Alice Under Discipline, Part 2

by Garth ToynTanen

  Title Page

  ALICE UNDER DISCIPLINE

  BOOK 2

  Alice and the New Magdalene Laundries

  A cane-in-hand tale of domestic discipline, domination, dependency, psychological manipulation and unashamed exploitation from the INSTITUTIONALISED stable

  Hand crafted by

  Garth. P. ToynTanen

  Publisher Information

  Alice Under Discipline - Book Two

  Published in 2012 by Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Garth. P. ToynTanen 2012

  The right of Garth. P. ToynTanen to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  CHAPTER 1

  It all gets institutional as Dr Ecclestone takes charge, Alice finds herself carted off to a church-run ‘industrial school’ for wayward intractable teens and girls of loose morals and a friend intervenes - or tries to.

  “...PROVIDING A DISCIPLINED ENVIRONMENT FOR RECALCITRANT YOUNG WOMEN...”

  The first shallow-angled rays of sunlight lancing through the stained glass window fanned out like a celestial rainbow. But the scene presently unfolding beneath the slim and flattened spreading fingers of light made a red, gold, blue and green mockery of the pious depiction tinting its metallic shafts. Mottled subdued-coloured shadowy apparitions, obliquely projected and stretched out over the cold green-grey flagstones told of the disruption caused by the vertical bars of sturdy iron set on the outside, the purity of tone further corrupted by the thick diamond shaped hinged wire mesh frame affixed to the window’s inside. The obligatory heavy-duty padlocks securing this latter Norman-arched framework - its deep-set wired contours paralleling the little chapel’s window cringing behind it - were as ubiquitous as to be practically symbolic of the place. Mounted at the edge furthest from the stout paint-gnarled hinges, one top and one bottom, the two askew padlocks added a few bluish silvery sparkles of their own - little pinpoints of metallic starlight that managed little in lightening the dead oppressive atmosphere of dread penitence and hypocritical control; there was no hint of gaiety to be had here, just as there was little to be had in terms of Christian compassion from the stained glass mural beyond, just a further reminder of the totality of captivity. Solid ice-cold stone and iron captivity set in faith... That is Faith... with a capital ‘F’.

  The ironic gaiety of all that glitter and gold seemed to snigger over the faux solemnity of the tableau unfolding at that moment - an old man and a young woman meeting through the most extraordinary of circumstances.

  The gold-halo-framed saint’s head, all pinks and roses, divided into slats by the prison-bar shadowing and crisscrossed by a white-painted scarring of wire mesh had disapproval woven in to its eyes as if preordained to gaze down on such a scene from the very moment of the window’s conception. The sword in the saint’s glass-rendered chain mail hand, the hilt in the form of the crucifixion, was depicted raised as if to smite the perpetrator of all this desecration and shame yet as a mere work of art was as impotent as a young woman’s struggles against steel fetters and iron-link tethers.

  In a stone niche where one might have expected an altarpiece - perhaps a chalice, a cross, a pair of gold candlesticks, some richly embroidered cloth of scrolling gold thread - there was indeed the cloth rolled out, the cross in its place and fat beeswax candles flowering yellow flame seated high in their sticks at each end. But where the chalice and wafers might have been set out for the holy communion there were laid out instead paraphernalia associated with an altogether different form of ‘communion’ entirely - something far less holy, yet just as ritualistic. Two crook-handled school-master canes of different thicknesses lay side to side at the foot of the gold cross spread between the candles, the tip of each settled in to the curling handle of the other.

  Closer to the front of this cloth covered stone ledge a split-tongued Lochgelly tawse, the sturdy yet pliant oiled leather embossed in gold with the symbols of the institution - the lamb of god, the cross and the crossed canes, all set in a shield-like device - lay alongside a particularly fine example of the French martinet, the turned wood handle in the form of the Virgin, the fine leather fronds sprouting from the top of her veil like thick strands of hair the thickness of a shoelace, each bisected along its length by a series of tiny painstakingly tied knots. Viewed in profile the outline of the handle of the latter owed a lot in its form to the erect male member, a clue to a secondary function; considered too light to be applied to the backside of some strapping young tomboy type or plump modern adolescent, it could equally set alight the soles of dainty feet, soft pampered palms or indeed similarly indulged young breasts.

  Set closer still to the edge, the jar of pearly blue-grey Vaseline already lay open, resting within its lid and bracketed each side by the brown twists of a pair of rolled-up leather belts, one pierced along its length, the other studded with silvery metal conical points. Alongside one candlestick a prison-style birch lay, a bunch of the whippiest silver birch twigs imaginable all bound in tarred rope to form a grip; a second bunch graced the opposite end of the ledge or shelf, this set the other way up with its broom of twigs and stems facing outermost. Only the greenest wood had been used, nothing too brittle to shatter and split, yet suitably festooned with buds and jaggedly truncated offshoots - all the better to ‘mortify the flesh’; and if there was anything The Most Reverend Father Kenneth Aloysius Mcmacmarghn knew all about it was the mortification of the flesh; girl flesh!

  It stood to reason girl flesh had to be scourged, flagellated, reamed, penetrated - yes, it stood to reason; the functional necessity of procreation surely corrupted by the ‘Dark One’ as the juiciest, most succulent root of temptation. How else might one explain the all-pervading inflammation of the senses, the madness of desire brought on, the wicked urging ignited in the loins at the merest glimpse of a provocatively wobbling pair of buttocks, bouncing breasts, long waving locks of gold, red or brunette, laughing eyes and those wide generous mouths that promised so much yet he knew would deliver little but scorn to one of his age if approached on the street, even if in the most innocent, well-meaning and polite manner? But this was not the street, those locks were unlikely to be as long and free flowing, and that mouth, swinging bottom and all the rest would not be promising more here than they would deliver - nor need he fear scorn, rejection, spiteful backtalk nor anything save complete and utter supplication to his will; the wild-cat-taming zing of the Mother Superior’s cane will have seen to that.

  The mouth, wide and generous as it might be and innocently cherry-lipped; the bottom, private, tucked away, a secretive rose; the vagina - undoubtedly the most treacherous of all - all these were sites where the darkest lust lurked. But it was a fact the semen of the pious could cleanse the seed of the daemon, trickling down a pretty chin, dribbling from within a well-cleansed, well-reamed bottom, oozing from that other unspeakable organ between its legs, this set free from pleasurable temptation by the surgeon’s excising of the bud or infibulating that toadstool of feminine deceit with platinum wire and vouchsafed from other ‘unfortunate consequences’ by its making barren wi
th another surgical ‘snip’ or two.

  It was that final act of sterilisation that seemed to crush them the most, squeezed the devil out from their souls like pips from an over-ripe pomegranate, that did, and that god-awful boisterousness with it! Once freed of all that pram-faced obsession with families and babies, boyfriends and husbands, they knuckled down under the dominion yoke of the church, submissively going about their daily chores and duties as the modest and pious always should. And the oocytes that were harvested - the eggs - could still fulfil the creator’s wishes, fertilised in vitro by those with actual gifts to give and implanted in more worthy, more righteous wombs, to the everlasting spiritual - and financial - benefit of the church.

  Sterilisation; Yes, he always pushed for that, if there could be any possibility of levying a suggestion of ‘feeble mindedness’ or ‘mental incompetence’ - and he could almost always make a diagnosis like that stick if he put his mind to it.. And in the case of this particular girl - this winsome Welsh girl, Gwyneth Tealsdown - that diagnosis had become essential, more urgent than usual. It was beginning to look increasingly likely that she’d got word out; and perhaps that new girl had also, although in that girl’s case certain remedial steps had already been taken.

  The Reverend Father, his face jowled, thread-veined and eye-baggy with scotch, turned away from the multihued fan of sunlight spreading out across the dust-strewn flagstones and lighting the skeletal carved figures of the knight and his spouse reclining in prayer on their shared tomb. His attention was turning to that other pedestal-like furnishing occupying the vaulted stone space, this one temporary and moveable, unlike the stone tomb of the once lord of the manor and his good lady.

