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Sunday, 9 September 2018

Residential Nurse

From Blushes 51
Salmesbury is one of those archetypal English country towns so beloved of foreign tourists; untouched for the most part by the years, its spire soaring spectacularly above the surrounding countryside, its limpid river meandering leisurely on its way to the sea some thirty miles to the south. In the centre the Market Place especially is seemingly unchanged in the fifty years that have passed since the 1930s; there are only the cars and they are not so cluttering now there is the new by-pass. Tomorrow, Tuesday, will as always be Market Day and this square will be humming with activity; but now at 1.30 p.m. on this warm and sunny June day the place is largely deserted. No doubt visitor and inhabitant alike have repaired for sustenance (liquid or otherwise) to one of the plentitude of hostelries with which the city is so well endowed. The King’s Arms for instance, just off this main square.
Yes, there is activity here all right, both Public and Lounge Bars are doing considerable trade. In the latter, in a relatively quiet corner away from the crowded bar, a young couple are at a table. The girl, with a half empty glass of shandy in front of her, is a strikingly pretty blonde with green eyes and a full-lipped mouth and a thick mass of curling corn-coloured hair. She has on a light coat which in fact is covering a nurse’s uniform. Her companion, with the remains of a pint of bitter, is a pleasant-looking young man in open-necked shirt and jeans.
The names of these two are Jill Bartley and Graham Finling, aged 19 and 20 respectively, and they are in some dispute, voiced in lowered tones to avoid being overheard by others in their vicinity.
‘No. I can’t,’ the young woman, Jill, says. ‘Not tonight. I’ve told you, Graham. I’ve got to be on duty.’ She glances at her watch. ‘And I’d better be going anyway, or I’ll be late. He can be awful when I’m late. You know that, Graham.’ The glass, and the rest of the shandy, is raised to the inviting lightly-lipsticked mouth.
The young man, Graham, does not look happy. ‘That’s three nights in a row,’ he grits. ‘I hardly ever get to see you.’
Jill gives him a dazzling smile. ‘Graham: don’t exaggerate. You’re seeing me now. And again tomorrow lunch time I should think. But you don’t want me kicked out of my job, do you? What would I do then?’
In the manner of young man besotted with dazzling girls, Graham seems not overly concerned with such an eventuality. ‘You could get another job. At the hospital. Treating sick people and not all those weirdos.’
Jill bridles, the green eyes flashing. ‘They aren’t weirdos. And you know what you get paid at the hospital. What would I do with that? I couldn’t live on it let alone save anything. Look, I’ve got to go…’
They get up. A number of (male) heads turn to follow the shimmering blonde tresses. And not only the hair; there are the slim and shapely legs in nylons or tights below the swinging knee-length hem of the light grey coat. Are those nylons and not tights? Because the quick male eye can observe seams running up the backs of those delightful limbs from the shiny black high-heels. And the coat itself of course indicates a deliciously feminine figure. Lucky young bugger, the following eyes say. Lucky young bugger to be poking that. If he is poking it…
Outside into the sun-dazed Salmesbury, this weather a treat for the tourists although as yet they have mostly not emerged from their lunchtime retreats. Our couple hurry along, Graham perhaps reluctantly, round the corner to where Jill’s superannuated Mini is parked in a side street. At the car she stops and reaches in her bag for the key. Then gives an alarmed squeak as Graham abruptly grabs her, and pulls her into the adjacent doorway. Jill’s words are stifled as he kisses her, his tongue thrusting into the soft pink mouth. At the same time one hand has gone in the front of her coat… to grab Jill’s sex.
‘Graham…’ Breaking her mouth away and then pushing away his hands.
‘Look…’ he gasps. ‘I need… you know. When can you get off?’
‘Graham, for God’s sake. Don’t grab me in the street!’ Jill is straightening her coat. ‘I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow night. If I can. I want to, Graham, you know that. But… it’s not easy. Now let go…’
She has the door open and ducks inside. Graham gets a glimpse of nylon-top and bare thigh. Yes, they are nylons. But Graham Finling of course knows this already. He knows that Jill has to wear nylons with a suspender belt as part of her uniform. Out at the Grange.
Burcott Grange is a few miles out of the city, nestling upstream in the river valley. It is a splendid stone-and-flint Georgian mansion set in park land and with water meadows behind. At the front a longish gravel drive leads to the main gates and the road into town. Until a few years ago this handsome house was still in private hands but today it has another role, as the sign at the gates announced: BURCOTT GRANGE: HEALTH AND BEAUTY CENTRE. Yes, it is a Health Farm. It is here that Jill Bartley works, tending to the needs and requirements of what her boyfriend Graham has seen fit to describe as ‘rich weirdos’. Rich weirdos? It is true that the fees here are steepish and the clients can presumably afford them. But weirdos…?
Jill has driven the Mini along the twisting narrow road at a speed which has had it noisily complaining in various of its parts. She is going to be late back from lunch. Bloody Hell. That Graham! He knows what that can mean. Well actually he doesn’t know. He knows Jill can get into trouble, she has made that clear, but he doesn’t know exactly what trouble. He can’t know. What did he mean by ‘weirdos’, though? Nothing. It can’t be. He is just being silly, jealous that some people have more money than he has, that they can afford to come to Burcott Grange for a stay. For… the services. Graham doesn’t know about the services and he doesn’t know what Jill will get if she is late. But Jill knows alright. She puts her high-heeled pump hard down for the last straight stretch before the gates. The gates will be closed of course. And there will be Mr Branker…
She pulls to a sharp halt and toots the horn. Mr Branker… he is coming out from his house; the lodge just inside the gates. Harold Branker: gardener and caretaker (also gate-keeper) — who knows Jill has gone out for lunch and has no doubt been waiting her return with keen anticipation. He is opening the heavy gates… and signalling that she pull over in front of the lodge. As expected. What if she were to swerve past him and just drive on? If Jill had more nerve perhaps she would — but it would be only a short-term victory. Jill has to humour Mr Branker, keep him on her side. Otherwise… things would be a lot worse.
So Jill does as requested. If she is late back in the house, as she is now certain to be, she can say it was Mr Branker delaying her. Not that that will do a lot of good. He is opening the door for her. Grinning. Harold Branker has a leery sort of grin — when he is looking at Jill at least or indeed any of the other good-looking young women who are employed here. But it seems especially leery for Jill, or so she thinks. Harold Branker who is fiftyish is in his usual rumpled jersey and trousers with his usual, apparently perpetual, two-day’s growth of beard on his face. He is allowed to get away with this sort of appearance as he is regarded as a ‘character’ a rough-cut countryman.
‘Ullo, young Jill. Wot you bin up to then?’
Jill has to get out, he won’t let her go until she has. As usual. She tries to climb out without showing too much leg to Mr Branker’s leering eye — not that there is much point in worrying about it. When she knows…
‘Look, I can’t hang about. Really. I’m already late.’
Mr Branker is closing in. The smell of stale tobacco mixed with that of not very frequently washed human male. ‘I avint made you late, Jill. It’s wot you bin up to. Bin avin a bit I daresay. Eh? Needs a bit at lunchtime, does our Jill. Is that it?’
‘No! And get off!’ There is Harold Branker’s tobacco-ey breath in her face now and perhaps more to the point, his hand going up the front of her skirt. Jill tries to deal with the hand.
‘Yes you av. That young wotsisname. Or was it someone else gettin a nibble. Eh? I don’t know why you got to go out for it, though, Jill. When there’re all them guests, astrainin at the leash. Givin themselves eart-attacks, eh?’
‘No. Stoppit. Please… I’ve been out for a drink, that’s all. Look… he’s going to bloody kill me if I’m not in there.’
‘E won’t kill yer, Jill. You’re too lovely for that. E might warm up yer bum, though, eh? Come on. Stop squirmin like a rabbit in a net. Let I… just av a little feel. Of that pretty puss.’
Jill struggles and protests — but the fact is that dreadful Mr Branker is not likely to let go of her until he has achieved this particular goal. And she had to get back inside. So… Jill continues with a show of trying to stop Mr Branker’s hand while not in fact doing so. Rough fingers finger her stocking tops… and the clasps of the suspender straps. Then the hand is at the bare warmth of her upper thighs. Jill lets out a desperate squeal. ‘Look… I’ve got to… go…’ But Harold Branker’s hand is now where it wants to be. Cupping the warm crotch of Jill’s brief knickers. She makes another strangled gurgling sound. Harold Branker is breathing heavily.
‘Ah. It be real ot, young Jill. It been seein a bit of ot action, eh?’
‘No!’ Jill gasps and now does make a determined effort. He’ll be satisfied now, more or less. ‘Come on!’ Struggling away. She tries to straighten herself. ‘Look… I’m in a real mess.’
Mr Branker doesn’t argue. Fair’s fair and she has let him have a feel. He let’s her get back in the car… but he can’t resist, at the last moment, playfully sliding his hand up between Jill’s legs. She makes a sort of exploding sound. Then slams the door. The Mini jerks forward, gravel spurting behind it.
Her high heels clatter on the marble hallway. Slipping off her coat as she half walks, half runs. Jill’s room is in through and round to the right on the ground floor. She is a quarter of an hour late now, thanks to both Graham and Mr Branker, but if Mr Dexler hasn’t been looking for her and no one has asked for an appointment right after lunch… There was nothing on the appointments list when she left but of course there could have been a request come down. A guest asking for one of the nurses right after lunch. And perhaps not just any nurse — there are three of them — but specifically Nurse Bartley. And Jill wasn’t here… she tries to control her agitated breathing. That bloody Branker with his hand up between her legs, she can still feel it…
Jill reaches her room. There is no note on the door. She goes in… and there is nothing on her desk either. So she is OK! The relief begins to flood through her. But almost immediately the door which she’s closed behind her opens. Mr Dexler. Jill knows at once that she’s not OK. Mr Dexler who is in charge of Treatments and is her immediate boss, in his white tunic, possibly just come from giving a lady guest a massage. He is not smiling.
‘You are late back from lunch, Jill. Again. What would we have done if one of the guests had asked for you? Eh? What exactly.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Dexler. Really. But… no one did…?’
‘Mr Enderby in 103 wanted a nurse. Perhaps he would have preferred you but you weren’t around so Matron couldn’t give him that choice. Fortunately Sarah and Lisa are reliable and were here.’
‘I’m really sorry, Mr Dexler It… won’t happen again.’
‘It had better not happen again, Jill. Get along to the Small Treatment Room. Right now. You need a little reminder.’
‘No!’ Jill gasps. ‘I mean I really won’t be late again. I don’t need… that. It wasn’t my fault anyway. It was… partly Mr Branker. Making me stop.’
‘If you had come back in good time having to stop at the lodge would have been no problem. Now if you’re not in the Treatment Room in five minutes…’
Mr Dexler turns and goes out. Jill watches as the door closes. Oh Christ! The Treatment Room. It’s going to be bad if he wants to do it in there. He could do it here in Jill’s room — or do something here. But if it’s in the Treatment Room.
Suddenly Jill’s door opens again. Matron this time. ‘Oh, you’re back, Jill. At last, eh? Has Mr Dexler seen you?’
‘Yes… Yes Mrs Osmond.’ Mrs Osmond, a biggish woman of 45 or so is also in uniform.
‘Good. I hope he’s had a firm word with you. Anyway Mr Purlon in 112 wants to see you. 2.30. All right?’
Jill says yes and Mrs Osmond goes out. Suddenly everything is happening. Mr Dexler in the Treatment Room and then Mr Purlon. Mr Purlon is not very nice. Jill can guess what he’ll want to do. Oh Christ. But first… she looks at her watch. Mr Dexler said… she dives for the door.
The Small Treatment Room is really only an emergency room as far as treatments go because normally guests get medical treatments, and certainly the services of a nurse, in their own rooms. It is therefore hardly ever used for guests and Mr Dexler tends to use it for something else: for his nurses, when one of them in his opinion is in need of a reminder of some sort. The girls do at times need reminding — of the fact that they are paid considerably more than they could ever get on the NHS and therefore are expected to comply uncomplainingly with whatever a guest requires. Even if they don’t fancy whatever it is that is requested. To remind a girl of this basic fact there can every now and again be a visit to the Small Treatment Room with Mr Dexler. Or of course to remind a girl that she must for the convenience of all be punctual, not arrive late back from lunch, etc.
Mr Dexler is there when Jill, breathless, bursts in. It is just about five minutes since he left her room. He looks up, glances at his watch. ‘Please… I’m not late,’ Jill gasps. ‘It’s just… five minutes.’
Mr Dexler gives her a sardonic grin. He is fortyish, well-built with powerful arms; good-looking too. Quite a favourite with lady guests; but scary to Jill (and indeed Sarah and Lisa). Those muscular arms revealed by his short-sleeved tunic… what they can do to one of his nurses is not at all the same as for a lady guest. ‘I make it just over five minutes, Jill. Late again. Get your knickers down.’
‘No!’ she squeals. Jill knows she is going to get it but it’ll be twice as bad if it’s agreed she’s late. ‘Please… I wasn’t late. And Matron came in.’
‘Get your knickers down. And then kneel down… you’re getting a good strapping, young lady.’
‘Please!’ The strap is diabolical; as bad as the cane. A hand spanking is bad enough, with those muscular arms, but the strap… is something else. You think you’ll never be able to sit down again. ‘Please, Mr Dexler… I’ve got to see Mr Purlon. At 2.30. I mean… there’ll be… the marks…’
Mr Dexler gives her that sardonic grin again. ‘I don’t see why that should worry Mr Purlon. He may indeed find you more interesting, Jill. More spicy. With some nice strap marks on your bum. And you’ll be able to tell him why of course. Because you’ve been a very bad girl. Now get the knickers down.’
Any more complaining will be definitely counter-productive. Simply making Mr Dexler angry and then… biting her lip, Jill slides her hands up under the skirt of her starched blue dress. Underneath are the sheer, fancy-seamed black nylons which the eyes of the men in the pub had fastened on and which Graham Finling and Mr Branker, to mention but two, know all about. Black sheer stockings fastened with the slim straps of a black suspender belt. The only other garment under the starched skirt is a pair of brief white knickers — which Jill’s hands have reluctantly to reach for. And slide down off of the curving rump and hips that they are hugging… to about the tops of the nylons. And then… she must step forward on her black high heels to the rather basic, hospital-type bed.
Mr Dexler meanwhile has gone to the cupboard to fetch his strap. Jill doesn’t need to look, she has had it before. She doesn’t want to look. It is like a belt doubled in two; a loop of flexible leather… whimpering, she gets down, kneeling at the side of the bed. This is all Graham’s fault, not letting her get back. If he knew what she was going to get… but of course if Graham knew… about this and the rest of what you have to do, what you get, out here as a nurse at the Grange, he would… well, it’s impossible to imagine what he would do. But Jill needs the money, to save a bit. They’re supposed to be getting married, aren’t they? So she’s doing it for Graham as well. This job at the Grange. And what you get with the job…
Mr Dexler is back, with that strap in his hand no doubt. Sitting down next to her on the bed. ‘Yes, we’re going to have to be more punctual. Aren’t we, Jill?’
He is sliding up her skirt. Up over Jill’s back. To bare the glorious bottom from which the skimpy little knickers have already been lowered. Jill’s hands grab at the bed cover as Mr Dexler’s hand slides over the silky smoothness of her bottom-cheeks. Caressing, fondling. It is not impossible that he’ll give her bum a good hard spanking before he gets to work with the strap.
‘What made you late, Jill? Having it off with your boyfriend? A nice little quickie… but not quick enough?’
A whimpering denial into the bed cover. Mr Dexler’s hand is pushing in between her legs. At least… he hasn’t got a lot of time for messing about. Not if he wants to spank her and then strap her. Because Jill has got to get up to Mr Purlon. Mr Purlon won’t be at all nice but at least it means this session with Mr Dexter can’t go on… for too long.
Mr Dexter evidently is aware of this. The hand after only briefly messing about comes out from between Jill’s legs… and then he is pulling her half over his lap. Yes, he is going to spank her first…
Jill tightens her grip on the bed cover. Mr Dexter getting her just so… those muscular arms… he does weight-training in the gym, she knows. So that his right arm will be ultra-strong… Maybe it’s not only so that it’ll be strong for spanking or strapping his nurses. But… it is clear that Mr Dexter enjoys it. Jill yells out as the first one comes down, really hard, knocking the breath out of her. Then another… and another… stinging the silky smooth flesh of her ripe rump. Leaving bright red hand marks — but very soon these recognisable marks have merged into an all-over redness. Jill is gasping for breath, her breath coming out in gaspy whimpering spurts… interspersed with staccato yelps when a particularly hard one lands. A spanking from Mr Dexter is diabolical, but… there is definitely worse to come. That strap…
Jill is not over his lap for the strapping. Mr Dexler needs space — and freedom of movement. So that he can swing the strap properly. He is therefore standing over her. Jill’s bare bottom is red-hot; glowing. But now there is going to be an altogether different order of pain: this doubled-over strap. And on her already red-hot bottom… Jill pushes her face down into the bed cover. It feels wet. Is she crying? In anticipation…
Oh God. Oh Jesus. You tell yourself it’s going to be bad, dreadful… but it is always much worse than you expect. Impossibly bad. Like a knife has cut your bum in two…
No! You can’t take any more. Not like that. Jill is crying now; and yelling out. While above her Mr Dexter has a rapt, intent look. His eyes concentrated on the desperately squirming bottom. Which now is red stripes on red.
Room 112. On the first floor at the rear of the house. From the window you can look out onto the river and sheep in the meadow. From 112 and the other rooms on this front. Jill has been in all of them — but you’re not usually in much of a position to be gazing out of the window looking at sheep. No, that is not what gentlemen want a girl in their room for. Jill’s mind as she stands before the door of 112 is anyway not on sheep; it is mostly on her bottom which under her skirt is still killing her. Perhaps not surprising when Mr Dexter has only minutes ago finally ceased strapping it.
It is 2.28 so Mr Dexter has allowed the bare minimum of time for Jill to get to her appointment. Keeping her bent over the bed and wielding the strap until the very last moment. Mr Dexler clearly is not concerned about Mr Purlon seeing Jill with bright red stripes across her delectable bum. Yes, Jill’s mind is mostly on her still-hot rear; and the rest of her thoughts are not on sheep but on Mr Purlon.
It is not going to be as painful as the strap, or maybe even as painful as a spanking. It is nonetheless going to be unpleasant. Objectionable. If you don’t fancy doing it. And Jill doesn’t. Not that that makes any difference. Jill’s knuckles discreetly knock on the door.
Mr Purlon is fiftyish and overweight. Gentleman guests at Burcott Grange tend to be either that or sixtyish and overweight. It is surprising that they don’t have heart attacks — like Mr Branker says. Perhaps sometimes they do. Mr Purlon is sitting in his armchair. In his pyjamas. He is looking at a magazine with nude girls in it: Playboy or something. He looks up as Jill enters, quietly closing the door behind her.
‘Hello, pretty Jill. Just what the doctor ordered, eh?’ He waves the magazines at her. ‘Ever pose for any of this sort of business, you lovely thing?’
Jill shakes her head. Mr Purlon puts the mag down. Grinning. ‘What I need is a massage. A special. From my special nurse. Yes dear?’
Jill does her best to raise a friendly smile. She knows what he wants. And the customer is always right, you can’t say no. ‘Yes dear girl. And I so much prefer it from our lovely Jill. So… can you get your things off?’
Of course. No arguing. Even though you’ve got those red stripe marks on your bottom. Unfastening her belt… and then slipping out of the uniform dress. Her knickers. Jill has been here before and she knows how Mr Purlon wants her for what he wants. In just her bra, suspender belt and stockings and the high-heeled shoes. He hasn’t seen her bottom yet because Jill has been facing him as she gets her things off. Not yet but shortly he will, and quite possibly it will be a turn-on for Mr Purlon. If he needs any more of a turn-on. As Jill steps forward. To kneel down. In between the heavy, pyjama clad thigh…
‘No. I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve told you, Graham.’
They are in the King’s Arms again, at that table in the corner. The place is pretty full; tourists mainly who like the olde-worlde appearance. Jill and Graham like it because there’s not usually anyone they know here. Jill has already told Graham that she has to work late again but of course he doesn’t want to accept it. She doesn’t feel like arguing; she has had a trying morning. One appointment after another. Mr Dexler has even suggested it would be a lot better if she didn’t go out at lunchtime, now they’re so busy with the house full at the moment. If Jill doesn’t go out of course she won’t have to struggle with Mr Branker coming back in or have Mr Dexter at her for getting back late. Graham’s not going to like it, though, is he? And she doesn’t feel like more arguments. She’ll tell him at the weekend. What day is it anyway: oh Tuesday of course, Market Day, with all that commotion outside. With the traffic it’ll take her longer to get out of town. She looks at her watch.
‘Graham. Don’t go on please. I can’t help it. And I get paid for it. Overtime. And I can’t be late today, I really can’t. You know what it’s like if I am. Yesterday he was really awful…
Graham doesn’t know how awful of course. That bloody strap. She doesn’t want that again. It’s bad enough with the guests. That Mr Silway this morning…

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