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Subject: {ASSM} Pavlova's Bitches 3a
Date: Sat, 4 Nov 2000 21:10:05 -0500
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As ever, my thanks to Denny for his vigilant proof-reading, which
has spared me many an embarrassment. - O.
---
Pavlova's Bitches
by oosh@nerve.com
Part IIIa
But soon Carry's head falls back, her senses ravished, and Miss
Paulson can only rain kisses upon Carry's outstretched throat.
"Take my honey, take my honey..." murmurs the delirious girl,
guiding Miss Paulson's obedient fingers.
"Love, you are so wet!"
"It is all for you: just thinking about you makes it happen!"
"But why, Carry, why?"
"So beautiful... oh, so beautiful..."
"What, my love? Why do you tremble so? This is hurting you! It must
be..."
"Oh Miss... oh Miss..."
"What is it, Carry? Why, darling, how you convulse! What awful
sickness is this?"
Caught up now in her final urgency, Carry has seized her hand with
unsuspected strength and is frenziedly teaching it those
surprisingly forceful movements which will damp for a time the fire
of her passion. Indeed, Miss Paulson fears that some injury may be
done, until Carry falls back with a sweet moan, seemingly at peace
once more.
"Carry, are you hurt, my beautiful darling? What awful thing just
happened?"
Carry is still out of breath, but her flushed features are now
radiant with dreamy satiation. "I am well, dear Miss Paulson, I
assure you! - Oh! Oh!" - Carry shudders again - "But in that one
sweet moment, the sweetest moment, I am freed from the agony of
love... Oh!"
"But you were sobbing! Confess it, I have hurt you! O my darling
Carry, what have I done to you in that moment of madness?"
"Dear Miss Paulson, do you not see that with your healing fingers
you have released me -"
"Released you? Do you mean that that takes away the pain, as we rub
a child's knee when she falls over?"
"- Yes, just so! - and then to find you kissing me with your sweet
lips..." Her eyes brimming with grateful tears, a tender smile upon
her lips, Carry lightly rests her fingers upon Miss Paulson's cheek;
slowly, she shakes her head, as if in disbelief. "...Oh, it is not
for you to call me beautiful. It is you who are beautiful."
"Carry, Carry, do not look at me like that, or I shall be compelled
to kiss you again."
"Kiss me, then, dear Miss Paulson, and rekindle in me that sweet
agony..."
"Oh, no!" Miss Paulson draws back. "What has happened to us... to
me? I have become mad. O Carry, darling, forgive me!"
The last bell begins to sound, summoning the girls to night
assembly. Miss Paulson stands, suddenly mindful of duty.
"We must go!"
"O stay, dearest..."
"Carry! This cannot be! We cannot listen to the voice of passion, of
madness! No! You'll tear my blouse! You'll tear it!"
"O stay!"
"There will be scandal! Ah, you know it! We shall be ruined, Carry!"
"I shall go mad without you!"
Miss Paulson begins to be afraid, and an edge of severity enters her
voice. "Carry Walmsley, someone will find us! Now let go, let go at
once!"
Carry looks down abashed; then, artfully, using her eyelashes to
greatest effect:
"Then... will you promise me that we will have our next tutorial at
your house, dear Miss Paulson? At least, give me hope of that!"
"Very well, just so long as you let go!"
Finally, Miss Paulson is free.
"Good night, then, dear Miss Paulson."
"Good night, Carry! Oh, what have I done?" and Miss Paulson bustles
out, overwhelmed and afraid at the forces she has unleashed.
* * *
At first, Miss Paulson had been rueful about being accommodated in
the crude little gamekeeper's cottage in the school grounds. The
floors of rough stone, the cracked walls, the ill-fitting doors and
windows make this a spartan abode indeed in foul weather. But for
the first time she must count her relative isolation as a blessing,
for in her turmoil she must needs pace to and fro, crying out
alternately in joy and despair.
And is there not cause enough for joy? Ever since adolescence, Miss
Paulson has written herself down for the solitude of a spinster:
with her somewhat pinched nose, thick glasses and accursedly
freckled complexion, she has convinced herself that no man would
look twice at her; and now, the immaculately fair Carry Walmsley has
attested to her beauty, not only in words but in the most passionate
of deeds. Hotly though she denied those attestations, their memory
makes her blush with pleasure.
But is there not cause enough for despair? For surely the eldest
daughter of an impecunious duke will be marked down for marriage.
Even without that, to imagine a life of harmonious intimacy with her
beloved is to fly in the face of every social norm; and to allow
such intimacy to repeat itself must be to risk disgrace,
dispossession and eviction even from this poor little cottage.
But then, unbidden, comes the recollection of Carry's ruby lips, her
breathless endearments, the wonderful warmth of her exquisite body;
and once again Miss Paulson winces in forbidden joy. And there it
is: that damned throbbing, that insistent ache - what Carry had
spoken of as the "agony of love". Sighing, Miss Paulson seeks to
distract herself, as she has done a number of times before, by
reading from Mr Bentham or Mr Mill; for she knows that without such
diversion she will not have even an hour's rest.
But after a quarter of an hour attempting to read Mr Bentham's
_Principles Adverse to that of Utility_, she is forced to
acknowledge the truth: her imagination is wholly occupied with the
recollection of the delicious Miss Walmsley - her soft, gentle lips,
her eager yet tantalizing kiss, that long, smooth thigh, and yes,
that beautifully shy and sensitive area where the least touch
elicited such sweet sighs, such grateful gasps!
It is a matter for shame that for many years Miss Paulson had
assumed that part of the anatomy was but a simple, discreet crease
between the limbs; but the examinations after the electrical
treatment, and still more of beautiful Carry, have revealed a
surprisingly complex arrangement of tissues within -almost like a
delicate, pink flower.
