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Subject: {ASSM} Pavlova's Bitches Part 3b (fF,ff)
Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2000 20:10:03 -0500
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This episode contains a French lesson.  For those who don't know
French, and to assist people who have trouble with the accent
characters, there are some explanatory notes at the end of this file.

As ever, my grateful thanks to Denny for his attentive proof-reading,
and to those wonderful friends who have encouraged me to continue.

---

Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@nerve.com

Part IIIb


Late that evening, there comes a knock at Miss Paulson's door.

"Come in," Miss Paulson moans in despair. Her heart is hammering: the
very thought of further intimacy with Carry fills her with a mixture
of
joy and panic, and it is the panic that is predominant. She knows that
once unleashed, she will be unable to control her passion - and to
what
disgrace or tragedy would that lead?

And that is why, for the past quarter of an hour, she has steeled
herself to end this folly: she has recited once again the speech she
composed in her mind this afternoon, re-enacted the scene in her mind.
She will stand just so, her hands just so, expressive of resolution.

"Miss Walmsley!" she will say in a clear, firm voice.

"Yes, Miss..." Carry will be deferential, as always.

"This simply cannot go on. Your parents expect you to marry. I am your
teacher, entrusted with your virtue. Your good name as Head Girl, mine
as a Senior Mistress, and that of the school cannot be tarnished by
scandal. Miss Walmsley, I must ask... no, I must demand, that whatever
affection you feel for me you should henceforth channel into pure
thoughts, hard work, greater achievement, and the good of your family
and your school. And I must require that in future you confine your
discourse with me entirely to that which is proper to our standing as
teacher and pupil. Is that quite clear?" The clenched fists: they are
important. The commanding nod of the head. And Carry will respond,

"Yes, Miss..." - sadly, to be sure, but obediently.

And then she will turn, and she will look thus... just a little over
Miss Walmsley's head, the stern glare of duty!

But what has happened? She has heard those dainty footfalls, that
little hesitation on the step, that musical little gasp of emotion -
and now, a sudden, rapid, tremulous knocking; and in her mind's eye
she
sees, as if upon a mountain-top, outshining all heaven's rays, that
vision of beauty now standing upon her doorstep - knows, too, that if
once she weakens and turns to confront those clasped hands, that
yearning breast, those ruby lips, those pleading, innocent, lapis
lazuli eyes, she may as well cast herself upon the ground in worship.

In despair, clenching those fists not in resolution but in
desperation,
"Come in!" moans Miss Paulson. And there it is, that familiar yet
unfamiliar sound: the click of the latch, the light feet upon the
flagstone, the closing door. Together, alone.

"Miss Walmsley!" she tries to say; but it is nothing but a sob of
breath.

"Miss Paulson, I must apologize for my unseemly behaviour. It is with
the sincerest regret that I beg your forgiveness for my..."

Miss Paulson clasps her hands in impulsive gratitude. O wonderful,
noble spirit! How wonderfully does this unexpected contrition ease
matters!

"...most forward and unladylike behaviour. I assure you that never
again will I address you other than in the terms of utmost respect,
and
never should I wish to bring down dishonour or scandal upon your most
respected and admirable person, nor upon the untarnished reputation of
our school."

Miss Paulson feels that some suitably magnanimous response should
issue
from her lips. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing happens.

But if she lacks resolve, Lady Caroline seems to gain in confidence.

"As you recommended in our last lesson, I have now committed to heart
the conjugations of all the families of verbs. To assure you of my
most
assiduous attention, I will now recite the chiefest of these. For
brevity, I will confine myself to the first and second persons
singular, and the first person plural, from which the other formations
follow naturally. Will that be acceptable?"

"Oh, yes, most acceptable," gasps Miss Paulson, hearing Carry's words
but scarcely grasping them in her relief.

"Very well. Aimer: j'aime, tu aimes... nous aimons. Tenir: je tiens,
tu
tiens, nous tenons.  Fr mir: je fr mis, tu fr mis, nous fr missons.
S' mouvoir: je m' meus, tu t' meus, nous nous  mouvons.  Se d v tir:
je
te d v ts, tu me d v ts, nous nous d v tissons.  Voir: je vois, tu
vois, nous voyons." Carry's voice becomes lower, more musical; she
pauses seductively.  "Plaire: je te plais, tu me plais, nous nous
plaisons.  L cher: je l che, tu l ches, nous l chons.  Venir: je
viens,
tu viens, nous venons.  Jouir: je jouis, tu jouis, nous jouissons...
Have I learned well?"

Miss Paulson's breathing is beyond control. "What are you doing to
me?"

Carry seems to ignore her. "But now, if you please, Miss, I should be
grateful if you would instruct me further: for I find that our
textbooks
do not teach all the words I need."

