Title: Pavlova's Bitches
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: ff,fF,f-solo,lesbian
Part: 8 of 14
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Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@gmx.net

Part IVc


"Hey, Miller!" Shipman hails her as they pass in the corridor at break the
next day.

"What, Shipman?" Miller stops and turns, noting Shipman's gloating smile.

"I've just seen Miss Paulson. It worked! It worked beyond my wildest
dreams!"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Scientific Society, don't you know. Listen: I have managed to persuade
her to obtain lots more equipment - lots and lots." Miller looks confused,
but Shipman ignores this in her enthusiasm. "And I have convinced her that
you should not be subjected to the electricity."

"You have? But Shipman, that is simply wonderful! How did you manage to do it?"

"I explained that in order to test the new oscillating device, we would need
someone who had no experience of the electrical current. That way, we could
be sure that the effect of the oscillating device was not in some way
connected with the effect of the current. Do you see?"

"But... does that mean that I am instead to be subjected to the oscillating
device?"

"Of course. But since you'll be completely new to it, nobody will suspect
that you've been secretly... you know."

"But Shipman... what does the oscillating device do, exactly? I mean..."

"It oscillates, Miller. Please don't panic, dear. It is no worse than the
electricity, I assure you."

"Very well, Shipman, if you say so..."

"And when Miss Paulson asks you to volunteer, try not to look as if you
expected it.  Just your normal terrified reluctance. Do you think you can
manage that?"

Miller nods blankly, her eyes round with dismay.

"Good for you, Miller. I knew I could count on you."

And before Miller can think of an objection, Shipman has disappeared.

* * *

It is Thursday afternoon, and quite by chance, Carter enters the dayroom to
find only Penrose at her desk. She is reading a book.

"Hello, Lucy. Have you seen the professor? It was today, was it not?"

"Yes, Vicky." Lucy's face is radiant with pleasure. "He said such wonderful
things about my work..."

"Why, that is splendid!" Vicky beams her delight.

"He said that I would be welcome to come to work in his department whenever
I wished, and that board and lodging would be provided for me..."

"And are you going to go?"

"I am not sure. I think I will wait to hear from my uncle in Saint
Petersburg. But it is good news, is it not?"

"It is wonderful!"

"And do you think perhaps that it is worth a kiss?"

"Ah, yes, Lucy... But..." Vicky clasps her hands now.

"But what, Vicky?" Lucy looks more intently at her friend. She seems
embarrassed, awkward.

"Well... Shipman... Shipman said I was not to, don't you know."

"Shipman?" Lucy recoils in scarlet anger. "What has Shipman to do with it?"

"You see... I did promise her, and... well... one must keep one's promises,
you know..." Vicky looks down, too ashamed to meet Lucy's furious stare.

"What is it to do with Shipman, pray?"

Vicky is wearing a pained expression now. "Well, Lucy, I... I... I don't
think Shipman would like it if I were to say, and..."

"Shipman this! Shipman that! Bah! You're like a flock of sheep!" Lucy storms
out angrily, leaving Penrose helplessly wringing her hands.

* * *

"Why, you saw the professor today, did you not? Professor..."

"...Anderton."

It is Thursday evening, and in only two days' time the young ladies will be
returning to their families for the Christmas holidays. Miss Paulson is at
her end of the table in the little cottage, and has just completed her
marking - earlier than usual, since there is less work set at the end of
term.

Carter sits opposite, contemplating a complex diagram which forms part of
her paper on the properties of springs. She seems unusually mournful.

"Did not things go well?"

Carter sighs.

"Let me make some camomile tea," Miss Paulson suggests kindly. "You put the
kettle on the fire, and I'll fetch the pot. Then you can tell me all about
it."

Miss Paulson emerges from the kitchen cradling the pot in her hands. Carter
is now in her chair beside the fire. Miss Paulson sits in her own armchair
opposite. She resolves to wait in silence until Carter is able to collect
her thoughts, but gives her a sympathetic smile. The kettle begins to sing,
and after a brief hesitation, Carter gives her characteristic shrug and
turns to look unsmilingly into the fire.

"It went well enough, I suppose." She sighs. "He was impressed by my work.
He said that I could come and work in his department. He would find me board
and lodging."

"Why, Carter, that's wonderful!"

"Is it? There would be no actual salary. Nor would I be allowed to hold an
official teaching position. I could teach of course - day in and day out, if
I wished. For board and lodging."

"No official teaching position?" For a moment, Miss Paulson is nonplussed.

"The University rules state that one must hold a degree in order to teach in
an official capacity, and of course..."

"Oh, yes, of course..." Miss Paulson sighs. "And we may not even learn in an
official capacity. I know."

Both women stare moodily into the fire, until at length the kettle reaches
the boil and Miss Paulson pours the scalding water into the pot, which has
been warming on the iron hob.

Again they sit, ruminating morosely. Miss Paulson searches her mind for
something to brighten the conversation, but can think of nothing. Finally,
in desperation:

"And so will you accept his offer?"

"I said I would give it careful consideration. But..."

"Yes?"

