by Penny Birch
Morris Rathwell knows all this and often puts it to good use, so I had expected something chosen to suit me. A lab coat was possible, if perhaps over simple. Full academic dress would have been great, but I doubted he knew what I was technically entitled to in the way of fancy gowns and mortarboards. A comic witch’s outfit would have been a humiliating and ludicrous parody of my work, or a Salvation Army uniform if he’d wanted to play on my atheism. He chose none of these, but something that demonstrated a refined cruelty and an alarming amount of knowledge about me.
At first I thought it was just a white dress, a typical piece of innocence imagery but no more than that. Only when Rathwell held it up did I realise what he had done. It was a confirmation dress, and not any old confirmation dress, but one with the badge of my old school sewn to the bodice. Pure white, frilly, flared and knee length, it would alone have been enough to send the blood to my cheeks. There was more too. A little white trainer bra, white sandals, white knee socks, white petticoats and a pair of absurdly frilly panties with elasticated leg holes.
How Rathwell had discovered the agonies I had gone through to stop myself being confirmed at school I had no idea. Confirmation had been absolutely standard at my school, something everybody just did. One or two of the most rebellious boys could always be counted on to resist, but they all gave in at the end. Not me: I’d been sixteen and a secret yet militant atheist, for all my normally meek character. I’d refused, and fought off pressure from my peers, from the school authorities, from the chaplain. My mother had thought I was being silly, pointing out that if I didn’t believe in it then it didn’t matter anyway. Finally my tantrums had roused my father from his perennial daydream and with his help I had escaped.
The memories of my bitter tears as I’d shouted at the headmistress and the chaplain down in her study came flooding back as Rathwell showed me the dress, turning it from side to side so that I could fully appreciate the puffed sleeves and the big white bow at the back. It was symbolic, there was no denying that. Refusing to wear one had been a crucial element of my victory. I felt a lump rise in my throat at the prospect of doing so now. Rathwell waited, gloating over my rising humiliation, then threw it over the back of a chair.
‘How . . . how did you know?’ I managed as it was pointless to pretend I wasn’t affected.
‘Easily enough,’ he answered, ‘a phone call to your old university saying I was a prospective employer who needed to check your references as your school exam results seemed improbably good. A visit to your school, a jolly chat with the chaplain, a little logical deduction. Easy, for a man like me.’
‘Bastard!’
‘Now, now, Penny, we mustn’t have any tantrums, must we? Come on, off with your clothes now, let’s have that pretty little body bare.’
I began to undress, struggling not to betray my feelings more than I already had. Stripping still gets to me, whatever I do, and my agitation rose even more as I removed shoes, socks, shirt and jeans. The underwear was worse, with the three of them, all fully dressed, watching in unabashed fascination as I unclipped my bra and let it fall from my breasts. My panties followed, pushed quickly down, dropped to the floor and kicked off to lie close to Rathwell’s shoe in a tiny, pathetic puddle of white cotton.
Harmony gestured to me and I followed her from the room, leaving the Rathwells to sip their expensive brandy. She went to the bathroom, which seemed brand new, with sparkling tiles in pastel colours. Somehow that made it worse, the very cleanliness of the place enhancing the dirtiness of what we were doing, with the gloves, syringe and blood bags laid out on the sink making an obscene contrast with the primrose pattern on the china.
I had quickly guessed their significance. In keeping with Rathwell’s tastes and the confirmation dress, I was to be a virgin. Leaving me to contemplate my fate, Harmony began to undress, stripping casually to her underwear as I watched. Facially, and in general build, she was so like her twin sister that they could easily be mistaken for one another. Not by anybody who knew them though. Harmony had a little less muscle tone, but only that, yet she lacked all but a shade of the air of dangerous power that never left Mel. She was still a lot bigger than me, and having been put across her knee I knew that her softness was purely comparative.
Her underwear was bright yellow and frilly, very girlish and a pretty contrast to her dark skin. Not that I had long to admire it, because she quickly covered herself, pulling on a nurse’s uniform, starched, white and very proper.
