Reformatory Girls Ch. 17: Rebecca Lucie 05

She lets her legs droop downwards, until they are extended out from the wall, back over her face. She's pretty sure her piss will now be directed straight onto her face.

"It's no good trying to get out of it," she tells herself: "you are staying here until you've pissed yourself. And if you spill a single drop you'll do it all over again."

She closes her eyes and concentrates on her breathing: she's comfortable – as far as one can be in such a position – and she starts to relax. Even so, she doubts she would have been able to get started had she not been so full.

As it is, the pressure in her bladder takes over. First there's a little spurt, like a spring bubbling up from a meadow: it trickles down over her belly and trails away over her hips. Then she starts in earnest: a long trail of piss hisses out of her and cascades directly onto her face. She catches some in her mouth: it tastes bitter and vile.

"Ugh," she says grimacing. Then: "keep your mouth open and get it down."

There's a brief pause after the initial spurt: then whatever muscles control her bladder get the message, and piss starts to stream out of her, splashing down on her face: she feels her cheeks and her hair getting wet and adjusts her position slightly until the stream of hot stinking urine is falling straight into her mouth. She gulps and swallows: she's still full from the water and tea, the last thing she wants is to swallow more liquid, let alone something as unpalatable as piss, but she forces herself to keep swallowing, hating every mouthful, yet at the same time feeling a sense of grim satisfaction at every mouthful she gulps down. She's beyond talking to herself now, her whole being is concentrated on swallowing down her own piss. She can't quite keep pace with the force of her jet, though, and piss is overflowing her mouth and streaming over her face. The smell is unpleasant, the taste is repulsive – yet she drives herself on to keep swallowing. "Get it down whore," she cries wildly, as the stream starts to dwindle, and she has to wriggle to try to get her mouth under the dying flow.

The last few spurts trickle harmlessly over her vulva and her hips. She is spent.

"Oh my God," she says to herself. She blinks through piss-soaked eye-lashes. She can't quite believe what she's done: piss on her flesh, piss on the carpet, the overwhelming taste of piss in her mouth, her throat, and somewhere deep inside her chest. She looks out at the familiar room: it's like coming-to after a fit. She feels reviled, disgusted and disgusting: but at the same time pleased with herself, satisfied – triumphant.

"That taught you a lesson," she mutters, pulling herself to her feet. Noting the little patches of piss on the carpet, she takes herself into the bathroom and turns on the shower.

She's drunk so much that even before she immerses herself her change to an upright position obliges her to piss again. This time – since she may as well finish what she's started – she pisses into a plastic jug: then tips back her head and pours the whole thing over her face.

She doesn't mention any of this to Kim when the latter returns. In any case, Kim has other things on her mind.

"I am absolutely gagging for it," she declares, throwing her suitcase onto the floor and tearing off her clothes. She grabs Rebecca by the hand, pulls her into the bedroom, and takes a strap-on from a drawer.

"Put this on and fuck the bejesus out of me," she says. She throws herself flat on the bed and draws up her legs. Rebecca fastens the strap-on, smears on some jelly, and slides it into Kim's waiting cunt. Kim groans: Rebecca presses down on top of her and gets to work, thrusting her hips: and for the next half-hour the bedroom echoes to Kim's cries of passion as the Irish girl bucks and twists and tries to exorcise the memory of a chaste week at her father's sick bed.

"Never," says Kim afterwards, "will I go so long again without a fuck."

Life returns to normal for the girls. Until one morning they are sprawled, naked as usual, across the living room sofa, when the doorbell rings.

"We're not expecting anyone are we?" asks Kim.

She gets up warily and puts on her dressing gown. The girls are strict about their 'only by appointment' rule. They don't like clients calling at the door on speck.

When Kim opens the door she finds a greying, middle-aged man carrying a brief case.

"Yes?" she asks.

"I'm looking for a girl named Rebecca Lucie," says the man. "I believe she lives here?"

"Who wants to know?" asks Kim, on her guard.

"It's a family matter," says the man.

Rebecca emerges from the hallway where she has been listening. Her heart is thumping: her first thought is that something has happened to her mother in prison.

"I'm Rebecca Lucie," she says.

"May I come in?" the man asks.

In the living room he produces an ID card from his pocket.

"My name is Peter Foss," he says. "I'm a Private Investigator. I'm employed by a man named Noel Lucie to find you."

