Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. All characters who play are 18+. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
St. Agatha's Academy for Girls
The heavy oak door ever so slowly creaked open, its hinges protesting like tree limbs being methodically torn from a trunk. Each staccato crack or muffled rip echoed through the dimly lit corridor of St. Agatha's Academy for Girls.
The sound flowed unhindered through the ancient stone walls, indifferent to the fleeting noise. These walls, steeped in centuries of tradition, cared nothing for the creak of the floorboards or the groan of the old timbers. The stones were as eternal as Saint Aggie's itself.
The air was thick with the scented air washed over her, cleansing her in aged wood, old books, and the faint, lingering aroma of incense from the nearby chapel. Stepping inside, the girl immediately removed her shoes, placing them beside the door like two soldiers at attention.
Padding softly, her stocking feet shuffling back and forth, barely audible on the richly patterned but worn rug. The butterflies within her tummy, doing acrobatics and seeming to dive, loop down to that forbidden place below.
She sagged back against the door, causing it to close tight. She closed the door and did this out of habit; this wasn't her first time in this room, nor was it her tenth; she had lost count after twenty, and she knew what was expected of her.
The door clicked shut, and as always, she felt a thrill course through her—a secret, electric shiver she refused to fully acknowledge, down to that nub that was always her undoing. It started the same, first in the raised hairs on the back of her neck, running down her spine to her hips where the wretched shiver split into three, the greater part racing down her bottom cleft, around her anus, then up between her legs, and up to meet its friends. The other sensation split at her hips, half going right, the other left, circling around her pelvis. The worst and best was that all three would converge in that nasty, filthy, fantastic place between her legs. The sensation was exquisite in its torment and irresistible throbbing that tugged her toward the darkness she both feared and desperately craved.
After one of her parent's more vicious bouts, the girl could remember her mother's punishment of her daughter for her daughter's sin of being alive. You see, Mother had been pure. Mother was going to become a nun in the service of God, even though she was Presbyterian; such details were a mystery to Mother, as was birth control. Mother had succumbed to a man once, and that is all it took, the once.
"You're vile," Mother had spat at the girl between flat-handed swats on her naked bottom. "A filthy, disgusting thing, just like your grandmother. Always ruled by that cesspit between your legs—something all men crave and every decent woman despises."
That was years ago. Now, the girl stood, bracing herself for the punishment to come. It had only been a few months since her eighteenth birthday, yet it felt like she had been at St. Agatha's for years. Mother had thought it best—St. Agatha's reputation was for strict discipline and doing wonders with wayward girls.
That morning was etched into her mind. It had been just after her eighteenth birthday when things went too far. She wasn't a child, but Mother refused to see it that way. The night she snuck out to be with her friends, desperate for freedom, had been her final act of rebellion.
Mother was waiting when she returned, fury in her eyes. The switching had been relentless, each lash meant to break her spirit. "If you insist on behaving like a child, then I will make sure you are treated like one," her mother had said, her voice dripping with disdain.
The next day, without much discussion, her bags were packed. A car was waiting to take her away. It didn't matter that she was an adult. Mother had decided she needed
discipline
, and St. Agatha's would provide it. Her ticket, passport, and everything else had been prepared. The House Mistress met her at the airport and, in cold silence, drove her to the school where she was enrolled—treated like a tenth-year as if her age didn't matter.
The girl violently shook her head to regain her focus and gawked about the imposing room.
Lined with dark, intricately carved wood panelling that seemed to absorb what little light filtered through the tall, narrow windows. The windows, adorned with diamond-shaped panes of glass, allowed only slivers of the grey British daylight to penetrate, casting angular shadows across the room.
Her pulse quickened as she moved toward the desk; she had been so naughty, she knew she had to be severely punished, and to do that, she must be adequately exposed and ready to not waste Matron's time. She was a thoughtful, if repentant, sinner.
The thought of the Matron finding her like this—skirt removed and bent over the desk—made her heart pound like a drum. Worse yet, it made her nasty, needy, lonely pit of sin, pulse and drool like a slavering bitch, craving the attention she both feared and desperately wanted.
