Alice Under Discipline, Part 2

by Garth ToynTanen

  Alice’s governess called out, nodding pointedly towards the now flustered Alice: “Sorry about that! Take no notice of her; she’s a delicate girl, as I said, and not long released from hospital I’m afraid.” The woman silently mouthed her understanding from the other side of the pane she was presently polishing, a beaming smile of comprehension that instantly quenched any hope either girl held of recruiting an ally from that direction or of getting word out. Now indicating Angel, Mrs Larkspear called out again: “This other one, here, has no such excuse; she’s just a little simple-minded and prone to a little obstinacy, is all. But I’ll soon nip that in the bud; a little discipline is all she needs!” The enthusiastic grin returned from the other at the window came perhaps a little too readily, the woman’s response to the latter implication perhaps a little too unfazed to be taken entirely as natural - not that either girl would likely have noticed, given the circumstances.

  Their tutor cum governess urging Angel impatiently along from behind and leading the yelping Alice by her twisted ear - the latter bent double and bordering on tripping as she struggled to keep step - the two girls were bustled along the now slippery colonnaded walkway. Reaching the point from where they had originally entered the courtyard gardens - quaintly termed ‘The Quadrangle’ - Alice found herself released from the woman’s unrelenting grip, only to be then thrust forward with such venom that she almost tumbled.

  With Angel to the fore, she was briskly ushered down the short flight of damp, stone steps to where the double doors of the ‘rear parlour’ gave out on to the short exterior basement run, the latter area’s ground level ceiling of iron bars and surround of black-painted square railings doing nothing to deter the driving rain. There came a grinding of hinges and a ringing metallic clang as the heavy iron-railed gate that stood guard at the top of the steps was slammed shut by Mrs Larkspear behind them, the clattering of the woman’s keys as she turned the lock soon joined by her hard edged voice ordering them indoors - “or else!”

  Raindrops were splattering against the French doors as they were slammed closed behind them, the glass rattling in its panes. The diamond sectioned concertina security gate was drawn across in a jiffy, the steel grille expanding and gliding smoothly and near silently in it runners. There was just the vaguest rattle as, reaching the end of its travel, the security gate shuddered as its catch mated with the steel surround and lock tumblers briefly clattered with reassuring confidence. Then the heavy, lined, ruby-red velvet ‘blackout’ curtains were drawn across and the inclemency of the world outside was reduced to a distant muffle.

  Alice’s stepmother exchanged glances with her ex-teacher as the latter followed the two girls into the room, bringing up the rear. Smiling she was swinging the key to the steel shuttering she had just slammed across the French doors around her finger as she led the way across to the door that led on to what had now become, in her mind at least, the ‘dormitory area’.

  Mrs Larkspear met her employer’s eyes with an unmistakeable sparkle in her own, her voice, though, filled with gravitas and betraying not one loose thread of irony or hypocrisy as she spoke: “The ‘Corporal punishment of schoolgirls of your Alice’s age is not something one should take lightly but I fear here is a girl in danger of becoming completely out of hand unless curbed.” She was toying with the plaited leather riding switch hanging from her broad, elasticated belt as she spoke, her intention unvoiced, but clear enough to Alice’s stepmother nonetheless.

  There was nothing especially noteworthy about a residential premises fitted with floor to ceiling sliding window gates nowadays, nothing that might draw unwanted curiosity; that was something else Karen Lamberton - Marchment had found she could thank the stalled economic climate for - the ever accelerating crime rate. Burglaries were on the ‘up and up’ and as the representative from the company she had called in had said: ‘Modern collapsible security gates were aesthetically pleasing whilst providing security from intruders’.

  Of course ‘security ‘was a two-way-street and ‘intrusion’ was open to interpretation. In Karen Lamberton - Marchment’s interpretation ‘intrusion’ was any potential encounter with, or meddling interference from, her stepdaughter outside the home - whether directly or indirectly through interfering if well-meaning intermediaries.