For a moment, Miss Paulson anxiously considers whether the
electrical treatment may have caused some harm to the girls, and
indeed to herself -could it have provoked some kind of hernia,
perhaps, or a burst vein? And is that not related to the itchy
throbbing she feels so often nowadays? Yet if it were an injury, how
could it be so swiftly aroused by the association of ideas - the
sound of the little bell in the laboratory, for example - or the
merest thought of Carry, and Carry's thought of her?
For a moment Miss Paulson puzzles over this strange circumstance;
and then, with a leap of insight, she finds a comparison: the flow
of saliva before a meal. Yes, yes, that is it: it is a reaction of
some kind, a natural reaction. And perhaps, if the expectation of a
meal were associated with the sounding of a bell, the flow of saliva
might likewise come to be provoked by the sound merely? It is an
interesting theory, and Miss Paulson makes a mental note to observe
her own reactions tomorrow when the bell rings for lunch.
And now another thought comes to her. Saliva flows for a purpose: it
is to facilitate the swallowing of food. Its appearance betokens
need, the satisfaction of hunger. What of the wetness provoked by
the electrical current? - And by the pangs of love? For sure, its
purpose seems plain: to prepare for penetration by the male member.
And for the first time, Miss Paulson grasps the reason why women,
even those of the highest birth, permit themselves to be subjected
to an act so... nauseating, so disgusting as copulation. It must be
so! There is, analogous to the hunger for food, a hunger for
penetration - and it is to this that the human race owes its
survival.
Yet if it is a woman's lot to feel this hunger, what if no man is
available? And does she not feel it, and Carry too, when they are
together? But ardently though Carry encouraged her to stroke the
outermost parts, she seemed not in the least anxious for
penetration.
And now she thinks of it, Miss Paulson clearly recalls the
distinctive swelling to which Carry directed her fingers: a small
tumescence that seemed to dance delightfully under her finger-tips.
Could this perhaps be part of some ingenious mechanism, provided by
a beneficent Creator for the comfort of virgins, whereby the hunger
for penetration might be assuaged? Could such gentle manipulation
truly banish the agonizing pangs of love? Can such a simple remedy
exist?
Miss Paulson realizes that it is time to correct her ignorance:
fastidiousness can play no part in scientific enquiry.
Rising, she fetches down her heavy book of anatomy and consults it
carefully. Sure enough, the cross-sectional diagram shows vulva,
urethra, vagina, cervix, uterus, ovaries - but nothing to correspond
to the surprisingly definite little swelling she remembers so
vividly. Over the page, sure enough, a frontal drawing; and yes,
there are the various parts, more or less as she remembers them.
Heavens! With what delicate shudders has she turned this page in the
past, unwilling to cast her eye immodestly upon such a shameful
image! And yet, every detail is carefully indicated with a number
and a line, and in the legend she sees the Latin description: Labia
Majora, Labia Minora, Vulva, Vagina, Mons Veneris... And what is
this? A little protrusion, just where she had felt Carry's swelling,
at the upper junction of those tender petals: number eighteen. She
looks down to the legend; and to her frustration, it contains only
seventeen entries. She scans the text to see if the omission is
explained; but to her annoyance there is nothing, nor even any
mention of the swollen, moist state induced by the electricity.
What, then, is the mysterious eighteenth part? Why is its name
omitted? And why is there no explanation of its function?
Stung into curiosity, Miss Paulson retires into her bedroom with the
textbook, there to make careful comparison between the diagram and
her own anatomy. She draws a low table up to her bedroom chair and
there positions two lighted candles, close enough to illuminate
their subject; and then, scientific curiosity overruling modesty,
she disrobes and sits naked, her mirror in her left hand, the book
in the right. Sure enough, her own Queensland is no barren ravine,
but copiously flourishing indeed: below, two distinct inner lips, a
deep, lush pink, moist and heavy with the fragrance of some exotic
jungle flower; and there, at their apex, they merge into a little
swollen ridge, quite similar to Carry's, and somewhat more prominent
than that depicted in the textbook. Yet it has none of the angry,
inflamed appearance of a hernia or other injurious swelling.
She puts down the book and, with the lightest and most tentative
touches, she parts the tangle of red hair, the better to see this
unknown territory which has awaited exploration these twenty-five
years. Even this light touch is beguiling, and gently, anxious not
to emulate Carry's intemperate avidity, Miss Paulson places one
finger on the little swollen ridge, and with the most delicate
motion explores the contours of the hidden tumescence beneath.
At once she experiences an amazing onrush of sensation which seems
to temper and soothe the quite savage, almost burning irritation she
has suffered so long. Suddenly limp, she puts the mirror down,
allowing it to tumble noisily from her fingers in fascinated
negligence. Yes, indeed it is here, this long-neglected spot, this
nameless Number Eighteen, that has tormented and so implacably
disturbed her concentration these last few weeks! Her eyes fall
closed, her spine moulds itself to the chair, her body falls into
delicious relaxation as her finger seeks and finds the precise spot
where the very gentlest of movements bring the most exquisite,
almost agonizing relief.
And then, sensing that even the effort of remaining upright in a
chair may soon become too great, she rises from the chair, reluctant
to part her finger from its precious discovery. She tears the covers
from her bed and, heedless of night-dress, wriggles between the
sheets, unconsciously gasping as her nipples drag deliciously
against the harsh, cool linen.
Soon she finds a comfortable rocking motion which massages Number
Eighteen to perfection; it is as if her limbs are weightless, her
body floating, her head spinning in sheer blessed relief. It is as
if she has been suffering an agony all her life, and only now has it
lifted. With her free hand, she gently touches her right breast.
The nipple is unusually prominent and sensitive: the gentlest
touches seem to intensify her weightless bliss. And then, suddenly,
her finger makes a little motion which sends a little dart, a little
thrill, deep into her. Too astonished by its novelty to recognize
that she has discovered the last of Mr Bentham's simple pleasures,
Miss Paulson only tries to adapt the motion of her finger to
recreate the unique sensation; and after a few moments, she finds
that a slightly greater pressure brings another little dart, and
then another. Her breath catches, her legs jerk and she whimpers
with the force of each one.
It is not long before her fingers have discovered an irregular
circular motion which brings the little darts more and more often,
until they seem to merge and gather force within her. And then, all
of a sudden, it is as if the balance of forces is reversed: for at
first the sensations were the cool, refreshing wine of relief, then
they sparkled with the champagne bubbles of intensifying pleasure;
and now they have distilled into a fierce, choking brandy. "No! No!
Too much!" thinks Miss Paulson; but her fingers seem to know better,
and nothing now can upset the rhythm of their dance. Unaware that
she is pinching her nipple almost painfully hard, unaware of her
bucking hips, deaf to her own little cries, Miss Paulson's
consciousness is snatched away by a tide of sensation that sweeps
all before it, tosses it high and holds it, holds it, rigidly awash
in torturous ecstasy, before hurling it down, down - not upon jagged
rocks, but into the warm, soft nest that is her own bed; and
gradually the familiar contents of the room -sheets, blankets,
pillow, candles, furniture - steal back into her universe, gently
welcoming her home.
And now, turning over on to her side, it is no longer in the agony
of desire, but only a flood of warm content that Miss Paulson
recalls the sweet, innocent face of her beloved Carry - not the
fierce, energetic Carry of the battledore tournament, but the soft,
gentle Carry of the classroom, of the French lessons. How can such a
tender creature possibly endure such a fierce onslaught of
sensation, except to bask like this afterward in blissful release?
And with such thoughts, Miss Paulson falls into profound and
dreamless slumber.
* * *
The next morning, Miss Paulson's lateness at the staff breakfast
table is excused with friendly smiles by her colleagues.
"Did you sleep well?" asks Mrs Bateson, the Head of English, as Miss
Paulson takes her seat beside her.
"Never better, I thank you; and I hope the same for you?"
Mrs Bateson notices the flush on Miss Paulson's cheek.
"My, you do look well this morning, dear!"
"You are very kind, I am sure," murmurs Miss Paulson, her shoulders
twitching with a little involuntary shiver; and it is true, she has
never felt better, nor more comfortably relaxed.
"Won't you have some porridge, dear?"
"Oh no, I don't think I could eat anything, thank you - just some
tea, don't you know..."
Mrs Bateson chuckles as she passes the pot. "Why, my dear Miss
Paulson, I do believe you are picking up naughty modern habits from
some of the girls!"
Miss Paulson blushes scarlet: how could Mrs Bateson possibly know?
Mrs Bateson laughs again to see the young woman's confusion. "Ha!
Ha! Terribly contagious, ain't it? I say, everyone, even Miss
Paulson's started to say 'Don't you know'!"
* * *
That afternoon, Penrose and Carter meet as appointed, and depart
along the path toward the battledore ground.
"I wanted to thank you, Carter, for your great kindness to me,"
murmurs Penrose after a while.
"Why, what kindness have I done?"
"You know, telling me about that trick of crossing your legs. I know
it sounds stupid, but I suppose we were always taught not to sit
that way, and I'd never discovered it before."
"Oh, that..." Lucy looks away, somewhat puzzled. "Well, it helps if
you want to go during classes..."
"I know! I've never heard it called that before, but... well, just
between us, I've been 'going' in all the most boring classes. It's
such fun, Carter. Nobody has the least idea what you're doing, do
they?" Penrose turns a starry smile to her benefactress, who however
seems utterly confused.
Carter's expression is one of startled horror. "What, you wet
yourself in class? Ugh! I can't believe that's what you mean!"
"No, silly! Of course not! - Oh, I see what you meant now. No, I do
it when I want to come off. That's what you're supposed to call it,
don't you know." Carter still appears utterly confused. "Oh you
know, the climax! When one goes all a-shiver!"
"You sound as if you think I should know what you're talking about,
Penrose. I'm afraid I don't."
"You mean you've never... you've never come?"
Carter weathers Penrose's look of incredulity with honest
bafflement. "Come?"
"Never...?"
Carter shakes her head in sad incomprehension.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I just assumed..." Penrose turns away, suddenly
blushing.
Carter burns to ask her new friend to elaborate, but senses
Penrose's embarrassment. They walk on in an awkward silence.
Soon, they are overtaken by Miss Paulson, who has picked up her
dress a little and is running, actually running down to her little
cottage, an ebony ruler in her hand. They curtsey as is customary,
but Miss Paulson scarcely acknowledges them:
"Good afternoon, ladies!" - and she is gone in a swishing of silks.
"What a hurry she is in!" remarks Penrose.
"I expect she's busy now she's doing all this extra science."
There is another pensive silence, eventually broken by Penrose.
"Do you think she's pretty, Carter?"
"Honestly, Penrose, I try not to think about it." Carter's eyes are
downcast as they walk.
"Why, what do you mean?"
Carter sighs. "I mean that for one such as I, thoughts of physical
beauty are apt to be rather depressing."
Too late, Penrose claps her hand to her mouth: she should have
guessed that Carter might find this a painful subject.
"It is not as if I am not reminded almost daily," Carter continues
in a wry monotone, "that with a surfeit of women to choose from, no
man will take for a wife someone with a wayward eye and crooked
cursed teeth." The corner of her mouth momentarily descends into a
little grimace which is oddly fascinating.
"Oh but Carter, not all men go by physical appearances," Penrose
rushes to reassure her; but then, doubting the wisdom of this
approach, she adds rather lamely, "- don't you know."
"Ah, yes, there will be the philosophical type of man," Carter waves
her hand in airy irony, "for whom appearance is nothing. He will
seek a warm and cheerful heart, the inability to spell, and
excellence in mathematics. And how charming that will be - a life
spent earnestly discussing calculus and the volumes of spheres! And
then one day he will see a pretty creature like Walmsley or Shipman
or you, Penrose..."
"Oh..."
"Yes, or you, indeed, and he will hate and despise me for being an
ugly obstacle to his happiness, and will ill-treat me and berate me
for the rest of my life. No, Penrose, I have humiliations enough
without aspiring to marriage." She narrows her eyes once or twice in
a twitch of displeasure.
"But... but you have a very pretty smile," protests Penrose, "really
you do, Carter."
Carter blushes at this, the first compliment she has ever received,
but nevertheless turns upon her companion a grimace of a smile which
is deliberately and comically hideous.
Again, Penrose's hand flies to her mouth, she hunches her shoulders
and squeals with laughter. Her eyes are bright. Penrose's mirth is
contagious: Carter relaxes and laughs too, but at once Penrose is
serious.
"You know, it's true, Carter. You are pretty when you laugh. Your
teeth don't look so bad really."
"Even a dragon looks pretty when she laughs. Have you ever seen a
dragon laugh?"
"No, Carter, I'm not just saying it."
Carter is silent, still pink-cheeked. Penrose presses her point.
"Besides... there are those men who... I'm told... judge us girls on
other things, don't you know."
"Other things?" Carter's voice is low.
"Yes. Such as... our ankles... our legs... or..." Penrose bites her
lip. "...Or our chest, don't you know."
"Huh! A very low, common sort of man that would be," Carter asserts
with a dismissive toss of her head.
They walk on a while in silence.
"Why do you say that, Carter? About that sort of thing being low and
common?"
"Why... you speak of a woman's body... unclothed. That kind of
attraction is base, animal. That is how savages are. Gentlemen, on
the other hand, go by one's face alone. Nanny always said to
distrust a man who looked upon your... chest. It is a sign of
vulgarity, of coarseness. It is indecent to look upon a lady so.
What sort of man would judge a woman on the shape of her body?"
"But surely that is nonsense, Carter. Why think you that dukes and
earls furnish their gardens with marble statues of fair naked
maidens?"
"I do not deny that even those in high position may have a savage
and ignoble temperament," Carter replies with crisp aloofness, "but
you must remember the words of our blessed Saviour, who said that he
who looks lustfully upon a woman has already committed adultery with
her in his heart." And she gives a delicate little shudder.
Again, Penrose falls silent for a while. When she turns aside on to
the path that leads to the rose garden, Carter follows her lead.
"D'you find it agreeable in the rose garden?"
"It is tranquil there."
"Yes."
The roses are past their best now, but there are benches where one
may sit, surrounded by hedges. It is a pretty spot, no doubt set up
by the people at the Great House long before it became a school. And
there, sure enough, is a charming statue upon a pedestal, making a
centre-piece. It is Diana, fitting an arrow to her bow. She is not
naked, but her perfunctory drapes leave little to the imagination.
"There!" cries Penrose, indicating the statue.
Carter looks toward it briefly, then turns back to her companion.
"Well? What of it?"
"Is it not beautiful? Can one not appreciate its beauty without
lustful thoughts? Why, I am a lady, and even I can appreciate its
beauty. Where is the lust? Can one commit adultery with a little
statue? Come, let us examine it closer."
Reluctantly, and with blushing countenance, Carter lifts her skirts
a little as she steps on to the raised lawn, her other hand grasped
firmly by the resolute Penrose.
"Look at her from this angle, Carter. Even as a mathematician, your
eye must see and admire the curve of her back, the shape of that
arm. Confess it, now, the human body is a marvel of beauty, which
this artist has displayed to perfection. Why should it be dark sin
to admire the handiwork of the Lord God?"
Carter is speechless, and seems to be breathing heavily, apparently
wrestling with her reluctance to admire the statue.
"Do you feel nothing? Does it not affect you, to see this beauty?"
"She is... she is..."
"...Beautiful, yes. Of course, she doesn't have your lovely figure,
Carter, but then again she isn't tight-laced into a corset either."
"But I wear no corset!"
Penrose wheels round, round-eyed with derision. "O Carter! You of
all people! What nonsense!"
"No, I have never worn a corset. My mother would not permit it. Such
things are precisely designed to attract the baser type of man. She
would never have it. No, she wrote to the Head, and I was excused."
"But everybody says you..."
"Oh, everybody says, everybody says... It is quite clear that I know
only the tiniest fraction of the lies and gossip which circulate
about me."
"So it really isn't true? I can scarcely believe it."
"What? That I am really thin at the waist? Why should that be so
hard to believe? Some are thick: I am thin. That is all."
"And they say you lace yourself so tight to make up for your... oh
dear..."
"...for my ugly face, is that it? Well you can tell them that for
once they're wrong!" Carter's good eye - it is surprising how
quickly one learns to ignore the other one - is blazing with anger
now.
"O Carter, I'm sorry. Why are we so horrible to one another?"
They stand for a while, looking at the graceful Diana. Carter puts
up her hand, feels the smooth marble of the huntress's leg. As she
calms, her caress becomes slightly more sensuous. From behind her,
Penrose's voice is deeper and a little tremulous.
"When I was at Elementary, my freckles were worse than they are now.
And do you know what they used to call me?"
Carter looks at the statue, runs a finger over the ridge of a
tendon, not knowing how to reply.
"They called me spotty, and laughed at me when I cried. I hated it
when they did that to me; so then, why do I... O my God, Carter, I'm
so sorry..."
It is simply the done thing, one does it without a thought: when a
young woman bursts into tears, another will take her into her arms
to comfort her. It is only natural.
"O Penrose, Penrose, I forgive you... You weren't the only one..."
Penrose shakes her head a little and looks at Carter imploringly
through her tears. Carter's mouth has lost its ironic tightness now.
Her lips, though thin, are warm and soft, concerned, caring; and so
close, really so close to Penrose's, a little open in supplication.
And for Carter, it is only natural to seal the forgiveness with a
kiss; only natural that her hands should forsake the horrid,
leathery hardness of Penrose's corset - one up to a snuggling
shoulder, the other down to the warm, voluptuous curves beneath;
natural, too, to respond to the gentle, affectionate pressure of
those sweet young hips, those charmingly pointy little breasts whose
delightful soft friction against one's own, even through two sets of
clothes, inspires the tenderest affection, the sweetest of kisses.
"Dear Penrose!" breathes Carter, overcome with emotion.
"You must call me Vicky - that is, if you'd like."
"And we shall be friends?"
"Yes, we shall."
"Then you must call me by my first name, also. I'm Lucy."
Penrose jumps back, apparently shocked. "Your name is Lucy?"
"Yes. Lucy. Why?"
"Of course! Of course! It all fits together!"
"What do you mean?"
"O bother! - I and my stupid wagging tongue... I wasn't to say
anything! Now look what I've done..." Penrose lectures herself in an
angry undertone; then frowns and bites her knuckle as if in thought.
"Mind, I'm beginning to see why..."
"Why what, Vicky? Why are you being so mysterious all of a sudden?"
Penrose looks at Lucy Carter with a kind of awe: "I... I promised
not to tell... But yes, I believe you should know some of it...
Come, let's sit over there on the bench. I need to think a minute."
"Why are you looking at me like that, Vicky? You make me feel like
the Loch Ness Monster." Again, that fascinating little ironic twitch
at the corner of the mouth.
"I do believe I am beginning to understand it myself, now," Penrose
says, gazing wistfully at her friend.
"I don't know what you mean. I do wish you would stop speaking in
riddles, Vicky."
"Let me explain. Of course people... we... have been rather ill-
treating you recently. It's so stupid."
"Recently? People have always been unpleasant to me. Teachers, the
other girls, everyone. Perhaps I'm just used to it by now."
"Well, one person... I mustn't tell you who... One person has been
particularly catty about you recently - just in the last few days.
But the fact is..." Vicky lowers her voice almost to a whisper, her
eyes suddenly alight with mischievous relish - "...she has the most
terrible crush on you! Now what do you think of that?"
"Crush? What's that? Oh, you don't mean..."
"I mean she's in love with you, Lucy. She loves you madly, and she's
afraid to let anyone know! She was so nasty about you behind your
back! - And everybody else just joined in. And now I see why she did
it! It was so that nobody would suspect!"
Lucy stares unseeing into the distance, carefully assuming a vague
expression. Inwardly, she seethes with emotion: a mix of almost
vertiginous elation and boiling anger. She wants to cry "The
bitch!", as she once heard one of her least favourite Nannies
described by her father in a moment of rare passion after she had
received a particularly savage beating. All she does say is:
"I think she should be taught a lesson... whoever she is."
Vaguely sensing Lucy's elation and anger, Vicky remains silent.
"And whatever it is she feels for me, it cannot be love. You say she
is in love with me. But if that were true, would she not tell me so?
And how could she speak ill of me to others? How could she? No, that
is not love, Vicky. Whatever it is, it is not love: it is something
base. No wonder she is ashamed. I think you love me more truly than
she does."
There is another thoughtful pause; and then, "Lucy, I think I may
have lit upon a good way to teach... her that lesson. For you are
right, you know. She cannot truly love you."
"And so what do you propose, pray?"
"We let it be known that there is someone else who loves you truly,
and not in any base sense; and that you truly love her too."
"But how would that teach this person a lesson? I do not see it."
"It would make her jealous! If her love for you is of an ignoble
sort, then she is sure to be afflicted with jealousy!"
"I suppose you are right... But nobody would believe such a thing!"
"But if someone were to see you, Lucy, arm-in-arm with your friend,
and maybe even chastely kissing in purest friendship, would not
people then have to believe?"
"But who would be seen kissing the changeling girl?" Lucy looks into
Vicky's eyes, puzzled at first, and then, with the dawning of her
realization, she sees once more those supplicant lips: and what
more fitting way to acknowledge such nobility of spirit than to kiss
them in most tender gratitude? But what a strange burning there is
now in her chest! What strange flutterings in her belly!
"O Vicky! How very noble you are! But... I am not sure..."
"Not sure, Lucy?" Vicky looks deep into Lucy's eye, and moves to
return the kiss.
But Lucy puts her hand to Vicky's cheek - a gesture of the most
tender restraint.
"Vicky, you are most wonderfully kind - and courageous... Only I am
afraid..."
"Afraid? But why?" Vicky's gaze seems to search for an answer.
"I do not know... Only, let me ponder it for a little while, dear
Vicky, I beg you. I am so confused!" Lucy turns away, overwhelmed by
her thoughts.
Sensing her friend's distraction, Vicky takes Lucy's hand in her
own, and kisses it softly.
"Dear Lucy... of course you shall think, my dear. And now I shall
leave you to do so."
"Vicky, dear..."
But Vicky has already sprung up, light as air, as if freed from the
guilt of her misdeeds, and is skipping away down the path. At the
gate, she turns for a moment to smile and wave, but Carter is
already distracted in thought once more.
Her mind racing, Lucy gives her thighs a squeeze. Could it be
Shipman? With a shudder, she remembers their confrontation in the
library: Shipman had not attempted to deny it; but what if Shipman
were circulating a similar rumour about her, as a kind of revenge?
No, surely not. Besides, if Shipman cares for anyone, it is Clark.
She squeezes her thighs again in annoyed contempt. And what of
Denning? Yes, why not Denning, indeed? She had been particularly
unpleasant recently, had she not? What if it were Denning that felt
some base, unnatural attraction - Lucy gives an excited little
shudder: how sweet it is to have such power over another, for once!
Another little squeeze, and a thrill of power!
Yes, if an attraction is not true love, then it must needs be
something base and physical. What was it Vicky said? Ankles, or
legs, or... breasts? Her own are tingling still from that delicious
contact with Vicky, and as she squeezes her legs again she feels
deep in her stomach a kind of excitement. How exciting, to think
that a woman's breast might actually be found beautiful - even the
subject of adoration! She looks at the statue of Diana. Yes, true, a
naked breast is a comely thing; and true, her own are larger than
most girls', almost as prominent as Walmsley's - and does Walmsley
not receive almost universal, uncritical adulation?
As is her habit, she has been sitting with her arms across her
chest, her fingers lightly tapping on her shoulders as she thinks;
it is a defensive, comforting position; but now, curious, she lowers
her hands, looks down at herself, raises her breasts a little. "Is
it you? And you?" She gives them a little squeeze: they tingle
still, and the nipples are firm and tender. Another little gentle
squeeze - really very comforting. Just to think: some wretched girl
- yes, perhaps Denning - doing what? Dreaming of her? Wanting to
hold her, kiss her, fall at her feet? A jealous, possessive passion,
perhaps? She must stand more upright, Lucy thinks: shoulders back,
make the most of her charms - and be watchful: surely, if she is
watchful, she will see some sign - a stare, perhaps, or a longing
glance - and then she will know that she has power, power that she
must use wisely, the power to raise up or to cast down.
Once more she squeezes her legs and aching nipples - it is a sweet
ache -and once more comes that strange thrill of elation: deep
inside at first, it seems to surge within her. She can visualize her
mystery lover now, at her feet, imploring. But whose face does she
have? Shipman's? Denning's? Again she flexes her thighs, and again,
and an emotional tide seems to rise up and propel her into a state
of the most extraordinary elation, followed by an equally
extraordinary mental calm. "The good Lord has shown me the way," she
thinks as her mind clears, "and if He in His wisdom has granted me
some small degree of power, then I must use it wisely and
mercifully."
Rising unsteadily, and just a little breathless, she makes her slow
and thoughtful way back to the school buildings.
* * *
"Please Miss?" It is the seventh meeting of the Scientific Society,
and Shipman has a special request. "May I do some work with coils,
please?"
"Yes, of course, Shipman. I am sure that Carter will be able to
explain things to you - why, Carter, what's the matter? There's no
need to look so embarrassed. Remember the old saying: to teach
something is to understand it for the first time. I am sure I can
rely on you."
"Very well, Miss," murmurs Carter sombrely.
It is odd: normally Carter is so keen, but now she seems to be
making a show of reluctance.
Miss Paulson watches the awkward pair until she can be sure that
Carter has begun a methodical explanation of the work so far. The
girl has a good understanding, and soon her awkwardness seems to be
forgotten. Good: Miss Paulson turns to the others.
"Very well: who will be brave enough to volunteer today?"
Inconveniently, all but Prudence Miller seem anxious to demonstrate
their courage. Eventually, Kershaw is chosen.
While Miss Paulson's attention is distracted, Shipman tugs at
Carter's sleeve, interrupting her discourse on the properties of
coils.
"Yes, yes, I know. But Lucy, Lucy, why are you being so horrible to
me?"
"I'm not being horrible, Shipman. You are. I'm trying to explain
this to you and I don't think you're listening."
"I am!"
"Then kindly don't interrupt. As I was saying, the movement of a
magnet through the coil produces an electrical current..."
Shipman is trying to listen, but there is something so wonderful, so
admirable about Lucy's clear, competent enthusiasm: it is as if she
were a born teacher.
"...but the interesting thing is, that if a current is passed
through the coil..."
"Lucy!"
"Shipman, please!" Lucy's whispered exasperation strikes Shipman
like a whiplash.
Shipman looks down in shame, her eyes glittering with repressed
tears; then looks at Lucy in soft-eyed penitence, determined to
listen.
Appeased, Lucy continues her monologue as placidly as she can. "As
I was saying, if a current is passed through the coil, it becomes
magnetic, and an iron rod in the centre, which we call a core, will
be attracted magnetically. I am now interested to see whether, by
interrupting the electrical flow, some inconstant, oscillating
motion might be induced into the core." For the first time, Carter
turns to Shipman and looks into her eyes.
"Oscillating?"
"Yes. A reciprocating to-and-fro motion could then be used to propel
a rotary engine, as with steam." Lucy Carter's good eye has the
glint, and her voice the quiet tremor, of enthusiasm. It is
infectious.
"You mean... the electrical current could be used to replace steam?"
"Perhaps... in places where steam might be inconvenient, you know...
such as underground, or..." Carter stares into the distance, her
eyes unfocused, contemplating the infinite possibilities.
"...And actually move things!" Shipman's imagination is suddenly
caught.
"Yes!" Carter turns back to Shipman, and sees in her face the birth
of the same enthusiasm. "But how do we introduce the reciprocating
motion?"
"Think of a steam engine, Lucy! How do they cause the piston to
reverse direction?"
"Why, with valves, of course."
"And with electricity, what is it that works like a valve?"
"Why, a switch!"
"Exactly! Then, Lucy, can we not connect a switch to the moving
core, just as in a steam engine a valve is connected to the
reciprocating piston?"
"Ah!" Lucy rocks back in her chair, her eyes unfocused and widely
divergent. "Felicity, that is wonderful! I think I see it! Wait!
Yes! Some paper, and a pencil!"
Miss Paulson turns momentarily aside from her observation of
Kershaw's mounting excitement, diverting though it is, to look at
Carter and Shipman. Carter has evidently been sketching a diagram;
and whatever it is, Shipman is standing, bent over it, pointing and
talking excitedly. "Dear me," she thinks, for the graceful sideways
curve of Shipman's lower back, and the fall of her skirts, are
wonderfully fetching.
