Filth Ch. 01

For Emma P.

I am not entirely sure why I am writing this. I am tempted to blame being stuck at home, having to endure self-imposed quarantine after a brush with Covid-19 at work; bored out of my mind, with nothing on TV worth watching that I've not seen before. Then again, perhaps I am just suffering a bad attack of nostalgia. Boredom does that to me sometimes.

Or I could just be completely honest and admit that I am feeling desperately horny and deeply frustrated, having spent the last forty minutes utterly failing to find any free porn-clips on-line worth pruning my fingertips over.

So where to begin? Where does any part of one's life truly begin?

I suppose, in this instance, the answer is in a London pub (that I won't name as I still use it occasionally), with me nursing my second large vodka & tonic of the evening, waiting for the monthly perverts' 'munch' that I attended in those days to begin and wondering why nobody else was showing up for it.

Thinking I must have mucked up my diary and arrived on completely the wrong day, I was actually just about to leave when a couple I knew to be regulars appeared and joined me at my table.

"Here for the munch?", the man asked, addressing his enquiry more to my cleavage than to me. "Emily isn't it? Or is it Emma? Edna? We saw you here last month. Shame about tonight, but we only live just round the corner and fancied a drink, so here we are anyway".

Mystery solved! It was life, not my diary, that was fucked up. The munch had simply been cancelled -- something about the chief organiser getting his foot clipped by a passing car while cycling to work and ending up in hospital. It had been announced that lunchtime on the munch's social media page apparently, so my own fault for not checking before I left home.

But that's all by-the-by. The point is, having nothing better to do, the three of us ended up holding our own little munch and a few vodka & tonics later (okay, perhaps more than a few), I found myself volunteering to help some of the couple's friends who were setting up a little 'special interest' holiday business -- a pretend boarding school for adult 'naughty boys & girls' wishing to experience a traditionally strict education with old-fashioned school dinners, hijinx in the dormitory after lights-out, and corporal punishment as the principal attractions.

Stays could be anything from a weekend to forever, I was told, so the couple had signed up as guinea-pigs for a fortnight -- he as a part-time janitor, she as a naughty schoolgirl.

"They needed volunteers to try it all out before taking in paying guests", the woman explained, "and what are friends for if not to help each other? It's basically a free holiday for anyone who does volunteer. You just have to buy your own regulation school knickers. They provide everything else.

"Why don't you come with us? I'm sure they would love to have you".

You could almost hear the cogs in her little brain grinding as her eyes joined those of her husband in sizing up my tits.

"Oh wait!", she exclaimed, "Didn't you go to a boarding school as a girl? A really posh one? I know our friends are trying to make theirs as authentic as possible so I imagine they would be all over you. You know, as a sort of technical advisor?"

I half-nodded, waiting for her to finish mentally undressing me; no doubt imagining me stripped down to only knickers and a singlet in the school's gymnasium, or perhaps shivering naked in the communal showers.

"Not really my thing I'm afraid", I shrugged, smiling to be polite, while actually thinking why the fuck would I want to put myself through all that again, having spent almost my entire childhood and adolescence at a boarding school for girls so Dickensian that even a hardened masochist (which I am not) would probably see it as cruel and unusual punishment.

Too polite by half though, that's my trouble! Another vodka & tonic later, I found myself on the phone speaking to the school's 'Matron', realising only too late that I was being interviewed as a prospective volunteer.

"We are desperately short of women teachers", Matron gurgled, sounding for all the world as though she and her phone were being held under water. "Are you sure we can't tempt you, dear?"

"No, thank you but... No!... Sorry".

More gurgling: "Oh, are you a submissive?"

"Yes... Well sort of... I...".

"Sort of?!", Matron interrupted somewhat sharply. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, dear, but have you ever actually submitted to anyone? I mean in the flesh? It's just that, as we are going for a sort of full dress rehearsal, I am not sure we can cater for a total novice. Getting caned really hurts you know".

