalent than may be supposed, particularly between the student nurses and those members of staff whose job it is to instruct them, so people tend to turn a blind eye to the odd student who may happen to be seen in the corridors of the senior staffs' residences.

Having to contend with this somewhat limiting situation, I have had to refine my methods accordingly, and surprisingly though it may seem, I have found that caning a girl, though potentially more audible than other methods of punishment, can nevertheless be managed with very little noise, provided the caning is administered in the right way.

The girl having arrived, I take her through to my bedroom, which is furthest from the corridors, draw the curtains and switch on the radio, not so loudly as to draw attention but enough to blend with the sound of the cane as it lands. Something rhythmic is, of course, best.

The girl then undresses, or at least takes off her skirt or jeans if she isn't in uniform, and I have her place herself in an appropriate position either on or across the bed. I find that having her in a kneeling position, while admirable from the accessibility point of view, unfortunately allows of too much movement once the cane starts its work and her bottom tries to wriggle out of the way, so unless I know she is going to be particularly obedient, I prefer to have her on her tummy, and propped up with pillows under her hips. I take her knickers off, rather than simply down, and give her another pillow upon which to rest her head. Not out of consideration, I might say, but simply because if she's going to blubber, I'd rather she had the pillow to cry into and muffle her weeping instead of letting everyone know what a baby she is. I then place a low stool between her out-stretched legs, about as far up as her knees, which will help to remind her to keep her legs apart while I'm dealing with her. I can then begin her caning.

My personal opinion regarding any kind of corporal punishment, is that it is unlikely to be effective unless the girl is sufficiently well whipped as to shed some genuine tears. At the same time, in my particular situation, I can't be too determined when it comes to laying on the cane, because I can't have the girl yelling at the top of her voice after the first couple of strokes. So I have developed a method which, while avoiding dramatic scenes, does achieve the necessary effect all the same.

Having warned the girl of the need for quiet as far as possible, I start to punish her. I never specify the number of strokes, as according to my philosophy it is somewhat irrelevant, the main object being the chastisement of the girl until, by her tears, she places herself in a position of submission to my authority.

I cane lightly at first, with perhaps five seconds between strokes, keeping each stroke across the heavy swell at the base of her buttocks, and in a band some four inches wide. The cane against her bare flesh makes little more than a plopping noise at this stage, and I give her at least a couple of dozen of these fairly light strokes to introduce the sting gradually and evenly. Her bottom slowly turns red across the plump, receptive part of the cheeks, and then, little by little, I increase the weight of the strokes until I see the beginnings of the reaction I'm looking for. This is usually a series of quick little jerks or jolts of the cheeks as the cane lands, or it may be a slowly increasing wriggle of her hips as she lies across the bed.

Having found this point, I then know that the sting is beginning to take hold, and I keep the strokes at roughly the same weight for perhaps two or three dozen more. Faint lines begin to appear across the reddening cheeks, and pretty soon she'll begin to give little gasps and occasional 'Ooooh's' and 'Ahh's' in time with the wriggling of her bottom.

I then caution her again, reminding her that I will not tolerate any unnecessary noise, and then gradually increase the strength of the strokes and slow down the rhythm, so that I reach a point where, though not yet actually crying, she is all the same quite near to tears, and her bottom is beginning to twitch with anticipation and snatch away from the cane each time it lands squarely across her sore buttocks.

This point in the caning is, of course, the most delightful and is the crucial stage of the punishment. Two or three good hard whacks would immediately precipitate the onset of tears, and would have her yelling lustily, and yet, by judging the power of the strokes, and slowing down here and there to give her a chance to regain her breath, this exquisite balance can be maintained for minutes on end, with her bottom squirming around and perhaps even trembling, and her gasped protests becoming ever more poignant, until, slowly and inevitably her quiet sobs turn to tears, and she'll have let go the last vestiges of her dignity and self-control.

This is not the point at which you should stop, but neither should you take unfair advantage of the situation. Having reached this stage she has utterly submitted herself to you. How you deal with her from here on will have a lasting effect on her respect for you and your authority.

For myself, having induced her tears, I would remind her of the reasons why she is being punished, and then, without any increase in the severity, I would give her about another dozen, in the same way as before, and would judge precisely when to stop by the effect it has on her. The last dozen or so would be slow and methodical, waiting for her bottom to stop its more energetic wriggles before each stroke, not speaking to her and not responding to any pleas or promises.

