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Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica
Description: A Brand Spanking New Collection! Lawrence and Neptune are at it again, serving up a delicious collection of very naughty erotica about naughty women and the punishments they receive. Miss Frobisher isn't the only woman who has to bend over. Mindi, Jenny, Milly and others line up for spankings, whippings, and good-old-fashioned canings. From the authors of So Spank Me!
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: January 2007

10 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [150 KB]
Words: 30985
Reading time: 88-123 min.

The sluice room was as cold and depressing as ever. That was the downside of nursing, once the first heady idealistic days inspired by the exploits of Florence Nightingale and Sue Barton had passed. Nursing also involved dealing with bedpans and vomit trays and the soiled paraphernalia of the acutely sick. I leaned on the window ledge and pressed my forehead against the chill ridged glass. If Matron caught me slacking, I'd be for the high jump, of course. I had been at St. Mary's, a vast inner London teaching hospital, for several months as a first year student. I thought of Matron, the intimidating head of nursing services, with her square, well-upholstered figure and ever-present frown. She had a way of speaking in italics, every syllable loaded with judgmental insinuation.

I hope that bed isn't finished, Student Nurse Wilkins. That sheet isn't quite correctly tucked."

Starch in the sheets, starch in the old girl's voice. My lower back ached, testimony to a ward's worth of bending and tucking neat corners. I fixed my gaze upon the pale green wall as I sluiced away the contents of poor Mrs. Brown's digestive tract. I'd get used to it in time-the sour smell-and the old lady was so grateful and so sweet. That was why I had entered the nursing profession-to make a difference, to help those who could not help themselves. Weary tears prickled in my eyes. What a fool I was! The other girls would laugh if they could see me, weeping over the detritus of an average day on Fleming Ward.

"Good afternoon."

I jumped and the empty steel bowl clattered to the linoleum floor. A young man in a white coat stood in the doorway.

"I'm afraid I startled you."

Instinctively, my hand reached for the few unruly wisps of hair that were always trying to escape from beneath my cap. The young man was quite good-looking in a dark, heavy-browed kind of way. He moved towards me.

"I'm Pete Fletcher-Miss?"

"Jenny Wilkins."

I took the large capable hand he extended and smiled, slightly embarrassed. In doctor/nurse romances, the first encounter did not usually happen in the sluice room, with the pungent scent of disinfectant perfuming the air. For some inexplicable reason, I suddenly felt claustrophobic.

"I'm afraid I really must get on. Matron will kill me."

Pete Fletcher smiled.

"Oh? And then you'd end up on the dissecting table in anatomy class, I suppose. Waste not, want not, eh?"

Something about the young man's manner made me vaguely uneasy, as if I could not be certain that he was teasing. Suddenly, I felt confused and the hot blood rushed to my face.

"Charming, aren't you? What a thing to say!"

Trying to cover my embarrassment, I bent to retrieve the steel bowl from the floor. Pete Fletcher's gaze seemed to bore into the nape of my neck and I shivered quite violently.

"If you'd like to have a cup of coffee with me this evening, I'd be happy to meet you at the canteen. When do you finish your shift? Six?"

I nodded, my cheeks burning.

"If you choose to come, do wear your hair down, Miss Wilkins. So much more flattering. See you later."

"I'll think about it" was the only response I could muster as I watched him turn and stride purposefully off down the empty, echoing corridor. His shoulders looked remarkably broad as he retreated, finally disappearing through the double swing doors into the men's surgical ward.

Pete Fletcher. I looked into the shining base of the steel bowl and saw my scarlet face reflected back at me. I desperately wanted to have coffee with him. But why was my heart beating like a little drum? Something about him set my nerves on edge, but it was an intriguing, arousing kind of suspense...

