Reformatory Girls Ch. 03

Story Info
Punishment in a girls Reform School.
8.1k words
4.3
38.2k
10

Part 3 of the 18 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 07/06/2016
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here
escalus
escalus
108 Followers

At around the time Tina Dukes was being inducted by Miss Bulstrode into the gentle ways of Hazely Reform School, another new girl arrived. Her name was Karen Frayn. The reason for her eighteen month sentence is that whilst driving her new Porsche Boxter with approximately 240 milligrams of alcohol in her blood, she mounted the pavement and ran into a pedestrian.

Karen is a tall, elegant, disdainful girl, who carries herself like a thoroughbred racehorse amongst carthorses, and thinks she is a cut above most, if not all, of the riff-raff she is forced to keep company with.

She is too intelligent to say this directly: but it is apparent in her gestures and her body language: in the way she tosses her hair; in the way she looks down her aquiline nose; and in the way she sometimes preens herself in the washroom mirrors or stretches her hands behind her head and leans back, displaying her body in the showers.

The other girls notice these things. Some of them cannot help but respond to her poise, and feel little flutters of warmth between their legs when they see her in the Dormitory or the showers. But they do not much like her attitude. She is too proud and too spoiled. And they strongly suspect she is heading for a fall.

Miss Bulstrode, too, is aware of Karen's attitude. She has overheard Karen talking in the Recreation Yard, about the wealth of her father, the parties she has been to, the minor celebrities she has met. She has noticed, in class, how Karen will sit with her arms folded, and a look which says all this is beneath me.

Miss Bulstrode smiles grimly to herself. This is not the first time she has encountered a girl who has believed she is too grand for Hazely Reform School. There is little Miss Bulstrode enjoys more than cutting such girls down to size.

One afternoon, during a numeracy lesson, Miss Bulstrode inscribes some columns of numbers on the blackboard. One of these numbers is in the wrong place. She is watching Karen Fray out of the corner of her eye, and can almost hear the sigh of exasperation. When she turns to the class Karen raises her hand. This in itself is not an infraction of the rules: the girls are allowed to raise their hands to ask questions, and Miss Bulstrode will always help a girl who is genuinely struggling to understand. But the questions have to be valid: any diversions or time-wasting are punished.

So that it is rare for a girl to raise her hand.

"Yes, what is it?" Miss Bulstrode asks.

"If you please Miss Bulstrode," begins Karen, and even in this polite and entirely proper form of address Miss Bulstrode believes she can hear sarcasm: "You've made a mistake."

There is a sharp intake of breath from the class: girls who know what is best for them do not tell Miss Bulstrode she has made a mistake. A few though – Clare Davenport among them – can see that Karen is right.

"And what is my mistake?" asks Miss Bulstrode.

"The figure at the bottom of the column on the right," says Karen. "It should be an 8 not a 5."

"Should it indeed," says Miss Bulstrode. "Stand up beside your desk."

Karen does as she is bidden.

"Did it occur to you," says Miss Bulstrode, "that I may have written those figures deliberately? That I was about to test the class to see who was awake? And that you have just sabotaged my lesson?"

"Oh," says Karen. "I – that is, no."

Miss Bulstrode raps her palm with the riding crop.

"No," she says. "You were too keen to demonstrate just how smart you are and how ignorant I am."

"I – no," Karen stutters. "I – was trying to help."

"I've been watching you," says Miss Bulstrode. "You think you are too good for this class. Well you are about to learn your mistake. Step out to the front."

Exuding resentment from every pore Karen walks out to the front of the class.

"Fetch my chair from behind my desk," orders Miss Bulstrode. "And place it facing the blackboard."

Karen complies: inwardly she is seething against the unfairness of it all.

"Now take off your skirt and knickers. Place them on the seat of the chair then bend over the back and place your hands on either edge of the seat.

Karen cannot restrain herself any longer:

"This isn't fair," she says. "I was only trying to help."

"I'm going to count to five," says Misss Bulstrode: "and if when I've finished you are not bent over that chair I am going to double your punishment."

Karen's breathing is shallow and rapid: she is on the point of saying something: words such as if you do this to me I will make sure my father has you sacked – which have helped her out of tricky situations in the past. But she sees the determination on Miss Bulstrode's face, and she has the sense to realise that Miss Bulstrode is not the sort to be intimidated by threats.

Sighing heavily she takes off her skirt and knickers and bends over the chair.

"Just in time," says Miss Bulstrode. "Now spread your legs: feet about twelve inches apart."

Karen does as she's told. Her head is now lower than her bottom, which is displayed for all the class to see. Worse, with her legs apart everyone will be able to see her shaven mound from behind. She has never been coy about her body: in fact she has done some modelling work and in the right circumstances she is happy to display herself, clothed or unclothed. But these are not the right circumstances: never before has she felt so humiliated and exposed.

She is also shaking in anticipation of the riding crop.

Miss Bulstrode scrutinises the girl, satisfied with her position.

Then she turns to the blackboard and starts inscribing numbers again.

The class stirs – what is going on? But Miss Bulstrode, evidently unaware of any anomaly, continues to instruct them until some ten minutes have passed and the hands on the clock show 3 p.m.

"Right," says Miss Bulstrode. "We'll continue after break."

The class rise to their feet and prepare to file out of the classroom. Almost as an afterthought Miss Bulstrode addresses Karen Frayn:

"You will remain exactly as you are throughout break. I will deal with you when we return."

And whilst the rest of the class stream past her, marvelling at this new indignity and heartily glad it is someone else who is, so to speak, in the hot seat, Karen Frayn remains exactly as she is.

The Recreation Yard is a bleak oblong of asphalt, about the size of two tennis courts, surrounded by high brick walls topped with razor wire. There the girls mill around, glad to be in the fresh air: but all of them thinking of the girl left behind in the classroom, bent over the back of Miss Bulstrode's chair. And whatever their feelings about Karen Frayn they all agree that her punishment is vicious even by Miss Bulstrode's standards.

Fifteen minutes pass quickly, and soon the girls are back inside. Whether Karen Frayn has carried out Miss Bultrode's instructions to the letter, whether she has occasionally shifted her position, whether Miss Bulstrode or anyone else has been back to check up on her, they do not know. But they find, when they re-enter the classroom, that Karen Frayn is standing exactly as she was when they left.

The take their seats. They savour the sight of Karen Frayn's long legs, her shapely bottom, her shaved pudenda just visible through her legs, and they prepare for the spectacle that is about to follow. But then, as though Karen Frayn has become invisible, Miss Bulstrode resumes her instruction at the blackboard.

After a minute or two of this Karen Frayn stirs and gives two throaty coughs.

If Miss Bulstrode hears this she makes no sign. Figures are chalked up and problems explained and copied down.

Meanwhile Karen Frayn continues to stand with her back to the class and her arse and her legs and her vagina exposed. And although she is still, she is squirming inside. Squirming with embarrassment; squirming with indignation; and squirming in anticipation of pain. How dare Bulstrode treat her in this way?

Eventually there comes a natural break in the instruction. Miss Bulstrode puts down her chalk, and as though she has only just remembered her presence, turns to Karen Frayn.

"I believe we have some unfinished business to conclude," she says.

The tension in the classroom is ramped up a notch. The girls watch with baited breath. A number of them feel a moistening between their legs, wonder if they dare risk the briefest of rubs, and think better of it as Miss Bulstrode wields her crop.

"Grip the seat of the chair firmly and brace yourself," she tells Karen Frayn. "This is going to hurt."

The crop makes a swooshing noise as it sweeps downwards; then a crack as of a breaking stick is heard as it makes contact with Karen's behind.

Karen screams. She does not mean to: she has some vague idea that she will not show any discomfort, not give Bulstrode the satisfaction of thinking she is in pain. But then Karen Frayn has not felt a riding crop, or any sort of stick or cane, on her bare bottom before. She screams because she cannot help but scream; and as she screams her body recoils and she stands upright and clutches at her behind.

The class exhale: that is one of the most fearsome strokes Miss Bulstrode has ever administered. Karen Frayn, who has half-turned to face the Instructress, has her mouth open wide and a look of abject disbelief on her face.

"Hands back on the seat of the chair," Miss Bulstrode commands.

"Oh no – please," Karen begs, as she turns and bends over once more.

