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Subject: {ASSM} Pavlova's Bitches 3a
Date: Sat,  4 Nov 2000 21:10:05 -0500
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As ever, my thanks to Denny for his vigilant proof-reading, which 
has spared me many an embarrassment. - O. 

---

Pavlova's Bitches 

by oosh@nerve.com 

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 house, 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, sure enough, 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! 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. She 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) 

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