by Penny Birch
It seemed sensible to discuss the matter with Natasha, and that was not the only reason I needed to speak to her. Following my conversations with Monty, I was beginning to wonder about her motives in introducing me to him. Certainly the two of them seemed more compatible than he and I, considering her love of physical punishment and her ability to be aroused by humiliation. At the time I had accepted her assertion that he would make a good playmate for me. Since then it had come to seem increasingly likely that she had found him more than she could handle, and had simply wished to get rid of him safely by foisting him on to me. She was also the only person I could talk to about my need for a proper nanny, so I had no intention of risking bad feeling between us. I called and she agreed to meet me for lunch on Monday, at a favourite haunt of ours, the Café Eperney in Covent Garden.
I arrived early, ordered a glass of the Sylvaner they do and went to sit in my favourite alcove, well away from where we might be overheard. Inevitably there were several people I knew there, including clients, but all of them respected my obvious need for privacy except for Jocasta Warren. After throwing a few hopeful glances in my direction, she left her table and came over to mine.
‘Gabrielle, hi. Have you got a moment?’
‘Certainly. Although I think I should warn you that I’m lunching with Natasha Linnet.’
‘You are?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Well, anyway, I’ve been thinking over what you said about my novel, and I think you’re right. I’ve got this great plot, original, but right up with the times.’
‘Good.’
‘This is it. My heroine is a woman, thirty-something, independent, professional, attractive, very strong…’
‘Essentially how you see yourself, only in ideal terms?’
‘No, no. She’ll be totally different. Much slimmer, a natural ash blonde, totally confident in her appearance and ability. I want my readers to sympathise with her. She’s not in journalism either. She’s in films.’
She paused to take a swallow of her water. I held my peace, both amused and interested by the subtlety of those distinctions she saw as making her character ‘totally different’ to herself. To a truly detached observer they would have been barely distinguishable. Essentially the plot was a piece of personal wish fulfilment. I could see that it would benefit her, or at least distract her. She went on.
‘The plot is that she’s made her first film, writing the script and directing. There’s this critic and he really slates the film, so badly it flops. Now the clever thing is that he’s an ex-boyfriend, or maybe someone she’s turned down, but she doesn’t know that. Anyway, she’s really down and only keeps going because all her friends are telling her how her work is really great. The only trouble is, she can’t get finance any more, so it looks like she’s finished – only she meets this other guy and falls in love with him, and it turns out he’s really rich. So he finances her new film and it’s a smash. Great, yeah?’
‘I’m not an expert, Jo, yet does it not rely a little heavily on coincidence? Also, if the first man successfully slates the first film, why not the second?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got to get rid of him somehow, haven’t I? You don’t sound as if you like it.’
‘As I say, I am no expert. I note that it does not relate to your problems with Natasha, which can only be positive.’
‘Yeah, I decided that was the wrong thing to do.’
‘Wise.’
‘So anyway, let me tell you about…’
‘Natasha is here.’
‘Oh.’
Jo turned, looking distinctly worried, as if expecting a confrontation. Natasha was in the doorway and bounced over to the table, smiling happily, to greet us both.
‘Hi, Gabby. Hi, Jo. How’s the therapy?’
‘Progressing,’ Jo answered, managing to put a considerable weight of accusation into the single word.
‘Not hitting the Prozac, then?’
‘No, Gabrielle advised against it…’
‘I was joking, Jo. Lighten up.’
‘I’d better be getting back to my friends,’ Jo finished, and left. Natasha laughed, kissed me and sat down.
‘Sylvaner?’ I offered. ‘A spritzer?’
‘Not on a day like this. It’s freezing. Australian Shiraz. I’ll get it.’
She turned to signal the waiter, allowing me a moment to consider her and see if she had made an effort to project any particular signals. It was a habit, but in her case only practice, as I could simply ask.
Her hair was freshly done, the loose brown curls arranged with artless simplicity to accentuate the delicacy of her face. She had made up carefully to enhance the brilliance of her eyes and the shape of her slightly full mouth, but in understated tones. Her manner was vivacious, playful, careless; a reflection of her true character rather than a contrived mood. With her full-length leather coat on it was hard to tell how she was dressed, except that her blouse was a brilliant orange silk, and had at least two buttons undone at the neck. The image was neither stern nor exceptionally girlish, which brought me an instinctive touch of disappointment.
‘No sex today,’ she said casually. ‘I’m flooded. Third day.’
‘You’re good at reading expressions, Natasha.’
‘No, I just thought I’d let you know. Otherwise I’d have been up for it. After all, we haven’t seen each other properly for, what, two months?’
‘Slightly more.’
‘Must be. So what’s this with Monty Hartle? How are you getting on?’
‘Not so well. He isn’t ideal for me, while his own tastes are frankly abusive. He beat me with a spoon, among other things. I’m quite badly bruised.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘So he tells me.’
‘Did he make you roll the big dice, to see how many swats you got?’
‘No, he just beat me, then ate a revolting mixture of beans and meatballs from my bottom.’
‘That sounds like Monty.’
‘Yes. There is another thing. Did you know he was a panty thief?’
‘Yes, he told me.’
‘I discovered his collection. Over a hundred pairs. All but a few stolen from washing lines.’
She laughed.
‘It is not funny, Natasha.’
‘Oh, it is! It’s hilarious.’
‘What of the victims?’
‘Having a pair of panties stolen hardly makes you a victim. Sure, I suppose having Monty creeping around in your back garden could be pretty alarming, but he’s harmless really.’
‘I know. Still, such behaviour can have serious effects. I have had clients require months of treatment to get over far less.’
‘Well, yes, but they’re your clients, aren’t they?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, come on, Gabby. Half your clients are neurotic. The other half only go to you because they need somebody who’ll listen to them wittering on about their boring lives, and to show off how much they can afford to spend on luxuries.’
‘That is not entirely how I see my work, Natasha.’
‘Sorry. You know what I mean, though. Look at Jo Warren.’
‘You’ve added a whole new dimension to Jocasta’s psychological imbalance.’
‘Well, she’s a silly cow, then. She should have spanked me when I gave her the chance.’
‘Perhaps, but we were discussing Monty Hartle. There is another thing, Natasha, and please don’t take this as an aggressive statement. When you introduced me to Monty, were your motives entirely altruistic?’
‘Yes, completely.’
‘I suspect you felt his behaviour, and perhaps his appearance, to be unacceptable, a liability?’
‘No way! You know how it was. You can handle exposure so much better than me, and I knew he’d do your nappy thing for you. OK, so I only ever really got off because he’s so gross he brings out my feelings of humiliation, but he still does. Sorry, but it’s not my fault he’s too rough for you. Still,
you can spank me if you want, when my period’s finished, maybe cane me.’
‘I was not intending to punish you. I simply wanted to know.’
‘Shame. Seriously, maybe he is a bit freaky for me, but I did think you two might get on as well, honestly. I mean, body image doesn’t seem to bother you.’
‘Something you didn’t know until after you had arranged the meeting, and which is not entirely true, although my preferences for body image are admittedly unconventional. Did your reasons include his being a panty thief?’
‘No. Like I said, it doesn’t bother me all that much. He does have some morals. He won’t touch or deliberately scare a woman. At least that’s what he says.’
‘I am sure of it. So far as actual interaction is concerned, he likes to know what is going on inside a woman’s head, for her feelings to be strongly sexual. Fear and revulsion don’t appeal to him, although he enjoys loss of control.’
‘That sounds about right. So what are you going to do, dump him?’
‘Possibly. I’m concerned that if I do he might go back to panty stealing, peeping and so forth.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.’
‘I would.’
‘Yes, you would, I suppose. You can’t take the whole world’s problems on your shoulders, you know.’
‘This problem relates directly to me. I would feel responsible. Besides, he isn’t all bad, and entirely tolerant, although very far from my ideal nurse.’
‘No?’
‘No. I need a woman, Natasha, a woman who enjoys being in charge of me, yet isn’t cruel.’
‘Unlike me?’
‘Unlike you, as I think you would agree.’
‘Yes, although I hope it’s not going to stop us playing together. I like what we do.’
‘No. I like it too. I just wish that if you have to spank me, you would be less rough.’
She smiled, then giggled as she realised that the waiter was standing directly behind her in the act of uncorking a bottle. I waited as she went through the ritual of tasting, accepted the wine and allowed him to pour her a glass. Lifting it, she spent a moment admiring the deep red-purple colour against the weak winter sunlight, took a sip, then spoke.
‘I’ll tell you who probably could help, if you want a decent nurse, and that’s Percy.’
‘Percy Ottershaw? Your spanking playmate?’
‘Yes. He knows lots of people, and he’s discreet. He might well be able to introduce you to somebody. He’d expect to spank you, of course, but that’s only fair.’
‘Why do they always want to spank me?’
‘Because you’ve got a cute bum? No, seriously, if you want to find somebody who enjoys your submission, especially with what you’re into, you can pretty well guarantee they’ll want to punish you. Count yourself lucky it’s not tight bondage and hot wax. ‘
‘You are saying the desire to spank me is a corollary to the dominant counterpart of my baby-girl fantasy?’
‘Yes. In my experience.’
‘Merde.’
‘Exactly, and you can hardly blame them. Still, I’ll tell Percy you want somebody gentle, and we’ll see.’
* * *
If the Internet was proving slow, then the same could not be said for Natasha and Percy Ottershaw. She called on the Friday night, drunk and giggling, with a recommendation, a woman called Anna Vale.
It sounded good. Anna was apparently in her early forties, a misandrist lesbian with an obsession for the fashions of the middle twentieth century. She lived in north London with her long-term girlfriend, Poppy, a relationship which apparently included domination on a twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week basis. I would fit in, Natasha assured me, and both were apparently looking forward to nursing me on Sunday. I accepted without hesitation.
It meant putting Monty off, but my bottom was still bruised and I wasn’t entirely happy with him, so that was no great hardship. He sulked a bit when I told him I wasn’t coming down, but he had little choice but to accept my decision. I didn’t tell him what I was doing.
I wasn’t entirely sure about the retrospective part of the fantasy but, as always, if she was prepared to accommodate me, it was only fair that I reciprocate. It was also fun buying towelling and big old-fashioned nappy pins, which took me most of Saturday afternoon to find, and provided a delicious thrill of anticipation in the process.
By the time I got back, I was eager to explore the fantasy but held back, contenting myself with spending the evening sewing my towelling into large squares, cut to fit my hips. I made four, which I was sure would be enough. Once finished, I experimented a bit, learning how to fold them and put them on, naked, as seemed appropriate. They felt heavier than my modern nappies, and more comfortable, soft and snug around my bottom and sex, albeit less safe. It took all my willpower not to go in one, but I managed and contented myself with sleeping in my special room, nude and masturbating myself to sleep.
Sunday morning was clear and cold, with frost on the trees outside my window. I dressed appropriately, with a woollen body stocking over my underwear, jeans, a thick jumper and lined boots. Even with my coat on it felt cold outside, and I hurried down to the station.
The address was in a part of north London I had never visited before, a typical suburb of large Victorian and Edwardian houses on tree-lined roads. Anna Vale’s looked little different to any other, save for the ancient car parked outside it. Natasha had been discreet, giving nothing away to them, not even my name, and I was wondering how to introduce myself as I approached the front door. As a grown-up baby girl I like to be called Miss Gabby, or just Gabby, and it seemed best, especially if they lived permanently in role.
