By: Story John

Part 1: Angela's Blushes Specks of chalkdust tumbled along a ray of warm sunlight. Girls in blue and white gingham smocks quietly found their places. Their teacher watched from the back of the class. In through an open window stole a medley of summer's finest tunes: a blackbird's ode to joy; the gentle purring of a hand-pushed lawnmower; the whistle of a holiday train as it raced through buttercup fields towards the south coast.

Stationed in silence at their wooden desks, the reformatory girls waited for the order to begin. Then they leant forward, pencils in hand, and wrote. The weekly two-hour assignment had begun.

A tall man, angular and inscrutable, stood at the back of the class. Dr Murray. His eyes had a magnetic darkness. They surveyed the girls as they worked. His shoulders rested against the back wall. At the front of the class, hanging from a rail of hooks beside the blackboard, was a bamboo cane and a leather paddle. Next to these, attached to a length of twine, hung a black notebook. Directly in front of Dr Murray, at the back of the middle row of desks, was a spare desk. It was over this that the girls were punished, inspected, and otherwise dealt with. To his right, a wash basin. Beside that, medical equipment.

A clock on the wall gently chimed the half hour. Outside, a blackbird mocked the mechanical clang with a freestyle trumpe-burst of his own. An hour and a half to go. Papers shuffled. A dozen bothered bottoms shiftd on narrow wooden chairs. Disciplined composition continued. Social and Ethical Responsibility was the theme.

Warm water ran in the wash basin. The tall man scrubbed his hands. the sharp tang of disinfectant soap filled the classroom air, replacing the green scent of cut grass. Nostrils twitched. Nervous girl-bottoms clenched involuntarily. Slow footsteps echoed on the boards - his. A random temperature test seemed inevitable. Who would it be?

Dr Murray stopped behind the last desk on the window side - Angela Beaconsfield's. She continued to write, as she must, but swallowed with a dry mouth. Dark magnetic eyes read her work. Hands cupped her under each armpit. Silently, reluctantly, she got to her feet. She began to snivel. Nobody dared turn around to see who it was. They'd know soon enough.

Words were whispered in Angela's ear, and a pink blush spread from her neck to her cheeks. She was hesitant in her steps, but now stood before the spare desk, waiting. She remembered to edge her feet apart, until her flat-sandalled, white-socked feet nudged the legs of the desk. His hands took her shoulders and eased her forward until her breasts touched the sunkissed timber of the desk. She surrenedered her wrists without being asked. They were folded in the small of her back. She lay limply, inert. Then the unmistakable whisper of cloth as her gingham smock was raised and folded back. Then a tighted snapping as white, elasticated cotton underwear were peeled away and pulled down to her knees.

The tall Master fetched a bag from beside the basin and returned to the bent-over bare-bottomed girl. He pulled up a chair and sat behind her. Her bottom began to blush. Even the backs of her thighs reddened slightly. He hardly seemed to notice, and certainly paid no attention. yet it was a peculiar phenomenon. To the curious observer certain questions might spring to mind. Was it the proximity of his face to her bare bottom that caused the blushing? In other words, was it a simple blush of embarrassment? Or could it be the light bruising that dappled her rear - evidence, it seemed, that she'd been paddled recently like a little girl - that caused her to redden in shame? Perhaps it was simply sexual, the maiden blush of young woman unclothed before a powerful man? Or was it that she felt a bit sweaty back there, and therefore conscious of an unladylike bouquet? None of these questions, of course, were asked or answered in the hushed atmosphere of the reformatory classroom.

A large tub of vaseline was removed from the Doctor's bag, opened, and placed on the floor. From his breast pocket he withdrew a glass thermometer. This he shook vigorously and stood upright in the still jelly. Using his middle finger, he scooped out a liberal dollop of the opaque grease. a suppressed whimper from the delinquent as he parted her bottom cheeks. Angela Beaconsfield tensed on contact, and tightened her cheeks as he lubricated the length of her deep, sweaty bottom crack with the cool vaseline. A light slap to her bum warned her not to tense again. Her knees bent slightly, involuntarily. She swallowed several times as he fingered her anus. One could get the impression that Angela Beaconsfield wasn't enjoying this. This was hardly surprising. Before being sent to Dr Murray's Reformatory, Angela's anus had in all probability only ever been probed by the tips of her own fingers. Even her own mother may not have seen the orifice for ten or twelve years. How times had changed. How three months had turned her whole world topsy turvy. Now she had with good grace to lie still while a reformatory master fingered her bottom and humiliated her in any way he chose.

