“Wha...?”
“Good morning, sweetheart!” What did it matter that it was three thirty in the afternoon? It was morning as far as Alice was concerned; she - Karen Lamberton-Marchment - told her stepdaughter so. And so, therefore, it was. Bleary-eyed and uncomprehending the girl was staring straight at the obvious school uniform blouse, tie and skirt arranged on the hanger, her eyes flicking momentarily to the fearsome looking cane in her stepmother’s hand and then back again while throwing an occasionally sideways glance at the bedside chair and the horrors it held on show. The question went unasked but was there to be read, nonetheless, in her stepdaughter’s eyes - and so Karen Lamberton-Marchment answered it anyway:
“Yes, it is.”
“Wha... what?”
“Your new school uniform of course - it’s arrived at last. Remember we talked about it?” Smiling knowingly Alice’s stepmother twisted away momentarily, plucking the hanger from its perch and brandishing the blouse and skirt with her cane-holding hand - the switch hanging now loose from her wrist by a leather loop - open-palmed beneath the garments before hooking the hanger over the iron bed rail at the foot of the bed.
Alice Lamberton did indeed remember her stepmother’s remarks regarding school uniform. She had said nothing at the time, believing it nothing but an empty threat, if indeed not something of a joke made at her expense and for that woman’s amusement to see her squirm. As indeed she was squirming now - although she was trying not to show it, not wanting to give her stepmother the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort.
“I’m not wearing... I mean... I can’t wear....” For a fleeting instant the old, as yet untamed, Alice flared in the girl’s eyes - just as Karen Lamberton-Marchment had hoped it would. Then her eyes flickered once again to the length of yellowing but smoothly polished rattan swinging from her stepmother’s wrist, the woman already beginning to palm the cane in preparation, and she relented, trying to retrieve the situation: “I, I mean...” She had wanted to simply say ‘yes’, but then had taken in the ugly knickers and foundations and the words had stuck in her throat. But it was too late in any case.
“Right! I’m not having that defiant attitude, young lady! Get out of bed, bend over the bedside and get that nightdress up - let’s see that big fat backside of yours bared. Perhaps a few strokes of the cane will make you more appreciative of your new uniform.”
“No, please! I didn’t say I wouldn’t wear it, honestly!”
“Too late! Up! Now!... and get yourself bent over that bed.”
“Please, I’ll wear it! Honest I will”
“Yes, you will - and quite ridiculous I expect you’ll look in it too; a girl of your age in school uniform! But it is going to be the cane first.”
“No... I, I, I... won’t! I WON’T!” Alice was biting her bottom lip, her demeanour failing to back up the strength of her words and betraying her closeness to defeat. Almost immediately she tried to retract her defiant stance, her determination crumbling even before the threat she knew was coming next: “I’ I... I’m sorry - look I’m getting up, please, I’m sorry...”
“Yes, you’re going to be... I was going to give you three strokes, but now it is going to be six. Any further delay and it will be twelve - and no medication for the rest of today! And there’ll be a repeat performance tomorrow morning.” Karen Lamberton-Marchment smiled with satisfaction, readying the cane, her arm already twisting back over her shoulder in anticipation of the first full-bloodied swing: That last part - the part about withholding her stepdaughter’s medication - had done the trick. She had barely finished uttering the threat and already young Alice was out of bed and compliantly flopping herself over the bedside. She looked on, fascinated, beads of sweat breaking out on her brow and her breathing becoming heavy, as her stepdaughter reached back, drawing her ankle length nightdress up over her buttocks, the milky half-moons betraying the marks of previous canings and the outline of the strap in faded criss-cross patterning. Murmuring breathlessly ‘oh my god’ to herself, hoping beyond hope that the girl had not caught those tell-tale sighing words, she brought her arm down and across, describing a wide whistling, swooping arc, the length of rattan bowing against the air resistance before springing forward at the last instance as her wrist flexed and twisted and the tip of the cane bit in to the teenager’s taut, resilient flesh. A girlish scream rent the air and a shiver ran up the older woman’s spine - she was made for this, she knew now; just as much as her stepdaughter’s bottom was made for the cane’s kiss. She knew, too, she wasn’t going to stop at the promised six. And she had the strap with her as well, and the thought of having Alice over her lap for that... But first the caning - then, perhaps, the strapping!
