Beth the compulsive masturbator

They’ve tried everything they can to stop Beth, at this fancy New England
prep school. Why? Because her persistent masturbation is past being a joke.
It’s getting beyond control, and turning into a disciplinary issue. The
administrators are convinced that she’s setting off a wave of self-a***e
among the other girls, and is a leading cause of other little signs of
rebellion they’ve been seeing lately. Smoking, hard cider drinking, shower
room seductive displays and leering, staying out late beyond curfew,
chasing the town boys, you name it, there’s more of it going on this year
than last. Of course, it’s also 1979, the end of the Carter administration,
a year of bitter angst and pointlessness. But the school management don’t
think in terms of the big picture.
Policy dictates that girls must be cured of this ‘dirty habit’, or
expelled.
Beth is certainly the worst. She’s only 16, but already she can’t
stop. It’s all part of her personality. She’s a little gangly, taller than
most. Not much better than averagely pretty. Mousy shoulder-length brown
hair in a sort of do-it-yourself cut, greenish eyes. Here, at this school
filled with the daughters of the rich, she’s nothing special. Which is a
big part of the problem. At home she’s used to being the center of
attention. The spoiled youngest daughter, highly competitive. Her sisters
are all making careers or households, and here she is, doing geometry and
botany. That annoys her, somehow, and makes her more pouty and unlikable
than ever. Her new stepmother isn’t doing much to help make her feel
wanted, either.
No, it’s not indelicate to wonder how everybody seems to know about
her bedtime habits. They’ve discovered it through laundry room worker
reports, through panty inspections and dorm monitors’ reports. Yes, when
the lights are turned down at night, things happen. But they don’t happen
completely unobserved. Several times a night, monitors — senior girls,
sometimes one of the trainee teachers — slip through the dorm room in
stockinged feet, watching.
Beth is often observed at play. It’s not something lightly
complained about, since they’re sensible enough to know that all girls will
masturbate, at some time, to some extent. In fact, at this age, it’s the
main pastime apart from dreaming about boys, trying makeup, listening to
records, reading magazines. It’s as close as they can get to sex without
getting into some lezzie relationship (and most are not quite prepared for
that, yet). However, some discretion is expected.
Beth isn’t discrete, and she knows it. Though the idea of sex (with
a boy or girls) has drifted through her mind once or twice, she prefers the
manual approach. Beth is clearly the #1 wanker in her year, by a long way.
And the other girls in her class and dorm know it, and joke about it
constantly. It doesn’t help her that they don’t like her very much, think
her remote, and kind of strange.

“So, what can be done?” asked class teacher Angela Strabolgi,
impatiently. “This girl is really out of control, if you want my opinion .
. .”
“No argument about that, Angela,” replied Heather Wheatstone, the
headmistress. “Various remedies can be tried: whether any will work . . .?”
she shrugs. “But you’re right, we must try. This little brat is a serious
cause of indiscipline. Strong measures are called for.”

Beth’s first formal encounter came soon after. She was summoned to
Miss Wheatstone’s office. There, class teacher Miss Strabolgi was also
present. Both women wore stiff disapproving expressions. The headmistress
is a large plain woman, in her forties. Rigidly conventional. Miss
Strabolgi is in her early thirties, slim, hyperactive, bespectacled, drab.
“Beth, sit down. Now, this is a formal warning, which will go into
your confidential school records. At this point, we will not communicate
its nature to your parents. But,” she waved a finger, “we will, if we don’t
see some serious improvement in your attitude here,” Miss Strabolgi began.
“Quite,” Miss Wheatstone echoed, taking over. “Beth, let me be
quite direct about this. We have received a number of complaints that you
are ‘touching yourself’ too much at night.”
Until now, Beth had sat patiently, but somewhat perplexed. She’d
been expecting a stiff lecture about the packet of Merits found in her
locker, or maybe about being back a half-hour late from the “Star Wars”
trip. Now, she blushed hotly, wondering what they were getting at.
“Ma’am . . .? I . . .” she began.
“Quiet. I don’t want to hear a pack of lies from you, so just
listen for a minute, please. Let me put it another way, Beth. You are a
very self-centered, selfish girl, and we have been hearing stories about
misbehavior. Quiet! Let me finish! There have been some comments made by
the laundry staff about poor personal hygiene, and the gym and field sports
staff have noticed that you linger and ‘look around’ in the showers a
little longer than decency or modesty would suggest appropriate. Do I make
myself clear?” Miss Wheatstone, like anyone whose point is being muddled
and missed, was getting quite angry.
“Ma’am? I, well, excuse me, but I don’t think it’s really anyone
else’s business if . . .” Beth began.
“WHAT!” Miss Strabolgi shrieked. “What affrontery! Listen, Miss
know-it-all Smarty Pants, we make the rules here! Everything’s our
business!! Understand!! And if we say no . . .”
“Yes, Angela, yes, but please . . .” Miss Wheatstone smoothly
interrupted. “…let’s be rational, all of us. Beth, this will be your
first and only verbal warning. It is unnatural and unladylike for young
women to spend very much time contemplating their own bodies — or those of
others! — except in pursuit of ladylike arts like learning make-up, or
taking care of personal matters. I, ahem, I really don’t think I need to
say more, do I? And, concerning the other matter, the nighttime habit . . .
Please don’t let me hear of any more complaints about you masturbating . .
. fingering yourself, playing with your pussy. Now, is that clear enough?”
“Yes, ma’am . . .” Beth said quietly, not wanting to turn this into
a major confrontation. They escorted her to the door and watched her walk
away, chastened.
Or was she? The old bitches, she thought to herself. I’ll do as I
fucking well please. In fact, I’m off to the bathroom for a good strum
right now, before supper.

