Chapter 15
Nevertheless, even though Beth Calhoun had accepted the depravity forced upon her by the two domineering autocrats of Keston, it did not save her from laundry detail. Indeed, the very morning following that night of debauchery we have just relate ed, a grinning Flossie Durkin came into the refectory while Beth was eating her unpalatable breakfast of cornmeal mush, stale toast and tepid coffee, to whisper to her, "Directly when you finish, Calhoun, outside on the double and I'll be waiting for you. You're going to start your new job today. You'll like it. You'll keep nice and clean, I can promise you that!"
And so when the lovely dark brown-haired prisoner left the refectory, the head matron took her by the elbow and led her down to the laundry workshop where Genevieve Corley was in charge, assisted by three brawny matrons, all of whom loved nothing better than to tyrannize and whip and coerce their helpless female charges.
"Here's a fresh fish for you, Jenny," Flossie Durkin quipped, as she shoved the unresisting young woman forward to where Genevieve sat in her black uniform, presiding at a kind of podium at the far end of the room. The heat was oppressive, and the air was muggy, and every so often there would be blasts of steam. These emerged only from a little window, and since outside it was a sultry summer, there was little relief. All the girls who worked here-and there were some seventy of them-walked about with their cotton uniforms clinging to their bodies, damp and soaked, outlining their charms. It was here indeed that very often the lesbian "butches" among the matrons made their bedtime selections by determining which girl of another had a particularly tempting pair of titties or a lovely ass which would flinch and redden nicely under a good strapping, till the victim was ready to lick pussy and rub cunt as bidden. Some of them, indeed, strapped on dildos and fucked, thus usurping the male privilege with their penis envy. Genevieve Corley herself occasionally wore such a dildo, which she had had specially fabricated in a New York shop by a distant relative of a dear friend of hers, and which was adorned with tiny little spikes and whorls made of rubber. The frictional digging of this implement into a tender female cunt invariable brought Genevieve Corley exquisite delights.
She stared down coldly, her blue eyes appraising, at the unfortunate and unresisting Beth Calhoun, who stood before her with head bowed.
"She's got three years here, and she might spend some time cleaning up the works." Flossie Durkin announced. "Don't treat her different than anybody else, hear, Jenny? Just let me know if she gets any demerits. She's on probation with Alma, you might say, and with me too."
"I get it." Indeed, Genevieve Corley looked disappointed. "On probation" meant very simply that both the superintendent and the head matron had already marked this particular "new fish" for their very own, and Genevieve Corley, who owed her appointment to Alma Burbage herself, had no desire to lose a cushy job and all the girl-fucking privileges it entailed.
"I'll take care of things, don't worry, Flossie," she assured the head matron. Then, raising her voice, she called out, "Lissa, came over here and put this new fish to work!"
"Lissa" turned out to be a bespectacled, gray-haired woman of about fifty, with a moustache on her upper lip, a dour face, and one of the women most dreaded by the unfortunate laundry detail girls. Her name was really Clarissa Roder, and she had once been a private tutress to a family of three girls whose parents traveled to Europe extensively.
She very nearly had criminal charges preferred against her when they returned after a six month absence, to find that she had used the whip on all three girls, who ranged in age from ten to seventeen, and had forced all three of them to gamahuch and to pussyrub with her. That was in Palm Springs, and from there on, Clarissa Roder had gone through several institutions, most of them privately owned, where her brutality had at first not particularly mattered to the selfish and greedy superintendents of the sanitaria or mental homes for which she toiled.
But once again there was very nearly a scandal when she blackmailed a handsome matron whom she had caught with a lover in the apartment when the husband was away on a business trip, by forcing her to submit to a good thrashing and then going to bed with her. The wife complained, the husband very nearly beat Clarissa Roder to death. Two years after that, she had found a job in Keston, and her brooding, almost psychotic mind made a living hell for those she lusted for and whom she could get. For here at Keston, the Lesbian "butches" had to take their turns as regarded seniority and rank, and of course, Flossie Durkin as head matron was first after Alma Burbage herself. Clarissa Roder was at the bottom of the list, and so when she did get a girl, one whom no one else wanted, that particular girl was doomed to the most vicious and depraved kind of sexual servitude.
