Alice Under Discipline - Part 2 , livre ebook

Title Page
ALICE UNDER DISCIPLINE
BOOK 2
Alice and the New Magdalene Laundries
A cane-in-hand tale of domestic discipline, domination, dependency, psychological manipulation and unashamed exploitation from the INSTITUTIONALISED stable
Hand crafted by
Garth. P. ToynTanen



Publisher Information
Alice Under Discipline - Book Two
Published in 2012 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Garth. P. ToynTanen 2012
The right of Garth. P. ToynTanen to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



CHAPTER 1
It all gets institutional as Dr Ecclestone takes charge, Alice finds herself carted off to a church-run ‘industrial school’ for wayward intractable teens and girls of loose morals and a friend intervenes - or tries to.
“...PROVIDING A DISCIPLINED ENVIRONMENT FOR RECALCITRANT YOUNG WOMEN...”
The first shallow-angled rays of sunlight lancing through the stained glass window fanned out like a celestial rainbow. But the scene presently unfolding beneath the slim and flattened spreading fingers of light made a red, gold, blue and green mockery of the pious depiction tinting its metallic shafts. Mottled subdued-coloured shadowy apparitions, obliquely projected and stretched out over the cold green-grey flagstones told of the disruption caused by the vertical bars of sturdy iron set on the outside, the purity of tone further corrupted by the thick diamond shaped hinged wire mesh frame affixed to the window’s inside. The obligatory heavy-duty padlocks securing this latter Norman-arched framework - its deep-set wired contours paralleling the little chapel’s window cringing behind it - were as ubiquitous as to be practically symbolic of the place. Mounted at the edge furthest from the stout paint-gnarled hinges, one top and one bottom, the two askew padlocks added a few bluish silvery sparkles of their own - little pinpoints of metallic starlight that managed little in lightening the dead oppressive atmosphere of dread penitence and hypocritical control; there was no hint of gaiety to be had here, just as there was little to be had in terms of Christian compassion from the stained glass mural beyond, just a further reminder of the totality of captivity. Solid ice-cold stone and iron captivity set in faith... That is Faith... with a capital ‘F’.
The ironic gaiety of all that glitter and gold seemed to snigger over the faux solemnity of the tableau unfolding at that moment - an old man and a young woman meeting through the most extraordinary of circumstances.
The gold-halo-framed saint’s head, all pinks and roses, divided into slats by the prison-bar shadowing and crisscrossed by a white-painted scarring of wire mesh had disapproval woven in to its eyes as if preordained to gaze down on such a scene from the very moment of the window’s conception. The sword in the saint’s glass-rendered chain mail hand, the hilt in the form of the crucifixion, was depicted raised as if to smite the perpetrator of all this desecration and shame yet as a mere work of art was as impotent as a young woman’s struggles against steel fetters and iron-link tethers.
In a stone niche where one might have expected an altarpiece - perhaps a chalice, a cross, a pair of gold candlesticks, some richly embroidered cloth of scrolling gold thread - there was indeed the cloth rolled out, the cross in its place and fat beeswax candles flowering yellow flame seated high in their sticks at each end. But where the chalice and wafers might have been set out for the holy communion there were laid out instead paraphernalia associated with an altogether different form of ‘communion’ entirely - something far less holy, yet just as ritualistic. Two crook-handled school-master canes of different thicknesses lay side to side at the foot of the gold cross spread between the candles, the tip of each settled in to the curling handle of the other.
Closer to the front of this cloth covered stone ledge a split-tongued Lochgelly tawse, the sturdy yet pliant oiled leather embossed in gold with the symbols of the institution - the lamb of god, the cross and the crossed canes, all set in a shield-like device - lay alongside a particularly fine example of the French martinet, the turned wood handle in the form of the Virgin, the fine leather fronds sprouting from the top of her veil like thick strands of hair the thickness of a shoelace, each bisected along its length by a series of tiny painstakingly tied knots. Viewed in profile the outline of the handle of the latter owed a lot in its form to the erect male member, a clue to a secondary function; considered too light to be applied to the backside of some strapping young tomboy type or plump modern adolescent, it could equally set alight the soles of dainty feet, soft pampered palms or indeed similarly indulged young breasts.
Set closer still to the edge, the jar of pearly blue-grey Vaseline already lay open, resting within its lid and bracketed each side by the brown twists of a pair of rolled-up leather belts, one pierced along its length, the other studded with silvery metal conical points. Alongside one candlestick a prison-style birch lay, a bunch of the whippiest silver birch twigs imaginable all bound in tarred rope to form a grip; a second bunch graced the opposite end of the ledge or shelf, this set the other way up with its broom of twigs and stems facing outermost. Only the greenest wood had been used, nothing too brittle to shatter and split, yet suitably festooned with buds and jaggedly truncated offshoots - all the better to ‘mortify the flesh’; and if there was anything The Most Reverend Father Kenneth Aloysius Mcmacmarghn knew all about it was the mortification of the flesh; girl flesh!
It stood to reason girl flesh had to be scourged, flagellated, reamed, penetrated - yes, it stood to reason; the functional necessity of procreation surely corrupted by the ‘Dark One’ as the juiciest, most succulent root of temptation. How else might one explain the all-pervading inflammation of the senses, the madness of desire brought on, the wicked urging ignited in the loins at the merest glimpse of a provocatively wobbling pair of buttocks, bouncing breasts, long waving locks of gold, red or brunette, laughing eyes and those wide generous mouths that promised so much yet he knew would deliver little but scorn to one of his age if approached on the street, even if in the most innocent, well-meaning and polite manner? But this was not the street, those locks were unlikely to be as long and free flowing, and that mouth, swinging bottom and all the rest would not be promising more here than they would deliver - nor need he fear scorn, rejection, spiteful backtalk nor anything save complete and utter supplication to his will; the wild-cat-taming zing of the Mother Superior’s cane will have seen to that.
The mouth, wide and generous as it might be and innocently cherry-lipped; the bottom, private, tucked away, a secretive rose; the vagina - undoubtedly the most treacherous of all - all these were sites where the darkest lust lurked. But it was a fact the semen of the pious could cleanse the seed of the daemon, trickling down a pretty chin, dribbling from within a well-cleansed, well-reamed bottom, oozing from that other unspeakable organ between its legs, this set free from pleasurable temptation by the surgeon’s excising of the bud or infibulating that toadstool of feminine deceit with platinum wire and vouchsafed from other ‘unfortunate consequences’ by its making barren with another surgical ‘snip’ or two.
It was that final act of sterilisation that seemed to crush them the most, squeezed the devil out from their souls like pips from an over-ripe pomegranate, that did, and that god-awful boisterousness with it! Once freed of all that pram-faced obsession with families and babies, boyfriends and husbands, they knuckled down under the dominion yoke of the church, submissively going about their daily chores and duties as the modest and pious always should. And the oocytes that were harvested - the eggs - could still fulfil the creator’s wishes, fertilised in vitro by those with actual gifts to give and implanted in more worthy, more righteous wombs, to the everlasting spiritual - and financial - benefit of the church.
Sterilisation; Yes, he always pushed for that, if there could be any possibility of levying a suggestion of ‘feeble mindedness’ or ‘mental incompetence’ - and he could almost always make a diagnosis like that stick if he put his mind to it.. And in the case of this particular girl - this winsome Welsh girl, Gwyneth Tealsdown - that diagnosis had become essential, more urgent than usual. It was beginning to look increasingly likely that she’d got word out; and perhaps that new girl had also, although in that girl’s case certain remedial steps had already been taken.
The Reverend Father, his face jowled, thread-veined and eye-baggy with scotch, turned away from the multihued fan of sunlight spreading out across the dust-strewn flagstones and lighting the skeletal carved figures of the knight and his spouse reclining in prayer on their shared tomb. His attention was turning to that other pedestal-like furnishing occupying the vaulted stone space, this one temporary and moveable, unlike the stone