Spilt Milk

by Sarah Steel

  He came with a sweet paroxysm, splashing his face with his own hot seed. Squirming in his bondage, his dark joy was suddenly intensified as his strict chastiser stood directly behind him, worrying his sphincter with the cruel tip of her whippy cane.

  The utter domination of his helplessness in the eerie silence electrified him. He came again almost immediately. The stern disciplinarian, his rubber-clad tormentress, was now perusing him intimately. He shrank in delight from the rubbered fingers at his cleft, balls and shaft.

  Then, the rubber fingers were pulling at his bonds, loosening and removing the restricting nylon stockings that welded his wrists to his aching ankles. He felt the rubber gloves pushing at him, rolling him over onto his back and stretching him out across the rubber sheet. A firm fingertip alighted upon his upturned face to trace the warm semen puddling his features. It dipped into the sticky sheen, tracing dominant arabesques, then rubbing the seed into his flesh. He writhed. Now the rubber-sheathed fingers were playing with his wet cock, contemptuously shaking the last remaining droplets of his ejaculation onto his belly. He ground his caned buttocks into the rubber sheet as his cock stiffened within the dominant fingers, pressing its length against the rubber palm that trapped it.

  Then he gasped as he sensed his sweet tormentress mount him. He tried to picture the splendour of her easing herself down onto his face. Easing her rubber-sheathed, shining buttocks dominantly down onto his gagged, sightless helplessness. She was riding him now, the stretched rubber at her curved cheeks skimming his face. The gag was prised away from his mouth. He parted his aching lips and tongued at the softness above. The taste of warm rubber haunted him. He cried out aloud, proclaiming his delight.

  Rubber fingers opened a flap between his chastiser's splayed thighs. Matthew's straining tongue suddenly tasted her wet tang - tasted the wet heat of the dominatrix who rode him. His engorged erection quivered. He heard the zip at her bosom slide down. Her breasts would be bulging. He gasped aloud in delight. She twisted and, turning deftly, knelt over him: just in time to catch his spurt in her deep cleavage as he came uncontrollably. Knowing that he was drenching her breasts intensified his release. His buttocks pounded the rubber sheet as he splashed her massively. Already, the hot seed was dripping down from her breasts, from her nipples, onto his own naked flesh below.

  He was rolled over with a rough gesture of tenderness, the rubber gloves gently firm at his flesh. He moaned as his wet shaft was trapped against the rubber sheet. His sounds of joyful sorrow echoed eerily in the silent Inner Room. He cried out for mercy as the rubber gauntlet grasped the bamboo cane and sliced it down three - four - five - times across his proffered cheeks, and screamed gently as the cane was tossed aside and his tormentress crushed her wet breasts down onto his seething buttocks.

  Matthew could not make out what was happening. She had positioned him, face down, into the rubber sheet. A satin cushion had been inserted between his semen-wet belly and the surface of the table. Something cool and hard - with a blunt, polished tip - was being dragged dominantly down along the length of his spine. He writhed and jerked his hips. It was a futile gesture, an attempt to rid himself of this unknown torment. The firm length of cold dominance swept down his spine once more, reminding him of his abject helplessness.

  Wriggle and writhe as he might, the dominatrix was totally in control. The cold snout dimpled his left cheek as it traced the red cane-weals across the swell of the punished buttock. What was it? The stock of a whip? His mind became a frenzy of apprehension as it tried to identify the object. The thin handle of a spanking paddle? What was the delicious instrument of impending punishment being played upon his nakedness?

  The tip of the cool length now explored his warm cleft. Matthew clenched his cheeks, resisting the insistent nuzzling at his sphincter. Tightening his buttocks, he tried to trap and contain it. Rubber fingertips expertly prised his buttocks apart. He squirmed - then cried out as a half-understood fear became a nightmare reality: she was using a dildo on him. She was committing the ultimate act of feminine dominance.

  The ivory shaft slid in between his cheeks. Matthew wriggled his belly into the satin cushion so violently it slipped away, leaving his flesh against the warm rubber once more. A firm hand pinned him down at his neck as a firmer hand plied the cruel shaft.

  He came, sobbing softly, the hot wet spurt sticking his belly to the rubber. His fingers groped back blindly to remove the dildo from his burning anal whorl. He begged - but firm hands rendered him immobile in his sweetly scalding shame.

  The door was softly unlocked, the two bolts drawn. The click of the key exploded inside his brain. Who? Matthew threshed on his rubber sheet. The voice of the marriage guidance counsellor spoke softly. Yes. It was her voice - but speaking into the room as if she had just arrived.

  'Take off his blindfold.'

  He blinked, instantly dazzled by the neon above. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. The attractive brunette wore a rubber cat-suit, just as she had when his eyes submitted to the velvet blindfold. But she was not wearing a hood. The rubber-suited female by his table of shame was hooded.

  'Now unmask,' the marriage guidance counsellor instructed the superb dominatrix. 'Let him know you as you really are.'

  Matthew gazed in stunned silence as blonde hair tumbled from the black rubber hood as it was peeled away. His heart thumped - in a second, he would be face to face with the female who had pleasured him so utterly, so completely - so perfectly.

  'Susan,' he whispered, scrambling to the edge of the table to kiss his wife's wet slit devotedly.

  Stern Matron

  When she glanced down and saw the photo in the newspaper - the photo snapped at a windswept Croydon aerodrome, the previous day - Matron knew that it would all happen just as the busy rumours predicted. There would be rationing and long queues for glutinous whalemeat and powdered eggs. Schoolchildren would be transformed into goggle-eyed frogs by gas masks. Guns would sprout in Hyde Park and fire watchers would prowl the midnight dome of St Paul's. Matron had served with the Red Cross in Spain, some years before. Then, scrambling through the rubble, she had seen the future of modern warfare.

  Sitting up in bed, she gazed down at the front page of her Daily Sketch. Mr Chamberlain, tired and crumpled, smiled up at her. The smile was bleak - like the outlook for the peace he had just bargained for in Munich.

  Naked before her full-length mirror, she gazed into her own stern face. War was coming. Matron did not flinch at the fact. She remembered the havoc dive-bombers from the dreaded Condor squadron had brought to Guernica. There would be bombers over London - already, the entrances to tube stations were being sand bagged. War meant casualties, and casualties needed nurses. Efficient, well-disciplined nurses.

  Matron, a grey-eyed, broad-hipped brunette - just eighteen when the Great War had ground to a halt in the armistice mud - snapped her white suspender belt around her waist, relishing its crispness as it bit into her soft flesh. Carefully selecting and palming dark brown, seamed stockings, she prinked each foot in turn to accept their enveloping sheen. Smoothing each stocking up along her strong, slender legs, she trapped the darker bands of nylon at her thighs and secured them firmly. Turning her bottom towards the looking glass, she twisted her head and gazed down to inspect them. The nylon sheathing her left leg betrayed a twisted seam. Breasts bulging, she bent down and palmed it into place, the whispering sheen obedient between her strong hands. Straightening herself up, she inspected her stockings once more. Both seams were perfectly aligned, arrowing up unswervingly to the swell of her buttocks above.

  Her pubic nest was quite pronounced, having a dark, luxuriant growth of matted coils. Matron drew her pale silk panties up, thumbing the soft silk from her cleft. In the looking glass, the pubic patch showed dark beneath the stretch of silk. She fingertip-tidied away stray pubic wisps where the edge of the taut silk creased her inner thighs. Easing her ripe breasts into the waiting cups of her bra, she grunted softly as her bosom surrendered to its controlling em
brace. Adjusting the white strap at her left shoulder, she paused to appreciate her deep cleavage.

  The clock in the bell tower dominating the hospital courtyard began to strike eight. Before the sixth echoing chime, Matron donned her starched white blouse and was deftly buttoning it over the swell of her bondaged bosom. Her uniform skirt - blue, with severe pleats - swished softly as its hem rasped at curves of her stockinged calves. Black polished brogues, a leather belt, starched cuffs and a crisp lace cap completed her formidable ensemble.

  She turned and, picking up her gloves, glanced around her quarters. A maid would be in at ten to dust and tidy. Matron strode across to her unmade bed. The sheet was stained where she ravished herself last night, her strong fingers busy at her wet slit. Taloning the sheet up in her gloved fist, she dragged it from the mattress and deposited the evidence of her private pleasures in the wicker laundry basket.

