Reformatory Girls Ch. 12

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Punishment and shaving in a girl's Reform School.
5.9k words
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Part 12 of the 18 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 07/06/2016
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Once the fire in her bottom has quietened down, and she can think more clearly, Clare Davenport is moved by what took place in Miss Bulstrode's class. She was on the point of receiving a terrible caning - and several girls spoke up, and put their necks on the line for her. Aside from Tina Dukes, no-one in Hazely has ever supported her like that before. And whilst it may be true that some of the girls were speaking on their own behalf, and that their motivation was not as altruistic as first appeared, the fact is their actions saved Clare, and she feels deeply grateful.

The first opportunity she gets, which is not until the girls are in the washrooms late on Friday evening, she thanks Karen Frayn.

"I know what it must have cost you," she whispers to Karen. "But now it's out in the open the Wardens have to do something."

Karen is far less sanguine. Clare, despite her experiences in Hazely, retains a core belief that in the end honesty and decency usually prevail. Karen's experiences of life have taught her that money, power and self-interest are the forces that usually win out. She doesn't exactly regret standing up to testify against Miss Lucy. But she has a suspicion that six girls will now be thrashed instead of one.

Saturday morning unfolds as usual: the girls are dispatched to their workplaces, the Wardens watch over them, and nothing is said about the events of the day before. But the girls who stood up in class know that Miss Bulstrode does not forget: and as the time for their shaving approaches they feel a growing sense of unease.

At two o'clock the girls file into the Waiting Room and take their places on the hard benches. Miss Bulstrode is present, along with Miss Armstrong, Miss Barker and Miss McCloud - more Wardens than usual, Clare notices: but then just before the first girls are called for shaving Miss McCloud leaves through the door which leads to the Consulting Rooms and is not seen again.

When Miss Lucy appears with Matron, looking as sultry and unruffled as usual, the hearts of the six girls sink.

Miss Lucy has been looking forward to Saturday afternoon. Both Clare Davenport and Karen Frayn evaded her the previous week, and she is determined that is not going to happen again. She has plans for both of them. She also intends to have a little fun with Kelly Watson, asking her if she has felt the urge recently to scratch an itch. She does not know yet whether Kelly knows or suspects the source of the itching: it will be highly entertaining to see her face, and her helpless rage, when she finds out.

But first things first: she has Ruth Bowers on the couch before her, legs spread, fanny exposed to the air. Ruth, she knows, is desperate for an orgasm: though she has not said so in so many words, her body language is screaming out for a hand to bring her relief.

But Miss Lucy does not like Ruth Bowers. Ruth Bowers, as Miss Lucy sees her, is a wannabe Donna May. She likes to act hard: but all her hardness is borrowed, all her authority drawn from her proximity to somebody stronger than her. Miss Lucy can feel a degree of respect for Donna May, who knows what she wants and doesn't take any shit from anyone. For Ruth Bowers, who was sent to Hazely for a minor role she played in a gang devoted to mugging and extortion, she can feel none. In the past she has largely ignored Ruth Bowers and treated her with indifference. But today the imp of mischief has taken up residence in her.

"I've been thinking about you," says Miss Lucy, as the razor cuts a swathe through the shaving foam over Ruth's pudenda.

"Have you?" asks Ruth, sounding surprised.

"Oh yes," says Miss Lucy. Ruth is a solidly built girl with pale skin and lips which push upwards in a permanent pout. Her legs are inclined to plump: by twenty-five she will be fat and coarse. Her buttocks bulge when Miss Lucy parts them and begins to draw the razor lightly away from her anus. Ruth wriggles, in a sensuous way. "I was thinking how hard it must be for you, locked in that awful chastity device night after night. You must get desperately frustrated."

"I do," says Ruth, surprised and pleased at the turn the conversation has taken. "Everyone does. You would if you were locked up in one of those things."

"I'm sure I would Ruth," says Miss Lucy, smoothing away the remnants of shaving foam and the tiny fragments of stubble with the warm flannel. "But then I haven't been a naughty girl and got myself locked up in here have I?"

"I suppose not," says Ruth, her hopes dimming again.

"Still," says Miss Lucy: "It does seem cruel. I'd go off my head if I couldn't have a rub."

"Oh God," says Ruby, as Miss Lucy's warm hand begins to smooth baby oil between her legs.

"I think you're a very needy girl at the moment, aren't you Ruth?"

"Yes," Ruth breathes.

"Supposing I were to help you out," says Miss Lucy. "Do you think you could do something for me in return?"