Alice Lamberton knew now that by the end of this she would be begging to dress in the school uniform that was lying across the chair just a few feet away and waiting, freshly-pressed on the hanger now dangling from iron rails at the foot of the bed, the school blouse’s collar and cuffs appearing even at a distance to possess a consistency reminiscent of stiffened cardboard. She almost jumped to her feet as a wickedly thin cane slashed down across her already burning buttocks. Her hands shot backwards, fingers outspread in an attempt to protect the inflamed flesh but stronger hands seized hers and yanked them up over her head. A full half-dozen more sizzling strokes were slashed in before it stopped, but by then she had ceased to try and twist away from the searing pain, just lying there like a lifeless wet rag, her mouth wide open in a grimace and emitting continuous piteous, broken wail.
Karen Lamberton-Marchment took a long hard look at her sobbing ward. Although the glint of defiance still showed in the girl’s eyes she was rather pleased with the result of this, Alice’s first real lesson in what corporal punishment was all about - and there were many, many more similar lessons still to come. She had expected a little more defiance from her stepdaughter despite the leverage that the girl’s drug problem gave her over her, but even so she was certain that there would be some struggle before she became properly tamed - but properly tamed she would be. It was more than just being about correcting the girl’s erroneous behaviour now; she wanted Alice to be hers, body and soul - and she would have her.
“Now, I think we’ll have you over my lap.” Karen Lamberton-Marchment sat herself down on the bedside, patting her lap where her fitted skirt moulded her hips, the fabric drum-tight and ignoring her stepdaughter’s desperate tears. The split-tongued leather strap seemed to tumble open in her palm as if having a mind of its own and barely had the girl flopped across her knees than she found herself bringing it down rhythmically across thin raised cane lines, some of which now showed thread-like flecks of blood, punctuating her lecturing with a slow steady slap, slap, slap in synchronism with each and every sentence:
“You have to understand, Alice; your education is going to have to continue, here at home. As I have said before; sadly it turns out you are somewhat... how shall we say... academically backward? Let’s face it; you barely passed your GCSEs, let alone your ‘A’ levels - which, incidentally you failed badly. Even when you were still at school I had been considering sending you to a special school specialising in remedial teaching - did you know that? Then for a while I considered having you educated at home, employing private tutors. Now, given these new circumstances we find ourselves in, the power given me over you by the courts, it is the latter path I have decide to explore.
In fact I have already given this matter a lot of thought: I have even taken the liberty of appointing a teacher, a certain Mrs Larkspear. I have selected a room in one of the upper storeys which I have had suitably fitted out, following her advice, as a school room. And yes, she is the sort of teacher that will expect you to have been kitted out in full, traditional school uniform from the skin outwards, despite the fact that your school never had one; part of its problem in my opinion. Since your school was so lackadaisical in its attitude to standards in that direction, the good Mrs Larkspear has b
een obliged to set her mind to the problem herself. Luckily she was up until quite recently employed in a very fine private educational establishment that had a school uniform eminently suitable for a girl of your age in my opinion. She has gone to a great deal of trouble off her own back to procure the entire dress list for you, right down to the physical education kit, domestic science overall and apron, underwear and nightwear.” Face down over her stepmother’s lap and so out of sight, Alice’s eyes tear-reddened, now startled, eyes widened still further at that last statement and she twisted round, the movement prompting her stepmother to further elucidate, reinforcing her statement with yet another slap of the heavy leather strap across her stepdaughter’s tortured bottom:
“Oh yes, dear; nightwear as well - there is to be no letup. You are going to be spending your days in a genuine school uniform - and it is very strict indeed. Knickers, bras, a nice tight leotard for ‘PE’, a nightgown for the evening - it’s all regimented; a regulation for every little thing, right down to the tiniest detail; it is why I had that woman who visited a while back take all those tedious measurements you moaned about so much.
