Reformatory Girls Ch. 14: Rebecca Lucie 01

"It stops me from wanking," he told Angela. "Without that I'd be at myself all the time. Or going with other women."

One week Angela couldn't resist. With Emily tagging along she ushered the man in with a grave face and sat him down on the sofa in the hallway."

"I'm so sorry," she told him. "I've lost the key."

"What?" exclaimed the man.

"The cleaner was clearing out the cupboard where I keep it. Afterwards we couldn't find it. I've checked all the bin liners, everything, but there's no sign of it."

"Jesus Christ," said the man. "I'm absolutely gagging for it. You can't imagine - "

"I'm so sorry," said Angela. "The only thing I can think of is that you contact the manufacturers for a spare."

"That'll take days," said the man. "Weeks maybe. I tell you I'm absolutely desperate - my balls are turning blue."

"In that case," said Angela, "the only thing we can do is call the fire brigade."

The look on the man's face was too much for Emily: she collapsed into giggles, followed swiftly by Angela herself, until the two girls were rolling around on the sofa.

"Why you little minx," said the man, starting to laugh with them. "You really had me going there."

"Come on," said Angela, producing the key from a pocket. "Let's get you upstairs and put you out of your misery."

Angela passed no judgements on her clients' proclivities. She had long known that when it comes to sex men are literally insane. It was all grist to her mill, and she provided pretty much everything she was asked for. There were some practices she wasn't too keen on. Requests for enemas, for instance, she tried to sideline to Emily, who had just the bossy, head-nurse personality the men seemed to like, was dextrous with all manner of clysters, bottles and pumps, and who claimed not to mind being on the receiving end ('you just sit on the lav and let the world drop out of your bottom'). But the only things she drew an absolute line under were those which posed a danger to health or hygiene.

Which was why it came as such a shock when she discovered that she was pregnant.

She went back over the preceding weeks in her mind. It was impossible. She never, never had unprotected penetrative sex. The only explanation was that a condom must have split without her noticing.

But it was too late now. She would never know how and when it happened. She would never know who the father was.

The practical solution was to have an abortion. But for once in her life Angela let her heart rule her head. And some seven months later a baby girl was born - a girl who would become the future Miss Lucie.

Rebecca is a winsome child. She has her mother's black hair, wide, green, liquid eyes and engaging smile. It's soon clear, too, that she has inherited her mother's ability to charm. Angela has hired a new, full-time girl named Lily, and both she and Emily dote on Rebecca, helping out with the childcare whenever they can. The house is big, and Angela does her best to keep Rebecca away from the paying customers - but sometimes that proves impossible, and those Gentlemen who do meet Rebecca are delighted by her, and quite ready to treat her and spoil her.

She will ask awkward questions though.

"But what do Lily and Emily do?" she asks her mother one day.

"They help gentlemen to unwind after a long day at work," Angela tells her.

"But sometimes the gentlemen come in the mornings."

"Then they help them unwind before a long day at work."

Angela is glad when it's time for Rebecca to start school - and she herself can return to doing what she does best.

Thus life goes on at Greenways. Materially Rebecca lacks for nothing. And there's no question that Angela does love her. But it's hardly an ideal upbringing for a child: there are too many concealments and evasions going on. In an effort to expose her to normal family life Angela takes every opportunity to send Rebecca to stay with her Uncle Noel and his wife. Noel dotes on her like all the others - he's the nearest thing to a father Rebecca will ever have. But his wife oozes disapproval from every pore. She plies Rebecca with questions about her life at home: questions which lead Rebecca to notice anomalies - such as the sight of Emily or Lily crossing a landing in the nude - which she might have taken for granted before. Her own questions become more awkward.

"What happens at all these Saturday parties?" she asks.

"They play Bridge," says Angela, who doesn't want Rebecca blabbing at school. "It's a card game."

"Is it a game you play without any clothes?"

More worryingly she asks one day:

"Couldn't I help the gentlemen to unwind?"

More worrying still, Rebecca is maturing into a beauty, and the gentlemen are beginning to look at her in a different way. When one of them offers Angela a staggering sum to be allowed to 'break her in' Angela knows she has to act. She makes some inquiries, consults one of her Gentlemen who doubles as her accountant, and makes a decision which will determine the whole of Rebecca's future.