‘A little bird tells me you’ve been getting off on medical fantasies,’ she said as she pulled on a rubber glove and let the rim snap against her arm in true style.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I was examined by a police doctor, that’s all.’
‘And you didn’t frig off over it afterwards?’
‘Not all the way. Who told you? Vicky?’
‘Anderson. I ran into him in Victoria Street. He gave me lunch.’
‘And you sucked him off in return, no doubt.’
‘Is that a wise thing to say to your nurse just before she takes a sample?’
I shook my head. She had both gloves on and had picked up the syringe, a five-cc sterile unit I was glad to see.
‘Arm please, Penny darling,’ Harmony said. ‘Come to nursie.’
I ignored her, briefly, stepping back into the kitchen to pinch some of Rathwell’s Cognac to act as a disinfectant. He wasn’t there, nor Melody, but I could hear them in the bedroom. After dabbing my arm with spirit I held it out to Harmony, finding it a lot harder to be brave than if I had been at a real surgery. She took my arm and put the needle to it, pressing my flesh down, pushing abruptly forward. I winced at the sudden sharp pain and she smiled, adjusted her grip and began to pull back the plunger. My blood filled the syringe, right up to the five-cc mark.
‘Good girl,’ she said as the needle slid from my arm. ‘Now, how about a wash while I get this ready?’
‘Why the medical bit, anyway?’ I asked, trying to be bold as I stepped into the shower. ‘Wouldn’t a schoolmistress be more appropriate?’
‘That’s Morris’s kick,’ she answered. ‘You know what he’s like about virgins. This is for me. Did you know I was a student nurse when I met Morris?’
‘No. Not Mel too, surely?’
‘You know what Mel did. I was the shy one, but when men in the wards used to goose me and make rude remarks I always used to think of getting my revenge by making them lick me. I never did, but that’s what you’re going to do.’
‘Yummy.’
‘Hurry up then, slut.’
I washed as quickly as I could, still apprehensive, but less so with the prospect of licking Harmony’s pussy before getting into the awful dress. With luck it would turn me on enough to make my sexual feelings conquer my memories.
‘Of course you need to be nice and bald if you’re to be a virgin,’ she went on as I stepped out of the shower. ‘Morris likes that.’
‘Bald?’
‘Your pussy, silly. It might be fun to shave your head, but tonight he’d rather you had long hair.’
‘I had long hair at school. Right up until university in fact.’
‘We know. We’ve seen the photo. Now come on, up with your arms.’
She dried me, using firm, brisk motions, then put a little powder under my boobs and arms before telling me to lie down on the rubber bath mat and roll myself up. I obeyed, lying on my back and taking hold of my ankles to leave my pussy spread and my naked bum showing in every detail. If anything the position is more exposed than being bent over, and I could see her as she took a razor and ran the hot water into the sink.
I’m naturally very hairy, with a thick bush of black pubes and a lot between my bumcheeks. Standing, my pussy lips don’t show at all, and I like to think I still look neat even in the rudest possible position, albeit rather hairy, while my bumhole shows as a pinkish brown wrinkle in a nest of fur. That was the view I was presenting to Harmony, legs rolled high, everything showing in detail as
she took a can of spray foam and began to squirt me between my legs. In an instant my whole pubic area was a mass of foam, which she rubbed up to a lather, almost bringing me off in the process.
The shaving was quick and efficient, my hair scraped away with little flicks of the razor. Occasionally she would adjust one of my legs to get at a tricky bit, or squeeze my flesh to flatten a curve. It was incredibly intimate and was turning me on more and more, until I was wondering if I didn’t dare take an orgasm with her before going to the others. Better still, I could string out what I was doing with Harmony to delay the moment Morris’s cock went up my bottom.
Eventually I was done, shaved bald from belly to bumhole and feeling deliciously naked for it. My pussy was swollen and juicy, and as Harmony washed my shaved skin, creamed me and powered me I was getting more and more eager.