"I think I will wait until I hear from my uncle. I do not know, but maybe in
Russia they would think more of my work. Do you think perhaps they might,
Miss Paulson? Do you think I will be ever worth any more than a bed to sleep
in, and food to keep me alive? They tell me that I am as able at mathematics
as anyone in England. If I were a man, my ugliness would be no handicap:  I
would find myself dressed in a professor's robes. But I am twice cursed, for
I am both ugly, and a woman. Yet can I not dare to hope that one day I will
be able to buy my own clothes? Or must I resign myself to living upon the
proceeds of pity, and forever wear charitable cast-offs?"

"O Carter, Carter, don't be despondent! - Here, take your drink. It will
warm you. - I am sure that things won't be as bad as you say. You could
teach at a school..."

"Hah! The equal of all the professors in England, teaching multiplication
tables to children!" Carter shivers her shoulders, and glowers into the
fire.

More anxious than ever to distract Carter from this gloomy train of thought,
Miss Paulson decides upon a complete change of subject-matter. She crosses
the room and takes down from the shelf her anatomical textbook. There is now
a slip of paper to mark the page she once by-passed in disgust.

"Carter, have a look at this picture. Do you know what this is?"

"Ugh! Is it some strange animal?" She holds the book high, close to her
face. "Why, no. The print is too small. I cannot read it."

"Why, Carter, you need glasses, dear!"

"Do I?" Carter looks up in complete astonishment.

Miss Paulson laughs. "Of course! Why didn't anyone notice before? I'm so
stupid! You are always hunched down over your work. I think you must be
short-sighted.  Why, we must get you some glasses. I know a very great
optician - a friend of my father, you know. We will send you to him. I will
write to your parents. Why, I think you would look very pretty in a pair of
pince-nez!  Here, borrow mine."

Carter wrinkles her nose as Miss Paulson fits them. They both laugh.

"Why, I think I can see better... a little."

Again Miss Paulson laughs. "They won't be right for you. But they might
help." She takes a candle and holds it so that Carter can read.  "Take
another look and see if you can tell me what that picture is."

Carter studies it, raising and lowering the book experimentally.

"Pu... no, I can't make it out," she says at length.

"Carter: if I were quite naked, you know, and you were sitting on the floor,
and I on a chair, and I were to part my legs wide, like this... that is what
you would see... here." Miss Paulson points delicately to the area of her
lower belly.

"Oh no!" Carter sounds scandalized. "Oh no!" Again she pores over the
illustration. "surely not!"

"Why, what did you think it was like?"

"Well... just a... just a line. A sort of crease." Carter laughs awkwardly,
then looks more intently at the diagram again. "What is all this? Why,
there's a great big hole here... I don't... Or is that..."

"No," Miss Paulson screws up her eyes with the unaccustomed effort of
reading in low light without glasses. She points. "That is where your...
water comes from. Just there."

"But that's tiny. What's that great big one?"

"Mine isn't as big as that, not at all," Miss Paulson admits. "That is where
babies come from, Carter. I imagine that after giving birth, it is somewhat
enlarged."

"Oh... So that's where..." Carter is quite fascinated.

"And Carter... do you see this, just here?"

Carter begins to turn the book, as if to correct its orientation. Miss
Paulson hastens to correct her.

"No, no, it's the right way round. See, your tummy-button would be about
here..." - she points to an imaginary place just above the page - "and down
here, that is where, um... waste matter comes from..."

"Oh, it's just a tiny little hole. It's tiny! That can't be right!"

"Yes, it is right, Carter. I think it works like your mouth. You can make it
tiny... like this..." - Miss Paulson makes a moue - "Or big, like this..."
and she gapes, rolling her eyes dramatically. Carter laughs, then turns back
to the fascinating illustration.

"It can't be right... It can't be," she says, over and over, her voice
full of frightened, high-pitched laughter.

"But now let me tell you the most wonderful thing of all, Carter."

Carter looks up suddenly, and the pince-nez fall ridiculously askew. They
both laugh as Miss Paulson straightens them for her.

"Look here... here."

"Why, what's that?"

"We all have one, I believe, Carter. I don't know what it is called. The
people who wrote this book did not want to tell us. It is as if people
wished to keep it secret, as if they were afraid of what might happen if we
knew what it was, and what it could do. Do you see, right at the top?"

"I see."

"If you just touch here, gently, with one finger, just here, where I'm
pointing..."

Carter gasps. "But why should I do that, Miss Paulson?"

Miss Paulson is so distracted by the difficulty of this question that she
lowers the candle, leaving them both illuminated only by the red glow of the
fire.

"Carter... Have you ever felt a hunger inside you? A hunger that will not
let you sleep?"

"Why, yes..." Carter's eyes grow round and dark. She resembles a shy
creature of the night.

"At first I thought that it was the hunger for penetration. But that is not
quite right. It is the hunger for tenderness - yes, for bodily tenderness.
It is our woman-instinct.  We long to be held - protected - comforted -
and when these things are denied us..."

"Miss Paulson?"

"Yes, child?"

