****CAUTION****
Severely unpleasant scenes of rape, suicide and other abuse. I want to get this part of the story out of the way as it is unpleasant to write and probably just as unpleasant to read. There is a light at the end of the tunnel...but.

CHAPTER 15
I had thought Anthorn hell. This was so far beyond that I had no words. They took turns again before breakfast, dragging me from the corner where I had wrapped myself in a blanket. I had tried the toilet, but the door had no lock and there was no way I could wedge myself in there. I tried to stay in the corner again afterwards, but Alf just ripped the blanket off me, looked at the blood and muttered “Fucking arsebandit. You have two minutes to get down for breakfast or it’s Mrs C”

So, breakfast it was. I sat at the table with my three rapists, trying not to look at them, really trying not to look when the purple started miming pushing a sausage into his mouth. I stood up to take back the plates, and Don saw a bloodstain where I had been sitting, even though I had packed my bottom with the painfully harsh Izal ‘medicated’ toilet paper on offer.

“You dirty little cunt, already at it I see…Mrs C will want to see you”

So it proved. To the smirks of my rapists I was marched in to see the hag. It may sound like I was frigidly calm, but I was far from it. What I was, was in deep shock. I am not going to describe the feelings in detail; anyone with a soul will already have some idea, and anyone who does not understand already is simply incapable of such understanding and, to be honest, probably not fully human. She didn’t disappoint.

“You filthy fucking whore. I think it is clear that you are not truly contrite after all. Strip. Now.”

All this, as before, with no drama in her voice, no audible anger. It was as if she was asking for some stamps at the Post Office, and that was what frightened me more than anything. I mentioned not being fully human. She wasn’t. She walked round me, calmly tutting as she saw the injuries.

“I see you enjoy the rougher side of rutting. Well, there are several boys here who enjoy rough and tumble, and I am sure that you will meet all of them in due course. Dress.”

She walked over to the desk and dialled a number.

“Harold? Elsie Cunningham. Your little pet has been fornicating and may need some running repairs. An hour? Fine, I will have tea and biscuits ready. You, wait outside the door”

She had kept the toilet paper, but I had at last stopped actively bleeding, though I dreaded having to go to the toilet. She left me standing there for the hour, of course, until Mitchell arrived and for an hour afterwards, as tea was taken past me, and then finally I was brought in, still standing. She prodded me n the chest with her cane, which really hurt, far more than I expected.

“Strip”

Once more naked before the two of them, and Mitchell paid close attention to the damage.

“We do like it rough, don’t we? But nothing essential damaged, and the more you use it, the easier it will get. Hmmm…areolae developing nicely, and a touch more callipygian below…yes, Elsie, I think she is going to be an ideal subject”

“It, Harold, it. One mustn’t form attachments to these little animals. Thank you for your prompt response, shall we see you at the Lodge at the weekend? Raynor will be wanting to discuss your progress, I am sure. Till then?”

The snake left, and I was left with the bitch, still naked.

“Donald, if you please?”

Six more strokes. Three more days in Thirlmere. That had one advantage; no food for all that time meant I didn’t have to try and shit. There is no need for any more detail on that point.

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After I got out of the darkness, I had it all again, of course. And again, and again, and true to her word the hag moved me around the dorms so that I could CORrupt as many of her boys as possible, which allowed me to be punished some more, and….I was literally, truly, losing the will to live.

We were going to school on four days each week, taken by minibus to a local Approved School that taught us nothing like what I had been getting at Netherhall. Basic maths, English, and, of course, Religious Instruction, which did exactly what it said. Mrs C wanted us all to be sunbeams for Jesus, apparently, so we got the heavy duty hellfire version. The Approved School boys, no girls, all wore overalls, a sort of boiler suit thing, and I realised quite quickly that there was a system of status that rode along with wearing the T-shirts. We were all mad, officially, so we had a cachet that the various subspecies of Borstal scum rarely achieved, especially the purples. Pink, on the other hand…

The third day at the school I was sold to a group of boys for an hour in the toilets. A few days later it was to a couple of the screws.

I really, really don’t want to go on any more about this. I tried finding something to cut my wrists, and nearly managed it on the edge of the Izal dispenser, which I honed with a small stone I pocketed at the school one day when I bent down ostensibly to tie my laces, but I was caught by one of the blacks, I was in Esk, who came into the cubicle for a blow job, and then the metal dispenser went and it was just the paper packets.

