If first impressions are any indication, the tree-lined drive through landscaped gardens to the Georgian house is a promising start. Even the signboard, 'Welcome to the Fountain Clinic', oozes class. Not hospital, clinic - very exclusive, thinks Amy Jones; gosh, she hopes she gets this nursing job.
Inside her favourable assessment is confirmed: marble floors, oak panels; understatedly tasteful. The antithesis of the flashy footballers and soap stars who are the establishment's best clients. Patients include 'exhausted' minor royalty, 'tired and emotional' management executives and actors with 'personal issues'. Amy so wants to work in these fragrant, sunlit halls, instead of the scuffed, reeking public hospital corridors where she has thus far been employed.
A likeable personality, Amy is adept at handling patients, yet decidedly non-academic, often seeming slightly disconnected and naïvely suggestible. Some current colleagues unkindly term her an airhead, conversely nursing college lecturers - mainly male - found Amy beguiling. Blonde, shapely and with an enviably proportioned rear end this may explain how she passed her exams.
Vacancies at the Fountain Clinic are never advertised, recruitment is by discreet personal recommendation only. Ideally, muses Dr Gooding, nurses should be competent, but not too clever. Malleable, open to instruction and above all - given the preferences of the private hospital's wealthy patients - easy on the eye. Gooding is both the clinical director and, thanks to a mix of financial alchemy and blatant social climbing, a major shareholder. He alone performs the onerous duty of interviewing prospective employees.
Amy is met by a beautiful young Asian girl, her white uniform contrasting with dark skin and raven hair. "I'm Maria, the director's PA," she explains, ushering her into his palatial office, where her interview commences directly.
Mr Gooding finds this potential recruit immediately impressive. "Discretion is everything to us, Ms Jones," he opines, lounging in a large leather chair and trying, without being too obvious, to sneak a glimpse up Amy's skirt. Detecting the direction of his gaze, Amy infuriatingly crosses her legs; it won't hurt to keep him wondering. "Household names are among our clients," Gooding continues, " including an almost endless succession of B-list TV celebs. It's vital their 'difficulties' aren't exposed to a prurient public."
"I quite understand," says Amy, who doesn't.
"Many of our patients suffer from stress: Temptations of a jet-set lifestyle, relationship problems, disruptive social behaviours and substance abuse. A few are referred from conventional medical establishments unable to meet their demands, sorry, needs. Others are sent by football clubs and film companies."
"What sort of treatments do you offer?" enquires Amy.
"Usually rest, supervision, exercise, a good diet, and counselling." Essentially keeping punters off the bottle and away from nose candy while indulging their inane, self-obsessed whining, thinks Gooding privately.
"Any surgery?" asks Amy.
"None, aside from body re-profiling procedures," answers Gooding, proudly.
"Body re-profiling?"
"What was once termed plastic surgery; breast enhancements, tummy tucks, nose jobs... not that you require any of those. Now, before you start, a few pointers on presentation and discipline."
Amy has been hired!
"We're sticklers for uniform and manners here," Gooding adds enthusiastically, "a bit old-fashioned but none the worse for it. You'll share a room with Maria, my PA, who'll explain everything."
That evening Amy sits in the comfortable staff quarters with her roommate. On her bed is a uniform and a slim volume of rules and instructions. Amy was amazed to be offered the job on the spot, even more so by the generous wages. Wow, she thinks, struggling to concentrate on what Maria is saying, nearly twice my old salary; whatever might they expect for that?
"So, on top it simple: blue cotton dress, starched white apron and cap," Maria says, her English idiomatic. "Underneath very traditional - be sure get this right, because Matron check - bra, panties, stockings and suspenders, all white, plus black shoes."
"High heels?" gasps Amy. "For nursing?"
"Weird, I know," Maria shrugs, "but they give girl good posture, no?" she twirls, pushing out her delectable bum in illustration. "And not much lifting and carrying, is easy, I think."
"Well yes," Amy concedes, covertly admiring her colleague's comely chassis, "but what happened to tights?"
"Patients don't like," Maria says dismissively, "Matron and Dr Gooding also. You must listen, Amy, when I tell you these things. Matron's word is law," she lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Matron also Mrs Gooding, he Mr Nice Guy, she Mrs Nasty Woman. She report you for discipline, he deal with matter, very strict."