"I just..." Carter falls silent and looks down. The pince-nez fall from her
nose, and are swiftly caught by Miss Paulson. A moment ago, they would have
laughed at the ridiculousness of the incident; but now, Carter is struggling
to say something. "I just... want someone to want me." She looks up, staring
straight ahead, as if afraid now to look Miss Paulson in the eye. "You see,
I do try, but nobody..."

Suddenly Carter's brow creases, her mouth tightens, her whole body shakes.
Instinctively, Miss Paulson puts down the candle and takes Carter in her
arms. Carter clings to her like a frightened child; and the sudden violence
and desolation of her weeping, as she buries her face into Miss Paulson's
shoulder, causes the teacher's own tears to start forth.

"Oh Carter, Carter..." Miss Paulson whispers, "You are so young... you have
so much to give... I am sure many people want you... far more than you
think... come... drink some more of your camomile tea. Eh?"

Soon, perhaps too soon, Carter overcomes her emotion. She takes the cup, and
Miss Paulson rocks back on to her haunches. Carter sees Miss Paulson's face,
wet with tears.

"I'm really sorry," she breathes hoarsely. She gulps her tea, still warm
from the heat of the fire. Suddenly her face is older, hard with
determination.  "You are good to me. I should never have... I am sorry." She
takes a last mouthful from her cup, and sets it down. "I will feel better in
the morning." She puts a hand - almost fatherly, thinks Miss Paulson - upon
the teacher's shoulder; then makes her way up the crude wooden stairs, in
the darkness, to bed.

* * *

It is the beginning of the afternoon recreation period. Miss Paulson is at
the staff meeting, and Carter in their little cottage, where Walmsley had
told her she must wait.  For it is to be here, this very afternoon, that
Shipman is to be taught her lesson. Carter had begged to be excused whatever
strange ritual Walmsley has in mind, but Walmsley was adamant. Carter laughs
bitterly as she recalls Walmsley's insistence that she be alone: "If only,"
she thinks.

At last, she hears the approaching footsteps. It is with a sense of
foreboding that she rises to answer the knock. It is Walmsley and Benson,
tall and solemn; and between them, eyes downcast and unusually pale, a
shivering Felicity Shipman.

"All well, Carter?" asks Walmsley.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Then please go up to your room and wait until we call you."

"Very well." Carter turns and hurries up the stairs. She closes her bedroom
door, not wishing to hear the low conversation downstairs. It sounds as if
Walmsley is speaking in sententious tones. She sits on her bed, tense with
anxiety. She wishes, now, that she had never agreed to this.  "Vengeance is
mine, saith the Lord" - but no, vengeance is rotten. Carter prostrates
herself on the bed, gripping the counterpane, trying to calm herself.

"Carter!" - It is Walmsley's summons. Her heart lurching in her chest, she
rises, opens the door, descends the stairs, her feet heavy, fear like lead
in her stomach.

"Very well, Benson. You go out and keep watch. Nobody must come even close."

"Very good, Walmsley."

Carter watches as Benson goes out, quietly closing the door. Walmsley looks
grim. And finally, although she has seen her out of the corner of her eye
from the first, Carter confronts the sight of Shipman. They have bent her
double over the back of Miss Paulson's heavy armchair. Her head rests on the
seat of the chair, her long, nearly black hair loose, tumbling to the floor.
She is reaching down, as if to support herself, but her arms do not reach
the floor. They are bound by ropes to the legs of the armchair. Neatly
placed to one side, Shipman's plain blue school shoes. As Carter approaches,
she sees that Shipman's ankles, too, are bound to the rear legs of the
chair, and she is forced to stand on tiptoe. She is utterly helpless. But,
horrifying though this forced and degrading posture is all of itself, it is
not the reason why Carter's blood suddenly runs cold and her heart aches in
dread. No: for the prefects have gathered Shipman's skirts right up to her
waist, tumbling them down over her shoulders, leaving her posterior
uppermost, pale and utterly vulnerable.

"Very well, Carter," says Walmsley smoothly. "The senior prefects have
conferred and decided to offer Miss Shipman a choice. Either she will submit
to the discipline of the Head Mistress for what she has done, or she will be
punished according to the Walmsley Rules. We would not have given Miss
Shipman the benefit of such leniency, but for two things. The first is that
you, Carter, very generously said that she should not be punished, but
merely taught a lesson. What do you say to that, Shipman?"

"Thank you, Carter, for your most noble generosity."

"Good." Walmsley nods and stands silent for a moment; then turns and begins
pacing up and down beside the door as she continues her discourse, her hands
clasped behind her back. "The second reason is that, as an honourable and
distinguished member of the Hepplewhite battledore team, Miss Shipman is
entitled to punishment according to the Walmsley Rules, for a first offence
of this gravity. Now, Shipman, kindly state the first of the Walmsley
Rules."

Shipman's face is invisible, covered by her cascading hair and tumbled
dress. In a muffled voice, plainly quaking with terror, she recites as if by
rote:

"Rule the First. The culprit must be chastised by the injured party. The
injured party must take a standard battledore. The culprit must present
her... her..."

"Say it, Shipman!" growls Walmsley, ominously.

"...must present her naked posterior for the chastisement. The injured party
must... must... must beat the culprit... continuously... for ten minutes...
O Lord..."

"I don't remember 'O Lord' being part of the rule, Miss Shipman."

"...for ten minutes, to the best of her ability."

"Good. And the next rule?"

Shipman gulps noisily. "Rule the Second. If she cause the... If she
cause..."

"Come on, Shipman..." Walmsley's tone is dangerous now.

"If she cause the culprit to scream, the injured party must kiss that part of
the culprit's body upon which the last blow fell."

"Thank you, Shipman." Walmsley is like an icicle. From a bag by the door,
she now takes out a battledore. It is an ugly, harsh piece of wood. She
turns it over and over in her hands, then makes a sudden swing with it, as
if to strike a winning shot. It whistles in the air. "Here you are, Carter."
Walmsley holds the battledore by the neck, and now offers the handle to
Carter, who stands hunched in terror, not daring to touch it. "As Miss
Shipman says, it is you who are to administer the chastisement. Take the
battledore. Carter: take... the battledore."

Carter's hands wrestle with one another. "Walmsley, I c... I can't do it. I
cannot do this."

Walmsley stands back. "You wish Miss Shipman to submit to the discipline of
the Head Mistress?"

Carter shakes her head. "No. No." Her voice is hoarse.

"Very well, Carter. There is one last option. Shipman, the Third Rule, if
you please."

"Rule the Third. In the alternative, the injured party may torment the
culprit with two goose feathers, one held in each hand, the said
goose-feathers to be drawn from a shuttlecock. The injured party may leave
no visible part of the body untouched, and only when every part has been
touched by a feather may the chastisement cease."

Shipman falls silent.

"Yes, Shipman, what else?"

"Rule the Second still applies."

"Thank you, Shipman. Very well, Carter." Again, Walmsley swipes the air with
the battledore, before replacing it in the bag. "If it is not to be the
battledore, then it is this." She brings out from the bag a shuttlecock.
"Take two feathers, Carter - or Shipman goes to Mrs Cunningham forthwith."

With quaking fingers, Carter plucks two feathers from the shuttlecock.

"You understand the rules, Carter? Are you prepared to abide by them?"

Carter gulps, then nods rapidly. She seems more afraid even than Shipman.

"It is now your duty to carry out the chastisement according to the second
and third rules, as you have agreed. This is upon your honour, Carter. Once
more I ask: do you agree to abide by the rules?"

Carter nods. "Yes."

"Very well. There are other rules which need not detain us now: they apply
only when the injured party breaks one of the first three.  The penalties
are dire, but I cannot imagine you, Carter, having given us your assurance,
being the first to... Well, well... I shall wait just outside. The
chastisement may proceed."

Carter waits until Walmsley has closed the door behind her, and then listens
as her footsteps recede along the path. Finally, she turns to contemplate in
silent wonder the long, naked legs of her helpless victim. For an instant
she recalls the graceful swell of Diana the Huntress's marble calf, crafted
with all the loving eye of the artist. But what much greater artist could
have conceived these firm, fresh young limbs? For a moment, Carter reaches
out to touch, but then draws back with a gasp. Her eyes travel up, up to
marvel at the sweetly rounded hips; and there, at the secret meeting-place
of those two lovely limbs, nestled, refuged between them, shy yet striking,
as if it had grown in the notch of a bough, the deep-cloven peach.

"Oh..." Carter breathes, spellbound to see for the first time the anatomy of
woman.  It is nothing, nothing like the illustration in Miss Paulson's book.
A crease, yes, a curious smile - and is there not, perhaps, a suggestion of
a pink tongue lurking between those grimly-smiling, taciturn lips? And just
above, like a pink, wrinkled knot, the place from which... Carter cannot
even bring herself to think the thought. And yet it seems clean, modest,
natural - not some hideous scar or deformity, but part of the whole. She is
overwhelmed by a sudden sense of tenderness, almost pity. And there is a
gentle warmth, a subtle fragrance that makes her breast full and heavy,
tingling with unknown excitement.

Shipman, maddened by the gusts of Carter's hot, impassioned breath upon her
most intimate places, groans in frustration. "Carter, I beg you: the
sooner you begin, the sooner this is ended, for both of us."

With a heavy sigh, Carter kneels. Cautiously, experimentally, she touches
the tip of one feather to the sole of Shipman's foot. At once Shipman gasps
and jerks the foot away, jarring her shin against the back of the armchair.
Clearly, this will not work. Sighing again, Carter lays down one of the
feathers and grasps Shipman's ankle firmly. Then, with gentle strokes, she
begins painting the feather across the skin of Shipman's foot, working
methodically from heel to toe.

"Aah! Aah!" gasps Shipman, exasperated, violently wriggling her toes,
shaking her head, clenching and unclenching her hands.

"Goodness," thinks Carter, astonished, "how sensitive she is!" And indeed,
it is really quite fascinating how violently Shipman seems to react to the
very merest brush of the feather.