I suddenly found myself trying desperately not to chuckle, as I do when nervous and wishing I was somewhere else.

"Sorry, bit tipsy and obviously not explaining myself properly", I slurred. "What I meant was, I have been putting my arse on the line on and off since I was nineteen. So, been there, seen it, done it and lost my T-shirt. And my knickers, now that I think about it. I'm always losing those! I can't imagine why", I giggled, that last vodka just starting to take effect.

The gurgling emanating from my phone glitched into an unintelligible garble, but I'm sure I heard a man saying something to Matron at the other end and he did not sound impressed.

"Oh God!", I sighed, for some reason feeling the need to justify myself. "Okay... Look... umm... I just meant that I'm not really into the usual bondage and torture thing. I... I am more what has been described as...".

I took a very deep breath and decided just to spit it out.

"Oh fuck! Okay... I'm an humiliation slut! You know? Posh bitch in need of being taken down a few pegs?"

Silence! Then, without warning, my phone let out a most peculiar electronic howl, flashed 'low battery' followed by 'no signal' on its little screen, and promptly died.

I gave my companions a little shrug-sigh and was about to say something like "fucking phone!", only to realise from their conspiratorial whispering and Cheshire Cat grins that, despite pretending not to be eavesdropping, they and the rest of the pub had heard every last word of my confession. It seems I had been speaking rather loudly, presumably thinking that would overcome the rotten phone signal and echo.

I was mortified and felt my cheeks flush crimson, which embarrassed me even more. I cannot tell you how relieved I was when, a minute or two later, the man's phone rang and he wandered off to take the call, while his wife excused herself to go to the lavatory.

When he returned, still grinning, he said simply: "It's okay. That was George, the 'Headmaster'. I explained about your phone. How are you fixed for the first two weeks in June? That's when we're both going down there.

"I told him you had been educated at a real boarding school so he is thinking maybe prefect? Would that suit you? They'll supply the uniform and everything so it won't cost you anything, and they are expecting about a dozen people in all so it should be quite fun".

To this day I have no idea why I nodded my assent. I suppose, in the back of my mind, I had convinced myself that the whole thing was just 'pub talk' and that some excuse would be found to call it all off by lunchtime the next day.

"You, a prefect?!!!", his wife cackled on her somewhat unsteady return from the loo. "Oh bloody hell! I suppose that means I'll be bending over for you soon for six of the best.

"I hope you won't make me pull down my knickers. I mean, obviously I will if you insist, but... now that I know you, I feel all shy all of a sudden".

We all laughed and that was that! Without realising, I had just changed the course of my life for the next year and a half.

* * *

Three and a bit weeks later, a miserable Spring having miraculously turned to glorious Summer almost overnight, I awoke to a brilliantly sunny Friday morning, actually looking forward to spending a fortnight away from London as Head Girl of what I had been told was to be called 'The Monkswood Reform School'.

Why the change of heart? I was unemployed is the short answer and had been since being made redundant at the start of the year so, with no job, no money and no immediate prospect of either, the offer of a free, kinky holiday was a bit of a no-brainer. More to the point, the more I thought about it, the more I concluded that, no matter how dreadful the school turned out to be, it couldn't possibly be more soul-destroying than sitting at home, churning out applications for jobs that I stood no chance of getting, just so my Advisor at the Job Centre could tick boxes. Honestly, after five months on the dole, I was so ground down that I found myself actually celebrating the arrival of rejection letters; most prospective employers declining even to do me the courtesy of telling me to fuck off.

And so it was that I set off for Victoria Coach Station with quite a spring in my step; a little nervous of course but excited as much as anything by the prospect of a leisurely jaunt into the heart of the Sussex countryside, with perhaps a pub lunch at the other end to prepare myself mentally before making my way to the school.

What can I say? What's that saying about 'the best laid plans'?

Actually, once London had been reduced to a smudge on the horizon, the journey itself was okay. The trouble was the coach's departure had been so delayed that we caught the morning rush-hour and got stuck in a traffic jam from hell before we had gone more than a few miles.

