Reformatory Girls Ch 01

In the schoolroom thirty girls, aged from 18 to 21, wearing thirty grey Hazely Reformatory skirts and pullovers, sit at thirty desks, studying the arithmetic problems on the blackboard.

At the front of the schoolroom Miss Bulstrode, a strapping woman with a short, dyke's haircut, paces backwards and forwards, scrutinising the girls keenly, pausing now and then to rap the palm of one hand with her riding crop. From time to time she paces down the aisles between the desks to the back of the classroom, peering down at exercise books as she does so.

At the front of the middle row Suzanne Clarke feels a spasm of nervous anxiety in her stomach. She knows from experience what that riding crop can do. Once an outspoken girl, a 'gabby cow' as she was known, who would answer back unthinkingly, her life changed the day she was hauled out in front of the class, forced by Miss Bulstrode to bend over the back of a chair, and given three swingeing strokes across her bare bottom. At a stroke -- or rather three -- she was transformed into a nervous, timid creature who rarely said a word unless spoken to.

Half-way down the end row Sharon Williams is also feeling nervous. Sharon is a big girl, not very bright, who used to use her size to intimidate and bully other inmates. That, too, ended the day Miss Bulstrode caught her passing a note during instruction. Hauled out to the front and told to remove her skirt and knickers, she had bent over the chair and braced herself.

"I don't like your arse, it's too fat," Miss Bulstrode had said, which had stung Sharon Williams, who was self-conscious about her size and vicious towards anybody who dared to call her fat. That hadn't stung her the most, though. Neither had the three terrible lashes with the riding crop, lashes into which Miss Bulstrode had seemed to put all of her considerable strength and which had left Sharon writhing in pain, and feeling as though somebody had set fire to her bare behind. What had stung the most was the fact that she had lost control of her bladder, and wet herself, there in front of the whole class, who had watched, appalled and fascinated, as a stream of urine had run down the backs of Sharon's plump thighs and formed a pool on the classroom floor. To add ignominy to pain, Sharon, her face a mask of misery, had been obliged to fetch the sponge and bucket from the cupboard, get down on her hands and knees and mop up her own piss, before being allowed to return to her desk and put on her skirt and knickers once more.

That was a humiliation she had never lived down. Now, far from being a bully, she was more likely to be on the receiving end of insults and taunts.

At the back of the row at the opposite side of the schoolroom sits Clare Davenport. Clare is one of the few girls who is not feeling unduly nervous. Clare is different from most of the other girls: she comes from a good family, is well educated, and has no difficulty with the literacy and numeracy lessons all the girls are obliged to attend. She has no long criminal past, and is only there due to one foolish error of judgement, when she took consignment of a package containing cocaine addressed to her boyfriend. A bright, attractive and popular girl she saw at once that the only way to survive her two years at Hazely Reformatory was to toe the line and turn herself into a model prisoner. She is obedient and polite. She does as she is told, never argues or answers back, and is kind and helpful to the other inmates. With most of the girls, and even the Staff, she is popular.

Miss Bulstrode, however, whilst she has never been able to find fault with Clare, does not like her. Miss Bulstode believes it is her duty not only to instil discipline in the girls, but to reduce them all to cowed, blind obedience. She has even argued that it should be Reformatory policy to give each girl three strokes of the riding crop upon their admission: to 'teach them their place'; to show them what will happen to them at any future infringement of rules, and to forestall any future disobedience. To her chagrin this policy has not been adopted by the Principal. As a result she is constantly on the lookout for an opportunity to discipline girls herself. There are few in the class who have escaped her attentions altogether: but Clare Davenport is one of those few.

Up and down Miss Bulstrode paces. The clock ticks. The girls work at their exercise books. Those who struggle long to peer into the exercise books of their more able neighbours; but they know that to do so is to risk feeling the riding crop on their bare buttocks. And when you have felt the riding crop once, you do everything in your power to avoid feeling it for a second time.

Clare has almost finished the assignments. But she slows down, as she knows it does not look good to be seen sitting there idle. She sees the large, terrifying figure of the Instructress, in her uniform of black skirt, jacket and boots, walk slowly up the aisle towards her. Despite having no consciousness of having done wrong she cannot suppress a tremor. She feels a rumble in her stomach: the beans and cabbage she ate for lunch have been hard to digest.

And then she farts.