It was only a day or to later that Angela Strabolgi heard the next
complaint. A young French exchange teacher, Yvette, had been assigned a
late night inspection duty. She’d heard heavy, labored breathing as she
padded through the darkened dorm in her bare feet. All the lights were out,
but she’d had no trouble isolating the source of the sound: Beth’s bed in
the corner, the one she’d been warned about. She’d gone close enough to see
that Beth had pulled the sheets down, lifted her nightdress high, and was
fingering herself vigorously.
Beth was summoned the next morning. Miss Strabolgi looked at her
with disapproval. “I have heard a report that you were not asleep at 11:45
last night . . .”
“I don’t wear a watch in bed,” Beth replied, freshly.
“Beth, don’t provoke me! So, I have decided that you are going to
hand in your nightdresses, and that instead we will enforce pajamas for
you. As you know, PJs with long pants are quite suitable wear for young
ladies. And we can make them even more suitable for someone with, uh, your
particular problem, with the aid of special sewn-on tapes.”
“Yes, ma’am . . .”
“So bring the nightdresses here this afternoon, and I’ll issue you
with suitable sleepwear.”
The pajamas were flannel, baggy, sexless. They had been boys’
pajamas, but their crotch and flyfront had been sewn up. The cord at the
waist was elasticated, and the ‘special tapes’ were designed to join the
jacket and pants, to prevent either being pulled aside for the purposes of
exploration. Other tapes held the jacket firmly closed.

The very next morning, Angela Strabolgi received a heated complaint
from the laundry. After just one night, Beth’s pajama bottoms had been made
so sticky they might have stuck to the wall if thrown. And would have stood
up of their own accord after they dried. “You’ve never seen anything so
filthy in your life,” the manager had told Angela, “and the smell! Oh!”

Beth trembled with suppressed rage as she was lectured about this.
And with poor grace accepted the fresh pair of PJs, and the transparent
plastic continence pants. She was not the least bit happy that half a dozen
little brass bells had been sewn to the wrists of the pajama jacket.

It wasn’t clear whether it was the jingling of the bells or the
giggling of her neighbors that had gotten the awakened the whole dorm by
1.30am. When the lights came on and Yvette strode in shrieking “Stop this!
Get to sleep, all of you, you damned girls!!” it was Beth who was flushed,
sweating, guilt-stricken.

Angela wasn’t convinced, but thought it work a try. A pair of huge
padded gloves, with little padlocks to hold them on. Late that the night,
Yvette phoned and complained: “She was just laying on her belly and rubbing
herself up and down on her clenched fists . . .”

The other girls thought this was just incredible. A special cot for
Beth, with bars, various restraints, so she could be strapped in at night.
They watched out of the corners of their eyes as she was dressed in her
pajamas, tapes were tied, bells were checked, and then she was guided into
the cot and the sides lifted and slotted into placed. Straps round her
wrists, and tethers on her ankles. And a little buzzer to press if she
needed to summon someone to help her go to the bathroom. By morning, Beth
was seething with rage and frustration. It was no surprise to anyone who
knew her that she’d stayed in the showers longer than usual that morning,
and spend an enormous amount of time washing and rewashing her pussy, until
she was smiling beatifically, and her hips were swaying back and forth in
unmistakable fashion. When she walked in with Yvette and Miss Wheatstone,
wondering why the problem girl was so late to breakfast, Angela Stabolgi
was incensed, and started raving about “Stop this filthy licentious
display! This moment!” Beth did, but came with a gasp of delight first.