She glowered at the shrinking Beth Calhoun and, taking her by the arm, dragged her over to the laundry vat. "There's the soap, there's the dirty stuff. Now get busy," was her only explanation. "And you'd better keep up with the work that comes to you, or you'll get a taste of this!"
"This" was a heavy rubber truncheon which dangled from the belt of her uniform. She loved nothing better than to creep up behind a girl who was bent over a tub or vat, raise the truncheon high and deal a sonorous smack across the tightly presented bottom-cheeks of the offender. She called these "Love-taps" but those who knew Clarissa Roder well from unfortunate experience shuddered to think what her real blows of punishment were like in comparison with those supposedly "caressing" marks of attention.
By the time the luncheon break came around, Beth Calhoun was exhausted, damp with sweat, and nearly fainting. She had a dreadful headache, and her knuckles were chafed and raw from this menial toil which she had never before in her life had to do. She had already earned the notice of Genevieve Corley herself, and of course Clarissa Roder had been by several times to watch how the "new fish" was making out, and twice poor Beth had felt that rubber truncheon whack against her tender bottom.
Dazed, aching, she dragged herself to the refectory and ate the unpalatable meal-beans and frankfurters again. Nor were they very much better than those offered at the time of that near-riot in the refectory. In fact, she could scarcely finish her meal, and filled up on what bread she could, and a little lukewarm coffee. Then, drearily, she dragged herself back to her work, and finally, at four in the afternoon, she fainted. A bucket of water doused in her face revived her, and she saw both Genevieve Corley and Clarissia Roder bending over her, their eyes cruel and greedy.
"I'll bet the little bitch has got a loaf of bread in her oven," Clarissa Roder snarled.
"I don't think so. Dr. Andrews would have let us know if that was the case," Genevieve Corley remarked.
"I-I've got a terrible headache-I'm so sick-oh please, I-I can't do this awful work" Beth Calhoun faltered as she tried to get up.
"You'll do it or else!" Clarissa Roder growled. She bent down, seized the unhappy girl by the armpits and dragged her to her feet. Then her calloused hand smacked several times against each of the girl's cheeks, and poor Beth Calhoun burst into tears and tried to protect herself by twisting her face away and trying to fend off the blows with her hands.
"Put your hands down! You'd strike me, would you? You know what'll happen for that. You'll go into solitary, and you'll get thrashed in front of everybody!" the cruel assistant matron scolded. "I said put your hands down at your sides. Now-
THIS'LL PUT SOME COLOR BACK INTO THOSE CHEEKS OF YOURS, AND I'll put some color into the other set at bedtime, you can bet on that!"
So saying, she applied three or four more slaps to the sobbing young woman's face, then pushed her out of the laundry.
"You can go back to your cell, and just for that, you won't get any supper," she announced.
Once back in her cell, Beth Calhoun sprawled on her cot, not really caring whether she lived or died. Her head throbbed intolerably, and a sick nausea racked her from the oppressive humidity of that inferno where she had spent the day. She fell asleep at last, only to be wakened suddenly by the clanging of her cell door and the appearance of cruel Flossie Durkin.
"So you got yourself on the black books again, you little Bitch?" the head matron gloated in a husky whisper. "This time, you're really in for it!" Jenny Corley wants you really thrashed, and so does Alma. Come along now."
"No! It's not fair-I'm sick-the heat-and they beat me-I've never done work like that before-I fainted-oh, nothing could be so inhuman-how in the name of God in heaven can you be like that? I did what you wanted-oh, I wish I could die!" Beth Calhoun broke down and sobbed hysterically.
"Hush your noise! Do you want to wake all the other inmates.? Now come along. What.' You'd fight me?"
For, in the hysterical terror which gripped her at the thought of being forced to gamahuch again both the ugly head matron and the perfidious superintendent, as well as the horror of being whipped again, Beth Calhoun as last rebelled. She sat up on her cot and tried to fend off Flossie Durkin's groping hands, striking out and one, by chance, hitting the head matron in the cheek. Flossie Durkin let out a howl, reached in the dark for the whistle hanging around her neck, and blew on its lustily.
In a moment the lights were up, and two more matrons were beside her to aid her, Mabel Burton and Clara Henshaw.
"Get this fish down to the hole, the punishment hole!" Flossie Durkin snarled. "I'll bring Alma. This time, this fish is going to learn a lesson once and for all!"
About twenty minutes later, Beth Calhoun found herself stripped stark naked and dangling by her thumbs, with an iron bar tied between her ankles. It had two small rings, one at each end, and from these the cords were bound so as to stretch her legs at least a yard wide and make her most intimate parts assessable to the detailed attentions of her tormentresses.
Alma Burbage wore only her lace-trimmed peach-colored satin slip and high heeled pumps, while Mabel Burton and Clara Hensaw wore just their linen uniforms and high heeled pumps, without stockings or lingerie. As for Flossie Durkin, she boldly took off her uniform and displayed her ugly, shapeless, varicose-veined body in a tight white leather corselet with a a flap that gusseted her between the legs and could be released to show off her cunt. This she did at once, and grinned at the sobbing Beth Calhoun as she stepped forward, a pair of manicure tweezers flourished in her right hand.
"See all the hair I got on my cunt, Calhoun baby? Well, I've been wanting to rub it up against a nice little baby pussy. I'm going to pull out all your cunt-hair right now. After that, we'll warm you up with a good sound thrashing, and you're going to play ring-around-the-rosy with all of us. Maybe you'll be more cooperative after that. And then, if you're good, maybe we could let you off the laundry. Alma here thinks you could do good in the library. But I'm not convinced yet that you're anything but a troublemaker. And I'm still convinced you passed that young punk lawyer some message somehow, because Alma got a letter this morning from the court in Chicago that heard your case, and they said they were looking into it. Boy! You'd better not have come up with any gossip about Keston, or even if they do let you out, you'll go out without any skin on your ass. You hear me?"
All Beth Calhourn could do was to whimper and groan, for she was hanging by her thumbs, her feet just off the ground, and her legs straddled hugely until her muscles ached. She screamed now as Flossie Durkin put the tweezers to her dark-brown pussy-hair and yanked out a sprig. Her head tilted back and her beautiful titties arched like marble globes as another sprig was town away.
Sobbing pitifully, begging incoherently for mercy, she endured this hellish torture until at last the lips of her cunt appeared, raw and chafed, and all her cunt-hair was torn away and lay before her on the floor before her yawningly stretched naked thighs.
Then Flossie Durkin, grinning like a fiend, waddled forward, put her pudgy hands on Beth Calhoun's ass-cheeks, thrust her own shaggy-haired cunt up against the tender and overly sensitized soft pussy of the lovely and innocent victim of Keston brutality.
Biting her lips almost to the blood, whimpering, sweating in rivulets trickling down from her armpits, Beth Calhoun endured this hellish travesty of love, which was not so much sexual as it was sadistic and greedily triumphant to proclaim the complete subjugation of an innocent girl by the sadistic, vicious, cruel rulers of this women's reformatory.
"There now," Flossie Durkin panted after she had glued herself a last time to the sobbing, naked captive and had her infamous climax. "Now that warmed me up good, and I'm going to do the same for you, baby. Get that ass of yours ready!"
She now produced a short black leather thong at whose end four finger-like strips had been carefully cut so that they stood out and, when applied in the hand of an expert like the head matron could clutch and gnaw the tender flesh of a girl's bottom or her titties or her inner thighs or belly.
And it was over her belly that Beth Calhoun felt the cruel taws, which made her jerk and shriek frenziedly from the excruciating pain.
And the taws smashed out, cracking wickedly across the soft inner thighs, the fingers stinging the inside of the left thigh and the end of the bank smacking wickedly against the other thigh. Now Flossie moved to the right and directed the fingers of the whip to the right inner thigh just where it joined the pelvis, and a maddened scream, imploring and desperate, burst from Beth Calhoun's panting lips.
"OWWWRRREEEEYEEEOWWWW! Qh stop it! In the name of God, I'll do anything you want, put please stop whipping me!"