In short, by the time I was dropped off in the little town I had been assured was only a twenty minute bus-ride and a ten minute walk from the school, it was well past noon, leaving me no time for lunch or anything else. Worse, I had missed the bus I intended to catch and found myself facing a ridiculously long wait for the next.

Having no money for a taxi, there was only one thing for it. Heels off, trainers on, I set off on foot, calculating that, so long as I didn't dawdle and followed the sketch map Matron had sent me, I'd be there in little over an hour -- tired, hot and sweaty, no doubt, but at least plausibly on time.

Wrong again! Beware of home-made maps, is all I can say, especially those not drawn to scale and which make no mention of side-roads that look just like the route one is suppose to follow but are nothing of the sort. After some forty-five minutes of trudging baking hot country roads that led only to muddy lanes and empty fields, I gave up and staggered back the way I had come until I found a pub in which to rest, rehydrate and ring the number I had been given for help.

Then I waited -- and waited -- trying to resist the temptation to guzzle the cider to which I had treated myself, while wondering if I would be greeted with sympathetic understanding or summarily punished for tardiness. I was already well past the appointed time for my initial registration and would probably end up almost two hours late by the time I got there. At my old school that would have earned me half-a-dozen strokes of the cane in front of class; less only if I agreed to the indignity of dropping my knickers so my classmates could witness the stripes being laid across my lily-white bum.

When help eventually arrived, it came in the form of a rather mumsy, ruddy-faced, little dumpling of a woman in her late thirties, wearing cheap, grubby trainers and an ill-fitting, wrap-round, floral dress of the sort my grandmother used to change into to do housework.

"Hello! Are you Emma? I'm Georgina. Here to rescue you!", she panted, adding in a secretive whisper that she was the 'Matron' I had spoken to some weeks before.

"I am so sorry about the confusion", she puffed, still catching her breath. "Did you not get the message I left on your voicemail yesterday? I've been trying to ring you all morning".

I cringed: "Oh God! Sorry, my fault! I turned my phone off for the journey to save battery and I don't do voicemail, I'm afraid. Out of work and on the dole, so just a pay-as-you-go phone and voicemail absolutely devours my credit".

"Been there", Georgina nodded with a genuinely sympathetic wry smile. "Let me buy you another drink anyway, then we can talk."

At her insistence, we sat at a picnic table in the farthest corner of the pub's garden, where there was no chance of being overhead. Even so, she constantly cast nervous glances, this way and that, muttering something about the locals having big ears and loose mouths, and her commitment to offering a discrete service with my anonymity guaranteed.

"So... ", she said at last, pulling a contrite sort of face, "This is really embarrassing but... I'm afraid the school's try-out has been cancelled. I am so sorry! That's why I've been in such a panic to phone you, hoping to save you a wasted journey".

She then poured forth a tale of woe so implausible it could only be true -- red-tape, wrong insurance, mattresses failing to arrive and then, to cap it all, dodgy plumbing flooding the school's communal lavatory with raw sewage just as they were about to declare the place open for business.

"All that rain last month filling up the septic tank is the theory", she confided.

Naturally I made sympathetic noises, agreed there was no way they could go ahead, and assured her my wasted journey was not her fault so nothing to apologise for. I even expressed my disappointment, though I confess I wasn't overly upset about my bottom being granted such an easy reprieve.

"So will you be able to get home okay?", Georgina continued. "I know you're stuck with public transport. If not, we can put you up on our sofa for tonight and I'll be driving in to London tomorrow to pick up my daughter, so I can give you a lift if you want".

I did want! The fact was, to afford my coach-ticket I had gone for a special deal, but that meant the return half wasn't valid for another ten days, leaving me stranded. I snapped up her offer without giving it a second thought, thanked her profusely and, finally, we both started to relax.

