‘Did she give you an enema?’
Miranda’s blush deepened.
‘Do not be shy. We all suffer under her hands. Some more than others. She is not kind. The other staff have to punish but they are kind. Matron is not. And she has a way of touching…’
Miranda nodded again.
‘She makes you feel strange. Makes you think things.’
Miranda wrestled with a large, heavy black bottomed frying pan and placed it on the shelf.
‘That’s true, Jaya,’ she said. ‘I felt exactly the same. I couldn’t believe the thoughts I was having. Ugh.’ Miranda shivered.
‘Be careful. Matron has the evil touch. I am full of shame when her hands have found me out.’
Miranda gazed directly into Jaya’s large, dark eyes.
‘That is so true. I felt just like that myself. I couldn’t believe it. Oh, Jaya. This place terrifies me. I feel as though I am in a nightmare. I wish I could just wake up.’
Miranda felt a sudden surge of close friendship, companionship and affection for this gentle, honest Asian girl. She needed a trusty friend and felt that she had probably found one.
‘Do not worry,’ Jaya said sympathetically. ‘You will feel frightened and confused. But it will pass. All will get better in time. Slowly, at first. But better, in time. Believe me. And I will look after you if you will let me.’
Miranda, normally so proud and aloof, nodded her willing assent. Then, stung by a sudden curiosity, asked, ‘Why are you… I mean, what did you …?’
Jaya laughed.
‘I am Indian,’ she replied, ‘born just outside Ascot, actually. Daddy is very strict. He wanted that I marry a banker from Bihar state.’
‘Bihar? Which part?’ Among Miranda’s ancestors she counted a District Governor or two who had propped up the Empire.
‘Most of it. The family are very, very rich. Almost as rich as Daddy,’ Jaya shrugged. ‘I wanted to go up to Cambridge. To read Law. There was so much trouble. I ran away. They had me snatched and dragged back. Daddy knew a man, a business acquaintance. A solicitor. I hate that solicitor. He brought me to this evil place. I can leave when I agree to marry the Bihar banker.’
‘Will you?’ Miranda asked breathlessly, both fascinated and appalled by the story she had just heard.
‘It is simply dreadful for you, Jaya. You must go up to Cambridge. And read Law. And marry who you like. I mean, love. Oh, Jaya, what will you do?’
‘Exactly what she is told,’ crackled an angry voice behind them.
Miranda spun around and saw the stern faced woman. She had returned silently and overheard their rebellious talk.
‘You are not making a very good beginning, are you Miranda? First Position, girl. Shorts down, please.’
Slowly, deliberately, as if pausing to savour the moment, the stern white fingers gathered up the supple leather belt from her waist and flexed it, sensuously.
Shorts around her white-stockinged ankles, blonde hair hanging down freely, Miranda placed her pale hands behind her knees and gripped hard as she had been carefully instructed. The warm air of the kitchen played almost affectionately on her naked buttocks. The soft leather strap tapped her fully exposed, upturned bottom.
‘Feet together, girl,’ came the crisp command.
Miranda obeyed, clenching her teeth and squeezing her eyes shut tight. The leather quickened and flickered into life, whistled through the air and snapped down with a loud crack on her soft, satin flesh. A cruel swipe of dead flesh on living skin. Miranda squealed as her beautiful bottom took the first of five stinging lashes.
Chapter Three
Fat wood pigeons, swollen by their success in the surrounding harvest fields, murmured dreamily in the denuded branches of trees that had slowly begun to disrobe their leaves some weeks since in strict obedience to autumn’s stern command. Their muted notes stole softly into Miranda’s dreams. She opened her eyes, blinked, then remembered. It was Saturday morning. Of that much she was sure. She had been at the Academy exactly one week and one day.
Suddenly, the quick pulse of anxiety that was never fully dormant fluttered through her brain. Had first bell been sounded? Had second bell been rung? She jumped out of her bed and ran to the door of the small, forlorn dormitory. Outside, in the empty passageways and along the cold landings, all was silent and still. Her heart slowed down from its sudden surge of beating and she breathed a little more calmly.
