A reformatory punishment

Reformatory spankings are never a gentle thing, but one particular punishment session from last week’s reformatory weekend stands out in my mind. Other than her final birching, my character Audrey had one last punishment remaining, and she was informed that for this punishment she needed to report to Mr Jenkins.

Part of me rejoiced at seeing Abel, as we hadn’t played one-on-one for the whole weekend, and frankly, we barely saw each other. I was also apprehensive: Abel isn’t known for his light spankings – particularly when he’s playing the devious Mr Jenkins. by this point I was extremely sore, particularly having just emerged from a punishment session with Dr Grimace.

I knocked on the door of the Punishment Wing. Mr Jenkins ordered me to enter, and I saw him assembling an armful of evil-looking implements. He handed these to me, like a heap of firewood. “Come with me,” he said curtly.

This was ominous. As far as I knew, every room in the house was taken right now, with girls in their final punishment sessions. He led me into the kitchen and headed towards the back door. I had a dreadful feeling I was about to be spanked outside, but I followed him with only a little squeak of protest.

“Go ahead,” Mr Jenkins commanded. “Towards the outbuilding over there. Go on!”

Turned out, our reformatory cottage had a games room in a shed outside, and Abel had a key. Shivering with cold, but very happy that I wasn’t staying outdoors for my spanking, I followed him into the games room. There wasn’t much there: a couple of desks of indeterminate purpose, and a big pool table.

“Put the implements on the table over there,” said Mr Jenkins. “And take off your clothes.”

The part of me that was Audrey was mortified, but I scampered to obey. Other girls had whispered about the reformatory staff taking unimaginable liberties, but I had mostly avoided anything more terrible than a flogging here and there and a few little humiliations. Undoubtedly painful, these things seemed insignificant now, as I willed my trembling, numb fingers to work faster on the buttons of my tidy Sunday dress. Mr Jenkins’s sneer told me loud and clear that my good luck had run out, and he intended to have his fun with me.

“Pretty young thing,” he purred as I awkwardly stripped out of my undergarments. “I’ve had my eye on you from the first evening. Take off your shoes, but you may keep your socks; wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

My nudity was all the more mortifying for his smart outfit: the suit, the cravat, the watch chain snaking across the front of his ornate waistcoat, the fancy, dark malacca riding whip he was using as a walking stick. I was acutely aware of our difference in height, which seemed particularly drastic that morning. I cringed under his appraising gaze.

“Mmm,” he said. “Very nice. Bend over the pool table.”

I leaned forward, stretched as far as I could, held onto the sides. My breasts pressed into the green fabric. Behind me, Mr Jenkins was picking an implement.

“I think I’ll give you six with each of these,” he said, swishing a leather riding crop through the air.

There were five implements in the heap: the crop, a couple of straps, a cane – and his knotty walking stick. I’d been hurting even before the first stroke landed, and the first half-dozen licks re-ignited the fire Dr Grimace had started earlier. I yelped pitifully.

“You can cry all you like,” said Mr Jenkins. “They won’t hear us in the house. And even if they did…”
They wouldn’t care, I knew. I looked through a window towards the reformatory building. In an upstairs window I could see a man’s form, his arm going up and down rhythmically. Mr Murdstone, I thought, giving somebody one of his methodical thrashings; I’d had one of those the day before.

Mr Jenkings slapped my bottom with an open hand. “Spread your legs,” he said conversationally.

A few days before it might have occurred to me to argue, but I’ve had all fight beaten out of me by now. When I felt questing fingers between my thighs, I didn’t try to wriggle out of the way, and only whimpered, “Please, sir, my modesty…”

He laughed a genuinely amused laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, girl! I know your sort.” He smacked me again, and I heard the sound of his belt buckle behind me.

The other girls had whispered it was better not to resist. I could well imagine this getting even worse. I squeezed my eyes shut, and sobbed, and gave in.

So we proceeded for the next long while. Six cracks of an implement turned into punishments of more intimate, invasive kind. Audrey was methodically destroyed, to the point where she raised no more objections to any of the exotic urges Mr Jenkins sought to satisfy with her.

When we finished, I buzzed with pleasure, as Audrey retreated into a deep corner of my soul to curl up in the dark. Abel and I hugged and laughed. Somehow, throughout the punishment he’d managed to stay almost completely dressed, which entertained me a great deal.

After a short break, however, it was time for Audrey to come back. In character again, he ordered me to dress and make myself look decent, before marching me across the yard back to the main reformatory building.

There was still a birching to come, but then the reformatory weekend would be over.

5 thoughts on “A reformatory punishment

  • 8 March, 2010 at 3:25 pm

    I really should know better than to visit your blog first thing in the morning… how am I ever going to be productive today with *that* running through my head? Thanks for sharing your delightful experience.

  • 8 March, 2010 at 11:09 pm

    Such a nice write up of *such* a hot scene, my darling :-)

  • 9 March, 2010 at 10:23 pm

    Thank you for writing this. It was beautifully written and a real pleasure to read.


  • 11 March, 2010 at 2:50 pm

    Hot reading… even for a girl who’s misplaced her kink!

  • Pingback: chross.blogt.ch - Chross Guide To The Spanking Internet

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *