Spilt Milk

by Sarah Steel

  'You wicked, disobedient girl,' Matron hissed. Reaching out for a towel, she stemmed the flood, then, reaching out again, she grasped three more rubber tubes and arranged them lengthways down the prone girl. Taking up the first supple length, she wound it around Alice's ankles and bound them together tightly.

  'Please - no—' Alice moaned, writhing in her shame. 'I'm sorry, Matron.'

  'You will be, girl, you will be. Now be quiet and give me your wrists.'

  'Please don't—'

  'Silence. Do I have to tell you again? You seem to deem it necessary to defy me,' Matron grunted, binding the proffered wrists severely with the flexible tubing. 'Don't you?'

  As tears glittered on the rubber sheet beneath the bound girl's closed eyes, Matron rolled her over.

  'Let's see just how arrogant you feel after a taste of this,' she barked, doubling the remaining length of rubber tubing in her right fist. 'Let's see what a dozen or so from my little friend here does, followed by half an hour sitting on the toilet with a whipped bottom.'

  With her face pressed down into the rubber sheet, and her hands and feet immobile in strict bondage, Alice was utterly helpless beneath the lash.

  Returning from her weekend course at an army burns unit - when the bombers descended upon London spilling their incendiaries, casualties would be very high - Matron ate sardines on toast with those arriving on night duty. She spoke briefly with the Almoner about the purchase of blackout material and then retired to her quarters.

  Her wireless was playing Elgar: melancholy but stirring stuff. Matron, who preferred Vaughan Williams, ate a bar of chocolate, then turned to sort out her laundry basket.

  Arranging her freshly ironed lingerie in the second drawer of her dresser, she sprinkled a few drops of orange water on the sheer silks and sensual satins. The sweet pungency reminded her of Spain. Naranja. In Tudor England, the fruit was called the norange. It was, she recalled, Dr Johnson who had definitively given the swollen citrus from Seville the name orange. Spain. Matron closed her eyes and inhaled the orange water. It reminded her of the fierce Spanish sun: and then, suddenly, of the dyed blonde in the dusty convent courtyard licking and kissing the leather that had just whipped her buttocks and breasts. Yes. The punished nude, her stretched tongue lapping at the leather, her excited eyes sparkling. Sparkling, Matron realised, just like Henrietta's green eyes during and after her humiliation and submission to the razor at her soaped pubic fuzz.

  Henrietta. Matron decided upon a brief nocturnal patrol down along the dormitory corridor. Remembering Alice's precautionary habit of sporting a locked bedroom door, Matron picked up her pass key as she kicked off her polished brogues.

  Poppy was drifting off to sleep over her studies at her desk. Matron shook the dozing girl gently, noting with approval the chapter on nursing care for the shell-shocked. Poppy sat up, startled.

  'Time for bed,' Matron said gently, stroking the pert pony-tail. 'Put your book away now. I am very pleased to find you at your studies.'

  She helped the sleepy girl undress. Taking the hem of Poppy's vest in both hands, she drew it up slowly to the breasts above.

  'Skin the bunny?' Matron smiled. 'My auntie used to say that to me every night.'

  Poppy grinned. The vest swept up over the heavy swell of her naked bosom. They bounced softly in their newfound freedom. Matron's thumbtips captured each nipple briefly - a tenderly dominant touch of authority.

  'Tomorrow, I will find time to help you with your splints and bandages,' Matron promised, turning the little nurse around and propelling her towards her bed with a playful spank. 'It is important that the bandages are tied very tightly.'

  Henrietta was already in her bed. Matron sat down alongside the green-eyed girl, her heavy buttocks depressing the mattress.

  'Let me see my handiwork,' she said, tapping the blanket just below the girl's belly.

  Slowly, shyly, Henrietta peeled her blanket away and drew her cotton nightgown up, revealing her shaven delta. Matron, gazing unblinkingly into the wide, green eyes, began to gently massage the exposed flesh with her fingertip. The green eyes widened.

  'After you have qualified, would you like to stay here and work for me?'

  Tensing, then relaxing as the fingertip described dominant circles at her smooth pubis, Henrietta nodded.

