This continues a historical boarding school series about a young French aristocrat, which I am writing alongside EveRay – you can read her previous chapter here

 

On the train journey home from London I studied Miss Ranson, unable to identify her mood. I know gifting her The Well of Loneliness had hit the mark. She looked as if I’d slapped her in the face when she’d slipped it out of the brown bag to look at the title. When she had bustled into the station to meet me, 1 hour later than she’d arranged, she was already tired and irritable, with two spots of colour glowing high on her cheeks.

 

From my perch opposite her, I saw her fidget and fuss in her seat, as if she could not get comfortable. I could relate, although surely my reasons were different from hers. I felt so wet and excited by the books I had perused in the shop. My silk knickers seemed to tease and frustrate rather than contain my sex. The rumble and vibration as the train traversed the tracks delivered a pleasant buzz to my core. It started as a hum and was gradually building to a throb when the train pulled into the provincial station of Hernmere.

 

Miss Ranson looked at me pointedly as I stood to gather my handbag and gloves. I followed her like an obedient puppy, an act both she and I knew was totally false. We did not speak in the taxi which took us from the station to the school. I had expected we would walk, but of course Miss Ranson was behind schedule now. The girls were in vespers, so the school halls seemed suspended in eerily silence.

 

“You’ve missed chapel.” Miss Ranson observed with a tick of irritation. “Kneel and say your catechism once you get to your dorm.” She fixed me with a look, “then wash your face and hands and change for supper.” 

 

“Oui Mademoiselle.” 

 

My expression conveyed an obedience I did not feel, but as I walked down the tiled corridor and climbed the stairs, I registered that a frisson of excitement grew from finding ways to disobey her.

 

I flung my hat and bag on my bureau, and kicked off my shoes to lie on my bed. Time alone was a rare commodity in this establishment, and I intended to put this stolen moment of privacy to good use. I hiked my skirt and petticoat above my waist, beginning to stroke my pussy over the top of already damp fabric. My french knickers were soaked, the flesh they concealed was plump and dewy to the touch, and I really wanted to touch myself. Something new was driving me. Images of debauchery from the pictures I’d viewed that afternoon cavorted behind my eyes, so that when I sank three fingers inside myself, in a hard thrusting motion, I groaned aloud craving more.

 

My knuckles bumped against the nub of my clitoris and heat and sensation burst like juice from a ripe plum. I needed more of that. Using one hand I pressed and massaged high on my vulva, twitching at my own heavy handedness, while continuing to thrust into myself with stiffly bunched fingers. I was desperate, I doubt I could’ve stopped even if someone had walked into the room. My need for this climax was feral and urgent. My insides heated and pulsed, my own wetness drenched my fingers. My torso began spasming as the tension built. Curling my shoulders up off the bed, I bit my lip with frustration which soon tipped over into satisfaction, suffusing me with pleasure and throbs that left me panting and limp. I lay there a few moments, sensing the clutching sensation of my pussy walls fading away til it stopped. Only then did I ease my fingers out of my snatch.

 

I had to quickly pull myself together,  alert for the supper gong, I was feeling a spike of pleasure at having subverted Miss Ranson’s orders. I had prioritized frigging myself over praying! Such wickedness brought a smile to my lips as I washed my face and hands and slipped on fresh drawers. No time to change back into uniform. Pah! I shrugged. Let the ordinary girls wonder where I, Delphine De Lotbiniere, have been, dressed smartly in my own clothes.

 

The caning I had received from Miss Ranson and Catherine Spencer-Harrington gave me troubled dreams, the books I had seen in that shop on Old Compton Street inspired wicked thoughts. Now when I bathed, I looked at my body differently, touching it more sensuously to make my flesh tingle. If I treated it more cruelly, a pinch or a twist to my nipples, flares of hot sparks jumped nimbly from the area of pain to my ever moist pussy. Was I broken now? Would there always be a slick of viscous liquid gathering in the folds of my vulva, tasting salty yet sweet and emitting an earthy tang? 

 

I recalled Miss Ranson deriding me as a whore as she made me walk, hips swinging, in high heels and stockings; I flushed feverish with excitement. Was I la pute as she had said? I no longer felt shame at the term, instead my pulse quickened. I confided in no-one.

 

I was well aware that Belinda carried a torch for me, at St Faith’s they called it having a ‘pash’ on another girl. I did not feel any emotion about her except that she was useful, like a puppy, in her devotion, just like her brother Jeremy. So far I had used her to entertain me at Christmas and to copy her answers for prep, particularly history, what interest did I have in English kings and queens and their battles? This morning she had pressed up against me as we queued for the dining hall to ask if she could come and watch me ride.

