St. Agatha's Academy for Girls

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. All characters who play are 18+. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

St. Agatha’s Academy for Girls

The heavy oak door ever so slowly creaked open, its hinges protesting like tree limbs being methodically torn from a trunk. Each staccato crack or muffled rip echoed through the dimly lit corridor of St. Agatha’s Academy for Girls.

The sound flowed unhindered through the ancient stone walls, indifferent to the fleeting noise. These walls, steering in centuries of tradition, cared nothing for the creak of the floorboards or the groan of the old timbers. The stones were as eternal as Saint Aggie’s itself.

The air was thick with the scented air washed over her, cleaning her in aged wood, old books, and the fear, lingering aroma of incense from the neary chapel. Stepping inside, the girl immediately removed her shoes, placing them beside the door like two soldiers at attention.

Padding softly, her stocking feet shuffling back and forth, barely audible on the richly patterned but hurt rug. The butterflies within her tummy, doing acrobatics and seeming to dive, loop down to that forbidden place below.

She sagged back against the door, causing it to close tight. She closed the door and did this out of habit; this wasn’t her first time in this room, nor was it her tenth; she had lost count after twenty, and she knew what was expected of her.

The door clicked shut, and as always, she felt a thrill course through her—a secret, electric shiver she refused to fully acknowledge, down to that nub that was always her undoing. It started the same, first in the raised hairs on the back of her neck, running down her spine to her hips where the wretched shiver split into three, the greater part racing down her bottom cleft, around her anus, then up between her legs, and up to meet its friends. The other sensing split at her hips, half going right, the other left, circulation around her pelvis. The worst and best was that all three would converge in that nasty, filthy, fantastic place between her legs. The sensing was exhaust in its torque and irresistible throbbing that tugged her towards the darkness she both feared and desperately craved.

After one of her parents’s more vicious bouts, the girl could remember her mother’s punishment of her daughter for her daughter’s sin of being alive. You see, Mother had been pure. Mother was going to become a nun in the service of God, even though she was Presbyterian; such details were a mystery to Mother, as was birth control. Mother had succeed to a man once, and that is all it took, the once.

“You’re vile,” Mother had spat at the girl between flat-handed swats on her naked bottom. “A filthy, disgusting thing, just like your grandmother. Always ruled by that cesspit between your legs—something all men crave and every decent woman despises.”

That was years ago. Now, the girl stood, bracing herself for the punishment to come. It had only been a few months since her eighteenth birthday, yet it felt like she had been at St. Agatha’s for years. Mother had thought it best—St. Agatha’s reputation was for strict discipline and doing wonders with wayward girls.

That morning was etched into her mind. It had been just after her eighteenth birthday when things went too far. She wasn’t a child, but Mother refused to see it that way. The night she snuck out to be with her friends, desperate for freedom, had been her final act of rebellion.

Mother was waiting when she returned, fury in her eyes. The switching had been relentless, each lash meant to break her spirit. “If you insist on being like a child, then I will make sure you are treated like one,” her mother had said, her voice dripping with disdain.

The next day, without muchDiscussion, her bags were packed. A car was waiting to take her away. It didn’t matter that she was an adult. Mother had decided she needed discipline, and St. Agatha’s would provide it. Her ticket, passport, and everything else had been prepared. The House Mistress met her at the airport and, in cold silence, drove her to the school where she was enrolled—treated like a tenth-year as if her age didn’t matter.

The girl violently shook her head to regain her focus and gawked about the imposing room.

Lined with dark, intricately carved wood panelling that seemed to absorb what little light filtered through the tall, narrow windows. The windows, adorned with diamond-shaped panes of glass, allowed only sliders of the grey British daylight to penetrate, casting angular shadows across the room.

Her pulse quickened as she moved towards the desk; she had been so naughty, she knew she had to be severely punished, and to do that, she must be adequately exposed and readyto not waste Matron’s time. She was a thoughtful, if relevant, sinner.