Shivering slightly as the early morning chill caressed her soft nakedness, she returned to her narrow bed. What time was it? Six-thirty? Seven-forty-five? She simply had no idea. The Academy had no clocks visible, and all the girls incarcerated there were denied the privilege of wearing a watch. All activities were tightly timetabled, and whether it was to supper or to punishment, the girls were summoned by bells.
Punishment. Miranda stretched out luxuriously, enjoying her stolen moments of peaceful solitude. The narrow bed was warm where her soft body had curled and slept, but the furthest parts of the taut linen remained deliciously, sensuously cool. Her warm, naked feet sought out and relished these virginal corners of her bed.
Punishment. As she lay on her back, her legs stretched wide apart, Miranda’s brain produced a fast forward mental video of the events she had experienced or witnessed over the past eight days.
Pause. Rewind. Clarissa caning her, with a reluctant severity, before her first breakfast. Pause. Fastforward. The daily ordeal with Matron. The cold nozzle of the rubber tubing inching up inside her bottom. Forward. Pause. The silly little redhead with the large, green eyes being spanked resoundingly. Spanked so severely for merely running down the sweeping staircase and laughing. Hold. The girlish redhead being spanked.
Miranda’s cool fingertips fluttered below the gentle swell of her taut belly, tenderly exploring and rustling the fringe of her pubic down. Eyes screwed up tightly, she sharpened the focus of the mental imagery. The redhead, pinned firmly over the knees of the dominant headmistress, Mrs Boydd-Black, her naked, golden bottom squirming as it writhed under the punishing hail of stinging slaps. Miranda’s fingers strummed her soft, sensitive folds of secret flesh. They moistened and parted like a rosebud annointed by sunbeams.
Hold. Rewind. Pause. The image was fixed. It burned like a shimmering, dancing flame. The muscles around Miranda’s belly tightened.
The redhead. Naked, pinioned and punished. Fluttering feet threshing the empty air as the spanking commenced. Squeals punctuating the loud smacks. Miranda’s fingers quickened as they scrab-bled at the tingling, honey-dewed lips of flesh centred within her firm, splayed thighs.
The redhead’s tiny white shorts pathetically abandoned on the deep crimson carpet at the foot of the sweeping staircase, like a flag of surrender, were etched behind her eyelids. Smack. The reddening cheeks. Smack. Smack. A thin squeal. Miranda conjured up the sounds of the punishment.
Rewind. Search. Pause. The images of the Academy became fluid once more as they spilled like quicksilver through her brain. She scanned her molten memory banks for more. More vivid memories to fuel the throbbing engine at the base of her glistening belly. Feeding her vortex of excitement, she glimpsed with her inner eye a myriad of freeze-frames showing snatches of the punishments seen and heard.
Punishments. The swishing strokes of a cane thrumming in the air. The harsh barking snap of a searing strap. The ruthless crack of a supple leather belt stinging naked buttocks. The white blur of a firm hand on soft, pink cheeks.
Miranda’s finger plucked and punished her own wetness rhythmically, her frenzy fed by the lava flow of hot, liquid imagery. Breathing heavily through her nose, her throat and neck muscles spasmed and tightened like knotted cord. Her full hips rose up as her arched spine shuddered and quivered. A warm rush suffused her loins.
It was coming. About to break over her like a violent thunder storm in summer. Soon. Soon. Her brain blazed, frantic to explode from her inner tumult into the ravishing climax.
Suddenly, to her confusion and alarm, the
dominant image was of Matron. Matron pinning Miranda’s naked body down on the examination table in the white-tiled san and inserting the enema tubing up into her vulnerable, exposed bottom.
Yes. Miranda surrendered to the powerfully overwhelming image, suddenly yearning for a taste of bondage. She manipulated the image, adding the picture of Matron binding her wrists and ankles. Yes.
Miranda ground the palm of her hand down into the pulsing wetness between her thighs, gyrating flesh upon flesh until the surging climax broke. With a low, feral groan that melted into a deep, protracted sigh, the orgasms fluttered and rippled belly-outwards until every nerve and muscle shivered and tingled as she was scorched by the lambent flames of fulfilment.
Turning over in her narrow bed, she buried her face into the single, hard pillow. Her eyes were tightly shut, her mouth slack and open with drained passions. Flooded and almost drowning in the sensations of submission and utter surrender to dominant forces, Miranda unconsciously raised her naked bottom up, as if offering it willingly for savage punishment. A punishment she found herself keenly wanting and curiously welcoming. The last waves of the ebbing orgasm licked and lapped within her sweat-soaked thighs. She had surrendered to the new-found delight completely.