Then Angela sits Rebecca down for a heart to heart talk. She knows that Rebecca already has an inkling of what takes place in the house. From time to time she has noticed Lily, who is prone to gossip, having whispered conversations with Rebecca which cease at Angela's approach. If Rebecca doesn't fully understand yet, she soon will.

Angela's talk is a mixture of exoneration and worldly advice.

"You're reaching the age," she tells her daughter, "when boys - and older men - are going to start wanting something from you. I'm going to give you two Golden Rules for when that happens.

"Rule Number One - always wear protection. You don't want to get pregnant and you don't want to catch anything nasty.

"Rule Number Two - never give away anything someone will pay for."

"How do you mean?" Rebecca asks.

"Would you expect your grandparents to have given away their vegetables for free?"

"No."

"Or the butcher his meat?"

"Of course not."

"Or the plumber or the builder or the electrician to provide their services for nothing? Of course you wouldn't. Well it's the same with a man and a woman. A woman has something a man wants. He'll try every trick in the book to get it for nothing. Never let him. And never sell yourself cheap. If you don't understand what I mean now you soon will."

With that motherly advice ringing in her ears Rebecca is despatched to start a new life at Windsor Boarding School for Girls.

Windsor, as it is generally referred to, is one of the most exclusive boarding schools in the country, as well as being one of the most expensive. Unfortunately for Rebecca it is also a hotbed of snobbery, bitchiness, bullying, petty rules and strict discipline.

The girls who board at Windsor are the daughters of Earls and Dukes, of Ministers, High Court Judges and landed gentry. They know their own kind: and they know an interloper when they see and hear one. And everything about Rebecca screams 'interloper'. Does she ride? No. Does she go to Hunt Balls? No. Does she know X, Y and Z, has she been to the Grouse Shoot, to Glyndebourne, to Hickstead? No, no and again no. Does she winter in Cannes or Monte? Where are these places?

Above all, what does her father do?

"He's away at present," says Rebecca.

"Away?" sniffs Philida Ffitch-Talbot, whose father owns half of Leicestershire. "You make it sound as though he's in prison."

There are guffaws all round.

"Lord Luccombe spent a year in prison," puts in another girl. "Fraud or something. He said he'd never kept better company. Didn't stop him from being one of the richest men in the City either."

"So what does your father do," presses Gillian Stoker-Smythe, a hefty brute of a girl who was riding to hounds by the time she could walk, and maintains her status at Windsor not by her looks or her personality but by her intimidating bulk and the fact that she is twenty-something in line to the throne.

"He's in the army," says Rebecca. "He's a Colonel in the army."

"Where is he stationed?" demands Philida. "My Uncle was Chief of Staff before he retired, he's sure to know him."

"He's in India," says Rebecca desperately.

"India?" says Philida witheringly. "The British Army haven't been in India since Partition."

"She's a little liar," says Gillian, putting her beefy arms around Rebecca from behind and closing her hands over her tits.

"'Liar, liar pants on fire,'" the girls start chanting; and suddenly Rebecca finds her knickers are being tugged off, balled-up and tossed from one to another of the girls, over her head, just out of reach of her outstretched arms.

"She's a dirty little liar," repeats Gillian, when they have had enough of the 'game'.

She thrusts Rebecca's pants against her mouth. "Any more lies and we'll make you eat these."

At a stroke Rebecca's life has been turned on its head. She has gone from a world where she is spoiled and flattered to one where cruelty and bullying reign supreme: a world where all her charm, all her ability to - in the words of her Aunt - wrap people around her little finger - is of no avail, with either girls or Mistresses.

In desperation she writes to her mother, begging her to take her away. Angela replies blandly: give it time, things are sure to improve.

They do not improve. Having found a deserving victim the girls taunt Rebecca remorselessly. And there is worse news: Angela makes it clear in her latest letter that Rebecca will not be able to come home for the holidays. Surely she has a friend she can stay with?

The other girls snigger at the suggestion, and act like there's a bad smell under their noses.

"She might be able to stay at my place," says Philida musingly. "I'll have to ask mother if we need any more servants."

So Rebecca, almost alone of the pupils, is obliged to spend the holidays in the rambling school, with only a skeleton staff of Mistresses and a library full of 'improving' books for company.

