Reformatory Girls Ch. 09

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As Miss Lucy plies the safety razor over the next girl – a skinny crack whore named Elsa Engels who has about as much sex appeal as a stick insect – her thoughts are still with Clare Davenport. She hadn’t really intended that Clare should cum, judging that Clare was more likely to turn up in the sick bay if she was still suffering months of frustration. But Clare had started to climax before Miss Lucy could wind things down, and she had cum, there was no going back on that.

But Clare seemed like a girl of her word. And after such a long period of desperation, one orgasm is never enough: it’s more likely to remind a girl of what she is missing than to satisfy her.

So on the whole Miss Lucy is not displeased, and looks forward to her night with Clare in the sick bay.

She is still in a good mood when she calls in Karen Frayn, and her pleasure is enhanced by the obvious reluctance with which Karen trudges in after her. Once in the Consulting Room the girl is actually cowering – like a dog that has been beaten by its master – and Miss Lucy marvels at the pass such a proud and haughty girl can be brought to.

“Knickers off please Karen,” Miss Lucy orders. Still Karen Frayn hesitates. She seems to be building up towards saying something.

“I’m still sore,” says Karen eventually. “Sore and red. Down there.”

“Down where?” asks Miss Lucy. “If you mean where I plucked you then say so.”

“I’m sore and red where you plucked me,” says Karen quietly. “And Miss Barker was staring at me. If it gets any worse she might say something. There’d be trouble.”

“Relax Karen,” says Miss Lucy: “I’m not going to pluck you today. Now get your clothes off and get on the couch.”

Karen, visibly relieved though still wary, does as she’s told. Miss Lucy proceeds to shave her, neither roughly nor sensually. When she has finished she looks Karen in the face and asks:

“Tell me Karen, when was the last time you had a rectal examination?”

“Oh no – no,” says Karen.

“According to my records you’ve not had once since my Aunt gave you one on your arrival.”

“Please don’t,” begs Karen.

“The more you relax the less discomfort you will feel,” says Miss Lucy, who is already spreading lubricant over her middle finger. Karen groans as she feels the cool touch of the lubricant against her anus. Then the finger is slid inside, causing the muscles of her anus to contract, making her squirm.

“I’m going to have a good feel around,” says Miss Lucy. With that she twists her finger around, probing and poking and stretching, and it feels so peculiar to Karen, peculiar and uncomfortable and intrusive, as though she needs to shit but can’t, and she cannot help wriggling, trying to pull herself off the intrusive finger, but the restraints prevent her, and there is nothing she can do but endure until finally Miss Lucy withdraws her finger.

“It feels to me as though you need an enema,” says Miss Lucy. “I’ll prepare one for you.”

“Oh no, no no,” says Karen. “This is too much – you can’t do this, I won’t let you.”

“Karen,” says Miss Lucy. “I may not be authorised to give you medial treatment, but it says quite clearly in my contract that I can take your temperature and your blood pressure, and if necessary give you an enema. Now there’s not time for the full works, so I’m going to use this bulb on you.”

She holds up a red rubber bulb, about the size of a small melon, from which a tube extends. The tube unscrews, and Miss Lucy fills up the bulb with water from a kettle, then slides a plastic bedpan underneath Karen’s buttocks. Karen watches with mounting horror: in desperation she says:

“I’ll get you some more money. Four thousand pounds, yes? I’ll get my father to make you another payment.”

If she is expecting Miss Lucy to replace the bulb and the bedpan and instantly change her manner towards her Karen is disappointed.

“Tell me Karen,” Miss Lucy says, lubricating the nozzle of the enema bulb: “when you were younger did your daddy call you his little princess?”

Karen doesn’t immediately answer: then: “Yes,” she says quietly.

“How did I guess?” asks Miss Lucy.

“I don’t understand,” says Karen. “You said it was four thousand pounds for a rub: doesn’t that still stand?”

“And you told me there was no way your father would pay up again,” says Miss Lucy.

“But I’ve thought of a way: I’ll get him to sell my car,” says Karen, who has thought of this on the spur of the moment.

“Karen,” says Miss Lucy: “If your father brings us four thousand pounds I will rub you off again. But I’m still going to give you an enema.”

“Please don’t,” begs Karen, who can feel her face flushing.

“I do believe you’re embarrassed,” says Miss Lucy. “Your face is the colour of a pillar box. No need to be embarrassed, Karen, I’ll be here all the time to help you.”