There is the rustle of clothing. "Carry! What are you doing?"

"I do not know the words I should say... Perhaps they are not
ladylike.
But in French, they would not be improper, surely?"

"No, no, Carry, words cannot be improper, unless they are used to
slander or to contemn... But child, what are you doing with your
dress?"

"There... it is off... all quite... off. Now Miss, I pray, what is the
name in French for this?"

"I cannot see what it is you are talking about."

"I do not wish to use an unladylike word. I find that I must... point
my...  finger."

Orpheus cannot have looked upon Eurydice with greater dread; for it is
to incur her own undoing that Miss Paulson turns. Lady Caroline
Artemis
Gloriana Walmsley is stretched decorously in her armchair, quite
naked,
her lovely limbs thrown out with artless grace, her golden tresses
flowing over her breast, her slim white finger negligently designating
the navel deep welled within her flawless belly. It is a vortex to
Miss
Paulson's gaze.

"This is 'le ventre,' I know," Carry murmurs, drawing her finger
lazily
across her skin, "but what, pray, is this in French?"

"Oh, Carry!"

Idly, Carry dips her finger in and out, takes a deep breath. Miss
Paulson cannot remove her eyes from that slender finger, gently
probing
in and out, caressing that velvet softness.

"It's rather deep, is it not, Miss? My governess says that's pretty. I
like to feel how deep it is. What is it in French, please Miss? I need
to know. I need..."

"Le nombril."

"Ah," she gasps, "le nombril..." Slowly, sensuously, she draws the
finger up, up the valley in the firm muscle, up between the rib-bones,
and then, her hands moving with graceful deliberation, she cups her
breasts. "And these?"

"Le sein." Miss Paulson's voice is but a tremulous whisper.

"Ha! Le sein, le sein..." Her eyes almost closed, Carry smiles,
quietly
amused. "I can't say it right.  Le sein, le sein..." The more she
tries
to avoid lisping, the more delightfully her jaw moves. "But why not
les
seins, if there are two of them?"

"The word means just... the whole area of the breast. One does not
speak
of them in the plural."

Gracefully, Carry releases her right breast and places the flat of her
right hand softly upon her left. "Le sein, le sein..." she laughs a
soft, dreamy laugh, but then sits upright, her gaze more serious and
intent. "But I need to know what to call just this one: this one, that
I'm touching. Is there a word for this, Miss? I need, I need to know."

"La mamelle."

"La mamelle?"

"La mamelle."

"They're just a little larger than most people's, don't you think? I'm
glad my hair is long, long... I like to feel my hair, just gliding,
gliding over the skin... I like the feeling. Do you ever let your hair
down, Miss, over your breasts, and feel it touch, just lightly?"

"Oh, Carry..." Miss Paulson clenches her fists in exasperation.

"I'm just making a little parting. There... do you see?" Carry's
areolae
are large and pale. "I'm just drawing a little circle round it. I know
what this is called in English. But it's not a polite word, is it,
Miss?"

"No, Carry."

"What is it in French?" Carry's voice is soft but insistent. "I need
to
know!"

"Le mamelon." Miss Paulson's whisper is hoarse.

"Mamelon!" Carry sinks back with a little giggle and flicks her finger
lightly over the tip of the nipple. "Oh... mamelon mamelon mamelon...
Le mamelon. Is that good? Am I saying it right?"

"Yes, Carry, you're saying it beautifully." Miss Paulson clenches and
unclenches her hands.

"Ma... me... lon... it's a nice word. Do you think mine are too big?
They're much bigger than most people's, aren't they? Do you think
they're ugly?"

"No, Carry, they are..."

"But oh, they're funny, Miss. I like to take my hair like this..." she
takes a bunch of her hair, forms it into a little soft brush and
circles it round and round the nipple. "And then it makes them shrink
a
little, and they get all crinkly. Haha! I like to do it to each of
them! And then I wait, and watch them go all flat again. I like to do
that again and again. Do you ever do that, Miss?"

"No, Carry, no." Miss Paulson's chest is heaving.

"You should. Haha!" Carry gives a soft little giggle. "It's nice. How
would you say it in French? Je chatouille... mon mamelon? Oh no! I
remember! It must be like washing your hands! J'aime... me chatouiller
les mamelons; c'est... - how do you say 'It's nice?'"

"C'est agr able."

"Agr able... ah, oui, c'est tr s agr able... me chatouiller les
mamelons...  cel  me fait fondre... do they say that?"

"Why, no... that means to melt... oh!"

Carry raises her leg, crosses her ankle over her knee and takes her
foot.  "And now... le pied, I know, and these, les doigts du pied...
And this?" She strokes her fingers lightly over her sole.

"La plante du pied."

"La plante... that's easy. Le mamelon, la mamelle, le nombril, la
plante...  And this part?"

