The Nurse Turned Me Into Her Slave

I arrived at the hospital after two in the afternoon, with my stomach empty from the surgeon’s instructions and my nerves gripping my throat like a badly fastened belt. The doctor had explained that the procedure was a simple one, an intestinal matter without complications that would keep me in the room for just four or five days. I took advantage of the September lull, when the winter catalogues were already closed, to go in and out before the wedding season began.

My name is Marina. I’m twenty-eight years old and I keep myself afloat with two overlapping jobs: I’m in the final year of architecture school, and for the past six years I’ve photographed weddings on weekends. It’s hard work, standing until dawn, but it pays the tuition and leaves me time for my plans during the week.

I’m tall, one meter seventy-two, with long legs and a straight back from carrying a camera for so long. I wear my brown hair cut above my shoulders because, between weddings and models, I don’t have much patience left for blow-dryers. I was married for a year, right after the previous degree I didn’t finish. He wanted children soon and a house in the suburbs; I wanted to go back to university. There was no way to make those two things fit.

By four I was already in my room, one of those single rooms overlooking the hospital courtyard. They drew blood, took the last X-rays, and left me alone with a Hertzberger book on schools. I read three pages. I reread the same three pages. At seven a girl came in with a metal cart and a smile far too calm for the hour.

“I’m Lola, a nursing student,” she said, locking the door behind her. “I’ve come to get you ready for tomorrow morning. You need to be shaved and given an enema. That way no one comes in when they’re not supposed to.”

I frowned and she gave a half smile, as if she’d already seen that reaction hundreds of times.

“I know. It’s unpleasant. But those are Doctor Morales’s orders.”

I watched her while she set the utensils on the tray. She was petite, no more than one sixty, with copper-brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, green eyes, and a handful of freckles scattered over her nose. She looked to be in her early twenties, and later she would confess she was twenty-two and in her third year at the faculty. You had to look closely to realize that, beneath the white uniform and the crooked fringe, she was a precise, almost surgical kind of beauty.

“You’ll have to put on a gown,” she said, pointing to the wardrobe. “Keep the nightgown for after the operation.”

She went to fetch it and came back with one of those awful wraps that fasten behind the back with three impossible ties. While I changed, she went into the bathroom to fill the basin. I silently appreciated the gesture.

“Lie down and spread your legs well,” she said when she returned. “And tell me something. Anything. It goes faster if we talk.”

She asked me about school, about the last wedding I had photographed, about whether I was happy. I answered in fragments while she lifted the gown up to my hips and began trimming the hair with small, precise scissors. Her voice was soft, professional, but her hands had an authority that didn’t match that petite appearance.

When she applied the shaving cream and slid the blade for the first time, I held my breath. Not from fear of being cut; from something different, a hot current low in my belly that I hadn’t anticipated. A wedding photographer is hardly prudish, and I had once been a catalogue model. But this was something else. A stranger was shaving my cunt and I was getting wet without being able to hide it. I felt the moisture slipping from my lips, a warm thread running down to the sheet. She saw it. I know she saw it, because she paused for a fraction of a second and the corner of her mouth changed just slightly, a smile from someone who has just found exactly what she was looking for.

“Hold still,” she murmured when she noticed my thighs trembling. “I’m almost done.”

She took her time. She lingered longer than necessary in the crease where my thigh meets my pubis, ran the blade over it with meticulous patience. With two fingers she parted the lips of my cunt to shave the little hairs inside too, and those two fingers stayed there, holding me open, longer than the shaving required. The pad of her thumb brushed, as if by accident, the tip of my clit. It was only a touch, but a low moan escaped me that I tried to disguise as a cough. In the end she wiped me with a warm towel that smelled of chamomile, passing it slowly over every fold, pressing between my thighs, dragging it from top to bottom along my slit. I looked down and saw myself smooth, glossy, without a single hair, swollen and red, with my lips parted like a ripe fruit. Something inside me tightened deliciously.

“Now the enema,” she said, standing to hang the bag from the IV pole. “Do you prefer it on your back with your knees to your chest, or on your stomach, on all fours?”

I hesitated and she supplied the answer.

“On your stomach is more comfortable. And it’s three liters. The doctor wants you completely clean.”

When she came back with the loaded bag, I told her no.

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want an enema.”

Lola left the bag hanging and came closer to the bed. She placed her hands on the mattress, one on either side of my hips, and leaned in until her face was a hand’s breadth from mine.

“Lie face down, Marina.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me get rough with you.”

I smiled. It was a mistake.

“Going to complain?” she asked, and her voice had turned firm, with no trace of the earlier softness. “Going to tell the head nurse that a third-year student gave you an enema and spanked your ass for misbehaving? Go ahead. Do it. I’ll help you write the report. And while you’re at it, tell them you were dripping cunt juice into my hand.”

She was right. The very idea of saying it out loud burned my cheeks. And yet it wasn’t only embarrassment I felt. It was anticipation.