  The fetters spoken of previously did not rattle nor jangle metallically but rather creaked, shuffled, rustled and squeaked, consisting as they did of padded leather cuffs, plastic or nylon buckles and tough leather straps secured by nylon bolts and fixings. The ‘horse’ over which the tousled, toothsome blond Gwyneth was currently pinioned, limbs spread obscenely akimbo, was a wood-framed brown-leather-topped gymnasium vaulting horse especially adapted for the purpose and furnished with all manner of imaginatively positioned rings, ‘U’ bolts and other ‘fixing points’.

  The prayer just spoken over her suggestively prone form, over her bared behind - the surplus, cassock and all the rest of the church choir-girl regalia he’d had her change into having been pinned up out of the way and the frilled navy-blue flannel bloomers eased down - had been hypocrisy made incarnate. He’d actually had the temerity to pray to god that her sins be forgiven, that her culpability in that damned diabolically-sculpted attractiveness she exuded, and that inflamed him to such a degree, baiting him from the righteous path , be ‘overlooked by the lord’! And she’d had enough of his waving his cock in her face in the past to know how she might be required to pay penance later, once he’d had his fill of one or other of her other orifices. At least for now he’d end in her mouth or her bottom.

  She prayed it would be the latter, would wiggle suggestively like a harem favourite to try to add to his pleasure, to tip him over the edge before he prised it between her lips; there was nothing she could imagine more repulsive than having his fat, ugly, smelly ‘thing’ up her bottom and then pressed in to her mouth. But if he did she’d have to suck and swallow, swallow and suck like a good’n , like the good little Jezebel whore he accused her of being; then allow just a little trickle down her chin to show ‘the daemon seed’ had been flushed out of her. If not he’d not stop at half a dozen with the reformatory cane afterwards, nor be satisfied with adding a dozen or so with the heavier - though unaccountably equally pliant - prison-weight cane, a real beast of bamboo, ribbed like arthritic finger joints.

  No, he’d like as not follow up with a good thrashing of her blameless bottom with one or both of those bunches of birch twigs he’d put together, and then have her stand with both her arms behind her back in a single elbow-length leather glove or arm binder while he went to work on her breasts with the martinet - the cushions of Beelzebub himself, as he called them. The knotted square-section fronds were intended to lacerate - and they did; and some of the marks, some of the stigmata as the Reverend Father liked to term the fine red veiny lines left written across and around her nipples, and seeming to radiate out from them, appeared to be permanent. What would be more permanent would be sterilisation - and that would be next if she wasn’t careful. One complaint, one word whispered in the wrong direction, and it could be twisted against her, used as evidence of her ‘mental unbalance’; and if that happened... And she couldn’t be sure who to trust - some of the other girls were agents of the institution itself, willing to sell out one and all to secure an easier existence; they’d made a point of telling her that on her arrival, and she’d seen the evidence since, fallen foul of it in fact; it was how the place operated, how they maintained such rigid control; divide and conquer...

  Divide and conquer - just as he’d soon be dividing her plump bottom cheeks, or her lips... Given the chance and she’d bite it right off for him, bite right through it - she’d enjoy that! But he’d thought of that of course, placed rubber wedges in the corners of her mouth to stop her teeth coming together, and a strap running under her chin and over her head to stop her opening wide and shaking them free. Plus she’d seen what had happened to other girls, those that had tried to bite.

  They had a tame dentist in this place, her sense of ethics - shockingly to Gwyneth, a Welsh-valley girl still steeped in the mistaken assumption of the incorruptible kindness of womanhood, it was a ‘her’ - blinded, warped by lucre. This woman was more than happy to remove teeth where necessary in order to sculpt ‘a good cock-sucking mouth’; at the drop of a hat - or silver in her palm - she’d remove all but the molars. That woman was capable of more (or less - depending on your point of view) than that; already Gwyneth had had a heavy tongue stud added, so weighty as to leave her with speech that was all but totally unintelligible, and a set of the ugliest teeth braces or retainers imaginable in god’s heaven, the lower set possessing a ring at the rear that could be engaged with one similar that was pierced through the tip of her tongue. In addition, a miniscule wire cage had been sutured in place over her clitoris, to discourage ‘the sin of self-pleasure’, and a metal thimble with a narrow slot in the top had been placed over each nipple, the slot locating over a suitably proportioned ring previously infibulated in situ and locked into place with a tiny gold-hued padlock, for the same purpose.

  This young Gwyneth definitely didn’t want to suffer any of the other ‘preventative’ or ‘disciplinary’ procedures that were open to them carried out on her, such as having the centre of her forehead branded with the crucifix or having the sign of the cross tattooed in bold black on each cheek and the name of the institution similarly tattooed across the top of her bust... She had seen girls having had their eyebrows removed by electrolysis and replaced by a permanently tattooed, permanently surprised look that had left them looking stupefied and doll-like. She had witnessed how red circles drawn in on the cheeks by the tattooist’s pen and lips filled to brimming with surgically implanted fat and outlined in tattooed black and red could add to the illusion; the novice nun’s habit or laundry-girl’s drab brown uniform dress serving to magnify the effect by contrast. And she definitely, definitely, didn’t want her clitoris excised surgically in its entirety... let alone be sterilised! STERILISED! The word both made her blood run cold and kept her bum in place when the rattan whistled in... or whenever that dog-collared pig’s cock was shoved up her bottom or stuffed in her mouth.

  The Reverend Father ran his fingers stickily around the inside of his dog collar; despite the cool of the heavy grey stonework surrounds and the earthy, musty crypt air wafting up through the ironwork floor grille he was hot, beads of sweat breaking out on his taunted and vexed brow. He lowered his gruff smoker’s voice a little, addressing the tethered prone girl almost as if speaking to himself.


  “To be honest with you, I far prefer to rape a girl than have her meekly submit to my cock. That way I can be sure of what I am doing - and why. I can be certain I am not myself merely becoming an agent of His... of the devil, that is; he moves in devious ways, just as our lord’s motivations are mysterious. I have you fastened over the ‘horse’ - and as helpless as can be - and it is going to seem every bit like rape.... but...” He coughed like dry parchment, collating his thoughts while absentmindedly rubbing himself lewdly through his cassock. “...You’re still in the early stages, yet to be properly broken in... but I will break you in - just like breaking in a young filly” He was eyeing the naked twin mounds of the girl’s bottom cheeks, recalling with envy how he’d witnessed that delectable bottom getting a damn good caning from the Mother Superior just a handful of hours previously - that woman had really laid into it.

  For the moment all he could do was stand gazing star struck at the lovingly stripped, naked creature curved across the top of the vaulting horse, at those succulent hindquarters so invitingly presented, the girl’s wrists corded with leather to the sloping legs at the front, her ankles cuffed tightly to the rear. There could be no denying it; practically anything was possible here!

  He removed his lower clothing and still gazing lustfully at the prone teenager stood a while semi-naked, running his bony fingers up and down his painfully throbbing, aching member, casually playing with himself like the pervert he was. He dipped a finger in the fish-cold Vaseline and slopped a dollop down across the girl’s stretched anus, running it between her pulled-apart bum cheeks, the sumptuous flesh of the girl’s buttocks quivering in apprehensive response. It was clear the girl appreciated just how helpless she was, how totally vulnerable, how pathetic. He pressed home a little, at the puckered brown bud, and the girl rewarded him with a little sighing mewing sound. Oh, what a terrible place this institution must seem to her! What heaven it was to know that’s how she felt - and that he was part of making it that way for her! Would she ever get used to being repeatedly violated, repeatedly used, repeatedly raped, forced to perform the most nauseous acts she could imagine, or others might imagine for her? He fervently hoped not.