by Laurel Aspen
‘Excellent,’ Rob enthused, catching her expression and accurately interpreting the accompanying body language, her hands clasped nervously in front, eyes downcast. ‘Now stop prevaricating and come here!’
Stunned by this strident tone, Beth stepped towards him only to be grabbed and lifted easily off her feet. Seating himself upon a sturdy upright chair, Rob pulled her effortlessly facedown across his lap, limbs dangling helplessly, toes barely in contact with the polished wooden floor.
Raising his hand Rob brought it down hard across her leather-clad haunches, and again and again, the slaps echoing loudly around the minimally furnished room. Beth kicked feebly but could do nothing to stop the assault. Her leather skirt meant she felt little more than the residual smart of the slaps rained upon her hapless behind, but there was no doubt Rob meant business.
Then unexpectedly, as quickly as he had begun, he ceased the spanking, pulling her dishevelled and breathless to her feet, and instinctively Beth reached back to rub her subtly stinging bum.
‘Stop that at once,’ he demanded, and Beth already knew better than to disobey.
None too gently Rob bade her sit precariously on the edge of a wide slate-topped dining table, feet dangling above the floor, hands flat beneath her slender thighs where, trapped by them, they’d be unable to offer any protection. Purposefully he tugged the silk top smoothly up Beth’s torso to expose two perfect breasts; neither too large nor too small; delicately sculpted and in no need of a bra they stood firm and erect.
A look of horror crossed her face as, too late, Beth realised his intention. Her face creased with trepidation and discomfort as he slapped her defenceless décolletage with a short, fine-tailed whip. Although the force of the blows was moderate they stung her prominent nipples and left angry pink lines, making Beth, her frail composure long since departed, cry out and plead for leniency. Immediately Rob stopped and comforting arms held her warm and close.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispered reassuringly, but Beth’s relief was short-lived for he clearly had other ideas. Roughly he grasped the hem of her skirt and tugged it up her legs, smiling with pleasure as he revealed her stocking tops and the bare flesh beyond them. Briefly he transferred the whip’s attentions to the front and insides of her exposed thighs. Beth yelped in anguish, more in apprehension than any real pain, yet although Rob laid the thin leather cords of the whip on gently they still left faint red weals, visible through the sheer nylon of her stockings.
Her feet kicked out in involuntary response, narrowly missing Rod, who pushed Beth flat on her back. Simultaneously grabbing the spindly heels of her boots in one fist he held her feet aloft, while applying the whip to the backs of her legs.
Beth screamed in shock and surprise, but was nevertheless soundly beaten, with stinging blows from the broad expanse of her buttocks to the top of her knee-length boots. Finally Rob stopped, released his grip and let her lie, wet-eyed and whimpering on the table. Reaching out he carefully cupped her face, turning her to look at him. ‘Welcome to the other side,’ he said softly.
‘Of what?’ Beth snivelled.
‘Of CP,’ explained Rob, ‘beyond laughing, light-hearted hand spankings, where the trials and tribulations are much more taxing but the rewards commensurately greater.’
As he spoke his fingers and thumbs teased and pinched her erect nipples, causing sensual shivers of pleasure to counterpoint the discomfort of her soundly whipped arse.
‘What you’ve felt so far was but an introduction,’ he said, hoisting her from the counter, ‘now it’s time we both employed greater restraint. Sweeping her from atop the sturdy table Rob forced Beth facedown over its edge and pushed her booted legs wide apart. Acutely aware of her vulnerable, spread-eagled position, Beth nevertheless put up no struggle. Prurient curiosity overwhelmed innate caution; she had to know what would happen next…
Rob was clearly in no hurry, pausing as he removed her skirt to admire her squirming buttocks, now flushed with a vibrant crimson. ‘Such a beautiful sight,’ he said quietly, pulling her abandoned panties from around an ankle.
