When I had dealt with Phomie’s introduction to Rockley, I tied her wrists and elbows in the same manner as with Elizabeth Lord. I noted that as my cords looped and bit deeply into her skin, her breathing increased along with mine. In self-defense I hurried with the most unkind binding there is for a girl, clamping Phomie’s elbows tight and knotting viciously, while at the same time explaining to her that she would find another girl in the cage tied the same way. And that, if either of them could get the other free, they were at liberty to do so. When I opened the cage door and thrust the black girl inside, I was conscious of casting my bread upon the waters in the hope it would return to me ten-fold. Approximately fifty young women would yield obedience. They were mine!
Her reaction to the neatly spread out tunic was instant. “I stopped wearing those silly things five years ago and I’m not going to start wearing them now!”
“Would you prefer twenty strokes with the cane, dear?”
Cynthia was undeniably shocked and seized upon the only deficiency. “There’s no panties and no bra, the whole thing’s indecent. It’s worse than being naked!”
“You may have both bra and panties, dear, if you don’t mind them being lined with stinging nettles.”
We allowed the awful suggestion to hover above our prisoner. “You wouldn’t!” Cynthia stared in wild disbelief.
Possibly I should explain that the English stinging nettle is like the American poison ivy. Any girl who had to wear undergarments lined with that plant’s leaves would soon be itching and burning something fierce. Cynthia considered the possibility and extended a pair of maiden hands in meek surrender. “If you’ll take off these handcuffs, I’ll dress the way you wish.” Rockley held all the cards so the end result was always the same.
After a while we tired of the individual sport, and with a dozen school-clad maidens among their fellows in the cage, dumped a pile of tunics inside the cage with instructions to have them on or face the cane. I had never unlocked so many handcuffs in my life. The one exception was Elizabeth Lord.
Elizabeth was a beautiful woman and wore her nakedness with nonchalance. As usual, she spoke first. “I’ve wondered about this school girl thing. Half the girls have to tug and stretch. You’re going to have a lot of ruptured seams.”
I unlocked one cuff and clasped it with it’s fellow on her left wrist as I motioned to my desk on which reposed a waiting badge of shame. “Try this one, Elizabeth.”
“I’m going to look silly.”
“Put it on anyway.”
She shrugged, her raised eyebrow could have meant anything.
When she had tugged the white blouse into place, she laughed. “These things are for girls who don’t have breasts. Good gosh, look at mine!”
It had the effect I desired. I did not want Elizabeth simply one of the girls, I wanted her as Elizabeth. And she would evoke either giggles or awe, When she saw the corset she exclaimed, “You can’t possibly mean this. Miss Durrant! If I cinch that corset around my middle. I’ll be honestly ashamed.”
“Do it!”
I had caught her interest. The corset intrigued, it was a pretty thing and would be cruel in its clasp on any maiden above the age of twelve. To do it right, Elizabeth removed the blouse she had just donned to fit the waist-cincher around her already flat tummy for good effect. She had obviously had a previous acquaintance with such an artful constriction but I said nothing of my suspicion. When it was fitted in place to her satisfaction, she turned and thrust the deadly laces to my attention, while placing her free hands upon the top of her head and saying, mischievously, “There you are, Miss Durrant, do your worst.”
I didn’t do my worst but took my time. Little by little I constricted an already narrow waist into the remarkable effect of flared hips and an upthrust bust. The effect was breathtaking and as far removed from school days as a girl could get. The white blouse now bulged delightfully, showing taut nipples beneath the silk. I handed my prisoner the blue serge.
“I suppose you realize I can scarcely breath.” Elizabeth said in unconcern, “And you’ve had this tunic altered to fit no girl that ever was ... Holly cow!”
The effect was gorgeously erotic - almost no waist at all but plenty of breasts and hips! In pure mercy, I allowed her to sit while I tugged on the bobby socks and shoes. I was nervous as to what might happened if she bent down.
When I had once more cuffed her wrists, and led her to my room and the big mirror, before which we stood in mutual admiration of a contoured creation of beauty. I then made her sit while I converted the loveliness of her hair into a couple of school girl pigtails with wide blue ribbons at each end. Not until them did my constricted captive ask, “But what’s it prove, Miss Durrant? Except to make me feel silly and a sex object every girl is going to giggle over. Or is this only a prelude to publicly caning my bottom?” She laughed delightedly. “If I can manage to bend over for it, of course!”
Mindful of my weakness where Elizabeth was concerned, I put her back in the cage and stood watching long enough to hear the oooh’s and ah’s, and watch the cluster of schoolgirls form around this one who was one of them and yet not one of them. I went back to my office to do some thinking.
The obvious way to derive maximum impact was to tease and torment one girl at a time. But my naked nymphets were far too numerous and would compare notes when placed back in the cage, I hit upon a treatment they must dislike intensely, but one far more in keeping with their dress and simulated youth. Talking about it with Constance and Betty, we agreed it was probably the English atmosphere and the pert impotency of handcuffed teenagers which provided the true inspiration. We decided on instigation the following day.
The store house of Rockley came up with the right equipment, as usual. Fifty collars, delightful metal circlets which locked with a loud snap and provided a ring at the back of each girl’s neck. Rockley scored again with its immense Great Hall which accepted my fifty captive school girls in a circle around its walls. Before relieving them of handcuffs, we ran the long, long chain of previous acquaintance in a continuous thread through the rings of their collars, so that, even if completely free, there was nothing they could do beyond cause their companions distress, then get their own neck tugged and jerked in return. Their initial attempts to escape their bondage were amusing but they soon realized they weren’t going anywhere and quickly settled down. They were all baffled by what came next.
As an American, I was forced to be amused by the English reverence for The Cane. It starts them out quite early in life, and I understand that even at advanced ages, elderly gentlemen hire commercial ladies for the express purpose of having her slice away at them in nostalgic memories of younger times. It was the cane I would have Constance and Betty use today, but not upon bottoms already marked by its sting. Today was to be a festival of ‘hold out your hand, you naughty girl.’
Well aware of my ignorance of such corporal absurdities. I had Constance attend me in the office, directing her to cane the experimental palm I held out in order to fully understand the quality of the cane I was about to impose upon delinquent hands. Constance was dubious. “It’s going to hurt a lot more than you think. Miss Durrant. Most of these girls have probably been caned before at school, and have some idea. For them there will be no shock. The pain may seem truly awful. Frankly, Miss Durrant. I would rather not inflict it.”