by Victor Bruno
Then, one day, we heard that a new arrival was to be birched. Just as I had been. I felt sick to my stomach when I filed into the Hall and took my place on a bench. Pale and weeping, the poor young woman was led in ... to get twenty four strokes. My heart bled for her; I knew exactly what she was going to have to endure. She was tall and well-built and, after she had been secured over the wooden framework and had her garment lifted, her buttocks looked truly massive. They were two white gibbous moons of quivering soft flesh. She begged and pleaded incessantly but, of course, that made no difference.
She was flayed as savagely as I had been.
Flayed until her buttocks were like raw steak ... and the blood was running.
It was an inhuman display. But all part of the system. As they said, we were there to be reformed and reformed we would be. Watching one of our fellow-sufferers getting this kind of treatment was all part of it. The terrible screams that erupted from the girl seemed to ring in my ears for days afterwards.
After the laundry I was put to work in the kitchen gardens. As ever, grinding hard labour. Forking, digging, weeding, carting rubbish to and fro. Can you imagine what it’s like to go out on a freezing cold morning, at 6 a.m., to try and get a spade into the iron hard ground? But, if the patch allocated, was not dug in due time, no excuses were accepted.
Miss Brown continued to keep her eye on me.
Then, one day, she led me from the kitchen gardens to her quarters. She said, on the evidence of ground dug, I had been slacking. It wasn’t good enough. I needed to be taught that nothing but the hardest of hard work would satisfy.
So I stood, quaking, in that room again. What was I to get this time?
“Take off that garment and go and take a bath, Joan,” she ordered. “You look filthy.” She spoke as if that were my fault.
I did as she said, quite happily. A bath was an unheard of luxury. I wallowed in the water and soap, almost happily. Yet all the time aware of what was still to come. Having dried myself I came back into her room. Miss Brown was lounging in an armchair with boots off, wearing only a thin dressing gown.
She looked up and gave me a half smile. I stood there naked, trembling slightly, looking at the cane she held in her hand. She kept flicking it up and down. How supple it was, designed to whiplash into the flesh to hurt to the maximum.
“Have you thought things over, Joan?” asked Miss Brown.
“Y-Yes ... Miss ...” My brain was racing. Could I make myself go through with it? “And?”
“I ... I’m not quite sure, Miss.” Miss Brown stood up.
“Perhaps I can help you come to a decision,” she said. “For your slack work, I have been considering giving you eighteen strokes.” I froze inside. “On the other hand, under certain circumstances, that could be reduced to six. I imagine you would prefer six to eighteen?”
“Oh yes, Miss,” I answered fervently.
“Well then ... it’s in your hands.” Miss Brown slipped off her gown and stood as naked as myself. Then she approached and pressed her body against mine. It felt strange but not altogether unpleasant. Then she kissed me softly on the mouth. I was not used to such gentleness; only cruelty. Tears prickled at the back of my eyes. “I think you may like it more than you imagine,” said Miss Brown.
Then she was leading me towards her bed. I was in a kind of daze. Could this really be happening? I was entering new territory. Surely it wouldn’t be as bad as what I had done on Brighton beach with those brute men. Then Miss Brown was caressing my breasts. That felt nice. Tentatively I caressed hers back. “Good girl,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll learn fast.” Her hand moved down over my belly. “When we are together like this,” she said, “you may call me Joy.”
I said nothing ... just gasped. Her fingers had begun, gently, to titillate my sex lips. Unexpected thrills of pleasure went through me. It felt much nicer then crude maleness. Greatly daring, I slid my hand down between Joy’s thighs. They parted wider. She sighed happily as my fingers went to work. “Good girl,” she said again. Her fingers were now actively at work on my clitoris. I soon returned the compliment. Our mutual pleasure increased.
It was all so much easier and more pleasurable than I had imagined it would be. It was exciting, too. More and more exciting as time went by.
Joy began to gasp and pant. “Yes ... yes .... mmmmmm ... that’s lovely .... J-Joan ... oh lovely .... mmmmmmmmmm ......”
“Yes ... it is ... it is ...” I responded. Soon I was gasping and panting too. My haunches began to jerk ... and so did Joy’s. We were mounting to a climax together.
“Yyyyyeeesssss ..... aaaahhhh .... YESSSSSSSS!” “OOOOHHHHHH ..... YEESSSSSSSS!”
We spent ourselves simultaneously, squirming on top of the bed. Then, when it was over, we fell into each other’s arms, breathing heavily. I realised I hadn’t felt happier ... more content ... for years. In fact, had I ever felt so happy in my life?
At last Joy broke the silence. She had started caressing my breasts again and my nipples were very firm. “There’s an even nicer way of doing it,” she said.
“Yes?”
“With our mouths ...” I thought of her lips on my sex lips and a little spasm of excitement went through me. It would, I realised, feel delicious. Of course, I would have to do it to her too, but I no longer had qualms about that.
“It sounds very nice ... Joy ...” I ventured, greatly daring.
“We can do it to each other at the same time. We just have to turn around on each other. It’s called the sixty nine position.” We manoeuvred ourselves into position. I felt her lips and then her tongue. At once I pressed my lips to the wet warmth of her sex and probed my tongue, flickering it on her clitoris. I felt Joy shiver with delight. I was certainly learning fast. And loving it!
