The Academy

by Arabella Knight

  ‘Thank you, Clarissa,’ she purred.

  ‘Ma’am,’ acknowledged Clarissa.

  ‘Thank you, Miranda. Please take your allotted place at the breakfast table.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ mumbled Miranda meekly, her bottom ablaze.

  Breakfast was resumed. Tennyson was taken up where the grim reader with the braided hair had left off when the punishment commenced. Miranda nibbled a slice of lightly buttered toast and sipped from a cup of the camomile and raspberry tea poured out for her by a thoughtful, dark-eyed Asian beauty with exotic, shining black hair. Silence in the refectory reigned supreme, except for the Matron who continued to make a noisy affair of her bacon, kidneys and sausage. Miranda smiled a thank you at the beautiful Asian girl who returned the smile with large, brown eyes that had golden lights dancing in them.

  ‘Finish your breakfasts, girls, then to work. And no slacking. I will not have slackers. Hurry up,’ the headmistress said.

  ‘You. The greenband,’ Matron barked, wiping her greasy lips with a large, starched napkin. ‘I will see you up in the san straight away.’

  The Matron strode out of the refectory. Miranda slipped out of her seat and hurried out after the retreating Matron, who, without looking behind her, swept majestically on up the central staircase to stride resolutely down a white-walled landing hung with several sporting prints of the hunt. Miranda, hurrying to catch up, had a confused sense of packs of hounds, horses leaping over hedgerows and red-faced gentlemen in redder jackets as she passed.

  ‘In here,’ barked the imposing Matron who had proved so proficient when plying the leather strap across Miranda’s upturned bottom the evening before. Miranda stepped into the cool sanitarium which reeked of TCP.

  ‘Up on the scales,’ the Matron snapped briskly.

  Miranda obeyed. Matron checked her weight, noting it down on a clinical chart drawn up to record the details of the new girl.

  ‘Height. Against the scale, girl.’

  Miranda’s five feet ten and a half inches was written down beneath her weight of nine stones by the five-foot six-inch robust Matron who weighed in at a little over fourteen stones.

  ‘Tongue out.’

  A wooden spatula, like an ice lolly stick, depressed Miranda’s moist, pink healthy tongue.

  ‘Say aahh.’

  ‘Aahh,’ Miranda echoed obediently.

  ‘Vest up, girl.’

  Miranda’s hands fluttered nervously at her side. The Matron, a stethoscope plugged into her ears, raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Vest up, girl. I need to listen to your chest.’

  But Miranda still did not comply. Her vest remained tightly drawn down over her breasts and belly.

  ‘Are you disobeying my order, girl?’ the Matron half snarled, half whispered.

  Miranda remained stubbornly silent, gazing at the tiny lines around her tormentor’s mouth. The lips were dry, lipstick free. There were fine, grey creases in the creamy flesh of the thick neck.

  ‘Take a shower,’ snapped Matron, turning on her heel abruptly and striding out of the san. ‘I will return when you have come to your senses.’

  The white door closed soundlessly behind Matron. Miranda glanced around, spotted the opaque plastic shower curtain and stepped gingerly towards it.

  The cool tiles behind the shower curtain beckoned invitingly. Miranda relaxed, peeled off her green armband, vest, socks and tightly fitting white shorts and stepped under a stream of warm water which cascaded at the merest twist of a silver tap. The sparkling spray soothed her, drumming gently on her face, shoulders and softly swelling breasts. A warm rivulet coursed down the dark furrow between her recently punished buttocks, and around her pale feet the dancing bubbles eddied and disappeared, carrying away with them memories of the cruel stripes. Miranda sighed contentedly, as she gently soaped her belly and rounded thighs.

  ‘This should cool that warm arse of yours,’ snapped Matron, tearing back the plastic shower curtain and twisting the tap over towards cold. Miranda shrieked twice. Once with pure fright at the sudden, silent reappearance of Matron. Again, breathlessly, as the ice cold water sluiced the entire length of her shivering nakedness. Under the cold kisses of the icy deluge, her nipples peaked painfully, rising stiff and erect in rapid response. Fragile diamonds of water droplets sparkled in her pubic delta. The pale pink stripes of punishment across her broad, golden buttocks turned faintly blue as the cold water accelerated the mild bruising.

  ‘Out,’ Matron snarled, clearly in no mood to be trifled with.

  Miranda, teeth chattering, her eyes screwed tightly shut, stepped out of the freezing shower and found her soft limbs being swathed in a full size bath towel. Almost grateful for the warmth of the unexpected embrace, she yielded up to it completely, only dimly aware at first that Matron’s strong hands lay within the fabric to seek out and find her intimate parts. The two hands, firm and brisk, dried her neck, shoulders and arms, pausing after roughly towelling the generous breasts to squeeze and fondle their supple ripeness.

  Miranda’s breasts, fully and searchingly subjected to the thorough tactile exploration, were abandoned for her belly and inner thighs. The broad palms spread across her dripping wet, firm flesh, frequently straying to her rump to pat her joggling buttocks dry, before pausing to use her fingertips to investi gate the cleft that divided the two soft cheeks. Miranda stood rigid, unable to resist the intimate, dominant power to which she was being subjected.

  ‘Turn around,’ Matron commanded.

  Miranda obeyed.

  ‘Legs apart.’

  Miranda cringed as she felt Matron’s warm breath on the nape of her neck. Slowly, a quarter of an inch at a time, she parted her pale, tapering legs. Little puddles formed around her toes. She bit her soft lower lip as a handful of towel buried itself up between her thighs, roughly drying the satin skin of the soft, inner flesh and dragging abrasively against the labial folds. Miranda suppressed a squeak of protest and suffered the attentions of the supple, ruthless hands.

  Matron stepped slowly around her, coming to a stop immediately in front of her. Miranda automatically inched back. Matron took an intimate half-step forwards, her face, now a mere six inches from Miranda’s, seemed to be glazed with a playful half-smile mixed with a preoccupied frown of intense concentration.

  Miranda saw the look of remote, unfocused attentiveness in her tormentor’s pale, colourless eyes, which were now dilated by lust. It was as if Matron had cast her mind back to some remote moment in her life, trying to recollect if it had rained on her twelfth birthday. Something half remembered, elusive and yet unimportant seemed to be distracting her.

  The moments ticked by. The fingers within the thick towelling worked busily, worrying the tingling pink folds of flesh that partly sealed Miranda’s tender opening. Miranda stood, her bottom annoyed by the wet plastic shower curtain that clung lovingly to her nakedness. Her damp feet were splayed apart, her inner thighs receptively submitting to Matron’s towelled hands. A full eight minutes later, just as the first scent of Miranda’s excited fragrance tinged the air, Matron seemed to snap out of her trance and hurriedly gathered up the soft towelling into her capable arms.

  ‘Onto the examination table, girl. Up. Hurry. I haven’t got all day.’ This time the tone was slightly less harsh. Brisk but almost amiable.

  Miranda, conscious and resentful of the sticky moistness oozing where Matron’s devilish hands had been so busy, stumbled numbly up onto a long, low examination couch which had been prepared with a paper sheet. Matron, deft and professional, checked Miranda’s eyes and ears and then monitored her heart and lungs. After taking her blood pressure and pulse, she pronounced herself to be satisfied.

  ‘On your tummy. Over.’

  Miranda rolled over obediently, squashing her generous, naked breasts beneath her as she lay face down. Matron’s broad, firm hand came to rest gently, pink palm down, across the swell of the upturned bottom.

  ‘Such a pert, pretty bottom. Such a naughty
girl. You have been very naughty, haven’t you? Hmm?’ Matron asked in a bright tone, as if discussing some more pleasant, lighter topic. One could have discussed the seasonable weather in exactly that politely interested tone.

  Miranda remained silent.

  ‘You have been naughty, haven’t you?’ Matron persisted, her voice darkening a shade.

  Miranda murmured something about there having been a misunderstanding.

  ‘Such a pretty bottom. A pleasure to punish, I’m sure,’ Matron crooned, massaging the soft pillows of pliant flesh with a gentle vigour. ‘Are you regular?’

  Miranda was nonplussed.

  ‘Iama firm believer in regularity. Laxatives and roughage are all very well in their way, I suppose, but I find an enema much the best thing. Shall we have an enema? Yes, I do believe we shall. Stay still, my dear.’