The climatic signs will be obvious as she nears the point of losing control, and when you judge the moment to be right, the punishment should end.

So much for caning and keeping it quite. Another interesting way I have of disciplining the girls is...

A cure for Susan

Story from The Roue 02.

A cure for Susan

Edward Gregson was tired, irritated and very vexed. It had been a thoroughly distressing day. Perhaps he had expected too much of Susan; just as he probably expected too much of Claire. But then Claire, dammit, had never let him down.

As a Harley Street specialist, with his impeccable quality of patients, and charging his scale of fees, he had a right – yes, a perfect right, begad – to demand the highest standards from his staff, whether it was his receptionist, nurse, cook or handyman. 'It's what they've been trained for,' he muttered as he tidied his desk, 'and it's what I pay 'em for.' Well, Ada was a fine cook, Bill was indispensable as gardener, plumber, electrician and philosopher, and Claire – Miss Claire Sylvester, SRN – was beyond reproach. A veritable jewel. Highly qualified, efficient yet engaging, an oasis of calm in storm or tempest. A benediction. Of course, she was twenty-six; and had been nurse in his elegant surgery for the past four years. She knew her job and had long since got to know his ways – Teddy Gregson was the first to admit he was not the easiest person to understand. But dear Claire always coped. She anticipated potential problems, dealt with difficult patients with the utmost tact – a reassuring word there, a hint of quiet authority with someone else. Such a pity she had to leave him for a while to nurse her mother through a painful illness.

Susan had seemed the ideal replacement; fresh out of nursing school, it was true, but the high flier of her class. Lively, intelligent, and extremely attractive. Alas, after just four days of her text-book sermons, her knowing air of superiority and flashes of temper, he felt sorely in need of a bottle of Scotch. Glenfiddich or Crawford's Five Star for preference. 'Physician, heal theyself,' he groaned, as he reached into the drinks cabinet and his temple ticked with the tale-tell throb of an impending migraine. 'What have I done to deserve the visitation of this young vixen?' Well, at least he could blame Claire for that; she it was who persuaded him Susan would make an ideal stand-in for her. 'You'll get along like a house on fire,' she had assured him.

House on fire! Within 24 hours they'd had a blazing row! Claire had suggested Susan would prove a ready learner; why, in less than a day she was trying to teach him. In four years he could not remember an occasion when Claire had called him anything but 'Mr. Gregson' in the presence of patients; in four days Susan had cheerfully called him both 'Edward' and even 'Teddy' – in front of a peer of the realm, an acclaimed actress and an embarrassed bishop. When he had privately reproached her for her familiarity Susan had flounced out of the room, saying 'In future I had better call you Dr Fuddy-Duddy.' Edward Gregson wasn't sure which part of that description infuriated him most – his demotion to doctor, or the assertion that he was stuffy.

As if all that wasn't enough, Susan's attire was far from suitable. True, with great reluctance, she condescended to wear her crisp white nurse's housecoat, but underneath she wore a skirt which would have looked short on a netball player, and teamed it with an up-to-the-neck blouse that would have been entirely circumspect, but for the fact that it was almost transparent – a characteristic which made it all too noticeable that she was a very well developed young lady in the mammary region; twice she had come wearing the skimpiest of brassieres, and once hadn't worn one at all. Not that any of this would have been observed by patients if she had kept her housecoat buttoned up. But of course it was 'too hot' in the consulting rooms, and so she had fastened it by a single button – with the most adverse effects on some of his patients. Elderly Miss Dunwoodie was scandalised; the bishop had blushed; and Major-General Fawcett-Fyffe – whose blood pressure was high at the best of times – got himself into the most unmilitary lather, and seriously aggravated his angina.

Poor old Fawcett-Fyffe had nearly had a heart attack as Susan leaned across him as he lay on the examination couch; her pert young breasts almost falling out like a brace of pheasant brought down on the Glorious Fourth. And her wide-eyed ministering angel smile hadn't helped in the least – a mingling of innocence and wanton enticement that had the old boy militarily-erect; but, alas, all too briefly. Seeing the major-general's apoplectic condition, Edward Gregson had switched on his cassette machine, thinking a little Vivaldi might soothe his distinguished patient's aroused but ageing passions. Imagine the shock, then, to an already troubled constitution, when the sounds that ensued were not the elegant strains of Vivaldi but a cacophony by The Clash. Thanks, of course, to a tape change made by Susan – who had decided that her employer's taste in music was a 'fuddy-duddy' as the rest of his behaviour.

