New Girl at St Justine's, Volume 1 Read online

  “I ... I ... s-see ...” said Fiona feeling an apprehensive twinge. What a ghastly room it was! How terrifying! Just imagine ... but then she did not want to imagine.

  “It is over this Horse,” continued Martha (rather as if she were a Museum Guide), “that any errant ‘pupil’ learns the folly of her ways. A girl may not come here often, but when she does, it is a memorable occasion. I do not believe in light canings. Mine are severe and exceedingly painful. The very minimum is twelve strokes but more usually a girl receives eighteen or twenty four. More, if I think fit, naturally.”

  Fiona experienced a certain freezing of the blood. It seemed impossible that a young woman could endure - indeed survive - such savage treatment. Yet ... yet ... it had to be admitted. Madame Duerrisse talked about these terrible things in such an unconcerned way. This was a whole world away from normality.

  And it had all been devised by her Uncle Erik!

  For his pleasure ...

  His amusement ...

  An entertainment in his declining years ...

  Well, he had worked hard and made several fortunes out of the ore-mining business, so perhaps he deserved to enjoy his retirement, reflected Fiona. But at what cost to others!

  Then she pulled herself together. What the Hell did all that matter? It was at St Justine’s she was going to have her revenge on Belinda ... and get rid of the girl for ever. That was what mattered. What a marvellous thought it was!

  Fiona continued to look at the Horse, with it crimson leather topping and its plain deal sides. Also the heavy straps for pinioning the thighs. On the opposite side, in the mirror, she could see other straps for securing the wrists. Anyone over the Horse, she realised, would be able to witness clearly her own torment from both fore and aft. Most, most unpleasant!

  Yes, this St Justine’s was surely as horrible a place as any young woman could find herself. Well, that suited Fiona perfectly. As far as she was concerned, the sooner Belinda got there the better.

  Fiona felt no guilt.

  No compassion.

  Life was to be enjoyed by winners.

  Losers, who picked up the scraps, were of no concern.

  “It ... it looks most efficient,” Fiona managed to say, breaking a rather tense silence.

  “Yes it is,” replied Martha. She pulled back one of the sliding doors of the cupboard. “I keep my canes in here,” she added, “In brine water. That keeps them hard but supple. As a cane should be.”

  Fiona felt herself shuddering as Martha withdrew one of the rods from an iron tank filled with liquid. It was pale yellow in colour, smooth and polished. Little drops of water slid from it down to the carpet.

  It swished suddenly through the air, making a shrill ‘sswwaarrshing’ noise. A terrifying sound, thought Fiona. Oh dear God ... imagine ... imagine if one were ... oh ... no ... it was too dreadful ...

  “This is a Grade 2 cane,” said Martha. “A medium cane really. Look ... it is about as thick as your little finger.”

  Fiona looked ... with dread. The handle, not hooked, was of tightly plaited leather. She swallowed, feeling prickles in dread. Just imagine ... yes, just imagine ...

  Oh no ... no ... no!

  “Grade 1 is a slightly slimmer cane,” said Martha calmly. “Grade 3 is a little thicker. I use the Grades according to the girl’s experience and her offence. In any event, all three are very painful indeed.”

  “Yes, I can believe that,” said Fiona almost in a whisper.

  Why was she so awe-struck, she wondered? Why so scared? It was not she who was going to feel such a cane but Belinda. So what was she worrying about? She should be delighted.

  Fiona brightened up at the thought.

  Yes ... Belinda. That little bitch Belinda. She looked again at the hump of red leather, trying to imagine the girl secured over it. How wonderful if, one day ... perhaps ... she might be permitted to watch Belinda being caned!

  She would have to work on Uncle Erik to arrange that.

  She didn’t see why it shouldn’t happen.

  A flood of pleasure filled Fiona again at the very thought and, once more, she found herself flushing.

  “If you look carefully at all four walls,” said Martha as she replaced the cane in its tank and slid back the cupboard door, “you will see small glass apertures. Like spy-holes. That is where the cameras are housed for video-tapes. There are scores in such apertures all over St Justine’s, so that the Governor has a great variety of tapes to enjoy.”

  Fiona nodded. What a randy old bastard her Uncle was, she thought. One would never have guessed it. He liked to give an impression of avuncular piety. Kind. A do-gooder. Upright. Moral.

  Oh dear, how completely he fooled everyone!

  “It is very well arranged,” said Fiona.

  “Yes, isn’t it. Right ... now we’ll go and see one of those videos. Let us return to my Study.”

  Almost thankfully, Fiona followed Martha from the oppressively frightening Punishment Room. What in God’s name must a ‘pupil’ feel if she were summoned there, she wondered?

  How ghastly!

  How utterly ghastly!

  Fiona found herself shivering.

  In many ways she would be glad to get out of St Justine’s and back to normality.

  Back to talk to Uncle Erik and arrange for Belinda’s arrival in the shortest possible time.

  ***

  Pupil’s Personal Narrative

  Helen Deere

  20-year-old

  from

  New Zealand

  ***

  Resident

  of

  St Justine’s

  for eight months

  ***

  AS USUAL ON a Saturday morning at nine o’clock, they took us all in the ferry to the island in the middle of the lake. This was the Rest Centre ... and we were allowed to spend forty eight hours there every week-end.

  I can assure you it was a wonderful feeling to be on that ferry, heading for forty eight hours of ‘freedom’, rather than marching down to the Main Hall for Morning Assembly, which would mark the commencement of another ghastly day.

  Why they had this Rest Centre on an island, I do not quite understand. The whole place, as we all knew, was completely security-proof anyway. Why bother to make it more so? Still there was no reasoning with such people. They must have all been maniacs to have contrived such a terrible place. Quite often, during the rest week-ends, I had discussed it with other misfortunates like myself (all of whom had been abducted). We all agreed that, though that monstrous woman, Martha Duerrisse, was an arch-sadist who revelled in her work, she was not the driving force behind St Justine’s.

  We reasoned that, somewhere, there was some bestial male creature who had devised everything. Who watched our sufferings through films or videos sent to him. Had we not all observed the camera-eyes which were everywhere about? Even in the Rest Centre. Doubtless that loathsome man liked to watch us all ‘relaxing’. For my part, I always tried to put those all-seeing cameras out of my mind. Nothing could be worse than the day-to-day reality of our existence, so why bother that it was being recorded? Some of it, anyway. That was an minor thing compared with out major horror.

  There was no rhyme nor reason for St Justine’s unless it was, somehow, for someone’s perverted pleasure. After the initial hideous shock of the first few weeks in the place, all of us had been able to reason that one out. It was, of course, mortifying beyond belief to be aware that one was being used as a pawn ... or, perhaps better ... a plaything in someone else’s private game. It was like something out of a science-fiction book. Nevertheless, for us, it was a reality. And an unbelievably terrible one at that.

  One could only hang on desperately, awaiting the day of release. The day when (so they told us) our minds would be wiped cl
ean of our appalling experiences ... and we would be returned to the normal world. Was that possible? Certainly it was as possible as the impossible which had brought us to St Justine’s.

  In any event, it was the only thing to cling to. Girls did depart at intervals. Perhaps what they said was true.

  The Rest Camp, under any other circumstances, might have been described as ‘quite delightful’. There were chalets in plenty, some single, some double. With every facility one could want. The food and drink provided were excellent ... though, of course, we had to prepare meals for ourselves. There was a Communal Room with music and reading material in plenty. No TV or radio, however. We were quite cut off from the outside world.

  This was a world of its own.

  A terrible world.

  Sometimes, I wondered where it was actually situated. No one knew, of course. It was quite a pleasant climate. Warm sun, clear air. I sensed that we might be up in some mountain retreat. It could have been in northern India. It could have been in the southern Alps. Impossible to say. The only certainty was there was no way out of the place. Oh dear God what a nightmare! And, so they told me, I could not hope to leave before another four months had elapsed.

