by Laurel Aspen
However, being spanked by a man - or at least the prospect of it - had of late caused Amy to frequently fantasise about lying across Dr Gooding’s trousered knees. Being spanked by another female, though, she decided did nothing for her, except inculcate a desire for revenge.
Which came about by proxy sooner than Amy had reckoned.
‘That should feel better,’ Dr Gooding intoned at length, reluctantly taking his hands from Amy’s perfect orbs. Smiling appreciatively she tugged up her knickers and straightened her stockings.
‘Would you like to sit?’ enquired the kindly consultant.
‘No, on balance,’ Amy gingerly rubbed her still glowing haunches, ‘I think at least another half hour standing is required.’
‘So be it,’ nodded the doctor sympathetically. ‘Nevertheless, it seems only fair you should be present while I reacquaint Matron with the rules of this establishment. She will not,’ he continued, raising his voice to drown out his wife’s agitated protests, ‘be accorded any special clemency by virtue of our marital arrangements.’
‘But,’ Matron was pleading now, ‘you can’t, it’s too humiliating, whip me if you must, but not in front of junior staff.’
The clinic’s director remained implacable. ‘You have unfairly taken it upon yourself to punish Amy,’ a task the doctor had eagerly been looking forward to performing himself, ‘thus, in my judgement, it is appropriate that in the interests of justice being seen to be done she should watch you suffer a similar penalty.’
On this he remained immoveable and so it came to pass, before Amy’s astonished eyes, that after token struggles and the forcible rearrangement of her clothing, Matron was to be found in the selfsame position Amy had occupied only a short time previously. During which time it further emerged that the good lady’s underwear was far from conforming to the clinic’s regulation uniform policy; that admirably wasp-like waist, for instance, being partly achieved with the assistance of a black corset. Matron’s knickers, so flimsy as to comprise little more than a thong, were rapidly turned down over firmly sculpted thighs to follow the seams of sheer black stockings down to her trim ankles, then cast off onto the floor for the duration.
Matron’s embarrassment was complete; a woman of authority, mature in years, well proportioned of figure, draped with buttocks bared across her master’s knee like some errant schoolgirl awaiting the amply earned smacking of her naughty bottom. And smacked it was, thoroughly and soundly, the percussive rhythm of Dr Gooding’s punishing palm counterpointed by the frequently dissonant moans of a much distressed recipient. Amy smiled as, reacting to the searing smart inexorably spreading across her expertly burnished globes, Matron twisted and struggled to no avail in Dr Gooding’s masculine grasp.
Her spanking took far longer than Amy’s had, for no better reason than because Matron’s bottom was bigger. Not by any means fat, in fact delectably taut of muscle and firm of flesh, but greater in expanse and consequently requiring more time to be comprehensively slapped to a satisfactorily scarlet hue. When Dr Gooding’s hand became tired and started to smart, Amy was beckoned to helpfully provide a hairbrush from Matron’s handbag. Just as when it was time for Matron to surrender the token protection of those skimpy pants, Amy was quickly on hand to assist.
During the closing stages of this prolonged bum-basting Matron, losing the last vestige of restraint, drummed her fists on the carpet in anguish, wailing piteously, carelessly kicking her legs and affording the two greatly amused watchers, now exchanging conspiratorial glances at every available opportunity, an excellent close-up view of her dewy cleft and the rosebud of her tightly clenched anus.
Ever the perfectionist, Dr Gooding was finally content with these punitive preliminaries and ceased his chastising ministrations. Any relief Matron might have hoped to enjoy was, however, short-lived, for in short order she again found herself emulating Amy, bent firmly over the doctor’s desk.
Told to grip the far edge tightly and keep her feet at least eighteen inches apart, she gasped in shock when Dr Gooding announced his intention to dispense six salutary strokes of the cane. Amy gasped too, albeit for very different reasons; partly in amazement, for this unexpected development took her own girlish spanking fantasies into a whole new realm. Yet also at the electric jolt of sexual pleasure that coursed though every inch of her body, suffusing her vulva with an intense sensual desire for a very particular, penetrative human contact.
