Reformatory Girls Ch. 08

One day, whilst she is working in the Laundry, Clare Davenport makes a discovery.

The day has not been going well for Clare, largely owing to her knickers. She has always hated wearing Reformatory knickers – you never know who has worn them before, what sort of fluids and juices they have been stained with. But the pair she was doled out last changeover day are not only stained and frayed: the elastic is also so worn that she has difficulty keeping them up, and has to stand awkwardly, with her legs slightly apart. Otherwise it scarcely needs Tania Nye to yank them down, as they slide down by themselves.

She has noticed the other girls sniggering at her. She has even noticed Miss Armstrong and Miss Harman eyeing her with smirks on their faces.

She has just finished ironing a pile of sheets when two white uniform dresses are passed her way. She lays the first one on the ironing board, and notices the nametape: B Jolley. She laughs sardonically to herself: could there ever have been a more inappropriately named woman than Matron? She irons carefully, making sure there are no creases for anyone to complain about, then lays out the second uniform dress and looks at the nametape: R Lucie.

So Miss Lucy is really Miss Lucie after all. It makes sense to Clare: why would she alone be called by her first name, when all the Wardens are called by their surnames? It's an interesting discovery – though hardly worth passing on. But it does distract Clare from the problem of her knickers, and sets her thinking about Miss Lucy/Lucie.

She has been shaved three times now by Miss Lucy (it's no good, she cannot think of her as Miss Lucie). Each time, Miss Lucy has seemed friendly. She has asked Clare about herself. She has shaved her gently and considerately. She has touched Clare in a way that has been arousing, but has always stopped short of overt arousal. But Clare cannot make her out: always it seems as though there is something unsaid. Always there seems to be something in the air – unless it is only in Clare's imagination. Miss Lucy is an enigma, Clare thinks, as she holds up the uniform dress that has so recently been in contact with Miss Lucy's body.

Whilst Clare Davenport has been thinking about Miss Lucy, Miss Lucy has been thinking about Clare Davenport.

For Miss Lucy – listed as Rebecca Lucie on the Hazely payroll – the offer of a job assisting her Aunt could hardly have come at a better moment. Things had been getting a little hot at 36 Ravenscroft Terrace after a neighbour had complained to the Police about the frequency of late-night gentlemen visitors. And when Rebecca and her companion Kim Starkey had learned that Rebecca's principle duty would be to shave the genitals of thirty Reformatory girls, the two girls had laughed so much that Kim had literally wet her knickers.

So Rebecca had joined the Staff at Hazely, and morphed into Miss Lucy.

It was like being a child in charge of a sweetshop. Every Saturday afternoon some fifteen girls, aged between 18 and 21, lay on an Examination Couch, spread their young legs, and lay back whilst Miss Lucy – with no-one to supervise her - ferreted around between their legs and shaved them until their vulvas were as smooth as they day they were born.

Every Saturday evening Miss Lucy took herself early to bed and, with her clitoris practically burning a hole in her knickers, rubbed herself silly – often with the aid of a dildo and a vibrator.

And every Monday she caught the train back to Ravenscroft Terrace, where she and Kim Starkey, a flame-haired Irish girl who had been brought up riding thoroughbred horses and now rode her clients in a similarly assured and no-nonsense manner, would fuck and suck and finger each other until neither girl could stand up – their arousal heightened by Miss Lucy's accounts of life inside Hazely. These accounts focussed on the desperation of the inmates, their reactions at being shaved, the longing on their faces, the quivering of their little pussies, and the subtle pleasures and torments Miss Lucy had the power to inflict upon them.

Sometimes Miss Lucy would even mime or pantomime the reactions of one of the Hazely girls: lying on her back on their bed she would thrust her own trim little pussy towards Kim, saying:

Oh Miss Lucy, please Miss Lucy, it's been so long, I'm so desperate, I'll die if I don't have an orgasm.

And Kim would pretend to reprove her, tapping her pubic bone with her forefinger, saying Now, now, you know it isn't allowed, you have to show more self-control, until the two girls would collapse giggling, and Kim would slide her fingers inside Miss Lucy's sopping vagina, and work her into another climax.

