Reformatory Girls Ch. 14: Rebecca Lucie 01

When we last saw Miss Lucie she was in a dismal state. Stripped and thrashed by Miss Bulstrode and the other Wardens in front of the very girls she had abused, she had then been marched out of Hazely Reformatory and left to fend for herself. Writhing in pain, burning with humiliation, she had dragged herself to the bus stop, her only thought being to get home, back to the flat she shared with Kim.

It was not a comfortable journey. Miss Lucie's legs and buttocks seemed to be on fire; but the worst pain of all was between her legs, where the cruellest strokes of Miss Bulstrode's riding crop had landed. There was no position in which Miss Lucie could get comfortable. Her clothes hurt; the pressure of the seats hurt; the slightest movement hurt her. She longed to tear off her clothes and minister some salve to her stripes: but until she got home, that was impossible.

So she sat hunched up on the back seat of the bus, locked in her misery.

Several times, on the bus and on the train, concerned passengers asked what the matter was. But all she could do was to shake her head, and, like a wounded animal, withdraw deeper into her suffering.

Nor did her misery end when she finally reached the sanctuary of her flat. For instead of being able to abandon herself to the tender ministrations of Kim, she found that her flatmate had a client: an overnight client, who had just paid a large sum of money to enjoy twelve hours of vigorous sexual activity.

So instead of sleeping with Kim in their double bed, Miss Lucie was obliged to spend a very uncomfortable night on the sofa, kept awake by the pains in her body and the grunts and cries issuing from the bedroom.

Well, as you sow so you reap. Miss Lucie surely deserves everything she gets, and it's hard to have any sympathy for her. If anything she's got off lightly all considered. Probably she deserves another thrashing or two, if not a spell of her own inside Hazely. Because she's not a nice person. She's vicious, sadistic, perverted, interested only in her own sexual pleasure. In a word: evil.

But no-one is born evil. People become what they are because of their life experiences. And with this in mind, when I decided to continue with the Reformatory Girls series, it was Miss Lucie who intrigued me most. I wanted to explore her background, and look at the forces and experiences that led her to Hazely.

So the next few chapters are about Rebecca Lucie. But a word of warning: In order to understand Miss Lucie fully, I've gone back into not only her childhood, but also that of her mother. And so, whilst there is a lot of sex in the following chapters, I've also taken a bit of time, in the first half of this chapter, to set the scene and establish the background. And, instead of just depicting one sex act after another, I've tried to embed the sex in a story which I hope contains engaging characters and interesting situations.

Finally, since there is a prohibition against depicting sex between persons under the age of 18, this means that whatever sex Miss Lucie or her mother may have engaged in before that age has to be left to the imagination.

*****

On one occasion, in the early days of their relationship, Kim Starkey had made some passing reference to Rebecca's mother, and been surprised by the vehemence of her partner's retort:

"My mother was the biggest whore in England."

Kim, who knows the subject of Rebecca's family is a bit of a no-go area, understands that Rebecca has no love for her mother, but dismisses the remark as hyperbole. What she does not know is that there are grounds for thinking it may be quite literally true.

Angela Lucie, Rebecca's mother, was born of humble stock. Her parents ran a greengrocer's, and from an early age she was steeped in the life of the shop. Almost before she could read she had learned the language of trade: of prices and profit-margins, of discounts and value and mark-up. She was a bright child, with wide, adorable eyes and a winsome manner: she could, claimed her mother, charm the birds off the trees. Very soon her parents saw what an asset she was in the shop: customers loved her, and asked after her when she wasn't there; and before long she was helping out after school and on Saturdays. Angela, for her part, loved the world of the shop: the banter with customers, the way they flattered and petted her, the sense that she was grown up enough to be contributing to the family business.

