Alice Under Discipline, Part 1 Read online

  Title Page

  Alice Under Discipline - Part 1

  The Governess, the Heiress and the Gym Teacher

  A cane-in-hand tale of domestic discipline, domination, dependency, psychological manipulation and unashamed exploitation from the INSTITUTIONALISED stable

  Hand crafted By

  Garth P ToynTanen

  Publisher Information

  Alice Under Discipline - Part 1 Published in 2012 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Copyright © Garth ToynTanen 2012

  The right of Garth ToynTanen to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  CHAPTER 1

  A BATTLE OF WILLS

  To say that Karen Lamberton-Marchment did not appreciate certain aspects of her stepdaughter’s, shall we say - contrary - nature would have been an understatement. But on the other hand young Alice Lamberton’s latest rebellious dalliance ironically seemed set to provide the key to change all that. Narcotics!

  Not that it was that unusual to read in the tabloid press of students flocking to the latest less-than-legal pharmaceutical recreation, even upper school students, such as Alice and certain of her cohorts. And of course it was not to the likes of ‘crack’ cocaine, ‘crystal meth’ and those other pollutants of disenfranchised inner-city youth that girls of Alice’s class and social position were likely to gravitate. Nor was it strictly speaking recreational - at least not initially; it never was that simple, was it? No, as far as girls of Alice Lamberton’s standing were concerned ironically it was all about ambition, never despair - at least not despair born of poverty, financial poverty that is. It was peer competition as much as peer pressure that drove these girls. If there was a sense of pressure, then it was academic pressure; the pressure to perform, to move on to the most prestigious universities.

  Ritalin-fuelled, they’d stay up all night cramming and revising. Then through the day too, once the candle became too depleted at either ends to maintain attention in class. Other ‘smart drugs’ soon followed, then even more addictive prescription agents of the benzodiazepine family - it had been typical of the pattern of upper-middle class substance abuse once confined to the high flyer’s office and certain university campuses but having now begun to trickle down to corrupt that all-important final year at school. But it was still drug addiction, pure and simple: so stupid... and yet so fortuitous - at least insofar as Karen Lamberton-Marchment was concerned.

  At one level it had been easy enough to deal with. The physical side of her stepdaughter’s withdrawal could be handled by her doctor. A long term friend, this singularly enlightened physician had devised what turned out to be the perfect substitute, and one which she had been more than happy to prescribe.

  The unfortunate fact that this substitute was nearly equally addictive - perhaps more so in certain respects - was not without its advantages.

  Her stepdaughter’s insolent devil-may-care audacity, impertinence and the discourtesy the girl habitually showed her she put down as much to the laissez-faire attitude of the school the girl had until recently attended towards matters of discipline as to the pampering of the girl’s over-doting late father. Well, the doting father was gone, the school was out of the picture and she herself - in her guise as Alice’s legal guardian - was no longer powerless, despite the girl’s years and the fact she was not now far from the ‘age of majority’. Much of that ‘self-reliance’ and ‘independent spirit’ the girl’s school had always crowed on about in their literature citing the benefits of their ‘progressive approach to education’ had now largely evaporated in the face of her stepdaughter’s new-found reliance on her physician’s script. Indeed, Alice’s growing dependence on the good doctor had placed her now well and truly under the woman’s control, and by proxy her own. But it was time now to more fully tame the girl, to get her stepdaughter properly ‘domesticated’ as her doctor friend liked to put it. In short; it was high time some ‘structure’ was introduced into the carefree life of Alice Lamberton.

  Outside of the involvement of her tame physician - Dr Anne Ecclestone - the action she considered to have been most pivotal in the development of her plans for her errant stepdaughter was the moment she anonymously tipped off the local police. The latter intervention had resulted in getting the girl’s dealer acquaintance safely put away for quite some considerable time, but not before she had carried out several ‘deals’ of her own through a trusted intermediary.

  Spread over several weeks she had accumulated quite a respectable stock of illicit pharmaceuticals through that route, certainly sufficient to implicate the girl’s fiancé as somewhat higher up the food-chain than a mere ‘user’, higher up than the dealer himself in fact. Planted about the young lad’s car - something that had proved surprisingly easy to achieve while both had been ‘distracted’ in the girl’s room - no longer neatly bagged up in ‘street deals’ but combined in a couple of large packages, the implication in the eyes of the investigating officers was obvious enough.

  As if this had not been enough to have ‘taken care’ of young Alice’s boyfriend in itself, patiently, over many months, she had been withdrawing various unconnected amounts from several different bank accounts in dribs and drabs - a precaution intended to avoid any risk of a pattern forming. She had amalgamated these sums into a substantial stash of cash that she had craftily contrived to have secreted away in the guy’s flat, using her very own stepdaughter as the tool to place the package, the latter having been wrapped by an intermediary as a further precaution against the discovery of her involvement. A single empty, used ‘wrap’ carelessly left interleaved between the wrappings was enough to supply the dealer’s DNA, connecting him to the cash. The implication, of course, was that Alice’s boyfriend was in actuality the supplier to the pair’s dealer rather than that nefarious chap’s ‘customer’ as was the truth of the matter.

  Bringing it all together had then involved simply choosing a time and date to tip-off the police when she was confident that her stepdaughter’s fiancé would be meeting the dealer to pick up a ‘fix’ for her young charge, the final piece in a jigsaw that had been, in fact, somewhat more complex in implementation than in description. She had been somewhat shocked, though, when through her machinations the girl’s fiancé had been awarded twelve years for supply and possession. In truth she had only really intended to get the lad out of her stepdaughter’s life by discrediting him, placing the blame on him for her stepdaughter’s troubles. The judge, though, had had different ideas; he had wanted to ‘send a message’, make an ‘example’ to ‘others out there’... But TWELVE years!

  Alice Lamberton herself had only just avoided prison; that had been the point when Karen Lamberton-Marchment had really begun to appreciate that she had gone too far. She had not cared too much about the fate of the girl’s beau - not once she had gotten over the initial shock - but she hadn’t wanted to relinquish her control over Alice, despite the notion of seeing the girl languishing behind bars not being without a certain frisson.

  All along, though, the ever-resourceful, ever-imaginative, Ms Lamberton-Marchment had been entertaining a notion of an even stronger frisson. It was not so much the general idea of young Alic
e being thrown in prison per se she had objected to, rather that it was she, herself - Karen Lamberton-Marchment - who she had always seen in her mind’s eye as the girl’s gaoler and the ‘prison’ a private one of her own singular conception. And yet in a way this ‘near miss’ had served to strengthen her hold over her stepdaughter. Several years’ worth of suspended sentence - suspended in so long as she received medical treatment and remained under the supervision of her stepmother - provided no little leverage.

  And she needed that leverage if she was to keep her paws on the family purse-strings. She managed the girl’s trust fund and dolled out the girl’s allowance, but the remainder of Alice’s father’s estate - by far the major part - was all tangled up in restrictive covenants aimed at protecting his over-pampered daughter’s interests. That was not to say she hadn’t been able to surreptitiously purloin a fair fraction through some rather dubious legal shenanigans of her own - the girl’s late father had not been the only one with the financial nous, foresight and wherewithal to employ clever legal representation. But that had probably made matters worse, long term - or at least it would have, if not for this new set of circumstances.

  The ‘foresight’ part of the equation had on occasion passed her by - and some of her ‘dubious legal shenanigans’ had been dubious indeed. She had tended to live for the day and had, if she were to be honest, squandered a fair portion of the estate earmarked for her late husband’s blessed daughter. In so doing, while not exactly blind to the possible legal repercussions - once her stepdaughter came of age and took control of her own affairs - she had certainly been guilty of living in a state of denial. But none of that would matter one iota now - not if she played her cards right!

