Alice Under Discipline, Part 1

by Garth ToynTanen

  Momentarily glancing across at Angel Daphne Larkspear smiled to herself; the diuretic she had added to the girl’s orange juice had been a strong one, it wouldn’t be long now before there would be a darker patch spreading across the dark bottle-green rear of those knickers. A few more such accidents and she planned to start the girl in adult diapers - and by that time she’d have Angel herself convinced that she needed such ‘protection’; that was the beauty of her approach. This time it will be as clear as day and in front of witnesses; and it would be all more devastating for it. Turning away she again returned her attention to the task in hand; the chastisement of the headstrong young Alice, her present ‘boot licker in training’. She looked deep into the terrified girl’s eyes as she spoke:

  “Now what was that you were trying to say? Is it that you have changed your mind; and so soon, too?” Alice nodded wildly, her face red, part in pain, partly from humiliation, and her eyes wide in the terror of what this woman might yet do to her. Horror and dread were just about to be added to that mix.

  “I expect polishing your stepmother’s boots with your tongue doesn’t seem such a bad idea, now... am I right?” Alice had to struggle for words; she had momentarily caught sight of her stepmother’s gloating smile out of the corner of her eye and the woman’s face, all steamy-eyed as if through lust, made her choke. It was more than triumph she could read on her stepmother’s face; there was something sexual about the pleasure the woman was getting from this. The dawning realization that both women were getting aroused in some sick and twisted way made her feel suddenly nauseous - more so, even, than the idea of having to get down on all fours and lick that woman’s vulcanised rubber boots. Nevertheless she somehow ground out the required reply, with all the little nuances stipulated by the ‘school rules’ appended:

  “Yes, Miss Daphne, I am sorry, Miss Daphne.”

  “Then ask nicely then.”

  “Please may I lick my stepmothe... I mean Lady Marchment’s boots, please Miss Daphne.”

  “Well, perhaps you should have thought about it before you refused the first time but...of course you can, dear.” The domineering teacher smiled pleasantly now as she spoke, her voice softening. Then her voice hardened again, just a little, just subtly: “But don’t you think there should be some penalty attached? After all you did defy both your stepmother and I. And you failed to use the correct address...which is?” Still smiling sweetly she left a pause, waiting for her ‘pupil’ to fill in the gap. Alice gulped, feeling her pride and self esteem seeming to slide down along with the air. Still sobbing and nearly choking with indignation she at last managed:

  “Mother.” It was the most foul, horrid, self-surrendering, soul-plundering thing she had ever had to say - and she felt some part of herself die as it struggled past her lips. Daphne Larkspear continued to beam that self-satisfied, cynically sympathetic smile of hers - it was one of those things about the woman that grated on Alice’s nerves; she felt sure she did it deliberately.

  “Well today, this first time, I was only going to ask you to polish up the uppers of your stepmother’s boots with your lips and tongue just as you did that nice new boot I held up to your lips earlier. I wouldn’t have dreamt of having you go near all that muck caked on the soles - God knows what she’s stepped in out there.” Daphne Larkspear pulled a face as if to describe the sickly-sweet farmyard ambience that had been steadily flavouring the atmosphere since the other woman had made her entrance. Glancing over at Alice’s stepmother she laughed, her Scottish lilt somehow making her teasing guffaw seem even more mocking than it might otherwise. The other, returning her ex-teacher’s knowing look with delightedly glittering smiling eyes, responded, giggling girlishly:

  “Lord knows! There are all sorts of unmentionable stuff that gets stirred into the stable yard mud, Mrs Larkspear, what with the horses, the two dogs and the hunt meeting here, as they did yesterday. Whatever it was, it has certainly left a mess on the floor for the two of them to clean up later - and it sure as hell doesn’t smell too good!”