  CHAPTER 4

  DEPORTMENT AND DANCE OR THE IMAGINATION OF A VISIONARY PRISON DISCIPLINARIAN

  As always Flora McBainstone radiated good health, the fluorescents highlighting her even, white teeth and adding a chill to her wintry smile. She stood with her hands on her hips surveying the scene, adopting that typically wide-footed, well-balanced stance of hers that betrayed her martial arts background. She rarely wore much in the way of make-up but today the way in which her face had been made up was almost theatrical. Large almond-shaped emerald green eyes glittered with subtly menacing delight behind over-blown eye shadow of close to the same hue and her high, haughty cheekbones had been picked out with rouge against her near translucent paper-white complexion like autumn-ripe windfall apples in an early frost. Her long typically Celtic red hair rather than being swept back from her face in her customary ponytail was today piled up and pinned back on top of her head behind a tortoiseshell comb device where it formed a small neat beehive of writhing, coiling tendrils.

  Today Miss Flora McBainstone’s supple, wiry-muscled yet full feminine figure was clad in a long sleeved emerald green leotard worn over opaque white pantyhose. A pair of rubber soled dance pumps adorned her feet, emerald green ankle warmers covered her shins and around her shoulders she wore a thin white cardigan left open over the leotard. If anything had been missed from the image of the strict domineering ballet teacher she had conjured it was certainly not in the department of ‘encouragement’. A long, thin, tapering white plastic switch hung loosely by her side from a carrying strap looped around her right wrist, an implement so devilishly pliable that it wobbled from end to end with the slightest movement.

  The statuesque gym teacher once held the post of chief physical fitness instructress in one of Her Majesty’s Government’s ‘young offender’s institutes’. That had been back in the day when the experimental regime that had become infamously known as the ‘short sharp shock’ had been the order of the day’. She had been in charge of that part of the system the institute’s brochure had glowingly referred to as ‘inmate rehabilitation through physical fitness’ but that was euphemistically termed by the staff ‘PE’ or physical education and that was in actuality - in Flora McBainstone’s hands at least - forced PT. It had been partly her ‘over exuberance’ in her involvement with the latter that had been her downfall and that had led to her disgraced exit from the service. At least it had been the instigating trigger of the investigation that had followed - the ‘over exuberance’ that had resulted in her undergoing a certain period of incarceration herself, not to mention being placed on the ‘sexual offender’s register’, referred to another area entirely, although not entirely unrelated.

  Suffice it to say that the downright terror she had engendered in even the toughest of the female delinquent inmates had been something one had to witness in order to completely appreciate; there had been something almost tangible about the aura of authority surrounding her when she had been at the head of a class of bending, leaping and squat-thrusting young women, the shrill sound of the whistle she carried around her neck cutting through the air. That much hadn’t changed; she still carried that silver plated whistle strung around her neck on its navy and gold ribbon lanyard. Her ability to engender fear merely through her appearance hadn’t dissipated over time either, if anything she had become psychologically more astute in the way she presented herself.

  Certainly the pair of teenagers presently nervously fidgeting under her gaze viewed her with no little trepidation. Subtly twisting and turning and self-consciously clasping their hands nervously before them, the look in the two girls’ widening eyes spoke of nothing short of phobic terr
or. It was a look that the gym mistress knew well of old; it made her smile, the red gash of lipstick defining her broadly stretching thin lips somehow managing to bring an even harder edge to features that tended to the angular, if feminine and surprisingly refined.

  Like their gym mistress the two girls were also clad in leotards, but there, with that term ‘leotard’, the similarity ended. Whereas their teacher’s was modestly opaque and generous in its styling and cut, the leotards worn by her two ‘pupils’ were skin-tight, high-cut at the hips and of a shiny, scantily sheer nylon fabric laced through with just enough Lycra fibre to ensure a suitably contour-conforming fit. Indeed, although superficially styled on the traditional school leotard, the skimpy garments accentuated every curve and bulge they covered while conspiring to leave the large majority of the wearer’s bottom open to the elements. The rear consisted of little more than an expanded backseam, perhaps a finger-and-a-half width of fabric running from the rear of the gusset panel and up between the buttock cheeks.

