Greta’s Story: The Nurse Kramer Version
A Naked In School Tale
by Chessman

Many of you may have read part of Greta’s story by now. If you have, you can understand I played a pivotal role in it. There are facts, even now, which Greta did not and does not know.

Let me try to fill in the gaps. My name is Samantha Kramer and I am a registered nurse with the degrees, BSN, MSN, and M.Ed in school counseling. I am well qualified to teach health and sex education and to provide the care a sick or injured student might require.

I first spent time with Greta during her sophomore year. I had received a physician’s excuse from physical education for one Gwen Delaney due to eczema related lesions on her body which required cauterization. I have been practicing my profession long enough to recognize certain phrasing used by doctors, and I called the pediatrician in question to ask her about this matter. Without breaking any confidentiality laws the doctor told me that the girl had clusters of skin tabs, all benign, that her parents were insisting on having burned off one or two at a time. When I asked if all of them could be excised in one procedure under anesthesia the doctor agreed with me , yes, it could, but the parents, particularly the father, insisted it be done this way. With the number of procedures the doctor had booked the child would be undergoing treatment from the present second week of sophomore year until the late spring.

When I asked could this be a ploy to keep the child out of physical education, the doctor said it was possible, but that the father, a local pastor of a very conservative church, had insurance that would pay better for the in-office work than for a non life-threatening hospital stay.

The school had a policy that any and all medications prescribed for a student had to be left with the nurse and if treatment with the medication were necessary during the school day the student would report to the nurse, me, for its administration. Beginning the third week of September, Gwen Delaney reported to me at the beginning of her gym period. I had the prescription crèmes needed to lessen scarring from the procedures in my office refrigerator, courtesy of the Delaney family.

The first day I asked her to remove her calf length skirt so I might apply the crème on the current burn site, her left hip. She complied and I was faced with a dilemma. She was wearing a full slip. Heavens, no one wore a full slip any longer, not even my mother who at the time was in her seventies.

“I’m, sorry, dear,” I told her gently, "but I’m going to have to ask you to remove your blouse and your slip as well.” I figured with a full slip the child probably was wearing a thong or might even be commando due to the topical rawness of her wounds. I was wrong. I also did not know that pantaloons such as she was wearing were still made for women. Legs banded with elastic stopping just above the knee and a waistband extending to her navel, these looked as though we stepped into the 1880s.

“Greta darling,” I spoke as softly as I could, “Those have to go as well.” She shyly turned and untied the bow at her waist and let the monstrosity of an undergarment fall into a puddle at her feet. “Just where do you purchase those?” I asked her in passing and was told that the women of the church met twice a month for sewing and except for her shoes, socks and bra, every stitch she wore was sewn by the churchwomen.

“Well, it is nice to have skills like sewing and cooking,” told her, “I’m afraid I’d starve or go naked if I had to rely on my doing either one though.” I’d said it as a joke, but true words are spoken in jest. Frankly I have no talent in the kitchen and the last time I tried to sew on a button I pricked myself with the needle four times.

I looked at the girl and she was a charmer, and I asked her, “If you were taking physical education would you be wearing the school uniform?” The uniform was sneakers, half socks, gym shorts (that came to mid thigh at best) and a t-shirt.

“Daddy and I have spoken on that issue,” the child said, “and we are in agreement that modesty must be preserved. I would be wearing similar but longer shorts to my knee, so that my petit pants would be covered, and I would wear a long sleeved shirt."

“Oh,” I said and slathered a bit of the ointment onto her raw sites. I noticed that she had many other skin tabs along the inner portions of her thighs and up the crack of her behind spreading across her lower back. This was the typical display of a viral inflammation of nerve bundles. Just as she began to pull up her undergarments I stopped her. “No, dear, the crème needs time to set in and dry. If you cover it right away it will rub off and be much less effective.”

“The doctor told me and my father the same thing, but he huffed and said 'no child of mine is going to stand around naked waiting for some crème to dry', and hustled my mother and me out of the consultation room.”

“Well, If you are able to put the crème on yourself at home and then stay in the bathroom or your bedroom until it dries, “ I suggested.

“Daddy does not believe a teen age girl should have privacy, the only reason the shower in my bathroom has a curtain is to keep the water inside the shower. I have no door on my bedroom and I’m not allowed to spend more than five minutes in the bathroom with the door ajar when I need the toilet.”