The second stroke lands about an inch below the first. This time the sound Karen makes is more like that of an animal, a pig perhaps, being slaughtered. A kind of wild, yelping sound that chills the blood. Her buttocks wobble from the impact; a second red stripe appears below the first; and this time Karen pitches forward so that she is drooped over the back of the chair: and though she does not clutch her bottom she is jiggling on her feet, all the time trying some movement, any movement, to lessen the pain.

A third time Miss Bulstrode raises the crop. A third time it whistles through the air and makes stinging contact with Karen's bare bottom.

This is too much for Karen: she howls like a chained dog, and slumps forward over the back of the chair. The girls watch, hardly daring to draw breath, as a trickle of urine spurts from between Karen's thighs and arcs down onto the classroom floor. The trickle wavers, and bifurcates, flowing down Karen's thighs: then it picks up momentum, becomes a torrent, as Karen loses control altogether and empties herself copiously, creating an ever widening puddle on the classroom floor.

Miss Bulstrode places the riding crop on her desk. Karen seems dazed: her breathing is rapid, her body is making awkward movements, bending and straightening, flexing this way and that way, her hands clutching at, then springing away from, the source of her pain. She seems unaware of the pool of urine on the floor.

"Pull yourself together," orders Miss Bulstrode. "And get that mess cleaned up. There's a sponge and a bucket in the cupboard under the taps."

Even through her agony Karen is able to obey, though she goes to the cupboard like a somnambulist and looks at the sponge and bucket as though she has never seen such items before. The insides of her thighs glisten as she walks gingerly back to the chair. She gasps anew as she tries to bend down, gets onto her knees and starts to dab at her piss. The three red stripes blaze out of her buttocks like the brand on the rump of a steer. The girls can almost see them pulsing out exclamation marks as in a cartoon depiction of pain. Slowly, clumsily, Karen dabs at the mess; until Miss Bulstrode becomes impatient, tells her that will do, and to wash out the sponge at the sink and dry her hands.

"Now replace my chair. Put you own skirt and knickers in your desk: you can stand as you are for the rest of the lesson."

So Karen goes dismally back to her desk, her buttocks screaming, humiliation twisting her every nerve, and must now stand, half-dressed as she is, for every eye to look at her until afternoon classes are ended. She feels savage; she feels sick. She feels vengeful; she feels defeated and sorry for herself. But one thing is certain: she will never again accuse Miss Bulstrode of making a mistake.

It takes Karen a long time to recover from her caning. For several nights she cannot sleep properly due to the pain in her bottom. And after such humiliation how can she carry herself so proudly again? She cannot: she walks around with her head low and her shoulders slumped; she ceases to talk about her father, or name-drop celebrities; if she were a dog her tail would be firmly between her legs.

But Time heals most things: and one feature of Hazely is that nobody has time to brood. The daily work, the daily lessons, and the daily discipline must go on. Gradually Karen starts to recover: and whilst she is very wary of Miss Bulstrode there are no further punishments, and something of her old confidence starts to return. She starts – whilst not flouting herself – to carry her head a little higher again. And at night she starts to console herself with stories of vengeance. Miss Bulstrode may have reduced her to a quivering wreck in the classroom – but one day she, Karen, will have her revenge. She does not know how: sometimes she thinks in practical terms: she will tell her father, he will pull strings and have Bulstrode thrown out on her ear. Other times she allows herself to fantasize: she will employ people who will find Bulstrode and bring her to Karen for punishment. Karen will have her stripped, ignore all her pleas for clemency, and use her own riding crop on her. In her mind's eye she sees Miss Bulstrode struggling, as she brings down the crop again and again on her fat bare arse. The more Bulstrode screams the more Karen lashes: not content to flay her arse she starts on her legs, thrashing her front and back, having her legs held open so that she can thrash the tender areas inside. Now it is Bulstrode's turn to wet herself. Karen takes her by the hair and wipes her evil face in her piss: then she lays on the crop once more, thrashing her back and her arms, leaving red lines of pain on her bulging tits, having her legs held open whilst she thrashes her cunt.. When Miss Bulstrode is flayed all over, and lies there screaming and whimpering and begging for mercy, Karen has her mouth held open, stands over her in triumph, and pisses into her face.

These fantasies consume Karen: an hour can pass: she loses all track of time. They bring her great comfort and solace. They also make her randy and her hand strays down between her legs: only to come up short against the barrier of steel. This brings her back to reality again and she curses savagely at her predicament, at the inhumanity of it all.

