Alice Under Discipline, Part 2

by Garth ToynTanen

  Even then, on occasion they might be awakened at some point during the night. Usually this was put down to some ‘infringement’ noted by the dormitory mistress - something perpetrated by one of their number, the consequences of which had to be suffered by all. Other times their arousal from slumber was seemingly entirely random, no explanation given, and apparently as much due to the woman’s whim and her vindictive nature as to her ‘keeping order’ in the dorm.

  Thin-lipped, plump, generously wide-hipped, buxom yet austere looking, her jet black hair habitually pinned up in a bun, the dormitory mistress wore something akin to a nurse’s uniform, a starched white cambric pinafore apron over a calf-length navy-blue dress that rustled and hissed against her black stockings as she walked, her high heels clicking on the wooden parquet flooring. A broad elasticated crape belt with a large ornate silver clasp buckle went around a waist clearly narrowed with the aid of old-time corsetry and was worn over both apron and dress, a bunch of keys hanging from it on one side and a broad leather strap from a loop on the other.

  She sat the night away at a desk with her back to the security gate that separated the long, narrow room from the double doors that in turn gave on to the corridor beyond, facing the length of the twin rows of old hospital style iron-framed beds. The twin doors beyond the iron grille security blockade behind her were themselves kept locked from the outside at night, making the dormitory very much her own domain for those few fleeting hours, and giving the undoubted tedium of her own duties she was only too keen to happen upon some untoward occurrence or other. She thought nothing of having the bleary-eyed girls dress in their school uniforms and stand to attention for inspection at the foot of their beds. Then she’d have them pop their pyjamas back on, carefully folding each and every item of their uniforms in precise detail, before - if having failed their inspection, as they almost always did - having them once again re-dress in their gymslips and blouses and all the rest.

  She’d inspect everything, every tiny little detail; the school tie had to be perfectly knotted, the blouse fully buttoned, the gymslip’s skirt not creased and falling correctly to mid thigh, the little waist cape tied correctly with a bow at the neck, hair plaited and tied with bows at exactly collar height. Even their knickers would be inspected to ensure they were pulled up sufficiently snugly to achieve the requisite fit where it mattered. Not a ripple was to be seen in the fabric encasing the buttocks, no trace of the back seam was to be observable but had to be properly buried away deep within the cleft of the bottom, delineating the cheeks, and at the front the fabric had to form a groove-like invagination or channel sufficient that she could trace a fingertip along it.

  The slightest defect or uniform infringement detected in any one of their number and it would be ‘knickers down’ a swipe of her cane across the bare buttocks and then ‘knickers up’ - for all of them, the dormitory mistress walking along the line with them all bent double grasping their ankles and slashing her cane across each pair of buttocks in turn. Then it would all start again, from scratch; back into their pyjamas, fold and hang their school uniforms and wait for the command to re-dress. On and on it would go, four or even five times in succession, until she was finally happy with the inspection. Only then would they be allowed back to their beds and the chance to get back to sleep, though sleep didn’t always come easy when a girl had three, four or even five stinging, throbbing cane lines across her bottom. This was especially the case when that grid of screaming torment was arranged to form the image of a five-bar gate, the first four cuts having been landed horizontally across the buttocks with the fifth laid diagonally across them - where the overlap occurred was agony. But there was another, subtler, dimension to the punishment that could be called into play on occasion and could threaten a girl’s re-attainment of sleep.

  That variation on the torment was called into play whenever any one individual failed her inspection three times on the trot. If it was a different girl each time that slipped up, that was one thing. If it was down to one single girl, then that was another matter - although they would still have all received a stroke of the cane each time she fell short. That one individual girl, having failed the rest thrice, the dormitory mistress would have spend the rest of the night standing absolutely motionless with her hands on her head facing her desk while dressed in her pyjamas as if made ready for bed. And woe betide her if she fidgeted or failed to maintain the required posture; fingertips just touching and with her shoulders pulled back and elbows directly out to the sides.

  Woe betide all of them! That was the part that denied them sleep. At any moment, under such circumstances, they knew, all of them, that at any moment they could be roused and pulled from their beds. The girl in question would suffer the tortures of the dammed under the dorm mistress’s cane or strap - that she knew well; she’d been that girl on two occasions now. It was quite a feat to leave the multitude of parallel lines printed across the full width of a girl’s buttocks with the accuracy the dormitory mistress was capable of, but she could attest to the woman’s skill - and to the fortitude of her right arm, even if the woman’s cane had given out and splintered on one of those occasions. The real punishment, that part of it that applied to the rest of them and that denied them their sleep even if the girl under correction lasted the night and didn’t fold, came when the girl was put to some task and the others would be roused to join her. Polishing the flooring was her favourite, with the promise they would all be allowed their beds once the task was completed to her satisfaction; all except the girl under correction of course, who was set to spend a sleepless night whatever the outcome.