It's the same story the following year. Rebecca writes repeatedly, pleading with her mother to take her away. But Angela's replies become briefer, and less frequent. What Rebecca does not know is that her mother is having problems of her own.

The brothel has been running now for nearly twenty years. With a Police Inspector as a client, and a minor Royal in occasional attendance at her parties, Angela feels she is out of reach of the long arm of the Law. And so she might have been - but for one unfortunate occurrence.

One night Lily is servicing a High Court Judge - a regular visitor to Greenways. The Judge has performed a second act of sexual intercourse, with a vigour his age does not really merit, and is lying comatose on top of Lily. Minutes pass - a full ten of them before Lily becomes aware that the Judge is no longer breathing. She screams: people come running: it takes several of them to raise the Judge sufficiently for Lily to wriggle out from under him.

"This gives a new meaning to the word 'stiff'," quips one visitor.

"Good job we pulled him off before rigor mortis set in," returns another.

It's all very well for them to laugh - but Angela now has a situation to deal with. She shoos the protesting visitors out of the house, all except Lily, whom she calms down and briefs before she calls the ambulance.

It might have worked. She might have managed to hush things up. The problem is that the Judge has recently presided over a terrorist trial, and sentenced some very unpleasant people to long terms in prison. His death is sudden and possibly suspicious. Not even the Police Inspector can prevent an investigation.

The net is cast far and wide. The gentlemen clientele who, though they have committed no crimes, have reputations to save, trade evidence for immunity. The part-time girls, who have committed crimes, albeit minor ones, are also prevailed upon to give information. Even then the Police, satisfied they are dealing with vice and not homicide, might have kept everything quiet. Only somebody, seeing which way the wind was blowing, sold the whole story to a Sunday Newspaper.

"'A hornet's nest of Vice'" the Chief Inspector quotes the following Monday morning. "I want somebody's head on the block."

And since the gentlemen are influential, and the girls are only small fry (and easily intimidated into giving evidence) the head on the block is Angela's.

The Mistress of Vice; The Queen of Depravity; The Corrupter of Morals (the newspapers all have different monikers for her): it is Angela Lucie who finds herself in the dock of the Old Bailey.

'The Biggest Whore in England' proclaims the lead writer of the Daily Probe, above an artist's impression of the defendant.

Angela acquits herself well in the Courtroom. Her defence - that her visitors were friends, that no money changed hands - is easily countered by the evidence of the witnesses and of her bank balance. She can see her case is lost. But she holds her nerve, turns on her charm, and gives a spirited defence of her profession. And when asked to comment on the Probe headline she says:

"It's a lie. I've been many things, but big has never been one of them."

The Jury like her: but at the direction of the Judge they have no option but to convict. Privately the judge himself rather likes her. But the law lays down sentencing guidelines: and with the Press baying for blood he has no option but to send her to prison.

By the time this has happened, Rebecca has just turned eighteen. She is in her last year at Windsor, preparing for her final exams. She is a bright girl, though lazy when it comes to academic matters, and there is just a possibility she may be the first person in her family to go to University.

The girls at Windsor rarely see newspapers or take much notice of social and political events. Their minds are filled with coming-out parties, the eligibility of certain men, and speculation as to who is doing it with whom. Rebecca has not been kept entirely in the dark about her mother's trial - she has received a letter from her Uncle, giving her a brief outline, and playing down the possible consequences and impact on herself. But she is ignorant of the details.

But this story is too big to pass unnoticed. It is headline news, not only in the newspapers, but on national radio and television as well. Soon it is all over Windsor. And when the Headmistress summons Rebecca to her study, Rebecca is quite certain she is about to be expelled.

She is wrong.

"Your fees are fully paid up until the end of the academic year," the Headmistress tells her. "And it would be wrong for you to leave before your exams.

"Here at Windsor," she adds: "we judge a girl on her own merits not on something one of her parents has done - however heinous that may be."

The girls see it differently. If Rebecca has been the target of bitching, ostracism and verbal torments on account of her social standing and dubious parentage, the girls have at least stopped short of physical torments (though Gillian has barged her over into the mud a couple of times on the hockey field.) Now it is open season on Rebecca; now they cast off all restraint and turn on her with a primal savagery she would not have believed possible in so-called civilised young women. She is quickly christened Daughter of the Whore - and from there it is an easy transition to Whore.