But she is an intelligent girl, a resourceful girl. Surely something can be done, some arrangement be made?

The weeks pass. Karen has learned a lesson, though it is not exactly the lesson Miss Bulstrode intended. Karen has learned to conduct herself with apparent humility; but she has not learned to be humble. The sense of superiority and entitlement she has grown up with are too deeply ingrained in her.

But she holds her tongue, and learns to ignore the fact that the lessons she is forced to attend are mostly those she had mastered in Primary School. These things do not trouble her unduly. But there is a far more pressing problem to solve: that of sex.

For Karen is used to regular sex. Ever since she can remember she has had admirers, boys and men – and sometimes women – flocking around her like bees round a pot of honey. She has been able to pick and choose her lovers. Sometimes she has even worked as an escort – nothing seedy, but when her father has had an important businessman visit from overseas she has been detailed to visit him in his hotel room and ensure he has a good time. She remembers one such visitor, a Japanese businessman, aged about fifty, with the smallest dick she has ever seen. The man barely speaks any English, the only word he seems to understand is 'fuck'. He is a head shorter than Karen, and literally drools as she takes off her clothes and displays her long elegant legs. She expects it to be over quickly, but in fact he fucks like a little rabbit, keeping her at it for hours. She thinks of him as the 'Duracell Bunny', and makes the moans of pleasure which massage his ego, even though the friction of his little cock mostly irritates her.

And it seems to work, as he signs the contract with her father and a week later she becomes the proud owner of the ill-fated Porsche.

Sex and more sex. So much sex it was practically coming out of her ears. So many men hungry for her she came more and more to enjoy time alone. Then she would wake up in her spacious bedroom, with the rising sun streaming through the curtains, throw off her bedclothes and lie naked exposing herself to the sun. She loved the sun. She loved hot Mediterranean beaches, especially those where she could take off all her clothes. Sometimes the sun seemed like a lover, so sensual she could almost climax just from feeling its rays.

That was how she felt on such mornings. She would spread her legs, touch her body all over, but pay especial attention to the rays of the sun warming between her legs. She mostly kept herself shaved or at least partly shaved (she had experimented with Brazilians and Landing Strips and vajazzles, though always stopped short at tattoos.) When the sun had roused her to a pitch she would start to play with herself, slowly, never in a hurry, luxuriating in sensations, not being hurried towards a climax by some impatient man. Sometimes two or three hours would pass, whilst she lay there, massaging her labia, stroking her clitoris, sliding her fingers in and out of her cunt. After such a build-up her orgasms were explosive, far better than any she achieved with a man.

And if there was no sun she would use a hair-dryer, directing the hot air between her legs, over her fanny and her arsehole, stimulating herself until she was ready to come.

But that was then: before she was committed to this hell-hole. Now she can't so much as touch herself, let alone spend long leisurely hours masturbating.

So she is frustrated – deeply frustrated. And whilst Abigail – unbeknownst to Karen – is struggling with her own frustration, lying awake compulsively trying to think up some way to get relief, Karen is approaching the problem in her own idiosyncratic way.

Karen is neither of a religious or philosophical turn of mind. But she has two core beliefs, both of them impressed on her by her father when she was young. Number one: money can buy you anything – including love. Number two: everyone has their price.

So whilst Abigail is looking for tiny windows of opportunity in the routines of the day, Karen is wondering who, in Hazely, is best to approach, and what would be their price.

She runs her mind through all the Staff: the Wardens, Matron – she even considers going directly to the Principal. But after much consideration she settles on Miss McCloud.

It's a risk, of course. The principles on which the outside world are run do not necessarily apply in here. But Karen is desperate: each morning she wakes early – morning sex was always her favourite – feeling only a rub will set her up properly for the day.

If she cannot have a rub soon she believes she will go mad.

One lunchtime as the girls are waiting to enter the Refectory she approaches Miss McCloud.

"Please Miss McCloud," she says in her most respectful voice. "May I speak to you privately?"

It is rare for a girl to make such a request: Miss Bulstrode would almost certainly have dismissed it out of hand. But Miss McCloud looks at Karen, weighing her up, then asks if Karen is sure it is important, and agrees to give her a few minutes after afternoon lessons.

escalus
escalus
108 Followers