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Subject: {ASSM} Pavlova's Bitches Part IVc
Date: Sun, 24 Dec 2000 01:10:04 -0500
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[ My warmest thanks to Denny for the benefit of his sharp
proofreader's eye. I wish him, and all my readers, a very happy
Christmas. - O. ]

---

Pavlova's Bitches

by oosh@nerve.com

Part IVc


"Hey, Miller!" Shipman hails her as they pass in the corridor at break
the next day.

"What, Shipman?" Miller stops and turns, noting Shipman's gloating
smile.

"I've just seen Miss Paulson. It worked! It worked beyond my wildest
dreams!"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Scientific Society, don't you know. Listen: I have managed to
persuade her to obtain lots more equipment - lots and lots." Miller
looks confused, but Shipman ignores this in her enthusiasm. "And I
have convinced her that you should not be subjected to the
electricity."

"You have? But Shipman, that is simply wonderful! How did you manage
to do it?"

"I explained that in order to test the new oscillating device, we
would need someone who had no experience of the electrical current.
That way, we could be sure that the effect of the oscillating device
was not in some way connected with the effect of the current. Do you
see?"

"But... does that mean that I am instead to be subjected to the
oscillating device?"

"Of course. But since you'll be completely new to it, nobody will
suspect that you've been secretly... you know."

"But Shipman... what does the oscillating device do, exactly? I
mean..."

"It oscillates, Miller. Please don't panic, dear. It is no worse than
the electricity, I assure you."

"Very well, Shipman, if you say so..."

"And when Miss Paulson asks you to volunteer, try not to look as if
you expected it.  Just your normal terrified reluctance. Do you think
you can manage that?"

Miller nods blankly, her eyes round with dismay.

"Good for you, Miller. I knew I could count on you."

And before Miller can think of an objection, Shipman has disappeared.

* * *

It is Thursday afternoon, and quite by chance, Carter enters the
dayroom to find only Penrose at her desk. She is reading a book.

"Hello, Lucy. Have you seen the professor? It was today, was it not?"

"Yes, Vicky." Lucy's face is radiant with pleasure. "He said such
wonderful things about my work..."

"Why, that is splendid!" Vicky beams her delight.

"He said that I would be welcome to come to work in his department
whenever I wished, and that board and lodging would be provided for
me..."

"And are you going to go?"

"I am not sure. I think I will wait to hear from my uncle in Saint
Petersburg. But it is good news, is it not?"

"It is wonderful!"

"And do you think perhaps that it is worth a kiss?"

"Ah, yes, Lucy... But..." Vicky clasps her hands now.

"But what, Vicky?" Lucy looks more intently at her friend. She seems
embarrassed, awkward.

"Well... Shipman... Shipman said I was not to, don't you know."

"Shipman?" Lucy recoils in scarlet anger. "What has Shipman to do with
it?"

"You see... I did promise her, and... well... one must keep one's
promises, you know..." Vicky looks down, too ashamed to meet Lucy's
furious stare.

"What is it to do with Shipman, pray?"

Vicky is wearing a pained expression now. "Well, Lucy, I... I... I
don't think Shipman would like it if I were to say, and..."

"Shipman this! Shipman that! Bah! You're like a flock of sheep!" Lucy
storms out angrily, leaving Penrose helplessly wringing her hands.

* * *

"Why, you saw the professor today, did you not? Professor..."

"...Anderton."

It is Thursday evening, and in only two days' time the young ladies
will be returning to their families for the Christmas holidays. Miss
Paulson is at her end of the table in the little cottage, and has just
completed her marking - earlier than usual, since there is less work
set at the end of term.

Carter sits opposite, contemplating a complex diagram which forms part
of her paper on the properties of springs. She seems unusually
mournful.

"Did not things go well?"

Carter sighs.

"Let me make some camomile tea," Miss Paulson suggests kindly. "You
put the kettle on the fire, and I'll fetch the pot. Then you can tell
me all about it."

Miss Paulson emerges from the kitchen cradling the pot in her hands.
Carter is now in her chair beside the fire. Miss Paulson sits in her
own armchair opposite. She resolves to wait in silence until Carter is
able to collect her thoughts, but gives her a sympathetic smile. The
kettle begins to sing, and after a brief hesitation, Carter gives her
characteristic shrug and turns to look unsmilingly into the fire.

"It went well enough, I suppose." She sighs. "He was impressed by my
work.  He said that I could come and work in his department. He would
find me board and lodging."

"Why, Carter, that's wonderful!"

"Is it? There would be no actual salary. Nor would I be allowed to
hold an official teaching position. I could teach of course - day in
and day out, if I wished. For board and lodging."

"No official teaching position?" For a moment, Miss Paulson is
nonplussed.

"The University rules state that one must hold a degree in order to
teach in an official capacity, and of course..."

"Oh, yes, of course..." Miss Paulson sighs. "And we may not even learn
in an official capacity. I know."

Both women stare moodily into the fire, until at length the kettle
reaches the boil and Miss Paulson pours the scalding water into the
pot, which has been warming on the iron hob.

Again they sit, ruminating morosely. Miss Paulson searches her mind
for something to brighten the conversation, but can think of nothing.
Finally, in desperation:

"And so will you accept his offer?"

"I said I would give it careful consideration. But..."

"Yes?"

"I think I will wait until I hear from my uncle. I do not know, but
maybe in Russia they would think more of my work. Do you think perhaps
they might, Miss Paulson? Do you think I will be ever worth any more
than a bed to sleep in, and food to keep me alive? They tell me that I
am as able at mathematics as anyone in England. If I were a man, my
ugliness would be no handicap:  I would find myself dressed in a
professor's robes. But I am twice cursed, for I am both ugly, and a
woman. Yet can I not dare to hope that one day I will be able to buy
my own clothes? Or must I resign myself to living upon the proceeds of
pity, and forever wear charitable cast-offs?"

"O Carter, Carter, don't be despondent! - Here, take your drink. It
will warm you. - I am sure that things won't be as bad as you say. You
could teach at a school..."

"Hah! The equal of all the professors in England, teaching
multiplication tables to children!" Carter shivers her shoulders, and
glowers into the fire.

More anxious than ever to distract Carter from this gloomy train of
thought, Miss Paulson decides upon a complete change of
subject-matter. She crosses the room and takes down from the shelf her
anatomical textbook. There is now a slip of paper to mark the page she
once by-passed in disgust.

"Carter, have a look at this picture. Do you know what this is?"

"Ugh! Is it some strange animal?" She holds the book high, close to
her face. "Why, no. The print is too small. I cannot read it."

"Why, Carter, you need glasses, dear!"

"Do I?" Carter looks up in complete astonishment.

Miss Paulson laughs. "Of course! Why didn't anyone notice before? I'm
so stupid! You are always hunched down over your work. I think you
must be short-sighted.  Why, we must get you some glasses. I know a
very great optician - a friend of my father, you know. We will send
you to him. I will write to your parents. Why, I think you would look
very pretty in a pair of pince-nez!  Here, borrow mine."

Carter wrinkles her nose as Miss Paulson fits them. They both laugh.

"Why, I think I can see better... a little."

Again Miss Paulson laughs. "They won't be right for you. But they
might help." She takes a candle and holds it so that Carter can read. 
"Take another look and see if you can tell me what that picture is."

Carter studies it, raising and lowering the book experimentally.

"Pu... no, I can't make it out," she says at length.

"Carter: if I were quite naked, you know, and you were sitting on the
floor, and I on a chair, and I were to part my legs wide, like this...
that is what you would see... here." Miss Paulson points delicately to
the area of her lower belly.

"Oh no!" Carter sounds scandalized. "Oh no!" Again she pores over the
illustration. "surely not!"

"Why, what did you think it was like?"

"Well... just a... just a line. A sort of crease." Carter laughs
awkwardly, then looks more intently at the diagram again. "What is all
this? Why, there's a great big hole here... I don't... Or is that..."

"No," Miss Paulson screws up her eyes with the unaccustomed effort of
reading in low light without glasses. She points. "That is where
your...  water comes from. Just there."

"But that's tiny. What's that great big one?"

"Mine isn't as big as that, not at all," Miss Paulson admits. "That is
where babies come from, Carter. I imagine that after giving birth, it
is somewhat enlarged."

"Oh... So that's where..." Carter is quite fascinated.

"And Carter... do you see this, just here?"

Carter begins to turn the book, as if to correct its orientation. Miss
Paulson hastens to correct her.

"No, no, it's the right way round. See, your tummy-button would be
about here..." - she points to an imaginary place just above the page
- "and down here, that is where, um... waste matter comes from..."

"Oh, it's just a tiny little hole. It's tiny! That can't be right!"

"Yes, it is right, Carter. I think it works like your mouth. You can
make it tiny... like this..." - Miss Paulson makes a moue - "Or big,
like this..." and she gapes, rolling her eyes dramatically. Carter
laughs, then turns back to the fascinating illustration.

"It can't be right... It can't be," she says, over and over, her voice
full of frightened, high-pitched laughter.

"But now let me tell you the most wonderful thing of all, Carter."

Carter looks up suddenly, and the pince-nez fall ridiculously askew.
They both laugh as Miss Paulson straightens them for her.

"Look here... here."

"Why, what's that?"

"We all have one, I believe, Carter. I don't know what it is called.
The people who wrote this book did not want to tell us. It is as if
people wished to keep it secret, as if they were afraid of what might
happen if we knew what it was, and what it could do. Do you see, right
at the top?"

"I see."

"If you just touch here, gently, with one finger, just here, where I'm
pointing..."

Carter gasps. "But why should I do that, Miss Paulson?"

Miss Paulson is so distracted by the difficulty of this question that
she lowers the candle, leaving them both illuminated only by the red
glow of the fire.

"Carter... Have you ever felt a hunger inside you? A hunger that will
not let you sleep?"

"Why, yes..." Carter's eyes grow round and dark. She resembles a shy
creature of the night.

"At first I thought that it was the hunger for penetration. But that
is not quite right. It is the hunger for tenderness - yes, for bodily
tenderness.  It is our woman-instinct.  We long to be held - protected
- comforted - and when these things are denied us..."

