Sylvie’s Show
Three years out of nursing school, I realized that the hospital was not the place for me. The long shifts left me exhausted. The passive aggressive old women who dominated the profession were maddening. My co-workers weren’t all bad. The handful of men like me who had taken up nursing were cool. There were plenty of women my age who were cute and nice, but they were either chasing doctors or keeping their personal lives far away from the hospital.
When a position opened for a school nurse at the local middle school I figured, what the hell, I may as well apply. In the interview, the principal was excited about a young guy as school nurse. She figured another male figure at the school could only be a good thing for the boys and girls there. She offered me the job on the spot and I accepted.
The job was easy and actually a lot of fun. There wasn’t any of the crap that I got in the hospital from the older doctors and patients. I wasn’t “Nurse Schuller” with a smirk. Instead to the students I was “Mr. Schuller” earnestly, respectfully, sometimes whinnily, but never as if I was a joke. A lot of the job was dealing with sick kids or kids faking sick, administering medicines, and calling parents.
One part of the job that I kind of dreaded was helping out girls on their periods. There is a whole sub-forum about this topic on the school nurse discussion board. It actually turned out to be pretty low-key. I kept pads on a shelf in the nurse’s office bathroom and girls knew that they could come in and grab them when they needed them. Word also got around that I was cool about letting girls come in and lay down when they had bad cramps. They just had to come and tell me they weren’t feeling well with a significant look and they could spend a few hours laying down on one of the vinyl-covered cots in the two sick rooms off my office. As long as they didn’t come in more often than was to be expected, everything worked out fine. Since I was chill about it, a lot of the girls took a liking to me, bantering, winking, and giving me hugs in the hallways between classes.
Since I was a single guy and genuinely liked the kids I volunteered to go along as a chaperone to school events. I found myself regularly accompanying the dance team to their competitions. The parents liked having a nurse along and I was handy with an ice pack and athletic tape. As I mentioned, the older girls tended to like me, and I liked them. I could take or leave dancing, and I didn’t much care for the music they danced to, but oh, the costumes. The sight of these girls just over the edge of puberty, dancing and horsing around in leotards and tights left me keyed up for days. After their performances, invariably five or six different breathless girls, wearing heavy lipstick and eyeliner still in their damp leotards and tights would throw their arms around me in exhiliration, pressing their lithe bodies against mine. At the end of those days I would often have to pull the car over before I got home to rub one out while thinking about peeling the tights off of Sarah, Lilly, Miriah, or Sylvie.
I should mention my tights and pantyhose fetish. Almost as long as I can remember I have been incredibly attracted to girls and women in pantyhose. For more than a year when I was ten years old, my 14-year-old sister still in leotard and footed tights would lay on our living room couch after dance class and let me rub her feet and calves every week before our parents got home. The image of her young teenage feet and legs, her leotard-wrapped crotch, and pert nipples straining through her spandex leotard stay with me to this day. My college girlfriend knew I liked hose and would often wear them for me when we went out. She would giggle as I kissed her feet and legs and fondled her nylon bottom before undressing and making love on her dorm bed. I notice pantyhose everywhere I go. It has been a lot of years since nurses changed from skirts and stockings to scrubs, but a surprising number of my younger co-workers wore support pantyhose under their scrub pants. Every day or two at the hospital I would get a tantalizing glimpse of waistband or a nylon ankle. The school was pretty casual, so few of the female teachers wore stockings. Students, of course, were more casual than the teachers. There were lots of black tights in the winter and when girls on the basketball or volleyball team dressed up on game days, often one or two would come with legs clad in sheer tan or nude hose, my favorite.
Sylvie was one of the girls I saw quite a lot. An eighth grader, she was a lieutenant on the dance team. She had asthma and was forgetful, so every few weeks she was in my office using her back-up inhaler. She also genuinely seemed to have a real rough time of it every month and would often spend the better part of a day with a heating pad on one of my cots. Sylvie was an affectionate and uninhibited chatterbox. Unlike most of her peers she was straightforward when she came into my office: “The cramps are really bad this month, Mr. S.” When she came in for her inhaler or something like Tylenol she would jabber on and on about which of her friends liked which boy or the new clothes she got at the mall. Sylvie always gave me a big hug after getting off the floor at her dance contests. The hugs invariably lasted just a second or so longer than seemed appropriate. As hard as she pressed herself against me, she must have felt my rigid penis against her stomach. I found her entertaining, adorably frivolous. She was about 5’4″, lean with a curvy little bottom. Her breasts were like plums and sat high on her chest. Her green eyes twinkled above her little button nose. Her long brown hair was often in french braid down her back.
On a Wednesday in February, Sylvie sashayed into my office. “Are you going to the Valentine’s dance on Friday, Mr. Schuller?” The principal had asked me weeks ago to be there as the school nurse. Last year my eyes feasted on many dozens of pairs of nylon ankles and calves. “I wouldn’t miss it.” As I returned entering the days medicine dispensed into the computer Sylvie launched into a rapid and wide-ranging commentary about who was going to dance with who and the dresses that the other girls had gotten. “…and all I have the same old dress from last year because my mom wouldn’t take me to get a new one,” she concluded with a sigh.” “I’m sure you’ll look beautiful like you always do,” I responded without thinking. She blushed and beamed at me. “Oh, Mr. S, you’re so sweet,” she bubbled. After a quick turn of her head to verify that no one else was around, she gave me a lingering kiss on the cheek, and skipped out of the room before I could say a word.