‘Sit on my face,’ I urged as she tidied up the shaving apparatus. ‘You can pee on me if you like.’
‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately we’d be keeping Morris waiting and I’d be lucky to get away with a caning. Come on, girl, up on your knees.’
I kneeled up, and as she turned she took me by the hair. Standing with her front to my face she pulled up her uniform skirt, pushing my face against the crotch of her panties. I reached up underneath to tug them aside, breathing in the rich, female scent of her sex. As my lips found her pussy I tried to get her fantasy into my head, determined to be as excited as possible by the time Rathwell got to me.
Not that it was hard. I could barely see, but I had her scent in my nose and I could feel my own body, naked and shaved at her feet as she stood over me in her uniform, covered and in control, not even deigning to show off the pussy I was being made to lick. It was a lovely image, the cool, dominant nurse standing over the quivering, nude girl whose pussy she has just shaved, using her authority to get her sex licked.
Harmony’s clit was bobbing under my tongue and her grip was growing tighter in my hair. She had begun to moan and I knew she was coming. Pursing my lips, I sucked her clit suddenly into my mouth and bit, ever so gently. She screamed and her knees buckled as I suckled at her clitoris, showing no mercy as the hard little bud popped in and out of my lips. It was cruel, but fun, giving her a brilliant orgasm and ensuring that I kept her in the right mood for the rest of the evening.
She called me a bitch as she pulled away and slapped my face, but not hard, and she was grinning as she tidied herself up. I stayed down, knowing what was next. Harmony picked up the two tiny blood bags she had made while I was in the shower. Each was a little dark ball, similar in size and colour to a dark cherry. I lay back on the mat, spreading my thighs in mute resignation to Rathwell’s perversity. Making me a fake virgin was typical of him. So was using my own blood, a subtle touch that was not lost on me.
‘Spread for nursie,’ Harmony instructed and I caught my legs up, pulling them as high and wide as they would go.
Taking the blood bags and a can of liquid skin, she kneeled, easing one into the mouth of my pussy. I felt it go in, then the cold shock as the aerosol sprayed out over my freshly shaved skin. I held absolutely still, allowing the film to dry, feeling a mixture of emotions at my restored virginity, shame, helpless arousal and an odd and totally irrational pride. I expected that the second blood bag was a spare.
‘Walk carefully,’ Harmony instructed me and offered a hand to help me rise.
We left the bathroom, finding the confirmation dress where we had left it, along with the various accessories. Putting it on was hard, an essay in self-humiliation, and I had to keep reminding myself that when all was said and done it was a game, no more. It didn’t feel like one, and an awful sense of defeat had started to well up inside me even before I’d begun to dress. I started with the trainer bra, which was the right size around my back but had AA cups which left my B-size boobs flattened and spilling out around the edges. That was bad, but the frilly panties were worse: long, but absurdly tight, pulled hard between my pussy lips, showing every contour of my bottom at the back and the elastic tight around my thighs to make my flesh rise and bulge. Plain they’d have been awful, but with the frilly leg holes and the great puff of lace at the rear I felt utterly ridiculous. The socks and shoes were less bad, their virgin whiteness and girly design their sole drawback. The petticoats, for all their frills, were actually a relief as they hid my ludicrous panties, even if I knew full well it would be only temporarily. The dress was the worst, with all the personal emotions that went with wearing it. At the end I looked like a fairy from a particularly vulgar greetings card and Harmony was laughing out loud.
In the bedroom Rathwell was standing over his wife, dressed as a vicar, and so well disguised that he could have been in a cathedral without raising an eyebrow, except that Melody had her top open, sitting in front of him with his erect cock between her plump breasts.
‘How sweet,’ he announced as I came in. ‘Well, I’m ready: let’s string her up and thrash her. Cover up, Mel.’
Harmony reached for the tangle of ropes that hung from the central beam. I held out my arms and she took them, laying one wrist across the other. Melody scooped her breasts back into her bra and buttoned up her blouse as her sister tied my hands, making herself look respectable if not exactly innocent. Harmony pulled my rope up, raising my wrists to the level of the beam and tying it off to leave me on tiptoe and completely unable to defend myself.