Karen’s sphincter experiences a second shock as the nozzle of the bulb is inserted. Then, as Miss Lucy squeezes the bulb, she feels a strange, uncomfortable, tickling mardin escort sensation as water streams inside her, flowing over the inner walls of her anal passage. The sensation in itself is not painful: it is the situation, strapped to the couch with her legs open and her arse in the air, totally at the mercy of Miss Lucy and her probing fingers and bulb, that is agony to Karen. Then quite soon the bulb is empty and the water has passed up into Karen’s bowels. Miss Lucy withdraws the nozzle and stands, her face only a foot or so away from Karen’s open legs, watching. Karen feels a stirring in her bowels: then she is overtaken by muscular movements she cannot control and Oh God no her bowels are emptying themselves, the muscles in her passage open and contract and she feels the downward passage of the contents of her bowels until her sphincter opens and she is shitting into the plastic bedpan.

The stench fills the air in the Consulting Room. Karen screws up her nose: she wants to stop, but she can’t stop, she has to go on shitting until she is empty. When she feels she has emptied herself she puts her arms across her face in a vain attempt to shut out her ordeal.

“Any more to come?” asks Miss Lucy. “Let’s find out.” She moves alongside Karen, places both hands on Karen’s stomach, and begins to press, manipulating Karen and moving her from side-to-side. Karen feels another bowel movement starting: this time it is mostly liquid: it feels as though she is pissing out of her arse.

“That should do you,” says Miss Lucy. “God, what a stink. I told you you needed an enema, didn’t I? I wonder what daddy would say about his little princess if he could see her now?”

Karen is just about at the end of her tether. She thought she had experienced the ultimate in humiliation when Miss Bulstrode caned her and she pissed herself in front of the class. But this – this is the most degrading and humiliating experience she has ever had in her life. And now that the spasms in her bowels have died away, a new set of uncontrollable spasms take hold of her, and she starts to cry.

Miss Lucy, unperturbed, wipes Karen’s bottom with a sponge, then slides the bedpan from under her.

“I’m going to flush this muck down the lavatory,” she tells Karen. “You’d better not touch yourself while I’m gone.”

Karen is beyond touching herself. She turns her head on one side and weeps, as Miss Lucy enters the lavatory cubicle and flushes the contents of the bedpan down the lavatory.

Miss Lucy dries Karen off and un-straps her.

“Don’t think you’re going to make me feel sorry for you by crying,” she tells Karen. “I’ve let you off lightly. How would you like it if I made you eat laxative chocolate so that you shat your pants in the Waiting Room?”

As Karen, red-eyed but no longer crying, re-enters the Waiting Room she feels as though she is in a mad house where the inmates have taken control.

Clare Davenport hardly knows how she got through the remainder of the day after Miss Lucy brought her to such a convulsive climax. Mostly she stared into space, marvelling at the transformation that had taken place in her body: the absence of stress, the feelings of near-euphoria.

But over the next day or two she has time to reflect, and the gist of her reflections is that she has had a narrow escape: that she was on the brink of doing something very dangerous.

It was not that she shrank from sleeping with Miss Lucy, although her instincts told her to be wary of that person. The state she was in she would have gone to bed with her grandfather’s dog if it could have given her an orgasm. Rather, it was the risk involved. Miss Lucy may have claimed it was risk-free and easy. But the more Clare thought things through the more she saw danger. For instance: somebody could easily have seen her putting salt in her water or sticking her fingers down her throat; it would have been Matron, not Miss Lucy, who examined her – putting thermometers up her rectum no doubt – and who found nothing to confirm her claim to feel ill. And though Clare did not know where, in relation to the sick bay, Matron and Miss Lucy slept, she had an idea that creeping about in the night and sharing a bed carried a real risk of detection.

She also had the feeling that, if things did go pear-shaped, Miss Lucy would look out for herself, and abandon Clare to the consequences.

She had been on the verge of saying ‘yes’. And now, in her sober moments, she marvelled at the capacity extreme lust had of clouding one’s judgements, leading one into making all sorts of rash and crazy decisions.

She’s intensely grateful to Miss Lucy for the orgasm though. And she hopes Miss Lucy will understand, and not feel too disappointed.

Wednesday passes, followed by Thursday and Friday, and still Clare Davenport has not appeared at the sick bay. By Saturday Miss Lucy has become angry: Clare Davenport had better have a good excuse, or she is going to find out what happens to people who take without giving in return, marmaris escort who break their promises.

When Clare enters the Consulting Room Miss Lucy says nothing as she straps her into the stirrups. Harsh words are always more effective when your victim has her legs open and her feet immobilised. There are no signs of marks on Clare’s bottom – a thrashing being about the only valid excuse for non-appearance that Miss Lucy can think of.

