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!

“You dirty little tyke, come here, girl”. My friend grabbed the sheets and covered himself a little too late. “I will speak to you later, Group Captain,” the matron snapped as she grabbed me by the ear and led me protesting down the corridor to her office. What a way to talk to a much-decorated senior RAF officer!

Once in her office, the matron, with the door locked, said, “I knew you liked the officer. I’ve been watching you. It was only a matter of time before you did something like that, and I guessed it would be soon. You are of above-average intelligence, and I knew you would try it when you thought everything was quiet.”

The matron was wearing a pair of tennis shoes and dark-coloured clothes that let her move around quietly and stealthily in a darkened corridor.

“The consultant is coming. I have turned on a special light he can see from the car park where he is waiting. Undress, get in the toilet and relieve yourself, I don’t want you wetting yourself when he canes you.”

My pussy was twitching in a mixture of fear and anticipation. Now I was going to get that caning that I had been waiting for.

“It’s an opportunity to give you a good show,” I thought.

So I undressed slowly, taking care to thrust my firm young breasts out and wriggling my hips. Finally, I stood defiantly in front of her with my legs slightly parted and stimulated my clitoris. The matron looked on with a mixture of anger and passion.

“You wicked little slut, get in that toilet immediately!”

I sat down, and with my knees parted wide and let her have a good look while I took a leisurely pee. What did it matter? It’s natural? The matron looked on, going pink. When I finished, I wiped my wet pussy with a piece of toilet paper, sighing deeply as I did so. The matron was rooted to the spot for a few seconds, until true to form, she filled a bowl with warm water and ordered me to bend over in the middle of her office as she washed first my pussy then my (already clean) anus.

I heard a knock on the door, and it was the consultant. He was a fine figure of a man. I had seen what he could do to a girl’s bottom, and I thought, “There won’t be any half-measures in my case. I’m going to find out what all this is about.”

The matron let the consultant in (he was carrying the cane hidden mostly up the sleeve of his suit jacket) and told him what had happened. She explained I was a brazen hussy, having played with myself in front of her and needed an exemplary punishment.

“You wicked little creature, this is a hospital, not a brothel. You will get not the usual six strokes, but twelve real hard cuts across your wicked rump. I doubt if you can keep still, so the matron will hold your shoulders down across the desk whilst I thrash you.”

So, he gestured for me to lie across the desk. The matron pressed herself down on me over the side of the desk, as she lay with her breasts squeezed against my back and with one hand gently massaging the upper side of one of my breasts.

“You are a wicked old perve,” I thought.

I heard the consultant cut the air with the cane and winced. A couple of seconds later there was a whistling noise like someone cutting silk, a loud ‘crack,’ a fleeting numbness, then a pain like a cross between an electric shock and a furious line of fire. I let out a piercing yelp and kicked with my feet. The consultant waited for me to subside as the pain slowly eased to a dull ache. The same thing happened, ‘crack,’ and another obscene line of fire roared through me.

I bit my lip and writhed about, with the matron hanging on to me like a limpet. A third stroke followed quickly with at least equal force. All I could feel was the dreadful pain in my bum, but also that the muscles of my vagina were beginning to spasm uncontrollably. I was getting turned on, as I guessed I might. The next three strokes landed with terrific force and the world became a sort of dim red colour before my eyes.

The consultant must have stopped. Matron removed her weight from me and I lay there, shuddering and racked with a mixture of pain and pleasure.

The consultant said, “I will let you recover for a few moments, and then give you the final six strokes quickly. You are a wicked girl, and you need these for the sake of your future behaviour.”

I lay there across the desk, not caring what they saw, rubbing at my throbbing bottom but highly conscious of the delicious feelings in my vagina. My vision slowly returned to normal. My breathing returned to normal too, and the matron pressed down on me again. I tried to relax.

“Get ready. It will soon be over,” growled the consultant.

The cane strokes rained down in quick succession, with only about five seconds between each one. The pain was indescribable, and I had trouble getting my breath. But it was soon over. I heard the consultant open the door and leave. I lay there over the desk trying to get my breath back, convulsed in waves of pain and vaginal contractions. The matron had at least one finger inside me.

“You dirty old cow,” I thought.

My bottom was very sore, and as I got up, I could see it had swollen. I badly needed to pee and tried to sit on the toilet, but the pain was awful. The matron followed me in, reached down, and held me up under my shoulders.

“Try to squat over the bowl so you won’t have to sit on the marks,” she breathed in quite a kindly manner.

I finished peeing, and the matron helped to dry me off, giving my clitoris a playful little tweak. I slowly put my clothes back on. The matron said, “I excuse your duty for the rest of the night. Go to the home and take care of yourself.”

I walked in pain to the nurse’s home to take a bath. I went to my room, fetched my dressing gown, and then I ran the bath and undressed again. There was a light knock on the door. I wrapped the dressing gown around myself and cracked the door ajar. It was the matron!

“I must make sure you are all right after that.”

I reluctantly let her in. She locked the door behind her, eased the dressing gown off me and hugged me, rubbing the marks on my bottom.

“Let me make you feel better, dear."

“What the hell,” I thought. “It won’t last forever, and I might even like it.”

I mentioned the Sanatorium was a former stately home. The bathroom was one of the old family bathrooms and contained an ancient 19th-century bidet that we girls sometimes used to sit on and clean up after periods. The matron gestured for me to sit on the bidet.

I thought, “What on earth is she up to?”

The hard porcelain edge of the bidet pressed on my cane marks, and I whimpered in pain. The matron deftly turned on both the bidet taps and selected the vertical spray. She encouraged me to move so that the spray played on my pussy and then carefully lifted the hood of my clitoris with a finger. The water washed over my engorged clitoris, and it was seventh heaven. I had never, ever thought to try that with the bidet!

The matron smiled benignly at me.

“That’s nice, isn’t it, Maria?” she said with a little smile.

She wasn’t wrong and came behind me and fondled my breasts. It wasn’t unpleasant at all. I just sat there and played with myself, steadily becoming less aware of my burning rump. After about fifteen minutes, I turned off the taps and got up. The matron helped to dry me and then folded the towel into a little cushion shape, putting it on the side of the bath.

She gestured for me to sit there. I did so, wondering what was coming next. Matron gently parted my knees and sucked on my clit. I had never, ever experienced anything like it or believed that such feelings could be possible. I dug my nails into her shoulder as things happened between my legs that were beyond anticipation. This must have gone on for about another fifteen minutes, but I lost all sense of time.

I pushed away the matron’s head and stood up. My pussy was soaking wet again, and I wished to clean myself. Back on the bidet, I made myself feel clean again. The matron looked on longingly.

“Matron, please, I can’t take any more. Please let me sleep.”

“Of course, Maria. You are a lovely, natural girl, and what we have done tonight has revealed aspects of your sexuality to you. It’s a pity more of the girls are not like you. You are different and can experience this with no subsequent problems. I won’t bother you again."

So, she departed after opening the bathroom door ajar to check, but there was no one around.

I dried myself carefully, put my dressing gown back on, and returned to my room. As I lay on my bed with a myriad of feelings rippling through my body, I drifted into a deep sleep. In the morning, I was in no hurry, as I was not on duty until the afternoon. My bottom and pussy were both sore, but I felt fresh and liberated. The pain in my bottom had transformed into powerful sensations, which, when sitting on the welts and squeezing my thighs, gave me orgasms! I didn’t know about this until suffering a caning and it was a welcome fact! I knew I was not a Lesbian but I guess few men will understand without due thought exactly what it takes to turn on a female.