I arrived in the school gym about 6:50, ten minutes before the dance was to start. Pink streamers, red and white Christmas lights and giant red hearts decorated the bleachers on the sides of the gym. The DJ with his table, lights, and disco ball was set up at the front of the gym. A number of teachers were milling around, some awkward, others radiant in their formal dress. I had gotten my charcoal suit that I wear for weddings and funeral out of the closet.
In fifteen minutes or so the kids started trickling in. I saw Sylvie walk through the door with a group of girls about a quarter after 7. She stopped just inside the door and scanned the room while her friends continued ahead of her.
She was wearing a clinging burgundy satin dress that fell three or four inches above her knees. The top was wide across her shoulders. It was clear that she had grown since last year as her modest breasts strained against the material and the outline of her bra was obvious on the front of the dress. The dress held onto her pert little bottom as she teetered around on medium-height silver pumps. To my delight, just like a number of the girls at the dance, her thin legs were wrapped in sheer tan pantyhose that glinted in the low light of the gymnasium. Her makeup was subtle and girlish, her lips were pale pink and glossy, eye shadow light, and a eyeliner just enough to highlight her glittering green eyes.
When those eyes landed on me she grinned and click-clacked over. “That dress isn’t so bad,” I said. “Do I look beautiful?” she asked smiling shyly. “You look very nice.” She grinned. “Well you’re a mess,” she said impishly. Boldly, she reached up to straighten my tie and brushed her finger tips down my chest. “You need a woman in your life.” She declared. “Yeah?” I ask, bemused. “Yeah,” she breathed in a whisper. Then she winked at me and ran off. I looked around quickly. All of the other adults were engaged in conversations or looking the other way. I breathed in slowly, savoring the flowery perfume still hanging in the air, and then reached in my pocket to adjust my now quite hard manhood.
The dance kicked into gear pretty quickly and while there a little of the usual middle-school shyness, pretty soon, most all the kids were on the floor, at least swaying and talking. A number of the teachers unfortunately always seem to enjoy being the dancing police. They are vigilant about pulling kids apart that are dancing too close. I’m happy to keep kids from running off into other parts of the school and I would break up a fight in a second, but I can’t bring myself pull kids apart for rubbing against each other. I think I wish I had been so bold as a 13-year-old. Grinding seemed to be especially popular this year and the two self-appointed dance police who had shown up had their work cut out for them. The eighth graders especially weren’t shy about getting close.
I found myself mesmerized by Sylvie who was dancing with a popular soccer player. He had taken control and was grinding his crotch hard against her little bottom. I imagined myself in his place rhythmically pushing against her and rubbing my hands across the smooth satin of her dress. Sylvie’s eyes were closed, her mouth opened slightly in an expression of pleasure.
All of a sudden a look of distrees came across her face. She pulled away from the boy and put a hand against her chest. Looking around furiously her eyes found me and she walked quickly across the gym. When she reached me she was cringing and her eyes were afraid. “Need my… inhaler” she wheezed. “You don’t have one with you?” She shook her head. “Come on then.” We walked purposefully out of the gym and down the hallway to my office. I grabbed her inhaler from the cabinet and she took big puff from it. “Sit down in here,” I said, leading her to the cot in one of the sick rooms. She sat down, less distressed, but still breathless. “It’s too tight,” she complained and pawed at the zipper on the back of the dress. “Please help me.” I carefully undid the clasp at the top of the dress and lowered the zipper down her back, exposing her white back and the clasp of her skin-colored bra. “Take one more puff of the inhaler. Then why don’t you rest here for a few minutes? I’ll be out at my desk.”
I sat down at my desk and took a few deep breathes. Seeing her grinding on the dance floor, unzipping her dress, and not to mention the thought of the pantyhose covering her legs and bottom had my head spinning. In order to have something to do I started catching up on some paperwork. After I finished a few forms I entered her inhaler use in the computer and went to check on Sylvie.
She was looking much better and I sat down beside her on the cot. “Are you feeling any better, Miss Sylvie?” She leaned against me, “Oh, much better Mr. Schuller, thank you.” Absently my hand landed on her left knee. My fingers opened unconciously to feel the smooth nylon. Startled at how close I suddenly was to this 13-year-old I pulled my hand away. Sylvie look up at me and smilled, and then scooted right up against me, pressing her hip and thigh against mine. Partly for lack of a better place for it and also out of a desire to touch the girl, I put my arm around Sylvie, resting my hand on her shoulder. “It looked like you were having a good time before the asthma attack.” “Oh I was. A whole bunch of us went to Olive Garden before we came. I had the lasagna… everyone had a good time, except that Sammie got spaghetti sauce on her dress…” and she was off talking about dinner, which of her friends danced with which boy, whose heels were too high to walk in, and on and on.”