  But such work was not something that ought to be carried out in pyjamas and so a cupboard would be opened and their work dresses issued, the whole ‘workhouse uniform’ as it was referred to, exactly what she had on at this very moment - and those slaving around her also. The rubberised longline open-bottomed girdle, ‘devised to encourage growing young ladies avoid slumping and slouching’ zipped up the back and required they help each other in fastening it, something that had to be accomplished in silence as talking was forbidden. Six ugly metal suspender clips - three each side hanging on broad white straps - had to be fastened to thick tan fully-fashioned stockings, the seams to be kept straight at all times. A thick, plain full-length white nylon under slip with ‘built up’ shoulders, coming to just above the knee, could be stepped into and pulled up, but fastening up its rear by way of a zipper running from the waist to the neck this again required the silent, unspoken, cooperation of a neighbour. The frock itself was pulled on like a coat, was of heavyweight nylon, and buttoned from the hem at the knee to the neck by way of chunky glass-like plastic buttons. The fitted bodice had a single breast pocket - actually a dummy - embroidered with the name of the institution and a coat of arms or logo of some sort and was delineated from the flared skirt by way of an integral belt of the same fabric. The latter, sewn in place, ran around the waist and was fastened at the front by two more of those ghastly glassy buttons. Hair had to be combed out, French plaited and then tucked away under a matching bottle-green cap that had a raised front that made it look humiliatingly like a maid’s cap. A plastic-lined nylon apron then had to be tied around the waist, this with just the right size, shape and size of bow - another silently cooperative task.

  The knickers were always the last to go on, requiring a girl lift her skirt and under-slip to her waist in order to struggle in to the snug-fitting high-waisted ‘passion killers’. These were thick white nylon things with a silky, silvery Elastane front panel, a rubberised internal lining and a tight rubber waistband that latched on to the waist of the girdle or corselette like glue once in place. But none of this mattered one iota when it came to ‘correction’, as all this prim decency came to a halt at the point of the knickers. The broad, tight, elasticated crotch panel dwindled to little more than a finger’s width of coverage when it came to the back seam, and this pulling tightly into the cleft, leavin
g two circular openings through which the wearer’s buttocks were forced to protrude, drawn apart somewhat obscenely by the elasticity of the fabric and perfectly presented for the attentions of the cane or other implement as and when necessary.

  And it went without saying that given the obligatory customary inspection such correction was always deemed necessary, at least, once before they could get down on their bended knees and begin polishing their way to a sleepless night. That latter was almost always how it turned out under such circumstances. All that dressing and undressing took time, let alone the task itself and the likelihood - or rather, lack of likelihood - of the dormitory mistress being satisfied first time round. And of course an unsatisfactorily carried out task meant yet more attention from the woman’s cane not to mention a sarcastic tongue lashing under that withering, wintry smile of hers. It was small wonder that sleep became next to impossible once she had a girl up there standing stock-still in front of her desk. Holding such a posture was distressing enough, particularly after several hours. It was so much more so when sleep deprived and with a bottom blazing as if sat on hot coals.

  There was never enough sleep as it was. It made it so difficult not to be swept away with the undercurrent of the place when one was so weary, both physically and mentally, especially when one was called to the psychologist’s office. It was surprising how often one of the dormitory mistress’s late night uniform inspection’s or middle-of-the-night floor polishing tasks seemed to coincide with the psychiatrist’s interview being the next day. It was even more notable how often a girl facing one of the more important psychological appraisals found herself spending the night before facing the dorm mistress’s desk. She had fallen foul of that particular coincidence both times she had found herself the target of the mistress’s wrath.

  Standing in front of a trained psychologist, herself seated comfortably at her desk, while dressed in an extraordinarily prim, very infantile school uniform and already somewhat sleep-deprived - even before suffering a sleepless night courtesy of the dorm mistress - was it any wonder the woman was able to wheedle so much from her? Yes she had tried to stand her ground, but her mind had been a fog and a caning takes on a whole different dimension when one is dressed in a childish school uniform, especially when delivered by a professional, authoritative woman like a psychologist while held down by her nurse.

  She remembered vividly how her female tormentors had each taken a vice-like grip around her upper arms, how her legs had become like two strands of spaghetti in response to the shock, how she had been dragged face-down across the doctor’s desk, the nurse in her blue-check dress and white cap taking her by the wrists from the far side and smiling into her eyes. She recalled seeing the doctor, the unit’s psychologist, slipping out of her white doctor’s coat before hanging it on the coat stand in the corner and retrieving the cane that had been hanging there by its crook handle, her tailored black leather skirt glossy under the light from the desk lamp and her white satin blouse seeming to shimmer.

  She’d cried out, more in shock than in pain at the first cut of the woman doctor’s cane, and then burst into tears when she heard what the woman had to say.

  “I’m afraid no-one can hear you who cares about you, Alice. And I will just keep going until such a time as you quieten and show yourself ready to cooperate in your treatment.”

  She had managed to respond, albeit in a low strangled whisper “yes... yes...” meaning she was already willing to cooperate, but they were having none of it. The cane had slashed down a second time and the nurse - she remembered it had been the nurse, somehow it had added to the humiliation - had bellowed “yes what, child?” the harshness of her voice at odds with the blue-eyed prettiness of her face.