He was waiting for me, comfortably ensconced at a corner table. I had done as he wished and left my thick dark brown hair to curl on my shoulders instead of tying it back in the usual off-duty ponytail. I was dressed casually, just an old tweed skirt and sweater, nothing to show Pete Fletcher that I was especially keen on developing our friendship. He rose as I approached the table and again I had a powerful intimation of strength and breadth. He reminded me of a great black bear, burly and massive. Despite my best intentions to remain cool and collected, my heart began to thump even harder than before. He was watching me very intently through his dark, almost black eyes, as if he could weigh and measure my every dimension with a single piercing glance. Goosebumps ruffled my already excited flesh.

"Your hair looks much better loose, Jenny. I hope you don't mind if I call you by your given name?"My response sounded trite and wooden. I noted that he had already bought two coffees, which steamed gently in institutional green cups on the red Formica tabletop. Pete Fletcher's broad brown fingers clasped one of the cups.

"Red and green should never be seen."

"Except upon an Irish queen."

I answered automatically, as if by rote, recalling the old saying from my childhood. There was something almost hypnotic about the young man with the broad shoulders and the piercing jet gaze. He pushed the second cup towards me and I took it, half knowing that in meekly accepting his choice of beverage, I was agreeing to something else, something that would change my life forever.

"I like compliance, Jenny."

"Yes."

I have never been described as a chatterbox, but Pete Fletcher's presence managed to reduce me to monosyllabic utterances. We had taken our coffee quite leisurely, I believe, although I really couldn't say whether the time we spent together at the little red table was measured in minutes or hours. I know that people passed us and that I greeted them as if in a dream. There was a drowsy heaviness upon me, a thick languid torpor that pressed down upon my mind like so much salt water. I was drowning in Pete Fletcher's presence. I was mouse to his cat and he played me slowly, carefully like a brittle new instrument.

"In fact, I expect compliance."

"Yes."

"Good girl."

We rose and my legs seemed to be formed of jelly. The noise of the canteen seemed distant, receding tide-like to the furthest corners of the room. I followed Pete Fletcher, moving between the other little red tables, vaguely greeting familiar faces. Close behind him, I could smell the potent musk of his dusky skin. Powerful fingers clasped my wrist and I submitted to being led like a child. A current of primal energy surged from the young man's body to my own and I jumped as if electrified.

"Where are you taking me?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

I was eighteen and a virgin, not such a strange combination in 1964 as it is today. Part of me was afraid but I was half anesthetized, spaced out on the drug-like potency of power exchange. These days they call it being in "sub space". For naive Jenny Wilkins, student nurse, it was Little Red Hiding Hood meets the big bad wolf...

The room was a deserted laboratory in a neglected corner of the hospital, its dusty dark wood shelves filled with grotesque jars of preserved unpleasantness. I averted my eyes from the alcohol-filled containers that held such dark delights as the brain of a convicted murderer and unborn Siamese twins.

"Squeamish, Miss Wilkins?"

"A little."

"Oh, you'll soon get over that. On the table."

At that point I entered a deeper state of trance. Pete Fletcher's voice seemed louder, filling my ears, suffusing my mind. I was soaked in him. Slowly, I clambered onto a long narrow metal table. The chill of the stainless steel swiftly seeped through my clothes but I was beyond shivering. I let him take my arms, heavy and limp as a rag doll's, and fasten my wrists with narrow leather straps.

"Don't worry-I'm not going to hurt you. At least, no more than you desire."

I could no longer answer. My sense of reality had all but disappeared and I abandoned myself to the strange dream that was Pete Fletcher, medical student. I closed my eyes and listened to him breathe, quite fast, as if his controlled demeanor concealed an inner excitement. A length of something cool and slightly nubbly in texture dropped onto my eyelids and I recognized it as a crepe bandage. Pete blindfolded me with it, wrapping it around my head as if I had a fractured skull. He bent up my legs, one by one, and I realized, with a shock, that my panties were completely soaked with dew. The cold air of the abandoned room reached the bare skin above my stocking tops and my tender flesh crept as if searching fingers had compromised my virtue.