The noise of The Clash had certainly blunted the spearhead of Fawcett-Fyffe's advance, and he flopped back on the couch like a stranded walrus, sucking in acres of air and wheezily expelling them like an asthmatic wart-hog.

It really was more than a man could stand. Something had to be done. But what? Edward Gregson replenished his glass for the third time, and decided on a council of war. There wasn't a member of his staff that Susan hadn't infuriated; well, he'd get a couple of 'em together, and hear their suggestions for dealing with the problem. 'Yes, I'll drink to that,' he said, and rang the bell to summon his housekeeper.

'You rang, Mr. Gregson?'

'Yes, Ada, thank you. Please try to find Bill. I'd like to chat to you both... about Susan.'

-o-O-o-

Ada Langley and Bill Cornwell physically had as much in common as the Dolmens on Easter Island with the Laughing Cavalier. Ada was middle aged, tall, gaunt and with her grey hair tied severely in a bun. She kept house meticulously and cooked with a desperate devotion – a dedication that was sometimes wasted on an employer not infrequently too preoccupied to fully appreciate the subtleties of her cuisine, the only outlet for her stiffled affections. In contrast, Sill Cornwell was as broad as a barndoor, brown as a berry, as outgoing as a barrow-boy and full of homespun good sense.

'It seems,' said Edward Gregson, 'that I have made a dreadful mistake, taking on Susan. She'll decimate the practice – but what can I do?'

'Send her packing,' said Bill.

'I can't I really can't. Her mother would create the most unthinkable scene... she would insist it's my responsibility to instruct Susan and control her.'

'Then you had better do so,' snorted Ada, 'for all our sakes. She needs a firm hand.'

'Ah yes, but how? We're not talking about a child but a mature young woman – physically if not psychologically. You have experienced her high-handedness and temper....'

'If Miss Susan is rather too much for you to cope with unaided, Mr. Gregson, perhaps we should assist you,' Ada responded icily.

'I'm not sure I quite follow....'

'It's crystal clear and plain as the nose on Bill Cornwell's face that she needs a beating.'

'Oh, I say,' said Bill. 'Might take her down a peg or two, though.'

'Susan! A beating!' Teddy Gregson laughed incredulously. The prospect had its attractions; the practicality, however, was another matter.

'When she arrives in the morning, read the Riot Act,' Bill suggested. 'Tell her it's her last chance – and what you'll give her if you have any more of her nonsense.'

'She'll laugh in my face!'

'Then confront her directly after your last patient leaves tomorrow afternoon,' snapped Ada. 'Order her to bend over. If she refuses – ring your buzzer, and Bill and I will be pleased to help you to restrain the young lady.'

'It might be worth a try,' mused Gregson.

'It is – if you want to keep your practice,' Ada told him.

-o-O-o-

The imperious Susan's fifth day with Edward Gregson was, if anything, even more of an ordeal for him. She had cut nine inches off the bottom of her housecoat, taking it well above the knee, and underneath wore a brown pleated min-skirt, flesh-coloured tights, and pink polo-neck jumper, the pendulous movement of which made very evident the fact that she was not wearing a bra. Gregson could not deny that Susan's appearance was extremely attractive; the point, however, was that he had not engaged her to offer his patients sexual provocation.

Before he had time even to make such an observation the young lady left him speechless by briskly taking down a Sickert original, of which he was extremely proud, and affixing to the wall, in place of the painting, a lamentable poster featuring a moronic bunch called Siouxie and the Banshees. 'It's all right,' she said cheerfully, as her employer looked on in baleful disbelief, 'it won't harm your rotten wall – I've only used Blue Tack. Makes the place look a bit more interesting than that dreary painting, don't you think?'

'I most certainly do not – you can take it down this minute.' Gregson told her (keeping to himself the thought that he would be taking something of hers down later in the day, unless there was a remarkable change in her attitude.)

'Oh, please yourself,' she said. 'I forgot what an old fuddy-duddy you are.'

While she took down the poster and replaced the painting at a pace varying from funereal to dead slow Edward Gregson informed her of his deep dissatisfaction with her mode of dress, her general manner, and even the standard of her work – which, considering her intelligence, was inexcusably sloppy.

'So what do you expect me to do about it?' she demanded.