"So what will you do now?", I asked, more to make conversation than anything. "I mean, I don't know much about business but assume you were counting on the school to bring in some cash".

Georgina pulled another of her funny face-shrugs: "Yes, well our bank manager isn't best pleased, but we'll be okay! We are just switching to Plan B -- something we were planning to do anyway in August so it's all mostly ready. In fact, our first volunteer tester started this morning and it all seems to be going really well.

"It's just a bit niche, if you know what I mean, so we thought we had better get the school going first. More people interested in that you see".

I nodded my understanding without really understanding or even caring that much. But then my curiosity got the better of me: "Plan B? Do tell!".

"It's a farm!", Georgina exclaimed, immediately perking up. "The house is late Victorian and came with stables and a little farmyard so we thought we may as well do something with that".

"Oh, so like a prison farm?", I asked, that having long been one of my deepest, darkest fantasies and the cause of many a wet patch under my bum after dreaming of being forced to work as a convict on a chain-gang.

"Actually, that's not a bad idea but no. Just an ordinary, old-fashioned farm. You know, animals? Being one with the land? A chance to get back in touch with your primal inner-self?"

I again nodded, albeit struggling to see how that could possibly be made even remotely sexy, much less kinky.

"So an historical re-enactment?", I ventured a guess. "I can see how that might make quite an enjoyable holiday -- a sort of pastoral idyll, getting back to Nature, looking after the animals and so on".

Georgina half-choked on her lemonade and almost fell off the bench.

"No silly!", she chided, laughing. "Where's the fun in that? We are the farmers. But our guests? We have a few interesting roles available for Dominants, but the rest get to spend their entire stay being kept as livestock.

"Well, as far as is safely possible, of course, but you get the idea I'm sure. They leave their humanity at the gate and, from then on, are treated as animals. Simple as that! No mucking about! Total power exchange with no limits and no time outs! And anyone who proves unable to accept that gets kicked out on the spot!

"In other words, total compliance is both expected and required. A case of submit or quit, basically. And no refunds for quitters!", she added with considerable emphasis. "If there is one thing I cannot abide it is time-wasters and people who break promises.

"Proper hardcore! I told you it was niche! Pure filth in fact! Quite literally!

"We're starting with just pigs and cows but we would welcome any suggestions you may have. I remember you saying you are a humiliation slut so I assume that sort of thing would be right up your street and could no doubt teach us a thing or two about handling posh little bitches like you.

"Wasn't that how you described yourself? As a posh bitch in need of being taken down a peg or two? Personally, I can't think of anything more humbling than being reduced to the status of a dumb beast, can you? Utterly degrading I would think, especially if you're at all shy about showing off your body, which I am guessing you are from the way you are dressed!

"How big are the by they way? Your tits? Cup size? Let me guess... a D-cup?"

Cheeks burning, I lowered my eyes and realised my hands were visibly trembling: "Double D... Madam".

"Udders then", Georgina grinned. "I bet my daughter would just love to get her hands on those. She will be taking charge of our cowshed when she gets here, by the way. She's actually studying to be a vet, but the farm was her idea so she has been taking extra courses in animal husbandry to help out. She has just finished one on dairy farming in fact, so she knows all about udders and cows".

Georgina produced a little handkerchief and paused to dab at her dress where she had spluttered lemonade down the front while laughing, flicking me a curious glance when she caught me staring pointedly at the table top in a vain effort to control my breathing and sit still. My pulse was racing.

"Oh my!", she purred, her eyes suddenly glinting. "Are you blushing, dear? Was it something I said? Have I shocked you? Or are you perhaps tempted?

"Don't be shy! You can tell me! We are what we are and I see no shame in being as we were made, so if you are worried about what I will think of you, don't be! We both know you're a filthy little pervert or you wouldn't still be here, so why deny it?

"And you did say you hadn't planned on returning home for another two weeks so... You are here now and more than welcome to stay you know. No need for your journey to be wasted.

"Unless of course you have something more exciting to go home to?"