She begins to spread shaving soap over Clare. The strong scent of the girl’s sex rises to Miss Lucy’s nostrils, and makes anger swell in her anew at the thought of what she has missed out on.

“So Clare,” she says, frowning. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I’m sorry,” says Clare. “I just couldn’t do it. I’m sorry if you were disappointed.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t do it? We had an agreement Clare.”

“It was just too risky. I’m sorry – I’m no good at that sort of thing – I can’t do all that deceit.”

“Clare,” says Miss Lucy, hardly able to keep her anger down: “I brought you off last week. I told you what I wanted and you agreed. A night in the sick bay together. You took what you wanted and welshed on your promise. So don’t give me this crap about it being too risky.”

Clare looks up in surprise at Miss Lucy. She’d half-expected her to be disappointed: but she hadn’t bargained for such hostility.

“I’ll give you one last chance Clare: are you going to make yourself sick and come to the sick bay next week or not?”

“I can’t,” says Clare quietly.

“You pious little bitch,” hisses Miss Lucy. “You were happy enough for me to bring you off. Now it’s all I can’t do deceit. What do you think this place is, a fucking Girl Guides Summer Camp? You’re like that other stuck up bitch aren’t you? You think you’re too good for Hazely. Too moral. Well it’s reality time Clare: you’re going to find out what happens to girls who don’t come across when they promise.”

Clare stares at Miss Lucy in disbelief: is this really the girl who massaged her so gently, who stroked her into such a wonderful climax?

“I didn’t promise – ” she begins lamely. But Miss Lucy interrupts her:

“Most girls would give their eye teeth for a night with me,” she says. “Well you’re going to regret crossing me. Try this for starters.”

With a ferocity that makes Clare’s eyes and jaw open wide Miss Lucy thrusts two fingers deep into Clare’s vagina and twists them viciously.

“No – stop – what are you doing?” gasps Clare.

But Miss Lucy does not stop. She works her fingers brutally around inside Clare, causing Clare’s hips to rise up off the couch; her knuckles press carelessly into the sensitive flesh around Clare’s vaginal opening.

“Stop it!” Clare protests.

Instead of stopping Miss Lucy presses the middle finger of her other hand against Clare’s anus. Clare’s muscles immediately tighten – she must keep out Miss Lucy’s finger. Miss Lucy gives a vicious laugh:

“Go on Clare, try and keep me out,” she says.

Clare tightens her sphincter: but it is not easy, especially with your vagina forced open. Gradually her muscles start to lose strength: she can’t grip tightly any longer: and the second her sphincter relaxes Miss Lucy thrusts her middle finger deep inside Clare’s anus.

“Oh my God, stop it,” protests Clare. “Stop it or I’ll call out.”

“Go ahead,” says Miss Lucy. “And I’ll tell my Aunt you’re a deceitful little bitch who asked me to rub her off. Who do you think she’d believe? Go on, go ahead: call out. I’d love to see my Aunt thrash you.”

Clare doesn’t call out. She writhes on the couch as Miss Lucy twists her fingers. There is a horrible sensation in her anus, as though she wants to shit. She tries to pull away from the finger, but the finger follows her movements.

Clare tries to gather herself: she breathes in deeply. Then mustering all the dignity she can summon up she says in what she hopes is a firm voice:

“Take your finger out of my anus.”

But Miss Lucy does not take her finger out of Clare’s anus.

“Do you know what you sound like?” she tells Clare, as the fingers of each hand feel for each other through the membrane which divides Clare’s vagina from her anus: “You sound like a parent telling a child to take it’s fingers out of the jam. Well I’m not a child, Clare, and this isn’t jam it’s your arsehole. So if you don’t mind I’ll leave my fingers just where they are.”

With that Clare has exhausted her resources. She is totally out of her depth here, at the mercy of forces she can scarcely conceive the existence of. All she can do is writhe and gasp as Miss Lucy’s fingers press into her membrane, stretching her, turning her, humiliating her.

Then abruptly Miss Lucy yanks out her fingers, with a sound like a plug being forcefully pulled from a plughole. Clare winces and her hand automatically reaches for the bruised place between her legs, but Miss Lucy grasps it and forces it back onto the couch.

“Keep your hands nevşehir escort away,” she almost snarls at Clare. “If you touch yourself I’ll call Miss Bulstrode and have you thrashed.”