Now, in a moment I am going to let you up off my lap and when I do you are going to try on the ‘day-uniform’ I have laid out for you. And you had better get used to it if you want to receive your prescription each day; it is all you are going to be wearing day-in day-out from now on. Mrs Larkspear wont be arriving for two or three weeks or so, but you are going to be wearing your school uniform every day regardless of that, so that by the time she does arrive it will seem the most natural thing in the world to you. And you are also going to write her a nice letter, once you have changed, thanking Mrs Larkspear for your new school uniform.”
Sobbing, Alice was allowed up. Released from her stepmother’s deceptively vice-like grip she at first flopped to the floor before, chided by her irascible step-parent, scrambling unsteadily to her feet encouraged in no little measure by the promise of a repeat performance. Meanwhile her firm handed nemesis crossed to the far corner of the room. Slipping a key into the lock securing access to the toughened Plexiglas cylindrical shower cubicle she pulled back the door, the milky white cloudy gloss giving way to the equally glossed plastic interior.
“Hurry along! Pop in the shower and get that over with; I’m keen to see you in your smart new uniform.” Karen Lamberton-Marchment had taken care to retrieve her cane from where she had discarded it across the end of the bed when she had taken her stepdaughter across her lap and now tapped it meaningfully against the side of the cubicle. The message having been received loud and clear by its intended recipient, Alice, struggling free with some urgency from her now unfastened one-piece pyjama outfit, half hopped, half tripped towards the waiting shower.
Five or so shivering minutes later and Alice was alone. Having supervised her stepdaughter’s showering Karen Lamberton-Marchment had departed triumphantly smirking and taking care to lock both the shower and bedroom doors behind her in that order, having first gathered up Alice’s night things destined for the laundry basket.
Alice had been left doing her best to preserve whatever tatters of modesty she had remaining within the coiled form of an all too brief towel. She was pleased to have been freed from the harshly cleansing icy rain, the warm water supply having mysteriously failed a week or so into her tenure in this, the new bedroom that had been set up for while - she had been told - her old room was being redecorated. She was not quite so delighted to have been informed that her harpy of a stepmother intended to return in only ten minutes - no more - and that by that time she had better have dealt with her ‘ablutions’ and to have ‘damn well got that uniform on’. ‘
Ablutions’, now that she had been transferred to this room - demoted to this room was how she thought of it - consisted of a limited term of privacy on a commode chair. The latter amenity doubled as the bedside chair, this possessing a hinged plastic cushioned seat that when raised revealed a porcelain toilet seat poised over an inner cylindrical porcelain liner imbedded within the chair’s box-like base or plinth. The concept of privacy was limited, always, by the plausible threat of her stepmother’s imminent unannounced return but no more so than today when that woman’s hurried return was guaranteed and when there was an unaccustomed pile of apparel to be negotiated.
Under the circumstances she determined to deal with her ‘ablutions’ in the first instance - a seemingly logical decision, one affording her the greatest chance of continued dignity. Embattled by mounting psychological stress and pressure born of apprehension over the potentially humiliating form of garb she was to soon adorn herself in and amplified by the uncertain pace of time’s tide - she had no timepiece of any type to consult - failure had been guaranteed from the start. Instead she now opted for a change of tack: Perhaps if she got the dressing part over and down with, just gritted her teeth and got on with it, the anxiety might subside and she might yet ‘go’ before her stepmother’s return.
Straightening up from her uncomfortable perch she moved across to the foot of the bed, reaching out tentatively and with no little trepidation to the hateful pile of humiliation waiting there. Then, her nose twisting with distaste, she moved across to the wire clothes hanger swinging from the bed frame’s metal foot rail. Raising the hanger and its shaming load by its wire hook to eye height she inspected the garments it supported with growing, near-phobic, dread. A cold clamminess came over her; there was something inherently perverted about it all somehow, something beyond her hated stepmother’s attempts to control and humiliate her. This was about changing who she was, drowning out her old personality, stamping down on her self expression.