I stopped eating, which after all was what they wanted when I went to Thirlmere, and under Mitchell’s supervision they forced my jaws apart and fed me by tube. I asked one of the purples to try breaking my neck when he was about to come, as a boy had said it was a trick he had heard his brother boast about when fucking a chicken, but he refused. That is a mark of how utterly hopeless I was, how I was grasping at any straw, even a second-hand boast based on a fantasy.

I didn’t hope to survive, to escape any more. I just wanted to be dead, for it all to be over. The other things that were happening were just the icing on a cake made of shit.

You know, it may seem at times as if I was privy to Mitchell’s thoughts, that he discussed his plans like some badly-scripted James Bond villain. It wasn’t like that at all. What little I now know of what the cunt did to me, what he was trying to do to me, comes from the notes I have already mentioned, that it took two decades to get access to. They are not like him; he was always hungry, always almost drooling as he looked at me, measured, took pictures. The notes were dry, precise, terrifying in their utter banality.

I was finally noticing what Mitchell had been measuring and recording since that first injection, as things became too obvious even for me to miss, and they certainly weren’t missed by the boys. As my breasts grew, the price at the school was raised, as a fuck toy with real tits was worth a lot more snout. Some people didn’t have to pay, of course, such as whoever was in the dorm I was shoved into, or Don, or Alf….

Alf, Alf was a godsend. Nobody wants to rape you when you have the clap, and while Mitchell took me through the course of antibiotics I was free to sleep and go some way to recovery down there. Yes, I was happy to have a dose, even with all its inherent discomfort, because I was left alone. Can anyone sink any lower?

Three years. Three fucking years. Not a word from Mam, nothing from Iain, or Nana, or Emily, and what would she see? Her boyfriend, or the hollow-faced girl that looked back from the mirrors at me? The one the bitch now insisted wear a fucking bra? That, of course, was only at Castle Keep; when I was getting my rich and challenging education I had to strap everything down as otherwise questions might be asked.

I had no idea why Mitchell was doing this, none at all till long after, but I knew why Mrs C indulged him, oh yes, and that was because she was clinically insane. That was beside the fact that as I learned to tune out the pain of the beatings I was able to observe better what she was doing, and in particular I got that smell, that smell from my mother’s laundry basket all those years ago, the stink of a woman in arousal.

Mitchell had called them growth hormones, or other such words, and of course they were nothing of the sort. With hindsight, and access to his notes, they were an interesting cocktail of estrogens and other nasties, and their purpose was to alter me, and that was what they did. As soon as I had realised their nature, I stopped taking the pills. As they had been fed to me under supervision by Alf, or Don, or Charlie…oh god, Charlie. Oh god.

As they had been personally giving me my daily pill, they saw immediately when I stopped taking them. There was no brutal attempt to force them into me, just more visits from Mitchell, and more injections, until I started taking the pills again. It saved me the pain of the beating that went with each injection.

I was taller, after those three years, five foot two as it turned out. I had finally outgrown my mother. I wasn’t anything like Karen in build, certainly not like Emily, who I found myself missing dreadfully, but I had hips and a stupid fat arse and, after those three years, what my bra told me was a C-cup. Cunningham would never let me have a belt, of course, and after my attempts she had my shoes replaced with elastic-sided plimsolls, so at first I had real problems with my trousers, till she relented and had some delivered in a girl’s cut.

Clothes. Charlie….he liked schoolgirls, so every so often he would push me into the dorm and lock the door, and on the bed would be some clothes, a uniform, and some little bits of make up, and he would lock me in, and half an hour later he would come back, and afterwards he would pack everything away again and leave whistling after kicking me back out of the dorm.

There were occasional evening visitors, almost all male, but once a couple came and she sat to one side and made grunting noises and little requests as he did his thing, and several of them dressed me up for the event. I got used to the taste of lipstick, just as I got used to the taste of my own blood, and other things.

All of that sounds like it was a non stop round of rapes and beatings, but that’s just because that’s exactly what it was.

Three years, and then…and then, one day, one Spring day, we were bussed down to the Borstal for our lessons, and probably for my handlers-for-the-day to make a bit of income from me, and instead we were herded into an auditorium, assembly hall, large space, whatever. Apparently, someone in the local authority had decided that an Aspirational Talk would be a Good Thing, and we were to be Addressed by a Successful Working Class Man. I could hear the capitals as the chief screw spoke on the little stage, and then on came the SWCM, and a woman.

“Boys, I give you Brian Dennahy, player-coach of Carlisle City FC, and his wife. Mr and Mrs Dennahy!”

We applauded dutifully, and they stepped onto the stage. Of course, to better stay under observation, I was very near the front, and as they came up to the microphones I saw Mrs Dennahy look straight at me ,and her eyes flew wide open.

It was my goddess.