  'Excellent. I shall take a very special interest in you, girl. And does pussy miss her sleek coat?'

  Henrietta lowered her gaze and blushed.

  'Does she?' Matron insisted.

  'A little,' the chestnut-curled girl conceded softly.

  Matron stood up, inched the hem of her pleated uniform skirt up to her waist and thumbed her panties down. Parting her thighs a little, she inched towards the bed. 'Look at my pussy. She has her winter coat on still.'

  Henrietta gasped aloud at Matron's mass of pubic hair.

  'Touch pussy. She likes to be stroked.'

  Timorously, Henrietta reached out and dabbled her fingertips in Matron's luxuriant growth.

  'Tomorrow, if you are very good, I shall let you shave me.'

  'Yes, yes please!'

  'But now you must get some sleep. Kiss pussy goodnight.'

  Wriggling across to the very edge of her bed, Henrietta strained her neck as she brought her lips to the proud pubis before them. Eyes shining - like the whipped nude in the convent courtyard under the fierce Spanish sun - she buried her face between Matron's warm thighs, her pink tongue wet and eager as it licked and lapped devotedly.

  Later, approaching Alice's room on stockinged feet, Matron slipped the pass key into the lock and opened the door silently. Alice, naked, was on her bed - not in it - gently masturbating. Eyes closed, her head arched back, she dealt with her slippery labia and clitoris with urgent fingers.

  Matron tiptoed up to the bed. 'Wasting precious time on selfish pleasures, I see.'

  Alice squealed and attempted to scramble under her blanket but Matron pounced, pinning the squirming nude down firmly to the bed.

  'You'll do two hours hard study before you get any sleep tonight, you little slut, but first we'll get this little distraction out of the way. When I see a boil, I lance it. Continue and complete what you were doing.'

  'Leave me alone,' Alice wailed, her Kensington composure completely crumbling. Squirming, she looked away, avoiding Matron's stern gaze.

  A firm hand clutched her hair and twisted her face upwards. Matron glared down dominantly. 'And you will tell me exactly what naughtiness is going through your mind as your fingers are busy down there. Come along, girl. We haven't got all night.'

  Alice stubbornly refused, despite the cruel hand taloning her hair.

  'I have a walnut veneer cupboard in my room. In that cupboard, there is a cane. A whippy, bamboo cane. Do you want me to go back to my room and get it? Hm? If I do, your bare bottom will suffer most severely.'

  'No—' Alice whispered, shuddering.

  'Then continue with what you clearly think is more important than studying for your finals.'

  Alice inched her fingers - the tips already wet and shining - back down to where her parted labia greeted them with a wide smile.

  'Tell me your most intimate thoughts, girl,' Matron demanded. 'Speak out your flights of wicked fancy.'

  Grinding her soft buttocks into the blanket, Alice thumbed her pink clitoris. In exquisitely clipped vowels, she whispered her fantasies aloud.

  'I am in that room. The room walled with bright, white tiles. The door is locked. I am naked, except for my ankle socks and white pumps. You are standing over me as I kneel before you. You tell me I am lazy and am not fit to wear the uniform of a nurse. I am only fit to be a wardsmaid, to clean and scrub. To kneel and scrub floors—'

  Matron, kneeling down at the bedside, cupped and squeezed Alice's left breast and gazed down at the masturbating girl. 'And?'

  'I do not scrub hard enough. You are standing over me, your shoe pressing down upon my bare bottom. You unbuckle your leather belt. It dangles before my eyes; then you
tap my buttocks with it.'

  'Yes?' Matron hissed, her voice a whisper of gathering excitement.

  Alice was now pleasuring herself unselfconsciously, ravishing her wet flesh with frank, unguarded wanton eagerness. 'I shuffle away but you crush me down into the wet linoleum and then whip my bare bottom with your belt—'

  Alice closed her eyes and snarled softly as her climax approached. Inching her hips up, she jerked and writhed as her quicksilver started to spill.

  'I whip you,' Matron echoed, savaging the breast in her fierce grip.

  'Yes,' Alice screamed softly, now utterly broken and abandoned in her violent orgasm. She hammered her bare bottom into the blanket beneath her, the strong odour of her wet excitement flooding the room.