It is not a loud fart. It does not attract the attention of any of her classmates. It does not, as far as Clare can tell, produce a smell.

But Miss Bulstrode is alert: she has detected something.

She turns her hard face in Clare's direction. She sniffs at the air and her eyes glint.

"Did I hear somebody fart?" she demands.

None of the girls say anything. Clare starts to feel light-headed, but she, too, remains silent. Please, please go away she wills Miss Bulstrode.

But Miss Bulstrode does not go away. Her instincts tell her she is onto something. She focuses her gaze on Clare and the girls to the front and side of her.

"Somebody in this area farted," she says. "Who was it?"

Still Clare says nothing. The other three girls look around, frightened and puzzled.

Miss Bulstrode taps the riding crop into her palm.

"Which one of you was it?" she repeats.

Still nobody answers.

"Very well," says Miss Bulstrode: "I'm going to count to ten, and if no-one has owned up by then I shall thrash each one of you. One; Two; -

Before she has reached Three Clare has put her hand up.

"It was me Miss Bulstrode," she says trembling. The relief of the other three girls is palpable.

"So it was you, was it?" says Miss Bulstrode. "And just why did you fart in my lesson?"

"I -- I couldn't help it," mutters Clare.

"I didn't ask you if you could help it," says Miss Bulstrode. "I asked you why you did it."

"I -- I don't know," says Clare, who can feel her eyes starting to prickle.

"There are two reasons why a girl farts," says Miss Bulstrode impatiently. "One is out of deliberate rudeness; the other is because she hasn't emptied her bowels properly. Now which is it?"

"I don't know," Clare mumbles.

Miss Bulstrode lets out a long sigh, and raps her palm several times with the riding crop.

"I'm starting to get impatient," she says. "Did you fart at me out of deliberate rudeness?"

"No," says Clare quickly: she is going to go on to say that she had not farted at Miss Bulstrode, but the Instructress continues:

"In that case you farted because you haven't emptied you bowels properly."

"I -- I suppose so," says Clare, thinking surely that is the lesser of the two offences.

"Then we'd better rectify that right now," says Miss Bulstrode. "Follow me to the front of the classroom, take off your skirt and knickers and put them on my desk."

The whole class holds its breath as Clare follows miserably to the front of the class and does as she was bidden, removing her short grey skirt and her grey-white regulation knickers and placing them on Miss Bulstrode's desk.

"Now," says Miss Bulstrode: "go to the cupboard under the sink and bring back the object on the right hand shelf."

Clare, still trembling at the prospect of the riding crop, and feeling the eyes of the whole class upon her, opens the cupboard door, and takes out the object resting there.

"It's a child's potty," she says, uncertain whether or not she has the correct object.

"Full marks for observation," says Miss Bulstrode, who also has a good line in sarcasm. "Bring it over here; now set it down on the floor. There, where everyone can see it."

Clare sets down the white enamel potty on the parquet floor.

"Now," says Miss Bulstrode: "since you haven't opened your bowels properly you can do so now in front of the class. Then perhaps I won't have my lesson disturbed by your farting."

Clare's mouth falls open. She looks from the potty to the Instructress in disbelief.

"Sit down then," says Miss Bulstrode. "You've got five minutes. Now!" she shouts as Clare still stands hovering over the potty.

As if in a nightmare Clare sits down on the potty. It is small and uncomfortable; her buttocks are squashed and her knees reach her chin; it is difficult to balance. Her face begins to turn crimson with embarrassment. Miss Bulstrode has withdrawn to the side of the classroom and is leaning against the radiator, watching her. The rest of the class is silent: every eye is upon her. Never in all her life has she felt more exposed and humiliated.

What is she to do? She is supposed to empty her bowels here, in front of the class -- how on earth can she? She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the sheer horror of her predicament.

"Eyes open," commands Miss Bulstrode.

It is all she can do not to cry. She hugs her arms round her legs, trying at least to shield her shaven fanny from the scrutiny of the class.

"Four minutes left," declares Miss Bulstrode.

Clare trembles: what will happen when the five minutes are up if she has not managed to empty her bowels? Surely the riding crop will be brought into action. There is nothing for it: disgusting and humiliating as it is, she has to empty her bowels, never mind that she is sitting on a child's potty with twenty-nine other girls staring at her.