"La jambe."

"But doesn't that go all the way up..." again, she draws her finger
slowly up the smooth, pale skin, "...to here? Is this not la jambe?"

"Yes..."

"But what is this part of my leg, that I'm touching?" Carry strokes
her
calf up and down.

"Le mollet."

"Le mollet... le genou... And this?"

"La cuisse."

"La cuisse... That's difficult for me. La cuisse... but I like to do
this..." she draws her finger slowly along the inside of her thigh. "I
do it again and again... What's the French for 'smooth'?"

"Lisse."

"La cuisse... lisse... I must practise... La cuisse lisse...
J'aime..."
Carry seems to be breathing faster now. Her eyes are glassy, for she
sees how affected Miss Paulson is.

"Carry..."

"...glisser les doigts sur la peau lisse de ma cuisse... Is that
right,
Miss?"

Miss Paulson staggers: again those agonizingly sweet motions of the
jaw!  "Carry..."

Eyeing Miss Paulson's ill-suppressed agitation with a calculated air
of
innocence, Carry raises her leg and rests her ankle upon the arm of
the
chair, pointing her foot gracefully.

"And this is la fesse, isn't that right, Miss? So could I say 'J'aime
glisser les doigts du genou jusqu'  la fesse'? - Oh, look what's
happened!"

"Carry, Carry, my God!"

"It's tingling so much. I have to! I have to! And does yours, too?
Oh!"

Miss Paulson's self-control has finally snapped. The teacher falls to
her knees, showering the breast of her beautiful pupil with ardent
kisses. How sweet the smile of her lovely pupil - how sweet, and
wickedly confident!

"Aaah... let me...  undo... this beautiful red hair... Oh Miss
Paulson,
Miss Paulson..."

"Carry... Oh Carry: don't call me 'Miss Paulson'. Call me Georgie."

As they kiss, Carry buries her fingers in Miss Paulson's hair, brushes
it out into a dense copper-gold curtain.

"Beautiful, beautiful Georgie... I'm getting cold," Carry moans
softly,
and then whispers into her lover's ear, "Georgie... darling... take me
to bed."

* * *

Her mind in turmoil, her heart hammering, Carter creeps away from the
window. Of course, there had been whispers. She ought not to be
surprised.  Everyone knew about Walmsley.  But Miss Paulson - well!
Shipman's little diversions rather pale into insignificance, do they
not, in the light of this revelation?

Carter turns off the path to the main building, directing her steps
towards the rose-garden. Soon it will be dusk, and the bell will call
her to night assembly. But now she needs time to think.

How strangely her fortunes seem to have been reversed! Yesterday, she
was friendless, universally derided. Today, she has a mystery lover,
Penrose offering her championship and at least the semblance of a
romance, Walmsley showing interest in her parentage - and since that
extraordinary electrical experience, really everyone has been most
conciliatory! Even French went out of her way to be pleasant at
supper.

But more than that: now Carter has knowledge, knowledge about the Head
Girl and one of the most highly-respected teachers in the school.

Knowledge is power, power which must be used wisely.

* * *

"Oh Carry! What did we just do?"

"Didn't you like it?"

"It was just... I am overwhelmed. I thought I was going to die."

Carry lets out a musical little giggle, which Georgie instantly
punishes with a passionate kiss:

"I suppose this is pillow-talk, isn't it?"

Carry smiles. "Yes."

"It is so delicious, just to be in bed with you, to touch you, to feel
you..."

"Mmmm..."

"But tell me... how did you find out?"

Carry giggles. "What do you mean?"

"About... I don't even know what it's called... your..."

Carry strokes lightly with her finger-tip. "This?"

"Oh Carry! My Lord! Yes! Oh Carry, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing! Georgie, darling, you're lovely!"

Miss Paulson grips the naughty hand - somewhat ineffectually. "But
Carry: I had no idea. Nobody told me. I looked in my textbook last
night, and there was nothing. This bit and that bit and the other bit,
all with little arrows and numbers, and by the numbers, their names."
She opens her eyes wide, staring into Carry's delighted gaze. "But
that
bit... the bit you touched...  there was no name. It was just number
eighteen. So I don't even know what it's called."

Carry giggles again. She begins counting, with a kiss after each
number.  Beneath the bedclothes, her finger moves slowly in time with
her counting.

"Oh Carry, I don't want it to stop, but..." She grips Carry's wrist,
as
if to draw it away - but finds herself holding it firmly in position.

"But what?"

"I don't think I'm strong enough. I don't know how you stand it!"

Carry lets out a beautifully soft, bubbling laugh. Her finger begins
to
move again. "Georgie... beautiful Georgie... I want to watch you...
seventeen...  eighteen..."

