Disciplinary Measures

Disciplinary Measures

 

My name is Ruth Martin. I am thirty-seven years old, happily married with two children, both girls in their pre-teens, and I work as a District Nurse. I make house calls in my capacity as nurse all over the district during the day and usually return home to my family in the early evening. My life is interesting, well regulated and happy. I think I can say I am good-looking, with my dark, shoulder length hair tied back in a tail, though I am, perhaps, a little plumper round the middle, fuller in the hips, than I should be; possibly this is a symptom of conservative complacency, but I am not apologising for it. However, over the past year, I have had reason to take a good, hard, long look at myself and ask myself just what kind of a person I really am.

 

A little more than a year ago, I was called to one of the larger houses in our rather affluent district. On arrival, I was shown into a spacious living room, where an elegant lady introduced herself as Mrs. Farley, the lady of the house. She was about my age, quite pretty with her long, blond hair piled up on her head and clear, blue eyes. She told me that she wanted me to attend to her two stepchildren, a girl of fifteen and a boy of thirteen. In confidential tones, she began to explain that the children needed a firm hand, but that it should not be hers as she was afraid it might alienate her from her husband, the children’s father. I was a bit puzzled by all this so I asked her what was wrong with them. She laughed and told me they were both in perfect health. She said what they wanted was not so much a nurse as a ‘disciplinarian’ to administer punishments when required. I was somewhat taken aback at this and must have looked it. Mrs. Farley explained that she wished her stepchildren to learn the meaning of discipline and respect, usually a parent’s task to instil. However, because she was not their real mother, she felt she could not handle this herself; it had to be another person, a disinterested party with authority, and it had to be a woman, preferably herself a mother. She thought I qualified admirably, being a nurse and a mother, a figure of authority, and she named an impressive figure to be paid per session for my services should I agree. I did not know what to say.

“Perhaps you should meet the children,” said Mrs. Farley, pressing a bell push. A few moments later, a maid ushered the girl and boy into our presence. The boy was more pretty than handsome, with longish, dark hair and a slender figure. The girl’s hair was blond, and she had a pretty if rather petulant face. The introductions over, Mrs. Farley explained to the children who I was and why I was there. They both gasped with shock and apprehension on hearing what my proposed role in their lives was to be. To the children’s horror she then suggested that I demonstrate my ability in order to decide on whether I could, or would, accept the offer. After a little hesitation while I regarded the two wide-eyed and apprehensive children, I rather doubtfully agreed to try.

Mrs. Farley rang for the maid and instructed her to prepare them for punishment. The maid was a pretty, young, blond woman in her mid twenties. She wore a typical maid’s uniform, which made her look quite fetching. Leaving them for the moment, Mrs. Farley led me to the Games Room, where, she said, the punishments would take place.

 

It was a large room with a covered billiard table pushed to one side and here and there other items of sporting activities scattered around. In the centre of the ceiling hung a restraining ring fitted with leather straps. Mrs. Farley drew my attention to a long whip, which was hanging on one wall. She told me it was a nylon circus whip. It was, she said, what she wanted me to use. I found the idea rather daunting.

The door opened, and in walked the two children, shepherded by the maid. I caught my breath; they were both stark naked! They advanced further into the room with uncertain steps, seemingly shy and embarrassed to be paraded naked in front of me, and this affected me in a curious way.

I began to experience an intriguing sensation of delicious, tingling warmth down below my abdomen, and I ran my tongue over my lips in tacit response.

 

Mrs. Farley made the girl kneel down submissively in front of the couch on which she had sat, and then she ordered the maid to get the boy ready. This involved the maid’s taking him by the hand and leading him to the centre of the room. Once there, she fetched a low stool and placed it under the dangling restraining ring. Then, she made the boy stand on the stool, and she climbed up next to him to secure his wrists to the straps above his head. When it was done, she patted the boy’s bottom gently, stepped down and pulled the footstool out from under his feet, leaving him dangling a few inches above the floor. It reminded me of a ‘hanging,’ and this also aroused some incongruous feelings in me, which I ashamedly suppressed to the best of my ability.

On Mrs. Farley’s instruction, the maid approached me and handed me the whip. She flashed me a discreet, conspiratorial smile as she proffered the handle. I took it but felt a little embarrassed at handling the unfamiliar and cruel implement. I was at a loss at how to proceed, and I looked back at Mrs. Farley for some kind of guidance.