The tall man removed the thermometer from the vaseline jar. He placed it's slippery bulb to the eye of the girl's anus and gradually slid it up. He paid great attention to this task. Was he feeling for resistance? He didn't say. Finally it was deeply embedded, recording both the girl's temperature and the condition of her bowel. Only a stump of glass protruded from between her blushing bottom cheeks. It was almost vulgar, almost comical.

The doctor's dark magnetic eyes focused on the tip of the slender glass stem, timing the intrusion. A muted gasp from Angela as he whipped it out, as though it were alive. His eyes brightened at the unseemly stain that sullied the final inch of the thermometer. He wiped it before dropping in into a receptacle, ready for disinfecting.

He packed up the bag and put it by the basin. Fingers snapped, his. Angela rose at the sound. Her shapeless gingham smock covered her again to the knees, white cotton knickers remained stretched between her ankles. he took her hands and placed them on top of her head. Again the whispered in her ear. Her facial features contorted. he shook her bowed head from side to side. What had he told her? Was she running a temperature? A gentle push between the shoulder blades propelled the delinquent forward. Angela shuffled towards the top of the class, gait inhibited by underpants around her ankles. He was holding back tears. As she passed each desk the seated girl cast a furtive glance at the white cotton knickers stretched between Angela's ankles. None could conceal her glee at the pencil-thin blemish that scored the gusset. What japes.

Angela stood in front of the door by the blackboard, her back to the class, her hands on her head. Behind the door was the lavatory. One of the girls sniggered - an athletic redhead. The tall doctor merely asked in a quiet voice if the girl responsible would stand up. The redhead slowly got to her feet, head bowed. He pointed to the top of the class. The redhead went to the black book that hung beside the cane and the strap. There she made an entry before returning to her desk, biting her lower lip. One wondered if she'd be sniggering at punishment hour. A deep hush once more descended on the Reformatory classroom. except for the quiet snivels of Angela.

Dr Murray opened the door and Angela shuffled into the bathroom, hands still on her head. He followed and closed the door behind them. The girls in the classroom remained dilligent. Spyholes everywhere meant their behaviour could always be monitored. They knew what would happen to the redhead. Better to concentrate on the composition.

What was happening behind the door was no mystery in any case, and most of the girls tried to put it from their minds. It might be them next time. They'd all been through it, and knew the routine too well. Angela would have to sit on the toilet while he squatted down in front of her hand held her hands. He's look her in the face as she tried to have a bowel movement. He'd tell her to concentrate. Her face would be red from shame and effort. At some stage she'd fart, and the porcelain echo would mortify her. He'd ignore it, or take it as an encouraging sign. Eventually she's be let up, with or without success. She'd turn around and sit back on the toilet seat, her back to Dr Murray now. In shame she's tear eight sheets of toilet paper from the roll, fold them, and hold them for him in the small of her back. She'd feel him gently pushing her, making her arch her back and spread her bottom cheeks. Then the humiliation as he'd wipe her bum like a child. Then he'd fold the paper and wipe again, and a third time. Then she'd tear off another eight sheets and the procedure would continue until he was satisfied. All the time she's be cringing at the way she was displayed and the smell she was making. After flushing he'd wash his hands and tell her to return to the spare desk.

The door from the bathroom to the classroom opened and a red-eyed Angela emerged. He followed. Knickers off now, Angela returned to the spare desk at the back of the middle row. Silently she placed two tall stools on the floormarks by the desk. She knelt on them, a knee on each seat, and shuffled wider apart. Then she raised her blue and white gingham smock to her waist and leaned forward. Her forearms took her weight. Her bottom was the highest part of her body. Her back was arched, her belly was off the desk, hanging down. He was waiting for her enema.

The rumble of castors as the medical stand trundled over to the spare desk. From it hung a red bag heavy with a quart of warm soapy liquid. A length of hosing snaked from the bag. At the business end lolled a sturdy black nozzle.