As she chattered she happily and nervously started swinging her legs, forward and back, and forward and back. With two flexes of her feet and a clatter, her silver shoes fell to the floor. Every time she flexed each little foot, the nylon wrinkled slightly at the ankle and then pulled tight again. “My mom bought me these pantyhose ‘specially for the dance. I wear pantyhose to church too, but they aren’t as shiny,” she began to chatter. The hose really were shiny in the fluorescent light of the nurses office. “Well they look like really nice on you. You look very grown up,” I interjected. “Thank you,” she beamed. “The darn seam at my toes keep getting messed up though,” she said giving the toes a wiggle. With a focused little frown she pulled her ankle up across her thigh and bent over to adjust the seam that was angling across the top of her foot instead of neatly in front of her toes. My breath quickened as I watched the girl adjust her shimmering hose. The top of her dress was hanging open loose from before when I unzipped it. Her nude strappless bra was flipping forward and I could see her pink nipples. My heart started beating even faster. I stood up. “Uh Sylvie, I think it is about time to get back…”
Just then she gave a little yelp, and fell backwards on the bed grabbing her right calf. “Oh… oh it hurts, it hurts, oww, oww, owww…” she moaned. Back in nurse mode all of a sudden, I grabbed her leg. “You’re going to have to straighten it out dear. It’s just a cramp. I pulled her leg straight out in front of her and began massaging the cramp out of her calf, only dimly aware of the sensual nylon between my fingers and her legs. “It must be those heels you were wearing. They keep those calf muscles flexed. That’s what makes your legs look so good.” Sylvie’s whimpering was subsiding and slightly embarassed at my last remark I looked up to see if she had reacted. Her grimace was gradually being replaced by a relaxed smile. Her eyes were closed. My eyes left her face and returned to her legs. As they swept down her body, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest.
In the panic of her cramp, Sylvie’s dress was all bunched up at her waist. Her whole pantyhose-clad lower body from her belly button down was laying exposed to me on the nurse’s office cot. “MmmmMm, Mr. Schuller, please don’t stop,” Sylvie purred. My hands, frozen at the vision before me began kneading her calf again. Her hose were sheer all the way up and she wasn’t wearing any panties under them. The tan center seam ran from the waistband of the tights until they met a cream-colored gusset at her crotch. Two strands of dark brown pubic hair poked through the fine mesh, one on each side of the seam from a tiny clump of hair pressed flat just above the gusset. She really must have been enjoying the grinding earlier; the gusset and hose around it were glistening.
With my heart pounding and my penis straining against my boxer-briefs, I kept rubbing her calf, knowing that if I stopped, this stunning show was sure to end. I moved from her calf down to her cute little foot, rubbing the arch and getting between each sweet toe. Next I jumped to the other foot. “Let me straighten that seam up for you,” I said in a low voice. Her serene smile widened slightly as I stretched the nylons and slid the seam down over her toes. As I moved my hands up her leg, massaging her calf, and higher, her mouth fell open and each exhalation became a gentle moan as I worked my fingers across her silky thighs. As if it could get any hotter, she had started to rub her hands across her belly and press and pull at her little breasts, all through the satiny material of her dress. The massage was clearly getting her very turned on.
While her left hand continued to rub her breast, her right hand slid down over her belly to the waistband of her tights. My mouth fell open as her hand slid inside her pantyhose. As she spread her legs and pulled them back I sat back on my stool and watched in amazement. The young teenager was rubbing her pussy under her pantyhose. Up and down, up and down her fingers slid between her vagina and the gusset of the hose. Soon the back of her hand was straining against the nylon as her finger squelched in and out of her vagina. “Oh M, Mister Schu, Mister, Ooh, Oh, Oh, OHHhh. Mmmmmmm.” Sylvie collapsed back into the cot sighing deeply, one hand resting on her belly, the other still inside her tights.
After a minute or two Sylvie sat up and pulled her dress back down over her thighs. A silly smile was on her face. “Thank you, thank you so much for your help, Mr. Schuller. I can breathe so much better, mmm and I feel so relaxed.” Almost giddy at what I had witness, I couldn’t help do much but grin stupidly back.
“Zip me up?” Sylvie bubbled. “Of course.” With her dress back in place, Sylvie slid her little feet back into her silver heels. She looked down at them and back up at me. “Do my legs look good?” she taunted. I smiled. “They sure do.” “How much more of the dance is there?” she asked. I looked at the clock. “Another 20 minutes.” “Oh, I better get back, this is when the play the best music.” “I’ll be along in a second.” Sylvie smiled warmly at me and turn to click out of the room.
She turned back to me at the door. “Are you going to be at the Mid-Atlantic Dance Spectacular next week, Mr. Schuller?” She asked. “I will,” I answered. “Good,” she declared. Then she took a few steps back to where I sat stunned, bent over, and kissed me right on the lips. “See you next week, Mr. Schuller.”
to be continued