"Miss Paulson?"

"Yes, child?"

"I just..." Carter falls silent and looks down. The pince-nez fall
from her nose, and are swiftly caught by Miss Paulson. A moment ago,
they would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the incident; but
now, Carter is struggling to say something. "I just... want someone to
want me." She looks up, staring straight ahead, as if afraid now to
look Miss Paulson in the eye. "You see, I do try, but nobody..."

Suddenly Carter's brow creases, her mouth tightens, her whole body
shakes.  Instinctively, Miss Paulson puts down the candle and takes
Carter in her arms. Carter clings to her like a frightened child; and
the sudden violence and desolation of her weeping, as she buries her
face into Miss Paulson's shoulder, causes the teacher's own tears to
start forth.

"Oh Carter, Carter..." Miss Paulson whispers, "You are so young... you
have so much to give... I am sure many people want you... far more
than you think... come... drink some more of your camomile tea. Eh?"

Soon, perhaps too soon, Carter overcomes her emotion. She takes the
cup, and Miss Paulson rocks back on to her haunches. Carter sees Miss
Paulson's face, wet with tears.

"I'm really sorry," she breathes hoarsely. She gulps her tea, still
warm from the heat of the fire. Suddenly her face is older, hard with
determination.  "You are good to me. I should never have... I am
sorry." She takes a last mouthful from her cup, and sets it down. "I
will feel better in the morning." She puts a hand - almost fatherly,
thinks Miss Paulson - upon the teacher's shoulder; then makes her way
up the crude wooden stairs, in the darkness, to bed.

* * *

It is the beginning of the afternoon recreation period. Miss Paulson
is at the staff meeting, and Carter in their little cottage, where
Walmsley had told her she must wait.  For it is to be here, this very
afternoon, that Shipman is to be taught her lesson. Carter had begged
to be excused whatever strange ritual Walmsley has in mind, but
Walmsley was adamant. Carter laughs bitterly as she recalls Walmsley's
insistence that she be alone: "If only," she thinks.

At last, she hears the approaching footsteps. It is with a sense of
foreboding that she rises to answer the knock. It is Walmsley and
Benson, tall and solemn; and between them, eyes downcast and unusually
pale, a shivering Felicity Shipman.

"All well, Carter?" asks Walmsley.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Then please go up to your room and wait until we call you."

"Very well." Carter turns and hurries up the stairs. She closes her
bedroom door, not wishing to hear the low conversation downstairs. It
sounds as if Walmsley is speaking in sententious tones. She sits on
her bed, tense with anxiety. She wishes, now, that she had never
agreed to this.  "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord" - but no,
vengeance is rotten. Carter prostrates herself on the bed, gripping
the counterpane, trying to calm herself.

"Carter!" - It is Walmsley's summons. Her heart lurching in her chest,
she rises, opens the door, descends the stairs, her feet heavy, fear
like lead in her stomach.

"Very well, Benson. You go out and keep watch. Nobody must come even
close."

"Very good, Walmsley."

Carter watches as Benson goes out, quietly closing the door. Walmsley
looks grim. And finally, although she has seen her out of the corner
of her eye from the first, Carter confronts the sight of Shipman. They
have bent her double over the back of Miss Paulson's heavy armchair.
Her head rests on the seat of the chair, her long, nearly black hair
loose, tumbling to the floor.  She is reaching down, as if to support
herself, but her arms do not reach the floor. They are bound by ropes
to the legs of the armchair. Neatly placed to one side, Shipman's
plain blue school shoes. As Carter approaches, she sees that Shipman's
ankles, too, are bound to the rear legs of the chair, and she is
forced to stand on tiptoe. She is utterly helpless. But, horrifying
though this forced and degrading posture is all of itself, it is not
the reason why Carter's blood suddenly runs cold and her heart aches
in dread. No: for the prefects have gathered Shipman's skirts right up
to her waist, tumbling them down over her shoulders, leaving her
posterior uppermost, pale and utterly vulnerable.

"Very well, Carter," says Walmsley smoothly. "The senior prefects have
conferred and decided to offer Miss Shipman a choice. Either she will
submit to the discipline of the Head Mistress for what she has done,
or she will be punished according to the Walmsley Rules. We would not
have given Miss Shipman the benefit of such leniency, but for two
things. The first is that you, Carter, very generously said that she
should not be punished, but merely taught a lesson. What do you say to
that, Shipman?"

"Thank you, Carter, for your most noble generosity."

"Good." Walmsley nods and stands silent for a moment; then turns and
begins pacing up and down beside the door as she continues her
discourse, her hands clasped behind her back. "The second reason is
that, as an honourable and distinguished member of the Hepplewhite
battledore team, Miss Shipman is entitled to punishment according to
the Walmsley Rules, for a first offence of this gravity. Now, Shipman,
kindly state the first of the Walmsley Rules."

Shipman's face is invisible, covered by her cascading hair and tumbled
dress. In a muffled voice, plainly quaking with terror, she recites as
if by rote:

"Rule the First. The culprit must be chastised by the injured party.
The injured party must take a standard battledore. The culprit must
present her... her..."

