Humiliated

We hated Jane the day she arrived in our nursing course. She was tall, blonde, gorgeous – and she knew it. She oozed confidence, and looked at the rest of us with that hint of pity that belongs to those naturally superior. She was smart too, it soon became clear that the course wasn’t going to tax her much. We hated her looks, her luck, her full social life – we were polite, but bitches behind her back.
Mandy and I plotted her humiliation, but it was nearly a year before circumstances delivered us the perfect opportunity. It was a theatre attachment, 3rd day. Jane, Mandy and I were assigned to the same theatre – orthopaedics. The first case was a revision hip replacement – always long we had discovered. Jane was just back from holidays, she was new to theatre. Our plan, rehearsed verbally late into the night, swung into action. We arrived together and got changed. I was last to leave the changing room and opened the window wide as I left. It was January, and a cold cold morning. “Coffee?” I said and they both nodded. I made the coffee and – step 1 – added 3mg of frusemide to Jane’s cup. This was a scary thing to do – big trouble if we were ever found out. Frusemide is a powerful diuretic, larger doses produce huge unstoppable urine flows, and were potentially dangerous. We had done our homework though. Three mg wasn’t enough to do her major harm, nor powerful enough to arouse suspicion. Anyway it ws done now … and she was drinking it.
Next stage was a gamble. We went into theatre. We knew that the surgeon liked a student nurse to scrub–up so they could better see what was going on. We had done it last 2 days, Jane was new – it had to be her. Sure enough – “First time in theatre, eh? You can scrub up over there.” And she did, and we caught each other’s eye – so far, so good.
Knife–to–skin at nine on the dot, with a long long time stretched out ahead. Jane seemed to be enjoying it, chipping in with her smart little questions, looking and nodding at the surgeon’s hands. Only the thought of her bladder filling up eased my contempt. She must have expected a couple of hours operating at the most – boy was she in for a surprise. It was just after ten when the first subtle signs began to show. Jane glanced at the clock, shifted her weight every minute or so, and became less talkative. Mandy and I moved to get the best view – we were going to enjoy every minute of this. My heart raced with anticipation.
By eleven Jane was clearly in major discomfort. She wasn’t the type to display her distress, and her attempts to disguise her fidgetting were fabulous to watch. She would stand on tip–toes, pretending to be trying to get a better view, then cross legs hard, and bob a couple of times. Then she would step back a bit, then forward again. Every few minutes she would tense up and shiver. There could be another 2 or 3 hours to go – I began to wonder if she would make it, it wasn’t our plan to have her burst in theatre. By half past 12 I was beginning to be impressed by Jane’s bladder control. She was now clearly absolutely bursting, yet was managing to keep some sort of pretence up that nothing was amiss. “Are you OK?” asked the surgeon, “Oh yes, fine, just a bit cold” she replied taking her chance to have another violent bob and shiver. It was fully half past one when the show was over. Jane was now squirming constantly, wringing her hands and bobbing violently. She was struggling to get her theatre gown off as Mandy and I slipped out of theatre.
There was only one girls loo in the block – in the female changing room, and that was where we headed. Opening the door – the cold air hit us, good, nobody had thought to close the window. I went into the loo, Mandy had her bit to do now. Jane came through the door with a bang to find the loo locked and Mandy standing at the door acting as if she was bursting. She – we had practised – had her hands jammed in her crotch and was dancing about and breathing heavily. I waited a full 2 minutes, then flushed the loo, and emerged to find Mandy doing her hero (apparently she really was quite desperate), and Jane watching her, pale faced her own hands jammed down her theatre trousers. Clearly on seeing Mandy’s plight she couldn’t butt in ahead. Mandy (grinning at me) went into the loo and shut the door. Jane was now in trouble. She must have expected to have been relieved by now, and the cold air and locked loo were the last straw. She was dancing continuously and violently, pacing up and down, and groaning. I tried not to smile as I did my next bit – I half filled the wash–hand basin, then turned the tap down so that the water dribbled noisily. Jane knocked on the loo door, “Hurry please,” she gasped, “OK, OK, don’t rush me.” Shouted Mandy slightly too gleefully. Jane had her head against the wall and was banging her thighs together, bum sticking out. This was a far cry from the sophisticated, confident girl we knew. I turned the tap on and off, paddling my fingers in the water. Jane shut her eyes. Thirty seconds later our victory was assured. She was rubbing her crotch vigorously, when I saw her kick her theatre shoes off. Theatre blues are not the thing to wear if you want to conceal a wet patch, but this was all of a litre and a half. There was not an inch of cotton that was dry. Jane’s eyes were tight shut, her face crimson, her trousers clinging to her long slim legs. Mandy came out, and we offered Jane our sympathy. For the first time we heard Jane swear, under her breath but clearly enough. She slipped into the loo, and Mandy and I gave ourselves a little victory salute and headed off leaving the humiliated Jane to sort herself out.
We grew to quite like Jane after that, she never quite managed to look at us the same again.
Squirm