'I expect you to promise me that you will radically change your ways?'

'And if I don't?'

'Then I shall try methods which one might have thought to be more appropriate to a girl of ten than a well qualified young woman.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

'It means, young lady, that unless I have your absolute word – and I see clear evidence of your keeping it during the day – that you will amend your behaviour, I shall put you across this couch and thrash you.'

'Teddy! Are you out of your mind? Or are my ears deceiving me? You'll do what?'

'I shall thrash you. As if you were a naughty little girl – which, for all your physical development and your academic qualifications, is really just what you are. Shockingly spoilt, know-it-all and impossible – that's what you are, Susan. You need to be given a sharp lesson – an affront to your dignity – to remind you that others have their dignity, too; my patients, my staff – and even me!"

The vehemence of his outburst dampened down the flames of Susan's scorn. 'Just lay a finger on me,' she said quietly, sounding less sure of herself than at any time since coming to work for him, 'and you'll regret it. I'll just walk out. How could you stop me? I'll call the police... and Mummy. Yes, my mother will have something to say about this....'

'You are perfectly free, of course, to walk out – if you no longer wish to work here, and are not concerned about needing a reference to show a future employer. But if you hope to stay... then I assure you I shall carry out my promise. Help will be available if you have to be restrained. Now can we get on with the day's work? Just remember what I have said...'

'I've forgotten already,' Susan snapped, recovering some of her bravado.

'We shall see,' said Teddy Gregson. 'Yes, we shall see.'

-o-O-o-

It was six o'clock and the last patient had been guided from the surgery and into the waiting chauffeur-driven Bentley. Now the big house was quiet, save for the muted blare of homegoing traffic along the street. Yet the atmosphere inside was supercharged, as it had been all day – but even more so now in the deceptive silence. Susan had started the morning fretful yet restrained, and even polite. But as the day wore on she had become increasingly surly and aggressive, as if annoyed that she had allowed herself to be intimidated by Edward Gregson's threats. She had started to argue with him in front of patients, and to flaunt her figure, as though trying to provoke him into a reaction. But Gregson had affected not to notice, which served only to infuriate Susan – and increase the tension that must have been apparent even to patients.

'I'll be off then,' said Susan, as the Bentley drew away.

'I think not,' Gregson told her. 'You appear to have forgotten that I diagnosed a certain young lady's condition this morning, and indicated a course of treatment for this evening – if there was no miraculous cure during the day. I have seen no signs of any such cure...'

'Oh, cut it out, for heaven's sake. It's been a long day and I want to go home...'

Edward Gregson pressed the buzzer on his desk. And smiled.

He stood with his back to the door. 'Do we really need the staff's assistance?' he enquired gently, but with a steely undertone that Susan recognised as naked male chauvinism – and was impressed by it!

'Just don't try it,' she shouted, above the tumult of her mounting panic.

There was a brisk knock at the door.

'Mr. Gregson... you rang, I believe?'

Ada Langley's crisp enquiry was as piercing as a laser beam. Close behind her was Bill Cornwell, bluff face even redder than usual.

'Oh Christ!' Susan wailed, 'What are you going to do?'

Without saying a word Ada and Bill advanced on the astonished trainee nurse, gripped her by the arms, and pushed her face down over the surgery couch, on which Edward Gregson had placed several pillows. Ignoring her please for help, mixed with threats and more than a few obscenities, they fastened her wrists and ankles to the legs of the couch, by means of surgical straps that had been thoughtfully placed there for the purpose.

'Stop it, STOP it. Let me go, let me GO! Sod you! Sod, sod, SOD you!'

'She's got spirit,' said Bill, with rueful respect.

'And it needs quenching,' snorted Ada.

'Yes, thank you both,' murmured Teddy Gregson, 'but I can manage perfectly well, I think, from this stage.'

'Right, I'll be away then,' said Bill Cornwell, highly relieved.

'Very good,' responded Ada, not bothering to hide her disappointment. 'I am sure we were both happy to oblige you, Mr. Gregson.'

As the door clicked shut behind them, Edward Gregson, respected Harley Street consultant, art lover, and London clubman known for his gentle wit and constant good humour, suddenly recognised the enormity of his actions; the catastrophic potential of the consequences; the bizareness; the sheer unbelievableness of it all. Except that it was all happening; and to his amazement, he was relishing the prospect.

