Finishing School Ch. 02

Interlude: Margaret's Story

She woke at 4:58 a.m., as the training had taught her. This was important she knew now. Her Husband, and for an instant, she felt a moment's guilt, she could remember when she thought of Him without the capital letter, her Husband needed to be up at 7:00 and she needed those two hours to make sure she looked her best for him, as a proper wife should.

She eased out of bed, very carefully, to make sure she didn't disturb Him. He needed His sleep after all.

On tiptoes, barefoot and naked, silent, she made her way to the guest bathroom so she wouldn't bother him as she got ready.

She sat on the toilet, for her morning business. As she peed and pooped she thought, "at least part of the Finishing School training is that I'm regular." Finished, she folded the toilet paper into a pad and carefully wiped, Then she went to the bathroom vanity, took one of the washcloths from the drawer there, ran the water until it was warm, soaked and wrung out the washcloth, and then carefully washed between her legs. She paid particular attention to her gluteal cleft, her asscrack, and her anus. It didn't matter that she would be stepping into the shower next. The Finishing School training was powerful and a proper wife always kept herself clean down there for Him.

She showered then, very carefully and thoroughly. She scrubbed her face until the skin was pink, then shampooed her hair, the expensive shampoo from the Salon she visited every Thursday making her scalp tingle, and then followed with the conditioner with its faint scent of strawberries. She did her body then, the scented soap adding to the soft pleasant aroma of the steam. The loofah sponge abraided away any dead skin leaving her skin pink and fresh.

Finally, she hooked the douche hose to the little adapter He had installed for her. She slipped the syringe deep into her vagina and opened the little valve. As she carefully cleansed her Husband's special property she smiled, thinking how lucky she was.

She stepped out of the shower, dried quickly, used the baby powder liberally, and then started getting ready for the day.

Her hair took almost fifteen minutes, standing in front of the mirror with the blow dryer and hair pick, arranging her dark hair, not quite black, and shot through liberally with grey, into the perfect curly cap He liked. She thought, as she did every morning, that she wished He would let her have Race, her delightfully homosexual hairdresser, color away the grey but that, of course, was not her decision.

She sat, then, in front of her mirror at her little makeup desk, and invested the next half-hour in making her face look good for Him. A light base, a bit of blush to highlight her cheeks, a light blue eyeshadow and delicate lines of mascara. The false eyelashes he liked, and the scarlet lipstick.

She put in the little diamond stud earrings He liked.

In the closet she used in the morning she found her bra, a heavy torpedo bra that cut the skin to hold its shape so well. Then it was her girdle, an old-fashioned open-bottom girdle with heavy stretch nylon panels and whalebone (or maybe it was plastic these days) inserts to shape her waist.

She sat and put on her nylons, hooking them to the girdle, and turned to look over her shoulder to make sure the seams were ruler-straight.

She went back into the bathroom then and sprayed her armpits, three times each, with her antiperspirant. He had once seen sweat stains and that had been very painful for her.

Back in the spare bedroom, she stepped into the high-heeled pumps put on the petticoat, and then shrugged into the patterned dress with its notched collar and A-line skirt. She did up the 22 buttons. The last touch was the wide copper belt He had purchased, sucking in her breath to tighten the belt and give her a 22" waist.

Satisfied, she went into the kitchen, started, set the oven to preheat to make the biscuits He liked for breakfast, and made a pot of coffee.

At 7:00 on the dot she went back into the bedroom she shared with Him, a cup of coffee in her hand, and woke him by tickling his back very gently.

Chapter Two

I enjoyed watching Margaret get ready. The conversion from Margaret, who had given us both such pleasure the night before, to Mrs. O'Neil, the head teacher, took the best part of an hour. We started with a shower, washing each other's backs. I enjoyed using the douche syringe on her, something I had never done before although, of course, I understood the theory behind it.

Mostly, though, it was a matter of watching her.

She spent ten minutes on her hair, converting it from a lovely set of curls to a severe cap. Then her face, doing the same thing, the crow's feet around her eyes and mouth disappearing. As I watched the 54-year-old matron became a 40-something teacher.