Initially one of her parents, or her elder brother Noel, would always be present. But as she entered her teenage years, and her brother, who was twelve years older than her, left home, her parents began sometimes to trust her to look after the shop on her own. On one such day a woman came in all tearful: her purse had been stolen, she had no money and no food to give to her little boy: please could Angela let have some food? Angela had never seen the woman before, but moved by her plight she gave her some fruit and vegetables. She thought she had done the right thing - but when her father returned he was furious. It turned out that the woman had form for such antics, and that her sob story was entirely bogus. Her father ended his tirade against his daughter with a warning:

"Never give anything away for free again."

It was a lesson Angela took to heart; and one that would stay with her throughout her life.

As she matured, and the boyfriend-and-girlfriend games in the schoolyard took on a more serious cast, it struck her that the mating game was just another kind of trade. Girls and boys had different value in one another's eyes. Boys would make offerings, whether material, in the form of gifts, or personal, in order to win favours from the girls. No-one acknowledged that it was all one vast marketplace, with everyone doing their best to increase their value and secure the best deal: but to Angela, schooled in the ways of trade, it was obvious. And when boys tried to court her, phrases she had picked up at home came to aid her: 'Shop around for the best price'; 'the more someone wants something the more they will pay'; 'never sell yourself too cheap'. She cast a rather contemptuous eye over the girls who yielded too easily; by now she herself had become a beautiful young woman, small and curvaceous, with luscious, raven-black hair and green come-to-bed eyes that drew boys to her like moths to a flame. She knew her own worth: there was no danger of her selling herself too cheap.

By the time she had reached the age of eighteen it was no longer the birds that she was charming but the men. And so skilful was she at extracting payments that few of her admirers even realised that whatever they hoped for from Angela had to be paid for. A lift home in a car might get someone a kiss; a gift of a necklace or a bracelet might be rewarded with a handjob; a new dress might win for the donor the privilege of seeing Angela strip down to her underwear as she changed: possibly even a feel of her tits. Otherwise, when a boy tried it on, tried, maybe, to slide his hand up her skirt, she would gently but firmly remove his hand and, using one of her father's favourite phrases, tell him: "'Nothing is for nothing."

All this was part and parcel of the flirting, the unacknowledged trading, that went on between boy and girl. No-one would have called Angela a tart. She had not crossed the line by taking hard cash for sex.

Angela's parents kept an allotment, where they grew vegetables for sale in the shop. Angela had spent many happy hours there as a child, and still helped out from time to time. The other allotment holders were a friendly bunch - always ready to trade seeds and advice. One afternoon Angela arrived on her bicycle, intending to pick some peas and runner beans: as she dismounted a man hailed her from a nearby plot: an old, retired man named Joe, who won many show prizes with his carrots and leeks.

"Come over here," he called her. "Let me show you something."

She followed him into his shed where, instead of producing some fine vegetable specimen he took out his dick.

"What do you think of that?" he asked.

Where many girls would have fled, or told Joe what he could do with his member, Angela merely pursed her lips and said in an amused sort of way:

"I don't think you'll be winning any prizes with that, do you Joe?"

Joe gave her a grudging laugh:

"You've always got a ready answer," he said. "How would you like to play with it for twenty pounds?"

He'd clearly been planning this, for out of the pocket of his old check shirt he withdrew a folded twenty pound note.

Angela looked at the note and she looked at his dick. Then without a word she took the note, slid it down inside her bra, and took hold of his dick. It may have been old: but it was still responsive to a warm young female hand. After flopping it around for a few seconds Angela found it growing firm in her fingers: from swishing it from side to side she moved to tugging it, watching as the skin stretched and the veins began to stand out. Joe began to groan: Angela's hand began to work more rapidly: until suddenly Joe was pumping out spunk, spurting his own seed over the seed trays on his potting bench.

When he was done Angela calmly left his shed, rinsed her hands under the water tap, and proceeded to pick her peas and beans. It took her about an hour to complete. The total profit on the sale might be three or four pounds. Yet she had just made twenty pounds for a few minutes activity. And twenty pounds was about as much profit as the shop would make in a morning.

These lessons were not lost on Angela: the future for her, she realised, did not lie in vegetables.

Joe, she found out from her parents, was a widower: a lonely man who, despite appearances, had plenty of money. The next few times she saw him he merely waved or made some remark about the weather. But about a week later he called her to his shed again.

