Pillows appeared on everyone's chairs, some more elaborate than others, and they were quickly ruled verboten. As a matter of fact, everyone's cushy office chairs began disappearing, too, to be replaced by wicker or wood bottomed, straight-backed chairs. The wicker ones were particularly uncomfortable to sit on with a freshly spanked rear, and sometimes the miscreant was required to go so far as to hike the hem of her uniform up so that she had to sit with her red, throbbing behind being bitten into by that rough surface. They were already striped, and then they were striped again just by virtue of the fact that they were sitting.
Darcy had already been long since denied even the small comfort of a cushioned chair, and she was delighted that now everyone else was, too. Misery loved company, she decided, especially since most of the people there had witnessed her many humiliations over those long months—as well as its final culmination—and had reacted as if they were only too happy about it.
"Hanson, it's time for your examination."
This was something new. The doctor had liked to let his fingers do the walking on a relatively frequent basis—sometimes as often as twice a month for no other reason than he knew he could, and he knew it both pleasured and shamed her at the same time and he was infinitely intrigued by that idea.
But Nurse Carson was doing it to her nearly every day, at about two o'clock in the afternoon, and the doctor was often there, too, watching, occasionally suggesting, but mostly being a voyeur. She didn't think he did this with anyone else or, for that matter, that Nurse Carson did it to anyone else, either. She noticed that she was always left off the patient rotation about that time every day, and long about one fifty-five or so, she heard that raspy, slightly masculine sounding voice in her ear, ordering her to the nurse's office—like she was in grade school or something.
The fact that the woman kept things very clinical made it even worse, somehow, as if she was scheduled for a routine exam or some sort of important medical procedure, especially when there was absolutely no need for her to be required to be naked in this woman's office.
One of the most humiliating things she did was to require that Darcy have her temperature taken rectally, while over the other nurse's lap. Darcy had out and out balked at the idea, the first time Nurse Carson had sat down on the old fashioned chair in the middle of the room and patted her lap.
It was a relatively small protest—just the word "No,” that actually came out entirely without thought. She couldn't imagine that she would have to do something so degrading as to be treated like a toddler held over her mother's lap to have her temperature taken. If she needed that at all, they had thermometers that read from the ear.
But Nurse Carson intended to nip even the smallest sign of resistance in the bud. Although she had put a foot behind her to move away, Darcy was close enough that all the older woman had to do was reach out and grab her wrist with her manacle like grasp and tug her, with great conviction, over her legs. Somehow, from out of nowhere, it seemed, a wooden implement of some sort appeared in her hand seconds later, and the first of a very many sharp, stinging smacks fell onto Darcy's perpetually crimson ass, and in a mortifyingly short amount of time, she came to truly regret having uttered that single syllable. Nurse Carson spanked very hard, very fast, and for an inordinately long time, not allowing Darcy even a second to breathe between swats, not giving her time to think or even react much. All she could do was to try to live through the stinging cracks and the seemingly never ending rise and fall of that hairbrush—or whatever—onto her behind, knowing that it wouldn't end until her superior saw fit to end it.
Only when she was limp and panting, completely exhausted and unable to put up any kind of fight at all any longer, was the implement put down on a small table that was behind and to the side of her, from which the nurse then took a large jar of Vaseline, into which there was stuck the largest thermometer Darcy had ever seen. It looked much more like a dildo than it did a thermometer. It sort of looked like a candy thermometer, only the tip was very large at one end, creating a flange.
It was a butt plug thermometer. Darcy hadn't even known they existed. Some sick, evil, twisted mind had to have come up with that. Damn the internet!
Nurse Carson didn't waste any time at all. She didn't even speak. She simply tugged it out of the jar, leaned to her right a bit and used the fingers of her left hand to open Darcy's butt cheeks, which—despite how many times just that thing had been done to her in the past—made her start a bit and try to get away.
The second round with what she was able to confirm was a large wooden hairbrush was much worse than the first had been, considering the condition of her backside when it began.
Eventually, Carson put the brush down and took up the thermometer again, parting her cheeks as Darcy sobbed inconsolably at the indignity. She could feel herself being opened up and the thermometer slipping smoothly up inside her. At least there wasn't pepper ointment on it, but then there wasn't much Vaseline, either.
The widest part of the flange was quite large, and Darcy struggled to accept it, knowing she had to, regardless of how she—or her body—felt about it. She yelled as it was finally in place inside her, her poor sphincter finally allowed a small amount of relief as it was allowed to close a bit around the neck.
But her yelp wasn't at all welcome, and she got another bout with the brush for having made too big a fuss, as far as Nurse Carson was concerned.
And then the nurse forced her to keep it in place for much too long a time—well over twenty minutes, during which she was transferred to the exam table and secured at every possible point so that about the only movement she could make was to breathe. She couldn't even turn her head. And occasionally—but more frequently, of late—Nurse Carson had taken to doing something that absolutely freaked Darcy out—she blindfolded her, tying a sleep mask over her eyes and anchoring it to either side of her, as if it was a gag.