  Miss Ingrid and Miss Hester, the so-called ‘Form Mistress’s’ - left us at the small quay-side.

  “See you all on Monday!” they cried. Oh those wicked bitches ... how they loved what they were doing to us. They were the modern equivalent of Nazi Concentration Camp Guards, but much more sophisticated than their sadistic predecessors.

  In silence we made our way towards the chalets. The oppression of the previous week was still upon us. Thank God, though, we were out of those humiliating school uniforms. At week-ends we were permitted to wear what we liked. Clothes which we had made ourselves, during those Rest Week-Ends.

  I went straight to my usual chalet and, within moments, was joined by young Nina. She was a girl who had only been at St Justine’s for two months and was, naturally, feeling the horror of the place even more than I. She was very pretty in a dark, sexy way. Only seventeen and an Italian. I have to confess that I suborned her into lesbianism and had become wildly fond of her.

  Well ... one has to do something in such an inhuman place.

  Can I be blamed?

  No, I cannot.

  The ridiculous thing is, during the week, in the school, itself, if there is even the hint of lesbianism, girls can be thrashed quite mercilessly. At week-ends, everything goes. It’s absurd ... yet no doubt the evil creature behind it all enjoys it that way. I know. all the time, that I could be under a camera lens, but have learned to forget it.

  Nina and I kissed. At first slowly, then passionately. The lust stirred within me. Soon we would be having a lovely time. Good God ... we deserved some relief, didn’t we?

  I opened a bottle of wine. There was an unlimited supply of white, rose and red. But nothing else alcoholic. Still, one had to be careful. Woe betide any girl who returned to the school on a Monday morning with what seemed like a hangover!

  “What sort of week have you had, my sweetie?” I asked. Since Nina was in Grade I, whilst I was in Grade II, I would not know what had been happening.

  “A bad start,” replied dark-eyed Nina. “I think I must have drunk too much over the Rest Period ...”

  “Mmm ... yes ... I thought you were going it it bit strong.”

  “Anyway, come Monday, and I get the strap three times in one morning.”

  “Poor darling!”

  “My brain just wouldn’t seem to work. Six with the single strap twice, then another six with the double. God ... was I sore by lunchtime!”

  “Mmm ... I bet. That Miss Hester’s a hefty cow. I’m sorry for you. But was that it?”

  “No. I lost at tennis again. 6-2 this time. Ten strokes with that paddle is murder ...”

  “You don’t have to tell me. Tennis is not one of my better sports!”

  “How about you, Helen?”

  “A lucky week. Just one strapping. A bad one, though. I made a complete mess of a translation I had been set. That Miss Ingrid gave me a dozen. With the double strap!”

  “Christ!”

  “Yes, it hurt alright ... but that’s all I got this week.”

  “I’m glad, Helen.” Nina kissed me again. “I hate to think of you suffering.”

  “We all suffer here ...”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Shall we take our clothes off?” I suggested.

  “Nina’s eyes sparkled. “A lovely idea,” she said.

  In the shortest time, the two of us were lying naked on one of the beds in our chalet. We were clasped close, lips locked, mound pressing and rubbing to mound. I felt incredibly randy.

  Oh, oh wonderful ti was! To have freedom! To do what one liked with another being! It was lovely ... oh so lovely! I rubbed more and more urgently, knowing I was coming to a quick climax.

  Then I was panting and gasping as the exquisite relief flooded over me.. Nina was jerking violently ... and, only moments later, she too spent herself.

  We lay quietly in each other’s arms, relishing these precious moments of bliss. There were none during the week, one had to take full advantage at the week-ends.

  “Soixante-neuf?” I asked softly in her ear, after five minutes or so.

  “Heaven ...” breathed Nina.