"Carter! Aah! Carter! You've done that bit! Ah ah! Stop it! You've got to
move on! No! No!"

As Carter's feather slowly approaches Shipman's writhing toes, Shipman's
shuddering breath gradually collapses into desperate, whinnying laughter. And
as she begins to torment the toes, the laughter becomes increasingly
high-pitched, until Shipman lets out a piercing squeal. Carter jerks the
feather away and waits for Shipman to get her breath back.

"Ahh... was that a scream?"

"No... I think I'd call that more of a... squeal, don't you know."

"Ah. Yes." Carter proceeds to work her way up Shipman's shin to the knee.
Shipman seems to have gained a little self-control, and manages to restrict
her reactions to violent agitation and hectic breathing. By now, however,
Carter is beginning to enter into the spirit of things, making little soft
whooping noises as she sweeps the feather along; and this has the unforeseen
effect of weakening her victim's resistance, so that when she finally
arrives at the sensitive back of Shipman's knee, Shipman begins to howl with
laughter once more and plead for her tormentor to move on.

Carter decides to attack the other leg next, beginning as before with the
foot. And as Shipman tires, pounding the armchair with her bound fists and
howling in desperation, Carter laughs and teases more and more: she is
beginning to enjoy herself. Indeed, she is enjoying herself quite
immoderately, laughing almost as much as her victim, and vaguely aware of
the dampness at her crotch. Normally she would be ashamed, but the
comparative indignity of her victim allows her to forgive herself. Besides,
she is now becoming quite an expert with her feather. It is all a matter of
suspense and timing: she gives Shipman a few moments to recover, then -

"Whee!" she cries, drawing the feather up from Shipman's ankle to that
deadly sensitive spot behind the knee; and Shipman screams. This is
wonderful, simply wonderful. She has to do it again, and she does. Shipman
screams again. Carter is helpless with laughter for a moment, and this
allows Shipman time to recover her wits.

"Just a moment, Carter," she says breathlessly, as she feels Carter grasping
her leg in preparation for another attack. "I screamed."

"Oh."

"You remember the rules, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Right. Well you've got to kiss me just where the feather was when I
screamed."

"Yes, you're right. That would have been about here, wouldn't it?" Carter
pokes the back of Shipman's knee with the tip of the feather, causing
Shipman to buck.

"So now you must kiss me there."

"Hmmm..." Carter turns her head this way and that, wondering how to approach
the task. Finally, she puts down the feather and grasps Shipman's thigh with
both hands, then cocks her head to one side and moves in with her lips.
Shipman's skin is beautiful: lustrous in the dim winter afternoon light that
strains in through the little cottage window, its smooth vulnerability is
heightened by the discreet tracery of blue veins. And as she nears her
target, Carter feels the warmth, smells the delicate scent of clean, fresh
maidenhood.

Shipman has been moaning in delight for some moments, for, quite without
thinking, Carter's hands have been doing what hands naturally will when
presented with a young woman's thigh; and, weakened already, Shipman
suddenly becomes aware that her nipples are bursting, her crotch on fire,
and the delicate, inquisitive creeping of Carter's fingers - unspeakably
delightful - is propelling her toward climax. And then she feels the brush
of Carter's hair, and then the kiss - warm, passionate - why, Carter is
actually licking her, tasting her!  In an agony of pleasure, Shipman rocks
her hips, trying to agitate her pubis on the back of the armchair. It is
just - only just - enough, and suddenly Shipman is groaning, groaning in a
mixture of surprised pleasure and anticipated release from the torment of
desire.

Carter is amazed, for all of a sudden Shipman's satin thigh has erupted into
a rash of prickles. She draws back, amazed: this is more than goose-flesh.
Wonderingly, she runs the palm of her hand lightly over Shipman's rump as
Shipman frantically rocks her hips in an attempt to wring out the last drops
of sensation - with only partial success.

"Are you all right, Shipman?" asks Carter, unnerved by this evidently
violent seizure.

But Shipman can only moan, "My God... My God..." over and over again,
twitching and shuddering.

And then Carter looks up, and sees, and is further amazed. For what had been
a neatly-cloven peach has swollen, ripened and burst magnificently open.
"Oh... perhaps it is like the illustration after all. Wait a minute." She
goes to the table and opens the heavy book at the bookmark. Yes: there it
is. She inverts the page, kneels behind Shipman again and looks from one to
the other, comparing. "Oh my... why, yours is almost like a flower," she
murmurs.

"Carter, what are you doing?" asks Shipman, annoyed.

"Just having a look. Comparing with the book."

"O please, Carter, can we not get this done?"

Carter sighs, lays the book aside, picks up her feathers and begins to work
on Shipman's thighs. All Shipman's resistance seems now to have crumbled.
Carter is enthralled. Time and again she raises squeals and gales of
laughter as she wields both her feathers, sometimes attacking with both in
tandem, sometimes roaming independently. Shipman is in a frenzy now, her
shapely posterior writhing in delightful desperation, her knees jerking and
trembling in the agony of overstimulation. Soon Carter finds it effective to
draw a single feather from the knee right up the back of the thigh, and then
perform some mischievous detour upon Shipman's rump: this elicits the most
delightfully musical yelps of outrage. And then, having played an arabesque
just on the point of the buttock, finally Shipman screams.

