Reformatory Girls Ch. 04

When Abigail Morgan was younger her family had a pet mongrel which needed to be taken to the vet's. The dog was so desperate to escape from its carrying cage that by the time they had reached the vet's its paws were all bloody from scrabbling at the bars.

Abi knows how that dog felt. She is afraid her own fingers will suffer in much the same way. For Abi has started to claw at her chastity device in her sleep.

She cannot help it or stop herself. Night after night she dreams she is about to have sex, but something is stopping her, some obstruction between her legs. She claws and tears at the obstruction but always fails to remove it. Sometimes she wakes, realises where she is and finds that her fingers are sore. Sometimes the dream moves on, and it is not until morning that she is able to reconstruct the events of the night which explain why her fingers are sore and bruised and her nails, short that they are, sometimes torn and broken.

She cannot go on this way.

She is aware of what happened to Karen Frayn, how she tried to bribe Miss McCloud and was punished. (Though she is not aware of the sequel, about which Karen has maintained a strict silence.) It strikes Abigail that was a foolish and doomed thing to try: she would never try such a thing herself.

Instead Abigail runs her mind over every detail of the day, compulsively, as she has done many times before, in the hope of spotting the tiniest window of opportunity. But the Wardens watch the girls like hawks, from the moment their chastity belts are unlocked in the mornings to the moment they are fastened again in the evenings. She considers the washrooms and showers, where the girls are already naked, so in a sense that bit closer to their vaginas. But they are too exposed, too much under scrutiny. The toilets likewise: though they sit there with their knickers and skirts round their ankles, they are watched remorselessly. In the mornings the girls work: some, the longest serving, in the kitchens which are regarded as the most desirable workplace; some in the laundry; and some, the newest arrivals, at cleaning duties in the toilets and washrooms. But wherever they work they are always under scrutiny. For meals they sit at long tables in the Refrectory: here, you would think, lay an opportunity: a girl could be eating with one hand and diddling herself with the other. But the rule is: both hands above the table at all times: if you so much as reach down to brush a crumb off your lap you risk a cane on your backside.

That leaves Matron's domain: the Examination and Sick Bay area. There are beds there, where girls who are genuinely ill get some respite from work and lessons. But as several girls who have feigned sick have found to their cost: when a girl goes to the sick room her chastity belt goes with her. For Miss Bulstrode is much too wily to be fooled by that one, and a girl could be at death's door, she would still be locked into her chastity belt and the key handed over to Matron.

There have been schemes of course: crazy schemes such as breaking into the Reformatory safe (or wherever the keys to the belts are kept, none of the girls knows for certain); or overpowering the Warden on morning duty and wresting the keys from her. But these are too fantastical and dangerous to have any grounding in reality.

It seems quite hopeless. But Abigail thinks on, turning over the routines in her mind like a car at a standstill revving its engine.

And then one night, long after everyone else is asleep, an idea comes to her. It is not fully formed: rather it comes to her as a star appears in the night sky, distant and faint, disappearing and appearing again. But the more Abi focuses on her idea the more clarity it assumes, until, having looked at it from every possible angle, having tested it for flaws and weaknesses, she believes she could be onto a winner.

The great thing about her plan, Abi thinks, is that if it doesn't come off, no-one will be any the worse: nobody will get punished.

The worst thing is that it involves other girls: eleven of them to be precise. And she has no choice over their composition.

Two of those girls are Donna May and Ruth Bowers. They are both girls Abi would prefer to have nothing to do with. But then again, she can see that perhaps they could be useful, in ensuring the co-operation of the others.

The following day Abi is tired but also excited. She cannot convey her idea to all the girls at once: gatherings of more than three or four girls are regarded with suspicion by the Wardens, who see signs of conspiracy everywhere. So at morning break she approaches Donna May and Ruth Bowers outlines her plan to them.

"Bloody hell Abi," says Donna May: "You've got a brain as well as a fanny. It's genius."

Abi feels a flush of pride: Donna has never before called her 'Abi'.

Ruth is less optimistic:

"Well never get all the others to co-operate," she says.

"Won't we?" says Donna meaningfully.

The three girls then approach other girls, singly and in pairs, until everybody who needs to be has been apprised of Abi's plan. A meeting of all twelve is scheduled in the Dormitory, an hour after lights out. Come the hour, some of the girls need to be roused from sleep, but eventually all are huddled round the beds belonging to Donna May and her neighbour Kelly Watson, a big-bottomed small-breasted girl, who is also one of the elect.