  We twisted ourselves around. Lips to sex-lips ... lips to sex-lips.

  Soon, both of us were ardently at work.

  Quivering, wriggling, squealing our pleasure.

  Doubtless the camera eye was beaming down.

  Doubtless our female gymnastics would give a great deal of delight to the ‘Unknown Master’.

  But I didn’t care!

  No ... I just didn’t care!

  This was an oasis of pure joy in a desert of degradation and pain.

  Chapter Two

  “BE SEATED ... and turn to face that wall.” Madame Duerrisse pointed to the side of the room opposite the door to the Punishment Room. It was more of an order than a request, thought Fiona, but she did not hesitate to comply. There was something almost hypnotic about this remarkable woman. One obeyed her even when she had no hold over one. How much more one would obey her if she did have such a hold!

  Oh Belinda ... you’re really for it!

  A white screen slid down the wall. It was surprisingly large, almost filling the whole wall. The film, Fiona realised, would be seen virtually life-size. Her heart had begun to pound again. She was about to see a ‘pupil’ being caned. Something that could ... and most likely would ... happen to Belinda.

  Behind her, Martha was placing some kind of machine on her desk. Then a video-tape was inserted. The lights dimmed. The screen came alive.

  VT Number 1877.

  Name: Diane Frobisher.

  Age: Nineteen.

  Residence: Now in fifth month at St Justine’s.

  Subject: A Caning by the Headmistress.

  Offence: Attempting to suborn one of the junior

  girls with the object of having lesbian relations.

  The screen went blank. A rather serious offence, reflected Fiona. This could be interesting.

  Then the screen was filled again, with colour, and Fiona realized the film had been taken in the very study in which she was seated at that very moment. Madame Duerrisse was seated behind her desk, looking as calm as ever, fingertips tapping together. Before the desk stood a young woman. Fiona only just suppressed a snigger at the sight of her. For the young woman wore a travesty of a schoolgirl’s uniform. A see-through blouse and a gym-slip which only just reached the tops of her thighs. Taut black suspender straps ran over six inches of thigh whiteness to hold up black stockings. She stood on black patent shoes with four-inch spike heels.

  Four cameras were be
ing used so that one had a series of different angles of the scene and also close-ups. It was just as if one were looking into a neighbouring room.

  The sound crackled.

  The film began.

  ***

  “Well, Diane, what have you to say for yourself?”

  “It ... it’s all a m-mistake, Ma’am ...”

  “Mistake? Miss Ingrid says she found you in Susan’s cubicle. And actually caressing her. Do you deny that?”

  “N-No ... no, Ma’am ... but ... but it wasn’t like it seemed ...”

  “No?”

  “No, Ma’am ... you see ... Susan is new here ... and I’m friendly with her ...”

  “That’s obvious!”

  “No ... Ma’am ... not like that ... just friends. She’d had an awful d-day ... and I was just trying to help her ...”

  “A likely story!”

  “It’s true, Ma’am. I swear it!”

  “You know, Diane, do you not, that it is an offence to go into another girl’s cubicle after nine p.m.?”

  “Yes ... yes ... Ma’am ... I do. I am prepared to be punished for that.”

  “You will be punished for that, never you fear!”

  “But that was all there was to it, Ma’am. Susan was so unhappy ... crying. I couldn’t stop myself going to comfort her.”

  “You were kissing and caressing her. Do you deny that?”

  “No ... no ... Ma’am ... but it was just comforting ...”

  “Miss Ingrid considered it sexual.”

  “NOO ... OOO ... Ma’am ... I swear ... please, please believe me!”

  Fiona saw the girl’s hands clenching; saw her trembling with her effort. She was already fascinated by the scene ... and kept substituting Belinda for the girl Diane.

  “Well, Diane, you’re going to be caned anyway. It’s just a question of how severely.”

  A moaning sob burst from the girl. “P-Please ... please believe me ... I meant ... no ... h-harm, Ma’am ...” she whimpered.