Georgie's voice is suddenly urgent: "Carry... Carry... Oh my God!"

Carry laughs delightedly as Georgie is overwhelmed once more. "It gets
easier and easier, and nicer and nicer!" And as Georgie begins to sob
in
a mixture of release and gratitude, she gently kisses away the tears.

"It's so beautiful..."

"You're beautiful."

"For so long... I never knew..."

"Well, darling Georgie, you know now."

"When did you find out?"

Carry gives a little laugh. "I was twelve."

"Twelve? As young as that?"

"Yes. It was my governess. Mrs Crichton. Dear Mrs Crichton."

"She... she told you?"

"She didn't tell me... But... if I was good at my lessons, she used to
sit me on her knee and cuddle me, and then she used to stroke my
knee..."

"Like this?"

"Yes, and then higher... and higher..."

"Mmmm. I can see why. Oh Carry I so love you..."

"And then when it began to tingle, she'd just set me down, slap my
bottom lightly and tell me to run away and play."

"And... did you?"

"After about the third or fourth time, yes. I felt for it and... and I
found it."

"And do you know what it is called?"

"No. But I have a name for it, one I made up." Carry gives a little
giggle.  "It's silly..." Her eyes are beautifully wide: they shine
like
a new doll's.  "Promise not to laugh?"

"No!" Miss Paulson laughs delightedly. "Tell me!"

"My feelie. Because I like to feel it."

"That is silly!" Their giggles subside into a wonderfully long kiss.
When they separate, they lie quietly regarding one another for a long
time, each intoxicated by the other's beauty, until eventually Georgie
is driven to confess: "I can feel it again."

"Does it tickle?"

"Well, it..." she purses her lips. "Yes."

Carry begins to touch, very gently and soothingly. Her smile is
bewitching.

But Georgie's eyes are wide in seriousness.  "But what is it for,
Carry?
It must have some purpose."

Carry giggles. "Oh Georgie, Georgie darling... You are so wonderfully
scientific! So earnest! I adore you!"

"Yes my sweet, but what?"

"Don't you know? I think it's for this..."

Carry begins to move her finger more, and it is clear that her
prediction was correct:  right from the first, the pleasure is
searingly intense.

"Oh no, Carry, not again. Honestly, dear, I really am not strong
enough...  O my God... Carry... Oh Carry..."

Close as she is to exhaustion, Georgie has no reserves with which to
resist the ferocious onslaught of the climax: she can only submit to
its devastating, terrifying sweetness.

The spectacle of Georgie's helpless abandon makes Carry squeal with
delight.  "I want to do this to you all night, all day for a week!"

"No, no..." Miss Paulson is still quaking - "Just hold me, hold me
tight...  Oh Carry darling..."

They embrace in warm silence.

"Oh, it keeps happening!" Miss Paulson gasps.

Carry kisses her beautiful companion in loving reassurance after every
violent after-shock, until finally she is still. "Mmmm... That was a
big
one."

"Darling Carry... I cannot even think. - But you... Darling Carry..."
Georgie seems quite exhausted.

"You're so lovely... Next time. I'd better go back now."

Carry straightens the bedclothes and pads to the door, smiling at the
disarray of hastily discarded clothes. She turns to blow her lover one
last kiss. Georgie is already asleep, but she blows it anyway.

* * *

"Psst, Clark!"

Clark is instantly awake. "Wha... what?" She raises herself, but sees
no one.

"Are you awake?" The voice is so quiet that Clark can scarcely hear
it.

"Who is it?" Clark half-knows, but her mind is still extricating
itself
from complicated, enjoyable dreams. She grips the side-rail of her bed
and looks down. Beneath her, a pair of dark eyes, a blur of pale face
and a smudge of long, black hair attest to the fact that Shipman is
presently lying underneath her dormitory bed. "Uh... what do you
want?"

"Everyone's asleep. Can I come in?"

The last word brings Clark immediately back to the present. "All
right."
She pulls back the blankets. "Take it off," she breathes.

"And you."

Clark's night-gown is already up around her waist; she tugs it off,
shoves it under her pillow and wriggles sideways to make room.

"You won't tickle?"

"No!"

Shipman leaps noiselessly to her feet, pulls her night-gown off over
her head, and with a little hiss of breath, slips into the bed
alongside Clark.  "Give me your hands!"

"Why?"

"So you won't tickle."

"You cold?"

"Yeah."

Shipman holds Clark's hands now, and after a few moments, she slowly
brings them to her breast. Sarah Clark knows exactly what to do, and
soon Shipman's breathing is slow and deep.

"Warming up?"

"Yeah. Ohhh... That's so nice..."

After a little while, Clark feels Shipman's hand brush her pubic hair.
She jerks away.

"Mhh... No... Had enough."

Shipman retracts her hand with a quiet giggle.