"Uncle Noel," says Rebecca in surprise.

"Just so," says Mr Foss. He glances at Kim: "It's a personal matter," he says.

Kim makes to leave, but Rebecca stops her.

"She's practically family," she says.

"Very well," says Mr Foss. "Your Uncle has charged me to give you this."

He hands Rebecca a brown envelope.

The first thing Rebecca sees when she opens the flap is banknotes. A sheaf of them in an elastic band. She starts to leaf through them.

"I think you'll find there is a thousand pounds," says Mr Foss helpfully.

Rebecca ceases to count, and turns her attention to the enclosed letter.

'Dear Beccy,' she reads, 'I'm so sorry for what happened to you. It was unforgivable behaviour on the part of Aunt Ellen. I'd hoped you would contact me, not at The Larches, obviously, but at my office. As time went by I grew more and more concerned about you. Eventually I asked Mr Foss to try to find you.

'Should he succeed I hope you'll accept the money: it's a small token of the affection and concern I feel for you. I also hope you'll get in touch, if only to let me know you are safe, or if there is anything I can do to help you. I've enclosed the contact details of my office.

'If it's any consolation, I too got it in the neck from Aunt Ellen – with the result that we have started divorce proceedings.

'I send you all my love and hopes for your future happiness,

'Noel.'

Rebecca is speechless: she hands the letter to Kim.

"My job is done now," says Mr Foss. "Is there any reply you'd like me to take to Mr Lucie?"

"Yes," says Rebecca slowly. "Tell him thanks. And I will get in touch with him."

"One thousand pounds," says Kim, when Mr Foss has left. "Uncle Noel must be very fond of you." She gives Rebecca an enquiring look.

"He was," says Rebecca. "Very."

"So how come the Private Dick?"

"I fell out with his wife," says Rebecca. Kim looks at her, waiting for more: but Rebecca, suddenly remembering her Uncle in the rose garden, picks up the banknotes and wafts them under first her nose then Kim's nose:

"There's only one scent finer than banknotes," she says lasciviously: "why don't we go into the bedroom and celebrate our windfall?"

Rebecca doesn't want her Uncle Noel back in her life. It's not that she bears him any real ill-will: but her life is just fine and she doesn't want him wheedling his way back into her knickers or generally complicating matters. She does, however, realise that she should thank him for the money: so rather than visit or call him she writes him a letter.

A week or so later she receives a reply, which contains another surprise. After a page of sentiments, about how he appreciates all she has done for him, and how he and Aunt Ellen should have gone their separate ways long ago, he writes:

'You'll never guess who called me yesterday: Great Aunt Frances. (You were always taught to call her 'Aunt' out of respect, but really, as your Grandmother's sister, she's your Great Aunt.) I've barely heard from her in twenty-five years, since she went into the Prison Service: apparently she's Matron at a Girl's Reformatory now, called Hazely. She rang to talk about you mother, but one thing lead to another, she told me she was finding the job a strain these days, I told her about you, and to cut a long story short, she wondered if you'd be interested in working as her Assistant.

'Before you dismiss the idea out of hand, please give it some consideration. If you are doing what I fear you are doing, you must know the risks. Apart from the physical danger there's the law to consider: I'd hate the same thing to happen to you as happened to your mother.

'At least give your Aunt a call – I've enclosed her number.'

Rebecca passes the letter to Kim, her mouth open in disbelief.

"Why the fuck would he think I'd want to work in a Girl's Reformatory?" she demands, when Kim has finished reading.

She expects Kim to be as scathing as she is: but she's underestimated Kim's propensity for rolling with whatever life has to offer.

"I don't know," Kim says. "It might be interesting. When opportunities come knocking one should never dismiss them. At least go and see your Aunt: not many people get a chance to see inside these places."

So Rebecca does call her Aunt: and a few days later, after a train journey of about an hour, she finds herself on a bus approaching a grim Victorian edifice seemingly set down in the middle of nowhere.

For a moment, when the steel gates close behind her, she thinks she's stepped into a trap, and will never get out. Then a Warden appears from somewhere, gives her hand a brief shake, and bids her to follow.

She hasn't seen her Aunt since she was a child. She remembers her as a grim, unsmiling woman, and in that respect she hasn't changed. A chill comes over Rebecca the moment she is ushered into her Aunt's office, and sees the hard, bony head, the cold eyes, the greying, thinning hair. Her chief thought is to get this over with and get out of this hideous place as soon as she can.

