Reformatory Girls Ch. 17: Rebecca Lucie 04

In a micro-second Rebecca sees all the things she could buy with a hundred pounds; she also sees it might be the quickest way to get rid of her Uncle and get to sleep.

"Let's see the hundred pounds," she says sceptically.

"I don't have it with me," says her Uncle. "But I'll give it to you tomorrow: you have my word."

"You better had," says Rebecca. "Otherwise this will be the last time."

"You're a good girl," her Uncle says.

"Just get on with it," says Rebecca.

Her Uncle peels back the bedclothes; Rebecca draws up her knees and takes off her pants: a thread of white cotton from her tampon is visible between her legs.

"Here," says her Uncle, taking her pillow and moving it down the bed: this will cushion your tummy."

Rebecca turns over, and rests her stomach on the pillow with her bottom in the air. She's never had a penis up her anus before, only a gloved finger and a speculum when she was given a medical at school. She's nervous all of a sudden.

"If I say it hurts you're to stop at once," she warns her Uncle. "Is that understood?"

"Absolutely," her Uncle says.

"Use some lube -- in my bag," she says.

She closes her eyes, and tries to relax and think of other things. She feels something cold -- the lube -- round her anus: then suddenly something -- her Uncle's finger -- is sliding past her sphincter, sliding inside her. It doesn't exactly hurt, but it feels strange and it causes her to gasp and squirm. Initially her muscles grip the intrusive finger: then they relax and she feels the finger moving inside her, seeming to open her up: and in a paradoxical way she feels more violated by her Uncle's finger than she did when he had his penis inside her.

"Is that alright?" her Uncle asks.

"I suppose so," she says, into the pillow.

His finger is withdrawn, and the muscle of her sphincter gratefully contracts again. Then she feels his hands, stroking and kneading her buttocks, and his whispered breath, telling her how lovely she is. He strokes the insides of her thighs, sliding his hands up until they make contact with her pussy, where he can't resist a little feel. She wriggles away impatiently.

"Out of bounds," she says.

"Sorry," says her Uncle. His hands go back to her buttocks, spreading them to get a good view of her dark, star-fish-shaped little hole. She can tell by his breathing how aroused he is. Then she feels something against her anus: there's a push, a gasp, a resistance, another push -- and he's sliding his cock inside her.

"Jesus," she says: he may not be huge, but she's never been opened-up like this before. She tenses, afraid of being hurt: then slowly relaxes her muscles again as he glides all the way in.

"OK?" he asks.

"Just about," she says.

He moves around on the bed, getting himself into the best position. She's pretty sure he's not wearing a condom: well it's too late now, if he wants to get shit on his dick that's his lookout. When he moves he does so carefully, as though he's as afraid of hurting her as she is of hurting herself. But though it feels peculiar and unnatural it doesn't hurt. He grows more confident, starts to build up a head of steam: his thrusts press into her buttocks, pressing her into the bed and making it rock. When he comes he judders like a lorry in the wrong gear, and lets out a long, inarticulate cry. She can feel his penis expanding and contracting against her sphincter; she can picture, though she can't feel, his semen spurting into the dark cave of her bowels.

When he's done he collapses on her, squashing her into the bed.

"Oh my God Becky," he mutters happily: "what are we like?"

Presently he pulls out and rolls off her. Some minutes later, after he has recovered, he says:

"I don't need to tell you how good that was. But would it surprise you to know I've only ever done that once before in my life?"

It doesn't surprise her: somehow she cannot imagine Aunt Ellen taking it up the arse.

"I'd better leave you in peace," he tells her, heaving himself off the bed. He closes the door softly behind him. She reaches behind her, dries to tamp down with her finger the lingering feeling in her anus that she wants to shit something out. All around her hole it is slippery and wet.

She wonders how she's going to wash his spunk out of her bottom.

The next morning he approaches her in the kitchen, places some rolled-up banknotes in her hand and closes her fingers over them -- in just the same way as he used to give her extra pocket money or sweets when she was a child.

"Don't tell your Aunt about this," he says conspiratorially, before whistling his way off to work.

Although there is no spoken arrangement between them, her Uncle starts to give her regular payments. She's glad of that -- not just for the money, but because it makes it easier for her to know how to behave. For with the payments comes a tacit understanding that he can have her whenever he likes. He comes to her room, to her bed, with more assurance; and she can dispense with the wavering, the uncertainty as to whether or not to allow him or make a show of fending him off.

