Girl in a Private Prison? You Decide!

 I though you might like a glimpse of something I have been working on this morning.  Yeah I know the illustrations have precious little to do with the writing but I like 'em, so get over it.  The final illustration is an early rendition sent by my old mate Snooz (many, many thanks!), inspired by that old Marks and Spencer salesgirl uniform thing and which might just be adaptable as a suitable 'prison' uniform for some private institution - it's food for thought.  Now I'm off out for a pint to celebrate my birthday (at last - after waiting a week).  I will be in Enfied Town in the George, then the Enfield Wetherspoons and then The Ridgeway (around 4 onwards) if anyone fancies a pint.  I was in Camden yesterday  - terrible place; was served three stale pints in one afternoon!  But that seems par for the course in Camden - don't go there!  Tomorrow I will be in the Tollgate, the Turnpike Lane Wetherspoons pub, for to see the passing of the Olympic torch - pictures here at some later date hopefully!   

Out of Her Cell - Out of Her Mind?

The girl watched, bemused, as her aunt, dressed in her strange Edwardian garb, dropped the cane to her side and crossing to a carved dark-wood straight-backed chair hooked its crook handle over the back before seating herself, smoothing down her long tight tweed skirt as she did so.  “Come here, lie across my lap.”  The stern faced woman was patting her lap,  hooking the index finger of her other hand in a beckoning gesture towards the weeping disheveled mess that she had now reduced her ‘niece’ to before than pointing meaningfully at her lap.  “AT ONCE GIRL!”  Her voice had sharpened and she’d raised it – and Alison found herself coming running like a well trained lapdog, draping herself over her mistress’s knees.  “Good girl” her aunt purred softly in response.  “You see!  It only took one good prison caning to put you under your governess’s thumb.  And that’s where you are going to remain; under my thumb.”
It had taken a great deal more than that, as the woman knew well enough, and that psychological softening-up procedure with the intermittent lighting and the tape-looped children’s television theme tune would continue.  But now the re-education phase could begin.  It would commence the moment the girl willingly put on her prison uniform and returned to her cell when instructed without a struggle.  She would reward the girl with a book or pamphlet to read, the only thing she will have had to relieve the deliberate controlled tedium of her existence for months.  ‘Understanding the Lesbian Mind’, yes that would be a good starting off point.  Then she’d have the girl write an essay on it.  She brushed aside the lower portion of the girl’s hospital exam gown, in her mind’s eye now a reformatory punishment dress.  

Hooking an arm around the girl’s trim waist to anchor her over her lap from the side table positioned alongside the chair she slipped out a drawer and drew from it a hair brush.  She felt the girl tense as in the cheval mirror opposite the girl caught sight of it.   She began to brush through the girl’s long blonde tresses, patiently untangling sweat-tangled ringlets and working through the near-waist length glory from ends to roots, sensing the delicious young thing draped over her lap gradually relaxing as she did so and as the girl realised the wood-backed brush was not to be used on her defenceless and agonizingly throbbing backside.  Then, putting the brush down on the table top she reached back inside the drawer, extracting a rubber band.  Gathering the girl’s partially rehabilitated locks she deftly drew the girl’s hair back and through the elastic band, working the band up close to the back of the girls head.  “There, that’s neater!”  She patted the girl’s rounded dimpled bottom with the palm of her hand:  “Good girl for lying still – not every thing has to hurt you know!”  She whispered, her soft voice sounding oddly throaty to the girl’s ears.   

For a moment or two she ran her hand appreciatively over the girl’s plump behind, pleased to note the lack of any struggle, though she saw the girl wince in the mirror facing her.  Then she reached back to the little side-table, sliding open another, lower, drawer.  The girl barely saw the light glint off the polished stainless steel as the scissors came out in her aunt’s slender hand.   With a single movement and using the rounded neck opening of the hospital examination gown as a guide the woman slipped one blade beneath the ponytail and before the girl could as much as wriggled began to hack through it with a series of jagged slicing cuts, the razor edged hairdresser’s shears making short work of what had taken years to grow and train.  Tightening her grip around the girl’s waist with her restraining arm left, with her right - having relinquished the shears, resting them across the small of the prone girl’s back - she swung the long detached ponytail in front of the astonished and horrified girl’s face before dropping it unceremoniously to the floor.  “There!  I’m going to have Mrs McAlistaire pin a lock of that to the breast pocket of your prison dress before she locks you back up in you cell as a constant reminder of what prison discipline is all about.  You’ll get a proper prison haircut as soon as we get some clippers – I’ll have Mrs McAlistaire do it’ she’ll enjoy that”.                        

Plucking the shears off the girl’s back and dropping them back in the open drawer, sliding it shut, she went back to caressing the girl’s bottom with her free hand as if nothing had happened, smiling as she watched the girls eyes staring at the shorn ponytail lying on the floor in the mirror, the pretty teen’s eyes bulging  almost madly.  Yes, she thought, that has broken you a little, hasn’t it – it’ll break you still further once Mrs McAlistaire takes her clippers to you.  She smiled at the girls’ worried face in the mirror, the girl’s tears flowing freely again, having subsided somewhat from the birching and then the caning of earlier.  “You’ve never had another woman touch your bottom before, have you?”  She watched the tearstained features slowly move in the mirror as dumbly the girl shook her head.  

The jar on the side looked like the cold cream that her aunt’s housekeeper used to soften her hands, but it wasn’t.  Her aunt had just looped out a substantial dollop of the stuff and she’d caught sight of it on the woman’s fingers, all gelatinous and bluish-grey.  The label  was around the other way but she didn’t need to have sight of it to know what it was, the slightly medicated odour of petroleum jelly and the greasy texture as it made contact with her skin was enough to tell the story.  But if she expected her aunt to use it to cool her toasted backside she had another thing coming.  

“`That’s an awfully warm chubby bottom you’ve got there” Flora McBainstone murmured as she caressed the quivering smooth resilient flesh of the girl’s globes, tracing the ridges of the outline of the cane with her finger. Mutely Alison felt herself twitch at the woman’s touch.  “You’re going to be so very grateful to your governess for having corrected you” the older woman cooed, extracting another goodly-sized dollop of cream and beginning a slow, firm and disconcertingly erotic massage, easing the oozing cream into the glowing ridged and wheal-covered flesh.   For the first time Alison now found herself struggling to overtly come to terms with her aunt’s sexual desires – and those unrequited the woman was clearly trying to ignite in her.  And the awful thing was, the woman was succeeding; she knew exactly where and how to touch, and her own body was betraying her, responding to the woman’s knowledgeable fingers whether she liked it or not.