The story continues. Read Chapter 12 by Posy here
They call it hubris and it is always followed by a fall. Catherine Spencer-Harrington, in her insufferable arrogance, assumed that she was untouchable. She was, after all, the wealthy and privileged elder daughter of a Conservative MP and landowner. What she failed to consider was the thing that compromised that privilege. That she is a woman and that, when the reputation of powerful men is at stake, women are expendable.
The last time that she was seen in public was when she was driven away from the Old Bailey in a back Wolseley, wedged between two stern, unsmiling prison officers. Earlier she had collapsed in the dock as the sentence of two years’ hard labour was passed. By the time she left the court building she had regained her composure and looked angry and defiant. I had no doubt that the regime of Her Majesty’s Prison Holloway would knock the defiance out of her. For a woman who was accustomed to wearing the haute couture dresses of Norman Hartnell and Christan Dior, it could only be traumatic to put on the prison garb of huge grey knickers, a rough, grubby, ill fitting bra, and a shapeless blue dress. And a few days on her knees polishing floors should serve to cure her haughtiness. I have to say the thought of it rather excited me and I felt myself getting wet as I sat at my desk thinking about it.
I had, too, school business that was occasioning arousal. As instructed, Belinda Coningsby-Firth had left her notebook in my pigeon hole and I had lain in bed reading about her erotic exploits in the bathroom with the French girl. This morning they were both instructed to come to study at four o’clock dressed in their PT kit of aertex blouse, green, pleated skirt, grey socks and plimsolls. They, too, were to be humiliated, particularly Lotbinere. It is only right that the arrogant are brought low. “He hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts” as we pray in chapel every Sunday. It was a pity that a number of past and present girls had been insufficiently attentive at Evensong.
They stood before me, heads bowed, as I read aloud from the book of shame.
“Did you enjoy being touched Lotbiniere?”
“No Mademoiselle” she said quietly, a slight tremor in her voice,
“And you, Coningsby-Firth? Why did you think these were appropriate things to do?”
“Please Miss Ranson, I love Bin with all my heart. I told you and you said..”
“And what did I say?”
“You said, Miss, that the love of a girl for a girl is beautiful, that I should not be ashamed of it and that….”
“I sad no such thing.”
“Miss, you touched my little bud and you told me”
“That is an outrageous lie Coningsby-Firth! I said no such things. If you repeat them you will back here for a mouth soaping. And you know that is one of the cruellest punishments in the school don’t you?”
She shuddered, no doubt at the memory of her classmate Lucinda Forbes-Lester who had been made to eat a bar of Wright’s Coal Tar soap every evening for a week after being overheard referring to me as a lesbian bitch. I understand the sounds she made in the bathroom where she spent most of the night had the salutary effect on the other girls that I desired. Forbes-Lester herself is now a most obedient girl, always eager to carry my bags and perform errands. Fear truly is the best teacher.
“So what did I say?” I asked.
Coningsby-Firth said nothing, went even redder and was clearly struggling to hold back tears.
“I said that God made man and woman for the purposes of procreation and that any unclean behaviour between those of the same sex is an unnatural perversion and quite contrary to His will, did I not Coningsby-Firth?”
“And you, Lotbiniere, you are from a country where such depravity is seen as entirely natural, even praiseworthy, are you not?”
“Mademoiselle, I am from a country that sees the beauty of humanity in all its forms and prize the aesthetic in the erotic expression of our humanity.”
“And who taught you those ridiculous words?”
“My father Mademoiselle. He is a man of the world.”
“He is a man of filth and depravity, an adulterer and philanderer whose infamy reaches even to these shores.”
“Mademoiselle, he says that English women are cold and frigid and that I should never sleep with an Englishman.”
“Did he? He obviously prefers that you wallow in the cesspit of filth and depravity that is the sex life of the French? One hesitates to say marital as the French evidently do not see being married to someone as a necessary precondition of indulging in carnal passions of the most repellent kind. Do they Lotbiniere? “
“No Mademoiselle, in our country we..”
“Shut up girl! I have had quite enough of your insolence. Both of you, take your knickers off and leave them on the desk.”
They both looked shocked and did not react.
“Just do it and when you have, you will run five laps of the playing field.”
“Miss we..” began Coningsby-Firth
“You will do as you are told. Any further questioning of my authority and you will both have a week’s mouth soaping!”
“Sorry Miss “ they both mumbled, took their knickers off and left to run round the field.
I went through to my sitting room and stood at the window to watch. I had my binoculars and watched them closely. I placed Coningsby-Firth’s knickers over my head with the crotch over my nose to take in the smell of her juicy cunt. Lotbiniere’s knickers I put down my front and rubbed my clit with them, thinking of how I would order her to wash me, sponge my back, run her hands over my breasts, soap in hand, use the loofah to make me come. I watched them closely. I could see the expressions on their faces, exchanges of words, no doubt of the kind that would earn them a mouth soaping. As they rounded the lacrosse pitch for the third time, now visibly tiring, a gust of wind lifted their skirts and their cunts and bottoms were exposed to the school, for I knew that many of the girls would be looking up from the tedium of their prep to take in the spectacle, fascinated and afraid. At the sight of this I rubbed myself harder with Lotbiniere’s knickers and came. I sank onto my sofa as the orgasm exploded through me, and , to my horror, heard myself shouting
“Lotbiniere, Lotbiniere I am yours . I am yours! Use me you French slut! Use me!”
I started in horror. I rearranged my clothing and went back to the study. No one had heard.
I laid the two pairs of knickers on the desk and heard a knock at the door.
The two girls entered, red faced, panting and sweaty,
“Mens sana in corpore sano” I said. “Hard physical exercise is the guarantee of moral cleanliness, is it not?”
They said nothing, still clearly trying to recover their breath.
“Is it not?” I shouted.
“Both of you get on the floor and give me twenty press-ups. “
Lotbiniere flashed me an angry look and pouted as she sank to the hard, polished wood of the floor for her latest humiliation. When they had finished I sent them away and returned to thoughts of Catherine Spencer-Harrington. I wrote a short letter and put it in an envelope on which I wrote the address
Miss Sarah Holliday,
Her Majesty’s Prison,
I sealed the envelope with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation. I was feeling aroused and needed to go to my room. I looked for a postage stamp in my top drawer and realised to my horror that the papers I had been so careful to have recovered from Spencer- Harrington’s office had gone. I had to find the culprit quickly. I ordered an immediate search of the dormitories.
Posy will continue the story soon.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. For more wickedness click here,