Not just to her bed either. One morning, when he isn't at work, he comes upon her in the kitchen, bent over the sink. He comes up behind her, puts his arms round her waist and nuzzles her neck. Before she knows it he has her dress up and his trousers down and is easing her knickers off her feet. He's come prepared with his condom and lube. She braces herself against the counter: first he puts his erect penis between her legs and lets her feel the strength of it, pushing up, almost lifting her onto her toes. Then he's inside her, fucking her vigorously, shooting his load. When he's finished he pulls out and is about to stagger outside and collapse onto a lounger.

"Oi," she calls. "Are you just going to leave me like this with my dress up and my knickers off for Aunt Ellen to see?"

Grinning he returns, pulls her knickers back up and shakes down her dress. She continues with the washing-up as though nothing has happened: except that fifty pounds has been tucked down her bra.

Meantime, what Rebecca has come to think of as her real sex life, a sex life in which she experiences a wide range of sexual pleasures, gathers pace. She masturbates in her bedroom, in the sitting room, in the conservatory, in the bath. There's barely a chair or a sofa in the place that she hasn't humped, or straddled, or spread herself across. She struts about the house ever more brazenly, loving the frisson of danger her nakedness brings. Sometimes she stands in front of one of the full-length mirrors, taking in her nakedness, shamelessly playing between her legs.

"Whore," she says to her reflection. "Tart, prostitute, hussy: go on, bring yourself off you filthy whore."

She thrusts her cunt towards the mirror, tweaks her nipple with one hand whilst rubbing herself with the other, working herself up until her reflection is writhing in the throes of a climax.

One Wednesday morning her Aunt, just before leaving the house, thrusts a copy of the local newspaper at Rebecca. On the 'Situations Vacant' page three jobs have been heavily circled. One is in a meat-processing factory; one is for a Waitress; and one is for a Cleaner. All offer pitiable rates of pay. As soon as her Aunt has left Rebecca throws the newspaper angrily into the waste-paper basket and goes upstairs to comfort herself. She strips off her clothes and is just deciding where to go to masturbate when she has a thought: although she has explored most of the house she has never been into her Aunt's bedroom. The more she thinks about it the more reckless and defiant she feels. She crosses the various landings, reaches the door and, aware that she is violating a taboo, enters the sanctity of Aunt Ellen's room.

The curtains are drawn, and there is a scent of lavender in the air. She gets the feeling that her Aunt's curtains are always drawn, it's almost like a sick room, though there's nothing wrong with her Aunt's health. There are the usual bedroom accoutrements: bottles, pots, dressing gowns, night gowns, hair-brushes -- nothing you wouldn't expect to find. It's all so innocent and dull. But Rebecca, through the lens of her own preoccupations, wonders if there is more. Can her Aunt really be as sexless as her Uncle claims? No-one can live without sex: suppose it's just her Uncle her Aunt rejects? Supposing she's got some erotic books in her linen basket? Supposing she's got some dildo or vibrator hidden in one of her drawers?

She has to satisfy her curiosity. With a gleeful sense of violating her Aunt's privacy Rebecca begins to open drawers, carefully turning over lavender-scented handkerchiefs, knickers and bras, vests and blouses and cardigans and stockings and tights.

It is disappointing. There is nothing. Nor do the linen basket, bookshelves, wardrobe, or any of the shelves and alcoves yield anything more sexual than a box of sanitary pads. There is no erotic literature under the pillow or the bed.

Dull, dull, dull. Her Uncle is right about his wife. The room desperately needs an infusion of sex. If Rebecca had a vibrator she'd be tempted to leave it suggestively on her Aunt's pillow.

She does not. But there is a full-length mirror in the room, and catching sight of herself naked, Rebecca starts to smile. Why shouldn't she rub herself off, stir up the lavender stillness by putting some sexual charge into the room?

She gives a little jump, and lands flat on her back on her Aunt's bed. It is springy and comfortable. She stretches out, rubbing her back like a cat against the soft cotton bedspread. She draws up her knees, strokes the insides of her thighs, strokes her tummy and her breasts. The mirror reflects her back to herself: the flesh of her thighs, the triangle of pubic hair, half-concealed by her fingers. She starts to rub herself, noisily, demonstratively, encouraging herself, talking to her hand as though it were independent from her.

"Go on, rub that clit," she murmurs. "Open your legs wider you whore -- show me everything you've got."

The chasteness of her surroundings provoke her into more demonstrations of lasciviousness and filth. She thrusts her pelvis into the air, spreads her legs as wide as they will go, all the time rubbing at her clitoris or sliding her fingers deep inside her vagina. She building up a fine head of steam, making noises like a rutting stag, feeling the force between her legs, going at herself harder and harder -- until, with an explosive and scarcely muted yell she comes, thrashing with wild abandon, her legs kicking up towards the ceiling above her Aunt's bed.

The tension ebbs from her body: her shoulders sag; her legs slide down until she is lying fully prostrate. Her breathing starts to return to normal. Her head lolls to one side: and she lets out a piercing scream:

Standing in the open doorway is a figure with a rolling pin in its hand.

Rebecca makes a grab for the covers, realises she is lying on top of the bed, and twists into a defensive position: the figure in the doorway does not move. Rebecca, her heart racing, realises it is Paula the cleaning woman.

"Jesus Christ," she shouts. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I hear noise," says Paula. "I think is burglar in Mrs Lucie's room."

"So you stood there and watched me?" demands Rebecca, angry still although much relieved.

Paula gives a half-smile:

"Is very sexy," she says. "Make me very wet."

Rebecca looks at the cleaner with fresh eyes. She'd never taken much notice of her before, only seeing her in her headscarf and overalls, only seeing her in her cleaning role. Now she realises Paula is younger than she'd thought -- maybe twenty-five or twenty-six -- and with her dark hair down on her shoulders has an attractive, sultry look about her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" asks Rebecca, very conscious of her nakedness, and of the trespass she has committed in this woman's employer's room.

"I forget bag yesterday -- I come collect."

"Right. But did you have to stand and watch me?"

"Why you embarrass? Is good to masturbate. Is good for stress. I much masturbate at home."

"I... I'm not embarrassed," Rebecca says. "You just caught me by surprise."

Again Paula gives a little laugh.

"You go very hard," she says. "Make much noise. I think you very randy yes?"

"I suppose I was," says Rebecca.

"Maybe I join you," says Paula. "Maybe we masturbate together. You like?"

Rebecca can't entirely understand Paula's speech. She thinks, when she answers 'yes', she is being polite, agreeing to something vague that if it happens will do so in the distant future but will most likely never happen at all. So she is surprised when Paula lays down the rolling pin, steps into the room, and starts to take off her skirt.

"Oh my God," says Rebecca. She watches Paula take off her knickers -- she's a big girl with strong thighs and a dark patch, shaved except for a small central tuft, of pubic hair. She feels a flickering between her legs as Paula climbs onto the bed and sits opposite her, resting her back against the support at the foot of the bed.

Paula draws up her knees, giving Rebecca an unrestricted view. Then she squeezes the insides of her thighs.

"I big girl, yes?" she says. "Big flesh on thighs. You like?"

Rebecca's throat has gone dry. She can only nod.

"Now I try to catch up," Paula says: and with that she starts to finger herself.

Rebecca watches, still half in shock: are all Portugese women so uninhibited, or is it just Paula? She draws her own legs up and apart to give Paula more room, thus mirroring the cleaner's position on the bed. Paula continues to finger herself, fidgeting and grunting, seemingly completely un-phased at having an audience. Rebecca herself would have found it hard, if not impossible, to rub herself with another girl staring at her; but Paula is making it seem so natural that her own fingers find their way between her own legs. She diddles away at her clitoris: but most of her attention is on the woman opposite her. Paula's head has drooped: she is still wearing a blouse and jumper, only the bottom half of her is naked, and her hair is hanging down over her full bosom. The flesh on her thighs and her tummy oscillates as she rubs. Rebecca's eyes are fixed like a sniper's on the movements of Paula's middle finger, on the cleft that finger forms between the two dark fleshy lips. Paula's breathing grows shallow and rapid: she is clearly 'catching up'. Her shoulders start to shake; her knees flex inwards and outwards; she's muttering things Rebecca does not understand. The mattress beneath them starts to vibrate: watching the big Portugese girl, Rebecca gets the sense of a volcano about to erupt. Paula is pressing down with her heels, thrusting her vagina forwards, rubbing at herself frantically, practically bouncing on the bed. 'Santa Maria I come," she gasps suddenly: and her whole frame heaves, her head jags downwards, her thighs tremble and shake from side to side, and the energy generated by her orgasm seems to bounce from the walls of the cloistered room, until her jaw sags, her head lolls, and her finger slides wetly away from her clitoris leaving a patch of dampness over her vulva and the insides of the thighs.