I pressed the bell, a huge thing with a ceramic button set in brightly polished brass, and was rewarded with a deep chime from inside the house. There was a lump in my throat, which I swallowed, telling myself it was foolish to feel nervous. A shadow appeared beyond the coloured diamond panes of the door, a latch clicked open, and it swung wide to reveal an exceptionally pretty young woman. She was only a little older than me at perhaps thirty, small, with short, curly black hair, a snub nose and a full figure. She was also in a maid’s uniform, a dark blue dress with a white pinny over it.
‘Poppy?’ I ventured. ‘Hi, I’m Gabby.’
She smiled and ushered me in. I followed, my hopes rising rapidly. Other than being considerably shorter than me, she was close to my physical ideal as a nanny. I was already feeling submissive, and wiped my feet carefully before following Poppy into what was obviously the living room.
Inside, the house was anything but typical. For a start, just about everything was brown, either paint, or wood. There was a radio, a huge wooden thing with an elaborate veneered front, but no television. There were several aspidistra, glazed tiles, old fashioned furniture and fittings, right down to the light switches. It was also immaculate, polished brass, gleaming wood and spotless floors.
Poppy took my coat and left me. I spent a moment looking at the embroidery samplers and prints of hunting scenes they had chosen for decoration, before I heard footsteps and she came back with another woman, evidently her mistress.
Anna Vale was tall and slim, too slim for a nurse really, but I was more than willing to accept that. Otherwise she really looked the part: ramrod straight, with a lean, haughty face and long, shiny brown hair pinned up into an elaborate bun. Her clothing consisted of a tweed twin-set, the skirt reaching to just below her knees, a crisp white blouse, sensible shoes of brown leather, and fully fashioned stockings. She took charge immediately, greeting me with the briefest of nods.
‘Do sit down,’ she said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. ‘You are a friend of a friend of Penny, I understand?’
‘Natasha? Through Percy Ottershaw?’
‘I have never met the young lady, but as I have Penny’s recommendation that you are genuine in your needs I shall accept you on trust. You understand that I administer genuine corporal punishment in this household?’
‘In a way, yes. Natasha explained. One moment, please. I thought you were a friend of Percy Ottershaw?’
‘I do not have male friends. I was contacted by Penny, who assured me that you were…a playmate of a friend of hers.’
I nodded, wondering why Natasha hadn’t explained, but too interested to really care.
‘I am somewhat wary of journalists,’ she went on, ‘and those who would take a prurient interest in my affairs. Therefore, I insist that young ladies who come to me take a mild punishment to prove they are genuine, as I’m sure your friend explained.’
‘No. She did not. What sort of punishment?’
‘Nothing severe, my dear, there is no need to look so worried. Six of the best.’
‘With a cane?’
‘Naturally.’
I nodded. I could see the logic behind her argument, but I was wishing Natasha had told me, also wondering if the omission had not been intentional. I’d seen Natasha caned and it had left her in tears. I was not at all sure if I could take it.
‘You accept?’ she asked.
‘I do, yes,’ I said quickly. ‘I accept your reasoning anyway. It is just that I have a very poor tolerance for pain. I am also quite bruised. Perhaps you could just spank me, if it is really necessary.’
‘It is absolutely necessary,’ she insisted. ‘I must be sure of my girls. Yet you say you are bruised?’
I nodded. There was only one thing to do. I stood to take down my jeans, only to realise that with my body stocking on I was going to have to strip very nearly naked to show her. Soon I would be nude, so it seemed pointless to quibble.
They watched, Anna cool, Poppy smiling to herself as I stripped, peeling off my jumper so that I could shrug my body stocking down off my shoulders. I had no bra, and ended up topless as I opened the button of my jeans. Turning, I pushed it all down to show my bare bottom, complete with the smack marks applied by Monty with his spoon.
‘I see,’ Anna stated. ‘You have been punished, haven’t you? And how did that come about?’
Given her attitude to men, it seemed unwise to tell her the truth. It was also an opportunity to arouse her.
