The Nurse

[WSwriter]

The Nurse

“Are you the new Nanny?”

11-year-old Quentin Tarquin Viscount Dunblane, only son and heir of His Grace the 14^th Duke of Leeds, was eyeing the young woman who was holding his infant sister, make that half-sister, on her hip. 2½-year-old Isabella Leonora – Izzy – turned her head in a broad baby-toothed smile when she heard her brother’s voice but didn’t take her little hand off the young woman’s very substantial breast. Quentin – QT to his friends (and “Cutie” amongst the girls in his class, but he didn’t know that) was in most respects still a little boy, yet he felt a vague sense of envy that his sister could do that. The young woman was of around average height, yet had broad hips to match her large breasts, and Quentin was aware of an undefinable desire.

“I’m the new Nurse,” the young woman smiled back at Quentin.

“What’s the difference?” Quentin asked.

“I’m sure you will work it out,” the young woman replied with an even warmer smile, sat down, unbuttoned her shirt, flipped down a flap on her white bra to unveil a large pink nipple and in seconds, Isabella had latched on and was noisily suckling.

Quentin was staring transfixed. He was about to ask further questions, but the young woman held a finger up in front of her mouth to shush him.

After a minute or too the suckling became quieter and then ceased completely, and Quentin was aware that Izzy was now asleep. In one practiced fluid motion, the Nurse detached the sleeping toddler from her nipple, closed up the bra and shirt and carried the little girl into her waiting bed in the darkened Nursery.

Coming back out to the lounge, she walked over to Quentin, squatted down in from of him and offered her hand. “You must be Quentin,” she said. “You are home a little bit earlier than I was expecting.”

“Yeah, the PE Master was taking some of the bigger boys to a match somewhere, so we were sent home early,” Quentin confirmed – not wanting to let go of the warm soft hand caressing his.

The Nurse smiled. “Are you hungry for a snack?”

“Yes please,” Quentin confirmed, “Eh, what do I, I mean…”

He trailed off.

“Yes?” the Nurse encouraged.

“What do I call you?” Quentin blurted out.

“Well, my name is Elizabeth Andersson, so I supposed you should call me ‘Miss Andersson’ – at least in public or when your parents or their staff overhear us, but when we are alone you can call me ‘Nurse’ or ‘Nanny’ – or even ‘Mummy’ if you want to.”

The last was added in a sweet voice that made Quentin feel all warm and fuzzy.

“I would like that,” he blurted, and the Nurse pulled him in to a warm embrace – something that was sadly rare in Quentin’s life.

“Let’s go and get you that snack I promised,” the Nurse said, took Quentin by the hand and let him to the kitchen.

The Ducal Palace was huge, but the family rarely used it at all. It, and the extensive grounds, were open to the public most days to offset the colossal cost of the upkeep, so His Grace’s family occupied apartments in the old stable buildings – one for His Grace and his second wife, Izzy’s mother, another for the butler and housekeeper (an elderly married couple) and one for the children and their current Nanny, or as was the case now, Nurse. Despite the opulent surroundings, it was nothing more than a pleasant 3-bedroom flat with two and a half baths, a decent lounge, a kitchen with room for a dining table and a small hall with cupboards.

His Grace “worked in the City” earning money, and Her Grace worked on spending it – so they were rarely on the Estate and practically never saw their children – or each other, for that matter.

Hiring a Nurse when the previous Nanny had resigned to go to university, had been handled by Her Grace’s new private secretary who had never met the children, had no idea exactly how old Izzy was, and had said “Yes” to “Do you want a proper Nurse?” when asked at the agency.

Over a delicious but healthy snack, Quentin and the Nurse got acquainted. Quentin readily allowed that he liked the village secondary school well enough – much better than the boarding school he had been sent to – and ignobly returned from – at the beginning of the school year.