“I’ll let you have a free hand,” said Mrs. Farley. “You may give him as many lashes as you see fit.” Seeing my embarrassed awkwardness, she added, “You can lash him as hard as you like, anywhere you like, and you may judge for yourself when he’s had enough. You are, after all, a nurse.” As a nurse, my job was usually to relieve pain, not inflict it, and I found the prospect of what I was about to do daunting yet, somehow, intriguing. When I still hesitated, she said encouragingly, “When you’re ready, Nurse Martin.”

 

I had never before handled a whip so I stood off a little way to try to come to grips with it. I allowed the lash to unfurl until the tip rested on the floor. Then, as I had seen circus ringmasters do, I cracked it with a smart flick of the wrist to try it out. The sharp crack it produced sounded extremely intimidating, and I heard both the youngsters gasp and begin to whimper. The girl especially began sobbing fearfully. I was surprised to find myself experiencing a unique and delightful sense of power, which had me running my tongue around my lips. To the children’s further dismay, I cracked the whip several more times to get used to the feel of it. I did it standing behind the boy.

Up to then, he had been doing his best to put on a brave face in front of me, manfully holding back the tears that threatened to overcome him at any moment. His attempts to preserve his masculine dignity appealed to me and aroused in me a bittersweet tenderness, which intensified the delicious warmth suffusing the most intimate parts of my body. But, the boy’s efforts at bravery were all to no avail.

As I unfurled the whip again and stood ready to commence lashing, he broke down and began to weep like a terrified little girl. My nipples stood up and hardened under the starched white bra and blouse of my nurse’s uniform.

My mind could not help dwelling on the fact that I did not know what he had done to deserve punishment and therefore did not know how severe I was expected to be. Had he, in fact, done anything wrong? Or was he simply serving as an unwilling subject for my trial demonstration? I told myself it was not my concern, but the sweet sensations I was experiencing were, to my acute shame, unjustifiably further intensified at the enormity of the injustice this last idea suggested. Well, his stepmother had said that the severity of his punishment was up to me, had she not? Well, so be it, I thought.

 

Ready to start, I raised my whip hand, …and then, I whirled the whip around my head and sent the lash coiling as violently as I could manage around the boy’s haunches. Oh, how he shrieked as the lash burned a livid welt around his thighs and bottom. My tongue slid out between my lips as I swung the whip again, this time at his legs. He was struggling, wailing and gasping in agony now, but nevertheless, I lashed him with formidable force around his tummy. By now, I was getting a feel for the whip. I settled down to lash him as hard as I could all over with a slow and steady rhythm. As I delivered lash after lash, now to his torso, now to his head, I became acutely aware that the sweet sensation between my thighs had consolidated into a pulsating and urgent throb, which synchronized with the rhythm of the lash. My panties had become soaking wet, bunching up and sinking deeper between my labia with each violent lash I delivered. The boy’s shrieks and screams filled the room in time to the swishing, whooping and cracking of the whip as I continued to wield it with increasing passion.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath, which was coming in short, panting gasps, and I saw that the boy, in spite of his obvious suffering, was experiencing an erection.

I was amazed. Being the mother of two daughters, I had had relatively little experience with adolescent boys, except occasionally as patients who had needed caring for. My feelings were in tumult. Was this boy, I found myself wondering, actually enjoying his suffering at my hands? Yet, he was clearly in terrible agony. I supposed then that it was perhaps no less of a contradiction that a woman, like myself, was having her love juices made to flow by dominating a young male so completely.

In a sudden paroxysm of cruel passion, I hefted the whip once again and directed the lash at his stiff, young organ. The tip of the lash struck his penis, and the violent impact caused tiny droplets of pre-cum to spray in all directions. Oh dear, how the poor boy howled and screamed in agony.

I was in front of him now, and my tongue lay curled up and spread large upon my upper lip as I concentrated. His pain-crazed eyes were drawn to it like magnets, and I found this rather delightful. I moved closer to him and leaned forwards to give him a better view. His penis was still erect and hard, though I could see the fierce welt around it produced by my lash. I allowed my tongue to slide large and slowly back and forth across my lips. His feverish eyes never left it. Suddenly, I again sent the lash curling around him. He screamed with fresh urgency and began to twitch as his organ pumped out a child-sized squirt of sperm onto the floor.