  Daphne Larkspear once again returned her attention to her restrained ‘pupil’: “As I was saying: As the state of play was, when we started out today, I wouldn’t have dreamed of having you do more than, say, cleaning off some of those muddy speckles - and polishing the rubber of course. The rest I would have let you deal with using a cloth and the boot brush, as usual. As it is, though, we have that stubborn, defiant streak of yours to manage and to deal with. So...” She paused as if for thought. “...I think an apt penalty might be if you were to miss out all those intermediate stages I had planned to put you through - breaking you in gently, giving you time to acclimatise yourself, so to speak, to all those new tastes, sensations and odours you’re going to have to get used to. Instead I think what we’ll do is we’ll have you graduate right away. I think we’ll put you straight up to the top of the class, straight up to the level that young Angel over there has reached... as the fully-fledged bootlicker that she is.”

  Another muffled, anguished groan issued from the teenager whose head was still remained tilted back, face buried in the corner. A dark stain was just beginning to diffuse up from the crotch of the latter’s school knickers and was beginning to spread across the seat, droplets trickling down the insides of her coltish thighs were now glinting like tiny amber beads in the spotlight. Glancing up Daphne Larkspear addressed the fidgeting teenager, her smile broadening: “Och!” It wasn’t often she used that peculiarly Scottish exclamation. “Now, just look at you. You’ve only gone and wet yourself again, you silly bairn. And in front of Lady Marchment, too! If you carry on like that, we’ll have to put you in a nappy.” The Scottish lilt seemed grow stronger on the word ‘nappy’ as if to emphasise that she had no intention of ever referring to the solution she had in mind as ‘adult diapers’, let alone by the politically-correct clinical wording they carried on the wrapper they came in.

  She looked back down at Alice, bending and lifting the girl’s chin even higher until her nose was almost touching that of Alice. “ So... Just say how much would appreciate being allowed to chew the filth off of the soles of your stepmother’s boots, those really nice, really expensive shiny fashion ‘wellies’ of hers, and we’ll get on.” She had estimated Alice’s limitations well - and gone well beyond them, as had been her intention. Stunned by the sudden crudity, and even more by the enormity of what she was being asked to do, Alice could only slowly shake her head in shocked silence.

  Daphne Larkspear straightened up, dropping Alice’s chin. Moving around alongside the bending girl she ran her hand over the surface of the balloon-taut whipping drawers, the fabric as fine as a lawn handkerchief yet as strong as denim, trickling her fingers over the throbbing welt running across the very centre of the girl’s buttocks, then tracing the ridges back and forth with a single finger, feeling the outlined criss-cross pattern of plaited leather embossed in the skin. Tutting to herself she let the remark tumble out from her mouth quite casually, quite matter-of-factly, as if mentioning the weather.

  “This one will be permanent, I’m afraid - It’s split the skin you see. Not so bad as a single line across the middle, although I don’t suppose you’d want your boyfriend to see it.” Reaching across the girl’s shoulders from behind, having wandered around behind her while talking, she retrieved the incredibly pliant riding crop. Without further comment she whipped it back over her shoulder and slashed it in diagonally, the tip curling up and under the overhang of one of Alice’s buttock cheeks and just catching the outside edge of that tender crease. If anything the stroke was even harder than the first. The sharp gunshot-like crack reverberated as before and she let the girl’s screams subside before continuing where she’d left off:

  “A basket-weave of lines is another matter; I suppose that can be a little disfiguring for a girl. Mind you, I don’t think you’ll be seeing much of your old boyfriend anyway - he’s got twelve years as I understand it and some o
f the marks may have faded by then - a little.” She slashed in another, just below the first and parallel with it, watching the pliant switch mould itself momentarily around both buttock cheeks before springing back and once again waiting for the girl’s anguished screams to die down before continuing her diatribe, spending the time tripping her fingertips over the developing wheal and satisfying herself that for the third time within three strokes she had again succeeded in likely permanently tattooing the girl’s bottom.

  “Still, I imagine you’ll still be able to get away with wearing a bikini if you’re careful - something a little more full around the bottom regions, mind, something a little conservative, not one of those brief modern things.” The air whistled as the next shot cracked across Alice’s tender bottom, this one landing lower still and almost coming up underneath the overhang.