The next step would have happened anyway, Angela knew. But catching
the little strumpet rubbing herself in a public shower room, well that was
the clincher for her. Beth was sent a curt note telling her to present
herself at the matron’s office at 2pm. When she arrived, happy to be
missing a tiresome American History class, she found Yvette, Miss Strabolgi
and Miss Wheatstone in attendance, along with Mrs. Smythe the school nurse.
She timidly closed the door behind her. This looked like trouble.
Beth’s stomach sank when Miss Wheatstone ordered with a snap of her
fingers: “Get undressed, Beth.”
After so many prohibitions, disapprovals, threats, Beth felt quite
lightheaded at the prospect of taking her clothes off. She started to
blush, but began to quickly unbutton her blouse. A powerful urge to be
naked gripped her.
“I’ve decided there is a distinct possibility that there is
something physical, something physiological, wrong with you. So we’ve
invited Dr. Druhler from the town to give you a proper medical inspection.”
Beth shuddered. She might have protested, but it didn’t seem likely
to produce any result. All four women had somewhat vexed, determined looks
to them. Druhler! That horrid, stooped old man, with his nose hairs and
slightly weird smell. Doubled as a veterinarian sometimes. Oh, no . . .
She put her blouse on a chairback and began to remove her bra. They watched
with interest as she got her shoes and socks off, then unfastened her
skirt. Now here she was, in her panties. Beth had known, and they now all
saw too, that she had wet them quite badly, in a ten-minute frenzy in the
bathroom not half an hour before. She took them down with trembling
fingers, their stares fixed on her. Her pubic hair was damp, streaked with
milky goo underneath. Her clitoris was crimson, and bulging like a k*d
about to start blowing a bubble with strawberry gum. Her nipples were dark,
hard, erect. Everybody, Beth included, took a deep breath at the powerful,
erotic scent that filled the room.
She was a woman aching to be fucked, and there was no other way to
interpret it. The four staff members looked round in embarassment. A
battered old car pulled up with a shriek of brakes outside, rescuing them
from this moment.

Now Beth wasn’t breathing any more deeply than she had to. Druhler
had given a nasty smirk when he walked in and saw her sitting naked on the
table. He’d asked a few neutral questions, taken her b***d pressure, popped
a thermometer in her mouth (relief!), run a stethoscope over her chest and
back, looked her body over superficially. Now he was starting in on the
female questions, assisted and prompted by this coven of witches. When had
she last? Did she ever suffer from? Describe this as your natural scent?
Any urinary problems? Bowels? Hmm, then I think I’d better take a good look
at your . . .
And there she was, legs up and parted, showing off everything to
Druhler, and the other four. And whoever else: They hadn’t pulled the
curtains in the office and she was showing her bush to anyone walking in
the gardens outside.
Druhler coopted Yvette and Mrs. Smythe to hold her legs in the
absence of stirrups. And he looked. And peered, and prodded. And sniffed.
Tugged hairs. And dabbed with a finger. Then he wanted to look inside,
having the grace to warm up his various metal gadgets under a warm tap
first. Balancing that, he opened her very wide, and kept her that way for
longer than she was used to, prodding and exploring.
“I agree,” he told them at last, stating the obvious, as he wiped
his fingers and instruments clean with paper towels. “She is in a highly
sexually aroused condition, very wet. And there’s no external reason that I
can determine. Puzzling, indeed.”
“She masturbates constantly, if you’re looking for the obvious
reason,” Angela piped up.
“OH! Ah, well yes, of course, I can see . . . well, I mean, I can’t
see, but, yes it’s rather obvious now, looking at the size of her . . . and
the color of these parts . . . yes . . .”
“Any suggestions, Doctor?” Miss Wheatstone asked politely.
“Well, if she were a young married woman, harrumph, I’d have
several. Ha ha! But, for someone her age. Hum. Well, quite inappropriate.
No no. I . . . um. And I suppose you’re not happy with the idea that she .
. .? No no, I see you’re not. You’d prefer . . . Decency, modesty. School
to think of, too. Ha. Quite. Yes, well . . .”
“Stop waffling, please,” Yvette was able to say. “What do you
recommend?”
“A change of diet. Less meat, and uh uh, how would you describe it?
Something to stop her . . .? To stop her, uh, diddling . . .”
“A chastity belt, perhaps?” Yvette prompted.
“Exactly! I think some of the big medical supply companies have
them, and if you like i’ll write you a rather general prescription so you
can pick. . .”
“Yes, do that,” Angela summed up. “We have some catalogs here. I’m
sure we can figure out what’s what . . .”
“Get dressed, Beth,” Miss Wheatstone ordered. “Yvette, go with her.
Take her to the showers, please. And have her do something about that
smell. Supervise her. She needs a good wash before sitting down to supper.”