The terylene / viscose - it said so on the label inside - green and white broad-striped school blouse came over as almost sort of ‘plasticy’ to the touch, its substantial close-woven fabric seeming turgid and possessed of a crisp stiffness reminiscent of the sort of heavyweight paper Alice had more commonly seen fed into printers. Long-sleeved and betraying no signs of tailoring or fitting it featured a high cardboard-stiff shirt-style collar and cuffs that seemed just as unforgiving. The Trutex Schoolwear tag seemed genuine, though the styling suggested a commercial mass-produced origin as dubious and the sewn-in nametag - printed ‘Alice Marchment’ in bold capitals - was very obviously a later addition. It was also just plain wrong, and she felt herself bristle at the thought; she was Alice Lamberton - not Alice Marchment, or Alice Lamberton-Marchment or any other odd combination of names someone somewhere might have come up with. Lamberton had been her father’s name and it was her family’s name; and that was all there was to it.
Still bristling she plucked at the skirt. Taking the brief garment from the hanger she saw it to be a mid-grey wrapover skirt with a knife pleated rear in winter-weight Terylene. ‘By Gymflex’ it said on the inside of the waistband, the brand name written in scrolling gold embroidery on a satiny dark green sewn-in label at the rear. ‘Alice Marchment’ it said in bold black capital letters on the sewn-in nametag just above the maker’s brand. There was something particularly humiliating about having a nametag sewn in every article of clothing - something beyond simply what she perceived must have been the deliberate misspelling of her name, no doubt some point her stepmother was trying to make.
The old fashioned open bottom long-line girdle was a nightmare of straps and buckles, elasticated panels and boning and the idea of wearing such a thing was anathema to her, as it would have been to any modern teenage girl. But she needed the loo and with, she felt sure, time running out she knew she’d never manage to ‘go’ unless she’d at least got dressing out of the way - there was just too much pressure otherwise. And so she struggled into the thing, tugging at the zip that ran up the front and experiencing for the first time the unfamiliar disconcerting grip of heavyweight rubberised fabric, elasticated nylon satin panels and unforgiving stiffened ‘boning’ as together they moulded her form into someone else’s ideal.
The strange,
elderly foundation garment flattened what little there was of her tummy, drew in her waist drastically, squeezed and spread outwards her buttocks - encouraging the latter to seem to protrude unnaturally behind her like a hanging shelf - and flattened down her bustline. The latter was a particularly distressing outcome for a girl not particularly blessed in that department to begin with and who, as a result, had a tendency to be more than a little self-conscious of her bosom.
The detestably ugly knickers she found she’d rather not examine too closely, instead opting to draw them quickly up her legs without looking, having grabbed the things off the side by their waistband, shaken them out and stepped in to them in as near to a single movement as she could manage. Overly substantial and designed to cover from mid-thigh to navel in prim knitted one-hundred-percent polyester, she nevertheless found she had to wriggle the tight waistband over her hips; something she found she could accomplish only with great difficulty. When the broad elasticated band did finally slide into place around her waist it did so only by simultaneously drawing up the gusset uncomfortably snugly into her crotch. The back-seam slipped deep within the cleft between her buttock cheeks at the same time - despite the fact that the stretchy fabric still somehow managed to maintain its prim coverage of both globes in their entirety, - and resisted all attempts to pluck the raised central ridge of rubber-lined fabric out from hiding.
The deep-section, rubberised elasticated banded cuffs that surrounded the ribbed leg openings bit into her thighs just a smidgen above the midpoint, triggering the red-cheeked concern that the abbreviated skirt might be just a little too brief to cover them. She had never been too worried about short skirts before, but all that had instantly changed with this getup; this most decidedly was not fun!
It was only at this point that she realised that there seemed something caught up around the top of her legs, something that caught and nearly tripped her as she went to turn, part in her efforts to wriggle the knickers into place easing the discomfort they were causing, part in at the same time reaching for the school skirt in her hurry to cover up. A short bridging bottle-green fabric strip extended between the leg cuffs of the knickers, joining one to the other. An experimental tug and a ‘feeling around’, Alice’s first thought being that this was something left over from manufacture, revealed a tether stronger than it looked. Further dextrous exploration led to the discovery that something tough, wiry and web-like was incorporated within this strap-like slither, something embedded within the fabric itself that could be traced back across in both directions to where it was continuous with a thin band running around both leg cuffs. For now she could do nothing about this new restriction but work around it as best she could.
Alice Under Discipline, Part 1 Page 7