  Down in the nurses' refectory, the tables were crowded with chattering young girls in their pale blue and white striped uniforms. Freshly scrubbed faces glowed, freshly groomed hair gleamed. Silly, twittering girls, Matron thought. As annoying as the chorus of town sparrows that woke her at six. The talk was of film stars and new lipsticks in Woolworths. Didn't they realise there was a war looming? How she'd like to spank their girlish bottoms. Instead, she dealt with her kippers and coffee severely.

  Three final-year student nurses scampered into the refectory, late and laughing. Matron frowned, recognising them immediately from their recent poor ward reports. Slapdash - with levels of clinical competence woefully below the desired standards. Matron finished her coffee, grimacing at its bitterness. She had elected to go without sugar forthwith. Soon there would be no choice in the matter - the convoys would have more strategic freight to carry - and in this, as in all things, Matron liked to be in control.

  Laughter from the gaggle of latecomers rang out as Matron rose from the top table. She descended down to their table and, in a firm voice, reminded them that they were due on their respective wards in four minutes. They nodded in sullen silence and polished off their fried breakfasts. As Matron left the refectory, the sound of their smothered giggling stung her. Wheeling around on her well-polished brogues, she quelled them with her steel-grey stare.

  'In my office, all of you, immediately before lunch.'

  'Yes, Matron.'

  The morning grew unexpectedly warm. Matron finished re-reading the three folders on her desk. A stern frown revisited her cosmetic-free face. Her full lips pursed tightly. Only a month to go before the final exams, perhaps another month, and then the war. The three student nurses were doing badly. Late nights and neglected studies; slovenly ward skills and a poor attitude. No discipline. They could well fail to qualify - just at a time when every nurse would be needed.

  The war. Matron closed her eyes and remembered the fierce heat of Spain. Behind the walls of a convent a day's ride by mule from Cuidad Real, she had witnessed the cruel nuns in their black habits punishing two young women from the village suspected of sleeping with enemy soldiers. Dragged squealing out of the shadowed cloisters into the searing sunlight, the two accused had been stripped naked and forced to kneel on the burning sand.

  Matron wiped her moistening palms against the pleated uniform skirt at her thighs as she concentrated hard, remembering. Yes. There had been twelve nuns, each holding short, leather straps. Twelve nuns, like predatory ravens - and two naked girls.

  First, the nudes had been forced to confess their sins. Scissors had glinted in the sunlight, ready to swoop down and shear the kneeling penitents, should they deny their crimes. Sobbing, they had confessed their unpatriotic sinfulness. The threat of the scissors was removed, and their punishment began. Each had been presented with a little three-legged wooden stool to stretch across, belly-down, buttocks raised up for the lashing straps. Chanting a sonorous, 'Confetior' prayer in unison, each nun had stepped up in turn, strap poised, casting shadows across the pale nudes darker than their black habits. Snap, crack. Each nun had, without pausing in their mournful chant, delivered two blistering strokes across the first bare bottom then almost instantly across the second. Soon the quivering girls were yelling out their pain as the relentless punishment progressed.

  Rojo. Matron knew the word for the enemy. Rojo. Despite the heat of the Spanish sun, Matron had shivered at the severity of those lashes reddening the bare-bottomed girls. Loud squeals split the dusty air as the straps kissed the proffered cheeks, licking their rounded curves with crimson weals of pain. The punished nudes were sobbing - Matron recalled - and pleading for mercy. Swish, crack. Swish, crack. The cruel nuns ignored the cries and plied their straps savagely. At length, the twelfth nun had administered two searing strokes to each whipped bottom and returned to join her assembled sisters. All in the courtyard was silent, except for the muffled whimpers from the prostrate penitents.

  At her desk, Matron, inching her fingers up along her thighs beneath her pleated skirt, sought and found the wet heat at her pantied pubis. Peeling away the silk, she thumbed her clitoral bud rhythmically and closed her eyes tightly, as if squeezing out the remembered images of that haunting punishment under the Spanish sun.