The thought of the Matron finding her like this—skirt removed and bent over the desk—made her heart pound like a drum. Worse yet, it made her nasty, needy, lonely pit of sin, pulse and drool like a slavering bitch, craving the attention she both feared and desperately wanted.

She told herself it was readiness she masked as mere efficiency, but deep down, she knew it was something more. It was the anticipation, the surrender—the silent admission of her need. It punished her, filled her with shame even as it stoked the flames of her desire. In that punishment, that shame, she found a twisted sense of forgiveness, but more than that, it made her feel alive.

Remembering her first visit here, months and months before, it was a Monday when she had have caught rubbing herself on the door frame. It was humiliating, but she was desperate to stop the itch that was driving her mad. Mother had told her she was not allowed to touch that place, and when it became aroused, she had to find some other means to address it; however, that needed to be done. Good girls always did what their mothers said; she always tried to be a good girl.

During that punishment, her skirt had become a hindrance, and the poor Matron wasted her valuable time working around the offending garment to properly administrator correction. Feeling worse at having inconvenienced the Matron, the girl realized what she had to do and resolved that she would do it next time before her punishment began. There would be a next time, and she was sure there always seemed to be a next time.

With shaking fingers, she unzipped her skirt. It was snug; it was the largest size the school provided, and she still had to work to remove it. Her ‘full’ hips, as the seamstress called them, made the task more difficult.

Her uniform fitting had been mortifying. Every tug of fabric felt like a public indictment of her body.Her round bottom, always a source of embarrassment, seemed to betray her constantly. Although countless squats and leg lifts she was forced to do during physical education, it grew more prominent and firmer. And her narrow waist—another inheritance from her grandmother—made things worse. Nothing seemed to fit.

The seamstress struggled with the fabric. The skirts could barely stretch over her hips, yet hung loose and gaping around her waist. “No skirt in this place will ever snug around that wait,” the seamstress muttered under her breath, her frustration evidence. The girl’s face burned as the woman measured and re-measured, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

The girl felt horribly humiliated as she stood on the little platform the seamstress used; the girl was completely nude, as whoever had packed the suitcase had completely neglected bras or even panties. Matron had said none would be ordered as the seamstress would make her what she required. Unfortunately, the busy woman never seemed to have time for anything but making a few knickers. However, it appeared that proper bras were just out of the question; the most she ever got was a couple of sheer things hardly worth wearing as they showed as much as concealed.

“Have you been corseted?” the seamstress asked abruptly, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

She flushed and stammered, “I don’t know what that is.” The seamstress’s clipped, impatient explanation only deepened her embarrassment. The thought of being tightly bound like that, of shaping her body, made her cheeses burn even hotter.

The seamstress shook her head, muttering something about wasted gifts, as if the girl’s figure was a canvas she could appreciate, but the girl clearly could not.

After much grumbling, she took in the waist by three inches, Though the Matron had insisted on four to ensure the skirt stayed snugly in place. The tightness made it feel more like a prison than a uniform. Each adjustment reminded her of how out of place she was; her body never fit the mold that the school—or her mother—demanded.

When the girl returned for her fitting, she was horrified to find that the once knee-length skirt had been drastically shortened. The hem rested several inches above where it should have been, exposing far too much of her legs.

“Miss, I thought the skirts were supposed to reach our knees?” she asked, her voice trembling, cheats flushing a brilliant pink. The heat from her embarrassment seemed to radiate down to her nether lips, which she was sure were just as pink and burning with shame. She could not restrain herself from shifting back and forth from one foot to the other, rubbing her thighs together, trying to extinguish the blaze between them.

The seamstress, unfazed, gave a smile. “Matron insisted,” she said with a sly glance. “Seems you’re a naughty girl, and she thinks you’ll be spending a lot of time bent over her desk.”