"Say it, Shipman!" growls Walmsley, ominously.

"...must present her naked posterior for the chastisement. The injured
party must... must... must beat the culprit... continuously... for ten
minutes...  O Lord..."

"I don't remember 'O Lord' being part of the rule, Miss Shipman."

"...for ten minutes, to the best of her ability."

"Good. And the next rule?"

Shipman gulps noisily. "Rule the Second. If she cause the... If she
cause..."

"Come on, Shipman..." Walmsley's tone is dangerous now.

"If she cause the culprit to scream, the injured party must kiss that
part of the culprit's body upon which the last blow fell."

"Thank you, Shipman." Walmsley is like an icicle. From a bag by the
door, she now takes out a battledore. It is an ugly, harsh piece of
wood. She turns it over and over in her hands, then makes a sudden
swing with it, as if to strike a winning shot. It whistles in the air.
"Here you are, Carter." Walmsley holds the battledore by the neck, and
now offers the handle to Carter, who stands hunched in terror, not
daring to touch it. "As Miss Shipman says, it is you who are to
administer the chastisement. Take the battledore. Carter: take... the
battledore."

Carter's hands wrestle with one another. "Walmsley, I c... I can't do
it. I cannot do this."

Walmsley stands back. "You wish Miss Shipman to submit to the
discipline of the Head Mistress?"

Carter shakes her head. "No. No." Her voice is hoarse.

"Very well, Carter. There is one last option. Shipman, the Third Rule,
if you please."

"Rule the Third. In the alternative, the injured party may torment the
culprit with two goose feathers, one held in each hand, the said
goose-feathers to be drawn from a shuttlecock. The injured party may
leave no visible part of the body untouched, and only when every part
has been touched by a feather may the chastisement cease."

Shipman falls silent.

"Yes, Shipman, what else?"

"Rule the Second still applies."

"Thank you, Shipman. Very well, Carter." Again, Walmsley swipes the
air with the battledore, before replacing it in the bag. "If it is not
to be the battledore, then it is this." She brings out from the bag a
shuttlecock.  "Take two feathers, Carter - or Shipman goes to Mrs
Cunningham forthwith."

With quaking fingers, Carter plucks two feathers from the shuttlecock.

"You understand the rules, Carter? Are you prepared to abide by them?"

Carter gulps, then nods rapidly. She seems more afraid even than
Shipman.

"It is now your duty to carry out the chastisement according to the
second and third rules, as you have agreed. This is upon your honour,
Carter. Once more I ask: do you agree to abide by the rules?"

Carter nods. "Yes."

"Very well. There are other rules which need not detain us now: they
apply only when the injured party breaks one of the first three.  The
penalties are dire, but I cannot imagine you, Carter, having given us
your assurance, being the first to... Well, well... I shall wait just
outside. The chastisement may proceed."

Carter waits until Walmsley has closed the door behind her, and then
listens as her footsteps recede along the path. Finally, she turns to
contemplate in silent wonder the long, naked legs of her helpless
victim. For an instant she recalls the graceful swell of Diana the
Huntress's marble calf, crafted with all the loving eye of the artist.
But what much greater artist could have conceived these firm, fresh
young limbs? For a moment, Carter reaches out to touch, but then draws
back with a gasp. Her eyes travel up, up to marvel at the sweetly
rounded hips; and there, at the secret meeting-place of those two
lovely limbs, nestled, refuged between them, shy yet striking, as if
it had grown in the notch of a bough, the deep-cloven peach.

"Oh..." Carter breathes, spellbound to see for the first time the
anatomy of woman.  It is nothing, nothing like the illustration in
Miss Paulson's book.  A crease, yes, a curious smile - and is there
not, perhaps, a suggestion of a pink tongue lurking between those
grimly-smiling, taciturn lips? And just above, like a pink, wrinkled
knot, the place from which... Carter cannot even bring herself to
think the thought. And yet it seems clean, modest, natural - not some
hideous scar or deformity, but part of the whole. She is overwhelmed
by a sudden sense of tenderness, almost pity. And there is a gentle
warmth, a subtle fragrance that makes her breast full and heavy,
tingling with unknown excitement.

Shipman, maddened by the gusts of Carter's hot, impassioned breath
upon her most intimate places, groans in frustration. "Carter, I beg
you: the sooner you begin, the sooner this is ended, for both of us."

With a heavy sigh, Carter kneels. Cautiously, experimentally, she
touches the tip of one feather to the sole of Shipman's foot. At once
Shipman gasps and jerks the foot away, jarring her shin against the
back of the armchair.  Clearly, this will not work. Sighing again,
Carter lays down one of the feathers and grasps Shipman's ankle
firmly. Then, with gentle strokes, she begins painting the feather
across the skin of Shipman's foot, working methodically from heel to
toe.

"Aah! Aah!" gasps Shipman, exasperated, violently wriggling her toes,
shaking her head, clenching and unclenching her hands.

"Goodness," thinks Carter, astonished, "how sensitive she is!" And
indeed, it is really quite fascinating how violently Shipman seems to
react to the very merest brush of the feather.