Miss Lucy's fingers are sliding around Ruth's genitals, feeling their way over her labia, glancing over her clitoris. Although Ruth has been dried on the towel her vagina is sopping wet again.

"Yes - of course," she says.

"So if there was a girl who had done me a wrong and I wanted her punished - you could do it for me?"

"Yes," says Ruth, who is trying to rub herself against Miss Lucy's hand. "Easily." She thinks of the time she smacked Clare Davenport's bottom; and of the time she and Donna pinched Abigail Morgan between her thighs.

"Very well then Ruth," says Miss Lucy. "I'll put you out of your misery. I don't mind what you do to this girl as long as it isn't pleasant. And Ruth - you mustn't say anything to anyone: this is just between you and me."

"Whatever you say," gasps Ruth. She is so horny, her clitoris must be swollen to the size of an egg. A few more tweaks like that...

"I'd better tell you the name of the girl I want punished," says Miss Lucy.

"Yes, whatever," says Ruth: her thighs are starting to tremble, Miss Lucy's fingers are turning her to a mass of wet jelly, she is so close.

"Her name is Donna May," Miss Lucy says.

"What?" says Ruth. "Oh no - no no. I can't do it to Donna, she's my friend."

"Is she Ruth?" says Miss Lucy, easing off slightly with her fingers. "That's such a shame, I think you were almost ready to come."

"I was - I am," says Ruth desperately. "Look, anyone else, anyone at all and I'll do it for you. Just please, please bring me off."

"I'm sorry Ruth," says Miss Lucy. "If you won't do this favour for me then why should I do anything for you?"

"I can't hurt Donna," Ruth says. "Oh Christ."

"I've misjudged you Ruth," says Miss Lucy. "You can't have been as desperate as you claimed. Sit up now and put your clothes on."

Ruth turns a face full of anguish and bitterness on Miss Lucy, as her feet are unfastened from the stirrups.

"You can't leave me like this," she says bitterly.

"I'm sorry Ruth, you've had your chance," says Miss Lucy. She watches Ruth carefully, half-expecting Ruth to try to bring herself off. And for a moment Ruth is considering it. But the moment is gone, her arousal quickly turns to anger and she slams her fist down on the examination couch.

"Rrrrr," she exclaims.

"If I were you I wouldn't let your temper get the better of you in the Waiting Room," says Miss Lucy calmly. "Girls who show their temper tend to get caned."

But Ruth is practically snarling as Miss Lucy ushers her out.

Miss Lucy smiles up to the heavens as she leads the next girl in. What a wonderful job this is. Can there be a finer sight than a girl, naked from the waist down, her feet in stirrups, her knees bent, her legs spread - everything on display, everything available to be looked at, to be touched and smelt and stroked and fingered, to be at the mercy of your every whim? And if the girl in question is Clare Davenport?

When Clare's turn comes round Miss Lucy takes a moment to savour her. She is as near perfect as a girl can be: her curves and proportions, the tone and texture of her skin, the smell of her sex.

"Ah Clare," says Miss Lucy before she starts. "We could have had such a good time together, you and I. And you had to go and spoil it with your cowardice. Well, you know I have to punish you, don't you? You got away with it last week, but today you're all mine."

"Please don't," says Clare, seeing a glimmer of hope in Miss Lucy's gentle and apparently regretful tone.

"I'm sorry Clare," says Miss Lucy. "But people who cross me have to learn their lesson. Now lie back and relax while I shave you."

"At the words 'shave you' Clare experiences another flutter of hope. All week she has been dreading that Miss Lucy will pluck at the tiny growth of hairs on her vulva: now it seems that is not going to be the case. Perhaps the relief shows on her face, for Miss Lucy continues:

"You look surprised Clare: now why could that be? Ah yes, I remember now - I was going to pluck you, wasn't I? Did you remember to ask Karen Frayn about that? And did she tell you how painful it is? Well Clare I'm not going to pluck you today, we'll save that for next week. Although now you've reminded me, I think I'll just give you a little taster, so that you know what to expect."

Clare is cursing herself for having even given a hint of her expectations. She watches dismally as Miss Lucy takes up her tweezers, and ferrets around her vulva, looking for a suitable hair. It reminds Clare of a nurse with a syringe poking around in the crook of her elbow looking for a suitable vein from which to draw blood. Then she feels the tweezers take a grip: and suddenly Miss Lucy jerks her arm upwards and a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through Clare's skin. She jerks and gasps: it is like the pain felt when an elastoplast is suddenly ripped off your skin, only fiercer, magnified.

