“...And I never allow her to touch this - not ever. Only I ever touch this. But I may be prepared to make an exception in the case of your young Alice’s tongue - it might make for a salient lesson for her... And vice versa, of course.” She drew her hand away from the younger woman’s crotch, allowing the grey Terylene skirt to drop back into place, the weight of the steel skirt pin drawing the flat fronted skirt straight and tacking together the overlap of the wraparound kilt-like garment. Straightening up she regarded her ex-pupil seriously, a slight frown on her already hard face - handsome rather than beautiful was how some had described it.
“In fact I have been thinking along these lines since you agreed to house my Angel here with your young Alice, and I have to say I agree with your view: At the start young Alice needs to be isolated from outside influences - of that there can be no doubt. But at the same time there are certain advantages to allowing her a modicum of contact with Angel.
Let me explain: It is quite natural to seek to form allegiances in the type of situation your Alice now finds herself in, to seek mutual support. But of course Angel, here, is very much mine - body and soul - and can be relied upon to report back any act of rebellion young Alice might attempt, however slight it might be. Now, once Alice finds herself betrayed - that she does not enjoy the support of her fellow classmate and cannot rely on her to conspire with - she will feel more isolated than ever. In fact she will feel more isolated, in a way, than if she were actually on her own in and in solitary confinement. Indeed, if anything she will find herself under pressure to conform to Angel’s mode of behaviour. Later we will do well to draw the girls into forming a relationship between them, but in the early stages we will have to wear down young Alice’s natural resistance first... Shall we go inside?”
It was telling that her ex-teacher should have invited herself inside before being formally asked in such a manner. Had almost anyone else shown such temerity Karen Lamberton-Marchment would have undoubtedly quite visibly bristled.
As it was she stepped aside, swinging back the heavy ancient oak door to allow the pair to pass, noting with no little sense of satisfaction Daphne Larkspear’s petite companion dropping yet another of her neat but strangely stiff little curtsies as she crossed the threshold, wondering again as to the lack of involvement of the girl’s hands. Now, within the comfortable confines of the echo-swamped, broad, parquet-floored hallway, the sound of their voices and foot-falls barely deadened by the collection of late medieval tapestries lining the walls, so many such questions were about to be addressed at once.
“Let’s just pop this off - it’s far too warm in here for this.” Having divested herself of her tweed jacket and deposited it willy-nilly over the back of a red-leather upholstered chair by the side of the door, Daphne Larkspear now turned to her young companion, whipping smartly around in front of the latter and reaching for the button at the collar of her cape. Seconds later and she was lifting the shape-defying kite-like garment from the younger woman’s shoulders, the thing sliding away, rendered near frictionless by dint of its satiny grey nylon lining. Beneath the cape was revealed a figure that, as it came into view, fairly took Karen Lamberton-Marchment’s breath away.
It was not so much the juxtaposition of the girl’s mature curvaceous voluptuousness enwrapped within a garb that due to its juvenile connotations - it being very much a genuine British public school uniform in most respects - argued against it, as the streamlined sleekness of the silhouette being unveiled that shocked her. There emerged from beneath the camouflaging triangular tent of woven polyester the classic couture-sculpted hourglass figure, the exaggerated, almost inhuman, form of which confirmed the original impression she had formed based on a glimpse she had had of the bottom of what had appeared to be some form of corset. But it was a near perfect spindle-like silhouette the girl presented, other than for the twin protuberances at her front - these being set unnaturally high up on the girl’s chest and near conical in profile - a sculpted perfection unsullied by the distraction of limbs.
It was like observing some mythical ‘Venus De Millo’ figure in school uniform - certainly there was little evidence of the existence of the girl’s arms to upset the picture, save for a vague drainpipe-thin outline running down the girl’s sides and a thickening across what would ordinarily be the hollow at the small of the back. That latter protrusion was largely swallowed up by the protuberance of the girl’s notably chubby buttocks anyhow, the pleats at the rear of her skirt falling like a curtain to mid-way down the back of her thighs - though certainly no further - and presenting a charming enhancement.
What was even more remarkable was the way in which this apparent unfortunate loss of the girl’s upper limbs had been accommodated - though of course Lady Lamberton-Marchment knew this to be an illusion, having previously encountered the indentured young thing slaving away on her hands and knees at her ex-teacher’s home. Though correctly tailored in all other respects, both the cardigan and the blouse beneath it - though the latter could not be viewed in detail at this point due to the design of the cardigan itself - had been made without sleeves or any other consideration given to the existence of upper torso appendages. The sides of the cardigan were panelled to take into account the inward curvature of the feminine waistline and the swell of the hips but were continuous from shoulders to hips without any opening. Similarly the blouse - once brought in to view upon the unbuttoning of the cardigan - although sporting fetching, feminine puffball shoulders, possessed tailored in-sweeping sides that were unbroken by any hint of a sleeve or other opening.
Karen Lamberton-Marchment’s unspoken question was answered even as her jaw dropped open, almost before it had fully formed in her own mind in fact: Turning from the coat hook on which she had now strung the girl’s cape the remarkable Daphne Larkspear smiled knowingly at her ex-pupil, nodding towards the red faced young girl awkwardly standing and looking embarrassed in her strange, almost cylindrical, school uniform.