"So," says Donna: "now we're all here, run it past everyone again Abi.

The girls huddle closer. In little more than a whisper Abi explains.

"So," she says. "There are twelve lavatories, six on each side of the entrance doors. Everyone here is on first sitting."

"First shitting you mean," says an anonymous voice. A few girls giggle.

"We have five minutes," continues Abi, "before we have to wipe ourselves and make way for second sitting. There are always two Wardens patrolling, one either side of the doors watching over six of us."

"And never taking their eyes off us," says Kelly Watson. "Jesus, we can't even have a shit without being watched."

"Okay," says Abi. She is a shortish, dark-haired well-upholstered girl – not a stunner by any means, though she has a pleasant, heart-shaped face and wide 'come-hither' eyes and, if her ex-boyfriend is to be believed, is a girl few men would kick out of bed. She is not entirely unused to being looked at. But never before has she commanded the attention of so many people. "Suppose one of the girls on one side of the entrance is taken ill? Say she has a fit and slumps onto the floor clutching her stomach?"

"She'll be thrashed for faking it," says Laura Marsh.

"Not necessarily," says Abi. "Hear me out. The first thing that will happen is that everybody's attention will be on her. The Warden patrolling the six cubicles on that side of the entrance with hurry to her. And so will the Warden on the other side. They'll both be there, crouched over her, trying to assist her. If she carries on groaning, or lies dead still, one of the Wardens will hurry away for Matron, and the other will stay with the sick girl.

"Matron's quarters are right across the yard and up two staircases. It will take at least a minute, even running, for the Warden to get there. If it's Fatty Armstrong it will be more like two minutes. Then allow a minute for Matron to gather up her first aid stuff, and another minute – probably more – for the two of them to return: and that means the girls who are sitting in the cubicles across the doors from the sick girl will have four, maybe five, minutes unsupervised. Do you think you can bring yourselves off in four or five minutes?"

"Four or five seconds if I had the chance," says one girl.

"For or five times," says another.

"There you are then," says Abi. "What's the worst that can happen? For some reason the Warden who goes for Matron comes back early – maybe she sees another Warden and sends her instead. But if that happens we'll hear her pushing through the swing doors and be sitting quietly with our hands on our knees and our eyes front before she gets to us."

"What about the Warden outside in the cloakroom with the second and third sittings?" asks Laura Marsh.

"She can't do anything," says Abi. "She won't go for Matron and leave eighteen girls unsupervised."

"So what about the five girls sitting close to the sick girl?" asks Ruth Bowers. "Don't they get a chance of a rub?"

"It depends on where the Warden positions herself with the sick girl," says Abi, who has thought of everything. "It's a bit close for comfort – but they might be able to risk it, especially the ones furthest away."

"Great plan, one problem," says Kelly Watson. "No-one in their right mind is going to be the sick girl. Why would they? They'd be on a thrashing to nothing."

"You mean you wouldn't risk a thrashing so that we could all have a wank?" another girl joshes her. A friendly tussle ensues, until Donna calls order.

"She wouldn't have any choice," says Donna.

"What do you mean?" challenges Kelly Watson.

"I mean we draw lots," says Donna. "Everyone has an equal chance of a rub: and everyone has a one in twelve chance of being the sick girl. Once you're in you're in. If you draw the short straw that's tough, but there's no backing out."

And now, perhaps for the first time, it dawns on some of the girls that this is not a jape but a serious plan, with serious implications. Some of them start to demur. But for most of them the desire for a rub is stronger even than the fear of the cane. At the first count, nine girls are in favour, two are against, and one is undecided.

Donna makes up their minds for them.

"If you opt out," she says: "you wreck the scheme for everyone else. That won't make you popular."

One of the girls changes her mind. The other – Suzanne Clarke the onetime lippy girl who has become as timid as a mouse - says she will keep quiet and go along but she won't be part of the drawing of lots: she'll give up her chance of a rub but she won't feign sickness.

"Okay," says Donna, who seems to have taken over. "So this is how it works. We draw lots to see who has to play sick, and to see which six girls get to use the cubicles on the opposite side of the doorway and which five – four excluding Suzanne Clarke – have to sit on the same side as the sick girl. Is everyone happy with that?"

If any of the girls aren't happy they're not saying.