"There," says Miss Lucy. "Just a little taster, like I said." She puts the tweezers away and begins to soap Clare's pudenda, and this is actually soothing, though the pain continues to throb away underneath. Miss Lucy proceeds to shave Clare in the regulation way, drawing the razor down and across, stretching such fleshy parts as are there to be stretched, parting her buttocks and carefully working outwards over the dark penumbra around her anus. Clare closes her eyes and tries to relax, but she is all the time expectant, wondering if and when Miss Lucy is suddenly going to hurt her again. When it is done Miss Lucy washes and dries Clare, takes the little box of itching powder from her pocket, and drops a generous pinch into the fold of her vulva, just above the hood of her clitoris. Then she squirts some baby oil onto her palms and begins to massage Clare, taking care to leave the itching powder in place.

By the time she has done there is a patch of moisture between her legs. She looks down at Clare, lying so passive and lovely on the couch, and she feels a strange blend of desire and anger: she wants to be making love to Clare, not punishing her: she wants to have her not hurt her: yet because she cannot have her she feels angry at her and wants to hurt her all the more.

Then it comes to her: why should she not have her, here and now in the Consulting Room? Her heart starts to beat more rapidly, and before she knows it she has two fingers inside Clare's vagina. Clare winces and tries to flex away, remembering how brutally Miss Lucy forced her fingers inside her the last time. But Miss Lucy shushes her:

"Relax Clare, I'm not going to hurt you," she says. The heat from Clare's vagina, the sense of being inside the girl, transmits itself to Miss Lucy: it is as though there is a direct current running from the inside of Clare's vagina, up through Miss Lucy's fingers and arm, and down through Miss Lucy's body, where it earths itself between Miss Lucy's legs. Miss Lucy turns her fingers, but gently, exploring Clare, feeling for all the contours and textures: the walls of Clare's vagina seem to expand and contract, like anemones, closing around Miss Lucy's fingers and opening up again.

Then she withdraws her fingers and parts Clare's buttocks, presses her face close in and breathes in Clare's smell. She shudders as a wave of excitement flows over her. She breathes out through her open mouth, breathing warm air onto Clare's anus: then she touches the tip of her hot, moist tongue onto the folds of skin around Clare's opening and begins to lick.

"Is that nice Clare?" she asks, withdrawing her tongue after it has penetrated as far as it can go. "I love having my arsehole tongued, don't you?"

Clare doesn't know what is going on. As a sensation it is nice - or it could be nice if you knew somebody was doing it kindly and you were not afraid that any second they were going to turn on you.

"You wouldn't come to my bed Clare," says Miss Lucy: "and I'll never forgive you for that. But I'm going to have you anyway - right here and now. You've never seen my pussy, have you Clare? Some people would pay a lot of money for that privilege: but you're going to see it for free."

To Clare's astonishment, Miss Lucy takes hold of the hem of her uniform dress and in a single movement pulls it over her head and drops it onto the floor. Then she stands before Clare, wearing only a pair of black knickers and a black bra.

"But..." says Clare. "The time - we'll be over time."

"Don't you worry about that," says Miss Lucy, "If anyone asks I'll say I had to give you an enema."

Miss Lucy reaches behind her back and unfastens her bra. Her breasts are beautiful: full and round yet not too heavy, with dark aureoles. Her nipples are large and erect. When she slides her black pants down and steps out of them, she stands alongside Clare's head such that Clare is eye to eye with her trimmed black bush.

"What do you think Clare?" asks Miss Lucy. "Would you like to watch me masturbate?"

Miss Lucy does not wait for an answer, but slides her fingers between the folds of her already sopping vulva, and, thrusting her hips forward such that they are only inches away from Clare's face, she starts to rub.

"Wouldn't you just love to be doing this to yourself?" Miss Lucy asks.

Again she gets no answer: Clare is staring at her, bewildered, nervous - but also fascinated, watching Miss Lucy's hand like a rabbit caught in headlights.

"Oh, this is so good Clare," says Miss Lucy, her fingers circling over her clitoris, opening her labia, spreading her juices between her legs. "You should try it sometime: but I forgot: you can't. If only you'd come to my bed, Clare, like we agreed."

Abruptly Miss Lucy stops fingering herself, and holds out her fingers for Clare to smell. Clare hardly needs to smell Miss Lucy's fingers, the scent of her sex and her juices is filling the room.

