6. Brynn
B y the time I get to class, I’ve already missed the first one. It’s physical education so I’m not complaining that much, and it’s the only silver lining I’ll get.
I shuffle in and take my seat, wincing at the pain on my buttocks. Our headmaster delights in handing out corporate punishments, and I could practically see him salivating as he stood waiting for my arrival.
I know I’m bruised, that my flesh is covered in welts, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he drew blood.
I think he gets off on it, forcing us to drop our skirts and bare our flesh. Of course, he’s not allowed to be alone with us. At least, not with someone of my status. The School Matron stood, sour-faced, watching as I took each and every lash. She even had the nerve to tut when I yelped in pain.
I don’t want to think of what the lower ranking girls have to endure, they have no family name to protect them. I know most of them are being groomed for a far less desirable life than the rest of us, that they’re going to the whorehouses, to the pleasure houses. Or worse, that they’ll be used for breeding for those high-ranking ladies unlucky enough to be infertile.
“Nice of you to show up, Brynn.” Ms Doone says, staring at me over her thick, round spectacles.
I give a weak smile back because I’m done being on the receiving end of everyone’s wrath today.
On the desk, on all our desks are solid, banana like objects. They’re nailed into the wood so that no matter what we do to them, they won’t budge.
My nose wrinkles as I take mine in. Matrimony is the worst of all our classes. And it’s also the one we spend the most hours studying for.
This entire school’s purpose is to brainwash us, to mould us, to have us believe that our sole purpose is to provide for our soon-to-be husbands. That God intended for us to be vassals and nothing much beyond it. We’re not meant to have opinions. We’re not meant to have any thoughts of our own.
A perfect wife can cook and clean, is beautiful from sunrise to sunset, and she’s ready at any given moment to satisfy her husband’s every wish.
“Today, we’re going to practice deep-throat again.” Ms Doone says, “Now I know some of you were able to master it quickly, but others…” She fixes her disapproving eyes right on me and Clara, the girl next to me, “…were clearly not trying hard enough.”
It’s hard not to roll my eyes.
I’m twenty-one years of age, well past what would be classed as school-age by normal standards. Only, I know the Brethren make their own rules. That we exist within the tight confines of what they deem to be right and wrong. They like to keep us here, confined, sequestered. Like little lambs being prepared for the slaughter.
“Now, slip your covers on.” She says brightly.
I reach forward, grabbing the foil packet and tear it open. On good days, these are flavoured. On the not so good days they’re ribbed, or textured, or something else just as nasty.
As the rubber thing inside slips out, I can feel the weird liquid covering it, making it feel slimy. Officially, we’re only using these because the wooden models might give us splinters. In real life, with our future husbands, we won’t have need for such a device. Ms. Doone stated proudly before that once we try our husband’s cock, we’ll love it so much we’ll never want to stop sucking on it.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
As if that would be the case. As if we’d be so stupid as to believe that.
Only, most of the class does. The fact that I don’t is simply because I’ve read too many illegal books, and have snuck them out of my grandfather’s library.
The rubber thing slides down over the fake cock, catching the bright fluorescent lights above our heads.
“Right, lips apart, throats open…” She instructs before starting a timer.
I’m quick to follow everyone else, to open my mouth and put the thing in. I know better than to fight this. I know better than to object.
We’ll be here for hours, ‘training’ as they put it.
The teacher flits between the tables, advising on technique. There’s thirty of us here, and she makes a point of focusing on her favourites, whispering into their ears about something she does that her husband apparently likes.
“This is such bullshit.”
My eyes dart to Clara and I flash a warning as best I can. She’s my best friend, my only friend. And she’s on very thin ice.
I pull off, feeling a trail saliva clinging to the rubber.
“Careful.” I murmur, my eyes darting around. We just need one girl, one of the bitchy ones to spot us.
“It is though.” Clara hisses, pushing her auburn hair back from her face. She’s plumper than me. With a great smattering of freckles on her cheeks. “This has nothing to do with actual marriage, does it?” She continues, narrowing her eyes.