“Does your father remain in the room when the doctor examines and treats you?”

“Heaven’s no, my mother is in attendance and that is the reason my doctor is a woman. Father is afraid a male doctor would look upon me with lust in his heart and I would cause him to sin.”

“Oh, I see,” I told her, giggling to myself. I knew her doctor professionally and also knew she had a long time female lover, a local real estate agent. The child might be providing more lusty thoughts than the father could ever imagine. She was one of the last of the ‘natural’ children I’d seen. No shaved legs, no shaved under arms, no trimmed pubic hair, arm pits still full of their hair and her hair on her head when unpinned hung down to the swell of her hips. Despite that no odor came from her body except the subtle top notes of lavender and lilac.

“Would you be offended if I asked you to remain nude while the crème properly dries into your skin?” I asked. “If you agree, you may remain for the entire hour of your gym class here with me and your medication will be allowed the time it needs to be effective.”

I could see the wheels churning in the girl’s brain. She had already sensed that in the cruel world of high school being as different as she was due to her parent’s imposed dress code would get teasing enough, if it had not already. For her to expose to her classmates the undergarments she was wearing or her hairy state nude in the shower would make the teasing and ridicule unbearable. She had an out. An hour spent naked with a sympathetic nurse. Or the choice behind curtain number two was outright ostracism by her peers.

“I think I’d like to stay here with you, Nurse Kramer. Daddy has some very restrictive ideas about how I am supposed to live my life and I’m really afraid of how some of the other kids see me due to that.”

Poor kid, she wanted to fit in, but was relegated to the role of square peg in a round hole due to her ultra-religious father.

Her parents had not even signed the consent form for sophomore sexual education. As the year went on and the sites of her minor surgeries varied, Greta and I decided that it was easier if she assumed certain poses and held them while the crème was drying on her skin. I told her about the sorority I had belonged to in college and the pledge poses we had to endure while trying to become members. There were four and if she could hold them for the hour it would help assure the medication would be properly absorbed. The crème had a certain irritating effect as well, and it made her itch. These poses, I assured her, would prevent her forgetting where her hands were supposed to be and stop her from scratching at the wounds.

As we went along Greta spent a week in position one, at full height, standing straight with hands clasped behind her head and legs spread at forty-five degrees, when the treatments were upon her inner thighs, buttocks, or near her crotch.

Position two was used for those weeks when the growths on her mid and upper back were being cauterized. She was on her knees, with her butt resting upon her heels and her hands behind her head.

I put her into position three when the pediatrician began the procedures between her breasts and on her rib cage. Position three varied from position two only in hand placement. In Position three hands were on the knees.

I found the three weeks we spent together with Greta in position four most delightful. Her hands were on her knees, her legs spread at forty-five degrees, her back was straight and she was looking forward. Her breasts hung like small apples or pears on a tree and her buttocks were spread apart so that the crème in the cleft of her backside had a chance to soak in properly.

She found it fun when I used her as a test audience for my lectures. I spoke about feminine hygiene and she asked me to break down the technical words to something a kid would understand. I did and the next day I gave her the lecture again and this time she approved. I went to the middle school early the following day and gave the lecture to the eighth and ninth grade girls. A few, ew, gross, remarks let me know that the plainer words as suggested by Greta got across my message that properly wiping, drying and cleaning one’s rectal and vaginal areas was important.

When she came in that afternoon for her treatment I mentioned how well the lecture had gone and how happy I had been she helped me prepare. She hugged me, standing there stark naked, then assumed position four for treatment. I might have rubbed a bit more crème into the perineum area and my thumb may have strayed toward her clitoris just for a wee bit. Her wiggle and contented sigh let me know she enjoyed the touch.

My next lecture series was on alternatives to penetration for sexual gratification of your partner. Greta blushed furiously as I discussed masturbation, mutual masturbation, and frotage.

“You mean that thing gets full of blood and stands up straight?” she asked regarding a boys erection.

“That is so it can be placed inside of your vagina for your pleasure, his pleasure and possibly a baby.” I told her. That drew and ‘ew, gross’ from her. I then explained the delivery system, prostate, testicles, semen, seminal fluid and the process of ejaculation. Well, hey, if she couldn’t attend sex ed classes, she could help the sex ed teacher work on her class lectures, right?