The words sent a chill down the girl’s spine, a mixture of thrill and terror flooding her senses. The seamstress’s wrinkled hands glided down her hips with practiced ease as if she had fitted hundreds of girls before her. “Besides,” the old woman continued, her tone teasing, “such lovely thighs as these should be seen. It’ll give the other girls something to aspire to.”

Her legs felt vulnerable under the seamstress’s scrutiny. She wanted to protest, but no words came. Instead, she stood, cheats incandescent, humiliated and yet silently craving the approval she never found. The uniform wasn’t just a symbol of discipline—it was a cage that held her in, shaping her physically and emotionally, as she was made to fit into someone else’s idea of ​​who she should be.

She focused on the present, folding the skirt neighborly and placing it on the straight-backed chair.

Thus removing any obstacle. It means nothing. After all, the girl told herself that she was still basically covered—her cotton panties—no, knickers, she corrected herself angrily. Why couldn’t she get that right? It was knickers here, not panties, and she hated how the mistake always drew those snickers from her classmates. Knickers is what everyone called them here; she kept forgetting, and that drew more twitters of laughter from her classmates. The first time she made that mistake, all her knickers disappeared and were not returned until her cycle. Still, it is difficult to change a habit of a lifetime, and she still often misspoke, leading to yet another absence of the alienated articles.

Yes, her bottom was covered, but it was still much draftier. If anyone was outside when the Matron opened the door?

“Oh goodness,” the girl gasped, her face glowing bright red. It is happening again!

She felt the distinct cooling of that accursed passage, dribbling out its corruption. Her knickers were soaked through, the gusset was drenched and dripping.

It hurt so much when she was struck there, andThey were wet. The pads Matron had suggested only made that problem worse. The wetter her panties got, the more the pad itched; it was as if it was made to irritate her, and the more it irritated, the more goo there was. Now, the pad felt like her most private spot was on fire; she could not touch, rub, or soothe it, so she did the only thing she could think of—she took them off.

“I am here for punishment already,” She whimpered to herself. “What more damage could a few more swats cause.” Even as she said it, she could feel that familiar shiver and her depths contracted, causing yet another gush of the accursed fluids.

She had not thought to bring clean ones, not that she had many, but they tended to disappear in the laundry. She cursed herself for her lack of foresight. She placed sopping knickers neatly next to her skirt. Unfortunately, being so exposed did nothing to alleviate the attention demands of her folds.

She knew she had to get into position and distract heself.

Focusing on moving things gently from place to place on the desk, carefully taking note of where they started and where she placed them so she could undo all she had done, as the Matron had instructed her on her third … no, fourth visit.

Once the space was cleared, she bent at the waist, keeping her legs straight as instructed and spreading them to accommodate the fact that her legs were too long, hence the widespread. When she first came, she was stiff, but Matron, in her kindness, had worked with her, helping her spread them wider and wider, asking the gym instructor to assist. Now, she could ‘do the splits’ better than any of the girls and was often asked to demonstrate, which made her proud.

This was necessary once Matron had explained that the oils from the skin on her knees would stain the wood of the antique desk, and the Girl was mortified, becoming for an alternative, and Matron had been offered this one. That, if she kept them straight and wide, theOnly contact would be on the blotter, and if she pressed her breasts down firmly, she would be stable and prepared for correction since this position offered her bottom to the Matron for punishment, more readily.

The girl felt a flicker of pride. It hadn’t taken her long to understand what Matron wanted from her. As Matron had said, she wasn’t as simple as the other girls had teased—she just had her own strengths. Her own gifts. Matron had promised to help her discover what those were, to teach her where she belonged in the world. And for that, the girl felt a deep sense of gratitude. She was so fortunate to have Matron’s guidance, even if, at times like today, that guidance was painful.

Her arms played wide above her head, gripping the far edge of the wide desk; she was finally prepared. She turned her head to face the tallest shelf of books, which towered over her, trying to distract herself from the awful sensings course through her loins.