"How are you doing down there?" asks Miss Lucy. "Are you feeling aroused?" She leans over and touches Clare between the legs. Clare shivers: despite herself she is feeling aroused. But she hates herself for it, hates that this evil girl who hurts her and abuses her and is even now tormenting her can cause anything but revulsion in her. She wants this to stop: she wants to get as far away from Miss Lucy as possible. But even now Miss Lucy is climbing onto the couch, and is straddling Clare, such that Clare can feel the heat of her sex against her own stomach.

"Nice, Clare," says Miss Lucy, sitting upright and moving her loins up and down, rubbing her wet pussy over Clare's soft bare flesh. "I could so easily cum like this, over your tummy. But I'm not going to Clare, because you're going to bring me off with your tongue."

So nice is the feeling between her legs that it takes a wrench for Miss Lucy to pull herself up off Clare's stomach: but she does so, and shuffles her way up the couch until she is kneeling with her pussy over Clare's face.

"First you can return the favour," she tells Clare. "And give my arsehole a nice long lick."

She inches her way a little further up the couch until she is squatting directly over Clare's face. Then she reaches behind her and spreads her bum cheeks: Clare breathes in the dark smell of her: she feels she is about to be suffocated as Miss Lucy lowers herself: the scent is overpowering, Miss Lucy's flesh is enveloping her, her buttocks and thighs are pinning Clare down, her wet sex is closing somewhere around Clare's nose, Clare can hardly breathe, Miss Lucy's anus is pressing down on her mouth.

"Get licking," Miss Lucy says.

Clare feels physically and metaphorically crushed. Her whole being shrinks from licking the dark nether orifice of her tormentor, from giving sick pleasure to the person who hates her and whom she loathes in return. But her head and face are trapped, Miss Lucy is steadily lowering her weight, letting Clare know that if she doesn't start licking her face will be squashed.

So Clare licks, stifling her revulsion, steeling herself as her tongue traces the puckering of flesh, closing her mind to the traces of brown filth that might be lingering there as the tip of her tongue probes Miss Lucy's anus.

Miss Lucy shivers with pleasure. The moist heat of Clare's tongue is doing strange and wonderful things to her. Her anus starts to open and she wriggles, trying to lower herself more firmly onto Clare's tongue. Little nerve endings are stimulated: she feels as though she would like to shit - that would be something, shitting in Clare Daveport's mouth - except that is not it precisely, it's more that she feels she would like to cum with her anus.

But her clitoris, too, is calling to her: she rises slightly, tells Clare to licks the area between her anus and her vagina, and slowly moves backwards until her cunt is touching Clare's lips.

"You're going to lick me off now," she breathes, heavy and sensual. "Do it nicely and maybe I won't have to pluck you next week."

Clare can hardly breathe: she wants to come up for air: she wants a drink to take away the taste of Miss Lucy's arsehole and to clean her tongue. Miss Lucy's cunt is right over her face: she can smell her juices, her sweat, the hair on her bush. She gulps and swallows and tries to work saliva into her dry mouth.

"Clare," breathes Miss Lucy, who is aroused nearly to fever pitch: "do I have to get busy with the tweezers again?"

Clare presses her mouth against Miss Lucy's labia: the two mouths, Clare's facial mouth and Miss Lucy's vaginal mouth lock together, almost like two suction pumps. Clare licks. She licks the wet volutes of Miss Lucy's lips; she licks into the dark cavity of Miss Lucy's cunt; she licks the firm little nub of Miss Lucy's clitoris. Round and around she licks: above her Miss Lucy squats and adjusts her weight and position, and gasps and moans, working herself against Clare's tongue, careless, in her urgency, of the pressure on Clare's face. Faster and more rhythmically she gyrates her hips: Clare's tongue can barely keep up. Please cum Clare wills her. There's a desperation about Clare's licking, her tongue seems to be thrown off course, one second it is locked onto Miss Lucy's clitoris, the next it has slipped into her vagina. Miss Lucy leans forward, takes up some of her weight by bracing her hands against the top of the couch. The scent of her sex is so strong and inescapable Clare feels she could suffocate. But her tongue finds its groove again, she gets a good purchase on Miss Lucy's vagina, the two girls steady into a shared rhythm, two parts locked together into a single entity, and Miss Lucy's breathing becomes even more rapid and shallow until she flexes against Clare's lips, rotates herself like a crazed Dervish, gasps and groans and thrusts and cums, oozing and squirting her juices into Clare's mouth.

Miss Lucy sits up, wriggles backwards until she is squatting over Clare's stomach again, and gazes through bleary, post-orgasmic eyes down at Clare. Some strands of her black hair have come loose, and hang down over one eye, such that she seems to be peering at Clare through a veil.

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