"Couldn't wait?"

"No... That nice?"

"Yeah." Shipman sucks her breath through her teeth appreciatively.

Clark's teasing becomes more gentle now: she has interesting news to
impart.

"Want to hear about Vicky Penrose?"

"What?"

"Went out with Carter today."

"Ohh... How did she do?"

"Quite well. Carter said she'd think about it. I reckon she'll say
yes."

"Really? Good for Vicky."

"Yeah, she did really well. Carter kissed her twice."

"What?" Shipman slaps Clark's hands away.

"It's true!"

With a moan, Shipman rolls on to her front and crushes her face into
the pillow. After a moment, she turns to Clark, parts her legs and
whispers "Do me! Please!"

Clark licks her fingers and reaches down. But Shipman is already wet
enough.

"Ohhh..."

"Hush! For heaven's sake be quiet, you idiot!"

"Oh Clark, that's so-o lovely!"

Clark gives a tiny giggle. She is really rather good at this, and it
is
so nice to be appreciated.

* * *

Lucy Carter cannot sleep. It is common enough to find that someone has
poured water into her bed - she is ever the butt of practical jokes -
but tonight it is far worse than usual. At around two in the morning,
she very quietly dresses and goes out into the grounds to take some
air, to calm her whirling, angry thoughts.

It is not the identity of the practical joker, however, that consumes
her interest. There is perhaps not one girl in the dormitory who has
not at some time done something mischievous to make her companions
laugh.

No: it is the much more novel and thrilling question of who might be
her mystery lover. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord" - but
nonetheless, this person must be taught the error of her ways.

Could she be trapped into betraying her feelings? Carter has
considered
various tactics:  walking to the wash-rooms with her chemise
unbuttoned,
as some of the girls do, and looking for untoward stares; taking more
care over her hair; standing more upright; affecting a more pretty
stance - but despite the strange, and rather pleasant, physical
restlessness she feels when she considers these ploys, she fears that
they will involve her in a quite unladylike wantonness. Besides, what
if the mystery lover - whoever she might be - is nonetheless able to
conceal her unnatural, base affections? This thought, while
undeniable,
incites in Carter an inexplicable melancholy.

And then, as she wanders in the grounds, an idea occurs to her, one so
cogent that she gives a little leap of exhilaration. Of course! She
must
use the knowledge that has been given to her! It is simply a matter of
identifying the rumour-monger.  And yes, there is a way... If only
Walmsley could be persuaded to co-operate...

And what sort of a person is Walmsley, really? Carter shudders at the
recall of what she saw through the window; but now that she has seen
into the pit of damnation, she is no longer sure that such wickedness
is quite so wicked as people would have one believe.

Down the path she walks, toward the silent rose garden. It is pitch
dark:  there is scarcely any moon, and that just now hid behind a
vaguely luminous cloud.  Her mind is a jumble of thoughts: such
beauty... such depravity...  such passion... Can that be love?

And then her reverie is broken by the sight of movement:  a shadowy
figure approaching stealthily beside the path that leads from Miss
Paulson's cottage. She retreats into the shadows and waits until the
figure is close enough to be recognizable. When it is, Carter feels
the
surge of power that comes from superior knowledge.

"Good morning, Walmsley." Her voice is cool and neutral as she steps
out from the shadows.

"Jesus Lord!" Walmsley spits in terror, wheeling round, fingers
grasping
air.

"It's all right, it's only the changeling girl." Carter's voice is
light, mellifluous with confidence.

"What? Carter? Bloody hell!" Walmsley is shuddering still.

"Yes. I couldn't sleep. And since you're here, I thought you might
like
to discuss my ancestry."

"Hell! Hell! Carter! Huh!" Walmsley struggles to control herself.
"Sorry, Carter. You gave me the fright of my life.  What are you doing
out here, anyway?"

Carter waits until Walmsley has recovered from her surprise before
responding.  "I've had a rather shocking day, actually, Walmsley. I
couldn't sleep."

For a moment, Walmsley wonders why; then, "You mean, after the
electricity?"

"Well, partly."

"Mmmm. It does rather wake one up, doesn't it? Er... Was that your
first?"

"Obviously."

"No, I mean the first time you've come?"

"Come?"

"You know - that amazing feeling at the end..."

"Oh, that..." Carter is beginning to understand now. "I think so...
but
I'm so confused... I believe I've learned more in one day than I've
learned in the whole of the rest of my life. May I talk to you?"

"Ah..." Carter has no business being out in the grounds at this hour;
but Walmsley realizes that she is in no position to throw the school
rules in Carter's face. Perhaps complaisance is the better course. 
"Very well, then."

"I feel as if I've gone from being a little child to being an adult,
all
in one short day."