  As for the pair’s dealer acquaintance: Being well known to the courts and with several previous convictions under his belt, he had stood to receive a good few years behind bars himself. He had been only too willing to agree with the investigating officers’ view implicating Alice’s boyfriend as his supplier, testifying against the unfortunate youth in return for a more lenient sentence. He certainly would not have risked bearing witness against the members of his true supply chain; East Londoners, from eastern European stock having strong links to Albanian organised crime; he would not have lived long if he had.

  But that had all been some time ago. Today was another day. Smiling to herself, those thoughts ever-fresh in her mind, Karen Lamberton-Marchment turned sidelong to the cheval mirror, her large almond shaped eyes narrowing. As so often, today she was in full equestrian attire: a greenish-tan fitted wool jacket monogrammed with her initials having a silk collar, a white shirt and black leather riding gloves, her tight white riding breeches showing off her curvaceous, shapely bottom to its seductive best. Having just ‘done the rounds’, as she referred to her habit of personally giving the stables the ‘once over’ - her traditional morning ride always completed before breakfast - the latter were tucked into the tops of a pair of rubber Wellingtons.

  The tall, green hardwearing classic Wellingtons she usually reserved for whenever she seemed likely to be spending the morning organising and supervising the stable hands rather than out riding - as she much preferred - had been eschewed this particular day in favour of a pair of super-glossy Wellington-style fashion boots that wouldn’t have looked amiss on a catwalk. These were of a sophisticatedly fruity split colour design, having a broad band of rich, deep fruits-of-the-forest purple, proudly embossed with the maker’s emblem, occupying the upper quarter of the leg before changing abruptly to a dense black there after.

  The shiny, glossed finish of the vulcanised rubber looked as if it could only have been achieved through the boots having been polished to within an inch of their lives. Yet that wondrous mirror finish was now streaked in shades of putrid yellowish brown, the moulded rubber perfection marred by the sort of detritus and muck typical of the stable yard. It would take even more sweat and even greater amounts of elbow grease to rehabilitate those streamlined, classically equestrian, sleek uppers with their sensually moulded slim ankles to the showcase condition Karen Lamberton-Marchment demanded. Glancing down, other than momentarily light-heartedly clucking her tongue, she barely batted an eyelid as she surveyed the ruination. She hadn’t been exactly careful where she’d trod. But then again; it wouldn’t be she who would have to expend the considerable energy it would undoubtedly take to rehabilitate them.

  It had hardly been a practical choice perhaps, wearing her latest fashion boots in such an environment, brand new and out of the box, but there was a practical aspect to it too. There was a method in her madness that ran deeper than any consideration of the way their sensuous silhouette flattered her coltish legs and calves and the intimidating effect that, together with the somewhat regal bearing that came - she liked to think - naturally to her, seemed to have on the stable hands. Sometimes, like the Devil, Karen Lamberton-Marchment liked to make work for idle hands; and there were certain hands hereabouts that had been idle for far too long. And she had one pair of hands in particular in mind - and they didn’t belong to either of the two, horsey, plump-bottomed young stable girls that she presently employed. Not that either of those two were ever left with idle hands.

  She sometimes felt she ought to thank the lord - if not the nation’s bankers - for having provided the sort of dire economic climate that could deliver two school-leavers into her lap under such blatantly exploitative conditions. Under less desperate financial conditions the dress stipulations she demanded alone would have had them up and leave. It wasn’t that she considered herself some sort of an old-fashioned harpy; it was just that she didn’t like to see young girls going around looking like young lads. She liked to be surrounded by femininity, though never in so attractive a form as to put her in any danger of comparison. It seemed quite reasonable; after all perfectly adequate feminine working attire had existed in the not so distant past.