"Last thing," says Donna. "Me and Abi don't draw – we're automatically on the rubbing side."

Now some of the girls do find their voice, most notably Ruth and Kelly.

"How is that fair?" the former demands.

"Because it's our idea," says Donna. "Abi thought of it and I'm the one helping her put it into practice. If we don't get to wank the whole thing is off."

There is much dissent and arguing over this: but eventually Donna gets her way, the others give their grudging approval, and it is decided that the following night the girls will reconvene. This time Donna will have with her nine numbered pieces of paper.

"You see the risks I'm taking for you?" she tells them all.

Since most of them would not even dare to smuggle a piece of paper into the Dormitory they have to see she has a point.

The following night the girls reconvene. This time nobody has to be aroused from sleep, though Suzanne Clarke is absent. Donna has carefully abstracted the centre pages of her exercise book, on which she has written nine numbers. These she tears into squares. Everyone watches her, wary of some trickery – though since Donna herself is excluded from the draw it is not clear how she could benefit from trickery.

"We need something to shake them around in," Donna says. Abi, who has thought of that, suggests a pillowcase, and Kelly produces one by removing her pillow. The girls watch as the squares of paper are dropped inside and the pillowcase juggled. It is so dark they have moved en masse to the window, where a faint line of moonlight shows through the heavy wooden shutters.

The girls are nervous: they are all aware how much is resting on this.

"So," says Donna: "We draw in turn. Numbers 1 to 4 get to join me and Abi in the far cubicles. Numbers 5 to 8 get to join Suzanne Clarke on the other side. Number 9..."

She doesn't need to spell out Number 9's role.

Ruth Bowers draws first: she is going to be mighty cross if she does not get one of the four lower numbers. But she draws number 3, and gives Donna a muted high-five. The girls continue to reach into the pillowcase and draw out the folded papers: curses and exclamations of triumph follow. There are only two numbers left, numbers 2 and 9. One of the two remaining girls will be cast in the role of the sick girl.

It is Eve Thomas.

"I knew it," she says, and she doesn't seem all that upset. She is a small, inoffensive girl, not the sharpest tool in the toolbox – Abi can't remember why she's in Hazely but she's pretty sure that whatever she's done she did at somebody else's behest. Her shrug of acceptance suggests that the drawing of the short straw merely conforms to some long held belief she has about the way life will always treat her.

Kelly Watson draws out the final number, just to confirm everything is as it should be.

"There we are then," says Donna. "The fates have spoken. Nobody thinking of trying to wriggle out I hope?"

All the girls confirm that they are in.

"So when's it to be?" asks Donna.

"Tomorrow," says Ruth.

"Any objections?" asks Donna.

"Not in the morning," says one girl. "I'm barely awake. I don't want a wank when I'm half asleep with the prospect of a cold shower to follow."

"I have a shit in the mornings," Kelly Watson adds.

"Evening then?" suggests Fay Dudley, a willowy girl with long fingers who has not spoken before.

"Lunchtime," says Ruth. "I'm bloody desperate, why wait any longer?"

"I thought lunchtime," says Abi.

"Lunchtime it is then," says Donna.

"We need to decide on Eve's symptoms," says Abi.

"Appendicitis," says Laura Marsh. "I've had it: I can tell you exactly where the pain is."

"Hold on," says Eve: "I don't mind playing sick but I don't want to be carted off to hospital. They'd soon find out I was faking when they cut me open." She giggles, a little nervously.

"How about a stroke then?" suggests Ruth.

"You lose the use of half your body," puts in Kelly. "My Aunt had one."

"I think it's best if you just faint," says Abi. "Then lie still. Don't come round until Matron and the other Warden have come back to you, then take your time – try to give us as much time as possible. Then just say you came over faint and passed out, you don't know what happened. The worst is, Matron will take you to the sick bay for the afternoon.

"We'll owe you one," says Laura. "We won't forget this." And the other girls, even Donna May, confirm this.

"Everybody act normal," says Abi. "No winking and looking across at each other – the Wardens have a nose for something amiss."

"No winking only wanking," says Fay Dudley, and the meeting breaks up on a note of merriment.

"I hope it's not Bulstrode on duty though," whispers the soon-to-be sick Eve Thomas to her friend as they steal back to their beds.