Carter's serious tone makes Walmsley thoughtful. "'When I was a child,
I thought as a child...' That sort of thing?"

"Yes. And I think I ought to make a confession, too. You see, I have
had another rather shocking experience."

"Oh? What, pray?"

"Well... I went down to Miss Paulson's cottage after dinner, to ask
for
her advice about making an electrical switch."

"Yes?"

"Actually, it was quite late. And she wasn't alone."

"What?" Walmsley tries to conceal the thrill of terror.

"As I came to the door, I could hear voices. There was someone with
her.
Miss Paulson sounded upset. I thought perhaps I'd better not
interrupt.
But I looked in at the window. I suppose I shouldn't have."

"Oh my God."

They stop walking. They stand, both looking from afar upon the school
buildings, gloomy black against the dark velvet of the night sky. To
Walmsley, the high roofs, the pinnacles, the weather-vane are suddenly
hostile, signs of stark condemnation.

"I saw our very beautiful Head Girl..."

"Oh Jesus Lord..."

"I don't need to say any more, do I?"

"Thou shalt not be happy. That's the rule isn't it? Dare to be happy,
and suffer everlasting torment?" Walmsley's voice is already rich with
tears.

"Look, Walmsley... Don't be upset. I know, we're supposed to think all
that sort of thing is incredibly wicked and you're damned to hell for
eternity..."

"Look, Carter, what is it you want? Eh?"

"Walmsley..."

Carry stoops, holds out her hands in supplication.  "Tell me! I'll do
it!  I'll find money if that's what you want. I'll resign, I'll go
away, I'll even kill myself if I have to. Only, don't hurt her! Do you
understand?  She's the best teacher this school will ever have. If one
word, one word of this ever gets out..."

"Walmsley!"

Carry pauses. There is something in Carter's voice.

"Well?"

"You love her, don't you? I mean to say, you really, really love her?"

There is a pause.

"Yes." Carry's response is heavy with despair.

"And she really loves you. I think I saw that." Carter begins to
murmur,
as if afraid to voice her thoughts too loudly.  "I felt terrible to
have spied on you. I don't know whether it's right or wrong, what you
were doing. I used to think I did." She turns to Walmsley. "But I
promise you this: I will never, never tell another soul."

Carry collapses to her knees.

"Walmsley. Don't cry. Don't cry." Carter kneels facing her. "Get up,
Walmsley. Do you really think I would?"

With Carter's gentle reassurance, Carry begins to rise. She tries to
smile bravely, but then her face crumples once more. "Oh God! Oh God!
I'm so afraid!"

Despite her shock at the ferocity of Walmsley's emotion, Carter
embraces her, holds her tight.

Eventually, Walmsley's sobs subside, and with a final gasp she returns
Carter's embrace shyly, gratefully. But then she cannot suppress a
little chuckle.

"Carter, you're so thin! And you're cold!"

"I'm positively freezing. But I have to talk. I need to talk to
someone."

"You want to talk to me?"

"You're tired... I'm tired. But yes, if you'll listen."

"Come inside. Come to my rooms."

* * *

"So: what is it you wished to talk about? About me?" Walmsley's lip
quivers.  She still cannot quite meet Carter's eye.

"No. About me and... someone else. I don't know who. I found out
something yesterday. You know of course that people are always
remarking upon my spelling, or joking about how stupid I am."

"Well..."

"You must have heard such things."

"Well, yes."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know how to explain it, but..."

"I look strange."

"Yes."

"People seem to think it is funny or clever to be rude to an ugly
person." Carter brushes aside Walmsley's protest. "I've had to put up
with a great deal, Walmsley. From time to time, when nobody is
looking,
someone will be friendly - but not in front of her other friends. They
think it's funny to pour a cup of water into my bed. They make unkind
remarks, and people laugh.  This term it has been worse than usual -
so
much so, that I have begun to avoid people. I try to go where it's
quiet. But yesterday... Well, someone was friendly to me. We had a
talk. She told me something which explained why things have been
getting worse. I was very surprised; but after thinking about it I
believe it to be the best explanation."

"And what was that?"

"You will be surprised. For she told me that someone, I don't know
who,
has got a... crush - on me. Me!"

"Well, why not? I was thinking only today..."

"But this person is dying of shame. People laugh at you if you have a
crush, don't they? People always think it clever to laugh at love. But
a crush on the changeling girl?  She would be laughed to scorn. Don't
you see?"

"Yes, I think so."

"How does she conceal her feelings? Why, she joins with all the
others,
encouraging them to be nasty to me, making rude jokes about me, so
nobody will suspect her."

"Perhaps she's trying to hide her feelings from herself."

"Ah. Yes, I hadn't thought of that."

"You've suffered, haven't you?"