Her torpedo bra, girdle, and nylons followed. The petticoat, crinoline was the word that came to mind, would hold the A-line shape of the dress. And then the dress itself, navy blue with a very fine print in the material. I watched as she shrugged it on and then did the thousand buttons, well, okay, 22 buttons. Her black high-heeled pumps with three-inch heels added height, bringing her to almost my own 5'10". A simple strand of pearls and her delicate lady's watch finished the outfit. Finally, she drew the 4" wide wide belt tight, giving her a dramatic wasp-waisted appearance.

I whistled and she giggled.

"Okay then," I said, smiling in anticipation, "let's go start the delightful Tiffany on her new life."

She smiled.

"You're going to enjoy this one, aren't you?" she asked.

"Actually, yes," I said, "I get so worn out with these chicks that think their looks make them special."

"Side bet?" she asked.

"Sure, whatcha got?" I replied.

"I'm saying she says 'fuck' at LEAST four times before she gets the idea," she said.

I thought about it for a moment and said, "you're on. Three tops."

She spit into her palm so I did the same and we shook.

"By the way," I said, "what's the stake?"

She grinned. "Our mouths. Loser does whatever the winner wants."

I laughed and said, "fair enough."

At Tiffany's door Mrs. O'Neil, she was Mrs. O'Neil now, no longer Margaret, swiped her master key card and entered without knocking.

"What the fuck," the lovely Tiffany said, jumping out of her bed and almost charging Mrs. O'Neil.

Well, until she started screaming and fell to the floor, hugging herself where the Training Aid was sending high voltage, low amperage jolts directly to that complex nerve ganglia at her clitoris.

Mrs. O'Neil held the button down for a long 10 count, you know, "one Mississippi, two Mississippi," like that, before releasing it.

Tiffany lay on the floor, curled around her pain, gasping and crying for several seconds. The only sound was her breathing.

"Oh, Christ, oh FUCK," she moaned and then started screaming again.

This time it was a long 15-count.

Once again we watched, saying nothing, as she writhed and cried and tried to get herself under control.

"God DAMN it," she yelled, "fucking..." but she didn't finish her thought. I presume she was going to say "fucking stop that" or something similar, but she was screaming again.

This time she threw up.

The count ran to 30.

She was wheezing with little sharp panted breaths.

"Oh, God, please," she was whimpering, her cheek laying the puddle of her vomit, "please, God, please, fuck..."

This wasn't a scream. It was more like a whistled, keening sound. There was no volume left. She just twitched with every pulse of the unit.

Mrs. O'Neil came over and brushed her fingertip across my lips. "Keep these nice and ready," she said with a giggle.

When she finally pushed the button again, Tiffany was just laying there, sort of twitching.

Mrs. O'Neil went to her and used the toe of her shoe to push Tiffany onto her back.

"Now listen to me you worthless little cunt," she said and when Tiffany opened her mouth she gave her a little jolt from the Training Aid, "keep a civil tongue in your head or we can keep this up all day. Either way is fine with me."

"Please," Tiffany whispered, her voice was pretty well stripped from the way she had been screaming.

"That's better," Mrs. O'Neil said, "now let's start your first lesson."

Tiffany sat up, sort of shaking her hands slowly the way we've all done if we managed to get something bad on them.

"Get out of your shift," Mrs. O'Neil said.

"What?" she started and then screamed again. This time it was a short blast.

"If I want something from you," Mrs. O'Neil said, "I will ask. Otherwise, I expect obedience."

She touched the fob again and Tiffany started yanking the shift off.

I was fascinated by how quickly our system worked. I mean, hell, I had invented it, well, collaborated in its invention, but it was still fascinating watching.

Naked, now, Tiffany looked up at Mrs. O'Neil. She said nothing.

"Good girl," Mrs. O'Neil said, and touched the other button. Tiffany gasped, but this time with pleasure as a quick, orgasmic burst hit.

"Now," Mrs. O'Neil said, "your lessons can begin."

Tiffany was looking up at her, pure fear on her face, but she said nothing.

"Good girl," she said again and Tiffany gasped at that sudden blast of pleasure, just a second or so.