Beth’s chastity belt arrived by messenger the next day. A horrible
thing, like an orthopedic back brace or a surgical corset. Huge, covering
her from breasts to thighs. Draped with straps and buckles to pull it close
to her body. And with a panel that pulled up snugly under her underbelly,
totally hiding her genitals behind quarter inch thick canvas, lined with
rubber. If she’s wanted to rub, it would have done no good at all. If she’d
tapped herself with a hammer, she might not have felt anything. Her dorm
mates though it quite hilarious. “Well, Beth, if you’d stopped when you
were told, you wouldn’t be wearing it, would you?” They laughed more when
the various straps were tightened another quarter inch, and secured with
several little padlocks by Yvette.
Angela arrived, and tossed a huge baggy nightdress and dressing
gown to Beth. “Cover yourself! Really!” She looked her charge up and down.
“Now, Beth. You’ll wear that chastity belt every night, from the end of
classes until shower time next morning. And the rest of the day, this . .
.” She brandished a tangle of chains, like something for tires on snowy
days. “This will lock round your, your . . . well, it’ll stop you touching
yourself effectively. Now, into bed and don’t let me find out you are
pleading for anything nasty in the morning when you go for your shower with
your friends here . . .”
Beth played dumb, looked innocent.
“Don’t pretend, young lady. I’ve had a complaint from one of your
classmates that you whispered during the night about wanting to be, ahem,
fingerfucked in the shower. Is that true?”
Beth paled, then blushed, and shook her head. “Oh, no ma’am. No. I
wouldn’t do that!” Who had ratted? Oh, she’d have liked a friendly finger
up her cunt, and would have greeted it like a long-lost friend, that was
certain. But which of these bitches had told on her?

The harsh chastity belt and the pubic chain stopped her for a
while. But it only made Beth more mischievous, frisky in class. She was
seriously frustrated, and began to be more of a disciplinary challenge than
ever.
It was in Yvette’s math class that she crossed the line. After some
particularly dumb and insolent responses, the young Frenchwoman had asked
Beth to step to the front of the class. As always, there had been nudges
and giggles. Beth rather creaking progress amused everyone. They knew she
was tightly crammed into a tangle of chains under her dress.
Yvette’s patience was exhausted. She took up a ruler. “Hold out
your hands, Beth,” she said, her voice trembling. “Palms down.”
And Beth had yelped as she was given a half down vicious slaps
across the knuckles.
“Now, turn them over.” And another dozen strokes across the palms
while she was lectured patiently about the non-concordance of quadratics,
mischievousness and lust.

“An old fashioned punishment, Beth,” Angela Strabolgi had nodded
happily when the girl rushed to her to complain, showing her reddened
knuckles and striped palms. “Serves you right. You’re a real brat! I’d have
done the same myself. In fact, what you need, my girl, is a damned good
spanking. And the way you’re going, Little Miss Trouble, you’re going to
get it very soon . . .”