‘Don’t think for a moment,’ Dr Gooding lifted the prostrate woman’s chin, forcing her to look him straight in the eye, ‘that I don’t know exactly whom else you have taken it upon yourself to punish, and how. Maria has made a full statement and at some point in the future you and I will take time to experiment with the efficacy of including breasts or even,’ walking behind her he flicked the tip of the cane up into the apex of Matron’s spread legs, ‘your private parts as an area suitable to be beaten.’
‘Oow!’ Tears welled up in Matron’s eyes, causing dark mascara to run in rivulets down her cheeks as she struggled to clench her thighs around an agonising new pain that threatened to penetrate her to the very core.
As she watched the slender bamboo repeatedly come into harsh contact with the pleasurably plump cheeks of her erstwhile tormentor, Amy surreptitiously ground the heel of her hand against her yearning sex. Self-control long since abandoned, Matron cried out as each perfectly horizontal stroke sunk unyieldingly into her soft flesh, animating her torso with physical gyrations on the desk’s highly polished surface. After every stroke Dr Gooding waited patiently, oblivious to the moans and wails emanating from the hapless, helplessly sobbing figure before him, letting the pain of yet another vivid red weal sink deep into her bounteous buttocks.
Six successive strokes, real bottom-clenching scorchers, sinking deep into Matron’s generous curves on impact, were enough to make even the watching Amy wince in sympathy at the unfortunate woman’s undoubtedly genuine distress.
After the last one Matron slumped forward, exhausted by the effort required to maintain her position amid the relentless assault on her tram-lined hindquarters, tears dripping onto the surface of the desk, her blazing bottom seared by lines of molten fire.
Yet even now her ordeal was not over. Dismissing Amy from his office with instructions to return in no less than an hour, Dr Gooding turned his attention to the final part of his prescribed treatment for delinquent staff and spouses alike.
Reaching into a drawer he produced a small tube of Vaseline and began to work the slippery lubricant into the deep cleavage of her buttock crease. Matron knew only to well what to expect next, and the benefits attendant on her cooperation. To assist this task she simultaneously raised her haunches on tiptoe, pushing her striped cheeks back towards her tormentor whilst reaching behind with shaking fingers to part her two peaches, thus affording him unencumbered access to her puckered rosebud.
With skilful fingers Dr Gooding worked the unguent around the outer rim of her anus, reaching further, around her perineum to slick the juices seeping from her aching quim over her tight rear entrance. Steadying her hips with one hand he dropped his trousers and brought the tip of his rock-hard cock to rest against the portal of Matron’s most private part.
‘Push back,’ he commanded and, gasping at the soreness as her soundly thrashed buttocks made contact with his abdomen, she did so, impaling her tradesman’s entrance on the tip of his distended rod.
Slowly, carefully, Dr Gooding eased the impressive length of his pulsing penis deeper, inch by inch, into her rectum, until Matron felt her back passage filled to the brim and stretched to the limit.
‘Oh yes,’ she growled lustily, ‘a rectal probe. Oh, I love it when you fuck me up the arse.’ Gradually she started to rock cautiously back and forth on his cock, sliding down a hand to entwine her fingers with his own, bringing both to bear on her craving clitoris.
‘Oh good, oh yes.’ Almost delirious with pleasure Matron crammed her free hand into her mouth to stifle her ecstatic moans as th
ey rocked together, yearning for, yet in a strange contradiction of intent, anxious to postpone the orgasm both were moving inexorably towards.
‘Worked like a dream, didn’t it?’ murmured Dr Gooding.
‘You don’t think she guessed?’ queried his wife.
‘No, as always, credulous but biddable,’ the good doctor said.
‘What a combination,’ agreed Matron, ‘the possibilities are endless. Now harder please, doctor, I need an energetic rogering.’
‘Don’t you always?’ sighed the doctor, as the required fucking was duly dispensed.
Back in her room, Amy reached gratefully into her bedside drawer for the larger of the two vibrators she kept hidden there. It had looked as if Matron’s severe punishment was to be concluded by a vigorous fucking, and not in the conventional place. The image this conjured in Amy’s already overcrowded mind stimulated even more of the copious outpourings already soaking her overheated pussy, enabling her to slide the large dildo in to the hilt with a single stroke. ‘Oh…’ she murmured as she sank its nine-inch length deep, again and again; this really was proving to be a taxing job.
An hour later, showered and changed into crisp clean uniform whites, she attended Dr Gooding’s office as ordered.
‘Amy, I’m currently engaged in some cutting research to do with the psychosexual, something which could have wide reaching implications and greatly enhance the international profile of this clinic,’ he began, with customary self-importance.
‘Psychosexual?’ she said warily, without a clue what he meant but a shrewd idea of the likely implications.
Dr Gooding favoured her with his most winning smile. ‘Yes, psychosexual. You see, it was blatantly obvious to me that during this morning’s, um, events, you were becoming increasingly aroused.’
‘W-well, I…’ stammered Amy, blushing crimson at the recall; after all, this was not the sort of behaviour generally required of nurses. Or was it? As she struggled to suppress her embarrassment Dr Gooding continued, unfazed.
‘It’s quite common, actually, the delicious erotic tension between pleasure and pain, their parlous and complex dichotomous interrelationship…’
Christ on a bike! thought Amy. How many polysyllables did this guy know? It seemed to her, at least, breathtakingly simple; getting her bum tanned - not too hard, mind - put her in the mood for sex.
‘CP stimulates certain areas of the epidermis, triggering receptors…’
Was this just a convoluted way, Amy wondered as the doctor droned on, of getting into her knickers?
‘Yes, okay,’ she decided, cutting off the doctor in mid-flow but providing exactly the answer he hoped to get, ‘I’d be pleased to assist with your experiment.’
By the next afternoon Amy was beginning to have serious second thoughts. For a start, the position she was in. Not uncomfortable, exactly, the top of the examination couch was well padded with soft leather, but talk about exposed!
The couch was a little lower than a standard hospital trolley and about as high as a dining table. Amy knelt longitudinally along it feeling extremely self-conscious; this really was a most unconventional position for any doctor to conduct an examination. Knelt atop the couch, head resting on her forearms, bottom rudely exposed, Amy’s crisp white tunic had been neatly folded to her waist, her knickers lowered to her knees, exposing - she blushed at the thought - her downy pubic mound and rosebud anus for anyone entering the room to see. Fortunately the only other people there were Maria, Matron and, of course the instigator, Dr Gooding, who surveyed his patient with undisguised pleasure. For a start this was proof positive that her blonde hair was from a gene pool not a bottle.
‘Excellent, Amy, now try to relax while I attach these electrodes,’ he said.
‘How many are there?’ she asked, a tremor in her voice.
‘Four,’ Dr Gooding responded promptly, ‘one on each labia, so…’
‘Oh!’ Just this fleeting touch to her most erogenous of zones sent jolts of undiluted pleasure through Amy’s moistening sex.
‘One on each nipple…’ Lowering the top of her apron the doctor unbuttoned and opened Amy’s tunic, and without asking for any form of consent, possessively teased each breast out from its white bra cup, leaving the lacy fabric tightly in situ beneath them, snugly squeezing and lifting the perfect globes to his attentions. The nipples were, he noted with approval, already hard and erect.
‘Ah,’ this fleeting contact served to send further sparks of pure adrenalin flowing through Amy’s slender frame. Blue eyes glazed, mouth slack with barely suppressed arousal, she gazed submissively up at the domineering physician, all the while incongruously retaining her starched white nurse’s cap. ‘W-what now, sir?’ she asked huskily, furtively hoping the reply would involve plenty more of his assured but gentle touch.
‘Now the thermometer…’
But for a presciently applied restraining hand between her shoulders, Amy would have shot bolt upright; nothing had ever invaded her rearmost orifice before, but once she grew accustomed to its rigid presence the feeling proved not altogether unpleasant.
Sensing her vulnerability, Maria smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Don’t worry, Amy, I also have been, what is it? Ah yes, a guinea pig, this is not so bad, I think?’ She looked meaningfully at the doctor. ‘In fact, you shall eventually enjoy it.’