"Carter! Aah! Carter! You've done that bit! Ah ah! Stop it! You've got
to move on! No! No!"

As Carter's feather slowly approaches Shipman's writhing toes,
Shipman's shuddering breath gradually collapses into desperate,
whinnying laughter. And as she begins to torment the toes, the
laughter becomes increasingly high-pitched, until Shipman lets out a
piercing squeal. Carter jerks the feather away and waits for Shipman
to get her breath back.

"Ahh... was that a scream?"

"No... I think I'd call that more of a... squeal, don't you know."

"Ah. Yes." Carter proceeds to work her way up Shipman's shin to the
knee.  Shipman seems to have gained a little self-control, and manages
to restrict her reactions to violent agitation and hectic breathing.
By now, however, Carter is beginning to enter into the spirit of
things, making little soft whooping noises as she sweeps the feather
along; and this has the unforeseen effect of weakening her victim's
resistance, so that when she finally arrives at the sensitive back of
Shipman's knee, Shipman begins to howl with laughter once more and
plead for her tormentor to move on.

Carter decides to attack the other leg next, beginning as before with
the foot. And as Shipman tires, pounding the armchair with her bound
fists and howling in desperation, Carter laughs and teases more and
more: she is beginning to enjoy herself. Indeed, she is enjoying
herself quite immoderately, laughing almost as much as her victim, and
vaguely aware of the dampness at her crotch. Normally she would be
ashamed, but the comparative indignity of her victim allows her to
forgive herself. Besides, she is now becoming quite an expert with her
feather. It is all a matter of suspense and timing: she gives Shipman
a few moments to recover, then -

"Whee!" she cries, drawing the feather up from Shipman's ankle to that
deadly sensitive spot behind the knee; and Shipman screams. This is
wonderful, simply wonderful. She has to do it again, and she does.
Shipman screams again. Carter is helpless with laughter for a moment,
and this allows Shipman time to recover her wits.

"Just a moment, Carter," she says breathlessly, as she feels Carter
grasping her leg in preparation for another attack. "I screamed."

"Oh."

"You remember the rules, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Right. Well you've got to kiss me just where the feather was when I
screamed."

"Yes, you're right. That would have been about here, wouldn't it?"
Carter pokes the back of Shipman's knee with the tip of the feather,
causing Shipman to buck.

"So now you must kiss me there."

"Hmmm..." Carter turns her head this way and that, wondering how to
approach the task. Finally, she puts down the feather and grasps
Shipman's thigh with both hands, then cocks her head to one side and
moves in with her lips.  Shipman's skin is beautiful: lustrous in the
dim winter afternoon light that strains in through the little cottage
window, its smooth vulnerability is heightened by the discreet tracery
of blue veins. And as she nears her target, Carter feels the warmth,
smells the delicate scent of clean, fresh maidenhood.

Shipman has been moaning in delight for some moments, for, quite
without thinking, Carter's hands have been doing what hands naturally
will when presented with a young woman's thigh; and, weakened already,
Shipman suddenly becomes aware that her nipples are bursting, her
crotch on fire, and the delicate, inquisitive creeping of Carter's
fingers - unspeakably delightful - is propelling her toward climax.
And then she feels the brush of Carter's hair, and then the kiss -
warm, passionate - why, Carter is actually licking her, tasting her! 
In an agony of pleasure, Shipman rocks her hips, trying to agitate her
pubis on the back of the armchair. It is just - only just - enough,
and suddenly Shipman is groaning, groaning in a mixture of surprised
pleasure and anticipated release from the torment of desire.

Carter is amazed, for all of a sudden Shipman's satin thigh has
erupted into a rash of prickles. She draws back, amazed: this is more
than goose-flesh.  Wonderingly, she runs the palm of her hand lightly
over Shipman's rump as Shipman frantically rocks her hips in an
attempt to wring out the last drops of sensation - with only partial
success.

"Are you all right, Shipman?" asks Carter, unnerved by this evidently
violent seizure.

But Shipman can only moan, "My God... My God..." over and over again,
twitching and shuddering.

And then Carter looks up, and sees, and is further amazed. For what
had been a neatly-cloven peach has swollen, ripened and burst
magnificently open.  "Oh... perhaps it is like the illustration after
all. Wait a minute." She goes to the table and opens the heavy book at
the bookmark. Yes: there it is. She inverts the page, kneels behind
Shipman again and looks from one to the other, comparing. "Oh my...
why, yours is almost like a flower," she murmurs.

"Carter, what are you doing?" asks Shipman, annoyed.

"Just having a look. Comparing with the book."

"O please, Carter, can we not get this done?"

Carter sighs, lays the book aside, picks up her feathers and begins to
work on Shipman's thighs. All Shipman's resistance seems now to have
crumbled.  Carter is enthralled. Time and again she raises squeals and
gales of laughter as she wields both her feathers, sometimes attacking
with both in tandem, sometimes roaming independently. Shipman is in a
frenzy now, her shapely posterior writhing in delightful desperation,
her knees jerking and trembling in the agony of overstimulation. Soon
Carter finds it effective to draw a single feather from the knee right
up the back of the thigh, and then perform some mischievous detour
upon Shipman's rump: this elicits the most delightfully musical yelps
of outrage. And then, having played an arabesque just on the point of
the buttock, finally Shipman screams.

"Oh..." gasps Carter, suddenly aware of what she has done. She blushes
scarlet.

"You've... you've made me... scream again," pants Shipman. "Come on,
you know the rules."

Eyes clenched closed, Carter pecks a kiss on the apex of Shipman's
rump.

"Oh come on, Carter, that's not a kiss. You just banged your face
against me. Come on, a proper kiss! Aaah! That's it! Come on, use your
tongue.  Mmmm..."

Carter draws herself up again, honour satisfied. Shipman's skirts have
now fallen so far down her back that there is ample territory for her
feathers to explore. Soon she finds places, just near the bottom of
Shipman's rib-cage, which have the interesting property of depriving
Shipman of the power to breathe, forcing her to thrash in silent
panic. Carter amuses herself for a while by playing little games with
these spots, sometimes approaching them and then bypassing them,
sometimes attacking them with deadly effect.  Shipman's movements,
particularly the sinuous flexing of her spine and the helpless
gyration of her pelvis, are compulsively delightful to watch:  Carter
is almost swooning in erotic delight, her nipples tingling, and a
sensation of astonishing sweetness in her lower belly. She has never,
never had such fun.

After a while, Carter decides to allow Shipman a brief respite; and
then, with infinite mischief, she places one feather on Shipman's
back, in the deep channel of her spine, just where it emerges from the
tumble of her skirts, and draws it slowly, slowly up, across the
plateau, and into the cleft of Shipman's bottom, slowly approaching
the most unmentionable place of all. As the feather gets closer,
Shipman's gasping gives way to hysterical squealing.  Delighted,
Carter repeats the procedure several times. She is not sure, but there
is something in Shipman's vocalizations which seems to dare her to
draw the feather ever lower. So she does, and is rewarded by an
extraordinary yell of surprise, delight and - strangely - triumph.
Carter's fascinated gaze cannot miss the florid tumescence of
Shipman's private parts now: they are positively gaping, gleaming with
moisture and rich with a strange, bittersweet odour.  Once more, and
again and again, she lightly draws the tip of the feather down over
these most sensitive, hidden parts, and finally, in a rush of
devilment, twirls the feather-point in the deep valley of Shipman's
anus. Shipman screams again and again, as if in monstrous jubilation.
Carter roars with laughter, as if she has accomplished Shipman's most
complete humiliation. She staggers backwards, helpless with delight,
pointing with one of her feathers, her head back, her mouth wide with
the sheer madness of it all.

Patiently, Shipman waits for Carter to recover from her amusement.

"Carter," she says menacingly. "You made me scream just then."

"I... I did what?"

"You heard me, Carter. You made me scream. Not once, but several
times."

"Oh no..."

"Oh yes, Carter."

"But... But I can't."

"You must. Those are the rules. You agreed - you promised - to abide
by them. Now it is your duty, Carter."

Horrified, Carter drops the feathers to the floor. As if in a trance,
she approaches Shipman's naked, outraged posterior. True, it looks
clean, but...

"And Carter: you have to do it properly. You made me scream again and
again, remember. It's your duty, Carter. It's the rules."

Suddenly, Shipman feels the contact as Carter, with almost mechanical
desperation, forces her lips into that most unholy valley.

"And tongue, Lucy, and tongue... Aaah!" Shipman begins to growl in
savage delight. "Oh Lucy! Lucy! Oh, my God!"

After a few seconds, Carter staggers back, mortified. She is not sure
if there was an unpleasant taste or not. She spits into her
handkerchief, wipes her lips. And then, in abject horror, she watches
as Shipman rises, stands upright, kicks her bonds aside and swirls her
skirts back into place once more, her eyes ablaze with lust, triumph
and unspeakable menace.

Carter slowly shakes her head in disbelief. "But Shipman... You were
bound!"

"Well!" roars Shipman. "You certainly taught me a lesson, Lucy! I
never thought you had it in you! The least I can do, the very least I
can do..."

And then Shipman is upon her.

* * *

"And now, before we move on to the pleasanter topics of the Christmas
Dinner and our various seasonal engagements, I should like to raise as
our last business today the introduction of Science to the
curriculum.  Nobody here will be surprised to learn that Miss Paulson
is in favour of it, and indeed I am sure that nobody would object to
something that will offer so much benefit to our girls. But I thought
it right to acquaint you all with our reasons for this proposal, which
I intend to put to the Board of Governors at our meeting next week.
Miss Paulson, perhaps you would say a few words."

"Thank you, Head Mistress. As many of you will know, we have been
experimenting this term with the electrical force. This has been an
introductory period for our young ladies, and as a voluntary activity
I
have wished to ensure that our meetings have been interesting but also
enjoyable." Miss Paulson blushes slightly at the realization that not
many of her colleagues will yet suspect just how enjoyable the
electrical force has proved to be.

