‘What’s your schedule this week?’ Julie asked. ‘We’ve got to play that squash game remember. Tomorrow lunchtime?’
Arlene shook her head. ‘No, not tomorrow. I’m sure not tomorrow. I’ve got therapy visits morning and afternoon.’
Blonde Julie made a face. ‘Lucky you. Those therapy visits can really sort you out. Well I can’t make Wednesday or Thursday myself. Oh well. What about your visits? Do you know anything about them?’
Arlene said, ‘Yes. Worse luck.’
Yes: she had been told at the end of last week. You couldn’t refuse of course, they were part of a nurse’s duty. The enlightened modern view. Emotional therapy. Nothing to do with thermometers and physical ailments or injuries. Well, a therapy patient might want you to put a thermometer in his mouth but he wouldn’t have a temperature, it would be make believe, and he would probably be playing with your bare boobs as you did it. Emotional therapy. Catering for their fantasies. Modern medicine had decided that this was as important as healing a broken leg. Keep them emotionally healthy. Men of course.
Arlene had grimaced when she was told. Matron had smiled. ‘It’s the modern view, dear. And we can’t argue with that, can we?’
There was a visit to a man’s house in the morning and in the afternoon there were two men. They wanted a nurse to go on a picnic with them. That should be nice, Matron said. ‘A nice picnic. You wear your normal uniform for that. The morning one, he’s got his own uniform.’
She had showed Arlene what the man wanted her to wear. His own uniform. Arlene had taken a deep breath. ‘Matron, why me? Can’t someone else? I’ve done two therapies this week.’
‘They’ve asked for you.’ Matron said. ‘It’s the penalty for being so attractive, isn’t it? And wouldn’t you rather be going out than doing ward duty? I’m sure some girls would.’
Arlene said, ‘Not this. No I bloody wouldn’t.’
There was a book that they could see and make a choice from. Nurses’ details, including a photo. Wearing the proper uniform of course, not some of those awful outfits therapy patients could think up. With a nice winning smile on your face and your chest stuck out. On instructions. Naturally certain nurses in the book, certain photographs, got picked very frequently.
Oh Christ. She hated therapy visits. They weren’t all bad of course, some were men simply wanting a chat and a bit of sympathy. But some of the others… This one tomorrow morning was certainly going to be in that category. He had to be, with the uniform he had produced.
Mr Prinstead. Matron had to go more or less in that direction and she could give Arlene a lift. She would have to get a bus back. After that there would be these other two. Picking her up for the afternoon. What were they going to be like? But first of all Mr Prinstead. She had her proper uniform on, under her coat. Mr Prinstead’s awful uniform was in a bag. Arlene pictured the separate items. Herself wearing them. Just those items. And then… what?
Putting it on in his bathroom. Taking her own uniform off and putting on these other things, out of her bag. Mr Prinstead downstairs, in the lounge. Call me when you’re ready, he had said. And pointed Arlene to the stairs with a familiar pinch to her bottom. He was just an ordinary-looking man, fortyish, his grinning face anticipating his little fantasy. His hand reaching for her bottom, the live flesh, to assure himself that this was a real live fantasy that he could act out. Courtesy of his health insurance policy.
An apron was the main item. A little starched white apron reaching to mid-thigh and with a narrow halter above the waist. Narrow enough that Arlene’s boobs stuck out on either side. Boobs that were quite bare, for Mr Prinstead’s idealised nurse had no other garment above her waist except the apron top. Unless you counted the elasticated cuffs that had to be worn on her upper arms. And of course the cap. A white nurse’s cap with a red cross on the front, possibly taken from a child’s nurse’s outfit.
Below the waist? Well, there was the little apron in front. Black nylon stockings held by pencil-thin straps of a black suspender belt. Black nylon bikini knickers, a brief triangle back and front joined on the hips by wide lacy sections. High-heeled pumps. And that was it.
Arlene looked in the mirror. She had had these things since Friday, thinking about them but not putting them on, not until she had to. She looked at her pink-nippled boobs sticking out on either side of the halter. Yes, it was how she had imagined it all right. Mr Prinstead’s dream nurse no doubt. She looked away. She had to tell him she was ready. For what? Whatever it was you were supposed to smile and be co-operative and let it happen. That was therapy. Let Mr Prinstead work out his fantasies and then he wouldn’t have any hang-ups or emotional problems. All part of modern private nursing.
He came in, eyes gleaming. A child presented with a marvellous new toy. ‘Lovely,’ he breathed. ‘Really lovely. What d’you think, Nurse? And what lovely tits you’ve got.’
Don’t flinch, don’t push him away. He was allowed to touch. Fondle. Therapy. His hands cupping her bare boobs. Give him a nice sweet smile. If this was all he wanted you didn’t have a lot to worry about. Not really. Because it could get a lot worse than having your tits played with. Or your bum. One hand had reached round to Arlene’s unprotected rear. To that brief little black triangle and the rounded flesh at either side which it did not contain. Don’t flinch. Let him do it. That was what you were taught at therapy training school.
The fingers playfully snapped the bikini’s elastic top against soft flesh. ‘Shall we have them off then, Nurse? Give you a smack bottom?’
Arlene forced another smile. It was best to say as little as possible. If he was going to do it he would do it. And if he was going to do anything else he would do that too.
‘Young nurses need their bottoms smacked. At regular intervals. It keeps them up to the mark. Have you had it recently, Nurse?’
She said yes, last week. Twice. That wasn’t true, Arlene had had her bottom smacked once last week. And it wasn’t going to help anyway. If he was talking about smacking her bottom he intended to do it. Even if she’d had it twenty times last week.
Yes. This was correct. Mr Prinstead sat down on the bathroom stool, and proceeded to pull Arlene across his lap. He was sure she needed another one, he said. The more smacked bottoms a nurse had the better she was going to be. More disciplined. More responsive. As he was saying this he was getting Arlene’s bum nicely placed across his trousered thighs. Her head down near the floor and those high-heeled pumps up in the air. The spanking commenced. Smack!… Splatt!… Sllapp!… The hard open palm of his hand stinging down. Gasps and grunts. Unavoidable writhings, of hips and bottom especially. Flailing of legs. Try not to cry out, that could sometimes only make it worse.
After a bit the bikini pants were stripped down. The triangle of flesh was revealed as red-pink as the already exposed areas of Arlene’s rear, and the backs of those squirming thighs. The spanking went on, Mr Prinstead himself now making little grunts and gasps, with the hard physical effort of what he was doing. His therapy.
Mr Prinstead’s therapy. Enduring it, jerking and squirming and making those ‘Ooof and ‘Ahhh’ sounds, Arlene’s mind was not entirely on what was happening. For there was the thought of what further therapy could possibly be required afterwards. Some therapy patients were content with a spanking. Some might even be content with sitting you on their lap and taking your boobs out and playing with them. For others, though, a spanking would merely be a preliminary to other forms of activity. Forms that were even less welcome than a hard spanking but which nonetheless you had to agree to. Was Mr Prinstead…?
Waiting for the bus. Mr Prinstead had offered to drive her back but Arlene had declined. She had seen enough of Mr Prinstead. Had enough of him. Politely thanking him, naturally. What had been done had been all allowed. In the bathroom and then afterwards, in his bedroom. There had been nothing that wasn’t allowed on a therapy visit. How Arlene had felt about it didn’t matter of course. ‘Be co-operative and helpful, there is no need to get emotionally involved. Indeed it’s better not to.’ That was what you were told at training school. ‘Be co-operative and receptive. Do your best to help the patient achieve an orgasm if he wishes to engage in sexual intercourse.’ Mr Prinstead had achieved an orgasm. He had achieved two. So Arlene could count her visit a success. But all she wanted was to get away from Mr Prinstead as soon as possible, and forget it. Not that you could forget something like that. All part of a private nurse’s duties, that was what you had to tell yourself. Like taking his temperature or changing his bed. She had tried to tell herself that on the bed, with Mr Prinstead on top of her. Doing it. Getting his therapy treatment.
The bus eventually came and picked her up. Arlene had her proper uniform on again, with her light coat on top. Mr Prinstead’s special uniform had remained at his house. ‘Leave it here,’ he had said. ‘I think I’m going to ask for you again, young lady. You’re very good. I’m going to send in a first-class report. So leave the uniform here for your next visit.’
Getting on the bus Arlene tried to forget that too, the fact that Mr Prinstead was going to request her services next week. She should be pleased, gratified. That was what they told you in training school. ‘If a patient wants you again right away that clearly means you have done a good job.’ Arlene on the bus tried to forget she had done such a good job. There was anyway this other therapy visit right away. This afternoon. Being collected at 2 o’clock by these other two, for a picnic.
Mr Harkings and Mr Biddlecombe. They were both very much like Mr Prinstead as it turned out: ordinary respectable citizens, a similar age, fortyish. Solid law-abiding citizens, pillars of the community no doubt, who had decided they were in need of a little therapy of the sort that their expensive health insurances now entitled them to, the insurance company subscribing fully to the modern medical notion that ‘therapy’ for men over forty was good for them, and the healthier the customers were, the less there was to be paid out in insurance claims. They picked Arlene up and drove her out to a pleasant, secluded spot in the country. It was a lovely sunny afternoon, ideal for a picnic.
‘A lovely afternoon, Nurse. I should take that uniform off.’ Mr Harkings. ‘Oh yes,’ agreed the other one. ‘Everything in fact.’
But Mr Harkings thought Arlene should keep on her nylons and suspender belt. That was agreed. Arlene should strip down to nylons and suspender belt, then lie down on the picnic blanket. She did this of course, without arguing. It was what she was here for: to provide diversion and stimulation for these two men. To co-operate in whatever they wanted. There was naturally a good chance that one or both were going to want what Mr Prinstead had wanted in the morning. If they did Arlene could only agree.
‘Lovely!’ exclaimed Mr Biddlecombe when Arlene had stripped down and was half-lying on the blanket. ‘What a lovely figure!’ He turned to his friend. ‘Well, what should we start with, Roger? A spot of fun or a bite to eat?’
Mr Harkings said, ‘Why don’t we smack her bum for starters.’
With Julie busy on Wednesday and Thursday lunchtimes (Thursday involving a therapy visit) Julie and Arlene had tentatively planned to have their squash game on Friday. But then on Thursday afternoon Matron called Arlene into her office again. Arlene guessed what it would be, and it was — for tomorrow, the Friday. In the morning, so she would have no free time at lunchtime.
‘I don’t really know why you make that face,’ Matron told her. ‘I’m sure if we’d had this sort of thing when I was younger I should have been quite keen. Such a nice break from hospital routine.’