Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter 11

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.

“Come in”.

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?”

She blushed.

“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..”

“Go on”

“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.”

“Anything else?”

“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.”

“Orgasm Miss?”

“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

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Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter Three

The next instalment of my collaboration with Posy Churchgate.  The previous chapter is on Posy’s blog here 

St. Faith’s School  September 1952

I have never much liked the French. I have bitter memories of 1940 when their collapse left our country to fight on alone against Nazi Germany. I was a young House mistress at St. Faith’s in those days when we had to open our doors to evacuees from the East End of London and normal school was suspended.  A couple of years later we had to close altogether after the buildings and grounds were requisitioned by the War Office. We returned to reopen the school in 1946 and I wept when I saw the state the school had been left in. I am sure things would have been different had we had a reliable ally. Not that I was surprised. My late father was a career army officer and he had a similarly low opinion of our neighbours from across the Straits of Dover. They are flashy, arrogant and deeply contemptuous of the British, not showing a hint of gratitude that we have twice this century saved them from the German brutes.

The new girl in the Lower Sixth embodies all the things I despise. Delphine de Lotbiniere is the daughter of an aristocrat who I had the pleasure, if you can call it such, of meeting when he came to visit the school last spring. He was a man of undoubted style but rather condescending. Unfortunately the school is not thriving and the opportunity of some rather good publicity could not be missed.  So we now have his daughter in our care and she has not made a good start. She has a bad attitude and I intend to deal with this.

I had my first real encounter with her this afternoon. I teach games as I was quite a gifted sportswoman before the war. My favourite game is netball and under my regime at St.Faith’s we have the best school team in the county.  All girls have to play, even French ones.

The girls lined up silently in the cold school gymnasium. Each was dressed in a white Aertex shirt, a green pleated skirt, dreary grey socks and plimsolls. Prison uniform I thought to myself as I  walked up and down the line, saying nothing, feasting on their growing fear. I stopped in front of Lotbiniere and stood watching her intently for early a minute before saying

“We are playing netball this afternoon.”

“We don’t have this game in France” said Delphine with the kind of pout that makes me all the more determined to impose my will on a girl.

“I don’t suppose you do but we have it here and I am proud of the standard to which St. Faith’s girls play.  It is a most English game and the girls and young women of our great country play it with spirit and pluck.”

She looked blankly at me. Her English was still not that good.

I reached into the sack with the positional bibs and found a particularly grubby red one for Mademoiselle. I handed it to her.

“Put this on.”

Delphine pouted again and pulled the bib over her head with obvious distaste.

“GA. What is that Madame?”

“It means Goal Attack, your position on the court girl.”

“I don’t know” . She looked at me almost pleadingly.

“Just make sure you are trying Lotbiniere. I will be watching you closely.”

I called the other girls over to choose their bibs and I soon had two times lined up on the court, blue and red. I blew my whistle and the game started.

I was watching Lotbiniere closely,  how she wandered about the court lost, pout of position how she dropped the ball around the court lost, clearly not understanding the game. The second time she dropped a ball thrown to her by a team mate I blew the whistle and ordered the girls to line up.

“If there is one thing I cannot abide it is lack of effort. One of you has not been trying in this game.  Lotbiniere step forward.”

There was an anxious silence in the gym as the French girl came to me.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

“But Madame I do not know this game in France we..”

“I don’t care. I expect you to learn. I expect effort. On the floor.”

She looked at me blankly.

“On the floor. Now!”

She complied. I noticed her eyes getting moist and this spurred me on.

“Twenty pressups. Now! Move!”

Her pressups were slow and awkward, she was clearly not used to doing them. After the tenth I paid my right foot on her back and pushed down to make them even harder. After the twentieth she collapsed panting on the floor.

“That is a very poor effort Lotbiniere.  You come here with your oh so French superiority and look at you. Remember that I am very inventive in my punishments and you will learn not to cross me. Norris, step forward!”

A freckled redhead stepped forward with a startled expression.

“Norris, I have had frequent occasion to punish you have I not?”

“Yes Miss”

“And you have learnt from those punishments have you not?”

“Yes Miss.”