“Your step-mother’s secretary tells me you are wet at night,” the Nurse said. She did so in a quiet non-confrontational way, but Quentin blushed all the way down his neck and got defensive – it was his daily nightmare walking up in a cold drenched smelly bed and had been the reason for him being sent home from the boarding school – an expensive “Public School”, as the English so quaintly call their must prestigious private institutions – where five generations of his ancestors had attended.

“Poor darling,” the Nurse said and came to hug him. “I’ve had the mattress replaced this morning and I promise you that you will never wake up in a wet bed when in my care.”

Quentin, burying his head in her amble bosom, didn’t challenge how that miracle was to be accomplished – at this stage if Mummy told him the sky was yellow and the sun blue, he would have believed her.

When Izzy woke up from her nap, Quentin played with her – and at the Nurse’ instigation, read some books for her. “I know the stories are a little young for you,” see said to Quentin while attending to Izzy’s smelly nappy, “but there was a letter from your new teachers that you need to practice your reading – and your sister loves it.” Quentin agreed unflinchingly.

 

After an early dinner, or “tea” as it is called in England, Izzy was bathed and put in a thicker nappy for the night. The Nurse then nursed her to sleep on the sofa in the lounge. Once more Quentin was on the brink of asking about it, and once more he was shushed until Izzy was asleep in her bed in her room.

“How come you can, you know, give her milk from your, your...” Quentin blushed deep red and trailed off.

“My breasts. They are called breasts,” the Nurse said. “Or boobs. Boobs is OK too. Other words are vulgar, and we don’t use them.”

“Your breast,” Quentin repeated. “I mean, have you got a baby of your own, I mean, don’t you need that to, to...”

“Lactate?” the Nurse prompted. “Yeah, that is the most common, but no, you don’t need to. I’ve had milk in my boobs ever since Mum had the twins when I was 14. She was poorly, so I helped feeding them – and I have had milk ever since.”

“How old are your brothers?”  Quentin asked.

“They are eleven, just like you”

“How long, I mean, when did you stop?” – again Quentin trailed off.

“I never really stopped. Of course, I moved out from home for my first resident Nurse job when I was 19 so it was more now and then after that,” the Nurse replied.

Before Quentin could follow up on that, the Nurse took him by the hand. “Bath time!” she said and let him to the biggest bathroom and started filling the tub.

She then turned around and started undressing Quentin. “I can undress myself,” he protested.

“Of course you can,” the Nurse agreed. “You are eleven years old. But you don’t have to when Mummy is here.”

Surrendering to the joy of being cared for, Quentin docilely let himself be stripped naked – exhibiting no embarrassment at being stark naked in front of what had been a complete stranger only a couple of hours ago.

“Tsk tsk, you poor darling,” the Nurse exclaimed when she saw the red irritated skin on Quentin’s groin and upper thighs. ‘Nappy rash’ is a misnomer; you can get it from lying in a wet pajamas for many hours night after night. She washed him all over with infinite care, lifted him out of the water and dried him – gently dapping the affected areas to limit the pain.

“Let Mummy take care of you,” she said, and expertly flipped Quentin over to lay him on a towel-covered yoga matt on the floor. She then proceeded to apply a soothing layer of Izzy’s nappy cream followed by baby talcum all over Quentin’s crotch.

“Lift up your bum,” she said. Though confused Quentin complied, and the Nurse unfolded a thick tween-sized night nappy and slid it in under him.

“What are you doing?” Quentin asked startled.

“Putting your nappy on,” she replied.

“But I don’t wear nappies!” Quentin exclaimed.

“I know,” the Nurse agreed. “That’s why you’ve woken up wet, cold and miserable every night with rashed skin.”

“But, but,,,” Quentin trailed off.

“Mummy promised you that you would never wake up wet again,” the Nurse said while hugging Quentin tightly. “How did you think I was going to keep that promise otherwise?”

“But, but,,,” Quentin started again.

“Hush, it’s OK baby,” the Nurse cooed in Quentin’s ear. “You need them.”

All fight went out of Quentin. Nurse was right; he needed nappies.

The Nurse pulled Quentin up on his feet, put an old-fashioned night-shirt over his head, expertly brushed his teeth and, with more strength than Quentin would have thought she had, lifted him up on her hip and carried him into his room.

One of the comfortable armchairs from the lounge had been moved in there and the Nurse sat down in it, positioned Quentin across her lap, undid her shirt and nursing bra and offered Quentin a nipple already dripping with milk.

“Your sister is not drinking very much, so my boobs are painfully full. Please help me Quentin,” she said to the shocked boy.

“What, I mean how?” Quentin asked, but almost automatically, as if driven by some unseen force, lowered his head to her breast and opened his mouth.

“Just like that,” the Nurse cooed. “You can’t remember how you did as a baby,” she allowed while wondering if he had actually ever been breast-fed, “but just use your tongue to massage my breast under the nipple.”

After a few false starts, Quentin was rewarded with a mouthful of warm, sweet milk and was instantly hooked. For the next many minutes, he drank greedily, emptying first one then the other breast.

The Nurse meanwhile cooed sweet nothings in his ear – and enjoying one long continuous low-level orgasm; something she had felt from the very first time she nursed her baby brothers and the reason she made a profession out of being a wet nurse.

Shortly after the second breast had been emptied a sated, snug and happy Quentin drifted off to sleep and the Nurse placed him in his bed, turned the night-lamp down to a minimum and tip-toed out of the room.

 

The next morning, Quentin woke up with a start wondering what was wrong. Or not so much ‘wrong’ perhaps as ‘different’. He stretched out, felt the sagging nappy around his waist and instantly recalled the previous evening. He also realized that for the first time in years he did not wake up in a cold wet smelly bed.

“How is Mummy’s Baby Boy this morning?” the Nurse sing-sang to him.

Quentin wanted to frown at that, but the hug and kiss he got, and the infinite care with which she removed the heavy nappy, gently washed him, and then applied a perfume free barrier cream made him pause. “Can’t have you smelling of baby power in school, can we?” she observed. Quentin couldn’t agree more.

He got dressed, went to the kitchen for his breakfast, cleaned his teeth and then it was off to school.

The school day was “normal”, except he was not as tired and stressed as he usual was and he was not in pain from the rash in his groin, which according to the Nurse was already improving.

It was also “normal” in that they weren’t let out early, so when he arrived home, the Nurse had just put Izzy down for her nap.

“How was your day Sweetheart?” the Nurse asked.

Startled – no one had ever asked him that before, Quentin launched into a long list of the day’s highlights with his substitute Mummy keenly listening and asking more questions.

When he ran out of steam, she ruffled Quentin’s hair, gave him a long hug, and then asked him about homework.

Quentin admitted he had ‘a fair bit’ but also admitted that he was ‘rather tired’.

“Why don’t you have a nap too?” the Nurse suggested.

Quentin considered that for a moment, nodded, and was then let by the hand to his room. The Nurse started to undress him, and he was happy enough to get out of his school uniform, but she also removed his underwear and before he could ask about it, she flipped him over to lay on the improvised ‘change mat’ from the night before. She expertly applied cream and powder, retrieved a nappy, and lifted up Quentin’s legs and bottom before he could even react.

“But I only wet at night,” he protested – even if the protest was somewhat feeble.

“We know that you wet when you sleep,” the Nurse countered. “We don’t know if it happens during naps too.”

Again, Quentin had no time to respond before the nightshirt was on and he was lying across the Nurse’s lap with his mouth attached to her long nipple. Thirstily he drained both of her breast before drifting off.

When he woke up from his ‘nap’ an hour later, the nappy was soaked. She wiped him and dressed him in underpants, tee shirt and sweatpants. He then worked on his schoolwork interspersed with playing with, and reading too, his delighted little sister before they had their early tea in the kitchen.

The evening was a repeat of the day before with the exception of the surprises. It felt shockingly normal after a shockingly short time.