I waited until he had ceased gyrating and hung limp and drained. He was now done, I realized, with whatever enjoyment he had derived from this punishment. From now on, I thought with cruel relish, whatever pain he was about to feel would be just that – pain - without enjoyment. I stepped back and then joyfully proceeded to deliver a prolonged and slowly measured flurry of ferocious lashes to his already scarred and blooded midriff, haunches and legs. When he was sobbing with pain and exhaustion and seemed on the point of fainting, wrung out physically and emotionally, unable to cope with any more, I lashed him three or four times more and then coiled up the whip to signal that the ordeal was over.

 

 

Mrs. Farley rose from her couch and approached me, her eyes shining with pleasure.

“That was wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Considering you haven’t done this before, you show a remarkable aptitude.” I was flushed and panting as softly as I could, doing my utmost to hide the emotions stirred in me by my own cruelty, but it was not easy. The delicious and urgent throbbing persisted unrelentingly in my nether regions, especially when I glanced at the small, naked figure still hanging there, all limp and covered with a criss-cross pattern of blooded welts, and I surreptitiously squeezed my thighs together. My head was reeling with shameful thoughts; it was I who had reduced him to such a state. It was I who had determined the awful severity of his punishment. And to be so cruel had felt simply delicious!

 

My thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Farley’s voice. “As soon as I met you, I felt you were the right person for the job,” she said. “And, so far, my instincts have proved accurate.”

“ Susan?” This last was addressed to the maid. “Release young Timmy, take him to the bathroom and tend to him. Then come back here.”

“Very well, Madam,” said the maid. She proceeded to unfetter the boy. The poor youngster could hardly stand up on his feet, let alone walk, and he ended up being half carried by the maid. She was none too gentle as she bustled him out, and I noticed a cruel, frowning smile on her face. ‘Well, well,’ I thought wryly, ‘it seems to be infectious!’

 

While we waited for the maid to return, Mrs. Farley poured me a cup of tea, and we sat on the couch to chat, taking no notice of the abject, naked and weeping, young girl kneeling at our feet. I took the opportunity to clear up the one point that had been nagging at me.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what did they do to deserve punishment?” Mrs. Farley seemed a little embarrassed by my question; perhaps thinking it was none of my business. However, she deigned to reply.

“In truth, Nurse Martin, they haven’t actually done anything wrong. Not this time.” I had known it all along! “Today’s session is to show them how they will be disciplined in future. It is also, as I mentioned earlier, a demonstration of your ability to carry out the punishments to my satisfaction.” She went on, “And I am pleased to say you have impressed me very much so far. I must say, you were extremely severe with young Timmy, and that is exactly what he needs right now. I liked the way in which you allowed him to release his involuntary pubescent reaction and then severely thrashed him again afterwards. It served to remind him that he was being punished, not indulged in his pleasure.” I flushed a little guiltily. The real truth of the matter that I had to face if I were to be honest with myself was that I had done it very deliberately just to be cruel, to make him suffer for me, for my pleasure, and I was still trying to come to terms with that. Of course, I said nothing.

 

A short time later the nurse returned, and Mrs. Farley turned her attention to the girl at our feet. “Right, child,” she intoned sternly, “You’ve seen how strict Nurse Martin is. Now it’s your turn to feel it.” The girl burst out in wailing tears. Her voice tight with stern authority, Mrs. Farley ordered the maid to prepare her for punishment. The girl became hysterical, begging to be spared and protesting her innocence, but it was no good. The maid dragged her, struggling and screaming, to the middle of the room.

Glancing furtively at Mrs. Farley, I noticed a smile of cruel anticipation on her attractive face and realized there was more to these punishments than just instilling discipline. Well, I thought, it was her prerogative, whatever her reasons. She had not liked my asking about it. I was, after all, to be paid handsomely for my efforts, so mine was not to reason why.

 

In a matter of moments, the girl hung helplessly by her wrists, waiting to be thrashed. Once more, I was handed the whip. I stood myself in front of her and let it uncoil ominously. She cried in panic, and begged me not to lash her. I said nothing, but gazed sternly and meaningfully at her. I cracked the whip several times to further intimidate her. The sound and sight of it drove the girl into a frenzy of panic, her eyes wide with dread. That sweet throbbing down below resumed with a vengeance. I looked her in the eye, slowly ran my tongue across my lips and walked with measured steps to a position behind her, my nipples hard. I was going to give her hell!

 

And I did just that. I lashed her, and lashed her, and lashed her, and lashed her from every angle without restraint. I lashed her with mercilessly cruel abandon and as hard as I knew how. I thrashed every inch of her young flesh and left it suffused with livid red and bloody stripes. And by momentarily obscuring her stepmother’s view by standing in her line of vision, I even surreptitiously managed to flick the lash smartly and maliciously between the child’s legs more than once.