  Patting Miranda’s naked rump tenderly, Matron turned to open a cupboard and took down a large plastic jug, a length of rubber hose, some gloves and a small tube of clear lubricant. Miranda’s toes turned up in a tight curl of anxious anticipation, as if Matron were wielding the strap once more. She gritted her teeth. Should she resist? Could she resist? Any disobedience and this monster could, and undoubtedly would, summon help with the touch of a bell press. With painful consequences for Miranda. The First Position, or perhaps the more shameful and painful Second Position.

  The white tiled room started to spin around. Miranda’s troubled brain swirled. Was there to be no end to this nightmare? Would her naturally fierce pride snap as it was prone to do, earning her even more humiliation and pain?

  At the sink, Matron filled the plastic jug with warm water, then returned to the examination couch. Attaching a funnel to one end of the rubber hose, she dabbed the snout of the other end with the lubricant jelly.

  ‘On your side, please. Knees up to your tummy. That’s the way.’

  As if in a dreadful dream, Miranda obeyed. The watching, wakeful part of her brain knew that to resist would incur an instant caning. Or worse. Shuddering, eyes very close to unbidden, bitter tears, she lay passively awaiting the horror and indignity that was to overtake her. The cold, slippery snub nose of the rubber tubing tickled the lower part of the dark cleft between her clenched buttocks.

  ‘Relax.’ The tone was firm, brooking no denial of the command. The nozzle poked and probed inquisitively, finally finding the tight rosebud of the sphincter’s whorl. Imperceptibly, at first, it worried the pale pink muscle and then, with infinite slowness, slipped inside and wormed its way upward.

  Miranda clenched her fists, trying desperately to deny the indignity. A wave of self-disgust broke over her as the length of cold rubber inched up inside her bottom. Then a strange, unfamiliar sensation swept over her, starting in the remote distance of her consciousness and growing stronger and clearer like an approaching light. Falling a considerable way short of delight or pleasure, it was more of a tickling anticipation. Horrified at even the merest glimpse of this unbidden emotion on her inner horizon, Miranda struggled to fight down the subtle, seductive twinge. She could not, as yet, define or name the curious, disturbing sensation.

  The warm water trickled down the funnel, along the length of the rubber tube and into her innermost parts. Soon, it was flooding the anal canal and surging into her colon. The warmth burgeoned within her, and the sensations were decidedly pleasing, if the circumstances were unpleasant.

  Miranda felt utterly helpless. The absoluteness of Matron’s power over her became a palpable thing. To her horror and shameful surprise, the earlier feelings swam into crisp focus: she wished that her vague feelings of helplessness were more concrete. If only her hands were rendered immobile, or Matron would pin her down firmly. Perhaps her ankles could be bound.

  The notion was fleeting but intense. Miranda, now fully aware of what her yearnings truly were, was filled with self-disgust and banished the lurid images away almost immediately. Almost. They lingered, leaving a trace of their presence on her mind. Nevertheless, Miranda smarted at the recognition of these urges as she would smart if lashed on the naked buttocks by a strap or supple cane.

  The enema completed, Miranda shuddered as the nozzle was gently eased out from her bottom. She shivered as it left her with a faint ‘plop’. Fighting down the rising tide of humiliation that surged up within her, Miranda lay back, her eyes tightly shut.

  ‘Slip into that cubicle over there, my girl. It should take effect shortly.’

  Miranda, still naked and blushing furiously, walked gingerly over to the WC. She clenched her buttocks tightly, terrified of the consequences of relaxing her inner muscles. Burning with the unaccustomed flame of raw shame and humiliation, she sat down on the gleaming white porcelain bowl and, moments later, having passed wind furiously, submitted to nature as it took its violent course.

  ‘There. That’s much better, I’m sure. We must do this every morning, my girl. Now get dressed. Come along,’ Matron barked sternly. ‘Quickly, girl. Mrs Boydd-Black awaits.’

  Miranda, trembling, and weak after her experience, hastily wriggled into her tight, white shorts and figure hugging cotton vest. Out of the corner of a wary eye she saw the examination table on which she had so recently undergone such indignities. Her face flushed as a dark thought clouded her mind. Had she really, at some imprecise point in the ordeal, actually wanted to submit utterly and completely to that improbable monster? Her eyes sparkled. She blinked. Had she really nurtured, or even harboured somewhere deep down in her remote subconscious, the desire to be totally dominated by Matron — submitting to the fierce delights of being rendered helpless by the cruel strictures of bondage? Miranda shook her head as one would shake disbelief, or the dregs of sleep out of one’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Miranda. Tomorrow morning. Be prompt,’ Matron grinned.