"We're going to play doctor and nurse, Jenny Wilkins. It's time for your examination."

My panties were so wet, I truly thought I'd had an accident. I remembered my childhood, memories of the classroom dress-up corner where I was always the patient, the one who was "done to" rather than the one who controlled the action.

"Open wide."

Reluctantly, I did as I was instructed, filled with vague fears of what might be inserted in my mouth.

"Say 'ah'."

A wooden spatula pressed down on my tongue and I gagged.

"Say 'ah', Miss Wilkins. I hope we won't have to chastise you for disobedience. I'd hate to have to give you a warm oil enema."

Involuntarily, I clenched my bottom and opened my throat.

"Aahh!"

"Much better. You have huge tonsils. No sign of infection, though. Close your mouth. I'm going to take your temperature next."

I could hear him shaking down the mercury in the thermometer.

"Now, which site would be best, I wonder?"

Horrified, I thought he might insert it in my anus and, again, I squirmed my hips and clenched my buttocks tight.

"It's alright, Miss Wilkins, it's not a rectal thermometer."

I could hear the faint amusement in his voice. The thermometer eased between my lips and slipped under my tongue.

"Please don't swallow it. I shall now take your pulse."

Firm fingers brushed against my inner wrist. I realized that my nipples were hard, pushing against the fine soft wool of my sweater. They tingled as Pete Fletcher gauged my circulation.

"A little on the fast side, Jenny Wilkins. Is something over-stimulating you?"

I concentrated on the rapidly warming glass tube beneath my tongue. Would I also be running a slight fever? I certainly felt hot, despite the chilly atmosphere of the lab. Pete's fingers left my wrist and carefully removed the thermometer.

"98.6. Perfectly average."

I didn't feel at all average. The straps about my wrists were beginning to tighten as my warm flesh swelled. With a nasty jolt in the pit of my stomach, I realized that I was bound to an old dissecting table and I remembered Pete Fletcher's sluice room remark.

Waste not, want not, eh?

One part of my mind insisted that he would never do such a terrible thing, but another seemed strangely open to the concept. Terror leapt like wildfire in my head, its insidious flames licking away at my confidence. Blindness magnified each sound, every sensation.

"Don't scream, Jenny."

The young man's voice was a mere whisper close to my left ear. In a moment, a fine sharp point traced the outline of my throat and I swallowed hard, fighting the horror that rose to consume me.

"Please..."

"I'm not going to harm you."

I had little option but to place my trust in him. The needle-pricks continued, barely penetrating the surface of my skin in a perverse sharp caress. I began to relax, to admit to myself that, though I lay completely at his mercy, Pete Fletcher would not really hurt me.

"You'll remain a virgin. This time, anyway."

My cheeks colored beneath the bandage blindfold. I wondered if he had looked up my skirt and I bit my lip, tormented with mixed desires. It was the "swinging sixties" but I had been firmly brought up in the frigid fifties. Prick, prick, prick. I wanted to squirm and cry. The tension was unbearable, an ever-increasing part of me becoming desperately, wildly aroused, thirsting for even stranger caresses than the teasing needle point.

"Such dark pleasure, Jenny Wilkins. I knew you were submissive when you looked up at me in the sluice room. It's written in your eyes."

Huge hands briefly caressed my breasts and I moaned out loud. I could smell the slick honeyed moisture between my thighs, felt a tiny pulse throbbing deep inside.

"You're so ready for it."

Everything he did was oddly subtle yet produced an intense visceral reaction. Wild visions coursed through my head like the blood surging in my arteries. I thought of lying across Pete Fletcher's vast sturdy knees, my panties round my ankles, having my bare bottom reddened by his heavy hand. He seemed to read my mind.

"I should spank you, Student Nurse Wilkins."

"Yes..."

"But you'd enjoy it too much, wouldn't you?"

"Please. Oh, please..."

"How I do enjoy it when you beg."