And, oh dear, how she screamed and screamed! But no matter how much she screamed and struggled, she could not escape the merciless scourging of my cruel lash. I paused every now and again to give her a little time to gather her strength; I wanted this to last! Then, I recommenced thrashing her harder and with more cruelty than ever. By now, my breath was coming in short gasps as the merciless throbbing inside my wet panties became impossibly intense. I began involuntarily to whimper and moan softly with each lash I delivered, and I could feel the wetness between my legs sopping each time I swung the lash.

After about fifty or more lashes, the girl finally fainted. The struggling, shrieking and sobbing stopped, and she suddenly went limp. I squeezed my thighs together to contain the volcanic eruption that was taking place between them, and let out involuntary but clearly audible sighs as I succumbed to my feelings. I looked over at Mrs. Farley, flushed and embarrassed, as I coiled up the whip, still trembling from my erogenous convulsions. Did she know why I had sighed so?

“It’s alright, Nurse Martin,” she said reassuringly as she came towards me, “it’s only natural.” I flushed hotly with embarrassment and shame. She knew! She, herself, also seemed flushed and breathless.

While the maid tended to the girl, Mrs. Farley and I returned to the sitting room to talk. I gladly accepted the job, I told her, and would await her call.

 

 

Over the following few months, I was called on to play my role of disciplinarian with increasing frequency. I never again asked whether the children were guilty or innocent of any wrongdoing, and I looked forward with great anticipation to each call. Likewise, Mrs. Farley was always pleased at my coming. Not so the children!

The young boy seemed to have mixed feelings about my visits. He was terrified of me, with good reason of course, and yet he always experienced an ejaculation while I was lashing him. After that, it was hell for him.

The girl, however, simply dreaded my coming with very good reason. I took great pleasure in making her suffer. She always begged me not to lash her breasts and between her legs, but it was always to no avail.

 

Through my visits I was able to get to know Mrs. Farley better. I better understood, also, her reasons for calling me so often, though it was never really mentioned outright. She spoke of the ‘maternal instinct for correction’ and ‘authoritarian emotions,’ and how I was not to feel guilty or ashamed of experiencing them. In her book, they were natural symptoms of ‘aroused feminine passion,’ and she said she shared them with me during the sessions.

I also struck up an acquaintanceship with Susan, the maid. She had worked there for five years. She confessed to me that when Mrs. Farley had first engaged me, she had been a little put out. She had known, she said, of Mrs. Farley’s plans for disciplinary measures for the children, and she had hoped to be asked to do the job. She had even gone as far as buying a cane for the purpose to show Mrs. Farley how truly dedicated she was. However, Mrs. Farley had had strict criteria for the prospective disciplinarian, and Susan, being a young, unmarried woman, did not measure up. She did not feel too badly about it now, she said, since she was always allowed to watch the proceedings and enjoyed them thoroughly. But, there was more.

“You mustn’t tell,” she confided, giggling, “but when I take them to the bathroom afterwards, I sometimes cane them too. Especially young Timmy.” Her tongue sensuously traversed her lips before she added, “While Jane (the girl) is screaming from your attentions in the Games Room, no-one can hear Timmy’s screams in the bathroom.” She had seen me in action often enough to know that I would understand the nature of her feelings.

“I’ll probably be a mother myself someday,” she said, and then added, “but I won’t treat my children like that.” I laughed and told her that, believe it or not, I never laid a hand on mine either.

 

 

And, in a nutshell, there lies the nub of the matter. I had rediscovered feelings I thought I had lost with the passing of puberty. I hesitate, even now, to admit to myself that I am a sadist. Yet, how can I otherwise account for the deliciously pungent and sweet feelings aroused in me when I was engaged in those cruel practices? And that I was deliberately cruel, I shamefully admit. I punished those children with extreme cruelty precisely because they were not my own, and I did not have to live with the consequences. I was free to indulge myself, and I did so with profound pleasure.

During one call, Mrs. Farley had to go out unexpectedly, much to her disappointment, just as I arrived. Rather than having me make a wasted journey, she told me to go ahead anyway. So I conducted that session on my own with Susan assisting. Well, when the cat’s away!

The children’s stepmother had never interfered with my methods, or ever stopped me, even in my cruellest moments, but perhaps unsurprisingly, there was always an intangible measure of restraint with her presence. Now I was in charge.