 

Once afternoon lessons were over, girls took tea in the dining hall, followed by an hour of free time before they returned to classrooms to study prep. To prioritize some extra riding time, I drank a glass of milk while changing into jodhpurs and boots in the cloakroom, then headed straight for the stables. Belinda had to forego her cup of tea with bread and jam, but she followed me without complaint, chattering as we walked briskly to the outbuildings. Several horses whickered excitedly when they saw me. I favoured Sargent so I went to his stable door and rubbed his velvet nose, feeling pleased to get away to a more relaxed environment.  Belinda stood back, slightly wary of the large beast with restless, hooved feet.

 

I kept my riding hat and my crop at the stables, so once they had saddled Sargent up I put my foot in the stirrup and swung my weight up and over his back. I towered over Belinda now which gave me a little frisson of power. With a squeeze of my knees, I moved the horse forward while Belinda scampered ahead to unlatch the gate into the field. His hooves struck sharply in the yard, but once in the grass covered field he moved around more quietly. Letting my back and hips sway with his undulating motion, I tuned into him. As my riding coach always instructed, I extended my self control outwards to encompass Sargent and we moved as one.

 

A couple of bales of straw were alongside the fence, so that’s where Belinda huddled, watching with admiration as I put Sargent through his paces. We began by jumping poles at a height any pony club girl could manage, because he and I needed to warm up and get into our stride. Soon we were sailing over the higher jumps and weaving in and out of barrels, working up a bit of a sweat. Sargent snorted and his breath made visible clouds. The light was going so I took him back to the stables, handing his care over to one of the staff there who’d rub him down and clean up his tack. I grabbed a handful of oats and fed him from my outstretched palm, he blinked his long-lashed eyes at me. We made a good team.

 

Belinda had become cold and stiff and I had to rouse her from a doze. She had wrapped herself in her  cloak, they came in house colours and hers was blue. 

 

“Here, let me under,” I coaxed. 

 

I was warm from my exertions and happy to share body heat. She wrapped her cloak round us both like a blanket and we walked towards the sprawling school building, shoulders rubbing companionably. I could hear her teeth chattering a little, so I took her hand and brought it to my lips, thinking to blow on her fingers. Her huge brown eyes watched me, reminding me of Sargent’s. Belinda’s however, although brimming with trust, conveyed longing too.

 

Without a thought I slipped one inside my mouth, it was chilly, but I lashed around it with my tongue. Belinda gasped, shock or pleasure? I didn’t know. We stopped walking and I withdrew the finger but kept her hand pressed to my mouth as I nipped at the pads with my teeth, tiny teasing tugs. She groaned, I identified pleasure this time, but her eyes were wide with confusion. I pulled her to face me and leaned in as if to kiss, but instead I nipped her lips. Her eyes soon fluttered shut in supplication while I alternated kisses and bites, tugs and probing movements with my tongue until we were unashamedly kissing like a love scene from a film. 

 

My panties were dampening while my pulse thumped. I rubbed against her, belly to belly, our pubic bones finding one another’s, bumping and grinding together with flashes of hot sensation that I hadn’t expected. Belinda wrapped her arms around me but I wanted to grasp, grip and knead her flesh. I wished we could lie down, I wanted to strip off my clothes and be skin to skin with her. Instead I cupped her breast with my hand and rubbed the pad of my thumb back and forth until her nipple began to rise to attention.

 

A guttural groan escaped her lips and her body went limp in my embrace. She was mine to do with as I wished, like a doll and while excitement flared within me, yet I felt a flash of disappointment that she’d been conquered so easily. I wanted Belinda to put up a fight, to scratch and claw at me, or bite my lip as I had nibbled on hers. At that moment we heard a bell, signalling that we should adjourn to the classrooms for prep, and it broke the spell. Belinda’s eyes flew open, although her vision stayed blurred with lust. 

 

“Delphine! No, we mustn’t!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flooding with shame.

 

“Not now, but later,” my voice took on a commanding tone, but she wriggled out of my grasp, both her self-control and her fear greater than mine.

 

We both began to run towards the door to the boot room, aware that lateness would earn us both de-merits which could be counted towards detention. Belinda did not wait for me to get out of my riding boots, and into my school skirt, instead she hurtled on through to the corridor, her blue cloak flying out behind her. 

 

I was left feeling frustrated and confused. Lusty hormones careened around my body, all dressed up with no place to go. This was not over, but my next steps would require some careful planning.

 

This is submitted for #WickedWednesday & #TheEroticJournalChallenge why not use the link to see what other’s are sharing on the topic of self control & prioritzed

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