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Thursday, 30 May 2019

Private Practice

From Uniform Girls 31
‘Things are different in the private sector, Nurse. In addition to the salary of course. We like to think we can show much more concern for the wishes of the patient. Not like the National Health. With us the wishes of the patient are all important.’
That had been Mrs Keenlan yesterday. Mrs Keenlan was Matron. And now Mr Page was saying very much the same thing. Stressing it. Angela says, ‘Yes, Mr Page. Yes I understand.’
She is in his study. In his house, a quite grand affair standing in its own substantial grounds out in the country. Presumably this house is a sign that running a private nursing agency is not a bad thing financially. Mr Page is the Director. Of the Paramount Nursing Agency. Angela has just arrived, ten minutes ago, in her little Mini. ‘Every new girl has an interview with Mr Page,’ Mrs Keenlan has said. ‘He likes to see you at his place. Tomorrow at 5 o’clock.’
So here she is. In Mr Page’s study in her uniform dress of narrow blue and white stripes with a starched apron fastened up over the bodice with two safety pins. Fastened up over Angela’s firm, full boobs in fact. Because she is a shapely girl with a firm, ripe bust and slim waist and nicely rounded hips. A pretty girl with soft corn-coloured shoulder-length hair. Girls who are taken on in the private sector of course tend to be good-looking and shapely young women. With the salaries that can be offered — and the Paramount salary is very good — they can pick and choose. And if, as they state, the wishes of the patient are so paramount — as Paramount does — well, male patients, clients, at least will appreciate a pretty face, a well-turned ankle — indeed well-turned bottom and tits as well.
Mr Page is fortyish, tall with a neatly-trimmed beard. A welcoming smile, his hand held out in greeting. So pleased to meet her, etc. Welcome to Paramount. A drink? Sherry… Angela accepts a sherry. Mr Page seems very pleasant and she has been slightly dreading this. For some reason. Angela is somewhat shy. Not desperately so, a nurse cannot be that, but a little shy of new faces — and authority. But Mr Page… seems all right.
‘Yes I like to have a private chat at the outset, Nurse. Angela, isn’t it? So we know where we are. You’ll find there are… ah… different priorities. It’s not the take-it-or-leave-it business of the NHS. Oh no. That won’t do at all. Our patients, our clients, pay for a service, Nurse. So we have to ensure they get it. That they get full satisfaction.’
Mr Page is smiling a friendly smile at her. They are sitting on the couch with the sherry and he is half-turned towards her. Angela nods. It is what Mrs Keenlan said. Extra special service.
‘When you’re feeling under the weather, Angela, seeing a pretty face can work wonders. A pretty face and a nice shape under a girl’s uniform. So Paramount ensures that. All our girls are selected with that in mind. We take only very attractive girls. Like yourself of course.’
Angela can feel herself flushing slightly. She takes another sip of her drink.
‘Pretty girls who are charming and friendly, Angela. At all times. The client’s wish is your command. That has to be your guiding light. Not too difficult really, is it?’
Angela shakes her head. Mr Page reaches for her glass. ‘I’ll get you a refill.’ He stands up. ‘Come over here.’ He puts the glasses on the desk. Angela follows him over to the window. ‘Are you a gardener, Angela?’
She begins a reply but it doesn’t come out. Mr Page’s hand is on her bottom. His large male hand all at once at the soft cheeks of her bottom. She gasps. Jerks away. The hand goes round her waist. Pulls her close.
‘No, Nurse. That’s not what we do. If I were a patient you would not do that. Certainly not. That is not being friendly.’ Angela is hard up against Mr Page now. Her breath coming in short gasps. Mr Page has one arm round her waist… and the other is back at her bottom. Grabbing, groping, at the soft ripe cheeks under the thin dress. She cries out.
‘Don’t be silly, Nurse.’ He suddenly lets go. Angela stumbles, grabbing at the window sill for support. Mr Page eyes her. ‘And you’re wearing tights, Nurse. That won’t do. At Paramount girls wear proper nylons. With a suspender belt.’
----//----
‘Don’t be silly, Nurse,’ Mrs Keenlan says. ‘Don’t be a silly girl. Of course you can’t resign. You’ve signed a contract. You couldn’t possibly resign.’
They are in Mrs Keenlan’s office. Mrs Keenlan has just got in and Angela has gone immediately in to see her. She has hardly been able to sleep a wink all night. Thinking about yesterday, fearing what is coming today. Because she has been told to go back to Mr Page today. This time…
‘I can’t,’ she gasps. ‘I want… to leave.’
I’ve told you not to be stupid,’ Mrs Keenlan’s voice is brusque. ‘There is no way you can sign a contract and then immediately resign. The Agency would certainly take you to court. Now just be sensible. You’re being hysterical. If Mr Page said he wanted to see you again this afternoon then of course you go. And you’ll wear what he told you. I can find you something… ah… suitable.’
----//----
The road… and here is the house… Mr Page’s house. The mini slows… and turns into the driveway. Angela has told herself she wouldn’t, couldn’t… but the mini is heading up the driveway. Like yesterday Angela is in her uniform — only it is not the same as yesterday. The shapely legs beneath the uniform skirt are not in tights. Today there are sheer black-seamed stockings. Fastened with a sexy black suspender belt. And her knickers…
‘Let me see your knickers,’ Mrs Keenlan said. ‘Don’t be silly, I have to see…’ Angela’s sensible, virginal-white knickers. ‘Oh no. I am sure Mr Page won’t approve of that. He’ll want a bit more… mmm… snap than that.’ So what Angela is now wearing is a black nylon garment which is scarcely anything at all.
‘Put it on!’ Mrs Keenlan says, a hard edge to her voice. ‘Or don’t wear anything. Mr Page will think no knickers is all right, but otherwise what I’ve given you. I think you’ll look very cute in those, Nurse. And please stop being so awkward. You’ve got to be sensible and accept things now you’re here. Just remember that nice salary you’re getting. What is it, twice what you were on before?’
The mini comes to a halt at the side of the house again. Mr Page’s house. Where inside Mr Page is waiting. Another girl in the office had grinned, knowing where Angela is going again. A knowing look… but knowing what? That Angela has the sexy underwear on? Mrs Keenlan said all the girls had to wear that sort of thing, it is part of the Paramount uniform. The clients expected it. Why were they called clients, not patients? Weren’t they sick? They didn’t just want girls sent to them? Not because they were sick but because… pretty girls in a sexy uniform, with sexy black underwear underneath. ‘He won’t mind if you’ve got no knickers,’ Mrs Keenlan said. That had to be just an awful sort of joke. Didn’t it?
His housekeeper or whoever it was opening the door again. Ushering Angela in. To that study. Where yesterday Mr Page’s hand had suddenly grabbed her like that. His hand intimately groping the cheeks of her bottom. Reaching underneath. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m just testing. Some of the clients are sure to want to do this…’ The door again. She wants to turn tail and run, contract or not. Disappear somewhere. But that is only a dream. The door opens. Mr Page is coming towards her. With that smile. His Welcome-to-Paramount smile. Paramount where the girls all get those excellent salaries and all they have to do is do exactly what the client wants, allow what the client wants, in their sheer black stockings and sexy suspender belts and knickers which are hardly knickers at all, barely covering a girl’s pussy, certainly not covering the cheeks of her bottom.
‘Hello Angela. How nice to see you again.’ Mr Page is taking her arm. ‘Would you like a sherry?’ Angela shakes her head. No sherry, not this time, she can only think about Mr Page’s hand. Though maybe if he is going to do that again a sherry — or two or three — is what she needs.
‘No? You’re sure?’ Mr Page is closing the door. ‘Well anyway we must get down to business. Our little chat. Etcetera. You were a little nervous yesterday, Nurse. You’ll get over that I’m sure. Now there’s something I’d like to take you through today. Something that a number of the clients you’ll be seeing like to do. Acting out a disciplinary scene in effect. With their pretty nurse. It seems to be quite a favourite. Do you know what I mean, Angela?’
Angela shakes her head. Acting out a disciplinary scene? It doesn’t mean anything. At least Mr Page is not groping her bottom though. Not yet.
‘A little corporal punishment, Angela. For the pretty nurse who has omitted or overlooked something or other. Whatever they care to think of. Anyway smacking her bottom. And caning her of course, that goes with it. Smacking your bottom, Nurse. Giving you the cane.’
Is this some kind of bad dream? Mr Page is taking hold of her arm. ‘So we’ll go through that routine now, Angela. Give you a taste of it. I usually do that with a new girl. All right?’ And Mr Page’s hand is now at Angela’s bottom. Transferring his grip on her arm from his right to his left hand, so that she is now in front of him — so that his right hand can get at her bottom. Angela yelps out, automatically, as the hand gropes at her bottom-cheeks which now, today, are virtually bare under the uniform dress, those vestigial black knickers from Mrs Keenlan scarcely covering any part of the ripe roundness.
Angela squirms, gasping out, but Mr Page has a firm hold on her; on her arm and on her bottom. Groping, he says, ‘Some of them don’t mind you wriggling about a bit, as I understand, but some of them will. They like a girl to stand nice and still. You’ll have to learn to do just what they like, Nurse. I don’t want to get a lot of complaints coming back.’
Mr Page is now propelling Angela, regardless of her writhing and frantic little yelps, towards the desk. Close up to the edge and then pushing her down. ‘Stop struggling, Nurse. Just lie down flat over the desk. Keep still…’
Mr Page is pulling up her skirt. Angela can’t believe it but this is happening. That girl grinning, with the knowing look. This is what she was grinning about, guessing that Angela didn’t know. Probably now giggling about it to Mrs Keenlan or one of the other girls. The new girl being bent over Mr Page’s desk. Being taught what the clients like to do to their pretty visitors in the sexy stockings and knickers. What you get, what you pay for, in private medical care.
The sexy knickers are coming down. The sexy black knickers which make no attempt to cover Angela’s bottom are being yanked down. She is making her gasping, yelping sounds and jerking the delicious already-bare bottom but the knickers are coming down so that not only the cheeks of Angela’s bottom but the cleft between, and what else is between, everything, is bare, uncovered. Unprotected. Angela lets out an extra, extra-shocked, ‘Oooohhhh!’ As Mr Page’s hand slides right in between the writhing thighs. Grabbing her there. Her pussy.
‘Less fuss, Nurse. Remember you will be there to oblige the client.’ The shocking hand, which is boldly, unbelievably, holding Angela’s pussy, comes out. And… splats hard down on one of the shaking cheeks.
And again. And again. The left cheek… and the right. And the soft undersides of Angela’s thighs. SPLAT!… SPLAT!!… SPLATT!!!
Really stinging his hand in. Knocking the breath, and any spirit, out of her. Angela feels like a rag doll, flopped down over the desk, which is being beaten, given a good dusting-up, by its owner, a bored child perhaps. Except that she is not a rag doll, she is flesh, her bottom and thighs are ripe flesh which are beginning to feel more like raw meat…
‘Don’t get up, Nurse. Now we’ll try the cane. All the spankers like to use the cane as well. So I’m told. Hurts a little bit more of course.’
----//----
‘Don’t be silly,’ Mrs Keenlan says. ‘Of course you can’t resign. Anyway you don’t really want to, Angela. That’s only a hysterical reaction. You won’t want to when you think about it. You couldn’t possibly get what you’re being paid here anywhere else, could you? And it’s nothing to get all hysterical about. Just because Mr Page made your bottom sting a bit.’
‘Sting a bit,’ must be the understatement of all time Angela thinks. The memory of Mr Page’s cane is still such that she can’t think of anything else. Bent over his desk and after the dreadfulness of the bare-bottom spanking that cane slicing into her poor bottom as if it was going to slice her in two. And after that even worse. Not bent over the desk but up on it. Lying on it on her back. Her legs right up in the air. The vestigial knickers still down (or up) round her knees. A sickeningly revealing position but all you could think of was that cane. Slicing in…
Afterwards, after seeing Mrs Keenlan, there is that grinning girl again. Her name is Stacey. She is grinning still but she is not unsympathetic. ‘He’s a bit of a bugger with that cane, isn’t he? He’s worse than some of the clients. Who’ve you got to see then? Has she given you any appointments?’
Angela has been given her first patients. Or clients. Two men, one for today and the other tomorrow. She has to go out and visit them. Presumably for them to do what Mr Page has done. Stacey takes the piece of paper from Angela. ‘Mr Norrish. And Mr Canterbell.’ Stacey makes a face. Shrugs.
‘What!’ Angela demands. The thought of having to go out to these two clients with whatever they want to do to her… she shakes her head. The thought is impossible… but she has to go. ‘What… are they like. M… Mr Norrish?…’
Mr Norrish is today. Ten o’clock this morning it says. Stacey hands back the note. Making another face. ‘Mr Canterbell… is keen on caning. A lot like Mr Page in fact. You have to expect a sore bum when you go to Mr Canterbell. Mr Norrish… well…’
‘What?’ Angela yelps again. Mr Canterbell will want to use the cane. That thought jangles in her head but she can’t think about that now. That is tomorrow. Tomorrow may never come. What about today? Is Mr Norrish perhaps all right then? Maybe he would simply like a chat with a pretty girl? Maybe he even has something wrong with him, a proper medical condition that needs a nurse. Not just a girl with a pretty face and a pretty bum that he can do things to. ‘What… about Mr Norrish…?’ pops out of Angela’s anxious mouth.
Stacey comes close. Puts her mouth close to Angela’s ear… and clearly enunciates a very basic word. She repeats it, equally clearly, in case perhaps Angela hasn’t got it the first time. ‘That’s what Mr Norrish likes.’

3 comments:

  1. Love the final picture in this set. She's been dealt with alright.

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  2. I love the pictures with her over the desk, particularly the facial reaction close shots which draw us in to a more intimate enjoyment of her suffering.

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  3. ‘Less fuss girl’

    Sound advice to the cry-baby girls who spoil their punishment with unseemly shrieks.

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