  “Landed a little low, that one, dear. Sorry! Still, a fuller-bodied style of bikini bottom and you’ll be all right for the beach - as long as it covers up your bottom properly as it should. “Did I mention a letter came for you from that no-good boyfriend of yours - he only expects you to be waiting for him when he gets out? Thinks he’ll get parole for good behaviour, apparently. Well, I think it would be best if you wrote back and told him in no uncertain terms where he can get off with that idea, don’t you? Just as soon as you’re finished munching your lunch off Lady Marchment’s boots here, of course. Perhaps it would be kindest if you were to say you’d met someone else and would be moving away? Hmmm?”

  Alice was still shaking her head in the negative when the next stroke, the first of a pair to land in rapid-fire succession, whooped in, confused by this alternation of demands and the constant reference to her jailed fiancé. Both landed just above the lowest extent of the Victoriana whipping draws, right across the sensitive flesh of the backs of her thighs and well below the point that would be covered up by any but the most old-fashioned of full-bodied knickers. Both split the skin.

  “Now look what you have gone and made me do! I’ve told you before about where your stubbornness will get you. You put off my aim with all that bottom wriggling and head-shaking going on - and a few more landing across there and I dare say that will be your bikini days over. I doubt you’d even find a vintage one-piece swimsuit that would cover those marks on the beach. Those regulation school uniform knickers of yours will still do the trick, though - and it’s not as if you’re going to be gallivanting around the bedroom, not with all the embarrassing questions that bottom of yours would raise.”

  Again and again Alice’s head sharply jerked up, the crack of the lascivious woman’s dressage whip ringing in her ears and its lick of flame besieging her tender pink bottom. Again and again the plaited leather instrument bit deep into her flesh leaving vivid raised flaring wheals that could be clearly made out through cruelly tight fabric of the whipping draws as the initial blood red developed into a deeper purple. Her bottom, thrust outwards by the bolstered padded leather arm of the armchair, twitched and quaked and rippled and juddered, spasmodically between each stroke as the bruised muscles involuntary reacted to the out and out, mind breaking agony. The unforgiving leather cuffs locked around Alice’s ankles and pinioning them to the front and back legs of the armchair, drawing her legs wide apart in the process, along with those that drew her wrists together over the far arm, were sufficient to hold her in place against even her most energetic struggles yet allowed sufficient leeway to provide an entertaining display of bucking feminine eye-candy.

  Alice had long ago been broken, truly broken. Her voice, reduced to almost silently hoarse screams and pathetic squeaky rusty mews under the fall of the dressage whip, whispered near-inaudible pleas for clemency and mercy in the tortuously long and drawn-out periods of cruel respite between the strokes. She had been ready long ago to abase herself in any manner that Daphne Larkspear or her stepmother might demand of her. But still the thrashing went on, Daphne Larkspear occasionally pausing to stroll around to other side of the armchair, standing in front of the restrained, weeping teenager and flexing the horse whip in front of the girl’s eyes, arching it between her hands into something approaching a full circle before releasing the tension and letting the tip spring back through the air with a swish, all the time berating Alice, worrying away at that weakness of hers, her vanity with florid descriptions of how defaced her backside was becoming.

  On occasion she would run a finger under the guitar-string-taut round strap that ran up along the centre seam of the whipping drawers, pressing its tip into the centre of the little fabric-outlined toroidal bud of the girl’s anus and performing little teasing pirouettes. At other times, between strokes, she would run a hand up the inside of one of the girl’s thighs and down the other, pausing at the centre to roll that same cylindrically sectioned strap side to side in the declivity between the virginal lips, the latter now particularly clearly delineated through the saturated contour-hugging fabric of the crotch.

  From time to time she would rub the urine picked up on her fingers in such a manner under the girl’s nose, gently drawing a fingertip back and forth along the girl’s upper lip and touching little droplets to the insides of the girl’s nostrils. “Only a child wets herself - perhaps you’ll prefer the smell of your stepmother’s rubber Wellingtons now, learn to love the taste of the rubber.” Then she would step back before bringing in the curving dressage whip arcing agonisingly across the girl’s behind yet again. “Or should I leave you here until you mess yourself as well, and I have to put you in a nappy - as I’m going to have to do with Angel, in the corner over there. Alternatively perhaps I should fetch that Victorian prison cane I have, and use that to tan your backside until your bowels move. How would you like that? And it would only stop once you’d evacuated your bowels into your knickers - just imagine how you’re going to feel if you make me do that to you. I’ve done it to Angel you know, in the past - and look what it has done to her”.