She was against gags, she had once told Darcy in an almost off hand way, although there was nothing in the least casual about the woman. Darcy's stomach had done flip-flops when she had continued, "I like to hear my patients' reactions to what I'm doing—as long as they're proper and fitting and not too loud. When they're not, there are consequences, of course."
Darcy knew she didn't have a snowball's chance of ever landing on whatever Nurse Carson might have thought was a right and proper response to what was being done to her, especially when she was robbed of the ability to see what was coming at her next. It made her even more sensitive, more on edge than she ever had been before.
And she knew that no one was going to rescue her, no matter how loudly she screamed and that doing so would only get her in that much more trouble.
While she was still wearing the butt plug/thermometer combination, her breasts were examined—thoroughly and roughly. They were poked and prodded, squeezed like melons at a farmer's market and her nipples were affixed to something that seemed to do nothing other than suckle at her with steadily increasing pressure that peaked with her literally screaming, then backing off a bit and going through the entire cycle again, and once they were placed, they remained there for the rest of the examination.
Sometimes the doctor stopped by. He seemed to like to kibitz about what was being done to her, and that just made things worse for Darcy. It meant there were four hands she couldn't see rather than just two. And it was the doctor who always made sure that Nurse Carson knew she was not to affect any direct sexual stimulation. That was his purview—he wanted to make that clear from the start so that there was no confusion, as there seemed to have been with Crawford.
If there was any jealousy on Carson's part about the boss horning in on what she was doing, it didn't show. In fact, they seemed to work depressingly well together, each of them attuned to even her slightest response—not that what they were doing inspired much less than full volume reactions.
It was the doctor who had told the Nurse Manager that Darcy hated metal speculums, which, of course, she then began
to use exclusively. He also let her know where Crawford had left off with her anal training.
She had overheard them talking once about the fact that Nurse Carson was going to be taking over Crawford's reeducation, and Darcy allowed herself to be mean spirited enough to hope that she could get to see even just a small part of that.
And she got her wish much sooner than she had expected, although she was sitting on a freshly blistered bottom while doing so.
The Nurse Manager informed all of them two weeks ahead of time about a meeting that was going to be conducted after their regular hours and attendance was mandatory—there would be no exceptions. Darcy remained quite apprehensive—understandably, considering her previous experience—that she was going to end up being the star of another show, but it never came to that, even though she knew she was the subject of much speculation by her fellow employees.
She originally took a seat in the back of the gallery, but when the lights slowly went up as the curtains were automatically pulled back, and she saw who was going to be on the receiving end for a change, she moved to an open seat in the front, so that she wouldn't miss a thing. Darcy thought she'd feel vengeful through the whole thing, considering what Angine Crawford had done to her, but as soon as she saw the helpless woman spread wide on the table, unable to prevent or even much protest what they were going to do to her, she was disappointed to realize that she felt more empathetic than vengeful, and then she felt ashamed about feeling disappointed.
Especially when Nurse Carson blindfolded the poor shaking, begging girl, and then looked towards the doctor, who nodded just slightly, and Angine had a large roll of bandages pressed into her mouth, too, held there by a thin strap.
The begging stopped, but the whimpering began.
Another nod from Doctor Brackett and Carson rose to press a button on a small electrical panel, and suddenly, those in the gallery could hear what was being said on the exam room floor, which played right in to the doctor's tendency to wax eloquent. He loved to hear himself speak. "Now, I know that at least one of you watching has found herself here in exactly this spot once before, only she was on the other side of the speculum, but I wanted to mention that any of you could end up here if your behavior warrants—not just those three who are currently on the low rung of the ladder. Neither Nurse Carson nor I are willing to put up with misbehavior of any kind, as I'm sure you all realize."
Darcy watched, rapt, entirely unable to look away from the scene below no matter how abhorrent her mind found it as the vulnerable girl's nipples were clamped with what must have been horrible force, based on the urgent, keening tone her moans took on once they were applied with casual ruthlessness. And the torture didn't stop there; it was literally just beginning. They were the type of clamps that were on chains that could be used individually or linked together between the subject's breasts. But this time, they were kept individual, and the end of each chain was attached to a tripod that would normally have been used to help someone sit up in bed.
Instead, it was hoisted up in the air until the tension was such that there was a constant tugging on Angine's nipples. Everyone could see just how far that actively bitten flesh was being stretched. Speculation ran rampant through those watching as to whether they were the types of instruments that, as they were pulled, clamped down that much harder on their captive.
Darcy would have expected nothing less.
"Why, yes, yes, they are," the doctor confirmed, nodding his head.
The crowd drew a collective startled breath, having not realized that their conversations were being monitored, then the soft buzzing of speculation began again, only this time, everyone was wondering for how long they had been eavesdropped upon, wondering if they'd said anything that was going to get them into this type of trouble, specifically.
But it was impossible to tell, really. Everyone had a reasonable idea of the rules, but not necessarily how stridently they would be enforced.