  Far worse than the exposure per se - as far as young Alice Marchment was concerned at least - was the rationale behind the design and the manner in which the garment tended to both draw the buttocks apart while pressing them rearward; the styling made even Angel’s slim boyish backside appear fulsome, and her own heart-shaped creation positively bottom-heavy. The former rationale was of course to ease access of the girl’s bottom to the encouragement provided by the gym mistress’ cane or switch; the latter styling aspect was partly a consequence of the selfsame feature that was presently causing the backseam of Alice’s leotard to protrude outward from between her full-bottomed cheeks like a miniature glossy black tent.

  At the front both girls’ Lycra-covered crotches notably puckered inward around a circular indentation sited between the clearly and embarrassingly delineated outline of their labia as if something there were drawing in the fabric. Higher up and Alice’s full breasts were thrusting out into the stretched, thin material of her leotard like a pair of torpedoes giving off black stretch-nylon bow waves, held in place and kept elevated by a built-in underwired support. Even her companion’s flat chested form had been persuaded to make a showing of fabric covered cleavage.

  Both girls’ hardened nipples were protruding shamefully out into the air, extruded through a pair of rubber-lined, elasticated sphincter-like circular openings sewn in to the front to their costumes - a favourite target for their gym teacher’s martinet on those days she chose to wield it; she believed in concentrating correction around those areas most closely associated with a girl’s sexuality. The latter was all about creating ambiguity in a girl’s mind, arousal with punishment and punishment with arousal - and all stirred together with the exposure of her own body and the sight of the displayed female form. It all came together in the form of a confused and conflicted sexuality.

  But it was the site of the tented protrusion at Alice’s rear that had caught the gym teacher’s eye - and her ire. True the girl had only just that minute drawn on her leotard, but Flora McBainstone could plainly see the girl’s coy attempts to avoid the inevitable back there, wriggling her buttocks and self-consciously plucking at the fabric from time to time with the fingers of her left hand as if somehow that would avoid her notice. She was across the floor in two broad strides, whipping the switch across the backs of the girl’s thighs before landing a slap with her outstretched palm squarely on the apex of that dinky little tent protruding between the girl’s buttocks. There came a squeal of shocked pain from Alice, then a breathless gasp as the ‘tent’ disappeared, the fabric flattening and pulling in to the crease between her bottom cheeks urged on by the rubbery elasticity of the leotard’s back seam.

  “There! Is that better, more comfortable now?” Again reaching behind Alice’s back the tight-lipped, smiling gym instructress gave a little tug at the top of the back seam, at the point at which the fabric broadened out into the body of the girl’s leotard. Then coming closer still, her breath brushing Alice’s flushed cheek, she reached lower, pressing her index finger on the button-like thickening at the centre of the leotard’s back seam and manipulating it with a circular motion.

  Alice gasped once more; the built-in ribbed latex anal probe had been well greased, it responded now like a snake buried deep in her bowels. The other, larger, protrusion at the front, the rubber dildo that was built into the garments crotch, had already buried itself deep within her womanhood, the soft fringe of latex bristles encircling its base easily finding her clitoris as she involuntarily shifted her hips in protest. She felt the gym teacher’s lips at her ear, the woman’s barely audible whisper: “Just like being fucked by your boyfriend back there... isn’t it?” She knew not to argue, despite the humiliation, she knew what was expected of her. Alice bit her lip as she searched her soul to forgive the words she had to force from her mouth, her cheeks burning like fire:

  “Yes, Mistress Flora.” There came a sharp yet playful slap to her naked rump and with that the gym teacher was gone, striding across to retake her place standing on a raised platform before the two girls. In the cloying warmth of the room a thin sheen of perspiration was already adding a healthy shine to both girls’ flesh, the delicately musky perfume of feminine sweat lingering on the air. Flora McBainstone took a deep breath, coughed out her instructions and blew on her whistle. Simultaneously she set the metronome she had set up on the table by her side in motion - she couldn’t see the need to have the distraction of music intruding into the proceedings. Smiling almost playfully, but with an unmistakably cruel twist to her lips, the gym mistress slashed her riding crop through the air, making the leather tab at its end whistle and both girls to wince in fearsome anticipation.