"Please, Miss, it's now a hundred and twenty-eight!" remarks
Walmsley sententiously, recalling Miss Paulson from her reverie.
"Very good, Walmsley." Miss Paulson congratulates herself on the
calm, level tone of her reply; it seems that every time Walmsley
speaks or moves she now feels a thrill in her heart, an
extraordinary excitement deep in her belly. She is like Saint
Sebastian, a martyr to love's exquisitely painful darts.
"Shall I take them off, Miss?" asks Clark.
Miss Paulson forces her mind to address the question. Kershaw seems
wildly excited: it is as if the pangs of the electrical force have
the same character and effects as those of love. The bell is ringing
constantly.
"No... No, keep them there!" pants Kershaw.
"Kershaw seems extraordinarily anxious to continue, does she not,
Clark?" asks Miss Paulson coolly. "Your stoicism does you credit,
Kershaw. Perhaps we should wait a little while, and observe."
"Oh yes, oh yes..." Kershaw begins tugging violently with arms and
legs, causing her holders to brace themselves; her face is frowning
as if in intense concentration. Then, suddenly, her eyes snap open.
Her breath comes fast and shallow: "Ah! Ah!"
"Is it becoming too much for you, Kershaw?" asks Miss Paulson
anxiously: for is this surfeit of agitation not strangely familiar?
Clark bends forward, using all her weight to maintain the contacts
in position. "Benson! French! Hold her knees! Hold her knees!"
All the girls seem to be breathing heavily; eyes are gleaming, lips
are parted, bosoms heaving. Penrose seems a little unsteady on her
feet. Miller looks from one to another, observing, scribbling
furiously in her exercise-book.
Staring, Kershaw takes an immense lungful of air, as if to cry out.
But instead, her entire body becomes tense, her eyes fall closed
once more and her mouth forms an agonized grimace. Surely this
nervous excitation is becoming excessive, thinks the anxious
teacher:
"Oh! Kershaw! What's wrong?"
But the girls seem unconcerned, even a little determined that
Kershaw shall not escape their grip; still rigid, she exhales
noisily through her clenched teeth once, twice, three times, in
deep, vehement gasps like stifled coughs. So rigid is she that only
the trilling of the bell, and the quivering of her stomach, betray
her inner turmoil. And then she exhales a long, sweet sigh, and
falls back as if exhausted.
Instinctively, the girls holding her limbs relax. whatever it was,
the crisis seems to be over. Clark removes the contacts with a
satisfied air.
Overcome, Penrose totters in a swoon, and is caught by French.
"Unlace her, please, French," says Miss Paulson calmly, and under
her breath, "silly girl," before turning back to the dazed Kershaw.
"Is she recovering?"
"I think she's very well, Miss," murmurs Clark, "- aren't you,
Kershaw?"
But a dreamy sigh is the only response of which Kershaw is capable.
Miss Paulson turns to Carry Walmsley. She too is panting a little,
an attractive flush upon her cheeks, eyes glittering. It seems
unusually warm: there is a curious fragrance in the air. Miss
Paulson has noticed it before.
"Please Miss, what... what happened?" asks Denning; but Clark elbows
her and whispers something in her ear.
Miss Paulson appears preoccupied for a moment; but then gathers her
wits. "Ah, Miller?"
"Yes, Miss?" Miller has been scribbling her notes assiduously.
"Be quick with your notes; and then perform the usual tests."
"Very good, Miss."
"And Miller?"
"Miss?"
"Don't forget to test Shipman and Carter."
"Yes, Miss. No, Miss."
Hearing her name, Carter is distracted. "Did she say we should be
tested? What does she mean?"
"You'll see," responds Shipman, "I'll get her to do me first. Now
look, Lucy, I've had an idea. Give me your pencil..." And she begins
to sketch another diagram. When finally Miller approaches with her
notebook, Shipman raises herself a little way off her chair, and
lifts her skirts at the rear.
"What on earth are you doing?" asks Carter, aghast.
"She's just feeling my underneath," says Shipman with a little
grunt, "to see if I'm wet."
"Ugh!"
"It's all in the cause of science," says Miller piously, inscribing
"Damp" against Shipman's name.
Reluctantly, Carter likewise raises herself and lifts her skirts.
"Be quick! We're busy! Ooh! My God!"
"Oh, language, Carter!" grins Shipman.
"What's she doing?" gasps Carter.
"I'm just testing," says Miller in a small voice; and after a moment
she withdraws her hand. Against Carter's name she writes "Nothing!"
Carter pulls her skirts down and sits heavily, her eyes staring.
"Well!" she exclaims, breathless with indignation: it is most
surprising to be handled so brusquely in such a sensitive place. But
then, in the absence of any reaction from Shipman, she leans forward
to examine the new diagram. "Oh yes... I see... that should work.
Perhaps we should arrange to see Mr Jepson, to see how such a thing
can be made. But this drawing is too imprecise. Give me the pencil.
I think I can see how it should be done..."
"Ah, Carter?"
This time, it is Miss Paulson who interrupts. Carter quells her
impatience and assumes a meek expression.
"Yes, Miss?"
"I think you're the only one here who hasn't had the treatment.
Would you be willing to undergo it? It would very much help our
experiment."
Carter pales and bites her lip, then reluctantly rises from her
chair. "Very well, Miss."
"Don't worry, Carter," says Walmsley reassuringly, "it's not that
bad."
Carter flashes her a look of gratitude, then hops up on to the
table. Benson slips off her shoes. The next moment, Carter lets out
a piercing squeal, causing everyone to jump back in shock. "I'm
sorry, it's just that she touched my toes and... I'm terribly
ticklish. Might I do it myself, please?"
"Yes of course she can, Benson," says Miss Paulson soothingly, while
Carter ties the bell to her toe. "Clark, you had better be
particularly careful. I will hold her skirts for you."
Clark is as careful as she can, but the trailing wires are her
undoing.
