School for Nurses (18 page)

A moment after I knocked on the door he opened it, and pulled me into his room by an arm.

‘Mother, dear,' he said, as I stumbled into the room. ‘What is this?' He pulled the scarf off my breasts. ‘How modest,' he said, ‘and how charming.'

I blushed, unable to meet his eyes. His room was laid out as neatly as a young officer's quarters; everything was in its proper place. Only the covers on the bed were turned back, as though he had been about to lie down. And then I saw the cane laying across the sheets.

‘Mother, dear, you see my cane?'

‘I see it, Stefan.'

‘Why do you not go and feel it?'

I looked at him for a moment, then went over to the cane and picked it up. It was black, and extremely flexible. As I lifted it the tip dropped down like a man's limp organ, and even the gentle movement of my picking it up caused a slight whooshing sound as the thin bamboo displaced the air around it.

‘Lovely, is it not?' he said.

‘If you like that sort of thing,' I replied.

‘Do you not like the cane, mother?'

‘I do not much...'

‘I am sure my father has given you a taste of it.'

I looked at him again. He could not possibly believe... ‘Your father would never...' I began breathlessly. ‘He and I...'

‘You forget my real mother was married to him long before you were. We were very close, she and I, and she told me everything despite how young I was at the time. I was only ten when she died. Lower the cane.' He took it from me, and laid it across the bed again. Then he whispered in my ear, ‘I know my father waves the cane at you but that it does not bite. I know he could not get his dick up with a rope tied to it. My real mother told me these things.'

I stared at him, suddenly unable to find my voice.

‘Take the cane up again and cut it through the air. Cut it through the air, mother.'

I do not know why, but I obeyed him without asking why he was making me do this.

‘Make a big noise,' he went on, ‘a noise like you're punishing someone.'

Tentatively, I raised my arm, and swished the cane through the air.

‘Ouch!' he said.

I looked at him in astonishment.

‘Cut it again!' he whispered.

My eyes wide, I cut the air with the thin strip of bamboo again, and this time the hissing sound was a little more menacing.

‘Oh!' he groaned at the top of his voice, and then murmured, ‘Again!'

I swished the cane perhaps ten times as his cries got louder and louder, until what I had feared happened, and there was a knock at the door.

‘Stefan?' his father's voice queried anxiously.

Stefan leapt to the door and opened it. All of a sudden his eyes seemed to be shining with tears. ‘Father,' he moaned.

‘What is it, son?'

‘Nothing... nothing at all. I am sorry to have disturbed you.'

‘Has anyone...? Is something wrong?' My husband stepped into the room and saw me holding the cane. ‘Gudrun,' he said, ‘what on earth have you been doing?'

My husband gave his son the white cane to punish me with, the long, flexible white cane he uses himself in the bedroom. He gave it to Stefan and told him to punish me properly, as severely as he saw fit, across my bare bottom. It was the least his beloved son deserved as compensation for his wife's indiscretion. I tried to explain what had happened, but he would not listen. Stefan had told him I was correcting him for telling me I should not walk on the beach barefoot. His father said that what I wore on my feet was my own affair, but that I was not allowed to beat a man for any reason whatsoever. And he gave Stefan the white cane and his blessing, and went back to his study. He said he could not bear to see justice executed even though it had to be done. He said Stefan could punish me any time he wanted to for the entire week he would be staying with us. He had his father's permission to punish me until his manhood was satisfied.

And this is how I came to be in the position I am now, crouched on my stepson's bed with my bare bottom thrust up into the air. I have my face buried in a pillow while he administers the last of tonight's strokes. He gives me ten strokes every night, ignoring my muffled sobs. He prefers his father's cane because, he says, he likes to use the master's toys.

By the time he is finished punishing me, my buttocks are on fire from the ten long fiery welts decorating my cheeks and the skin just below them, the painfully sensitive area where my bottom merges with my legs. And as I remain kneeling on all fours, sniffing back tears, he runs his hands up my thighs to my pussy until I feel my burning skin melting into his palm. Then he turns me around to face the end of the bed and stands before me. His crotch is level with my face, and the size of the bulge in his trousers looks fit to burst all his buttons open. As always, I look up into his eyes and gasp, ‘No...'

‘I will tell everyone what I saw down on the beach,' he warns. ‘You will be back on that buggy on your way to your mother's house, and you will feel every bump in the road this time sitting on that hard seat with your sore bottom. And father will not give you a penny, not even enough to buy some cream for your striped buttocks.'

‘If I do this, will you let me be?' I ask ritually.

‘We shall see, mother dear. Undo me.'