“Then tell the Countess, or whoever she thinks she is, that it would be better for her to change her attitude.”

“Oh Bin, you really need to do what Miss Ransome says. She is very strict and I don’t want you to go through what I have had to.”

I smiled.

“OK girls. Back in your positions.”

I blew my whistle and the game restarted. Lotbiniere was making more effort, running more, even catching balls and shooting for goal. She has sporting talent, it is clear, but a  little beating and humiliation is clearly necessary to get her to use it.

Her first shot was a near miss. The second time, as she prepared to shoot, a defender pulled her ponytail. She dropped the ball and in a single movement, span round and slapped the girl across the face, before pushing her back until they were against the wall where Lotbiniere dug her nails into the other girl’s cheeks. The girl responded by pulling Lotbiere’s hair, some of which came off in her hands. I let them fight for a few moments,  before blowing the whistle and marching across. I slapped the other girl across the face.

“Go and get changed. You will report to my study at 9 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.”

As she ran off in tears I ordered the remaining girls to line up. I took Lotbiniere by the ear, twisting the lobe in my fingers so that she grimaced with pain. I paraded her up ad down the line of frightened, intimidated girls. We stopped for a few seconds in front of Norris who was shaking like a jelly.

“The Countess is, it seems, slow to learn. But she will learn, even if her schooldays are interminable days of suffering and misery. Some of you know what this means and you may wish to tell your friend Bin, as you call her, when you are all back on the dorm. I am going to make an example of her and her sufferings will be very public. Pour encourager les autres as the French say.”

I flashed her a mocking smile. I was quite proud of myself for thinking up that one.

“Lotbinere. Climb the wall bars, and turn round with your hands on the top bar.”

As she did so I watched the other girls. all of whom knew what was coming next. Norris was clearly struggling to hold back the tears.

Lotbiniere turned round awkwardly and clung on to the bars, her feet struggling for purchase on a lower bar, her torso thrust out, her boobs wobbling beneath her top as she struggled to hold on.

I watched her for a long moment then ordered her

“Drop your feet. You are going to hang there until the end of the lesson. And maybe you will learn this time.”

I blew my whistle and the game continued. But it was now played in a subdued atmosphere with all the girls glancing  furtively across at the hanging, grimacing, crying Lotbinere.

After the game the girls filed out quietly back to the changing room. Lotbinere remained, hanging from the wall bars. Her arms were clearly hurting.

“Lotbiniere, you can come down now. Go and get changed. And I hope you have learnt your lesson.”

She flashed me a defiant look before running off to join the other girls in the changing room. The girl had spirit. There was no denying that. And that would make breaking her all the more satisfying.

(to be continued)

The next chapter will be posted on Posy Churchgate’s blog. I will link to it here when it is published.

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Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter One

ST. FAITH’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS – JULY 1959

She walked into my study without bothering to knock, or rather swept in.  It was five years since I had seen her but there was no mistaking Delphine de Lotbiniere. She had blossomed into a woman of elegance and beauty as I always knew she would.  She radiated the confidence of a woman who thought the world should fall at her feet.  As it probably would. She had on a stylish wide brimmed hat and it was this that caught the eye.  Only on second glance did I notice the black slash neck top, the black and white circle skirt and the expensive looking leather pumps. The Lotbinieres had money, of course they did, old money too, and the fees at our school were not cheap but this….even before she spoke I thought “Dior”

“I am living in Paris” she began sitting down opposite me. “I am a model for the House of Dior and, let me tell you, it is very well paid. I travel a lot for fashion shows and things and my boyfriend is a racing driver. We have a very nice life together, oh and I forgot, I have a lovely flat in the Sixteenth Arondissement.  I am someone, even though I am still waiting to inherit Bourg La Chatte.”

“Well I am very pleased for you, it’s always nice to have of old girls of the school making their way in the world.”

Even as I said this, I was aware of how weak my voice was, of how the feelings of inadequacy she had always aroused, were coming back.

“And you, I see, are still what you always were, an embittered spinster, a nobody.”

She smiled. I looked at her, unable to reply.

Delphine took out a cigarette packet and lighter. Suddenly I found my headmistress’s assertive voice.

