Alice Under Discipline, Part 1

by Garth ToynTanen

  “Yes Miss Daphne.”

  “You are going back to school for a while; it is going to be a little like when you actually were at school and I was your teacher, except the discipline will be far, far stricter. But then you’re no stranger to my brand of discipline. It is going to be more akin to the stage when you’d left school and I took you into my home and installed you in that little schoolroom I’d set up.

  Do you remember how I took control of your life then? Do you remember how I made you leave school as soon as it was legal to do so, how I forbade you to continue on to the sixth-form college with all your friends and from there on to university, as I’m sure you would have otherwise? Instead I put you in that school uniform you hated so much, the very same one you have on right now, didn’t I?

  While all your old friends were carving out a life for themselves, meeting boyfriends, perhaps future husbands, I set you to slaving away on tedious written impositions, hour after hour and month after month, sitting there in your own private classroom, disciplining, spanking and caning you for the slightest infraction or infringement of my rules, until finally I wore you down, completely broke your spirit. Instead of the nice cosy office managerial position or academic post that might have been awaiting you out there in your future I put you to work as a domestic servant - and you are going straight back to being a skivvy when this is over. You do remember what I told you that title, skivvy, means, I suppose?”

  “Yes Miss Daphne. A skivvy is the lowest in a hierarchy of household servants.”

  “Good girl! Well just like back then, if you step out of line you can expect the same sort of long, hard caning I always gave you. It tamed and domesticated you - and you are going to help me achieve the same with young Alice.... Right we’re nearly at the steps to the main entrance, there are five and then you’ll be at the door so then you’ll be standing right in front of your new classmate’s stepmother, so don’t forget to drop a curtsey as I’ve taught you to when I introduce you. I know you can’t elevate your skirt as you should, not with your hands restrained like they are; just do your best to present at least a modicum of elegance.”

  It was while surmounting the stone steps to the portico covered landing that Daphne Larkspear first deigned to formally acknowledge her ex-pupil, smiling and nodding in greeting as she urged her companion forward. The latter was clearly finding difficulty mounting the steep Cotswold stone stair and, coming closer, the reason quickly became easy to see. Although the girl’s shoes were not possessed of high heels - in forming that impression she had been sorely mistaken - a steel ‘D’ link sewn in to a leather tab on each, emanating from the rear just above the heel, had been linked together by a thin leather strap equipped at each end by a metal clip, limiting the girls gait to a mincing restrained step.

  The pair coming closer, it now became apparent that the girl’s glasses were equipped with clip-on safety eye protectors at the sides, these effectively functioning in this application as blinkers and further limiting the girl’s field of vision. The fabric triangle was in fact a grey cape buttoned at the collar and falling to around mid thigh at which point its coverage was continued by the flared flat front of a wraparound kilt-like grey skirt, its razor-sharp rear pleats just visible at the sides and a bright shining giant safety pin-like ornament functioning to hold together the overlap at the front, just above the girl’s left knee.

  A school badge was embroidered to one side - angled just above the skirt hem and below the pin - and was repeated in a much larger form on the cape, over one breast. The girl’s long hair had been plaited in two pig-tails, each tied at its end with a bow formed from a length of broad bottle-green ribbon that was diagonally striped with broad bands of mid-grey. The pig-tails had then been coiled up and pinned at either side of the girl’s head, leaving a few inches free so that stubby vestigial plaits stuck out at both sides, terminating just above the girl’s shoulders.

  The cape was open at the front below the collar, revealing glimpses of a green and white striped blouse that was covered by a fully buttoned mid-grey V-necked cardigan having grey buttons running down its frontage, a broad-striped green-on-grey school tie evident in the ‘V’ of the neckline. The cape itself was trimmed all around by a piped edging of bottle-green as was the skirt, and the cardigan. The whole thing was a veritable symphony of English private boarding school uniform.

