Reformatory Girls Ch. 10

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Donna May bides her time. On Saturday she is far too mellow after her orgasm to think of punishing other girls. But on Sunday she runs through a few possibilities in her mind. There is hog-tying, which was so effective the last time. But ideally she’d like something different, and something which does not require her to wake herself and get out of bed before rising bell.

Then there is Squeal Piggy Squeal. Of all possible punishments, that is the one that would give Donna most pleasure. But to be enjoyed to the maximum it requires two people: and much as she would like to rope in Ruth Bowers, Miss Lucy was clear: this is something Donna must do alone.

She falls back on that old staple, wetting the bed. It is quick and easy: all the girls dread it for the humiliation which follows. And Clare Davenport has never had the pleasure of being put into nappies before. It’s true that two nights running Donna will have to hold in her evening piss, and stay awake maybe half an hour later than she would like. But that is a small price to pay for such a cathartic orgasm. And Donna gets the feeling that Miss Lucy would approve.

Very soon Clare Davenport is going to find herself sleeping in a piss-soaked bed.

Karen Frayn is worried sick. Although she left Miss Lucy’s Consulting Room unscathed, she has no illusions as to the kind of treatment she can expect in the future.

For all her physical grace she cuts a dismal figure in the Recreation Yard: she has no close friend, and is aware that most of the girls do not like her. She longs to have somebody to share her troubles with, and wonders whether to confide in Clare Davenport, who seems more intelligent than the rest, and has never been unfriendly towards her.

She is pleasantly surprised, then, when Clare Davenport approaches her.

“Karen,” Clare says. “Could I talk to you?”

“Of course,” says Karen.

It’s a blustery day: the wind eddies noisily around the high brick walls, which is helpful for private conversation. Instinctively, though, the two girls walk as far away as possible from the overseeing Wardens.

“What do you think of Miss Lucy?” Clare asks.

A change comes over Karen’s features: she stops dead in her tracks, stares at Clare, takes a quick look around her and says:

“She’s evil Clare. Pure evil. Have nothing to do with her.”

Clare nods slowly:

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

Karen breathes out heavily and looks down at the asphalt.

“You as well,” she says.

“What has she done to you?” Clare asks.

“Horrible things,” says Karen. “I don’t want to talk about them. Things even Bulstrode wouldn’t do. Just don’t cross her Clare: and don’t trust her: one minute she’s nice as pie, but the next…”

“Couldn’t we stop her?” asks Clare. “If we went to Miss McCloud, say?”

“No,” says Karen, thinking of what would happen to her if it came out about the five thousand pounds. “Who’s going to take our word against hers?”

“If we both went, independently?” suggests Clare.

“Don’t be naïve Clare: she’s clever: she’d have an answer. Remember Matron is her Aunt. We’d both end up being thrashed.”

“There must be other girls,” persists Clare.

“If there are they’re not saying,” says Karen. “Though I did overhear Kelly badmouthing her once.”

The girls have reached one of the brick walls, and turning see Miss Barker take a look at her wrist watch and finger her whistle.

“Can I ask you one last thing?” says Clare. “Miss Lucy told me to ask you what she did to girls who cross her. She said it rhymes with fucking.”

“Plucking,” says Karen bitterly, practically spitting out the word. “Where it hurts most. You don’t want to go there Clare, believe me. Just don’t cross her, whatever you do.”

The whistle blows, shrill and piercing, and the thirty girls in the Recreation Yard form up into two lines.

Clare is trying to find her way out of a building comprising endless identical corridors when she becomes aware of pressure over her mouth. She wakes uncertainly – Who? What? – and hears a voice in her ear shushing her.

“Not a sound,” whispers Donna. “Move over.”

Too groggy to resist, Clare finds Donna May pressed up in her bed behind her.

“What’s going on?” she breathes.

“Relax Clare,” whispers Donna into her ear. “This won’t take long.”

“Go away,” Clare hisses.

“That’s not very friendly, is it?” whispers Donna, sliding her hand under Clare’s night dress and cupping it over Clare’s breast. When Clare tries to pull away, Donna takes Clare’s nipple between her finger and thumb and fondles it in a menacing sort of way.

“You’ve been a naughty girl Clare,” says Donna. “Now it’s punishment time.”

“Leave me alone,” says Clare. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

“You’ve upset one of my friends,” says Donna.

“What friend?” asks Clare.

“Never mind that,” says Donna. “Just shut up and listen: if you do as you’re told you won’t get hurt. All I’m going to do is piss in your bed.”

“No,” says Clare: “you’re not. Just mardin escort go away.”