For a few moments he stood a few paces from the couch on which Susan lay writhing and cursing, spread-eagled like some ancient ritual sacrifice. Her shortened white housecoat, which she had provocatively kept together by a single button, had opened out during her struggles with Ada and Bill, and spread like a crumpled white cape above the waist, while her ridiculously brief brown skirt had tugged up over protesting hips like furrows in a ploughed field. Below the snowy-white cape and its shadowy crevasses, below the encircling ridge of brown – peeping out like rich earth through retreating snow – was the splendid expanse of her nether regions; a proud pair of buttocks pushed up like burial mounds, and lissom outstretched legs, straining against their bonds. This most attractive 'southern exposure,' braced and bound, yet vibrantly straining for freedom, was denuded except for Susan's flesh-coloured tights and a tiny pair of white pants, the outline of which Edward Gregson could just discern through the girl's tights.

'Alright, you've had your fun,' said Susan, partially exhausted by her struggles. 'Now let me up. If you do so right away, I won't tell anyone – not even Mummy.'

'Ah yes, your mother. She has already been given some intimation of the situation. I telephoned her at lunchtime.'

'You phoned her – about this?'

'Yes, we had quite a chat about it, actually...'

'I don't believe it. You can't stand her...'

'Well, our little discussion helped to clear the air. It seems you behave just as abominably at home. Your mother said she hasn't been able to control you for years. "Lack of a father's influence," she described it as...'

'Ugh, I might have expected Mummy to say that! Trust her! But I just don't believe you told her what you had in mind... and I still can't believe you're stupid enough to go any farther with this farce...'

'Ah, then I have a surprise for you. When I mentioned to your mother that both Ada Langley and Bill Cornwell suggested you need a tanning, she said she agreed completely! In fact, she said it was the most sensible proposal she'd heard for a long time.'

'My god, the cow! You're enjoying this, aren't you?'

'Well my dear, to be quite truthful, yes, I am! When I agreed to engage you I must admit I had serious misgivings – not just because Claire Sylvester has been such an excellent nurse, or even because of your own inexperience. I was always a little afraid that you would play up, behave badly... but I had no idea just how badly. I took a chance, was prepared to hope for the best – and you have let me, and your mother, down completely. Not to mention yourself. I am at a loss to know what you have been trying to prove...'

Susan struggled to turn her head and look over her shoulder as Edward Gregson stepped up to the couch. 'Well, perhaps Mummy was right about one thing – about my not having had a father around all those years. But that wasn't my fault,' she said accusingly. 'That was your fault, Daddy!'

'Yes, my dear,' Edward Gregson sighed, 'in many ways it was. Your mother and I grew apart. She had her world. I had mine. We must both share the blame. We stopped loving each other – but we have never stopped loving you.'

Susan thought of all the resentment she had felt for her father, even more the hatred she had for Claire Sylvester, who had seemed to go completely supplant her mother and herself in his affections; and suddenly it seemed so stupid, so negative...

'Oh Daddy, I've led you such a dance...'

'Well, young lady, now I am going to call the tune.'

'Oh no, Daddy, not really...?'

Very methodically, very clinically, one might say, Edward Gregson rolled down his prodigal daughter's tights, and folded back her housecoat with a rasp of starched cotton; then, softly and silently, made similar adjustments to her fluffy pink jumper and dishevelled skirt. After a moment's hesitation he eased her wispy panties down over the fullness of her upthrust bottom, leaving them stretched in a thin white line at the base of buttermilk hillocks – braced and bare.

In his professional life Gregson had made innumerable examinations of female patients, from nubile, golden-limbed beauties to withered and ancient dowagers. On all these occasions the human form was a mere mechanical curiosity; a machine with some malfunction to be identified and corrected. His interest lay in the nature of the irregularity – determining the impediment and cure – rather than in any concern with shape, size or sex. It therefore struck him with some force that this examination was quite different. For one thing the subject was not compliant and co-operative, but resistant and, indeed, forcibly restrained; and, far from being incapacitated to some degree, she was in the rudest good health. In addition to which, the patient was not some impersonal expanse of bone and skin and sinew, but his daughter; the 'body in question,' as the Jonathan Miller TV programme would have termed it, was his very own palpitating flesh and blood.

Almost as if making a routine examination, he adjusted the direction of the beam from an angle-poise lamp, so that it played along the smooth escarpment of her thighs and buttocks before darting over the rumpled contours of her skirt and jumper – then danced on the dazzling white of her housecoat.