  It was only after Alice had received a further five, particularly vicious strokes, delivered in rapid-fire succession across the backs of her thighs that the woman finally put down the horse whip. These last few strokes had slashed in low, biting deep into the sensitive flesh just a few inches up from the girl’s knees and had coaxed one last long-drawn-out wailing - if hoarse - scream from the girl’s now parched lips. It had been a most harrowing howl indeed, one that came from the very soul and went soul-deep to any within earshot.

  Once again running her fingers to and fro between the restrained girl’s legs Daphne Larkspear brought the dampened tips to the girl’s face as she had before. This time, though, she slowly drew her index finger along the girl’s top and bottom lips, tracing their outline and depositing a snail-trail of little golden droplets around the girl’s gentle mouth. Holding her fingers flat and just shy of the girl’s lips - in the manner one might if feeding sugar cubes to a pony - Daphne Larkspear softened her voice, the tone coaxing and belying the bizarreness of the instruction being given:

  “Come along, clean off my fingers, child -that’s a good girl. Don’t make me have to go get that old prison cane of mine, not that ‘whalebone’ one I have”. Her voice sounded sympathetic now almost pleading. A smile spread across the striking if hard face of the Scots teacher as the velvety-pink tip of the girl’s tongue slowly appeared, emerging from between pretty red cupid-bow lips. The smile spread as she felt the heavy wetness run up along her fingers across her palm as the girl began to quietly lap and nuzzle like a house trained puppy dog.

  For now the girl was broken but Daphne Larkspear knew that deep down inside some part of the girl’s defiant spirit would have survived. The human spirit could be a quite resilient thing and, given time, Alice’s individuality and spirit were bound to resurface to some degree. Yes, in the future there would undoubtedly be resurgences of defiance, but this was something to be welcomed; it left the field open for a repeat performance of the same treatment. The girl’s spirit and self-esteem would recover t
o some extent each time, but never fully. Each time there would less of the real Alice left alive and kicking inside and more of what appeared to be Alice would be merely dry husk.

  She began unbuckling the restraints, helping the pathetically snivelling girl to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the girl’s stepmother preparing to take her place in the plush leather folds of the armchair, impatient to at last sit back and have her muddied, manure-caked boots attended to by her stepdaughter - and in the most profoundly personal way imaginable. But there was something in the girl’s eye, a glint of defiance? And was she really trying to pull away - after all that?

  CHAPTER 11

  AFTERMATH AND RETRIBUTION

  OR:

  STEPPINGSTONES ON A RETROGRADE PATH

  Daphne Larkspear and Alice’s stepmother bringing up the rear, the two teenagers shuffled slowly and nervously back through the classroom, both carried on uncertain, unsteady legs. Alice was biting her lower lip. Angel, along side her, was shaking her bowed head slowly in disbelief as the glistening reminder of her shame continued down its meandering forking trickles, tracing out and following the contours of her long legs to the waterlogged tops of her anklets as she walked. Both girls were still quietly, yet steadily, crying despite having been given time to ‘compose’ themselves. The later was a favourite euphemism the redoubtably authoritarian Mrs Larkspear employed for the imposition of some additional period - in this case, a good fifteen or twenty minutes - spent staring at the corner with hands on head.

  But this was par for the course now, just another day in the classroom. The humiliation and tears, the helplessness and powerlessness, the long draw-out hours of written impositions were beginning to wear Alice down. She had begun suffering sporadic bouts of bedwetting when particularly emotionally and mentally exhausted and at her desk had begun unconsciously displaying certain other immature behaviours, all of which Daphne Larkspear - the ex-teacher and home tutor her stepmother had hired - discerned with a growing sense of gratification.