“I had the corset made especially by a corsetiere I sought out on the ‘web. It is traditional in almost all respects - being based on a commercially available open-bottomed corselette - but possesses additional lace-up sleeves running down each side that restrain the upper arms and that cross over at the small of the back to restrain the forearms also.
The special - what I like to call her ‘outdoor’ - school uniform, on the other hand, was actually an awful lot easier to come by. Acquiring that simply came down to contacting the manufacturers and explaining that there was a young lady - sadly doubly disabled - who did not wish to wear prosthetics and who did not wish to unnecessarily draw attention to her disability by having empty sleeves draping and flopping all over the place.
The cape on the other hand was supplied pretty much as you see it now. It is an archaic garment dating back to the nineteen-fifties and worn only now on special occasions at the public school I took the inspiration for the uniform from - but as far as my girl is concerned it is de rigueur any time she is out of the house. But saying that - today is only the second time in two years she has been outside of my four walls.”
“And you would see my Alice restrained in this manner?”
“Only if leaving the confines of the house - unless you’d like otherwise, of course. I could easily arrange to instigate this or some other similar alternative restraint measure fulltime, if you would prefer. Speaking personally, though, I prefer to see a girl trained to restrain herself - through discipline in its own right, if you understand me.”
“Quite so, Mrs Larkspear”. Karen Lamberton-Marchment kicked herself immediately the words left her lips. She so much wanted to have addressed the woman as ‘Daphne’ yet still it came out as ‘Mrs Larkspear’... Pathetic, she thought - I’m going to have to put my foot down here at some point.
“And where is young Miss Alice now, if you don’t mind me asking? Only I think it best that she isn’t introduced to young Angel here until I
have had time to change her back into her ‘indoor uniform’.”
“Sulking upstairs in her room over my removal of her television viewing privileges, as you yourself suggested; probably reading, given she has little else to do since I took away her CD player and radio.”
“But nevertheless in full school uniform, I take it?”
“Oh yes, of course. I put her in her new things as soon as they arrived, around two weeks ago. She has worn nothing else during her waking hours since; in fact she has nothing else to wear since I cleared her wardrobe but her uniform.” Karen Lamberton-Marchment gave a little laugh before continuing. “I have to say; it’s very much a genuine school uniform, isn’t it? I mean to say; I guess I imagined some sort of fantasy ‘make-believe’ outfit for some reason or other - the sort of thing that one sees marketed at young women her age on the Internet.”
Mrs Daphne Larkspear sighed resignedly as she answered, turning back towards her young companion and she replied. “You have to understand the aims here; putting her in school uniform is not an end in itself but rather part of the means to that end - and to reach that end point requires that her freewill be thoroughly and irrevocably broken. Putting her in a restrictive and personality-quenching school uniform, curbing her under strict schoolroom discipline forced to perform hour upon unending tedious hour of soul destroying written impositions under the yoke of the strap and the cane - these things are part of that wearing-down process, designed to erode both her self-confidence and defiance.
So yes, the uniform you will have received for your Alice is very much the genuine article, albeit with certain provisos. For example, the skirt I specified is actually based on the ‘games’ skirt worn for sports and physical education at the school concerned but with the addition of the skirt or kilt pin, as it is sometimes called, to add to the formality of the look. The blouse is the very same as worn by the girls at school, although I’ve specified the incorporation of stiffening plastic inserts in the collar and cuffs to add to the feeling of restriction and a higher, closer fitting collar for the same reason. The cardigan, tie and school knickers are exactly as supplied to the school, other than for the insignia I have had added to the cardigan and the breast pocket of the blouse in place of the original school badge designed, quite frankly, to augment that all-important aspect of humiliation. The school knickers are something of a different story and you will have noticed that among those that I have forwarded to for Alice are several pairs based on the original pattern externally but modified internally to allow for certain... shall we say... specialised applications.”
All the time she had been speaking Daphne Larkspear had been busily working away at the buttons of her companion’s school cardigan as the latter stood passively with her head slightly bowed in that sweetly submissive manner only ever achieved in a most thoroughly broken filly. Slipping the strange tubular garment off the girl’s shoulders and folding it over the crook of her arm, a crackle of static evident as the woollen-polyester mix fabric sloughed off over the 100% polyester blouse beneath it, she now went to work on the girl’s tightly knotted school tie. Murmuring “just lift your chin a moment for Miss Daphne, honey, there’s a good girl” she momentarily glanced back over her shoulder at the woman who was now ostensibly her employer before returning to her task, simultaneously continuing with the conversation as her fingers plucked at the neatly tied knot at the girl’s throat.
“So tell me, Mrs Lamberton-Marchment...” There was a slight note of derision at the double-barrelled name this time, something that did not slip by unnoticed by aforementioned Lady Lamberton-Marchment - she would have to say something, now. “... Did you have much trouble putting young Alice in uniform that first-time?”