Bookshelves dominated the space, stretching from floor to ceiling, each shelf packed with leather-bound volumes that bore the wear of countless years. Books were a decoration in the mother’s home, but not in this woman’s office. Each book was lovingly cared for, with every volume, no matter how obscure, having been read at least once—most more than once, and some several times.

The titles, many in Greek, Latin or Old English, Spoke of history, theology, and philosophy—weighty subjects that matched the room’s sombre tone and the Matron’s extraordinary intelligence. The books were more than just a collection; they were a testament to the school’s long-standing discipline and moral instruction tradition. The spines were cracked, some volumes leaning precariously as if burdened by the knowledge and secrets they contained.

As her eyes scanned the spines, a knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. Greek and Latin—she was failing them again. The thought weighed heavily on her, knowing that another brace of failures would be a very long visit to the Matron’s office. She tried so hard, so very hard, but no matter how much effort she put in, her thoughts always wandered, slipping away from conjugations and declarations to drift into daydreams and distractions.

The books, filled with the languages ​​she struggled with, seemed to mock her. They were silent judges, towering over her as a reminder of the expectations she Couldn’t seem to meet. She could almost feel their disdain, a collective sight of disappointment from the past schools who had easily mastered these texts. And here she was, struggle again, knowing that her best efforts had not been enough.

The Matron’s office was a place of authority, discipline, and ritual. The girl tried to remember her mother had sent her to this old, imposing boarding school in the English countryside to try and save her from her natural decade. St. Agatha’s was a place steering in tradition, where the rules were strict, and the consequenceces of breaking them even more stringent. This was a school for more than education; it had a tradition of taming the wayward girl. But for this girl, the consequences had taken on a different meaning.

But here, in the stillness of the Matron’s office, all of it—the bitterness, the accusations—seemed to dissipate into the thick, familiar air. The tension in her chest gave way to a different pulse that thrummed beneath her skin. This room had become her reject, its silence heavy with promises of control, of submission. Her heartbeat quickly as the familiar anticipation bloomed inside her, the craving for discipline and order rising to replace the chaos of home. In this space, she wasn’t lost; she was found.

The rituals of discipline, once a source of fear, had transformed into a strange, twisted form of comfort, a way to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside her. The instant she saw the Matron, the girl knew she would understand. It was not instantaNeous, for the student did not understand herself well enough to acknowledge her needs, but she knew the Matron, this Matron, would know how to reach her and help her to the other side.

The door creaked open, and the Matron stepped inside, her presence immediately commanding the room. The girl listened for the tell-tale sound of the powerful woman’s footsteps across the rub.

‘She must be looking at me,‘ the girl gasped ever so slightly; it would have been silent in any other place, but here in this room, it sounded ever so much like she imagined a whores moan of pleasure would be.

The Matron moved silently; there was no other sound but breathing; the girl was sure the woman she was waiting for had stopped. Still, the soft rustle of her clothes ticked the girl’s ears; she desperately wanted to Know what was happening but could not bring herself to look. The draft of cool air told the girl that the door was still open. She must be visible from the corridor; her bottom certainly, her cheeks burned, but that did not stop her from tilting her hips a little more so she could present her bottom for inspection.

Outside the door, the faint sound of twittering laughter drifted in, barely audible. The Matron’s voice was as sharp as any saber cutting the silence.

“Silence, girls, or you will both take her place,” she hissed in a low, controlled voice. “And not a word to anyone, or you will wish you had been her in the first place. Do you understand?”

The muffled responses were muted gasps of obedience, and the girl could not hear well enough to know the voices. She would wonder at each look and face, whether any particular girl might have been the observer; the uncertainty, the not knowing, would be maddening! Not that it mattered much; she knew that hushed whispers would spread the embellished truth long before she left Matron’s office, causing yet another soft moan.

The familiar sound of the door closing,Followed by the some what labored breathing of the Matron, told the girl that they were now sealed in together; her punishment was about to begin. Her hips were moving of their own free will; the chilly feeling that had painted her opening was now slowly making its way down her tights on either side.