‘Right,’ Rathwell said as he started to stroke his cock, ‘let us imagine that rather than listen to your little tantrum, the good Reverend Allen had lost patience with you and decided you needed a lesson. He has brought you out here, made you dress properly and now intends to beat some sense into you, obliging you to accept his will. Of course, once you’ve been broken he may well be unable to restrain the lust engendered by the sight of your virgin buttocks squirming as you’re thrashed. More than likely he’ll want his cock up that pretty cunt. He may even want to bugger you, popping your little rosebud arsehole as you beg for mercy.’
‘You can’t make me!’ I spat.
‘Good girl,’ he answered. ‘I do like a girl who can play, even when she knows it’s got to go my way.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘What sort of language is that for a schoolgirl? You need your beating more than I thought. Still, it would be a pity to spoil that pretty dress. I think we had better do it across the seat of your knickers.’
Harmony pulled up my dress, lifting the knee-length white skirt to my waist as Rathwell watched and nursed his erection. Melody had stood up and was rummaging among their luggage, from which she brought a long, dark-brown cane, thin, but knotted at intervals. Rathwell took it as the hem of my dress was tucked up into the small of my back, beneath the big bow. As my petticoats followed I began to imagine how it would have felt if they’d really done it. Awful, I was sure, although I couldn’t see the real Reverend Allen buggering me, or at least not in front of the school nurse and a mistress. With my absurd panties on show Harmony stepped away and Rathwell took the cane from Melody.
‘Fine malacca,’ he said, ‘normally used to thrash malefactors in Singapore, so perhaps a little hard for an English schoolgirl bottom. Still, we shall just have to manage, shan’t we?’
I was looking back over my shoulder, watching him heft the cane and clenching my buttocks in terrified anticipation. No cane hurts more, except possibly whalebone, as I knew from bitter experience. He gave me a stern smile, reached out, tapped it across my bottom, all the while tugging at his cock. I winced and shut my eyes, expecting the agony of a cane cut at any second. Nothing happened.
‘This is your first chance to surrender,’ he said. ‘Give in now and you will escape your beating. Sadly you will not be able to escape with your modesty, because the sight of your pert little bottom so nicely exhibited has aroused me past resistance. I intend to fuck you.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Mind your language. Very well, if you want to, play it the hard way.’
An in
stant later my bottom exploded in pain. He’d taken me unawares, bringing the cane back while we were talking and striking to leave me squealing in shock and dancing on my toes. I heard a purr of appreciation from one of the girls as I managed to control myself and stand again, trembling but ready.
Again the cane cut down, harder still, and right over the first stroke. Someone laughed as I did my little dance, and I thought how absurd my bottom must look, wobbling inside my knickers with the frills bouncing. The tears were beginning to start in my eyes, as I’d known they would.
It was impossible to keep the fantasy Rathwell had planted out of my head. I was strung from a beam and I was being beaten by a man with an erection he intended to put up my bottom, but that was nothing compared to being in my confirmation dress. Balanced on my little white shoes, with all the flounces and frills of the dress bobbing to my movements and the back turned up to show my absurd knickerbockers, in my head I was being beaten for wilful disobedience.
Sometimes I don’t cry at all. Sometimes I start near the end of my beating. This time the first heavy drops began to roll from my eyes as the cane was tapped against my bottom for the third stroke. Both eyes were heavy with tears, and as the cane smacked down the shock broke them, spattering tiny droplets across my face.
I let it go, starting to snivel and whimper, only for my self-pity to be crudely interrupted by the fourth, fifth and sixth strokes, delivered in quick succession. That really had me jumping, kicking my legs about and hopping up and down on my toes as I wiggled my bottom in a frantic effort to dull the pain. I was struggling to catch my breath too, taking in great ragged gasps of air and choking on the mucus in my throat.