"Would you like to earn another twenty pounds?" he asked her.

"I think I'd like that," she said.

He undid his braces and pulled down his old-fashioned trousers and underpants. She put her hand under his drooping dick and lifted it slightly, as though judging the weight of a courgette. But before she had properly got started he looked at her chest with lascivious eyes and said:

"Let's have a look at your nellies."

Angela did not mind tossing him off; but she did not really fancy his hoary old hands all over her breasts.

"Really Joe," she said, wagging her finger at him disapprovingly. "I think that's rather naughty."

"I'll give you another fiver," he said.

Shaking her head, as though at a naughty child, Angela slipped her dress off her shoulders and unhooked and removed her bra. Joe's jaw dropped: he drooled at her like an idiot. Then he pressed his face between her young breasts and clasped his arms around her. She allowed him a minute of so of this: then she got to work on his penis.

Letting him nuzzle her breasts turned out to have been quite a shrewd move: for in double-quick time she had him spunking up over his flowerpots.

Joe was the first, but he was not the only one of what Angela had started to think of as 'her gentlemen'. She quickly realised that the boys who had courted her until then had little in the way of money. Older men were more the ticket: true they wanted more: a quick kiss, a grope, a handjob: these were not going to satisfy them. They wanted her knickers off, in the back seats of their cars or behind the bushes on the common. But they paid more, and in this as in every other field of commerce you got what you paid for. The number of men whose hands and dicks were allowed to go where none of Angela's would-be boyfriends had been allowed to go was growing steadily. Yet such was her charm that each one left feeling specially favoured.

School was over for Angela, and the plan had been that she would go on to Business College. Privately she was beginning to think that she knew all she needed to know about business, and that college would only be a hindrance. But then something happened to change all her plans: her father, who had worked long hours all his life, had a heart attack. Her mother took his death badly: there was no longer any question of Angela leaving home: her presence was needed in the shop. As her mother's health declined, so Angela took over the day-to-day running - without, however, neglecting her gentlemen.

Before long there were as many customers wanting her personal services as there were for her fruit and vegetables. She needed help: so she took on a girl she had been friendly with at school, named Emily.

Emily was a big-breasted, big-hearted fun-loving girl - more brassy than Angela, less refined - but equally popular with the customers. And for a while she was content selling onions and potatoes in the shop whilst Angela entertained her gentlemen in the rooms above. But gradually she, too, wanted a piece of the more lucrative action upstairs. On several occasions customers for fruit and vegetables found the 'closed' sign in the shop window. And when Angela's mother went into a nursing home, Angela took on a woman to look after a shop that had dwindled to what was effectively little more than a front for a brothel.

Angela was making serious money. She was also learning a lot about men: and the more she learned the more she was able to accommodate their individual desires. She could be a comfort or a tease, a dominatrix, a sex goddess or a nymphomaniac. She knew which men wanted to shoot their load straight away and which liked their lust to be kindled, drawn-out, stretched almost to breaking point. She entertained men who just wanted to be pampered and men who wanted to get their hands on her and explore her every cavity. She saw men who wanted her on their laps, against the wall, bent over the arm of a chair, in the shower and tied to the bedposts. She thought she had seen every kind of insane sexual urge, but there was always someone who would surprise her. She had one customer, a burly, florid man who she knew worked in local government. What he liked was to get down on his knees and worship her pussy. He would have her stand over him, and would then lick her pussy for what seemed like hours, and then, as though she were much too good for him to defile, would have her finish him off with a handjob. One day, when her pussy was wet from his saliva, he asked her to piss on him.

"In my face," he begged. "Please let me drink it."

After a brief negotiation she agreed: she fetched a couple of bin liners, spread them on the carpet, and placed a towel over them. The man lay down with his mouth open. Angela stood above him, her legs apart, arching slightly backwards. It took a while to let go: then her stream was gushing down, plashing hard into the man's face. He gulped and groaned and angled his face up to meet her jet. She gyrated her hips, starting to enjoy herself, amusing herself by aiming into the man's nostrils, over his hair, into his eyes and back into his mouth again. The steam from her urine filled the air: she was sorry when her stream dried to a trickle and the last drips fell onto the man's tongue.