  “Plié - demi-plié first... Begin!”

  Both girls began to slowly drop, their knees pulling wide apart and the gussets of their leotards pulling correspondingly tightly into their crotches. In the demi-plié the dancer bends at the knees keeping her thighs and knees directly above the line of her toes while maintaining her feet turned outwards to either side.

  “Now, let’s move it up another notch, shall we? Grand-plié...up, down, up down...”

  The grand-plié meant performing that same sideward-facing knee bend motion but taking it down to the deepest possible position, the motion fluidic and continuous, not as much as pausing at the downward extreme before reversing the motion and rising by straightening the legs equally smoothly.

  “Up...down... up... down...”

  It went on and on, the gym teacher keeping time with her metronome-synchronised cadence. Each and every squat pulled both anal probe and the plastic manhood of the dildo deep into each girl’s core. Then the elasticity of the leotard’s fabric would result in the partial withdrawing of each tormenting device, as the girl again rose to full height, before the cycle would recommence once more at the start of the next deep squat. Over and over and over, it went on!

  “That’s it, girls - it’s just like being fucked.” The gym instructress was fond of coming out with that one, she usually repeated it at least three times per session. “Come on, girls, you know you’re enjoying it - don’t deny it, you cunning little tarts.”

  To Alice it was indeed just like being fucked - at least insofar as she could remember; it all seemed so long ago now that she’d had anything resembling ‘normal relations’. And in addition to the dildos working fore and aft, the motion tended to draw the nipples in and out of the elasticated openings on the front of their leotards, the sensation akin to having her nipples sucked or rolled and kneaded between a lover’s fingertips.

  “You’d both love a bit of cock if it were allowed.. Well it isn’t - and especially in your case, young, sweet Alice.” The gym mistress seemed almost beside herself with glee as she fairly spat forth that last taunt. The term ‘ejaculate’ might not have seemed any less apt, the sentence’s termination pointedly emphasised by an off-handed swipe of her riding crop across the front of Alice�
��s plump thighs, where a simple period indicated by a gathering of breath and suitably dramatic pause would have sufficed.

  Indeed a suitable time window was allowed in anticipation of the victimised teenager’s yelp before the corrupted smile of the cold-faced gym teacher again split apart with a cruel curl of her lips as she continued, her venom ill disguised.

  “Oh yes! Our Alice, here, won’t likely be encountering any well-appointed lad, youth or man - of any sort - ever again... not now...” She laughed uproariously at that point, as if silently, privately, somewhere in her head, she had just been made privy to the finest, wittiest joke ever conceived by man.

  Her timing had been impeccable; she had left just sufficient time for the enigmatic nature of her statement to register on the mind of her bullied subjects, for the question to begin to silently form on both her charges’ lips. For now she’d continue with her instruction and the drilling she had devised for the two of them. She would let them - especially Alice, whom it really affected most in any case - stew for a moment or two. She would return to the subject anon, let a detail or two loose in dribs and drabs, watch the flush of enforced exercise drain from young Alice’s face, the glowing glossy pink of exhaustion blanched white in the glare of realisation of what her future held in store, the plans that had been put in place behind her back.

  And why wouldn’t the girl pale at was to come, once she had learned more about the establishment she was destined to be consigned to. What late-teen girl, with all her future hopes and ambitions still bright in her imagination, would want to find herself, could even envisage herself incarcerated in a place like that? Why, most would be unable to believe or accept such a place might even exist, at least not in this day and age, in this modern word of ours.