Or else Kim would ask Miss Lucy to tie her up, to strap her legs open and show her exactly how she treated the Hazely girls, and Miss Lucy would oblige her, trace her fingers around Kim's swollen labia, tease her and taunt her and bring her to a peak of desperation, withholding the final coup de grace until Kim could stand it no longer, and would yell at her to stop the game, and Miss Lucy would plunge her fingers inside her friend's hot, quivering vagina and reward her with a volcanic squirting orgasm.

And on Tuesday afternoons Miss Lucy, having had enough sex to last a normal girl a month, would catch the train back to Hazely.

But the job as assistant to her Aunt was not just about sexual titillation. As Miss Lucy was quick to discover, there were other possibilities. For where there is need, and where there are shortages, there is also opportunity.

It did not take Miss Lucy long to find her way to the Passwords to her Aunt's computer, and thence to the Hazely records. Before long she was in possession of a great deal of useful information. She knew why each girl was in Hazely. She knew how long each girl was in Hazely for. And more importantly to her, she knew something about each girl's social background, particularly as regards her and her family's financial status.

Of course the records did not show how much a girl had in her bank account. But by putting together other pieces of information - the girl's job if she had one, her address, the nature of her offence – Miss Lucy was able to form a pretty accurate idea of her resources.

Mostly the information was depressing. Most of the girls lived in tower blocks and Council Houses; if they worked at all they worked on market stalls, in Supermarkets or fast-food outlets. Their crimes were petty: shoplifting, prostitution, small-time drug-dealing.

There was one glaring exception: Karen Frayn. Miss Lucy hardly needed to look up the records, as she remembered having read about Karen's case in the newspaper.

Karen was not a typical Hazely girl. Karen came from a very wealthy family. In fact Karen's family had money to burn. Though Miss Lucy still could not quite believe her own boldness in asking for five thousand pounds for a service rendered. But then didn't somebody once say that the more you're asked to pay for something the more you value it?

With one possible exception the other girls have nothing to offer financially. So Miss Lucy treats them as the whim takes her. Some of them are sexy, some pitiable: though she has no intention of losing her power and authority by having sex with any of them.

Not that they aren't offering. The way some of them display themselves, offering up their little fannies, trying to tempt her. Sienna Sharples for instance. She is cute – and she knows it. The way she lies back on the Examination Couch, and stretches out like a cat, all the time with those big eyes trying to make eye contact. Miss Lucy can't deny she feels a quiver between her legs when Sienna Sharples is on the couch before her. But she knows something of Sienna's character too: how Sienna liked to seduce men on dance floors, rub up against them seductively, with one hand caressing them and the other in their back pockets searching for their wallets. She knows that it would be very foolish to give Sienna any kind of lever that could be used against her. So she pretends to be drawn in, gazing at Sienna's pussy as though she has never seen anything so gorgeous before, parting her firm little buttocks and gasping as she uncovers Sienna's puckered little anus, smoothing oil over Sienna's mound until Sienna is pushing desperately at her hand, quivering on the brink of a climax – then stopping abruptly, leaving Sienna high and dry, giving the devious little prick-tease a taste of her own medicine.

Yes, Miss Lucy has the measure of the Hazely girls: of their finances and their characters.

But there is one girl about whom she is uncertain: Clare Davenport.

She has watched Clare carefully. It is hard not to, for she is very beautiful, and there is something wholesome about her, which she has managed to retain in the face of institutional food and institutional clothing. But unlike Sienna she genuinely seems not to realise how desirable she is: at least, she doesn't trade on it: she doesn't flaunt herself or display herself or give any indication that her body is special or out of the ordinary. She's badly in need of an orgasm, that much is clear: but she doesn't give Miss Lucy the come-on, or look at her in that pleading way – please Miss Lucy I'm so desperate – that other girls do, and that mostly amuse or irritate Miss Lucy. And Miss Lucy feels that if she were to have sex with Clare, Clare could be trusted to be discreet, and not to use it against Miss Lucy.