"Oh..." gasps Carter, suddenly aware of what she has done. She blushes
scarlet.

"You've... you've made me... scream again," pants Shipman. "Come on, you
know the rules."

Eyes clenched closed, Carter pecks a kiss on the apex of Shipman's rump.

"Oh come on, Carter, that's not a kiss. You just banged your face against
me. Come on, a proper kiss! Aaah! That's it! Come on, use your tongue.
Mmmm..."

Carter draws herself up again, honour satisfied. Shipman's skirts have now
fallen so far down her back that there is ample territory for her feathers
to explore. Soon she finds places, just near the bottom of Shipman's
rib-cage, which have the interesting property of depriving Shipman of the
power to breathe, forcing her to thrash in silent panic. Carter amuses
herself for a while by playing little games with these spots, sometimes
approaching them and then bypassing them, sometimes attacking them with
deadly effect.  Shipman's movements, particularly the sinuous flexing of her
spine and the helpless gyration of her pelvis, are compulsively delightful
to watch:  Carter is almost swooning in erotic delight, her nipples tingling,
and a sensation of astonishing sweetness in her lower belly. She has never,
never had such fun.

After a while, Carter decides to allow Shipman a brief respite; and then,
with infinite mischief, she places one feather on Shipman's back, in the
deep channel of her spine, just where it emerges from the tumble of her
skirts, and draws it slowly, slowly up, across the plateau, and into the
cleft of Shipman's bottom, slowly approaching the most unmentionable place
of all. As the feather gets closer, Shipman's gasping gives way to
hysterical squealing.  Delighted, Carter repeats the procedure several
times. She is not sure, but there is something in Shipman's vocalizations
which seems to dare her to draw the feather ever lower. So she does, and is
rewarded by an extraordinary yell of surprise, delight and - strangely -
triumph. Carter's fascinated gaze cannot miss the florid tumescence of
Shipman's private parts now: they are positively gaping, gleaming with
moisture and rich with a strange, bittersweet odour.  Once more, and again
and again, she lightly draws the tip of the feather down over these most
sensitive, hidden parts, and finally, in a rush of devilment, twirls the
feather-point in the deep valley of Shipman's anus. Shipman screams again
and again, as if in monstrous jubilation. Carter roars with laughter, as if
she has accomplished Shipman's most complete humiliation. She staggers
backwards, helpless with delight, pointing with one of her feathers, her
head back, her mouth wide with the sheer madness of it all.

Patiently, Shipman waits for Carter to recover from her amusement.

"Carter," she says menacingly. "You made me scream just then."

"I... I did what?"

"You heard me, Carter. You made me scream. Not once, but several times."

"Oh no..."

"Oh yes, Carter."

"But... But I can't."

"You must. Those are the rules. You agreed - you promised - to abide by
them. Now it is your duty, Carter."

Horrified, Carter drops the feathers to the floor. As if in a trance, she
approaches Shipman's naked, outraged posterior. True, it looks clean, but...

"And Carter: you have to do it properly. You made me scream again and again,
remember. It's your duty, Carter. It's the rules."

Suddenly, Shipman feels the contact as Carter, with almost mechanical
desperation, forces her lips into that most unholy valley.

"And tongue, Lucy, and tongue... Aaah!" Shipman begins to growl in savage
delight. "Oh Lucy! Lucy! Oh, my God!"

After a few seconds, Carter staggers back, mortified. She is not sure if
there was an unpleasant taste or not. She spits into her handkerchief, wipes
her lips. And then, in abject horror, she watches as Shipman rises, stands
upright, kicks her bonds aside and swirls her skirts back into place once
more, her eyes ablaze with lust, triumph and unspeakable menace.

Carter slowly shakes her head in disbelief. "But Shipman... You were bound!"

"Well!" roars Shipman. "You certainly taught me a lesson, Lucy! I never
thought you had it in you! The least I can do, the very least I can do..."

And then Shipman is upon her.

* * *

"And now, before we move on to the pleasanter topics of the Christmas Dinner
and our various seasonal engagements, I should like to raise as our last
business today the introduction of Science to the curriculum.  Nobody here
will be surprised to learn that Miss Paulson is in favour of it, and indeed
I am sure that nobody would object to something that will offer so much
benefit to our girls. But I thought it right to acquaint you all with our
reasons for this proposal, which I intend to put to the Board of Governors
at our meeting next week. Miss Paulson, perhaps you would say a few words."

"Thank you, Head Mistress. As many of you will know, we have been
experimenting this term with the electrical force. This has been an
introductory period for our young ladies, and as a voluntary activity I have
wished to ensure that our meetings have been interesting but also
enjoyable." Miss Paulson blushes slightly at the realization that not many
of her colleagues will yet suspect just how enjoyable the electrical force
has proved to be.

"By giving a fairly free rein to their creative imaginations, we have
already made some quite fascinating discoveries, which will need to be more
rigorously tested in the more formal sessions we would propose for next
term. With the help of Mr Jepson, the clockmaker, we have constructed some
remarkable machines designed entirely by the girls, one of which generates
an electrical flow upon the turning of a handle - this we call a generator.
Another, when supplied with an electric flow, oscillates rapidly to and fro.
Although of little apparent practical value, such a device could, with
certain modifications, be made to perform a number of useful tasks. Already
we have learned that, when applied to aching muscles, the motion of the
oscillator produces a pleasant relaxation. We therefore think that such a
device may be useful for sprains and strains - for example, in sports."

Miss Gurney nods wisely. In her opinion, sports and science, when combined,
are invincible.

"We have also seen signs of other health benefits," continues Miss Paulson.
"Quite apart from the manifest benefits of electrical treatment to the
members of our battledore team -" at this point, there are a number of
murmurs of "hear, hear" - "we begin to suspect that this treatment may help
to alleviate the symptoms we experience at... our time of the month..."
(Murmurs of interest) "and even the possibility that the period of rest may
be somewhat curtailed, thus allowing recipients of the treatment to miss
fewer lessons and have the benefit of more healthy exercise. I must stress
that further careful testing must be done before we can place any reliance
upon these very early findings, but they are encouraging, nonetheless."

Miss Paulson earnestly continues her discourse, accustomed as she is to a
raptly attentive audience.

* * *

"Now, Lucy Carter..."

Shipman has her fiercely by the shoulders, pinned against the wall. Her
long, wavy black tresses are down across her face, but her eyes blaze
through and into Carter's soul.

"...I shall repay your kindness by teaching you a lesson. And yours shall
have two parts: the first theoretical, the second practical."

Carter would like to call out for Walmsley to come to her assistance, but
she is petrified by Shipman's glaring intensity.

"First, then, little Lucy Carter..."

In fact, they are very much the same height; but Carter seems to shrink back
against the wall, her good eye held fast in Shipman's gaze while the other
seems to be trying to slink off into hiding. A lock of Carter's hair has
come loose, with a rather delightful effect. Despite the ferocity in her
eyes and the ominous quiver in her voice, Shipman's finger is gentle as she
loops it back over Lucy's ear.

"I have learned a lesson about gossip: let me tell you the story. Someone
I know, just a few weeks ago, heard a rumour about me. A rumour that I had
been doing 'unmentionable things'. As far as I know, that somebody did not
spread the rumour. Oh no: that would be bad. And this somebody never does
anything bad. She tries to keep out of trouble, this person. No: instead she
came to me, and told me that I wasn't good enough for her. That she wanted
nothing more to do with me. Our friendship was over.

"After she told me that, I was very angry and upset. I went into the chapel.
I stood there and I waited until God had recovered from his surprise. I told
him why I was there. He probably knew, because he's supposed to know
everything, but I wanted to give him my point of view. And I finished by
saying something like this: 'If, God, your son Jesus could dine with tax
collectors and prostitutes, then perhaps you sympathize. I'm not meek and
mild like Jesus; but I do recall that he hated hypocrites.  And I hereby
swear that with your almighty help, within the month I shall have that
stuck-up, priggish bitch kiss my arse!'"

Carter is round-eyed in amazement.

"Well, Lucy Carter, God helps those who help themselves. I thought to
myself: why would Miss Lucy Priggish Carter not kiss my arse? Because it's
disapproved-of. Because nice girls don't do that sort of thing. Because
you're not supposed to. You wouldn't cross your legs because people say
'naughty girl, that isn't ladylike.' You're not supposed to. And I thought:
all I need to do, in order to get you to do anything, is to convince you
that you were supposed to. I'd kiss a girl's arse if I really loved her,
Lucy, if I wanted to give her pleasure. But not you. Oh no. But you'd do
anything out of a sense of duty. You'd even let Miss Vicky Penrose kiss you
and feel your breasts happily enough, just provided nobody was there to see
and disapprove. But if someone did disapprove, why, you'd leap back as if
she'd been murdering you, and look all innocent."

"Shipman, I... I'm sorry..."

Shipman moves forward and rubs her breasts gently against Carter's.

"Are you sorry I'm doing this?"

"I... I don't know what you mean."

"Does it feel nice?"

Carter bites her lip and nods. She cannot look Shipman in the eye now.

Shipman draws away again.

"Lucy, look at me. Do you know the difference between me and you? I do
things because I want to. I refrain because I don't want to. Does that make
them wrong? Does that make them right? And you: you do things because you're
told to. You refrain because you're told not to. Does that make it right?
Does that make it wrong? Was it really your duty to kiss my arse?"

"Shipman, Shipman, I don't know..."

"When I believe something is wrong, Lucy, I don't want to do it. When I
believe something is right, I want to do it. Sometimes I get it wrong. But
when I do the right thing, Lucy, it's because I want to do the right thing.
Not because someone told me to do it. Don't you see? You're just a little
child, Lucy.  I'm not a saint, but at least I'm trying to be a woman."

"Oh Shipman... I'm so, so sorry..."