Beth took comfort from the remark, for surely beauty has no place for cruelty, then groaned, realising her vagina and anus were now fully exposed to Rob’s lascivious gaze. She would not be permitted even the minimal protection of the minuscule scrap of material that were her panties. Greater astonishment followed, Beth waited, tensely expecting further punishment to commence at any moment. But not so, instead his fingers set to work on her yearning pussy, entering her labia, first one then another, dipping deep into the wetness within. Beth was making mewing noises, wantonly pushing back against the heel of his hand. Spreading Beth’s nether cheeks, Rob momentarily abandoned her sopping vagina to drip massage oil into the valley of her buttocks where it immediately began to lubricate the tightly puckered ring of her anus.
‘No!’ Beth struggled violently against the intimate invasion. No one had ever before plundered that most preciously personal space, now Rob was sliding his finger in, inch-by-inch, sending delightful sensations coursing through her ravaged rear.
Slowly Rob increased the speed of his thrusting digit, all the while rubbing her swollen clitoris. Twice he brought Beth teetering to the very brink of orgasm only to stop abruptly. Panting, begging aloud for release, her empty cunt yearning to be filled to the hilt, Beth found this cruel denial harder to bear than any beating.
‘Now I’ve got your attention,’ Rod said calmly, ‘and since you’re powerless to prevent it, let me tell you what will happen next.’ Ignoring Beth’s sigh of disappointment he removed his skilfully questing digits from both her orifices. ‘I’m going to punish your naughty little pussy.’
‘What?’ wailed Beth. ‘You can’t hit me there, it’s too tender. Please,’ her voice took on a note of desperation, ‘don’t smack me between my legs.’
‘Beth,’ Rob’s voice was dominating but persuasive, ‘in the last half hour I’ve taken you to, but not beyond, your limits. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Beth paused briefly before she sighed a grudging assent. True, she’d been pushed far beyond any fantasy she might ever have summoned the courage to request, but, well, her inundated sex was proof enough of the sexual effect Rob’s adeptly enacted chastisement was having. There was nothing to say.
‘Then we’ll proceed,’ he concluded, on behalf of them both.
Craning her neck to see back, Beth caught a glimpse of a straw brush, the sort used by waiters to sweep crumbs from tables. Saw, and then felt, as swiftly it began to make its presence plain. Swishing down into her most intimate cleft, sending waves of tingling sensations across the portals of her anus, prickling and tickling the lips of her pouting cunt. Relentlessly the outer lips of her sodden sex were brushed hot and pink as jolts of conflicting pain and pleasure swept her lower body. Beth’s nipples ached, her mascara had run; she longed for something thick and hard to fill her gaping void. At last the brush stopped, and suddenly Rob was in front of her.
‘Before I administer a final six cuts of the crop to conclude your punishment, you’ll demonstrate your willingness to receive them by sucking my cock,’ he said firmly, freeing its impressive girth from his trousers. ‘Alternatively, you have but to say “no” and it will be over.’
‘Over?’ Beth whispered. ‘And then to be left to die of frustration? Besides, I don’t know how the story finishes.’
‘Very well,’ said Rob, pushing his hips forward as she formed her mouth into a receptive ‘O’ and took him between her red lips and pearl-white teeth. Pleasurable minutes later Rob reluctantly pulled his shaft from her mouth, narrowly resisting the temptation to surrender completely to her sucking.
Raising the crop, he laid on the first of six successive blows, etching flaming tramlines across the broadest expanse of her haunches as she shrieked and shuddered in response. There was only one way to provide comfort and assuage the pain of the throbbing purple welts; Rob sank to his knees and ran his tongue across the flaming heat of her buttocks, and
Beth moaned and wriggled her hips in invitation. Prizing her thighs even further apart he discovered her stocking tops to be damp with Beth’s own sensual outpourings. Delicately he traced his tongue across the wetness of her inner thighs, pushing it determinedly between her labia while simultaneously slipping a finger slickly into her vagina. Beth’s velvety cunt tightened and, raising herself on the tips of her toes, she forced her craving pussy back against his mouth. Gasping and crying as Rob’s tongue licked and nibbled the entrance to her overheated honeypot, Beth soon came.
But Rob wasn’t finished yet. Taking the vibrator with his free hand he placed it against the tight ring of her arse. ‘Relax,’ he commanded, and somehow Beth trusted her tormentor enough to let her muscles slacken. Slowly, carefully, Rob forced the vibrating shaft deep inside her back passage, stretching her, then once more tonguing her soaking sex, he urgently slid the vibrator in and out until, within minutes, her hips convulsed and she collapsed in a second, shattering orgasm.