“Not as much as you might imagine, considering the shame one would expect a young woman of her calendar age would experience through being made to wear school uniform, and especially in view of the fact that she never at any point had to wear school uniform even when she was actually at school. I handed out a nice long hard caning beforehand, to impress upon her and reiterated my authority as much as anything else. But I daresay that I could have got her into uniform without the threat of the cane had I wanted to persevere and wait her out.”
“And you already have her accepting corporal punishment from you? Just like that?” A rising inflection of incredulity had entered the ex-teacher’s tone. Having drawn the school tie from around her charge’s neck, adding it to the cardigan draped over the crook of her elbow, she was now busying herself unfastening the girl’s striped school blouse. Having unbuttoned the high, stiff collar she was now working her way down the buttoned front of that strangely tailored garment, one crafted without either sleeves or arm holes of any kind. The contoured outline of the girl’s nipples could be plainly seen pressing out into the stiff starchy fabric and as the constraint of its buttoning was gradually relieved and the front of the blouse peeled open the reason for their prominence now became clear. Slowly coming into view was what appeared to be an old-fashioned corset or corselette but one which, although it appeared to extend over the girl’s shoulders in the conventional manner, had otherwise the appearance of being an under-bust garment, its bra cups being high-slung, underwired and yet open fronted. Beginning to tug free the bottom of the girl’s blouse from the abbreviated school skirt’s waistband Daphne Larkspear paused to glance back over a shoulder before continuing. “You seem to have already taken control of the girl to a quite astounding extent - if you don’t mind my saying so - even without my aid.”
Karen Lamberton-Marchment found herself struggling to suppress a note of exasperation from entering her voice; it was an effort almost as fraught as disguising the astonishment she felt as Daphne Larkspear’s companion’s youthful yet heavy breasts bounced into view, thrusting forward through apertures in the front of the boned white corset and balanced on underwired quarter cup supports as if presented on serving dishes. The fact was that she had thought she had made quite clear the nature of the hold she had over her stepdaughter and the complicity of her doctor friend in all of this. In fact she had even asked to be introduced to the good doctor, citing that she had certain issues of her own that she could usefully consult with the doctor on, though she had been somewhat vague.
“Well, with regards to the issue of the imposition of corporal punishment; it definitely was not ‘just like that’. As for the influence I wield over her; it has not been so much the case of my taking control of the girl as Alice herself having handed me control over her. After all, I didn’t ask her to get herself addicted, did I? I put her in touch with Dr Ecclestone, organised the supply of a drug substitute for treatment. The price for all that concern was that I take responsibility for Alice’s decisions and control of her life - and as I control her access to that substitute, my word is law.
There are disagreements of course; but when there are it is just a matter of time, of waiting. She always has to back down in the end - and she knows it. Your job, as I am sure you understand, is to use that leverage and take that level of control one step further. I want Alice to become as dependent on you and I - as individuals - as she is dependent on that narcotic substitute her doctor has her on.”
Karen Lamberton-Marchment couldn’t quite believe she’d actually said that last part, but as she looked on the scene unfolding before her was affecting her in ways she hadn’t prepared herself for. The blouse had now joined both the cardigan and tie slung across Daphne Larkspear’s forearm leaving the blushing girl standing with her breasts on display like some tempting trifling item offered on display in a shop window thrust outwards from a boned wasp-waisted corset from which sprung at the narrowest point of the waist a grey mid-thigh-length kilt-like wrapover school skirt, flat panelled at the front and sharply knife pleated at the rear.
The corset itself had running down either side lacing that served to constrain two tubular compartments. These pipe-like laced compartments, upon reaching the waist,
crossed over at the small of the back where an additional strap and buckle arrangement further secured them and clearly contained the girl’s arms. Reaching for the side of the skirt the ex-teacher unfastened the safety pin-like skirt pin at the hem, dropped a zip and unhitched a clip at the waist and without further ado whipped off the girl’s skirt in one move.
Young Angel Larkspear was now left standing in a white restraint corset, for want of a better description, and a pair of exceedingly snug-fitting bottle-green school knickers of a superficially traditional appearance, their elasticated trunk-style legs extending down almost to the point where her skirt hem had been moments before. It transpired that two or three of the lower clasps at the front of corset had to be released before the girl’s knickers could be pulled down, the latter’s waistband being locked around the girl’s waist beneath the foundation garment as young Alice’s now so often were. Instructing the hideously embarrassed looking young girl to turn around, the ex-teacher slowly peeled down the extremely close-fitting, clingy fabric, the back seam easing its way out from it’s seat deep within the cleft separating the girl’s notably chubby buttock cheeks.
Looking on Karen Lamberton-Marchment found herself, despite her best efforts, unable to stifle a startled gasp. Angel Larkspear’s rounded buttocks were a patchwork of literally dozens of thin, discoloured, reddened lines, all crisscrossing this way and that, some extending around the sides of the globes and streaking across the dimples, others reaching up and under the overhang and disappearing deep into the crease at the top of the girl’s thighs.
“The work of the martinet, Karen... I may call you Karen?” Daphne Larkspear paused, her quizzically arched eyebrows coupled with her faintly amused expression signalling that she fully expected her ex-pupil’s consent.
Alice Under Discipline, Part 1 Page 10