Clare, who has never forgotten the ordeal Miss Bulstrode put her through in front of the class, allows her hand to fall meekly at her side. Miss Lucy now thrusts her middle finger under Clare’s nose and draws it slowly across her top lip and the tip of her nostrils. Clare shudders and tries to twist away, but the finger follows her.

“Smell it Clare,” says Miss Lucy. “It’s shit. Your shit. Go on, get a real lungful of it.” She draws her finger across Clare’s lips, pushing them open. “Now taste it Clare. Get it right on your tongue: go on: I said taste it.” She forces her finger into Clare’s mouth: Clare retches, but dryly: as she does so Miss Lucy smears her finger around Clare’s cheeks, pulling them outwards, then along Clare’s gums, feeling behind her teeth, feeling between her teeth and her cheeks. Clare holds her breath: it is horrible: an utter perversion of intimacy, the most vile and repulsive invasion. Now she can taste her own shit: she starts to gag, and Miss Lucy withdraws her finger.

“Shit, Clare,” Miss Lucy says. “You may be all pious and goody-goody on the outside: but inside you’re just piss and shit – so don’t you ever forget it.”

Clare is too stunned to respond. Her anus hurts and her vagina hurts. She can smell shit and she can taste shit. She feels violated to the core of her being.

“I’ll finish shaving you now,” says Miss Lucy, resuming operations between Clare’s legs. “But don’t you think I’ve finished with you. Ask Frayn to tell you what happens to girls who cross me.”

“I’ll give you a clue,” she adds, when Clare is dressed and about to leave the Consulting Room: “It rhymes with ‘fucking’.”

The Clare Davenport who sits in the Waiting Room this week, desperate for some water to try to take the taste of shit from her mouth, wriggling uncomfortably on the hard bench trying to ease the discomfort in her vagina and her anus, is a very different girl to the one who, just a week before, sat on the same bench in a state of post-orgasmic euphoria. There is always a good deal of bare flesh on display in the Waiting Room, as girls draw up their legs, exposing their thighs and their knickers in their attempts to cut their toe nails: but Clare stares at the plump thighs of Kelly Watson and the shapely thighs of Sienna Sharples as though they are invisible. When it is her turn to have her hair cut she goes to the chair and sits down like an automaton. And all the time she is salivating, wanting to spit out the taste of her shit, but forced to keep on swallowing.

Miss Lucy’s anger is only partly assuaged by what she has done to Clare. She is still very cross; she is also frustrated at an opportunity missed, for six nights of sleeping alone is a long time and she had been looking forward to what she and Clare could have got up to together. And perhaps most dangerous of all, she is wounded: nobody has ever rejected her before: she was not exaggerating when she told Clare that most girls would give their eye teeth for a night with her.

The girl who has done all this to her is going to pay, and go on paying.

So as the subsequent girls present themselves to be shaved she is distracted and impatient. When Ruby Grey, who she had brought off two weeks before, thrusts her broad pubis towards her suggestively, and hints that she would be more than willing to deliver any more messages, Miss Lucy thrusts two fingers fiercely up her vagina:

“Here’s a message for you,” she says nastily. “This isn’t a knocking shop. Girls who ask don’t get: if I want you to take a message I’ll tell you.”

Ruby’s normally sunny countenance creases into a look of wounded puzzlement.

Even the presence of Karen Frayn cannot provide a distraction for Miss Lucy. Miss Lucy had planned a novel punishment for Karen: she had purchased a piece of root ginger, which she had planned to peel and insert into Karen’s anus. But she can’t be bothered: and to Karen’s great relief the shaving proceeds in a stony silence, and Karen finds herself back in the Waiting Room unhurt and unmolested.

Only when Donna May arrives in the Consulting Room does Miss Lucy’s mind start to work in a more calculating manner.

She knows something of Donna’s history from the records. She has also noted Donna’s chipped front tooth, and the set of her face, which is pugnacious and confrontational. She looks down at Donna, who lies back with her long legs spread, and starts to wonder. As she draws the razor over Donna’s vulva she makes each stroke a little more caressing than usual, until Donna sighs, and Miss Lucy is confirmed in her suspicion that, tough or not, Donna has the same needs and susceptibilities as every other girl in Hazely.

“So, Donna,” she says, as she finishes with the razor and begins to smooth baby oil over Donna’s mound. “How are you finding life in Hazely?”

Donna looks at Miss Lucy and frowns: what kind of a question is that?

“Bloody awful,” she answers.

This is typical of Donna: the girls are not allowed to swear, and are caned if they do so in the hearing of a Warden: but Donna will take liberties wherever the opportunity arises.

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