  “So you like my schoolchild, then?” Despite her amicable if thin-lipped smile Daphne Larkspear’s tone instantly betrayed the derision she felt for this woman who sought to manipulate her through this, her one weakness.

  Karen Lamberton-Marchment eyed the blushing girl up and down: “Well I have to say that really is a school uniform as it should be; smart yet at the same time belittling, simultaneously symbolizing obedience, discipline, humility and submission to authority... Though I dare say you have taught her enough about submission to authority, hmmm, Daphne?” The girl blushed furiously in response to that last comment, her burning cheeks and downcast eyes confirming that she had indeed been broken to Daphne Larkspear’s will - and in every way conceivable. The woman herself just smiled back, shrugging resignedly:

  “She’s served her time on her knees right enough - isn’t that right, Angel? I call her ‘Angel’ but actually her name is, or rather, was Angelina - like that actress - Angelina Hessington. Far too grand for a serving girl; now she has ‘come of age’ I’ve had her change it by Deed Poll and had her take my own name. Legally she is Angel Larkspear now and what little had been left to her in her mother’s will when she died has passed into my hands, she has not a penny in the world.” Smiling broadly now she turned her attention briefly to the squirming girl at her side: I said; isn’t that right, Angel. Look Mrs Lamberton-Marchment in the eyes, girl. I know I have taught you to feel shame in the things that I make you do and in the way I make you dress and that I have trained you to be shy but it is rude to look away - you must let people see the humiliation you feel, in your eyes.

  The watery pools behind the thick pebble glasses reluctantly lifted, straining to focus through the dense lenses, the girl’s neat little chin lifting. Karen Lamberton-Marchment felt herself blushing; a thrilling little shiver had just run up her spine. It was amazing; Daphne Larkspear had the girl utterly crushed. In fact it was difficult to imagine the girl ever having had any sort of independent spirit in the first place. The thought ran through her: ‘’what if she could do this to her Alice, bring that once arrogant little cow down to the point she had this girl?’ What was more amazing was that the girl seemed to absolutely adore Mrs Larkspear, she practically worshiped her. She had done more than just break the girl’s sprit, she had totally re-educated her, it was as if she had been brainwashed... Daphne Larkspear was speaking again and it broke her train of thought.

  “Yes, she can do more with this than cleaning duties and polishing my boots until they shine - can’t you, Angel?” As she spoke she casually ran a couple of fingers over the girl’s generous bee-stung lips, a little saliva coming off on the black leather of her glove.

  “Yes Miss Daphne.” The reply was quiet, lisping, submissive, the girl’s eyes flickering uncertainly back and forth behind the thick lenses and trying to make sense of the blurred world around her.

  Now that she was up so close to the girl the reason for her impaired speech became clear. A large and undoubtedly heavy stud occupied the very centre of the girl’s tongue, projecting both above and below and obstructing its movement. Mrs Larkspear noticed her ex-pupil’s eyes widen in surprise:

  I had the piercing done to put a check her profanity, back in the days when she had still been apt to be a little rebellious at times. I did try the old ‘mouth soaping’ thing - the traditional cure for profanity - we had to eat our way through many bars of soap before we got you cured. Didn’t we Angel?”

  “Yes Miss Daphne”

  “The last time was when she objected to cleaning those rubber w
ellies of mine in the manner I demand as proper to her station...” She again brushed her gloved fingers over the squirming girl’s lips, parting them pointedly by way of demonstration as she continued: “...just because she thought I’d stepped in something ‘nasty’.” Reaching around behind her she gave the girl a sharp slap on her bottom through the fabric of the cape: “I gave her something ‘nasty’ all right - didn’t I Angel? Tell Mrs Lamberton-Marchment what you got across your fat behind for that little incident, Angel.

  “Yes Miss Daphne... Eighteen... strokes with the... with the... school cane...Miss...”