I undo his buttons. They are hard and black and shiny, like small coins, and what they buy me is the beautiful cock that springs out at me. The shaft is white as alabaster but the engorged head is a deep, lovely violet. He holds my head, and draws my lips down towards it. I pull back a little, but then my lips part and I take his young rod deep into my mouth. He bucks his groin against my face, fucking my mouth hard and fast, but he pulls out before he comes. I look at him a little tearfully from the strain of trying to breath with his helmet stuffing my throat, and because part of me is disappointed that I cannot make him lose control with my lips and my tongue. ‘Stand up,' he commands.

I get up off the bed, and my long skirt falls down to conceal my nakedness. I feel cold inside despite my hot buttocks, and I want to cry.

‘Come around here,' he says.

I go to him where he is standing at the end of the bed. I want him to kiss me and hold me, but all he does is turn me around so I am facing the mattress. Then he reaches around me and pulls my dress down with such force that the cloth tears and my breasts spill out of my bodice. He pushes me forward so I am forced to brace myself on the mattress and pulls my skirt up again, flinging it across my back out of his way. He caresses my legs again, beginning at my calves and moving up to my thighs, and then he runs his cool hands over my throbbing cheeks. My pussy is deep and wet as the sea by now, a fact his fingers seem to delight in pointing out to me as he slips them inside me, and makes me so desperate for him I want to cry again. Then he shoves me down across the mattress and pulls my welt-covered cheeks apart.

‘What are you doing?' I gasp. ‘No... oh no, please!'

‘Mother, dear,' he says, ‘you do not wish to get pregnant, do you?'

‘I would not mind, with you,' I reply softly.

‘Well, perhaps next time...'

I feel his turgid helmet nudging against the small, reluctantly puckered entrance to my anus, forcing me open and slowly filling me up as I have never been filled before. He stuffs me with him, fucking me like a whore and driving me to my first orgasm since I came to live on these rocks. His encouraging whispers hiss like the tide in my air, and his sperm trickles down my thighs like the foam of a violently breaking wave as I climax again.

Stefan takes me out onto the rocks, and makes me parade naked in front of him. Then we both walk into the sea, where he thrusts his penis into my body with as much force as the waves breaking against me. And then I kneel under the water before him, taking his strong prick into my mouth and holding my breath as I struggle to make him come as quickly as possible. I always swallow some salt water along with his salty seed, but I do not mind, and the cold air above the waves never tastes so good as that first ecstatic breath I take after he dissolves in my mouth.

Back out on the rocks, he has me lie on my stomach with my legs spread so he can enjoy looking right up into my most intimate places. He says he wants to see where I feel him at his hardest. He wants to see where I feel him when he enters me and possesses me. And I moan as his fingers part my labia and it all begins again, this time with me lying on unyielding rocks on my back, and then on my belly, being gutted from all angles like a helplessly beached mermaid panting with love for him.

 

 

My husband and I like to go to the local cinema. It's a ramshackle place but the uncomfortable old seats have recently been replaced with good grey plush ones. The last two rows, that is, where we always sit, and pay extra. You have to pay for the best, don't you? If you don't treat yourself to what you deserve, who will? The story I'm going to tell you happened when my boy, Rory, was eleven. He wanted a party for his friends and we decided to have one at the cinema. They were all crazy about movies; Rory and his closest friends headed for the film club every Saturday morning at ten-thirty, so it made as much sense to have his birthday party there as to get sticky fingers over every breakable antique in the house.

I went to call on the manager, an old chap named Michaels. His bald white head shone as bright as the full moon under the hall lights, and his belly sagged over his belt like a bag full of marshmallows. I wore my blue suit and pearls when I popped in on him on my way to one of my charities. It doesn't hurt to impress this sort of person when you're looking to get what you want.

Michaels was the soul of helpfulness, and was completely amenable to the idea of a birthday party being held in his theatre. He would cancel that Saturday's film club, he said, and make it a private viewing for Rory and his gang. I asked him if he minded losing the business, and he said we could just make it up to him some time. ‘I'm sure you will, Mrs Pennyfeather, I'm sure you will. It'll be a pleasure to see your boy get what he wants on his birthday.'

I smiled at him, and left. It made me rather uncomfortable the way he seemed to be staring holes straight through the front of my suit, and then instead of looking at my expensive pearls, he was busy studying my mouth. I do not mind men looking at my mouth when they are paying full attention to the words coming out of it, but Mr Michaels seemed a bit distracted by thoughts of what he might like to put in it. I could almost see him picturing my lips opening wider and wider to accommodate whatever lay inside his creased trousers, but I tolerated it because he was giving me what I had come for. I told him I would see him two Saturdays hence, and left.