Donna pinches Clare’s nipple until it starts to hurt:

“Don’t make this difficult Clare: I could press your pillow over your face and suffocate you without leaving a mark. Died in her sleep of natural causes: Is that how you want to leave here?”

Clare is fully awake now, and fully frightened – as Donna intends.

“All you have to do is keep still and keep quiet: understand? Unless of course you’d rather I piss in your mouth?”

Clare would very much rather Donna did not piss in her mouth. Aware of her helplessness she nods her assent.

With a final squeeze Donna releases her breast, slides back out of bed and peels back Clare’s blankets and top sheet.

“Lie on your stomach,” she orders.

Clare turns onto her stomach, her face pressed into her pillow. She is aware of Donna climbing onto her bed, and rearranging her nightdress. An intense silence follows: then, in the stillness of the night she hears a hissing sound, and moments later feels something warm and wet spreading over her buttocks and the tops of her legs. Then the warm, pungent smell of urine fills the night air; the wetness spreads, soaks into her nightdress and into her sheet, becomes a small pool around her stomach and her thighs. She shudders, despite the warmth.

The hissing ceases. She hears the bedsprings creak as Donna climbs down, feels the weight as the sheet and blankets are pulled back over her.

“All over Clare,” says Donna. “I’ll be back tomorrow for part two.”

It is Miss Harman who screws up her face in disgust the following morning.

“You dirty little beast,” she says to Clare. “You ought to have your face rubbed in it. Well you know the drill.”

Some of the girls standing close to Clare titter.

After Miss Harman has unlocked all the chastity belts she leads Clare to the steel cabinet at the end of the room, and hands her a bin liner, a cloth, and the two placards, held together with string, on which the word “BEDWETTER” is written. Clare must then place her urine-soaked sheets and nightdress in the bin liner, and wipe clean the protective under-sheet.

Then, with her head bowed, she files out with the others to the wash rooms. Never has she been so grateful for a shower.

Having showered and brushed her teeth and used the lavatory she files back into the Dormitory and puts on her uniform. Miss Harman, still scowling, supervises as she lowers the placards over her head and secures the ties. Her chest and back now proclaim the words “BEDWETTER” to the world.

Miss Harman reminds the other girls that for the course of the day Clare is not to be referred to by her name.

Wearing her badge of shame Clare trudges through endless corridors to the Refectory. There, and subsequently in the Laundry and in Miss Bulstrode’s class, she is addressed as ‘Bedwetter’ by Wardens and Inmates alike.

The Wardens in particular seem never to miss an opportunity to humiliate her. In the Laundry it is: “Bedwetter: fetch those sheets;” and: “Bedwetter: iron those blouses;” until Clare wants to hide herself away and cry. She becomes hot and bothered: she has been allowed to remove her blouse and skirt, but the placard is hot and rough against her skin. The final straw comes when she is handed a bin liner, and finds herself sorting her own soiled sheets and night dress, which she must then wash separately by hand.

“Come on Bedwetter, get a move on,” says Tania Nye.

At around the time Clare Davenport is struggling to wash her piss-soaked sheets in an old zinc tub, Miss Lucy – Rebecca – is turning her key in the front door of 36 Ravenscroft Terrace. It has not been the most fulfilling of weeks for Miss Lucy, deprived as she was of her night with Clare, and she is pleased to see Kim, reclining on the sofa, waiting for her. Kim is wearing a startling dressing gown, all peacocks and feathers, and with her flame-red hair trailing long and loose she looks more than ever like a figure out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

For the next few hours the girls lose themselves in some intense fucking and sucking, until Miss Lucy feels purged of her anger towards needy and uncooperative reformatory girls.

Sweating, reeking of sex, they break open a bottle of champagne – paid for by Karen Frayn’s father – and light-hearted talk begins to flow. Kim loves to hear Miss Lucy’s accounts of life in Hazely, particularly of the sexual frustrations of the girls. She shrieks with delight when Miss Lucy tells her how she tweaked Kelly Watson’s tiny titties; but when she hears how Karen Frayn, in her desperation to avoid an enema, offered to pay another four thousand pounds, she grows serious.

“We’re missing a trick here,” she says to Mss Lucy in her sensual Irish brogue.

“She was bluffing,” says Miss Lucy. “She won’t ask for more. Besides, it’s difficult for them to write: they’re only allowed one letter a month.”

“Call her bluff then,” says Kim. “Give her some paper after you’ve shaved her, get marmaris escort her to write then. You could even tell her what to say. And if she refuses – persuade her.”

“Bloody hell,” says Miss Lucy. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because your wits are scrambled by all that fanny,” says Kim, ticking Miss Lucy between the legs, which prompts the girls to embark on a bout of play-wrestling, going for each-others vaginas until each one has the other’s fingers inside her.

“Seriously,” says Kim, when they have disengaged again and recovered their breath. “This one’s too good a catch. Think of the possibilities: I saw the way he was looking at me last time he came: next time I could send him home with a smile on his face.”

“Fuck me,” says Miss Lucy, as the prospect of tormenting Karen Frayn with the knowledge that Karen’s precious daddy has been fucking her friend causes her eyes to widen with delight.

“After that – the sky’s the limit,” says Kim. “Regular payments, presents, who knows. Maybe he’ll fall in love with me and divorce his wife: I could become this girl’s wicked stepmother.”

“Or I could,” says Miss Lucy, almost giddy at the prospect. “‘Karen: I’ve married your father’ – she’d shit herself ten times over.”

“Hey, I thought of it first,” chides Kim. “And you won’t be here, will you? You’ll be diddling all those little Reform School sluts.”

“I suppose,” says Miss Lucy. “But if I could be here… Do you think he’d go for a two girl special?”

“Have you ever known a man who wouldn’t?”

“No,” says Miss Lucy. “But hey, we’re getting carried away. I’ll need to get that letter written first.”

“If you think she might need some persuasion,” says Kim: “I’ve bought you a little present that might help.”

She slips off the bed, tosses her hair behind her, and sashays over to the dressing table. Her full, pale breasts are shown to great effect in the mirror. From the top drawer she takes out a paper bag, which she hands to Miss Lucy. Inside Miss Lucy finds a small, circular box. It is the right size for a ring box, but cheaply made, out of cardboard. Miss Lucy reads the words on the lid:

“‘Itching powder. Caution: do not use on sensitive skin.'”

For a moment she is non-plussed: then light begins to dawn.

“I got it from the joke shop,” Kim informs her. “I thought you could make use of it.”

In an instant Miss Lucy sees some of the girls: Karen, Kelly, Clare Davenport: with itching powder on their fannies – and arseholes – scratching away – desperate to scratch but not daring to. Desperate to scratch but unable to because they are locked into their chastity belts.

“This is priceless,” she breathes, removing the lid, staring into the little box of grey powder as though it contained twenty-four carat gold. “You are a fucking genius.”

“Aren’t I?” says Kim, smiling seductively. “Now kiss me. Not there,” she adds as Miss Lucy applies herself to Kim’s lips.

So Miss Lucy burrows down between Kim’s long legs, breathes in the powerful scent of her sex, takes her already sopping labia into her mouth, and sucks on them, rolling them around between her own lips, feeling for her clitoris with her tongue, licking and probing, firming her tongue and pushing it as hard as she can into Kim’s vaginal opening, until she feels Kim’s hands on the back of her head, and Kim starts to buck and shake and climax into her mouth.

For a time the two girls lie basking, and sipping champagne. But the little box of itching powder, now on the bedside table, has a magnetic pull on their thoughts.

“I almost want to try it out,” Miss Lucy muses aloud.

“I was thinking the same thing,” says Kim. “Shall we?”

The girls are both tipsy: the idea of trying out the itching powder, having been aired, now hangs in the air like a challenge.

“My fanny’s too sensitive,” says Miss Lucy. “But maybe on my arse? Only if you will though.”

“I will if you will,” says Kim, and they splutter with laughter.

“And we can always wash it off,” says Miss Lucy. “I’ll do you first – turn over then.”

Kim turns herself over. Miss Lucy carefully takes the lid of the little box, and places it on the bed. Kim has a fine bottom, full-cheeked but not fat: Miss Lucy parts her buttocks and scrutinises the tiny puckered lines, like the lines on a sundial, that radiate from her sphincter. She leans down and breathes in the delectable scent, and cannot resist running her tongue lightly over Kim’s anus. Kim shivers with pleasure:

“Hey, I thought we were supposed to be trying out the itching powder?”

Miss Lucy takes a pinch of the powder, drops it directly onto Kim’s anus, and starts to rub it in, making sure she works it into the tiny folds. Kim squirms and giggles.

“That should do,” says Miss Lucy. “Your turn.”

Kim heaves herself up onto one elbow, as Miss Lucy lies face down on the bed. She squats over Miss Lucy’s back – Miss Lucy can feel the heat of her genitals on the small of her back – facing Miss Lucy’s feet. Miss Lucy’s body is nevşehir escort smaller and more compact than hers. She parts Miss Lucy’s firm buttocks, and marvels at how much more neat and delectable her smooth little anus is than the coarse, hairy male cavities she is sometimes paid to finger. She blows lightly on the tiny starfish furrows, then breathes out warm air through her open mouth.

