The Doctor Is In
It wasn’t the same room as yesterday. It had the same homey morgue ambience, though. As I was waiting for the lady doctor, daintily shifting my weight from one aching foot to the other, I mused how to list my various troubles. Ordered by severity? Alphabetically? Or by body parts, perhaps? The doc made that decision for me as soon as she entered the medical room.
“Let me guess: displeasing side effects of physical correction?”
I wouldn’t have put it that way, but her diagnosis was spot-on. She buttoned her up her lab coat, which might have been a professional gesture. Yet it only resulted in making me even more uneasy. I had always felt rather vulnerable in the hands of physicians, and her yesterday’s performances both at our arrival and at the public castigation had done little to restore confidence in the medical community.
She nodded towards the examination table.
“I’d rather not, ma’am.”
She gave me a knowing glance.
“Stand still at least.”
The lady doc circled me, and I heard the ominous snapping of latex gloves. A quick examination of my mouth came first. The excoriations on my lips and my impaired speech already gave away that I had been a bad filly. Using a wooden tongue depressor she carried out the obligatory peek into my pharynx. One would never believe how sore a throat can become from panting. Mine felt as if I had been skull-fucked by a Shetland pony.
“Take your shirt off.”
Before I put it on the table, I folded my shirt as I had learnt it. No point in taking risks. The doctor’s rubber-clad touch on my lashed body was deeply unsettling, and so was the nonchalance she was executing the examination with. If I were to turn up in any doctor’s office of the so-called civilised world with whip marks all over me, the police would be informed within minutes. Quite frankly, I didn’t expect such course of action here. And so, with no further comment, I was bidden to lose my trousers and briefs as well. My roughed-up lady parts received their due attention. Though I was positive for my labia to be all but sawn off, the doctor showed utmost confidence in my self-healing powers.
“You’ll survive. Prop yourself on the table.”
The paper cover rustled under my palms, and I fought the urge to claw into it as she had a look (and feel) at the especially angry welts disfiguring my bum and thighs.
“Worn your tail already?”
I was close to hiding under the examination table.
What followed was the well-known sensation of having my anus probed. The digital inspection was performed in a clinical, almost deliberately cold way. It lacked therefore the blatant sadism I had encountered with Miss Cuntling and Creepy Chap. As a rule of thumb, the lady doc’s rectal activities left me less violated, yet more objectified.
“A bit chaffed, but no anal fissures,” she diagnosed whilst disposing of the latex gloves. “There are noticeable skin abrasions on the labia minor and the insides of the labia major, presumably from an ill-fitting harness belt.”
Who would have thought?
“I give you an ointment you can also put on the welts and that burn mark as well.”
She nodded towards my shoulder where Kandrin had shocked me with her spark stick. The husky sound I emitted as a respond was met with a short yet edifying lecture.
“There’s no need to feel sorry for yourself. This isn’t a petting zoo. Like in any other penal institution you are subdued when causing trouble. Simple as that. As for your mouth: It’s quite common for new participants to have problems accepting oral control. I understand that being corrected by means of a bit isn’t pleasant; it’s not meant to be. But a bit – despite its unquestionable potential to cause injuries – isn’t an instrument for random punishments. Start thinking of it as a communication aid and react to it instead of counteracting.”
Wow. That had been one hell of a medical advice! And all so in line with a doctor’s work ethic!
She handed me the tube of ointment together with a small plastic bottle.
“For the lacerations caused by the bit. Use it like a mouthwash twice a day. You may get dressed.”
Her instruction carried an air of finality, so I deduced the surgery hours to be reaching their end. As quickly as my smarting tongue allowed me I directed her attention to the pain in my feet and how the horrid ballet hooves had affected my muscles and tendons.
“Walk it off. You can return to your group. I inform your leader to expect you back within five minutes.”
That’s it?! No lollipop?
Sixteen, who had been waiting on the corridor, showed the unexpected decency to not ask any questions – at least until we left the infirmary and stepped into the warm day outside.
“What did she say?”
I shrugged my sore shoulders.
“So what comes next?”
Striven to avoid speaking, I just handed her the tube and bottle. She turned them this way and that, read the labels, then looked at me with bewilderment.
“But she’s going to report that they beat us, isn’t she?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle sardonically.
We met the rest of our group at the barracks. After calling Kandrin and confirming to her that I’d been ready for action the lady doc had transferred our afternoon assignment to me: cleaning up the so far unused barrack No. 4. Apparently it had been used as a storage, since the other girls were already busy carrying out ladders, spare windows and buckets of old paint.
“Seventeen, with us again, I see. Hope you’ve had a good cry,” Kandrin welcomed me as Sixteen and I reported back. She was pretty pissed about my trip to the doctor. But although it had been her actions that had sent me there in the first place, it wouldn’t keep her from giving me a sound lashing in the future.
“Now use whatever stuff that quack has prescribed, and then get to work! No more dawdling!”
No chance this came from Miss Cuntling, no matter how tough she tried to make it sound! Most likely Kendrick had an off the record talk with her on the subject of her driving style. Whilst I craved for some basic safeguards, his intervention was bound to backfire, though. She would find some other way to take it out on me.
But at least for now I was granted some relief. Lying on my belly in a random lower bunk of our own barrack, I allowed Sixteen to tend to all the countless bruises, welts and weals I couldn’t reach myself. Naturally, I was shirtless, and naturally I wasn’t too eager to be touched yet again. And by Sixteen, of all. Of course she had seen me naked under bridle, but that had been outdoors and with many other nude lasses around. As she applied the first drops of ointment, I flinched noticeably.
“I try to be careful,” she promised, misinterpreting my reaction.
