The story continues. Read Chapter Ten by Posy Churchgate here
I have always thought of Belinda Coningsby-Firth as one of the slower witted girls at the school. She is pretty, that much I have to admit, and I doubt her lack of intelligence will be a barrier to contracting a good marriage. It may well turn out to be an advantage. Very few St. Faith’s girls amount to much academically and I have long felt that the role of the school is to equip them with a modicum of the social skills needed for their future roles as consorts to politicians and businessmen. If they are lucky that is. It is true that Delilah Carless won a place at St. Scholastica’s College, Oxford but that had more to do with Sir Reginald making a large donation to the college than to her academic ability. She struggled with the course and not even Sir Reginald’s money could save her from being sent down when she was caught for a second time with an overnight male visitor in her rooms. This was very embarrassing for Sir Reginald but, I rather think, a blessed relief for everyone else involved. Delilah now spends her time with an utterly ghastly young man who is, I am told, a racing driver, and keeps what I consider the most undesirable company. That she was once Head Girl here only increases my disappointment.
I hope for rather better for Coningsby-Firth although she is at that age where one is unsure whether her crushes on other girls are the usual adolescent passionate friendships or signs of a longer-term Sapphic disposition. I have noticed her recent closeness to Lotbiniere. The French girls is, I suspect, just using her although one cannot exclude some perverse attraction on her part. She is French after all.
There is a knock at the door.
Belinda Coningsby-Firth walked in, head bowed. I noticed she was shaking. She was afraid. Good.
“You asked to see me Miss Ranson.”
“I did. I need to talk to you about Lotbiniere. You have become close I believe?”
“You can tell me. Do you think I don’t know that girls of your age have special friendships?”
“Miss, we are friends, we like to do things together we..”
“She is so beautiful, she is everything I desire to be”
“In what way?”
“She has such confidence. I love to watch her ride. I always go to the tables and help her with the horse”
“Do you love her?”
Coningsby-Firth blushed again.
“Miss I adore her!”
She began to cry.
“My dear girl, these feelings are nothing to be ashamed of. I do sometimes think that these crushes are what enables a girl to cope with the rigours of school life. You all think no doubt, that I am a hard and unfeeling person but I care for every one of you. It is a privilege of my job to watch the girls grow into women as they progress through school. Next week I host the Old Faithians Annual Dinner and it is a joy to hear how girls I have taught have made their way in life and to think that I have a part, albeit small, in their development.”
I reached into my handbag, took out a clean handkerchief and gave it to her. As she wiped the tears from her eyes I continued
“Tell me one lovely thing Lotbiniere has done for you.”
“Miss, she lets me polish her riding boots.”
“And do you enjoy that?”
“I do. I spend hours on them when I should be doing my prep. I have to make them gleam.”
“She tried to kiss me last week.”
“Kiss you? How?”
“She grabbed me as we were walking back from the stables, she pulled me towards her, she tried to push her tongue into my mouth but I fought her off. It is disgusting isn’t it Miss? I mean two girls”
“Are you still friends?”
“We are Miss. I love her so and I want to do what she wants to do. I mean…”
“It’s not disgusting at all. It is called Sapphic Love”
I went to my bookshelf and took down a parallel text edition of the poems of Sappho.
“Read these and see for yourself how beautiful it can be.”
“Thank you Miss.”
I took a cane and sat down in the armchair.
“No need to be afraid girl. Come and stand in front of me.”
She stood before me and I could see fear in her eyes again. This was a good thing.
“Take your skirt and knickers down.”
After a brief hesitation she complied.
“Lift up your blouse so thar I can get a good view.”
“What of Miss”
“The glories of your womanhood.”
I took the cane and with the end ran it up from the perineum, over the slit to rest on her clitoris. She winced and then relaxed. I mean it is not unpleasant for a girl to have her clitoris softly stroked is it?
“What is this?”
“I’m sorry I don’t know”
“It is the clitoris. And what purpose does it serve?”
She remained silent, went red again.
“It serves no purpose but to give you pleasure. It is one of the greatest pleasures of being a woman to have this beautiful, beautiful, bud. I want you to yield to Lotbiniere the next time she tries to kiss you, to put your hand down her knickers, to stroke her clit, softly, slowly, then more quickly, to make her scream with pleasure. That which we call orgasm.”
“I rather think you know what an orgasm is. I don’t believe that girls of your age haven’t discovered your clits and the delights it gives. Am I not right?”
She said nothing.
“Pull your skirt back up girl.”
I walked over to my desk and took a new exercise book out of the drawer.
“In this book you are to record everything you do with that French slut. You will report to me every Friday at 4 o’clock and bring the exercise book with you.”
She looked at me, bowed her head, and began to cry again.
“And if you don’t you will feel my cane. Is that clear?”
She nodded then turned and left without another word.
This had been a good day. Now that we were into the spring and the Easter holidays were approaching, the weather had improved and longer hours of daylight always improve the mood. After supper I sat in my lounge with a glass of gin. I switched on the wireless and turned the knob to find the Home Service for the news.
Society Madame Catherine Spencer-Harrington had been arrested at her Soho business premises and charged with brothel keeping and several counts of living off immoral evenings. I smiled. I imagined her humiliation at being led to a police car, the flash bulbs of the press corps highlighting tears and smudged makeup, before being locked in a cell, shaking and weeping. I put my hand down my knickers and found my clit. This was going to be a very good evening.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness