"B-But I didn't do what Lew said," she protested through her tears. "I didn't!"
The judge frowned down at her, as if disturbed because she'd cut short the echo of his words through the huge, serene courtroom. "A lie," he informed her in a quavering self-righteous voice, "refusal to admit your sin and repent is far worse than the actual deed."
The accusation made her furious. She stomped her foot, and opened her mouth, ready to tell him what he could do with his black robe and dumb courtroom. But then the matron was there, had hold of her arm, and she was being dragged toward the door marked Detainees.
Oh God! she cried mentally. God! God! God! Not only had Lew torn out her cherry, her prize, but now they were taking her to a place she'd heard horrid stories about. And nothing anyone could say or do – not Mummy, not Daddy, not the teachers who'd written letters saying what a nice girl she was – was going to stop them.
The State Home for Girls was a cluster of high red brick buildings at the end of a long, barren road. But it didn't look like a prison. And the matron assured her it wasn't – she said the place was more like a live-in school, and that the girls, those who behaved and complied with the rules, causing no trouble, were usually paroled in less than a year.
"A whole year?"
The woman smiled and said it wasn't such a long time, but Wendy was certain she'd never survive that she'd be old and gray and probably crazy by the time they released her. Wide-eyed, she watched the buildings come at them as the station wagon with mesh over the windows sped down the narrow road.
Inside, the admittance building was drab and smelled of strong disinfectant. There were girls in baggy green dresses mopping the floor. Some grinned, others stared speculatively. She hurried after the matron, to a bare room with a wooden bench along one wall, where another matron told her to peel for a strip-frisk.
"Everything!" snapped the woman when she hesitated over her panties and bra.
"There's nothing but me underneath," she offered, afraid of the woman, who looked more like a man, and who was watching her with the same glint in the eye that Lew had had when he first saw her small pink titties.
Without a word, the big woman stepped forward and undid the snaps at her back. The bra fell from her arms. She blushed. She wasn't used to standing naked before prying eyes. And now she noted that some of the girls from the hall, those who had watched her come in, those who hadn't smiled, were grouped at the door.
"Now the drawers." The matron folded muscular arms over pendulous breasts. Her expression told Wendy she had five seconds to take off the panties… or have it done for her.
Chewing her lip to keep from crying, and so embarrassed she thought sure she'd die, Wendy complied. She pushed the nylon down her trim legs, stepped free of the garment. Then she stood, face burning, trembling, not knowing what to do with her hands. But despite the embarrassment, the shame of being ogled, there was an unexplainable tingle deep in her tight red pussy.
"Yummy! A carrot-top." One of the older girls at the door hungrily eyed her sex.
"I like her ass," said another. "Lookit the dimples. I'd give all the smokes in my locker to get into that one."
"Awright, knock it off," bellowed the matron. "Get the fuck away from that door before I throw you all in the hole on bread and water for thirty days." She made a threatening move toward them. The girls flew from the door. She turned back to her charge. "Bend over and spread 'em."
Wendy gaped not knowing what she meant. Her tight little cunthole was wet and in her chest and nipples, there was a tightness she'd felt only once before when Lew broke through her cherry, and began to fuck his hard cock in and out, in and out.
"Your ass cheeks," explained the matron. "Open up 'n' lemme see what you're hiding down there."
"D-Do I have to?" she squeaked, mortified.
Again the fat matron stepped forward the hot look back in her lidded brown eyes.
Oh God, no! thought Wendy, don't let her touch me again. Quickly she turned, bent with her plump rear in the air, and reached back and spread her cheeks wide.
It seemed to take a long time. She felt the breeze from the hall lick her moist slit and quivering asshole. She felt the woman's eyes, heard what she supposed was heavy breathing. Then she felt the starchy white dress the matron wore brush the back of her thighs.
Suddenly there were rough fingers probing her sex. "Ow! Ow! Don't!"
"Hold still, honey. I can't see a fucking thing with all that red curly hair you got." The matron opened the lips of her cunt, as Lew had done before fucking his long veiny dick up her belly.
Wendy gasped. Her legs grew rubbery as the fingers dug deeper and deeper, grating back and forth across her tender pink clit. Was this necessary? she wondered. Routine? Or was she special – was the matron like the girls in the hall the bull-dykes she'd heard stories about from the kids at school who knew girls who'd done time at the home? She tried not to think about what the woman was doing; tried not to like it. But the fingers knew just where to touch her to make her wiggle and moan. And by the time the fat matron was done, her sopping wet little cunt was on fire, and she wished – oh, how she wished – that Lew or someone with a stiff dick would come up behind her and fill the hot, hairy hole.
After receiving her clothing issue – two drab green dresses, baggy underclothes, and socks and state made shoes – and being assigned to a bed in the dormitory that slept fifty girls, she was given a pass and told that Doctor Bruce, the institution's psychiatrist, was waiting to see her.
"All the new girls see the doctor," explained Mrs. Hamilton, the pleasant elderly matron in charge of the dorm. "You have to be interviewed so our classification committee can set you up with an individual schooling and work program, dear. Don't be frightened."
Wendy didn't mind the gnarled hand on her bottom. It patted gently, as her daddy sometimes did when he hugged and kissed her good night. The reassurance was the first kindly word she'd heard since entering this awful place. She felt better. Perhaps Doctor Bruce would help her, she reasoned. She could imagine him shouting into a phone, telling the judge what a frightful mistake he'd made. Optimistic, thinking she'd found a friend in the gray-haired dorm matron and perhaps another in the doctor, she raced down the hall. She tried not to think about what was going to happen that night when the lights went out in the dorm, and the girls, the ones who had ogled her, saw her cute ass slip naked into the bed.
She arrived breathless at the door marked Psychiatrist, and knocked shyly. "Come," called a male voice from within. "It's open."
Doctor Bruce sat behind a desk cluttered with bulging manila folders. He eyed her over the top of steel-rimmed glasses. He watched her close the door, then motioned her into the straight-backed wooden chair at the side of the desk.
They exchanged cursory greetings, and then the doctor held up his hand for silence while he browsed through the sentence reports in her folder. She sat rigid, trying not to breathe, still unable to accept the fact that she had been committed as a juvenile delinquent. It was a mere two weeks since Lew had tricked her into the house, got her drunk, and taken what he wanted and upended her life. It was all wrong: unfair! She wanted to shout it at the top of her lungs, to scream and break things and make them listen to her. Yet she was beginning to feel a strange sense of excitement at being there. It was almost as if there were a part of her – a secret Wendy no one knew – looking forward to what was going to happen when the girls from the hall and the matron who had finger fucked her pussy, trapped her somewhere in the maze of red brick corridors, and did the things to her body that Lew had started to do.
She almost jumped straight out of the chair when Doctor Bruce cleared his throat, glancing from the folder to her, them back to the folder. "I… I didn't do what they say," she offered softly.