"By giving a fairly free rein to their creative imaginations, we have
already made some quite fascinating discoveries, which will need to be
more rigorously tested in the more formal sessions we would propose
for next term. With the help of Mr Jepson, the clockmaker, we have
constructed some remarkable machines designed entirely by the girls,
one of which generates an electrical flow upon the turning of a handle
- this we call a generator.  Another, when supplied with an electric
flow, oscillates rapidly to and fro.  Although of little apparent
practical value, such a device could, with certain modifications, be
made to perform a number of useful tasks. Already we have learned
that, when applied to aching muscles, the motion of the oscillator
produces a pleasant relaxation. We therefore think that such a device
may be useful for sprains and strains - for example, in sports."

Miss Gurney nods wisely. In her opinion, sports and science, when
combined, are invincible.

"We have also seen signs of other health benefits," continues Miss
Paulson.  "Quite apart from the manifest benefits of electrical
treatment to the members of our battledore team -" at this point,
there are a number of murmurs of "hear, hear" - "we begin to suspect
that this treatment may help to alleviate the symptoms we experience
at... our time of the month..." (Murmurs of interest) "and even the
possibility that the period of rest may be somewhat curtailed, thus
allowing recipients of the treatment to miss fewer lessons and have
the benefit of more healthy exercise. I must stress that further
careful testing must be done before we can place any reliance upon
these very early findings, but they are encouraging, nonetheless."

Miss Paulson earnestly continues her discourse, accustomed as she is
to a raptly attentive audience.

* * *

"Now, Lucy Carter..."

Shipman has her fiercely by the shoulders, pinned against the wall.
Her long, wavy black tresses are down across her face, but her eyes
blaze through and into Carter's soul.

"...I shall repay your kindness by teaching you a lesson. And yours
shall have two parts: the first theoretical, the second practical."

Carter would like to call out for Walmsley to come to her assistance,
but she is petrified by Shipman's glaring intensity.

"First, then, little Lucy Carter..."

In fact, they are very much the same height; but Carter seems to
shrink back against the wall, her good eye held fast in Shipman's gaze
while the other seems to be trying to slink off into hiding. A lock of
Carter's hair has come loose, with a rather delightful effect. Despite
the ferocity in her eyes and the ominous quiver in her voice,
Shipman's finger is gentle as she loops it back over Lucy's ear.

"I have learned a lesson about gossip: let me tell you the story.
Someone I know, just a few weeks ago, heard a rumour about me. A
rumour that I had been doing 'unmentionable things'. As far as I know,
that somebody did not spread the rumour. Oh no: that would be bad. And
this somebody never does anything bad. She tries to keep out of
trouble, this person. No: instead she came to me, and told me that I
wasn't good enough for her. That she wanted nothing more to do with
me. Our friendship was over.

"After she told me that, I was very angry and upset. I went into the
chapel.  I stood there and I waited until God had recovered from his
surprise. I told him why I was there. He probably knew, because he's
supposed to know everything, but I wanted to give him my point of
view. And I finished by saying something like this: 'If, God, your son
Jesus could dine with tax collectors and prostitutes, then perhaps you
sympathize. I'm not meek and mild like Jesus; but I do recall that he
hated hypocrites.  And I hereby swear that with your almighty help,
within the month I shall have that stuck-up, priggish bitch kiss my
arse!'"

Carter is round-eyed in amazement.

"Well, Lucy Carter, God helps those who help themselves. I thought to
myself: why would Miss Lucy Priggish Carter not kiss my arse? Because
it's disapproved-of. Because nice girls don't do that sort of thing.
Because you're not supposed to. You wouldn't cross your legs because
people say 'naughty girl, that isn't ladylike.' You're not supposed
to. And I thought:  all I need to do, in order to get you to do
anything, is to convince you that you were supposed to. I'd kiss a
girl's arse if I really loved her, Lucy, if I wanted to give her
pleasure. But not you. Oh no. But you'd do anything out of a sense of
duty. You'd even let Miss Vicky Penrose kiss you and feel your breasts
happily enough, just provided nobody was there to see and disapprove.
But if someone did disapprove, why, you'd leap back as if she'd been
murdering you, and look all innocent."

"Shipman, I... I'm sorry..."

Shipman moves forward and rubs her breasts gently against Carter's.

"Are you sorry I'm doing this?"

"I... I don't know what you mean."

"Does it feel nice?"

Carter bites her lip and nods. She cannot look Shipman in the eye now.

Shipman draws away again.

"Lucy, look at me. Do you know the difference between me and you? I do
things because I want to. I refrain because I don't want to. Does that
make them wrong? Does that make them right? And you: you do things
because you're told to. You refrain because you're told not to. Does
that make it right?  Does that make it wrong? Was it really your duty
to kiss my arse?"

"Shipman, Shipman, I don't know..."

"When I believe something is wrong, Lucy, I don't want to do it. When
I believe something is right, I want to do it. Sometimes I get it
wrong. But when I do the right thing, Lucy, it's because I want to do
the right thing.  Not because someone told me to do it. Don't you see?
You're just a little child, Lucy.  I'm not a saint, but at least I'm
trying to be a woman."

"Oh Shipman... I'm so, so sorry..."