Then there's the question of her finances. It's apparent from the records that her family live in a well-to-do neighbourhood. Her father is a Doctor; and Clare herself was at University before she was sent to Hazely. There's plenty of money there: but is it the right sort of money? Would her father hand over a wedge of used banknotes with the same ease that Mr Frayn did? Would Clare even ask him?

Miss Lucy isn't sure about Clare; she isn't even sure what she wants from Clare. But she wants something.

The time has come to sound Clare out.

Saturday afternoon has come round again, and for the third time in succession Clare Davenport finds herself summoned by Miss Lucy. She wonders about this: it's probably chance, but it's curious. What neither she nor any of the girls know is that it is easy for Miss Lucy to determine who she shaves and who she does not shave. All she has to do is to keep an ear open for the door to Matron's Consulting Room across the corridor. If the girl Miss Lucy wants to see is at the head of the queue she will shave her current girl quickly; if the girl she wants to see is second in the queue, she will take her time, wait until she has heard Matron exit her Consulting Room to call the next girl, then follow on a moment later.

As Karen Frayn is starting to suspect: if Miss Lucy wants to get her hands on you there is nothing you can do to stop her.

Inside the consulting room Clare undresses quietly and lies herself down on the couch. She has never really got used to spreading her legs in this way: but she has learned to get on with it, without making a fuss or making a performance of it.

Miss Lucy asks her about herself, then starts to shave her as usual. Clare lies as passively as she can: she does not want to get aroused, but it has been so long since she had an orgasm, any sort of contact between her legs is arousing. She closes her eyes – unlike Matron, Miss Lucy does not insist on you keeping your eyes open - and tries to think of other things. But as the shaving comes to an end, and Miss Lucy begins to spread the massage oil over her pudenda, Clare cannot help twitching and shuddering. She bites her lip, breathes in deeply, and opens her eyes. Miss Lucy is speaking to her.

"You're a bundle of tensions, aren't you Clare?" Miss Lucy says.

Clare doesn't need to answer.

Miss Lucy shakes her head, in an I-don't-know-what-we're-going-to-do-with-you gesture. Her hand continues to smooth over Clare's vulva.

"Supposing I were to give you the relief you need," Miss Lucy says. "Do you think you could give me something in return?"

So that's it, thinks Clare, gasping as Miss Lucy's fingers stray over her clitoris. She wants some sort of payment.

"What though?" she asks. "I don't have anything to give you."

"You think about it Clare," says Miss Lucy, withdrawing her hand and replacing the top on the baby oil bottle. "We'll see next week what sort of an arrangement we can come to."

"What if I don't see you next week?" asks Clare.

"You will Clare," says Miss Lucy.

In the privacy of her bed, Clare gives a lot of thought to what Miss Lucy has said. She's none too keen on the idea of paying for sex: but needs must: this is a very different environment from the one she was used to.

But how can she pay? She has no money – none of the girls do. And it doesn't immediately occur to her, as it had to Karen Frayn, to ask her father. When that thought does enter her mind she rejects it at once. Even if it were logistically possible – and she can't see how it would be – she is not going to involve her parents in anything of that nature.

It does not occur to her at all that Miss Lucy might be after something other than money.

So she lies in bed, revolving the problem around in her mind – until it comes to her that maybe there is something she can give Miss Lucy.

Her ring.

When she was brought to Hazely she was still wearing the ring her ex-boyfriend had given her. A gold eternity ring set with tiny diamonds and sapphires. Of course it was taken off her, along with all her clothes and possessions, and docketed and locked away in some safe. But it is still hers. It has no sentimental value to her: in fact she was planning to sell it as soon as she was released. How much she will get for it she is not sure, but it must be worth several hundred pounds.

If Miss Lucy would accept that ring she would be welcome to it.

Clare very much doubts that she could get access to that ring before her release. But it does occur to her that possibly Miss Lucy might know a way to get hold of it. If she had access to the safe maybe, or the paperwork.