"That is the most beautiful thing in the world," gasped the man, looking adoringly up at her through a fringe of hair plastered to his forehead.

'Amazing," thought Angela to herself as she squatted over his face for him to lick up the drips whilst she wanked him to a climax. She'd known she had a lot of assets men found valuable: now it seemed even her piss was a valuable commodity.

How long the two girls could have continued for is uncertain. But one morning a man came into the shop and asked to see Angela immediately. Angela seemed to have seen him somewhere before: it turned out he was a retired Police Officer.

"I've come to warn you," he said. "You're on their radar. You're likely to get an official visit any day now. Now I don't approve of what you're doing, but your father was a friend of mine - I had a lot of time for him, and for your mother - and I don't want to see you get into trouble. If you take my advice you'll stop at once: otherwise I can't help you."

Angela thanked him, debated whether to offer him a freebie for his help but decided - rightly - he would only be offended. At the end of the day she and Emily cleared all traces of their activities from the bedrooms, and Emily was sent home, taking all the flimsy lingerie and the sex toys with her.

Dressed in clothes more suitable for the shop than the bedroom Angela sat down to think. There was no way she was going back to trading in vegetables. Equally, she could not carry on as she had been.

The answer was obvious: the shop, and the location, were far too public. What she needed was new premises, in a more discreet location.

Her mother was dying: Angela already had Power of Attorney. She sold the shop, added the proceeds to the money she had acquired from her 'gentlemen', and bought a house in one of the most discreet and respectable suburbs of the London.

Greenways was a large, mock-Tudor residence set within a spacious garden dense with mature trees and surrounded by high hedges. It was the epitome of privacy and discretion. There were no shops, few cars, and fewer pedestrians. The neighbours, all well-to-do, kept a respectable distance. It was a place of bridge parties: the last place one would expect to find a brothel.

Here, with the help of Emily, Angela began to rebuild her business. For many of her old clients it was too far away: but Angela had already determined that quality should come before quantity. She became more selective; clients were only introduced on the recommendation of other, valued clients; sessions were by appointment only: there was no walking in off the street. In small, select circles her establishment began to get a reputation, both for discretion and quality of service. Before long she had built up a clientele which numbered bank managers, stockbrokers, members of the judiciary, doctors, lawyers, and at least one Member of Parliament. During the week she and Emily took care of these. But the weekly highlight was the Saturday party, where up to a dozen invited 'guests' could find entertainment; and for this, because Angela was determined to maintain a ratio of at least one girl to every two men, other girls, carefully vetted by Angela herself, were imported.

If anyone noticed the comings and goings they did not pass comment. And Angela was careful none of the neighbours should be disturbed: there was no loud music, and no raucous behaviour. Wine and spirits were available, but not in excessive quantities: her clients understood that drunken behaviour would not be tolerated.

It was probably the most respectable brothel in England.

It was also the place where some of the most bizarre sexual practices took place. For it soon became apparent to Angela that the better educated the man the more deviant his sexual preferences were likely to be. Most of her working class clients back at the greengrocers had been happy with a shag, with a bit of pussy-licking and fingering thrown in. Now she found herself confronted by bank managers who wanted to be put into nappies and treated as babies; by ex-public schoolboys, now something in government, who wanted to be caned until their buttocks bled; by civil servants who liked dressing up in rubber, or latex, or women's bras and panties. Most bizarre of all was a man who came with a Perspex chastity device locked over his penis. He asked Angela to unlock it, fucked her in a surprisingly conventional fashion, showered, locked himself in again, and handed Angela the keys.

"To keep until next time," he told her.

"If you like," said Angela, trying to refrain from laughing. "But why?"

"So I have no choice but to preserve myself for you," the man told her.

From that day on he visited her once a week, clearly, from the urgency of his copulating, burning with frustration.