She told herself it was readiness she masked as mere efficiency, but deep down, she knew it was something more. It was the anticipation, the surrender—the silent admission of her need. It punished her, filled her with shame even as it stoked the flames of her desire. In that punishment, that shame, she found a twisted sense of forgiveness, but more than that, it made her feel alive.
Remembering her first visit here, months and months before, it was a Monday when she had been caught rubbing herself on the door frame. It was humiliating, but she was desperate to stop the itch that was driving her mad. Mother had told her she was not allowed to touch that place, and when it became aroused, she had to find some other means to address it; however, that needed to be done. Good girls always did what their mothers said; she always tried to be a good girl.
During that punishment, her skirt had become a hindrance, and the poor Matron wasted her valuable time working around the offending garment to properly administer correction. Feeling worse at having inconvenienced the Matron, the girl realized what she had to do and resolved that she would do it next time before her punishment began. There would be a next time, and she was sure there always seemed to be a
next time
.
With shaking fingers, she unzipped her skirt. It was snug; it was the largest size the school provided, and she still had to work to remove it. Her 'full' hips, as the seamstress called them, made the task more difficult.
Her uniform fitting had been mortifying. Every tug of fabric felt like a public indictment of her body. Her round bottom, always a source of embarrassment, seemed to betray her constantly. Despite countless squats and leg lifts she was forced to do during physical education, it grew more prominent and firmer. And her narrow waist—another inheritance from her grandmother—made things worse. Nothing seemed to fit.
The seamstress struggled with the fabric. The skirts could barely stretch over her hips, yet hung loose and gaping around her waist. "No skirt in this place will ever snug around that waist," the seamstress muttered under her breath, her frustration evident. The girl's face burned as the woman measured and re-measured, clicking her tongue in disapproval.
The girl felt horribly humiliated as she stood on the little platform the seamstress used; the girl was completely nude, as whoever had packed the suitcase had completely neglected bras or even panties. Matron had said none would be ordered as the seamstress would make her what she required. Unfortunately, the busy woman never seemed to have time for anything but making a few knickers. However, it appeared that proper bras were just out of the question; the most she ever got was a couple of sheer things hardly worth wearing as they showed as much as concealed.
"Have you been corseted?" the seamstress asked abruptly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
She flushed and stammered, "I don't know what that is." The seamstress's clipped, impatient explanation only deepened her embarrassment. The thought of being tightly bound like that, of shaping her body, made her cheeks burn even hotter.
The seamstress shook her head, muttering something about wasted gifts, as if the girl's figure was a canvas she could appreciate, but the girl clearly could not.
After much grumbling, she took in the waist by three inches, though the Matron had insisted on four to ensure the skirt stayed snugly in place. The tightness made it feel more like a prison than a uniform. Each adjustment reminded her of how out of place she was; her body never fit the mold that the school—or her mother—demanded.
When the girl returned for her fitting, she was horrified to find that the once knee-length skirt had been drastically shortened. The hem rested several inches above where it should have been, exposing far too much of her legs.
"Miss, I thought the skirts were supposed to reach our knees?" she asked, her voice trembling, cheeks flushing a brilliant pink. The heat from her embarrassment seemed to radiate down to her nether lips, which she was sure were just as pink and burning with shame. She could not restrain herself from shifting back and forth from one foot to the other, rubbing her thighs together, trying to extinguish the blaze between them.
The seamstress, unfazed, gave a smirk. "Matron insisted," she said with a sly glance. "Seems you're a naughty girl, and she thinks you'll be spending a lot of time bent over her desk."
The words sent a chill down the girl's spine, a mixture of thrill and terror flooding her senses. The seamstress's wrinkled hands glided down her hips with practiced ease as if she had fitted hundreds of girls before her. "Besides," the old woman continued, her tone teasing, "such lovely thighs as these should be seen. It'll give the other girls something to aspire to."
Her legs felt vulnerable under the seamstress's scrutiny. She wanted to protest, but no words came. Instead, she stood, cheeks incandescent, humiliated and yet silently craving the approval she never found. The uniform wasn't just a symbol of discipline—it was a cage that held her in, shaping her physically and emotionally, as she was made to fit into someone else's idea of who she should be.
She focused on the present, folding the skirt neatly and placing it on the straight-backed chair.
