The Towers, Part 1 – The First Couple of Hours

by Lucy

This will develop in to a long story in a number of parts covering my time at The Towers Girls Boarding School. It can be true life or fantasy, which ever you prefer. I won't be writing other stories, but any encouragement or criticism through the forum is much appreciated.

The Towers 1959 - 1971

My name is Lucy and this is my story. In September 1959, at the age of six, I was sent to a private girls boarding school called The Towers. With the help of a few old school friends, for memories of the early years, and later on my own journals, I have finally put my experiences of that time down in story form, and I hope you enjoy reading them.

As Mummy and Daddy pulled away in the car, I burst into tears. I was frightened and scared, and felt very alone. A middle aged woman with a kind face came and stood to the side of me, she put her hand on my shoulder and spoke words of comfort in a gentle and soft way. This was to be the begining of a very unique relationship with the woman I would forever know as Matron. Matron scooped me up in her powerful arms and held me tightly to her bosom, lightly brushing my silky blond hair with her right hand, my small bottom perched on her left forearm. She wispered sweet nothings to me as I buried my face in the side of her neck, and wept for the loss of Mummy and Daddy. At this early age, within the first ten minutes of being at The Towers, I knew that Matron was a strong, loving and caring woman, and I felt an immediate bond establish between us. This bond would last for over a decade, and ultimately has formed me into the person I am today.

Matron carried me, still sobbing, through the large oak front doors of the school, down a long corridor, to a door at the far end. Without releasing her comforting hold, she produced a key and unlocked the door. The door opened on to a comfortable sitting room that was light and somehow seemed full of more air than was usual. It was the sort of room that would immediately put you at ease, and make you feel as though you were at home, and wanted to stay forever. Everything about that room seemed perfect and exactly as you wanted it to be. Matron just continued talking about nothing in particular, but her voice alone was enough to add a gentle peace to my broken little heart.

Before I knew what was happening I was sat curled up in Matron's lap with a warm mug of milk, Matron still continuing to talk about nothing, her strong hand gently caressing my back, bottom and top of my thigh. I was calming down nicely. I guess over the years Matron has done the same for hundreds of girls in a similar position to me. As she continued to stroke, and talk, I relaxed into her warm embrace, and laid my head to rest on one of her breasts. I can still remember that breast as though it were only yesterday. The softest but firmest of pillows. I shifted position slightly, turning my back into the most natural chair a young girl can ever sit in, a mother's embracing lap.

Her hand continued the stroking, now moving up and down my side, her long, beautiful fingers curling round my small chest. Every now and then the tip of one of those finger would brush over my right nipple, through the annoying confines of my clothing, making me tense up for a moment. Of course, I now know that Matron knew exactly what she was doing to me, but back then, on that first day, despite my increasing excitement, it all seemed so innocent. I found myself wanting more of that touch, and furtively eased myself round in her lap with the sole purpose of bringing my little, but oh so sensitive, nipple in easier range of her stroking fingers.

As I did this I suddenly realised that the other end of my body was also starting to create merry hell with my senses. Matron had not changed the pattern of her stroking, and as her hand slid down my small body, I was aware of those same fingers sliding over the material of my cotton skirt, and applying a most delicious pressure to my immature little mound. When I realised this, I think I let loose with an audible gasp of excitment, although Matron never showed any outward sign of having heard me.

Here I was at the ripe age of six craving the touch of this older woman that I had known for the best part of an hour. I can recall wondering how I was going to get her craved for touch on my bare skin. I knew that was what I wanted.

Matron continued to stroke, and talk. I continued to try and move, so slowly, I didn't want it to be obvious, into a position that would increase the strange feelings and emotions that were rocketting around inside my head, and sending out strange and powerfully exciting messages to different parts of my body. I slowly raised my right leg to one side, and felt those fingers on the inside of my thigh. I moved my body over to give better access to the area between my legs, but that was frustrating because my nipple started screaming protest at having been removed from the action. I moved back, but managed to keep my right leg on the arm of the chair. As I looked down my own body I became aware that my legs were almost at right angles to one another. I shuffled down a little in her lap, and felt a sudden thrill as I became aware of my skirt rucking up. I took another look and was secretly pleased that I could now see a naked thigh on display.

On the next stroke Matron made contact with my bare skin, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven. It was such a brief touch, and yet charged with more eroticism than I suspect most girls feel throughout their entire life. I think I gasped again, or something, because at this point Matron stopped talking, and just continued with her gentle stroking. As her finger slid up my naked inner thigh, her forfinger would meet with the leg elastic of my knickers, slide out and over the tightly stretched material that was the only protection between her and the puffy lips of my tingling cunny. I would rock my hips slightly to try and increase the pressure of her finger on my cunny lips. I became aware of a fast shallow breathing, and was horrified to discover that it was me. By now I was so turned on that I had apparently lost all connection with decency, morals, and all those other boring things. I think it safe to say that I was riding my first wave, and as I have experienced many times since, I was starting to lose control over what should have been normal behaviour.

My left hand, with a will of its own, had found its way down, over my flat tummy, and gripped a hand full of white knickers, which it held aside, allowing the cool air, but more importantly, Matron's fingers to have unobstructed access to my splayed open damp immature sex. My hips were involuntarily rocking backwards and forwards, and I could feel the pressure of needing to wee so badly I thought I would burst. My breathing had changed from fast and shallow to quick little gasps and cries, and I did not so much have butterflies, as great big heaving albatrosses dancing a jig with hob nailed boots, in my tummy.

Suddenly, a flash of fear shot through my unknowing head so quickly, so many sudden thoughts, that me writing them down, or you reading them, can't do justice to the speed this happened. Am I sick? Will this ever stop? What is happening to me? Matron, I suspect, noticed this flash of fear and chose that very moment to gently but firmly pinch and grip the little bump at the top of my cunny.

I thought I was about to die. My whole body jumped about 10 foot in the air, and I was rigid, every muscle spasmed, and I could hear a distant screaming. Then the clock stopped and I was stuck in a suspended period of time. I knew that I needed to breathe but that function didn't work. Then, it seemed as though it was from the tip of my toes and working upwards, my body started to go into a series of short, almost painful, uncontrollable jerks. I could see a brilliant white light and felt an amazing heat course through me, and I was painfully aware of my cunny contracting and releasing, first in long powerful contractions which got shorter and faster. I started crying out because I knew I was wetting myself and could feel the squirts of urine keeping time with the contractions of my cunny. Slowly all these hitherto unknown reactions started to subside, and before long I lay in an exhausted sweaty heap on Matron's lap, my skirt around my waist, and my knickers soaked.

I started to cry gently, and Matron started talking to me again about nothing in particular.