Later, sitting up in the bed, her chin resting pensively on her hunched knees, Miranda wrestled with the troublesome thoughts that worried and confused her. Haunted by the burning image of her surrender to domination and control in her fantasy, her wish for bondage and humiliation at the hands of the capable Matron, Miranda was brooding and feeling distinctly uneasy. From what depths had it peeped out into the crimson and golden explosions in her brain?
The climax had been her most powerful, most delicious and most ravishing ever, but the images that had fuelled it were alien to her. A naturally confi-dent, strong-willed and headstrong girl, fully used to giving and not taking orders, she could make no sense of her capitulation, just on the brink of the paroxysm of climax, to deep desires for subjugation and self-surrender. True, she was discovering new sensations, unsuspected and strange delights and undiscovered yearnings since her arrival at the Academy.
The aged, mellow Queen Anne building was a heavenly façade housing a physical and psychological hell within. And within those deceptively sober walls, walls so solid they deadened the shrieks of those punished inside, Miranda had become exposed to a range of new sensations and privations. Cold lino under naked feet, feet familiar only with the deepest pile. The taut stretch of her brief, white uniform over her voluptuous body, a body more accustomed to the kiss of silk and the caress of satin. New scents and smells. Girls freshly scrubbed with carbolic soap and corridors where boiled cabbage lingered. The smell of chalk dust in the sunbeamsandofwaxedandpolishedwooden floors.
Perhaps these, and many other, strange aspects of her spartan life under the strict regime at the Academy had kindled dark desires. Or could they be the result of the emotional and psychological turmoil she had undergone? She was certainly wrestling with many forms of inner conflict. Always fiercely proud, she was quickly and painfully learning to curb and bridle herself, and where once she would have spoken out brusquely in her kitten-quick-tempered manner, she was restraining herself for fear of the sharp lash of discipline. Logic and control, fear and restraint were now beating down and subduing her former volatility. And the luxuries she had once demanded were now replaced by privations she detested.
Gone were her expensive perfumes, designer lingerie, chilled champagne and blinis. Sheer silk was now rough cotton. Cocktails and canapés were now milk and halibut oil vitamin pills. These and other, more distressing, experiences were slowly but surely peeling away her outer layers of custom, habit and at a deeper level, personality and character. Exposed were new aspects, unfathomed desires and unsuspected yearnings.
First bell sounded. The startled wood pigeons fluttered and flew down from the branches of the gaunt tree outside Miranda’s dormitory window, applauding the new day with wings that clapped the autumnal chill of dawn. Miranda snapped out of her reverie and scrambled out of her bed. She struggled into her tight, white vest and brief, thigh-hugging shorts, flinching slightly as the elasticated waistband bit into her soft flesh. Quickly tidying her bed-clothes, she suddenly remembered the green arm-band. To appear at breakfast downstairs without it would earn her buttocks the instant punishment of three withering strokes across their splendid swell.
The only greenband reception girl currently at the Academy, Miranda felt slightly self-conscious as she joined the headmistress, Matron, four other members of staff and eighteen other girls for breakfast. It had never bothered her before. Being slightly conspicuous. Indeed, she was used to having Special Branch shadowing her when attending a reception. She only had to smile instead of fiddling with cheque books and credit cards when on a Knightsbridge spree. But here, within the strict and severe confines of the Academy, the green armband marked her out as different. Different and conspicuous. Conspicuous and therefore vulnerable. Especially to the predatory attentions of canes and straps.
As usual, the stern staff were tucking into crisp bacon and fluffy heaps of scrambled eggs, dark oyster mushrooms and plump, pink sausages from gleaming silverware. A large, cold, breaded ham, dishes of poached haddock and a silver salver winking with buttered kippers sat patiently on the fumed oak sideboard behind them. At their lower tables, the dejected girls nibbled hungrily at their ration of crispbread.