Her Aunt, though, is courteous towards her:

"There are thirty girls here," she tells Rebecca. "As well as attending all their medical needs I have to keep them shaved."

"Shaved?" asks Rebecca, a vision of shaven heads as in a Russian gulag appearing in her mind.

"I'll show you," says her Aunt. She leads Rebecca across a passageway and into a consulting room. Rebecca sees a couch: with stirrups and straps.

"Every Saturday all the girls have their genitals shaved," informs her Aunt. "If you were to become my assistant you would do half in here and I would do the rest in the other Consulting Room."

Rebecca can scarcely believe what she's hearing: a fluttering starts between her legs and inside her tummy.

"How old are these girls?" she asks.

"The same sort of age as you: eighteen to twenty-one."

"But – what if they object?"

"Object?" says her Aunt. "The girls in here don't object: they do what they're told – if they know what's good for them."

Rebecca stares at the couch: in her mind's eye she sees a hapless girl of twenty or so with her legs clamped open. Her throat is dry:

"What do we shave them with?" she says hoarsely.

"Good old-fashioned soap and water and a safety razor," her Aunt tells her.

Rebecca is lost: whatever her brain may have had to say is drowned out by the vision of helpless girls exposing their vaginas whilst she wields the soap and the safety razor. She can barely refrain from touching herself.

"I don't suppose you have any medical training?" her Aunt asks.

"We did First Aid at school," Rebecca replies.

"That's good," says her Aunt. "You won't be able to carry out any advanced medical procedures, but I'll teach you how to conduct basic examinations, and how to administer enemas."

"Enemas?" Rebecca almost gasps.

"Sometimes they need them," says her Aunt. "The lack of privacy in here can make them constipated, especially when they're new. Though to tell you the truth," she lowers her voice, although no-one else is in the room: "if a girl is acting a bit too big for her boots there's nothing like an enema to bring her down to earth again."

Rebecca can hardly support herself: her pussy is so wet she thinks she'll have to make an excuse to go to the lavatory and rub herself. She follows her Aunt in a daze, barely listening as her Aunt shows her her room, and talks about her hours and her salary. She is only jolted back to reality when, from the window of the small kitchen she would share with her Aunt, she looks down to see a crocodile of girls proceeding across a bleak courtyard.

"They're going to the Refectory for their lunch," her Aunt informs her.

Rebecca watches the girls process: though they are wearing grey uniforms, and have the most unflattering, regulation hair-cuts, she can see that many of them are handsome girls, shapely beneath their shapeless clothes, attractive despite their expressions of misery.

"Who is that?" she asks, noting a large, butch woman bringing up the rear and tapping a riding crop against leg periodically.

"That is Miss Bulstrode," says her Aunt. "She is the Head Warden. And woe betide any girl who crosses her."

"Surely she doesn't use that crop?" says Rebecca.

Her Aunt actually smiles at Rebecca's naivety:

"You've lead a sheltered life," she opines. "But in here things are different. If a girl steps out of line she'll feel the full force of that riding crop on her bare bottom.

"It can seem pretty grim in here until you get used to it," her Aunt continues, mistaking Rebecca's open-mouthed expression for aversion. "Don't decide now: go home and think about it for a couple of days, then call me."

Rebecca knows as surely as she knows her own name that she has to go and work with her Aunt at Hazely.

Telling Kim is the difficult part.

"I don't want to leave you," she says, hugging her naked friend to her.

"You're not leaving me," says Kim. "You're just going to work away part of the week."

"I know," says Rebecca. "But who's going to rub you? Who's going to rub me? And what about our clients?"

"You'll be home two days every week," says Kim. "We'll have to make the most of them.

"Besides," she says. "There's something I haven't told you."

"What?" says Rebecca, alarmed.

"When you were away I had a visitor. Some busybody has complained that we're running a brothel here, and a man came from the Council. I managed to persuade him it was a load of bull – but even if you stay we'd have to cut back for a while."

"Oh," says Rebecca.

"Look," says Kim: "what is your heart telling you?"

"To stay with you," says Rebecca.

"And what about your pussy?"

