ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE DAYS: OR A GIRL FOLDING HER PRISON FROCK (again and again and again)

Just a snippet of something I have been working on - it is in a bit of a raw form but let me know what you think.  I can't say I'll answer anytime soon though; it all depends on the state of my home phone-line and so the availability / reliability of my internet connection.  And I could find nothing more apt nor better than my favoritest (is that a word?) ever illustration from my old pale Snoozz!  This one based on the old Roger Benson Reformatory series

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It was another one of those days – they all were; they were all the same, give or take.  The bell had rung for bed, but she could no longer just thankfully divest herself of the sweaty nylon prison dress and reach for the rough hessian ankle length nightdress she had been issued with some time back.  Oh no.  She had been presented with a clean, new, pressed prison frock for ‘good behaviour’ - for which she was grateful, the other having become rank, crisp in parts from the build-up of grime, stains and filth and stinking.  But along with this new privilege had come a new stipulation.  

Now the rule was, whenever the ‘night bell’ rang she was to fold the prison uniform dress in the pristine, crisp manner it had arrived from the shop, manufacturer or dressmaker or wherever they had got the thing from and pass it back through the door slot for inspection before receiving her prison nightgown.  And woe betide her if it failed – there might be a night of the tape loop to look forward to, or a visit from the prison-weight cane or the kiss of the hazel switch across her bare buttocks, or indeed some combination.

This new imposition implied folding the Bri-nylon prison frock so as to appear as a dress shirt might in a shop display cabinet, as it had appeared when first it had been presented to her in its clear cellophane packaging.  It was a painstaking and tedious process:  Firstly all buttons had to be correctly refastened and any puckering, wrinkles or (God forbid) creases had to be smoothed out so that the frock was perfectly flat both front and back.  Then she had to find the imaginary ‘fold line’ running from the centre of the shoulder and ending at the skirt hem and fold inwards exactly one-third of the width of the garment each side.  

The next step was to make a preliminary fold of several inches of the skirt, just sufficient so that when the skirt was then folded up and back it would precisely match in length the upper half of the partially folded frock.  The rule was that, once folded back, the skirt hem had to end just behind the collar of the bodice while the two buttons at the front of the fabric belt at the waist (both fastened) faced forwards, the belt perfectly flat.  The substantial flare to the skirt made the latter manoeuvre the most difficult and fiddly to achieve, especially as all the relevant seams had to line up.  

Finally the long sleeves had to be folded around to the front, in such a manner as to display the buttoned cuffs to either side of the bodice's central row of buttons, the cuffs being positioned just below the breast pocket with its embroidered monogram of gold and red overlaid with a large '3' in bold black block thread.  The significance of the latter digit was presently beyond her, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something particularly sinister inherent in being 'numbered' in such a fashion.  This was especially so in face of the recent addition of the painted digits '1' to '3' to three of the four doors of an identical pattern leading off the cellar, such that her 'cell' door now sported a large black number '3'.

In all the ritual took many long minutes to get right, and throughout the ‘night bell’ would ring incessantly, stopping only when all stipulations were fulfilled.  It was prison (or reformatory, or indeed ‘reform school’ – the woman seemed to use the terms interchangeably these days) regulations.  And it had to be carried out in this counter-intuitive way, despite the fact that it would have made more sense to fold the skirt back first, prior to folding the garment longitudinally - and definitely prior to bringing the cuffs and sleeves to the front.  She was carefully scrutinised throughout to make sure.  She knew this from painful experience, from the one time she had been tempted to take a 'shortcut' – and had paid for it with a blazing behind, her chubby bottom set alight by a dozen or so landed with a length of finger-width rubber tubing of a type she had last seen supplying gas to the Bunsen burners in her late school's science room.

Yes, it was just one of those days alright!  One of those days when the scrutiny was particularly keen, those observing eyes especially vigilant and the supervision pedantically picky.  It must have been that because she'd gone without sleep completely before now, folding and refolding over and over to get it right, both the dress and the zip-fastening opening-back pantaloons she now had to wear beneath it.  Her fingers were experienced now, educated to the methods of easing out every crease, smoothing flat the perspiration-sleeked fabric, crisply folding along the correct seams and obsessively lining up one seam with the next.  The result nowadays did indeed resemble factory conveyor-belt output, albeit minus the cellophane wrapping, cardboard collar and cuff inserts and plastic clips – her product was all held together through the near-inhuman care lavished in the folding.  But even that perspiring attention to detail had come to nothing this time.  

She had no idea which of her captor's was responsible for overseeing her this time – usually nothing would be said unless she was to be caned for 'slovenliness', for which she would be removed from her cell – but whichever of her tormentors it was, she (he, for all she knew) was proving impossible to satisfy.  Twice now her efforts had been rejected, the garment – to her chagrin, apparently untouched - being wordlessly posted back through the door slot.  Each time she had had to re-dress – that was the rule – before again undressing, button by button, laying the dress out on the cell floor and refastening every button before going through the entire folding procedure from scratch.  

It had only been moments since she had posted her third - and final, another rule – attempt out through the shallow slot at the foot of the cell door, although it had seemed like an eternity to the girl shivering with trepidation.  Her blood froze in her veins at the first glimpse of bottle-green nylon sheen coming back through the letterbox style slot.  Not a word was spoken – it was unnecessary.  She knew to re-dress as quickly as possible in full prison uniform, to stand with hands down by her sides facing the door.  That would be that as far as this night (or day or whatever it was outside) was concerned – there would be no bed this night.  But there would be other consequences – perhaps the cane, perhaps... No!  No! No!...  The cane was infinitely preferable.  The cane did at least get her out of her cell.   But this... THIS... THIS...  

She knew what to do for this too, knew what was required of her.  As her 'aunt' said; she knew the words of that television theme well enough by now not to actually need them.  Aunty Governess Flora would supply the song, and she, Alison, could supply the words herself.  That was another of the new stipulations.  From somewhere a music-only tape had been acquired, a plink-plonk xylophone rendition of the theme to what had at one time been a fond childhood memory but had now become a phobia.  Worse, she was obliged to sing along, over and over.  There would be someone out there listening-in, checking, perhaps sporadically, perhaps continuously – there was no way of knowing.  There was also a second tape recorder, set to record, that could be checked – that much she had been told.  If she sang along, if she didn't falter, then eventually it would cease, she would be given some rest... if she faltered or refused, well then it would go on and on and on, a mental hell without end..

The first notes jingle-jangled out... the first words lisped from her lips, as childishly girlish as she had been taught, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers brushing her prison frock as she rung her hands in helpless anguish... “Andy Pandy's coming to play, la,la,la, laa,la la... Andy Pandy's here today, la, la, la, la..”  Tears running down pretty plump cheeks, a giggle or two spluttered out between the words... then the laughter began, then the sobbing... that was how it progressed, that was how it always went.  Still softly singing she sunk to her knees.  Absentmindedly her hand slipped under the buttoned skirt of her prison frock, her other beginning to kneed and massage a needy nipple thorough the slippery nylon fabric of the button-fronted bodice.  Rocking slowly back and forth to the mind-eradicating melody she began to masturbate, despite the fact she knew that satisfaction wouldn’t come, despite the fact that in so doing she was only reinforcing the mental block that was steadily building between herself and that blessed sweet relief.   It was just one of those days!