Title: Pavlova's Bitches
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: ff,fF,f-solo,lesbian
Part: 4 of 14
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Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@gmx.net

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
cottage, 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, there is 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! It's 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 - even 
Shipman, who seems already quite recovered. Carter 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)