 

The Saturday of Rory's birthday party my husband was away, naturally. He had given his son a great set of cars on race tracks but he could not make his party. Rory shrugged off my consoling kisses, so I said, ‘Hey, the presents aren't everything, are they? You've got your party at the movies, and they're showing your favourite!' He cheered up a little then, and even smiled as he got out of bed.

We arrived at the cinema and found a sign on the door:
Closed for a special preview. Sorry for any inconvenience
.

We hurried inside.

‘Mrs Pennyfeather, didn't you get my message?' was the first thing Michaels said to me.

‘I certainly did not,' I replied. ‘What are you doing with my cinema? I've got thirty of my child's friends coming in half an hour. You're not going to break my Rory's heart and tell him we've let him down, are you?'

‘Well no, Mrs Pennyfeather, perhaps not, but it all depends on how much you can help me. I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine, as they say.'

‘What can you possibly mean?' I demanded as politely as possible. He was looking at my mouth again. I was wearing a sleeveless blouse and a light cotton skirt. He took me in from head to toe, and then went back to gazing at my mouth as though mesmerised. I had chosen a soft pink lipstick today that made my lips look wet, and my blonde curls were freshly primped for the party. Rory's friends all have mothers, and so I naturally wanted to look my best. The cake was arriving in a van any minute now, and the last thing I could entertain at the moment was some randy cinema manager.

‘This way, please,' he said abruptly, and led me into a back room where he showed me a clown suit. ‘This is our alternative,' he told me.

‘Where is my cinema, Mr Michaels?' I repeated. ‘I booked your premises. We had an agreement.'

‘The cinema chain called and informed me they were showing a preview here today. That's what my message was. There's no party. But we have another option. If you want to take your children in there after the preview, you're welcome to do so. You just have to keep them entertained for half an hour or so until the preview ends.'

‘Me? I have to keep them entertained?'

‘I don't fit in this clown suit,' he explained. ‘It was made for a girl who works here Saturdays when the club's open. She does magic tricks.'

‘I do not do magic, Mr Michaels. I am a woman with a position in the community, I hold...'

‘If you'd like all your children to go home, that's fine,' he interrupted me. ‘Otherwise, put on this clown suit and entertain them for a half hour. Here are some balloons. You can twist them into long sausage dogs.' He winked at me. ‘I don't mind.'

I looked at him in utter consternation. ‘Just half an hour?'

‘You're a trouper!' His thin lips broadened to a grin. ‘I'll look out for your cake,' he promised, and left to watch Rory for me while I undressed in his office.

I took my shoes off, and then my skirt, and I slipped the clown suit over my white bra and knickers. I did the big orange buttons up, and realised the suit was cut extremely low for a clown's outfit. Then I slipped on the big black boots. Finally, I put on the nose and the make-up. There was also an orange wig. I put that on as well, tucking away all my stray blonde curls, and then looked at myself in the mirror. Apart from my jutting bosom, I really did look just like Bobo the clown.

The children arrived a few at a time, and I got Michaels to swear a solemn oath that he would keep the mothers out, as I had no intention of being seen like this. He kept his word. The last thing I needed was Rory's friends' mothers commenting in the playground about what a wonderful clown I had made. There were about thirty kids in total, and once they were all settled down, I came out and blew a honk on my little horn. They were delighted, and they all seemed to like my costume. I let them pull off my nose and let the elastic snap back, and one thing led to another and I found myself shaking a tambourine and singing
Nelly the Elephant Packed Her Trunk
. They loved it, and by the time Michaels came out to tell me to stop for a moment so he could have a word with me, I was actually getting into it.

‘Bit of a problem,' he said.

‘You want another five minutes?' I panted. ‘No problem.'

‘No, I need you to do ten minutes in
there
.' He thumbed in the direction of the auditorium.

‘What's the matter?'

‘Projector broke down.' He sighed. ‘Happens from time to time. Thing is, this is a special audience for a test screening. They'll get impatient and leave before I've time to fix it if I can't keep them entertained somehow.'

‘So let them leave,' I said, not seeing the problem.

‘You don't understand. If they leave now I'll have to get them to come back later and start all over again. That means no screening for your party. You'll have to go home.'

‘No way,' I said.

‘Well, you've just got to keep them entertained for ten minutes. Shouldn't be hard, with your gifts.'

‘What kind of audience is it?'

‘Oh,' he shrugged, ‘just men.'

I left him with the kids, and walked out onto the narrow stage in front of the screen. The six front rows were full of men; bored, restless men beginning to feel aggressive because they weren't getting what they had come for.