"Anything, baby?" Flossie drooled, as this time as she applied the finger-like ends of the whip against Beth Calhoun's panting left tittie, flattening the nipple as the surface of the band itself smashed home, the tips of the lash whisking around the outer curve of that luscious loveglobe. Another even more prolonged tortured shriek was torn from the twisting, dangling body of the sufferer. Her fingernails dug into her sweating palms, and her thumbs ached madly from the cruel strain imposed by having all her weight hanging from them.
Moving around, Flossie Durkin now began to attack Beth Calhoun's naked bottom. A dozen lashes drew the most agonized, abject supplications, shrieks, moans and hysterical weeping, as the girl plunged, twisted, lunged in her attempts to escape the cruel fire imposed by this unholy implement of torture. Finally Flossie Durkin came around to face her victim, lowered the taws, and asked, panting, "Are you really gonna do everything we say? everything, baby?" Are you gonna be a good bitch and gam us all and let us screw you?" And before Beth Calhoun could answer, the taws had leaped up into her naked, hairless cunthole, the fingers biting viciously into the delicate mucous membrane of that sweet love center.
Beth Calhoun's body convulsed, her head titled back, a prolonged and inhuman wail of indescribably agony poured from her, and then her head sagged forward and she hung loose and limp in her bonds.
"Oh shit! She's gone and fainted on us!" Flossie Durkin disgustedly growled. "Have you still got that darning needle, Mabel?"
"Sure. It's in my purse. I'll get it for you. There you are, Flossie honey. Wake her up!"
"Don't worry, I will," the head matron said grimly. She took the darning needle and began to prod viciously on those swollen nipples, the centers of those lovely bubbies now marked by the streaks of the infamous taws.
Beth Calhoun's eyes shuddered open, and then her mouth again gaped in a wailing cry: "AWWWRREEEEOUUUUU!! ! ! ! Oh dear God, I'll do whatever you want-I just can't stand it-I'd rather die-oh stop, I'll do anything-anythinganything!"
"All right, let her down," Alma Burbage panted, pulling off her slip and standing naked, her small, orange-like titties wildly heaving in her erotic excitement. She put a finger to the thick black fleece of her cunt and began to frig herself, shamelessly and lustfully, as her eyes devoured the shuddering, welted body, dank with agony sweat which dangled from the cords.
Flossie Durkin lowered the girl until she lay on her back. Then, at her order, Clara Henshaw got a thick, dome-like cushion and they lifted the whimpering Beth Calhoun and placed it under her back, lifting her loins until her cunt was proffered lewdly in offertory.
Then Alma flung herself down on that naked body, her mouth greedily sucking one of the swollen nipple buds, her fingers digging poor Beth's thighs and sides as she began to grind her shaggy pussy-fleece against the naked, raw-looking, denuded love lips. And soon she spent, slavering over the half-fainting victim. When she rose languidly, she gestured to Mabel Burton, who flung herself atop Beth and began to cuntrub avidly.
But Clara Henshaw demanded more of Beth than the others. Moving behind the moaning, semiconscious naked young woman, she straddled herself and lowered her cunt to that whimpering mouth, hissing, "You gam me, or Flossie will give you the taws right on your cunt again, you bitch!"
And Beth Calhoun had to obey.
And when they had finished with her, they took the bar from between her straddled, swollen thumbs and then she crawled across the floor and humbly kissed the feet of all four of them. And then the door opened and Genevieve Corley came in, naked and wearing a dildo and high heeled pumps. It was the special whorled dildo, with its spikes at the end, and laughing sadistically at Beth Calhoun's horrified face, the two assistant matrons and Alma herself held the poor girl down on her back and forced her to open her legs while Genevieve Corley mounted her, thrust the dildo home, and began to fuck her as a man might.
And to her shame and unutterable horror, her emotions roused against her will, her young body betrayed her. As the laundry detail matron thrust herself back and forth, rasping the tender young lovesheath, the sensitive young beauty uttered a sobbing cry and felt her body quake in tumultuous climax.
"You see?" Flossie Durkin cried triumphantly to Alma Burbage, "The little bitch is really a dyke after all. She doesn't need a man-all she needs is a good stiff cucumber of maybe a carrot, or Jenny's artificial prick up her twat. All right baby, you can start in the library tomorrow. Right now you can go back and get a good night's sleep. Maybe you'd better give her a shot of something strong, too. She looks done in."