What could she mean? Amy was puzzled, and why was Matron smiling? She rarely smiled but today she looked relaxed, almost friendly. Why were they both present, anyway? Amy’s brain found multi-tasking taxing at the best of times, but was fortunately distracted from her fruitless contemplation by the doctor removing the thermometer, leaving her bottom feeling strangely empty.
‘Temperature normal, settings at zero,’ he announced. The wires attached to Amy were linked to two complex looking items of electrical apparatus, each with a digital display. ‘Now, Amy,’ he continued persuasively, ‘I’m going to test your reactions to two types of CP. Passive, in which instance you’ll just be an observer, and then active as a recipient. This equipment will record your reactions to both. Are you ready?’
‘Yes, Doctor Gooding,’ she said uncertainly. Now the moment of truth was here Amy’s mouth had gone dry and she could feel her heart pounding. So, Matron and Maria must be present to assist, she thought.
‘Good. Matron, would you be good enough to show us your buttocks, please?’
‘Certainly, Doctor Gooding.’ Matron stepped elegantly into the centre of the room, where Amy could see her more clearly, then turning her back on the doctor and patient she performed a dip and with tantalising slowness raised her uniform dress over Rubin-esque hips.
Above the dark welts of her immaculately parallel seamed black stockings she wore only a thong, and in consequence most of her magnificent posterior was bare. More than twenty-four hours had passed since her husband so severely thrashed her ripe contours, and although the handprints of the preliminary spanking had faded the livid raised weals left by the cane were still clearly visible, dulled slightly now to a series of angry purple lines dissecting her ivory-pale complexion.
‘Oh dear,’ Amy cringed in sympathy, ‘that must be so sore.’
Matron smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve done very little sitting down recently, I can assure you, and last night I slept on my front.’
All the better to fuck her from the rear, mused the doctor, with silent satisfaction.
‘Poor you,’ said Amy with heartfelt sincerity, as Matron decorously rearranged her clothes.
‘Ah, most interesting,’ whispered the doctor, largely to himself, ‘there was a distinct, clearly measurable reaction there, Amy. At a sub-conscious level, at least, your brain definitely found that sight stimulating.’
More than he could know, Amy thought, aware of a curious urge to massage Matron’s bottom with soothing cream, prior to unhurriedly kissing it better.
‘Hmm, let’s just pop the thermometer back in…’ said the doctor, and already growing accustomed to the slender glass rod’s i
nvasion, this time Amy scarcely winced at its intrusion.
‘Interesting, a slight increase in temperature,’ observed the doctor, jotting notes as he spoke. If only he knew just how hot she was getting in there, thought Amy.
‘Okay, Matron and Maria, if you take up the desired positions I’m ready for our next experiment.’
‘Certainly, Doctor Gooding.’ Matron took a straight-backed chair and placed it centrally within Amy’s line of sight. She would sit down and put Maria over her knee, thought Amy, but she was wrong. Instead, raising her tunic to her waist, Maria turned and with a deliberately coy fluttering of eyelashes to either Amy, the doctor, or perhaps both, slid her knickers down white stocking-clad legs to her ankles before carefully lifting each dainty high-heeled foot to remove them completely, her raven-black bush peeking provocatively from between her thighs. Knickers right off, she straddled the chair facing its back, her bottom slightly over the front edge of the seat, then firmly gripping the back of it she dropped her chin to her hands whilst pushing her gorgeously pert bum out in mute invitation.
‘Superb,’ said Dr Gooding, a slight croak apparent in his voice as his professional detachment struggled against the erotic vista unfolding before him. ‘Matron, if you please.’
‘Of course.’ Matron produced the tawse with which she’d beaten Maria’s upended bottom in front of Amy just a few weeks previously. Raising it shoulder height she brought it down across the petite Filipino’s two proudly outthrust orbs once more, but on this occasion far more gently. Amy was so entranced, concentrating so hard that she almost forgot to breath. Matron continued to strap Maria’s dusky posterior, carefully, considerately, using her wrist to flick the split leather tails, burnishing her skin, imparting nothing more uncomfortable than a gentle smart, building gradually to a deep, sensuous heat.