Of Dreams, Dread & Candida

(Boarding school discipline, hypnosis, written impositions, corner standing, hospital bed restraint bondage, corporal punishment; punished and caned in PVC school knickers and latex bloomers. A novel medical fetish mind control treatment)

For a few brief moments Dr Ecclestone brought up the sound;

“... yes, yes that’s a good, good girl, such a good, good girl. Just drift away, the time will seem to go so, so quickly if you just let yourself gently drift away, you don’t ever, ever, need to worry, no need to decide, decisions can be so painful to make, can’t they?”

“Yes nurse.” The voice was soft, quiet and filled with an unquestioning acceptance.

“Good girl, you know you want me to help you, you want me to help you avoid that pain, that panic you feel when you have to make decisions. Just let yourself drift away, that’s it, no need to worry, no need to think about it, just listen and do as you’re told, so, so easy to just do as you are told, no need to think, no need to worry. The time will go so, so, quickly if you just drift away, think of nothing, think only of those wonderful white, white walls that keep you so, so safe. Can you remember that nursery rhyme? Of course you can; shall I hum it for you?”

On the screen the nurse began to softly hum, as if a lullaby to a newborn baby, a few notes, no more than that. The girl’s face shrivelled and grimaced as if in pain, sheer stark terror and dread, twisting and distorting her pretty doll like features in an agony of flashback trauma.

“My poor, poor darling, you are so, so frightened of hearing that little tune, aren’t you? I want you to think about that little tune, I wanted to hear it, playing over and over, it reminds you of the spiders, it reminds you of the open spaces and of the crowds that scuttle just like those spiders, those horrible spiders, you can see the spiders, you can hear the tune; ‘boys and girls come out to play’, ‘boys and girls come out to play’.”

The camera zoomed in and panned across: the pictured girl’s agitation was increasing by the moment, almost palpable, tangible, beads of sweat condensing on her forehead, twitches and ticks quivering, quaking and rippling across her chilli-hot cheeks.

“P,p,please, n,n,nurse, n,no, no, n,n,nurse, p,pleassse.” There was a quavering terror embodied in that tiny, insignificant, stammering little squeak of a voice that told of dread beyond imagining.

“I know, I know, it is terrifying, isn’t it? It is as terrifying as the crowds and the fields and the open skies - you feel the panic building, you hear that tune when you think of those things now, don’t you?”

“Y,y,yes, nn,nurse, pl,pl,p,please, p,p,pl,please, n,no m,m,more, n,no m,m,more, n,no m,m,ore, pl,please, pleeeese!” Almost a scream this time: the girl was shaking uncontrollably, weeping, tears pouring down her fear-contorted features.

“Hush, now, hush, shush, sshush, sssush; it’s okay, it’s all okay I’m here, your pretty nurse is here; you are all safe and sound in your room, safely behind the kind, warm, soft, white walls of your little hospital room.

It’s going away now, it’s all going away, I’m here to take it all away, your nurse is here to take it away, to make you all safe and warm, to keep you safely locked away; it feels so safe, so calming to be kept locked away, locked away safely in a hospital. Hospitals are such safe places. It’s so peaceful, so blissful to know that you belong here, belong here, here in hospital. Nothing can get to you here, in hospital; we can look after you here, keep you all safely locked away from danger.

There, there, that’s better, you’re being a good girl - and good girls are obedient girls and obedient girls do as their nurses tell them. Good girls don’t deserve to be punished; you are a good girl, you are an obedient girl, you don’t deserve punishment, there is no need to remember the tune, no need to punish yourself, not if you are a good girl, not if you are being an obedient girl.

You do, so much, want to be a good girl, don’t you sweetheart?”

“Y,yes,n,nurse.” The girl, her features now placid, serene, whispering gently and with just a trace of an endearing ‘little-girl lisp entering her voice; the latter, in itself reason enough to earn praise from her carer.