‘Hello!' I called out cheerfully. ‘Would you like me to sing you a song?'

‘Tell us a joke,' one of them yelled back.

‘I don't know any jokes,' I said, laughing, ‘I'm a clown!'

‘Then what else can you do?' The same man demanded. ‘You're certainly not funny.'

‘What kind of movie were you watching?' I asked, unable to think of anything else to do or say.

‘Dirty Debbie Does Dallas,' a chorus of voices replied.

I blinked in disbelief. Bloody Michaels! I saw him peeking out at me from the back of the auditorium, smiling at me through the round window in the door. It was a blue movie test screening audience he had me in front of!

‘Well, um, where had you got to in the film?' I asked quietly, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that over fifty horny men were all looking at me where I stood before them dressed in a clown suit.

‘She was just about to take her clothes off!' someone shouted. ‘She was just about to get the shaft!'

‘I see...' I swallowed hard, trying to think fast.

‘Strip!' One of the men in the front row shouted.

‘I could do some juggling,' I suggested desperately, even though I had never juggled before in my life.

‘Strip! Strip! Strip!' The chant went up.

I just stood there.

One of the men, I remember he was wearing a raincoat, stood up, and a few others followed his lead. Michaels held up his watch to the round window, and pointing at it frantically indicated he still needed ten minutes to fix the projector.

‘I'll take my wig off!' I declared. ‘Would you like that?'

‘Let's see you then.' The man who had stood up to leave remained standing in the aisle, waiting.

It's a strange thing, but I found it very hard to take that wig off. It felt like such an intimate act in front of so many men. I pulled up on the rough orange mop, and when my own soft blonde curls tumbled down around my face, I almost felt as though I was showing them the golden curls between my legs. And for some reason, they all gasped when my hair cascaded down out of the wig and I shook it attractively across my shoulders.

‘Now take the suit off,' the man in the aisle said.

‘I'll take my shoes off.' I found myself bargaining with him breathlessly.

‘Go on then.'

I bent over, very deliberately pulled the lace out of the holes around the tongue, and then lifted my foot out of the boot.

They went wild. ‘The suit!' they cried as the man standing in the aisle resumed his seat. ‘Take off the suit!'

I took the other boot off slowly, and then Michaels was in the window at the back again silently miming to me that he needed even more time. Then there was nothing for it but to undo the big orange buttons over my chest and let them see my breasts and my dark, hard nipples peeking out of the white lace of my bra. I could tell they loved watching the clown suit slip off my shoulders and down my silky-smooth arms, at which point I turned and showed them my elegant back. They were practically howling in delight as I reached behind me to unhook the clasp on my bra, and with my back still to them, I slipped it off and threw it at them. A man in the back row caught it as I turned to face them again, demurely holding the orange buttons over my breasts.

‘Somebody throw me my wig,' I commanded, and someone did. I caught it, and then deliberately raised my arms to put it back on and exposed my breasts. My erect nipples were pink as candyfloss, and I jiggled my soft mounds from side to side as I pulled the wig back on, raising sighs and groans from my captive audience.

‘Show us your arse!' a man in the back row shouted as, once again, Michaels's face appeared in the glass pleading for yet more time. So I turned my back on them again, and looking over my shoulder with a sly smile, I let the clown suit fall down around my bottom. Then, my smile deepening, I pushed my knickers down as well. I was naked as I stepped out of the clown suit except for white socks that reached up to my knees and a red nose and wig. I wriggled my bum at them, and bending forward, showed them all my most intimate parts.

‘Turn around!' they cried.

I obeyed, letting them all get a good look at my pussy, drops of moisture glistening in its blonde curls, and then I picked up my clown suit and hurried out of the auditorium, blushing furiously as I ran away from the terrifyingly exciting thought of being shoved down onto my hands and knees right there on the stage and forced to take all comers at both ends.

Michaels was standing in the corridor as I emerged covering myself with the clown suit. It was worse, somehow, being seen by this one man than by fifty. That had been a professional performance, this was too close to home.

‘Don't put it away,' he said.

‘I will, thank you!' I snapped, and headed for his office.

‘Your clothes are in the projection room,' he called after me. ‘I got the film going while you were out there.'

‘Is it going now?'

‘It is.'

I went into the projection room, and quickly put my clothes back on. Through the little window I could see the men I had just entertained enjoying Debbie getting shafted by a well-endowed man wearing a Stetson hat. A few minutes later, the picture ended and the men began filing out of the theatre. I ran a brush through my hair, and felt a little sad as I watched the children start pouring into the theatre with their mothers.