In the event it is Bulstrode – Miss Bulstrode and Miss McCloud – though Miss Bulstrode is monitoring the six cubicles across the door from where Eve Thomas is to faint. The girls have filed in, Donna taking the cubicle furthest from the doors, Ruth the cubicle next to her, then Abi, followed by Kelly and the other two. They have slipped down their knickers and are sitting there, trying to look natural, eyes forward hands on knees, looking out at the line of wash-basins on the wall opposite. Two or three of the girls start to piss, which is reassuringly normal to Abi, who is on tenterhooks, not from fear of being caught but because she is on the verge of her first orgasm in a very long time. She catches herself fidgeting, and has to keep telling herself to keep still, so full is she of nervous excitement.

Thirty seconds or so pass; then a minute. Donna in the end cubicle is starting to get twitchy: if that girl lets them down now she is going to pay dearly. Her piss tails off: she is ready now to get started. Next to her Ruth has not had a piss but her vagina is wet with anticipation.

Then they hear it: a short, high sigh and the sound of something landing dully on the floor. They do not dare to peer round the sides of the cubicles, but they do not need to, for the next thing they hear is Miss McCloud calling:

"Miss Bulstrode: can I have your assistance please."

Miss Bulstrode, who has been watching the six girls keenly, had already turned at the noise, and now strides out of sight of Donna, Ruth, Abi and the others.

"This is it," thinks Abi, her heart pounding. She hears voices in discussion, the raised voice of Miss Bulstrode calling Eve's name. Then just as she has planned Miss Bulstrode instructs Miss McCloud to remain with Eve, whilst she fetches Matron.

The girls hear the swing doors open and close, and feel a small draught of air, as Miss Bulstode strides out of the washroom.

This is it, thinks Abi. Her heart is racing: for a moment she sits there, frozen, unable to believe it has really worked, thinking maybe Bulstrode has tricked them all and is about to come striding back with her riding crop.

Then her hand dives down between her legs, and it is like being given a sack full of Christmas presents, she hardly knows where to start. She clamps her hand over her mound, holds herself tight, touches her labia and her clitoris and parts in between, re-acquainting herself with them like somebody coming round after a road accident testing out all their limbs. Where should she start? She thrusts a finger, two fingers, up herself – that is so, so good. She twists her fingers around, stretching herself, thrusting into herself: it is the most wonderful feeling to be able get inside herself again. She half-rises, the better to get at herself, and thrusts her fingers in as far as she can reach. But wonderful as this feels she knows she will not be able to bring herself off quickly enough in this way. Instead she withdraws her fingers and starts to feel round her labia: blood rushes to greet her fingers, her labia swell, her whole genital area is glowing, excitement is mounting, she starts to diddle her clitoris, leaning forwards, hunched over herself, rubbing and flicking, it is so, so amazingly good, nothing is going to stop her now, she is on the verge, she is going to come – and as her climax overtakes her a shudder passes through her whole body, her chest and her shoulders shake, her legs flex from side to side almost banging against the cubicle walls, and it is all she can do to stop herself crying out loud, eureka, eureka, I've done it, I've come!

Oh my God, thinks Abigail, as she regains her breath and the spasms which have shaken her body ebb away. I did it! It worked!

From the cubicle next door she hears a breathy, stifled groan, and she realises Ruth Bowers has also brought herself off.

"Oh wow," Abi says to herself. And then she wonders: is there time to continue? Do I go for another or stop whilst I'm ahead? So far there has been no sound of returning footsteps: Miss McCloud, as far as she can tell, is still attending to the prostrate Eve.

No, she decides. She feels so good, and so relieved, she will not risk spoiling it.

And just as she has decided, the swing doors are flung open and Miss Bulstrode and Matron enter the washroom.

A second later Abi is sitting upright with her hands on her knees and her eyes straight ahead, looking, she hopes, as though butter wouldn't melt.

In fact Abigail could have had an extra minute or so, for Miss Bulstrode and Matron go directly to where Eve still lies on the floor. Abi can hear their voices, calling Eve by her name – she wonders if Bulstrode will slap her face as people do in films – then she thinks she can make out Eve's voice, very faint as though she is just coming round. Almost at once Miss McCloud appears, checking at last on the six unsupervised girls. Abi holds her breath, praying the other girls are in the correct positions and no-one will inadvertently give the game away. Miss McCloud runs her eyes from one cubicle to the other: but she says nothing, and from her silence Abi guesses that nothing is amiss.