"Discipline?" Amy looks puzzled.
"Amy," Maria is exasperated, "you must read staff handbook. Get in trouble then you punished," her hand slaps Amy's rump.
"What!' Amy is incredulous. "You don't mean a spanking?"
"Hospital very clear; no appeal, no written warning, you do wrong your bottom smacked, then is all forgotten," confirms Maria.
"Yes but, I mean, have you...?"
"Of course," admits Maria, "but for me perhaps not so bad, in Philippines this normal, you Western girls spoilt."
"Cheeky thing." Amy playfully tosses a pillow at her companion. What the hell, Amy hasn't yet encountered a situation she couldn't charm her way out of, not with men, anyway.
A day later, Amy is summoned to Matron's office for 'induction training'. She arrives promptly, nervously recalling unpleasant memories of her education at a private girl's school.
"Ah, Amy, and in good time too,'' calls an authoritative voice. Anxiously entering the austere room to her surprise, she discovers Maria, standing tight-lipped in the corner.
"Right, Amy," commences Matron without preamble, "you've had ample time to read the rules. Should you think them fanciful I'll now demonstrate unambiguously that's not the case." Amy's mouth opens but she can think of nothing to say. "Maria has erred," Matron continues sternly. "It's not the first time she's visited this room, so she knows what to expect. I shall deal with the matter myself." Matron turns; eyes shining with excitement.
"But..." Amy begins.
"But nothing, this isn't a debate, kindly sit and observe." Having delivered this rebuke, Matron switches her attention to the pretty Filipino. "Maria, sit on the desk."
"But, ma'am, what have I done?" the petite girl asks pathetically.
"I haven't decided yet," Matron replies caustically, "do as you're told, unless, of course, you wish to receive double the number of strokes?"
With considerable dignity given the circumstances, Maria perches on the desk edge, feet dangling above the floor. Immediately obeying Matron's instruction to lower her torso onto the polished surface, simultaneously raising her slender legs into the air with a hand behind each knee to keep them upright. Matron grunts her approval as Maria's uniform skirt falls to reveal stocking-clad legs and the curves of her delectable bottom. She tugs down Maria's skimpy white knickers, exposing her mocha-hued rear in all its perfection.
Watching in mute amazement, Amy is disturbed to experience a familiar tingling between her legs. Satisfied with Maria's awkward position, Matron opens a cupboard and contemplates the contents, eventually selecting a tawse and, enjoying the element of theatre, swishes the supple leather through the air to land with a ringing crack on the desktop.
"Six," intones Matron, "watch silently Amy, any nonsense and you'll be taking her place."
Amy looks on aghast as the punishment proceeds. Three strokes from the left, three from the right, delivered with the full strength of Matron's forearm across the unfortunate girl's rear. Maria yelps and squirms on the table; cute bum seared with unforgiving heat. Somehow managing to stay in position while Matron, flushed and panting, surveys the result with unseemly pleasure.
"Maria's fate should leave you in no doubt about who's in charge around here, Amy; I'll leave you to attend to her," says Matron, obviously anxious to depart.
Appalled, yet secretly fascinated, Amy helps her tearful friend from the chair. Hardly knowing what she's doing, Amy holds the diminutive nurse in her arms, whispering comforting words as she stares in horror at the marks on the girl's burning bottom. Tentatively her hands join Maria's, already massaging the target area. The skin is hot to the touch, her sympathy evidently appreciated. Maria gives a sensuous sigh, grinding her body against Amy; their lips met in a lingering kiss.
That night the two share a bed; Amy's first Sapphic encounter - judging from her enthusiasm and expertise, not Maria's. With busy tongues and fingers, both enjoy a succession of orgasms.
"But I'm not gay," gasps Amy, in confusion.
"Me neither," responds Maria enigmatically.
Amy's life settles into an enjoyable routine, mainly focussed on indulgent chats with patients and frequent romps with her newfound friend. Ditzy, without ever intending to be, she rapidly becomes everyone's favourite nurse and, since political correctness holds no sway here, attracts many a pat on her perfectly formed posterior.
In truth, Amy is being paid to be a tangible feel-good factor. Predictably she's propositioned - an oil Sheik offers a house should she be more liberal with her favours. Amy charmingly deflects such inducements in a manner carefully contrived to leave both parties un-offended.