  Matron rose, after the third orgasm had expired, superbly dominant above the shivering nude on the bed.

  'By Jove, Alice, I think I'll be able to do something with you yet, my girl. True, I had to bend you to my strap in order to bend you to my will. But we're getting there, girl; we're getting there,' Matron pronounced with proud satisfaction as she unbuckled her leather belt. Gazing down at the arrogant girl from society's top drawer - the girl Matron knew she had dominated and crushed - she raised the leather to her lips and kissed it slowly. 'Turn over, Alice. Give me your bottom. I've only got a month to lick you into shape.'

  Severe Mentor

  The seagulls wheeling against the clear blue sky were an improvement on the pigeons messing the grimy windows of what used to be his office in Leadenhall Street, EC3. Yes. The move down to Brighton had been a success in every way. What was her name? Samantha. Of course. It all came back to him as he flicked through the glossy photocopier brochure.

  Little Samantha, back in the Leadenhall Street days - just the two of them squashed together in that tiny little fifth-floor office, running the claims department for a firm of horticultural insurance brokers. No clients, no new policies, just the treadmill of claims after early winds or late frosts had ravaged the glass-houses from Kent to Cornwall. Just the two of them. The boss and the younger, inexperienced lovely little assistant.

  He gazed down at a gleaming new photocopier that could do everything except make the coffee. He grinned, remembering how he had bullied her and shouted at her until she had cried - then made her pull down her panties and sit on the copier in the corridor, the one they shared with the feta cheese import agency in the next cramped office. Enlarging the image of her bottom onto A3 paper, he had obtained a haunting shot of her swollen cheeks. He had kept the picture in the top drawer of his desk. For a week or two afterwards, every time the nervous little thing had made the slightest error, he would force her to stand and watch as he slid the drawer open, took the Xerox out and, smoothing the bottom flat across his desk top, spank it slowly with his right hand.

  Spanking her bottom. Another month, and he would have had her warmth across his lap and his hard hand across her peach-cheeks. Yes. He had been close to the point of total domination - another month and her bare buttocks, more maybe, would have been all his. A pretty little thing but timid. Like a rabbit in a python's tank: easy meat.

  Flicking through another glossy brochure - extolling the virtues of the electronic office - he shrugged. Leadenhall Street had been a shambles. Everything was paper, then, with grey metal cabinets jostling for space spilling out their index cards, claim forms and bulging files. Samantha had just started to go to evening classes at Mile End. Computing. No future in that for you, girl, he had warned. Computers were toys for big boys. Stick to what you know, sweetie, and if you are a good girl - a very good girl - I'll see if I can't give you a guiding hand up through the clerical grades.

  Then - out of the blue - the axe fell. Canadians. Came and snapped up the horticultural insurance broking arm overnight. Dawn raid, the City called it. Same thing. The Leadenhall Street operation was closed down and, for a bleak fortnight his future was on hold. Came out of it all right, though. The horticultural operation was relocated to Brighton - and, by a judicious mixture of back-stabbing and brown-nosing, he had got the Brighton office and three gorgeous female employees to run. Samantha, he supposed, had got chopped up in the cuts.

  The seagulls screamed as they breasted the sharp east wind.

  'Good weekend, Susie?'

  'Yes, Mr Andrews.' He insisted that his 'girls' always called him by his full, formal name and title. It established the correct tone in the office. Professional and disciplined.

  'See anyone interesting? Bet you did. You always do.'

  Susie, his part-timer, was an art student. Up to her neck in loans and rent arrears, and sinking fast. He knew she needed her job, even though it included the task of having to invent sexual adventures and recount them every Monday morning to satisfy his prurient appetite - an appetite that fed upon every intimate detail, every moist morsel.

  She flushed, took a deep breath and murmured, 'I posed for a sculptress.'

  'Naked?' Mr Andrews hissed, his eyes narrowing.

  'In my black stockings. But yes. Naked. She made me pose on an automatic washing machine. The round plastic door at the front, you know—'

  'I know.' He nodded vigorously.

  'It was opened. My stockinged legs framed the large, dark hole.' His trousers bulged as his cock rose, its length stirring with interest at her words.

