Think back to those days in the immediate aftermath of WW2 and their attendant problems. Not the least of these was tuberculosis (TB). I was an age nineteen student nurse in training at a TB sanatorium in England. The sanatorium had been a stately home and had grown in size with the construction of temporary wards.
They built these from specially insulated service barrack huts with gloss-painted walls and a false ceiling for easy disinfection. Covered walkways connected the wards. The medical and operating facilities and the nurses’ quarters were in the enormous main house
We had one memorable patient who was a young Royal Air Force officer who was a war hero. My prince charming had trained to fly just before the war. He saw action in fighter aircraft starting in the Battle of Britain, and then into North Africa and Italy, finishing his war in Southeast Asia, where he caught TB. This was probably because of poor living conditions and frequent contact with infected people.
He had several medals for his flying and leadership skills. He came back to the UK late in 1945 and was a very sick young man. Frankly, we worshipped him. He was so young and had been so brave during the war. He deserved all the help he could get, and we did all we could for him. We wondered if he would pull through, but the latest version of TB antibiotics and dedicated nursing slowly made the difference.
By the spring of 1946, he was taking the fresh air and sunshine treatment, reclining during the day on a wheeled bed in the open air on fine days, and sheltering in a glass-roofed and fronted veranda if it was raining. We got him on his feet for increasing lengths of time each day. By early May, he was walking about and playing a few holes of pitch and putt on the little golf course in the sanatorium grounds.
He was such a celebrity that he occupied a little side ward where he slept at night. Eventually, tests showed that his infection had gone, but we had to be sure before we could let him go. The prospect of his last test loomed and all of us girls were quietly dreading his departure. He was so charming, and he had all those medals! At night, I would retire to my bed in the nurse’s home and fantasise about him, often playing with myself!
They ran the place on traditional lines with a matron, a few sisters, several staff nurses and many of us trainees. The matron was an old dragon (or so I thought) and she and the senior consultant resembled the characters depicted in the “Carry-On” series. The matron and the consultant maintained strict discipline. It was not unheard of for a trainee to be summoned to the matron, given a terrible telling-off and then caned by the consultant. We knew about this, although there were other rumours about the matron!
One of my best friends had been caught by the matron in a clinch with a patient and given six strokes of the cane by the consultant. She came back to the nurse’s home sobbing and frantically rubbing her bottom. Later that evening, she knocked on my door and asked me to go to her room with her. Once back in her room, she stood up, still rubbing her bottom, and told me what had happened.
It was even worse than I had thought. I didn’t quite understand it, being young and innocent, but now I know the matron was a lesbian, and kept it hidden until she had a girl in her total power. It was easy for her to do in those discipline-laden days after the war.
My friend said that the matron had threatened her with immediate expulsion from the sanatorium, made her strip naked, called the consultant, warned the girl she would have to take a caning then ordered the girl to use her toilet while she, the matron watched. My friend was so scared she did as she was told.
After she had finished peeing, the matron filled a bowl with warm water and ordered my friend to bend over and touch her toes whilst she washed the girl’s pussy and ring piece, caressing her labia and clit into the bargain! This was amazing to me! My friend began crying. I put my arms around her and hugged her as she sobbed on my shoulder.
“I’m in such pain, and I feel so dirty. Please, can you come with me to the bathroom and help me bathe? I can’t bear to sit on the cane marks. I need your help.”
It was late on a Friday evening, and the nurse’s home was quiet, many of the nurses being out for the evening. We went down to the bathroom and my friend undressed. She took great care in removing her knickers to stop the elastic waistband from rubbing on the cane marks, which were purplish-black, crossing each other, and looked almost ready to burst and release cascades of blood. This was horrific.
We ran the bath and my friend got in, kneeling, not wishing to sit on her punished buttocks. I took a flannel and helped to wash her. Eventually, I ran the flannel under the hot tap and gently bathed the terrible cane marks. My friend began crying again as I did so, but the swelling went down a little. I helped her out of the bath and dried her. When we had finished, she slipped into her dressing gown and we went back to her room, where I rubbed cold cream gently into her marks.
She had stopped crying but drew her breath in and squealed a bit if I pressed too hard on a welt. After a little while, she wrapped a towel around herself, got into bed, and I covered her up. She slowly went to sleep, and I left her to recover. Back in my room, I examined my feelings. I was very sorry for my friend, but the sight of her tortured bottom turned me on a little, and I wondered what it felt like to be caned like that.
What had the consultant thought when he arrived in the office to find a naked girl waiting to be caned? This had to be abnormal, and I wondered if the matron and consultants were perversely supporting each other’s sexual proclivities.
But there was an upside, also according to rumours. These rumours had it that if a girl had taken her caning without too much fuss, at the end of her training she could often get an excellent report and choose her first full nursing job at any hospital. In those days, there were some lovely hospitals in nice places that you could choose from.
I went to bed and found myself to be quite wet, so I wrapped my legs around a pillow and masturbated myself to total relief. This felt wonderful, and I experienced one of the strongest orgasms that I had experienced up to that time. But I was confused and filled with fantasy about my lovely RAF officer, who would leave us shortly. I was a virgin, but aware of my sexuality, and now these new desires were awakening in me.
The hospital was often quiet at the weekends, especially if we had no one on the danger or critical lists, which both shortened to almost nil during the summer months. The next weekend evenings, I was on duty, and I wondered if I could sneak a few minutes alone with my special patient. I surreptitiously looked at the senior staff duty lists and found that on the following Sunday, both the matron and consultant would be away, so I hatched my plan.
We put the patients back into the wards in the evening not later than eight-thirty pm. I figured that a few moments later would be a good time to act. Most of the girls just made sure that the patients had settled for the night, and then would take up their vigil at the nurse’s station at one end of the ward. I knew all the girls with duty that night and judged them all likely to adhere to the standard procedure.
I had ‘general duties.’ You sat in a little room off the pharmacy, watched the intruder and fire alarms (yes, we had them even in the forties) and looked out for any problems, being ready to assist anywhere in the event of a patient suddenly worsening. It was as good an opportunity as I was likely to get.
I slipped down to his room. The little bedside light was on. I looked through the little window in the door to see the sheet drawn up over his knees, small, repetitive movements going on. My friend was masturbating! After a careful check to verify I was alone, I gently opened the door. My friend looked up in a startled and rather embarrassed manner at me. I put my finger to my lips, closed the door quietly, turned off the bedside light, and lifted the sheets.
He had taken off his pyjama bottom and had an enormous erection. I gently grasped his shaft. It throbbed just a little in my hand. I had heard a little about male sexuality. Coming from a countryside background with farm animals around, I knew basically what happened.
My friend lay back and within a few seconds, he came. I caught most of it in his pyjama pants. It wouldn’t matter, as “wet dreams” were quite common amongst young males as they recovered from TB; in fact, we rather welcomed seeing it as a sign of improving health. My friend’s breathing returned to normal, and he smiled at me.
“You are a lovely girl. You didn’t have to do that, but it was so kind of you. Please don’t get caught! It will be worse for you. They can’t do much to me.”
“What do you mean?” I said in mock surprise. He grinned. “I’ve heard what the consultant likes to do to you girls and I would hate it to happen to you!” Just as he said it, the door swung open, and there was the matron!