So she flexes her muscles and strains. Nothing happens. Again she goes through the motions, pulling in her tummy muscles, trying everything she knows to produce the requisite bowel movement. Again nothing happens.

"Three minutes left," Miss Bulstrode informs her.

"I can't do it," Clare blurts out, fighting hard to keep back her tears.

"Can't or won't?" asks Miss Bulstrode.

Clare tries again. But the more she strains the more tense she becomes: the watching eyes and the silence seem to bear down on her; the ticking of the clock sends her pulse racing; and all these things together combine to further inhibit her, until it becomes clear that she cannot perform what Miss Bulstrode demands.

"One more minute," Miss Bulstrode says.

These five minutes are the longest in Clare's life. When they are over Miss Bulstrode orders her to stand up. So miserable is she that she hardly notices the ease in the strain on her leg muscles.

"Let's see what we've got then," says Miss Bulstrode, picking up the potty. "Empty." She gives Clare a malicious stare: "Not being very co-operative are you?"

No-one can empty their bowels to order is what Clare wants to say. But she has learned never, never to contradict a member of Staff, so she hangs her head silently.

Suddenly Miss Bulstrode points her riding crop at a girl in the front row:

"Karen Parker," she said: "Go at once to Matron's office and tell her we have a girl here who refuses to open her bowels and that we need assistance."

Karen Parker, a sly, mousey girl, scuttles out of the classroom. Everyone else takes their cue from Miss Bulstrode and remains silent.

Some five minutes later Karen Parker returns, wheeling a trolley. Accompanying her is a bony woman of about fifty, whose face resembles a knuckled fist.

"Is this the girl?" the bony woman -- Matron -- asks, nodding at Clare.

"That's the one," affirms Miss Bulstrode.

Clare eyes the trolley apprehensively. From a stand on the top there hangs a pink rubber hot water bottle from which some plastic tubing emanates. On the top of the trolley are various instruments and instrument cases.

"Best have her over your desk," says Matron to Miss Bulstrode.

Like all the girls Clare hates Matron: once a week each girl has their pubic hair shaved off by Matron or one of her assistants, and every girl has experienced the callous scrape of the razor over their sensitive mounds, and those bony fingers, poking about where they have no right to go, treating each girl as though she is a piece of meat, or worse still, some inanimate specimen. Now Clare watches as Matron dons a pair of latex gloves, and it is born in on her that she is about to suffer an even worse indignity than being made to sit on a child's potty.

"Best get her top off as well," says Matron: "we don't want a mess."

"Get you top off," orders Miss Bulstrode. "Your socks as well."

Every eye is fixed on Clare as one by one she removes her pullover, her blouse, her bra and her socks, until she stands at the front of the classroom completely naked.

"Now over my desk," says Miss Bulstrode.

Clare goes across to Miss Bulstrode's desk and leans over the edge. The polished wooden surface feels cold against her bare breasts, and she draws back slightly, until she feels Miss Bulstrode roughly repositioning her, stretching her arms out along the desk in front of her, pushing her buttocks until her thighs are right up against the side, spreading her legs until they are about a foot apart.

The wheels of the trolley squeak as Marton pushes it into position alongside the desk.

"Right," says Matron. "Have you ever had an enema before?"

"No," says Clare wretchedly.

"First I'm going to lubricate your bottom with my finger," says Matron. "Then I'm going to insert this nozzle and fill your bowels up with warm water. You'll feel like you need to go to the toilet, but you'll have to wait until I've finished filling you up. Then I don't think you'll have any trouble co-operating with Miss Bulstrode."

"Shall I?" asks Miss Bulstrode.

"If you wouldn't mind," says Matron.

Clare feels a large hand rest on each of her buttocks: then her buttocks are spread and a cold finger is probing at her anus. She gasps and instinctively her sphincter closes; but instead of withdrawing, the cold finger is actually sliding inside her, twisting round inside her anus. She flinches: it felt so odd, so alien. She feels as though she needs to do a poo, or at least to eject the intrusive finger, but though her muscles make all the movements to squeeze the finger out, the finger remains, twisting and probing, coating the inside of her anus with the cold lubricant.