Shipman takes Carter's head in her hands. "I forgive you. Some people,
knowing where it's been, wouldn't dream of kissing that filthy mouth of
yours. But actually it's not filthy. I was very careful to make myself extra
clean for you. And it's a nice arse, isn't it?"

Carter looks down. She nods. "Yes," she whispers.

"Here's a proper kiss, then," says Shipman. And yes, it is: Carter melts in
her arms. Penrose never kissed like this. She parts her lips, and Shipman's
tongue teases them lightly, deliciously, making her squeal softly again and
again in delight. Shipman's fingers, squeezing her bottom; Shipman's
breasts, pressed against her own; Shipman's tongue, licking her gums,
tickling her palate -

"Oh! Oh!" she cries, as Shipman breaks the kiss. Her legs can hardly support
her weight.

"Now for the practical part of the lesson," says Shipman, still speaking
smoothly despite her own laboured breathing. "This is a lesson you will
never, never forget. Come on: get over that chair."

Carter is too overwhelmed to resist. Shipman propels her, gives her a gentle
push and she topples headlong over the back of the armchair. In an instant,
Shipman has raised her skirts up, right up, and in the next has cast them
over her head, leaving her immured in a black tent. In a moment, she feels
Shipman's breath on her naked, vulnerable posterior. It tickles.

"O don't... O don't..." she moans in terror. She feels Shipman's fingers,
stroking her. It tickles madly. "O please! Please no!" she squeals.

"I don't aim as high as you do, Lucy," comes Shipman's voice, "But I can
be sure that I shall hit my target."

Before Carter has the chance to consider the meaning of these words, she
feels Shipman parting her, pulling her apart. It is strange. She does not
know where Shipman is touching her. And then she feels Shipman's hair on the
backs of her thighs. It tickles. She cannot help herself giggling sobs, or
sobbing giggles. But then there is something else. Shipman is touching her
very lightly somewhere. She has never felt anything like this before. She is
not even sure now if Shipman is touching her at all. It is as if her whole
body has been turned inside-out, and now, in some hitherto unknown place,
something is touching, just very softly, and her head is spinning, it is so
strange, so completely unknown, and it is taking away her thoughts, there is
nothing but this strange something, so soft, so very slow and gentle, that
is all, and there is this great pit, she is right on the edge, it is so
deep, and yes, it is still there, still slow and  gentle, and this is what
the end will be like. To fall into this pit. To fall, fall... And it is
incredibly soft, and yet...

"O Ship...!" Lucy wails. "O Ship...! O Ship...!"

And yet... on and on, this soft thing, probing gently on the outside inside,
until it has got her. Got her now, pulling her, wrapping her around,
consuming her, devouring her...

"O Ship...!"

But all is well: her body is pulling itself together again, every single
part now fitting so sweetly together, pulsing, pulsing, finding its proper
place, and now there is Shipman helping her up, kissing her, reassuring her,
holding her.

"There," says Shipman tenderly, helping her into the armchair. "Taste! Go
on, taste!"  She puts her finger into Carter's mouth.

Carter tastes. She sucks. It is strange.

"That is the taste of a woman. That is what you are."

Before Shipman has finished gathering up the evidence of the afternoon's
activities, Carter's torpor has subsided into sleep. Shipman goes to the
window. Good old Walmsley: still on the look-out. Hurriedly, she lifts her
skirts. "I wonder, if she turned and saw me, whether she'd know what I was
doing," she thinks. But she does not care. After the first gentle touch, she
cares about only one thing.

* * *

At the click of the latch, Walmsley turns. It is Shipman, of course, gaily
flicking back her long, dark, wavy hair, carrying the bag. Her step is
jaunty and her eye merry, as if she has just learned a tremendous joke
which she is now beside herself to impart to any who would listen.

"All well?"

"Of course. But thank you for your concern, Walmsley - and for your help.
You're a dab hand with rope, I must say.  The Walmsley Rules worked
beautifully.  Interesting little games you aristocratic types must play.
Oh, and speaking of aristocracy, I have a little test for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Take the bag. Now smell my fingers. This first... Now this. Which is
which, h'm?"

"Let me smell again..." But Walmsley is clearly baffled.

"Shall I tell you, then? Surely, dear Walmsley, there must be something
wrong with your nose. This alone -" she loftily flicks the fingers of her
left hand in Walmsley's face - "has the distinctive bittersweet Romanov
twang.  This, on the other hand, is the fragrance of the sans-culottes!"

Walmsley laughs good-naturedly. "And Carter?"

"Oh... Dear Miss Carter had a most exhausting lesson, and is now having a
nice little afternoon snooze."

Shipman begins to walk away.

"Shipman, you're incredible," Walmsley chuckles, shaking her head slowly.

Shipman stops suddenly and wheels round.

"Walmsley, I'd be obliged if you didn't call me 'Shipman'. From now on, I'd
prefer simply 'Ship.'"

Walmsley cocks her head to one side, amused. "Ship."

"Yes. Ship."

And she skips away, light as an autumn leaf.

* * *

End of Part IVc.

(Continued in Part V.)