Carter nods. "For a long time. The teachers are no better. They love
to
make the class laugh at my expense. A clever joke wins them
popularity;
and I get the ridicule, as usual."

"My God..."

"I'm so tired of it, Walmsley. I want to try and stand up in the
world.
I think I can do Maths quite well. Mrs Plumley says so, and in fact
I've started on a new paper, which I shall send to a friend of my
uncle
in Russia. I want a new life. I know I'm only seventeen, but I have
suffered for enough of those seventeen years."

"I understand."

"I do not want revenge. But I don't see why people should get away
with
treating others as I have been treated. I wish to find out who this
person is, and make her reconsider her ways."

"She should be punished!"

"I do not think that would help."

"Well, she should be taught a lesson."

"Yes. But to do that, I need your help."

"What should I do?"

"Well, I have thought of something. If we could communicate some
scandal
about me - something we can easily explain later - but communicate it
only to one of the suspects, then we could wait to see if the rumour
spread or not. If it did, that would prove that it had to come from
that one person. Does that seem logical?"

"Yes. Whom do you suspect?"

"One: Emma Denning. Two: Felicity Shipman."

"Denning! Shipman! Well... It could be..."

"I want you to write an anonymous letter, and slip it into her
pigeon-hole.  I can't spell, I know that, so they'd know it was from
me. Disguise your writing."

"But won't she suspect something?"

"Address it to 'C' and sign it 'A'. That way, she'll think it was put
in
her pigeon-hole by mistake."

"Very well, I'll try it. It sounds quite exciting. But what do I
write?"

"You write that I was seen creeping out of your rooms before the
waking
bell."

"But won't people think that we slept together?"

"Exactly. If you will let me."

"What do you mean?"

"Somebody poured water into my bed last night."

"Oh no!"

"Not for the first time."

"But doesn't the prefect..?" Carry is horrified.

"You know as well as I how sneaks are treated." Carter hangs her head
in despair.

"Well, you can't sleep in a wet bed!"

"So I've found." Carter's wry grimace reveals a dogged inner strength.

"Of course I'd let you share. But Carter - suppose someone did find
out
that it was true? We'd both be in terrible trouble, you know that."

"But don't you see? If our rumour is true, but the explanation an
innocent one, then when the truth is revealed, the rumour-mongers will
be put to shame."

"Yes, I see..."

"And so, in the morning, you should go to the Head and tell her all.
You explain that I was upset and unable to sleep. You found me, you
comforted me, you treated me like a little sister. My bed was wet; so
rather than send me away, you allowed me to sleep in your own bed. And
you could add this:  that you wanted her to know the truth, just in
case any false rumours arose."

"Which they very well might."

"Exactly."

"Mmmm. That's clever." Walmsley ponders. True, the Head extols
compassion, and has spoken out against malicious gossip on a number of
occasions. But sleeping together - would she not object? Of course, it
is common enough for sisters to share a bed. Why not? It will seem so
strange after Georgie...  But then again, it could be a useful alibi.

"I'll do it."

"I think you're my truest friend." Carter smiles, and yawns.

"You've been very kind to me, Carter. I don't understand why."

Carter shrugs.  "I used to sleep with Elsie - my big sister. We used
to
cuddle sometimes, you know. I miss that now."

"She married?"

"She died nearly eight years ago." Carter speaks in a matter-of-fact
way, almost lightly. Ignoring Carry's little gasp, she continues:
"She
was beautiful, unlike me. My parents were so disappointed." She makes
the same wry grimace as before. It makes her seem far older than
seventeen.

Carry does not know what to say to this. "Oh Carter - I'm sorry."

"You can be my sister for the night, if you would like. And so you
should call me Lucy."

"Lucy: well, then, I shall be Carry. See here, we must get to bed. You
take that candle..."

In Carry's bedroom, Lucy begins to undress, placing her clothes neatly
on the floor at the foot of the bed. Carry is suddenly wide-eyed.

"You don't intend going to bed naked, do you?"

"I can't sleep in my day clothes, nor have I any night-gown here. Is
it
not a little strange that you, of all people, should be shocked, Carry
dear?"

Lucy accompanies her question with a dry chuckle and a strange ironic
little quirk of the mouth. Again, Carry glimpses Lucy's mysterious
inner fortitude, and she looks down, abashed.

Naked, Lucy stretches out her arms and does a little pirouette.

"There you are: your deformed changeling sister!" her voice is hard
with sarcasm.  She feels suddenly rather brazen. Perhaps it is her
tiredness, or the emotional extremes of the last twenty-four hours;
but
perhaps it is the extremity of fortitude. To stand up to gossip: that
requires fortitude. To be ugly: that, too, has demanded fortitude; and
so, in a different way, has the possession of secret knowledge.  And
to
stand naked before one of the most beautiful girls in the school: that
requires equal courage.  But there is something thrilling in it -
fortitude is a quality she will need henceforth, if she is to surmount
life's obstacles.

But - "No, never deformed, never!" Carry is staring. "Honestly...
Lucy... You have a lovely body."

Lucy blushes and lowers her shoulders. "With one or two blemishes."

The sudden droop of Lucy's breasts expresses a vulnerability so
winsome
that Carry cannot suppress a gasp of sympathy.  "Yes, but all the
same... You're beautiful."

"Ha! I'm really tired." Blushing now, Lucy clambers nimbly into
Carry's
bed and snuggles tight up against the edge, leaving as much room for
Carry as she can. Compared with her own, this bed is marvellously
comfortable.

"But you're thin!" Carry slips alongside her prot g e and touches her
back.

"Ee! Don't tickle don't tickle!" Lucy squirms.

"Shh! I won't. But why are you so thin?"

Lucy half-turns to Carry. "Don't you know? Who serves the food?"

"Well... The prefects."

"And the most popular girls... get the most."

"Oh, Lucy... I'm sorry..."

Lucy turns away again.

Carry puts a comforting arm around Lucy. "Shall I cuddle you?"

Lucy makes a soft little noise that might mean anything; and then, in
a
voice suddenly tender, "I'm not used to it any more."

"But you don't mind?"

After a pause, Lucy gives her head a quick shake. Even in the
darkness,
Carry understands. She moves her fingers to caress Lucy's arm. Her
least movement causes Lucy to tense and gasp. Softly, so as to soothe
her nervous companion, Carry murmurs,

"So... your family... There must be some noble blood, surely?"

"O yes. But what makes you think so?"

Carry's fingers move gently, and Lucy's breathing becomes faster once
more.

"Oh... Lucy..." Carry breathes the words as soothingly as she can.
"One
can always detect the signs of quality... You are so sensitive... Tell
me, then... whence this noble blood?"

"My mother's father - ah!... was a Russian Count... Related to the
Romanovs."

"The Romanovs!" Carry snuggles closer. With the greatest caution, and
with extreme gentleness, her fingers finally stray on to Lucy's
breast.  In a whisper that is more soothing than ever, "Does your
mother speak Russian?"

Lucy gulps, but manages to answer. "French, actually. They all speak
French in Russia."

"I didn't know."

Their voices become quieter and slower.

"Well they do. And my mother's mother was... a dancer. Of some kind."

"You have a dancer's body..."

"My mother was in the ballet."

"...Except for these, Lucy Carter..."

"Ahhh... That tickles."

"But Lucy... You've got such amazing nipples..."

Carry's touch is so gentle and so reassuring that after a little gasp,
Lucy's tension seems to evaporate; but after a few delightful moments,
she stiffens again:

"But don't touch me anywhere else! Please!"

The slight up-and-down motion of Carry's nose on Lucy's neck indicates
sleepy acceptance, and Lucy relaxes once more into new-found bliss.

A few moments later, slower and quieter than ever, Carry breathes her
good-night:

"Lucy Carter, I think you're wonderful."

"Mmmm..." Lucy yawns; and for the first time this term, she falls
asleep smiling.

End of Part III

(To be continued in part IVa.)

---

To assist those who don't know French, I append some explanatory
notes.

Accented characters: there are so many different character sets and it
is difficult to find the best plain text representations. If the
accented characters don't work for you, here is a key:

 : e acute
 : e circumflex
 : e grave
 : a grave

The following translations are literal, and appear coarser in literal
English than they would in French.

The paragraph "Very well... Have I learned well?" shows the parts of
some common French verbs. The first two will give an example:

"Aimer: j'aime, tu aimes... nous aimons" "To love: I love, you love...
we love"

"Tenir: je tiens, tu tiens, nous tenons"
"To hold: I hold, you hold, we hold"

Then, similarly with

Fr mir: to tremble or shudder
S' mouvoir: to be aroused
Se d v tir: to undress
Voir: to see
Plaire: to please
L cher: to lick
Venir: to come
Jouir: to enjoy or to orgasm

"J'aime... me chatouiller les mamelons"
"I like... to tickle my nipples"

"Agr able... ah, oui, c'est tr s agr able... me chatouiller les
mamelons...  cel  me fait fondre..."
"Nice... ah, yes, it's very nice... tickling my nipples... that makes
me melt..."

"Le pied"
"the foot"

"Les doigts du pied"
"the toes"

"La jambe"
"the leg"

"Le genou"
"the knee"

"La cuisse"
"the thigh"

"...glisser les doigts sur la peau lisse de ma cuisse..."
"...to slide my fingers along the smooth skin of my thigh..."

"J'aime glisser les doigts du genou jusqu'  la fesse"
"I like to slide my fingers from my knee to my buttock"

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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