“That’s a good girl. You are pleasing me; you are pleasing your nurse and that is the most important thing in the world to you. I want you to imagine my face smiling sweetly, oh so sweetly; you can see my face smiling sweetly, smiling down at you, you know you have pleased me, you know you have made me happy and that makes you happy, it makes you so very happy to please your nurse doesn’t it?

“Yes, n,nurse, so h.happy, thank you ,nurse.”

“That’s very, very good. You really are being a really good girl now, and a good girl is...?”

“An obedient girl, nurse.” The response, automatic, reinforced time and time again through countless such sessions and learnt by way of untold hours of looped bedtime recordings, carefully composited videos and the good doctor’s behaviour modification therapy.

“Yes, yes, that’s such a good girl, such a nice little obedient girl; you want to learn and I’m here to teach you, to help you, you want me to help you don’t you?”

“Yes n,nurse”

“Good girl! You want to learn how to drift away, listen and obey, not to think, not to question just listen and obey. Let your mind become as safe, as empty, as comfortable as the white, fluffy soft walls around you. Just drift away now, let yourself drift away, deeper and deeper, further and further, think only of white, only of soft, safe, white, just drift along on those fluffy white clouds of safety and comfort. Just let my words float over you, just obey my words, no need to make decisions, no need to think, just obey, just obey, just obey. It feels so warm, so comfortable, so safe to just obey, to let others think for you, others that know better than you, no need to wonder, no need to worry, so easy, so simple to just obey...

The doctor leant forward, flicking off the sound before turning her attention back to the written report before her.

On the screen the tableau continued to run unwitnessed, the players ignorant of their audience’s departure. Scenes almost beyond description - that outside of that office would have drawn gasps of perturbed disbelief - came and went in a procession of ever deepening psychological disturbance and perversion.

Schoolwork was delivered - the laminated sheet of tables, the copybook and the pen each locked to the girl’s desk by its very own short length of white plastic-coated steel chain, lest any unauthorised use be tempted - work that would be examined and her learning tested in due course.

The doctor worked on. On the screen a bedpan arrived, delivered on a white plastic tray, its translucent plastic catching the light and throwing back the illusion of surrealistically sculpted crystal. The silvery sheet-lightning flashes drew the doctor’s attention gratefully from her task and she settle back to watch, to enjoy the respite, perhaps to gain inspiration, stretching out her long slender legs under her desk, her stockings softly rasping together within the tight confines of her tailored skirt, and interlocking her fingers behind her neck, thankful for her high-pinned coiffure. The overhead shot revealed the tray, carried in latex gloved hands, to hold, in addition to the small transparent bedpan, a two hundred and fifty millilitre plastic bottle and a sealable oblong clear-plastic box; the latter being superficially not unlike a sandwich box in appearance and of around eighteen centimetres long by some ten centimetres in width. The function of these objects the doctor new well enough; the routine collection and gathering of samples to assist in dietary analysis, urine in the former and stool samples in the latter. An unmarked flat, white, packet lying between the two sample-collection receptacles brought a smile of recognition to the doctor’s lips; these newly formulated wipes were under trial, undeniably excellent in their antibacterial properties their performance seemed to be somewhat marred by the genital and anal irritation, albeit mild, reported associated with their use.

It should be said that the doctor was not one of those who saw the formulation as particularly flawed, not when viewed in balance with its benefits; it was highly efficacious and it was cheap, very cheap, as compared to its more traditional competitors. She had the final say in the matter and she had already made the decision; a wide range of consumables incorporating the antiseptic had now been ordered in. Absorbent incontinence pads, sanitary towels, a whole plethora of creams and even certain suppositories would soon come with their own peculiar, tormenting, nagging ache.