She grabbed my wrist in a hold I didn’t even see coming. Later she would tell me her brother, a civil guard, had taught it to her. Before I could protest, I was already on my feet, barefoot on the cold tiles, and she had led me over to one of the two upholstered chairs by the window.

“With your other hand, untie your gown,” she ordered, sitting down.

I shook my head. Lola twisted my wrist a degree more and a sharp pain made me rise onto my toes.

“Please,” I gasped. “I will.”

I pulled at the ties. The gown fell to the floor with the faintest rustle. I stood there completely naked in front of that girl, tits out and freshly shaved cunt throbbing between my legs. Seconds later, I was lying face down across her lap, a grown woman surrendered to the lap of a twenty-two-year-old stranger, my ass raised, nipples flattened against the rough fabric of her uniform. This isn’t happening to me, I thought. But it was happening to me, and the wetness sliding down the inside of my thigh was the most honest proof of all.

“I’m going to spank you until you ask me yourself for the enema,” she said, stroking my back the way one calms a nervous horse. Her fingers slid down the crease of my ass, paused for a moment over the hole, and kept going until they brushed my open cunt. “Look at you. Soaked. I haven’t even hit you yet.”

“No way,” I muttered through my teeth.

She laughed, soft, almost affectionate.

“We’ll see.”

The first slap tore a whimper from me that I bit back just in time. The second made me turn my head against her thigh. By the fifth I was crying openly, hot tears running to my chin. Lola never let up. She struck with the flat of her hand, in rhythm, without mercy, alternating one cheek and then the other as if she were keeping count to some merciless metronome. Each slap jolted my whole ass and made my cunt clench and open against the air, hotter and wetter each time.

Every so often she stopped. Not to rest, but to slide two fingers between my buttocks, drag them all the way down my slit to my clit, and rub it with insulting precision for three or four seconds. When I began lifting my hips, looking for more, she would withdraw her hand and go right back to spanking me with those same sticky fingers. I could hear myself gasping like a bitch in heat and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

“Look at it running down your thighs,” she said in a low, almost maternal voice. “You’re making a little puddle on my skirt, Marina. What a filthy girl.”

I lost count at twenty. At twenty-five, I broke.

“Please,” I sobbed. “Stop. Put the enema in. Please.”

She stopped at once. Her hand, still burning, settled on the back of my neck with a tenderness that confused me even more. With the other she gathered, with two fingers, the string of slick hanging between my legs and brought it to my mouth. I sucked them without thinking, tasting myself, feeling the salty, murky taste of my own cunt.

“Good girl,” she whispered. “To bed.”

I walked to the bed with my ass throbbing and a humiliating heat between my legs that I could not explain by anything other than the truth. I positioned myself face down, placed my knees, and raised my hips until my ass was high and open. Lola came over, separated my cheeks with one hand and with the other opened my cunt lips too, examining me without haste, as if she were studying an anatomical plate. She slid the lubricated nozzle into my anus with clinical precision and pushed only far enough so it wouldn’t slip out. Before releasing the clamp, she slipped her pinky into my cunt to the knuckle and left it there, still, barely curling upward, touching a spot that made me clench my ass against the nozzle.

She released the clamp. The warm water began to rise.

“Take a deep breath. Slowly.”

Her free hand traced slow circles along my back, slid down my waist, came back up. With the other she kept moving her pinky inside me, very slowly, in the exact rhythm of the water entering my belly. She talked to me nonstop, in a very low voice, a litany of praise and orders mixed together that buried itself somewhere I had never visited before.

“That’s better, isn’t it? You’re behaving yourself. You want to behave yourself, don’t you? Answer me, Marina.”

I turned my face just slightly.

“Yes, Lola. I want to behave.”

And the most disturbing part was that it was true. I wanted it with a clarity I had never felt capable of before.

“This embarrasses you,” she said, not as a question.

I nodded against the sheet.

“But you like it. The shame. The loss of control. Being filled through the ass while I touch your cunt.”

I thought about it for a second. Just one second.

“Yes.”

“Say it all.”

“I like not being in control. I like you controlling me. I like having your fingers inside me.”

She sighed, as if the answer pleased her more than she had expected. She kept stroking and slowly fucking me with her pinky until the bag was empty. She moved the nozzle a couple of times before removing it. When she did, I moaned, and I was surprised to hear my own voice.

I sat up with my stomach swollen and a gentle cramp climbing up my sides.

“Next time I’ll put in four liters,” she said, running a hand over my belly as if she were weighing melons at the market. Then she went down, two fingers spread like a fork, and pinched my cunt lips until I gasped. “And this is going to be dripping again.”

She walked me to the bathroom, sat me on the toilet, and stood in front of me. She stroked my hair. She brushed away the strands stuck to my temples from tears.

“Hold it in until I tell you.”

I kissed the palms of her hands. I licked her knuckles, one by one, sucking them between my lips as if they were something else. I was wet all the way to my thighs and I no longer cared that she knew it.

“Please, Lola. Let me.”

She crouched. She gently spread my knees apart. She looked up at me and smiled with a new cruelty, newly learned or perhaps very old. Her fingers climbed my thighs, found my breasts, pinched my nipples with exactly the force I didn’t even know I needed. She rolled them slowly until my eyes filled with tears again, and when I was just about to beg her to stop, she eased the pressure and took them into her mouth, one after the other, sucking them with insulting calm.

“What do you want, Marina?”

“For you to touch me. Please. When I’m back in bed. Please.”

“When you’re clean and back in bed,” she repeated. “Now push. And look at me while you do it.”

I closed my eyes by instinct. She pinched me again, harder.

“Look at me.”

I opened them. I held her gaze while I let go. It was the most humiliating thing I had ever done in my life. It was also the freest. She did not look away for a second, did not even blink, one hand still on my left nipple, squeezing it just a little every time I tried to lower my eyes.

Lola stood when I was done, told me to shower and go back to bed. Before leaving, she added, almost in passing:

“If you behave, I’ll come back later to fuck you with my fingers.”

***

I woke up with her hand on my forehead. The room was dim, and the clock on the bedside table read a little after nine. Ninety minutes had passed, maybe two hours. I turned my face toward her and licked her palm without thinking, as a newly installed reflex.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Everything’s fine.”

We talked for a while. She asked if I was afraid of the operation. I told her yes, that even if it was a minor one, anything that happened in an operating room made me dizzy. I also told her that her presence helped me hold myself together. That I liked feeling her fingers on my face.

“Please,” I whispered after a long pause. “Do it now.”

She nodded. She pulled the sheet down to my knees and lifted my nightgown to my waist. I wasn’t wearing panties. She stroked my thighs until I opened them without resistance, and kept opening them until my knees fell apart to the sides, my cunt fully exposed, already gleaming without her having touched me yet.

“And when you leave the hospital?” she asked.

I looked at her. I hadn’t thought about that. It hadn’t been necessary. The answer was already formed somewhere in the body that wasn’t the brain.

I took her left hand in both of mine. I kissed the back of it. I licked her palm.

“It depends on you. I’m yours.”

She leaned down and kissed me on the lips. It was a small, almost chaste kiss, and yet it contained everything that was to come.

“Don’t forget it,” she murmured against my mouth. “Now you’re mine.”

Her right hand slid between my legs. I closed my eyes. With two fingers she parted my cunt lips and passed them, up and down, very slowly, soaking them in my slick before touching me where I needed it. She stroked my clit with the pad of her thumb, slowly at first, drawing tight circles around it without quite touching it, until my hips began to move on their own, searching for her hand. Only then did she bring the thumb down directly over the hood and press with a precise insistence that made my back arch.

“Hold still,” she whispered. “I haven’t put anything in you yet.”

When she slid two fingers inside, I moaned louder than I should have. She drove them all the way in with a single thrust, palm up, and curled them, searching for that inner spot she had already marked with her pinky. Lola pressed the palm of her other hand over my mouth to swallow the sound and began fucking me with her right hand, in a firm rhythm, unhurried, pulling the fingers almost all the way out and driving them back in to the knuckles. The wet sound they made coming in and out of my cunt filled the room, obscene, impossible to hide.

“Listen to yourself,” she murmured against my ear. “You can be heard from the hallway with how wet you are.”

She added a third finger. She opened me wider. With her thumb she kept pressing my clit, in a rhythm different from the fingers entering me, two overlapping rhythms that were taking me apart. I felt the orgasm rising from my feet, contracting every muscle in my belly, and she sensed it too because she suddenly sped up and drove the three fingers deep inside me, moving them fast, without withdrawing, pressing my clit harder. The orgasm hit me all at once, without warning, like a controlled collapse. I bit her hand. She kept it firmly against my mouth until I stopped trembling, her fingers still inside me, still, feeling my cunt close in spasms around them.

She withdrew them slowly, stretching the orgasm one second longer, and passed them over my lips, soaked, shining. Then she wiped her fingers on my own tongue. I licked them without resistance, grateful, sucking them to the back of my throat, tasting the mixture of my own slick and her skin.

“Good girl,” she said. “Sleep.”

***

The next morning, when I went down to the operating room, Lola was waiting for me at the room door in a pressed uniform and with her ponytail freshly done. She accompanied me to the elevator. Inside, she took a very fine gold bracelet from her pocket, with a small engraved disk.

It said, “Lola’s slave.”

I held out my ankle. She fastened it on me with steady fingers and bent to kiss my knee over the gown.

Four days later, I left the hospital with my discharge signed and the bracelet still adorning my ankle. Lola was waiting for me at the parking lot entrance, leaning against a small car. She opened the passenger door, helped me settle in carefully, and drove off without telling me where we were going.

She didn’t need to tell me.