“Nice,” Miss Lucy murmurs.

Then Kim in her turn takes a pinch of the powder, and sprinkles it onto Miss Lucy’s anus, flicking the last flecks off her fingertips with her nails. Using her little finger she starts to work it into Miss Lucy’s skin.

“Feeling anything yet?” Miss Lucy asks, when the two of them are side by side again.

“I’m not sure,” says Kim: “Maybe a tingling feeling, but I’m not sure if it’s from the powder or your finger.”

“Same here,” says Miss Lucy. “I’m going to have a scratch though. Ooh, that’s nice.”

She reaches behind, corkscrews her middle finger between her buttocks, and starts to scratch. The more she scratches the more she wants to scratch.

“I think that’s making it worse,” she says.

“Let me have a go,” says Kim. She wriggles down the bed, and slides her own finger between Miss Lucy’s buttocks, until she locates her anus.

“Harder,” says Miss Lucy, as she feels her friend’s fingertip scraping at her opening. Kim really gets to work, using her fingernail, drawing it firmly over Miss Lucy’s skin, working it deeper, scratching away at Miss Lucy’s anus.

“Don’t stop,” gasps Miss Lucy: her little anus is tingling, burning almost: it doesn’t exactly hurt, but the second Kim’s finger ceases to scratch the itching starts to drive her wild.

“God, it’s got me now,” says Kim. She reaches round with her free arm and tries to scratch herself whilst continuing to scratch her friend. The girls are both laughing as well as wriggling, it’s a strange sensation, part arousing part maddening, so novel they don’t quite know what to make of it.

“I’ve got to stop,” shrieks Kim: abandoning Miss Lucy she lies on her back and waves her legs in the air, reaching her arm between them, trying to get at her arsehole from a better angle. “Oh my God I can’t stop scratching,” she laughs, manically: “Who’s idea was it to buy this shit?”

Miss Lucy has abandoned her finger, and is standing on one leg beside the bed, trying to get the crack of her arse against the top edge of the mattress. She presses her arse down and thrusts her pelvis backwards and forwards, rubbing her anus against the ridge, working up a rhythm that temporarily soothes the itching. But as soon as she stops the itching starts up with renewed force.

“Top to toe,” shouts Kim: so Miss Lucy lies on top of her friend with her legs spread and her arse over Kim’s face and her head between Kim’s legs, and the two girls poke and scratch away at each other’s anuses, hardly knowing whether their shrieks are of pleasure or pain.

“We’ve got to wash this stuff off,” cries Kim: “Stop it, stop it – my arsehole is raw.”

She tumbles Miss Lucy off her, and heads for the bathroom with Miss Lucy hot on her heels.

“Hose me down,” she says, pressing the button which turns on the shower.

She turns away from the shower, bends forward and spreads her buttocks from behind. Miss Lucy takes the shower head and directs a jet of water directly between Kim’s buttocks and onto her hole.

“Cooler,” shouts Kim over the noise of the water.

Miss Lucy turns down the temperature.

“Yes,” gasps Kim, “that’s better, that’s nice nice nice.”

Miss Lucy continues to direct the shower; with her free hand she takes up a bar of soap and works the corner into Kim’s anus, then washes away all the lather and remnants of soap. She repeats this, working the soap a short way up Kim’s anus, holding her sphincter as wide as she can, aiming the fierce jet directly up her, trying to flood away every last residue of the powder. Meanwhile her own anus is tingling and burning.

“I think that’s better,” says Kim. “Shall I do you?”

“As quick as you can,” says Miss Lucy.

The girls swap places, and Miss Lucy holds her buttocks open whilst Kim plies the shower. The water is soothing; the soap, applied by Kim’s finger, seems to be doing its work: perhaps it is partly psychological, but as Miss Lucy pictures the tiny filaments of powder being rinsed out of her anus, being washed down her bare legs and away down the plughole, the heat seems to leave her; and though her anus is still irritated from all the scratching, it no longer feels as though it is on fire.

“Some cold cream I think,” says Kim, when their anuses have taken all the washing and rinsing they can take. She reaches down a pot of cold cream from a shelf, scoops a daub onto her finger and, as Miss Lucy spreads her buttocks once more, applies it liberally to her anus. Miss Lucy returns the favour, and they return to the bedroom, collapse on the bed, and look at each other in amazement.

“Did we really just do that?” ask Kim.

“I think so,” says Miss Lucy. “Jesus: that stuff is dynamite.”

“Be careful though,” says Kim, who has seen a certain look in Miss Lucy’s eyes. “I wouldn’t like that inside me. If I were you I’d keep it out of those girls’ vaginas: you don’t want them going to Matron all swollen and raw.”

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