And careful she was. Sixteen massaged my shoulders, then worked her way down my sides. Touched like this by another girl was an unknown sensation, and again I tensed up. This time she didn’t misinterpret my response.
“Relax, there’s nothing wrong with it.”
Her whisper brushed gently up against my ear. I was startled at how close to my skin her face, her lips were. Lying on my belly, I couldn’t do much to get away, and feeling her soft breath caressing me I wasn’t even so sure if I wanted to. I am straight as an arrow. Bi-curious-curious, tops – and only when drunk. And still, or because of it, I was mesmerised by the uncharted emotions waving through me right then! Bemazed by the display of unconditional tenderness. Her lips were touching the welted flesh of mine, kissing away the pain, and gone was my reluctance. The only fear left was that of being discovered; 1105 had been flogged bloody for touching herself – what would happen if, say, Kandrin walked in on us lezzing out during the day?
Sixteen seemed totally oblivious to this danger as her hands, now warm and slick with the soothing balm, wandered further down my body. One followed the delicate curves of my lower back as the other found its way to the front. Fingertips circled my navel, then passed the waistbands of my trousers and undies. In an almost sultry rush I raised my hips to assure her searching hand of safe conduct. With my face pressed into the blanket, gagging myself with the rough fabric, I willed my newfound lover to claim, to cover those last centimetres of distance, to torment me no more. And when she finally reached my burning womanhood, the sweet shock to my starved, simmering system sent me over the edge.
You wish! Take a cold shower, mate. Here’s what really happened:
I was lying in that bunk stiff as a board whilst Blondie rubbed the ointment into my back and shoulders. Then I threw her out to do the rest, privates included, myself. No romantic development. No lady reach around. No, thanks. The “straight as an arrow” part was genuine. And if I were to canoodle with a bird, it would so absolutely not be Sixteen! Who knew where her minge had been?
By now the other group members had moved on to sweeping and wiping the next-door barrack. So upon entering the now emptied out building I grabbed a broom and joint their noble cause. Better than doing another stint dressed up as a pervert’s pet.
At 17:45 sharp Miss Cuntling checked up on our afternoon’s work, bringing some small white-blue cardboard boxes with her.
“Wiped every corner?”
“Yes, ma’am!” 1301 hurried to confirm. Who made that little ginger our spokeswoman?
Kandrin ran a finger along the underside of a window sill and hold it up for all to see.
“Then this must be cloth-proof dirt, eh?” She blew the dust off her fingertip. “You’ve got ten minutes. And by the way: I have noticed pubic hair on some of you…”
I’m sure you’ve noticed that, dyke.
“To uphold personal hygiene, no hair besides mane and eye brows is tolerated.” (She actually said “mane”.) “Feel free to use these till tomorrow.”
Miss Cuntling let the boxes fall to the ground. She could have handed them over to the nearest inmate instead or just put them on the sill, but maybe that would have sent the wrong signal. So two of us picked them up off the floor. According to the labels, they contained pre-waxed stripes. I would come to use some of these since I, too, sported a lower hair style (which one exactly is none of your business). Normally I prefer shaving, but chances were slim to get hold on a razor inside this institution.
Ten minutes later, after we had re-wiped every critical spot, Kandrin mercifully let us off the hook. I was in dire need of a respite. The ointment provided alleviation to some degree, yet left room for improvement. In broad strokes that meant I had been in pain whilst chasing dust bunnies. I was in pain whilst eating my supper. And as night fell, I found myself forced to ask a girl who wasn’t Sixteen to give me a second rub. Of course I shared the coveted salve, for none of the others had been spared the lash. It just happened that I had not been spared a bit more.
Right after the evening inspection I heaved myself into my bunk, not waiting until lights out. I was sporting a rich colour palette of haematomata, a sore bum inside and outside plus a light sun burn. Insteps, calves, thighs, core muscles, back and shoulders – you name it, I complain about it. Therefore I was in no state to contribute to the discussion going on amongst some of the other girls. I only half-listened whilst letting the day sink in and pitying my sorry self; only eighty-nine days left – no, wait! Eighty-eight! Lucky me…
“When they said the programme was unconventional they weren’t kidding.”
Eleven, a book in hands yet clearly way to stirred up to read, tried to sound nonchalant, but her shaky voice gave her away. On the upper bunk opposite her 1310, the lanky rock chick with the cool tats, was letting one arm and leg dangle down.
“DA-fucking-CC – the last word in resocialisation…”
“Turning us into horses is certainly a far cry from the run-of-the-mill resocialisation workshops.”
“Deterrence, I reckon. Seems the warden and her bitch aren’t into tree-hugging classes. Oi, Wert! What’s that name again you gave ’er?”
“Miss Cuntling,” I murmured into my pillow.
“That’s the one. Very creative.”
“The whippings are deterrent all right, as they are barbaric.” That sounded like Fifteen, not that the petite girl had spoken more than two sentences so far. I risked a glance for confirmation. “But what possible reason could there be to shove horse tail plugs up our bottoms?”
Ten propped herself on one elbow.
“Any of you ever done time?”
Nobody answered in the affirmative, neither did I. As said, I wasn’t in the mood for joining the discussion.
“Fair enough. My latest stint was a real killer: four months in a young offenders’ institution called Jorvyl House Annexe. A tough last warning for repeaters with leg irons for transport and solitary confinement for even the slightest infraction.”
I’d heard about Jorvyl House. Since the Deepfall programme wasn’t open to offenders with a history of violence, I could not but wonder how hard Ten had fucked up in other disciplines to win a trip to the JHA.
“When I got out, I boasted and bragged about it in front of my clique.”
“And your point is?” Eleven enquired.
“Try bragging about having a tail up your arse.”