Clare doesn't know. But the ring, or the promise of the ring, is the best she can offer. And so she makes up her mind to offer it to Miss Lucy.

In the meantime Miss Lucy has also made up her mind. Unless Clare Davenport can offer her a very large sum, she does not want Clare Davenport's money. She wants Clare Davenport. And she intends to have her.

The following Saturday Clare is called by Miss Lucy, just as Miss Lucy had promised. She says nothing as she undresses and lies down on the couch, and Miss Lucy makes no reference to the conversation of the previous week, but asks Clare about her health and proceeds to shave her as normal. Clare feels those warm hands, gently pulling her this way and that, and she can't help the blood rushing into her labia, can't help the swelling in and around her clitoris. Miss Lucy seems not to notice, but carries on, down between Clare's legs and around her anus. Clare tries to turn her mind to other matters, but it's hopeless, every time she tries to focus on a maths problem Miss Lucy seems to touch her somewhere that has her throbbing again. It's almost a relief when the shaving is over and she feels the warm flannel over her pubis.

"So," says Miss Lucy: "have you given any though to what we talked about last week."

"Yes," says Clare. And she proceeds to tell Miss Lucy about the ring and her boyfriend and the safe and how she hasn't anything else to offer... until Miss Lucy shushes her and says:

"Clare: I don't want your ring or your money: I want you."

"Me?" says Clare surprised. "How do you mean?"

"How do you think I mean?" asks Miss Lucy who has now begun massaging baby oil over Clare's mound. "I mean in bed of course. The two of us. A whole night together."

A shiver of electricity runs through Clare's body – she feels excitement: but tinged with something else, a sense of danger.

"But how?" asks Clare, gasping as she feels Miss Lucy's fingers slide inside her vulva, one either side of her labia.

"It's easy Clare," says Miss Lucy. "In the sick bay. One mealtime – not Mondays or Tuesdays, those are my days off - you make yourself sick. Salt in your water should do it: if not you put your fingers down your throat. You get taken to the sick bay. You say you feel ill and you're kept in overnight. When my Aunt has gone to bed, I'll sneak in and join you."

Clare's brain is feeling. Her first thought is of what happened to Abigail Morgan and the others when Eve Thomas feigned sick.

"I can't," she protests: "It's too risky."

"Where's the risk Clare?" asks Miss Lucy, who lays the palm of her hand over Clare's pubic bone and begins to make circular movements, sliding her finger into Clare's slit and feeling for her clitoris. "You'll really be sick, not pretending. And I'll be here to monitor you and take your temperature and confirm that you need to stay in the sick bay. What could be simpler?"

"What about my chastity belt?" breathes Clare.

"I know where my Aunt puts the keys," says Miss Lucy.

"I still can't," Clare shivers, though the way Miss Lucy is fingering her she hardly knows what she is saying.

"Think about it Clare," says Miss Lucy huskily. "A whole night of sex together. I'll give you orgasms like you never had before: I know how to please a girl like you."

"Oh God," says Clare, as she feels something building up between her legs the like of which she has not felt for so long.

"You do want that, don't you Clare?" breathes Miss Lucy. "You do want me to take away all your frustration?"

"Yes," breathes Clare, because it is already too late, the spasms between her legs have started, she gasps and heaves and presses into Miss Lucy as her orgasm takes her over, and Miss Lucy, seeing Clare is passing the point of no return, applies a steady circular motion to her clitoris and lets Clare press into her palm and helps her to a bucking, heaving, convulsive orgasm that has Clare thrashing about like a landed fish and through which months of tension and misery are finally expelled from her body.

When her orgasm has subsided Clare is practically whimpering with relief, with the goodness of it all. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God is all the speech she is capable of. Miss Lucy looks down on her with a benevolent smile, her knickers starting to dampen.

"Well – Clare," she says. "Somebody needed that all right."

"Yes," gasps Clare. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I thought I was never going to cum again."

Miss Lucy gives her a minute or two longer before un-strapping her feet and steering them into her knickers. She has to help Clare to stand.

"One day next week then," she says as she leads Clare out. "I'll be expecting you."