  “Ma’am... You address all women other than my self as ‘Ma’am’ and all men as ‘’Sir’. I have told you that before!” Quick as a flash and right before her startled ex-pupil’s eyes she flipped up the back of the girl’s cape and skirt together in one hand, revealing a tight-fitting pair of old fashioned looking bottle-green school knickers that peeked out from beneath the lower edge of what appeared to be some kind of girdle or corset. Slapping her other hand three times in quick succession across the back of the girl’s thighs, the leather of her glove resounding like a pistol shot on the tender flesh, she dropped skirt and cape back in to position, turning back to her ex-pupil and continuing on almost as if nothing had happened.

  “I had to do that in a shop once, right in front of everybody, when she wouldn’t address the shop assistant as Ma’am. That soon taught her. It was in a school outfitters - a traditional little place in a village not far from here, actually. Luckily I know the proprietress and she knew what to expect, so everything was all right. But there had been a couple of younger girls in there and the shop assistant was a girl of her own age and they laughed at her. They hadn’t been particularly subtle about it either; I think it was because of her age and that she was being fitted for a school uniform even though she looked so adult. She had left school by then of course but I had decided to put her in uniform as the first step in taming that rebellious streak she had. A good, well designed school uniform works wonders when it comes to curbing a rebellious teenager... that and a little judicious application of the cane, tawse or strap across her bared behind.”

  “Quite so!” Karen Lamberton-Marchment was doing her best to sound and look nonchalant about the discussion - it was proving a struggle.

  “Well I expect you think eighteen strokes a little excessive but a lesson has to be well learned if it is to stick in the mind. Ordinarily I’d have taken her knickers down just then, by the way, right in front of you, as I did in that shop in front of every body - well the assistant and the proprietress; the other two girls had left by then. But she’s lucky today; it would have been somewhat awkward pulling down her drawers, you’ll see why in a moment or two, once we go inside. She absolutely hates having her knickers pulled down, though. I’ve taught her the value of shame, you see, but also of feminine hygiene - I keep her well depilated down here...” Again Karen Lamberton-Marchment’s eyes bulged with surprise, despite her best endeavours to appear unmoved, as her ex-teacher casually patted the front of the girl’s skirt, noticeably cupping her hand as she did so before continuing: “...and of course she finds the exposure shaming; as she should do. Nature has not been kind to her as regards her appearance ‘down there’ - she is one of those whose labia minor extend notably past her outer lips; it’s an unfortunate look.“

  Karen Lamberton-Marchment noted that the girl’s lips subtly move during that last part, silently forming the word ‘please’, her cheeks so red as to prompt the notion that one might warm one’s hands if one was to hold both palms up to the young thing’s pretty face and her expression betraying the internal prayer that she might die on the spot. But she would not; God would never be so kind to her. Furthermore, Daphne Larkspear had clearly not yet finished tormenting the poor young thing, and she was patently an expert where humiliation was concerned; she knew exactly which buttons to press, her words slicing through the girl’s psyche in a manner more agonizing in its way than the most vicious caning. For a moment she pondered what magnitude of evil, perhaps perpetrated in some previous existence, could have led to the girl having been forsaken so, left to her fate, let alone to have been allowed to fall into this wicked perverted woman’s hands in the first place. She just as quickly shrugged off the notion as nonsense. The girl was the very picture of blame-free innocence; she had done nothing to deserve this, committed no crime, other than perhaps to have been so naive as to have allowed herself to come under Daphne Larkspear’s influence - that was what was so frightening, so horrifying, about it. It was also what was so exciting about it, she realised with a shudder.

  “...But there are times when dropping a girl’s knickers and giving her a taste of the cane just does not cut the mustard, not in isolation. Where frank out-and-out obstinate refusal is met or perhaps some personal taboo must be overcome, sterner measures are required. One must supplement the lesson, reinforce it with some experience more directly related to the, the... difficulty... to be overcome, but in such a way that the original ‘sticking’ point, as it were, becomes preferable by comparison. Of course the role of corporal punishment cannot be overestimated in this approach, in that the cane and the strap must be employed in order to enforce the corrective experience - for want of a better term - that one requires the subject to undergo.