Darcy didn't participate in their murmurings. Her hand had found its way over her mouth, and she wasn't sure whether that was to keep her from cheering the doctor and his overly willing assistant on or to keep herself from crying out in sympathy for the way Angine was being treated. She was still fixated on the sight before them—feeling almost as if she was the one stretched out, writhing, on the table, instead of Angine.
Then a picture appeared on two huge plasma TVs that had been mounted on opposite walls of the room, showing, in high resolution—and in excruciatingly intimate detail—exactly what the doctor was seeing as he looked at Angine's most private places. She was unable to interfere with his view in any way, because her legs were held, pried fully apart, by some sort of contraption that fit over each acutely bent knee, preventing her from closing or stretching her legs in any way, and holding them so far up and out, if she could turn her head to lift it a bit, she'd probably be awfully close to being able to kiss her knee cap.
And it was that extreme vulnerability—and extreme exposure—that got to Darcy more so than anything else she was seeing. She knew—better than anyone else in the room—how it felt to be on display like that, to be lying there, having things done to you against your will. As much as any of them might have agreed to the doctor's rules, something like this was always going to be against anyone's will.
She wanted to go down there and help her, to make them stop this, but when she heard the doctor say her name in that autocratic tone of his, every bit of the bravado she had worked up deserted her completely in an instant and all she could do was freeze.
"Nurse Darcy Hanson, are you up there?"
Just the utterance of her name had Angine trying futilely to scream.
"Y-yes, sir," she answered hesitatingly, not wanting to earn herself another punishment that would make her end up like the poor unfortunate below and knowing that he had only asked in order to manipulate her. There was no way he didn't know she was there.
She needed her job—and the generous bonuses she was receiving—too much to skip a mandatory meeting, even one like this.
"Come down here."
White as a ghost, Darcy stood, but that was as far as she could get. As she did her best to convince her body to do as she bid, tears streamed down her cheeks, making her plight just that much worse.
Finally, one of her coworkers, in front of whom she was standing, gave her a shove and she shuffled out of the relative safety of the gallery, down the stairs and into the room. She didn't remember much about it from her previous appearance there. She had been much too concentrated on what they were doing to her, rather than her surroundings. It was bigger than she'd imagined, but, then, it wasn't the room that had held her attention, as it wasn't now.
It was Angine and the blatant, awful sight of her.
And the fact that—to her surprise and dismay—her hand itched to hold a paddle in her hand to swing down onto the other woman's trussed up nates, as had been done so many times before to her by the woman who was going to have to endure an experience that was much like her own.
Darcy would have been willing to bet that idea had never so much as floated through Angine's mind.
Chapter 7
"Nurse Hanson, come here and describe for us—and for those who might be too far away to see the details well, what's on the table," the doctor ordered.
She complied, stiffly, robotically, her feet propelling her slowly forward. She could hear Angine's muffled, frantic protestations as she neared where she lay. Darcy knew that she wasn't saying anything for or to the doctor, the nurse, or the crowd. She was going to be telling Angine what she could expect to be punished with.
Once she was at his side, he showed her a tray that Nurse Carson had conveniently set up very nearby and her mouth formed a surprised—and embarrassed—"O" at what was on it—various sizes of specula from tiny to "oh my God", butt plugs from what would be unnoticeable to anyone who was wearing it to traffic cone sized, various balms and lotions, none of which would feel in the least pleasant anywhere on the
body, much less on the intimate places she knew it was going to be used, and more clamps, chains, dildos and punishment implements than she could have imagined existed.
To her horror, she recognized each and every one of the ones that had ever been used on her in the course of her tenure at the doctor's office—and that was a large percentage of what she saw.
Her description, however, was much less passionate and more on the clinical side, to the doctor's disappointment. He couldn't really punish her for that, though, because she wasn't technically wrong. She just hadn't done what he wanted in the manner than he would have preferred.
Instead, he chose to move the program along. "We're going to have a bit of a role reversal here," the doctor began, and Darcy knew that everyone who was watching could hear everything that was being said. "Nurse Carson and I are going to assist you. We'll do anything you tell us to do, as long as it's not something tiresome, like 'release her'."
Darcy didn't say anything as the doctor vacated his usual wheeled stool, rolling it towards her. She looked down at it for a long moment but didn't take it right away. She felt as if she was personally experiencing the struggle between good and evil that a lot of movie heroes do, and as much as she wanted to be strong and brave and turn and walk away from the whole scene, she couldn't quite manage to. The darker side of her personality was definitely winning.
And the doctor was no help. He was far from the patient type. In a very casual, conversational tone, he asked, "Did I mention that if I don't think you're being sufficiently harsh on her that I'm going to have you restrained on a bed right next to her?"
That was just the motivation Darcy needed to assume that unfamiliar position. She rolled herself between Angine's legs as the severely bound woman keened understandably. This wasn't something she would ever have anticipated—that the woman she had such an active hand in tormenting would, in turn, be allowed to do the same to her.
Doctor's Orders: A Steamy Medical Romance Page 7