Shipman takes Carter's head in her hands. "I forgive you. Some people,
knowing where it's been, wouldn't dream of kissing that filthy mouth
of yours. But actually it's not filthy. I was very careful to make
myself extra clean for you. And it's a nice arse, isn't it?"

Carter looks down. She nods. "Yes," she whispers.

"Here's a proper kiss, then," says Shipman. And yes, it is: Carter
melts in her arms. Penrose never kissed like this. She parts her lips,
and Shipman's tongue teases them lightly, deliciously, making her
squeal softly again and again in delight. Shipman's fingers, squeezing
her bottom; Shipman's breasts, pressed against her own; Shipman's
tongue, licking her gums, tickling her palate -

"Oh! Oh!" she cries, as Shipman breaks the kiss. Her legs can hardly
support her weight.

"Now for the practical part of the lesson," says Shipman, still
speaking smoothly despite her own laboured breathing. "This is a
lesson you will never, never forget. Come on: get over that chair."

Carter is too overwhelmed to resist. Shipman propels her, gives her a
gentle push and she topples headlong over the back of the armchair. In
an instant, Shipman has raised her skirts up, right up, and in the
next has cast them over her head, leaving her immured in a black tent.
In a moment, she feels Shipman's breath on her naked, vulnerable
posterior. It tickles.

"O don't... O don't..." she moans in terror. She feels Shipman's
fingers, stroking her. It tickles madly. "O please! Please no!" she
squeals.

"I don't aim as high as you do, Lucy," comes Shipman's voice, "But I
can be sure that I shall hit my target."

Before Carter has the chance to consider the meaning of these words,
she feels Shipman parting her, pulling her apart. It is strange. She
does not know where Shipman is touching her. And then she feels
Shipman's hair on the backs of her thighs. It tickles. She cannot help
herself giggling sobs, or sobbing giggles. But then there is something
else. Shipman is touching her very lightly somewhere. She has never
felt anything like this before. She is not even sure now if Shipman is
touching her at all. It is as if her whole body has been turned
inside-out, and now, in some hitherto unknown place, something is
touching, just very softly, and her head is spinning, it is so
strange, so completely unknown, and it is taking away her thoughts,
there is nothing but this strange something, so soft, so very slow and
gentle, that is all, and there is this great pit, she is right on the
edge, it is so deep, and yes, it is still there, still slow and 
gentle, and this is what the end will be like. To fall into this pit.
To fall, fall... And it is incredibly soft, and yet...

"O Ship...!" Lucy wails. "O Ship...! O Ship...!"

And yet... on and on, this soft thing, probing gently on the outside
inside, until it has got her. Got her now, pulling her, wrapping her
around, consuming her, devouring her...

"O Ship...!"

But all is well: her body is pulling itself together again, every
single part now fitting so sweetly together, pulsing, pulsing, finding
its proper place, and now there is Shipman helping her up, kissing
her, reassuring her, holding her.

"There," says Shipman tenderly, helping her into the armchair. "Taste!
Go on, taste!"  She puts her finger into Carter's mouth.

Carter tastes. She sucks. It is strange.

"That is the taste of a woman. That is what you are."

Before Shipman has finished gathering up the evidence of the
afternoon's activities, Carter's torpor has subsided into sleep.
Shipman goes to the window. Good old Walmsley: still on the look-out.
Hurriedly, she lifts her dress. "I wonder, if she turned and saw me,
whether she'd know what I was doing," she thinks. But she does not
care. After the first gentle touch, she cares about only one thing.

* * *

At the click of the latch, Walmsley turns. It is Shipman, of course,
gaily flicking back her long, dark, wavy hair, carrying the bag. Her
step is jaunty and her eye merry, as if she has just learned a
tremendous joke which she is now beside herself to impart to any who
would listen.

"All well?"

"Of course. But thank you for your concern, Walmsley - and for your
help.  You're a dab hand with rope, I must say.  The Walmsley Rules
worked beautifully.  Interesting little games you aristocratic types
must play.  Oh, and speaking of aristocracy, I have a little test for
you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Take the bag. Now smell my fingers. This first... Now this.
Which is which, h'm?"

"Let me smell again..." But Walmsley is clearly baffled.

"Shall I tell you, then? Surely, dear Walmsley, there must be
something wrong with your nose. This alone -" she loftily flicks the
fingers of her left hand in Walmsley's face - "has the distinctive
bittersweet Romanov twang.  This, on the other hand, is the fragrance
of the sans-culottes!"

Walmsley laughs good-naturedly. "And Carter?"

"Oh... Dear Miss Carter had a most exhausting lesson, and is now
having a nice little afternoon snooze."

Shipman begins to walk away.

"Shipman, you're incredible," Walmsley chuckles, shaking her head
slowly.

Shipman stops suddenly and wheels round.

"Walmsley, I'd be obliged if you didn't call me 'Shipman'. From now
on, I'd prefer simply 'Ship.'"

Walmsley cocks her head to one side, amused. "Ship."

"Yes. Ship."

And she skips away, light as an autumn leaf.

---

End of Part IVc.

(To be continued in Part V.)

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