  To go back to the incident with my Wellingtons: As I said; I gave her ‘something nasty’ all right. But not just figuratively speaking, as in that initial caning she received - and those eighteen strokes were merely the preliminary. Oh no. I sat her up the dining room table and presented her with an entire bowlful of that ‘something nasty’ she objected to so much...” Daphne Larkspear paused, watching her ex-pupil’s eyes, allowing time for the implication of her words to sink in before continuing. “... And a spoon! And the promise of a further eighteen strokes of the cane while strapped down across the old Victorian whipping horse I keep in my basement, repeated three times per day - every day - until such a time as that bowl was empty.

  In actuality, after three similar such corrections, albeit of incremental severity, and her having taken the first couple of desert spoonfuls I gave her the option of finishing cleaning my boots as she should have in the first place. I have to say, she did an exemplarily job, plucking every particle from between the treads, lapping every stain from off the rubber and polishing the uppers to such an extent I could almost see my reflection in them by the time she had finished. Such was the enthusiasm engendered in her by being relieved of the onerous task of finishing cleaning out her bowl. But make no mistake: had she still refused I would have had no compunction about making her finish the entire meal - every mouthful - and lick the bowl clean afterwards... isn’t that so, Angel? “

  “I,I... Yes... Miss Daphne.”

  “Of course it helps that she has never had a boyfriend, not a real boyfriend, in the physical sense - have you Angel?”

  No, miss Daphne.”

  “No. I plucked her from school as soon as it was legal to do so. It was a timely intervention as it turned out, before she’d had time to form an intimate relationship, it having been a single sex establishment and all, not to mention being somewhat geographically isolated. It was also no disadvantage that our young lady here had had something of a sheltered background beforehand.

  Of course, had she been allowed to have gone on to sixth form college, it might have been a different story. Especially as that would have been a co-ed establishment, one sharing its intake from a certain boy’s school of dubious reputation. I don’t even allow her to touch these, let alone some randy young lad.” So saying she casually slipped a gloved hand under the open flapped front of the girl’s cape, displacing the vertical folds of draped fabric and revealing a juvenile grey cardigan, the frontage of which stretched across a high, distended bustline that was anything but childlike.

  In the blink of an eye Daphne Larkspear’s hand had slipped through the space between two of t
he cardigan’s buttons, her fingers moving under the grey fabric and gliding over the smooth green and white surface of the school blouse beneath. Her palm cupping the front of the swollen melon-like feminine exuberance, her nimble fingertips went to work like tweezers, tweaking the thimble protrusion at the centre, the twin of which already distended the fabric of the cardigan on the opposite side like a miniature stumpy tent post.

  In response the red-faced girl groaned, partly in despair, partly through the unmistakable tension of unreleased sexual frustration, expertly built up through weeks if not months of denial. As if in explanation Karen Lamberton-Marchment’s ex-teacher continued on, her hand all the while gently kneading the girl’s uplifted, underwired mammary flesh through the fabric of her school blouse, her fingers rippling beneath the fabric of the girl’s school cardigan like so many fat and loathsome caterpillars on the march.

  “I don’t allow any relief, save under my close supervision - and even that decidedly seldom...” She slipped her hand out from under the cardigan, the grey fabric of the girl’s school uniform cape closing across the evidence of the girl’s embarrassment like the reuniting of the parted waves of the Old Testament Red Sea.

  Barely pausing and bending sideways slightly from the waist, one knee subtly buckling so as to provide a greater range of lateral movement, she stretched a hand downwards - all the while keeping her eyes latched on those of her ex-pupil. Deftly flipping up the abbreviated hem of the girl’s school skirt by means of flexing her wrist, she tucked her middle finger backwards and upwards, tracing out a line along the centre of the well-defined puckered cleft that dominated the front of the girl’s snugly fitted school knickers, drawing her fingertip from the rear to the front and then back again, in an unmistakable, stroking, teasing gesture.