The large tub of vaseline was again uncapped. Busy fingerd greased first the sturdy black nozzle, then Angela's nervous, retreating anus. The tall doctor cupped the delinquent's belly as her inserted the four-inch nozzle up her back passage. Her lubricated anal ring tightened unavailingly against the equally slippery intruder. Deeper went the nozzle. To the sound of babyish protests it passed the indent that would hold it in place. Premature expulsion was now very unlikely. Without ceremony the clamp was released on the red bag and the soapy solutin gushed through the pipework. Within seconds the teenager's bowels flooded with a caustic enema cocktail.

With three-quarters of the bag empty Angela's belly hung down between her thighs like a soft football. She knew better that not make a scene. Her toes curled and uncurled as the griping pains started. The bag was empty now and she wanted to sit on the toilet to expel the soapy stew from her tummy. But she was made to wait. Finally, in desperation, she drummed her shins against the tops of the stools on which she knelt. This display of protest echoed through the classroom. Dr Murray frowned.

At last he loosened the nozzle. He could feel the pressure agains it. Holding a tissue in his left hand, he withdrew the nozzle with his right. With the tissue he plugged the delinquent's anus until she regained control of her stretched sphincter. Now came the hard part for Angela. She had to hold the emema in until given permission to let it go. It was impossible. He wheeled the enema stand back to the corner by the basin. He ran taps and cleaned equipment. Angela sobbed in desperation. The other girls tried to write, but their ears were burning.

Dr Murray whispered something to Angela and gently patted her rump. He helped her down from the tall stools and wathed as the blue and white smock covered her again to the knees. Angela's hands flew to her bottom. She tried to press her cheeks together. Tears wetted her face and reddened her eyes. Running was forbidden. Slowly she walked towards the top of the classroom, hands desperately pressing her bottomcheeks together outside her smock. By the time she got to the front row a dark stain had appeared at the back of her smock. Her hands were desperately firefighting, but Angela was leaking. As she stood at the lavatory door, her back to the class, a yellowish trickle creeped down the inside of both calves. She was barely hanging on. She sobbed in anguish, forcing her nether cheeks together. Nobody was sniggering now.

Finally the tall doctor opened the lavatory door. He followed Angela in and shut the door behind them. The girls outside continued writing, some clearly elated at another's disgrace, others visibly shaking with dread. They could all guess the scenario unfolding behind the door. Angela sitting on the toilet, still struggling to hang on as the contents of her enema dribbled incontinently into the bowl. The perspiration bubbling on her face and pouring down her back. Him squatting in front of her holding her hands. Then the nod. She'd explode with relief. She'd cough and pant in his face as her bowels blasted out the soap mix in spasms of muscular contraction and impossibly farting. Then she'd virtually collapse into his arms, drained. But she'd have to get up and sit backwards on the toilet to have her bottom wiped like a little girl. Only then could she get up. He'd flush while she washed her hands. Then she'd be given fresh underpants. After he'd inspected her hands she be told to return to her desk.

A pale, tearful delinquent emerged from the lavatory followed by her teacher. Although not happy, her face seemed clearer now, free from stress. She slumped at her desk. Picking up her pen, Angela began where she'd left off. Dr Murray returned to his position at the back of the class. The clock chimed the half hour - only thirty minutes to go. Not to be outdone, the blackbird responded with a chime of his own - a throaty run of breathtaking beauty.

The luminous hands on the dormitory clock showed ten o'clock. The girls had been abed an hour. Heavy footsteps, barefoot, padded slowly along the tiled floor - his. The girls lay quietly in the dimness, pretending to be asleep. Angela Beaconsfield felt a tap on her ankle. She'd been expecting it. In sleep-heavy resignation she turned onto her tummy. She'd slipped into a restful slumber for half an hour, where the world was shut out, and her limbs were relaxed. She tried to hold it. The cool night air brushed her skin as he folded the sheet back from the base of the bed up to her shoulders. Then the whisper of cotton as her night smock was rucked up beyond her waist. Without being told Angela drew up her her knees at either side until she adopted the frog position. Her hands automatically gravitated to the small of her back, where she folded them in submission. Hips lifted as a pillow was positioned beneath her belly. Her warm mouth accepted the bit she was to bite on. The lid popping on a jar of lubricant. The creak of springs at an increased load.

For the third time that day Angela Beaconsfield's bottom tightened on an intruder. This was the biggest. She wouldn't fight it. She bit on her rubber soother and rode the experience. She'd never steal again. As she closed her eyes, and began to retreat from the moment, she thought she heard birdsong, a blackbird, calling in joy to her from a summer garden.