“I do not smoke and neither do I permit others to smoke in my study.”

“If I wish to smoke, I will smoke. I do not need your permission”

“No Delphine” I mumbled.

“Non, Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere.”

“Non, Mademoiselle”

She lit the cigarette, drew deeply on it and sat back languidly as she exhaled the fragrant smoke of her Gauloise. I began to fumble among the papers on my desk to find an ashtray.

“I won’t need an ashtray” she said flicking ash over the desk.

“Now, I think we have things to talk about, don’t we?”

“Do we?”

“All those horrible things you did to me when I was a pupil here.  Today, I think the tables are turned. Stand up and walk round here.”

I complied. I had to.

“Kneel and kiss my shoes”.

I moved in and planted a kiss on each leather pump in turn. I felt arousal, felt my clit swelling and rubbing against my rough cotton knickers.

I knelt up and looked at her. She smiled again, enjoying every second of my humiliation.

“Open your mouth.”

She leaned forward and after dribbling her spit onto my tongue, flicked ash over it.

“Swallow”

“Oui Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere”  and swallowed with excited distaste. I bowed my head and waited for thew next command.

“Ouvre ta bouche!”

The use of “tu” shook me to the core. It was a measure of the casual contempt with which Delphine felt able to treat me.  She finished the cigarette with a final sprinkling of ash in my mouth, and threw it onto the carpet, extinguishing it with one deft, elegant, sweep of her foot.

“Get your face down and lick that butt. And think of me as you do. You thought you had broken me. But nobody, nobody, ever gets the better of Delphine de Lotbiniere.”

She stood up and made for the door.

“You will remain kneeling. You will kiss the cigarette. Adieu Madame.”

She swept out just as she had swept in ten minutes earlier. I remained kneeling, my hair on the carpet, my lips worshipping the cigarette butt which was bright red with Delphine’s lipstick. I lifted up my dress and fumbled inside my huge knickers to find my clit. I began to masturbate to her. I was wet with wanting her or, rather, the exquisite humiliation that only Delphine could give.

I was about to come when there was a quick knock on the door and my secretary walked in.

“Oh I’m sorry Miss Ransom, is it not convenient?”

Note: This is the first part of a collaboration with Posy Churchgate. We will be writing alternate chapters and posting them on our blogs. I will link to Posy’s chapters here and all are going to be published as part of the Wicked Wednesday meme which can be visited by clicking here

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The Rock That Doesn’t Roll

I’m still looking for the perfect diner experience. You know, the one where you were dress up in your 50s finery, all circle skirts and petticoats, jump in a classic  car and head off to a place with the perfect decors, shakes to die for, burgers that melt in your mouth. A place where you admire the period cars outside the window and where you think that, as soon as you’ve eaten, you’re going to get up and jive or swish away to your heart’s content. So my perfect diner is a place run by people who understand that the vibe is as important as the food, who know how to give vintage looking lads and lassies  not just a good meal but a couple of hours in the 1950s. Rock 66 in East Birmingham is the latest to disappoint, all the more so as, with a little care and attention to detail, it could have been good.

The diner is a small place on a corner just opposite the Aldi at Ward End, where Alum Rock Road meets the Outer Circle. A trek into the East Birmingham Badlands for me. First impressions are not bad. Décor wise it looks like a proper diner and if the colour scheme is a bit odd at least you feel encouraged as you sit down. .

And the food really wasn’t bad, at least to begin with. My shake was good, thick and creamy, making me glad I’d been for a run earlier to burn up the calories, whilst my partner and I shared a starter of king prawns fried in breadcrumbs that was just about perfect, crispy, tasty and brought to the table piping hot.   The burgers didn’t quite reach those heights but were satisfactory, if not much more than that.

But what about the vibe? This was the big disappointment. The service was desultory and inattentive and I really don’t appreciate having to try to attract the attention of the waiting staff every time I want something.  Should I really have to ask for the menu if I want to order a dessert?

Did I say the décor looked reasonably authentic? Well two televisions playing MTV were really out of place. This is where imagination and attention to detail come in. How about a period jukebox? How about some proper period music? I asked about this and was met with blank looks. And this is the problem with Rock 66. It is run by people who are really going through the motions, who don’t feel the vintage vibe as you and I do, people who don’t have it in their soul. So it may (Alum) Rock but it just doesn’t roll.

Verdict: I would eat there again if I happened to be in the area but it is not worth a special journey. Score 5 out of 10

 

Me and My Viv

I feel like I have joined a new sisterhood. This is the sisterhood of vintage style. For anyone who has been following me on Twitter and Facebook and seen the pictures I use to give a glimpse of the real me this will not come as a surprise. I love the style of the 1950s love the cars, love the music and so on. Until recently I hadn’t got around to actually wearing vintage clothing or even reproduction vintage clothing. It was just before Christmas that on a trip to London (a girly pre-Christmas shopping day out) that I first walked through the door of Vivien of Holloway, the reproduction vintage clothing shop on the Holloway Road (just a few doors down from where record producer Joe Meek had his flat and studio). I left with a 50s halter neck dress, petticoat and accessories and a somewhat diminished bank balance, although the dress is gorgeous, both to look at and to wear, and worth every penny. I was in a pub soon afterwards in my new dress when a lady came up to me smiled and said

“That’s a Viv isn’t it?”

We chatted about our shared love of vintage and she showed me pics on her phone of the several lovely dresses she owns. This was not the first such encounter and having been to vintage fairs and joined online groups I have found a new shared interest community. It feels good to get into something new.

Not everyone I know is delighted about this. I have heard arguments that my interest is crass nostalgia for a dark and dismal decade. Those who argue this point out that the 1950s were a time when Derek Bentley and Ruth Ellis were sent to the gallows, a time when gay men were viciously persecuted, a time when racial discrimination was acceptable, a time of conservatism and stifling conformity.

This is all true but it is not, I think, the full picture. The 1950s were also a time of mass membership trade unions, a time of full employment, of opportunity and increasing social mobility. They were also the decade that saw the birth of the teenager, the coming of rock and roll, a time of increasing American influence that was not all bad, a time too, when society cautiously opened itself to foreign cultural and gastronomic  influences, for example Italian coffee bars and Indian restaurants. More importantly the 1950s were a time of serious political protest. The mass demonstration against the Suez invasion in 1956 and the Aldermaston marches may serve as examples.

Every era is Janus faced and every era defies easy categorisation. The 1950s were certainly no golden age but were very different from the mythical decade that many UKIP members are said to aspire to return to. Katharine Whitehorn, no reactionary, described the 50s as the best years of her life.

And what of the fashions? Here I have heard the argument that the fashions of the era were emblematic of the return of women to the home, to cooking, cleaning, child rearing and looking good for hubby, in short that to be into vintage is to be nostalgic for an era of subservience and oppression. I have two responses to this. Firstly, I find it is deeply patronising to the women who lived at the time to imply they were passive consumers of fashions created by men, rather than agents with the ability to shape looks and styles. And if even of the first point was true it ignores the fact that contemporary women who adopt vintage styles imbue with their own meanings, adopting them as something empowering. Some men , of course, are interested in vintage but the scene is essentially a feminine one, and most vintage businesses are run by women for women. For many of them vintage is more than a hobby, it is a lifestyle. I am always amazed at the number of young women, some barely into their 20s. I see at vintage events dressed and made up with the most amazing attention to detail. They are saying I am different and not ashamed of it. It did occur to me that there are certain parallels to the kink scene, difference as a lifestyle, and there is also an element of cross over. Last month I had a lovely conversation with a stallholder at the BBB who is getting married this year in a Vivien of Holloway dress. For her vintage and kink are both integral parts of her identity. And just as I find the sex positive women I engage with online clever and strong, so it is with my new vintage sisters.  I accept that being into feminine clothes and make-up is not for all women but for many, it is a fundamental part of the enjoyment of being a woman. And no woman should criticise them for it.

So what to buy on my next visit to the Holloway Road?  That’s a difficult one but in the meantime a friend and I have a plan, to put on our Vivs, hire a Mk 2 Ford Zephyr for the day and have a drive out for lunch at a 50s diner we know. Bring on the sunny weather!