Within under five minutes we had both achieved another and even more powerful climax. Then, once more we laid contentedly in each other’s arms.
It was almost impossible to realise this was the same woman who had treated me so harshly in the past!
“How many did I say, Joan?” We were back in the real world. “S-Six ... Miss ...”
“Kneel in the armchair then,” she ordered. “No need to secure you for this.” I thought, after what had happened, she might have let me off altogether but, basically, she was still a warder with her duty to do. I knelt in the armchair, clasping the wooden knobs at the top.
The cane whistled and stung sharply but I realised at once that Miss Brown had used no more than half power. I did not even gasp. Relief flooded me. There was going to be no severity. She had said I could make life easier for myself.
And I was doing so.
I got six half power strokes and didn’t make a sound. It was, indeed, the mildest caning I had ever received in my life. Afterwards, she patted my bottom. “There,” she said, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No, Miss,” I replied. “Thank you, Miss.”
“Let’s keep it this way, Joan,” said Miss Brown. She came round and kissed me gently on the mouth.
“Yes ... oh yes, Miss!” I agreed fervently.
***
From that day on my life at Staverton improved. Miss Brown must have put the word around for less frequently did I get the order: “Bare it!” And when I did, I usually got a single stroke instead of two or three. Mark you, the work wasn’t any easier. It consisted of soul-destroying scrubbing, laundering and gardening. Back-breaking toil. But then again I got fitter and harder and was more able to cope with it.
I was summoned to Miss Brown’s quarters about once a week. Ostensibly it was to get a caning but, of course, it was for a very different reason.
Life continued in this fashion for another three months. Then I suddenly realised I had completed half my sentence.
Six more months to go.
It was not a plea
sant prospect but it was better than facing twelve months at the start of my sentence.
***
JOAN REEVES COMPLETES HER SENTENCE AND IS RETURNED HOME. IT IS NOT LONG BEFORE SHE BEGINS TO WONDER WHETHER IT MIGHT NOT BE BETTER TO BE BACK IN STAVERTON REFORM SCHOOL!
My enforced lesbian relationship with Miss Joy Brown brought me benefits in Staverton. My regime was eased and I was not thrashed so frequently or severely as were other girls. Also, I must confess, this relationship brought me pleasure and, to some degree, happiness. Never before, I realised, had I known anyone being kind to me ... even though, in this case, it was out of sexual lust.
All the same, I could not help but be grateful to Miss Joy Brown. I was wanted, desired, I gave pleasure. And I received pleasure. It helped to relieve the cold stones of Staverton, my bleak cell with its hard board bed, the daily ritual of rising at 5.30 a.m., then toiling through the day until 6 p.m.
We were certainly being reformed. I knew I would never commit another crime if it risked my being sent to such a hideous place again. I would submit to my family, to society, to the civil regime.
In short, Staverton broke me.
Sometimes I used to think about my sister Elsie and wonder how she was getting on. She must be almost eighteen by now, I reckoned. It occurred to me, in view of how I had behaved, Dad might be even more strict on her. Poor girl, she must be having a terrible time. No doubt Sergeant Faraday was aiding, abetting and encouraging Dad in his disciplinary methods. I wondered if Elsie had been thrashed over the armchair in the front room, before the Sergeant. More than likely. There could be no doubt that the man was a lecherous sadist. I dreaded coming into contact with him again.
After six months in Staverton, I was taken off the more arduous duties. I was allocated to cleaning and tidying the quarters of the warders including, naturally, those of Miss Joy Brown. She still seemed delighted by my sexual attentions and I began to realise, in view of my own pleasures, that I had been converted to lesbianism. Certainly I never wanted to have anything to do with men again.
But what I wanted and what was actually going to happen were quite two different things! Working in warders’ quarters was certainly easier, but it had its unpleasant side.
I soon discovered that Miss Joy Brown was not the only warder who wanted to enjoy my body. Quite a number of the ugly, middle-aged warders wanted my services. What else could I do but give them? Revolting as it was. Some of those women were real pigs and their demands were not only insatiable but outrageous. I knew, of course, that if I did not submit and comply, I would be returned to Staverton’s grinding regime. That I could not endure.
I took an easier way out but one, in many ways, which was no less difficult.
Many of the warders seemed to enjoy caning me, simply for their own sake. They made up complaints about my work which were not justified. So, time and again, I would have to ‘Bare it!’ and endure the Excruciating bite of the cane into my buttocks.
One of these warders actually strapped a replica of a male organ in erection on to herself and penetrated me with it. I cannot properly describe how horrible that was. I went to Miss Brown and described what had happened. All she did was smile cynically and say that she was afraid I would have to put up with that sort of thing from time to time. Did I want the matter reported to the Governor?
I certainly did not.
Lesbianism, loathing, toil and torment were the ingredients of my existence. As slow week followed slow week, it sometimes seemed it would never end. Did anyone in the outside world understand what horrors we young women had to endure? It is doubtful but, even if they had, they would probably have said we deserved all we were getting.