"Opened your legs today Whore?" is a question she hears ten times a day. Or: "How much does it cost today Whore?"

It's useless to protest: when she does the girls fall back on the old mantra: 'Like mother like daughter.' Not one of them seems to consider that their own mothers, by selling themselves in marriage to the highest aristocratic bidders, may have been practising a different kind of whoring.

One lunch break she is rounded on by the pack, headed as usual by Gillian and Philida.

"You're coming with us round the back of the bike sheds," Gillian tells her. "We're going to find the Mark of the Whore on you."

Despite her struggles Rebecca is seized and frogmarched to a secluded patch of grass out of sight of the school buildings. There she is laid on the ground. 'The Mark of the Whore, The Mark of the Whore' the girls chant. Dozens of hands are laid on her, some pinning her down, some grabbing at her clothing, tearing off her shoes, her socks, her blouse, her skirt, her bra and her knickers. When she is naked she is spread-eagled and pinned face down: then fingers poke at her, probe her, maul her this way and that, searching for the mythical Mark.

"Actually it's The Mark of the Beast," chimes in Jessica Fortescue, who has been paying more attention than the others to their Biblical studies.

"Is it?" says Gillian. "Well Whores are beasts aren't they? Turn her over."

They manhandle Rebecca onto her back: then they paw and poke at her breasts, at her thighs, at all the soft and vulnerable flesh they can get their hands on - until they find what they are looking for. Just under her rib cage on her right side Rebecca has a small birthmark.

"The Mark of the Whore," gasps Philida. The girls all gape at their discovery: such is the conviction in Philida's voice that for a moment they almost believe it.

"So you really are a Whore," breathes Jessica.

"No wriggling out of it now," says Gillian grimly. "A Whore you were born and a Whore you always will be."

But if that is bad it is nothing to what they have in store for her after 'lights out' in the Dormitory.

She is used to insults; she is even getting used to having her bedclothes flung back "to check who the Whore is hiding" or "to see if the Whore is playing with herself." But what happens three days after the incident behind the bike shed goes beyond her wildest imaginings.

She has the feeling something is afoot. It is in the air: a palpable sense of excitement. Sure enough, some ten minutes after the Mistress has turned out the lights and bid them goodnight, shadowy girls are rising from their beds, like spectres from a graveyard, and gathering round her.

"Wake up Whore," says one girl.

"She's not asleep she's fiddling with herself," says another.

Rebecca watches helplessly as her bedcovers are removed. The whole Dormitory seems to be gathered round her bed: girls are jostling for position.

"Now what do Whore's like doing best?" asks Philida slyly. When Rebecca doesn't answer, Gillian answers for her.

"Being fucked," she says.

"Of course they do," says Philida. A malicious smile spreads across her aristocratic features. Then, from behind her back, she produces the dark form of a courgette.

"Oh no," says Rebecca.

"But oh yes," says Gillian. "Come on Whore, you know you want it."

"So lets have your knickers off," says Philida. "Then we can open your legs nice and wide."

There is a brief struggle: but Rebecca is powerless against the determined hands of so many girls. Her knickers are removed, her arms are pinned, her nightdress rucked-up and her legs held open. One of the girls makes to tickle her pussy, which causes her to squirm.

Philida, meanwhile, has tucked her own nightdress into the top of her knickers and has the courgette held to her crotch, in a simulation of an erect penis. She sways her hips backwards and forwards, bringing the tip of the courgette ever closer to Rebecca's vagina.

"Fuck the Whore, Fuck the Whore," the girls chant in whispers.

The tip of the courgette makes contact with Rebecca's labia. Back and forth it sways, touching her lightly, until it seems that that is to be the extent of her torment. The girls continue to chant; none of them really know what to expect; probably even Philida herself is unsure how far she is going to take this. But the chanting of the girls, and the sense of her own daring, embolden her further: and suddenly Rebecca feels her cunt lips being parted and the cold, firm courgette is gliding between her vaginal walls, opening her up, sliding inside her. Until the fabric of Philida's knickers is touching her pudenda.