  Susie spent the next seven and a half minutes entertaining her boss, as she did every Monday morning, with a sizzling account of wholly fictitious weekend adventures. This morning, fingering the tip of his stiffened cock beneath his desk, he listened to her ordeal in the supposed studio of a Belgian sculptress.

  'Forty-three. Brown eyes. Wide, wet lips,' she added. Mr Andrews was a stickler for detail. 'She always works in the nude.'

  'Go on, Susie.'

  Susie obeyed her master's voice. 'When the latex had cooled, she poured it over my breasts. It trickled down my tummy and made my pussy hairs all sticky. She had to wipe my pussy with a soft, yellow sponge.'

  'Nice, eh?'

  'Very nice, Mr Andrews. She dragged the sponge firmly against my pussy-lips. I squeezed my thighs together and came. She smelt my juices on the sponge and sucked it with her big, wet lips.'

  'Tell me about the latex. The latex smothered over your naked breasts.' He was masturbating slowly. His balls ached for release.

  Susie told him how the Belgian sculptress had slowly peeled away the clinging second, rubbery skin from the flesh of her bosom. How the dominant sculptress had captured Susie's breasts and examined them intimately for a full six minutes, weighing their passive warmth in her controlling palms before thumbing the nipples up into fierce stubs of pleasurable pain.

  'Tell me about the dildo. Quickly,' he rasped.

  Susie described how the Belgian had teased the nude poser perched on top of the washing machine with a wicked little black ebony shaft.

  'She made me go belly-down across the automatic and slid it up my—'

  He grunted as he came. She gazed out of the window, watching the seagulls soar and dive.

  Hands busy with tissues beneath his desk, Mr Andrews recovered his composure. 'Tell your landlord to give me a call, Susie. I'll see if fifty quid can block that eviction notice.'

  'Oh, would you, Mr Andrews? Thanks. Thanks ever so much.'

  'I'll have a coffee now. Nip down the road and get me some biscuits. Anything chocolaty. You know what I like.'

  'Yes, Mr Andrews.'

  He was lucky to be in Brighton. The Canadians left him alone to run things his way. No prying auditors querying his idiosyncratic use of company funds and, better still, no prying personnel managers from 'human resources and staff development' to offer a shoulder for his 'girls' to cry on and shout harassment. No. Relocating away from head office down here in Brighton had dealt him a very good hand. He held all the aces.

  'Can I see you for a minute, Mr Andrews?'

  Annie, a trim blonde, was a twenty-nine-year-old single parent.

  When she asked for a minute, it was us
ually to ask for an hour. An hour off early to pick up the kid from school. She hovered in the doorway, biting her lower lip. He made her wait while he flicked through an empty file, relishing her anxiety. Her breasts - braless, as he had instructed - bounced gently.

  'Well? I suppose you want to go early. Again.'

  'Yes, please, Mr Andrews.'

  Annie worked a sort of flexi-time which allowed her to be at the school gates when other arrangements broke down. Mr Andrews always agreed, providing Annie proved flexible enough.

  'Are those stockings or tights?'

  'Stockings, Mr Andrews,' she whispered.

  'Seamed?'

  'Just as you suggested, Mr Andrews. And very smart for the office, like you said they would be, don't you think? They're self-support. No suspender belt.'

  The pretty young woman closed the door behind her and stepped into his office. Turning her bottom towards him, she inched up her camel skirt over her thighs until the hem rode her hips. Waggling her pantied buttocks, she allowed him a long, lingering look at her stockinged legs. Slender and shapely, they were sheathed in a light tan sheen up to the softness of her thighs where darker bands bit into the flesh below the swell of her buttocks.

  'Come closer,' he commanded.

  She shuffled back towards him with mincing steps, her cheeks joggling deliciously.

  'I can't let you go until three forty-five, I'm afraid, Annie.' She tugged at her panties, dragging the thin silk up into her cleft,

  'Three-thirty, at a stretch.'

  She yanked her panties down, allowing him to feast upon her swollen cheeks as they wobbled before him in naked splendour.

  'Let me see the jewel,' he grunted thickly. 'The jewel in the crown.'