"On your knees," she said.

Tiffany hesitated and then screamed when Mrs. O'Neil touched the button.

She was having trouble moving, the Training Aid has the effect when it's delivering pain, but managed to get onto her knees, well, actually onto all fours, her head hanging, her scream reduced almost to a soundless whistle, as her body rebelled at that was being done to it and she threw up again, gagging, her empty stomach giving out nothing but a clear greenish bile.

She kept retching like that as her control failed completely. She shit herself and pissed herself and kept retching while Mrs. O'Neil watched, her face almost blank.

My dick was hard.

Mrs. O'Neil released Tiffany from the pain and she gasped, a great whooping breath, as her entire body trembled.

"On. Your. Knees," Mrs. O'Neil repeated, her articulation making each word a separate sentence.

Tiffany was still shivering and her breathing was those loud hoots, sounding almost like a demented owl, as she struggled to straighten so she was on her knees rather than on all fours.

"That's better," Mrs. O'Neil said, walking slowly around Tiffany, her heels making clicks as she stepped, something I'm sure she practiced.

"Point your toes," she said and as I watched, Tiffany pointed her toes so that from her knees to her toenails her shins touched the floor.

"Back straight, chin up," she said and Tiffany straightened her back and lifted her chin.

"Hands on your knees," she said and Tiffany laid her hands on her knees, palms flat.

"Now you listen to me, girl," she said and, to give her credit, Tiffany held her position.

"This is Position Number One," Mrs. O'Neil said, "and whenever any of your teachers, or ANY man says POSITION like this you will strip naked, including any jewelry, and assume Position Number One. I don't care where you are or who you're with."

She moved to a position in front of Tiffany, feet planted a little more than shoulder length apart, a pose she had practiced and perfected in her time as our head instructor.

"Do you understand your first lesson?" she asked in a quiet, almost conversational manner.

"Yes," Tiffany answered and then screamed and bent forward, supporting herself on all fours again as she retched.

"POSITION," Mrs. O'Neil snapped and, to give credit for being able to learn, Tiffany moved quickly to achieve Position Number One.

"The proper response to me is, 'Yes, Mrs. O'Neil,' or 'Yes, Ma'am,'" she said, "do you understand now?"

"Yes, Mrs. O'Neil," Tiffany said, her eyes on the floor, understanding without being told that was the proper attitude.

"Good girl," Mrs. O'Neil said, "now stand up and we'll get you started."

"Eyes on the floor," Mrs. O'Neil said and Tiffany looked at a spot about two feet in front of her toes.

"Good girl," she said again, "now follow me a respectful six feet behind."

She turned on her heel and started marching, first out the door and then down the hall. Her heels made a distinct sharp click with each step, and her hips, in her girdle, showed a single buttock as they snapped from side to side with each step.

Tiffany followed. Jesus, what a sight she was. There was a distinct brown circle at the bottom of her well-exercised ass and smears down her thighs, her hair was a mess, sticking straight up on one side but weighed down and hanging lank on the other where she had laid in the puddle of puke. Even in that condition, though, she couldn't help the sinuous movement of her body, that ass just begging for attention, as she followed Mrs. O'Neil.

Mrs. O'Neil led us down the hall and opened the door into the kitchen area where girls learned to both cook and look like dancers as they cooked.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, stepping into the room and motioning for Tiffany to follow, "but we have a new girl here just starting her orientation."

Mrs. Reynolds, who handled the cooking instruction for us, smiled and said, "You're always welcome, Mrs. O'Neil. Girls, say good morning to Mrs. O'Neil."

In unison, looking like something out of Leave it to Beaver in class, the girls turned and said, "Good morning, Mrs. O'Neil."

"Good morning girls," she said to the class.

"Now," she said, "what do men have?"

"Rights," the class responded in unison, sounding like the preces from the Catholic liturgy.

"What do women have?"

"Holes."

"What is a woman's role?"

"Pleasing her man."

"What is a woman without a man?"

"Nothing."

"Thank you, girls," she said and then, quickly to Tiffany, "follow along."

You know what they say. Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life. Well, I have the BEST job EVER!