Rebecca is so caught up in this tempestuous orgasm, it's almost as though she has come herself. Her finger has slowed to an idle flicking. She still wants to come -- but more than that, she realises, she wants to respond to Paula, she wants Paula to watch her come. For the moment Paula has her head bowed, caught up in her own post-orgasmic afterglow. All Rebecca can do is to stare at her cunt, at the stubble of Paula's pubic hair. She wonders about that stubble: does Paula shave herself or does somebody shave her? Why does she shave? Then Paula looks up at her and, glassy-eyed, smiles:

"I come hard yes?"

"Yes," says Rebecca emphatically. She looks into Paula's eyes, at the softness of her full cheeks and at her dark hair, and realises how attractive she is.

"I much need," she says. Then: "You want come again?"

Again Rebecca's mouth is so dry she can only nod; between her legs moisture is gathering round her finger.

"I go again too," Paula says.

The two girls begin rubbing simultaneously. Paula's movements are subtly different from last time: her finger is less concentrated on her clitoris, but has a wider range. Rebecca watches as she spreads her labia wide, squeezes and teases herself, allows her middle finger to glide inside her vagina: it's as though, having come once, having discharged that urgent build-up of tension, she feels more at liberty to take her time, to play. Rebecca herself, although she's come once, still has a burning desire to come. Nevertheless she tries to mimic Paula, spreading her own labia, thrusting herself forwards, exposing herself to the Portugese girl as much as she can. Paula's eyes act like another finger on her. She can feel them caressing her, teasing the juices from her cunt. For a while the two girls mirror one another, displaying themselves, turning themselves and each other on. Unintentionally Rebecca has slid down the bed; suddenly she finds the soles of her feet have come into contact with the soles of Paula's feet: the feeling is sensational, bare feet pressed against bare feet. A new surge of sexual voltage courses through her body; she gasps -- and she knows from the sound Paula makes that the sensation is mutual. Vast currents of sexual charge are circulating at the speed of light: from eyes to feet to genitals, the girls watching, the girls rubbing, the girls feeling the contact of their soles, eye to brain to genitals, feet to brain to genitals, the two girls on heat, their sexual excitement mounting like heat in an electrical coil. The soles of their feet are pressing against each other, Rebecca has her head thrown back, she wants to come, she wants Paula to see every fold in her labia, wants Paul's eyes to probe inside her vagina, she can hardly hold on: but some sort of primal instinct for precedent tells her she must wait for Paula to come first. Paula is building up, her cunt is dripping, her body is starting to shake the bed once more, but she's being maddeningly slow -- and then Rebecca can't hold out any longer: offering her cunt like a brimming goblet up to Paula she begins to spasm, her finger flickers like a humming bird's wing and her orgasm takes over her. She presses hard against Paula's soles, her body jolts up into the air, she lets out a long-drawn-out cry, goes into a thousand orgasmic spasms and collapses again -- just in time to watch through glazed eyes as Paula, too, goes into convulsions, her hand clamped between her legs, her head shaking up and down, her feet breaking contact with Rebecca's feet and kicking out into the air sending quakes over the flesh on her thighs.

For a while they slump on Aunt Ellen's bed. When Rebecca opens her eyes she's surprised to see the pots still in their place on the dressing table, the pictures still on the walls: it's a marvel that such a chaste room could withstand such a convulsion of sexual energy and come through unscathed.

What next? she wonders. She may have come twice, but she has a sense of vast sexual vistas still to be explored. She thinks about sliding further down the bed with her legs apart, until the sole of Paula's foot is pressed against her vagina, and the sole of her foot is pressed between Paula's legs. The thought is a pleasant one: at least it sends little shock waves of sensation rippling over her clitoris: so she puts it into practice, sliding down, holding Paula's ankle and guiding it until she can feel the warmth of Paula's foot against her pussy. She shivers with pleasure.

To her surprise Paula pulls her foot away.

"Hey," says Paula. "You are lesbian? I say we rub together, not make lesbian sex."