By January, Greta would come into my office, strip, and on her own assume the pose needed for the treatment site of the week. By January she had ‘helped’ me develop my lectures on monthly cycles, male masturbation, female masturbation, oral sex, intercourse, and anal sex. Three quarters of what she heard from me while I tested my lectures on her she had never known or had been forbidden from knowing by her father.

One day in mid-May, after her treatments were completed by two more weeks of school remained, I went over a lecture I wished to present in the fall of the following year concerning erogenous zones. 'You mean my nipples are part of my sexual stimulation centers?' she had asked, and I told her I could show her if she liked. I gently thumbed her nipples and the reaction in return was precious. I had never seen her squirm so badly before.

I can honestly say I missed her daily presence during the summer she spent at the seashore with her parents. When I saw her on the first day of class for her junior year, after the Program had become part of the high school curriculum, I was surprised. I would have thought her conservative religious parents would want nothing of the program.

I asked her to participate in the morning assembly, as I knew she knew the poses we would be demonstrating. She agreed and appeared nude in front of over four hundred students, faculty, and staff and posed herself in the four basic positions to demonstrate them for me.

Her performance earned her a good round of applause with some of the boys and a few girls standing and clapping for her as she left the stage. She was beaming both from the attention of her fellow students and the fact my thumb had set off a small but nice orgasm while she demonstrated position four.

The last thing I remember was seeing her leave the high school for her community service in the school van driven by Helen Cohen. Her very angry father was marching up and down the parking lot in a seething rage while waiting for her to get back to the school grounds. When the van pulled up and I saw him pull Helen from the van and flog her with the belt I quickly dialed 911 to report a mentally disturbed person on school grounds. Then ran down to see if I could help Helen.

I was just in time to hear Greta's father give his disownment speech. This left the child devastated and in tears. I heard Helen offer the child a night on her couch until things could be straightened out in the morning, but I counter offered my spare bed and bedroom. Greta's anger was barely contained and it showed in the fact she was shaking as though from the cold although the temperature was in the upper seventies. We got home and I led her to the hot tub, told her to sit in it until I got back, and in ten minutes I had returned with two Cuba Libres, (rum, cola and lime wedges), and told her to drink hers. I sipped mine and as the alcohol soaked into her stomach and the warm jets of water hammered her muscles the girl relaxed.

She was even more so relaxed after a hot bath. We both slept in her new room that night, though she did not know it. I was on the recliner chair and she in the bed under a light summer blanket.

Among the other qualifications in my arsenal I am a certified foster parent. When everyone at the school was arguing where she would go and with whom she would stay, I asked her, ”Want to come live with me.” And that was the end of it. I told the counselors, social workers and staff, “She can cook, keep the place clean and keep me company so I don’t turn into and old cat lady.”

She would no longer use her name, her father had told her she was erased from the family history and he had given her that name and was now taking it back. So she refused to have anything to do with it any longer. I asked her if I could name her. She said yes and I told her I wanted to name her Greta Demure. Greta (pronounced …great..ah…) because she was the greatest kid I’d ever met and she was ladylike to the extreme. She giggled and took it. Her official records still showed her old name but around school her friends of which she developed many and her teachers all called her Greta.

The next fifteen months were the most fun I’d had in my adult life.I had the honor of teaching Greta how to shave her legs and trim her pubic hair as well as her armpits. I took her to the hair dresser and she had the ‘works’ done. Highlighted, cut, shaped blown dry and conditioned her hair looked beautiful. We tried several lines of makeup on her and found that Clinique and Bare Minerals worked best with her skin.

As she was refusing to wear a stitch of clothing for the entire school year, I invested nothing in her wardrobe except three pair of the self same sandals to keep her feet off of the cold ground. Skin care product was expensive but she only wore skin so its care was important to us both.

Greta blossomed into a good student, an eager participant in school activities and her community service at the nursing home received the highest grades of any participant in her junior year .I loved doting on her and we’d indulged on two full summer vacations to a retreat house I knew about at the shore. My sorority gave her a full four year academic scholarship to my alma mater where while doing graduate work she had met her husband.

She and her husband still visit me regularly, and I just found out I’m going to be a grandma. You see, the former sexually repressed girl, brow beaten by an ultra religious father and called Gwen Delaney, had become under my wing Greta Demure. She is now, of course, known as Gwen Chessman, wife of the world famous author and philanthropist.

The End