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Friday, 25 May 2018

Isolation Ward

Story from Uniform Girls 18
The short, soft hiss of escaping air broke the awkward silence. The chair slowly dropped on its gas cylinder as he pushed the control lever, the body draped over the seat of the chair adopting a less dramatic angle. Another hiss, and the cotton-covered bottom which formed the rounded apex of the triangle sank a little lower, until he was satisfied with its position.
No words were exchanged as the owner of that bottom watched him move across the room to pick up the thick, heavy length of leather, split into three flat tails at one end. He slapped it gently against his left palm, the noise it made startlingly loud. Leaning over the chair, he fitted his fingers into the waistband of the girl’s panties and pulled them in­exorably down, the leather brushing the softness of her right cheek as she lifted her hips unbidden to allow the downward passage of her last defence.
The buttocks were still well-rounded despite her angled position lying over the high swivel chair, her hands gripping the circular foot rail about twelve inches off the carpet. She studied the pattern, a lit­tle grubby, as she heard him move behind: there was a slight whirr as the tapes laced themselves round the recor­ding heads and started to run. She resisted the impulse to tense her muscles, suspecting it would only exacerbate the imminent discomfort.
The tawse was laid — invitingly — across the soft proffered target. The pause after its departure seemed to last for minutes. On its return, it announced its arrival with a short, sharp, noisy Slaapp! which stimulated a reflex inhala­tion from the recipient. The intake of breath was followed, as ordered, by the pronouncement: ‘ONE!’ A sixty second pause followed, as the mark of the tawse’s visit became increasingly and vividly evident.
There was no warning of the second blow, which struck lower across the girl’s fleshy fullness, driving the softness up and to each side with its force, the but­tocks quivering with the impact before assuming their former curvature: ‘TWO!’ she yelped.
Another full minute elapsed, the only sound the gentle hum of the video recorder and the occasional distant roar of a truck passing on the way to the quarry. The sun was slanting steeply through the venetian blind in the office, its effect dimmed by the brightness of the ‘redhead’ television floodlights which il­luminated her unwilling predicament.
The leather wrapped itself eagerly round her nether regions once again, the sting intensified as it crossed areas it had already visited: ‘THREE!’ She gripped tightly to the foot bar to stop herself reaching round and rubbing the affected area, confining herself to a rhythmic contract… relax… contract of her gluteal muscles.
The regular impact of the fiercely stinging leather with her bare buttocks continued as the camera’s disinterested glass eye dutifully recorded the chang­ing hues and physical responses of this assault. ‘FOUR!’ ‘FIVE!’ ‘SIX!’ ‘SEVEN!’ ‘EIGHT!’ ‘NINE!’ ‘TEN!’
Both cheeks were numbed by the in­cessant impact, the nerve endings clos­ing down the system which warned of contact with a fast-moving object. It was going to keep coming whatever messages they sent to the brain. Their owner seem­ed oblivious to the problem, or was will­ing to submit to the pain for reasons unknown.
Angela remembered how she had first come into the world of stinging bottoms with Mr Foulger. It was a small display ad in the local paper asking for an en­thusiastic amateur actress willing to play a major role in a documentary film. Lit­tle had she realised as the storyline of this ‘documentary’ was described to her that he was expecting her to bare all and suf­fer for the sake of realism. The title of the film was, surprisingly perhaps, The boss: master or megalomaniac?
The interview had been relaxed, friendly, and — well, intriguing. No specifics had been forthcoming initially, but general references to ‘a fantasy se­quence’ had been mentioned. She had been asked to bring a leotard, and after about twenty minutes of talk Dr Foulger asked her to change into it so he could take some ‘reference’ photographs.
Angela had then plucked up the courage to ask what sort of ‘fantasy’ the sequence would contain.
‘Oh, nothing outrageous: no sex or bondage, just a bit of mild corporal punishment, like at school…’ came the reply. She had looked at him, waiting for more information. ‘You know, a good spanking on the bottom.’
‘Corporal punishment?’
‘Properly controlled, of course, pro­perly controlled: to demonstrate the logical extreme extension of the master/servant relationship in hypothetical terms.’ He paused. ‘It’s a fantasy sequence, you see. Nothing sordid!’
‘Oh, I see.’ She didn’t. ‘How…?’
‘On the old gluteus maximus… your bare bottom, my dear… with a special strap, or a cane… that sort of thing.’
‘Ummm… bare?’ he nodded. ‘Hard?’
‘Oh, not too hard, but we need it to be realistic, and you can’t really fake these things with make-up and trick photography: we’re on a very limited budget, you see.’
‘Ah of course.’
‘Well, Miss Walker: I’d be happy to offer you the role, if you’re interested.’
‘You mentioned a fee?’
‘Ah, yes. That’s £50.’
It didn’t seem like a lot of money, but then the experience would be useful, Angela told herself, and any money was better than none.
And so it was that Angela found herself lying face down over the adjustable height office chair — back removed for convenience, as no-one was required to sit on it, while Mr Foulger applied his directorial and acting expertise to her bare, and now very sore, backside.
Slaaappp! ‘ELEVEN!’ Slaappp! ‘TWELVE!’ Slaappp! ‘THIRTEEN!’ Slaappp! ‘FOURTEEN!’ Slaappp! ‘FIFTEEN!’
‘Get up, please.’ The first words he had spoken since telling her to bend over the chair. She stood and waited, knickers still at mid-thigh, while he fiddled with the zoom lens to adjust the focus on her bruised posterior. The strapping had been a severe one, but she’d taken it well, and the thought of the £50 in cash was sufficient balm to her injured pride — and bum.
Another few minutes of fiddling with a still camera to record the effects of the thrashing, and it was over. Mr Foulger handed over the envelope containing the folded fivers, and Angela slipped into her dress and top. It had all been — as he had said — properly controlled. But it had still bloody hurt like hell!
The girl left as he plugged up the large screen TV and pushed the first cassette into the U-matic video recorder. The image was clear, clean, and dramatic. He could detect the soft down at the top of the division between her full-fleshed cheeks, the dusting of fair hair on the firm thighs, the vivid discolouration as each successive stroke built its effect on the yielding creaminess.
As her legs scissored after a particularly painful blow, the soft folds of her sex were revealed, the dark curls unable to disguise their enticing form. Miss Walker was a very attractive young lady, and an ideal subject for a documentary.
The slow-motion facility allowed a closer analysis of the effect of each stroke, as the rounded target appeared to be attempting to escape, the flesh forced out around the leather as it seemed to slice through her fundament.
The gas-lift chair had been an inspiration of Jack’s, a close friend for many years who shared his penchant for the chastisement of young ladies. Jack would enjoy these first videos. Three cameras: one from the back, one from the side, and another — concealed — in the bureau in front of the chair, to record the facial contortions of the subject.
Another of the three applicants Mr Foulger had seen was an attractive blonde girl, full-lipped and pert, whom he had seen at the bus-stop on numerous occasions. Melanie Moorfield had always fancied herself as a bit of a star: she was pleasing to look at, and a leading light in the local operatic and dramatic society.
An object of lust by a large number of the society’s members, the svelte form of Miss Moorfield was much appreciated when she appeared in a society skit taking off the film Fame! wearing snug shorts and brief top. The shorts served only to emphasise her long legs and the fact that she did not bother with a bra.
At twenty, Melanie was only too aware of her effect on men, and used it to her advantage — and hers alone. With no long-term attachment, she ran a string of young suitors. None of them had ever managed a conquest, though there were many who claimed to have got over the final fence in the race to bed her.
At the interview, her reaction to the ‘corporal punishment’ information was a short and snapped: ‘You don’t honestly think I’m going to let you smack my bottom in the cause of some gratuitous fantasy scene, do you, Mr Foulger? I mean, it’s indecent!’ She had also refused to change into a leotard, but agreed to have a full length and head shot photograph taken. The tight jeans flattered her figure to great effect. Hers was a bottom, thought Mr Foulger, which would benefit more than most from a damn good hiding.
It was something of a surprise, therefore, when Melanie Moorfield called him at his home to ask if he would consider her for his documentary, ‘providing it’s discreetly done.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he smiled, not bothering to ask why she had changed her mind.
He was not sure if she would, after all, turn up the following Saturday as arranged. Jack, down especially for the event, had already sunk three large scotches when there was a firm knock at the door.
Mr Foulger stepped to one side as Melanie tripped in clutching a case: ‘You did say a nurse’s uniform, Mr Foulger?’ He nodded. ‘Oh good, my memory’s terrible if I don’t write things down. I brought some sports stuff as well, in case you needed to do some different shots. You know, shorts, tennis skirt, that sort of thing. I borrowed the uniform from a friend of mine: she’s got to have it back tomorrow, though.’
‘Ah, good, good.’
After introducing Jack (‘a professional colleague specialising in visual effects’), he asked her to change into shorts and top so that he could see if they were suitable. ‘Then we’ll pop over to the location: it’s only a mile or so.’
‘Oh. Location! That sounds glamorous!’ Melanie sounded genuinely excited.
Melanie, as was her custom, did not bother with a brassiere, as both men appreciated when she entered the room.
‘Right, just stand by the window, would you?’ The tanned legs carried her across the room as both men’s eyes were fixed on the tautness of the shorts covering her twin half-moons.
‘Facing you?’
‘No, face the window… now turn 90 degrees left… now bend over.’
‘Touch my toes?’ Melanie giggled nervously.
‘If you wish.’
‘Is this how I’ll be whacked in the scene?’
‘Not absolutely decided yet. We must get going: don’t bother changing.’
The old isolation hospital was an ideal location, the afternoon sun providing adequate natural light, except in the corridors where redhead TV lights had been rigged in strategic doorways and behind glass panels through to the old wards.
‘When did they last use this place?’ Melanie asked nervously, ‘We’re not going to catch anything I hope!’
‘Hasn’t been used for three years, and the environmental health people cleared it ages ago. Now, you didn’t bring a leotard with you, did you Melanie?’
‘Yes. I think I did.’
‘Slip it on, would you?’
‘Where can I…?’
‘Change? Oh, through there,’ pointed Jack.
‘Why don’t we see if she’ll do the corridor bit?’ hissed Jack as Melanie shut the door. ‘You know, the tracking shot we talked about?’
‘I’ll ask her: worth a try!’
The leotard clung enticingly to every curve of her tantalising form, the full cheeks atop the firm thighs fighting to escape from the fabric, a thick wedge of bare flesh below the constricting elastic.
‘Just walk down the corridor. please Melanie,’ asked Mr Foulger, ‘down to the end and back again: I want to check a shot.’
The bouncing softness of the girl’s rump as it quivered away down the long pale cream corridor was a sight which brought a ready smile to both men’s faces.
Her short fair hair caught the sun as she walked slowly back towards them, breasts bouncing in perfect complement to buttocks. She smiled eagerly. Mr Foulger launched into his explanation: ‘We need to do a long-shot of the girl walking down the corridor, as seen by the consultant in the documentary. He’s fantasising about removing her clothes as she walks down the corridor, because he wants to dominate her, and punish her for imaginary offences.’
‘Very Freudian!’ chuckled Melanie.
‘So I’d like you to start walking in the nurse’s uniform, then you can ‘freeze’ while we change clothes before continuing the shot. OK? You can wear the leotard under the shorts and top, under the uniform. OK?’
‘It’s shot from behind, so there’s no problem…’ explained Jack, omitting to mention the second video camera already set up and running in a ward at the far end of the corridor.
They busied themselves as the girl changed. The sun was perfect for the shot now, and Mr Foulger hurried her along: ‘Light’s perfect, Melanie: we need to get going…’
‘Coming…’ She stepped out. the red belt and red cross on the cap in startling contrast to the pristine white of the uniform. Mr Foulger explained the shot once more before she started off down the corridor: ‘Freeze!’ he shouted.
Jack trotted after her, and with a muttered ‘Excuse me’ unbuttoned the uniform and slipped it off, removed her hat, and gently pulled off shoes and tights, his hand brushing the warm softness of her thighs. Melanie carefully maintained her position, placing her now bare feet on the cool stone.