"No no no no no!" squeals Carter. Again, everyone jumps back, ears
ringing. The room seems still to reverberate with Carter's high-
pitched squeal. "I'm very sorry..." mumbles Carter abjectly. "I... I
could do it myself, if you showed me where to put them."
"Hmmm. Very well. But we will need to monitor your heart-rate
somehow. And... I am afraid that we will have to raise your
skirts... rather far."
"Oh, that's all the same to me," says Carter airily. "It's all for
the good of science."
"Exactly, Carter. Very well: give her the gloves, then, Clark."
"Please, Miss, how are we to monitor her heart if she is holding the
contacts?" objects Walmsley.
"Miss Carter, would you have any objection to opening your blouse a
little so that Walmsley can feel your heart?"
"Very well, Miss. Would you do it please, Walmsley? I can't with
these gloves."
Walmsley unbuttons Carter's blouse.
Carter whimpers and kicks her legs as Walmsley slides her hand into
position: "Please don't move your hand, Walmsley. I'm so very
sensitive there."
Walmsley's eyes sparkle as she takes up the watch. "Ninety-eight,"
she pronounces after a few seconds.
"Very well. Now I shall raise your skirts, Carter," says Miss
Paulson in her most soothing tone of voice. "Ready?"
Carter nods, biting her lip, and Miss Paulson smoothly gathers the
layers of fabric up to Carter's waist. There is a universal gasp of
approval at what is revealed, and one or two envious glances.
"Just guide her hands, Clark."
"One hundred and eight."
"You're very nervous, Carter."
"I'm well, I think, Miss."
"Whenever you're ready, then, Carter."
There is a long pause, and then, with an effort of will, Carter puts
the contacts firmly in position. Her eyes go wide, and then she
begins to moan as if in considerable discomfort. The bell jingles
constantly.
"All right, Carter?"
"Mmmm.. I think so... Oooh..." she gasps.
"Try it up just a little," suggests Clark, closing one eye and
narrowing the other as if gauging the best position.
"Up? Like... Aaah..." For a moment Carter is silent, seemingly a
little shocked, and then her face breaks into a lazy smile. She
begins to laugh, and then to giggle: "Ha ha ha oh my, oh my..."
Miss Paulson raises an eyebrow at Miller, who is faithfully noting
this over-sensitive subject's extraordinary reaction.
"One hundred and twelve."
"Oh ha ha ha... may I just have a little rest?"
"Yes, Carter, of course."
Carter takes a few deep breaths, then carefully reapplies the
contacts, adjusting their position until she lapses once again into
quiet laughter, almost noiseless this time.
"She's very tense, Miss," observes Benson, panting. She lets go of
Carter's ankles, and at once Carter draws up her knees, spreading
her thighs more comfortably.
"Did Kershaw lick her lips constantly like that, Miller? I know one
or two of the others did."
"Walmsley certainly did, Miss," Miller responds while leafing
through her exercise-book, "and Shipman... Yes, Kershaw too."
"It's a curious phenomenon, Miller. We must keep an eye out for it.
It may be significant."
"Yes, Miss."
"One hundred and twelve."
Carter's quiet laughter has subsided by now, to be replaced by noisy
and erratic breathing, and the occasional whimper. Suddenly her legs
kick out straight, causing the bell to jingle all the merrier.
"She's gone stiff... frowning... Just like Kershaw... Oh my
goodness!" Miss Paulson is not the only one to spot what has
happened. "Don't touch her, Clark."
Clark draws back her hand and brings it to her mouth in anxiety: for
Carter has pressed one of the contact wires clear through her skin
and drawn a tiny bright bead of blood.
Carter's mouth is wide open, her lips quivering as if she is trying
to stretch them to their widest possible extent. Her heels drum upon
the table: in such a state of over-excitation the little bell seems
a ridiculous superfluity. And then, after two gusty exhalations
which seem to shake her entire body, she flings the wires away,
clutches both hands to the affected area, clamps both legs together
and rolls on to her side.
"Carter, Carter, are you all right?"
"Ohh... Ohhh..." she moans.
Miss Paulson looks at the bystanders. Clark, Walmsley, Kershaw and
Penrose are beaming, eyes twinkling, apparently not in the least
concerned by these dramatic symptoms. Even Miller does not seem
particularly distressed. But Shipman, who has been panting rather
more than most, totters dangerously, her eyes rolling. "Kershaw,
Walmsley! Shipman - catch her, quick!" It is an annoyance, thinks
Miss Paulson: girls are continually fainting. It is only to be
expected if they must vie with one another in over-tightening their
corsets.
Meanwhile, Carter is laughing again, weakly, helplessly.
"Carter, are you all right, my dear?"
"Oh, yes, yes, thank you, Miss." Gradually recovering, she raises
herself upon one elbow.
"I think you've hurt yourself: look." Miss Paulson points.
"Oh, that's just a little prick. It's nothing," shrugs Carter,
untying the bell with something akin to nonchalance. "That was so
strange!"
"Well I think she was very brave, don't you, ladies?"
There is a universal hum of admiration.
"You were wonderful, Carter," murmurs Walmsley appreciatively. "I'd
like to talk to you some time about your family."
"Are you feeling better?" Miss Paulson asks, still a little anxious.
"Just a little weak... But quite well, I think." Carter looks about
her, vaguely.
"It's always a little strange... the first time," Walmsley reassures
her with a smile.
Carter returns the smile. Everybody seems to be smiling quietly at
her. She blushes.
"Come on, then," calls Shipman, pointing to Carter's incomplete
drawing. "I want to see what you had in mind."
She returns to her desk, watched in awe by all the bemused members
of the Scientific Society. She picks up her pencil, and begins to
hum a little tune quietly to herself.
Miss Paulson shrugs, amazed at the resilience of youth.
* * *
(To be continued in Part IIIb)
--
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