'You-you mean you do intend to hit me?' Susan yelped.

'I am afraid I do. Yes, young lady... in fact, I will let you share a confidence – it can be our little secret. I have, ahem, how shall I put it? I have – corrected Miss Sylvester on two or three occasions, and I propose to use the same implement on you. It is an American-style punishment paddle; you see – solid leather, very pliable, very effective – but not excessively severe.'

Edward Gregson did not feel a need to explain that his sessions with Claire Sylvester had been mutually enjoyed – as a prelude to the most blissful lovemaking. Nor was such an admission necessary – for Susan perceived the nature of her father's relationship, not so much with a flash as a blast of feminine intuition that tore through her like an Armalite rifle bullet. For an instant she felt revulsion; then, to her amazement, she experienced an entirely new 'oneness' with her father, a delicious sense of peace. It enveloped her whole being, almost as if she could feel it and touch it and taste it. In this, at least, she would be on terms with the woman in his life – the woman who was not only a perfect employee but enjoyed an intimate, physical relationship with him as well.

'He's seen Claire bare – and his Sue, too!' she mused.

Even as she found herself giggling the paddle arched down and cracked across her bottom, smacking the taut domes like a wet sheet slapping against windows in a high wind. The sensations were incredible. Her giggle changed to a gasp, then a gurgle of disbelief as the searing, burning band across the centre of her buttocks spread out in all directions like heat radiating from a furnace.

For the next two minutes Susan Gregson learned what her father meant when he said he was going to call the tune. It was a full symphony of sound – the whistling paddle, the smack of leather on juicy tender cheeks and the upper landscape of her legs, her plaintive, piping cries, the torrent of her tears; and her father's modulated breathing, punctuated by gradually louder exhalations of air as a consequence of his exertions.

The result, for Susan, was a thoroughly spanked bottom; cherry red from top to base – and beyond, to smarting thighs. As the first three strokes had descended on throbbing cheeks she had wriggled like a hooked fish, straining against the constricting straps, and hurting her wrists and ankles in the futile process. After that, sobbing into the sheet beneath her, face smothered by her damp brown hair, she subsided like a punctured beachball as the paddle cracked across her buttocks and the backs of her glowing legs.

Gregson put the paddle down and stood back to consider his handiwork, then ran a cool, soothing hand along the aspen-quivering landscape of his daughter's legs and bottom. A case of 'touch and glow,' he thought. Slowly her trembling flanks became less convulsed as her father inspected the hot and tender surface, then gently unfastened the straps. Even after she was released Susan remained face down, scarlet bottom elevated by the pillows beneath her, crying softly. This spectacle was so much more like that presented by Claire in a not totally dissimilar situation; for unlike Susan, she was by nature placid and undemonstrative. She received those occasional, moderate warmings of her bottom with an adoring, uncomplaining passivity that had come almost to irritate Edward Gregson; he half wished that she would react – rebel. But that was not her nature; she had been disciplined by both her parents as a child, and smilingly submitted to Gregson's 'correction' – because she loved him, and because it so enhanced the 'kissing and making up,' the passionate lovemaking that followed.

This spectacle of Susan reminded him of Claire – the muted sobbing and acquiescence. The difference, of course, was that Susan had been given a very real spanking – for its own sake, and most certainly not as a prelude to anything else. But it had brought about a transformation in her demeanour. Gone was all the rebelliousness and distain, the arrogance and quick temper. Gregson dabbed the scarlet mounds with a soothing lotion, then helped her gently to her feet. A little unsteadily she pulled up her panties, wincing at the discomfort, and adjusted her clothing.

'I'll ache for days,' she sniffed, 'it will help to jog my memory – just in case I forget. Gosh, I'll never call you a fuddy-duddy again. You're a very forceful Daddy!'

Edward Gregson smiled with relief.

'Y-you want me to carry on as your nurse?'

'Most certainly – I think you can be every bit as efficient in your work as Claire Sylvester.'

'Monday morning then – eight-thirty sharp.'

'Eight-thirty sharp,' Edward Gregson repeated, and squeezed his daughter's hand. He didn't think he needed to enter this particular case in his casebook -treatment to a certain gluteus maximus and surrounding area. But the diagnosis had appeared to be 'spot on' – and the effectiveness of the cure quite unmistakeable!