  Four nuns stepped forward from the group and grappled with their victims, turning the nudes over and spreadeagling them across the three-legged stools: forcing their squirming, whipped buttocks down onto the hard wood. The remaining eight nuns formed a patient single file, their straps flickering impatiently. The fluttering habits approached the pinioned nudes; tiny puffs of dust rose from the sandals as they trod the sand. Each nun administered two more snapping strokes - crack, lash - the first across the helpless breasts, and the second between the splayed thighs of their victims. The two naked girls screamed aloud as the leather kissed their nipples and pink slits, but firm hands pinned them down for their pain. After the strap had visited their slits, the nudes who had slept with los rojos had been forced to pay homage to the hide that had just seared their exposed flesh. One, a dyed blonde - her snatch was dark and glistening - tongued each dangling length of leather as they were presented to her mouth. Yes. The blonde had stretched to kiss and frenziedly bite her instruments of stinging torment.

  Buckling under the impact of this suddenly remembered delicious detail, Matron gathered up the silk straining at her thighs and deftly finger-forced the panties up between her wet labia, shuddering as the shiny silk rasped her inner fleshfolds. Masturbating expertly as the memories of Spain flooded back, Matron collapsed face-down into the folders of the failing student nurses on her desk. She started to come, the inner walls below her belly contracting violently. Memories of Spain - of punishment under the sun. Discipline and severe punishment. That was how wars were won. Then she came, grinding her heavy buttocks - the silk panties burning at her hot cleft - into her leather chair. She grunted softly, softer than a nun's curse, as her wet thumbnail rasped her clitoral thorn.

  A tap at her door announced the arrival of the three backsliders. Ordering them to enter, Matron remained seated at her desk as they lined up before her - like naughty schoolgirls before a slipper-wielding Head.

  'I wish to speak to each of you about your recent ward reports and your examination prospects next month.' She flipped open the top folder. After reading it for an agonising three minutes, she raised her steel-grey eyes up. 'Poppy.'

  The pert, pony-tailed blonde blushed and shuffled her pumps uncomfortably. Matron read aloud from the ward instancing Poppy's late arrival for duty, unkempt appearance and lack of nursing skills.

  'We do not appear to be making the grade, do we, girl?'

  Poppy squirmed.

  'Too many late nights,' Matron purred, her straightened finger tapping down on the damning evidence. 'And your clinical skills are deficient. Do you entertain any hopes of qualifying next month?'

  Poppy's pony-tail flounced as she nodded.

  'I don't,' Matron rasped. 'And let me tell you that I cannot and will not tolerate failure. Pull your socks up. No more late nights.
Early to bed - and to your studies. Understand?'

  'Yes, Matron.'

  'Dismissed.'

  Poppy scuttled out of the room.

  'Henrietta,' Matron continued, flicking open the second file. The green-eyed girl blushed as she nervously twiddled with her glorious chestnut curls.

  'Much the same, I fear. Poor concentration. Listlessness. Untidy work on the wards—' the catalogue of shame was read out tersely. At length, the file was closed. After warning Henrietta in the sharpest of tones to buck her ideas up, Matron dismissed the second student nurse with a curt nod.

  'Alice.'

  'Matron?' the slender brunette countered evenly, her languid Kensington drawl devoid of contrition.

  Matron's grey eyes narrowed. 'Too slapdash. Late for duty. Low marks in your tests. You have clearly been neglecting your duties and your revision for the finals. What have you to say for yourself, girl?'

  Alice shrugged her slender shoulders and remained silent.

  'Answer me, girl,' Matron thundered. 'I demand an explanation.'

  Alice remained unruffled and returned Matron's glare with an insolent defiance.

  Matron sighed and tried the reasoned approach. 'Does it not concern you that, within a month or so, we will be at war?'

  Alice shrugged once more, her heavy breasts rising beneath her tight, pale-blue-and-white-striped uniform, and remarked that she found all this talk of impending war rather a bore.

  Matron's fist pounded the desk top. Rising swiftly from her chair, she approached the student nurse and inspected her closely. 'Your cuff is unbuttoned, your left shoe is scuffed and—' Matron hissed, 'there is a trace of lipstick from last night's little jaunt after curfew.'