  She had managed a sobbing, contrite “yes miss” but guessed it had been too little too late. She had heard the whistle of the cane slicing through the air even as the words had come blubbering out of her mouth. Her tears had begun raining down on the doctor’s blotter then, the dark green stains diffusing ever outward, merging and coalescing and becoming one with the trickle of drool that she remembered had run down her chin. She remembered too the doctor’s diatribe, each sentence separated from the next by a swish of the cane:

  “You are a runaway, Alice, a delinquent, but there are no places to run to here. This is a much respected institution. It has many influential friends, all of whom would be only too eager to play their part in ensuring that any naughty girl who might try to turn to the legal profession, for example, would be returned forthwith to our care. And you can forget any thoughts you might have about running to the police. In fact, once I have a diagnosis and my recommendations have been backed up by certain other individuals - as I assure you they will be - their duty will be as it always has been towards any misguided girl who might manage to abscond; to bring you straight back. Your days of as a runaway are over, my girl.”

  But there was another technique the woman could use, once she’d got a girl in her office, one that did not rely on the pain of corporal punishment or on a young woman’s dependency on her prescribed medicinal support. The woman had a psychological trick she could use, a trick that could quickly undermine a young woman’s self-confidence like almost nothing else. She had seen it used as a stage act on television, but the practitioner then had released the subject from the effect. The institution’s psychologist didn’t do that, indeed her practice was to reinforce it, to strengthen the effect with every visit, to add to it.

  It seemed innocuous, a simple statement, something along the lines of; ‘I’m sure you won’t ever forget your name... you won’t ever forget it... will you?’ Then she’d ask you your name, just out of the blue, mid-conversation... and it just wouldn’t come. She’d badger and bully: ‘come on, come on... it’s on the tip of your tongue... feel it on the tip of your tongue... see the letters, try and sound them out, like a foreign language, the way it sounds strange on the tip of your tongue...’ but it just would not come. The harder she had tried, the harder it had become, until she had broken down in tears of frustration. She had been dismissed from the psychologist’s office in that state.

  For a time she’d wondered if it would wear off but they didn’t use names here, you were numbered and addressed by that number or more usually simply as ‘girl’. She’d tried saying her name to herself, quietly - talking out loud was not permitted unless spoken to - and found she could, for a while. But if asked by a member of staff she could not dredge it up. Far from wearing off, each time it was mentioned it got worse until she could not even whisper it to herself any more. She could sort of hear the sound in her head, though it sounded strange now, but was completely unable to enunciate it - it had become subject to a complete mental block. Her age and date of birth had been next, both attributes having now been placed out of reach to her.

  She tried to not listen to the woman’s suggestions, but there was always something the woman would slip in at some point. And it was impossible to spot when something subliminal was being slipped in to the conversation, especially if it was something secondary, something pertaining to her but mentioned in passing to the nurse that always accompanied her to the doctor’s office.

  It was with some effort that she dragged her mind back to the drudgery of her work. The vast majority of it came in from ‘outside’. It was a commercial enterprise of quite substantial profitability, or so she surmised. The heap presently teetering in front of her was ‘internal’ - the outpourings of the institution itself. It consisted of an untidy pyramidal mishmash of bottle green and white, a mess of sweaty nylon and polyester, creased serge, crumpled crinkling plastic, wrinkled rubber and dubiously stained terry cloth.

  The latter came in wads zipped up within steamy looking plastic bags lined inside with beads of moisture, the fermented outcome of days left lying about in a warm room someplace. Dealing with these was the most distasteful, something to be dreaded and left to last lest she vomit over the res
t - as she had done on a previous occasion - and receive a ‘bottom warming’ from the overseeing nun for doing so. A single tug on the plastic zipper would be enough to send the contents spilling out. Sharp, nose-stinging ammonia, the dull noxious musky pungency of mildew and that odd mucousy discharge sweetness would explode in her face, all of it mixed up with that ever-present hospitalised scent of disinfectant. She tossed each squishy, squidgy package to one side, each landing on the metal bench top with a dull heavily-wet thud, and returned to the rest.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE TETHERED GIRLS

  Wiping that peculiarly starch-laden, fabric-scented laundry-sweat from her brow with the stiffened cuff of her nylon work frock, Alice was again swamped with self-recrimination, as so often she was these days when put to work in this way. It was the act of treachery that had procured her this relatively light duty that furrowed her brow and turned her stomach. It was an entirely separate part of that bargain that wool-wrapped her coddled mind and oiled the tracks of her thoughts.

  Her concentration slipped, slithered and skidded uneasily from track to track, from past to present to future; more often than not - as now - alighting on the recent past. But then; such was the lot of a traitor... And all the girl had been trying to do was help her... albeit in so doing to help herself in some way - perhaps aid all of them, help all of them get out of this place? No, there was no question about it; she should have taken the cane, not condemned another to something far worse in her stead...