The potent aroma of strong coffee stabbed Miranda’s memory as she sipped at her weak herbal tea. The refectory was unusually tense. None of the girls spoke, keeping their sorrowful eyes down on their unappetising breakfasts. Mrs Boydd-Black wiped her mouth delicately with her white napkin and rang the little hand bell which always held pride of place at her elbow. Instantly, the girls stopped eating and drinking. All sat in silent attentiveness.
‘Girls. I regret to inform you that there has been a quite dreadful transgression committed by one of your number. There will therefore be a Chair before lunch. A Chair with a Quarter Exercise. That is all.’
The frisson of fear rippling through the breakfasting girls was tangible. Miranda looked cautiously around. Jaya looked unperturbed. Good. So did Jane, another girl Miranda had befriended in a furtive way. Then Miranda caught a glimpse of Clarissa, who had been so kind to her when trying to protect her from suffering during her first caning all those punishments ago. Clarissa had turned deadly pale, and Miranda instinctively knew that it was this girl who was to undergo a Chair and Quarter Exercise later on that morning.
The girls rose and departed in silence. Matron summoned Miranda up to the san for her morning enema.
‘Shorts off, girl. Up you get,’ she said in her no-nonsense tone that defied reply or protest.
Miranda slipped her hands down inside the tight elastic waistband and slowly eased the white cotton shorts down, revealing ivory hips and shadowed, golden thighs.
‘Come along, girl. Busy morning. A Chair and Quarter Exercise before lunch,’ Matron chuckled grimly. ‘I’m having jugged hare with a spot of claret. Very toothsome.’
Matron, it seemed, was devoted to both food and punishment, finding each quite delightful. Miranda stepped out of her shorts, peeled off her vest and climbed up onto the examination table.
‘Come along, quickly now. Don’t tarry,’ Matron said crisply, snapping on her rubber gloves.
‘I don’t need these enemas. I am quite regular,’ Miranda replied, slowly and mechanically.
Smack. The firm, rubber-gloved hand slapped Miranda’s naked bottom harshly as she lay on her side, knees drawn up and squashing her soft, shuddering bosom.
‘I’ll be the better judge of that, girl. Now unclench those cheeks. Come along. Open wide.’
Once more, the nozzle of the rubber tubing, winking with its blob of lubricant, worried the ultra sensitive whorl of Miranda’s pink rosebud sphincter. She shivered. Her belly tightened. Almost at once the sensations she both relished and abhorred kindled within her body and her mind
. Without thinking, she dropped her hand down to her side, grazing her plump thigh negligently.
It was an unwitting, unconscious gesture of futile self-protection, an abject token of resistance to safeguard her vulnerable bottom. Her trembling fingertips brushed the warm, rubber tubing, sweeping it aside. As it slithered out silently, warm water spilled all over the couch.
‘Stupid little fool. Get up at once.’ Matron was livid.
Miranda jumped down immediately, fearful of the hand of wrath that might seek out and find her naked buttocks.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled in her confusion and dismay.
‘You certainly will be, girl,’ came the menacing response.
The spillage wiped up and fresh paper spread across the soft, dark leather surface, Miranda was briskly ordered back up onto the examination table. As she lay on her side, waiting passively for the length of rubber tubing to invade her vulnerable softness, she suddenly felt her hands being gathered together and pinioned firmly at the wrists in Matron’s fierce clasp.
‘We don’t want any more nonsense, do we?’ Matron rasped, gripping the wrists of the naked girl who lay curled up before her. With one strong hand pinioning Miranda tightly, she plied the supple rubber tubing in between the clenched cheeks of the fully rounded buttocks.
‘Relax. Open up,’ she ordered.
Miranda, dizzily delighting in the delicious yet vaguely perturbing vortex of new sensations, instantly obeyed, relaxing her bottom to allow the questing rubber tubing to explore her innermost softness. Soon, the warm rush of water filled her, and that sensation, combined with the thrill of being pinioned down into utter helplessness, caused a silvery liquid bubble to peep out shyly between her slightly parted thighs. Hot shame burned redly in Miranda’s face as she felt the wetness saturate her pubic fringe. Sniffing the odour of her victim’s unbidden excitement like a shark sensing its prey, Matron bent over to examine her supine charge.
‘Responding to the treatment, I see,’ she chuckled with malevolent glee. The tone of approval mixed with indulgent understanding sickened Miranda, who squirmed with pure shame.
The Academy Page 6