Reluctantly she again returned her attention to the report open on her desk, and to its subject, the latter presently residing in an airtight, sealed, cellophane wrapper and reclining lengthwise in a white enamelled dish alongside the folder. She pulled on a pair of purple nitrile lab gloves - having over time developed an allergic reaction to latex - and taking a pair of scissors from amongst the compendium of pens, paper clips and staples that occupied the shallow top drawer at the left-hand side of her desk, carefully cut open the sample’s protective wrapper. With almost religious reverence she laid the content back out in the dish from whence it had come, folding and depositing the now redundant wrapper in a small resealable, airtight, polythene bag.

She gazed at it lying there, her breathing quickening and with the expression of dumbstruck awe slowly spreading across her features serving, further still, to build the impression that she somehow regarded the contents of that enamel dish as one might the containment of some much revered reliquary - such was the look of admiration reflected in her eyes. It was a reverence much based on faith after all; there was nothing there evident to the naked eye to deserve such attention, indeed there was nothing evident at all of note other than if, perhaps, one was to utilise the most powerful of microscopes.

To most, dependent on their standpoint, it would have looked uninspiring in the extreme, perhaps distasteful, maybe, even, embarrassing; to the doctor it was a surprising, intriguing, development, inspiring in the utmost. It was the result of much painstaking research; carefully developed by a close friend and colleague, the level of care ironically reflected in the everyday ordinariness of its appearance. The very blandness that rendered it of so little interest to the uninitiated also lent most to its utility. It was a gift, a sample; at present it was a ‘one-off’ but she had been assured others could and would be manufactured if, and as, required.

The quilted panty liner, lying there so matter-of-factly in that dish, apparently differed by not one iota from the standard hospital issue for patients, other than - and this was just about discernible - a modest thickening of the quilting and a slight exaggeration of that pattern’s definition. Therein, though, lay the source of her excitement, in that thickened quilted layer, in that notion of irony; that something so much intended for feminine comfort and protection should harbour the source of such potential discomfiture, such uniquely feminine discomfiture at that.

It was inspired, totally inspired, there was no other word for it; candida spores encapsulated and embedded within the quilting and designed to be released in response to the warm moistness of intimate contact. Her nimble mind was already flitting across a landscape of possibilities and implications; the sealed humidity of a pair of close-fitting plastic or latex knickers would make for the perfect incubating atmosphere and pre-treatment with a course of a full-spectrum antibiotic to cleanse the body of its natural flora beforehand would ensure close to a one hundred percent probability of infection.

Thrush would be the primary result of course, but there could be bloatedness, flatulence and diarrhoea and an itchy anus to be contended with; all the more of a misfortune should they strike a girl fitted with an anal dilator.

In her mind’s eye she could already see a pretty young woman writhing and sweating between the rubber sheets of a hospital bed, her wrists ankles, thighs and waist firmly encircled in broad padded restraints and secured, wrists to thighs and ankles to bed corners, her legs widely spread, the gusset of her latex knickers tightly stretched.

What treatment to prescribe? With a girl so obviously disturbed and clearly suffering some sort of irritating intimate infection, enforced bed rest would be a must, the patient suitably secured and isolated. She would have to be regularly purged, be catheterised and be treated by the application of one of the new antiseptic creams; it would do little to ameliorate any yeast infection but, along with a continuing course of antibiotics, would ensure that no complicating bacterial secondary infection set in.

Of course, maintaining a good standard of feminine hygiene would be of particular importance under such circumstances; she would be left with little choice but to prescribe the regular provision of a nice new fresh absorbent panty liner, perhaps twice per day; one of these nice, new, little quilted beauties of course; it would have to be one of these.

The prognosis in the short-term? Well, she would expect a very chastened young lady, one well versed in the shortcomings of her feminine hygiene standards, perhaps to the point of obsession.

The prognosis in the Long-term? Physically, she would expect little permanent harm, if sufficient care was taken. Psychologically, on the other hand, the prognosis was unknown; that was what made it so exciting. Deep down, she suspected profound damage to be a likely result; as always, only through experiment could hypothesis be tested and conjecture be replaced by certainty.