It became the pattern for the week and when he on Friday was called to read aloud in class, his teacher commended him for a clearly improved performance. Quentin basked in the rare success.

That afternoon he remembering to mention that he had been praised for his reading from just having practiced reading aloud to Izzy the last several days.

“That’s wonderful,” the Nurse exclaimed. “You get better at reading; Izzy is happy, and I have time to prepare our tea. I call that a win-win-win.”

Quentin agreed. His agreement, however, was non-verbal as he already had Nurse’s fat nipple in his mouth.

 

The following weeks were much the same. Quentin and Izzy’s parents graced them (pun intended) exactly once with a brief visit. When inquiring about the ‘bed wetting business’, Miss Andersson (as Quentin remembered to refer to her as) assured Her Grace that there had not been a single wet bed. The housekeeper later confirmed the same, calling it a ‘blessing’ since it cut down on the amount of washing she had to do. The housekeeper, a grandmotherly type, knew exactly how that turnaround had been accomplished, but Her Grace didn’t ask, and the nappies were never mentioned. His Grace was most gratified seeing Quentin’s much improved report sheet from the school. All up the Duke and Duchess spent just under one hour with their children and staff before changing into evening wear and heading off to yet another cocaine fuelled evening of debauchery.

When the Nurse had a rare day off, the housekeeper and her husband the butler baby-sat. The housekeeper handled both children’s nappies without comment or complaint.  Initially she didn’t know about the nursing of Quentin, and she obviously couldn't provide that service, but since it was only for some hours, the milk supply didn’t dry up.

For Christmas the Duke and Duchess were on a private cruise in the Caribbean, so the Nurse and the two children celebrated with the housekeeper and butler in what to an outsider would look like a completely ordinary family affair with two children, their single mother and her parents. Quentin and Izzy loved it. When both children were nursed to sleep, the housekeeper just commented on how lucky they were.

In the Spring, Quentin and Izzy saw their parents exactly twice.

Meanwhile, Izzy weaned herself – as most kids approaching 4 do – both of the breast and her day-time nappies. The Nurse’s milk supply did not dry up however since Quentin happily emptied her large breasts at least twice a day and quite frequently had an extra ‘drink of milk’ during the day. He also wet his nappy without fail every time he was put down to sleep.

He consistently called her ‘Mummy’ and she called him her ‘Baby Boy’ when no-one else were around, but that was just a term of endearment. The nature of their relationship changed when one day Quentin came home from school an hour late (due to cricket try-outs) with a rather full bladder. He didn’t get a chance to go to the toilet as the Nurse basically rushed him into his room. “I’m so glad you are home; my boobs are bursting” she exclaimed will hastily stripping Quentin down to the buff.

“But I need to pee,” Quentin protested as a nappy was being attached securely.

“Never mind,” the Nurse said. “In twenty minutes or so it would be soaked anyway.”

While nursing him from her aching breasts – the relief was palpable – she gently stroked and petted him, applying gently pressure on his lower abdomen. With a quiet whimper, Quentin surrendered to the inevitable, letting go of his aching bladder with a drawn-out audible hissing sound while redoubling his suckling.

“That’s right,” the Nurse said as an orgasm raked through her body, “that’s right – you’re a real baby now drinking milk from Mummy’s boobs while you pee in your baby nappy.

 

[Drownedinp]

Is this complete or is there more?

[milky_mike]

I agree, great story.  I hope there is more to it, or more from you on a similar theme.

[Little_Mouse]

Great story ??

[Sweet Baby Katie]

Please continue .  Perhaps Nurse starts dressing him in cute baby girl clothes when he is home.

[WSwriter]

Thanks for the kind feedback. A second chapter is in the works, but it could be a while...

[Eagle0769]

Wow what a sweet start.

I'm happy this is not the end. She is a

perfect Mommy for QT and Liszzy.

I wonder where else this will go you

already have two of my dreams in the

story. Please continue. :-)

[Little Baby Becca]

Hmmm...

[aldl4811]

I loved this!!! Excellent