Could this possibly be true?
Birchings continued at intervals, as new arrivals came. Always all of us were forced to witness this inhuman horror as flesh was flayed from young female buttocks. It always seemed to me that, whatever she had done, no girl deserved such treatment. But my view, needless to say, were of no account.
The worst birching I ever saw was one of thirty six strokes. The girl in question was strong and powerfully-built. Big-breasted, big buttocked. She had the demeanour of a natural rebel. I gathered that this was her second visit to a Reform School.
They flogged her with pitiless venom, yet how brave she was. She did no more than expel whinnying gasps for the first dozen or so strokes. Then, as the skin came off her massive rump, they broke her. She howled and screamed and begged for mercy, just like all the others did. After the twenty fourth stroke she fainted three times but was always revived so that she could fully feel every one of the strokes which had been awarded her.
It was a savage exhibition ... one, during which, I saw Miss Brown, who was up on the dais, smiling seductively at me. There could be no doubt that such extreme cruelty excited her.
Another month went by.
My mouth was constantly at work; canes continued to fall with varying degrees of severity. One was on a treadmill of constant mental and physical suffering. My only relief was to be in the arms of Joy Brown. A deep affection had grown up between us.
Slowly, so slowly, time passed. Nine months, ten months. Only two more to go. On one occasion I asked Miss Brown if prisoners ever got remission. “No,” she replied simply, “why should they?”
Eleven months. One month to go. I began to get nervous about going home. What sort of reception would I get? Dad, I was sure, would not have changed his disciplinary ways. But, at least, there was one thing. I had now reached the age of twenty so that, in another year’s time, I would achieve adulthood. There would be nothing to keep me at home. The thought of being a free and independent person was difficult for me to grasp. That’s what institutions do to you.
In the week before I was due to be released, I was taken before the Governor. Plump and ruddy- faced, she looked her usual jovial self but beneath that veneer, I knew she had a heart of stone.
“Joan Reeve?” “Yes, Ma’am.”
“You are to be released in five days’ time.” “Thank you, Ma’am.”
“You have learn your lesson?”
“Y-Yes ... M-Ma’am ...” I had indeed! “And you consider yourself reformed?” “I do, Ma’am.”
“I am glad to hear it. For, if you ever land up here again, you will not only get a worse birching than when you first arrived, but you will endure an even stricter disciplinary regime. Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” My voice was little more than a whisper. The thought of ever returning to Staverton was too monstrous to be contemplated.
“Transport had been arranged for you.” “Thank you, Ma’am.”
“You may go.” I left that room with great relief.
***
On the morning of my release I collected what few belongings I had had when I arrived at Staverton. Also my clothes. The strangest thing of all was putting those clothes on. After the coarse grey dress I had had to wear for a year, they felt incredibly light and soft. And it seemed almost unnatural to be wearing a brassiere and a pair of knickers!
With beating heart I sat alone in a barely furnished room, wondering when my transport would arrive. I had already said my farewell to Miss Joy Brown and she made me promise to keep in touch. Perhaps, she suggested, we might sometime meet on the outside. I agreed.
I heard the tramp of approaching feet and the door opened. Miss Wainwright came in. She was the warder who had received me on arrival. She was followed by Sergeant Faraday. I gasped with shock at the sight of him. Hate and fury filled me. It was he who had arranged for me to be sent to Staverton in the first place - the most rigourous Reform School of all.
“Sergeant Faraday has kindly offered to run you home,” said Miss Wainwright. “It will save you getting public transport.” For me, the latter would have been far preferable!
Sergeant Faraday
stroked his brown moustache and looked at me in avuncular fashion, eyes roving as usual. The very sight of him made me feel sick. “I expect you’re glad this day has arrived Joan?” he said. I nodded.
“Yes, Sergeant,” I whispered.
Miss Wainwright led the way out, keys jangling. She unlocked the wicket gate of the main door and
I emerged into freedom.
If as such it could be described.
***
Sergeant Faraday was chatty and mock-friendly as he drove me homewards. Once or twice he patted my thigh that was nearest to him.
“Well, that’s all over then,” he said. He spoke as if it was something of little concern.
“Yes ...” My voice small and flat. It was horrible to be so close to him. I could not get over how he had helped Dad in punishing me. Enjoying doing it, I now fully realised.
“Going to be a better girl in future, I expect?” “Yes ...”
“I hope so. For your sake. Wouldn’t want to go back, eh?” “N-No ...” I shuddered.
“Treat you rough, did they?” “Yes ...”
“You get birched when you got there?” “Yes ...”
“Nasty ... having the skin taken off your bottom, I mean.” Oh how I hated him! Dwelling on it ... gloating! “Yes ...” “Get plenty of the cane?”
“Yes ...”
“How often?”
“Practically every day ...”
“My ... my ... no wonder you don’t want to go back!”
So it went on and on. One question after another. Questions that made me flush with rage and embarrassment. Pat ... pat ... on my thigh. “Expect your Dad will be glad to see you back ...”
I remained silent. That was the last straw.
***
Dad looked much the same when he opened the front door. A little fatter perhaps, a little more red- faced.