  So, she didn’t allow boiler suits, she didn’t allow dungarees and she positively hated denim jeans. But she did like the idea of uniforms and the way a uniform identified the wearer’s station in life and over time her stipulations had tended to progress in that direction until what had evolved she now considered a ‘stable girl’s uniform’. The green check button-through overall she provided had to be worn over pantyhose not over jeans, with a bra, knickers and vest beneath - never a tee shirt or any other personal item - and with the addition of a thick plain full-length nylon slip in winter.

  These overalls had started out as a conventional coat-style design but influenced by an old acquaintance of hers, whom she had recently got back in contact with after many years, she had opted to supply something embodying a little more style which, while just as functionally utilitarian, possessed a defined self-belted waistline and a pronounced flare to the skirt that made it appear a little more dress-like. In fact the most recent changes she had implemented had seen the stable girls’ overalls being somewhat substantially shortened. While ostensibly purely for practical reasons, the aim being to cut down on the amount of laundry caused by muck splashing up and splattering the skirt, the effect was not without its coquettish eye-pleasing aspects and had inspired her to have the Marchment family crest added to the breast pocket.

  Styled on a day dress circa 1950s, the present incarnation was based on a one-piece princess-line dress with a shirt-like, collared bodice and long buttoned-cuff sleeves. A fitted, vertically panelled style, it buttoned from neck to hem, having a tailored waist that was further neatened by an integral, attached belt of the same fabric, itself closing at the front by way of two side-by-side buttons.

  The provision of matching headscarves, checked nylon like the overalls, to keep clean the girls’ hair had gone even further towards making the two stable girls’ working attire a form of uniform, in all but name. Dark green and short-legged sturdy yet feminine rubber boots, completed the picture and made each look as dainty as any stable girl could. The short-legged boots contrasted beautifu
lly with long, shapely if plump and invariably muck-splattered pantyhose-covered legs and the short flared skirt of a thigh-length green check nylon frock-style overall.

  Even as these thoughts had been filtering through her mind, so Karen Lamberton-Marchment had been flitting, hither and dither, trying on this and that; for what was about to happen next, the plan she was about to swing into play, image would be everything. Admiringly glancing side-on at her reflection in the cheval mirror as she changed, and having discarded both riding britches and boots, she watched herself wiggle into the tight flesh-coloured rubberised girdle, before drawing her opera-length nylon stockings up legs that seemed never-ending.

  She caught herself frowning with concentration and no little consternation as she fiddled impatiently, her long fingers endeavouring to fasten the metal suspender clips over their little rubber buttons without catching and laddering the sheer nylon stocking welts with her long, professionally manicured coral-pink nails. The wire suspender clips were stiff, the pink rubber buttons reluctant with newness and the suspenders so short and taut that the dark stocking tops all but merged with her thick black pubic triangle.

  At long last she straightened up, pulling the white satin French knickers up her legs, before stepping into and pulling up onto her shoulders a full length satin slip, reaching back with some difficulty despite the litheness born of countless hours of yoga and zipping it up the rear. Having slipped on and buttoned a fine white silk-satin blouse she stepped into her favourite skirt before again checking herself in the full-length mirror. Her long black hair had already been tied back tightly in a black-velvet-banded ponytail, and it swung enticingly to and fro as she twisted her neck this way and that. Within a few minutes she had totally divested herself of her equestrian styling in favour of a very different look.

  The mirror now shone brightly, a hallo of light encircling what amounted to an entirely different, entirely revamped personality. The woman that smiled thin-lipped in return was every bit as authoritative as the switch-wielding horse woman who had entered, yet now portraying an image tempered with a certain domesticity while hinting at the institutional. It was a look that had settled quite naturally mid way between the stern aunt and the straight-laced governess. It was a cold, intimidating look, and she liked it, no she loved it. It filled her with power; the sight of her own reflection smiling confidently back at herself, hands on hips, made her heart pound. Finally satisfied that all was in order and that she headed out of the dressing room and off down towards the parlour... It was time...