‘Action!’ yelled Mr Foulger, and she took another few steps in shorts and top before he told her to freeze again. Jack moved in and swiftly peeled off shorts and top to reveal the clinging leotard, the fabric seemingly bonded to the twin protuberances of that well-padded bottom.
Melanie started walking again on the command, until he shouted ‘Freeze! Melanie, a pity that leotard isn’t one of those high-cut skimpy ones, as… well, we need more flesh,’ Mr Foulger explained lamely. Jack was there in an instant: ‘We can ease the rear end up quite a bit, can’t we Melanie? I think that’ll do the trick.’
‘I guess so,’ she agreed, and Jack knelt down behind her. The adjustment was an enticing one, necessitating fitting his fingers into the leotard at the division between her legs — that warm, now slightly damp, division — and pulled the fabric up taut between the full, heavy cheeks to expose them almost entirely. He worked his hands a second time up the smooth warmness of her buttocks to fit the leotard more evenly into the deep crease between them.
He allowed himself an affectionate, flesh-quivering slap on the right pale orb as he bobbed out of shot and the call: ‘Action!’ came again. Melanie was now half way down the corridor, and Mr Foulger, delighted with the way things were going, stopped her and briskly strode down to speak quietly as Jack hovered out of earshot.
Passing Jack on the way back to the camera, he smiled: ‘Leotard off now, please Jack, for the final shot.’ Jack goggled unbelievingly, mouthing ‘Off?’ to Mr Foulger’s curt nod. All this unseen by Melanie, still facing down the corridor over thirty feet away. He needed no second bidding, as he faced her and pulled the garment off her shoulders and down past the firm bust to her waist. Onwards and downwards, the puff of hair revealed, his hands tugging the tight fabric from between her backside, his face close to her pubic triangle as she stepped carefully out to allow him to pick the leotard up.
Stark bollock naked, he thought to himself as he grinned widely at his friend behind the camera: and the whacking still to come!
Back in the uniform, Melanie was making light of her first nude scene, and giggled: ‘Time for a good old-fashioned bum whacking now, is it?’
‘That’s right,’ Jack smiled, and nodded to Mr Foulger who had just come into the small ward, carrying a long slender cane.
‘Christ, is that the cane you’re going to use?’ asked Melanie anxiously.
‘Traditional school punishment implement: very effective,’ confirmed Mr Foulger.
‘Not too effective, I hope,’ Melanie responded.
Jack wheeled the bed across the chequered floor in front of the girl, and indicated that she was to kneel on it.
‘This the hospital version of the whipping block?’ she quipped, her voice more than a little nervous as she took her position. Jack fiddled with her skirt, white knickers exposed, tan stockings emphasising the paler flesh above them. The faint sheen of dampness on her thighs at the curve of her cheeks where they dived for the protection of her crotch.
‘Right, lie over the bed, on your tummy, Melanie,’ ordered Mr Foulger, resting the cane on the table by the jug where she could see it. ‘This bit will hurt, I’m afraid,’ he said with no trace of irony. Muscular yet soft, the twin cheeks invited chastisement in that position. And this young lady warranted it.
‘You’re going to get twelve strokes, Melanie,’ Mr Foulger intoned slowly, ‘And I want you to count each one out loud when you receive it. All right?’
‘Just not too hard, Mr Foulger: I’ve never even been spanked before.’
In her submissive posture over the bed, Melanie tensed her bottom in readiness for the onslaught. She felt Jack’s fingers at the waistband of her knickers, and shut her eyes as the pale target was presented.
Jack retired to the next room to watch the whole thing unfold on TV. It would have made peak viewing, and the moment when Melanie pushed herself up off the bed to rub feverishly at her wounded backside was one they would both savour for some time to come.
The envelope contained just £50. As they agreed with one another afterwards: ‘Outstanding value for money!’

1 comment:

  1. Evidently these shoots all took place in a place in New Beckenham and we're produced in Addington and cathode pretty close to where I grew up.