After a few breathless minutes Rob stood and cradled her in his arms, delicately kissing her lips and breasts. He tenderly massaged her wrists and rubbed soothing cream into her welted buttocks and thighs.
‘Now do you know how the story ends?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she murmured, reaching for his rampant cock, ‘and how the next one begins.’
Private Hospital
If first impressions were anything to go by then the long, lime tree-lined drive through landscaped gardens to the great house was a very promising start. Georgian with tasteful modern add-ons, not that Amy could have put a date to the architecture. Even the name on the signboard at the entrance, Welcome to the Gladesmore Clinic, oozed class. Not Hospital, nor even Nursing Home, but clinic - very professional sounding, thought Amy. Security, she noted, whilst discrete was pretty much on the ball. Fenced grounds, permanently staffed gatehouse, CCTV; something here was clearly worth protecting; very, what was the word? Exclusive, that was it. In the last three years Amy had acquired more than enough experience of mediocre ubiquity; a little bit of exclusivity could be just the thing. Gosh, she really hoped she got this job.
Inside the imposing portico her initial good impressions were further reinforced. Amy wasn’t sure if a place could smell expensive, but if so this building was in danger of olfactory overload. It even sounded wealthy, too; wooden floors, tiled floors, plush carpets, the solid clunk of stout oak doors. The clinic’s interiors weren’t opulent, that would have been far too vulgar; rather they struck first time visitors as being lush, discretely tasteful, the antithesis of the arriviste, Essex belt, money-no-object clique of footballers and soap stars who perversely were among their best clients. Other patients included ‘exhausted’ minor royalty, ‘tired and emotional’ management executives, ‘resting’ actors with ‘personal issues’, and embarrassed (and embarrassing) politicians.
God, Amy wanted to work here, in these fragrant sunlit halls, far from the scuffed, reeking corridors of NHS egalitarian health provision. Since she’d finished her general nursing training busy inner-city hospitals had been Amy’s lot, so it was definitely time for a change.
The fact that she had finished her training and qualified as an SRN had surprised many of her classmates. Not that Amy was unpopular, far from it. An engaging, likeable personality, good at talking to patients, a positive social asset; but academically she was not so strong. By no means stupid, she somehow gave the impression of sometimes being slightly disconnected. ‘On another planet’ and ‘airhead’ were two of the less kind descriptions. There was also a certain sense of credulity about Amy, an element of naïve suggestibility. Needless to say many of the lecturers, predictably enough almost all of the males, found that aspect of Amy’s personality quite beguiling. Factor in drop-dead gorgeous looks: blonde, shapely, neither too short nor too tall, generous of bosom and long of leg, and no, thinking again, it wasn’t a mystery that Amy had scraped through her exams and never subsequently been short of job offers.
Vacancies at the clinic were never advertised, recruitment here was by discreet word of mouth, soundings made, opinions sought from ‘our sort’ of people and those suggested invited to present themselves for consideration.
Ideally, mused the clinic’s director, Dr Gooding, just before interviewing this most recent applicant, nurses should be competent, but not over-bright. Too much initiative or imagination was not considered appropriate. Recruits should prove malleable, open to instruction and correction, and above all, given the, ahem, aesthetic tastes of the private hospital’s very well heeled clients - sorry, patients - bloody good looking.
Dr Gooding was not just the director but, thanks to a mixture of financial inventiveness and blatant social climbing, also a major shareholder in Grovelands. He took upon himself the onerous duty of interviewing every new employee, however humble the post for which they had applied. Interviewing nurses was one of his favourite diversions and, just as Amy’s first impressions of the clinic had been most favourable, so too was Dr Gooding’s opinion of her. ‘Interview’ was perhaps the wrong word for the rather one-sided soliloquies Dr Gooding liked to indulge. In truth he usually made up his mind about suitability within the first few minutes, but the opportunity to preen and boast was not to be missed.