Rebecca doesn't answer, but looks down at her feet. Kim nods slowly. Then she puts her hands on Rebecca's cheeks, raises her face and looks her straight in the eye:

"I've got an instinct about this," she says. "I think it's something you need to do. So go and ring your Aunt and tell her you'll take the job.

"Because if you don't," she adds, "I'll apply for it myself."

And so Rebecca Lucie starts work at Hazely, where she is introduced to the inmates as Miss Lucie.

Though not before her Aunt has imparted a few words of advice and warning.

"You may find yourself feeling sorry for some of the girls in here. Don't. Remember the reasons they're in here: they've all committed crimes. They're in here to be punished."

"I'll remember that," says Rebecca.

"One final word to the wise: you might find some of the girls trying to take advantage. As part of their punishment they're not allowed to pleasure themselves: do you get my meaning?"

"I think so," says Rebecca.

"Some of them find that very frustrating. You will be new here: and your job necessitates access to these girls' private parts. They may – how shall I put it? They may try to prevail on you to allow them - or even give them - some sexual relief. If that happens report them to me immediately and I'll see that they're punished."

"I'll be on the lookout," says Rebecca. "Thank you for warning me."

Rebecca is a little dizzy when the first girls present themselves for shaving. Nevertheless, she performs her duties scrupulously, doing everything by the book, watching and learning. And it is just as her Aunt has told her: the inmates, no younger than her, are so cowed by their experiences in Hazely that far from acting up they co-operate in the most docile manner, subjecting themselves to the most humiliating experiences without a murmur of protest.

Rebecca gets a dizzying sense of the power she wields. These girls are so afraid of punishment they will subject themselves to almost anything. She notices, too, that her Aunt was right about their frustration: if anything she has understated it. Through her experiences with Kim and in the massage parlour she has developed a fine eye for the smallest expressions of sexual longing and arousal. She can see that she has only to draw the safety razor over a girl's pudenda for the girl to give an almost imperceptible shiver of sexual tension. She notices, too, in the pained expression the girl wears, the terrible conflict inside her: how she longs to enjoy and build on the nascent stirrings in her vagina, yet how she fears discovery and punishment. Sometimes she catches a girl looking up at her with a pleading expression: she understands: the girl, who dare not speak her wishes aloud, is silently begging her to take pity on her.

By the end of her first Saturday afternoon Rebecca realises she has something like the power of life and death over the Hazely inmates. And as she shuts herself away in her room, wrenches off her knickers and rubs herself silly, waves of euphoria course through her.

The last time she was in an institution she was a victim. Other people bossed her around and bullied her. She suffered terribly: she was powerless.

Now she is the one with the power. Now it is payback time.

She starts in a small way, teasing, enjoying watching the girls squirm, watching them build up their hopes, enjoying the way they are unsure what to make of her. Of course, she knows these are not the same girls who made her life a misery at Windsor. But if she feels any qualms she remembers the words of her Aunt: these girls are criminals, they are here to be punished: don't let yourself feel pity for them.

And then, some of them are not so different from the girls at Windsor. The one called Karen Frayn for instance: she may not be bred in the purple: but she has something of that entitled air that characterised the Windsor girls. She touches a raw nerve in 'Miss Lucie': she's going to grin from the other side of her haughty face when Miss Lucie has finished with her. The fact that she is wealthy and Miss Lucie is able to wrangle money out of her – money which goes some way to making up for her own much-reduced earnings – is the icing on the cake of Miss Lucie's vengeance.

Then there is that fat one with no tits. She's a stupid, clumsy girl: but from the chest down there is something of Gillian Stoker-Smythe about her bulk, about her strapping thighs and buttocks. As she lies there with her legs in the stirrups and her fat vulva jutting out hopefully, Miss Lucie remembers Gillian's equally solid hips and thighs squatting over her, forcing her to drink her piss in front of the other girls. A spasm of hatred passes through her, quickly followed by the lust of revenge. Kelly Watson is going to live to regret her resemblance to Gillian Stoker-Smythe.

Over the following weeks Miss Lucie gives free reign to all the sadistic, vengeful traits in her nature. Her sense of her own power grows, as she sees how helpless her victims are, how unable they are to complain or resist her. She teases and torments, she finds subtle and ingenious ways to inflict punishment. Her own sexual enjoyment grows, feeds off the treatment she hands out to her victims. Saturday evenings are an orgy of self-pleasuring. Her weekly visits to Kim are spent in prodigious bouts of sexual activity.