By way of a change, I dealt with the girl first. And, oh my, how I made her suffer! I cruelly whipped her into unconsciousness over a very protracted and sustained period of time. Then I asked Susan to revive her, which she did with a wet sponge. After I had let her rest for a short time to regain her strength, I recommenced lashing her with increased severity until she passed out again. As I was lashing the poor girl, I imagined my husband was watching me, even giving me his amorous attentions. To young Susan’s gratification and amusement, I came to a panting and moaning climax as the girl lost consciousness once again.

Once Susan had taken the girl to the bathroom, I sat on the couch and took the boy on my lap. I knew he was ashamed at being treated like a small child, but he dared not resist. I cuddled him and kissed him, and explained in motherly tones that discipline was a vital part of his growing up.

I pointed out that his erections were clear proof of that. Then I began to gently fondle his young organ, which almost instantaneously hardened. I told him that he would learn to respect women in the way they deserved, and that would make him grow up into a proper man.

“Let me show you,” I said, getting a little carried away, “how a woman likes to be kissed.” And I did so. He was still afraid, yet his penis showed his tacit enjoyment as my adult tongue thrust and probed into his mouth. I opened my white blouse and bared one breast, and then pushed the nipple into the boy’s mouth. While I was enjoying the sensation of his sucking at my breast like a baby, I thought I could hear anguished screams coming from the direction of the bathroom; it had to have been the girl receiving supplementary attention from young Susan’s cane.

 

When she returned to the Games Room, Susan was flushed and a little breathless. She squealed with delight when she saw what I was doing to the boy. “Oh, how sweet!” she carolled.

Well, I thought, enough was enough; I still had a job to do. “Get him ready if you please, Susan,” I said. The boy began to whimper as the maid seized his hand to hang him up for whipping. In no time at all, the boy hung there crying, and I stood, my tongue between my lips and the whip uncoiled, ready to strike.

I gave him a severe lashing, during which he had his customary orgasm. After his juices were spent, I whipped him even more severely for much longer than usual, walking around him and lashing him from various angles, until he too fainted, and I was panting breathlessly and moaning with tumultuous ‘authoritarian emotion.’

Susan took him down and revived him so he could walk to the bathroom. As she was leading him out, she stopped briefly to smile at me, and lowering her eyes demurely, silently bade me to follow. The poor boy could barely walk and progress was slow.

When we got to the bathroom, Susan rubbed the child’s welted, striped body with an antiseptic solution, which stung and made him cry some more. Then she produced a length of nylon cord tied in a loop at one end. The boy obviously knew what it portended because his tears took on fresh urgency, and he begged for mercy. Susan, ignoring his pleas, passed the loop over his wrists and pulled it tight. She placed a low, wooden towel rack, which had been standing in one corner, in the middle of the room. She ordered him crisply to bend over it, but by pulling the free end of the cord, she gave him no other option. Now, she tied the cord to a lower bar on the far side of the rack, and so the boy was forcibly bent over it, unable to move. She opened a cupboard and produced a long, thin, rattan cane.

“This is the cane I bought,” she told me with girlish glee and took a few practice swings in the air, making the cane swish in its characteristically ominous manner. The boy was sobbing desperately, begging not to be caned. The young woman took up a position at right angles to the boy’s buttocks and laid the cane gently on his cheeks. She ran her tongue around her lips and lifted the cane high above her head. She waited. Then … she brought it down hard and fast to impact squarely on the boy’s buttocks, bending her knees for maximum force. He was still wet with the antiseptic solution, and the sound of the cane striking his wet flesh was particularly sharp. How he screamed!

She caned him hard and for what seemed an age, her youthful exuberance making her surprisingly cruel. She did not seem to care that he had already suffered profusely at my hands. I found myself deeply aroused at how cruelly this young woman, ten or more years my junior, indulged her passion.

 

The boy passed out yet again, and Susan moaned and panted in short gasps as she experienced violent, multiple orgasms. At the same time, I, myself, shuddered as the familiar throbbing inspired by the young woman’s authoritarian demonstration culminated in yet another sweet eruption. It was ironic to think that such cruelty to innocent children culminated in such ‘authoritarian emotions’ from which beautiful babies were conceived.

 

I have not told my husband about my excursions into domestic discipline, even though they ceased a month ago when the Farley family, to my surprise and, I will say disappointment, moved out. Like most men, I suppose, he probably put my increased conjugal appetite down to his irresistible charm. I do not mind that. I do love him dearly, and I am happy that those poor children’s suffering has been good for something.