It was half-term, and a week at home was allowed. Beth wasn’t
terribly excited at the prospect. Her Dad was away on a trip to Europe, her
favorite sister was in California. Her stepmother and two other sisters
greeted her. The former had never cared for her. The latter? She was
beneath their interest, but they listened politely for a few minutes to
‘school stuff,’ before reverting to a chat about curtaining.
Everything went well, until about the fifth day. Beth was watching
TV, bored. The phone rang. Her stepmother answered. “Letter? What letter?”
she heard her saying. Beth slunk away. The letter, the damned letter. She
didn’t know what was in it. But she was sure it was only going to stir up
trouble, so she hadn’t given it to her stepmother.
The woman came after her. “Where’s this letter you were supposed to
give me? Some drudge from school, someone named Shitbogie, or something,
just called about it. Well?”
Beth went to her suitcase and produced the letter.
Her stepmother grabbed it, tore open the envelope and read it with
mounting rage, her hands trembling.
“So,” she said quietly, after a long pause. “So, now it’s
disciplinary problems, huh? Do you know, do you have any idea how fucking
much it costs us to send you to that twat’s preening pit?! You bitch, you
cunt, you ungrateful fucker . . . ” she was screaming now.
“I’ll give you disciplinary problem, you fucking bitch!” Her
stepmother had her by the hair and was dragging her downstairs, into the
kitchen, furious profane incantations flowing from her. She was a small,
strong woman of Italian parents, nothing like Beth’s own dearly departed
mother, and no more than 35 years old or so. Her vicious temper was boiling
over. She tore Beth’s blouse off, ripped her bra loose, kicked her, slapped
her, ordered her to strip. In terror, Beth lowered her jeans. And in
seconds, Beth was thrown over her knee, legs kicking feebly, while her
stepmother took up a huge wooden serving spoon, ripped her panties to
shreds, and began spanking her bare ass with furious passion. She didn’t
let up for twenty minutes, even when Beth’s two older sisters arrived from
their latest shopping expedition. They shrugged at her pleas and squeals.
“Beth, you earned it, I’m sure,” one snorted.
“Yes, shut the fuck up, sis,” the other helpfully suggested.
“Get me the riding crop from the hall cupboard,” her stepmother
snapped. “I’ll give this dirty little slut something to think about
tomorrow . . .”
And she did, laying into her with a vengeance until Beth’s thighs
and buttocks were bright red, crisscrossed with stripes, and the young
woman was sobbing pitifully. She roughly shoved her off her lap, kicked out
at her a couple of times, and watched with contempt as Beth limped away,
hands clasped to her blistered ass, shaking with emotion.
“Is that the crop you used on Daddy . . ?” she heard one sister
ask, awestruck as she dragged herself upstairs.

That night in bed, Beth masturbated more furiously than ever, her
imagination filled with straps and belts, crops and paddles, and the bitter
curses of ruthlessly cruel women. She came and came, dozens of times,
moaning with pleasure.
Beth was half-asleep when her stepmother crept into her room after
midnight, slipped off her nightdress, climbed into bed and reached hungrily
for her. She couldn’t resist. Dared not. Mouths met, tongues explored,
little gasps of delight were heard. Beth’s nipples were pinched and rolled,
then long fingernailed hands were busy in her pubic hair, and she was
spreading herself wide, eager to give herself.
“I knew you’d be in a sexy mood, Beth. I notice things. Your twat
was quite sticky after I’d caned you . . .”
Beth kissed and hugged, passionately. Yes, it probably had been, if
she’d been able to concentrate on it instead of her fiery ass. Her mother
was talking, quietly: ” . . . need it fucked, baby, really hard. I’m going
to have to get my guy in with you, show you what a ten-inch cock feels like
. . .”
“No! Not Daddy!” Beth squawked, pulling away in dismay.
“No, not ‘daddy,’ ” her stepmother said with bitter contempt.
“Jesus! His wallet’s ten inches thick but his prick is smaller than your
clit. And besides, that’s unnatural . . .No, I have a nice blonde fellow
from the Dutch embassy with a real ‘dikestuffer’ you need to sample . . .”
“Oh . . .” Beth moaned, a little shocked that her stepmother was a
such a slut, but relieved that she wasn’t being asked to open her legs to
the man she’d always assumed had fathered her. But maybe not? Could it
really be that small? What was all this about using a crop on him . . .?
Oh, her fingers! What’s she doing with her mouth? Oh oh oh . . .
A little later, her stepmother was able to speak again. “God, Beth,
you have the smelliest, stickiest cunt I’ve ever found, for a girl your age
. . .” her seducer purred. “Uh, it’s amazing. You’ve been rubbing yourself
tonight, haven’t you? Yes?”
Beth was nodding, yielding, opening wider, drooling juices. Fingers
werere dipping, then being sniffed and licked. She was bucking her hips,
horny as she could be. The woman chuckled, kissed her again, tugged her
clitoris. “Did that turn you on, getting spanked? The crop? I think it did.
Yes, it did, feel this thing. . . hot! Well, now I have something nice to
tell these women at your school, don’t I? They want written permission from
me, permission to spank you, dear. Didn’t you guess? No? And ha ha, you
know what my answer’s going to be, don’t you?”
Her fingers were inside Beth, and she was rubbing and kneading her
into a frenzy. Their tongues were intertwined. “Oh oh oh, please please . .
.” Beth sobbed.
“Yes, slut. It’s going to be yessssss!!!!…”
“Ooooh . . .”
“Yessss!!! Are they mean? Vicious?”
“Yes. Horrible,” Beth croaked. “Nasty . . .”
“They scare you?”
“Oh, yes . . .”
“Good. Then I’m going to tell them to be extra cruel. To beat the
shit out of you, you wanky girl . . .you’ll love that, won’t you?”
Beth arched her back in ecstasy. “Oh, please . . .”