  ‘Thank you, Matron,’ Miranda murmured in her daze of confusion.

  ‘You will work in the kitchen for a settling-in period. Simple, menial tasks. But important. Cleanliness is vitally important, so attend to your tasks with care and probity. We are a sizeable community here at the Academy. Six members of staff and nineteen naughty girls.’

  Mrs Boydd-Black was warming to her theme. It was her favourite topic of conversation. The Academy. The structure, the rules, the regulations and the punishments.

  ‘As a greenband, or reception girl, you will have to earn lots and lots of merits before we can consider promoting you up to the next grade. It is, I believe, a long and frequently painful journey. After green, red. Then up to blue, where there is the extra responsibility of administering punishments to the lower grades. And finally gold, or leavers as we like to call them. Clarissa is a blue band. She will be both mentor and monitor to you. Understand?’

  Miranda, hands at her side, blonde head downcast, nodded.

  ‘Clarissa has absolute control over you. Listen to her and obey. We believe in delegating our duties here at the Academy. It is both character building and character forming. And remember. One day, in time, you may well become a mentor to a new girl. You will, through judicial discipline and control, exercise supreme authority over some new greenband reception girl. Prepare yourself to undertake those duties carefully. Listen. Learn. Obey.’

  The headmistress paused, finished the thimble of dry sherry she had been sipping, and placed the tiny cut glass down on an occasional table. Head tilted back, chin jutting out, she turned, calling back, ‘Come along, girl. Don’t dawdle. This way to the kitchen.’

  Down in the warm basements, where dry, warm flagstones kissed the naked soles of her feet, Miranda was put to work alongside the large-eyed Asian girl who had smiled encouragingly at her earlier that morning. The task was simple. Scrubbing pots and greasy pans. They worked in the obligatory silence for a quarter of an hour, under the ever vigilant, sharp eye of the stern woman with the braided hair who had read to the community at breakfast. A leather strap dangled from a loop stitched into her tightly-waisted skirt.

  Miranda studied her fellow sufferer obl
iquely. A slim, willowy girl, whose pale gold skin was delicious against the crisp white vest and shorts. A leaver, Miranda noticed. The golden armband was almost invisible set against the honey-hued forearm. Why was a leaver, the most senior rank, doing something so menial as washing up? Miranda frowned.

  Soft footsteps padded up the stone steps. Their supervisor had departed.

  ‘Jaya,’ whispered the Asian beauty, her smile broad and warm.

  Miranda replied, giving her own name.

  The thick coil of lush, dark hair worked itself loose from Jaya’s head and tumbled down her pale nape. Her arms deep in warm suds, Jaya was unable to rescue and capture it. Miranda shrugged, grinned, wiped her hands and gathered up the gorgeous tresses. The spontaneous intimacy of the act drew the girls together.

  ‘It is all very alarming at first. But do not be very afraid. You will soon learn. I could tell. At breakfast. You are strong.’

  ‘Not very,’ Miranda admitted. ‘How long have you been here?’

  Jaya frowned.

  ‘It is strange you ask me that,’ she replied.

  ‘Strange?’ Miranda echoed.

  ‘Most girls simply ask when am I going.’

  Miranda nodded.

  ‘Of course. The gold band. You should be going soon.’

  Jaya drooped her head.

  ‘I am not sure,’ she said sadly. ‘I have displeased Matron. That is why I am back here scrubbing pots like a greenband.’

  ‘Matron is strange,’ Miranda said, ‘not a woman to upset.’

  ‘I have been here seven months and already I have eighty-seven merits.’

  ‘Only thirteen to go,’ Miranda said enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes, but Matron is displeased with me. It is difficult. I have not been whipped or caned for a week, but my luck may not hold.’

  Miranda shuddered. A brooding silence settled over them. Then Jaya spoke. Softly. ‘Miranda?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Did you see Matron this morning?’

  Miranda blushed as she nodded.