I can’t answer that. It’s not like I have any experience of being married, but I do find it more than interesting that all the books I’ve read that are set in a school talk about things like biology, chemistry, history - and we’ve not learnt any of those topics.
We learn about the bible. About sins. And most of all, we learn every way we can please our husband, every way to pleasure him and ensure he is satisfied.
Self-pleasure might be a sin, lust absolutely is. But as Brethren Ladies, our role is to worship our husbands as if they were God incarnate. And that is what we spend the majority of our time learning to do.
“Clara Goldsmith.”
We all freeze at the sound of his voice. Erasmus Jude. The headmaster.
I don’t know when he came into the room, when he showed up, but my heart seems to pound in my chest and my face heats with the shame at what he did to me barely an hour ago.
“Is there a problem, Professor Jude?” Ms Doone asks, and we can all hear the nervousness in her voice too. Oh, we know he’s not above beating the staff either, that his punishments don’t just extend to the pupils. No, he rules us all, rules every single one of us as if he were a tyrant and this is his personal torture chamber.
“Ms Goldsmith here clearly thinks making idle gossip is worth more than learning how to please her husband.” He states, folding his arms over his chest.
“I, I, please…” Clara begins before she hangs her head in silence.
“You think you know so much,” Professor Jude sneers, “why don’t you come up front and demonstrate to the whole class?”
My breath hitches. I can’t even look at her as she’s all but dragged to the front.
If she were a legacy family, if her name meant something, then she wouldn’t have to endure what she’s about to. No one would dare treat me the way they treat her. Oh sure, I get a beating often enough, but no one would abuse me in a way that would harm my reputation. Nobody would abuse me in a way that would affect my marriage prospects.
No, my family might hate everything about me, but I still have worth. I still have to be kept pure.
Clara is not so lucky. Sure, they can’t cross certain lines, but Professor Jude likes to single her out, likes to pull her aside for any punishment he thinks he can get away with.
He’s a bastard. A nasty piece of work. What I wouldn’t give to pick this awful bit of wood and launch it at his head and crack his skull right open.
But I don’t dare.
I just hang my own head, clench my fists and try to block out the sounds as she’s forced to ‘show off’ her skills while he holds a model, right there, over where his real cock is.
“Come on,” He growls as he rams the thing down her throat. “We all know you can suck it better than that.”
He grabs at her hair, forcing her to take more, to swallow all of it, while he rocks his hips.
She starts grasping, scratching at the air. Her face turns red, too red.
“She’s choking.” I scream, getting to my feet. He’s going to kill her.
Professor Jude rolls his eyes like I’m the one overreacting here. “Sit down, Brynn, maybe you could learn a thing if you paid attention for a change.”
I take a step forward and Ms Doone is there, grabbing my arm. “Don’t even think about it.”
“He’s suffocating her.” I hiss.
“One day soon, when you are lucky enough to be married, you will realise how good it feels. How good it is to have your husband’s cock down your throat.”
I blink back, shaking my head. The bitch is crazy. They’re all fucking crazy.
Clara spurts out, finally pushing the professor off her as she lands on all fours, heaving like she’d just been held underwater.
“Pitiful.” The headmaster sneers. “If that were my actual cock, I’d expect far better.”
I don’t think any of us know what to say. We all just stay there, watching as Clara struggles to get her breath back and the Professor murmurs with our teacher like there’s some sort of conspiracy.
“Well, what are you all gawping for?” Ms Doone says, “Get back to practising.”
It takes everything I have to turn back, to return to my desk. Clara is still gasping for breath, but she too is scrambling away.
As we sit back down in our seats, the sounds of sucking fills the air.
“Don’t forget to moan.” Ms Doone chirps. “Your husband wants to hear how much you enjoy this.”
As if on cue a dozen girls start moaning, gasping, like they can’t get enough of the thing down their throat.