She gasps again when the finger withdraws; she ventures a look out into the classroom, where a sea of faces is staring at her, some of them grinning. Her embarrassment is almost unbearable; then she feels something probing at her anus again: not a finger this time but something firmer and larger and less flexible, which she realises must be the nozzle. Before she has completely registered this sensation it is replaced by another, the novel and far from pleasant sensation of fluid entering her anus, making its way up her passages, filling her up, and bloating her tummy. The urge to expel the liquid is strong, and grows stronger. If only she could have felt like this on the potty she could have emptied her bowels as Miss Bulstrode demanded, without all this extra humiliation.

But it is too late for that now. As the liquid continues to flow into her, the urge to go grows proportionately stronger until it is all but overwhelming.

"I need to go," she blurts out -- "please."

There is a snort from Matron:

"You're barely half full," she says.

The next few minutes are awful for Claire. As the water continues to flow into her bowels and as her stomach grows more and more bloated, hideous cramping pains seize her stomach, until she cries out in alarm.

"It's only cramp," says Matron dismissively. "Breathe deeply."

Clare does as she is told, and breaths as deeply as she can; and indeed, the cramping pains do pass away -- only to be replaced by an overpowering need to go to the lavatory. Her muscles go through the motions: there are substances inside her that should not be inside her, and her body goes into overdrive trying to expel them.

But with the nozzle filling her anal passage, and more and more liquid pouring into her, she can not expel them. The need grows: she no longer cares about the class: she no longer cares if the whole world is watching her: all she knows is she has to empty her bowels.

"Right, that's about it," says Matron.

It seems the enema bag is finally empty. Hang on, Clare tells herself; hang on just a moment longer and it will be alright. And minute -- any second now -- Matron will remove the nozzle and she will be allowed to use the potty again, and this time not even the staring eyes of the whole class will inhibit her, stop her from expelling all the noxious stuff in her bowels.

Then Miss Bulstrode is speaking:

"Let me see," she is saying: "How long was it you kept us waiting? Five minutes if I remember rightly. Well now we'll keep you waiting five minutes: that's hardly unreasonable is it?"

When Clare hears this she let out an agonised, long drawn-out whimper.

"Please," she begs Miss Bulstrode, for once forgetting her resolve never to even hint at contradicting her Instructor.

"Four minutes thirty seconds," says Miss Bullstrode implacably.

Claire turns her eyes in dumb appeal, first on the Matron, who looks away disgusted, then on the class. The other girls can of course do nothing, but none of them are insensible to Clare's plight. Some of them grimace in sympathy; others, who cannot bear to contemplate what Clare is going through, put their heads in their hands or their hands over their eyes. Only one or two of them continue to grin.

How Clare survives those five minutes she does not know. She feels as though her bowels are going to explode. Pain, discomfort, humiliation and more pain fight a civil war for control of her mind and body, a civil war that leaves her so exhausted that when Miss Bulstrode declares that five minutes are up she continues to lie there, prostrate, almost delirious.

"Right," says Miss Bulstrode. "Get yourself up and lower yourself down over the potty. I said get up," she repeats, when Clare fails to move.

Groggily Clare feels Miss Bulstrode's strong arms pulling her back off the desk, twisting her onto her feet, and pointing at the enamel potty on the floor. Still with the wretched nozzle in her anus Claire stumbles across to the potty and begins to lower herself, with Matron right behind her.

"Hold it there," says Matron. "That's it: squat just above the potty. Now I'm going to pull out this nozzle, and when I do all hell is going to erupt so you'd better make sure you get down onto the potty double quick. Do you understand?"

"Yes," mumbles Clare.

She feels a sliding movement in her back passage; then, as the nozzle is withdrawn her sphincter closes. She sinks heavily onto the potty: and at once there is a colossal upheaval in her stomach, and without having the slightest control she is emptying her bowels. Or, rather, her bowels are emptying themselves: all the pent-up liquid and excrement which has been trapped there comes gurgling and tumbling out, forcing their way through her anus and slopping into the potty.

It seems to last forever. It seems to Clare as though several inverted volcanoes are erupting in her bowels. Gasping, indifferent to the watching faces, she huddles there naked on the child's potty, experiencing at last the relief she has been so desperate for.

On and on it goes. At one point she is afraid she will fill the potty to the brim, and then what will happen? Somewhere along the way her bladder has started to empty itself, and she finds herself pissing copiously, and only just manages to change her position in time to direct her stream into the potty rather than over the edge. The steaming piss seems to magnify the other smell, the smell of her excrement piling up underneath her.