Amy had been met by a beautiful young Asian girl, an all white uniform in stunning contrast to her dusky skin and long raven hair. ‘I’m Maria, the director’s PA, and also pretty new here,’ she’d confided before showing her into his palatial office overlooking the lawns. Her bright smile was friendly and sincere; Amy liked her immediately.
‘Discretion is everything to us, Ms Jones,’ Dr Gooding opined some fifteen minutes later, lounging in a large leather chair trying, without being too obvious about it, to sneak a glimpse up Amy’s commendably short skirt. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer but smart enough to work out the direction of his gaze, Amy infuriatingly crossed her legs and smiled; it wouldn’t hurt to have him wanting more.
‘You will no doubt be aware that we include high profile stars and political movers and shakers among our clients,’ Dr Gooding continued, twisting a pencil between his fingers, ‘not to mention an almost endless succession of B list celebrities. We’ve so many regular visitors, and it’s absolutely vital that their, um, “difficulties”, are not exposed to a prurient public.’
‘Oh, I quite understand,’ said Amy, who didn’t. ‘What are the most common treatments?’
‘Many of our patients suffer from various forms of stress. The trials and temptations of a high profile jet-set lifestyle are manifold. Most have a combination of symptoms; psychological, relationship problems, disruptive social behaviours and substance intolerances - prescription drugs, alcohol, cocaine and the like.’ Huh, thought Dr Gooding cynically, the wonderful world of euphemism, where everyone suffers but none are held accountable for their actions.
‘I see,’ replied Amy, who was beginning to, ‘and who admits them?’
‘A few are referred from more conventional medical establishments unable to meet their particular demands, sorry, needs. Others admit themselves when life gets too much or they need to retreat from the public eye. Many are sponsored by their companies, banks, football clubs, TV channels, sometimes the government.’
‘What sort of treatments do you offer?’ enquired Amy.
‘Often rest, recuperation, supervision, exercise and a good diet will help considerably,’ intoned Dr Gooding. ‘And counselling, obviously.’ All of which was of course medical shorthand for keeping the booze from patient’s mouths, their noses out of the devil’s marching powder and charging a fortune to listen to endless, inane, self-obsessed whining.
‘Any surgery?’ asked Amy, who’d come to much the same conclusion herself.
‘Minor repairs to accidental injuries apart, very little, aside of course from our renowned body re-profiling procedures, and that’s my department,’ answered Dr Gooding, proudly.
‘Body re-profiling?’
‘What was once te
rmed plastic surgery; breast enhancements, tummy tucks, liposuction, nose jobs… not that you’re in any need of anything from that little list,’ Dr Gooding concluded heartily. ‘Now then, before you start, a few pointers on uniform and discipline.’
So at some point during that discourse Amy had apparently been hired. She heaved an audible sigh of relief and leaned forward to hear her new boss’s instructions.
‘We’re sticklers for uniform and manners here,’ Dr Gooding explained enthusiastically, ‘a bit old-fashioned I know, but none the worse for it. You’ll share a room with Maria, my PA, initially; she’ll fill you in on the finer points. Come back and see me tomorrow when they’ve got you kitted out. Now, about your salary…’
Later that evening Amy sat in a large comfortable bed-sit at the top of one of the clinic’s more recent wings with her new roommate. On her bed lay a pile of new uniform clothes and a slender book of rules and instructions. Amy had been amazed to be offered the job on the spot, and even more so by the generous salary. Wow, she thought for the third time in as many minutes, struggling to concentrate on what Maria was trying to tell her, it was nearly twice her old salary; whatever could they expect from her for that?
‘Okay, on top it’s very simple: blue cotton candy-striped dress, starched white apron and cap,’ Maria said, taking her through the uniform piece by piece. ‘Underneath, also very traditional - be sure to get this right, because Matron will check and she is very strict - bra, knickers, stockings and suspender belt, all white, as are the matching shoes.’
‘High heels?’ gasped Amy. ‘For nursing?’
‘Yes, I know, they feel strange at first,’ Maria smiled shyly, ‘but such shoes give a good posture, no?’ she twirled and pushed out her pert little bum in illustration. ‘And there is not much lifting and carrying, so it’s not so bad, I think.’ Maria’s English was still a little idiomatic.